Temp Job

By OughtaKnowBetter

Obligatory disclaimer: maybe some day…

"You're sure you don't know where you're going? You're just going to get into a black limousine, in the middle of the night, and take off? Just like that?"

"It's not really the middle of the night," Charlie demurred, folding the sports jacket in his hands and tucking it into the small valise. "Technically, eight o'clock is more like early evening."

"Whatever." His father waved that objection away. "The point is, you don't know where you're going, you don't know when you're going to be back—"

"I'll be back within two weeks," Charlie disagreed.

"Some time within that two weeks."

"And you really don't know where you're going?" Don asked curiously. He regarded his brother with a mixture of brotherly affection and disbelief. Even after so many years, he found it difficult to think of Charlie as someone known upon the world stage, a shaker of the New Millennium. People he knew weren't supposed to be that powerful, and certainly not the kid brother that he'd walked home from school so that Ricky Taylor's homework didn't suddenly become perfect overnight.

Charlie selected a tie, and held it up. "Does this go?"

"You're a geek. People don't expect geeks to be able to find two matching socks, let alone sartorial elegance," Alan Eppes told him. "Answer your brother's question."

Charlie shrugged, and slipped the tie into the suitcase. "Not really. I mean, it's been the same lodge every other time people like this have called, but that doesn't mean that things can't change. We're not supposed to know where we are. It's all part of the secrecy."

"But…?" Don encouraged.

A small smile. "Let's just say that I got curious. There are a number of limiting factors," Charlie said, the lecturing tone coming automatically into play. "Two hours by car means that it's not more than a hundred, maybe a hundred twenty, miles in any direction. Not quite 50 percent of that territory is the Pacific Ocean, which lets out that as a destination since we're surrounded by trees, trees, and more trees." Another small smile: "Don, I've tracked down the probable location of more than one suspect for you. You think this is any different? This isn't even a moving target." He ticked off the additional limiting factors on his fingers. "If this is the same place as it's been for several other temporary consulting projects like this, it will be at a high end lodge in the mountains, far away from anything and anyone else. There are only just so many lodges in the California mountain ranges within two hours of here that meet those qualifications. Six, to be exact: one in the Tehachapi Mountains, and two more up in the Paiutes. The other three are east of here, out toward Joshua Tree."

Don grunted, acknowledging his brother's nonchalant acceptance of the assignment.

Alan folded his arms and studied both of his sons with a crooked smile. "My son, working for the government, probably developing some new weapon to destroy the world as we know it. My other son, working for The Man, who would probably start hunting through my memorabilia and arrest me if he really knew what I'd been up to some fifty years ago. Where did I go wrong?"

Don grinned. "Statute of limitations, Dad. I can't arrest you. Unless you've been up to something recently I don't know about?"

"Donnie, I'm an old man. I can't move fast enough to commit a crime."

Don laughed. "Right, Dad. Remind me of that, next time we play tennis."

"I'm slow, Donnie, but not stupid. You have a big hole in your forehand." Alan turned back to his youngest. "So where is this place?"

"Dad—"

Charlie was saved by the ringing of the doorbell. Don straightened himself from where he was leaning against the dresser. "I'll get it."

"Tell 'em I'll be right down." Charlie hustled to grab the pair of pants and stuff it into the suitcase. "Just got a couple more items to pack, and I'm out of here."

Don trotted down the stairs, and opened the door for Charlie's driver. The man who had been sent, though not in uniform, shrieked military to anyone with the habit of sizing people up. The mousy brown hair was growing out, but the ramrod stiff spine and the trim waist was a dead giveaway to Don. Maybe private security, someone who'd served his time and then gone on to a more lucrative job in private industry? Another option could be undercover security, funded by Uncle Sam. Well, it was all funded by Uncle Sam, technically, since whatever project Charlie was being called to work on would end up being sold to the military or some other branch of the U.S. government. Private industry just meant that a little more of the money would get pushed into private sector in exchange for a little more efficiency in developing whatever it was that Charlie was supposed to develop.

Didn't matter. Most of Charlie's high end projects never crossed Don's desk, and he liked it just fine that way.

The man outside the door refused to frown, but the confusion was plain. "Dr. Eppes?"

"My brother," Don enlightened him. Yeah, I don't look like him. You must have been given Charlie's picture. Good briefing. "Come on in. He'll be down in a second."

"Thank you." The security guard briefly blocked the light from the street lamps as he entered, twisting his broad shoulders slightly in order to come inside.

