Agents in Peril

   Mallory Channing sat looking at the memo on her desk.  She couldn't
suppress the little smile of triumph that came to her lips.  The rumor mill
among the female agents, had already spread the word.  Management was, at
long last, actually going to pair up women in investigating teams.  The
Bureau, known as one of those last male bastions in the federal government,
had dragged its feet when the word came down from the White House -- hire
more women.  Of course they weren't called quotas, they were called goals,
but the message was the clear -- hire more women!  Director Coyne, having
since taken early retirement, rather lamely, offered the excuse that the
FBI had a number of valued female employees.

   Of course, women could be secretaries or even low-level administrators.
But everyone knew: there was an unwritten policy against hiring women as
field agents, ones who might actually face danger from a ruthless enemy in
the course of their duties, that was something the old boys stoutly
resisted.  It didn't matter.  The politicians, with one eye on what the
media told them was the "women's vote" simply increased the pressure.  The
female Attorney General was vehement, her demands unrelenting.  And
finally, a weary and the harassed Director Keyhoe, the second Director in
three years, gave in.  Within a year the first female recruits had begun a
(somewhat modified) training program at the Quanticio Marine Base, and
Mallory Channing, fresh out of Cornell's Law School, was among them.  Still
what many of the young women recruited in those years saw as a holdover of
the male chauvinist attitudes, the new agents were always paired with a
male partner, who was inevitably designated as the lead on the case.  Once
again women were seen as more no more than assistants; girls to be looked
after by an older, stronger male -- in case there should be trouble.  It
was intolerable!  And the female agents, a small but growing band, began to
organize, to press their demands on the "old boys network" that ran things
at the Bureau.

   Now they had won yet another important victory.  Of course, the Bureau
did not announce the change of policy; that wouldn't be like them.  They
had quietly issued memos like the one that Mallory now held in her hands,
the one announcing that Special Agent Karen Palazzi was being transferred,
to be assigned to her as "co-lead," Bureau-crateese for number two on a
two-man..that is, two-women, team.

   Mallory tightened her hands and shook her clenched fists at the sky.
"Yes!" she hissed in a whisper of triumphant glee that carried no further
than her cubicle.

   ****** The Section Chief was a guy named Federman.  - a fact verified by
the stainless steel nameplate on his polished wooden (supervisor-grade
desk.).  George Federman had long ago resigned himself to the fact that he
would no longer be promoted, but would end his service with the Bureau --
in charge of the Missing Person's Section.  He had seen others pass him up
to rise to the plum jobs -- white collar crime, drugs, organized crime and,
at the top of the heap, counterespionage, while he was relegated to chasing
runaway teenagers who had somehow managed to cross state lines.

   The balding Mr.  Federman, neat and officious, looked across that desk
and gave a tentative smile to the two female Special Agents who sat before
him, knees primly together, hands in their laps.  Looking at the eagerness
in the big brown eyes of the young agent, and knowing the overriding
ambition carefully masked in the polite gaze of the other, he knew these
two had not resigned themselves to such mundane tasks for their careers.
They knew that the high proportion of women assigned to Missing Persons was
because it was regarded one of the least dangerous assignments.  They meant
to move on.

   The younger one looked like a freshly scrubbed schoolgirl, sitting on
the edge of her chair, a polite and attentive look on her small, youthful
face, as though she had been told to be on her best behavior.  The older
one was more relaxed, poised; regarding him with the knowing eyes of a
mature, confident woman.  Mallory had taken the measure of George Federman
long ago; she knew the sort of man he was; one she could handle.  She eased
back in her chair and slowly crossed those long, sleek, stockinged legs.
Federman, like every other male on the 6th floor, had longed to caress
those devastating legs as their owner nonchalantly strolled the halls.
Now, he dropped his eyes from the senior agent's intelligent blue gaze to
found himself regarding two pairs of shapely nyloned legs, admiring smooth
feminine curves and the serviceable yet stylish black pumps the women wore.
Channing's full and shapely curves, were sheathed in darkly-tinted
stockings; the younger girl's limbs were more slender, the curves less
pronounced, but quite appealing in their honey-tinted nylons.

   Behind the Section Chief, the mandated photo of the President with his
trademark boyish smile, hung in tandem with the one of the Attorney
General, a scowling, truculent woman who looked down over Federman's
shoulder with what might well be a sneer of disdain.

