All That Mattered, Ch. 06

She’d made an excuse to be sitting out at the reception desk by the elevators, but Francine suspected nobody was fooled. Not that she’d admit to anything, of course. Her performance in the bull pen earlier had already been embarrassing enough. So, instead, she kept her head down, focusing on presenting the image of someone who was too busy to be bothered and pretending that everything else was normal.

Her persistence paid off: when the elevator dinged and Billy strode out, she was the first person in line. “Billy, I need to talk to you.”

“And I need to talk to you. In my office. Now.”

Inwardly, she cringed, though she made a point of following him instead of things working the other way around. I’m going in here voluntarily, she tried to project. I’m not being called in like an errant child.

Except, of course, everyone knew she was.

Well, at least I have plausible deniability.

Billy immediately began closing the blinds the minute the door closed behind her. “What in the world did I just hear Scotty Parker going on about?”

“He was down in the bull pen without authorization.”

“And that was an excuse to put the fear of God and all his saints in him?”

Francine squared her shoulders. “He won’t make that mistake twice.”

“Assuming he comes back to this Agency at all! Did you know, he was going on about resigning so I wouldn’t have to fire him?” He pointed at a chair, issuing a wordless command.

She sat.

“Do you know the sound of that — whatever it was — all that yelling carried up almost to the Q-Bureau? I heard it as soon as I opened the door! What in God’s name were you thinking, Desmond? No, don’t answer that.” He was building up a good head of steam now. “I don’t want to hear your excuses. Do you have any clue what position you just put me in? Or do you just not care?”

“He was out of bounds, Billy!”

“Not that far. All anyone had to do was make sure he didn’t see anything sensitive.”

“I didn’t see anyone doing that!”

“Were you looking?” Billy slammed a hand down on his desk. “Or were you just looking for a reason to unload?”

At that, she half-stood. “Wait a minute. All I was trying to do was be clear —”

“The hell you were!”

Silence fell in the office.

After a long, charged moment, Billy took out his handkerchief to mop his face. “Sit back down, Francine. I’m not done yet.”

She did as she was told, taking a breath to cover her whirling thoughts. “Scotty admitted tailgating Jenkins off the elevator. That isn’t a gray area.”

“No, and I’ll be having a conversation with Zografos —” that was the head of the film unit — “about that. Later today, and without you present. You’ve already given me enough trouble!” Billy was working himself up again. “Do you honestly think Smyth hasn’t already heard about this? What the hell am I supposed to say when he shows up? That one of my senior agents turned my bull pen into a three-ring circus over a single tailgating violation?”

Francine felt her temper snap. “A security breach is a security breach! Since when do we go easy just because it’s — it’s —” She had to think far too hard to end the sentence. “— just because it’s some puppy dog that everyone likes?”

“That’s enough!” He shot to his feet again. “Scotty Parker’s not some toy that you get to kick around just because you’re having a bad day! And neither is anyone else at this Agency, no matter who they are! Damn it, Desmond, you know that! What the hell is wrong with you? This —” He sighed noisily. “This isn’t like you, Francine.”

She shook her head. She knew full well people thought of her as all ice with no warmth.

“No,” he answered. “It isn’t. I can count on one hand the number of times you’ve lost your temper in public. If anything, you’re over-controlled. You don’t even explode when you should. And this was definitely not one of those times.”

“Security breaches aren’t nothing,” she pointed out.

“You also usually have things in perspective.” He paused. “How much sleep have you had in the last twenty-four hours?”

She didn’t quite manage to meet his gaze.

“I didn’t ask that for my health,” he snapped.

“Just for mine?”

“Answer the question.”

Damn it. She was actually having to think about what to say next.

“Enough,” she finally managed.

Billy felt the skin on his forehead tighten. “That’s not an answer.”

“I won’t insult you by saying everything’s wonderful,” she began, “but I — I’m functional. That’s why it’s enough.”

“From where I’m sitting,” he told her, “I’m not so sure.”

She folded her arms. “I’m getting my job done.”

“Not well,” he countered. “And not without losing perspective, or judgment, or —”

Without warning, the door opened behind her. The smell of cigarette smoke preceded Dr. Smyth as he stepped through the door. “Just the two I was looking for.”

“I’m handling it, Smyth,” said Billy testily. He’d known something like this would happen, but couldn’t he have had a chance to prepare for it first? “I’ll report to you when I’m done.”

“I’m sure you will,” said the director in his silky-smooth voice. “I’m just making sure I hear the whole story. Since I’ve already heard at least half of it, anyway.”

At that, Francine dropped her eyes, though Billy saw a flash of defiant anger in them.

