SERAPH

Part 5

By Linda Ryner

By the time the beginning of 1981 rolled around, I was a full-fledged operative, finishing roughly six months ahead of schedule. I might have graduated a couple of months earlier than that except that I needed a bit more training in interrogation techniques. I really didn't have the stomach for it at first. In fact, during my first time with a real prisoner, I walked out in the middle of it. Eventually, I toughened up, but my marks were only average. I talked to Michael at length one night when we were relaxing after a swim in the ocean.

"Angel, you don't have to be perfect at everything. If you're a little weak when it comes to interrogation, someone else can do it," he told me. "You know the standard techniques and about the uses of some chemical means. That's all you really need."

"Unless I happen to be on a mission where I have to extract information myself with no backup and time constraints," I reminded him. "If I don't have the stomach for it, it could cost the mission, my life and the lives of others."

Michael considered my statement. "You're losing your innocence already. I told you it would happen if you worked for me."

"It's worth it."

"Is it?" He looked up at me with incredibly sad eyes. "Rachel, I know you took on this job as an operative at least partly because you wanted a relationship with me. If you want to quit now, I'd understand. It wouldn't affect what we have."

"What in the world makes you think I'd quit now? I LOVE this job!" I protested. "I just need more intensive training to get over my squeamishness. I know it's brutal, but I need the extra training. You know I do. Marella knows how to do it, Gabrielle knows how . . ."

"Marella and Gabrielle aren't sleeping with me. You are."

"What does that have to do with anything?" He was quiet for a long moment. Finally, I rose to my feet, hands on hips. "Look. You brought me into this career. I admit I had my reservations about it but I can't imagine doing anything else now. If you can't handle thinking about me undertaking some of the more unsavory aspects of the job, you shouldn't have insisted on me becoming your operative. I didn't know enough about it to say no to you in the beginning."

"I guess I should have insisted on you becoming my lover instead. I got too greedy. I wanted it all." He sat with his hands between his knees. "All right. If you need more intensive training, I'll see to it that you get it. When you feel you're ready, I have another project I'm going to put you in. I don't know how long-term it's going to be yet. But it starts next January."

"What is it?" I was curious as I curled up in his lap.

He held me close, his head over mine. "Something to do with Special Projects. It's called A56-W."

I frowned, knowing I'd heard it somewhere before. "And what am I gonna do on this project?"

"Train for flying a helicopter."

"What kind of helicopter?"

"One that you can't even imagine."

"I can imagine a lot. What kind of helicopter?"

"One so powerful, so state-of-the-art, that you're going to need to train extensively on a simulator first. And even then there's no guarantee you'll make the final cut."

"Does this chopper have a name?"

Michael was quiet for a long moment. "Yes. It's called Airwolf."

He explained to me how development on the chopper had been started almost immediately after The Bay of Pigs incident during the Kennedy administration and how the project had fallen into his hands when he became Deputy Director of the Firm in 1970.

"You're a good pilot, you've got great instincts. Maybe it's part of that Indian heritage of yours, I don't know. But I'd like to give you a shot at the training. We're eventually going to turn it over to the military and give them credit for it, but it wouldn't hurt to have a few pilots on our team who know how to fly her," he said matter-of-factly.

"OK. Anything to keep the boss happy."

"Mmm. You do manage to keep the boss very happy."

I smiled. "Oh, yeah?"

"Maybe you'd like me to show you how happy?"

"Mmm. Maybe so, Sir."

"Oooo. Sir. I like that."

"I know you like that. Just like I know you liked it when I wasn't wearing any panties that morning in your office."

"That was wild, wasn't it?" He grinned in retrospect.

"It was wonderful -- I just hope someone wasn't looking up to see my bare butt against the window when we were -- uhm --getting nasty."

"They should consider themselves fortunate to get a peek at that lovely ass," Michael argued with a chuckle. "Because that's ALL they're going to get." He laughed. "Good thing the glass was bullet-proof. At the rate we were going, if it had been regular glass, we'd have broken out the damn window."

"Wouldn't that have made headlines?" I mused with a sly smile.

"I shudder to think. At least we'd die happy." He held me tightly. "Are you happy, Rachel?"

"I'm very happy. I couldn't ask for more."

"You could, but you won't."

"Only because you can't give it to me and I knew that coming in."

"I plan on retiring when I'm fifty-five. Are you going to be around then?"

I rose to my feet and held my hand out to him. "Just try to get rid of me."

He took my hand and followed, looking down at me with the most loving and lustful expression in his eyes. "I'm glad to hear that. Now let's get down to some serious fooling around."

******************************

Training for Airwolf commenced on January 3, 1982. A select number of pilots formed two teams, Team One and Team Two. I was on Team Two because I had absolutely no combat experience. My skills as a pilot were very good but I was up against some of the top military pilots in the country. Yet, where I lacked in experience, I made up for in instinct. Tier One of the simulator modules was child's play for me. Even some of the top pilots were having trouble getting through the simulations.

One person I knew was on Team One. Stringfellow Hawke, my rescuer from two years back. We'd kept in touch and occasionally went to dinner or airshows together. Michael was fine with it as long as I didn't mention it much. He and Hawke didn't get along well -- it had something to do with Viet Nam, was all Hawke would say. I had to be satisfied with that, because neither one of them was going to tell me more.

We were ranked on our teams based on our simulation test results. I started out at last place on Team Two but within a month, I was in the Number One Slot on Team Two. That was a bone of contention amongst some of the pilots -- in part because I was a woman -- and by that time, the only woman, because the two others had dropped out and were replaced by two other male pilots.

String was watching my progress -- he had the Number One Slot in Team One and had maintained it since the beginning of training. String was the only man who would sit with me at mealtimes, talk with me about the training, give me tips on how to do better. We even worked simulations together off hours; word was getting around, and those words were not nice ones.

Dr. Moffett was there occasionally when we were training. There was something about that man that made me shiver -- something so obscene about the way he would look at me sometimes. But I forgot about it during the training. When we started taking Airwolf up for practice runs, Moffett was always there in the co-pilot's seat to override any mistakes we might have made. When it was my turn to do my runs with Moffett, I even managed to impress him.

"What the hell is she still doing on Team Two? She should have been moved up to Team One two weeks ago!" he was telling the commander in charge of us. "Simulation scores don't mean shit, Commander. She has a natural aptitude. I want her ranked third in Team One. Immediately."

That same night, the Commander came to my barracks and unceremoniously woke me up. I was to pack up my belongings, I was no longer on the project, there was a staff car waiting for me outside to take me to Knightsbridge. I was confused as hell, wondering what was going on, and more, what I had done wrong, but that was all the Commander would tell me. I could only do what I was told.

The staff car stopped at a roadside diner where my stuff and myself were transferred into a white limousine, courtesy of The Firm. As I climbed inside, I saw Michael sitting comfortably in the soft leather.

"So what's the deal?" I demanded, irritated.

Michael contemplated me a moment. "I haven't seen you only about twelve weekends for the better part of a year, and that's the kind of greeting I get?"

"You better have a damn good reason for pulling me out of the program, Michael! I made it to Team One, third slot!"

"Courtesy of Dr. Moffett, I'm sure."

"Yeah, Dr. Moffett put me there! So what?"

"Dr. Moffett had no business interfering with your ranking."

"Oh. So you're saying I'm really not good enough for the third slot in the first team."

"No. I'm saying Moffett is interfering where he shouldn't be. And that wasn't the reason I pulled you. I pulled you because . . ." He faltered. "Trust me when I tell you, you were in danger."

"Danger how? From a bunch of macho military pilots who like to whip out their manhood and yell like Tarzan a little? I doubt it."

"Rachel." He leaned forward, taking my hands, looking intently into my face. "Take my word for it. You being there put you in danger. It was my decision to pull you. Live with it."

I grabbed my hands back. "Y'know what? Take me to my condo."

"I thought we'd both go to the beach house."

I turned to him stonily. "You go to the beach house. Drop me off at the condo."

"You're angry at me."

"I'm pissed off as hell!" I yelled. "You won't even tell me why you pulled me from the assignment!"

"I'm your boss. I don't have to give my reasons. It's done."

My jaw dropped. "You're jealous!" I couldn't believe it. "I'm hanging out with a bunch of guys and you can't stand it! Or -- is it because I'm hanging out with Stringfellow Hawke and you can't handle the imaginary competition?"

"Don't be foolish. If jealousy was my motivation, I would have pulled you out six months ago, long before the other two female pilots left. And if it was Hawke, I wouldn't have let you train to begin with, because I hand-picked Hawke for training."

"Then why?"

"Rachel, there are some things you're going to have to trust me on. This is one of them. You have to go on faith for this one."

I was inconsolable for weeks. I copped an attitude, too, and I didn't give a good goddamn who knew it. I was royally pissed and though Michael was very patient with my mood, he was having a hard time coaxing me around. It was over a month before I even went back to the beach house.

