All That Mattered, Ch. 08

Amanda looked up at the sound of the Q-Bureau door being unlocked. It was a welcome interruption: she’d gotten stuck on her latest translation, and her Arabic-English dictionary was sending her in hopeless circles. Something in this transcript was eluding her, something important—but how could she find the correct words for the fix if she couldn’t even find the vocabulary to phrase the question?

To her surprise, it wasn’t just Lee who came through the door, but Lee and the temporary MI6 agent, Douglas Trent.

“Hello,” she told them, putting her curiosity into the word.

“Hi.” Lee made his way over and began to bend toward giving her a kiss, but stopped when he realized it would require him to get rid of the crutches. She stood up to close the distance instead, reveling in the way he smiled. Something had clearly gone right, then.

However, it seemed something else had gone just as wrong.

Trent nodded a greeting but kept on with whatever he’d been saying out in the hallway. “That was bloody efficient of your Signals group, going ahead and pulling thirty days’ worth of intelligence instead of a week. I didn’t even realize you kept things on-premises that long.”

“We usually don’t,” said Lee as he moved to his own desk and sat down with a grateful-sounding sigh. “I suspect Billy pulled some strings somewhere along the line.”

“In the time it took us to go from the bull pen down to the Signals room?”

Lee shrugged. “That’s the kind of question I sometimes don’t want to hear an answer to. Are you sure you’ve never seen anything like this over on your side of the pond?”

If she hadn’t been looking directly at Trent, Amanda might have missed the hitch in his body language. Lee wasn’t, and apparently didn’t see it.

“I’ve never seen anything quite like this,” said Trent. “At least, not recently.”

“Not recently, or not ever?” Lee pointed at a side chair. “Take a load off. We might be here a while.”

“What are you looking at?” asked Amanda. “Anything related to my transcript work?”

“Probably not,” answered Lee. “These are computer access logs.” He filled her in. “So now that we know someone’s been searching Army databases for Navy information — but not who, and not exactly what yet —”

“If anything at all,” remarked Trent. “There’s no indication that information was added or deleted.”

Amanda felt her lips twitch. “Sometimes a good look is all you need. They have exercises about that in our agent training.”

“Ours too.” Trent appeared to relax slightly. “And to answer your question, Mr. Stetson, it’s not ever — but I’ve already been here about four months. Which is why ‘not recently’ is likely the more honest answer. I’ve a check-in with the home office scheduled early tomorrow, so I’ll have the opportunity to ask then.”

She flashed her eyes quickly at Lee, who responded with a barely perceptible nod.

“In the meantime,” Trent continued, “why don’t you tell me what you’re working on, Mrs. Stetson?”

“It’s Amanda,” she corrected him. “Or Sunlight, if you’d prefer. And I’m not sure this has anything to do with what you have. It’s a transcript from one of our listening posts — the original version, I mean — but something’s…” She trailed off. “This is Levantine Arabic, but some of those phrases just don’t seem to match. Here, for example, they keep talking about ‘the shield system’ — niẓām al-dirʿ — but they don’t use the word yaḥmī or any of its forms like ḥimāya, which I’d expect to hear.”

Lee frowned. “Those are the same words?”

“Yaḥmī and ḥimāya? Yes. Yaḥmī is ‘protects,’ and ḥimāya is ‘protection.’ So what’s the shield for?” She shifted the page slightly. “And then here, they start talking about ḥāmilī al-rumḥ. That’s ‘spear carriers,’ but none of the other words are about computer technology and —” She took a breath. “So it sounds like we’re talking about two different things.”

Trent was leaning forward now, his blue eyes intent. “Wait a moment. Say that again.”

She was slower this time. “Niẓām al-dirʿ. That’s ‘shield system.’ And then ḥāmilī al-rumḥ — ‘spear carriers.’”

“Military language,” he said quietly, glancing at Lee, who was already nodding. “But older weapons.”

“Exactly,” she said. “If they were talking about computer systems, they’d use something like ḥimāya. These are references to physical shields and spears. And the language itself is almost classical.”

“Classical,” repeated Trent. “Of course.” He leaned back slightly. “In British usage, we sometimes use the word ‘shield’ in internal documents. The context implies protection without specifying who is doing the protecting. It’s deliberately vague — and usually means something’s been redacted. It’s a circumlocution.”

