JAG

Title: It's Time  

Author/pseudonym: Tinnean  

Fandom: JAG  

Pairing: Clayton Webb/Clark Palmer  

Rating: NC-17  

Disclaimer: All things JAG are Bellasario's. And if he treated them better, **I** wouldn't have to be doing this for them! The characters of La Femme Nikita's Section One and Oversight belong to Fireworks and WB.    

Status: new/complete  

Date: 3/2003  

Series/Sequel: This is part eighteen of the Mind Fuck series, and follows It Goes Like It Goes.  

Summary: Clayton Webb realizes that whatever it is he and Clark Palmer have together, it isn't simply physical, and he's not about to let go. Meanwhile, across the Atlantic , Prinzip is making itself felt.  

Warnings: m/m. Keep in mind this is AU, since not only has the DSD not been disbanded, but those who were killed off by the end of Season 4 of La Femme Nikita are still alive and kicking.  

Notes: For clarity's sake, this begins just before Clark goes to Cape Cod . To my knowledge, there is no Rue Fourier  in Paris . Spoilers for Season 4 of LFN. Minor spoiler for Webb of Lies (looks like what's going around is coming around). http://www.ocaiw.com/galleria_degas/index.php?lang=en&gallery=misc&id=94

This link will show you what Clark gave Clay as a host gift. Unfortunately, I don't have one for Clay's housewarming gift to Clark . This is for Gail, who does a fantastic beta. Her birthday, 2/25/02 , (the same as Clark Palmer's, how 'bout that!) started the whole thing. One story, no sex. Oh, my.  This is a belated birthday gift to her. Also, a very happy birthday to Greg and to Alexandra. Apologies for being late on every one.

It's Time

Part 1

I had heard of Clark Palmer; who in the intelligence community hadn't? Although before that incident with the super conductor, I hadn't come into contact with him. While the FBI and the CIA worked together on occasion, the DSD was never involved with those two more mainstream agencies.  

DSD agents didn't have the reputation for being the most stable of operatives, and to hear Harmon Rabb, Jr. tell it, Clark Palmer was the most unstable of them all.  

But he'd stood staring down at me on the Kamiko Maru as I breathed through the pain of a bullet wound inflicted by a rogue Company man. I'd managed to get that super conductor away from him, and he'd smiled and said, "You do good work, Webb."  

I'd shown him just how good I could be when I went down on him in the men's room of Raphael's on his birthday and made him moan as he climaxed.  

Several weeks later he'd returned the favor, cuffing me to my bed and blowing me as I'd never been blown. His mouth had been hot and wet and…  

We were playing mind games, each time raising the stakes, trying to one-up the other. I learned of his promotion and went to his apartment with a bottle of champagne.  

I kissed him that night for the first time. It felt as if I had grabbed a live wire with my bare hands. There were tingles shooting up my legs and down through my torso, and they all convened in my cock.  

He fucked me that night for the first time, his cock a hard, blunt intrusion that forced me to acknowledge his possession. There had been nothing in the file I'd compiled on him that even hinted he could make love like that.  

I would sweat and grow hard just from the thought.  

I had had a number of relationships in my life. Because of my occupation, the physical aspect never lasted very long, but when I parted company with my lovers, it was always on good terms, and I prided myself on the fact that whenever I ran into a former lover, she, or the very occasional he, did not turn tail and run in the opposite direction.  

However, before Clark , I had never asked anyone to move in with me. I wondered about that.  

****  

The manager of Clark Palmer's apartment complex was either very brave or very stupid. He had informed Clark , after his apartment had been blown up, that he had thirty days to find a new place of residence. I convinced my lover of two things: it really wasn't in his best interest to kill the man, and more importantly, to stay with me in my townhouse. It would be strictly temporary, I assured him. Just until he could find someplace new.  

He had agreed, taking the bedroom that was down the hall from mine. And I assured myself that was the perfect arrangement, the only logical one, he in his bed, me in mine. I was still assuring myself of this as I knocked on his door, let myself in, and spent the night in his bed, over him, under him, plastered against him having hot, sweaty sex.  

The next afternoon, after I returned from my ride with Mother and before Clark and I left to view an exhibit at the National Gallery, he followed me into the shower and  fucked me senseless. No one had ever done that to me. I wondered what other experiences he would be willing to introduce me to.  

From the museum, we went to Raphael's, the Italian restaurant where I'd bought Clark dinner on his birthday. This time he bought me dinner.  

I still grew aroused at the thought of how I had followed him into the men's room and gone down on him that first time. That was so unlike me.  

We finished dinner this time, and I cut a glance toward the restrooms at the rear of the restaurant. "Care to check out the men's room, Clark ? I have such fond memories of it."  

"You like living dangerously, don't you, Webb?"  

This from a man who was notorious in the intelligence community for the risks he'd been willing to take for his agency, and for his phenomenal luck in never being found out. I murmured as much to him.  

"Ah, Clay, luck had nothing to do with it! I'm the best!"  

"Yes, you are. Are you sure I couldn't interest you in a visit to the men's room?"  

"You're impatient tonight, baby. I like that in you." He licked his lips. However, Sunday nights at Raphael's were too busy to dally. Clark paid the bill, and I sauntered out of the restaurant, my hands in my trouser pockets drawing the material tight, knowing his eyes were on my ass. I drove us home in record time.  

****  

According to the file I had compiled on him, Clark Palmer never let anyone get close. The DSD had a list of ladies who were very beautiful, very talented, and of course, very well compensated. On rare, extremely rare occasions, he had been known to visit them.  

He was a man who clearly preferred to be in control of himself at all times. He would have made the perfect zealot, denying his body's urges until the time  when he decided he would allow it.  

There had been nothing about men in the records D.B. Cooper's mole had leaked to him, and I wondered where Clark had learned to fuck a man. I also wondered if I could persuade him to tell me some night when we were in bed. It should make a fascinating bedtime story. Like anything worth doing, it took practice, and like everything he did, he did it very well. The ache deep in my bowels when he was done with me reminded me happily of that.  

What he didn't do was relationships, or even affairs. However I might feel about it, I knew that one day, probably sooner than I'd have preferred, he would walk out of my life.  

Nothing lasted forever.  

But I was going to make damn sure he remembered me.  

****  

I was at State that morning, and it was quiet. No crisis, no scandal, no alarums or excursions. I decided to take a couple of hours off.  

After my father died, Mother had often taken me antiquing with her, and I had learned the best places to go for eighteenth century thimbles, for fin du siècle time pieces, for… bronze statues.  

"Clayton Webb, as I live and breathe! It has been a long time. How is your lovely mother?" Horatio Primm was a small, dapper man of indeterminate years, who'd been discreetly infatuated with Mother for as long as I'd known him, which was more than twenty years now. He dealt in hard-to-find items.  

"Quite well, thank you, Mr. Primm. And how are you?" We spent the next few minutes exchanging polite small talk before getting down to business.  

"What can I help you find today?"  

"I'm looking for a bronze statue of a dog. A life-size Rottweiler. I want him on his feet, ears and tail cocked, jaws slightly parted. Will that be possible, do you think? Or do I need to have it commissioned?"  

"Hmmm. Interesting." He peered at me over his wire-rimmed glasses and pulled thoughtfully at his lower lip. "How soon would you need him?"  

"There's no real rush. It's for a housewarming gift, and my friend hasn't even started looking for a new home yet."  

"A Rottweiler is a little unusual for a woman." I didn't respond to that. "You know a bronze that size is going to be expensive."  

"Yes, I imagine it would." It didn't matter. Clark had tried to be blasé about the destruction of his bronze statue, but I'd seen the way he'd looked at it when he told me the story.  

"Let me look into this. I'll speak to my suppliers and see if they have anything available, and I'll be in touch."  

"Thanks, Mr. Primm. You have my home phone number. Leave a message any time." We shook hands, and I drove back to State, feeling pleased with myself.  

The feeling stayed until I got home later that evening.  

The house was silent. The lights, timed to go on at twilight, were casting their soft yellow glow over the entryway. "I'll pick up some take out," Clark had promised that morning before he'd left for work. "What do you feel like?"  

"Surprise me." I was looking forward to seeing what he would bring home. I already knew he had a weakness for General Tso's Chicken. I wondered how adventurous he'd get for dinner.  

I went up to my bedroom to shower and change into something more… comfortable.  

I noticed the small square of note paper on my pillow immediately, and for one brief, stupid minute, I thought Clark had left me a love note. I went toward it eagerly and picked it up, then stared down at the words in confusion. Sorry about dinner. Had he had to work late? Why not just leave a message on my machine? I read the rest of it. I'll be in touch. What the fuck did that mean, 'I'll be in touch?' And then I saw the house key that was also on my pillow.  

Cold crept into my gut. Was this his way of telling me he was no longer interested in… in us? I sat down heavily on the edge of the bed.  

No. I would not let him piss away what we had so easily. I picked up the bedside phone.  

