Title: "Shadowland"

Author: Sooz

E-mail: sooz9009@aol.com

Rating: R for language, adult situations

Classification: Action, Romance (H/M)

Spoilers: Anything up through "Back in the Saddle"

Disclaimer: Not mine, non-profit.


Summary: While Harm is in the CIA, he and Mac find themselves on intersecting missions in Indonesia and discover that sometimes, getting lost may be the only chance to find your way.


I began this story right after the Season 9 opener, and events diverge from there. I do not pretend to be an expert on the political situation in Indonesia; my apologies for any and all inaccuracies. This is a shipper story, I promise -- but it takes awhile.



"Shadowland"


October 25, 2003


The soft chiming of his Rolex jerked him awake. What the hell was his bed doing on the wrong side of the room?


Harm stared into the darkness and let details filter through the fog. Thick velvet curtains, with a sliver of city lights visible between them. A quiet hum of air conditioning. A warm, soft hip against his. He blinked and rolled his head to the right, feeling his cheek rasp against the pillow with a sandpapery whisper.


A lock of blonde hair gleamed in the faint glimmer from a digital clock blinking five a.m.


He stared up at the ceiling for a long moment, then sat up with a sigh and scrubbed his hand over his face. The air was cool on his body.


"Harm?" Her voice was blurry with sleep. "Did the alarm go off?" Warm fingers grazed his back.


"No, it's only five. Sorry I woke you, Cath," he said, reaching over to pat her shoulder. "Go back to sleep." He stood and groped for his clothes on the chair. He heard a rustle as she sat up behind him, and the bedroom sprang into life as she clicked on a bedside lamp. Harm squinted his eyes against the sudden glare. "Hey," he complained.


Catherine Gale pushed her hands through her short blonde hair, flung back the covers, and frowned at the clock as she reached for her robe. "Coffee's on the timer," she announced, and walked swiftly out of the room, the pale satin of her peignoir swirling as she belted it around her slim naked body. Harm sighed and groped for his shoes.


He didn't even have time to pull on his socks before she was back. "You're up early," she observed, and handed him a steaming mug. "Are you leaving town again?"


He shrugged and sipped. "Guess I'll find out, they want me in at 0900," he said.


"So why the dawn patrol? Even *I* don't go in this early," she smiled and sat beside him, her shoulder touching his. Her robe slipped open to reveal the curve of one small breast.


"It's Friday. Five-mile run before work," he said, pulling at his shoelaces.


You'd think he's still in the military, she thought with an inward groan.


Harm set his cup on the nightstand and kissed her on the cheek before standing up decisively. "Thanks for last night, Cath. It was great."


"As always." She looked up at him, debating, then said, "So what is it, Harm?"


"What's what?"


"Whatever is still bothering you. Sometimes I feel like a battleground when we're done."


He busied himself with sorting keys, wallet, and change into his pockets, and didn't turn around. "Nothing's bothering me, Cath. Hey, I'm sorry if I was a little rough last night. I've been away for awhile." He gave her a charming grin and pulled her to her feet for a quick kiss. "I'll make it up to you."


"You don't need to make anything up to me," she said lightly. "We don't have any strings on each other, you know that. But I care about you, Harm." She gave him a shrewd look. "I'd like to see you happy, and you aren't."


He glanced away, his expression carefully neutral. "Happy is a bit of a stretch when you're starting your career over for the third time," he said. "But I'm fine. Look, I've got to go, but I meant it about making it up to you, okay?"


"Okay. But I'm not the one fighting the war, Harm."


He gave her a quick wave on his way out, not meeting her eyes. She listened as the front door opened and shut behind him, and sighed. Men.



* * *


0640 Hours EDT

North of Union Station, Washington, DC


The phone was ringing as he opened his door, panting and wet with sweat from his run. Harm lunged for the phone grabbed it just before the machine picked up. "Hi, Mom."


His mother's silvery laugh floated over the line. "Happy birthday, darling. How did you know it would be me?"


"Only my favorite girl would be calling at this hour."


"Well, that's sweet, dear. But I could almost wish you *had* a favorite girl other than me."


"Mom" --


"I know, I know. How's the new job going?"


Her cheerful tone touched him. She had been upset when he finally steeled himself to tell her about leaving both the Navy and the law, and he knew she was trying to conceal her anxiety. He replied, "It's nice not to be in an office all the time. It's all right."


"So, big plans for later?"


"Shooting hoops with Sturgis." He grinned to himself as he visualized her expression.


"I hoped you might be celebrating with friends," Trish said with elaborate casualness.


"Nope, no real plans this year," he said. He fervently hoped she would stop there, but knew she wouldn't.


"It must be difficult, staying in touch with people." He could hear the concern in her voice, carefully masked. "How's Mac these days, and your godson?"


"I wouldn't know, Mom." He didn't elaborate.


"Oh." Her disappointment came through over the phone, but mercifully she held off. "Well, darling, watch for UPS, they'll be delivering your present. I hope you like it."


"A new oil pump for Sarah?" he asked hopefully.


"Certainly not. A cashmere sweater. I assume there are still a few occasions when you're *not* wearing a flight suit?"


"Only in the shower."


"Watch it, young man. I still have those bathtub pictures."


They shared a laugh. "Thanks, Mom. Suddenly I feel a lot better about turning 40."


"Thirty-nine and holding, dear. At this rate, we'll be the same age before I have grandchildren."


"Listen, you have more energy than I do. What are you doing up in the middle of the night, anyway?" It was 3:45 a.m. in California.


"Giving you trouble, of course. It's my job."


Harm laughed. "Gotta get ready for work, Mom. Give my best to Frank."


"Of course, dear. I love you."


"Love you too, Mom. And thanks."


He replaced the phone in its cradle and stood with his hand on it, absently staring at nothing while he rubbed his sweaty hair with a towel, wondering why his immaculate loft no longer seemed like a welcome source of solitude.


The empty silence mocked him.


* * *


1400 hours EDT, same day

Marine Obstacle Course, Quantico, Virginia


The rapid thump of running shoes echoed in the silent woods, a counterpoint to harsh breathing. Golden leaves swirled into the air and fluttered into piles behind her as she sprinted beneath the arch of trees and leaped to grab the rope jump.


Mac swung across the water, paused at the apex of the trajectory, and dropped lightly to the hard packed dirt on the far side. Without a pause she raced for the pile of logs and vaulted over, pushing off the top with one hand to land with a thump and a grunt in a pile of leaves. Panting hard now, she dug in for the steep section and grabbed the heavy line that hung down the rutted path, pulling herself up hand over hand, lungs burning.


The golden afternoon was perfect. God, she needed this day off. It felt so good to really attack the course, knowing that the phone wouldn't ring, no one would interrupt, no one would make any demands on her. Harder and harder she ran, pushing to the limit, past the point where she needed to feel or think about anything but making it over the crest of this damn hill . . .


She went over the top in a burst of speed and barreled recklessly down the slope on the other side, racing over the path in a blur of pounding steps, dodging exposed tree roots and rocks that threatened to trip her, scarcely feeling the thin branches that whipped at her arms and legs. With an agile leap, she flung herself past the switchback in the steep trail.


Without warning, her heel slipped on a patch of gravel and went out from under her. She went down in a wild, skidding slide that erased skin from her knees and elbows and came to a stop sprawled across the bottom of the slope, the wind knocked out of her.


After a couple of frantic, painful gasps, she was sure she could breathe again and lay still, panting, waiting for the pain to subside enough to sit up. She knew she wasn't really hurt.


"God DAMN IT!" She pounded her fist into the cool dirt. "Shit, shit, shit!" Her hair clung to her neck, clammy with sweat, and she rested her head on her arm. All around her, the forest was filled with the faint sounds of early autumn -- birds singing far away, a squirrel rustling through the undergrowth, a woodpecker drilling. The obstacle course was deserted.


Slowly she sat up, hugging one knee, and risked a quick glance. Her black tights were shredded, and she could see blood and torn skin through the gap. Not too bad. Her left forearm was scraped from wrist to elbow, but it wasn't deep, there wasn't a lot of blood. She flicked a small piece of gravel from the wound.


Abruptly, tears stung her eyes and nose. "Oh, crap," she muttered as she felt a tightly held barrier crumble inside. She leaned her forehead into her uninjured hand and gave in, her throat aching, sobbing until she ran out of tears.


Finally Mac lifted her swollen eyes and looked at the golden patterns of leaves shifting overhead. Her belly ached with weeping, but she felt calmer. What the hell was that, she wondered vaguely. It isn't like me to overreact like that. Guess I've been more stressed lately than I thought. Funny -- things at work have been so quiet. Almost dull.


Damn you, Harm, she thought. Just because this is the first time in eight years we haven't celebrated your birthday, do I have to feel so lousy? Why didn't you return my calls, dammit? I'm sorry you had to leave the Navy, but I made the right decision, I know I did. So why does everything feel so wrong?


