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Part 2

by

Margaret Sinclair and Trish Boulding

Becker paused outside the doorway and looked in at the two men, shaking his head. Like any good agent, he'd read both of their files as soon as they'd become involved in his case. Yet this was one of those times that reminded him how deceptive mere words on paper could be.

From what he'd read, he had expected to meet a close-knit, slightly eccentric but highly successful team. But the reality of these two beat all he'd ever seen. At first glance, the two men appeared to be total opposites: One fair, one dark; one tall, one shorter; one well educated and well spoken, the other seeming almost inordinately proud of his lack of polish and lousy grammar. If he hadn't read their records, he'd never have believed two such diverse people could even work together, much less rack up the success rate they had! Or become such devoted friends.

Now, having had the chance to observe them together at close quarters, he realized that they actually made a strange sort of sense, like two pieces that made one whole, mirror images of each other rather than true opposites. Look at 'em! They were even both wearing a sling now, for crying out loud! Though on opposite arms, of course.

At the moment, they seemed to be involved in some sort of an altercation with their nurse. The older woman was scowling and scolding them both in turn as she stormed about the room, apparently changing Hutchinson's bedding for some reason. The two men were grinning like idiots while Agent Hamilton seemed to be wisely staying out of it all.

Hamilton seemed to have some sort of personal thing going on with Hutchinson. He felt a little sorry for her—relationships like the one Hutchinson shared with his partner seldom left much room for anyone else. He briefly wondered how she'd work it out then shook his head again. It really wasn't relevant to the matter at hand. He pulled in a deep breath to brace himself then stepped on through the doorway.

Both men stopped their clowning and looked up as Becker came into the room. The nurse, finished with her task, helped Hutchinson back into his bed then left under a cloud of annoyance. Hamilton silently offered him her chair, but he waved her back; she looked like she needed it more than he did.

Hutchinson was the first to speak. "I don't know how to thank you, Becker," he began humbly, but the agent cut him off before he could finish.

"Don't thank me yet. Not until you hear what I'm about to ask you," Becker said.

The friendly expression Hutchinson had worn as he'd first greeted Becker rapidly faded back into wariness. "What now?" he asked.

Becker glanced at Starsky, who gave him a one-shouldered shrug in return, meaning he was letting Hutch handle this one. He turned back to Hutchinson with a sigh. "Just hear me out, please? Then you can tell me to go to Hell."

Hutch didn't say anything, just crossed his good arm over the other and stared at him. Realizing that was all the reaction he was going to get, Becker went on.

"I went to meet Slater this morning to get the final details of the Sultan's plans from him. I waited for more than two hours past the time we were supposed to rendezvous but he never showed up. I..." Becker paused, then simply said. "I'm worried. I think he's in trouble."

Hutch's frown deepened. "And I care because?" he asked coolly.

Becker's expression hardened. "Look, Hutchinson. Slater made a mistake—I'll admit that! But my God, man! Put yourself in his shoes! What would you have done? He..." There was that pause again. Becker swallowed and went on. "He was a good man once, Hutchinson! Still is, as far I'm concerned."

"I'm not impressed by your glowing testimonial, Becker. What is it you want from me?" Hutch asked. "Because if you're after me as some sort of character witness..."

"No," Becker said, glancing again at Starsky, then briefly at Paula. "I want you to do the same thing for me and Alan that I did for you. I'm asking you to help me get my partner out of this mess alive!"

Hutch's head snapped back in surprise, but before he could say anything, Paula beat him to it. "Now I've heard everything!" she snapped. "How dare you act like Ken somehow owes you for getting Starsky out of a situation he'd never have been in in the first place if not for your precious partner! So what if Slater dies? The bastard deserves to after what he did to Starsky and Carla...but most of all for Derek," she finished softly, near tears.

Hutch reached out and took her nearest hand, making her look at him. "No deal, Becker!" he said firmly, his eyes locked on hers. "I'm not interested in playing any more of your spy games. I would never have gone with you last night if not for Starsky." Paula smiled slightly, then wiped her eyes and turned to raise her chin defiantly towards Becker as if to say, "So there!"

Maybe their personal relationship wasn't so irrelevant after all. Becker's tone became slightly pleading. "I can't go to anyone in my own department for help on this one!" he cried. "Not without telling them the whole story and that would ruin Slater. I won't do that to him! He gave this country more than twenty of his best years! His career is through after this...I'll see to that! I'll make sure he retires or resigns or something. But I won't see him disgraced and I won't see him go to prison!"

"'Scuse me," Starsky put in softly. "But even if we were inclined to help you," Paula shot him a dark look, "which we're not!" he added and watched her relax again, "we're not exactly in top form, in case you hadn't noticed!"

Becker sighed. "I'm aware of that," he admitted grudgingly. "But I also saw how you both handled yourselves last night!"

"Oh, really?" Starsky asked sarcastically. "Are you referrin' to the part where we were slowin' ya' down so bad that we had to hide in a closet? Or maybe that part where I blacked out in the car?"

Hutch smirked and snorted.

"I was thinking more of how you handled Gary Marshall." Becker retorted sincerely; "And the fact that you made it to the car before you passed out! I know I don't really have any favors to call in, but consider this: we aren't just talking about my partner's life here! There's also the President's to take into account."

Hutch shook his head. "Unh-huh, Becker," he told him. "That won't wash! The President's safety is a matter for the Secret Service! And, you said so yourself, Starsky and I are just a couple of street cops...right Starsk?"

"You got it, Hutch!" Starsky agreed firmly. "This is way out of our league!"

Hutch shot him a slightly hurt look for that one and got an apologetic bounce of the eyebrows in response.

Becker sighed again. "Fine!" he shouted, "If that's the way you want to play it! But remember, Hutchinson, I did help you! I didn't have to tell you about our plan to get Starsky out and I sure as Hell didn't have to take you along, but I did!!" He turned on his heel and stomped out of the room.

"Seems to be our day to tick people off!" Starsky muttered, eliciting another snort from his partner.

"You know," Hutch began softly, sobering again. "The funny thing is...he did manage to make me feel a little guilty. Especially with that last part! I mean it, Starsk, before Becker came to me with his plan, I was getting nowhere fast on finding you, buddy!"

Paula gasped and drew back to stare at him in amazement. "You're not actually considering...?" She broke off when she saw the look in his eyes. "You are!!" she declared, her voice rising angrily. "In spite of everything I've told you, and despite what you just said! You're going to help him, aren't you?" It came out as an accusation. Hutch looked stricken. He opened his mouth to say something to her, but his partner beat him to it.

"Not that anyone has asked my opinion," Starsky put in, "but I'm with Paula! You don't owe Slater or Becker nothin'!"

Hutch turned and faced his friend then. "That's not true, Starsk," he said with a small, sad smile. "Your life isn't 'nothing'." Hutch looked away, embarrassed, but Starsky understood what he'd been trying to say.

"Aw, Hutch," he said quietly. Paula looked back and forth between them, speechless at what she was hearing.

"Besides," Hutch added softly, "it just occurred to me that until this Sultan guy is stopped, there's nothing keeping him from coming after you again!"

"Or you!" Starsky whispered, nodding. "Okay, you've convinced me."

