Disclaimer: OK, here's where it gets interesting. Clayton Webb is not
mine. As everyone knows, he belongs to DB. The Admirals, Janet
Anthony and Cathryn Corelli, belong to Kimberly Knipp and Pat
Steiner respectively. Thanks again ladies! Major Hannah Jamison, does 
however, belong to me as do the minor characters that make various 
appearances in the story.

Author's note: It is 1992. As such, there will be no mention of Harm,
Mac, or any of the rest of the JAG crew. This fic is about then-Major
Hannah Jamison and will help fill in some of the gaps of Duty's Price.
 
 

Joint Chiefs of Staff 
The Pentagon 
Office of Admiral Janet Anthony
1016 Romeo

 Admiral Janet Anthony sat at her desk reviewing reports on the
activities of the several officers under her direct command. She'd
divided the stacks of papers into two piles, requests for change of
designators and miscellaneous reports, and dealt with each accordingly.
After about 20 minutes, she glanced at the brass clock that hung on the
far wall between the formal pictures of Admiral Corelli and President
Bush. 

"Any time now," she murmured as her eyes turned to one of the many
green plants that decorated her office. The fichus, true to its nature,
drooped a little and she made a mental note to water it when she next
went to the coke machine for a Dr. Pepper.

A moment later, the intercom buzzed. "Yes, Lieutenant?" she greeted
pleasantly.

The young voice of her male assistant replied, "Ma'am, Major Jamison
is here to see you."

"Send her in," the admiral answered while unconsciously smoothing her
uniform.

The door opened, revealing a petite, blonde woman in the familiar
Marine greens of her rank. Her long blonde hair was pulled back into a
tight braid and she stood at attention in front of the admiral's desk. 

"At ease, Major, and have a seat."

Jamison nodded and glanced at the two overstuffed leather arm chairs
and, after selecting the one on the left, which afforded her a better view
of the door, she sat. Once seated, her eyes traced over the woman
before her. Wavy light brown hair pinned into a neat bun framed the
admiral's ageless face, while thoughtful green eyes met Hannah's hazel
ones stare for stare.

Anthony noted Jamison's selection of the chair with an inward smile.
This was definitely a woman who was accustomed to getting out of
tight situations. The admiral allowed her subordinate to continue her
perusal since it gave Anthony equal time to observe the major.

Deciding that a little introduction was needed, the admiral cleared her
throat after a couple of minutes and launched into the reason for
Jamison's presence. "As you are probably aware, your success rate at
the Defense Intelligence Agency has caught the eyes of various
members of my staff. In particular, Admiral Corelli, who has requested
that you be made lead on this op." 

Jamison nodded once, well aware no other response was needed.

"Therefore, a request for designator change has been approved and
completed."

The major nodded again, her hazel eyes tinged with seriousness and the
barest hint of excitement. "Thank you," she murmured as she lightly
slid her Sense across the admiral's mind. She had been wondering how
much the admiral really knew about her newest staff member ever since
she'd heard of the order to change her assignment. 

Normally, to scan someone, she would need to close her eyes to fully
concentrate on the subject's thoughts. However, the admiral was
already focused on the topic of Hannah's interest, so it would only take
a simple touch to learn what she wanted to know. The Major stared
intently at her subject and lightly touched the other woman's mind.
Curiosity, tinged with trust and respect of a fellow officer, namely
Admiral Corelli. These were the first emotions that glanced off of her
Sense. So, Admiral Anthony didn't know much at all. Good. Hannah
made a mental note as she eased out of the admiral's head to thank
Corelli when she saw her. 

Anthony's eyes narrowed under the disconcertingly pointed gaze. 'What
is she trying to do?' the admiral wondered silently. 'Surely she doesn't
think I'll blink.' After holding the intense perusal another few seconds,
the admiral lifted her chin and asked, "Is something wrong, Major?" 

Jamison's face remained impassive as she answered, "Nothing at all,
ma'am."

The admiral's eyebrows lifted with disbelief, but she let the matter go.
"I'm sure you know the basic chain of command for the JCS, but in
your case, you will report directly to Admiral Corelli. Major, you will
maintain a dotted line of report to the DIA, but your base of operations
will now be the JCS." Noticing Jamison's sharp gaze had eased
considerably, she asked, "Is that understood?"

Hannah blinked once and returned her eyes to the admiral. "Yes,
ma'am!" she answered promptly.

Nodding, Anthony directed, "Good, then report to Admiral Corelli
ASAP. She has the outlines for your mission. And good luck."

The major stood at attention and saluted smartly before murmuring,
"Yes, ma'am."

"Dismissed!" Anthony replied almost as an after thought, knowing that
Jamison was already gone. When the door closed, the admiral reached
for one of the stacks of reports, but instead, picked up the major's
personnel file. She flipped through the pages finding in addition to the
normal service records, two letters of commendation from highly
respected senior officers and a recommendation for promotion upon the
completion of her next assignment. But out of all that, one thing caught
and held her attention: this woman worked alone.

"I hope Cathryn knows what she's doing, pairing those two together,"
Anthony murmured to herself as she closed the file and set it aside.
With a soft sigh, she picked a report off of the top of the stack and
began to read.

***

Joint Chiefs of Staff 
The Pentagon 
Office of Admiral Cathryn Corelli
1037 Romeo

 Despite the busy hallway, Hannah made her way toward Corelli's
office with practiced ease. It had been quite a while since she'd last had
the opportunity to see the admiral on her home turf. It felt good to be
back.

Hannah gave her name to the young female lieutenant, who sat at the
desk outside the darkened oak door, which led to the admiral's office,
then stood by one of the windows. It opened onto the Mall and in the
distance, Hannah could see the Washington Monument piercing the
cornflower sky.

"Quite a view, isn't it?" asked a female voice.

Hannah smiled softly as her mind flitted over the familiar thought
patterns that had just entered the room. "It is at that," she murmured,
still facing the window. Opening her mind, she allowed the comforting
ideas to envelope her. Admiral Corelli, a strong woman in personality,
possessed an equally strong spirit. It always took Hannah a moment to
adjust to the reality that such a vibrant thought stream was encased in
such a tiny body. The major, at 5'5", stood a good three inches taller
than the admiral. 

Turning, she raised her right hand in the formal salutation, which
Corelli quickly returned. Hannah's gaze traced over her long-time friend
and now CO. With the exception of a few strategically hidden gray
hairs, the forty year old Corelli hadn't changed since they'd last met.
Her long blonde hair was tucked up into a neat french braid, a slight
change from the no-nonsense bun she normally wore. Hannah glanced
down at the admiral's left hand and noticed there still was no ring in
sight. Of course, had that changed over the past three years, she would
have heard.

Corelli caught the major's furtive glance and arched a sardonic
eyebrow. Hannah nodded with a slight smile as if she had heard the
unspoken admonishment. The admiral turned back to her aide and
ordered, "Hold my calls," before gesturing for the major to follow her.

Hannah gazed at the arrangement of furniture in the spacious office as
she entered. The desk now faced the door, whereas it once faced the
window, which looked out onto the mall. Noticing the major's reaction
to the change, Corelli murmured wryly, "After the last escapade, I
learned to value my life over my view, even on home turf."

Hannah nodded without reply. She had been out of the country on
assignment when she'd learned of the admiral's brush with death. 'It was
only a year ago,' she mused inwardly, quelling the urge to shudder.
Although both her mother and father were still alive, she had always
viewed Corelli as somewhat of a surrogate parent.

It had been years ago when the Admiral, then a commander, had taken
a young recruit under her wing. Ostracized by her peers in the group,
Hannah had been equal parts fiery temper and stubborn resolve. A
lethal combination in the Corps. But Corelli had seen passed that to the
frightened girl underneath and had fought to ease her into the military
way of life. Hannah owed her career to the woman, but more than that,
she owed her her sanity. And a Jamison was taught from birth to never
forget a debt.

Corelli settled herself on the corner of her desk, opposite the flowering
cactus that occupied the other end. She took a quick sip of her Diet
Coke while motioning for Hannah to take a seat. The major's voice
crackled with irony as she murmured, "Hitting the Diet Coke a little
early, aren't we, ma'am?"

The admiral sighed as she set the can aside. "It's been a long day
already." Inwardly, she thought, 'And it's only going to get longer with
what I'm about to tell you.'

Hannah's brow furrowed as she sensed the other woman's darkening
thoughts. "What's going on, Admiral?"

"Damn," Corelli muttered, "I keep forgetting you can do that!"

"How?" Hannah asked with a wry grin. "It saved your six a couple of
times!"

The admiral chuckled agreeably, but instead of pursuing the topic, she
picked up a manila folder that sat in the middle of her desk. Opening it,
she pulled out one of the top pages and glanced at the major, her mirth
having dissolved into stark sobriety. 

Hannah took the paper with equal aplomb and quickly scanned it.
"Another terrorist group," she muttered tonelessly. "Surprise, surprise."

"Ah, but this is one with a twist." Corelli eased off of the corner and
moved behind the desk. Pulling out the chair, she sat and continued,
"According to current intel, the Abdel Jihad has obtained a nuclear
warhead and is offering to sell its end target to the highest bidder."

"And you can bet, that target will most likely be somewhere in the
U.S," Hannah completed.

The admiral nodded and handed the rest of the file to her subordinate.
"Your job is to get in, get the nuke, and get out."

"What about the Jihad?" Hannah asked, her brow furrowed.

Corelli shook her head. "Don't worry about clean up this time. I've got
another group that will work on that."

"So..." Hannah trailed off as she flipped through a series of pages. "I'm
to go in as a prospective buyer."

Pursing her lips, the admiral replied, "Not quite. This group has little to
no respect for women. They won't deal with you. So, on this op, you're
going to have a partner."

Jamison's head shot up and she pierced the admiral with a fierce gaze.
"I'm going to have a what? Admiral, you know I work alone or not at
all."

"Not in this case," Corelli contradicted with a raised hand to forestall
any argument. "You need someone who they'll take seriously. Using
your connections in the area, he'll be better able to get you two in and
out with as little fuss as possible."

"'He?'" she asked with raised eyebrows.

The admiral nodded and handed the major another file. This one
marked with a personnel number and a 'classified' stamp. "Clayton
Webb, CIA."

"A spook?" Hannah bit out incredulously. "A damn spook? Admiral..."

"Major, this is <not> optional. If you want the op, you get the partner,"
Corelli reminded her tone and body language speaking so loud that
Hannah didn't have to filch the feelings out of her mind. 

The major forced a harsh breath from her lips as she stared off into a
corner. 

'Come on, Hannah,' the admiral urged inwardly, 'don't let your pride
win out over your common sense.' She could always order her to take
the assignment, but Corelli had learned early on, that one got better
results by cajoling the younger officer into doing something rather than
by issuing a direct order. Hoping to sweeten the bitter pill, even as she
relied on Jamison's current distraction to sneak past her Sense, Corelli
murmured, "You know, you're up for Lieutenant Colonel...something
like this could do wonders for your chances..." She allowed her voice
to trail off and mentally crossed her fingers against the lie. Jamison was
already a shoe-in for promotion. But <she> didn't have to know that.

At length, the major grudgingly muttered, "Alright, dammit, have it
your way. I'll do it."

'That's my girl!' the admiral thought, taking the utmost care to suppress
her smile of triumph. Folding her hands, she replied nonchalantly,
"Good, because you're scheduled to meet him in thirty minutes."

Hannah flicked her eyes toward the ceiling and said sourly, "And no
doubt he's already been apprised of the mission."

"No doubt," Corelli answered, unable to keep her smile in check any
longer.

Heaving a put-upon sigh, Jamison settled back into the chair and
scoured the agent's file.

