All That Mattered, Ch. 02

Someone was speaking nearby. “Al-ʾamnī…al-ʾamnī…security. Got it. Taḥqīq…taḥqīq…investigation. No, that ‘ḥ’ sound should be deeper…”

Lee fought his way toward awareness, pushing air through a painfully raw throat. “’Manda?”

That was what he’d meant to say, anyway. It came out as a garbled croak, followed by a cool hand against his forehead.

“Shh, sweetheart. Shh. Just rest now.”

Yes, that was definitely Amanda.

“You’re in the hospital,” she continued. “No, don’t try to open your eyes yet. You’re going to be here for a while.”

At that, he tried to sit up. She pushed back. “Be still, Lee! You could strain yourself and undo everything they had to do.” Something clicked next to his ear, followed by a loud tone. “Yes, this is Amanda Stetson in 203, with Lee Stetson…he’s waking up, and it’s too soon, but he’s fighting me and —”

“Be there right away.” The other voice was muffled, as though it were coming through a speaker — and not a very good one, either.

“Lee, you’re still coming out from under anesthesia. Lie down! You need to rest.”

There was pain now, everywhere, in every cell of his body, radiating all the way down to his toes. The ones on his right foot felt especially funny, as though they were cold and hot at the same time. Then there was the clunk of a door and something moving near his arm. He tried to yank the arm away, but it was caught at the wrist. A second after that, numbness began to replace the pain. Sedation!

“No,” he tried to protest, but it, too, came out as a wordless noise. And then he was pulled down into a deep, dark silence.

---

Billy Melrose opened the hospital room door as silently as he could, in case anyone inside was sleeping. Amanda had been surprisingly calm when he’d called and told her to get to the hospital, and he wasn’t interested in a repeat of the behavior pattern he’d seen a few months ago, when she’d alternated between anger, remorse, and shutting down. Her performance had suffered pretty badly, though she’d since brought it back up to par.

Then again, today’s calm could have been something else: the forced restraint of a mother holding it together for her child, or the white-knuckled determination of a wife who knew hysterics wouldn’t help her husband.

The room was mostly dark, but there was enough illumination to give him room to maneuver. Over in one corner, Amanda had pulled cushions from a couch onto the floor and was curled on top of them, wrapped in a blanket, her breathing slow and even. She was all right, then, at least for the moment.

Lee wasn’t.

A tangle of monitor wires and equipment lines surrounded him as he lay, face up and far too still, in the hospital bed. Even in the muted light, Billy could see that his skin was an unhealthy gray, completely overwhelming the warmth of its usual tan. His eyes had been bandaged shut, his wrists were in hospital-soft restraints, and his arms and legs…

Oh dear God. This could mean the end of — well, from the only perspective that mattered — nearly everything.

Clenching his teeth, Billy backed out of the room and made his way down to the nurse’s station. A quick flash of his badge got him a clipboard full of descriptions and medical jargon. For a long moment, his mind resisted the idea that this clinical language pertained to his agent. His friend, the man he’d adopted as a surrogate nephew. The man whom he’d helped shepherd from wild maverick into seasoned operative with real leadership abilities. A sharp breath and short shake of his head helped him push that away.

Billy flipped a page. The new one had imaging studies on it, telling him more than the written descriptions ever could. He closed the clipboard with a snap, wishing he could put what he’d just seen out of his mind as easily, and then gently laid it back down on the desk for the nurse.

---

Francine Desmond yanked open a door with well more than the necessary force, sending it banging backward. She ignored it, striding through the opening before its first bounce was done. The receptionist in the bull pen took one look and scrambled back behind her protective desk. She didn’t even spare that a glance.

Damn him! She’d sat there for hours waiting, and he hadn’t even had the courtesy to make a phone call!

Arriving at her desk, she shoved her handbag into a drawer and slammed it shut. The sound echoed through the bull pen.

“Desmond!”

That barked word yanked her attention back. “What, Billy?” Despite trying to squelch her anger, the question came out somewhere between a snarl and a snap.