With a little hiss of pain, she struggled to her feet and began limping along the course. All her life, she had been picking herself up and getting herself home. She wasn't about to stop now.


* * *


1730 hours EDT, same day

Stonewall Jackson Park, Falls Church, Virginia


Bang. Bang. Bang. The bouncing twang of the basketball echoed off the pavement as Sturgis slowly circled for an opening. Harm balanced lightly on the balls of his feet, arms outspread, watching narrowly in the fading twilight. With a sudden fake to the right, Sturgis pivoted and drove for the basket.


Harm leaped, blocked the shot, and the two men crashed together in a tangle of elbows and knees. Harm grabbed the rebound and knocked the smaller man sprawling.


"Foul," Sturgis wheezed, flat on his back.


"Sorry, you okay?" Harm extended a hand and pulled him up.


Sturgis took a limping step, panting, and shot him a look. "I'll live, no thanks to you. Are you still growing or something?"


"I eat my spinach," Harm grinned.


"Like hell. You've added ten pounds of muscle this year, easy." He bounced the ball as he went to the foul line. "You lifting some serious weight?"


"The last year or so, yeah. Plus running."


"Shows. You training for something?"


"Yeah, to kick your sorry ass," Harm grinned, and jumped for the rebound as Sturgis's foul shot bounced off the rim. Sturgis scrambled onto defense, but Harm's jump shot sailed cleanly through the hoop, snagging the torn net on the way.


Sturgis gestured time out, panting. The crisp autumn afternoon had been warm, but it quickly turned chilly as they sat on the scarred wooden bench beneath the backboard. Sturgis picked up a towel, and Harm pulled a sweatshirt over his head.


"You must have started as soon as you healed up after that crash in the Atlantic," Sturgis commented.


"Yeah. I wanted to get back in shape, and it sort of went from there."


"Probably comes in handy working for Air America."


Harm gave a derisive snort, twisted the cap off a bottle of water, and tilted his head back, swallowing.


"So how is it going?"


Harm shrugged. "I can't say I'm too crazy about the whole culture at Langley, but I'm not there much."


"Must be tough."


"Yeah, well, it's not like I haven't had some experience starting over," Harm said lightly, but Sturgis noted the set of his jaw. "You know, it's funny in a way. After the ramp strike, I thought I'd lost everything, but all I lost was flying. This time, that's all I have left." He gave a mirthless laugh.


"You're still a lawyer."


Harm shifted restlessly. "I can't see myself as an associate in some big law firm. I'd be working 80 hours a week just so some corporation can stick it to the rest of them. One of these days, I'll find a firm that does a lot of civil liberties litigation. But for now, I just want to fly and get out of town for awhile." He grinned. "Or maybe I'll sell the 'vette, cash in my IRA, and buy a boat. Sail around the world for a couple of years."


"Want a crew?"


Harm cocked an eye at him. "That doesn't sound like everything is happy at headquarters."


Sturgis took a long pull at his water. "Man, I just don't know. The Admiral is sailing a much tighter ship, so I guess somebody over at the Pentagon is still getting the wind up. Maybe he has his sights set on a third star, who knows."


"Sounds like you should be pleased, Sturgis. You like things run by the book."


Sturgis gave a quick, humorless smile. "Guess the weird dynamics grew on me. All I know is, JAG used to be an exciting place to work, we were amazingly productive, and we got some damn fine results. Now we slog along, every case takes months, and we have to document every step. We're always watching our backs and covering our ass. It's a demoralizing way to operate." He glanced at Harm. "Everybody misses you, you know."


"I doubt that."


"Your name comes up about ten times a day. 'Harm did this,' or 'The Commander did that.' Drives the Admiral bugshit." Sturgis looked at him. "I'm sorry about the way it all worked out, man."


Harm rested his forearms on his knees. "I accepted the consequences when I made the decision, Sturgis. Do I think the Admiral could have handled the situation better? Yes. Would I make the same choice again? Yes."


"I'm glad to hear it." Sturgis watched his friend thoughtfully. "So -- are you okay?" he asked, surprising himself.


Harm raised his eyebrows. "Yeah, fine, why?"


"You've been a little quiet. Especially today."


Harm looked away. "Just one of those days, I guess." He took another swallow and squinted up at the sky. "We're going to have to turn the lights on if we want to keep going."


Sturgis reached into his gym bag and pulled out a six pack of Heineken. "What do you say we knock off a couple of these? Happy birthday, man."


Harm grinned as he twisted the cap off a bottle and clinked it with Sturgis's. "Thanks, I guess. I mean, Jesus, *40.* How the hell did that happen?"


"Beats me. And why are we sitting here tonight without a date between us?"


"Speak for yourself. I have an appointment later."


"You're seeing someone?"


"I don't know if 'seeing' is exactly the term. But when I'm in town, I occasionally spend the night with a very smart lady who doesn't feel the need to analyze my lack of commitment." Harm took a long pull at his beer.


Sturgis lifted his brows at the unfamiliar bitterness in his friend's voice, and paused before deciding to risk his next question. "What the hell happened in Paraguay, Harm? If you don't mind my asking?"


"I do mind, but I don't suppose that'll stop you."


Sturgis caught the bleak undertone, and a glance confirmed his suspicion that an indirect approach might be wiser. He took another sip of beer and said, "Mac looks awfully unhappy these days."


"Mac wasn't happy about *anything* I did in Paraguay. And when it was all over, she informed me things were never going to work out for us."


"You're kidding." At Harm's glare, he quickly added, "But -- you saved her life" --


"She didn't pay much attention to that."


Sturgis was appalled. "That doesn't sound like Mac."


"Tell me about it." Harm was silent for a long time. Sturgis handed him another beer, and Harm sat turning it absently in his hands without saying anything. For a long minute, Sturgis was sure he would say no more, and then Harm sighed. "Funny thing is, this past year, I thought we were finally getting it right. I went down there ready to -- to say everything I should have told her a long time ago."


"And she didn't want to hear it?"


"Hell, she came at me with both guns drawn. I think she had already made up her mind to move on." Harm blew a silent whistle through pursed lips and leaned back. "Man, I cannot believe I am buzzed on one beer."


Sturgis noted the sidestepped question, and waited patiently. After a long while, Harm spoke, almost to himself. "You know how she is, Sturgis. She decides something and that's it, full speed ahead. Webb pulled her into an incredibly dangerous situation, and they went through hell together. Next thing I know, she's all over him." Harm's profile revealed little emotion.


Sturgis watched his friend with compassion. "I'm sorry, man."


"So am I." Harm shrugged. "But hey, you put it behind you and move on, right?"


Sturgis wasn't fooled. "You sure about that, buddy?"


Harm's deep set eyes were somber as he turned the beer bottle in his hands. His voice, when it came, was so soft Sturgis had to strain to hear. "It's hard for Mac to believe that anyone loves her. She needs to hear the words." His lips tightened. "And I made her wait. Too long."


"Why did you?" For a moment, Sturgis was sure he had pushed too hard.


Harm looked away. "Who knows why anybody does anything?"


"If Mac didn't know how you felt, she *must* need it spelled out."


Harm stood up, grabbed his duffle bag, and tossed his beer into the trash barrel. Sturgis was shocked at the pain he glimpsed in his friend's face.


Very softly, Harm replied, "I thought I had, Sturgis."



End Part One



Shadowland -- Part Two


That evening, 1900 hours EDT

Georgetown, Washington, DC


The door of the limousine closed with a quiet, expensive click. Mac slid into the soft leather seat and turned to smile at Clayton Webb.


"You look lovely, Sarah." His eyes gleamed as he lifted her hand and brushed a light kiss across her knuckles. "What happened here?" he frowned, noticing the bandage on her elbow.


"Oh, just a scrape. I took a fall on the obstacle course at Quantico today."


"So that's what Marines do on their day off?"


"Some Marines." She was glad her hemline covered the wounds on her knees.


"Well, you certainly clean up well. I'm glad you could come tonight."


"All work and no play, remember? Besides, we have to celebrate your getting out of the hospital. But Clay, you didn't need to bring a limo."


He waved his hand, dismissing it. "The chauffeur and the car are Mother's. She's letting me use them while I recuperate."


"Doesn't she need them?"


"I'm staying with her. We manage." Clay smirked and flicked an imaginary speck of lint off his dark sleeve. His gold cufflinks caught the light.


"It's nice to see you back in a three-piece suit," she teased. "You look like yourself again. How are you feeling?"


"Steps are still a bit much, sorry I had to send Franklin to the door for you. But I'll be a hundred percent in no time."


Riding through the streets of the District in comfort instead of battling the traffic was a luxurious sensation. Abruptly she was reminded of Dalton, and shrugged it off as she inquired, "Where are we going tonight, anyway?"