The reason I think I was so pissed off was because I'd grown addicted to flying Airwolf, what time I spent in her, anyway. It had been enough of a taste that I wanted more. So, when I couldn't have that, I volunteered for some deep cover assignments. I wanted that same thrill I had when I sat in the pilot's seat of that machine. But nothing could ever compare to that.

So, I took out my aggression in other ways. I went down to South America and blew up a few chem labs hidden in the jungles. I did dozens of exchanges and drops. I even drilled new recruits in firearms and weaponry and some Karate classes, and earned the nickname of Queen Bitch by the trainees. I headed up prisoner exchanges. I stole information from foreign high-tech businesses. And just about anything else you could think of that a spy did for a living.

The one thing I didn't do was barter with my body. That's where I drew the line. Oh, I did the occasional seduction, but I had my information before consummating the act and then managed to drug my ardent partner with a knock-out solution usually in a small hypodermic I carried in a ring I always wore, standard issue for Mata Haris like myself. I never compromised on that score. Michael knew it, too. When we were debriefed, we were required to state whether or not sexual relations had taken place, because if they had, we were immediately checked for venereal diseases. And Michael always read the reports.

Eventually, Michael got back into my good graces -- and my bed -- after he spent a small fortune on flowers and gifts and clothes for me -- which I surreptitiously sent back, unopened. One night, Michael came to the beach house when he knew I was there and brought along all the stockpiled gifts. After the customary sparring over him trying to run my life, he wooed me into compliance by doing nothing more than placing one arm around my waist to pull me back against him and dropping his lips to my neck. After all the time away from him, the Airwolf assignment didn't mean as much to me as he did, and I crumbled. As we lay back enjoying the sound of the surf pounding the beach after a marathon round of lovemaking, he murmured in the darkness that putting up with my angry stubbornness had all been worth it.

"I would hate to see it if you were really mad at me," he intimated softly in my ear.

"I can't afford to be. I'm addicted to this fabulous sex and I just can't do without it," I told him teasingly.

"Oh, I see. You just want me for the sex."

"Terrible, isn't it?"

"You really are a bad girl. You do know what happens to bad girls, don't you?" Michael queried.

I laughed. "I'm sure you're going to tell me."

He nipped my earlobe. "They get spanked."

"They do?"

"Yes. And if they're really, really bad . . ." He whispered the rest of it in my ear and I laughed. He laughed with me. We settled down for a little while, then he played with tendrils of my hair. "Rachel?"

"Hm?" I was enjoying the warm glow.

"On that search and destroy mission in Bolivia last month -- is it true what I read in the report from our operatives down there?"

"Which part?" I frowned, wondering why we were discussing business in bed.

"That you and the team literally butchered those mercenaries and soldiers hired by the cartel that ran the chem lab?"

I was quiet for a long moment. "Michael -- we watched them murder an entire village because one old woman stood up to them. We couldn't do anything about it right then because we were too small in number until we met up with the second unit."

"So what are you telling me?"

"That I gave the order after we had the chem lab location and took care of the immediate business."

He was silent for a long moment. Then, he asked, "You don't have it any more, do you?"

"What?" I didn't care for the pall that was settling over us.

"Your innocence."

I swallowed. "It's gone, Michael." I turned my head, looking up at him. "Still love me?"

He kissed my forehead warmly. "I'll always love you, Rachel. Always. No matter what happens, that will never change."

I lay awake a long time after that, feeling Michael's breath spill across my ear and my shoulder. I wanted to believe him. Dear God, I wanted to believe this man who's life revolved around deception and intrigue.

It was so hard to lie still in his arms wanting to wholly trust and being afraid to. I had made the decision a long time ago that no matter how much he meant them at the time, I would never hold Michael to any promises he made to me, mostly because of the business he was in. That way I would never be hurt by him.

What a crock.

Michael and I were going on four years being together. I was twenty-eight and quite happy with the arrangement. Everyone in the Company knew, of course, that we were together. But it was never publicly spoken of, only in whispers or huddled, sotto voce conversations. I grew used to it over the years. I was the Deputy Director's mistress. So what? I was a damn good operative, too. Nobody could say I got where I did by sleeping with the boss. I earned my position with a hell of a lot of blood, sweat and tears.

But for that initial exception on that Christmas Eve, Michael never showed me favoritism again in the business arena. He did as he pleased otherwise, and after awhile, I had quite an accumulation of gifts from him. I told him more than once it wasn't necessary, but I guess it was his way of showing his appreciation and love. I reciprocated as much as I could, but the most perfect gift I ever gave him was on his 42nd birthday -- a beautiful white Arabian stallion called Mystic Warrior. The look on Michael's face was something I would never forget. He had Mystic ready to accept a saddle in under an hour, working in the round pen. He rode him expertly and I watched as the sun dipped down lower in the sky. Quite a sight to behold. With the sun setting behind him, Michael looked for all the world like a classic cowboy. Life went on and it was good for awhile.

Then came the assassination attempt.

******************************

"So what do you think?"

I was a little bit in shock. This was hardly what I'd been expecting in the way of a promotion. I mean, I expected a promotion at some point in time, but this was totally unforseen on my part.

"Explain this all to me again," I said, taking a sip of Chardonnay.

"You need to hear it all a second time?" Michael frowned. He didn't like to repeat things unnecessarily.

We were sitting in our favorite oceanside restaurant where the seafood was fresh every day. It was a bright and cheery afternoon, the sun came spilling inside the large windows looking out over the ocean.

"Michael, why are you sending me away?" My voice was hollow.

He stared at me over his swordfish entrée. "I'm not sending you away. I'm giving you an opportunity to expand your horizons. To start a satellite Firm division from the bottom up. With the help of MI-5 and Interpol, of course, but you will be, for the most part, running the show."

The wine sat like a lump in the back of my throat. In the four years I had been intimate with Michael, this was the first time I'd ever felt insecure. My mind raced over reasons for my dispatch to the United Kingdom and I could think of none. I was at a total loss -- dumbfounded, confused, even shocked. There was a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

"Say something, Rachel," he prodded, taking another bite of fish. "I wouldn't give this position to just anyone."

My eyes lifted, aligning directly with his gaze. "No." My voice was quiet, but the import of that single word seemed to hit Michael like a bowling ball.

"No?" He was unable to comprehend my response. "No what?"

"No, I don't want the job."

This time, he placed his knife and fork on his plate and sat back, clasping his hands across his front. For the longest few moments, he silently contemplated me, his eyes never wavering from mine.

"This is a once in a lifetime opportunity. Why are you turning it down?" His voice was steady and even, but I could sense the beginnings of anger in his tone. "I'm offering this to you on a silver platter."

My voice was just as steady as his had been when I answered, even if my emotions were running rampant underneath. "Take it away, Michael. I don't want it."

"Everything's been set up. It's a go."

"Then put on the brakes. Because I'm not going."

His eyes grew stormy. "The offer will not be extended a second time."

"Then extend it to someone who can appreciate it."

We left the restaurant and Michael was in a foul mood. He dropped me off at the beach house and I thought he was coming in with me so we could talk, but the limo left the moment I disembarked from it. I ran after the car a few paces, then stopped, watching as it lumbered its way up to the main highway.

Any tears I may have cried had long ago dried up. Inside, my guts were churning, my heart was pounding. I was trying to figure out why Michael was sending me halfway around the world -- away from him. I racked my brain, trying to discern if I'd done something or said something to make him send me away or that had indicated I wanted a break from him and could think of nothing.

Was he getting tired of me? I wondered. Had our togetherness become too routine and boring? We had rather become like an old married couple. Oh, Michael still was romantic and thoughtful and still spontaneous. But, I thought, when was the last time I'd surprised him with a romantic dinner for two, or a midnight picnic on the beach? When had been the last time I'd tracked him down to the penthouse and showed up in a trenchcoat with nothing on underneath or smuggled myself inside his limo for some afternoon delight? And then another thought froze me.

What if Michael had cast his eye on someone else?

Though there had been no indications of it, the woman was usually the last to know.

"He'll call me," I said to myself, willing myself to believe it. "He always does."

I busied myself tidying up the house, running the vacuum, dusting, doing the dishes, stripping the bed and remaking it, doing laundry. No phone call. I waded through the last three days' worth of L.A. Times. No phone call. The sun was setting on the horizon. I turned on the back light, hosed down my deck and chairs, cleaned the grill and fed my plants. No phone call.

Michael had to be really mad for there to be no phone call.

Heaving a sigh, I turned the TV on low and went into the kitchen, fixing a light supper for myself. As I was cutting my swiss cheese, tomato and lettuce sandwich, I heard the sliding door open. The hairs on my neck stood up. If it had been Michael, I would have known it immediately. I had an intruder. Carefully, I edged toward the entrance separating the kitchen from the living room, gripping the butcher knife I'd used to cut my sandwich. I could almost feel the presence on just the other side of the wall.

