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"Somebody stole a classified document from my safe last night."

The breathless, nervous claim over the telephone brought Special Agent Arlen Coulter upright in his chair and banished every other thought from his head. A perfectly routine afternoon of reviewing case reports from his agents lost the last vestige of ordinariness. Swiftly reaching across his desk, he pulled over a legal pad and a pen.

"What's your name?" he asked the woman. "And where are you calling from?"

"My name is Jessica Kilmer, and I'm calling from a pay phone on the interstate."

"Give me the number in case we get disconnected." He made her recite it twice to be sure he got it right. In the background he could hear the whiz and roar of the late-afternoon traffic. "Okay, Ms. Kilmer," he said. "Tell me about it."

There was a shuddery breath from the other end of the phone. "I work for MTI—Military Technologies, Inc. We do a lot of defense work."

"I'm familiar with MTI," Arlen said. Indeed he was. MTI ranked as the area's second-largest defense contractor. "Go on, ma'am."

"Someone took a classified document from my safe during the night," she repeated unsteadily, as if she couldn't quite believe her own words. "I'm the only one who has the combination, except for the copy that security keeps in their vault."

Arlen leaned forward tensely. Possibilities were already flitting through his head, not the least of them that this was a crank call. In the past he had worked in counterintelligence in the Washington, D.C., area, so he knew just how common espionage was. Nevertheless, this was the first hint of it that he had gotten during his entire six years in Austin, Texas. Still, the woman knew things that only someone engaged in classified work would know, such as the fact that security would have the only other combination to a classified safe. "You're sure the document is missing?"

"Oh, yes." She expelled the words on another unsteady breath. "I went through every folder in the safe, in case it was misfiled."

"It couldn't have been left out by accident?" Arlen kept his voice calm, nonaccusatory. Once a witness was put on the defensive, you could forget any hope of getting a straight story.

"No. I haven't had it out of the safe in several weeks. It was there last night when I filed the document that comes just before it. I know it was there!"

The rising tone of her voice conveyed her frustration and concern as no words could have. Arlen felt a small twinge of sympathy for her, but he put it firmly aside. He couldn't afford to allow his mind or his judgment to be clouded by sympathy.

"I believe you, Ms. Kilmer," he said soothingly. "Have you told anyone else about the theft?"

"I reported it to security," she answered, and now her tone was indignant. "They're insisting I must have mislaid it or misfiled it or loaned it to someone, because I'm the only one with the combination to the safe. That's the whole point, and they're missing it. That's why I'm calling you! The point is, someone opened that safe last night. Someone else has the combination!"

Arlen didn't need to have the ramifications of that statement spelled out. If someone else had the combination, there was no telling how often that person had gained access to Jessica Kilmer's safe. There was no way to know how many other safes at MTI this supposed spy might have combinations for, or how often he might have invaded them. Or how many classified documents he might have stolen, photographed, copied—the list of potential abuses was catastrophic.

Arlen addressed Jessica Kilmer. "Are you going back to work?"

She gave a shaky, mirthless laugh. "Hardly. By the time they got through grilling me and insinuating that I have the IQ of an insect, I had a splitting headache. I'm going home."

"Just a few more questions, Ms. Kilmer, if you're up to it."

"Yes, of course."

"Does anyone know you're calling the FBI? The security people at your company, perhaps?"

"No, no one knows." Jessica Kilmer sighed heavily. Even over the phone, her weariness and frustration were apparent to Arlen. "The security people aren't planning to tell anyone about this just yet. They're evidently convinced that the report will show up and that they'll be able to explain the whole thing in some fashion that won't reflect badly on them or the company."

"And you don't believe that."

"How can I? I know that document was there when I locked my safe last night, and I know it was gone when I opened it this morning. There's no way that can be explained as carelessness or an accident."

No, indeed, Arlen thought. He glanced at his watch and noted that it was nearly five. "Ms. Kilmer, we need to discuss this in more detail. Can we get together somewhere this evening, say a restaurant?"

There was a brief, hesitant silence. "Wouldn't it be more convenient for you if I came to your office?"