***

The State Department 
Office of the Special Assistant to the Undersecretary 
1127 Romeo

A loud thump reverberated from behind the door to the office of the
newest member of the State Department's staff, followed quickly by a
muffled expletive. A few passers-by glanced at the noise, but soon
continued on, their curiosity overwhelmed by whatever important
matter of state had them there. 

Clayton Webb, scowl etched deeply into his features, leaned against the
file cabinet, which was stubbornly refusing to leave it's current position.
"Dammit!" he cursed soundly. "Why the <hell> am <I> moving this
stuff?" 

Even as he asked the rhetorical question, he already knew the answer.
With the recent election results, many of the Republican-appointed
officials had already begun the lengthy process of disposing sensitive
documents. The maintenance crew, which normally coordinated all
moves within the building, was currently occupied with the task of
transporting the shredded remains out of the various offices. Thus,
leaving Webb to handle his own office set-up. 

After a few more minutes of pushing, the file cabinet was finally
relocated from its former placement at the front of the room to the
back behind his desk. Clay plopped down onto the floor to pull the
corner of the area rug out from under it. He shook his head as the
fabric refused to budge, then, muttering yet another in what was fast
becoming a string of expletives, moved to a crouched position in the
hopes of better leverage. 

Grabbing the corner once again, he gave it a fierce tug, which not only
loosened the rug, but also sent him flying back against his desk. He
caught the edge with his forehead and winced as the shock of pain
seared through him. Thankful his suit jacket and vest were carefully
hanging from a coat hanger on the back of his door, he pulled at his tie
and loosened its stranglehold on his neck. 

Clay fought the overwhelming urge to curl up into a little ball like he'd
done as a child whenever something had not gone according to plan.
The only thing that kept him from acting on the impulse was the
chastising tone of the stately Porter Webb, which echoed in his head.
"Clayton Webb! That behavior is unacceptable from someone in your
position!" He heaved a frustrated sigh and proceeded to adjust his body
so that he could stand.

A knock resounded unexpectedly on his door and, surprised, Webb
rammed his head into the center desk drawer. "Dammit to hell!" he
yelled as he gripped the back of his skull trying to smother the pain.
"Yes! What do you want!"

The door opened just as he'd gotten to his knees. From his position of
peeking over the desktop, he could easily see the new arrival, but
realized she couldn't see him. He stood slowly never taking his eyes off
of the woman dressed in Marine greens. 

She turned toward him, finally seeing that the room was occupied, and,
as her piercing hazel gaze lasered in on him, all words of greeting died
on his lips. Her thick ash blonde hair was wound into a tight braid,
revealing high, unblushed cheekbones and a gently sloped nose. But
most incredible were her eyes. Clay caught the intelligent wariness that
darted in the green-brown depths. He blinked a couple of times and
licked his lips, trying to force some sort of statement from his suddenly
dry mouth.

It turned out he didn't have to. "I'm looking for Clayton Webb, CIA?"
she asked, her eyebrows lifting sardonically as she took in his
dishevelment. This couldn't possibly be the special assistant. And yet,
the brand spanking new nameplate on the door had told her that she
hadn't picked the wrong office. This man wasn't the hardened agent
she'd expected when she'd read his personnel file. True, he had just
transferred from the NSA, but this man was too young. And too good
looking. Her eyes trailed over his flushed features, no doubt from the
strenuous moving. A lock of hair had settled over his forehead, hiding
one of his dark eyes from view. The file had said they were green, but
from this angle, Hannah could swear they were black. Coal black in
fact. 

Noticing that he was still recovering from her unannounced arrival, she
seized the opportunity and opened her mind. Hannah could feel the
surprise and irritation radiating off of him, but when she tried to sift
through the obvious to the surface thoughts and feelings underneath,
her Sense slammed into a brick wall. Blinking from surprise and the
slight mental pain, she tried once more, this time from a different angle.
Again, she was stumped. Her mother had told her that some people
possessed a dense natural shield that couldn't be penetrated without the
subject's consent, but at the time she hadn't believed her. As Hannah
mentally soothed the invisible bruise, she finally admitted that maybe
her mother had known what she was talking about after all.

It took a moment or two, but when her words finally made their way
through the attraction-induced fog and registered in his brain, Webb's
confused features turned downward into a new scowl. "I'm Webb, but
I'm not with the CIA. I'm the Special..."

"...Assistant to the Undersecretary," Hannah chorused with him,
dampening her irritation at the aborted scan attempt in favor of
bemusement over his obvious lie. "Right and the Pope isn't Catholic."

Clay walked from behind the desk until he stood directly in front of the
shorter woman. "Do you have a reason for being here?" he asked
allowing his displeasure over her rebuttal to filter into his tone.

'OK,' she thought ruefully. 'Maybe sarcasm wasn't the best way to break
the ice.' Trying to be nice, even though he was making the effort
difficult, she extended her hand. "Major Hannah Jamison," she replied.
Seeing his incomprehension, she continued, "We've been assigned to
work together on the Jihad op?" 

Webb ignored her hand and shook his head as he walked passed her.
"No, there's got to be a mistake. I work alone." Opening the door, he
made a sweeping gesture and remarked, "Now, if you don't mind, I
have an office to put together before I get to work."

His prior attraction was rapidly disintegrating into mild dislike. So she
was knockout. She would obviously be annoying as hell. The last thing
he needed on his first op as a CIA agent was someone second-guessing
his actions. And Major Hannah Jamison looked to be just the person to
do so.

'What the hell?' she fumed to herself. '<He> doesn't want to work with
<me>? He has to know who I am!' It was one thing for her to want to
work the op alone, but quite another for him to blithely turn down her
experience and want to do the same. "As a matter of fact, I <do>
mind," Jamison countered, suddenly irritated by his arrogant disregard.
"I like working with partners even less than you do, but for some
reason, someone higher up in the chain of command than <you> has
decided that <we> have to work together."

Webb heaved a forceful sigh, the sudden exhale blowing his longish hair
out of his eyes, and for the first time, Hannah got a good look at them.
They <were> green, but not the bright green of a shiny emerald, more
like the color of moss found on the forest floor. For a moment, she felt
herself inexplicably pulled into their murky depths. A flame lit
somewhere in the dark pools, only to be quickly smothered in the next
second.

The agent-strike that, special assistant-turned from the door and
brushed past her to reached for the phone. Without looking at her, he
dialed a series of numbers and proceeded to make his case with
whoever was on the other end of the line. In a few short minutes, his
argument was silenced and Hannah could hear the enraged masculine
tone as it obviously negated everything Webb had just said. With a
mumbled, "Yes, sir," he hung up and pursed his lips. "Well, Major
Jamison," he remarked sourly, ignoring the triumphant gleam that
flickered in her eyes, "it seems as though we're now...partners."

*** 

The State Department 
Office of the Special Assistant to the Undersecretary 
1526 Romeo

After taking lunch separately, each needing time to fully digest that they
were officially partners, Webb and Jamison sat around the small
conference table in his office with various files spread out across the
surface between them. Sunlight streamed through the curtained
window, effectively dispelling the need for overhead lights. They had
been silent for a good portion of the meeting, each trying to absorb
every detail and mentally construct possible scenarios. 

At length, Hannah stood and began pacing the room, tapping a pen
against her khaki covered leg. Clay couldn't help but watch as she made
a graceful turn on her heel and walked back. Although he normally
found the green of a Marine uniform to be unflattering, Hannah actually
glowed. The color perfectly accented her hazel eyes, turning them
greener than he would bet they actually were. 

She halted midstride and Clay jerked himself out of his study of her.
'What the hell is happening to me?' he thought as he shook his head.
'She's the last person on earth who I could possibly fall for!'

It was true. In fact of the last four women he'd dated off and on, none
of them had been in the military, to say nothing of black ops. They had
all been members of Washington society. Each a perfect candidate for a
wife of a man in his position and of his stature. But maybe that was
why they hadn't lasted. Maybe they were too perfect. Too bland. 

His mother, the dignified Porter Webb, though elegant and refined, was
also a code- cracker. These women were professional shoppers. 

He dragged his eyes away from the major's profile to study the files
again. The Abdel Jihad was a grass roots group, much like some of its
more infamous counterparts. And true to form, it had its backbone
firmly rooted in religion. Clay stifled a shudder as he thought
caustically, 'Religion. It turns people's brains to mush.'

The big question that continued to bother him was how they had gotten
their hands on a warhead to begin with. As a small group, they more
than likely wouldn't have the capital to buy one of from the Russians
and stealing would be even less likely. Langley would have known from
the outset if a nuke had been stolen. Clay wrinkled his brow with
discontent. 

"What?" Hannah asked from across the room. Apparently she had
repeated her trek and now was able to get a full view of Webb's every
reaction. 

Clay shook his head. "Something's not right here. Where did they get
warhead?"

Shrugging, the major answered, "I dunno. Russia, maybe China. It
doesn't matter, Webb. Our job is to get it back, not to find out how
they got it in the first place. Corelli told me she was sending in another
group to do clean-up so that more than likely means they'll be asking
your questions for you." She began pacing again and tugged her lower
lip into her teeth, her mind turning over possible ops. 

"Will you <stop> that?" Webb asked, his tone scathing. 

Hannah looked at him, confused by his request. "Stop what?"

He pushed back his chair and walked toward the window. "The pacing.
You're driving me nuts."

She glanced around the room, her eyes tracing the path she had been
walking. "Oh. I think better when I'm moving around."

"Well, since you think so well, I'm sure you've come up with a way to
get us in there," he retorted, keeping his back to her. 

Hannah sighed forcefully, unwilling to get into a full-blown argument,
but knowing that if she didn't stand her ground now, he would walk all
over her in the field. "Look, I know working together isn't the
definition of a good time for either of us, and no one said we had to be
bosom buddies. But we have to maintain some semblance of
friendliness. Once we get over there, if they for one minute think we
aren't who we say we are, then we're dead."

Webb nodded tiredly as he continued to stare out the window. After a
moment, he inhaled loudly and turned around. "What do you have in
mind?"

Seeing she had won this battle, the major nodded and moved back
toward the conference table. "OK. About three years ago, I was
working an op in the area. My contacts, to my knowledge, are still
there and are willing to be of service. What I would suggest is that I
find out, through them, who the major players are and you approach
them with the offer." She paused and glanced at Webb, searching for
any signs in his eyes that he wasn't buying her plan. Finding no
dissension, she continued, "Corelli already told me that they won't deal
with me outright. But what I'm thinking is, if you act as my liaison and
broker the deal, they'll never know."

Clay pursed his lips, mulling over her words. Nodding, he replied,
"Sounds good. We need to put this in play soon before the Jihad gets a
buyer."

"We'll need to be on site. My contacts won't be willing to talk on an
international call."

"What about reinforcements? Don't you need time to get them
organized?" he asked, shuffling the papers into a neat stack and filing
them away.

Hannah shook her head and picked up one of the files to hand to him.
"No, I can scramble the team I usually work with from there. All we
need now is an airplane. I can be ready to fly in thirty minutes."

Clay couldn't help but raise his eyebrows in surprise. He didn't know
anyone, man or woman, who could be ready for a trip like this, and all
of the possibilities it entailed, in thirty minutes. Hannah, seeing his
expression, quirked her lips just a bit. "I'm a Marine, Webb. We're the
first to go."

 ***

State Department parking lot 
1758 Romeo

Hannah pulled a black duffel bag out of the back of her Land Rover
and looked toward the horizon. "Damn," she muttered. The bright
morning was fast clouding over with the dark billows of an oncoming
storm. A slight rumble in the distance reinforced her conjecture and she
stifled the shudder of fear that lurked in the darkest regions of her
brain. 

Maybe she would luck out and it wouldn't happen this time. As she
glanced at a random pedestrian and opened her mind, she realized with
resignation that it was already happening. Her range was decreasing,
which meant that, within a half hour, her Sense would be blocked
entirely. 

