"Please listen carefully," he said the instant the operator answered the phone. "Pass this message on to the Director. It is extremely urgent. I cannot stress the importance of this enough. It must go to the Director, now. My name is Agent Arthur Ashe. She knows who I am. What she doesn't know, is my current assignment details. I'd like to update her with recently acquired information."
He then provided his personnel details. "I'll call back in four minutes and I'd appreciate immediate connection. I'm not exaggerating when I claim this is a National emergency." Arthur severed the connection.

The call was relayed via her personal assistant. Director Paslow briefed her deputy. Against his advice she agreed to take the call. Everything else was put on hold. She waited, the deadline passed. Had it been a hoax, perhaps instituted by the killer of General William Thomas? Was Ashe another victim of the same murderer?

The phone rang; it was Walter Parnell, the Deputy Director. She dismissed him abruptly; patience had never been his strength.

It rang a second time. "Director Paslow."

"Don't talk, just listen." She hoped the voice recognition devices would confirm or disprove the caller's identity. She remained silent.

"There will be no questions. General William Thomas was murdered because of his involvement in a complicated ring of corruption within the Agency. I believe the ring's existence was first discovered by Agent Tyler Spellman in his role as Calin Roberts.

"Two weeks ago Agent Spellman, after several weeks of Guatanamo Bay-like interrogation, survived an attack on his life. Now, both he and I, along with two friends are currently being pursued by assassins. I'm sorry, Director, I have to go. I will keep in contact."

She sat back and replayed the message twice. Instinct argued validity. The voice appeared calm, it issued no threat. What did she know of Calin Roberts?
Roberts was a fictitious creation of one of her predecessors, an operative of immense skill. In point of fact, the role of Calin Roberts had been entrusted to only six agents over the years. From memory both Spellman and Ashe had performed as Roberts. Who were the other four? And where were they now?

Paslow deliberated. Who could she trust? More importantly, who couldn't she? She reached for her keyboard, keyed in her access code and waited. The file she sought had been reclassified. All requests pertaining to Calin Roberts now required Pentagon approval. Inwardly she fumed, the Director had been bypassed. Who had issued this directive? When, and on whose authority had the order been implemented? Why hadn't she been notified? The librarian had no answer. The document had been blocked without his knowledge.

Angered by what she interpreted as a blatant attack on her integrity, Meredith Paslow wished she had someone to talk too. Sadness overwhelmed her as she recalled the one man she truly trusted, her father. If only he were here now? He'd know what to do. How she missed their in-depth conversations. Sure he was still there, but he was no more than a shadow of his former self, and a lifeless shadow at that. She'd go see him. At least she could unburden there, where no one but the walls could hear.

Prior to leaving for the hospital she issued a direction to her assistant. 'If Ashe calls, patch him through to my cell.'

*


In the eyes of most of the palliative care's medical staff, Martin Paslow had ceased living prior to his admission into hospital. Rescued unconscious by his neighbour from his fire ravaged home he had been transferred to the hospital by ambulance. His condition worsened rapidly. In a matter of five weeks vitality had surrendered to total inactivity.

His breathing was assisted. He no longer displayed any form of recognition and rarely responded to physical touch or presence. He was fed intravenously, dosed to minimise pain and sedated at night to ensure sleep and ease the terror of his nightmares. The monitors measuring his vitals all charted healthy readings. Physically, doctors could find no problem. Scans on the brain revealed no abnormality. There was no evidence of stroke, no scarring and no plausible reason for the breakdown. One neurologist suggested a voluntary retreat into seclusion. Another commented on the similarities in her father's symptoms to a drug overdose.

Meredith visited her father at least three times a week, sometimes more. Her schedule however, particularly the past week had been demanding. And now this business involving General William Thomas had seen an extension of her fourteen hour days to sixteen. Guilt set in, she'd not visited her father in six days. She must realign her priorities.

She walked into his room; depression her companion. She hated seeing her father this way, his eyes remained as vacant as a blank wall. Then she spoke. "Dad."

Meredith saw the response. Imperceptible to most, but the eyes actually turned towards her. She sat by his bedside, tears forming in her eyes. She took his cold hand in hers, no response there. Her feeling of inadequacy heightened. Here I am one of the most powerful people in the country and I can do nothing to help the man I love most. She reached over to kiss him and rested her cheek on his. She felt tears rolling down her cheek. It had been a long time since she had cried.