Damn, but they're growing 'em big these days. "Do this often?" Don asked, more to have something to say than for any other reason.

"No, sir."

Yup, ex-military. Don glanced up in response to hearing his brother clamber down the stairs, his bag in his hand and Alan Eppes trailing behind.

Well-trained, too. The man stepped forward, reaching out his hand for the suitcase. "I'll take that, professor." Target in site. Collateral obtained. All that was left to do was to secure the 'package' in the limo outside—armored, maybe? It had a suspiciously thick look to it—and head to where ever good little math professors were supposed to be in order to perform technological miracles.

Charlie was clearly used to this sort of treatment, Don decided. How often had his kid brother done this before Don had moved back home? Don would probably never know. It was for damn sure that his ego wouldn't let him ask.

Charlie handed over his bag. "Hang on a sec. I'll get my laptop, and I'll be ready."

"You won't need your computer, Dr. Eppes, nor your cell phone. Please leave them both at home. You'll be supplied with all the equipment that you'll need once you get to where you're going."

"Yes, I will need it," Charlie informed him. "My laptop contains other research. If a thought strikes me while I'm there, I'm certainly not going to wait two weeks before entering the data point into my programming."

"I'm afraid that you will have to, Dr. Eppes. My instructions are quite clear. Any recording devices, including computers, will be either left home, or will be wiped clean prior to leaving the facility."

"Wiped clean?" That was a new and frightening thought.

"Yes, sir. No exceptions."

Charlie considered. "Maybe I just won't go."

"You have that option, sir. I'm sure that they will seek out another mathematician to fill your place, sir. Professor Penfield, perhaps."

Oh, yeah. This guy was obviously well briefed. Don refused to let the smirk arrive at his lips.

Charlie scowled. "I suppose I could just jot things down on paper."

"Yes, sir."

Don't laugh. Don't laugh.

"All right." Charlie gave in. "You win. No laptop. But the stuff they give me better be good," he warned the security man, as if his new escort had control over the situation.

"I'm certain it will be, sir." The security man briefly blocked the light once again, stepping back out onto the stoop and automatically scanning the neighborhood for anyone likely to take a potshot at the hired temp help.

Charlie turned back to his family. "Well, this is it. I'll see you in a week or so."

"Have fun," Alan told him. "I'd tell you to get a souvenir for Amita, but they probably won't let you out to see the sights."

"Yeah." Charlie shrugged, and Don decided that his brother was once again realizing that most of the traveling he did was not for the purpose of entertainment. Well, it sort of was, since Charlie found these sorts of projects wildly interesting, but it wasn't the normal sort of fun that everyone else gravitated toward. Then again, whoever said that Charlie was normal?

Charlie sighed. "See you soon."

"See you," Don echoed, and Charlie was out the door and being handed into the black limo outside before he could blink. No hugs. We're not the hugging type. Mom was—Mom always made sure that we had a hug before we left the house, whether it was to school in the morning when we were kids or whether it was me going off to Albuquerque.

Big Mom-shaped hole in our lives. Don't think we'll ever really get past that.

The security man got into the passenger's seat in front, leaving Charlie to contemplate the night through tinted and undoubtedly bullet-proof glass windows. Not that Don could see him clearly, but the driver looked to be a twin of the first security man: big enough to be a linebacker and with the ease of movement that suggested someone who worked out regularly. Don amused himself by automatically checking the license plate: California tags, five Bravo, Bravo, Larry, four—couldn't make out the rest as the car ghosted off into the night, carrying his brother to where ever. Clean getaway too, unless anyone wanted to check up on old Mr. Miller who lived three houses down and was now walking Jeeves, an old and overweight dachshund that would always snap at the neighborhood kids. Don waved at the man, more out of habit and good manners than anything else, and retreated back inside.

Alan surveyed the interior of the house. "Well, that's that. We won't hear from him for at least a week. It was closer to two weeks the last time, and Charlie could barely keep from talking about it when he got home. He really does enjoy these gigs, whatever they are."

"Yeah," Don agreed, wondering if he ought to volunteer to keep his old man company during the time that Charlie was away. What the heck? I mean, it's not as though this didn't happen before I blew back into town. Yeah, but Dad had Mom, then. Different time, different world. "Dad, how 'bout I—"

His cell phone warbled at him, and he snatched it up before he realized what he was doing. "Eppes."

"Don? David. Dead body, back alley behind Minover's, on Fourth."

"So? What's wrong with LAPD—?"

"They ran the prints for an ID, and all kinds of fireworks went off. They're dumping it on us, and running scared."

