“It’s okay,” he said, brushing off her concern.  They were both silent for a moment, then he added, “Let me ask you something.  If you were so sure that marrying him was the right thing to do, why did it take you so long to move the ring over?”  The question had bothered him almost as much as the one about her running to him so quickly had.

Mac looked away, not sure that she ready to admit the answer to him when she’d barely admitted it to himself.  In the days and weeks after Mic had called off the wedding, she’d thought a lot about it and the answers she’d come up with had only emphasized that Mic had been right to finally call everything off and what a fool she was for not doing so herself.  “I wasn’t sure,” she finally admitted, “even after I moved the ring.  When Harriet was making such a big deal about it when she noticed the ring had moved, when we had that double date and Mic was going on about having a big wedding, I was wondering in the back of my mind what the hell I was doing.  It was like I was standing outside myself, watching someone else live my life.  Hell, kissing you at my engagement party was like a big flashing neon sign that I tried my best to ignore.”

“Then why did you move it?” he pressed gently.

That was the part she was most reluctant to voice, concerned about his reaction – at least to Mic’s part in her decision.  “I’ll tell you, but please, don’t take this the wrong way.  Well, it happened the same night I saw you at the Wall,” she began hesitantly.  Harm reached across the table and took her hand in his, receiving a weak smile in response.  “I was upset because I thought you were leaving …. leaving me again.  Then I went over to Mic’s and, um, he was in his uniform.  He was frustrated about not being able to find another job.  I guess Kaliski had blacklisted him after he quit and he said that he’d called his old CO about reactivating his commission because there seemed to be nothing keeping him in Washington and ….”

“Mac,” he interrupted incredulously, gently tightening his grip on her hand when she tried to pull it away.  “Are you telling me that he blackmailed you into accepting his proposal!?”  His voice rose as he spoke and Mac glanced around, hoping no one had noticed.

“I wouldn’t put it like that,” she protested.  “If you want me to be completely honest, my moving the ring probably had more to do with you than him.”

“Because you thought I was leaving, you moved the ring over,” he concluded, “just like you ran to him in Sydney because you thought I’d rejected you on the ferry.  Incredible.”

"I mean, I do understand why you wanted to leave," she said sadly.  "Sergei's your brother and he was missing, just like your father had been.  I probably would have thought something was wrong if you hadn't wanted to look for him, especially after the way you'd looked for your father for nearly twenty-nine years.  But that didn't make it any easier."  Mac finally pulled her hand away and began fiddling with the edge of her napkin.  “Look, maybe we shouldn’t talk about this.  We came here to have a nice, leisurely lunch, not to rehash all the mistakes we’ve made.”

“Maybe we need to,” he said quietly, “rehash everything, I mean.  You’re not the only one who is …. scared of messing this up.  Look at how many times I’ve already screwed things up between us.”

“You’re not the only one,” she conceded.  “But really, can we talk about this later?  I want to just enjoy being with you right now, as long as we do come back to this later.”

Harm nodded.  “Later,” he promised.

1900 ZULU
CIA HEADQUARTERS
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

“Did you get the information?” Clay asked without preamble as his secretary escorted Jessica Donahue into his office.

“Hello, Agent Donahue,” she mimicked sarcastically, “how are you doing today?”

Clay looked up from the pile of paperwork in front of him, staring at her.  “Did you?” he repeated.

She handed him a slim folder with a sigh as she sat down in a chair in front of his desk.  “Out of all the members of the Navy and Marine Corps,” she said as he began glancing through the scanty information included in the file, “we’ve got a total of nine people who are first or second generation Americans of Russian descent, both active duty and reservists.  I did a cursory glance through all their records, but nothing jumped out at me.  I've got someone pulling up passport information, seeing any of them have made trips back to the mother country."

"Results from the Army and Air Force were similar," he said, showing her two other folders.  "Four Air Force, just two Army and nothing jumping out there either.  I've got some people I'm going to get on this.  By the time we're through combing through these peoples' lives, we'll know everything down to what brand cologne they use."

"Or perfume," Jessica said.  "There are two women in this group.  So where did you pick up this tip anyway?"