   Tearing his eyes away from those feminine legs and the path down which
they threatened to drag his male fantasies, he purposely hunted through the
papers on his desk

   He had to be careful how he handled this case.  The Operations Director
had been blunt: 'give them a case that might be made high profile, if they
managed to bring it off; that could be buried, if they fucked it up' -- he
had been told.  Most of the cases on his desk were routine, but he did have
one that might be used by the Bureau's P.R.  guys to showcase the talents
of their female agents.

   His fingers closed on a file marked "Dillon,"; be brought it before him.
The first thing that greeted him on opening the file was a full-sized
glossy photo of a sunny, tanned and smiling, blonde girl, in her twenties,
with the chiseled features and long blond hair of a fashion model.  Meghan
Dillon was a looker!  She had disappeared from her apartment near Stanford,
where she was a graduate student in Anthropology.  It so happened that her
father, a big donor to political campaigns, had Washington connections, and
he demanded the Bureau be called in, even though the local and state police
were already well along on the case.

   As Federman want through the backgrounder, Mallory glanced sideways to
check out her new partner.  Kip Palazzi turned out to be a fresh-faced
girl, with bright brown eyes, and a short helmet of soft dusky brown hair.
Mallory decided the girl was, if not pretty, rather cute, in a wholesome,
girl-next-door sort of way.

   At 28, she was 12 years younger than Mallory and she looked it, with
boyish hips and small, neat breasts tucked under her trim business suit.
Like most of the younger working girls she wore no makeup or lipstick on
the job -- some sort of feminist rebellion that inadvertently enhanced her
youthful appearance; making her look like a boy with a mop of brown hair, a
boy with breasts, Mallory thought.

   Mallory, on the other hand had no trouble using makeup.  She carefully
emphasized the long dark lashes over her sparkling blue eyes, and her
maroon lipstick had become practically a trademark.  While her partner's
youthful bosom was understated, her own breasts were even more modest.  In
fact, she was practically flat-chested, but nature had compensated for what
once seemed a painful oversight in the breast department by endowing her
with striking good looks: a tall, long-legged, sleek figure, with classic,
angular features, a pair of lithe hips, and rangy but narrow shoulders.

   And despite the conservative business suit, oversized horn rims and
tightly bunned hair, or perhaps because of them, she came across as one
very attractive woman.  Her sculpted lips, painted with maroon lipstick,
were pursed in a perfunctory smile as Federman leaned across the desk to
hand her the picture of the missing girl.

   Mallory coolly appraised the picture she held in her hands: a cheerful
smiling blonde.  Probably an ex-cheerleader, she decided.  The girl looked
like a typical California beach bunny with that mass of blonde curls; one
of those bimbos whose only worry is her perfect tan, perfect teeth, and
that sparkling smile.  The kid exuded sex.  Agent Channing took an instant
dislike to the blonde with the winning smile.  ****** The flight to San
Francisco gave them the chance to get better acquainted.  The two women hit
it off immediately.  Kip had been an English major at Kent State when she
drifted into a campus recruiting fair to encounter a handsome agent named
Shannon.  Shannon was a highly-effective recruiter at a time when few women
considered law enforcement as a career.  The Bureau recognized Shannon's
talents -- his unique gift for getting college girls to sign on the dotted
line.  Mallory knew Brent Shannon very well indeed.

   The girl turned out to be lively, eager, and witty; she deferred easily
to the older woman, earnest and willing to do whatever she was told.  Like
her lead, she was a determined fighter for woman's rights.  And she so
obviously admired Mallory; knowing Mallory was one of the first women to
fight her way through the male bastion of the Bureau made her something of
a heroine in Kip's adoring eyes.  For her part, Mallory gladly took the
younger girl under her wing, felt an urge towards her that was almost
maternal, more like a big sister really.  Thus the two women slipped into
an easy working relationship.

   Now they had the chance to leisurely go over the briefing material in
Mallory's briefcase which occupied the seat between them.  It all seemed
pretty routine.  Another irresponsible rich girl who decided to dump school
and all the rest of it; probably into drugs, more than likely partying;
shacked up with some rock musician at a beach house in Malibu.  The locals
would probably have it wrapped up by the time they got there.  What a waste
of taxpayers money, the two girls decided: sending trained agents all the
way across country for something like this!

