JAG

It's Time

Part B

Part 4  

People had a skewed viewpoint of me. They thought I was some rabid sociopath, and I fostered that belief. It helped to keep them off balance. They never knew how I would react in any given situation.  

I had no idea what Porter Webb really thought of me, if she thought of me at all. The first time I had met her had been a few weeks before my birthday, before that incident with Clay in the men's room of Raphael's. I'd been growing increasingly more… obsessed with the need to learn more about her son than what was in the files and had made an appointment to interview her as an old schoolmate of his. It had gone off well. She'd spoken freely and allowed me to snap some photos, and I'd left with her none the wiser.  

However, when I'd run into her at the embassy ball a couple of months later, she'd known. Clay must have told her that it hadn't been Matt Robinson who listened as she told stories of her son's younger years, before Exeter . I'd denied it, of course, but she hadn't believed me. In fact, she almost seemed tickled, and I would have sworn she was pleased that I was standing there with Clay.  

As I drove to Porter Webb's beautiful Tudor home, I determined the tack I would take; I'd portray myself as simply a concerned colleague. I wondered if she'd believe me this time.    

I strode up the walk to the impressive front door, pressed the doorbell, and waited. From within, I could hear the sweet chimes announcing my presence.  

The door opened, and Markov stood there. His sharp gaze ran over me from the tips of my shoes to the part in my hair. "Mr. Palmer. Or should I address you as Mr. Robinson?"  

I ignored that question as beneath me. "Mrs. Webb said she'd see me. Are you going to keep me standing here, air conditioning the whole neighborhood, or let me in?"  

His lips curled into a sneer, then he stepped aside and let me enter, finally. "I'll have to ask that you leave all electronic equipment here in the foyer."  

It must have burned his butt that I'd wiped the surveillance tape clear the last time I'd been there.  I handed him a little device that hummed and whirred but actually did nothing. I had no intention of allowing him to record this meeting. The real device was a thin, flat rectangle the size of a cigarette lighter that was concealed in the hollow heel of my shoe.  

He extended his hand. "Your cell phone and your weapons as well."  

I handed him my phone and the Glock from under my left arm. Markov put them into a small console table by the door and locked it. As if that could stop me from getting them if I needed to.  

He gestured for me to hold out my arms. I matched his sneer and did. Markov patted me down more competently than a simple butler would know how, then stepped back.  

He led me into the same room at the back of the house where I'd interviewed Porter Webb as Matthew Robinson. "She'll be right with you. Don't touch anything, Mr. Palmer. I have no use for the DSD, and I'd like nothing better than an excuse to shoot you."  

"Markov, it's all right." Mrs. Webb entered the room, her walk a smooth, elegant glide. Not a hair was out of place, not a wrinkle in the classic little black dress she wore. A string of glossy pearls encircled her throat. "I'm pleased to see you again, Mr. Palmer. However, I am pressed for time, so if you wouldn't mind stating your reason for wanting to see me?"  

Markov moved to stand behind her, his arms folded across his chest. His hands were empty, so I knew he wasn't about to shoot me or throw a knife at me just then. I dismissed him and turned my attention back to Clay's mother. "Your son is missing. You're planning on traveling to Europe to find him."  

Both she and Markov stiffened, but she was the one who quickly relaxed. "Why am I not surprised you're aware of my plans?"  

"I'm the best, Mrs. Webb."  

She made a little noncommittal sound and studied my eyes. "You're not sitting."  

"Neither are you."  

Markov snorted. "One does not think of Clark Palmer and manners in the same thought."  

"I've been sadly maligned." I returned his glower with an injured look that was patently false.  

Mrs. Webb's smile was faintly amused. She smoothed her skirt under her and sank gracefully onto the ivory brocaded love seat.  

I took the wing chair opposite her. "Let me get right down to brass tacks, Mrs. Webb. I know you want to find out what's happened to your son. You intend to hire Benjamin Monroe, former Black Ops, former CIA, to accompany you to Europe . Don't. I'll handle the whole thing. I'll find your son and bring him home to you."  

Markov growled under his breath, but the woman opposite me remained composed. "Why would you do that, Mr. Palmer?"  

"I have the contacts…"  

"As do I. Please don't treat me as if I were stupid. I am well aware of your reputation in the intelligence community. Markov." Her eyes remained on mine as she spoke to him. "Please prepare tea. We'll have it in here. You'll have it with us."  

"Porter…"  

"Please."  

He gave me a hard glare, but obeyed her.  

She waited until he left the room. "Why are you doing this? What is Clayton to you?"  

"Your son is an excellent operative, ma'am. It would be this country's loss if anything happened to him."  

"So this is strictly professional courtesy?"  

I relaxed infinitesimally. It had worked; she'd bought it. "Yes, ma'am."  

"I don't believe that for one moment, Mr. Palmer. The DSD and the CIA have nothing to do with each other. What you're doing could very well result in your dismissal from the DSD."  

I gave her a bland grin. "Not a chance, ma'am." The Boss was out of town again, and I had delegated myself to do this job. I might get killed for what I was going to do, but I would never be fired over it.  

She sighed and shook her head. "You're a very obstinate man. In that you're a good deal like Clayton." Markov wheeled in a little cart that held tea and cucumber sandwiches. He took a sandwich and a cup of tea, and retired to a corner of the room. Mrs. Webb gestured toward the two tea pots. "Earl Grey? Or perhaps you'd care for Darjeeling ?"  

"Earl Grey, please." At least I knew what to put in that tea. "Thank you, ma'am. With a little cream, please?"  

She burst into laughter. "Did Clayton tell you that's the best way to take Earl Grey?"  

I kept my expression blank. "Your son and I don't make a habit of talking about tea, ma'am."  

"What do you talk about, if you don't mind my asking?" She handed me the dainty teacup.  

"I don't understand why you think Clay… why you think your son and I would have anything to talk about."  

"Come, come, Mr. Palmer. I am quite aware that you have been living in Clayton's townhouse for some time now."  

"You're under a misapprehension, ma'am. I have my own apartment." I raised the cup to my lips and took a sip. I should have asked for water. How could anyone drink this stuff? Did I have some kind of a masochistic streak? Even with cream it wasn't to my taste.  

Porter Webb frowned at me. "Have you and my son broken up again? When I told him he should be the one doing the dumping, his doing a vanishing act is certainly not what I meant!"  

I choked on the mouthful of tea. She handed me a napkin, and I dried my lips and my hand, then blotted the drops of tea that had sprayed onto my trousers. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Webb. I have no idea what you're talking about."  

Now her gaze was reproachful. "Clayton was not pleased when you ran off to Cape Cod last month. As a matter of fact, I can't recall seeing him quite so perturbed. I had hoped you had ironed out your differences.  

What was with it with the Webbs? "I didn't run off! I had a fuck…" I hastily cleared my throat. "Excuse me, a funeral to go to."  

She sobered. "I'm so sorry, Clark . Someone you were close to?"  

"No. It was just my old lady." I stared at her in shock. How had she gotten me to say that?  

She was looking saddened. "I'm terribly sorry. I had no idea."  

"I'm the one who's sorry." I put the cup down and leaned forward. "Mrs. Webb, not every mother can be like you. You did a fantastic job raising your son. Clay loves you very much." I rose to my feet. I had to get out of there. I thought I'd had myself under control, but I was saying things I'd never allow under ordinary circumstances. "Please let me deal with this, ma'am. This is what I do. And if anything happened to you, Clay would come after whoever let it happen with that Smith and Wesson he favors."  