"Well, you haven't convinced me!" Paula shouted. "Damn it, Ken! Doesn't my opinion matter at all to you?"

"Paula," he pleaded gently, reaching again for her hand.

"Don't!!!" she warned, pulling away from him. "Just...Don't even speak to me, Kenneth Hutchinson!" she cried as she ran from the room, tears streaming down her face.

"There goes another one!" Starsky commented quietly. "We're batting a thousand today, buddy!" Hutch only looked after her, his expression unreadable, but Starsky could see the pain in his eyes. "Dammit, Blintz!" he cursed then mildly. "Must you always be the White Knight?"

Just as Starsky had hoped it would, that made Hutch look back at him again, some of the pain in the depths of that gaze replaced by a momentary glint of humor. "Yes," he deadpanned, causing Starsky to let loose a short "Ha!" of laughter. Hutch snorted another brief laugh of his own.

"So," Starsky went on in a lighter tone, settling back into his pillows. "Think there's any chance of you fixin' things with Paula?"

Hutch's eyes became sad and distant again. "I hope so, Starsk," he whispered. "I hope so."

~~~

Dobey emptied the last dregs from the squad room's coffee pot into his mug. There was barely enough left to fill his cup halfway and would most likely be terribly strong after sitting on the warmer all night, but it would do to swallow a couple of aspirin with and, right now, that's all he really wanted. His headache had finally let up a little, but now his back was acting up from spending another night on the old couch in his office. Dobey popped the tablets into his mouth, grimacing at the bitter taste of the liquid in his cup as he swallowed them. Then he snared the last two donuts from the box next to the now empty coffeepot and carried them with him back into his office, shutting the door behind him with his foot.

There was no real reason why he couldn't have gone home for a few hours to lie down, but he just had not been able to bring himself to do it. Not with his two boys still missing. He had been up most of the night, sticking close by the phone, hoping to hear something new from the various units he had sent by Hutchinson's place throughout the night. Yet, so far, everything there remained the same. It was as if his two favorite detectives had simply vanished from the face of the earth.

The phone jangled, startling him. He grabbed it up, not letting himself get his hopes up. It was his wife, calling to see if he had heard anything.

"Still nothing," he told her wearily, rubbing at grainy eyes. "How are things at home?" He listened without really paying attention as she briefly outlined some of the day-to-day trivialities of raising children and home ownership.

"...and the plumber said he couldn't possibly get by to check out that pipe in the basement until sometime next week. Harold? Are you still there?" The change in her tone suddenly snapped him back to awareness.

"Hmm? Oh, I'm sorry, Honey," he quickly apologized. "I...I wasn't really listening."

On the other end of the line, he heard his wife sigh. "That's okay, dear," she assured him. He could almost hear her gentle smile. "I understand. I have a few errands to run this morning, but I could swing by and bring you some lunch and another change of clothes this afternoon if you'd like," she offered.

Dobey wondered again how he had ever gotten so lucky. "Thank you, Edie. That would be great!"

"You're welcome! At least if I bring you food, I know you'll be eating something better for you than doughnuts!" she declared. Dobey looked down at the half-finished pastry in his hand and laughed.

"Always looking out for me, aren't you?" he smiled. "I love you. Kiss the kids for me and tell them I miss 'em."

"They miss you, too, Harold. But they know what's going on. You will call if anything there changes?"

"I promise," he assured her. "Bye." He had no sooner hung up the phone than it rang again. This time it was Huggy.

"Hey, Captain! What's the word? Have Hutch or Paula turned up yet?" Huggy asked. Most of his usual exuberance was missing from his voice this morning.

"Still nothing," Dobey told him. "And no new leads on Starsky either. Are you sure you haven't heard anything from any of your contacts? Not even a rumor? Anything at all that would give me a clue to where I should look next!"

"Sorry, my man," Huggy apologized. "If I had, you'd have been the first to know it!"

"Okay, Hug. Thanks and keep your ears open."

"You know I always do!" Huggy declared, sounding more like himself. "Later!"

Dobey broke the connection, but did not put the receiver back into its cradle. It was time to do what he had been putting off doing. As much as he hated to, it was time to call the Secret Service's office again. And this time he planned to get some answers.

Paula had made it all the way downstairs to the door to the outside before she thought about where she might go. She had no transportation and no idea of where they were, but had been too upset when she ran out of Ken's room to think about such things. Now she paused, looking out through the glass door and feeling a little silly for her outburst.

She was still angry, but not to the unreasonable degree that she had been a few minutes before. The day had dawned clear and bright and warmer than it had been earlier in the week (which was good, since she had left her jacket up in Ken's room) and the woods surrounding the building looked inviting. She decided to take a short walk under the trees while she thought things through.

It was a little cooler in the shade but still not too bad and the crisp, clean air was a welcome change from the LA smog she'd been breathing the last several days. She filled her lungs with it and felt her mind beginning to clear. And the more it did, the more she began to feel that she had overreacted.

Ken's strong principles were part of what had attracted her to him in the first place—lots of people talked about what was right and what was wrong, but Ken Hutchinson was one of the few people she knew who actually tried to practice what he espoused in his everyday life, even when it caused him difficulties. It was hardly fair of her to fault him, then, for following his principles when it didn't suite her. And despite what she thought, his conscience seemed to be telling him that he owed Becker his assistance.

She also had to seriously consider whether jealousy was playing any part in her hurt feelings. If she was honest with herself, then it was a possibility. She had known from the beginning how much Ken's partner meant to him. Yet it still hurt to think that his relationship with Starsky seemed to matter more to him than his with her. But then again, why shouldn't it? Ken's friendship with and loyalty to Starsky went back to their Academy days. How could she expect their one night together to outweigh that?

True, she and Ken had been friends many years ago, too, but they had not exactly been close then and a lot of time and distance had come between them since. In fact, she had hardly thought of him until recently when she had decided to use her vacation time to come to LA to gather evidence for her case against Slater. The moment she'd laid eyes on him in Huggy's bar, though, things had changed for her.

She had forgotten how handsome he was, for one thing. And seeing the concern he had for his missing partner, along with his genuine guilt and grief over Carla's death, had reminded her how decent and caring he was. She had not meant to develop feelings for him, but she had. It was too soon to tell whether or not those feelings might become mutual, but she knew she'd never find out if she walked away now.

"So, what do I do?" she thought. She could storm back in there and demand that someone take her back to the city and continue her mission against Slater on her own. Or, she could go back in there and try to make things up with Ken. If she did that, then she might as well go along on this new insane rescue mission of his, too, if only to see that he came out of it in one piece.

She sighed as she turned back toward the building. "Just so you know, Becker," she thought with a last trace of anger; "I'm not doing this for you! And don't expect me not to use anything I see or hear against Slater either! I still intend to see him pay...after we get him away from the Sultan."

Starsky couldn't hold back his grin as he looked up and saw Paula coming back into the room. "Hi!" he greeted her, "You're timing is perfect! Do you mind lettin' down these rails for me? I gotta...you know." He indicated the door to the bathroom with an inclination of his head.