Shaking her head, she leaned against the SUV's rear bumper and
readied herself for what was to come. She opened her eyes a moment
later when she heard the muffled approach of an engine. Webb sat in a
sedate federal car, and with a bemused smile, she opened the passenger
door and climbed in.

"You're CIA, Webb," Hannah said, tossing her bag into the back seat.
"The car is just another nail in your coffin. It shrieks 'federal agent!'"

"So, what?" he bit back. "You think I need a bumper sticker that says
my other car is a Mercedes?"

Eyebrow raised, she asked, "Is it?"

Webb glared at her before nodding and pulling out into the oncoming
traffic. 

"Well, I'm impressed. They must be paying agents better these days."
Hannah leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes. Another
rumble, this time closer, was quickly followed by the sound of fat
raindrops hitting the windshield. She opened her mind once more and
this time focused on Webb. She knew she wouldn't get a reading off of
him, but at least she could use her prior attempt as a gauge. 

Webb muttered something unintelligible under his breath and Hannah,
unable to hold her tongue, retorted, "If you've got something to say,
say it. I hate grumbling."

Pursing his lips, Clay flicked the windshield wipers on and was silent.
The heaviness of the air filtered its way into the car and mixed with the
sudden tension between them. "Dammit, Webb! What?" she practically
yelled. 

He glanced quickly at her and noticed the deep furrow in her brow as
well as her tightly clenched jaw. After a beat or two, he murmured, "I
was just wondering what happened. I thought we'd declared a truce in
my office and now we're back to biting each other's heads off."

Hannah grimaced slightly and nodded. "Yeah, sorry 'bout that. Blame it
on the storm."

A bolt of lightning split the sky in front of them and she visibly jumped. 

Clay took his eyes off the road again and with a soothing tone, asked,
"You don't like storms?"

She shook her head. "Ever since I was a child I've hated them.
Lightning mainly." Realizing that that alone would not explain away her
behavior, she fudged a little. "They always give me migraines." It
actually wasn't too far from the truth, now that she thought about it. 

Whenever a storm would hit, the electricity would somehow block her
Sense, almost like it was jamming another frequency. Even as a child,
when it wasn't fully developed, it would shut down. But it wasn't just
the loss that had terrified her. It was the sharp stab of pain that came at
the last second before she was completely cut off. The feeling was
much like losing an arm. 

"Do you have anything to take for it?" he asked, concern filtering into
words. 

The corners of her lips turned up slightly as Hannah began to
methodically rub her temples. "It'll pass." She inhaled sharply and
Webb, realizing it was in pain, reached over and placed a comforting
hand on the back of her neck. 

Hannah sighed softly at the contact and a bolt of pleasure shot up his
arm. She swallowed a moment later and leaned back into his hand,
relishing in the heat that seared her. Miraculously, the pain eased until it
disappeared altogether, the whole process taking seconds instead of the
usual 15 minutes. When she was sure the pain was gone, Hannah
looked over at Clay. He glanced at her and thanks was given and
accepted without a word. 

***

Dulles International Airport 
Dulee's Gift Shop 
1918 Romeo

Hannah meandered around the small shop, stopping every once in a
while to pick up a souvenir only to put it back a moment later. She
finally ended up at the magazine rack and picked up the latest edition of
Time. As she flipped through the pages, she felt Clay's presence close
by. Sure enough, a few minutes later, he nonchalantly picked up
another magazine and began to leaf through it.

Keeping his voice low so as not to draw attention to them, he stated,
"Your ticket's at the desk of Boarding Gate D. I booked us in separate
areas so no one would think we're traveling together."

Bending down, she picked up her duffel and set the magazine back in
the rack. Hannah nodded absently and tightened her grip on the bag.
"Good, then I'll see you Cairo. We can meet up at the hotel." Since the
storm had ended a half hour ago, she opened her mind and chanced a
quick scan of Clay and the people around them. Out of the corner of his
eye, he caught the small smile that flitted over her lips. 

Satisfaction gleamed in his eyes as he murmured, "Headache gone?" 

"Yeah," she answered softly as she turned toward the next rack.
Without another word, they separated each, intent on maintaining their
anonymity.

***

Delta Flight 1013 
En route to Cairo, Egypt 
1959 Romeo

The cabin of the 747 was relatively quiet, most of the passengers, after
boarding, having settled into their seats, readying themselves for the
long flight. Pam Trent, a three-year employee of the airline, watched
with almost maternal pride as the other stewardesses weaved their ways
through the aisles insuring that pillows and blankets were adequately
distributed. Normally, she was quite content to oversee her charges, but
as she continued to peruse the cabin, she noticed a particularly nervous
looking woman. Hoping to ease her distress over what was certainly
her first overseas flight, Pam moved toward the first class seat. 

"Do you need anything, miss?" she asked in a soothing tone. 

The young Hispanic woman smiled nervously and shook her head. "I'm
just a little keyed up," she replied with a slight, but endearing, accent.

Pam gave her a warm smile and patted her arm. "Don't worry, the
captain's been flying these trips for about two years now. You couldn't
be in safer hands."

Nodding, the passenger twisted her hands in her lap and offered Pam a
weak smile in return. The uniformed woman glanced up to gauge the
work of the other attendants, and, seeing that one was having a bit of
trouble with a male passenger, squeezed the young woman's arm once
more for reassurance then continued on to the back of the cabin.

As soon as the stewardess left, Hannah leaned back in her seat, trying
to hide her smile of satisfaction. Alternate personalities had always been
one of her favorite job requirements and, over the past few years, she'd
constructed 10 different characters. Of them all, though, her best was
the nervous Hispanic woman. Almost child- like in her reaction to her
surroundings, this character inspired others' protective instincts, a side
effect which had worked to Hannah's advantage many times. 

She hadn't seen Webb board the plane, but she knew he was there
nonetheless. It continually amazed Hannah that she could pick up a
recent acquaintance's mental signature in a crowd of any size. But for
some reason, with the CIA agent-she refused to think of him as the
Special Undersecretary-her awareness was stronger than usual. 

['Maybe it's because you're attracted to him,' stated the irritating inner
voice that always told her something she <didn't> want to hear.]

'More likely, it's because he intrigues me,' she thought.

['And that isn't attr...?']

'No!' she retorted, firmly vowing not to let her conscious taunt her into
doing something she would later regret. 'He intrigues me because I
can't read him. It's like he's got this brick wall built around him and
there is no way to get in.' 

With a sigh of resignation, she pushed the mildly disturbing thoughts
toward the nether regions of her brain to be stewed over at another
time. Her awareness of Webb was something best not thought on while
preparing to go into an op. She needed to be focused wholly on the
task at hand. 

The distinct whine of the engines readying themselves for take-off filled
the air. Soon the rumbling noise of wheels on pavement joined the
whine and a few moments later a slightly breath-taking jolt signaled
they were in the air. Hannah made a point of paying close attention to
any words spoken by the airline staff, knowing that the young Hispanic
woman would do so. She'd always loved flying; the tinge of danger and
excitement that lurked around every landing and take-off. The food she
could do without, but the deed itself continued to thrill her.

Once they reached the cruising altitude, she settled more easily back
into her seat and watched as the stewardesses began to distribute drinks
and snacks. She waved off the offer of a drink with a nervous smile and
the attendant left her alone.

Satisfied that her earlier thoughts about Webb were safely hidden away,
Hannah opened her mind and mentally glided through the cabin playing
a game she reserved for long waits. She would limit herself to one
image from a person at random and then later, once the wait was over,
try and match the thoughts with the person. Over time, she had gotten
fairly good at it, but enough of a challenge remained for her to return to
game time after time. 

Choosing a subject an undetermined few rows back, she sifted lightly
through his thoughts. A woman and a small child. Obviously his family.
Was he going to visit? Or going away? Grasping the next image to
appear, she decided he was on a trip and they had just said their
goodbyes. A slight, fond smile teased her lips as she slid out of his mind
and prowled for another. 

In first class, she was jarred slightly by an intensely erotic pull. Unable
to pass up the opportunity, she eased into the woman's mind and was
shocked to find herself in the middle of an orgy. 'Can the human body
even <bend> that way?' she asked, perplexed by the position that
looked to be out of some bastardized version of the Karma Sutra. With
a slight shudder, Hannah quickly left that woman's mind and was pulled
toward the back of the plane. 

'Webb,' she thought as she felt the first tantalizing touches of
familiarity. This time, wary of the mental toe stubbing that had
occurred when she'd first tried to scan him, she contented herself with
merely soaking up his aura. He was nervous, she realized with a smile.
The waves of energy that radiated off of him cloaked her, allowed her
to see past the agent and into the man. He was distracted as well, by
what, she couldn't tell, but something-or someone-was on his mind. 

Clayton Webb shifted uncomfortably in the small seat. Accustomed to
flying first class, if not on a private jet, this sardine can left quite a bit to
be desired. But it wasn't just that. A bubbling type of unease whispered
through him, leaving the faint aftertaste of something akin to paranoia
in its wake. True, this was his first assignment for the CIA, but it wasn't
all that different from his work at the NSA. Maybe it was the fact that
he had to work with someone this time. 

Someone who was as unpredictable as she was beautiful. At least,
according to her personnel file. Before meeting her at the car for the
drive to the airport, Clay had swung by Admiral Corelli's office intent
on finding out all he could about his new partner. Corelli had merely
smiled and handed him a sheaf of papers mark 'classified.'

Now that he thought about it, there was something about the way she'd
smiled at him, a slight, almost mysterious lift to the corners of her
mouth. Like she knew something that he didn't. It bothered him. No,
more than that, it irritated the hell out of him. Even as a child, Clay had
never liked it when he felt out of the loop. As an adult, he liked the
feeling even less. 

Thankful, he at least had the row of seats to himself, he had tugged the
papers out of his attach? case and settled in to read. Over the years of
working at the NSA, he'd developed a system of skimming for the
important facts, and then returning to the details. Clay glanced through
the stack, his eyes catching on the various past missions and their
conclusions. 

'Well, well,' he thought his eyebrows tilted. 'She wasn't joking when she
said she works alone.' According to the detailed reports, she would
coordinate the people under her, but as for someone who would
question her judgement and decisions in the field, there were only two
instances. And both times with the same person: a Major Charles
Buchanan. 

Webb flipped through the rest of the file, intent on finding out more
about her prior partner, but outside of a cryptic request for
reassignment, signed by both parties, there was nothing. Pursing his
lips, he focused more on the form. It was dated January 20, 1989, three
days after the completion of their second mission. No explanation was
listed other than the destination of choice: The Pentagon. 

Wrinkling his brow with slight, irritation, he read through the remaining
documentation, finally turning to her demographics. Single, 26, worked
her way up from boot camp into intel in a little less than three years.
'Impressive,' Webb thought grudgingly. Achieved the rank of major at
24. 

He flipped to the next page and murmured, "Now this <is> interesting."
Apparently she and Corelli had worked together before. In fact, the
now-admiral had been her CO for a couple of years. Noticing the
stewardess was fast approaching with the drink cart, Clay shoved the
papers back into his bag and leaned back into the seat. He requested a
bottle of water and settled in, ready to sift through all of the
information he'd discovered. 

***

Hotel Al Rahid 
Cairo, Egypt 
1003 Romeo 
(NOTE: Egypt is 7 hours
ahead of EST)

Clay set his bag down with a slight thump and leaned up against the
wall next to room 22. It was already five o'clock in the evening here
and the stifling heat had yet to ease. Taking in a deep breath of the dry
air, he wiped his brow and slid the key into the lock. Just as the door
opened, a young, almost Hispanic-looking woman glanced up at him. 