"Believe it or not, Colonel Wentworth," he replied.  "He's offering information on others spying for Russia and is being questioned at Allenwood by two JAG officers.  He said that Fokusnik had family ties to Russia.  That's why he's spying."

"Powerful motivation admittedly," she mused.  "But are we sure this information is reliable?  Wentworth could be just feeding us information to save his own ass.  The CIA's been chasing their tails for what – two years now?  He keeps you chasing your tails, feeding you tidbits of information, keeping himself alive a little longer."

"You've obviously never dealt with AJ Chegwidden," Clay said.

"Admiral Chegwidden?" she asked.  "The Navy's Judge Advocate General?  I don't understand."

"He was also going to be prosecuting Wentworth," he explained.  "And if he doesn't like the report his people bring back from their interview with Wentworth, no deal.  He won't tolerate Wentworth feeding us a line of bull."

"So what about the other information Wentworth gave up?" she asked.

"Rabb gave me a rundown over the phone and I've got an agent heading to White Deer to pick up copies of the notes," he said.  "Wentworth's had contact with one FBI and two CIA agents, passing information to them to be passed on."

"Trusting guy, isn't he?" Jessica said. 

"His contacts in Russia vouched for them," Clay said, "according to the notes."

"At any rate, I'm sure the FBI is thrilled to have another Robert Hanssen in their midst," she commented.  "What about the CIA guys?"

"It's being handled," he said vaguely.  Actually, his superiors had already had their eye on one of the CIA agents Wentworth had given up.  His information had simply put the final nail in the man's coffin – literally.  Word in the halls was a sweeper had already been dispatched after the man, who was currently on what would end up being his final assignment in the Middle East.  The other agent had come as a bit of a surprise – they'd suspected there'd been another spy, but hadn't had enough information to determine a who yet.  But now that they had that, finding the evidence should prove easier.

He shook himself when he realized that Jessica was speaking.  "What?" he asked.

"I don't know," she said.  "Something just feels wrong about this.  It's almost as if it's too easy."

Clay didn't reply as he leaned back in his chair, unwilling to admit that he shared her concern.  Spies were successful because they managed to keep their activities in the shadows.  While they might have passed information to their contacts in the receiving country, how many spies passed information among themselves.  But he pushed those concerns from his mind.  If they could prove the allegations, what did it matter how they came by the information initially?

0115 ZULU
HOLIDAY INN
NEW COLUMBIA, PENNSYLVANIA

Williams was pacing his room nervously when his cell phone rang.  "Williams," he answered.

"Hello, Mr. Williams," his mysterious contact said, who'd only introduced himself as Mr. Reed when he'd first contacted him.  In a former life, R. Johnson Williams had been Richard Dyson, top lawyer for the Condelli family in New York.  After watching his college roommate and law partner get blown to bits by a rival crime family ten years earlier, he'd reevaluated his life and decided that it had time to get out before he ended sitting on top of a bomb himself.  He'd carefully built a new identity for himself without any help, refusing to break client confidentiality by going to the Feds and requesting witness protection.  He had his ethical standards.  Richard Dyson committed suicide, devastated by his best friend's untimely demise three months earlier, and R. Johnson Williams had been born.  Since he'd decided to keep the same profession, he'd covered his tracks by even going to law school a second time, using a fake transcript provided by a forger who'd owed him a favor, the same one who'd provided all the other documentation to support his new life.

The first time he'd been contacted by Reed, he'd blown the other man off.  The following morning, he'd received a FedEx envelope which had contained a copy of Richard Dyson's death certificate.  That afternoon, he'd received another phone call, promising that proof that Richard Dyson was alive would be sent to the Condellis unless he consented to perform a 'tiny' favor – defend Phillip Wentworth and make sure that certain information made it's way into the hands of the investigators.  He knew that probably wouldn't be the end of it, but he hadn't seen another option, short of starting over again.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Reed?" he asked.

"Just wanted to check in," Reed said, "see if you got the new information I sent you."