Paula did what he'd asked without comment and she and Ken both watched as Starsky slowly got to his feet, wobbled a moment, then carefully shuffled his way to the bathroom. Once the door had closed behind him, Paula turned back to face Ken. He did not return her gaze until she spoke.

"I...I don't know what I can say other than that I'm sorry," she began.

She saw his brow wrinkle in confusion. "You're sorry? What for?" he asked.

"For the way I acted earlier...or rather, the way I overreacted," she corrected herself with a small smile. "It's just...Slater is a touchy subject with me."

"No kidding!" he answered with a soft chuckle and Paula felt her heart lighten. "I'm sorry, too," he told her then. "I wish things weren't like this..."

"I know," she interrupted him to assure him. "It's not your fault." She offered him her hand and smiled when he took it without any hesitation.

"So, we're all right then?" he asked, searching her face anxiously.

"Yes," she smiled. "I'm not thrilled with your choice, but I understand why you think you have to do this. In fact...I want to go along again. I still don't trust Becker to watch your back if anything goes wrong."

"Neither do I," Starsky agreed as he came back into the room. "So you'd better count me in, too. Sounds like this is turnin' into quite a party!"

Hutch let out a brief laugh. "Sure does, Starsk. Now all we have to do is figure out how to let Becker know about it."

That didn't prove too difficult as Becker showed up again a short time later with a determined set to his jaw. He crossed the room to stand at the end of Hutch's bed. "Now, see here, Ken...!" he began.

Hutch's expression hardened immediately. "Don't call me Ken," he warned. "Or Hutch, either! We are not friends, Becker!"

Becker deflated somewhat, "You're right, I'm sorry!" he quickly apologized. "That was out of line. It won't happen again."

Hutch decided to let up on him a bit. "Fine, Becker, that's fine. Now shut up and listen before you put your foot in your mouth any deeper than you already have! We held a little conference here after you left and we've all come to a decision." Becker tried not to look too hopeful. "We're in. All of us. We'll help you nail the Sultan and get your partner out," Hutch told him, not missing the way Becker's whole body sagged in relief. Even if he didn't like the guy, he couldn't help sympathizing with him just a little. Enough that it bothered him to have to add, "Though only on the condition that Slater is turned over to the proper authorities afterwards. Who knows? Maybe his inside testimony about the Sultan and his activities and that story about his kid will win him some leniency when he comes to trial."

Becker looked ready to argue the point for a moment, but then gave in once more and nodded. "I guess I can live with that...for now," he agreed wearily. "My main concern at the moment is just keeping Alan breathing! Once I'm certain that he's going to have a future, then I'll start worrying about how he's going to spend it!"

"Okay," Hutch said, satisfied. "So, what's the plan?"

Becker shook his head. "I haven't really worked that out yet," he admitted. "If nothing has been changed since Alan and I last met, the President will arrive at LAX at 7 tomorrow morning then meet with Rogue Star tomorrow afternoon. Whatever we do, we'll have to do it before that meeting takes place!"

"Whoa!" Starsky protested. "Wait a minute! Who's this 'Rogue Star'? And what is it with you guys and the code names?"

Becker smiled a little. "Code names, Detective, as I'm sure you already know, were originally created for security purposes, in order to confuse any would be enemy who might overhear a conversation involving certain important individuals or operations. Using them has become a habit for those of us in the Service; a habit I assume the Sultan and his closest associates decided to adopt for similar reasons. Also, they seem to derive some sort of childish pleasure from them. Rogue Star is the name the Sultan's girlfriend chose for herself. You've both met her; she posed as an ER nurse at the hospital that Detective Starsky was kidnapped from."

Starsky raised his eyebrows and let out a low whistle. "That was the Sultan's girl, huh? I guess I should feel honored. She also dropped by to pay me a little personal visit while I was being held at his place."

Hutch's brows were knit. "Why is the President meeting with the Sultan's girlfriend?" he asked.

"He's not. Or, at least, he doesn't know that he is. He, and everyone else for that matter, thinks she is the Premier's widow, who's come to the US to escort her husband's body home," Becker answered. "This is only to get her close enough to her target to do her job—she is also the Sultan's best assassin."

"Wait!" Paula protested. "As powerful as you claim this Sultan is, there's still no way he could have pulled something like that off without help. Slater's help, right?" She said it as if she were certain of the answer. Becker nodded and Paula turned an "I-told-you-so" expression to Ken and Starsky.

"When and where are they meeting?" Hutch asked.

Becker shook his head again. "When, if nothing's changed, is three o'clock tomorrow afternoon. Where?" He shrugged. "That was one of the things that Slater was supposed to tell me at our meeting this morning."

"I don't see the problem," Starsky put in then. "Even if Slater didn't get that information to you, why can't ya' just call and get it from your office? I mean more than just one person must know the President's schedule?"

"It isn't that simple!" Becker sighed. "For one thing, that would look strange. As Slater's partner, I should be able to get the information I need from him. But more importantly...I...I'm not even supposed to be in LA, much less involved in this case!" he finally admitted.

"Then why are you?" Hutch asked. "And where else are you supposed to be? Won't anyone there miss you?"

"Agent Hamilton isn't the only one who still harbors some doubts about my partner," Becker confessed. "Even though Derek Hunter's allegations against him were never proven, our supervisor has kept a closer eye on him ever since those counterfeit plates disappeared. On both of us! The only way I've been able to help Alan at all has been in secret, on my own time. I'm supposed to be vacationing with my wife in Hawaii right now."

"Wait a minute!" Hutch objected, waving his hand for emphasis. "Let me make sure I have this straight: you've gotten all of us involved with all this undercover, cloak and dagger business, and come to find out, your boss doesn't even know where you are, much less what you're doing! Oh, this just keeps getting better and better!" he declared in exasperation. He stopped and looked around the room at the others. "We're talking about a matter of national security here," he stated doggedly. "So I hope you'll all understand my concern when I ask: Do any of us have any kind of official backing on this thing?"

He knew he and Starsky didn't. And Becker had just admitted that he was acting as much on his own they were. That only left Paula. All three men turned and looked at her at the same time. Cornered, all she could do was shrug and offer them a slightly sheepish smile. Starsky let out a whoop of laughter. Hutch just shook his head. "At least we have that little point cleared up!" he grumbled sourly. "All right, Becker. I only have a few more questions.

~~~

"To start with, if your supervisor really is that suspicious of you two, how the Hell did Slater manage to get himself put in charge of security for the President's visit?" Hutch asked.

"Any agent who works closely with the President or his family has to have attained our highest level of security clearance," Becker answered, "and, frankly, there just aren't that many agents who ever qualify for that level of trust. Slater earned and still maintains that rating. As I said before, he's been with the Service more than twenty years and has...had an exemplary record prior to Hunter's accusations. What little doubt remained after those charges fell apart wasn't enough to justify taking that away from him."

"You make it sound as if Slater is innocent of those charges," Paula put in quietly.

Becker sighed. "If so, that was not my intent, Agent Hamilton. For the last time, I am not arguing the fact that Alan has made some mistakes."

"Mistakes!" Paula cried, her voice rising. "Is that all Derek's murder is to you? A mistake?" she asked. Neither Hutch nor Starsky said a word, sensing that, if the two agents were to have any hope of being able to work together, this issue was going have to be resolved sooner or later. And now was as good a time as any to do it.