Surprised, Webb stated, "Oh, the front desk told me the room had
already been cleaned..." His voice trailed off as the woman carefully
removed her black hair and peeled away her face. Looking askance,
and slightly horrified, his jaw dropped.

"Relax, Webb, it's just me," Hannah murmured with a sardonic smile.
Her grin widened as she took in his shocked expression. "You really
didn't think I'd travel as myself, did you?" Seeing that he obviously had,
she continued, "Rule number one in black ops is <never> go by your
real identity. I would've thought they'd taught you that at spy school!"

Clay glowered at her remark as well as the cheerful look she tossed at
him and picked up his suitcase. "So, have you contacted your source,
or are you taking up space in my room for some other reason?"

"Ouch!" she replied, a mirthful glint dancing in her hazel eyes.
"Methinks jet lag doesn't agree with him." Watching as Clay sat down
heavily on the bed, Hannah took pity on him and answered, "I've
located him, yes."

Clay tugged at his tie and asked suspiciously, "Why do I hear a 'but' in
there?"

"Because there is one," she sighed with resignation. "He's six feet under
ground. Apparently, he was killed last week in a car bombing. Some
random Islamic group didn't like the way another group was crossing
the street. Or something. Religion," she muttered distastefully, "blech!
It warps the mind." She turned toward the window and gazed
thoughtfully out at the arid landscape. "His brother has agreed to help,
but only for the right price."

"Have you checked him out?"

Hannah shook her head and replied, "No need. I trusted his brother
implicitly." Catching Webb's disbelieving gaze, she argued, "This guy
has the same character. So maybe he wants money...but he wouldn't
insult his brother's memory by turning on us." Hannah pierced him with
a direct stare, urging him to discount her words.

At length, Clay sighed, a mixture of jet lag and resignation. Unwilling
to go back to square one with her, he acquiesced. "OK, I don't know
much about Egyptian customs, so I'll go with your opinion on this
one."

Stifling her desire to gloat, Hannah nodded. "Once I meet with him and
pay him off, he'll discreetly mention to some of his friends that an
American is interested in purchasing the warhead's destination."

Clay held up a hand and interrupted, "Wait a second. 'You'll' meet with
him?"

Hannah looked at him blankly, "That's what I said."

"I don't think so. If we're going to be forking out a substantial amount
of money for his assistance, I'm going to meet with him too. It's not just
your ass on the line if this thing falls through."

'I <knew> it was too easy,' she inwardly fumed. Taking a deep breath,
she muttered, "It's <not> going to fall through!"

Ignoring her argument, Clay continued, "And second of all, wouldn't it
be a little too convenient that an <American> is interested?"

Hannah walked back to the middle of the room where Clay now stood
with his palms spread wide. A smug smile flitted around the corners of
his lips as he delighted in finally stumping her. "OK, hot shot, what's
your idea?" she asked, jaw clenched with irritation.

"The Irish," he replied nonchalantly as he placed one hand in his pants'
pocket.

Incredulous, she repeated, "The Irish?"

"Specifically, the IRA." Webb brushed past her, his eyes lost in
contemplation as he began to slowly pace around the room.

"But what reason would they have for targeting the U.S.?"

"They wouldn't aim it at us. They'd target London. After all, that's the
root cause of all their past problems and disagreements. And it would
have a helluva impact in terms of leverage even if it didn't go off."

"So, now you're saying you want to further the cause of a radical
offshoot of Irish politics..."

Clay halted mid-stride and stared at her pointedly. "You said it
yourself. Our job is to get the warhead. Nothing more. Someone else
can deal with the fallout." He paused a moment as a thoughtful
expression passed over his face. "You're right, moving around does
help."

Hannah chewed her lip a moment and carefully contemplated his
scenario. After a minute or so, she asked, "Where would they get the
money?"

Webb answered readily as he returned to his pacing with enthusiasm.
"Doesn't matter. They won't ask. They'll just happily take the money
and say, 'Destination, please?'"

The major, still digesting the idea, sank down onto the dresser and
tapped her fingers against the wood. Taking a long, appraising look at
Webb, Hannah silently rose and headed over to the phone. She dialed
and, after a moment, stated tersely, "Plan is in place. Stand by for
instructions to move." Hanging up, she turned back to him. "We'll go
with your scenario. You'd probably better change into something cooler
because we're due to meet with him in thirty minutes." She waited for
Clay to nod, then walked toward the door. "Oh, and try not look like a
CIA agent," she admonished with a soft smile, then left without a
sound. 

***

Outside the Hotel Al Rahid 
Cairo, Egypt 
1033 Romeo

Hannah stood, dressed in the robed garments of the native women, and
waited impatiently for Webb to emerge from the building. "Come on.
Come on." Half a minute later, she watched as a casually dressed man
in a safari hat wended his way through the streets, his attempt to blend
in with the crowd painfully obvious. Once he'd crossed the street
halfway, she called, "There you are!"

Clay scowled and Jamison couldn't help but laugh at his expression.
"Webb, if you were dressed in a burlap sack, you'd <still> look like an
agent!" Her enjoyment was interrupted by the arrival of a little boy.

"Excuse me, ma'am, but my uncle said to take you to his house," the
child murmured in broken English. 

With a nod, Hannah murmured, "Thank you. We will follow you." She
sent Clay a pointed look, silently warning him to play along. 

He caught the warning and, just as wordlessly, agreed.

The little boy scurried ahead of them, darting between buildings and
finally ending up on the market street. The pair hurried after him,
desperate not to lose sight of the human roadrunner. One minute later,
he paused and glanced back over his shoulder. Seeing they were still
following him, he gestured slightly to a well-used building, then darted
away, narrowly missing two oncoming cars. 

"Lucky kid," Clay muttered as Hannah steered him toward the small
building. They entered the room and felt to a certain extent as if they'd
stepped back in time. Brightly colored native hanging decorated the
wooden walls. The room was empty save for a small, well-worn man
and a heavily robed figure Hannah would bet was his wife. 

At the jerk of his head, the figure disappeared, further cementing her
estimation. He approached them cautiously and indicated they should
sit on a grouping of large over- stuffed pillows.

After they had each chosen a pillow, the Egyptian began in a wary tone,
"Mahian, you neglected to tell me that you would be bringing a guest.
This was not the way you dealt with my brother. Why do you now
show me this disrespect? Is my word not trustworthy?"

Hannah lifted a placating hand and answered, "I mean no disrespect to
you and the memory of your brother. He is here as my liaison. Since he
will be the one who will actually meet with the Jihad, he wanted to
meet you as well."

The man seemed to ponder this, and Hannah mentally calculated how
close they were to the nearest exit should he take further offense and
force them to defend themselves. At length, his mouth widened to a
huge smile and Hannah let out a silent sigh of relief. She glanced at
Webb out of the corner of her eye and found that he, too, had been just
as worried.

The source murmured, "I take no offense. It is sound reasoning and
worthy of the woman my brother respected." He leaned forward and
steepled his fingers in front of him. "Unfortunately, there is one
difference between my brother and me. I have a family to provide for,
therefore, I require monetary compensation in addition to the
satisfaction of...how do you say it? A job well done?"

Hannah nodded and withdrew a fat envelope from underneath the many
folds of her gown. "As previously discussed." As he reached for the
money, she held up a warning hand. "However, we, too, must have
some guarantees, which is why only half of the money is here." She
paused in an effort to reinforce her point. "Once my partner meets with
the Jihad leaders, you will receive the other half."

In the ensuing silence, Hannah opened her mind and focused in on the
little man. Greed warred with doubt, but she could already tell which
would be the victor. After a moment, he nodded and she loosened her
grip on the envelope. 

She and Webb watched as he thumbed through the thick bills and,
having determined the proper amount was given, he looked up at them
expectantly. "What is it that you wish me to do?"

Hannah glanced at Clay who silently urged her to continue. He'd laid
the groundwork for the cover, now it was up to her to do what she did
best. Giving him an imperceptible nod, she began, "My partner is
Michael O'Leary. You are to mention to the right people that he is a
member of the IRA and is interested in purchasing the destination of
the Jihad's warhead. His group plans to target London in an effort to
end the political problems between them and the British government. 

"Michael wants to meet with the Jihad leadership so he may obtain the
price and discuss it with his group." Throughout her directions, the
older man's gaze shifted between the two Americans, trying to gauge
what the man's role was in the whole operation. He wasn't na?ve
enough to believe the story the woman who called herself Mahian had
concocted, but neither was he foolish enough to discount the man's
level of involvement. The way they looked at each other, their silent
communication spoke volumes as to their relationship. 

Once she'd finished outlining the plan, he nodded. "It may take some
time to contact the right people, but I think you will be pleased with the
results." He rose, indicating the meeting was now over, and Hannah
and Clay quickly followed suit. 

"Thank you for your aid," the major murmured subserviently, then
turned and walked out of the room. 

Once they were a safe distance away from the building, Webb asked,
"So what do we do now? Sit around and twiddle our thumbs?"

"That would be the safest thing to do," Hannah replied with a nod. "If
we're seen together by too many people, then it could get back to the
Jihad, which might lead to some uncomfortable questions during your
meeting with them." They crossed the street when a break appeared in
the oncoming traffic. 

"So, I repeat, 'what do we do now?'" he asked as his took off his hat
and wiped away the beads of sweat that had gathered.

"Well...." Hannah glanced at him with an appraising look. "You could
be my sparring partner and help me with my Karate." Seeing his cynical
'I don't think so' expression, she laughed engagingly. "No, somehow I
didn't think so. How are you at chess?"

Webb's face changed dramatically. Gone was the derision of before and
in its place was keen interest. "I can hold my own," he replied, his tone
issuing a challenge.

"Good!" she replied with a nod. "We'll stop at the market and pick up
some food, then we'll see just how good you are!"

***

Hotel Al Rahid 
Cairo, Egypt 
1510 Romeo

Clay and Hannah sat across from each other at the small table in his
room. Of the pieces on the chessboard that separated them, Webb
retained only his Queen's Rook, King and two Pawns. Hannah, on the
other hand, still had her Queen, her King's Bishop and Rook, and three
Pawns and was fast closing in on her second Check of the evening. 

Webb rubbed his jaw, silently contemplating his next move. She smiled
softly almost as if she could feel the net tightening around him. It was
only a matter of time. Glancing toward the phone, Hannah mentally
willed it to ring. Despite her nonchalant manner about the whole
operation, she was actually nervous. Never having dealt with this
particular source-regardless of whose brother he was-still raised her
levels of uncertainty. 

She rose, intent on grabbing another pear from the basket of fruit they'd
purchased from a street vendor, when Clay finally moved. Having
picked one, she ambled back to the table, taking a huge bite of the
sweet pulp. Her eyebrows rose in surprise. She was sure he hadn't seen
that opening. 'So much for the easy second Check,' she thought with an
inward smile. 

Webb glanced up at her, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Thought you
had me, didn't you?" he taunted as he leaned back into the chair. 

Hannah's lips quirked as she scanned the board. Just as she was about
to move her Queen, the phone rang. Her eyes met Clay's and a
wordless conversation passed between them.

[It's him, she said.]

[What if he couldn't get the meeting? he asked.]

[Don't worry. He got the meeting.]

[Are you going to get the phone?]

Hannah dropped her pear on the table and reached for the phone. He
stood and stepped behind her, easing the phone away from her ear so
that he could listen in on the conversation. Unfortunately, for him, the
only words that filtered through the receiver were in rapid-fire Arabic.
He leaned away and watched as Hannah nodded and replied something
in Arabic. After another minute of conversation, she hung up and
turned toward him. 

"Well?" he asked expectantly, his eyebrows lifting in question.

"Tonight. They'll send a car for you. You'll be blindfolded..."

"What? Why?"