"We're here." The big car sighed to a stop at the curb, and the chauffeur held the door as she stepped out. Clay followed, and she noticed he was using an ebony cane, but his limp was barely noticeable. She turned and looked up at the quiet stone building. A dark green canopy stretched from the entrance to the street. They ascended shallow carpeted steps to the entrance, where a liveried doorman opened the wide doors with a flourish.


"Evening, Charles," Clay said casually.


"Good evening, Mr. Webb," the man replied.


Mac gave Clay an inquiring glance. "Harvard Club," he explained briefly. She looked around with interest as they crossed the entrance hall. Her heels clicked on the marble floor, and suddenly she was glad she had worn her new black dress with the matching wrap.


"Ever been here?" Clay asked.


"No, I haven't. It's a beautiful building," she said.


"We'll go right to the table, James," Clay said to a footman, and gestured for Mac to precede him to the dining room. As they passed the cavernous lounge, Mac glimpsed a huge fireplace, walls lined with books, and about an acre of Oriental rugs. People were seated here and there in leather chairs, and there was a discreet hum of conversation, the clink of ice in crystal glasses.


The dining room it was dim and quiet, with only a few tables occupied. Paneled walls and tall, narrow windows rose to the ceiling high overhead, and Mac stared curiously at the walls lined with silver cups and old photographs massed on shelves. Athletics teams, she supposed, going back to the last century. The captain seated her and spread her napkin, then did the same for Clay.


"Very impressive," she smiled, looking around.


"It's quiet, and the food's good," Clay shrugged. She was intrigued by the offhand way he ignored the trappings of old money as if they were commonplace, a birthright. For him, she supposed they were.


They chatted easily during dinner. Clay's astute and waspish observations on everything from politics to popular culture were always entertaining, but she was still startled by the intensity of some of his conservative opinions. While he amused her with anecdotes about people he knew in the Bush administration, she reflected on his smug assumption that he always knew more about every topic than anyone else. The fact that he was often correct did not keep it from becoming faintly annoying, and after awhile, she began to weary of the need to lob back clever rejoinders. 'I wish just once you wouldn't have a comeback,' she thought, and was startled to recognize Harm's voice echoing in her mind.


Quickly she focused on Clay, watching the candlelight play over his thick, coppery hair, his elegant clothes, his strong hands, visualizing him riding and controlling a powerful horse. Despite the sarcasm, his sharp intelligence and wit were stimulating, and she basked in the gleam of admiration in his eyes.


But as the evening progressed, Mac found herself making an effort. When informed that his favorite author was Anthony Trollope, she had to stifle an urge to groan. We have so little in common, really, she thought as she smiled and nodded. Most of our work is classified or confidential, so we can't talk about it. We shared one horrific experience. And that leaves -- what?


" . . . took care of our friend Hardy," Clay said, and she tuned back in.


"He's dead?" she asked, startled. "How?"


"Bullet through the head. Somebody tried to make it look self-inflicted after too many shots of cana, but I think he finally tripped himself up playing both sides of the street."


"The next head of station will be a little more trustworthy, I hope," Mac said. She knew she would never get used to his casual attitude toward killings.


"We'll try. It's not a coveted posting, you know."


"Why did they keep someone like Hardy, anyway?"


"He had his uses. He knew the ropes down there."


"So the fact that he was a weasel and a liar and traded information with other parties didn't matter."


"Come on, Sarah. We seldom have the luxury of operating in an unambiguous situation, or dealing with people of high moral character." He regarded her, considering. "Speaking of which, you haven't asked me how Rabb's doing."


She looked away. "How is he doing?"


"He was offered a promotion to field agent. I was glad to hear he turned it down. The missions they have him flying are dangerous enough."


"What do you mean?" Her voice was quick and sharp.


Clay didn't miss it. "Rabb's a warrior, Sarah. That's why Kershaw recruited him -- he's smart, resourceful, confident, and as you and I both have reason to know, he never gives up. But Harm doesn't deal in shades of grey -- he's one hundred percent or nothing. They don't teach irony or ambiguity or lying at Annapolis."


"If you don't count lies of omission as well as commission."


Clay's eyes narrowed slightly at the undercurrent of bitterness in her voice. "Being uncommunicative or misleading is a long way from lying," he pointed out.


"That's just splitting hairs. It still makes it impossible to trust someone. How do you live with dodging shadows all the time, Clay?"


"Easily. But I'm not a Boy Scout like Rabb. One of these days, he's going to hang it all out for the wrong person and wind up dead."


"Harm isn't naive."


"No, but he is one naturally heroic son of a bitch, and he takes ungodly risks. I ought to know, he's saved my life twice."


"And you got his brother out of Chechnya. He'll never forget that."


"No, he won't. Unlike most people."


She wondered if that included her. "So you weren't kidding, were you? In the CIA, lying and murder really are just another day at the office."


The flick of his glance registered the barb. His grey eyes met hers. "And that's why Rabb's in the wrong line of work, Sarah."


"There's nothing I can do about that."


"You're probably the one person who *could.*"


She stared at him. "Why would Harm listen to me? He never has yet."


For a long moment Clay watched her with curious intensity, then dropped his gaze and rubbed his fingers absently over the fine white tablecloth. "If you really don't know, then it's certainly not my place to tell you," he replied. "Please forget I brought it up. Would you like dessert?"


The rest of dinner passed with light, pleasant chit-chat, but Mac couldn't shake the feeling that something important had passed, just out of her line of sight. Later, as the limousine purred past the White House, she stared at the lighted facade and wondered if Clay was right. It would be like Harm to bury his feelings by taking one dangerous assignment after another, she thought with a little prick of anxiety.


Clay's fingers closed over hers where they lay on the seat, and he leaned forward. "Take a swing around the monuments, Franklin," he said, and touched a button to put up the screen.


"That sounds like a line from an old movie," Mac teased.


"Hey, it worked for Kevin Costner," Clay said with an arrogant smile. Slowly, he placed two fingers beneath her chin and tilted her face to his.


His kiss was warm and firm, and it lingered long enough to ask the question. His lips were very soft. She found herself wondering what on earth she was going to say.


Finally he leaned back and regarded her intently. "This is never going to work, is it Sarah?" It wasn't a question.


She let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. "No," she agreed. "I'm sorry, Clay."


"Don't be. I'm not."


"Clay" --


"Please. Let's not get into the part about how we'll always be friends. You know we will."


She nodded silently.


* * *


A Friday night two weeks later, 1900 Hours EST

JAG Headquarters, Falls Church, Virginia


Mac sat back with a sigh and rubbed her tired eyes. Her neck ached, the close print of the legal brief was beginning to blur, and she was sure she had read the same paragraph three times. The pool of golden lamplight on her desk seemed to be the only source of illumination in the silent old building.


I should go home, she thought as she poked at her discarded shoes beneath the desk with a stocking toe. The thought of another evening alone in her apartment discouraged her, and the idea of a meal from a can or the microwave killed any appetite she might have had. I swear I can feel my ass spreading to the exact dimensions of this chair, she grumbled to herself.


Irritably she wadded up a sheet of scratch paper and tossed it at the wastebasket, where it bounced off the rim onto the carpet. Shit, she thought with a spurt of unaccustomed self-pity. I'm thirty-five, I haven't dated anyone in just about forever, and the most exciting prospect for my weekend is the laundry. I need a life.


"Excuse me, Mac?" Mac looked up quickly to see Meredith, who was standing with her hand raised to knock at the open door. "I was just leaving and saw you were still here."


"As always," Mac replied, trying to sound cheerful.


"I came to meet AJ, but he has to go to some late meeting over at the Pentagon. Would you like to join me for dinner? I haven't seen you in ages."


Mac started to say no, and stopped. Why not? She liked Meredith, and God knows she wasn't getting anything done here. "I'd love to. Where?"


"How about Callisto's? Shall we meet there? Then you won't need to come back for your car."


"Sounds great," Mac smiled, and stood up, straightening some stacks of papers.


"I'll go on and get a table. See you there," Meredith waved and hurried out.


When Mac arrived, the restaurant was already crowded, but she spotted Meredith waving to her from a booth against the wall.


"Oh, this is delightful," Meredith beamed. "I've been meaning to call you for lunch for weeks and catch up. How *are* you?"


"I'm fine, thanks. I don't think I've had a chance to congratulate you on your engagement." She raised her goblet of water, and the crystal rang as she touched it to Meredith's wine glass.


"And to think it was you who introduced us!"


"That wasn't deliberate, you know."


"*I* know that, Mac. I'm not sure AJ believes it, though," Meredith smiled.


Mac picked up her menu and said, "I hear you're having your wedding at Annapolis?"