"Including you, Clark?"  

My mouth tightened, and I said nothing.  

She stood. "Very well. However, if I haven't heard from either you or Clayton within the next few days, I will come after you. Breaking codes for Project Venona was not all I did before I married Neville Webb." She held out her hand. I shook it, but when I would have released it, her fingers continued to grip mine.  

Markov stepped forward, reminding me he'd been in this room the entire time. "He's DSD, Porter! How can you trust him?"  

The smile she gave him was one Clay had given me on occasion. "In this case, I think there's no question of me not trusting him." She released my hand. "I have just one request, Clark ."  

She was making me nervous, using my first name like that. "Other than that I find your son, ma'am?"  

"Yes." She turned that smile on me. "Stop calling me 'ma'am'!"  

####  

Jefferson Burroughs was the most recent agent who had been instructed to meet with a representative of an organization with ties to the CIA. He was to go to the Montgeron district of Paris, to a certain building on Rue Fourier. It was like any other office building in the City of Light , an unremarkable pile of concrete and glass that was undergoing renovation.  

Hide in plain sight. That was the old adage.  

I took the modern elevator up to the sixth floor and stepped out into the dim corridor, to the chaos of construction. It appeared to be deserted. Plaster dust covered everything that wasn't buried under sawdust. Open containers of concrete cement were scattered around, their contents drying from exposure to the air. I walked around plastic sheeting that separated offices that were being worked on and those where the work had been completed. The carpeting had been torn up and had yet to be replaced, and my footsteps echoed hollowly on the cement floor.  

"M. Burroughs?" A large, swarthy Frenchman appeared in the corridor. Not only tall, but broad as well, he looked as if he could have successfully competed for the Mr. Universe title. "We 'ave been expecting you. If you will come this way?"  

I followed him, aware of the shorter man who had come up behind me. The nape of my neck started tingling, never a good sign, and I was glad I had taken the time to strap the .45 sub-compact pistol that was my back-up piece to my ankle. It was a Llama Mini-max, and Clark would have creamed his pants over it: with a cartridge up the pipe, it carried eleven rounds of fire power.  

His Beretta only had a capacity of eight.  

The room I was led to was harshly lit; work lights dangled from the rafters, and I squinted against the glare. A white-haired man whose eyes weren't quite right sat behind a large metal desk that looked like a relic of the Second World War. The shorter man frisked me briskly and removed the Smith and Wesson from its shoulder holster. His fingers lingered as he felt between my legs. I raised a bored eyebrow and addressed the man behind the desk, who gave all appearances of being the one in charge. "Is he searching me, or does he want to date me?"  

"Gaston!"  

The shorter man snarled but moved his hands down my legs, although not before giving my balls a vicious squeeze. My vision grayed-out for a moment, and by the time I'd breathed through the pain, he was holding up my clutch piece in triumph.  

A younger man had joined the one behind the desk and was whispering in his ear. I was close enough to hear the panic in his voice, even if I couldn't make out his words. The white-haired man's eyes narrowed. "You are not Jefferson Burroughs."  

"I'm not?" I smiled at him easily. "Then who am I?"  

The shorter one moved so fast I didn't even see it coming. The barrel of my Smith and Wesson slammed me high on my cheekbone, and I staggered back. "You will speak to M. l'Administrateur  with respect, cochon!"  

I straightened and shrugged to settle my suit jacket over my shoulders. "Was that necessary?  We are supposed to be civilized, after all." Blood began a slow crawl down my cheek. "You have my weapons; you know I'm unarmed. May I get a handkerchief from my pocket?"  

The Administrator nodded. I took out a handkerchief and held it to my cheek, which was starting to throb so hard that I wondered if it was fractured.  

The younger man leaned down and whispered frantically once more. The Administrator smiled, a twist of the lips that wasn't even a distant cousin to humor. His gaze grew hooded. "So you are Clayton Webb. I have heard of your expertise in the area of counter-intelligence."  

My eyes flew to the young man, who shifted uncomfortably. How did he know me? His gaze dropped away from mine, and he worried his lower lip until he drew blood.  

"I'm flattered. I had no idea my reputation preceded me."  

"Martyn here has told me of you. He has been helpful in the selection of operatives for Prinzip, but a man of your caliber would be of even more use in …" His eyes clouded for a moment as if recalling something that saddened him. "… in my organization. You see, I need capable operatives who do not require a three year training period. After the error in trying to collect recruits from the Defense Security Division, I feel it would be safer staying with the more mainstream agencies."  

"Meaning the CIA?"  

"I do not restrict myself in my preferences, Mr. Webb. The Russians, the British, the Israelis, they will also proudly give Prinzip their allegiance."  

"What is it that you would have me do?"  

The Administrator sat back in his chair and folded his hands over his abdomen. "My hope is that you'll be reasonable about this. The recruiting is taking longer than I had anticipated. Martyn is familiar with his former colleagues, but you, as a senior staff member, will be able to assign the most accomplished of the younger men and women who have applied to the Company to the European sector, and no one will think anything of it."  

"You don't think they'll question me when these men and women don't return home?"  

He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. "I have every confidence in you, Mr. Webb. I'm sure you'll find a way to talk yourself out of any situation that might arise."  

"Please, Mr. Webb." The younger man was pale and sweating. Was he another Paul Candella, someone who never should have been recruited by the Company? "You'll stay alive."  

"Of course, that is always an imperative. So I help you. I betray my country for… how much will this earn me?" I blotted my cheek again. "What's a conscience worth these days?" I stared at Martyn.  

"I'm sure I can make it worth your while." The Administrator was totally oblivious to the currents running between me and Martyn.  

"Mr. Webb doesn't need money; he's wealthy!" The younger man now looked sickly, and he blurted, "He's not going to do it! I can tell! I can tell! He's going to turn me… us in! I can't survive in prison! They'll do unspeakable things to me! George, please, you can't let him…!"  

The Administrator frowned at him. "I'm afraid you're right, young Martyn. Especially now, since you've prematurely revealed my identity to him. Etienne." He nodded, and I was suddenly aware of a hard body at my back. While I'd been distracted, the big man had moved behind me. Arms like steel bands imprisoned mine. His smaller partner laughed nastily and came closer. I was helpless. The unmistakable odor of ether filled my nose and throat as a chloroform-soaked cloth was pressed over the lower portion of my face.  

//Clark would be so disappointed that I'd allowed myself to be so easily taken.// That was my last thought, before I sagged in the big man's arms and oblivion overtook me.  

****  

When I regained consciousness again, my head pounded like a hollow drum, my stomach roiled in protest, and there was a vile aftertaste in my mouth. And my cheek hurt like a son of a bitch.  

I was in a windowless room, my ankle shackled to a wall. A small, overhead light shed enough illumination so that I could see there were no amenities beyond a small toilet in a corner. The chain was long enough for me to reach it, but otherwise my movements were restricted.  

My shoes were gone, and so were my tie and belt, and with them the tracking devices that would have kept Langley informed of my whereabouts. I wasn't even sure if this was the same building.  It looked like I was really on my own.  

I lurched to my feet, knowing the chain would not allow me to reach the door, which was most likely locked anyway, but having to at least try. It was the CIA way. My stomach heaved, and I bit down on my back teeth, swallowing repeatedly until it settled.  

"Bonsoir, M. Webb."  

I hadn't even realized I wasn't alone. I spun around and flinched at the pain that exploded behind my eyes. "Who…?"  