"Just a precaution," she placated, placing a light hand on his arm. "They
don't want you to be able to lead anyone else to them."

Webb glanced down at her hand then back to her eyes. The warm light
that flickered in the hazel depths leapt and he inhaled sharply. Hannah
watched, mesmerized as his eyes darkened to a smoky almost-gray
color. She licked her suddenly dry lips and dropped her gaze to his
mouth. She could feel his fruit-sweetened breath as it drifted over her
cheek and leaned toward him, as if they were two magnets intrinsically
drawn together. 

Clay raised the arm that wasn't trapped by her heated palm and brushed
his fingers along her cheek. Her eyes locked onto his and a jolt of
electricity buzzed through his fingers and up his arm, sending his senses
into overload. Sinking his fingers down to the nape of her neck, he
pulled her to him and lowered his mouth to hers. 

The first brush felt like butterfly wings, but as he slid his tongue along
the seam of her lips, the wings turned into a honeyed hurricane.
Slipping her hand up his arm, she clung to his shoulder, desperate for
something solid in the storm of feelings that raged through her. Webb
lifted his other hand to her cheek and tilted her face slightly granting
him better access to the heated recesses of her mouth. 

A loud crash broke them apart instantly and both looked back toward
the table. The pear she had set down earlier had finally rolled toward
the table's edge and tilted the board off-balance. Chess pieces now lay
scattered across the floor, the Black Queen slowly rolling her way
toward Hannah's foot. 

Suddenly shy, she bit her lip and gazed at the piece. "Guess the game's
over," she murmured shakily. 

Clay lightly gripped her chin, forcing her to look at him. His heated
gaze burned into hers and, taking in her flushed cheeks, he breathed,
"No, I think it's <far> from over."

***

Undisclosed location 
Unknown time

Webb sat in a blindfold-created darkness in the back of an open Jeep,
obviously military by its design. Over the noisy combination of wind
and engine, he could barely discern the spatter of Arabic that dotted the
mostly silent trip. Unable to judge how much time or miles had passed,
Clay heaved an inward sigh of relief when the vehicle finally stopped.

After another spate of what to him seemed to be gibberish, he felt
clumsy hands untie the rag around his eyes. The sun had set some time
ago, but he still squinted against the change in light. The hot, dry air of
the day had been replaced by a cool breeze, which contained a hint of
the biting chill that would come when the moon rose. His vision having
adjusted, he was directed toward a small building that stood amid the
expanse of the desert. The only sign of the 20th century's existence was
another jeep parked along the opposite wall. 

Clay walked toward the wooden door, now held open by one of the
Jihad members, and hoped like hell he could still remember the cadence
of his Irish uncle's voice. He mouthed a couple of words, hearing the
slight lilt in his head. Satisfied he would fool them for a while, he
stepped into the open door. 

The room seemed to absorb what little light filtered through the blinded
windows. Clay heard the other occupants before he actually saw them:
the slight scrape of a chair on the floor, the muffled clasp of hand on
gun. 

A shadowy figure approached him, his step heavy with authority. A
low, accented voice broke through the stillness. "So, you wish to
purchase the Abdel Jihad's warhead?"

Webb nodded and, affecting an air of indifference that he in no way felt,
replied, "Depends on the price."

"Ah, yes!" cried the voice, ironic mirth skirting the edges of his tone.
"That is always the sticking point." The man walked away then turned
back quickly. "Where are my manners? You should sit so this will be a
proper negotiation."

Clay's eyes, having fully adjusted to the darkened room, traced the faint
outline of a table and grouping of chairs. Selecting the one closest to
him that still allowed him to keep his back to the door, he sat.

"You are with the Irish Republican Army, no?" the man asked, taking
the seat opposite Clay.

The American nodded, "Aye. I'm what you might call a go between."

The Arab loosened his grip on his assault rifle and leaned forward.
"Then you are not the final buyer?"

'Shit!' Webb thought caustically. 'Way to tip your hand, Webb!' Hannah
would have his hide if <he> was the one to blow their cover. He leaned
forward, matching the other man's posture. "We all have our keepers,"
he murmured with an engaging smile.

The other man laughed and slapped the table. "That we do!" He
sobered a bit, then continued pointedly, "However, mine walks in the
clouds, while yours walks by your side in the streets of Cairo. And
moreover is a woman." Dark eyes pierced Webb, searching for a
reaction. "Do not think we haven't been watching you. The moment a
potential buyer is brought to our attention, we watch them." He leaned
back and spread his arms magnanimously. "These are dangerous times.
We wouldn't want to trust the wrong people. Would we?"

Clay nodded and willed his tense body to relax. 'Play along. You've got
to find out exactly how much they know,' he told himself. "I understand
your need for safety. The woman, yes. She is my keeper you might say.
She holds the money."

Giving him an appraising look, the Arab mused, "You trust a woman
with power. Interesting. I don't know if that makes you incredibly
cunning or incredibly stupid. I would hope for the former. But in my
experience, it has been the latter that is more often right." He pushed
the chair back and rose. "We must meet with her before we decide to
sell you the weapon."

Clay tamped down on his instinctive objections knowing that he had to
follow the group's directions if they were to even get close to the
warhead. With a nod, he rose as well.

"You will return to the city and contact the woman. The men who
brought you here tonight will wait for you and then lead you to the
meeting place." He waited a moment, wanting to ensure that the man
understood all of his directions. "You will have to make your own
arrangements for transportation. My men have undergone a vow of
celibacy and any contact with women is strictly forbidden." 

Webb wrinkled his brow thoughtfully, but otherwise only nodded at the
Arab's words. Realizing the conversation was finished, Clay turned and
followed his guides back out to the jeep.

***

Hotel Al Rahid 
Cairo, Egypt 
1804 Romeo

"They want to meet you," Webb stated tersely as soon as he'd entered
his room and found the major seated at the table. 

Hannah's eyebrows shot up with surprise. "Do <what>?"

He nodded tiredly and muttered, "Come on. They're waiting outside to
lead us to the other meeting place."

"What the hell happened, Webb?" she yelled, peering out the window
to check for the men.

"Look, I didn't tell them anything they didn't already know!" he yelled
back as he pulled her away from the window. "They must've seen us in
the market this afternoon. That's all I can come up with."

"Unless they saw us meeting the source," she murmured with a
foreboding tone.

Clay shook his head. "Either way, Hannah, it doesn't matter. We've got
to get going." Turning away from her, he walked to the door, expecting
her to follow. She stood rooted to her spot and stared as if she didn't
recognize him.

When he realized she hadn't joined him, he glanced over his shoulder.
Clay watched her expression with a confused look of his own. "What?" 

She shook her head and whispered, "Never mind," then met him by the
door.

"What?" he repeated as he raised a hand to grip her shoulder. 

With a thoughtful smile, she answered, "That was the first time you
called me 'Hannah.'"

"Oh," he murmured, taken aback by her statement. "Is that OK? Do
you mind?"

She shook her head slightly and said almost under her breath, "No, I
don't mind," then skirted around him and out the door.

***

The Arabian Desert 
1848 Romeo

The full moon blazed brightly through the desert night, making the
headlights almost unnecessary. Clay drove with one hand on the
steering wheel, trying his best to disguise his overwhelming
nervousness and dissatisfaction with the way the situation had
developed. His easy posture behind the wheel would have fooled even
the most astute observer had the fingers of his right hand not drummed
anxiously on his thigh.

Unable to tolerate the muted staccato any longer, Hannah reached over
and gripped his hand, stilling his fingers. Clay looked over at her,
startled by the gesture, and smiled sheepishly. 

"This wasn't totally unexpected," she murmured, breaking the silence
which had lasted since they'd first climbed into the older station wagon.

He didn't reply, instead choosing to keep his eyes on the red taillights
that guided them along the dusty road. She moved her gaze toward one
of the many sand dunes that haunted their drive and continued. "In fact,
I should have expected that something like this would happen. I should
have read them better." Leaning her head back against the worn-out
seat, she closed her eyes.

Clay glanced over at her and thought, 'She <should> get some rest.
Who knows how long we still have before we get there?' After a
moment, her hand gripped his hard, the intensity almost bringing tears
to his eyes. "Hannah? What's wrong?" Pulling his hand from her grasp,
he watched as she opened her eyes and pointed toward the road in front
of them.

All of a sudden, the jeep slammed on its brakes and Clay swerved deftly
to avoid colliding into them. "What the hell?" he cried as he forced the
wagon to turn against the sand's pull. A moment later, they came to a
stop at the edge of one of the dunes.

He glanced around, searching for the men and the jeep while Hannah
scrambled in to undo her seatbelt. "What the hell is going on?" Webb
cried frantically. "Why did they stop?"

"Because of that," Hannah returned simply as she pointed to the
horizon.

The bright moon barely lit the now obscured horizon. "What <is>
that?" he asked, leaning toward the windshield in hopes of a better
view. 

"It's what the natives call a naboob," she replied as she turned and
grabbed her duffel out of the back seat. "Or in other words, a sand
storm." Unzipping the bag, she pulled out two blankets and tossed one
to Webb.

Seeing his blank look, she muttered, "I actually brought these in case
the heater went out. The desert gets extremely cold at night." She
unfolded her blanket and indicated he should do the same. "Stick it
along your door. We need to cover all the places where the sand might
blow in."

Shock soon slipped over his face. "Do you mean we're just going to sit
here in this thing?"

Hannah chuckled softly. "Well, we can't very well outrun it, and with
the car for shelter, we should be relatively safe. It'll blow over in an
hour or so, then we can dig out and be on our way."

Throughout her calm explanation, Webb sat dumbly and Hannah
heaved a sigh of frustration. Jerking the blanket out of his hands, she
proceeded to unfold it. Realizing she was indeed telling the truth, Clay
muttered something under his breath and pulled the soft fabric out of
her hands. He tucked it around the door, sealing it off as best he could,
then turned back to her expectantly. "Now what?"

Hannah rolled her eyes as she shifted in her seat. "Geez! You sound
like a five year old! Am I your designated entertainer or something?"

He shot her a dark look and she sighed again. "We wait. That's all we
can do. That's all <they're> going to do," she insisted, nodding toward
the other vehicle. 

They fell silent and Clay thought back to her words from earlier. After
turning them over in his head, he asked, "What did you mean when you
said you should have 'read' them better?"

Hannah glanced away from him quickly, forcing her eyes to the fast
approaching wall of sand. "I think the storm will be here soon."

"And you're avoiding the question," he remarked.

She pursed her lips, silently contemplating the storm. "I have a knack
for reading people," she explained after a few minutes. 

Clay shook his head as he gazed at her profile. "No, it's more than that.
You <knew> the source would take the money even though he was
offended. Just as you also knew where I was in the airport's gift shop
before I even spoke to you..." 

He was about to continue when Hannah raised a staying hand and
cried, "Alright, alright!" She took in a quick breath after she'd lowered
her hand and opened her mouth to speak. She closed it a moment later
and glanced over at him. Her steely hazel gaze pierced him as she
murmured, "I have ESP-or at least, something like it."

Webb felt his brow furrow with confusion. "So you can read minds?"

Hannah dipped her head and continued to watch him. "Sort of. Mainly
what I read are images, feelings. I guess I'm more empathic than
anything else."

"But you can tell what a person is thinking?" he asked dumbfounded by
this new knowledge. 

"It's not as easy as it sounds," she berated sharply. "To scan someone, I
have to be very focused."

"So you can hop into someone's head and know right away what
they're thinking and feeling."

Hannah nodded slowly, allowing the revelation to fully sink in. Clay
was silent for a moment, then asked in a low tone, "Have you scanned
me?"