"Rachel?"

I closed my eyes in relief and put the knife down. Stringfellow Hawke rounded the corner into the kitchen.

"Goddamn it, you scared the hell out of me!" I sniped accusingly.

He took off his sunglasses and pocketed them. "Shouldn't leave your house open when you're the only one home," he replied matter-of-factly. His face was a mask. Instinctively, I knew something was up.

"What is it, Hawke?" I asked, concerned. "C'mon -- you want some coffee? A beer?"

He shook his head. "I need to take you into Firm Headquarters."

"Why?"

"Somebody tried to kill Michael. And almost succeeded."

My face drained of color, I could feel it. "What?! Is Michael all right?!"

"He's all right. I'll tell you on the way downtown. C'mon."

As we sped down the freeway in Hawke's jeep, I waited for him to tell me what was going on. Suddenly, I turned to him.

"What was Michael doing at Santini Air?" I exploded. "Is that where it happened?"

Hawke nodded. "He had something to discuss with me about the Airwolf project. When he left, I saw one of Dom's new hires attach something to Michael's limousine. It reflected like a timer in a window of one of the Cessnas. I caught up to the car and yelled for them to get out. The driver got the limo stopped and Michael tumbled out -- but the driver didn't make it before the car exploded. Michael's fine, aside from a little scrape here and there."

"Who was the driver?" I asked hollowly.

Hawke looked over at me sympathetically. "Ricki Dane." My eyes closed and I dropped my head back. "I'm sorry, Rach," he murmured sympathetically.

"What about the guy who planted it? Did you get him?"

"Oh, yeah. We know who he is. Michael had his ID run through right away. It was false, of course. His real name is Alan Grace. That name mean anything to you?"

I let the name work itself into my brain. It sounded vaguely familiar, but I couldn't quite place it. "I should know it," I replied.

"Give it a few minutes. You'll probably remember."

We were almost to Knightsbridge when the light suddenly went on. "Oh, my God." I stared over at Hawke and he looked back over at me.

"Yeah." We showed our IDs to the guard at the gate and then pulled into the general parking.

My heart was pounding as we made our way up to Michael's office. I had to see him to satisfy myself he was OK. Lillian rose when I walked past and around the partition and opened Michael's office door. His jacket was off and he was in his shirtsleeves. Marella and Gabrielle were there as was Zeus and Admiral Clayton.

I wanted to rush into Michael's arms and hold him. The instinct was so very strong. And that was precisely why I had to squelch it. While everyone in the room knew about Michael's and my relationship, when it came to Firm business, it had to be business.

"Thank you for coming," Michael acknowledged us, indicating two empty chairs.

"Alan Grace is Senator Daltrey's aide," I announced quietly as we sat.

"We know," Michael confirmed. "He got himself hired on at Dominic Santini's airfield about -- what, Hawke? Three months ago?"

"Sounds right," Hawke replied. "He must have been just waiting for an opportunity and knew that was one of the best ways to take you out."

"Admiral Clayton and Zeus know all about the little problem we had before you were hired on here," Michael addressed me. "I felt it prudent to tell them, given the circumstances."

"Has he talked yet?" I queried.

"I think he thinks the Senator can bail him out," Zeus answered. "No, we haven't heard a peep out of him since he's been put in lock-up."

My teeth clenched, but I said nothing.

"We should be getting some kind of preliminary report pretty soon," Admiral Clayton said.

My eyes riveted on Michael. My gaze must have said it all, because he turned away. //You said he wouldn't be able to come back on me. Well, now he seems to be coming back on you, Michael,// I thought grimly. I couldn't figure it. Four years had gone by. Why now? Why would Daltrey do something like this now?

Michael's intercom buzzed and he answered it. "Yes?"

"Melissa Hiatt, Sir. May I come in?"

"Please."

The pretty brunette Investigative Division Leader walked in the office. Melissa deliberately wore her clothes a size too small to accentuate her nearly-perfect body. I could hear her legs swish loudly as the nylons rubbed. She looked at me briefly before coming to stand by Michael's side.

"I have some bad news, Sir."

"Now what?" Michael was more than irritated.

"Apparently Mr. Grace has met with an unfortunate accident. While someone in our department was taking his picture for our files, he dropped dead."

Both Zeus and Clayton were on their feet at that.

"How?" demanded Zeus. "We had him on watch!"

"Cyanide poisoning," she answered.

"He popped a cyanide capsule we didn't catch?!" I couldn't believe it "Alan Grace may be Daltrey's aide, but no one who works for Daltrey would put their life on the line for him. I'm sure of that much. This was no suicide mission he was on."

"The cyanide was found around the rim of his waterglass that came with his supper tray," Melissa explained. "We've concluded that there's someone inside the Firm who didn't want him alive."

"Which means someone inside the Firm was working with him to assassinate me," Michael said.

"We don't know that it was you they were intending to assassinate, Sir," Melissa replied. "It could just as easily have been Ms. Sands they were after, considering her history with the Senator."

I glared at Melissa. That was private information and I wondered what the hell she'd been doing, digging in my past. But I had to admit she had a point. And that made me feel all the worse for Michael getting caught in the crossfire.

"Be that as it may," she continued, "I've instituted an interrogation of all the kitchen staff. It's being conducted as we speak."

"Let me handle this," I said quietly. "I'll make the problem go away."

For a long moment, Michael stared at me. My eyes lifted to his and I silently challenged him to say no. That's exactly what he did.

"You're too close to it," he countered just as quietly.

"Maybe that's exactly why I should be assigned to it. Because I am close to it." Even through all this, I was still stinging from him leaving the beach house without even talking to me about our differences regarding my promotion. I was in a pissy mood and bound and determined to let Michael know it.

"The lady might have a good point," Admiral Clayton acknowledged evenly. "Perhaps if she can refrain from making it personal, if you paired her with one of your other ops, I think she could probably get the job done. Ms. Sands, is it?"

I finally rose to my feet, facing him, and inclined my head respectfully. "Yes, sir."

"You've been singing her praises since the day she came on board Michael," Zeus pointed out drily. "I've read some of the reports funneled through your office. She's highly capable. I think it would be a mistake not to utilize her past experience with the good Senator to your advantage. If, indeed, Daltrey is the perpetrator."

"I'd bet money on it," I answered.

Clearly outnumbered and not very happy about it, Michael lifted his chin defiantly. "Very well. Gabrielle, you work with Rachel on this. I'll expect some kind of report by tomorrow afternoon." He riveted his eyes on Melissa. "Ordinarily, I'd let your people handle it, Ms. Hiatt. But I'm making an exception this time. I want your department to fully cooperate with Gabrielle and Rachel. Anything they need in their investigation. They call the shots. Understood?"

A flash of something went across Melissa's face. It wasn't annoyance or dislike. It was more like a little bit of . . . maybe surprise?

"Yes, Sir," she replied after a moment. "Anything they need -- personnel, resources, files -- all they need to do is ask."

"Well, then, ladies and gentlemen -- let's get to work." We all began to file out. "Ms. Sands, if you'd remain for just a moment, please."

I turned, my eyes resting on his unreadable face. "Yes, Sir."

"I'll be in touch," Stringfellow Hawke directed to Michael. "You make sure you let us know when anything breaks."

Michael assured him that he would, then shut the door behind the pilot and locked it. Then, he drew the blinds on the windows looking out to the partition separating his office from the central hub of activity. I stood expectantly, waiting for him to speak.

"You challenged me in front of my peers, Rachel," he said slowly, standing so he was directly in front of me, bare inches away. My eyes lifted to his and I watched his mouth move. "Don't do that again."

He was right. I'd done that. "Yes, Sir." My voice was barely audible. "Is that all, Sir?"

"No, it is not." He reached up to place his fingertips on my cheek and I pulled away, giving him my back.

There was a long pause. "Rachel." There was that voice again, caressing and husky -- the voice that could melt iceburgs. I was trembling when his hand touched my shoulder. "Please. Talk to me."

"About what . . . Sir?"

"Stop it." He turned me around to face him. "I have to know. I have to understand. Why did you turn down the promotion I handed you?"

"Why did you tear out of the driveway before we had a chance to talk?" I countered angrily. "What did you expect from me, Michael? This was totally out of the blue! I had no clue you were grooming me for this! What, are you trading me in for a newer model?"

He frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about halfway around the fucking world!"

"But you've always wanted to SEE the world!" Michael told me. "You've told me that so many times!"

"I DO, but . . ." I dropped off, biting my lip. I was wilting into a mess. It took sheer willpower not to cry in front of him. "Michael . . ." I stopped, took a deep breath, then plunged ahead. " . . . if you're giving me this promotion . . . to get me out of your way . . ."