Still… If he wanted out of our relationship… I couldn't make him stay. I'd never tried to hold on to anyone who wanted out of an affair. I was a mature, reasonable adult, after all.  

However, at the very least, Clark Palmer did owe me an explanation. I speed dialed his cell phone number.  

"Palmer." He sounded impatient.  

"Where the fuck are you?" I snarled, thinking at the same time that he'd better damn well know it was me.  

" Fall River ." Massachusetts ? His response was so reflexive, without a pause to think, that I had no doubt of its truthfulness. According to his records, Clark had been born in Massachusetts . My anger began to subside. But then he said, "I left a note…"  

And my anger was back with a vengeance. "Oh, yes. That," I sneered. "What the fuck was that supposed to represent? 'Sorry about dinner. I'll be in touch.'"  

"I had to…"  

I didn't give him a chance to explain. "And why did you leave the key?" That was what hurt. I could have rationalized that fucking note, but not the presence of the house key he'd left behind. If something was wrong, why hadn't he been willing to tell me to my face?  

"C'mon, Clay. You didn't expect it to last forever."  

Not forever, of course not, but jesus, it wasn't even a week! I expected it to last a little longer than that!  

"I mean, c'mon," he was saying almost desperately, "you're CIA; I'm DSD…"  

I couldn't remember the last time I'd been so furious.  

I was the son of Porter and Neville Webb. I had grown up learning to keep my emotions under strict control. It had never been a problem, not until I learned of a certain senior DSD agent who was keeping a file on me and became involved with him.  

Clark Palmer was the only person who could make me lose my temper. Even Harmon Rabb, with his continuous demands for assistance whether it was in the country's best interests or not, never made me see red as easily as my lover could. Anger boiled and sizzled through my veins, but I kept my tone flat and unemotional. " Clark , fuck you and the horse you rode in on." Then I spoiled it by slamming down the phone.  

Well, that was mature. I pushed myself to my feet and walked toward the door, balling up the note and stuffing it in my pocket. To top it off, I was still hungry. Maybe there would be some leftovers in my refrigerator.  

The light in the fridge revealed its bare state. I picked up the cordless phone and speed dialed another number. There was one person I knew I could count on, who would be there, no matter what. "Hello, Mother? Would you mind if I came over?"  

****  

Markov answered the door. "Good evening, Mr. Webb. Your mother is in the small parlor."  

"Thanks, Markov." I went to the room at the back of the house, and Markov went to his own apartment on the third floor, to watch CNN no doubt, until it was time to lock up the house for the night.  

Mother was leafing through a photo album. She smiled up at me, and gestured toward a tray that held my dinner; a bowl of soup, a platter of sandwiches, and a bottle of Perrier.  

I walked over to it and inhaled appreciatively. "Toasted cheese sandwiches and cream of tomato soup. Definitely comfort food. Thank you, Mother."  

"You're very welcome, sweetheart. You sounded in need of comforting." She went back to looking at the photos, and I sat down and began to eat. Neither of us said anything for a short time.  

Finally, I put down the soup spoon and ran a hand through my hair, coming to the decision I had somehow known all along I would make. "I don't know what to do, Mother. I've been seeing someone since February, and we'd just taken our… our involvement to a physical level."  

"It wasn't a one night stand, I take it?"  

"No, although not by much." I counted the nights since I'd gone to Clark 's apartment with a bottle of Pol Roger to celebrate his promotion. No, not by much at all.  

"I'm relieved."  

"Don't be. It's over."  

"Excuse me?"  

I laughed mirthlessly. "I came home from work tonight and found what was basically a 'Dear Clayton' letter on my pillow."  

"Oh, my. But you were involved enough to give this… um… this person a key to your house? You've never done that, to my knowledge."  

"No, I haven't." Although not having the key hadn't prevented Palmer from entering my townhouse at will. "It certainly wasn't the smartest thing I've ever done, and I can't imagine what possessed me to give hi… um… to give out my key this time." I'd nearly slipped, and I could feel the tell-tale color in my cheeks.  

"Could it be because this time more than your head is involved?"  

"Please, Mother." My expression had to be pained. "Anyone can tell you that Cl… that this person is not the best bet for a long-term relationship." I picked up the spoon and went back to my soup.  

"This is the room where I spoke with 'Matt Robinson,' did I ever tell you that, Clayton?" she murmured casually. I made a noncommittal sound, wondering at her words. It wasn't Matt Robinson who had interviewed my mother, it had been Clark Palmer. She knew that. I had been the one to tell her. "He was fascinated by this picture of you." She handed me a snapshot taken while Jack Be Nimble and I were in mid-jump at the South Hampton trials. That was the year after the United States had boycotted the Summer Olympics, and taking the blue that June day had gone a long way to easing that disappointment.  

Clark had been fascinated by that picture? I studied it carefully, but all I saw was a gangly youth, all elbows and sharp angles. "I fail to see anything that would interest…" a man of  my lover's… my former lover's personality. "…um… anyone."  

"Your intensity, Clayton. Your unwavering concentration. Even someone unfamiliar with jumping could see you throwing your heart over that fence for Jack Be Nimble to follow."  

"Be that as it may, Clark Palmer is a man. What he felt… thought," I hastily corrected, "about me would only matter on a professional level."  

Mother sighed and shook her head. "Sweetheart, I've known since the summer we spent in the French wine country that you … how should I phrase this? …enjoy masculine companionship from time to time." I froze, then gently put down the soup spoon. "I have no problem with that, sweetheart." She smiled, her warm, accepting, 'I love you no matter what' smile. "Now, if I may offer a word of advice? If it was I who was being unceremoniously dumped, I would go after Clark Palmer and demand he tell me what possessed him to pull such an asinine stunt. You're a Webb,  Clayton. If anyone is going to do the breaking up, it will be you!"  

Suddenly I felt much better. "You know something, Mother? You never fail to amaze me!" I picked up my sandwich and bit into it, determining what my next step would be. Clark Palmer was in Fall River . I was going to find out what he was doing there, fly up to find him, and then… Well, I'd decide what to do when I got there.

****  

Clark Palmer never bragged about how good he was. His success rate spoke for itself.  

But I was good, too. I wouldn't have made deputy director of Counter-Intelligence in the CIA if I wasn't a competent… a more than competent operative.  

Using my own methods, I tracked Clark Palmer to Proven House, a bed and breakfast on Cape Cod . Of course, he wasn't using his own name; I had learned that as well.  

People were only too willing to talk, if you gave them half a chance. The pleasant  woman behind the desk smiled up at me and said, "Mr. Wells is your friend? What a lovely coincidence!"  

I filled out the registration card and returned her smile. "Yes, isn't it?"  

"He's staying just down the hall from you in the St. Andrew. I believe my husband told me he's gone out for a short while, but he should be back in time for dinner, which is served at 7:30 ." She handed me the key. I took it and went up to the second floor, glancing toward the rear of the house where Clark 's room was situated.  

My room, the Harpooner, was small, with an attached bath. I contemplated the double bed. It wouldn't be much of a problem for me, but Clark might be a little uncomfortable in that bed. //Good god, what are you thinking, Webb? The man's walked out on you, and you're thinking about having him back in your bed?//  

No. Of course not. I banished the image of him lounging across my bed, hands stacked behind his head, that wicked smile on his face, from my mind.  

I dropped my carry-on in a corner and cracked my knuckles. //All right, let's go see just how good Palmer is.// I removed a slim leather case from my suit jacket and selected a lock pick, then went into the hall.  

There was no one there, although I could hear soft sounds coming from the suite at the far end of the hall. According to Mrs. Proven, the couple staying in the King George were honeymooners. I doubted they'd even come up for air long enough to realize anyone else was sharing Proven House with them.  

I studied Clark 's door carefully. The locks on the doors of this bed and breakfast were old, and I couldn't see an agent of Clark Palmer's caliber trusting them to keep anyone out. He'd have something that would be unobtrusive, that would let him know that someone had entered.  

Sure enough, an inch or so above the floor, I found a thin thread of chewing gum stretched from the door to the frame. There was no way I could enter Clark 's room without breaking it and revealing my presence. I snapped it with my finger, then went to work on the lock. It only took a few seconds before a very satisfying snick signified its surrender. I let myself in, making sure the door was locked behind me, and then studied the room.  

A door to the side opened into a private bath, more lavish than the one connected to my room, which just had a shower enclosure. This bathroom had a tub that was actually large enough to accommodate two. The vanity's countertop was granite. I poked my head into an alcove and saw a suit hanging there, the same suit he'd been wearing Monday morning when he left. A switch to the side of the fireplace turned on the gas jets to ignite it. There was a plush rug in front of it, and I staunchly kept my mind away from visions of me and Clark wrapped around each other in a wanton sprawl on it.  