She quirked her lips ruefully. "I <tried> when we first met, but I was
blocked." Reading the confusion in his eyes, she explained, "Some
people have a dense natural shield. I can't read them unless they
knowingly open their minds to me. You seem to fall into that
category," she finished with a small shrug. 

An eerie howl erupted around them, heralding the storm's rapid
approach. Soon the car was buffeted by opposing gusts of sand. It
rocked slightly, but seemed to hold firm. The wind calmed for a
moment and Clay asked quietly, "Would you like to? Scan me, I mean."

Hannah's gaze snapped away from the windshield and zeroed in on him.
'Was he serious?' she questioned inwardly. But as she searched his eyes,
only curiosity swirled around in their green depths. The malice or mirth
she'd expected was nowhere to be found. Yes, he was serious.

She shook her head. "You don't have to..." she began, placing a hand
on his thigh.

"What if I want to?" he asked, his voice a low, sure murmur.
Reassurance flooded his gaze as he sensed how important this was to
her.

Hannah bit her lip with indecision. Part of her desperately wanted to
know what went on in a mind like Clayton Webb's. And yet, another
part warned against opening herself up. Once a mental connection was
made with a man she found sexually attractive, it was permanent. To
this day, she still had flash backs to previous lovers who she'd gotten
too close to. And when they'd broken up, the end result hadn't been
pleasant. The intensity of the connection determined the mental
recuperation time, but she had yet to experience anything less than a
month. During that time, her Sense was limited to only the most basic
of scan levels. Hannah knew that with Clay, the recup time would be a
lot longer. And more painful. Did she dare to take that risk?

His eyes never leaving hers, Clay covered her hand with his and lightly
traced along the dainty outline. How such small hands could be so
strong was beyond him. His thumb lightly caressed the pulsing vein in
her wrist, encouraging her without words.

The corners of his mouth twitched when he felt her heart beat speed up.
'Come on,' he thought, challenging her with his eyes. 'You know you
want to.'

At length, Hannah's eyes took on the glint of a challenge answered, and
she nodded. Her eyelids fluttered shut and she licked her lips before
tugging the lower one between her teeth. Combined with the heated
warmth of her palm on his leg, the action sent his heart rate soaring and
he quickly tried to squelch the surge of longing that charged through
him. He wouldn't want that to be the first impression she got off of him. 

For a beat or two, he didn't feel anything. Just as he was about to ask
whether she was actually doing anything, he felt a soft wave slip over
his mind. Widening his eyes with surprise, he watched her intense
concentration ease into something akin to satisfaction. A slight smile
flitted over her lips, and he mentally sought the soft touch again. She
met him tentatively and Clay lightly resumed his caress of her hand,
reaffirming their physical connection even as he encouraged their
mental one.

For an instant, he thought he felt something flare within her. Unsure of
her reaction, he slid his hand up her arm and under the loose-sleeved
jacket she wore, his thumb gliding along the underside of her forearm.
This time, the flare of emotion was accompanied by a sharp intake of
breath. Clay melted his last defense and allowed her to read the desire
that coursed through him. Not wanting to break her concentration, but
also needing to be closer to her, he tugged gently on her arm.

Reading his request, she happily eased over until her other hand rested
on his chest. Clay raised the fingers of his free hand and stroked her
cheek. He closed his eyes as he felt her scan soften. Could she really
want this as much as he did?

There was only one way to find out.

His fingers drifted along her cheek to her nape and pulled her toward
him. Their lips met unerringly, as if they had been made for just this
thing, for just each other. A soft moan slid out of his mouth and was
echoed by her mental one. 

Yes. This was good. This was right. The light taste quickly slid into a
harsher melding of tongues, the force of their physical desire driven on
by their mental connection. Clay's hand slid out of her jacket and trailed
its way up the hardy fabric toward her breast. Cupping her gently, he
squeezed and caressed, alternating the pressure until he discovered
exactly what she liked.

He leaned toward her, easing her back against the door. Neither heard
the wind that continued to rail against the car, creating a wall of sand to
blanket them. Instead, they heard the combination of two heart beats,
two minds, two bodies that craved satisfaction.

***

Arabian Desert 
2319 Romeo

Hannah moved slightly, trying to adjust to a more comfortable position
in the car's front seat. She didn't know how he'd managed it, but Clay
had somehow contorted his longer frame so that it surrounded her,
taking the brunt of the seat belt clasps. Her only concern was the
steering wheel, which was currently wedged over her knees. Leaning
back into his warm, bare chest, she smiled, content with the secure
feeling that enveloped her. 

Feeling her movement, Clay stirred and sleepily kissed her neck. "Hey,"
he whispered in a husky voice. 

Hannah's smile widened. "Hey yourself." She turned in his arms so that
they faced each other and planted a soft kiss on his lips. An unfamiliar
humming drifted in the back of her head, signaling that her Sense was
still active, but not focused. "Clay?" she prompted curiously. His eyes
opened a little further and he pulled her tighter against him.

"Yeah?"

"Do you...do you..." she began, but halted when she couldn't find the
words to continue.

He nodded, his eyes warm with satisfaction. "Yeah, I still feel it.
Hannah...that was...amazing. I've never felt anything like that before."

She blushed a little and tucked her head into his shoulder, suddenly
embarrassed. "Me neither," she whispered. "Even this feels different. I
feel so...safe... I guess that's the word I'm looking for." Lifting her eyes
to meet his, marveled, "I've only felt this secure once."

He raised a questioning eyebrow. "When was that?"

"When we first met," she replied with a smile. "I never want to lose this
feeling."

Clay raised one of his hands and brushed a lock of hair behind her ear.
Her once immaculate braid was now a messy semblance of its former
self. He was silent for a moment as he rested his forehead against hers.
Knowing that reality lurked somewhere out beyond their sandy prison,
he realized that they would need something to hold onto after they'd
been dug out. Suddenly, his eyes lit up.

"What?" she asked, loving confusion tracing her face.

"You don't have to give this up." He shifted until he was able to sit up
and shushed her when she muttered at the loss of his warmth. Grabbing
his pants from the floor board, he reached into one of the pockets.

With her back to the dashboard, Hannah couldn't see anything, but
instead heard the clinking of keys. Clay returned a moment later and
resettled them back against each other. He held up a shiny silver key
and promised, "You will <always> have a safe house to go to."
Smoothing the confused furrow that had formed in her brow, he
explained, "This is to my apartment in D.C. Use it any time. Whenever
you need to feel this again."

Hannah swallowed the tears that glistened in her eyes and whispered
huskily, "Thank you. You don't know how much this means to me." 

"As long as I know you have a place to turn to, I won't worry about
you," he murmured and kissed the tip of her nose. She smiled again and
raised up on one elbow. Pulling her dog tags off, she unhooked the
clasp and slid the key down until it met the tags with a soft 'clink.' 

"This way it will always be close to my heart." Grabbing another
blanket out of her duffel bag, she draped it over them and snuggled
back into the warmth of his arms and kissed his collar bone. 

Running a hand over her hair, Clay asked, "How much longer do we
have until they dig us out?"

"Even though we're supposed to meet the Jihad leader, they won't try
to do anything until morning. It's too risky when you can't see
anything." She slid her hand up and down the lean muscles of his back.
"So we have at least a few more hours."

Clay grunted his response and was silent. After a few minutes, he
chuckled lightly. "What?" she asked sleepily.

"I was just wondering...Considering I'm wearing quite a bit less than a
burlap sack now, do I still look like a CIA agent?"

He heard the smile in her voice when she replied, "Now more than
ever. It's been well documented by researchers that CIA agents do their
best work under the covers."

Kissing her temple, he corrected, "I think that's 'under cover.'"

"Whatever."

***

Arabian Desert 
2457 Romeo

A loud scratching sound dragged Clay out of the depths of sleep.
Hannah lay on top of him, her right arm curled around his waist while
the left rested somewhere above his head. After a moment of dazed
contemplation of the sound, he glanced at his watch and realized
exactly what the sound meant. "Hannah," he whispered urgently even
as he squeezed her around the waist. "They're digging us out. We've
got to get up." 

She mumbled something sleepily and then jerked awake a second later.
"Clothes," she muttered as she levered her way off him. 

"In the floorboard," Clay directed. She grabbed them quickly and
tossed his pants and shirt into his waiting hands. When the Arabs had
finally cleared their way to the window, Clay was fully dressed and she
had just tugged her jacket back on. The men called out something in
their native language and she answered in kind.

Nodding with stark satisfaction, she translated for Clay. "They talked to
their leader last night and made him aware of the storm. Given the fact
that we decided to weather the storm and not turn back, he has
determined there is no need to meet me personally. Apparently we
impressed him when we didn't turn tail and run."

Clay shot her a pointed look. "I thought you said we <couldn't> outrun
the storm."

Hannah shrugged. "So sue me. A lot of Egyptian custom is based on
appearances, much like the Japanese. I knew that he would factor in
our reaction to the storm when we met with him. But I had no idea he
would have this good of a response." She spoke a few more words to
the Arabs and they returned to their jeep. "They're going to lead us
back to the hotel. The leader said he would tell my source where and
when the deal will take place. All we have to do is meet him at one of
the shops in the market street."

"What about the team?" Clay asked as he started the engine and
carefully turned the car around.

Hannah pulled her seat belt over her lap and reached back to unbraid
her hair. "Once we get back to the hotel, I'll contact them. After that,
it'll just be a matter of wearing a headset to keep in touch with them.
They'll form a loose circle around us so that any changes can be made
without to big of a problem."

They were silent for a while as they drove back toward civilization.
"Hannah," Clay murmured. "What I said about the key. About my
apartment being your safe house...I mean it. I know what happened last
night doesn't change anything about our jobs and our choices of
lifestyles, but..."

Smiling softly and eyes filled with love, she reached over and threaded
her fingers through his. "We both need a place to come home to. A
<person> who will be there waiting for us."

Clay nodded as he pulled his eyes from the road to look at her. "No
matter what. You are my home. And I am yours."

 ***

Market Street 
Cairo, Egypt 
0223 Romeo

Hannah stood, shifting her weight from foot to foot, as she and Webb
waited for their contact to show up. He had called them about 30
minutes earlier and requested that they meet him at the small shop
across the street from their current position. On the phone, he'd
mentioned that the meeting would take place in an area warehouse. She
had asked for the location, but the man had merely grunted and replied
that he would need to lead them there. "Are you sure you trust this
guy?" Clay asked in what Hannah's mind was the hundredth time.

"No, dammit!" she barked even though her voice was hushed. "I don't
trust him, alright? I trusted his brother. But guys like this one go to the
highest bidder. You saw the look on his face when I gave him the
money, and I felt all the confirmation I needed when I scanned him. I'd
say we're the ones with his loyalty."

Clay pursed his lips and murmured, "For now." Ever since the first
meeting, he had doubted the man's sincerity. There was just something
about him that rubbed Clay the wrong way. It wasn't anything he could
put his finger on, but it made him wary of the other man's actions
anyway.

Jamison shot him a dark look, and was about to respond when the little
Egyptian man darted around the corner and into the appointed shop.
The major nodded once, signaling that Webb should go first, then
whispered into her discreetly hidden headset, "Source is in place.
Everyone on your toes!"

She watched, hazel eyes absorbing every detail, as Clay made his way
across the street. Trying to blend into the crowd with the traditional
festival garb, Hannah still would've spotted him anywhere. 'Like it or
not, my love, you'll never fool a trained eye,' she thought with an
inward smile. 

Once he'd safely entered the building, she heaved a sigh of relief and
nonchalantly began to wend her way through the crowd toward the
same building. Moments later, she sat, Webb on her left and the
informant across the table, in a brightly furnished room. There was no
need for lights since the afternoon sun streamed in through one of the
high windows in the back. 