Don sighed. It was going to be one of those cases, where they'd do a cursory investigation and shut it down unsolved because someone somewhere didn't want the truth to come out. He so was not in the mood to put up with crap. "I'll be down in ten."

"Take your time. The dead body isn't going anywhere—yes, it is. Medical examiner's finished with the scene. They're bagging and tagging, and they'll be carting the guy away in another minute."

"I'll be down," Don repeated, closing up his cell. He turned to his father. "Dad—"

"Go." Alan waved him on. "It's your job. Go do it, Donnie."

The body was gone by the time Don arrived, only a memory in chalk to mark where someone had lost his life. Don squatted beside the white marks, grateful for the heavy spotlights that the forensic team had dragged in.

David Sinclair stood over him. "Still don't have a name for the guy, Don, but NSA says that he's one of theirs. They're screeching pretty loudly that we need to back away."

"What was he doing here?"

David grimaced. "They're trying to decide if they can get away without telling us."

"Yeah, well, you tell 'em they can't, David." Don straightened up, wishing that someone else had caught this case. "You tell 'em that we need at least a direction to go in, or I'm filing an official complaint for non-cooperation." He scanned the scene, wondering if anyone had been so lucky as to find something pretending to be a clue. "What have we got here?"

"Not much, Don." Colby stepped up. "That kid over there with the uniforms? The one stoned on crack? She wandered into the alley, found the body, and started screeching her lungs out. Beat cop investigated and called it in. Medical examiner thinks that the guy's been here for about a day or two, stuck between two trash cans. Nobody noticed him or the smell until now."

"No ID?"

"None." David took over. "The ME grabbed a set of prints first thing, since the body was so old. Cause of death, assuming nothing else is found during autopsy, was an execution style shooting to the back of the head."

"Gang-related, maybe? This is the turf for it, and maybe this guy just got unlucky. Tried to hang on to his wallet and got shot for his trouble."

"Not likely. The uniforms are talking to whoever they can, but nothing's popping up." Colby jerked his thumb toward the short line of rusty trashcans beyond the chalk marks. "Found a little Beretta wrapped in a banana peel. Forensics is gonna try and match the bullet. Shouldn't take too long. Sure as heck ain't a street gang."

"Yeah." Colby was right, Don mused. Street dude using an elegant little Beretta? They tended to go for something big, something long and cylindrical, something as likely to blow their own hand off as shoot their victim. They could have gotten hold of the Beretta, but Don wasn't going to bet even a wooden nickel on the possibility. "We got anything else here at the scene?"

"Nope. Neat and clean. That's another thing that makes me think that this was a pro job: no evidence. They dumped the gun after wiping it and making sure that we wouldn't get any useful prints from it. No footprints, no witnesses, no nothing." Colby wasn't happy and wasn't afraid to show it.

"Nothing but a bunch of NSA guys yelling for the body and for us to back off," David growled.

Don considered the scene, the lack of evidence, the circumstances and, most of all, the tall piles of case files towering on more desks than his own. He made a decision. "What say we let them have it? In the interests of inter-departmental cooperation and the fact that they have a hell of a lot more riding on this one than we do, I hereby declare that the FBI would be very happy to dump the NSA's mess back into their laps so that they can go back to doing whatever the hell it was that they were doing. File it, David," he instructed, knowing that if he told Colby to do the deed they'd be waiting until next Tuesday for it to happen.

"Don—!" Colby protested.

The protest was only half-hearted, and Don knew that Colby would put it out there. Colby had as much work as any of them and it was only because the man was categorically unable to put down a good puzzle that anything at all had come from the man's mouth. Actually, it irked all of them to let the thing lie, but getting irked wasn't the same thing as solving the murder. A real resolution wasn't going to happen, and they might as well move onto something that they could do something about. World peace, maybe.

It felt like about two hours, and Charlie thought that he'd recognized the darkened sign of a restaurant about fifteen miles back that let him know that the all-night diner had fallen prey to the economic downturn. Tough times everywhere, he thought. People who are out of work don't go out to eat, and restaurants that don't serve customers go out of business. Cascade effect, and he didn't need any fancy math equations to come up with that conclusion.

They had gone inland, and north. Charlie could discern the direction by the winding uphill roads that they were taking, and by the forests that grew on either side. He couldn't identify the trees, not at ten o'clock at night, but he didn't need to. If they'd gone directly east, he'd be looking at desert foliage. No, this was the same route that he'd been taken a couple of years ago, and a couple of years before that, when he'd been hired to…Nope. Part of that consultancy was to keep his mouth shut, even though the project had already made it to the next year's national budget and contributed to both national security and national debt.