I turned my attention to the queen-size bed, with its pale ivory comforter. The mattress was soft and high above the floor. I couldn't resist testing it, so I toed off my shoes and made myself comfortable. I remembered the picture Clark had taken of himself in my bed, one hand cuffed above his head, and the other cupped over his erection, and my cock grew hard.  

What was it about that man? I was tempted to jerk off in his bed. I was about to reach for my zipper, when the door burst open.  

The unexpected sound had me on instant alert, adrenaline flooding my system. Thoughts of sex vanished. I was up in a crouch and had my Smith and Wesson Combat Magnum out and aimed, my forefinger ready to squeeze the trigger. The barrel of Clark Palmer's Beretta was in turn aimed at my head. His mouth was tight and grim. I imagined mine was a reflection of his.  

"Jesus, Webb, who do you think you are, fucking Dirty Harry?" He dropped his gun.  

Son of a bitch. I knew he wouldn't have missed the broken thread of gum; flinging the door open would have been his way of startling whoever was in his room. Well, he had succeeded. My heart was thudding, and sweat beaded at my hairline. I snapped back, "Do you have any idea how close I came to blowing your fucking head off?" I reholstered my gun.  

"That'll be the fucking day! What are you doing here, anyway? How…"  

"Do you really expect me to tell you how I knew you were staying on Cape Cod , under the name of Joseph Wells?" No, I could see he didn't. I ran my eyes over him. I'd never seen him in casual clothes, and he looked so damned good. The cuffs of his jeans were rolled up, leaving his calves bare. The skin was pale, dusted with hair that clung wetly. Didn't he ever go out in the sun? I pictured him on a blanket at a secluded beach, soaking up rays, bare-assed, his head pillowed on his arms, and my mouth went dry and my trousers were suddenly too snug. I refused to allow myself to shift. That would make him aware of my arousal, and wouldn't he just gloat over that? Clayton Webb, the man with ice water in his veins, hot for him. And then I noticed that he was limping and had a makeshift bandage around his foot, and I forgot my arousal. "What did you do to your foot, Clark?"  

"It's nothing," he dismissed. "Just a scratch."  

"Yes? Well, that 'scratch' is leaving bloody footprints all over the rug!" There was also a scattering of sand. He must have picked up the cut on the beach.  

"Fuck!"  

"Get in the bathroom, and let me take a look at that." He opened his mouth, and I felt my temper unraveling again. Why was everything with him such a big production? "And don't argue with me, or I'll…"  

"Yeah? You'll do what, Clay?" he taunted. It was as if he wanted to see how I would react to his pushing.  

I pushed back. Literally. I turned him around and planted my palm in the middle of his back and pushed. "Move it, tough guy."  

Instead of the argument I was expecting, he actually obeyed me. He hobbled into the bathroom, lowered the lid of the commode and sat down heavily.  

"Untie that sock, Clark ." I started the water running in the sink, took off my jacket, and rolled up the sleeves of my shirt.  

"You… uh… you mind telling me what you are doing here, Clay?"  

//Coming after you, you pain in the ass!// I scowled at him and picked up his foot, then ran a wet washcloth over the injury. "This doesn't look good, Clark . I think you might need stitches. Maybe we should get you to an emergency room." 'We'? As much as I might want there to be, there wasn't any 'we' any more. What was I thinking?  

"No. It isn't necessary. It's not that bad. Give me that." He grabbed the washcloth out of my hand. "You're too gentle. The blood will get out any sand that's left, and just to be on the safe side, fill the tub; I'll soak the rest of it out."  

There was blood on my hands, his blood. In all the years I'd been in the CIA, I'd only been shot the once, on the Kamiko Maru in the matter of that super conductor, but Clark … I had felt his scars under my fingertips, seen them, although I'd said nothing. Had there ever been anyone who said something about them?  

"Fuck! Listen, Webb, you don't have to worry, I'm clean…"  

"You're an asshole, you know that, Palmer? Do you think I'm worried about that?"  

"Why not? I would be."  

"I have a copy of your last physical." And the one before that. And the one before that. He sat there looking stunned. My temper began to simmer, and I dragged him up off the commode, tempted to shake him.  

Instead, my hands tightened on his sweater, and I yanked him against me and locked lips with him.  

I was in control of that kiss, that situation, until he reached between us and found how hard I was. He shaped the length of my cock with one hand while his mouth feasted off mine. His other hand ghosted over  my back, down past my waist to the crevice of my ass, then pulled me closer. His hips began to rock gently, and I ground my cock against his groin. I spread my legs for better balance, and he raised his knee and lightly rubbed the vee of my crotch. The tantalizing friction caused me to moan into his mouth, and he shivered and echoed the needy sound  back into mine.  

I wanted him. I could feel how much he wanted me. And then I remembered his injury, and I backed away from him, more reluctant than I wanted him to know.  

"Not the best time! Soak your foot, Clark. Do you have any bandages?" I asked briskly. If he wasn't going to let me run him to the emergency room, we'd need something to keep him from bleeding all over the place.  

"There's some first-aid stuff in my shaving kit. Hand me a towel, would you?" He seemed satisfied with the condition of the cuts. He licked his lips and watched me from under his lashes. I waited for him to say something about that kiss, but instead he said, "Want to tell me now what you're doing here?"  

I gritted my teeth. //Fine, Palmer. We'll do this the hard way.// "Why did you run, Clark ?"  

"What?" He frowned. He wasn't expecting me to challenge him?  

"What we have between us is too good to be tossed aside on a whim," I growled.  

"What are you talking about? I didn’t run anywhere." Who was he trying to  kid? He had done an outstanding imitation of Jesse Owens! "I had to go to a funeral."  

"Your mother."  I should have offered my condolences right away, but I'd gotten... distracted. "I'm sorry."  

"No need to be," he said carelessly, turning away to rifle through the contents of his first-aid kit. "The old bat's liver finally gave up the ghost. Shit. I know I had iodine in here!"  

"This?" I had removed the brown bottle when I'd been searching for something to protect the wounds. "Sit down, Clark ." He sat. I wished I could find a way to make him obey me so readily all the time.  I touched the iodine to the two cuts, then took the butterfly bandages that he had taken from his first-aid kit. "You know, Clark … hold the edges together please." My brain was rapidly considering and discarding various ways of dealing with my lover, finally deciding on light. I would keep it light, if it killed me. "… if you carried a sewing kit, I could stitch you up myself."  

It just might kill me. His groin was close enough so I could smell the musk of his arousal. If I leaned forward just a little bit I'd be able to mouth the bulge through the material of his jeans.  

"What do you think, I'm fucking Rambo?" He raised my face, and I couldn't help grinning at him. "Goddamn it, are you teasing me again?" This time, he kissed me.  

The kiss was hungry, hungrier than the one I'd initiated. By the time we broke apart we were both breathing heavily. If teasing him would get me kissed like that again, I could spend my life… I could do it over and over again. He let me go.  

I sat back on my heels and finished putting the last bandage on, and Clark stood up. "Your foot…"  

"Fuck my foot!" He began to strip.  

It had been less than two days, but it had still been too long. "I'd rather fuck your ass, Clark ."  

"Think you're so smart, don't you, Webb? Well, I'll…"  

I never knew what he was going to say, because his face suddenly darkened, and he began to swear. "Oh, fuck! Of all the motherfucking, cocksucking… " He banged the tiled wall viciously.  

This was a side of Clark Palmer I had never seen, that I doubted anyone had ever seen. " Clark ! What's wrong?"  

"No supplies," he told me morosely.  

"Pardon me?" I bit my lips to prevent my laughter from bursting out.  

"You heard me, Webb." Clark Palmer was not happy with himself. "I didn't bring anything with me. No condoms, no lube… Fuck!"  

I found that very telling. "So, you didn't plan on fucking someone while you were away." An inordinate sense of satisfaction rippled through me.  

"Clay, I was going to bury my old lady! Contrary to popular belief, I do not get turned on by funerals!"  

Perhaps not, but Clark Palmer was a man who prided himself on always being ready for any situation that might arise. He carried a first-aid kit stocked with items most people never saw outside an emergency room, and yet he'd left DC without even a condom in his wallet, something every teenaged boy in America made sure he never left home without. True, there were pharmacies on every street corner, and buying a rubber wasn't a big deal. But…  

He hadn't come to Cape Cod prepared in case he got lucky. I could live with that.  

"Well, if I remember correctly, there's some lotion in the bathroom. And…" I took a condom out of my wallet and waggled it gently before him.  

Clark would have taken the condom from me. "Uh, uh, uh, Clark ." I touched his ear and fantasized about nipping the lobe, taking it into my mouth, sucking on it. What had we been talking about? Condoms, yes, condoms. I drew in a deep breath. "I brought it; I wear it! We can go out to a drugstore after dinner and buy more, if you'd like."  

"We have an hour and a half until dinner. Get naked, Clay!" Even when he bottomed, Clark Palmer topped.  