"They have changed the meeting place," the small man whispered in his
heavily accented English. "Instead of the warehouse," he glanced
quickly over his shoulder to make sure none of the other patrons would
overhear his next words. "They want to meet in the square. Where the
festival is."

Webb immediately shook his head. "No, tell them that's impossible.
There's too much at risk."

Hannah laid her hand on his arm, quieting his protest. "But if they feel
safer this way, then it's better. These are their people. On home turf,
they're less likely to shoot the place up."

"I don't like it, Hannah. There's too much that can happen." Clay
shifted his gaze from the source to her, his moss green eyes penetrating
hers with a fierce resolve. "There's no way we can contain anything in a
crowd of this size." They <had> to be the final bidders for the
warhead's destination and be present for it's launch, but meeting in a
crowded street to get the information just wasn't safe.

Hannah's eyes softened as she lowered her guard and allowed her Sense
to drift over him. Realizing he'd opened his mind to her for just that
purpose, she lightly soothed his worries, easing the tension that gripped
him. After a moment, Clay sighed and nodded. "OK, we'll do it their
way." 

***

Market Street 
Cairo, Egypt 
0248 Romeo

The pair left the building separately, Hannah electing to use the back
entrance, and returned to their prior location. Once they'd met, she
whispered into her headset, "OK, team, change of plan. The Jihad has
requested that we meet in the market square to exchange the money for
the warhead's location. I need everyone to regroup, keeping to the
previous plan and positions around Webb. Maintain radio silence unless
something goes wrong. Move!"

She traded a silent look with Clay, needing to reinforce her belief that
the op would still be successful. He reached out and laid a gentle hand
on her arm. With a squeeze, he murmured, "I trust you."

Her lips twitched slightly and she opened her mouth to reply when
something caught her gaze. "Damn!" she cursed under her breath.
"That was fast." Seeing Clay's confusion, she jerked her head to
something behind him. He turned and stifled a curse of his own. 

"They must've been sure we'd agree to the change." He started to move
away, to meet the leader in the middle of the street, when Hannah
placed a staying hand on his shoulder.

"Team," she whispered tersely into the headset. "Everyone in place?"

A succession of roll call satisfied her question and she released Clay's
shoulder. He glanced back at her and nodded once, then carefully
approached the Arab. Hannah watched him walk away and quickly
opened her mind, focusing in on her lover and then sliding over to the
leader.

Webb met the man in the middle of the street among a throng of people
who gathered around the many booths laden with food and textiles.
The other man nodded in greeting and asked, "Do you have the money,
Mr. O'Leary?"

Clay reached into his jacket and pulled out a thick envelope. "The
location?" he asked, keeping the small package near his chest.

The Arab smiled gleefully and reached for the money. Just as he was
about to speak, Hannah screamed, "CLAY! It's a trap!"

Without another thought, Webb turned and dived under a wagon that
was parked on the side of the street. Explosions ripped through the
market square sending the would-be shoppers into a frantic crush. He
covered his head as the sharp staccato of gun fire erupted around him.
Confused cries of pain and shock soaked the desert air. 

Crawling his way under the wagon, he neared Hannah's last position.
He glanced around, desperate for some sign of her, that she hadn't been
injured in the bombings. After a moment, his eyes latched on to a
hunched figure who leaned against the door of one of the buildings. 

Standing, he ran, half-crouched, toward her and pulled her into his
arms. "Hannah! Come on." She didn't respond. Clay pulled her head up
and stared into her vacant eyes. 'What the hell happened?' he thought as
he shook her once. "Hannah!" he cried, glancing over his shoulder and
back to the melee. "Hannah! Snap out of it!"

Within a second, her whole demeanor changed. She struggled in his
grasp and murmured something incoherently. Following his first
instinct, he held her tighter, shielding her from the Arabs' return
gunfire, but instead of calming, she lashed out at him, clawing at his
face with one hand and sending a bruising blow to his ribs with the
other. 

Self-preservation kicked in and he thrust her away from him. He
slapped her once, hard, and finally the blank look in her eyes was
replaced with recognition. "Clay?" she asked in a confused voice.

A bullet whizzed past them, effectively cutting off any response he
might have made. Hannah felt the battle adrenaline surge through her
veins, and, shoving Clay down, she reached for her sidearm and popped
off three rapid shots, two of the bullets landing squarely into the chest
of the shooter.

Clay rose and drew his own gun to help cover her. Another bomb
rocked the square and Hannah, remembering her head set, screamed,
"Team! Take them out! Base, this is Mother, evacuate immediately.
Repeat, evacuate immediately!"

A glint of light caught Webb's eye. He gripped Hannah's shoulder hard
and ordered, "Stay here! I need to go check something out." 

She replied with a wordless nod, firing at an armed man in the second
floor window of a building across the street. Once she fully realized he
had left, she ordered into the headset, "Team! Watch Webb's back. He's
checking something out down the street."

Two voices chorused, "Copy that," in response. 'What the hell
happened?' she thought. She peered carefully through the screaming
crowd as if her answer would appear from amid the throng. After a
moment, it did. Her source slipped out of a building and around the
corner, heading into the adjacent alley. She started to run after him
when the ominous beat of helicopter blades added to the cacophony of
cries.

Glancing down the street, she watched the bird land a safe distance
away while two men jumped out and added their own gunfire into the
mix. Her eyes zeroed in on Clay and caught two members of the team
in her peripheral vision. One of the men from the chopper grasped
Webb's arm and pulled him toward the waiting vehicle. 

His gaze found hers and locked on. Shrugging off the other man's grip,
he yelled, "Hannah! Come on! We've got to get out of here!"

Torn, she glanced at the retreating back of the informant then back to
Clay. Her mind quickly weighed her options while two members of the
team climbed on board. As she knew it would, duty won. She waved
her lover off, indicating he should get on the bird. "Go on! Get out of
here!"

He took a few steps toward her and cried, "I'm not leaving you!"

"Go! I can't leave this! It's my responsibility!" The rapidly rotating
blades whipped his longish hair around his face, and for a moment,
Hannah was jerked back to their first meeting. 

"Then I'm staying, too!" He half-ran, half-walked closer to her and
Hannah, realizing she had no other choice, raised her gun and aimed at
him. 

"Get on that bird or so help me, Clay, I'll shoot you!" Fierce
determination flooded her eyes, erasing any trace of love's indecision
that had lurked there earlier. Recognizing the truth behind her words,
he nodded resignedly then called, "We'll meet you at the rendezvous
point!" 

She blinked back the tears that had unconsciously formed, muttering
something about the damned sand, and nodded. Without another look,
she turned away and ran after the fleeing informant.

As the chopper rose into the air, Webb watched the gun fire as it
continued to play out in the street. It was a set-up, just like he had
thought. But this time, the ability to say 'I told you so' didn't bring its
usual joy. Hannah's error had cost several innocent men and women
their lives. And it could cost her her own. 

Clay closed his eyes as he leaned back in the seat. 'I bet they never even
had a nuke,' he thought dourly. 

The alley was deserted as she slowed her approach. Bracing her back
against the wall, she edged her way down toward a pile of boxes. A
split second later, the informant jumped into the middle of the street.
But this time, he wasn't alone. A young child, face and clothes stained
with the dirt and grime of the streets, was clasped fiercely against the
older man's frail body. 

"Mahian," the man greeted. "We meet again so soon."

Hannah swallowed the bile that threatened to overwhelm her and bit
out, "What happened?"

The Arab smiled evilly. "Didn't you wonder at all about my motivation?
How quickly the connection was made and meeting was set up?" He
shook his head. "No? Well, next time, you'll know better. Your people
killed my brother!"

"We had nothing to do with the car bombing!" Hannah cried
incredulously. 

The man clutched the child tighter to his chest, blocking her aim. "Ask
your CIA friend! <They> set it up!" he spat. "Why should I owe you
any loyalty when <you> showed none to my brother?"

The child whimpered slightly, but Hannah forced herself to ignore the
sound. She couldn't be distracted from her target. If this man escaped,
her cover in the Middle East was blown and she would be unable to
work the area again. She had to eliminate him. But to do so meant
potentially killing an innocent child.

[It's covering a target, Jamison, part of her conscious barked ruthlessly.
Remove the cover and eliminate the target!]

[It's not a cover, it's a child! cried her emotions]

[You've trained for this, Major. Complete your mission. The mission
comes first.]

With four words, the battle ended and her rational side took over.
Squeezing off five rounds at rapid fire, Hannah watched dispassionately
as the bullets tore through the child's small chest on their way to the
intended target. Cold, lifeless eyes tracked the bodies as they fell in
tandem, the blood spilling from the gaping wounds, soaking the
tattered remnants of their clothing. 

Satisfied the target posed no further threat, she holstered her weapon,
only then allowing the rush of self-loathing to bubble to the surface. 

"Major!" a voice called from behind her.

Without a second thought, Jamison whipped around, drawing her
weapon, and aimed at her next target. The man, dressed in native
clothing and wearing the familiar headset for communication, threw his
hands in the air, palms forward. Recognizing she was still in "combat
mode," he soothed, "Easy, Major. I am friendly. Special Agent Mark
Watson. Remember?" He waited until his words pierced through her
adrenaline before continuing. As soon as her eyes cleared and she
focused on his face, he directed, "We've got to get the hell out of here.
The chopper distracted most of the crowd, but the local police have
started combing the streets."

Nodding, Jamison steeled herself against the overwhelming urge to
glance back at the child, to ask forgiveness. 

[You had no choice, reminded her logic.]

[There is always a choice, countered her emotions.]

Knowing in her heart her emotions were right, she still did not turn
back as she followed the agent out of the alley.

***

Market Street 
Cairo, Egypt 
0337 Romeo

Hannah and Watson raced out of the alley, their eyes never stilled as
they searched the surrounding area for any remaining Jihad members.
"Team!" she ordered into the head set. "Form up on me. It's time to
head for the rendezvous point."

Her head set crackled a moment and she glanced sharply at the agent.
He heaved a slight sigh and replied, "I saw two go down myself and
another was hit in one of the bombs."

"Two others went with Webb," she added softly as she counted in her
head. "We're missing four."

"Make that three," a voice interrupted from behind her. She turned on
her heel and found a member of the team, face smeared with the greasy
combination of blood and smoke. But that sight alone was not as
remarkable as what--or rather, who--he held under his gun site: the
Jihad leader. 

Hannah's eyes narrowed dangerously and she had to fight to control the
rage that welled inside her. Glancing around to see if anyone else from
the group would appear, she then nodded and spat, "Bring him."

They hurriedly made their way through the still chaotic streets, ducking
behind buildings and onto side streets to avoid the local police officers.
Once they'd reached the hotel, Hannah jerked her head toward the
station wagon she and Clay had used the night before. The two team
members sat closest to the doors with the Arab man wedged between
them so they could cut off any possible escape. Hannah threw herself
into the driver's seat and gunned the engine. Within seconds, all that
remained was a billowing cloud of dust.

They raced along the side streets, trying to avoid the main roads, until
they were close to the city limits. Once they were safely out of Cairo,
Hannah tore her eyes from the road and refocused them on the figure in
her rear view mirror. "Why?" she asked, her voice a harsh combination
of draining emotion and dawning awareness.

The man smiled. "You and your men kill hundreds of innocent
Egyptians and <you> want to know why? I think you need to be asking
yourself that instead of me."

Hannah shook her head forcefully. "<You> instigated it with the
bombs. My men wouldn't have fired unless they or any other member of
the team was in trouble."