If he was being taken to the same place once more, they should be arriving soon. He glanced at his watch surreptitiously. They hadn't allowed him to bring his cell phone, and Charlie, used to the ways of this business, hadn't bothered objecting to that. He would have had as much success with his cell as he had with his laptop. No point in trying.

Yes, there it was: a small, yet expensive lodge nestled into the woods, with a discrete sign that had been artfully covered over with pine branches so that the visiting temporary consultants wouldn't be able to determine exactly where they were. During the tourist season it would cater to celebrities, businessmen, and politicians who could afford to get away to a place that boasted a high fence around the grounds to keep out the riff-raff and the paparazzi. During the off-season…well, Charlie was here and he expected that he would know several of his fellow consultants. They would be well-fed, and they would convene in one or more of the conference rooms that had been outfitted with the latest in computer technology, and they would be told what the project was. At that point, they would engage in preliminary discussion as to how to approach the problem, and most of the consultants would regretfully—or gratefully—excuse themselves as having no real contributions to offer. The rest would continue to work.

Charlie maneuvered himself out of the limousine, the driver holding the door and the other security man pulling Charlie's suitcase out of the trunk. Charlie could hear the noises of the woods in the night: the last of the crickets mourning the passing of summer, the soft hoot of an owl trying to spook its prey into an inadvertent rustle that would give away the target location. Charlie drew in a deep breath, savoring the scent of pine and clean air.

"This way, sir." The driver urged Charlie to move inside where no sniper could get him. Charlie allowed a regretful smile to turn up one corner of his mouth. Like someone really wanted to go after a math teacher. Right.

There was no arguing with the security types. They never listened, and sometimes—like a broken clock—they were right. Charlie allowed himself to be guided into the lodge where the clerk behind the counter handed over a room card without even the formality of signing Charlie in.

Again, it was all as Charlie had expected. His employer had arranged for the lodge to be solely devoted to this project for the next week or two, no extraneous guests allowed, and there would be very little information flowing in or out until the bulk of the work was done. Charlie followed the bellhop along the long hallway to the suite that was assigned to him, noting that the hallways had been re-carpeted yet again. This time the carpet was red. Last time it had been blue.

The bellhop set up Charlie's suitcase on the stand. "Everyone will be gathering in Conference Room A, Professor Eppes, at nine tomorrow," he said, proving that he wasn't one of the regular staff but a security man brought in by Charlie's new employers. He knew exactly who Professor Eppes was and what his place in the schematics of the world would be for the next two weeks, and the man had been specifically assigned to ensure that there would be no deviations from The Plan. "A continental breakfast will be available at seven."

Charlie wasn't surprised. It was the same thing that had happened the last time, and the time before that. Someone had a healthy sense of paranoia, and had brought in his own staff to keep the consultants in and the spies out. It would be an annoyance putting up with it, because it interfered with Charlie's desire to explore his surroundings, but it was a small price to pay for the opportunity to work with some really fine researchers. The paycheck he earned didn't hurt, either.

On the other hand…"Thank you," he said. "Oh, and would you pass the word? I expect to go running tomorrow, before breakfast. Sometime around seven, I think." He smiled at the 'bellhop'. "I know that's something you folks like to keep track of." Because it's an opportunity for someone to sneak out a little unauthorized communication.

Polite expression of regret. "There's a treadmill in the spa, sir."

"Not nearly as good as getting outside and smelling the fresh air," Charlie assured him, offering a tip. "I'll be down in the lobby at seven."

"Very good, sir." The 'bellhop' took his leave, pocketing his money and pretending that such tips would make a difference in this week's paycheck. Pretending that he really was part of the staff of the lodge.

Charlie turned to hang up his clothing and let the wrinkles fall out, grinning to himself. Exposure to his brother was doing him some good; the twinkle in the 'bellhop's' eye said very clearly that the security man too would appreciate the fresh air and exercise and would likewise appreciate Charlie pushing the issue.

Clearly the 'staff' was used to requests from the visiting geniuses, and had received instructions on how to handle them.