Part 2  

"C'mon, Webb!" Clark was on his back on the bed. My fingers, coated with the lotion, were busy slicking and opening him. "Hurry it… Ah!"  

"Going fast enough for you, hot shot?" I'd found his prostate.  

"Again!" he groaned and arched into my touch. His cock was hard against his belly, drops of pre come beading the tip. I reached for my own cock. "No. That's mine."  

At his possessive words, a flush of heat ran swept from my hairline down to my groin, and my cock became even more engorged. I eased my fingers out of him to get more lotion on them, needing to get  three fingers into him. Before I could, he somehow dragged me around, and I found myself straddling his chest, my cock inches from his mouth. "How the fuck did you do that, Palmer?" I gasped, nonplussed by the rapidity with which he took control.  

He didn't answer, too busy arranging my hips so he could suck my cock into the wet heat of his mouth. I balanced my weight on my knees and leaned forward. The fingers of my left hand curved around his thigh, and I cupped his balls out of the way, giving them a lick before I slid the fingers of my right hand back inside him. Clark 's cock was just within reach of my mouth, quivering, the head a deep red, and I swallowed it hungrily.  

Clark slipped a finger past the mouthful of cock I had, and  I whimpered as he rubbed his finger over my tongue, and then quickly withdrew it.  

Suddenly that moistened fingertip was circling around and across and dipping slightly into my anus. The unexpected sensation caused me to jerk, and his other hand smoothed  over a buttock, petting me. It tightened, held me in place, and I gave a full body shudder.  

We both groaned around the hot flesh we worked with lips and tongue. The muscles in Clark 's ass clenched on my fingers as I stroked that small gland inside him, and he thrust up shallowly into my mouth.  

He released me to pant, "Cl… Clay, is this your… Oh, fuck that feels good! … your way of pun… punishing me for leaving?"  

I was as breathless as he was. "If I wanted to… to punish you, baby, I'd be… I'd be sliding into you, and once… oh, once I was inside, I wouldn't move! I'd make you wait!" I eased my fingers out of him, somehow managed to roll on the condom and coat it with more of the lotion, then swing myself around so I was between his legs. His hands gripped my shoulders, and I knew there would be bruises there in the morning. "I'd be doing this!"  

I pushed his thighs back and apart, lined my cock up with his hole, and pushed. There was an instant of resistance, and then I was buried balls deep in the snug, velvety grip of his passage.  

I held still, trapping his cock between our bodies, letting the wiry hair that covered our groins tease it with each shuddering breath we took.  

"Webb! Jesus fucking god! Move, goddamn you!"  

"Oh, no, Clark . Not unless you promise to talk to me before you cut and run the next time." I licked the side of his neck and moved just enough to nudge his prostate, and he shivered.  

"And if I… if I don’t promise?"  

The pain blindsided me, and I closed my eyes against it. Of course he wouldn't promise. What made me think I could coerce any kind of a pledge from Clark Palmer. "Nothing, Clark . But I wish…" I shook my head. "Nothing."  

His palm cradled my jaw, and his thumb brushed over my cheekbone. I raised my eyelids, surprised by the tenderness of the gesture. "Your eyes look almost green right now, did you know that?" he said softly, and he caressed my cheek again. "I won't cut and run next time, Clay. Not that I did anything like that this time. I had to leave DC to come here for a funeral."  

"Sure, Clark . If that's your story, you stick to it."  

His eyes glittered, and the next thing I knew, he had my nipples between his thumb and forefinger, twisting, squeezing, pinching… Oh, fuck! He knew how sensitive… I threw back my head and howled.  

"That's right, baby." He pulled my head down with one hand while the other continued to torment my nipples, and he nuzzled my lips with his. "Wail for me. I want to hear how I make you feel."  

This time he made me shiver. "Son of a bitch!" I gasped.  

Clark tensed. His eyes stared into mine, and he only relaxed when he realized I wasn't using that as an epithet.  

"You're going to make me come!" I began to swear, words I had first learned hanging around a stable.  

Beneath me, my lover's body shook with laughter. "Oh, my, Mr. Webb. Does your mama know you use language like that?" He reached between us and squeezed the nerve at the base of my cock, and I sighed in relief as the clawing need abated.  

"Bastard," I groused. "Leave my nipples alone, or it will be all over but the shouting."  

His body shook harder. "Are you going to shout for me now too, baby?"  

" Clark …" I nipped his chin in warning.  

Suddenly his hands were in my hair, bringing my head down to his, and he was ravaging my mouth. I remembered his words to me, forever ago, it seemed. //You need to be kissed long, and often, and by someone who knows how.// I sighed into his mouth. Clark Palmer certainly knew how.  

He freed my lips, and lipped and nipped the curve of my throat, working a patch of skin. "Damn it, Clark , you're going to mark me!" My complaint was half-hearted.  

"That's the idea, baby. Now  why don't you get busy and make… fuck me?"  

"Finally. Something smart coming out of that mouth of yours."  

"You know you love what I do with my mouth." He locked his ankles behind my back, taking me deeper. Braced on my arms, I undulated my hips, driving my cock against his prostate, and groaned hoarsely. The sound he made in response was indescribable, gasping, desperate, demanding, and it made me wild. "Clay, please!"  And that made me even wilder.  

"All right, Clark ." I began a steady, driving movement, one that was guaranteed to bring us to fulfillment. "All right."  

****  

I made the arrangements, and we went whale watching. Clark complained when a whale breached, and he got a noseful of fish breath. Since it was a half day trip, the boat returning shortly after noon , we had the afternoon to while away. We whiled it away in bed.  

I made the arrangements, and we went fishing in the tide rips. Clark was smugly pleased when he landed more striped bass than I did. That was also a half day trip, and we had a similar problem in the afternoon. We spent those hours in bed as well.  

I made the arrangements, and in a sixty hour period, I had never fucked or been fucked so much. I had to keep shifting in my seat on the flight home, and Clark was walking with a noticeable limp.  

"I'm sorry, Clark ," I murmured as we walked to the long-term parking lot. "I was too rough…"  

"Webb, on your worst day you couldn't be too rough." I thought he was going to say something more, but instead a little smile curled his lips.  

" Clark ." I swallowed, and he raised an eyebrow. "It… uh… it doesn't look good at the Company if someone from the DSD keeps bypassing my security system as if it were child's play." I reached into my pocket and withdrew a key ring. A pewter whale with Plymouth Harbor inscribed on one side dangled from it. "Hold onto this longer than you did last time, okay?"  

He took it in his hand and stared down at the single key it held, and his fingers closed convulsively on it. High color was in his cheeks. He nodded abruptly and put the key ring in his pocket. "Come on," he said gruffly. "I have work to do, even if you don't." We got in the car, and he switched on the ignition.  

I watched his hands on the steering wheel as he drove out of the airport and headed for the 395 and home. I knew that after he dropped me off at my townhouse he'd go directly to DSD headquarters and play catch-up for the rest of the day. I'd be doing the same thing at Langley .  

"I expect that dinner you promised me, Clark ," I told him as I gathered our bags and got out of the car.  

"When…?" His eyes narrowed, and I could see in them when he remembered.  

I touched my forefinger to the lock of hair that was always falling into my eyes, and turned and walked to my front door. By the time I let myself in, he had driven away.  

The message light on my machine was flashing. I dropped the two bags I was carrying to the floor and hit the button to play the new messages.  

"Clayton, dear. I do hope you're having a pleasant time on Cape Cod ." Trust Mother to discover where I had gone. "It's so lovely this time of year. I won't expect you for our ride Sunday unless I hear otherwise. I rather imagine you'll have other things to do. Enjoy yourself, sweetheart."  

That call had been made the same day I'd left for Cape Cod . I'd have to let her know I'd be able to keep our riding engagement. I stared into space, thinking about my mother, thinking about the kind of mother Clark Palmer had had. And I wondered if Clark knew how to ride.  

I shook my head. If he'd panicked and run simply because he'd enjoyed being with me so much on Sunday, the idea of joining Mother and me on our ride would no doubt freak him out. He would deny it, of course, but I wasn't going to chance it at this point.  

I sighed and listened as the next message played.  

"Mr. Webb, I believe I've found exactly what you had in mind." It was Horatio Primm. "The statue is a beauty, if I say so myself. Please let me know when you'll be interested in seeing it."  

He'd managed that very quickly. The call had been made the day after Mother's. I picked up the  phone to return the call. "Mr. Primm? Clayton Webb."  

"Ah, Mr. Webb. I'm delighted to hear from you." He described the statue and named a price, which was nowhere near what I'd been willing to pay. "My contact found it at an estate sale in New York ."  

"It sounds exactly what I'd had in mind. I'd like to stop by in about an hour." His shop was on the way to Langley . "I'll make arrangements to have it delivered to Mother's address. My friend is very… curious, shall we say?"  

"Ladies!" the little man laughed. "Bless their inquisitive little hearts!" My reply was deliberately vague. "I'll see you later this morning then, Mr. Webb. Good-bye."  