"Just because I sympathize with Alan's reasons for what he's done doesn't mean that I condone his actions any more than the rest of you," Becker said wearily. "Agent Hamilton, I realize you have no cause to believe me, but I swear to you, even as much as I love the man, if I ever thought for one moment that he was involved in arranging your partner's murder, I would have turned him in myself! Alan Slater is my oldest and dearest friend, but even I wouldn't have stuck by him if he had gone that far astray!"

Something in Becker's tone must have gotten to her. It was so subtle that Hutch wondered if anyone else besides himself had noticed it, but he saw the change in Paula's face. She had accepted that, whether or not it was actually true, Becker at least believed what he was saying.

"All right," Hutch continued after a long silence. "If your information is still good, Becker, then we know that Rogue Star is set to make an attempt on the President's life tomorrow afternoon. That doesn't leave us much time. Here's my next question: when do we make our move to get Slater out? Tonight?"

Becker shook his head again. "No. There are only two reasons I can think of why Alan would have missed that meeting: One, the Sultan found out he was double-crossing him. If that's the case, then Alan is probably dead already and there's nothing else I can do to help him.

"The other possibility is that the Sultan has tightened his security since discovering Detective Starsky's escape, which would have made it too risky for Alan to try to come to the meeting since the Sultan will now most likely be having him watched much more closely. I'm hoping my last guess is the right one. Either way, it would be almost suicidal for us to try to go back into that house again. We were only able to get in and out of there as easily as we did the last time because we had Alan's help."

"Can I say something here?" Starsky asked. Becker nodded. "Okay," Starsky began. "Here's the way I see it. First off, I think you can stop worrying that Slater may already be dead. If what you've told us is accurate, then the Sultan can't afford to kill him yet, even if he has found out that he's betrayed him. He still needs him to get Rogue Star in close enough to the President to do her job. I mean, I know I'm not a Secret Service agent, but if I were and the man I put in charge of an important security operation were to suddenly disappear right before that operation was to take place, I would be changing any plans that agent had made and fast!

"Second, unless Slater has done something really stupid to give himself away, I don't think the Sultan will suspect that he's the one who has turned on him. I've met this guy and he impressed me as being very self-confident ...too confident! An ego like his won't allow him to believe the hold he has on Slater isn't airtight!"

"That actually makes a lot of sense, Detective Starsky," Becker said thoughtfully. "Thank you, you've eased my mind a little."

Starsky smiled. "You're welcome. And just call me Starsky and drop all the 'Detective' stuff. Even if we're not all buddies, you don't have to be that formal!"

"Thank you...Starsky," Becker smiled back.

"Okay," Hutch continued then, his tone becoming slightly sarcastic. "If we're all done with the social niceties, we still have to come up with some sort of a plan! If you don't think it's safe to go back into the house, what do you propose we should do? Wait for Slater to come out?"

Becker nodded. "As a matter of fact, that was exactly what I was thinking! We know when the meeting is supposed to take place! And even though I can't call my office directly, I still may be able to get the information we need through indirect channels about where."

Hutch nodded. "This is your show, Becker. It's up to you to get what we need to pull it off. In the meantime, I want that doctor of yours to check Starsky over again. He wants to go in with us, but I need to make sure he's up to it."

"Hey!" Starsky protested. "Now wait a minute, Hutch! I don't need your permission to do this! I'm an adult, or at least I was the last time I looked. And since this isn't an official assignment, I don't need no doctor's either! That means that I get to decide for myself on this one and I say I'm going, whether you like it or not!"

To everyone's surprise, Paula was the one to settle the argument. "Actually, Dave," she put in casually; "I think it's a good idea to let the doctor examine you...after he's checked out Ken, of course," she added sweetly. Starsky gaped, then his face lit up like a kid's who'd just found out Christmas was coming early this year.

It was Hutch's turn to protest. "Wh-what?" he stuttered, completely taken off guard by this sudden turn of events. "Why? I'm fine!"

Paula reached out and touched his cheek sympathetically. "You know you aren't," she smiled gently. "But you also know that you aren't going to let that stop you. Neither is Dave. Let it be, Ken."

Hutch shook his head, still trying to comprehend what had just happened. Then he glanced over at his partner and was irritated to see that he was grinning like the proverbial cat who'd just dined on a canary. He glared at him for a moment, daring Starsky silently to say anything, but Starsky was too smart to open his mouth. He just kept smiling that smug, annoying grin.

"Knock it off, Gordo!" he finally snarled, which only caused Starsky's grin to broaden, if that were possible. He still refrained from commenting, though, so, after a beat, Hutch stopped glaring at him to turn back to Becker.

"All right, skip that last part," he conceded. "Just get on the ball and get as much information for us as you can, Becker. There's no way we're going into this thing blind! Oh, and I'd like to call my captain. I need to tell him about Starsky and he might be able to help us out with this."

Becker had already been moving toward the door, but he stopped and turned back at this last. "Uh...I won't tell you you can't do that, but I wish you wouldn't. Hamilton was right to worry on that point. The Sultan has several men planted inside your division. And my office has at least one—that uniformed officer who told you about the oil under your car."

Hutch felt himself growing angry again. It was one thing to suspect something like that, but another to hear it confirmed. "Nice of you to decide to finally share that little bit of information with us. Is there anything else you've been holding back that you'd like to unload while you're at it?"

Becker nodded. "All the phone lines to your station house, as well as your personal lines at both your homes, your captain's home phone and the public and private lines for your friend's bar, have been tapped and are being randomly monitored by the Sultan. Don't worry about the call I made to you last night, I took the necessary measures to secure that one. But anything else you've discussed on any of those phones, you're going to have to assume he's overheard." Hutch thought of all the things that had been said over those lines in the past week and felt sick. No wonder the Sultan had been able to stay at least one step ahead of him so easily!

"Let me guess, Slater again," Hutch said in a disgusted tone. He was becoming so inured that he couldn't manage to muster much more than irritation over this latest choice tidbit of information. Becker nodded reluctantly. "Anything else?"

Becker shook his head. "That's all I know of, but I won't guarantee that's it. Those are only the things Alan told me about."

Hutch narrowed his eyes at Becker. "You may not like what I'm going to ask next, but I have to ask it anyway. Are you absolutely sure you can trust Slater anymore? It sounds like he's in this thing awfully deep and the stakes are certainly high enough. You may be his best friend, Becker, but he's playing for his son's life here. How sure can you be that he isn't setting us all up?"

Becker shrugged. "How sure can anyone be of someone else's motives?" he asked simply in return. "Alan and I go way back. And we've been close all those years, almost as close as you and Starsky are. Even after everything he's done, I'm still willing to stake my life on that friendship, Hutchinson. But if the rest of you aren't...well, I can understand that."

Hutch nodded. "That's all I needed to hear. Okay, I won't try to contact Dobey or anyone else. You get busy and get that information! Looks like that meeting may be our only opportunity to get to your partner before it's too late."

"Thanks, Hutchinson. Thank you, all of you." Becker said humbly.