He ignored it, keeping his voice even. “My office, please, as soon as you have a chance.”

“I can do it now.” She hadn’t yet booted her computer. It could wait as she stood back up and made her way toward her field director’s office.

Billy stopped her at the door, motioning toward the coffee setup. “Get yourself a cup first. And take some deep breaths.”

She tried, leaning into the familiar ritual of preparing the coffee. Someone had brought in cheese danishes and she helped herself to one of those. She’d barely been able to eat since last night, and sooner or later, she knew, her body would remind her about that. Better to head it off now and stay in control of something, at least.

By the time she sat down in the chair across from Billy’s desk, she was even breathing normally again.

With a look she couldn’t quite decipher, he stood up and closed the door behind her. “Good morning to you, too, Francine.”

“Morning,” she replied. “It’s not good yet, though. In fact it’s been pretty bad.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

She blinked in surprise.

He was settling back into his chair, antacids in hand, and his face was grave. “There was supposed to have been a delivery yesterday: a computer code that the FBI was waiting on. It’d been passed to us from a source in Paris and the courier —”

Anger reared its head again. “You didn’t.”

“No. I didn’t. I wouldn’t have, not after the way the last time went down. But yes, they’d tapped Jonathan as a courier.”

It took a tremendous effort not to start swearing in a long, un-ladylike way. Whoever had made that decision was going to regret it. Deeply. “Again? He was in France to sign off on shipments and arrange their distribution back here! It wasn’t about intelligence at all.”

With a sigh, Billy took out his handkerchief and mopped his face. “That’s not quite all of it. I can’t tell you more, except that he was trying to help someone else while he was there.”

“Billy —”

“Damn it, I’d tell you if I could! But right now I don’t know any more than that. All I got was that he’s on a sensitive assignment, and it may run longer than expected. They wanted me to ask you if you knew anything, actually, and it sounds to me like you don’t.”

She forced herself to take a breath before answering. “No. He didn’t tell me anything.”

“He was under orders not to.”

“Who are ‘they’ and did they say anything else? Did you say FBI?” They weren’t usually involved in overseas activities.

“FBI and CIA. For once, the two of them seem to be working together. The only reason they contacted me is because they wanted me to know if you knew anything about Jonathan’s whereabouts. They also wanted to warn you that you might be under surveillance. Here, at home, or anywhere else. I’m supposed to caution you about that.”

“That I’m under surveillance? Come on, Billy, I’m an agent. I’m always being watched.”

His lips thinned. “I was supposed to ask you the question and issue the caution.”

“I have never known you to simply follow orders without further thought.”

“No. And I have some feelers out.” But then he sighed, sending the acrid smell of the antacids across the desk even as he reached for another one. “But right now I shouldn’t need to tell you to stay away from this thing. That’s not information talking. That’s experience.” He met her eyes. “You ought to consider it.”

She huffed a laugh. “Billy.” Did she really need to say more?

“I figured.”

Apparently not.

“But,” he continued, “I want your updates on the Bohannan and MELCHIOR cases by the end of the day. No excuses.”

“You’ll have them.” She stood up, making for the door. “I might need to ask Amanda if I can borrow those flying fingers of hers, though. Are they up in the Q-Bureau?”

Something in the quality of Billy’s silence got her attention and she turned back to see his face becoming even more grave than it had been.

“No,” he admitted. “No, they’re not, and they aren’t likely to be anytime soon.”

“Why not?”

He downed the fresh antacid he’d fished out. “Yeah. About them. You’re right. It really hasn’t been a good morning.”

---

Amanda had certainly had worse mornings recently. This one, however, wasn’t going to end up on her top-ten list of favorites anytime soon. For the third or fourth time, Lee was fighting his way out of unconsciousness. Since the doctors were here this time, they’d decided to let him wake up.

When her husband licked his lips and grimaced, she was right there with an ice chip. “It’s me, Lee. This’ll help.”

“Mmh,” he mumbled, closing his mouth and swallowing. His eyelids were fluttering.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. No one’s going to sedate you again.”