I hung up and listened to the third message. "Webb, pick up, goddamn it!" It was Rabb. "This is important! Fuck! You're never around when I need you!"  

This was the second call from him in two weeks. Now what was that all about? Dealing with Rabb was the last thing I needed. I called JAG. "Petty Officer Tiner, this is Clayton Webb. Is Lieutenant Commander Rabb there?"  

"Good morning, Mr. Webb. No, sir, he's away from JAG at the moment."  

"Is there a problem at JAG that requires CIA assistance, Mr. Tiner?"  

"Not to my knowledge, Mr. Webb."  

"All right. Please let the Lieutenant Commander know I returned his call. Thank you, Petty Officer." I disconnected the call. If Rabb had a problem that needed to be dealt with that urgently, he could get in touch with me. I'd help him or not, depending on my own work load.  

Which looked as if it was going to be heavy. All the other messages were from the Company.  

****  

It was late when I returned from Langley that evening. I'd hoped to make it home earlier, but I'd gotten involved with something that had come up while I was away. I discussed it with my Director, and then sent my agent, Sydney Cooper, to look into it more. She was to report back to me, personally.  

It had been a long day, and I was feeling every hour of it. I steered my Lexus into the street where I lived. Clark Palmer's car was at the curb, and suddenly I wasn't feeling quite so exhausted. I parked my car in the garage and crossed the patch of grass that was my front lawn, and let myself into the house.  

The odor of grilled steaks filled the house. I followed my nose to the dining room. The chandelier had been dimmed, the candelabra in the center of the table was lit, and two place settings were facing each other. The silverware had been in my father's family, and Mother had given it to me when I moved into my first place. An embossed W was stamped into the handle of each piece. There were salads and a platter of roasted vegetables. Clark walked in with two plates.  

"What do we have here?" My mouth was watering.  

"Twenty-ounce Porterhouse steaks and Asiago-Parmesan mashed potatoes. This is from B. Smith's, Clay."  

"But they don't do take-out!"  

Clark just smiled, and I was willing to bet he knew someone there who owed him a favor. "Go wash your hands, baby." Damn. I was starting to like hearing him call me 'baby'. "Dinner's ready."  

I used the first floor wash room, which was off the little corridor that led to the utility room and pantry, then hurried back. Clark was pouring two glasses of Pinot Noir.  

"Have you been rummaging through my wine cellar?"  

"Clay! I'm cut to the quick!" He spoiled the effect by grinning, the kind of grin that sent shivers up my spine. My trousers were suddenly too tight, a condition that was becoming all too frequent. I growled under my breath and shifted in my seat. I wasn't quite sure how I felt about that. Clark 's smile widened. "The wine steward at B. Smith's highly recommended this vintage. What do you think of it?" He sliced into his steak, which was so rare I almost expected it to moo, but waited until I sipped the wine and gave it my approval.  

"He was right. This wine compliments the steak very well."  

"Good thing. Otherwise I'd have had to go back and cancel him." He raised his eyebrow at my frown. "Only kidding, Clay."  

"Of course you were." I cut my steak and found it was broiled exactly the way I preferred it. I put a bite in my mouth, chewed thoughtfully. "Hmmm." I put down my fork and knife and touched my napkin to my lips.  

"Is something wrong, Clay?"  

"Actually, a dinner this good, from B. Smith's: I was thinking you're going to get lucky tonight."  

He eyes were very bright. "My thoughts exactly!"  

****  

Testament, my grey gelding, cantered along the tanbark trail. I settled deeper into the saddle, enjoying the sensual feel of him between my legs.  

"Clayton. Clayton!"  

"Oh, sorry, Mother. You were saying?"  

"You were a million miles away, Clayton. Where were you?" Mother had every right to be annoyed. Our Sunday morning rides were our time together. I was relieved to see that she wasn't annoyed, simply curious.  

"Lost in thought, Mother," I obfuscated. I was actually awash in a sea of voluptuous, almost tactile memories of how I had spent the night before with my lover. I'd been surprised to find I liked having the DSD agent running tame in my house. I'd been even more surprised to find that I liked having his cock up my ass.  

"Why don't we curtail our ride for today? It's unseasonably warm for this time of May, and I believe I could do with a cool drink."  

I shifted in my saddle. Testament's ears flickered back and forth, waiting for the signal of which direction we were to take. "That sounds like an excellent idea, Mother." We turned our horses around and cantered back toward the stable.  

"You know I never interfere with your life, darling, but if you ever feel the need to talk, I'm here."  

"I know, Mother." We dismounted and turned the reins over to the groom who cared for Testament and Pyrrhic Victory, Mother's bay mare, and we strolled to the clubhouse.  

The hostess smiled and led us to our usual table, and a waiter hurried over. "Your usual, Mrs. Webb? Mr. Webb?"  

"Yes, please, Alexander. Thank you." She settled herself in her seat and carefully removed her riding gloves. She chatted desultorily of her various charities, of the possibility of Victory favoring her off hind leg, of me having dinner with her one night soon. Alexander brought her grapefruit juice on the rocks and my Perrier with a twist of lime, and then left us alone.  

Mother took a sip of her juice, blotted her lips neatly with her napkin, and looked into my eyes. "I'm well aware you would never permit work to infringe on our time together, that you would consider it the worst of poor taste. Am I wrong in assuming this concerns that statue of a dog you had delivered to my house?"  

I squeezed the lime into my designer water. "No."  

"Did you get it for Clark Palmer?"  

I raised the frosted glass to my lips. A single swallow, and then I placed the glass in the exact center of its coaster. I crossed my right leg over my left knee. She sipped more of her juice, waiting me out, and I laughed. "Yes, Mother. It's for Clark . He had a very similar statue. When his apartment was destroyed in an explosion, so was the statue. Sam."  

"'Sam'? After Sam Spade?"  

"You'd think, but he said not. I can't think of any other, though, that would appeal to him."  

For a long moment she looked thoughtful, and then the corner of her mouth quirked up in a grin. "Did you know your father was an avid Louis L'Amour fan? He actually met him a few times."  

"Really?" I'd known he had been acquainted with Ian Fleming, so I really shouldn't have been surprised that he also knew another author.  

"Yes. He enjoyed all of L'Amour's westerns, but he loved Hondo best. There's an autographed copy that Louis sent him somewhere in your father's things. Whenever he felt he needed a breather, that was the book he chose." Her expression softened as it always did when she spoke of the man to whom she had been married.  

"That's very interesting to know, Mother, but I fail to see what that has to do with Clark 's statue."  

"Hondo's dog was 'remote and dangerous,' to quote the author." She fell silent, and I digested that information.  

"So, Hondo's dog was Sam?"  

She smiled proudly, pleased that I had made the connection so quickly, then offered, "He kept everyone at a distance, you know. Even the man he was closest too."  

I paused with my glass to my lips. "Is that supposed to be Freudian, Mother?  

She leaned forward to pat my cheek. "You're so quick on the uptake, dear."  

I couldn’t help laughing ruefully. "You are amazing, Mother."  

"Of course I am. That's a mother's job! If you've finished your Perrier, we should be on our way. Markov has promised a delightful luncheon."  

I hurried around the small table and pulled out her chair for her. She took my arm, and I escorted her to my Lexus.  

####

//The Administrator was an older man, his once-blond hair faded to grey. Once he had been part of a pair, and together they had created the most covert antiterrorist organization on the planet. She was gone now, betrayed by those they had trusted, and it was left to him to recreate what they had once controlled.  

//She had decreed, back when they had started out, that they would need three years to train an operative to the level of competence that would be required, but he didn't have three years.  

//He decided  to 'recruit' this new wave of operatives  from the various agencies of the world: CIA, IDF, KGB, MI6. The ones he kept had enough experience to reduce the requisite three years to train them to a year, perhaps less.  

//Four DSD agents had been taken before he realized that the factors that made them excellent operatives for the Defense Security Division, made them useless for Prinzip. Still, nothing went to waste; they were good for providing examples to the others, who were smart enough to realize the benefits to being a live member of the new group.  

//"We have another for you, sir." They dragged the young man before their leader.  

//"Excellent. A very fine specimen." He walked around the young man, testing the muscles of his upper arms. "Yes, very fine!"  

//The young man began to swear at him in Russian, and the taller of his captors backhanded him with casual negligence. He fought back, but in the end his struggles  proved to be as  futile as the leader had had no doubt they would be.  

//The Administrator smiled. "He will soon learn. Put him with the others."  

//They hurried to obey, and he was left alone. He picked up the globe that sat on his desk. It had been a gift to Her, and it contained a pair of figures sitting on a bench in a garden. She had loved to garden.  

//Soon, he mused as he stroked the globe. Soon he would have the exact number he needed, their training would begin, and he would have an organization that would be everything that the original one had failed to be.  