"Out of my way?" He frowned again.

"If there's someone else . . ."

He stared at me uncomprehendingly. "Someone else? What are you talking about?"

"If there's another woman . . ."

"Oh, my God." His gaze was unbelieving. "Damn. Do you really believe I'm sending you overseas because you believe I want another woman? Or . . . that maybe I already have one?" My eyes never wavered from his and my silence was his answer. "You do." His voice was hushed.

I expected . . . I don't know what I expected. Anger. Yelling. Defensiveness. And then he threw me another curve ball. He took me in his arms and held me suffocatingly close, mouth buried in my hair. "No, Rachel. God, no. That was the furthest thing from my mind. My God." He held me for long moments, whispering over and over, "No, no. No, Rachel, never . . ."

After awhile, he led me over to the sofa and we sat down. He pulled me into him, stroking my hair and kissing my forehead. "I gave you the promotion, the responsibility, because I knew you could handle it. You're every bit as good as Marella and Gabrielle overall. I had them heading up satellite divisions in foreign countries too, for awhile. I want you to show me what you can do, Rachel. It's yours if you want it. If you decide after twelve months you don't want to head it up, then you can come back and I'll find someone else. That's what Marella and Gabrielle did, decided they wanted to come back Stateside and work with me."

"I don’t know if I can stand to be away from you for a year," I told him quietly.

"Well, you see, that's the wonderful thing about being head of The Firm," he told me with a slight chuckle. "Since it's a new satellite office, I'll be required to drop in quite often to see that things are running smoothly. Might even have to stick around a few days at a time with every visit I make."

"You'd do that?"

"In a heartbeat. As long as the rest of the Firm doesn't suffer from my absences." He stroked my hair fondly. "I can't believe you thought I was going to dump you for someone else."

I lowered my eyes, more than half-ashamed. "Twelve months."

"Twelve months -- after we get this problem with Daltrey solved."

"Which I'd better get started on." I rose from the sofa. "What about you? Twenty-four hour security?"

"Inevitably." He rose also, taking my hand. "Room sweeps, three shifts of security dogging my every move, meals prepared in a sequestered, monitored environment . . . I've done this before." He kissed my cheek. "I'm worried about you, if you're the one he's after."

"Maybe he's after both of us."

Michael nodded thoughtfully. "That's a thought." He walked me to the door, arm about my shoulders. "Just take care of you. And in this case, shoot first and ask questions later."

"Will do, Boss."

"You want me to assign security to you?"

"You know better, Michael."

He opened the door and I slipped out quietly. I came to Lillian's desk and it was as if a sixth sense made her turn around. She looked at me expectantly.

"Everything OK, Rach?" she asked mildly.

I found myself nodding. "I think it will be. Can I borrow your office keys? I'll lock them in your desk when I'm done. I may have to get into some of the file cabinets in the Investigations Department tonight."

"Staying late?"

"Yeah. Working on a case. I may not even get out of here before first shift comes in tomorrow morning."

She handed me her parrot keyring. "You know where I keep them, right?"

"Yeah." I hooked them on my own chain and then attached the lot to my belt loop.

"Word of advice," she told me softly.

I looked up at her. "Go on."

"Watch Ms. Hiatt. She's got it in for you, bad."

"She's always had it in for me."

"Trust me, Rachel. She's looking for a way to bring you down." There was a warning in Lillian's voice not to be missed.

I had learned to keep my face a mask in the four years I'd been with the Firm. But I gave Lillian a small smile. "OK. I'll watch her."

As I started down the hall toward the elevator I passed by the windows that bordered the Investigative Research Department.

Melissa Hiatt, Department Head of the Investigative Division, stood in her office doorway, staring daggers at me.

******************************

While Gabrielle was digging up more stuff on Alan Grace's background, I was taking care of the preliminary reports and autopsy results. The object of the game was to first find out who Grace's connection was in the Firm. Once that connection was made, we could trace it back to Daltrey. Hopefully.

I started my file on Alan Grace, copying the reports that were becoming available. Finally, I locked it up in my desk in Michael's office, then headed down to the sub-level where the autopsy rooms were. After I signed in, the guard on duty directed me to the room where Grace's belongings had been stowed -- his clothes, his wallet, everything. The clerk in charge brought the box out and we spread everything out on a table. I started to go through the clothes pockets.

"That's already been done," she told me, popping her gum. "Twice already. I don't think you're going to find anything."

//That's why you're a clerk and I'm an operative,// I thought to myself in irritation. I squelched the urge to actually say it.

"Never hurts to be thorough," I replied, patiently going through the routine I'd been taught the first day I set foot into my Criminal Investigation Class 101 here at Knightsbridge. "Do you have an inventory list?"

"Right here." She handed me a clipboard with a neatly typewritten list.

Carefully, I checked and doublechecked the list against the items. The clerk stood at my side, bouncing from toes to heels, waiting for me to finish so she could file the list away. I frowned. There was something on the list that didn't show up in Grace's belongings.

"It says there was a business card found in the pocket of his shirt," I said. "What business card? Where is it?"

The clerk looked at me, blinking for a minute, perusing the list herself, then searching through the items. "That's weird," she muttered. "I remember typing that from the handwritten list. And the reason I remember it was because it was a business card from here."

"From here?" My voice dropped suddenly. "A business card from the Firm?"

She nodded. "Oh, yeah. I thought that was really strange, myself."

"Do you remember what was on the card?" I kept my voice level.

"Just a standard Firm business card -- no name, just an extension number."

My heart leapt in my throat. "You . . . wouldn't have happened to write that extension down? Or remember what it was?"

She snapped her gum. "Uhm . . . no. Just put in with the rest of the stuff."

Damn. That extension number was likely Grace's connection to the Firm. I tried to keep my voice level. "OK. You said these items had been gone through twice already. Who went through them?"

"Oh -- the medical examiner and her assistant. And . . . somebody from Investigations."

"Who from Investigations?"

"Some guy -- Vince? He looks a lot like the boss."

"Vincent McComb?"

"Just a sec." She walked out of the office for a minute to check the sign-in sheet with the guard, then returned. "Yeah, Vincent McComb. Standard procedure for Investigations if something like this happens here."

"Would he be allowed to take any items belonging to Grace out of this area?"

"Not without signing them out, and even then, he'd have to have a damn good reason for doing it." She frowned. "You think he snuck something out of here?"

A cold hand wrapped itself around my gut. "He could've have if you or whoever was on duty wasn't watching him. What's your name?"

"Lydia Winn," she replied, blowing a small bubble. "You gonna write me up?"

"No. Quite the contrary." I heaved a breath. "Here's what I want you to do. You know I work right under Archangel, right?"

"In more ways than one, or so the story goes."

I was used to snide remarks like this and I chose to ignore it. "If you question my authority, you can get hold of Gabrielle or Archangel, either one, to confirm it. I want you to effect a thorough search of this area to look for that card. I don't care how you do it, or how many people you get to do it, but I want it done as quickly as possible." I scribbled my office extension, car phone, beach house and condo numbers, on a piece of notebook paper. "When it's done, call me and let me know if you found it or not. I don’t care what time it is. And whether or not you find it, if you do a good job for me, I'll mention to the Boss how helpful you were."

I actually got a good response out of that. "You carry enough clout with the big Boss to get me into the training for field operations?"

"Depends. Do you have an aptitude for it?"

"Scored a 96 on my small arms test," she replied.

"You've been here how long?"

"Three months. Almost."

She was an eager one. "OK. Deal. Anyone can tell you I keep my word."

"I'll hold you to it," Lydia replied.

I copied the inventory list and continued to go through the items. Twenty minutes later, I went back upstairs to my office. I almost ran right into Vince McComb as he came around the corner toward the elevators.

"Hi," he greeted me, slinging his jacket over his shoulder. "How's the investigation going?" Since Vince was Melissa's assistant, it would only stand to reason he knew about the present inquest.

"Slow," I answered. "How come you're heading out so late? You're usually gone by now."

"Oh, y'know. Melissa's always finding stuff for me to do." I watched his face as he spoke and could find no hint of any kind of deception. "As much overtime as I've put in these past weeks, she's gonna have to raid the U.S. Mint to pay me."

"Yeah? Working on something special?"

He didn't miss a beat. "Yeah. A . . . sensitive case. You know, highly classified in nature. No loose lips outside her office, that sort of thing."

"Don't let her work you to death," I advised with a smile. "Goodnight, Vince."

"Goodnight."

I walked around him to Michael's office. When I was sure he was gone, I emerged from the glass block partition. I was mighty damn curious about what Vince was working on for Melissa and had every intention of finding out what.

******************************

I awoke to someone's hand shaking me and looked up from my desk blearily into Marella's concerned face.

"Have you been here all night?" she asked in a matronizing tone.