"Yes, in the Academy chapel. AJ is Catholic, I'm Presbyterian, it seemed like a perfect compromise. Besides, when I married my first husband, we had the wedding in a park, with bare feet," Meredith laughed. "I knew AJ would demand a little more dignity this time around."


"I didn't know you had been married before."


"We met in graduate school, but we divorced a couple of years later when we realized we had absolutely nothing in common but our PhDs." She looked up as the waiter materialized at her elbow. "Oh, yes, I'll have the calamari. You really should try it, Mac, it's a specialty here."


"I'm afraid squid always tastes like rubber bands to me," Mac smiled. "I'm a Marine, remember? The lasagna, please." Suddenly the joke turned bitter in her mouth. She handed her menu to the waiter and turned to Meredith. "I got married too young, too."


"It helped me over that horrible transition from school to the real world. There are worse reasons to get married, I suppose, but I'm glad we were able to move on without too much difficulty. It would have been harder if we'd had children."


Mac hesitated, and then something prompted her to say, "I'm beginning to think I'll never get a chance to have kids. Do you ever regret not doing it?"


Meredith looked pensively at the candles glowing on the table. "Regret is the wrong word, I think. I would have loved to have children, in the right circumstances, but now that a wonderful man has come along, the time has passed. I'm 44, and I can't see asking AJ to start raising a baby at 58. Fortunately, we both have rich, full lives, and I adore my students. Besides, I don't have to change their diapers or pay tuition," she grinned.


When she saw Mac's half-hearted smile, Meredith leaned forward impulsively and laid a light hand on her wrist. "But there's no reason for you to give up, dear."


"I'm 35, and I don't have the best track record with relationships," Mac answered lightly. "It's funny, I never expected to make my career the center of my life, but it's the one thing I haven't made a mess of." She thought of her Article 32 hearing, and a vivid memory of Harm flashed through her.


"AJ thinks the world of you and the job you do, I'm sure you know that."


"I haven't been doing so well lately."


Meredith's keen gaze regarded her as the waiter placed salads before them. "AJ doesn't talk about things at the office, of course, but I know you went through an ordeal a few months ago. You look exhausted."


"We're short-handed, so we've all been working long hours. The admiral still hasn't found another litigator he wants to move up to headquarters."


"Yes, so I understand. Commander Rabb will not be easy to replace." Meredith was watching her intently, and Mac had a sinking feeling that she wouldn't let it go. Sure enough, Meredith asked, "Have you heard from him? How is he doing?"


Mac wondered irritably why everyone seemed to assume she had some sort of hotline to Harmon Rabb. "I don't have a clue," she replied shortly. "He hasn't returned my calls."


"I'm sorry to hear that," Meredith said, noting the defensiveness underlying Mac's tone. "He went through quite an ordeal himself last spring, even before all this happened."


"Harm always bounces back."


After a pause, Meredith said kindly, "I'm sorry. I didn't stop to think that you'd probably prefer not discuss this with the boss's fiancée."


"Meredith, I'm sorry. I didn't mean" --


"Nonsense, of course you did. And you're quite right. I'm not used to being part of a couple, it's something I still have to get used to."


"I imagine it's a big adjustment."


"I didn't expect it, but yes, it is. I've had relationships before, of course, but never anything like AJ. He's such an overwhelming presence, yet so painfully inarticulate when it comes to personal matters," she shook her head fondly. "It must be hard to go from giving orders that are instantly obeyed to discussing your innermost feelings."


"The service tends to instill that in people," Mac observed. "It can be hard for two strong-willed personalities to make it work."


"I don't know about that. A balance of complementary forces is the only thing that's satisfying in the long run, don't you think?"


"A balancing act can get awfully hard," Mac replied, feeling a little defensive. "It can seem more like a tug of war."


"Don't I know it. AJ and I both lived alone for years, so we're both used to deciding everything without consulting anyone else. I get so excited about making plans and trying new things, it took me forever to notice that he didn't really enjoy some of them. He was too polite to say so, poor dear."


"He is one of the most private men I know."


Meredith's eyes were twinkling. "Remember when he announced our engagement without mentioning it to me? When I confronted him about it, he just said, 'So, interested?'" They both chuckled.


"How did you handle it?" Mac grinned.


"Finally I marched myself into his office and asked him if he was trying to propose to me. The poor man just needed a little help."


Mac leaned back against the banquette and took a sip of water. "Sometimes those kinds of conversations backfire."


Meredith tilted her head. "That's true, of course. But I find if I listen carefully, he tells me what I need to know. More by the things he does than what he says. 'Strong reasons make strong actions,' and all that."


"And what if he never did ask?" Mac said softly.


"You know, last winter I was beginning to wonder. So I told him how *I* felt, and made it clear there were no strings attached." Meredith's shrewd gaze was warm with compassion. "If AJ hadn't responded, it would have hurt. But I would have moved on, eventually. Any self-respecting woman would."


"I've never been brave enough to say 'I love you' first."


Meredith was silent. Finally she said, "I guess I was more concerned about his feelings than my own."


Mac looked up quickly, but the waiter moved in to serve and she lost sight of Meredith's expression. As they began to eat, Meredith smiled cheerfully and demanded, "So tell me, how is Chloe?" And the moment passed.


But for Mac, later, sleep was a long time coming.


* * *


Late November, 2200 EST

Andrews Air Force Base, Washington, D.C.


"This way, ma'am." The skinny kid on the flight crew could not have been more than eighteen, and Mac thought, damn, it's finally happened. I could be this kid's mother.


He shouldered her sea bag and she followed him out toward the enormous military transport parked on the concrete. The autumn night was chilly and clear, with a brisk breeze that hinted at a change in the weather. Mac sighed. It had been a long day, and it was about to get a lot longer. God, why did the admiral have to pick *her* to spend the next 15 hours trying to sleep sitting up aboard military transports? Why couldn't someone in Japan handle the problems at Seventh Fleet?


A movement caught the corner of her eye and she turned to see a shiny Lear jet taxi up to the next gate. Its door opened, and immediately three men in suits trotted down the steps carrying briefcases. They were met by a couple of people who emerged from the building, and there was a lot of handshaking.


Feds? VIPs? Her idle curiosity evaporated as she turned to board the transport. And stopped, with her foot on the bottom step.


A tall, broad shouldered figure in a flight suit had emerged from the Lear and joined the group on the tarmac. Even in the darkness, half blinded by the lights reflecting off the vast expanse of runways, Mac knew who it was.


Harm shook hands with one of the men, and they stepped aside for a private word. They came a step closer, and Mac could see Harm's face clearly. He looked tired. Harm said something, watching the other man, then looked down thoughtfully. He nodded once or twice.


Soldiers were tromping up the ramp behind her, but Mac was oblivious to the noise. As she watched, Harm turned to take a clipboard from one of the ground crew and stood there alone, scribbling something. Mac hesitated, then started toward him with a tentative step.


She stopped abruptly when Harm looked up, but he was staring the other way. A slim blonde woman was approaching, a light rain coat billowing around her as her high heels tapped across the pavement. When she reached Harm, she put her hand on his arm and said something, smiling up at him. Mac recognized Catherine Gale.


Harm said something, and Catherine answered, nodding. Then he bent and kissed her.


Fifty yards away, Mac stared in disbelief. It wasn't a passionate clinch, but it was definitely not a platonic kiss on the cheek. She stood frozen, watching Harm and Catherine turn to walk toward the lighted doorway. His arm slid around her shoulders in a casual gesture, familiar and relaxed. The way couples touch who have been together for awhile.


Thank God it was dark, Mac thought, stepping back into the shadow of the big plane. Finally she forced herself to look away and climb the ramp, find a seat, and strap herself in. Her mind was blank, and her lips and fingers felt stiff with shock. She wrapped her arms tightly around herself as the big plane taxied out and took off with a roar of engines.


Okay, Mackenzie, she chided herself. You have no business being upset. Why should it bother you? This is what you wanted. He's a man, he has a perfect right . . . .


Sleepless, she stared out at the night sky for hours, numbed by the metallic roar of the engines, wondering whether she would ever feel warm again.


End Part Two



Shadowland -- Part Three


December 1, 2200 Pacific Standard Time

Jakarta, Indonesia


A decrepit taxi lumbered over the broken pavement like an old blind dog nosing through piles of refuse. Flaking walls on either side nearly scraped the doors, and the glare from the honky tonk district in the next street barely penetrated the shadows.


Marine sergeant Bill Sybalski was vaguely aware that his face was bumping against the greasy floor of the cab with every lurch. He tried to lift his head, but it felt huge and heavy. Jesus, where were they? He didn't remember getting this drunk.