"Like you said earlier," Paula answered him softly. "Don't thank us yet! Your partner has made one Hell of a mess here. There's no way to tell how this thing is going to turn out. And, if we all survive this crazy stunt, I still intend to see that Slater answers for everything he has done, to me if not to anyone else!" She said it casually enough, but Becker heard the implied threat in her words.

"I'll keep that in mind," he told her and turned to leave again.

"Oh!" Starsky called after him. "There's one other thing you need to do!"

Becker sighed as he turned back. "What's that?" he asked wearily.

"Would you please see if someone can find me somethin' to wear?" he asked plaintively. "Anything! I'm not picky at this point. If nothin' else, at least a pair of shoes and some pants?"

In spite of everything, Becker found himself chuckling. "Sure, Starsky. I can do that for you, even if I have to give you my own!"

"Thanks, Becker," Starsky told him in a heartfelt tone. "I think everyone's seen enough of me for the time bein'! And I sure don't want to haveta meet the President in my underwear!!"

The few dayshift officers present in Metro's detectives' squad room all braced themselves for a storm when they saw the expression on their captain's face as he passed through on his way to his office. But, to their surprise (and relief!) Dobey walked on through without saying a word to anyone and quietly closed the office door behind him, seemingly lost in his own thoughts.

Detective Sergeant Frank Rogers turned back to the young uniformed officer he'd been talking to with a smile. "I thought for a moment there you were going to get your first glimpse of the famous Dobey temper!" he declared.

"What do you mean?" the rookie asked innocently. God, these kids coming in out of the Academy seemed to get younger every year. This one looked like he ought to still be in high school, not out on the streets with a loaded gun on his hip!

Rogers shook his head, chuckling to himself. "They're not really getting younger, Frank! You're just getting older!" he thought. Out loud he said, "Usually, if the Cap comes in with a look like that on his face it means that we're in for a shouting session!"

"I guess he has a lot on his mind," the younger man commented. "What with two of his men still missing. Any word yet on what happened to them or where they might be?"

Frank shook his head. "No, not a clue. It's quite a mystery, you know?"

"Yeah, it is isn't it?" the younger officer agreed readily then glanced at his watch. "Well, I guess I better go get those reports typed up before my T.O. gives me another look at his temper!"

Frank laughed. "Don't worry about Joe, kid," he told the younger officer with a friendly clap on the back. "Or the Cap either, for that matter. You know they'd really only do about half those things they threaten you with when they're chewing you out!" He chuckled to himself again as the younger officer blanched and hurried from the squad room then turned his attention back to his typewriter and his own stack of backlogged reports.

As soon as he had made sure no one was watching, the young officer made his way to the pay phone and quickly dialed in a number. He didn't have long to wait before the phone on the other end was picked up. "What?" a male voice inquired impatiently.

"This is Specter calling in with my regular report," the young uniform rapidly informed him. "Still nothing new. No one here seems to have any more information than we do."

There was a long silence at the other end of the line. The officer glanced nervously to his right and left to make sure he was still not being observed. "All right," the voice finally came back on. "The boss says stay there and keep listening. Those two are bound to call in sometime."

"Got it," the officer said then hung up the phone and went in search of his training officer, preparing himself as he went to receive another lecture. That was all right, he knew he wouldn't have to put up with the older man's tirades much longer. Despite the show he had put on for Frank Rogers, he found it difficult to be afraid of much of anything since going to work for the Sultan. Now there was someone with a scary temper! And he always made good on his threats!

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

A couple of hangers with a clean suit, shirt and tie hanging from them were draped across the back of his chair and a foil wrapped package and several Tupperware containers, along with a small sack containing some underwear, socks and a few personal grooming items, sat on his desk next to a short note in Edith's handwriting. Dobey moved the clothes to the coat rack behind the door and pushed the rest aside without more than a glance as he settled behind his desk. His mind was still too occupied with what he had learned (or rather hadn't learned) at the Secret Service's office to allow him to feel irritated that he had missed seeing his wife or even to be curious about what she had brought him for his lunch.

The whole trip had been a colossal waste of time at best. At worst, it may have brought about the end of Dobey's career on the force. Not only had Slater's supervisor been unable to provide the captain with any new information about Becker's possible involvement in Hutchinson's disappearance, the man had not even been aware that Slater's partner was in town until Dobey had tried to question to him. Then, to top it off, the man had tried to grill the captain for whatever he knew about either Becker or Slater. Dobey wasn't sure himself why he had refused to cooperate. Perhaps the other man's attitude had gotten to him. Or perhaps some sixth sense was telling him that it would be in his missing officers' best interest not to.

As soon as the supervisor had realized he wasn't going to get anything, his attitude had turned ugly and he had threatened to go to the Commissioner to force Dobey to talk to him. The captain's response to that was where the career-ending part came in. If so, it had been almost worth it to see the expression on the other man's face. Dobey only wished he could see the Commissioner's when the message was relayed to him!

As satisfying as it had been to tell off the annoying little jerk, Dobey had to admit now that it had also been stupid. The captain had a temper all right but he was usually able to control it much better than that. It must be all the years he'd spent around Starsky and Hutchinson finally getting to him. God knew those two never hesitated to tell him off when they felt like it!

Dobey snorted, amused at the idea that they might be rubbing off on him, then sobered again. This newest twist in this mess was anything but reassuring. Starsky had been missing without a trace for four days and no one had seen or heard from Hutch since he and Hamilton had left the hospital yesterday.

"You picked a Hell of a time to get yourself canned, Harold!" he scolded himself. He really had no doubt in his mind that that would be the Commissioner's reaction to what he had said earlier. Oh, well. He couldn't take his rash words back now. So, until the order actually arrived relieving him of his command, he had better make the best use he could of what time he had left to act. He got up from behind his desk and went to the door of his office.

"Listen up, you turkeys!" he bellowed as he stepped back into the squad room. "You all have to be the sorriest excuses for detectives I've ever seen! Two of our own are missing and it's time to stop playing around. Until further notice, everyone...and I do mean everyone...in this department is to drop whatever they're doing. As of right now, finding Starsky and Hutchinson has just become our top priority and our only case." Dobey paused a moment and when no one spoke he nodded. "Okay. You have your orders. Now get to it! No one goes home tonight until you bring me at least one good, solid lead!"

"What do you think that means?" Rogers's partner asked, dumbfounded, when the captain had stalked back into his office and slammed the door. He'd stepped out for a minute to get Frank and himself a couple of sandwiches from the deli around the corner and had only walked back in in time to catch the tail end of Dobey's little speech.

Frank grinned as he pulled the sheet he'd been working on out of his typewriter and stuffed it into one of the many folders covering his desk. "I think that means this pile of reports is gonna have to wait a bit longer to get filed!" he chuckled.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Sergeant Joe Eastermann fit all the stereotypes of a cop near retirement: he was tall, graying, and slightly overweight but not to the degree that he couldn't pass the departmental physical, with a mildly world weary but still caring air about him. He had spent his whole career in uniform, on the streets, never having aspired to any rank higher than Sergeant. This is where he felt he did the most good, driving his patrol route and training the young officers who would serve this city once he was drawing his pension. And that day was drawing nearer and nearer.