"Mmm . . . yeah, I guess so." I wiped the sleep from my eyes.

"Michael's upset you didn't come to the Penthouse last night. He was afraid you'd do something like this," Marella told me, hands on hips. "Even Gabrielle knocked off about one a.m. She said you were still hard at it. What were you doing at Vince McComb's desk?"

"Shhhh!" I grabbed my head, feeling weak and dizzy. "Don't let that get around. I was doing my job, and there's no need for him to know I was at his desk last night."

"You think Vince was the inside contact?" Marella was floored.

"Based on the evidence I gathered last night, I'd say he's at least in the same boat," I answered. "But I don't know anything for sure yet."

"You better trade information with Gabrielle, then," she told me. "She dug up a lot of stuff last night."

"About Grace? We don't need anything more on Grace other than the autopsy report and his Firm connection," I muttered.

"Grace wasn't the only one she was investigating. She found out something interesting about Senator Daltrey she thought you might like to know about."

"Yeah? What?"

"You can talk to her after you get a few hours sleep. There's a limo waiting for you in the usual place down in the garage. Michael says if you're not in it and at the Penthouse in half an hour, he's coming down to sling you over his shoulder and take you there himself."

"Fine. Just let me get my stuff together."

"Oh, by the way," Marella stopped me. "Lydia Winn was trying to get hold of you last night. She asked me to tell you . . . the search was negative."

I nodded. "Thanks, Marella."

I took a side entrance at the Bonaventure with a double-armed guard. The Penthouse elevator had a another double-armed guard on it and we all flashed our passcards for access. When the elevator doors hissed open into the suite, I saw Michael bent over his computer. He looked up and frowned.

"It's about time you showed up. It's almost ten a.m. and I hear you've been working at this for almost a straight eighteen hours," he said.

"Sixteen. I fell asleep during the last two."

My armed escort left and disappeared in the elevator once more. Michael rose and pulled me into his chest. "How's the investigation going?"

"Gabrielle and I have pulled together a few things."

"Have you compared notes yet?"

I shook my head, leaning back. "Not yet."

"You get some sleep. When you wake up, you call the office and have her come over. I'll leave her numbers for you."

"Got 'em."

"I wish I could stay here with you, but . . ."

"I know, I know. Duty calls. Be careful."

Eight hours later, it was after six p.m. and I felt halfway rested when I sat up from a deep sleep in Michael's king-size bed. Before I even made my way to the bathroom to shower and change, I reached for the phone and called Gabrielle at her extension. She said she'd be over in twenty minutes. That gave me just enough time for a quick shower and to get my files organized.

It was a regular slumber party, although serious in nature. We ordered out pizza from the most expensive -- and the best -- pizzeria in town accompanied with A&W root beer. By the time we finished our information-sharing, we had a bit of an idea of what was going on, but there were still pieces of the puzzle missing.

"Think we have enough to make a presentation to the Boss?" Gabrielle asked.

"I think we have enough for at least a preliminary report," I replied. "Which we're late with."

Michael walked in about forty-five minutes later, made himself a drink and listened to our report. He fell silent after it's presentation.

"Michael, have you had ANY contact with Senator Daltrey after that time in Washington?" I asked him. "No phone calls, no run-ins . . ."

"Absolutely none," Michael replied. "Basically what you have here is a bunch of facts that can't be tied in to each other."

"That's because we can't answer the question why," Gabrielle said.

"As in, why would Vince McComb steal that business card from the dead man's effects," Michael said.

"The logical conclusion being," I answered, "to either protect his own ass or someone else's. Or maybe both."

"Which brings up the question of why would Vince want either of you dead to begin with?" Gabrielle pointed out. "Or . . . if it's not Vince who wants you dead . . . who is it he's protecting who wants you dead? And why? What's his connection with Daltrey? Is it Daltrey he's protecting?"

"We do know that Grace was paid half a million about three months ago," Gabrielle said. "Right about the time he signed on with Mr. Santini at Santini Air. It's in an off-shore account."

"Have we been able to trace the source of the money?"

"On the surface, it looks like it came from Senator Daltrey's resources. We're digging deeper," Gabrielle told him. "And . . . Rachel? You want to tell him the next part?"

"Yeah. Vince left late last night," I said, taking another bite of cold pizza. "Mentioned he was working on some project Melissa threw at him. I got curious."

Michael gave me a guarded look. "You breached the code of conduct, didn't you?"

"Am I or am I not the equivalent of your lieutenant?" I asked crossly. "I'm doing what I have to in order to save our asses."

Michael was silent for a moment. "All right. What did you do?"

"I got into Vince's computer and looked at his file history over the past four months." I stopped, pausing for effect. "Three files kept coming up on a constant basis. Daltrey's, Grace's, and mine." I looked up at both of them. "I printed the history out."

"So . . . you think Daltrey's after you, not me." Michael was deep in thought.

"I think Daltrey wants both of us. Vince doesn't have access to your file, which is probably the only reason it wasn't in his history. Melissa doesn't even have access to that. Neither do Gabrielle or I. In fact the only one who does is Marella -- and maybe certain members of The Committee."

"But why would Daltrey be going after us after so long at time?"

Gabrielle handed him an article from the Des Moines Register. "Did you have anything to do with this, Michael?"

The headlines blared, FORMER SENATOR INVESTIGATED IN IRS PROBE. It was dated July 12. Three months ago.

Michael shook his head. "Absolutely not. We had an agreement with Daltrey. This would constitute breach of contract."

"Suppose Daltrey thought you breached it," I countered. "Here he is, just getting over a scandal of the decade, no more political career and now his assets are frozen? People have killed for a lot less, Michael."

"But I didn't do this."

"Then we need to find out who did. And we also need to let him know it wasn't you," Gabrielle said seriously. "And we need to find out who in the hell in the Firm is involved and why."

"Phone charges." I said suddenly, scribbling on my notepad. "We need to get a listing of every phone call that went out of Knightsbridge for the past four months."

"I'll contact the phone company," Gabrielle replied at once.
"And . . ." I stopped, biting my lip. Something Lillian had said to me earlier began to gnaw at me.

"What?" Michael queried, knowing the look.

"I'm not sure. I'm wondering whether or not I should even be thinking this."

"I've always told you to go with your gut," Michael reminded me, leaning forward, drink held between his hands. "So go with your gut."

"Will you get Ms. Melissa Hiatt out of my way for about three days to a week?" I asked. "As in out of her office -- out of town, if possible."

"You think Melissa Hiatt is behind this?" Michael queried. He wasn't registering surprise, just curiosity.

"Like you say, you've always told me to go with my gut."

"Why Melissa?"

"C'mon, Michael!" Gabrielle said, catching on. "Think about it! The woman's been obsessing on you for nine years! It wouldn't be the first time a woman killed for the sake of love."

"You think it's a personal thing? You think she enlisted Daltrey's help to get rid of Rachel and/or me out of jealousy?" Michael wasn't exactly astounded, but I could tell he was having a hard time believing anyone on his staff could be motivated to do something like this. "That's a stretch, ladies."

"Then give us a chance to prove you right," I challenged.

Michael put his tumbler down and steepled his fingers. He sat, unmoving for almost two minutes. Finally, he unclasped his hands.

"All right," he conceded. "Starting day after tomorrow, I'll have Ms. Hiatt out of your hair for about a week. A couple of my agents in Reno were gunned down in their hotel room. They've been dragging their feet on the investigation locally, so I'll send Melissa in to kick some butt." He rose to his feet, towering over the two of us who still sat on the floor, cross-legged with all our paperwork. "If you're wrong on this . . ."

"I hope to God I am, Michael," I told him flatly. "But I'll lay odds I'm not. Just let Gabrielle and I run this investigation our way. That's all we want."

"If it is Melissa, I'll kill her myself," Gabrielle growled.

"Sorry, Gabrielle," I said evenly. "But that's going to be my pleasure. And no one better stand in my way."

"If she's the one behind it, and after The Committee has decided on her guilt or innocence, and if they decide to turn her fate over to me, I'll decide who gets to be her executioner," Michael said in a very decisive and loud voice, bordering on anger. "I may just decide to do it myself." He picked up his glass and downed the rest of his drink. "Anything else you need from me?"

"Guess not right now," Gabrielle said, gathering up her stuff. "Rachel, you coming with me to Knightsbridge?"

"I'll see you there later on," I told her, looking her in the eye so she understood my intentions.

She caught it. "OK. I'll probably be in my office 'til dawn."

"Just make sure you clock out a minimum of eight hours for sleep," Michael directed sternly. "In fact, I don't want to see you on the clock until day after tomorrow. I want you rested."

Nodding, she disappeared into the elevator with her briefcase and I picked myself up off the floor, walking over to Michael who stared out the window of his penthouse suite that overlooked the ocean. I came up behind him and wrapped my arms about his waist, laying my head against his back. The steady, strong rhythm of his heart beneath my ear was comforting.