The man merely smiled again and shook his head with silent
amusement. "You still don't understand, do you?" A harsh bark of
laughter escaped his lips. "There never <was> a warhead." His chuckle
increased to deep belly laughs. "You Americans! Always so quick to
blame the Arabs. To think the Arabs are at fault." He sobered slightly
and pierced Hannah with a hardened gaze. "This time it is <you> who
are at fault! <You> killed those innocents back in the market! <You>
didn't fully investigate! If you had, you would have <realized> there
was no way we would be able to get our hands on a warhead." He
raised his hands in a gesture of confusion. "Where would we have
gotten the money to buy such a weapon? Why would we sell it when
we could have easily picked a target of our own?"

Hannah dropped her eyes from the mirror and concentrated on driving. 

"You want to know why?" he asked, bitterness creeping into his tone.
"We wanted to <know> just how far the U.S. government would go to
maintain control over the world's weapons supply. How obsessed it
was with its power." "So, countless people, not to mention 6 members
of my team, are dead for no other reason than to test the waters?" Fury
raged through her as she slammed on the brakes, throwing the men
against the front seat. "Get him out of the car," she growled. Both men
looked at her, their confusion evident. They were nowhere near the
rendezvous point. Why was she stopping now? "I said, 'Get him out of
the car!'" she repeated and jammed the gear shift into Park. 

The officer, realizing she was indeed serious, opened his door with a
quick thrust and yanked the Arab out. Hannah walked around the front
and surreptitiously drew her sidearm from her holster. Watson, who
saw the slight movement when he stepped out of the car, warned,
"Major!"

She ignored him and slowly stalked the Arab. Eyes narrowed and
nostrils flaring with rage, she muttered, "You stinking piece of dog
filth!" A second later, the man lay on the ground, blood seeping out of
the small hole in his head. Hannah turned her back on the body and slid
her gun back into the holster. Without another word, she climbed back
into the car and stoically waited for the men to join her. 

***

Undisclosed Road, Egypt 
0412 Romeo

Inside the car, the three people sat, the thick cloak of silence keeping
each to his own thoughts. Hannah bit her lip until she could taste the
tangy flavor of blood and then bit it harder in a desperate effort to
maintain some semblance of control. She had to make the other two
think that nothing was wrong.

But in truth, nothing would ever be the same again. For the first time in
her career, she not only had abandoned the bodies of downed
teammates, she had also killed in, what some might call, cold blood.
Methodically emptying a magazine into three people. Two of the
victims deserved nothing better than to die just as they had, in the dust
of the street. But the third...the third...Hannah squeezed her eyelids
tightly shut, choking back the tears. Tears of sadness. Tears of rage.
But mostly tears of revulsion. 

For herself.

She had killed a <child.> No matter how the logical side of her mind
tried to justify it, the fact still remained: it was a child. And not a
faceless casualty, either. Hannah's memory faithfully recalled every tear
in his tattered shirt, every black mark on his face and arms, every bullet
hole that riddled his small body. 

What the hell had happened back there? What had happened to <her>?
These questions, she knew, would not disappear with the dawning of a
new day, or the change to a new location. They would haunt her. He
would walk through her sleep, chasing away the dreams and bringing
the nightmares. And damned if she didn't deserve every last, horrible
vision. 

She shifted slightly in the driver's seat and heard the soft clink of metal.
Clay. Despite her best efforts, a lone tear slipped down her cheek. He
would understand. He was her home. He would make it all better.

[And wasn't he the main reason the mission went to hell? her inner
demons prodded. Weren't you so focused on him that everything else
was irrelevant?]

Shocked by the truth of the words, she inhaled sharply and swallowed
back the rest of her tears. She had no argument. Nothing to counter
their validity. 

Unease settled over her like an ill-fitting coat, clinging closer to certain
parts of her body than others. Doubt joined the feeling, and, together,
they seeped into her heart chipping away at the wall of love she had
only just begun building. 

***

Rendezvous point Undisclosed Location 0452 Romeo

The chopper sat in idle a few yards away from the spot where Hannah
stopped the station wagon. She sat for a moment, resting her forearms
on the steering wheel, bracing herself for the tongue-lashing she was
about to get from Clay. She knew she would catch hell for drawing a
gun on her partner. 

Watson and the officer had just joined the remaining two members of
her team. Quiet nods were exchanged before the men each clasped each
other in a hug of survival. They would, in their own ways, mourn for
the missing members. But not until they were home. They still had a job
to do. 

Just like she did.

With that thought, Hannah climbed out of the car and tossed the keys
into the horizon, knowing it would be a long time before anyone ever
found them. Not that it mattered. By the time someone stumbled on to
the car, she and the rest of the group would be long gone. 

She grabbed the duffel bag and the blankets from the back of the car,
squelching the surge of memory as the light scent of Clay's cologne
drifted around her. 'Get home and report,' she ordered herself. 'That's
all that matters.'

She watched as Watson handed Webb a nondescript bag. Since there
would be more passengers this time around, they had to redistribute the
baggage to make room. The bag safely stowed, he turned and walked
toward her. "I just reported in to the Special Undersecretary."

Hannah nodded, unsuccessfully trying to keep her eyes from Webb.
Tightening her grip on her duffel, she tossed it up then climbed in after
it. 

"Clay..." she began, unsure of what to say.

Webb pursed his lips and, refusing to look at her, spat, "You screwed
up, Jamison. Why the hell were you concentrating on me when we met
the informant? If you had been doing your job, this wouldn't have
happened. We would have known about the deal sooner."

She closed her eyes, feeling every lash of the biting words, knowing she
deserved them. It had been her fault after all. "There never was a
warhead," she grimaced when his tirade eased. "There never was a
reason to be here." She paused for a moment and gazed at his profile.
"You were right all along. On every count." Bitterness laced the words
that were so hard to admit, in spite of their truth.

Clay nodded absently, then glanced over at her. The glint of familiarity
that had once lit his eyes was now replaced by stark professionalism.
"Major," he stated matter-of-factly, "you'd better get strapped in; we're
about ready to get out of here."

Closing her eyes against the sorrow that flooded through her at his
tone, she nodded and reached for the strap. And somewhere, in the
back of her mind, a sharp, rending pain began ripping their bond in half. 

***

Apartment of Clayton Webb Washington, D.C. 0826 Romeo

Having written and submitted his report as soon as the team had gotten
back to the States, Webb now found himself at a loss. Even when he
worked with the NSA, he had always hated finishing an op. There was
nothing left to do, nothing to keep his over-active mind occupied. At
least, not until the next case was tossed his way. 

His suitcases had been left behind since the primary goal was to get the
hell out of Dodge. But it wasn't the loss of his clothing that bothered
him. Somewhere in Egypt, he'd inadvertently left a part of himself. In
truth, he knew that that part wasn't anywhere near Egypt. It was
actually a lot closer than he allowed himself to believe. He paced the
confines of his pleasantly decorated apartment willing the nagging
feeling to the nether regions of his brain. 

It was done and nothing could change the fact that they just wouldn't
work. It was too dangerous. Too many people had been killed because
of them. Of their connection. 

A knock on the door interrupted his reverie and, brow furrowed, he
answered it.

"Package for Clayton Webb?" a man in the brown uniform of a UPS
driver asked.

Webb nodded and reached for the dummy to pen to electronically sign
for the delivery. The man nodded and handed him the brightly colored
plastic bag that stated "Next Day Air" in bold letters on the front.
Whatever it was, the shipper wanted to make sure it got to him.
Closing the door, Clay tugged open the plastic and removed a
bubble-encased, rectangle-shaped item. Unwinding the shipping wrap,
he swallowed reflexively as the contents appeared. 

It was an 8x10 frame with a black and white photo tucked neatly inside.
Heedless of the bubble-wrap that had fallen to the floor, he ran a shaky
hand through his neatly combed hair. The face that he had memorized
over the course of a two day period smiled back at him. Her blonde
hair fell elegantly around her shoulders and Clay was struck by the
realization that this was the first time he'd seen her without her hair
braided. 

'When had she done this?' Clay wondered. They had been together for
most of the past two days and it would have had to have been taken
after the sand storm. Then he remembered. Just after the drive back
from the desert, she had disappeared for an hour or so. 'What was her
excuse? Lunch. She had come back with food. She must've had it taken
then.'

God, she was beautiful, made more so by the love that radiated from
her eyes. Webb lowered his hand to the cool glass, his fingers tracing
the outline of her jaw. With a start he knew that she wouldn't have sent
only the picture. There had to be a note that he'd overlooked. Hurrying
back to the bubble-wrap and the plastic, he picked up both only to
watch a small slip of paper float silently to the floor. He tossed the junk
behind him and reached for the note. 

Clay closed his eyes, suddenly unable to read what he would forever
think of as her parting words to him. Only God knew how much
regretted his words in the chopper. Though they were true at the time,
and continued to be so, he shouldn't have told her that way. He would
never forget the look in her eyes, the heart- rending combination of
betrayal, loss, and resignation. 

Holding the frame in one hand, he gripped the note tightly and forced
his eyes open. He gazed at the shape of the words before the actual
meaning began to sink in. They were written in a neat, compact style.
Functional. Almost an extension of the woman herself. 

Clay,

In exchange for the key, I thought you would like a proper photo to go
along with what surely is a very tastefully appointed apartment. This
way a little piece of me will always be safe, no matter what. 

I love you.

Hannah

As he finished reading, Clay sat the picture on his coffee table and sank
down into one of the overstuffed couches. Still clasping the note, he
squeezed the bridge of his nose and squelched the tears that had formed
when he'd read her last words. He lowered his hand a moment later and
lightly traced the string of three words. 

"I love you, too," he whispered to the woman in the picture. "Always."

***

Joints Chiefs of Staff 
Office of Admiral Cathryne Corelli 
The Pentagon
Washington, D.C. 
0914 Romeo

Hannah sat ramrod straight in one of the armchairs in front of Corelli's
desk and stoically recited her report. Not one trace of emotion bled
through. But that alone was not the only thing that bothered the
admiral. Jamison always started their conversations off with some glib
remark. However, this time, she had merely entered and waited for
Corelli to ask for the narrative. 

Even though the situation had ended badly, the admiral recognized the
good strides that were made in the fight against international terrorism.
"Hannah, you should be commended. The lack of a warhead does not
diminish the fact that you and your team brought down a budding Jihad
that more than likely would have grown into a distinct threat in the
coming years."

The major shook her head and, for the first time since the meeting
started, looked the admiral in the eye. "But at what cost? Six members
of my team are dead, or presumed dead, and were left on foreign soil,
not to mention the hundreds of civilian casualties, and..." She trailed off
and rose from her seat. 'And Clay,' she thought despondently as she
walked toward the large window. 'If I hadn't been so worried about his
reluctance over the deal, maybe I would have sensed that something
was wrong. He <knew> I could only be focused on one person at a
time. And if it hadn't been him, maybe I could have stopped it sooner.
And maybe I wouldn't have lost him.' The ever-present pain of their
increasingly severed connection stabbed at her sharply before returning
to the now- accustomed ache. 

"Hannah," Corelli murmured from the chair behind her desk. "What
happened with Clay?" From the beginning, the admiral had been acting
as a sort of matchmaker. She knew intrinsically that somehow those
two just fit together. But judging from Hannah's smothered emotions,
something had gone awry and it was obviously tearing the younger
woman apart. 

The major didn't answer. Instead, she reached under the fatigues she
had elected to wear since it was Saturday and pulled out her dog tags.
Holding the small, silver key between her thumb and forefinger, she
lightly traced the rough edges knowing that somewhere beyond the
admiral's window was a place that was safe, and the man she would
always call home. No matter what.

After a few minutes of silent contemplation, Hannah muttered, "Pyrrhic
victories."

Corelli rose and moved to stand behind the officer. Laying a gentle
hand on her shoulder, the admiral soothed, "But victories nonetheless,"
as a single tear slid down Hannah's cheek. 

***

End

AN: Pyrrhic victory: a victory, which, in the long run, costs more that it was ultimately worth.