Eastermann glanced at the clock on the wall, then at his watch again. This was about the fifth time he had looked in as many minutes. Where was his newest trainee anyway?

Darn kids! They seemed to come out of the Academy either ramrod straight and all spit and polish, trying so hard to please and to live up to what they thought he expected of them that it almost hurt to look at them, or they were all smart-alecky attitude and wrinkled uniforms and knees and elbows klutziness. That cockiness, he knew, really hid the same uncertainty that the spit-and-polish type's earnest eagerness did. He had trained both types over the years and all of them had gone on to become fine officers. It was a record he was proud of.

He had originally pegged this newest rookie as the spit and polish variety. And yet the kid had the strangest habit of just disappearing every now and then. Not a trait he'd have expected, but then again you had to allow some for individuality. He'd marked it down as a habit to break the kid of. After all, who'd want a partner who might pull that vanishing act in the middle of a bad situation? Say, like a holdup?

He cocked his head and hid a smile behind his coffee cup. He'd just heard the distinct sound of shoe leather rapidly hitting floor tiling. He knew it meant his new trainee had finally noticed the time, realized he was late and was now running down the hallway to find him. The footsteps paused outside the break room. Eastermann could picture the kid straightening his tie as he tried to catch his breath before stepping into the room. He did the kid the favor of not looking up until he was spoken to.

"Sarge? Sorry I'm late. I was talking with Detective Rogers for a minute, then I promised my girlfriend I'd call her whenever I got a break...she worries so much about me! Anyway, then we got to talking and...I lost track of the time," the young man finished lamely, blushing.

Eastermann finished the last of his coffee before answering. "Kid, it's good to be considerate of your girlfriend's feelings, but you and she are both gonna haveta learn that your work here comes first! True, your girl may get offended if you tell her that, but if you two ever get serious about each other, it's an idea she's better off getting used to from the beginning!"

"Yes, Sir," the kid answered in a contrite tone.

Eastermann decided to cut him some slack. "All right, that said, let's go." The older officer stood up, pitched his empty Styrofoam cup in the trash, picked up his hat and started out the door with the rookie trailing behind him like a puppy.

"Go where, Sarge?" he asked as he hurried to match the taller man's long stride.

"The suspects in that shoot out up in the hills yesterday are being moved to the county lock up this afternoon. And guess who gets to help transport 'em?" Eastermann smiled humorlessly as he paused to get the rookie's reaction to this. He wasn't disappointed.

The younger man's eyes widened. "That...that's really something, Sarge!" he stammered. "When did you find this out?"

"About five minutes before you came in," Eastermann informed him. "Why?"

The younger man shrugged. "No reason...I just thought maybe you had mentioned it earlier and I had forgotten or something," he answered awkwardly.

Eastermann spared him a puzzled glance. "You don't usually forget things like that, Smith. Something goin' on with you today that maybe I should know about?"

The younger officer paused and the older man stopped walking to focus his full attention on him. "Well...actually, I'm not feelin' too well. My stomach is acting up a bit," he confessed. "In fact...I kinda think it'd be a good idea if I made a stop in the men's room before we get rollin'."

The older man rolled his eyes. "You should have taken care of that before you came and found me!" he scolded mildly. "All right, go on. But make it quick! We're supposed to be meeting the other units down in the garage in ten minutes to load the prisoners and the captain's already in a bad mood today. I don't want to make it any worse by havin' to tell him that we have to wait because my trainee needed to take a potty break!"

"Oh, this won't take long!" the trainee promised. The moment his TO was out of sight, he went directly to the phone again. As soon as the line on the other end was answered, he spoke rapidly. "They're moving the targets now! Is everyone still in position?"

"Yes. Good work! Now go! We don't want to raise any suspicion until after the job is completed!" The phony trainee hung up without any further comment and rushed down to join Eastermann and the other officers on escort duty in the garage. Eastermann nodded as he saw him, pleased to see the rookie had taken his advice about hurrying.

A few minutes later, the secure elevator from the cellblock level arrived and the first group of prisoners was brought out and loaded into the waiting black and whites. The convoy would consist of five vehicles all together to transport ten prisoners: eight from the arrests following the assault on that house up in the hills plus the two from the shoot out with Hutchinson at the abandoned warehouse. There would be two officers and two prisoners per car.

Eastermann noticed that he and the rookie had gotten the dubious honor of chauffeuring Big Eddie himself. He made sure the doors of his vehicle were securely closed once the prisoners were inside, checked to see that the other units were ready to roll, then climbed behind the wheel of his unit and followed the rest of the convoy out of the police garage.

It wasn't very far to the county lock up, and with the traffic as light as it was at that time of day, Eastermann figured it would only take them about twenty minutes to get there. He glanced up in the rearview mirror as he drove and noticed that Big Eddie seemed jumpy. He hadn't sat still since being loaded into the car and kept craning his neck to peer out the windows as they drove. Finally, the twitching began to get to him. "Hey, Eddie! You got a problem?" he called over his shoulder.

The prisoner met his gaze in the mirror. "How long 'til we get there?" he asked instead of answering the Sergeant's question.

Eastermann allowed himself a grin. "You sound just like my kids when they were little. It's not that long a trip, so you can't be bored already. You that anxious to get back into a cell? Or maybe you need to go or something. Should've done like the kid here and made a pit stop before we left!"

The rookie let out a brief chuckle at that. Eastermann spared another quick look away from his driving to glance over at him. The kid looked more relaxed than he'd ever seen him before and seemed to actually be enjoying himself. Maybe it was the thrill of transporting what must be, to him, a big time criminal. Or maybe he had begun to loosen up at last. Either way, it wasn't hurting anything so Eastermann decided to let him have his fun.

Big Eddie didn't make any further comments, so the Sergeant went back to ignoring him and returned his attention to his driving. They were coming up to a turn. Eastermann frowned as he made it, only to find the rest of the convoy stopped dead in front of him.

A semi appeared to be the cause of the holdup. It looked like the driver was trying to back the truck into a narrow service driveway between two buildings and was having trouble getting the big vehicle lined up. Eastermann sighed, starting to get out of the car to check it out when a sudden loud noise from beside him almost made him jump out of his skin.

He jerked around in time to see his young trainee calmly discharge his drawn gun a second time, killing the remaining prisoner in the back seat. Eddie was already lying slumped against the door, his face frozen forever in an expression of surprise and a hole in his forehead. The bullet had gone right through the gang leader's skull to shatter the back windshield. What was left of the glass was splattered with blood and gore.

Eastermann turned in shock to face his eerily calm trainee. "What the Hell are you doing?" he managed in a strangled whisper. "Have you lost your mind?" Eastermann paled as the rookie now calmly pointed the weapon at him. "It's all right, kid," he soothed. "Calm down! Just give me the gun and then I can try to help you straighten this mess out!"

In the background, Eastermann could hear other guns being fired now all along the convoy. The car's radio came on with a brief, frantic cry for help, cut short by another gunshot from further up the street. His heart sank as he realized too late that this was an ambush.

Officer "Smith" smiled at him and shook his head. "Thanks for the offer, Sarge. But that won't be necessary as I guess I'll be leaving the force after this," he said before pulling the trigger a third time.

