Disclaimer:I don't own the character of Bobby Goren or any of the other characters or plot devices of Law & Order: Criminal Intent. All others are entirely my responsibility/fault.

Very Important Disclaimer: Everything in here is fiction, and I'm not familiar with the inner workings of the US Army, Interpol, the CIA, the British intelligence services or the NYPD. I've done my best to avoid glaring plotholes, but please don't contact me asking for more details about Army installations in New York State, CIA listening devices or the admissibility in court of evidence gained by covert surveillance, because you will receive the author's standard disclaimer: "I Made It All Up".

Standing in front of the mirror in the women's washroom nearest the road out from the Army barracks on the Connecticut coastline, I re-adjusted the army fatigues I'd donned hastily three hours earlier and sighed. I was trying to pass myself off as an Army recruit but, truth be told, I looked like Combat Barbie. If Barbie had bright red hair, freckles, and a figure that wasn't so much 'supermodel' as 'twenty-minute hourglass'. (One of these days I will learn that donuts are not my friends). Oh well. Bite the bullet time. I wandered out to join the rest of the surveillance team, and saw to my surprise that most of them had already gone. Two familiar tall figures in Army fatigues were leaning on the hood of the Jeep, deep in conversation. I scuttled across, hoping that I hadn't made the situation I was in even worse by being late. They both looked up.

"I see the others have already gone?"

"Yes," Detective Bobby Goren, NYPD, shrugged. He looked surprisingly at home in the fatigues; I was already wondering how the Army managed to get anything done if they had to wear them in this heat. "Your boss said they'll meet us up there; they need to get there earlier than us to set up the equipment anyway."

Thank you, Tim, I thought. I understood why my temporary boss, Tim Whitefield (Interpol Criminal Intelligence Division) had decided that the three of us – myself, Goren, and Andrew Davenport, our Liaison Officer with the British intelligence services, should share the ride up to the old building we were going to be using for the surveillance operation. We were supposed to be working together to interpret whatever information the two CIA agents who'd set off with him earlier to set up their equipment managed to gather for us. It wasn't Whitefield's fault that I'd made myself look a complete idiot in front of Goren earlier that day. At least he didn't know the details.

"Who's driving?" I asked.

"Well, I'm not." Andrew Davenport, Liaison Officer for the British intelligence services, grinned ruefully. "I'm still on British Summer Time, and I haven't slept properly since the flight over. If I drive we'll end up going off the road." He threw the canvas bag he was carrying into the backseat and climbed in after it, stretching his legs across the back seat and propping his head against the door, using his fatigues jacket as a pillow.

That left myself or Goren. I decided to be decisive, on the grounds that he must already think I was an unprofessional idiot and I should probably be trying not to make the situation worse. "You mind if I drive?"

He shrugged. Was I kidding myself to think he looked relieved? "By all means. You want me to put your bag in the trunk?"

"Thanks." I handed it to him, hopped into the driver's seat and started fiddling with the seat and the mirrors. It was a stick shift, which I was actually quite pleased about; it's good to practise driving stick now and then, or you forget how to do it. I leaned out of the window as Goren climbed into the passenger seat beside me, immediately reaching underneath it and fiddling with the lever to push it back as far as it would go. The Army mechanic who'd checked over the Jeeps prior to our borrowing them for the operation was cleaning his sunglasses with a grimy-looking rag. I addressed him directly.

"How do we get there?" I'd seen the map and knew it was basically a case of 'head up the coastline along the road until you see it', but it never hurts to ask someone who knows the area.

He waved an arm at the neglected-looking road that led out of the base in front of us. "Just head on out, keep going til you run into it, and watch out for potholes."

"Thanks." I donned my sunglasses; Goren was already wearing his. From behind us came a faint snore. I put the Jeep in gear and rolled it forwards. Behind us, the mechanic shut the gates and I heard the rattle of chains and a padlock. It was a nice day for the drive; warm and sunny, clear skies, still air. I took the Jeep up to what I thought would be a safe cruising speed, and glanced across at Goren. He was lolling in the passenger seat, looking bored already. I sympathised, but couldn't help thinking of the drive ahead with a wince. Three hours stuck in a Jeep with the guy who was indirectly responsible for my being here, on the most important intelligence operation I'd ever been involved with, and he was probably wondering why they'd ever let me out of the office. He began fiddling with the radio. "You mind if I see if I can get anything… maybe some music or something?"

"Knock yourself out." I fixed my eyes on the road, ignoring the squawks from the radio, and reviewed the events to date that had put me, Sienna Tovitz, Interpol Translation & Interpretation Services (Russian & Eastern European Division) in a borrowed Army jeep with a British intelligence officer and a New York City detective, heading out up the East Coast to spy on the head of an Eastern European criminal gang – a suspected terrorist - with one of Interpol's senior Criminal Intelligence department heads and two CIA surveillance technicians. Doing so was a bit like prodding a sore tooth – you know you shouldn't, but you can't help it. My mind drifted back to the meeting immediately prior to us heading on out of here, with a mental wince.

It had been the most important meeting of my life to date. I probably shouldn't have been trying to remember the German for 'testosterone'.