“Amanda?”

His voice was rough and scratchy, but to her it sounded as beautiful as church bells. “That’s right. I’m here.”

He screwed his eyes shut and then opened them. “Where am I?”

“In the hospital,” she told him, flashing a warning look at Dr. Sanchez. “Do you remember what happened?”

“Running,” he mumbled. “Almost to the road. Who hit me?”

“Nobody,” she told him, keeping her voice gentle. “You stepped on an anti-personnel mine.” The phrase felt as though it might burn her tongue. It still didn’t seem real.

At that, his eyes widened. “A mine? In D.C.?”

“Yes,” she told him. “In D.C. The Agency had to request the Army send a squad over from Fort Belvoir. EOD, I think they called them.”

“Explosive ordnance disposal.” His voice was getting stronger with every word, though it was still nowhere near its usual strength. “What —” he broke off and looked around, taking in both doctors. “I don’t know you.”

“I’m Dr. Sanchez,” said one of them. “Orthopedic surgery. That’s Dr. Thomas. He’s an opthalmologic surgeon. NEST brought us both in as specialists.”

He focused on the common word. “You’re surgeons? I needed surgery? For what?” He tried to sit up, but the loops securing his wrists stopped him. After a glance at the medical personnel, Amanda reached over to unfasten them.

He met her gaze with incredulity. “Restraints?”

Sanchez answered him calmly. “You kept coming out of the anesthesia, Agent Stetson, and you were disoriented. We needed to keep the monitors firmly in place.”

“How long have I been under?”

The doctor glanced at Amanda, who nodded.

“About forty hours,” said Sanchez.

He blinked again, narrowing his eyes. “You’re blurry. Why can’t I see you clearly?”

“Astigmatism,” said Thomas. “It’s normal after a retinal detachment.”

“And you had two,” added Amanda. “Both eyes.”

“When’s it going to go away?”

Thomas glanced at Amanda. “I’m sorry, Agent Stetson. It probably won’t. I’ll be referring you to an optometrist for glasses.”

“Glasses? No, I don’t need glasses —”

“Lee,” said Amanda, fighting to keep her voice even. “Let the doctors explain everything.”

“Everything?” His voice went up a notch. “You mean there’s more?”

She couldn’t bring herself to answer, but she didn’t turn away. Wouldn’t. Not now. Lee needed her.

Sanchez picked up the thread again. “I’m afraid so. Can you feel your right foot?”

“Yeah. It’s tingly and cold, but…” Lee glanced down. “Why’s it wrapped up in bandages like that? What happened?”

“We tried,” said the doctor. “But we couldn’t save the toes or the front half of the foot. The mine mangled them too badly.”

“Couldn’t save?” Now Lee was almost shouting. “What do you mean, couldn’t save? What did you do to me?”

Somehow, Amanda managed to push air past the lump in her throat. “They had to take it off, Lee. Not the whole foot. Your ankle’s fine. But —” she couldn’t finish.

“It’s called a Lisfranc amputation,” said Sanchez. “We removed everything back to the tarsometatarsals — the bones in the middle of your foot.”

“You cut off my foot?”

Amanda found her voice again. “They had to, Lee. They — they showed me the x-rays, told me how bad the damage was. The front of your foot was smashed to a pulp. There was no way it could be fixed.” She took a breath. “And the back of your foot’s still there. You’ll still be able to —” her voice caught again. “Eventually. They can make you a prosthetic that will help you walk again.”

“How could you let them do that?” he snarled at her, his voice still at full volume.

She felt her temper beginning to fray. “Because it kept you alive! Half a foot’s a small price to pay for that!”

“Easy for you to say!” he shouted back. “Yours are still there!”

“Mr. Stetson —” began Thomas, but then the screeching of an alarm cut them all off.

“That’s enough,” said Sanchez firmly. He was already moving toward the IV. “Blood pressure’s spiking.”