She brushed the back of her fingers against his cheek. She felt moisture, her tears had, she sensed, transferred to her father's face. Self-consciously she pulled away. What if someone walked in? Anger jolted her back to the present. What a selfish woman, here she was thinking about self-image when her poor father was laying here closer to dead than alive. "Sorry, Dad."

"For what?" The source of the words didn't register. First reaction attributed them to her conscience taking voice. An instant later she saw life where a moment earlier lifelessness had resided. Again his vision had focus. A new brand of tears flowed, the prayed for miracle had been delivered. Thank you, God. Thank you. She hugged her father with a passion that threatened to squeeze the newly resurrected life from him.

Before she could respond, her father added in a voice croaky and strained. "Don't let them get to you, too. Remember when you're surrounded by liars, trust your own judgement." He then fell silent; the effort had taken its toll. His eyes glazed over and he started gasping for breath. Prior to calling for assistance Meredith acted on instinct. His words, 'Don't let them get to you, too' troubled her. What did he mean? Had someone GOT to her father?
Recollection of the second doctor's suggestion of drug overdose returned with a vengeance. It took on a new perspective. Had he been drugged? Why, and by whom?

Proving the age old adage, 'old habits die hard,' Meredith removed several cotton buds from her purse. This action prompted another memory, from her first day on duty in the Department's forensic laboratory. The chemist tasked with introducing Meredith to fellow staff members on that first day said. 'Remember my girl, once a forensic technician always a forensic technician.'

It was a practice she still maintained. Her handbag always carried a basic forensic kit, swabs, evidence bags, gloves and scissors. She now swabbed the inside of her father's mouth, just in case. Within fifteen seconds of her triggering the alarm a critical team was by the bedside. Meredith Paslow was asked to leave. Twelve minutes later, the lead doctor informed of her father's death.

Accompanied by the doctor, Meredith re-entered her father's room. The medical staff no longer present, death had triumphed yet again. "May I have a few minutes alone," she asked.

"Take as much time as you need." The doctor left her to bid her farewells. "Call us when you're ready, Director."


The role of Director yielded to that of daughter. Tears would have to wait. First she would find her father's killer.

She surveyed the room in search of evidence. Instinct suggested the room would be cleared both clinically and forensically within minutes of her departure. Again she pondered the source of such instructions.

Three items of interest stood out, the medical charts positioned at the base of his bed, a small trickle of blood where the intravenous connection had been removed and the contents of the fluid bag that had flowed into the blood supply.

The camera on her phone recorded the pages of medical notations while cotton buds absorbed both the blood and the fluid. All she now required was a laboratory and a chemist she could trust. A name from her past came to mind, a brilliant colleague whose reputation and credibility had been destroyed in what was later proved to be tainted and corrupted evidence. The woman had been dismissed. Vindication brought no reinstatement. The Department neither apologised nor admitted error. Meredith hoped her former colleague harboured no bitterness.

Before leaving, Meredith sought time with the hospital's Chief Administrator. He agreed to her request, news of her father's death would be withheld for 24 hours, that would allow her time to notify close family of his passing. Next she called the Democrat leader of Congress, her father had served as Virginia's Democrat representative for more than twenty years. He too agreed to her request. She trusted neither man, she feared the news would be leaked.

She left the hospital with contrasting emotions, one part anger and another resolve. She would find out what happened. All thoughts of Arthur Ashe and Tyler Spellman vanished, her father had become priority.

Meredith made one more call. In the belief her Personal Assistant would ask fewer questions, Meredith chose her over the Deputy Director.

"Sarah." Emotion was obvious. "My father has just passed away."

"Director, I'm so sorry. Can I do anything to help?"

"Can you make some calls for me?" Despite the strain, there could be no mistaking; this was an instruction, not a request. "Advise the Deputy of what's happened and tell him he can, if he needs me, contact me on my cell."

For two reasons she knew this wouldn't happen. Firstly his ego wouldn't allow it, and secondly, she wouldn't answer.


For the first time ever, Meredith turned off her phone. Duty had its limits and those limits had been exceeded. Her father had been killed, murdered. Why? What had he done? Or not done?

For the briefest of moments Meredith contemplated the consequences of what she was about to do. It would bring reprimand, perhaps even dismissal. She didn't care. There would be no distraction from the path she now trod. She was searching for a killer.

*