“I figured that much out already,” said Amanda sourly. “But what I can’t figure out is the source.”

“That’s because it is the source.” He looked over at Lee. “They’re talking about the physical shield itself, Stetson — not a system or its guards. Which is uncomfortably close to how some of my colleagues back home would phrase it if they were trying to be clever, and wanted to signal alignment without committing it to paper.”

Something clicked into place inside Amanda’s head. “So if I were translating it to English, I might want to use more archaic phrasing, such as —”

“Under the aegis of,” said Trent. “Without naming who.”

“Aegis,” said Lee softly. “They’re talking about Aegis.”

She glanced between them. “What is Aegis?”

Trent indicated the files he carried. “It’s the proper noun in these files that doesn’t belong.” He glanced at Lee. “Am I allowed to —”

“Yeah, it’s fine,” said Lee. “Amanda, it’s a defense system — something the Navy uses. We found the word in an access log for an Army database.”

“So you went and got more access logs so you can look for patterns,” she continued. “Tedious work. I assume you can use help?”

Trent laughed lightly. “Could we ever. But will it compromise what you’re working on, Mrs. — er, Amanda?”

Amanda closed her file folder. “No, actually, but we can’t get started right away. Lee, your appointment with the physical therapist is in thirty minutes.”

Her husband’s lips thinned. “We don’t have time for that right now, Amanda.”

“Lee.” She met his eyes with a steady gaze. “Do we really need to have this argument in front of someone else?”

“We can reschedule it, can’t we? Especially since now it’s looking like we’ll end up with a full-on task force before it’s all over?”

“Lee.”

He fidgeted.

“Mr. Trent can go ahead and start looking for the patterns. We’ll be back in a couple of hours.” She paused. “This isn’t optional.”

“Douglas,” murmured Trent. She nodded, but didn’t look his direction.

With a long, unhappy sigh, Lee reached for his crutches and began to lever himself up. Behind them, Trent moved to the bookshelf and laid the files out in a neat row on top of it.

---

Everything was lining up neatly. Part of Francine wondered if she should worry about that, but the rest of her was just glad it was one less annoyance.

She kept turning the pages of the Post she’d acquired, alternating with sips from the coffee mug in front of her. But she couldn’t have told you a word about what was in that day’s edition. Even worse, she was wearing clothing that she ordinarily wouldn’t be caught dead in: a simple sweater and jeans, with her hair in a ponytail. It wasn’t a look that would have been incorrect on Amanda, but for Francine? It felt positively grungy, especially since she really had broken a light sweat while going through her closets trying to find something that would work.

And there was, she admitted, something to be said for being unobtrusive. Ordinarily the café would have moved her on by now, anticipating the afternoon rush, but instead she’d simply been left alone in the corner.

After two-and-a-half hours, it finally paid off when she caught a glimpse of a man walking past.

He, too, seemed utterly ordinary: suit pants, dress shoes, trenchcoat, conservative haircut and nondescript appearance. But she’d spotted the giveaway: perfectly even steps. His pace was trained, not casual, and she’d have bet good money he was hyper-aware of his surroundings despite appearances.

She was careful not to get too close as she left the café and followed him toward Metro Center, but that was when things started unraveling: half a block out, she lost him in the afternoon crowd.

Damn it, she thought, and picked up her pace. If he got into the station —

A hand reached out and snatched her elbow, pulling her into a doorway just down from the entrance. “Who are you and what do you want?”

She jerked free and smoothed her hair. “My name’s not important. I’m a friend of Jonathan Stone’s.”

“Who the hell is he?” It was too vehement to be believable.

“Don’t try that,” she snapped. “I want to know where he is.”

To the man’s credit, he didn’t try to maintain the charade. “So do I. We lost him before exfil.” He looked her up and down. “You’re the fiancée. With the Agency.”

“I said it doesn’t matter,” she ground out. “How far did you track him?”

“Why should I tell you?”

She stepped closer, making her intent clear. “You said you know who I am? Then don’t ask that again.”

He rolled his eyes, but relented. “He got onto his plane at CDG. No reason to think he got off between there and Dulles. But he never picked up his bag.”

“Did you?”