The young man who stood there was short, about 5'7", with dark blond hair and eyes the color of champagne. He didn't look old enough to buy a drink without being carded, but I was sure that as with most things in the intelligence community, that was an illusion.  

He was dressed in faded green scrubs and a white lab coat that had a smear of fresh blood and something else on the left sleeve. A stethoscope was looped around his neck. In his breast pocket he carried a penlight flashlight, a hemostat, a slim leather case, and a tri-colored pen.  

"I am Max." His right palm was held out to me. On it were two blue caplets. "Take these, please. They will make you feel better, I promise you." In his other hand was a glass of water.  

What did I have to lose? If they wanted me dead, they'd already had the opportunity to kill me. I swallowed the caplets and drank the water, and I decided that I'd wait to see what he would do. If he attacked me, with the way I felt just then, I wasn't sure I could take him.  

"You are CIA, m'sieur?"  

"Yes."  

He sighed. "I was hoping that you were someone from the DSD."  

"I thought the Administrator had decided against 'recruiting' more DSD." The pills were starting to work, and the fuzziness that had been enveloping my brain began to dissipate.  

"Yes, but not before… " He changed his mind about whatever he was going to say. "The Administrator was not pleased with your response. You forced him to have Collin Martyn canceled, and now he has no one who is familiar enough with the CIA to give him the intel he needs."  

Clark Palmer would have said something snarky, like, 'Let's pause for a moment to remember the dearly departed. The little shit.'    

I cleared my throat. I couldn't afford to let myself be distracted again. "I was under the impression he had a number of my people imprisoned."  

"Apparently they know nothing."  

Yeah, I'd bet. They might have been inexperienced by some standards, but they were still CIA.  

"I regret I must give you an injection of scopolamine, m'sieur." He withdrew a small vial and a syringe from another pocket, and drew up the drug. "Would you prefer to relieve yourself first?" He saw my surprise. An experienced interrogator would refuse permission to use the bathroom, thereby forcing the one he was questioning to humiliate himself  by having a childish accident. The emotional distress to an adult would be severe. That made him either inexperienced or else playing some deep game of his own. Max just shrugged. "Sooner or later, one way or another, the Administrator will have the information he requires. I see no need to make this more uncomfortable than necessary."  

He was so polite. Could I use that to buy myself some time? I went to the corner, unzipped my fly and took my dick out, then started to whistle, as if I had a hard time trying to piss in front of an audience. I had to put together a plan.  

After college, when I was supposed to have been traveling through Europe , I had learned any number of things, a form of self-hypnosis among them. Once I'd joined the CIA, I had honed that ability.  

If I murmured a phrase under my breath that would trigger a post-hypnotic suggestion, I'd be able to wipe out seventeen years worth of memories, but what could I use to get myself out of it? There was a safe word in my personal file at Langley , but that did me no good here. Someone I trusted would have to utter it.  

Going on the memories of my twenty year-old self, I would have no advanced knowledge of defending myself. I'd be a sitting duck. Six of one, half a dozen of the other, and I was fucked no matter what I did.  

I shook myself off and tucked myself away, then turned and rolled up my sleeve. He slid the needle into the muscle of my upper arm and injected the truth drug.  

****  

I was on my back on the floor in my little cell, again manacled to the wall. I felt wrung out. My ribs were sore and bruised, and each breath I took burned.  

Max squatted beside me, brushing that lock of hair back off my forehead. "I am sorry, m'sieur."  

"What happened?" I asked tiredly, breathing as shallowly as possible.  

"You don't remember?" He looked concerned. "It was Gaston."  

I rolled onto my side and winced, then tried to push myself up off the unyielding floor. I managed to get to my hands and knees. My head hung down, and I bit back a groan. "Fuck. Tell me what happened."  

"You would not answer the Administrator's questions to his satisfaction. He was called away. He should have known better than to leave the questioning to Gaston, but he didn't, and Gaston…" Max swore. I'd noticed on more than one occasion that when the French swore, it sounded as if they were rattling off the a recipe for a gourmet dish. "There was no need for him to hurt you."  

"You're upset?" I snorted. "The man you work for doesn't have the milk of human kindness in his veins. You're a fool if you think otherwise."  

"M'sieur, I…"  

"Call me Webb," I interrupted him.  

"M. Webb." He stopped, confused when I started to chuckle. The chuckle turned into a groan. Damn, that hurt. The only part of my body that didn't seem to hurt were my eyelashes. When Max spoke again, it wasn't much above a whisper. "Many of the operatives the Administrator has conscripted are being controlled through the use of drugs. I thought… I had hoped that perhaps with your help, we might be able to get free of him."  

"How many of them are there?"  

"Twelve at this point, although one… " Once again he cut off whatever he had been about to say. After a brief moment he continued. "Not as many as the Administrator would like. The ones from your organization were relieved when they learned that you were here. They feel that their rescue is imminent."  

I hoped so, but I wasn't about to tell him that I had been unable to get a message back to Langley . "You realize that what the Administrator is attempting is insane?"  

"The Administrator… there is something wrong there, m'sieur. I have come upon him at times when he is having detailed conversations with someone he calls Adrian . M'sieur, at those times, he is alone."  

Well, that put the icing on the cake. Nothing like having to deal with a madman. I forced myself up to my feet, and the chain clanked against the floor. A coppery taste filled my mouth, and I crossed to the toilet and spat into it. I spat blood, and for a second I panicked. "My lungs…"  

"No, your ribs are bruised because Gaston had started to kick you after he knocked you down. The punch to the mouth must have caused you to cut your inner cheek with your teeth."  

I sagged in relief. A punctured lung was not something I felt capable of dealing with just then.  

"The Administrator was most unhappy when he returned. He ordered 'Tienne to get Gaston out of his sight. I told George… I told the Administrator… that it was the dose of scopolamine that was at fault, that whoever had gotten the medical supplies had bungled. It will take a few days for new supplies to be liberated. That should give you some time to regroup." He pushed back his sleeve to look at his watch. "I must go now. I will see about bringing you something to eat." He paused at the door and turned to look back at me, and I could see his knuckles were white where his hands were fisted at his sides. "We do not have much time, M. Webb. I do not know what I can do to make you trust me, although if you repeat to Etienne or Gaston what I told you about our plans, it will see my death. It will make no difference that I am the only doctor that George has."  

He left, and I heard the lock turn in the door.  

What Max had told me could be the truth, but it could also be a lie shaded with just enough truth that I would believe him, trust him. In the intelligence community, trust was a very rare commodity.  

My head was fuzzy from the lingering effects of the chloroform, the truth drug, and the beating. If I trusted him, and I was wrong, people would die. If I didn't trust him, and I was wrong, people would die.  

Clark Palmer probably would have just killed him and not bothered worrying about it at all.  

****  

I lost track of the amount of time that I'd been in this place. They'd taken my wristwatch away that first day, and with no window, it was impossible to tell day from night.  

"M. Webb. Wake up, if you please." That lightly accented voice had been periodically forcing me to wake up.   

"Go 'way," I slurred.  

"I cannot. The odds that Gaston has given you a concussion this time are too great. Please, m'sieur. You must tell me how many fingers you see." He leaned close and held his hand before my face.  

I peeled open an eye. " Three," I growled at him. "Same as last time. Satisfied? Can I go back to sleep now?"  

"Naturellement. I must check on… someone else. I will be back to make sure you have not slipped into unconsciousness."  

"Jesus, Max, don't you think if I was concussed it would have been manifested by now? How many times have you wakened me already?"  