"Ramirez?" he mumbled, struggling to look around. "Dammit Steve, where" --


A kick slammed his face back into the floor and a tense voice shouted something unintelligible. His nostrils clogged with dirt and the thick reek of garlic and fish and stale sweat, but he kept still, listening and hoping his head would stop spinning. As his vision cleared a little, he realized there were three men crammed into the back seat, their feet scuffing the floor beside him. He could hear two more talking in front. The heavy body lying next to him had to be Ramirez.


Sybalski moved a little more and discovered his hands were free. If he could just get a purchase with his knee and reach the door handle --


Another kick landed squarely in the small of his back and he crumpled, gasping for breath. With a harsh string of words, bitten off, the driver jerked the cab to a halt, and rough hands grabbed him under the shoulders, dragging him out and dumping him onto the pavement. He landed face down in a slimy puddle and felt Ramirez thump beside him.


With a string of hissed curses and a last kick to his ribs, their faceless assailants melted away. It took enormous concentration for Sybalski to roll onto his side and grope for his wallet. Funny, it was still there. What the hell?


He looked up blearily. They seemed to be lying in an alley behind some sort of bar or club. Loud music thumped and throbbed into the night and smears of red and orange neon gleamed in oily puddles here and there. He could hear voices shouting above the music, smell the sharp tang of cigarettes wafting through the back door.


"Ramirez?" he mumbled through stiff lips. "C'mon man, we gotta get outta here." He poked at the corporal's shoulder and was rewarded with a faint groan. "C'mon, man. Can you get up?" Sybalski struggled to his knees, then his feet, and began to manhandle Ramirez to a sitting position. The corporal groaned again and tried to stand.


The two men had just staggered to their feet when a dazzling flash and a deafening blast flung them forward on a wave of searing heat, and they never heard the screams or the roar of the flames shooting thirty feet high from the building behind them.


* * *


December 2, 1300 PST

Prefecture of Police, Jakarta, Indonesia


"As you were." Mac slowly set down her brief case on the scarred wooden table and stared at the two Marines. "You two look like you went through a meat grinder."


Sybalski stared over her left shoulder with the eye that wasn't swollen shut. "Don't know what you mean, ma'am."


"Can it, sergeant. Who roughed you up?"


"The locals got a little excited, ma'am."


Mac sighed. She sat down and gestured. "Sit."


The two men lowered themselves gingerly into chairs across the table and watched as Mac uncapped her pen. "Okay," she began crisply, "we are going to proceed under the assumption that anything and everything we say here, or that you say to each other in your cell, is being recorded. Therefore, when necessary I will ask you to respond in writing, understood?" Both men nodded. "Good. Don't forget it, you're already in enough trouble. I assume you both realize that you have created an international incident simply by being found near the site of the bombing? Not to mention, it was in a part of town you had no authorization to visit on your liberty pass?"


"Excuse me, ma'am. But we didn't go there. We were *taken* there. Corporal Ramirez and me, we were hanging out with some buddies in the red light district, and we hooked up with a couple of bar girls who wanted us to go with them. Next thing I know, we're in a taxi with five guys and they dump us in that alley. We didn't even have time to walk two steps before the explosion."


"Did the women give you anything to drink or eat? Where did you go, a hotel, an apartment, what?"


Ramirez spoke up. "Ma'am, I don't even remember getting there. I think somebody pushed us into a cab while we were walking down the street, but I was already pretty out of it."


"Were you drunk?"


"I only had two beers, Colonel."


"What about you, Sergeant?"


"Same here, ma'am. But like Steve said, they must have put something in them. I began feeling dizzy right after we left the bar."


Since both Marines were over 200 pounds of solid muscle, Mac tended to agree. "These men in the taxi -- what can you tell me about them? Did they hit you over the head or beat you up to get you into the cab?"


Both young men looked affronted. "They were skinny, smelly little guys," Sybalski scoffed. "Locals, definitely. Didn't speak English that I could hear. No way they could have taken us if we hadn't been passed out."


"Would you recognize any of them again?" Each Marines shook his head no.


"So what happened to the two girls?"


"I dunno, ma'am. They just sorta disappeared."


"Tell me what happened when you got to the bar. Is it a place Marines usually go?"


"Yes, ma'am. There's only about three places we're allowed to hang out, anyway. They're not too friendly to Americans here, and they only give us passes to that part of town."


"Did you go to more than one place?"


"No, just the Blue Lagoon. We usually go to there. We were with our buddies, see, and they all wanted to go for the live music."


"Did you ask for these girls specifically?"


Sybalski looked at her in polite disbelief. "No, ma'am. They always just come right up to you. Most of them speak a little American."


"Would you recognize them again?"


Ramirez looked up alertly. Mac held up her hand for silence, and pushed the legal pad across the table. Laboriously, Ramirez wrote, "Check Mancuso's camera."


* * *


Next day, 1600 PST

Office of the Ambassador, United States Embassy, Jakarta


"So that's why I need to request the assistance of one of your Marines, sir," Mac said.


Edward Beresford steepled his fingers and touched them to the bridge of his nose. "Not a chance."


"May I ask why, sir?" Mac glared at him, and Beresford held up a well groomed hand.


"Easy, Colonel. It's not that I don't want to help. But every single member of my Marine detail is known down there. You walk into those joints with any of them and start asking questions, and those women will disappear."


"What about a member of your staff?"


"Are you kidding? Can you imagine a member of my diplomatic staff in one of those dives, looking for a pair of hookers? Washington is breathing down my neck already."


"I'm sure you are aware, Mr. Beresford, that the only way to salvage this disaster is to establish that our people were not responsible?"


"For a secret plot that killed 32 tourists and injured another 100 people, many of them Indonesian citizens? Gee, Colonel, I can't imagine why we'd want to distance ourselves from that," he snapped sarcastically. "The fact is, your Marines were in the wrong place at the wrong time."


"They were kidnapped and used as scapegoats, they have been badly beaten in the local jail, and if we can't find a way to remove them from Indonesian jurisdiction, they will be executed. I am not going to allow that to happen, Mr. Ambassador." Mac's voice was rising along with her temper.


"And just how do you propose to do that?" Beresford put his head on one side.


"I'll go alone if I have to."


"Hold it, Colonel. Just hold on." Beresford regarded her with frosty grey eyes. "I understand Semper Fi and all that, but I can't have you creating another diplomatic nightmare, not with the situation the way it is these days." He tapped his fingertip on the desk blotter for a moment and looked up. "Wait. I have an idea." He pressed a button and said, "Rose, would you please ask Mr. Roberts to join us?"


"Roberts?" Mac asked. She was still simmering.


"CIA. He's here for something I'm not at liberty to discuss. But he might be just the ticket" --


The door opened. "You wanted to see me, sir?"


Mac whipped around.


"Mr. Roberts. This is Lieutenant Colonel Mackenzie. Colonel, this is David Roberts. Please, join us." Beresford gestured graciously.


Without a flicker of recognition, Roberts glanced at Mac and seated himself in a leather chair in front of the desk, then turned his attention politely to the ambassador. Mac watched him while Beresford explained the situation. "So, Roberts. Would you be able and/or willing to accompany Colonel Mackenzie this evening? I believe your other duties don't begin until tomorrow?"


Roberts sat quietly, staring at Beresford, deliberating. "If the Indonesians get a hint that the CIA was involved, even if it's only for the investigation, we'll lose all credibility."


Beresford turned over an empty hand. "We don't have much now."


"Just so you understand. I can't be called to testify later, no matter what happens," Roberts said. "As long as that's clear, I guess I can do it."


Gracious of you, Mac thought irritably.


"Splendid. Well, I'll let the two of you go along, I'm sure you have things you need to discuss." Beresford stood and ushered them to the door with smooth, practiced ease. "By the way, I trust you'll join us this evening? We're having a reception for the delegations who have arrived to discuss the bombing situation. I don't imagine you'll leave before 10 tonight? Ah, excellent. Until this evening, then." The heavy door closed behind them.


"Um, the terrace might be a good place to talk," she said, gesturing at the tall glass doors.


"I thought you were all through talking, Mac," Harm said coolly, and held the door open for her.


* * *


"I take it I'm not supposed to know you." Her voice came out all right, she thought.


"Nope."


"I thought you turned down the offer to be a field agent."


"Webb tell you that?"


She nodded and caught a flicker of something in his eyes, quickly veiled. They walked slowly through the big walled garden, watching the shadows of palms play across the warm paving stones. She felt as if she were walking with a stranger. Harm looked fit and tanned, dressed in khakis and a blue chambray work shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His collar was open, and his hair was longer. But the hardness around his mouth was new, as were the faint lines at the corners of his eyes.


After an uncomfortable pause, he said, "They sent me here to fly a chopper to pick up an American biologist, but this bombing means no U.S. aircraft will be allowed over Indonesian air space. So I have to walk in. They're driving me up into the mountains tomorrow."


"Am I supposed to know about this?"