A stony look was his only response. All right, then; she’d get it later.

“What was going down?” she asked instead.

His voice dropped to a hiss. “Like I’d answer that on an open street.”

“Like I’m going to let you walk away if you don’t.”

He flushed and dropped his gaze. “Delivery only. I’m not Company. Just civilian auxiliary. Next step in the chain.”

“What was your mission?”

“Can’t you hear? I said delivery only. I don’t know. Don’t care. I’m just mad I didn’t get paid.” He pointed at her. “Your man owes me.”

“I’ll add it to the bill,” she told him. “When’s the last time anyone knew where he was?”

“Beats hell out of me. You know everything I do. Don’t follow me again.” On that line, he twisted free and was gone.

Francine let him go and indulged in a deep sigh, feeling frustration starting to creep in. Another low-level courier. It figured.

Sauntering toward the taxi stand, she leaned against it briefly while she took out her notebook and jotted a few things down.

In code, of course. She was, after all, a highly trained agent.

---

Although he wasn’t as expert as the folks down in Crypto, Lee was a good enough agent to manage codes and ciphers in the field — or so he’d believed, until he saw the notes the physical therapist was making on his chart. It wasn’t about reading upside-down; that he was doing fine. He just didn’t understand the abbreviations or clinical language that Monica Brown, DPT, was using during her assessment.

“All right, Mr. Stetson,” she told him now. “Feet flat on the floor. I want you to stand up without using your hands.” She was holding his crutches out of reach.

Easy enough, he thought, but when he did so he wobbled. He took a half-step to the right to compensate, leaning back on the heel. Pain shot up his calf.

She shook her head, causing the beads in her hair to rattle slightly. “Don’t move your feet until I ask you to.”

Lee blew his breath out hard, but somehow managed to follow the instruction.

She made another note in the chart. “Stay still for as long as you can.”

That was definitely easier said than done. He could already feel his ankle starting to shake, and he reflexively tightened the knee to compensate. It, too, started to complain.

“How much longer?” he gasped.

She flicked her eyes up and down once. “Go ahead and sit down. Try to move as normally as you can.”

He landed harder than he meant to, but figured it still looked mostly normal until he saw the way her lips pursed.

“What’d I do wrong?” he asked her.

“Nothing,” she answered as she made more notes in the chart. “Have you tried walking at all?”

Irritation lanced through him. “The doctors told me not to put any weight on it.”

From beside the therapist, Amanda gave him a look. His jaw clenched. “All right. A step or two. Just to see if I could.”

“Could you?”

“No,” he admitted. “Which is why I didn’t try again. Should I have?”

“It probably wouldn’t have hurt anything,” said Brown, “but it probably wouldn’t have worked any better than the first time.”

“But I am going to walk again,” he stated. It wasn’t a question.

“Probably,” she said.

“Definitely,” he corrected.

Her pencil paused. “Mr. Stetson, today’s just the initial assessment to see where you are. I can’t make any promises until I’ve had a chance to evaluate you thoroughly and come up with a treatment plan.”

It was an effort not to snap at her. “How long will it take?”

“For the plan? A week.”

“No,” he countered. “Until I can walk.”

“It depends —”

“On what?”

“Lee,” said Amanda.

“It depends on how your body responds,” said Brown, her voice firm. “Healing, strength, balance. And it will take some time.”

“How much time?” he demanded.

“As long as it takes.”

“I want a number.”

“Mr. Stetson.” Brown closed the chart with a snap. “I can’t give you one until I finish the assessment. And I can’t do that until you settle down.”

“Settle down?” Lee could hear his voice rising, but he didn’t care. “You’re not the one stuck with half a foot and zero answers. You get to write down probabilities on a piece of paper and then go home. On both your feet.”

“Lee.” Amanda’s tone was more urgent. “Let her do her job.”

“Fine.” His fists clenched. “So do it.”

“I can’t when you’re this upset.” Brown’s voice hadn’t wavered a bit. “We’re going to stop for now, and schedule a time when you can come back in to finish later.”

“What?”

“This isn’t productive, and it isn’t safe. You’re going to push yourself past your limits, possibly even hurt yourself. I have an opening day after tomorrow, same time.”