"This is damn dangerous," he finally told me, his hands sliding over mine.

"I know," I conceded, my mouth against his sweater. "It's what you hired me for."

He made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. "You have to keep reminding me of that, don't you?"

"I'm in the Firm because of you, but I've stayed because I love the work. If I'd hated it, there's nothing and no one that could have made me stay. Including you. I've changed. You've stayed the same. I can't just be your lover. You can't protect me in some isolated tower when the going gets tough."

"I'm beginning to think that's exactly what I should do." Michael turned in the circle of my arms and we walked over to the sofa to sit down. "You're too precious to me."

"As you are to me. In the beginning, do you have any idea how much it terrified me when you would go out on assignment and I'd never know if you were coming back or not?"

"I know. I tried to make it as easy on you as I could."

"I know, and I love you for it. But you did it anyway. Do you remember that one night three years ago when you were supposed to go over to East Germany to recover an agent? You could have sent someone else, but you didn't, because the agent was a personal friend. I cried and begged you to send someone else and you wouldn't bend. I accused you of not loving me, to put yourself in that kind of danger, when I was here and I loved you and I couldn't understand why you would do it when you knew all that. I screamed that I hated you for making me love you and then deliberately putting yourself in a position that could get you killed."

"That isn't a night easily forgotten." He pulled me close. "No. I haven't forgotten it. It still occasionally haunts me."

"And yet you'll still send me out in the field and you still go out on assignment yourself. We both know the risks. I learned to accept the way we have to live. We both know that leashing the other up isn't an option."

"No." He kissed my forehead. "But I still think you're too close to the situation you're investigating."

"And you've never been too close in an assignment you've done."

"I didn't say that." He sighed. "You've heard me say this before, Rachel. Sometimes, this job can kick the life out of you."

"I know."

I thought I did. In reality, as I would find out later on, I knew nothing.

I slid one hand up his chest and over his shoulder, up the side of his neck to his cheek, only then looking up into his face as it turned down to mine. There was fire in his eyes. It had been almost three weeks since the last time we'd made love and for us, that was much too long.

He took my hand and kissed it, then pulled it down. "Planning on going in to burn some midnight oil?"

"Why? Are you in a hurry to get me out of here?"

"Never."

"I'll go in . . . after I take care of a few of my boss' needs." I began loosen his tie and unbutton his shirt.

He took my hand in his again, eyes looking deeply into mine. "Rachel, right now isn't a good time."

I frowned. It was rare when Michael passed on lovemaking. My fingers grazed his jaw. "What's wrong?" I asked, concerned.

His nostrils flared. "Nothing, sweetheart. I . . . just don't feel like it. I'm sorry."

My hand slid down and I stroked the burgeoning erection that had been ongoing for the past ten minutes. "You're a liar," I half-whispered, kissing his jawline.

I heard his breath whistle out between his teeth and his hand closed bruisingly over my wrist. "Please."

"Please what?" I tipped his face toward mine, searching his eyes. "You want me, Michael. It's been so long . . ."

"You don't understand," he told me tightly. "I'm . . . not myself. I'm extremely furious. Not at you. At the situation. At possible betrayal in my Division. That accounts for my . . . rather agitated state." He sighed. "Having you near me when I'm like this only adds fuel to the fire."

"It's all right, Michael . . ."

"No." He removed my hand. "You don't understand, Rachel. We wouldn't be making love. We'd be . . ." He broke off. "I'd be . . ." He stopped again. Finally, he sighed. "I'd be using you. Just to vent my frustrations. Love would have nothing to do with it."

"Rough sex."

"For lack of a better term."

"No matter how we do it, Michael, love always has a part of your lovemaking," I told him. "I'm not afraid of you or what you'll do to me." I rose from the sofa and held my hand out to him. "I never have been."

He looked up at me, face unfathomable. After what seemed like a lifetime, he spoke. "You'd let me do this? You'd let me use you like this?"

"We all use each other, Michael. Even us. As much as we love each other, even us." I untied the sash of my robe and let it drop to the floor in a pool around my ankles. That did it. Michael was on his feet and had me slung up in his arms, walking purposefully to the bedroom. He threw me on the bed and followed me down.

In the dark, we loved violently like familiar strangers.

******************************

At three a.m. that morning, I was in Melissa's office alone, nosing through her computer files and desk drawers. Just three hours before I'd been in Michael's arms, absorbing the ferocity of his lovemaking and finding an excitement to it that was liberating. I'd left him sleeping soundly and took a limo back to Knightsbridge to continue my investigation.

I was taking a chance raiding Melissa's office before Michael had a chance to get her out from underfoot. But as a general rule, unless it was a high priority project, Melissa's Division generally packed up to go home at a marginally decent hour, or did their computer research out of their homes. Rarely was anyone in the Department after ten-thirty. So I took Lillian's keys, let myself into the department and into her office.

I checked her computer and found that she'd dumped her file history over the last six months, so there was nothing incriminating I could pick up there. I checked all her files on the hard drive, even her password-protected files, which I could bypass with Michael's code. I erased any activity that had been left by me and then proceeded to go through her desk drawers.

What I was doing was a breach of code. Unless I had a written OK from Michael or one of the Committee members, I couldn't go through Melissa's computer files or desk. Even Vince's computer files and desk materials were supposed to be protected from me. But this had been an assassination attempt, possibly against both Michael and myself. And someone from the Firm was involved, even if we didn't know who it was for sure, yet. So, to my mind, that meant all bets were off.

I went through all the stuff she had in her desk, careful to put it back exactly the way it had been. In her right top desk drawer, I found her appointment calendar for the year.

I perused it carefully, could find no evidence of questionable activities. I had to hand it to Melissa. She was smart enough not to leave any evidence of her foul deeds in an office setting.

I was still willing to bet that the business card missing from Grace's effects was one of hers. That had been the one mistake she'd made in the whole mess.

Methodically, I went through every file cabinet and every drawer and nook and cranny in her office. Nothing I could use came up. I wandered out just after five-thirty in the morning, tired and bleary-eyed. The third-shift crew would just be getting off work in about an hour and a half. The first breakfast run of the day in the downstairs cafeteria would be starting now. My pizza from late last night was beginning to come back up on me in the form of belching and I wandered downstairs for a cup of hot tea and a small bowl of fruit. Gabrielle joined me around six a.m., looking about as tired as I felt.

"Well?" she asked, sitting down with a cup of steaming coffee. "Find anything of use?"

"Not a thing." I shrugged. "Didn't really expect to. But procedure is procedure."

"So what next for you?" Gabrielle leaned back tiredly.

"Well, I'd like to confront Daltrey, or at least investigate him actively, but I can't do that until I can find a direct tie-in from someone in the Firm to him," I said slowly.

"Can you tie Vince in with Melissa?"

"That shouldn't be too hard. I think the only reason he's in on this is because Melissa's got something on him. So we have to find out what that something is, too."

"I could investigate that for you. Although our personnel files are pretty thorough. Even if Vince did have something in his past, it's nothing the boss doesn't know about. So as far as threatening his career in the Firm, unless it's something pretty recent, or something we missed WAY back in the annals of his history, Melissa's got zilch."

"Melissa and Vince work pretty close together on a lot of things because he's her assistant," I commented suddenly.

"Yeah," Gabrielle agreed. "And your point is?"

"How long has it been since you've played Mata Hari?" I asked her sweetly.

Gabrielle looked at me in amusement. "Seduce Vince into spilling his guts?"

"We do it all the time with foreign enemies," I replied nonchalantly.

"I suppose for information-gathering purposes, it's a viable option," she agreed. "Except that he knows I'm running the investigation with you. He'd be on his guard. We could recruit somebody, but they'd have to be properly motivated and trustworthy. I mean, they couldn't be swayed by Vince's charm or good looks. You usually need someone pretty well-seasoned for that."

"Or someone with a lot of ambition." My wheels were turning. "And I think I have the perfect person for the job, if I can get Michael to kick her into field operative studies."

"Michael will be in the office at seven," Gabrielle told me. "He just called me. So that would be the time to catch him about that."

"Good. Then Melissa will be on a plane bound for Reno by tonight and I can set this thing up with Vince and Lydia. Timetable's good."

"Lydia? The clerk from the Firm Morgue?"

"That's the one."

"She's going to be your spy?" Gabrielle chuckled.

"Give the kid a chance. Her test scores for field operative work are high. And she's a better shot than either you or me. I know, I checked."

"Huh. What's her scores?"

"Ninety-six in small arms, ninety-eight point seven in automatic and semi-automatic weaponry. She's good."

"Damn. She's wasted talent downstairs."

"Tell me about it. But we all have to put our time in, as you well know."

"You gonna knock off for a few hours after you talk to Michael?"