//And She would look at him with eyes once more filled with pride. He shook the globe and watched as flower petals rained down on the pair.//  

Part 3  

Things were tense at Langley . The Director was extremely unhappy. Over the last several weeks, a number of young men and women had failed to get in touch with their contacts. At this point in their careers they wouldn't be given anything remotely dangerous to handle. The more mundane assignments would help them hone their skills.  

Now, two more of our agents were missing, and none of our usual contacts could come up with anything solid as to who was taking them, or why. It was as if one moment they were traveling to a meeting in Zurich , or Paris , or Prague , and the next they had vanished off the face of the earth, leaving no trace behind.  

An encrypted message that was supposed to go to one of the Company's younger agents had been intercepted. D.B. Cooper, who was, among other things, the best cryptographer in the CIA, had deciphered it. It had instructed the agent to go to a specific location on the outskirts of Paris .  

I was going instead.  

****  

"Mr. Webb."  

"Yes, Janet?"  

"The Director on line one."  

"Thank you." I picked up my phone and pressed one. "Yes, sir?"  

"I'd like to see you in my office at your earliest convenience, Webb." What the Director meant was immediately.

"I'm on my way, sir." This had to be about the agents who were missing. It had been impossible to learn of their whereabouts, and I hoped we had finally caught a break. I headed out of my office, pausing at my secretary's desk. "I'll be with the Director until further notice, Janet."  

"I'll hold all your calls, and see about rearranging your two o'clock meeting. I think the  4:30 one can be rescheduled for later this week."  

"Excellent, Janet. You're a gem. Oh, and if Syd comes in, tell her I need her report as soon as it's humanly possible."  

I jogged toward the elevator.  

"Clay, hold it for me, would you?"  

"D.B. I haven't seen you around lately."  

"I took some personal time, Clay. Had to give the old johnson time to regroup if I want to keep my ladies happy."  

"Is that why you look all worn out?" I laughed quietly. It was always the quiet ones. Who'd have thought D.B. of all people would be part of a ménage a trois? "Are you ever going to tell me who they are?" All I knew was that they worked for the Company.  

"I'll make a deal with you, Clay. As soon as you tell me who's put the smile on your face, I'll consider it."  

I frowned at him. He'd tried to discover who I was taking to bed on a regular basis, unsuccessfully, and he would dangle the lure of revealing the identity of the women he was sleeping with before my nose at least three times a week, in hopes that I'd crack. There was no way in hell I could tell him that not only was my lover a man, but that he was Clark Palmer, the most notorious member of the DSD.  

"Mmm, I don't think so, D.B." I noticed the stack of printouts in his hand. "Where are you headed?"  

"The Director's office. You too?" He was suddenly serious. "This thing in Europe is getting nasty. We've lost six agents over there." He handed me a top sheet. "Even the DSD has agents who have disappeared."  

Clark hadn't said anything about that to me, but then, I hadn't brought up the subject either. We didn't discuss business at home.  

I scanned the page. The names were unfamiliar. I said as much to D.B.  

"You know what's an odd coincidence, Clay? Each one of them was recruited within the last couple of years."   

"Inexperienced."  

D.B. looked concerned. "Yeah." We stepped out of the elevator together and walked down the corridor side by side, the thick carpeting muffling our footsteps. The Director's secretary was carrying a tray with four steaming mugs of coffee, and she was fumbling with the doorknob to his office. I opened the door for her, and she smiled her thanks.  

I wondered who else the Director would have in on this meeting.  

"Webb. Cooper. You know Admiral Chegwidden?" What was the head of JAG doing here? "Have a cup of coffee and get comfortable. We appear to have a joint problem, and this is going to take a while."  

****  

'A while.' That was an understatement. It was a couple of hours before the Director and Admiral Chegwidden stood, signaling the conclusion of the meeting. It only seemed like forever.  

"I'll expect you to track down Lieutenant Commander Rabb, Mr. Webb. I can't afford to lose a member of JAG."  

"Of course not, Admiral," I agreed sourly. Not only were six of our agents missing, but so was Harmon Rabb, Jr.  "I'll do my best."  

The Admiral raised his eyebrow. I'd needed to use members of JAG often enough that he'd feel I owed him. "See that you do," he said in that cool, commanding voice of his.  

We were finally able to leave the office.  

"Phew, I don't envy you, Clay. That's going to be one bitch of an assignment."  

"If I don't find Rabb, Chegwidden will keep after me until I do." I scowled at my friend. "Trust Rabb to get himself into trouble like this!" I thought of the  message that had been on my machine when I'd returned from Cape Cod with Clark Palmer.  

//Webb, pick up, goddamn it! This is important! Fuck! You're never around when I need you!//  

I'd told myself if it was that urgent, Rabb would get in touch with me again.  

Only he hadn't. He'd applied for emergency leave and gone to Europe , determined to learn the whereabouts of his half-brother, Sergei Zhukov, who had apparently vanished while returning to his unit in the Russian army stationed in Chechnya .  

I turned to D.B. "It's a good thing I keep an overnight bag packed and ready to go in my office."  

"If anything new comes up, I'll forward the information to your PDA."  

"Thanks, D.B. I'll see you around."  

"Um, Clay? Want me to pass a message on to your lady? Tell her that you'll be out of the country for a while?" His expression was so innocent. "I wouldn't mind, you know."  

"Anything for a friend?" I laughed and lightly slapped his shoulder. "Isn't going to work, D.B. I'm not about to tell you who I'm seeing, not unless you're prepared for a little quid pro quo?" I paused at the door to my office. "Listen. If you see Syd… Never mind. Odds are I'll see her before you do."  

He hurried down the corridor, and I wondered briefly at the color that had swept over his cheeks, then shrugged it off and went into my office. "Janet… " "The Director's secretary just called to let me know you have to go out of the country." She spoke at the same time I did, and I felt like Colonel Blake to Janet's Radar O'Reilly. "I'll cancel all your appointments until further notice." "Cancel all my appointments." "Do you want me to call Mrs. Webb, or will you?" "Call Mother for me, if you don't mind."  

My secretary smiled and reached for her phone. A pearl beyond price. I had no qualms leaving the office in her care.  

There was one other phone call that needed to be made, but I would make that call myself.  

I retrieved my overnighter from the closet in my inner office, wrapped the shoulder holster around my Smith and Wesson, and slid it into an inside pocket. I hesitated for a moment. There was a concealed drawer in the bottom left side of my desk. I opened it and removed a small, sub-compact .45 pistol and the holster that strapped to my ankle. Its weight was comforting, an insurance policy. Then I put on my suit jacket and left.  

****  

The boarding pass waiting at the Air France ticket counter was under the name Jefferson Burroughs, the actual agent I was portraying. I took it from the smiling customer service rep and went into the business class lounge. It didn't take long to find a spot that was relatively deserted. I took out my cell phone and hit the number to speed dial my lover's cell phone. He picked up on the first ring. "Palmer."  

"Hi." I leaned against a pillar, keeping an eye on the few passengers who were waiting for the flight to start boarding.  

"Hi, yourself." No question that he recognized my voice. I liked knowing that. "What's up? We still on for tonight?"  

"No. That's why I'm calling. I have to go out of town, and I'll be away for a few days." I couldn't resist asking, "Will you miss me?"  

"Hell, no!" The vehemence in those two words took me by surprise. "I have to move my stuff out of your place anyway. This will be as good a time as any to get it done."  

Clark had ordered the furniture for his new place almost a month ago, but he'd told me the apartment needed more refurbishing before he'd even consider moving. I had rather hoped that was simply an excuse, that he enjoyed staying in my home as much as I enjoyed having him there. Could I have been that wrong?  

"Does… does that mean it's over between us?"  I asked cautiously.  

His response was an immediate, "It's over when I say it's over, Webb!"  

I released the breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. "Yes? All right, Clark ." I cleared my throat. "I'll be looking forward to seeing your new place. I have a housewarming gift for you. And don't go looking for it."  

"As if I'd do something like that!" He had the nerve to sound insulted, and I couldn't help laughing.  

"Of course! I don't know who I was thinking of. Must have been some other DSD agent who kept breaking into my house! But just so you don't wear yourself out, I gave it to Mother to keep for me."  

"Spoilsport."  

"That's me." Was I actually relieved enough to be flirting with him?  

Over the P.A. system came the announcement, "Air France flight 024 with nonstop service to Paris will begin boarding…"  

"That's my flight; I have to go. Get some help moving. I don't want you to hurt yourself. I should be home by the weekend, and I have some serious plans for you."  

"I'll see you in a few days."  

//Yes, you will.// I turned off the phone before I could say something stupid, picked up my overnighter, and walked to the gate.  

####  

Clayton Webb was out of the country. For the first time in almost a month, I went to bed alone. I had gotten used to sleeping curled up around my lover's body, and it took longer than I liked before I slipped into a light doze. But some time during the night I roused enough to reach sleepily for Clay.  