   ****** The next few days showed Special Agent Channing that her
instinctive reaction to the Dillon case would have to be re-considered.
The County Sheriff 's Office had jurisdiction, and though Sheriff Lonigen
was perfectly correct in his manner towards them, it was obvious that he
was not pleased with the uninvited "help" from Washington.  If he had any
additional views about that help being female, he knew enough to keep his
mouth shut.

   Standard operating procedures called for the Bureau to take over the
case once its agents had arrived on the scene.  However, in this case, it
had been arranged that Sheriff Lonigen would remain in overall charge; the
agents to provide "whatever assistance" local law authorities requested.

   The Sheriff introduced the two agents to the Captain of Detectives, a
man named Bagley, a heavy powerfully-looking middle aged man in a crumpled
blue suit, who studied them with small blue dead-pan eyes sunk in a square
Irish face.  The expressionless eyes never wavered as he listened to his
boss explain that he had given some help on the investigation, as it seemed
some folks in Washington were very interested in following the case.  It
was clear that Bagley was not impressed.  The women found out just what he
thought of the whole arrangement when they were given their assignments.
They were to re-interview the contacts at the college.  In addition,
Mallory was to handle the press; Palazzi could help out around the squad
room, updating the status board, coordinating schedules, and answering
phones, just "getting the feel of the case" as he put it.

   Mallory felt herself flush with indignation.  They would be going over
old ground, or helping to answer phones!  She saw the assignments for what
they were: safe, "women's work".  They wouldn't be taken seriously until
they could get out onto the streets, and the men realized they could handle
themselves.  Once more, they would have to earn respect in this all-male
hierarchy.  It was a tiresome but familiar story.

   Days passed and Mallory made every effort to get involved in the
unfolding case.  She spent a lot of time in briefings and in talking to the
detectives, guys who were considerably more friendly than their bosses
(probably for all the wrong reasons).  She read everything about the case
she could get her hands on.  And she handled her press duties with poise
and competence, standing tall in front of the cameras while Begley and
Lonigen watched smiling benevolently from the wings.

   After about a week of investigation, the county detectives were
convinced there was more here than met the eye.  It soon became obvious
that Meghan Dillon was a "student" in name only.  She showed up for classes
now and then at the start of the term, but no one at the school had seen
her for weeks.  A check with the Dean's Office showed she was on probation.
They thought it most likely that she had dropped out of school.

   Then a more promising line of investigation opened up when detectives
found out that Daddy's little girl, as they sarcastically referred to her
in reference to her overbearing, and obnoxious father, had been picking up
a little money on the side, in fact quite a chunk of money.  They found out
she working as a dancer in a place called "Buzby's" -- one of those upscale
strip clubs near Palo Alto that hired the ready supply of college girls
from Stanford.  The other girls who worked there knew Meghan Dillon as a
wild woman, a crazy chick into drugs and fast living, who liked to hang
around with drug dealers and all sorts of guys who seemed to have no
manners and inexhaustible supplies of cash.

   After almost two weeks of frustrating days and nights, something
happened that brought the two agents right into the center of the
case...and into the crosshairs!

   As seemed to be the case a lot lately, Kip had found herself manning the
phones in a nearly empty squad room when the call came in.  An obviously
disguised male voce, hastily breathed a few furtive sentences.  'If they
wanted to find the blonde chick they should check out a boat called the
"Big Wizz" off Sycamore point.  But they better hurry, or it'd be too late.

   Shaking with excitement, Kip looked around for help, and found there was
not a soul around.  It was a rare coincidence, but everyone was out, except
for the secretary who was busy typing on the other side of the glass
partition, oblivious to Kip's excitement.  The first thought that struck
her was to call the dispatcher and have herself patched through to one of
the detective teams.  But then she thought about Mallory.  Taking her gun
out of the desk drawer, she slipped into the shoulder holster and started
hitching the straps in place as she scurried off down the hall to find
Special Agent Channing.

   Mallory saw the importance of the call immediately.  It was what they
had been waiting for!  A major break in that case, if it panned out.  She
quizzed her junior: found out that Nazzaro and Glenn where out on
assignment, Felcher and Beam, were working the interviews, and Bolger was
at the DA's office.  Neither Lonigan nor Bagely were in the building,
although they were expected back later that afternoon.  In short, there was
no one on hand to check with; so Mallory would take the initiative.  After
all, they were officially on the investigation team; there was no reason
why they shouldn't follow this lead on their own.