"It is three A.M. now, so this would make… five times."  

"And how many more times will you wake me?"  

"I imagine another five times. Unless, of course, you are a very early riser?"  

"Do you ever sleep, Max?"  

"Not when I am looking after a patient. There will be time for me to sleep once this has been resolved."  

"Why are you doing this? It's evident that you're a skilled doctor. Why work for the Administrator and Prinzip?"

"It is all a matter of choice, M. Webb. I had none." He wasn't going to expand on that. "I will be back in an hour."  

"Don't rush on  my account."  

A soft laugh drifted back as the door shut behind him. I rolled to my side and stared unseeing into space, gritting my teeth in frustration. I'd missed another chance to lift that leather case from the pocket of his lab coat. If I could get to the scalpels it contained, I was positive I could use one of them as a lock pick.  

I'd have to hope for another opportunity.

Part 5  

The flight to Paris took a little under five hours. They finally had the SSTs flying again. Michael met me at Charles de Gaulle Airport. He ushered me to a black van, gesturing for me to sit in the back where there were no windows to see out of. I didn't have time to waste arguing with him. If I wanted to find the location of Section One, I would find it.    

"Birkoff has come across some very interesting intel, Clark," Michael said over his shoulder. "One of the two people responsible for creating Section is behind Prinzip."  

"George?" I made an educated guess. "If I recall, Adrian 's mind is …" I remembered that Michael had liked the older woman. "… isn't quite what it used to be." That was the most polite way I could think of saying that her once razor-sharp intellect had been reduced to that of the flowers she had loved to grow in her garden.  

"Ah, cher homme." His voice was sad. "Yes. George was most unhappy when he learned that Operations and Madeline had been behind her 'death', and had actually had her cryogenically frozen in a bid to take over Section for themselves. He tried to regain control of One but failed."  

The van slowed and turned, and the angle told me we were going down into a sub-level parking garage. "So he's started Prinzip as what? An effort to re-create what the two of them once had?"  

"Who knows? His actions aren't rational, even for Oversight." The van came to a stop. There was a ratcheting sound, and then a harsh thud, and the vehicle began to descend. Within minutes, the freight elevator came to a halt, and the back doors of the van were thrown open.  

"Michael." An older man stood there, a bandana tied around his graying hair.  

"Walter, this is Clark Palmer of the DSD. I've spoken to you about him." He had? How close was this man to Michael Samuelle? "Clark, Walter is Section's munitions expert."  

"Palmer." His voice was frigid. "We finally meet." He didn't offer me his hand.  

"Walter."  

"Hurry it up." Walter didn't seem too happy. Did he think I would want to take Michael from him? " Seymour 's found a trace that might lead us right to Prinzip."  

We followed him to Comm. Seymour Birkoff was one of the best computer operators on the planet. If he ever decided to leave Section, the DSD would take him in a shot.  

Birkoff sat before his computer, the graphics on his monitor reflected in the tinted glasses he wore. Beside him was a stocky man, his Native American heritage clear in his features. He was shaven-headed, and a black mustache grew down to frame his mouth and blend with a neat goatee. He glared at the three of us. "Birkoff's been at this fucking computer for the last eighteen hours. If he doesn't have a break soon, his eyeballs are gonna fall out of his head." His hand rested on the younger man's shoulder.  

" Davenport , it's okay. I'm done, babe." Birkoff removed his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose to relieve the irritation that had built up there, then dropped his hand to caress the fingers that cupped his shoulder. "He's rented this warehouse, see?" He pointed out the building among those that were pictured on his monitor. "The reason why it was so difficult to find was because he…"  

I tuned out what he was saying. I didn't care why it had taken so long. Below the pixilated photo was a phone number as well as the address. I jotted them both down. "Birkoff, I owe you. Michael, I need to get to the street level now."  

"One moment, mon ami. This concerns Section, also."  

"If Section wants a piece of Prinzip, get in line. I've lost four agents."  

"Clark, George was one of ours. If we do not deal with it personally, it will make us look bad."  

I could understand his reasoning. "Come if you're coming, then. But stay the fuck out of my way."  

Michael leaned close to me. "How much is this for your agents, cher homme, and how much for Clayton Webb?"  

Walter saved me the need to answer. He growled, "I'm going with you!" And he followed us through the emotionally frigid corridors of Section to van access. There were a number of other operatives waiting for us. I glared at Michael, but he just shrugged.  

"This must be ended now, Clark . You distract George, and we will deal with the rest."  

"Yeah, sure." I wouldn't remind him that George was mine. I would just make sure that I was the one who took him out.  

"I think you will need this, mon ami." Michael handed me a syringe filled with a clear liquid.  

"Tell me about it."  

Michael proceeded to detail the effects, or lack of them, of the contents. "This is simply normal saline solution, but for all intents and purposes, you will act as if it contains the genuine drug, the one that makes whoever it is used on extremely… compliant."  

The one that Operations was using on the snoopy American.  

"You're not giving me the real thing?"  

He was as amused as this situation would allow. "And give the DSD the opportunity to duplicate the formula? I think not, cher homme."  

"Let me get this straight. I get to Clay. I let him know I have a  plan. I pop him in the ass with the needle and get him to react the way the drug would."  

"Not at all difficult for an agent of your caliber to convey to someone as intelligent as Clayton Webb struck me as being."  

"Sure, Michael, not a problem." We could do this, Clay and I. I put the syringe in a pocket. It was a good thing it didn't really have the drug in it. When I was ready to make my move, I needed Clay at my side helping  me, not on my back humping me.  

"If you two are quite done?" Walter stood, arms folded across his chest, impatiently tapping his foot.  

Michael smiled. "Yes, Walter."  

We all piled into the mission van, and it rose through the sub-levels of Section One.  

Once we were back on the street, I flipped open my cell phone and dialed the number that would give me Prinzip. "This is Clark Palmer. You've heard of me? Excellent. I'm looking for a change of pace, and I understand you're recruiting."  

****  

Two men were waiting for me at the outer door. I was relieved of my Glock and Beretta, and they were satisfied that they had unarmed me. Amateurs. I had not chosen this suit and this shirt for nothing.  

I was shown to an austere office. My guns were placed in a drawer in the desk that took up most of the space, and the drawer was locked.  

The man behind the desk was not aging well. He looked like the portrait in Dorian Gray's attic. The skin at his throat was crêpey. His cheeks bore scattered age spots which stood in sharp relief against his yellow-tinged skin, and deep lines bracketed his mouth, giving him a discontented look. His eyes were sunken  and wavered between showing the keen intelligence he'd once had, and the vagueness of whatever was eating his mind.  

Was this what awaited all of us, at the end of our careers?  

"I am the Administrator." He didn't bother to introduce the two men who flanked him. His bodyguards? I'd make sure I kept them in my line of sight. He rose and walked around his desk, his hand extended. "Palmer. I'm so pleased to finally have the opportunity to meet you. I understand you wish to join our… my organization. You realize that I'll need a good-faith gesture? DSD agents are not known for being team players."  

"Quite frankly, Administrator, I'd be concerned if you didn't want some sort of proof." I took the syringe from my breast pocket. According to the most current intel, no new agents had been 'recruited'. If they brought someone other than Clay to be the guinea pig, I'd have to fake it. "Got someone you'd like this demonstrated on?"  

"What is it?"  

"A little drug that will make Rohypnol look like kid's stuff. It's specifically designed for men, makes them hotter than hell." I winked salaciously. "Once it's injected, the only thing they'll want more than a cock in their ass is a cock in their mouth."  