So, apparently, did Smyth. “Now, now, Agent Desmond,” he started. “You’ve already generated enough heat for one afternoon, haven’t you?”

She lifted her chin. “There was a security violation, sir.”

“Yes, there was, but I don’t remember hearing about one that was worth a full-volume reprimand.” He paused, fingers clenching around the cigarette holder. “Not to mention that when you stir the pot, you shouldn’t be surprised if someone comes looking for the spoon. I’ve had a call from Langley.”

Someone dropped a pound of ice into Billy’s gut. “The CIA?”

“One and the same. They’re concerned. Quite, concerned, actually. Something about overzealous interference.” His eyes flicked between the two of them. “They don’t much like it when our people go storming onto their turf. Especially not with accusations in hand.”

“I’m investigating a case,” said Francine in an overly-controlled tone.

“Indeed? Care to tell me which one?”

Her silence said more than her outbursts ever could.

“I see,” said Smyth. “And I can’t even say I don’t understand, because I do. But when little hands reach into each other’s sandboxes, toys tend to get thrown.” He gave them both a level stare. “I, for one, have no time to defend myself against that.”

“It won’t happen again,” said Billy. “And I said I’d handle the rest of this, too. If you don’t mind, sir?” He managed to keep his voice from shaking. Barely.

There was a long pause before Smyth finally relented, nodding. “All right, Melrose. We’ll do it your way. This time. But, Agent Desmond…”

“Yes, sir?”

“The rhyme usually goes like this: fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.” He paused. “That first step happened when Langley called. You’ll want to make very sure the telephone doesn’t ring twice. Capice?”

“She understands that,” Billy said, not trusting Francine to reply as simply as she needed to.

“Good,” said the director as he turned to leave. “I’m glad to hear it. That means we’ll treat today as an isolated incident. A single lapse.” He gestured with the cigarette holder. “But if I get another call from Langley or even from inside this bull pen, I won’t have such a luxury. Keep that in mind, children. Oh, and Agent Desmond?”

Francine’s fists clenched, but she didn’t do anything other than tilt her head in acknowledgment.

“Do try to get some rest.” From anyone else, the tone might have even been kind. “Tired people make mistakes. But when it’s a senior agent, everyone notices. You’d do well to remember that.”

The door closed softly behind him.

Billy blew his breath out. Hard. “That was exactly what I’m getting at, Francine. Why were you over at Langley?” Then realization hit him. “You know what? Never mind. Don’t answer that. Just —” what was he supposed to do now? “Knock off for the rest of the day. Go home. Stay there. If you can’t sleep, at least try and rest. Take a bubble bath or eat chocolate or whatever it is you do.”

He braced himself, waiting for the argument, but after a long sigh of her own, Francine nodded and pushed out of the chair. He wasn’t sure if that was better or worse.

---

Amanda wasn’t sure which was worse: a broody Lee or a ranting Lee. Right now, she was facing the former. He’d been quiet on the way home, his fingers clenching and his cheek muscle throbbing. When they arrived outside the townhouse, he was out of the car and headed for the door before she even finished parking. His movements were stiff and jerky, and he fumbled the keys twice while unlocking the front door.

Resigned, she just kept herself a few steps behind to make sure he wouldn’t fall. Once inside, Lee collapsed onto the living room couch, slumping forward and putting his face in his hands. He didn’t even bother taking off his coat.

“I’ll just put your coat into the closet for you,” she suggested softly.

Lee didn’t move.

Amanda tried again. “The heat’s on. You’re going to overheat if you keep it on.”

He grunted softly, but still didn’t move.

“Lee.”

One of his hands twitched.

She took a breath, looking around, and noticed the flashing light on the answering machine. Crossing in front of him, she hit the play button. Oh, hi, Mr. Stetson. This is Daisy at the pharmacy. Your refill is ready for you, whenever you want to come by and pick it up. We’ll hold it for seventy-two hours, and since it’s Tylenol #3 you’ll need to bring an ID with you. While professional, the tone was happy and perky, and Lee’s hands clenched even tighter.

“I can go pick that up for you,” offered Amanda. “Maybe give you some breathing room.”

“I’m fine,” he nearly growled. “Just go on back to the Agency.”

“Lee, there were only two doses of Tylenol left this morning when I checked. You took one right before we headed out. You’ll run out before this evening.” She moved back toward the closet. “I’ll only be a few minutes.”

“I said I’m fine. I don’t need you here babysitting me.”

She bit the inside of her lip. Hard. “This is not babysitting. This is me, your wife, offering to go get you something you need.”