He calmly checked to make sure the older man was dead, then got out of the car without bothering to shut the door. Sirens had begun to wail in the distance, yet the crime scene remained surreally quiet with the exception of one woman, who was screaming hysterically. None of the other few passersby seemed able to move or make a sound, perhaps afraid to draw attention to themselves.

The phony trainee seemed not to notice or care as he joined two other men who were climbing up into the semi's cab beside the driver. He was the only one dressed as a policeman. The others were dressed in nondescript coveralls of the type worn by movers and deliverymen everywhere. The driver took the big truck through the gears and expertly swung it around. By the time the responding units arrived to discover their fallen comrades and the dead prisoners, the truck and its passengers were long gone.

The truck would later be found abandoned near the same warehouse where the earlier confrontation between Hutchinson and two of the now dead prisoners had taken place, on the edge of Big Eddie's former territory. It would turn out to have been reported stolen from a service center two days before its use as a roadblock and getaway vehicle. Forensics teams would not find any clues that could help them locate or identify its passengers.

Starsky grinned as Paula helped him finish adjusting the laces of his new Adida's and leaned back on his bed to wiggle his toes appreciatively. "Not bad!" he commented. "In a few days, I bet they'll be nearly as comfortable as my old ones! Thanks, Becker!"

Showered, shaved and dressed in the blue jeans and dark brown shirt the Secret Service agent had turned up from somewhere for him, Starsky almost looked like himself again. Except for the sling and a few luridly colored bruises and his still nearly bare scalp. His appearance without that unruly curly mop still unnerved Hutch whenever he looked at him. He'd never admit it to his partner, but he sure would be glad when his hair grew back. In the meantime, he made a mental note to ask Becker to see if he could find his friend some sort of a hat.

Becker had brought clothing for Hutch, too. Some fresh socks and underwear and a slightly faded but clean plaid flannel shirt to replace the one the doctor had had to cut the sleeve off of to treat Hutch's arm. The color, to Hutch's relief, wasn't red but a mix of various shades of blue and the fit was even pretty good.

Becker hadn't been able to find any clothing Paula's size, but had arranged for hers to be washed by the clinic's laundry staff. In the meantime, she had borrowed a set of scrubs. Becker had also arranged for a cot to be set up for Paula in Starsky and Hutch's room since she had refused to go and lie down anywhere else. After a few hours of rest and a shower, she, too, looked more ready to tackle their self-assigned mission.

Hutch had been the last one in the shower. Still barefoot and toweling the last dampness from his pale hair, he came and perched on the edge of his hospital bed. Paula, no longer needed by his partner, came to sit beside him to help him do up the last buttons of his shirt and to ease his stiff arm back into his sling. Becker occupied the room's one chair.

"Okay," Hutch said, turning to face the Secret Service agent. "Now that our personal needs have been taken care of, I hope you've also managed to turn up that information we needed to finish our plans."

Becker sighed wearily. "I have some bad news there..." he began, then quickly added, as Hutch's expression darkened, "Don't look at me like that! I got the information, Hutchinson!"

"Then what's the bad news?" Hutch asked.

"The same source that gave me the information about the meeting told me your captain made a visit to my supervisor this morning, looking for me. Which means my boss is now aware that I'm here."

Hutch frowned. "Do you think he'll change the time or location of that meeting because of it?" he asked. "If so, that puts us right back where we were."

Becker shook his head. "I don't think he'll go that far. But it wouldn't surprise me if he assigned more men to the security detail. And he's sure to warn anyone who'll be working it to be on the lookout for me, which rules out any ideas I've had about bluffing our way into the hotel. I'm sorry. If any of you are having second thoughts..."

"We're still on, Becker," Hutch sighed. "We've all come this far, why back out now? So, okay, that's just one more thing we'll have to work around. Anything else?"

Becker nodded. "I'm afraid there is." The agent swallowed and went on. "I don't know of any good way to say this, so I'll just give it to you straight. Big Eddie himself and several of his men were taken into custody yesterday. Seems they were the ones who attacked the Sultan's place while we were there last night.

"They were supposed to be moved from your Division house to the county lockup a few hours ago. Somehow the Sultan's men found out about it. The convoy was attacked and all the prisoners and nine Metro officers were killed. A tenth officer is missing. Several witnesses say he left with the attackers. They say he didn't act like he was being taken hostage but seemed instead to be working with them."

"Damn!" Hutch breathed. "Did your friend happen to get any names on those officers?" He was already mentally going through a list of friends and acquaintances, wondering which of them wouldn't be with their families for the upcoming holidays. The loss of even one of their own always hit the whole department hard, especially if the officer was someone from the same station house, someone you saw and worked with everyday. He knew the deaths of this many men, at this time of the year, would be doubly devastating. He barely felt Paula's hand touch his shoulder.

Becker shook his head. "I'm so sorry, Hutchinson. Starsky," he said sincerely.

Both Metro officers nodded their appreciation and Starsky sniffed once, softly then cleared his throat. "All the more reason for us to put a stop to this Sultan guy and his organization. Now!" he said, his dark blue eyes flashing angrily.

Hutch couldn't agree more. "When and where, Becker?" he asked.

"Three P.M. tomorrow at the Hyatt," Becker replied.

Hutch nodded. "All right. So, how do we work this?"

"I have a few ideas about that," Becker told them. He scooted his chair a bit closer and leaned forward as he outlined his plan. The other three listened attentively, adding ideas of their own as they occurred to them. The conference lasted the rest of the afternoon until a nurse brought them all dinner trays and continued long afterwards, into the night.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The Sultan had a keen appreciation for the best things in life and took particular pleasure in fine cuisine. Therefore it was no surprise that he had a top-rated chef heading his kitchen staff. Slater, however, was not in the proper frame of mind to enjoy the excellent dinner in front of him.

The Sultan looked up from his own meal and frowned. "What is wrong, my friend? Is the fish not to your liking?" he asked. Before Slater could answer, his host had snapped his fingers at one of the nearby servants. "Take this away and tell the chef to prepare something else for my guest!" he ordered imperiously, gesturing at Slater's untouched plate. "What would you prefer, Alan?"

Slater shook his head. "Nothing, please," he requested, then added, when the Sultan's frown deepened, "I'm sorry. I don't wish to insult your hospitality or your chef's talent, but I'm just not very hungry tonight." He well knew by now the other man's mercurial temperament and had learned that the smallest slight was likely to be taken as a grave affront.

The Sultan's frown faded to be replaced by an expression of understanding. "Ahh! Are you nervous about tomorrow, perhaps? Is that what has quelled your appetite this evening?"

Slater nodded, relieved. "Yes, I am," he admitted. Why shouldn't he? It was the truth after all.

His host favored him with a small smile. "Relax, Alan. You have planned this operation well and I have complete confidence that it can be carried out successfully. Tomorrow night we will celebrate and I hope by then to see that your appetite has improved."

"Thank you," Slater said, rising and dropping his napkin onto the table.

The Sultan frowned again. "Must you leave so soon?" he asked.

Slater nodded. "There are a few small details I would like to double check before the morning and my supervisor will be expecting me to check in with him soon."