“You said you wouldn’t sedate me —” But the medicine had already gone in, and it hit his system almost immediately. “Damn it. Damn you. All of you!” He fought all the way down to unconsciousness.

She didn’t have to watch any more. Didn’t want to. Couldn’t. Amanda turned and walked out of the hospital room, determined not to let anyone see her tears.

---

Nancy Zusterakos fought to keep from rolling her eyes in a place where anyone could see, instead gesturing her companion through the next doorway.

“This,” she told him, “is the film production unit. These folks are the ones who make ‘International Federal Film’ a reality.”

“It isn’t just a cover, then,” he replied. They’d met briefly a few months ago, when he’d first started the exchange assignment between the Agency and MI6, but until now he’d been working over at the State Department. This morning, Nancy had sheepishly had to ask him his name again: Douglas Trent.

“No,” she answered. “We put out maybe six or eight films a year. Mostly educational documentaries for the government and for local schools.”

“I see,” he said. “Do these employees know what IFF actually is?”

“Some of them, but not all.” She began guiding him past the myriad desks and cubicles. The layout wasn’t entirely unlike the bull pen several levels below it, but the noise level was totally different. People were barking into phones, there were several different clacking rhythms as multiple people used typewriters, and the occasional rattle of a film strip or clatter from a dropped canister added to the cacophony. Everyone gave the row of booths at the back a wide berth.

“What are those?” asked Douglas.

Nancy shrugged. “I’m not sure.”

“Sound booths,” came the answer from behind them. They both turned to look at the speaker, a young man about Nancy’s age.

He flushed a little at the sudden attention. “You know, for recording voice-overs and Foley and all that.” He hesitated, then stuck out a hand. “I’m Scotty Parker. One of the camera operators.”

Douglas shook; Nancy did not.

Scotty let his hand drop, nodding too quickly. “Right. Um.” His eyes flicked past her shoulder and then back again, as though he’d misplaced something. “If you want to see the booths, it’s better to go in from the front instead of the back. That way you’ll avoid the fluorescents along that wall. They aren’t balanced properly, and they’ll make you look —” he broke off, and the flush on his face deepened. “Not that you would, I mean, but —” he shifted his weight.

A lens cap promptly popped loose from the camera he was holding. It skittered across the floor, spinning before it came to rest against a filing cabinet.

“Sorry,” he blurted as he went after it. “It does that.”

Douglas smiled faintly as Scotty scrambled back upright. “An awkward situation, nonetheless.”

It was all Nancy could do to keep from rolling her eyes again. She was supposed to be downstairs with Francine, not up here playing babysitter.

“As I was saying,” she continued, “while this isn’t our primary focus, the film studio part is completely real. That adds to the cover’s believability.”

“And apparently there is a market for the work,” commented Douglas. “Even if some of the — did that gentleman say he was one of the camera operators? — even if some of the staff are a tad clumsy.”

She wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that. “Well, most of this group is usually out on shoots, so we don’t see a lot of them either upstairs or down. That pretty much closes out this floor. We can go out into the foyer and upstairs to some more of the offices now.” And that, she thought, was a welcome idea. The sooner this tour was over, the better.

“Of course,” murmured the MI6 agent, but there was still a glint in his eyes as he followed her through the door into the calm of the Georgetown foyer. “Lead on, Miss Zeta.”

She inhaled sharply. He hadn’t yet earned the right to use her code name. “Anyway. There’s a conference room just over there, and then let’s go up these stairs. For a long time, these offices were unused, but a couple of years ago the Agency ran out of space downstairs so we brought a few operations up here.”

But not Francine’s, she reflected to herself. While both she and her partner had become regular visitors to the Q-Bureau during the crisis involving the HVA Irregulars, their desks were still in the bull pen. Francine had kept her head down yesterday — all focus, no talk — and she was doing the same thing today. Nancy had meant to ask her what was going on, but before she could, Mr. Melrose had interrupted with the order to show their visitor around. It was an all-too-obvious attempt to deflect Nancy’s attention, but it actually had sharpened it.

What are you working on down there? she wondered. And why can’t I help?