He looked intrigued by the premise. "How long does it have that effect?"  

"As long as you keep injecting it. If you give the counter agent, the… subject remembers nothing. If you let it wear off on its own," I improvised, "he remembers every one of his actions in glorious Technicolor detail. It's guaranteed to break someone who has previously thought of himself as a dyed in the wool heterosexual."  

His eyes became cold and flat, almost reptilian. "I have just the subject for you! A CIA agent who has proven to be very recalcitrant. Etienne, Gaston, fetch Clayton Webb. Bring our problem visitor to the White Room. If you'll come this way, Palmer?"  

"Webb, huh?" I breathed out silently and gave a nod. He took it as being respectful. Some people only see what they want to see. "This will be sweet."  

"You've heard of him?"  

"I like to stay aware of the competition."  

"I should have contacted someone like you from the start. Why didn't I?"  

Never let an opportunity for sowing seeds of discontent pass. "Professional jealousy, Administrator? Someone within your organization who didn't want you to succeed?"  

"Hmmm. Ah, here we are." He opened a door and stepped inside, and it was as if we hadn't had that conversation..  

Prinzip's White Room was actually a dingy grey. A large chair with straps hanging from the  arms, back and leg rest was bolted to the tiled floor. Blood had dried to a dark brown in the crevices of the tiles. A slop sink in the corner was spattered with unidentifiable… "Don't let that disturb you. I had to have some bodies dismembered for disposal."  

My agents? Once I had Clay, I was going to make sure this insane son of a bitch paid for screwing with the DSD.  

We heard approaching footsteps, and we turned to face the open door. Clayton Webb was shoved into the room.  

I started to say, "Well, well, well," in a snide tone. The words snagged in my throat.  

Clay stood swaying unsteadily, carefully favoring his side. His hands were cuffed behind his back. There was a barely healed wound on his cheekbone. He looked gaunt and exhausted. His hair was matted, and his shirt was filthy and torn. I could smell him from across the room.  

"Palmer! I should have known you'd be behind this!" Clay was staring at me as if I were scum. Did he really believe that I would fuck him over? If he did, we were both up shit creek.  

"Jesus god, haven't you heard of the benefits of water? He needs a fucking bath!" I snarled. "I'm sorry, Administrator, but I have my standards. Nothing could persuade me to get within five feet of  him in this condition."  

The Administrator's smile was self-satisfied. If I wanted to become part of Prinzip that badly, I'd do whatever he said, no matter what my standards.  

"What's the matter, Palmer? Not pretty enough for you?" Clay sneered. I raised an eyebrow. "Oh, yes. Gaston was kind enough to tell me what you had in mind. You really think I'd ever get on my knees for you? Not in this lifetime!"  

"It takes five minutes, Webb," I sneered back at him, hiding my relief. He knew I was going to get him out of here, or… He knew I was going to get him out. "When I get done with you, you'll be using your mouth better than a five hundred dollar whore." I took a step toward him, narrowing the distance between us. "You're going to suck me off and swallow everything I give you."  

"Oh, really?" He snapped his teeth together and dropped his gaze to my crotch. "Feeling lucky?"  

"What, no 'punk'? You been watching Dirty Harry, Webb?" I mocked with a grin. "If any biting is going to be done, I'll be the one doing it. You're going to bear my mark."  

His face flushed, and he scowled as if pissed that I'd turned his threat around. "Yes, well, once you've come, you won't be able to get it up any time soon."  

"I don't leave my pets hanging, buttercup. I won't have any trouble getting it up again for you. The thought of having your cherry would be enough to make a eunuch hard." A thought hit me, and I went cold inside. I glowered at the Administrator. "I will be getting his cherry, won't I? If one of your men has been before me…"  

"No, no, I assure you Mr. Webb hasn't been molested."  

"Good." The grin I turned on Clay was hungry. I licked my lips.  

Clay scowled and stepped to the side, but he was still within arm's reach.  

"Are you going to watch?" I spared a fleeting look at George but kept my attention on the two men who had brought Clay in. The smaller one's eyes had grown hot at my words, and his arousal bulged in his pants.  

It seemed he liked the idea of watching.  

Clay couldn't have avoided seeing that. His lip curled. "Whatever you have planned, it isn't going to work, Palmer. I'll see you in hell first!"  

I took another step closer and dangled the syringe tauntingly between my thumb and forefinger. "I've never had a hazel-eyed man, Webb. I'm  looking forward to seeing your eyes blur with passion."  

"Go fuck yourself, Palmer." Before Clay could move to avoid me, I closed the distance between us, grabbed his arm to keep him in place, and jabbed him in the ass with the needle. He jumped. "Goddamn fucking son of a bitch!"  

I stepped back from him. "Get those fucking cuffs off  him!" I ordered the small man. He refused to move. "I can use this on you instead if you want," I growled, giving him a hard glare, and he bared his teeth and obeyed me. He stepped back, and I watched him without seeming to watch him. Clay rubbed his wrists. "Five minutes, Webb. You're going to come to me. You won't be able to help yourself."  

The seconds bled into minutes and ticked past. Clay struggled to prevent that first step. He fought each step after that, his hands fisted and tension radiating from him, and I made a gloating sound of triumph. He stared down at his feet as if shocked that they would betray him. Damn, the man could act!  

"Give it up, Webb. I'm going to win this one." I peeled off my jacket. There was nowhere to hang it, so I dropped it over the back of the chair.  

Clay was right before me. Abruptly the fight went out of him. He sighed, and when he raised his head, it was obvious the battle was over. He licked his lips and smiled, flirting with his lashes. "Hi, babe. I've been waiting all my life for you." He angled his head to the side and tipped up his chin, offering me his mouth. "Kiss me." He pressed himself against my body, half hard. I got my hands on his ass and slid my thigh between his legs. "Fuck me. "  

"Sure, buttercup. I'll give you what you want." I took his earlobe between my teeth and whispered, "On my signal, Clay. You take the small one." I ran my lips over his unmarked cheek, then looked across at George. "Satisfied? Or do you want to see me fuck him?"  

"I think…" George was suddenly hesitant.  

"Please, M. l'Administrateur!" Oh, yeah, the small one wanted to watch. His laugh was coarse and excited.  

"Is that what you want, Administrator?"  

His eyes had gone vague and confused. "What I want?"  

I didn't know what was happening with him, but I couldn't afford to let the chance slip by. "Okay. Never let it be said that I can't follow a reasonable order." I let Clay go, and he made a little sound of loss and reached for me. "I'm not done with you yet, buttercup." I cupped his dick, rubbed and squeezed. "Start stripping, Webb. I'm going to have you over that chair. You'll like that, won't you?"  

I released him and reached for my cuff button. This shirt had been especially designed by R&D to my specs. The button was a grip that fit between two fingers. When I pulled on it, a long, thin, pliant wire emerged from the seam, the perfect garrote. "Now!"  

There was a flash of movement, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw George slump sideways against the chair. He was out of the fight for the time being, and I wasn't going to worry about him.  

Clay had launched himself at the smaller man, and I was relieved to see he wasn't so badly hurt that he couldn't take him on.  

The big one, who I figured was the more dangerous of the two, was mine, and I concentrated on  him.  

I landed a kick to his knee cap, dislocating it. Off balance, he struggled to remain upright, but a blow to the other knee caused both legs to give out from under him, and he fell to the floor. I flipped him over and got my knee into his spine, then wrapped the garrote twice around his neck and pulled.  