Arlen couldn't suppress a smile, and he was sure she must be able to hear it in his voice. "There's no question it would be more convenient, Ms. Kilmer, but until we get some idea of the size of this mess and who might be involved, I don't want anyone to know you've contacted the Bureau. Our offices are in the busiest part of downtown, and there's always the unwelcome possibility that someone who knows you might see you come in here."

"Meeting at a restaurant just seems a little irregular, I guess."

He understood her trepidation and tried to tease her out of it. "Believe me, Ms. Kilmer, I've questioned people in places that are a lot more irregular than any restaurant could ever be."

There was another very brief silence, and then Jessica Kilmer laughed, a genuinely amused sound. When he heard that, Arlen knew he'd taken the first step to establishing a rapport with the lady, a rapport that would be absolutely essential if it should turn out that they had to work together. And if she was right about this document, they would unquestionably wind up spending a lot of time together.

"Actually, ma'am, we're not so very different from your local police force. When you call to report something, we generally visit you to get the information. It would be just as easy for me to come to your home, if that would be more convenient for you. My only requirement is that we meet in a place where I can question you without interruption. It's very important that you don't get distracted and forget to tell me something."

"All right, all right," Jessica said with a laugh. "Let me give you my address." She rattled off a street and number, then added, "I just moved in a couple of weeks ago, so I'm still neck-deep in packing boxes."

"Don't worry about it," he said. "I'll never notice."

"What time should I expect you?"

"Say around seven, if that's okay by you."

"That's just fine."

"And, Ms. Kilmer? Don't tell anyone at all that you called the FBI. I realize that sounds cloak-and-daggerish, but secrecy is essential. You wouldn't want word of this conversation to get back to the wrong person."

How could she possibly tell anyone what she couldn't quite believe herself? Jessica wondered as she climbed back into her car. She'd actually called the FBI! Her stomach, which had been sinking all day anyway, sank further at the significance of that realization. She forced herself to ignore the sensation, just as she had all day long. Other than dread and worry, the only other feeling she'd had today had been indignation.

And frustration. She had always believed the facility security officer to be a reasonably intelligent man, but now she seriously wondered. Was she the only person with the wit to understand the gravity of what she'd been saying all day: that someone else had the combination to her safe?

Mr. Coulter had apparently understood, she reminded herself, and felt reassured that her decision to call the FBI was correct. Correct? Of course it was correct! The company's own Security Practice Procedures Manual said that the FBI should be informed if espionage was suspected, preferably from a pay phone off-site so there was no chance of being overheard. And Jessica most definitely suspected espionage.

By the time she arrived at home, however, she was remembering the suspicion with which her every statement had been heard by the security officer. Barron obviously thought Jessica was making everything up to conceal her own negligence. What if Coulter suspected the same thing?

Usually when Jessica stepped into the antique elegance of her two-story Victorian house she experienced the pride of her new ownership, the thrill of at last having a real home of her own. Tonight, however, all she felt was the weight of the mortgage, reminding her that she couldn't afford job trouble. Not now. Not as long as she owed that payment every month. Not as long as most of her hard-earned savings, accumulated by scrimping for five long years, were tied up in the house.

What if Barron managed to hang the missing document on her?

As seven o'clock drew closer, Jessica grew edgier. She'd never been questioned by the FBI before—or any policeman, for that matter—and she found herself wondering why she hadn't just let MTI security handle it. They couldn't prove she had taken the document, no matter how much they might want to believe it. What if this FBI agent wanted to believe the same thing?Whatif he thought her call to him was all asmoke screen?

What if he got rough?

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Jessica!" she said disgustedly to her reflection in the bathroom mirror as she finished brushing her teeth. "He's an FBI agent! They don't get rough except with criminals." And spies?

"I am not a spy!"

She knew it, and so did the small, pale face staring back at her from the mirror. Pushing her eyeglasses up her nose, Jessica gazed into her own wide, worried brown eyes and thought she looked exactly, exactly, like a small brown mouse pinned by an eagle's eye.