He shrugged. "You have clearance. Just don't spread it around. The guy's been working in the jungle for six months, studying endangered monkeys or some damn thing, and he's a big deal with the National Geographic Society. They were worried that anti-American sentiment in the island would make him a kidnapping target, so they leaned on various people in Washington, and here I am. The bombing incident made it urgent. I'm posing as a botanist who's joining his expedition."


"Since when do you fly helicopters?"


"A lot can happen in six months, Mac."


"I wouldn't know. You haven't answered any of my messages."


"I've been out of town a lot."


"Does that mean you don't have any time for old friends?"


He didn't answer right away, and she had the distinct impression he was holding onto his temper. When he finally spoke, his voice was deadly quiet. "I moved on, Mac. You made it clear that's what you wanted."


"I didn't think it meant we'd never talk again."


Harm's eyes flashed. "Jesus, Mac. What the hell do you want from me? Every time I have ever tried to talk to you, you've bitten my head off and walked away!"


He expected her to flare up, but instead she crossed her arms and nodded. She said carefully, "You're right." His heart twisted as he saw her summon her courage before she went on, "You deserve better, especially from me. Whatever you have to say, Harm, I'm willing to listen."


For a long moment they stood silent, staring at each other. "Well, once again, Mac, you've managed to surprise me," he said at last, angry and off balance. He glanced around, trying to imagine where to start. Exasperation and longing tumbled through him in a kaleidoscope of emotions too confusing and terrifying to confront. He looked away in disgust, with her, with himself. "You know what, Mac? Sometimes it's just too damn late."


Stung, Mac said in a rush, "Dammit, Harm, don't use that as an excuse! You always keep everything to yourself. Even stuff that concerns me, too." She drew a shaky breath, adding in a softer tone, "And it's impossible to trust someone who won't trust you back."


He went very still. "There was a time when I thought we trusted each other with our lives."


"I would still trust you with my life. You'd do anything to rescue someone, but nothing gets through those walls of yours!"


The emotions had spiraled up so quickly between them, Mac could not trust herself to continue, and Harm's face was like stone. Furiously she swallowed back the treacherous tears that burned behind her eyes.


After a long moment, he looked away. "You've been thinking that out for a while."


"Yeah." She swallowed.


By unspoken accord, they turned together and walked for a few minutes in silence. At last, Harm said, "Look. You should know, I've been seeing Catherine Gale since June." She could almost hear the click in the lock.


Moments passed in silence, broken only by the chattering of a bird high in the bougainvillea on the wall. At last, she cleared her throat and said, "I see." Her voice sounded rusty.


"So how do you want to handle this job tonight, Colonel?" His voice was cool, devoid of emotion, professional.


"You still want to do it?"


"Hey, don't deprive me of the chance to rescue somebody, all right?"


"I don't want you to get into trouble again."


A private smile flitted across his face and was gone. "Let's look at the big picture, Mac. If the Marines get tagged for the bombing, the U.S. will never get any more cooperation on terrorism in this country. That concerns the CIA just as much as the Navy." He added impatiently, "So how do you want to proceed? It's your operation."


Mac took a steadying breath and said, in a voice that sounded far away to her ears, "I thought we could pose as a tourist couple looking for a little three-way action. That way, we have a reason to ask for two particular girls."


"And how do you propose to recognize them? Did the Marines give you a really detailed description?"


She slipped something out of her pocket and held it up. Sybalski and Ramirez grinned out of the snapshot with their arms around two giggling young women. "One of their buddies likes to take pictures."


* * *


That evening, 2000 Hours PST

American Embassy, Jakarta


The swooping spikes of brilliant orange didn't really look like flowers, Harm thought. More like a flock of exotic tropical birds alighting on the table in the foyer. Birds of paradise, he remembered. That's what they're called. Mom used to order them for the gallery.


He stood in the shadow of a tall pillar apart from the ebb and flow of guests. His lightweight summer suit was a little casual for the diplomatic gathering, but it was perfect for blending into the background. If anyone wondered who he was, he could pass for an embassy staffer.


Candles flickered as a warm breeze moved through the gallery. He turned to look, and a jolt of adrenaline hit him. Mac was standing in the doorway. All the light in the room seemed to coalesce around her as the noisy hubbub faded away.


Slender and tall, she stood poised lightly on slim high heeled sandals, surveying the crowd with serene grace. A simple black dress skimmed her body from breasts to knees, highlighting her flawless shoulders, clinging to every curve.


The blood pounded in his veins, and he swallowed once before stepping from the shadows, moving toward her without conscious volition. "Mac." God damn it, would there ever come a day when she didn't get to him?


She lifted her lovely eyes to his, and he was startled by the sadness he glimpsed in their depths. Anger, even hurt, he would have expected, but not this wistful sorrow.


"David," she nodded coolly. He kicked himself. Focus, Rabb.


"Ah -- yeah. You look very nice, Colonel." The candlelight picked up the exquisite freshness and polish of her skin, catching the sheen of light along her collarbone and across the swell of her breasts. Her perfume was a delicate trace of Chanel, the same as he had given her last Christmas.


"Thank you," she said lightly, with an attempt at a smile. "This is the perfect all-in-one emergency travel dress. Just a change of shoes and it's casual enough for a pub crawl."


"Does that mean you're wearing that invitation to riot when we go out tonight?"


"We are not 'going out.' I'm pursuing an investigation."


"And I'm your bodyguard, is that it?"


That got through. A flash betrayed her cool reserve and she shot back, "Does that suit come equipped with a cyanide pill?"


"They issue them to us along with the shoe phone and the decoder ring."


"Which reminds me. Did you think using 'Bud' would be too obvious?"


"I keep looking behind me when someone calls me by another name. And 'Harmon' is a little too distinctive."


"That's one word for it."


He decided to change the subject. "Considering the bombing was less than 48 hours ago, you got here in one hell of a hurry. How come they sent you, anyway? There must have been someone at PACFLEET with enough seniority."


"I was already in Japan," she replied tartly. "The admiral sent me to Yokosuka two weeks ago to handle a court martial, so he told me to get down here on the double."


"Congratulations, Mac. You're his top gun."


"Only because you're not around."


"No," he said, and she looked up. "Because you're one hell of a lawyer. You should be proud, Mac."


"I am," she said with quiet gravity.


Harm watched her for a moment, his gaze intent. "A few years ago, you would have ducked the compliment or tried to knock my block off."


She started to retort and stopped. "You're right," she said with an air of faint surprise. "I didn't want anyone to realize I was in over my head."


"Is that why you had a chip on your shoulder the size of a telephone pole?"


"You noticed."


"You got over it."


"I had help," she said, almost to herself. He glanced at her, surprised, and they lapsed into silence.


"How are the politicians handling your involvement?" he asked finally, eyeing the crowd.


"It's a tightrope. The government wants to show the Muslim population that they aren't American puppets. At the same time, they want to keep the radicals under control, and they want to keep our financial support. A lot of Indonesians apparently believe we orchestrated the bombing to put pressure on the government for dragging their heels on identifying terrorists. The conservatives want to get rid of the president and reestablish a dictatorship. And of course, I'm expected to prove that our Marines weren't involved."


"Oh, is that all? Just the usual, huh?"


"Well, at least we have backup tonight. They made the police available to bring the witnesses in for questioning, if we find them."


Harm started to reply when the ambassador's wife joined them, arm in arm with a big man in a seersucker jacket and a Western string tie. Mrs. Beresford was short and skeletally thin, with a helmet of carefully frosted blonde hair, and she performed the introductions with imperial authority. "Colonel Mackenzie, may I present Jackson Bierman? Mr. Bierman owns one of the oil platforms drilling in the Sunda Strait. He was so eager to meet you."


"Miz Beresford here tells me you're a Marine," the man proclaimed in a booming voice. "God damn, Colonel, I served in 'Nam '68 to '70, and they sure as hell didn't supply Marines in your model." Bierman grabbed Mac's outstretched hand and pumped it. His wide, florid face split into a friendly grin. "Nice to meet another American out here."


"It's a pleasure, Mr. Bierman," Mac said faintly. Her reserved air told Harm she was feeling shy, but he doubted anyone else could tell. Mac gestured. "This is Com -- Mr. Roberts," she said, correcting quickly. Harm returned the man's crushing grip.


"Roberts," Bierman nodded, summing him up with a sharp stare that reminded Harm of AJ Chegwidden. He turned back to Mac. "They tell me you're the JAG investigating the bombing," Bierman said, lowering his voice. His bright blue eyes were shrewd. "You gonna get our boys out of the local lockup?"


"I certainly intend to," Mac said.


Bierman shook his head. "They were framed, no question about it. They want to hang it on us, but I wouldn't be surprised if half of the government wasn’t in on it. Hell, they'd grab my oil rig if I wasn't in international waters. As it is, I have to keep my own private security force out there. Couldn't have gotten here tonight otherwise -- they know my chopper, don't worry if it shows up on their radar screens." He grinned. "Pulled me in to represent 'American commercial interests' in the talks. What a load of crap."