"I did," Williams replied.  The message light on his phone had been blinking when he'd gotten back to his room and a call to the front desk revealed the presence of an envelope waiting for him there.  He hadn't opened the package yet, but assumed it contained more information to be passed to the JAGs through his client.  "I assume you want me to get Wentworth to hand it over to those military lawyers?"

"Oh, no," Reed replied, chuckling.  "This one's just for you.  Go ahead and take a look, tell me what you think."

Even more nervous, Williams slowly tore open the envelope, unfolding the single sheet of paper inside.  "What the hell is this?" he demanded.

"It's a birth certificate," Reed replied smugly, as if it should be obvious.

"This is a lie," he insisted, his hand shaking as he crumpled the certificate.  

"No, it isn't," Reed countered.  "But we can discuss that later, in person."

"You're coming here?" Williams asked in a frightened tone.

"I've been tied up recently," he explained, "but recently managed to wrangle some free time to oversee some things personally.  I'll be there later and we can talk then."  He smacked his forehead, as if suddenly remembering something.  "Oh, wait, by then it will be too late."

Dizzy, Williams stumbled, hitting his hip against his dresser.  He barely noticed the sharp pain, trying to concentrate on what else Reed was saying.  "By later, you'll be dead," Reed continued, laughing when he heard a loud thump as Williams fell to the floor, the birth certificate still clutched in his hand.

"You know, this almost seems too easy," Mac said, tossing another page of Wentworth's notes in Harm's direction.  "I would have thought spies would have preferred keeping to themselves, not getting close enough to other spies to take notes on their activities."

"Webb's doing a thorough investigation on the people named here," Harm reminded her.  "And apparently, some of the information's legit.  He hinted that the Agency's already been looking at one of the agents Wentworth named, a Jonathan Dyson.  This just confirms they were looking in the right direction."

"Hmmm," Mac murmured, reading over another page as she rubbed her neck.  Harm scooted behind her and began massaging her, his fingers pressing hard against tired and aching muscles.  "I'd forgotten how good that feels."  She sighed in contentment as he leaned forward, his breath tickling the sensitive skin at the back of her neck.

"You're so tense," he remarked as he pressed his thumb against a particularly sore spot, Mac groaning in response.  "I think you need to relax more."

She laughed, "I suppose you have something in mind to help me relax?"

"How about taking a week's leave?" he suggested, his tone suddenly serious.  "We can go away somewhere, anywhere you want.  We can even work on some of those – what did you call them once – deeper issues between us."

Mac turned around, wrapping her arms around his waist.  "Anywhere I want, huh?" she mused, a gleam in her eye.  "I don't care, as long as I'm with you."

"I like the sound of that," he whispered as he pulled her against him, fingers tangling in her hair as his lips descended, lightly brushing against hers at first before he deepened the kiss, his tongue sweeping into her mouth.  Barely conscious of it, he leaned back against the pillows behind him, pulling her on top of him as her hands tugged at his shirt, pulling it from the waistband of his jeans, her fingers dancing lightly over newly exposed skin.

Suddenly, the sound of someone pounding on the door intruded on their interlude and they broke apart, their faces slightly flushed.  "That's, um, probably our dinner," Mac said, pushing herself into a sitting position, Harm following her, his fingers still curled around her hair.  He buried his face against her neck, his tongue swiping against the pulse point at the side of her throat.  "I'll, um, just get that and, um …. that's very distracting."

Harm laughed, his breath against her heated skin causing her to shiver.  "I managed to distract the Marine from thoughts of filling her stomach," he teased.

She lightly smacked him as she pulled out of his arms and climbed from the bed.  "Going through the stomach to get to the heart doesn't just work on men," she teased as she opened the door to the room service waiter,  gesturing him in.

The waiter pushed his cart over by the table, moving the trays with their food onto the table.  "Room service for Rabb," he said, reading off the ticket.  "Baked salmon in lemon sauce and steak, well done.  Sign here, please."  Harm walked over and signed the room service ticket as Mac pulled the lid off one of the plates, sniffing appreciatively her steak.  "Just set the dishes outside the door when you're finished and someone will be by to pick them up later."

"Thank you," Harm said, handing the ticket back and closing the door as the waiter departed.  "Figures you'd uncover the plate with your steak on it first."