The wire sliced through skin and muscle. He scrabbled at the wire, trying desperately to stop me. Air whistled in panicked gasps as the cartilage of his trachea was cut, and then blood spurted as first the jugular and then the carotid arteries were severed. Each beat of his heart pumped blood out onto the floor, and his struggles faltered, weakened, and finally stopped completely. The last breath of air out of his ruined trachea was a wet, soggy sound.  

I yanked the other end of the wire free of my sleeve and let it fall on either side of his head into the blood that surrounded him, and stood to see if Clay needed any help.  

He didn't. I watched as, with a contained movement, he snapped the small man's neck. "Clay." When he looked at me, his eyes were bleak. Had he never killed a man before? I said the first thing that popped into my head. "Jesus, if I'd known your hands were lethal weapons, I'd never have screwed with you."  

"No?" His expression eased a bit. "That would have been a shame."  

The door burst open, and the Section One operatives, led by Michael, stormed in.  

"Ah. The cavalry to the rescue. Everything secure, Michael?"  

"Yes. All the prisoners have been freed." He barely glanced at the two dead men on the floor. "George?"  

I gestured toward the chair. Walter went forward, stepping fastidiously around the pool of blood, and put his fingers against the side of George's throat. He fumbled from one side to the other, then said, "He's dead."  

" Clark , I told you Section would deal with him."  

"Must have had a heart attack or something, Michael," I shrugged. I wanted to go to Clay, just to make sure he really was all right. I went to pick up my jacket instead.  

"Not fucking likely!" Walter had turned him over. "How do you explain this?" A scalpel was sticking out of George's throat.  

Clay had done that. I didn't know how he had gotten a scalpel in this place, how he'd managed to keep it hidden from those two goons, but somehow he had, and he'd taken care of the Administrator. "Suicide?" I suggested innocently.  

Before such an outrageous statement could be questioned, Clay created a diversion. "Are my people all right? I'd like to see them."  

"Of course, M. Webb. I regret we have to meet once again under such circumstances." Michael snapped his fingers, and one of his operatives stepped forward. "Ramos will take you to them."  

"Thank you. Clark , don't disappear. I'll want to talk to you."  

"Clay, here, you might want this." I handed him a roll of lifesavers. His hand went to his mouth, and I grinned. I'd kissed him when he had the taste of my come in his mouth. Did he think a little staleness would put me off? "No, your breath is fine. I just thought you'd like something to suck on."  

His eyes glittered, but he didn't say anything, just grinned and left.  

"I would have a word with you also, Clark . Walter, please see that Housekeeping is notified. We cannot leave these bodies here."  

"Right, Michael." When they were working, he was all business.  

We were left alone. Michael nudged the body of the small man with his toe. "Gaston le Couteau." The head flopped obscenely. "He's deadly. He was deadly. Of course, he didn't stand a chance against you, Clark."  

"No, I took out the big guy."  

Michael stepped around the body. "Etienne Chambert? The man might look like a bear, but he had the temperament of a rabbit." He laughed at me. "You were fooled by his size!" I had given Clay the more deadly one? Fuck! Michael saw my expression and laughed harder. "For that I could almost forgive you for killing George."  

"You don't believe his mind was so far gone that he snapped and killed himself?"  

"That is your story?"  

"Yeah."  

"Very well, mon ami. However, you will not mind if I put it out that Section was behind his death?"  

"As you told me, Michael, he was one of yours. I wasn't even here!" I took out a handkerchief, pulled the scalpel from George's neck, and wiped the grip thoroughly, then returned it to the wound.  

"Merde! You did not kill him, did you?" Michael was a level 5 cold op. He knew there was most likely only one reason for me to remove fingerprints. He also knew I wasn't about to admit to anything. "Go!"

Part 6  

"Webb." Robinson, the junior representative of the Company's Paris office, was almost dancing with impatience.

Once I'd seen that the agents who had been abducted by Prinzip were in decent enough shape and had called their respective people to come pick them up, I'd called Mother to let her know I was well.  

I held up a hand to let Robinson know I heard him, but continued with my phone conversation. "I promise you I'm fine, Mother, just a little tired."  

"I'm so very glad to hear that, Clayton."  

I could hear the relief in her voice and had to swallow to clear the tightness in my throat. "Barring any unforeseen circumstances, I'll see you for our ride on Sunday."  

"Certainly, dear. And perhaps you can persuade your friend to join us. I love you. Good-bye, Clayton."  

I stared stupidly at the phone for a second. "Uh… I love you too, Mother. Good-bye." I shook off my bemusement. Now was not the time to wonder about bringing together my mother and my lover. "Thanks, Robinson." I handed him his cell phone. "What's bothering you?"  

There was a disgruntled look on his face. He took the phone, but his concentration was focused on something at the back of the room. "What the fuck is he doing here?" he demanded.  

"Who? Oh, Palmer?" Clark was watching with brooding eyes as the last of the agents was shepherded out. I opened the roll of lifesavers he'd given me and slid one into my mouth. Cryst-O-Mint. Not bad. "Why don't you ask him?"  

Robinson looked at me as if I were insane. "The man's DSD! He's a sociopath! I wouldn't go near him with a ten foot pole!" He didn't notice that Clark had started across the room and was close enough to overhear his remark. When Robinson realized Clark 's proximity, his expression became panicky. A smirk twisted Clark 's lips.  

Behave, I mouthed at him.  

The smirk broadened. Who, me? he mouthed back. "I think this is yours, Webb." He held out a Smith and Wesson, still in its holster.  

"Thanks." I slid the harness over my shoulders, stifling a groan as bruised muscles protested. "You didn't happen to find my Llama, did you, Palmer?"  

He took the sub-compact from his jacket pocket and stroked its lines lovingly. "I was hoping you wouldn't remember this little beauty."  

"Yes, well, ask Santa for one of your own next Christmas; you can't have mine!"  

He handed it to me. If we had been alone, I had no doubt his fingers would have lingered on my palm. I had a fleeting sense of regret that they couldn't. I put the gun in a pocket and turned as briskly as I could to face Robinson. Now that the adrenaline was wearing off, every ache in my body was making itself known.  

"Listen, Robinson. Rabb is missing."  

"Would that be Lieutenant Commander Harmon Rabb, Jr.? From JAG?"  

"Yes."  

He swallowed. "Er… A couple of weeks ago, someone identifying himself as the Lieutenant Commander called our Paris office. He requested help with something he refused to go into detail about. Since he wouldn't give us details, I… we refused." His eyes widened. "Did JAG have something going on over here?"  

"No, this was strictly personal."  

His eyes flew to Palmer.  

"Despite the general consensus," Clark complained, "my happiness doesn't depend on making Rabb's life miserable!"  

"This has nothing to do with Palmer. You saw the young Russian? That was Sergei Zhukov, Rabb's half-brother. Apparently someone in Prinzip grabbed him when he was on his way back to his unit in Chechnya. Rabb took a leave of absence in order to find him. Well, we've found Sergei. Now we just need to find Rabb. Admiral Chegwidden isn't happy."  

"Is this Rabb an American Naval officer?" Michael Samuelle had joined us.  

"Yes." And just once I wished he'd be where he was supposed to be, instead of gallivanting all over the free world.  

"He's a lawyer in the Judge Advocate General's Corps," Robinson added, as if that explained everything.  

"I see." Michael exchanged a glance with Clark , but I was too tired to give it much thought. "Well, if you gentlemen have everything under control? Excellent." He walked out.  