A few strands of dark hair had escaped from the confines of her chignon, and she smoothed them back into place. Outwardly, at least, there was no nonsense about Jessica Kilmer. She might have the world's most inventive, overactive imagination, but no one would ever guess it by looking at her.

On the other hand, she thought with a sigh, she wasn't quite passing as her usual businesslike self, not with worry stamped all over her face. "Mouse" was the kindest description she could give herself.

The front doorbell sounded, and Jessica's stomach plunged instantly in response. Oh, God, the FBI is here!

A real, honest-to-gosh FBI agent.

"Cut it out," she told her reflection with more conviction than she really felt. "He puts his pants on one leg at a time, just like anybody else."

She headed downstairs, drew a deep breath, expelled it and opened the door.

And looked into the grayest eyes she'd ever seen. Not the pallid color that might be blue or green depending on the light, but gray like flannel, and fringed in thick, dark lashes. His hair was a rich, very dark brown, threaded with silver, and a little longer than she'd expected. Evidently FBI agents didn't have to wear military-style haircuts anymore.

He was tall, over six feet to her five foot two, broad shouldered, narrow hipped. Elegant-looking, especially in a gray suit, white shirt and dark tie. He wasn't, thank goodness, handsome. Handsome would have been too much to handle. No, he was simply attractive. His face was at best pleasant, regular featured.

But nothing in her life prepared her for this man's total impact. The term sex appeal took on a whole new meaning for her in that instant, an understanding that might have frightened her except that there was nothing wolfish in his expression or posture. In fact, he was giving her a very pleasant smile and holding out his hand.

"Ms. Kilmer? I'm Arlen Coulter."

Jessica felt her hand swallowed in his firm, warm grip and heard herself say something courteous in response, and tried not to notice the very acute and observant way his gaze measured her.

Arlen recognized her nervousness, but it hardly surprised him. Most people were nervous at the prospect of dealing with the FBI. He saw past the nervousness, though, past the no-nonsense hairstyle and the high-collared white blouse and neatly pressed gray slacks. Behind the armor there was waiflike vulnerability. It peeped uncertainly out at him from the depths of astonishingly bright brown eyes, and, to him at least, it would have been much less obvious had she not gone to such great lengths to hide it.

"A pleasure, Ms. Kilmer," he said, releasing her hand. In order to seem less threatening, he plunged his hands into the front pockets of his slacks and waited for her invitation to enter. She continued to look uncertainly up at him, and then color rose from the neck of her blouse to meet the roots of her hair. Where did that blush start? he wondered, and felt an unexpected stirring of his body.

Jessica licked her dry lips, unaware that the small, nervous gesture had an electric effect on the tall man who stood so casually before her in a conservative gray suit. "I, um, I don't mean to be offensive, but can I see your badge, or whatever?"

Arlen's smile broadened a shade, and he reached into the inside breast pocket of his suit jacket. Handing her the slim leather wallet, he said, "I'm not offended. The whole reason I have ID is so people can ask to see it. All you've done is show me you're not gullible, Ms. Kilmer."

Jessica, who wouldn't have recognized a valid FBI identity card or badge if it had stood up and bitten her, stared at the contents of the wallet and registered the words Arlen V. Coulter, Special Agent, Federal Bureau of Investigation. Her blush deepening, she passed the wallet back.

"Please come in, Mr. Coulter. Or do I call you Agent Coulter?"

"If you insist," he said with a smile as he followed her through the gleaming entry hall and into a living room where packing boxes still occupied quite a bit of space. "I'd prefer it if you'd just call me Arlen. We're probably going to be seeing quite a bit of one another."

Jessica smiled shyly as she offered him a seat. "You can call me Jessica. Would you like some coffee?"

"Not just now, thanks. Maybe later."

Jessica settled onto the couch, facing the armchair where she'd seated Arlen, and watched as he pulled a pad and pen out of his breast pocket. He had blunt-fingered, large hands, competent, capable-looking hands. Their movements were calm, controlled. As was he, she realized. Everything about him was controlled, even his smile.