"I have a good nose for steak," she joked, sitting down at the table and pulling her plate in front of her. 

Harm peaked under the covers of the other plates until he found their salads, setting one by her elbow.  "Don't you think you ought to eat the salad first?" he suggested.

"Now what would be the fun in that?" she said, cutting a bite of her steak and twirling her fork around, holding it out in his direction. 

"Hey," he protested, "get that stuff away from me."  He dug into his salad, his eyes fixed on her as she brought the fork to her mouth, closing her lips around it, teasing him as she slowly pulled the meat from the utensil.  He never thought he'd be envious of a hunk of dead cow.

Mac laughed as she noted his intent and heat gaze.  "Eat your dinner," she said with a saucy grin, "then we'll see about desert."

0145 ZULU
CIA HEADQUARTERS
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

Clay read over the service records of the Russian-American military members for what felt to him like the millionth time, rubbing his forehead with a tired sigh.  Nothing leapt out at him, indicating that any of these men or women might throw away their lives – and promising careers in just about every case – for a few dollars thrown at them by a country they'd left behind.  Several of them had escaped to America after losing family members in various Soviet purges, making them unlikely candidates to remain loyal to Mother Russia.  Most of the others had not apparent contact with the old world once they'd set foot on this country's shores.  There were a couple of prospects more likely than the others, but none of them felt right to Clay.

"No luck there?" Jessica asked, entering Clay's office carrying a stack of papers.  "Not much here either.  I had NCIS get information on any military member who's been to Russia for any reason in the last ten years and only one of our suspects shows up on this list and that was a trip back for his mother's funeral in 94.  I managed to confirm the mother's death, so it wasn't a cover story."  She tossed the papers on the desk with a disgusted sigh, throwing herself into the chair she'd occupied earlier.

He started going through them, looking for a distraction from dry and boring service records.  "Maybe we're still running in circles," Clay admitted.  "I …. "

"Mr. Webb," his secretary said, poking her head into the office, "I'm taking off for the evening if you don't need anything else."

"No, that's fine," he said.

"Oh and a Sergei Zhukov is on line one," she said as she left.

"A friend of yours?" Jessica asked, noting with interest the Russian name.

"Brother of a …. friend, actually," he said thoughtfully, picking up the phone.  "What can I do for you, Sergei?"

"I was trying to contact my brother," he said, pacing around the kitchen in his grandmother's house, lifting the lid off a pot on the stove, despite the tolerantly disapproving stare from his grandmother.  "I tried his home and cell phone and got no answer."

"I know he's on assignment in Pennsylvania," Clay said, "but he should have his cell phone with him."

"He's in Pennsylvania?" Sergei asked.

"In another part of the state," he explained.  "Probably about four or five hours from where you are.  I'm supposed to be talking to him later this evening.  I can pass along a message."

"Just ask him to give me a call when he gets a chance," Sergei said.  "I wanted to see if he could come up to the farm this weekend if he's not busy to talk about my decision."

"So you've decided whether or not to stay in the States?" Clay asked.

"Yes," Sergei said.  "I wanted to tell him and my grandmother at the same time."

"I'll tell him to call you the next time I talk to him," Clay promised.

"Thank you," he said.  "Goodbye, Mr. Webb."

"Goodbye, Sergei," Clay said.  As he hung up the phone, his eyes fell to the pages in front of his, his eyes widening as they lighted on a familiar name, an idea occurring to him.  "Agent Donahue, what if we're approaching this from the wrong angle?"

She leaned forward, interested.  "What do you mean?"

"Talking to Sergei made me think of it," he said.  "My …. friend is his half-brother.  Their father was a prisoner of the KGB for eleven years before escaping, when he met Sergei's mother.  Never made it out of the Soviet Union alive."  He shook his head.  "Anyway, it made me think.  What if Fokusnik isn't from Russia himself, but has relatives living over there, whether business men or half-Russian family members?"