//He's not here.// my subconscious grumbled, and I came completely awake.  

//No shit.//  

//I want him.//  

//You woke me up to tell me that? Listen, he isn't here, so go back to sleep.//  

//I want him!//  

I sighed and rolled over onto my back. Yeah. I did want him. So what. I was the master of my fate; I was the captain of my soul, such as it was. When I started quoting Invictus to myself, I knew I was in deep shit; this was going to be one of those nights when insomnia would ride my ass. It would take me hours to fall asleep again, if I did at all. Tomorrow was going to be a bitch on wheels, and I needed all the rest I could get.  

I swore and tossed aside the light sheet I was sleeping under.  

The house was quiet, even the normal noises, so obvious in the still of the night, missing. I walked down the hall to Clay's door, which he had left standing open. Moonlight spilled through the gauzy curtains, splashing over the carpeting and across the bed. The bed was neatly made. I went to it, threw the covers back, and climbed in. The sheets were cool but quickly warmed to my body heat.  

I had more or less resigned  myself to a wakeful night, but I was out like a light almost as soon as my head hit the pillow.  

This time I slept soundly, and when I woke in the morning, Clay's pillow was cradled in my arms.  

Fucking hell. I was so fucking fucked.  

I shook myself, then made the bed and went back to my own room to shower and change.  

****  

The furniture I had ordered weeks before had been delivered and placed in storage. I had arranged to have it dropped at the apartment on Friday, and since this was the Memorial Day weekend, I took that afternoon off. While it might have seemed that I could have moved from Clayton Webb's townhouse at any time, that wasn't exactly true.    

The apartment that was going to be my home until I could find something more permanent may have been considered ready for occupancy by the average person, but I was DSD. Its security needed to come up to my standards. Video and audio, like nothing the CIA had even dreamed of. And of course the door was wired to explode if the proper sequence to enter wasn't used.  

Just because I was involved with Webb now didn't mean I'd suddenly gotten stupid. 

With Clay off in Europe doing CIA things, this would be the ideal time for me to move. By the time he came home, I'd be out of his home and settled into mine.  

Pretty Boy, Spike, and Theo had volunteered to give me a hand with the move. They helped carry up boxes of pots and dishes and linens, and put them out of the way, then arranged the furniture according to my orders. "The couch goes against that wall, the coffee table in front of it, and the TV in that corner."  

While they were busy in the living area, I went into the kitchen. Clay was supposed to be home by the next evening. As I stored plates and cups in the cabinets, I considered various meals. There was a Portuguese restaurant that had recently opened on Connecticut Avenue . I'd learned to like the spicy, full-flavored food when my old lady had lived with a Portuguese sailor in New Bedford for a while. I had no doubt they'd be willing to make my order to go.  

"Palm."  

"Yeah?"  

"Spike and I have to go. We've shipped most of what we're taking, but we still have a lot of packing to do." They would be moving out to the West Coast within the week. Pretty Boy had applied for and been accepted at a prestigious perinatal center in L.A. . Who'd have thought the former rentboy would wind up in Labor and Delivery?  

I extended my hand. "Thanks, Pretty Boy. I appreciate your help." He ignored my hand and hugged me. He had always been a guy who used the least excuse to offer a touch. I felt his hand slip into my back pocket. "Are you copping a feel?" I asked gruffly. I pulled a slip of paper from my pocket. "What's this?"  

"Our address. If you're ever on the West Coast, and you don't come to look us up, I'm going to hunt you down."  

"Oh, yeah? Should I be afraid?"  

A sly grin curled his lips. "You should be very afraid, Palm. I'll cry all over you."  

He surprised a laugh out of me. "All right, all right! I promise I'll look you up!"  

"I knew you'd see it my way." He became serious. "We'll see you before we leave?"  

"If I can."  

He hugged me again and stepped back, and Spike offered a shy embrace. I accepted it. He'd always seemed a little cautious around me.  

And then they were gone.  

Theo wrestled my computer onto the cherry wood desk and began plugging in the peripherals. I had been taken with that desk when we'd gone furniture shopping in Rockville . It was the secret compartments. I'd always been a sucker for secret compartments.  

I went into the sleeping area, where a box of linens was on the bachelor chest. I wasn't worried about leaving Theo with my computer. He'd never shown an interest in my occupation. There was also the fact that it was password protected and had more firewalls than anywhere outside of the DSD.  

I tossed the fitted sheet onto the mattress and began to make up the bed.  

I was just finishing when Matheson showed up, dressed in jeans and a tee shirt. He was slightly out of breath. "Mr. Palmer. Sorry I couldn't get here sooner." He looked at Theo. "I stopped by my place to change first."  

"I appreciate your choice, babe." Theo's eyes were hot. He looked as if he wanted to crowd his lover against the wall and kiss him until neither of them could remain standing. Matheson licked his lips but backed off, his glance cutting toward me.  

Jesus. "Matheson, you have two minutes."  

"Thank you, sir."  

I looked over my shoulder in time to see him actually pounce on Theo, who made a soft sound and melted into his lover's embrace. I checked my watch, then left them alone.  

I went back into the bedroom and started to unpack the boxes that contained the new wardrobe I'd had to buy. I would give them as long as it took me to store everything in the double dresser.  

"What time is our flight tomorrow, Wills?" Theo whispered, but I was still able  to hear him. Even a CIA spook would have been able to tell he was anxious about something. I'd told Matheson he wouldn't need to be available, and had learned that he was spending the Memorial Day weekend with his family. Was he taking Theo with him?  

"It's at six, babe."  

"Six in the morning?" Theo groused. "That ought to be outlawed!"  

"Don't worry about it. I won't let you oversleep."  

"Well, I suppose I can sleep on the plane."  

"Yeah." Matheson's voice was as soft as his lover's. "Theo, it will be fine, I promise you! They're going to love you!"  

Apparently Matheson was taking his lover to meet his family. Neither of them realized I was standing by the frosted screen that separated the two areas. I cleared my throat.  

Theo jumped. "Give a guy a heart attack, why don't you, Palm!" he complained.  

Matheson stood relaxed but alert. I nodded in approval.  

"I'm meeting Wills' folks tomorrow." Theo was tearing at his thumb nail. "Shit. Now I'm bleeding." He stuck his finger in his mouth and sucked on it.  

"He's a little nervous, sir."  

"A little? Jesus, Wills, I'm scared spitless. If they ever find out what I've done…"  

"Then just make sure they don't." Both younger men stared at me, and I shrugged. "Keep your mouth shut about your past. That's your business and no one else's."  

"But Wills…"  

"Has Matheson given you a hard time over your former occupation?"  

"Um… No."  

"There you go." I turned to Matheson. "I want this case mounted on the wall above the TV." It had taken some time to find a case that displayed the sword to its best advantage. "You're delegated, Matheson."  

"Yes, sir. Nice sword."  

"Thanks."  

"But…" Theo just wouldn't let it go.  

I huffed impatiently. "Listen, Bascopolis. You're a good man. You treated your customers fairly and gave good value. Don't go looking for trouble when none is there. Now, you're interfering with my move. My phone won't be hooked up until next week." I didn't tell him I had my cell phone in my pocket. "Go down to your own apartment and order some pizza. I want  bacon and pineapple."  

"Okay, Palm. Wills, I'll get artichoke hearts and pepperoni for us."  

"Sounds good, babe," he said absently as he measured the wall to make sure the case would hang true. Matheson waited until Theo trotted down to his apartment, then paused to look at me, his arms at his side. "Thanks, Mr. Palmer. Most of the time Theo hides behind a… I guess you'd call it a brash front. He is a good man."  

Oh, fuck, Matheson wasn't going to tell me he was going to spend the rest of his life making sure Theo knew that, was he? Before he could say another word, I said, "Matheson, you don't eat until the case is on the wall."  

"Yes, sir." He turned his head.  

"That better not be a smile, Matheson!"  

"No, sir." He coughed lightly. "Just looking for a plumb line, Mr. Palmer."  

I growled and went into the kitchen to get some plates.  

****  

It was Saturday night. The holiday weekend was in full swing, and I had no doubt the cops would have a field day pulling over DWIs.  

I sat in the kitchen, moodily pushing the Portuguese pork with lemon from one side of my plate to the other. Clay's return flight had landed, but he hadn't been on it.  

I wanted to snarl and snap that the least he could have done was call to let me know he'd been delayed, but I was too much of a professional, and I'd been in the business too long to react in such a petty fashion.   

He'd probably gotten hung up in Paris . I took a last swallow of my beer, then rose and stored the leftovers in the plastic containers my landlords had given me as a housewarming gift.  

Maybe I'd take a ride to the National Mall and watch the fireworks display. Maybe I'd go on to the DSD and see if Michael Samuelle had come up with anything new.  

I scooped up my keys and headed out the door.  

But I really wished he had called.  