"And Lydia. Then I'm going home, shower, then wait until I hear from Lydia early tomorrow morning."

"What then?"

"After I hear from Lydia and debrief her tomorrow, I'm gonna break into Melissa's condo."

"Does Michael know this?" Gabrielle queried.

"He will when I talk to him this morning."

"Oh -- speaking of which. Time to institute a sweep of his office. You never know who might have planted a bug. See ya."

She left me to finish my meager breakfast. As soon as I was done, I wandered to an in-house phone and asked the switchboard to put me through to the Morgue. On the third ring, Lydia picked up.

"Firm Morgue, Lydia speaking."

"Hello, Lydia. Rachel Sands."

"Oh, hi." She paused. "Something I can do for you, ma'am?"

"Yes. Meet me at the atrium's central fountain in twenty minutes. Is that doable?"

"Sure. Did you talk to the boss yet?"

"I'll be talking to him this morning. Feel like earning your transfer?"

I could almost hear the grin over the phone. "Ready, willing and able."

Lydia was very prompt, sitting on the edge of the large pool filled with jumbo goldfish, the water reflecting green and pale blue. It was slightly humid and reminded one of a tropical rain forest. She smiled at my approach and I smiled back, indicating she should remain seated. I sat on a bench across from her. She was quiet as I explained to her what I wanted her to do, not interrupting and seeming to absorb everything I had to say. When I was finished, I waited silently for her to say something. Finally, she leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees.

"And that's all you want me to do?"

I had the good sense not to react. "That's it. Can you handle it and have the information by tomorrow morning?"

"Man, I thought you were really going to put me through my paces!" Lydia laughed. "Yeah, no sweat. Vince has already asked me out once."

"Did you go?"

"Uh-uh. Reminded me too much of the boss. I'm not into men that old." She suddenly stopped short, staring at me, realizing her blunder. "I mean . . ."

"Forget it, Lydia, no offense taken." I smiled a little in spite of myself. I would never admit publicly that I was having a relationship with Michael, but I wanted Lydia to feel at ease. "Two things. I need it tape-recorded. So take a hand-held with you. And you'll need to administer the truth drug into his drink when you get him to either your place or his."

"This is easy stuff."

"Maybe. What was one of the first things you learned in Covert Ops 101?"

"Deny everything."

I chuckled. "Besides that." When she didn't answer, I supplied, "It's rare for a mission to be pulled off perfectly. There are always random factors. The cardinal rule is, no mission ever goes exactly as planned."

"I can handle it."

"I know you can. That's why I wanted you for the assignment." I paused. "No one can know about this, Lydia. Absolutely no one. No one."

"Emphasis noted. I'll have your info by the time I come into work in the morning."

"You're not coming into work tomorrow morning. You're taking a personal day that day, because I'm coming to your house to debrief you on your mission. And we'll be tape-recording that, too." Her eyebrows rose. "Your supervisor already knows. A request has already been put in for you and approved," I continued, having done it myself just a few minutes I was to have met Lydia. "Any questions before I leave?"

"Yeah. Do I get a bonus for this?"

I laughed. "No. But you get kicked up about six grades, which means much higher salary than you're pulling now."

She nodded, with a pixie-like grin. "Good enough, I guess." She stood. "Should I call you when it's done?"

"No. Leave it for the debriefing tomorrow. You know what to do, now?"

"You bet I do. I'll be in touch."

"If you run into any kind of trouble, call me at the condo."

"I won't run into trouble."

I watched her leave and shook my head a little, feeling like a middle-aged matron. So confident. Had I been that confident when I started this job? I thought back a bit and realized I had, indeed. A four-year veteran of the Firm, and already I was beginning to feel ancient. No wonder Michael had said the job could age you. He was right.

The next order of business was to catch Michael in his office before he got into paperwork mode or had to rush off to Special Projects or jet halfway across the world. Lillian wasn't at her desk yet when I rounded the partition about 7:30. I noted his blinds to the office were open and he was on the phone. I stood just inside the doorway as he turned around and saw me; he motioned me in, continuing his conversation. After shutting the door, I slipped into a chair across from his desk. He motioned for me to draw the blinds at the outside windows, so I got back up and did so. By the time I turned from the task, he was off the phone and walking toward me, giving me a warm, loving kiss.

"I must have been sleeping pretty soundly to not have heard you leave," he said, arms tightly locked about me.

"Yeah, you were sawing logs pretty good there." I smiled up at him.

"You okay from last night?" he asked gently.

The question made me blush a little and I looked down. "Yeah." I looked up into his eyes again. "It was exciting." I bit my lip and blushed again, dropping my eyes. "It felt good."

I could feel the heat between us again and felt Michael's lips on my forehead. "You didn't mind." It was a statement.

"As wild as it was, Michael, it was done with love. No matter what you say. Yes. I loved it." My eyes were unwavering when I spoke, and I spoke from my heart. I hugged him close. "Do you remember what you said to me?"

There was a pause. "I know I said several things. I just can't quite remember what you're referring to."

"You called me your sanctum sanctorum," I supplied quietly. "Your holy of holies. You called me your goddess and said no man should be this happy. That somewhere down the road there had to be price to pay for this much joy." My voice broke. The first time in a long time that had happened. I didn't tell him that I often thought the same thing. I leaned away from him.

"You've been my lifejacket, Rachel," he told me. "In more ways than you know. You made me trust again. You made me believe again."

"Believe what?"

"That I have a right to be in love. And to be loved."

"Well, you do." I traced a finger down his dimple line, then smiled. "And as long as I have you in this compromising position, Sir, I need a favor."

"Yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, to the favor."

"I haven't even told you what it is, yet."

He loosed me and we slipped into employer/employee mode. I told him what I needed from him. After a few moments of obligatory contemplation, he nodded. "OK -- if she can pass the written and physical tests, I'll boot her directly into field op work. I'll want a one-on-one interview, too. After she pulls this little job off for you." He rose from his chair and took my hand. "Where are you off to, now?"

"My condo, 'cause I have security there, more than at the beach house. New security system with cameras and the whole nine yards," I replied. "Maybe I'll send out for sushi."

"Don't forget to run a trace on your phone wires and make sure you're not bugged," Michael cautioned me. "And do a full sweep of the condo." He leaned over and kissed my cheek. "I'm telling Melissa about her new assignment early this afternoon."

"What's her home security like?" I asked.

"About like yours was at the time I staged your kidnap. Next to zero. One doorman and deadbolts. Top floor and easy to get in if you work at it a little."

"Why don't you beef up security in the buildings where your operatives live?" I asked, crossing my arms and frowning.

"Too much of an advertisement as to where my operatives might be living," he countered. "In all the time you've had that condo, Rachel, have you ever had any trouble with anyone breaking in -- or finding bugs planted? With the exception of that time I sent people after you."

I had to admit Michael had a point. "OK, you've convinced me. I still like my security better the way it is now."

"Contact me when you know anything," he said. "Or when you piece together any more pieces of the puzzle."

I left the building to begin the hardest part of the whole operation.

Waiting.

******************************

After porking down a ton of delivered sushi (for some reason I was just craving it), I relaxed awhile in front of the TV and then ended up falling asleep for about three hours straight. When I awoke, the tail-end of a gameshow was on and I turned the TV off with the remote. I sighed loudly, then retired to the bedroom. When I passed by my vanity mirror, I stopped suddenly.

Was that really me?

Physically, I hadn't changed all that much. I might have been a little leaner, maybe a bit more muscular. I looked at my face, seeing a few lines where there hadn't been any four years ago. My immediate reaction was to invest in one of the new creams on the market with Retinol-A. My fingers played over a few pieces of jewelry that were scattered across the surface. They closed over a fabric bag and I remembered my otherworldly adventure with a long-dead voodoo queen.

//Long as you wear it, no harm come to you. You have Mama Marie's word on that.//

I looked in the mirror at the woman who stared back at me. The eyes indicated having seen much. Somehow, a hardness had crept in. When had that happened? Carefully, I draped the gris-gris around my neck. A cooling breeze seemed to waft over me and I felt better. I crawled into bed with my clothes on, settling against the pillows and wishing for Michael's familiar form beside me.


It was a dream, I knew it was, but it felt so real. All of a sudden, I was up in the northeastern Iowa woods with my father, on the shores of the mighty Mississippi. It was late afternoon, Dad's favorite time of the day, and we were sitting on a rock-strewn shore with our fishing poles. I had almost forgotten what calmness felt like.

"Feels good to be back, doesn't it?" Dad asked quietly.

I smiled. Dad looked young -- like when I was ten years old. And here I was, still twenty-eight. "Yeah. Too bad I can't have dreams like this all the time."

He chuckled. "What makes you think it's a dream, Moonhawk?"