Don sipped at his coffee slowly, knowing that he'd be downing his second and possibly his third along with a few antacids before the clock chimed ten. It was going to be a desk day, eight hours of writing and re-writing reports and doing his best to shrink the pile of papers that was threatening to take over his desk and the rest of the world. If he was lucky, he'd be able to take a break after lunch and get in some target practice; anything to get his butt out of his chair and his muscles to moving. He scanned the quantity of paperwork in front of him, and decided that if he could finish off both the Douglas case and the one involving the Green Acres fraud stuff then he'd be entitled to the entertainment. David too could come along. Not Colby; the junior agent's stack was half again as high as Don's, proving that Colby needed to step up his speed with reports if he wanted to keep up. Don regarded the younger agent with satisfaction. Colby Granger could write reports with the best of 'em, but hated the task and tried every which way to get out of it. The result: Don and David got time off, and Colby didn't.

A shadow fell over Don's desk, and he looked up.

His visitor was tall and whip-cord thin, with piercing eyes that acquired every detail around him. Short dark hair topped off the package that included a brown corduroy jacket and jeans, clothing that made it easy to move quickly when the situation called for it. The boots that the man wore had already traveled many miles and in many different terrains.

Don recognized him immediately. He set down his mug and extended his hand in greeting. "Ian. Good to see you. What brings you to L.A.?"

Ian Edgerton could have made small talk, a bit of idle chitchat before getting down to business.

Not his style. "Your corpse, Eppes. What'cha got on him?"

There were many things that Don could have said, starting with 'which corpse?' and following up with 'what's your interest, Ian?'

None of those options were what Don selected. Instead, he rose and circled around his desk. "Let's grab a cup of coffee."

"I could use some."

Neither one mentioned the unfinished cup that sat still steaming on Don's desk. That wasn't the point. Getting away from the 'office' environment was.

The in house cafeteria wasn't crowded at this time of day. Everyone else had grabbed their early morning contribution to their waistline and made a beeline out through the double doors, trying not to spill anything. Don selected a table in one corner of the large room, a spot where both he and Edgerton could stare out the window and see what was coming at them. It was an ingrained habit, to always be aware of surroundings. Not being able to do it made Don uncomfortable, and he strongly suspected that the same thing drove Ian up the proverbial wall.

Don set a fresh cup down on the table. It was sunny outside, with a number of people still on their way into the office. Here and there a jogger darted in and around the pedestrians, puffing and huffing at the Los Angeles smog that passed for air. Lucky Charlie. He's not putting up with this crap in the air. Wonder where he is?

"Yeah, but today's not all that bad," Ian agreed.

A crooked smile pasted itself onto Don's chin. "You gettin' psychic, Ian?"

"Hah. Always was, Don. How's Charlie?" Ian had a soft spot for Don's brother, and a newly acquired appreciation for the power of numbers.

"Doing well. Doing well," Don repeated. "Off on a gig. Some hush-hush consultant thing."

Ian let a frown slip past his lips, so fast that Don wondered if he'd missed something. "Hope we won't need him."

"We?" Don queried. "What's this 'we' stuff, Ian?" He sipped at the coffee, grimacing at the scalding heat. It tasted good, though. Just enough bitterness to cut through whatever crap Ian was about to try to hand over.

Ian stared out through the bullet-proof panes of glass. Here, in the cafeteria, tinting turned the windows just dark enough to prevent premature fading of the plastic seat covers. The official line was that it protected the eyes of the employees from the nasty sunlight outside, with all of those horrible ultra-violet rays.

If that was the case, both me and Ian would be blind by now with all the time we spend outside. "You got something to tell me, Ian?"

Edgerton took a long sip, trying to beat Don in the toasted taste buds race. "You find anything on the corpse from last night?"

Don countered with a question of his own. "You know him?"

The answer came quick. "Never met the guy."

So that was how the man wanted to play it. "Not what I asked, Ian." Reprovingly. You on my side, or what?

The sigh wasn't heavy but the smile was crooked. "They told me to track him."

No need to ask who 'they' were. There was only a small group of individuals who were entitled to tell Ian to do anything, and all of them lived in Washington and collected hefty paychecks for their work at the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Don moved on to the next piece of missing information. "They give you a name?"

"They gave me the latest in a series of aliases," Ian acknowledged. "If you look up Barry Goldwasser, of Silver Springs, Maryland, you'll get a whole book of fiction followed by some very polite folks wondering why you're dabbling in some government databases."

"And who do those polite folks work for? Uncle Sam, like us?"

This time Ian gave Don a distinctly unhappy look. "No. Not that anyone admits to, and I checked with a lot of people both on and off the record. Wouldn't surprise me, though, if some military-related company was footing the bill for this. Our 'Barry Goldwasser' met up with several ex-soldiers, mercenaries mostly, and there have been a few more hovering around in his general vicinity, where ever that might be at the time."