"What do you mean, Mr. Bierman?" Mac asked, curious.


He cocked an eye at her. "Make it Jake, ma'am, and we've got a deal."


"Jake," Mac smiled.


Bierman caught Harm's frown and grinned. "Look, I've found oil in every part of the world, from Venezuela to Alaska to Russia. Every place it's the same damn thing. We find the stuff, invest in the infrastructure, bring in revenue they never dreamed of, and they want to take it over."


"I don't believe Al Qaeda is about money, Jake" --


"Honey, it's *always* about money. Money equals power. You mark my words, somebody's out to make something out of this. Hell, Al Qaeda would be crazy to do these bombings, this island was a safe haven for them."


Mrs. Beresford intervened firmly. "Mr. Bierman -- this discussion really needs to wait for another time. Now," she said brightly, "won't you all join me in the library? The dalang is about to start."


Jake Bierman nodded politely and offered Mac a burly arm. "Colonel, will you do me the honor?" Harm realized he had been effectively cut out.


"I'd be delighted," Mac smiled graciously, and rested her hand on the proffered elbow. Harm followed and scowled when he saw Bierman lean over and whisper in her ear. God damn it, did the son of a bitch have to breathe all over her like that?


Harm stood close behind them as people jostled into the library. Bierman was practically slobbering on Mac's shoulder, for God's sake, and she was actually smiling at him. Just as he had decided to say something, the hell with it, he saw an embassy assistant whisper to Bierman. The big man frowned, muttered an apology to Mac as he pressed something into her hand, and sidled away through the throng of people.


Harm stepped to Mac's side. "Did John Wayne have to head back to the ranch?"


"He was very sweet," Mac said. A dimple appeared in her cheek.


"Clay won't be happy to hear you were flirting with an oil baron," Harm sneered in an undertone.


"I hate to disappoint you, but it's really not up to Clay," Mac hissed in reply. She frowned and didn't look away from the white curtain that obscured one end of the enormous room.


"What?"


"You heard me," she said in a low tone.


Harm was about to retort when Mrs. Beresford whispered at his elbow, "Have you ever seen the wayang kulit, Mr. Roberts? No? The shadow puppets are one of the oldest storytelling traditions in the world. It's central to Javanese culture, so we're having it tonight to make them feel welcome."


The lights dimmed, leaving the audience in darkness as kindled lanterns behind the screen illuminated its surface. Mac leaned across Harm to whisper, "What's going on, Mrs. Beresford?" Harm could think of nothing but the curve of her breast as it brushed his arm.


"I guess you could call it a puppet show," Mrs. Beresford said. "But it's really more of a play. One man, the dalang, does all the voices, and he sits behind the screen with the musicians. He also works the puppets, and all we see are shadows on the curtain. In the villages, they have performances for every important occasion, and I hear it can go on all night."


"What's it about?" Mac asked. At that moment, a musical chord sounded from behind the glowing curtain. Drums, tambourines, and a wailing flute took up the discordant chant as two huge shadows loomed and sharpened upon the lighted screen.


"The stories are based on Hindu legends that came from India nearly two thousand years ago," Mrs. Beresford whispered. "This one is about the noble Rama, who marries his lover Simtra. They are banished by evil lords to the forest, and have to overcome many dangers to escape."


Two silhouettes in elaborate headresses lurched and danced across the curtain with stylized movements, accompanied by keening and exclamations from the dalang. The effect was magical. "Artists carve the puppets from leather," Mrs. Beresford went on. "They're quite beautiful. They have different expressions on the faces, depending on the story -- sometimes they use a happy one, sometimes angry, or sad."


Harm was intrigued in spite of himself. The jerky shadows had a mysterious, compelling beauty. "They seem so lifelike," Mac breathed, entranced. "Does the story have a happy ending?"


"That's hard to say," the ambassador's wife said quietly. "The prince and his princess represent nobility and honor to the Javanese. The saga shows their courage in the face of adversity, and their devotion to their duty and to one another. There are more than 200 stories in the Rama cycle. I have never seen the lovers together in the end."


Harm looked down at Mac. She stood beside him, watching with a rapt expression as the light from the screen flickered across her face. After a moment she sensed him staring and lifted her eyes to his.


* * *


December 4, 0130 Hours PST

Blue Lagoon Bar, Jakarta


Bright smears of neon reflected on the wet pavement as police spotlights swept the boisterous crowd. Two stoic cops carried a struggling, garishly dressed woman out of the bar, ignoring her screaming invective, and bundled her into the back of a car. One of her shoes flew off as she kicked wildly at the door.


"Glad I don't have to ride with them," Harm observed from the doorway. "Man, she can't weigh more than ninety pounds soaking wet, and it took two of them."


"At least nobody seems to realize this is anything more than a routine bust," Mac said. "With that crowd, it could get ugly." A bottle soared overhead and smashed against the broken pavement, and she flinched. Instinctively, he moved in front of her.


"We actually found them." He shook his head.


"You didn't think we would."


"No, I didn't. You called it, Mac."


"You sold them on the idea of a foursome," she grinned.


"We made a good team," he said lightly, with a quick, veiled glance.


"Do you ever miss it?"


"Sure." His face gave nothing away.


An awkward little silence fell between them. "What time do you have to leave?" she finally asked.


"Oh-four hundred. God, I can't believe I have to spend two days bushwhacking through the jungle."


"Sounds like a job for the Marines."


"You're right. Want to come?"


The tropical night was sultry, but suddenly she shivered, as if someone had stroked a cold finger between her shoulder blades. "Want to stay?" she whispered.


Harm was utterly still. Then, "I wish I could," he said quietly, and shrugged out of his jacket. She looked up wistfully as he slipped it around her shoulders, knowing they both were thinking of another night, another time. Harm cleared his throat. "At least we found them, Mac. With any luck, you should be able to clear your guys."


She nodded.


"Is this how it was that time in Aceh?" he looked away, changing the subject.


"Well, we aren't running for our lives. But yes, there's the same feeling of -- I don't know, hidden currents, rage -- all beneath the surface. Like a powder keg ready to blow."


They stood silent. "Well," Harm sighed, "I'd better go pack for my camping trip."


She handed his jacket back to him, and for just a moment they held it between them, his hands over hers. "Thanks for helping, Harm. Take care."


"You too, Marine." He lifted his hand, as if to touch her, and stopped. "See you."


She watched until he climbed into his taxi before going to the waiting police car.


End Part Three



Shadowland -- Part Four


1130 Hours PST

Ambassador's office


"You actually *found* these women?" Beresford stared at Mac, astonished.


"Yes, sir. They were working the crowd in the bar at the same place where they picked up the Marines. The police and I have been questioning them all night, and the women confessed to drugging Sybalski and Ramirez and leading them to a taxicab. They gave us descriptions of the men who hired them, and I have it all on tape. Sir, it's more than enough to get those two men released to our custody."


"Will you charge the Marines?"


"No, sir."


"The government will want someone held responsible. We've already squandered a lot of our credibility in Indonesia because our policies are focused on protecting American business interests rather than promoting efforts at democracy. A lot of people would like to see your Marines found guilty."


"Sir, the women gave us enough for the police to find out who abducted the Marines. They've already pulled in two people, and there's more."


The ambassador waited, listening. Mac went on, "Thirty minutes ago, one of the suspects identified the man who hired him. Sir, he said the man was wearing the uniform of an Indonesian army officer."


"My God. Those witnesses need to be in protective custody, right now." Beresford grabbed the phone. "Janie, get me the prefect of police." He sat back and stared at Mac. "This needs to be handled very carefully, Colonel. It could blow the lid off things down here. There's a reactionary faction in the military that must have orchestrated the bombing to discredit both the government and us. Every time there's another terrorist incident, popular sentiment grows for the military to take over. If they succeed in ousting the president, the country goes back to a dictatorship and we lose any hope of controlling terrorist cells based in Indonesia. You've done a hell of a job, Colonel."


"Thank you, sir. But have you considered what their next move might be?"


"Not yet, but I have a feeling you have."


"They might try to preempt us." She leaned forward. "Sir, Mr. Roberts left at dawn to join the National Geographic expedition. A military escort drove him to the insertion point. Suppose they decide to create another incident and involve the CIA? Professor Marburg is a prominent scientist, it would attract international attention and discredit anything the U.S. might say."


"What kind of incident?"


"I don't know -- something where they could claim Marburg's expedition was spying for the CIA."


"Do you have any evidence of such a plan, Colonel?"


"No, sir. But can we afford to discount the possibility?"


Beresford's gaze sharpened. "Even if I agreed with your theory, Colonel, what do you propose to do? I can't send a group of Marines inland, it would be considered an act of war. Do you have some way to reach Roberts?"