The reference again brought a smile to my face. That was my Indian name. My mother had gone into labor at the Indian reservation in South Dakota where my grandfather lived. She delivered me under the watchful eye of an Indian midwife on the night of the full moon, when it was at it's peak. When I opened my mouth to make my first cry on this earth plane, I was told that a hawk had perched on the open window and shrieked at the same time of my cry. Hence my name.

"It sure seems real enough," I replied wistfully.

"The veil between worlds at times is thin," Dad told me, reaching out to touch the gris-gris around my neck. "As you well know. It looks as if I'm not the only one protecting you."

"So you know about that, huh?" Somehow, even though I knew Dad was long gone, it seemed perfectly natural to be talking to him. I used to have similar dreams of my mother after she died. This was the first time in a long time I'd had one of my father.

"Just because I'm dead doesn't mean I don't know what's going on with your life." The breeze picked up a little and the pungent smell of dying leaves hit us. "I'm watching. When I'm sure you don't need me around anymore, I'll be heading off to that happy hunting ground in the sky."

"Well, what do you think of my chosen profession?" I asked, almost dreading the answer.

This time, Dad's chuckle was a laugh. "Let's just say you made a right turn WAY past where I thought you were heading. It's an interesting choice, I'll say that. Just stick with your code of ethics. Having a career like this can blur the line on many an occasion."

Dad knew well. He flew covert for both the Korean and Viet Nam wars.

I nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah. I've had to make a few tough choices."

"So far, they've been right on target."

"So you approve of my job?"

Dad let out a little more line. "Can you wake up in the morning, look yourself in the eye and still feel good about yourself?"

"As a matter of fact, yes, I can."

"Then you don't need to ask me that. As long as you can do that, you're on the right path."

"And what do you think of my present situation?" I queried. "Am I doing the right thing even if I have to break some rules to do it?"

"Do you have to think twice about anything you're doing?"

"No." My answer was vehement.

"Then you're still on the right path. When you start to question, maybe you better take a closer look at your motivations and your reasoning." He began to bring his line in. A gleaming trout was on the end of the hook. He smiled, holding it up as he removed the hook. "This is one thing I really miss. Fishing."

My line was still. "Dad?"

"Yeah, sweetie?"

"Was that you in the woods when I was kidnapped as part of my training? I mean -- the bats. I don't think it was me that called them. I'm not that attuned to nature. At least not like I used to be."

Dad dropped the fish in a cooler of ice and laid his pole down. Then, he sat right next to me and draped an arm about my shoulders. I found myself with my head against him. He smelled like clean sunshine and rainwater. I would always remember him that way.

"Well, y'know. I might have had a little something to do with that." I heard the hint of laughter in his voice. "You're still my little girl."

"I'll always be your little girl, Daddy."


I turned and caught myself before I rolled out of the bed. The covers were tangled and I was sweating. The lingering scent of fish was in the air. Still half asleep, I shed my top and slid off my jeans, then threw myself back onto the sheets.

"Must be the sushi," I murmured before diving back into sleep.

I slept the night through, awakened only by my phone ringing off the hook. I looked at the clock and was shocked that it read almost ten a.m. I grabbed my bedside phone.

"Yeah, what?"

"What'd you do, go on a bender last night?"

It took about five seconds for my brain to engage. "Lydia?"

"The one and only. You sound hung over."

//Yeah, wait 'til you're four years into this stuff where you're tired all the time.// "Nope. I fell asleep. Mission accomplished?"

"Of course. I left him sound asleep at his place. When are you coming to debrief me?"

"Give me half an hour to shower and dress and another forty-five to get to your place."

"Ok. See ya."

Despite her newness, Lydia was a good debriefing session. She stuck to the facts and didn't embellish. She also produced her session with Vince after she got him thoroughly drunk but not plastered. The truth serum did the rest, producing a warm state of relaxation and loss of inhibition. There were the unmistakable sounds of a seduction in progress. Vince told all, trying to impress a girl who he wanted to get in the sack. I listened to it stoicly after Lydia gave her statement. When it was finished, I rewound the tape. The mission had been a complete success and there had been no surprises.

"Good job, Lydia."

"So what's the story on my promotion?" she queried anxiously.

I smiled. "I'll arrange an interview with Michael for you. After that, if you pass the written and physical tests, you'll be placed in Intermediate Field Ops Training."

"All right!" Lydia was beaming.

The first thing I did was make duplicates of the tapes, dropping one set off at my bank in my safety deposit box, keeping the other in my condo and bringing a third and fourth set to Knightsbridge, where I asked Lillian to lock them up in her safe in the file room. Now there was reason enough to break into Melissa's condo and look around for her connection to both Vince and Daltrey.

Gabrielle caught up to me on my way out. The phone records had just come in, showing one thirteen minute and some odd-second phone call to Des Moines, Iowa on July 20, 1982, three days after the IRS launched an investigation on Daltrey. The detailed report showed Melissa's extension. Two days later, an incoming call from Des Moines from Daltrey's number was listed as under two minutes.

"And," Gabrielle said, pulling out some attendance sheets, "if you look at this, you'll see that Melissa took two personal days on the 23rd and 24th. I bet if I dug a little deeper, I could find out which airline she left on and her destination."

"Feel free," I replied. "I'm about to commit some B&E tonight."

******************************

At least Melissa had made it easy on me. She lived in the penthouse suite of her building. The structure was an older one. Management had still not seen fit to outfit it with modern surveillance equipment. But I couldn't exactly enter through the front doors, either, not with a doorman present, who would more than likely remember what I looked like. So, I waited until it got dark, parked my car six blocks away in a parking garage and then walked to her building.

The building code still required fire escapes, and I found myself scaling the old rusty one attached to the back of the building. I pulled myself up over the top and found myself in a beautiful garden. Trees, shrubs, flower beds, even a knot herb garden. Despite myself, I had to admit I'd never known this side of Melissa. For a moment, I felt my heart soften a little.

Then I reminded myself that she was indeed the one likely responsible for attempted murder.

//Every good person has some bad in them and every bad person has some good in them,// I remembered my mother saying. //If we were all perfect human beings, what would be the point of living and learning Life's lessons?//

I didn't know Melissa's story. Maybe it would make a difference to me and maybe it wouldn't. I could only go by what I knew of her right now. This moment. And it wasn't looking good.

I walked over the cobblestone brick set in paths that led to the French doors. The lock was old-fashioned, easy to pick and I had it open in under a minute. When I stepped inside, it was like entering foreign territory. It was as if the very air changed. I shut the doors behind me, very cognizant of the fact I was invading someone else's turf.

I hadn't intended to try and find out much about Melissa. But as heirlooms and pictures tend to do, I was drawn to the curio cabinets and bookcases. I looked over the framed family photographs and even perused one of her photo albums. Pictures of a little ballerina floated across my sight. Lead in the school play senior year. Organizer of the Fall Spectacular Homecoming Dance. Investigative cub reporter in her home town newspaper in Glen Ellen, Illinois. Suburb of Chicago. So. She was a Midwesterner like myself.

A set of Dresden China was displayed in another cabinet along with other knick-knacks. A china panda bear, a bisque angel with her birth month of May emblazoned on it, a mournful-looking Dalmation with sad eyes . . . all things people collect and keep over the years as sentimental momentos.

But my task was not to look over things of her personal life. I turned my attention toward the darkened room that was probably her study. That was my target area. If there was any evidence to connect her to Daltrey and to the two attempted murders, it was in there. Her inner sanctum. A place she believed to be her shelter and safety.

Her haven that was about to be totally violated.

What I found was not to be believed. Despite my few years as a covert op, it still floored me.

Melissa had files on a lot of Firm employees. Files that tracked their movements. That detailed every move they made. Notes on blackmail. Notes on extortion. Videotapes of activities, both nocturnal and otherwise. That was how I found out what she had on Vince. Vince had been taped having sexual relations with not one, but two girls. And that was the kicker. They were girls. Underage girls he'd met at a club and had taken home. Fifteen and sixteen, respectively. And quite frankly, they looked fifteen and sixteen. Either that, or I was growing old before my time.

My evidence was mounting. I copied the tape right there in her own abode and copied the notes in Vince's file on her copying machine, replacing the originals where I found them and packing the copies in my backpack I'd brought with me. I investigated her file history on her personal computer, finding the evidence there that I needed and printing it out. And then I hit real paydirt. I found a file on her hard drive that detailed blow by blow the whole thing. It was like a diary, with dates and names and was as self-incriminating as you could get.

In a court of law, this would be considered illegal search and seizure. But as far as the Committee was concerned, how the evidence was obtained was not so important. The issue was, two members of the Firm, one very highly ranked, had been targeted for termination by a Firm employee who had been placed in a position of trust. Such things were not tolerated and punishment was usually swift and absolute. I had all I needed right here.

I had Melissa Hiatt by the short hairs and the payback was going to be hell.

******************************

End Part V

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August 30, 2000