Robinson shook his head. "Try to figure the French!" He flipped open his cell phone. "I'll just make a few phone calls and see if I can come up with anything on Lieutenant Commander Rabb."  

"You need a doctor, Webb?" Clark sounded bored, but I saw the concern in his eyes. Robinson didn't.  

"Oh, yes, I didn't even think of that!" Robinson pulled a personal organizer from his inner jacket pocket. He stared from his phone to the organizer and back again, then apparently decided to make the phone calls later. He put the phone back in his pocket and scrolled through the organizer, searching for something. "Ah ha! Here it is! This is a doctor we've used on occasion. He'll take good care of you." He scribbled down a name and an address, and handed me the slip of paper. "And he's very discreet."  

"Thanks." 

"And…" He wrote something on another piece of paper and tore it from the pad. "Here's the name of a decent hotel that's nearby. You look like sh… Um, tired. Why don't you get some rest? I'll get right on this now." And then he was gone too. I sat down heavily.  

"Alone at last." Clark smiled. "Are you…"  

"Not quite."  

"Huh?" He followed my gaze.  

Two men had entered the room. I recognized Max, but I didn't know the man he was with. Rangy, a little above average height, his dark hair and eyes were a perfect foil for Max's fairness. So this was the mysterious someone he had been looking after.  

"Browne? Well, fuck me!" They met in the center of the room, and Clark thumped his shoulder. "I thought you were dead!"  

"Nah, I'm hale and whole, or as whole as I'll ever be." He held up his right hand, which was bandaged but showed it was missing a finger.  

"There's a bottle of formaldehyde at headquarters with your little finger in it!"  

They seemed to have forgotten my presence, and I looked on in weary fascination.  

"You mean it wasn't going to have a decent burial? Fuck, I'm disappointed. I was looking forward to reading its obit in Spook and Spy. Friends, Romans, DSD agents, lend me your fingers." Browne's attitude toward losing his finger seemed almost too casual.  

Clark regarded him somberly. "You're the only one who made it."  

"Yeah. I'm the only one. This is Max. Max Futé. He's the doctor who rigged it so that fucking cocksucker of a lunatic would think I was dead. It was a fair trade: my life in exchange for a finger." Browne's expression became hard. "I'm assuming there's nothing left?"  

"You had to ask?"  

"Never hurts to be sure. I'd have liked a piece of him." His eyes were bleak. "Josephson, Mann, Travers. They died hard."  

"But well?"  

"Oh, yeah. That's why that fucker decided it didn't pay to take any more from the DSD."  

"I would have tried to save them also," Max murmured. "I wasn't in time."  

Browne had his uninjured hand resting on the young doctor's shoulder. "Palmer, I owe him. I want to bring him back to the States with me."  

Clark studied them. "The DSD is always on the lookout for good help."  

"I should tell you my license has been revoked, m'sieur. Euthanasia is not looked upon with favor in France."  

Browne gave him a slight shake. "Max, never give more information than you're asked for, if even that."  

"Mon cher, it is only fair. What would your organization think if they went to the trouble of getting me a green card, and then learned I could not practice medicine?"  

Clark raised an eyebrow. "'Mon cher'?"  

Browne flushed and hunched a shoulder. "He calls everyone that. It doesn't mean anything."  

Clark shrugged. "Browne's right about giving out information, Max. You'll live longer. As for your license, it won't be a problem."  

I cleared my throat. I had no doubt the DSD had ways of getting around that; I didn't want to hear about it.  

Browne wheeled around. "Who's he?"  

"Clayton Webb."  

"Fuck! CIA? Oh, fuck!"  

"It's okay, Prinzip snatched him too."  

"Yeah, but Max…"  

"I won't do anything to interfere with your plans for Max. He helped me too, although I'm sure he wasn't aware of it."  

"Don't count on it, Webb. He's a clever bastard. Palmer, I need to speak to you in private." The two DSD agents walked to the back of the room. Max watched them, worrying his lower lip.  

"I owe you a scalpel, Max."  

"No need, m'sieur," he said absently, his gaze intent on the two men. "Although I must say it took you long enough."  

I was startled, and then I started to laugh. Browne was right, Max was clever. I winced from the pain the movement caused my ribs, but continued to chuckle.  

Clark saw my discomfort. He took out his wallet and handed the other DSD agent a wad of Euros. Browne listened to his instructions, nodded, and gestured for Max to join him.  

"Adieu, M. Webb." We shook hands. "Perhaps we shall meet  again."  

"Perhaps. It is a small world."  

"Charles." He gave it the French pronunciation. "I am ready." He spared a last look in my direction, lifted his hand in farewell, and then the two men were gone.  

"Okay, Clay, let's get you out of here. You look like hell."  

"Robinson says I look like shit. You say I look like hell. What is this? Pick on Clayton Webb Day?"  

"No, it's Let's Get Clayton Webb to a Doctor Before He Falls on His Ass Day. Let's go."  

****  

The doctor who examined me assured Clark that aside from various scrapes and bruises, I was in fairly good shape. A little dehydrated, a little undernourished, but nothing a week in bed wouldn't repair.  

"I can't spend a week in bed."  

The doctor ignored my scowl and continued to address all his remarks to my lover. "And if he should complain of pain, this will remedy that." He gave Clark a prescription for pain killers.  

"Merci," Clark said. "Come on, Clay. I'll get you to that hotel." It wasn't too far from the doctor's office, but he insisted on whistling up a taxi. "And don't sulk. It's unbecoming a man of your position."  

This time I turned my scowl on Clark. "I don't appreciate being treated like a child."  

"Clay, I may see you as a lot of things, but a child is definitely not one of them!"  His hand was warm and gentle on my back as he urged me forward. "Now get in the cab. I wasn't kidding. You really do need a bath."   

" Clark ."  

"Hmmm? I wonder if this hotel has a haberdashery. If it doesn't, would you be okay  by yourself while I run out to get you new clothes?"  

"I'll be fine. Clark. Before you came to Paris?"  

"Yeah? Of course, if I have to, I can always twist someone's arm to do the shopping. Let's see. Underwear, shirt, pants, shoes…" He was too busy enumerating what I would need to really pay attention to what I was saying.  

"You thought all your agents were dead."  

"So? Socks, belt, tie…"  

"You came after me. Didn't you?"  

He became very still. I thought he was going to deny it, but then he said, "Sure." He turned that maddening grin of his on me. "You promised me a housewarming gift."  

"And?"  

"You told me your mother has it. Well, come on, Clay! Your mother would never give it to me if I didn't bring you home."  

"So you're saying you risked your life for what was behind Door Number 3?"  

"Yep." He faced me, looking insufferably pleased with himself.  

"You're full of shit, you know that, Palmer?" I leaned toward him. His lips were parted in indignation, and I brushed my lips over them. "Thank you."  

****  

"What do you think?"  

I was in Clark 's apartment for the first time. It was also the first time we'd been able to get together since we'd returned from Europe almost a week ago.  

"The truth, Webb."  

"It's… it's very nice."  

He turned on his heel and went  into the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee. "It's temporary."  

"I'm serious, Clark. It is a nice apartment. I just… well…"  

"Jesus, Webb, just spit it out, would you?"  

It was farther from my place than his last apartment. Oh, well, that's what cars were for. "It's… uh… it's a little on the small side."  

He gave me a look. "Clay, if it's escaped your notice, there's just one of me. I don't need a lot of space."  