“I am not going to wait —”

She stood up. “You’re going to have to. Mrs. Stetson, if I could see you for a few minutes. We’ll have scheduling confirm the follow-up visit while we talk.”

“You’ll talk to her but you won’t talk to me?” exploded Lee. “I’m the patient here!”

“You are. But you’re done for the day, and so am I. Your wife can reschedule the appointment while you calm down.”

“While I —” it felt as though something snapped inside his head, and he shoved back up to a stand, snatching the crutches. Another spike of pain shot up his leg, but he ignored it as he turned around and made for the door.

“Lee,” began Amanda. “Wait a minute.”

“No,” he snarled. “I can’t stay here. I — just — I’ll be outside.” Not giving her a chance to answer, he flung himself out of the assessment room, down the hall, and back out into the waiting room. Multiple sets of eyes turned his way, registering reactions from shock to disgust to disinterest. A child stared openly at his foot.

Damn it, don’t look at me like that!

He couldn’t stay there. Making his way through the waiting room, he pushed outside and turned down the sidewalk, looking for anything — anywhere — that he could just get away. Another door came up on the right, one that had blackout panels, and he shoved at it. Hard. Contrary to his expectation, it opened, and he had to catch himself on one crutch to keep from stumbling. Once steadied, he shoved again, this time to open the door all the way and step through it.

When it fell shut behind him, all the noise from outside cut off. For a moment he just stood there, trying to catch his breath and find some equilibrium.

The light in this place was clear, but soft and indirect. A few chairs and couches were arranged in uneven rows, focused toward the back of the room which bore a simple table and an oil lamp. A single, gilt-edged book sat open, its ribbon falling across the page. Even from this distance, even without the glasses he’d forgotten to put back on, he could see that the text was both black and red.

Recognition came a heartbeat later, and with it another ragged breath.

This wasn’t where he wanted to be, but his leg was screaming and nobody else was there. After another couple breaths, he moved toward a chair and sank down, intentionally slower. But the crutches slipped from his grasp and toppled onto the floor, clattering loudly in the silence. He let them lie there.

Nothing moved except the flickering flame on the oil lamp. Nobody came out to berate him or ask questions or even demand that he identify himself. The agent in him marked that with concern, but somehow, in this place he couldn’t bring himself to maintain any wariness. Lee slumped forward, struggling to control his breathing, trying to remember the mantra he hadn’t needed to use in a very long time.

It didn’t work. All he could hear was Brown’s voice: as long as it takes. As long as it takes.

He pushed backward as his breathing slowed and his heartbeat settled, absently noting that his hands were shaking. No matter; he wasn’t in any danger of falling. He let his arms fall to the sides, his left hand landing on the chair next to this one. Its fingers splayed, then closed around something long, thin, and hard, and he froze.

For a moment, he didn’t look down, as if whatever he’d found might vanish just from being seen. His fingers tightened, feeling the shape and material: lumpy, wooden. Beads? Yes, he decided a second later. That was a string holding them together, and — something — capping each end.

Turning his hand over, he saw a series of brown beads anchored by a T-shaped pendant on one end and a religious medal on the other. It reminded him sharply of Carrie’s rosary, but that wasn’t quite right. There were thirteen of the beads, not ten, and they were all in a row instead of one or two being separated out. Thirteen? What was that supposed to count, or symbolize, or summarize?

What does it matter? he thought bitterly, shaking his head. These probably had just been left here by mistake anyway.

Behind him, a soft whisper and a rush of air announced someone else’s entrance. Amanda, he realized a second later as the scent of her perfume reached him.

There was a pause before he heard her footsteps echo slightly as she came to stand beside him. “I have the appointment card.”

“Thank you.”

She glanced down at the crutches on the floor, then at his face, and then sat on the chair across the aisle. “We’ll stay as long as you need.”

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, deliberately noticing the rhythm of his heartbeat. It wasn’t a prayer. He wasn’t here for that. He’d just needed…silence. And space. And he’d gotten both.

“We can go now,” he told her. “We should get back to the case.”

“All right,” she said quietly.

He leaned forward to pick up the crutches. “And I’ll behave when we come back.”

She considered him for a moment longer before nodding and getting to her feet. It wasn’t until they were back out in the parking lot that he realized he’d dropped the string of beads into his coat pocket.