“I said I’ll be fine!” he flared, straightening his spine with a snap. “You have a job, so go do it. I’ll just be — I’ll just be sitting around doing nothing and — oh, damn it —” he visibly winced as his pants leg slid up, catching the top of the bandages on his foot and pulling them tight against the injury. “Stupid worthless piece of —” he gasped, paling. “Just go, all right? Just —” he shook his head.

She considered him for a long moment before retrieving her coat and going back to the door. The last thing she saw before she pulled it shut behind her was the strain on his face.

---

If he wasn’t careful, he was going to end up with an eyestrain headache. Douglas had heard the preventive guidelines nearly his whole life: take regular breaks. Use the 20-20-20 rule. Make sure you have good lighting and use a magnifier when needed. They were ingrained, but at the same time, they somehow always seemed to take a lower priority when things weren’t going well.

Such as right now, while he reviewed computer activity logs from the past three days. The skin on the back of his neck was prickling and his shoulders were clenching up. Some part of him knew something was wrong. But, most annoyingly, he couldn’t bring it into conscious focus. And if there is something afoot, I need to.

He moved his focus back down again, onto the pages, but was interrupted by movement out of the corner of his eye: Francine Desmond, stalking across the bull pen away from Billy Melrose’s office.

Why wasn’t she on administrative leave, after that display of temper earlier?

Douglas shook his head. He was a visitor. He didn’t need to be inserting himself into arguments like that.

Pressing his tongue against his teeth in an effort to avoid clenching his jaw — that would bring the headache on faster — he turned back toward the papers in front of him. He’d attempted to neatly stack them, but since they were the rougher paper used in printers, they kept slipping awry as the fibers caught on each other. It wasn’t so bad as to be a problem, but it was plainly visible.

All right, Trent. Now you’re crossing into over-meticulousness.

He flipped two pages back over to look at the one underneath again. These were lists of all login attempts, both successful and unsuccessful, into one of the Army’s regional mainframes. His security clearance had prevented him from being told exactly which one, but the login names themselves were far more revealing than the Americans likely realized. REGION_OPS2. OPS_SUPPORT. LOGISTICS_ADMIN. Clearly, this was some sort of operational database, and the users were likely just managing administrative records. Procurement, perhaps, or distribution.

Using a finger to keep his place, he traced the various actions each account had taken. They were superficially the same: log in, access a database, review directory structures, check system status, log out. Several of them skipped the system checks; likely they had just been looking something up. Nobody was trying to rewrite anything. Nobody was causing problems with the data itself. Nobody was doing anything that could be deemed inappropriate.

So what was setting off this sense of unease?

Douglas moved forward one page. Same activities, same pattern of time stamps, same usernames —

Wait.

AEGIS_OPS.

The hair on the back of his neck stood straight up.

None of the other user account names included a proper noun.

Flipping backward rapidly, he tried to find the first login under that username. There was no pattern of new login attempts. This username had been logging into the database for much longer than the three days’ worth of data he’d been given. But how long?

He shook his head, resisting the urge to crack his knuckles before picking up a highlighter. If he was going to request further records, he was going to have to justify that request, and the first step might be noting the account’s activities.

Log in. Review directory structure. Check system status. Log out. All perfectly normal. No different than the other accounts’ activities.

Was it some sort of a legacy account that had been assigned a username according to a different pattern, then?

Douglas shook his head. The security guidelines he’d seen were too tight for that.

He made a small mark in the margin with the highlighter, then another, as he looked for irregularities. This was the kind of detailed research that could make or break a case. Anything might matter. Reaching into the desk, he drew out the differently-colored highlighters that had been stored in the drawer, using them to identify the data he was seeing. Timestamps. Access windows. Gaps that might suggest a secondary activity. Something — anything — that didn’t fit. Or that fit when it shouldn’t have.

The next time he leaned back to rest his eyes and take a few deep breaths, he realized the bull pen was quieter than normal. The lights seemed harsher, and even the atmosphere itself felt different. Many of the desks had emptied.

Then he heard the clatter of a rolling trash can, and saw the janitor come into the bull pen. The janitor gave him a brief nod of acknowledgment before he headed toward Mr. Melrose’s office. At the same time, his stomach growled loudly enough to surprise him. Frowning, Douglas glanced at his watch.

No wonder things didn’t quite seem right. It was nearly nine o’clock.

His lips thinned as he gathered the papers, now with enough differently-colored marks to suggest the beginnings of a rainbow, into a file folder. A huge part of him wanted to keep going, but — no. He needed rest, and food, and a chance to do something else so that he could approach this with fresh eyes in the morning.

Early in the morning, he decided. As early as he could manage to wake up and get himself back in here.