"No. I'm sorry. It just reminds me of Rabb's place." The Lieutenant Commander had returned on his own to Washington shortly after we did, a curiously blank space in his memory. The head of the Paris office had informed the Director, who had informed me, since I was Rabb's contact in the CIA, that the Lieutenant Commander had somehow wound up at the American Consulate smelling as if he had been on a bender, and with a tattoo on his butt that said Marie-Ange.  

"Oh, fuck. Now I'll have to move!" He took a couple of mugs from a cabinet above the sink and put them down next to the coffee maker. "You're teasing me, aren't you?"  

Clark had bought it, if only for a moment, I thought with amusement. "Want me to find something better to do with my mouth?" The words were scarcely out of my mouth before he had my zipper undone.  

"Later, Clay. You can show me what you can do with that mouth of yours later." My slacks dropped down to snag around my knees. "Fucking hell in a handcart! You've gone commando!" He spun me around and bent me over the counter.  

"You noticed!" I started to laugh, but my cock was hard and aching. This was so similar to what he had done to me one night when he'd been staying at  my townhouse. The laugh turned into a breathless moan.  

The material of his trousers was rough against my naked ass. He spread my hands and put them on the edge of the counter. "Hold on, and don't let go!" He slicked his fingers and eased one into me, then laughed. "You prepared yourself!" He licked my neck. "Very good, Clay."  

I was so dazed with lust that he had three fingers in me before I realized it. My hips thrust back, trying to take them deeper. "Too long," I groaned. I heard his zipper being lowered, and this time my breath hitched.  

"Even if it was just this morning, it was still too long," Clark panted as he withdrew his fingers and replaced them with his condom-covered cock. When had he had time to put the condom on? Where had the condom been? I was CIA; I was supposed to be aware of things like that at all times. Then he pulled almost all the way out, until just the head of his cock was within the tight ring of muscle, and rammed back in, and my thoughts splintered.  

I shivered at the feel of him measuring his length in me over and over again, pounding my prostate each time. He threaded his fingers through mine and rested his weight against my back, while his hips pistoned relentlessly. "Clark! More!"  

"Sure, baby." He freed one of his hands and brought his fingers to my mouth. "Open up, buttercup." He slid them past my lips before I could warn him never to call me that again, and then his fingers fucked  my mouth as his cock fucked my ass.  

I whimpered and sucked his fingers deeper, teasing them with the tip of my tongue.  

The pressure was starting to build up, and I knew that sooner than I liked I would explode. I thought of blizzards. I thought of the Arctic and the North Atlantic two thousand fathoms down. And then Clark took my cock in his hand, smeared my pre come over the shaft, and started jerking me off. With a muffled groan I began to come, pouring semen over his hand, over my abdomen, over the counter.  

My inner muscles clenched rhythmically, and Clark bit down on the side of my neck. I could feel his cock pulsing in my back passage, and my own cock tried to spurt once more.  

Clark took his fingers from my mouth and petted my flank with his wet hand. "Oh, baby, you will definitely be the death of me."  

"You sweet-talker, you. Let me up, Clark . I've got your housewarming gift in the hall."  

"I thought this was my housewarming gift."  

"Smart ass." I held still while he eased out of me and reached for some napkins. He wiped me off, and then cleaned the residue of our love-making from himself.  

"Mmmm." Clark turned me around, pulled me against him, and kissed me. "Mmmm."  

"You're repeating yourself." I tasted his kiss on my lips.  

"All right, Webb. Quit screwing around. I want to see what Porter Webb's been hiding all this time."  

I pulled my pants up and brushed that lock of hair out of my eyes. When I'd gone to pick up the crate, Mother had told me of the visit Clark had paid her, of how he had promised her he would find me and bring me home, and I'd got a funny feeling in my chest.  

As I stood there looking at him, I had that feeling again. "Okay, get a pry bar."  

"What have you got me?" he asked suspiciously.  

"You'll see." I went out into the corridor to where I had left the crate on a dolly. I rolled it into Clark 's apartment, took the pry bar from him, and went to work on the nails that secured the top.  

Clark looked into it with interest, but all he could see was the packing that cushioned my gift. "If it's a Grecian urn, Clay, I'm going to be severely disappointed."  

"Trust me, Clark." There was a piercing shriek as the front gave way, and the floor was covered in Styrofoam peanuts.  

"Oh." Clark was on his knees before it, brushing aside the Styrofoam. "Oh, fuck! Clay, this is… I don't know what to say."  

Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. Maybe he didn't want another dog to replace Sam. Maybe… "Look, if you don't like it I can return it and get you something else."  

Clark stood so quickly that I rocked back. "You touch Sam and I'll…" He dragged me against him and buried his head against my neck. "Thank you, Clay. No one's ever… Thank you."  

I stroked my hand over his hair and breathed a silent sigh of relief. He liked my gift to him.  

****  

Someone was leaning on my doorbell. I wiped my hands on a dish towel and went to answer it. Through the peephole I saw the back of his head. My lover was studying his surroundings with his usual DSD thoroughness. I opened the door. "Come on in, Clark . You could have used the key." I hadn't asked for it back.  

"I had my hands full." He was hefting an awkward package that was covered in brown paper.  

Clark was dressed in jeans that fit snugly. I was almost jealous of the way the material caressed the muscles of his thighs and encased his cock and balls. His short-sleeved knit shirt was opened at the throat and molded his pecs. He wasn't wearing an undershirt, and his nipples were twin points that drew the eye to his chest. I licked my lips, imagining them in my mouth. Clark's nipples weren't as sensitive as mine, but I liked his reaction whenever I worked them.  He'd twist and moan, and a couple of times I'd even gotten him to beg.  

"What's this?"  

"My way of saying thank you. For letting me stay here with you. For Sam."  

Judging by the size, I'd guess it was a print that he'd had framed for me. "Thank you, Clark ."  

"Aren't you going to unwrap it?" He seemed a little nervous, or was I reading more into it than there was?  

I leaned it against the console table. "In a minute. First…" I threaded my fingers through his hair and pulled his head down. His lips were warm, and the feel of them caressing mine made me hot. I knew he was aware of my reaction. "We can't do this now. Dinner will be ruined if we don't eat it soon," I murmured against his mouth. I should have taken him up on his offer to bring take-out.  

His hand was on my ass, cupping it. "I've missed this."  

I arched into his touch. I had also. We'd been busy with work and hadn't seen each other since the previous weekend.  

"All right, I'll open my gift. Then we can eat. And then we can… " I tore the brown paper off in long strips. "Ohhh."  

It was a print of Degas' The Young Spartans Exercising, my favorite of his works of that period. I remembered I had carried on about it when we had gone to the National Museum . And the frame was beautiful.  

"Do you… uh… like it?"  

"I never expected Clark Palmer to ask such a stupid question," I told him acerbically. "Yes, I like it!" I freaking loved it!  

"Cool." He grinned and stuffed his hands in his pockets, pulling the material tight across his groin and drawing attention to his cock, which was straining against his fly. "So. What's for dinner?"  

"Fuck dinner."  

"But you said it will be ruined." He backed away from me, laughing.  

"I'll order take-out later."  

"What kind?" He backed away another step, playing hard-to-get. Right behind him was the butter soft, leather couch. He managed to get his hands out of his pockets just before it hit him in the back of his knees, sending him backwards onto it.  

I followed him down, covering him with my own body, lining up our cocks. "Whatever kind you want, Clark . Whatever kind you want."

~End~

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