"No, sir. But I believe Marburg has a satellite uplink."


"And what do you propose to say?"


"Not to rendezvous with their military escort, for starters. We could arrange for helo extraction" --


"Colonel. There is no way we're going to get clearance for an American aircraft to fly over Java right now. And if we send a satellite transmission, the Indonesian military will be the first ones to pick it up."


"So you're going to just ignore this?"


"I'm going to play the percentages and hope you're wrong. If they try something, they know we have proof they were behind the bombings."


"And if you're wrong, no one will even care what we say about the bombings -- provided the witnesses even survive that long. CIA covert operations will be much bigger news."


"What do you suggest? That I call Washington and float this -- this theory of yours? Face it, Colonel, there is nothing more I can do right now."


Mac continued to scowl at him, but her gaze turned inward. The iron rails of discipline that had always comforted and guided her seemed to be disappearing into shifting sands. She found herself reaching for a sense of inner balance, and discovered it was an oddly exhilarating sensation. Duty and honor, fear and desire. Choose now. With a feeling that reminded her of her first parachute jump, she heard herself say, "Maybe I can."


"Colonel, if you act independently in this matter you could be subject to court martial," Beresford warned.


"Mr. Ambassador, that's why it's better if you don't know anything. And besides, you said it yourself -- my job is finished here. Technically, I'm on leave."


"What do you propose, sky writing?"


"Not exactly," she said.


* * *


Same day, 1800 Hours PST

Central Java, 3000 meters above sea level


Harm swatted irritably at a whining mosquito and paused to consult his GPS. He ought to be picking up some signs of the expedition by now -- according to the satellite coordinates, he was right on top of them. He took a final pull at his water bottle and hoped Marburg had camped by a stream. It was amazing how thirsty you could get when the humidity was so high your clothes stuck to you.


He was hot, sweaty, and tired, and he couldn't believe it had taken him all day to cover 15 miles from the muddy mountain road. The terrain was incredibly rugged, with rocky fissures and cliffs running from the central spine of the mountains toward the sea, and brief tropical downpours swept over the slopes throughout the day. His route traversed one flank of the peak toward the high forests, and he often had to scramble over seams of broken volcanic rock that poked through the thin soil. The heavy foliage of the lower elevations was finally giving way to fewer trees and open, grassy areas, thank God.


Harm eased his pack a little on his shoulders and squinted against the bars of sunlight slanting through the trees, then set off toward an outcropping of rock about half a mile ahead. He'd make it by dark, and if he still hadn't found them, he could spend the night there. Hell, maybe they were off chasing monkeys or something.


As his boots resumed their mechanical stride, he let his mind roam free as it had all day. The only trouble was, it kept returning to Mac.


How many times, he mused. How many times has this woman given me an ultimatum and then immediately walked away? I swore this would be the last. When she said 'never,' I think it was the worst I've ever felt in my adult life. Worse than the ramp strike, worse than watching her get ready to marry that loser Brumby, worse than listening to the Admiral tell me the last dozen years of my life were meaningless. I don't have it in me to go through this again.


And then she looks up at me with those big eyes, and I know I'll never be over her. Missing her these past six months just made it hurt more. And she actually wondered why I didn't return her phone calls, for Chrissake.


I can't believe yesterday. That was a first. Mac, admitting she might have been wrong about something. Offering to listen. And I blew it.


"What the hell do you want?" He was so wrapped up in his thoughts, the loud voice made him jump as he whirled to face it.


A man stepped out from behind a stand of thin tree trunks about ten feet away and stood staring at him with hostility. The stranger was tall and very thin, dressed in shorts and a remarkably filthy t-shirt. His hair was tied back with a bandanna, and his long beard framed a beaky nose and two piercing eyes. The rank body odor wafting from him was stupefying.


"David Roberts," Harm said and stepped toward him, wishing he could hold his breath. "National Geographic sent me. Are you Dr. Marburg?"


"I am." Marburg ignored Harm's outstretched hand. "What the hell are you doing here?"


"Looking for you, of course." Harm dropped his hand and squinted at him.


"What's so sensitive they couldn't e-mail me?" the biologist demanded.


"You know, I've been hiking up this mountain all day, and I'm whipped. Do you have a camp or something around here? Some place where we can sit down, have a drink?"


"This isn't the Hilton," Marburg snapped. Abruptly he turned and disappeared back into the forest, and it took Harm a minute to realize he was supposed to follow. Living in the jungle doesn't seem to develop the social graces, he reflected with some amusement, and hurried to catch up.


Five minutes later they emerged at the base of the rock outcropping he had spotted from below. Two small nylon tents had been pitched in a small clearing where an Indonesian man squatted beside a wood fire. Another man, apparently European, was sorting plant cuttings on a makeshift table of saplings lashed between two trees. He looked up at their approach, and Marburg veered off toward the tents without a word.


"Hello," the man said in a pleasant Scottish accent, coming forward with his hand extended. "Are you lost or visiting? I'm Stuart McPhee." He had a neatly trimmed beard and a light dusting of freckles across his cheeks.


"David Roberts." Harm shook his hand. "National Geographic sent me."


McPhee cocked his head with curiosity, ready to ask a question, just as Marburg interrupted with a gallon plastic jug. "Here," he thrust it at Harm, who gulped gratefully. Although warm, the water tasted fresh. As soon as he lowered the bottle, Marburg demanded, "Okay. What are you doing here?"


"Nice to meet you, too," Harm said. "Do I get to meet the rest of the staff, or do you summon them by clapping your hands?"


"Don't mind Marburg, he doesn't get out much," McPhee grinned and gestured. "That's Kwan." The man by the fire looked up and nodded before going back to whatever he was cooking. "I'm the post doc, which means I'm the rest of the staff. Here, have a seat." He offered Harm a rickety folding chair and sat down on a tree stump nearby.


"Thanks." Harm eased into the chair, stretching out his legs gratefully, and watched Marburg squat on a log facing him.


"Well?" Marburg said impatiently. "Obviously this was too sensitive for email or SAT communications?"


"Yes, it is. I assume you're aware there was another terrorist bombing in Jakarta?"


"Of course. So what?"


"So I'm under orders to escort you and your party to the American embassy immediately. You're considered a kidnapping threat."


"Forget it." Marburg gestured with finality. "That's ridiculous. We haven't seen anyone in six weeks, and there are no settlements up this high. No one knows we're here."


"Excuse me, professor, but do you really think your daily satellite feed is watched only by the guys back at Harvard? Al Qaeda has laptops too, you know."


"So what? Why should they bother us? We're biologists, for God's sake."


"And every American in the island has a bullseye on his back. Whether you like it or not, you're internationally known, and that makes you a big target."


"Bullshit. I'll get in touch with people at NSF and the WWF, and they'll back me up. I spent three years lining up the funding and the permits for this trip, and I'm not throwing it away because somebody at a desk got a bug up his ass. The Lauraceae trees up here only bloom once every two years, and the bats we're studying are their only pollinators. No one has ever been able to study this before, don't you get it? You don't just walk away from a chance like this, I don't care who sent you. Who was it, anyway? State Department? CIA?"


You arrogant prick, Harm thought tiredly. The flush of anger he felt reminded him how tired he was, and he forced himself to keep his voice reasonable. "Okay, here's how it's going to be. No one in Washington is going to pull any strings for you, because if you get kidnapped or killed, it will be a gigantic diplomatic headache, and they already have all they can handle. So you're coming with me, and I don't give a rat's ass whether you like it or not."


"No." Marburg got angrily to his feet and started to turn away. "What do you propose to do, shoot me?"


An instant later, his chest exploded in blood.


* * *


Mac heard the crack of AK-47 fire above the roar of the helicopter's rotors and looked down as they skimmed the treetops. From her vantage point, the forest resembled an endless bowl of broccoli, and she scanned it anxiously. Oh God, don't let us be too late, she prayed.


"There!" She pointed, shouting into her headset over the din. Jake Bierman banked sharply around toward the flashes of light. "Take us around behind them!" she yelled, gesturing, and the green horizon tilted alarmingly as he swung his corporate jet copter above the trees.


Mac wasted no time admiring Bierman's expertise, which apparently had not diminished since he flew missions over the Ho Chi Minh Trail. She hooked onto the steel cable and adjusted her goggles before grabbing a grenade. "I have to take out as many as possible before I go down," she yelled, and Jake just nodded before leveling out thirty feet above the cluster of muzzle flashes, which showed up clearly in the fading daylight. Mac leaned out, pulled the pin, and counted to three before dropping the grenade, quickly following it with two more.


Bierman immediately wheeled away from the orange fireball that rose from the trees and buffeted them with its shock wave. "Yeah!" he shouted over her earphones. "Right down the pipe!"


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