"Like your friend's brother?" she asked.  She considered the idea for a moment.  "It's possible, probably as much so as looking for someone who is Russian.  It means widening our search.  Looking for any military personnel with family living in Russia is going to be like looking for a needle in a haystack without something more to go on.  Unless …. what if we start with this list of personnel we know have been in Russia, see if any of them have family ties in Russia?"

"It's a place to start," he said. 

Jessica's cell phone rang and she smiled apologetically at Clay as she answered it, "Agent Donahue."

"Jess, it's Rick," said her partner of three years, Richard Nelson.  "We've got another lead on Fokusnik."

"How reliable?" she asked.  She put her hand over the phone and told Clay, "My partner says he's got another lead on Fokusnik."

"It's anonymous," he replied.  "The actual reliability depends on what you can find on that list of personnel who've been to Russia.  Our new information says that our guy has made two trips to Russia, one in September 1998 and one last October."

"It's a long list, since the embassy's military personnel are included," she reminded him.  "It will take me some time to go through it.  I'll call you back." 

She hung up and looked at Clay.  "New info says that Fokusnik has made two personal trips to Russia, one in September 98 and one just this past October," she said.  "The source is anonymous, but if we can find something on that list …."

Clay stated at her, masking his expression as warning bells went off in his head.  The dates were eerily familiar.  He had made trips to Russia during those months.  Suddenly, all the pieces fell into place.  A member of the military with ties to Russia.  Trips to Russia by said officer.   "Come on," he said, grabbing his coat.  If he was right, it wouldn't be difficult for someone else to put two and two together and come up with five. 

"What about …." she began.

"Forget about the list," he insisted.  "If I'm right, I know who Fokusnik is.  Or who we're *supposed* to think he is."

"What's that supposed to mean?" she asked, racing to keep up with his long strides as he strode out of his office.

"It means that we're being lead around by the nose," he said cryptically, "as we chase our tails."  He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and hit speed dial one.  "Mother, I need to borrow the jet.  Have the pilot file a flight plan from Reagan to Williamsport, Pennsylvania."

"Williamsport?  That's the airport closest to Allenwood, where Wentworth is being held," Jessica pointed out.

"I know," he said, dialing another number after he hung up with his mother.  "AJ, it's …. just listen.  Meet me at Reagan National as soon as possible.  We're going up to Pennsylvania …. No, I'll explain on the way.  Time is of the essence if I'm right."

0230 ZULU
HOLIDAY INN
NEW COLUMBIA, PENNSYLVANIA

"Commander Rabb?" the man knocking on Harm's hotel room asked.  "It's Agent Reed.  Mr. Webb sent me to pick up some papers."  He smiled, already knowing that there would be no answer.  After waiting a moment just for the hell of it, he slid a duplicate of Harm's key card into the door, opening it.

He survey the room with satisfaction.  Harm and Mac's dinners were still on the table, only half-eaten.  Harm was slumped on the floor by the table, appearing to have fallen out of his chair.  He would have gone first, his food more heavily dosed with the sleeping draught.  It wouldn't do for him to wake up too soon.

Mac had managed to make it as far as the nightstand by the bed before collapsing as she'd tried to call for help, judging from the phone lying off the hook next to her.  Checking the phone to make sure that there was no one on the line, he left it where it was.  He wasn't trying to hide what happened here.  Lifting Mac up into his arms, he carried her out of the room, managing to pull the door most of the way closed while keeping a hold on her, going over his story in his mind in case he should run into anyone.  She was his girlfriend, not feeling well, and he was worried and taking her to the emergency room as a precaution.

Luck was with him, however, and he made it to his car without running into a single person, unceremoniously dumping the unconscious Mac in the back seat and locking her in the car.  He returned to Harm's room and let himself in again.  His eyes wandered over the scene again, making sure everything was set before he took a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and laid it on the floor, tucking it under Harm's outstretched arm.  "Let's see how good you are, Rabb," he laughed.  "Can you find the lovely Colonel before the others find you?  Good hunting."

Laughing to himself, pleased with the way everything was falling into place, Clark Palmer let himself out of Harm's room again, closing the door behind him.  He knew he had a good two to three hours before Harm would awaken.  By then, the rest of the stage should be set and the players all in place.  Then the real fun would begin.

Part 3