The other man nodded and waved him on dismissively. "Go, then. I will see you again tomorrow afternoon after the operation has been completed. And do not worry, my friend. Nothing will go wrong...but, if it should, my men will always be nearby." This last was stated as a sort of reassurance, but Slater did not miss the underlying threat. From now until this was over, he would never be out of sight of the Sultan's followers.

Slater's mind was troubled as he drove back to the city. He had missed his meeting with Becker that morning, so he had no way to know for sure how the rescue mission had gone. Though he knew that Starsky was indeed no longer in the Sultan's imprisonment, he also knew that this did not necessarily guarantee that the detective or B.B. had gotten away safely. Especially considering that it had unfortunately also been the evening Big Eddie had decided to try to make one last stab at keeping the Sultan out of his territory. The agent had heard how that had been dealt with. It sickened him that he had not been able to do anything to prevent the deaths of those officers. More innocent lives...

It also worried him that he had not been able to pass on the final details of the Sultan's plans to Becker, but it could not be helped—as the Sultan himself had just reiterated, since Starsky's disappearance from his cell, Slater would be under constant surveillance from now on.

He cracked his car window and took several deep, bracing breaths of chilled night air. His hands, as he drove, shook on the wheel. God, he was so tired! It seemed sometimes as if this nightmare, which had begun the day he'd received the news that Grant's plane had been shot down, had gone on for a hundred years.

On some level, he still could not believe that it would soon all be over! Or, at least, his part in it would be. He could not allow himself to think too much about the fate of his son. He only knew that, after tomorrow, no matter how things turned out, he would no longer have a hand in whatever fate that might be—if he ever truly had.

Perhaps he'd only been deluding himself all along. All of this, everything he had done, had been for Grant, to save him. It had only been during this last month, since the Sultan had revealed his intentions to assassinate the President, that he'd finally realized how he close he had come to betraying everything that his son had fought and suffered for.

If wasn't bad enough that he'd turned his back on all that he had sworn to protect and uphold, and ruined his own life, his own career, he'd dragged his best friend down with him. This last was almost more than his already strained conscience could handle. And now, this mess he had created was drawing to a head and he was not going to be able to help his partner at all. Brian would have to walk into whatever happened tomorrow cold and Slater could only hope that his career was all that his partner lost in this! His only consolation was that his son would most likely never know what he had done!

He banished all of these disturbing thoughts back to the far edge of his awareness as he reached the building that housed the Secret Service's offices in LA. He parked in his assigned spot and took the stairs up to the third floor where his supervisor's office was located, hoping that he could keep this meeting brief. As soon as he had stepped into the room, however, several armed agents materialized from positions that had kept them hidden from his sight until after he had entered. They closed ranks behind him, blocking his path to the door, their weapons drawn and aimed at him.

Despite the shock, Slater managed to keep his voice calm as he turned from staring at his fellow agents to face his superior. "What is this about?" he asked, all the while wondering how he had finally given himself away.

His boss, who stood across the room near his desk, scowled back at him. He, at least, was not holding him at gunpoint! His answer was anything but what Slater had expected. "Becker is in LA." he replied shortly. "Do you have any idea why?" The supervisor's tone remained matter-of-fact in spite of the tension in the room.

Slater decided to ignore the weapons his fellow agents were pointing at him and follow his supervisor's lead. "With all due respect, sir, I have no idea what you're talking about. I thought Brian was still on vacation with his wife in Hawaii," he answered, secretly amazed at how normal his own voice sounded considering the panic that was raging inside his head. Damn it, B.B.! How the Hell did this happen?

His supervisor visibly relaxed. After a moment more of gazing at Slater intently, he seemed to reach a decision. To Slater's surprise, he now dismissed the other agents, who rather reluctantly filed out of the office. Once they were gone, the supervisor stepped around his desk and sat down in his chair, his expression still thoughtful. With a gesture, he indicated that Slater should sit down, too.

"I suppose I don't have to remind you of the charges filed against you by that FBI agent Derek Hunter last year," the supervisor began. Slater shook his head. No, there was no way he was likely to have forgotten those. Where could his boss be going with this?

His supervisor did not keep him in suspense. "Even though no evidence could be found to support those charges, I have always felt that Hunter was right. One of my agents did steal those plates and also, just as Hamilton later surmised, arranged for Hunter's murder, if not directly, then through whatever organization he had allied himself with when he had stolen those plates."

Slater frowned. "If you really believe that, why did you just dismiss those other agents? Aren't you placing me under arrest?" he asked.

The supervisor snorted impatiently. "Calm down, Alan. I didn't say I thought you were guilty, did I?"

Slater was more puzzled than ever. "Then who?" And as soon as the words were out of his mouth, he knew. He was glad he was already sitting down, because his legs probably would not have supported him. His eyes shot back up to his boss and found him nodding.

"That's right," his superior confirmed. "It was your partner, Brian Becker. He was as much in a position to steal those plates as you were, and in an even better one to set you up to take the fall for it. Don't look so surprised! I've suspected Becker for some time. This latest little game of his just confirms my suspicions."

Slater felt as if someone had punched him in the stomach. Oh, God, B.B.! I'm so sorry! He started to speak, but found he had to swallow first because his mouth had gone so dry. "There could still be a completely innocent reason why he's in LA," he began. It sounded lame, even to his own ears. He could tell his boss wasn't buying it.

"Come on, Alan! I know he's supposed to be your friend, but surely even you can see that I'm right. Why else would he be here? And why give Dobey that cock and bull story about the two of you being on some sort of undercover assignment to take down someone called the Sultan. I checked. We don't have any files on anyone by that codename. Though I have no doubt that such an individual does exist and that he is who Becker is working with."

"I...I still can't believe it!" Slater managed to stammer. "What are you going to do?"

The supervisor sighed. "At the moment, nothing, since I have no idea where Becker is. But he's here in LA for some reason, Alan. And I have a feeling it isn't a coincidence that it just happens to be at the same time the President is scheduled to visit. I have alerted our men to keep their eyes open for him. He'll turn up. I feel it. And when he does..." the man did not finish the thought, but he didn't have to.

"What do you want me to do?" Slater asked softy, his earlier sick feeling back with a vengeance.

The supervisor looked at him sympathetically. "Nothing, Alan. You're too close to the man to be involved in this. Just go on with the duties you've been assigned and let me handle your partner! Except, of course, if he should try to contact you. If he does that, call me right away.

"Again, I know this can't be easy for you to hear. The man was your partner and your friend for a lot of years. But consider what he tried to do to you! Don't be tempted to let any lingering misplaced loyalty to him drag you down with him! He isn't worth it."

Slater nodded numbly. "I'll try to keep that in mind, sir," he said.

"Good! Now, let's go over those details for the President's arrival in the morning again, starting with the arrangements you've made for security at the airport. Have you worked out that trouble you were having with where to put the camera crews from the press?"

Slater leaned forward in his chair and looked at the chart of the airport that his boss had spread open on his desk, but even as he outlined his plans for how he would move the President through it, his mind was not on his work, but still on his friend. "I'll make this right, Brian!" he silently swore to his friend. "Somehow, I swear I'm gonna make this all right...if I can only get the chance to!"

Part 4