****  

The latest intel from Michael Samuelle had been that some American had been caught snooping around Section One, and Operations hadn't been pleased. The head of One had given the man to Exx, the female half of the so-called Torture Twins. She was an artist in her own right, and under her ministrations, she'd been able to squeeze out a garbled tale of a Russian half-brother who never made it back to his unit.  

Madeline had taken over when it became clear that the American wouldn't be shaken from his story.  

"She had R&D create an interesting injectable, Clark ," Michael murmured in his soft voice. "It makes the subject amenable to whatever sexual suggestion he is given."  

"The perfect submissive."  

"Yes. Operations has taken him to his bed and is having quite a pleasant time making this man spread it for him."  

That sounded like something I might say.  

"Would you like to try that drug on me one time, cher homme?" Michael sounded curious.  

I thought about it, Michael Samuelle submitting to my every whim. I pictured him on his knees before me, nuzzling my groin, his lips stretched wide around my cock, but as I tipped his head up, I found it was hazel eyes I was looking into, not grey-green.  

I sighed. "No, mon ami, I don't think that would be a good idea."  

"Perhaps not," he laughed. "Walter would be most displeased."  

I didn't think Clay would be overjoyed either. I changed the subject. "How is Hillinger taking it?" Hillinger had been Operations' toy boy almost from the time he'd been recruited into Section. It had certainly taken his mind off his intention of replacing Birkoff as the head of comm.  

"Oh, he is pouting and sulking. I imagine that Operations will enjoy teaching him his place once the American has been released. I understand he has already acquired a collar for him."  

I bit back a laugh. Section was better than a soap opera, sometimes. "So the American will be let go?"  

"Oh, yes. There was never any question of keeping him."  

"Isn't Operations worried about repercussions? Or does he think that going so against military regulations will keep the American quiet?"  

"One can never be sure of Ops' thought processes. However, Madeline also had R&D come up with an antidote that completely wipes away the memory."  

That was interesting to know. I'd keep it in mind, and see if I could get the formula for both drugs for Romano in the DSD's R&D. I had no doubt he'd be able to improve on it. "Listen, Michael. If you hear anything about what happened to my DSD agents, contact me at once. You have my cell phone, right? And… uh… if you hear anything about Clayton Webb."  

"Are you having any luck getting him out of your system, cher homme?"  

"Michael…" I began impatiently, then stopped. What could I say?  

"I must go, Clark ." There was laughter in his voice, but he quickly sobered. "I have a mission with Nikita. One hopes she does not do anything that will get us both killed. Au 'voir."  

"Bon chance, Michael."  

****  

I was getting restless. Most of it was because parts of our agents were turning up in various capitals of Europe . Most of it. Prints on a finger had been identified as Browne, a younger agent who was a good man. We'd crossed paths a few times. Not in my department, but someone I wouldn't have minded having there.  

But some of it was because for the past ten days I'd been sleeping alone.  

Clay had told me he'd be back in four days. He'd been gone more than twice that long now. It was too long.  

It was time for Dwayne J. Lester, janitor extraordinaire, to pay a visit to Langley once again to dig up some information. As great as technology was, sometimes a little hands-on snooping really turned up the skinny.  

****  

This time I had a dust cloth instead of a trash cart, and I industriously wiped down the frames along the wall of the corridor that housed the offices of the senior deputy directors. Each photograph, document, and award brought me closer to Clayton Webb's office.  

It was dark and had the closed, close odor of unused rooms. I didn't have a lot of time. I turned on his computer, slid a disk in the CD-RW drive, and then started copying all the files on his hard drive. As each CD filled up, I replaced it with another blank one, until I had almost a dozen of them in jewel cases. I'd examine them as soon as I got home.  

I studied his secretary's desk in the outer office. It was bare, as if it had been unoccupied for months. Jesus, he'd only been gone ten days!  

I eased out of his office and made my way down the corridor. Voices approached, and I slouched, making myself appear shorter. As I polished the glass of a frame, I hummed an old Tammy Wynette tune under my breath. "Are D-I-V-O-R-C-E," I sang in Dwayne's soft twang, "b'comes final today. Me and little J-O-E will be goin' away. Ah love yew both an' this'll be pure H-E- double-L fer me. Ah wish that we could stop this D-I-V-O-R-C-E."  

The tall man I had seen in Clay's office the last time I'd been here, D.B. Cooper, rounded a corner. He was speaking earnestly with a brunette who seemed vaguely familiar. Where had I seen her before?  

I moved closer and picked up on their conversation. "Last Thursday was the last time he checked in, Syd. This really isn't like him." I swallowed a smug snicker and hummed some more. Someone in the CIA was apparently playing hooky, being a very naughty boy. I wondered if he'd get detention. "The Director insisted he stay in contact!" Cooper was gnawing on  his lower lip, obviously trying to bring his nerves under control.  

"I don't like it, D.B. Clay would never ignore orders like that." 'Clay'? They were talking about my… about Webb? "What does the Director want us to do?" This 'Syd' woman smoothed her hair back, the epitome of calm. Too bad she wasn't a man. She'd do well in the DSD.  

Abruptly I remembered where I'd seen the spook in the skirt before: at Mikey Shaw's funeral. Well, I'd expected the CIA to have someone down there; Shaw was their mole after all, but I'd thought it would be one of the nondescript men in their nondescript suits who had been paying their respects. I frowned.  

"Nothing." Cooper definitely was not happy.  

Was he a friend of Clay's as well as a co-worker? I recalled seeing him at the morgue as well, the night I'd gone there to arrange the autopsy of that shit, Sperling, who'd blown up my apartment. Clay had seemed shaken. Seemed, hell. Afterwards he'd told me he had whacked the crusts off the sandwich he'd made me rather than stick the knife into me. Had Cooper driven him to the morgue? Did Cooper want to be more than a friend? I'd have to kill him if he did.  

"Let's go find…" He looked over his shoulder, and his gaze slid right over me. Then it whipped back, and I went very still, offering a tentative smile.  

"Afternoon, suh."  

"Do I know you?"  

I jerked my chin toward the nametag that was clipped to a breast pocket. "Cleanin' crew, suh."  

"I've seen you before, but not for some time."  

"No, suh. Mah mama passed on. I had… um… compassionate leave? Is that the word Ah'm lookin' for?"  

"Sorry to hear that," he peered at my nametag, "Lester. My condolences."  

"Thank you, suh." But he had taken the female agent's arm and was urging her down the corridor. Their heads were together, and I was unable to hear the rest of what they were saying. 

My fingers tightened on the cleaning cloth. I needed to get in touch with Michael Samuelle again. He'd had nothing when I'd contacted him earlier in the week, but the situation was so fluid, maybe he had something for me now. Maybe that something would be about Clay.  

I trotted down the stairs to the lobby floor. It was time for Dwayne to clock out. I'd casually make my way to my locker, change, and haul ass out of Langley .  

I was walking down the corridor that contained the Wall of Honor, a wall of stars for the men and women of the Company who had given their lives in the line of duty, when a woman's voice drew my attention. What was Clay's mother doing here? Welding my dust cloth, I eased over as unobtrusively as I could in order to overhear.

"I refuse to stand for this, Director." Porter Webb's voice was tight with controlled anger.  "Neville Webb is a star on this wall. I will not see my son there also."  

Oh, fuck. Clay was in real trouble. My stomach felt as if it wanted to crawl up through my throat.  

"I'm very sorry, Porter. At this point our hands are tied. There's nothing I can do..."  

That was the CIA for you. They'd let their operatives swing in the wind.  

Her eyes narrowed. "My son is the best you have, Director."  

I polished the glass that shielded a picture of the president from a couple of administrations ago. //That's right, Mrs. Webb! You tell the son of a bitch!//  

"If you will do nothing to find him, then I shall!"  She was almost vibrating with anger, but she was still every inch a lady as she turned on her heel and left. Markov, who had been standing at a respectful distance, fell into step beside her.  

No. I couldn't have her getting involved. She might have been a whiz when it came to cracking codes, but in my line of work, she was strictly an amateur. If Clay's mother got caught up in this, if she turned up as collateral damage, it would destroy her son.  

I got out of Langley as easily as I had gotten in, and drove to my apartment. I ran up the steps, opened the front door, and took the stairs two at a time to my floor.  

It was too early for Matheson to be home from the DSD, and Theo hadn't gotten out of the habit of sleeping late. I saw no one, and no one saw me.  

I emptied the CD cases onto my computer desk and started transferring the data. It didn't take long, much shorter in fact, than it had taken me to burn the CDs. Then I set a program running that would extract the information I needed. I keyed in the parameters, hit Enter, and went into the bathroom to wash away all evidence of Dwayne J. Lester.  

By the time I was dressed, the computer had printed out a number of pages that contained all the information I needed. I scanned them quickly, then picked up my phone and dialed Porter Webb's phone number.  

"I'd like to speak with Mrs. Webb, please. This is Clark Palmer."  

On to Part B