"You saw him?"

"From a distance. Met with one here, one there. One of his connections was with a guy named Joseph Murdoch."

Don whistled under his breath. "We talkin' the same Joe Murdoch who's running with DarkSeas, Inc.?"

"You got it."

Don leaned back in his seat. "So what's the link? What are they looking for?"

Ian shrugged. "That's what we're trying to find out. The word in Washington is that DarkSeas is trying to come up with a fancy new gadget that it can sell to the Pentagon."

That didn't make sense to Don, and he said so. "DarkSeas is a military temp agency, Ian. They supply mercenaries, not weaponry. Why are they dabbling in high tech weaponry? If anything, I would think that they would explore some straightforward automatics, something that the ground soldier could use."

"They're expanding."

"Not buying it, Ian," Don told him. "There's a hell of big difference between hiring a bunch of soldiers looking for big bucks and getting something high tech onto a production line. DarkSeas doesn't have the background for this. That takes some deep pockets and expertise, neither of which DarkSeas owns." Don hesitated. "Well, maybe they've got the deep pockets, but definitely not the scientific expertise."

"Exactly what my handlers in Washington thought," Ian agreed, "which is what brought me into your backyard to play."

"You really here to play fair, or are you expecting to grab the catcher's mitt and run?" Don had been on the receiving end of too many fast and loose Washington plays.

Ian gave him a hurt look, putting his hand over his heart. "Eppes! You wound me. Have I ever—"

"Save it, Ian," Don interrupted. "Save it for someone you can fool at least some of the time." He settled back onto his seat. "Why was Goldwasser here in L.A.?"

Ian too settled down, and got to the swapping part of the discussion. "My people back East told me that this was just a fishing expedition, but the way this is shaking out? I doubt it. Somebody somewhere knew something and is trying to get someone else out of the closet."

"Darkseas?"

"Maybe. Maybe not. Too early to tell. They're definitely involved." He cocked his head. "That's why I'm here. What'cha got on the body?"

Don sighed. "Now, a name that you just gave me. Nothing before that."

"Cause of death?"

"Prelim is execution-style bullet to the back of the neck. Instantaneous death."

"When will your ME finish the autopsy?"

"Never. NSA came and claimed the body. Said he was one of theirs."

"NSA?" Ian jerked in surprise. "He's not—" he interrupted himself. "Not important. Anything on the body?"

Don, however, had seized on the break. "What do you mean, he's not NSA? They wanted the body. Who did he belong to?"

Ian's lips tightened. "Us."

Don's jaw dropped. "Us? You mean, us as in 'FBI'? Then, why the hell didn't we hang onto the body, Ian? Why didn't his fingerprints show up on our database? Those fireworks should have been lit from our own guys."

"Right." Ian lapsed into thought.

"Ian?"

There was an uncomfortable amount of silence.

"Ian? What the hell's going on, Ian?"

Ian took a deep breath. "I'm thinking that there's a lot fancy dancing going on somewhere behind the scenes, Don, and I'm not liking it one bit. I was told that Goldwasser's superiors thought that he might be on the take, setting up some meetings that we needed to know about. Somebody else said that he was a CIA spook, that I should back off. That word came from somebody connected to the NSA. Not an employee, mind you, but someone with close ties." Ian's next smile was tight and humorless. "I pretended to back off."

Meaning that the man faded into the background so that even a bloodhound wouldn't be able to find him. Don understood that part thoroughly.

"I lost him two days ago, down in San Diego. And then he turned up here. Dead."

Execution-style bullet to the back of the neck. Handgun tossed to the side; no sense in trying to hide that piece of evidence. Don could just bet that the serial number would have been obliterated for just this sort of thing.

"There's a cover up going on." It was an unnecessary statement, but it did Don good to hear it out loud. It didn't sound paranoid, which was what he had feared. It sounded uncomfortably close to the truth.

Ian agreed. "Question is: who's doing the covering up? What needs to be covered?" He considered the situation. "Any chance that they haven't transferred the body? You found him, what, this morning?"

"Last night," Don corrected. "You're thinking we might find something?"

"I'm thinking that we might pull back the transfer," Ian retorted. "I'm telling you, Don, this is not looking good."

"Then let's see if the NSA has moved fast." Don gulped the last swallow of his coffee, wincing at the bitter dregs. He tossed the paper cup into the trash, unhappily grateful for the caffeine buzz that threatened him with an ulcer. "Let's hit the morgue."