Title: A Dirty Game
Summary: A Sandbaggers story. Emotions and political tensions run high in the wake of the disaster in Malta. The aftermath of "Opposite Numbers"
Author's Note: Anyone who reads this and is not acquainted with the British Cold War drama of the 1978-1980 The Sandbaggers will find themselves sorely confused. This is done perfectly intentionally as an attempt to score up more viewers for this tragically undervalued television series. It is a rare specimen, indeed, a television series with engrossing plots that will not insult your intelligence, spine-tingling suspense, biting dialog, and captivating characters. I thoroughly recommend you check it out.
The first episode can be found on YouTube by pasting "Sandbagger, the S01E01 (full episode)" into the search bar and then follow the numbers to watch the rest of the series – only twenty episodes so it shouldn't take you more than a weekend after it gets you hooked.
Disclaimer: I do not own the Sandbaggers and despite any mention of real people, places, or situations, this story is entirely fictionalized.
Warning: This follows a timeline some Sandbagger fans might not be very happy about. Consider it the alternate-alternate-ending to "Opposite Numbers"
*Cue music*
ers The Sandbaggers The Sandbaggers The Sandbaggers The Sandbaggers The Sandbaggers The Sandbagger The Sandbaggers
Chapter One – Life is Cheap:
"I'm alive and five have died."
"Oh, it's guilt, is that what it is? Because they're gone and you're left?"
"It's logic. My number's going to be coming up, too."
– Willie Caine and Neil Burnside, Episode "Enough of Ghosts"
"Anyway, we've been together for six years."
"An old married couple."
"I think we've been through a lot more together than any married couple."
– Willie Caine and Neil Burnsides, Episode "Opposite Numbers"
The airport terminal was crowded with casual travelers and businessmen in pressed, stuffy suits alike. Neil Burnside clutched the handle of his leather satchel in one hand and reached inside his coat for his wallet and ID with the other. He was waved through by the girl in a navy skirt suit and paused to allow a family with a bundle of knee-high children in tow to hurry down the hallway toward the lift. Rain beat on the large square windows set into the walls, showing dismal overcast skies and torrential rain, a stark contrast to the sunny, cloudless skies of Malta Burnside had only hours before left.
"Can I have your attention, please?" The PA system crackled to life in a burst of muffled static, hardly audible over the crush of travelers' harried voices. "Will Mr. Neil Burnside – Mr. Neil Burnside, passenger traveling Air Malta – will Mr. Neil Burnside please contact the information point near Chauffer Services? Will Mr. Neil Burnside please contact the information point near Chauffer Services?"
Burnside smothered a frustrated sigh. What in the blazes could they want with him now? It was probably Willie checking in, or worse – Gibbs or Peele calling with more remonstrations. He couldn't understand why they couldn't bloody wait until he was back at the office. They, of course, knew that was where he'd be headed as soon as he stepped off the plane.
Frowning, Burnside shifted his satchel to the other hand and turned on his heel, weaving through the crowd toward the arrivals lounge. He approached the information desk in the corner and frowned at the man in the black suit and bowler, feeling his forehead crease as he raised his eyebrows.
"Burnside," said C with a taught nod, hooked handle of his umbrella hanging on his wrist.
"Sir," Burnside inclined his head. He'd been expecting a phone call, not the chief of SIS. Word of his activities in Malta must have traveled fast. Burnside had had almost three hours to think it over on the plane. There was no way, he'd decided, that he'd get off with no more than the slap on the wrist from Peele.
"I have a car waiting outside, Burnside."
"Have I permission to collect my luggage?"
For a moment it looked very much like Gibbs was going to roll his eyes. Burnside wondered if he had had just as trying a day back home as had Burnside in Malta.
Burnside gathered his case and followed Gibbs through the terminal and to the car parked on the curb outside in almost near, frosty silence. Rain dripped off the awning above the door, collecting in puddles in the cracks in the sidewalk. Pedestrians hurried across the road carrying black umbrellas and suitcases.
Burnside's luggage was stowed in the boot. The back door was opened. Burnside slid into the seat after Gibbs. Burnside folded his hands between his long legs and Gibbs neatly took his bowler off his head and clasped it in his lap. He cleared his throat, finally preparing to begin.
"I expect this will come as something as a shock, Burnside –"
"That Filatov's been apprehended by the Russians and Peele's called to tell you all about it?"
Gibbs stared straight ahead. Burnside could see his hard, pale face reflected in the partition between them and the driver, already firmly shut when he had got in.
"The SIS does not take kindly to being wrapped around your finger, Burnside. I thought you'd learned that before. Peele has spoken to me about your exploits in Malta, but I'm afraid that will have to wait. I have some rather troubling news."
Burnside looked at C, his profile illuminated by the milky gray light sliding through the rain-striped window.
"What's happened, sir?"
"Moments after your departure there was an assassination attempt on Filatov – by the Russians."
"On Filatov?" Burnside cursed quietly. "Of course, by hitting him instead of their chief negotiator and still pinning it on us they'd have given themselves the same excuse to pull out of the conference and covered up the sticky business of his defection in one fell swoop. Willie must be kicking himself. I should have seen it sooner."
"Yes." C continued to stare straight ahead. "We tried to get word to you but your plane had already left."
"What happened?" Burnside leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, feeling his blood pounding in his brain as it always did when the hunt was up. He was vaguely irritated at Gibbs' apparent refusal to meet his gaze. "You said he wasn't killed?"
"No, he wasn't – Sandbagger One took the bullet for him."
For a moment there was silence, filled only by the steady thump and swish of the windshield wipers, the splash of the tires through puddles as the car slid to a stop in front of a light, and the pin-prick beatings of the rain upon the windows and the title "Sandbagger One" refused to connect itself to the name "William Caine" nor the living, breathing counterpart Burnside had left wearing sunglasses in Malta barely three hours ago named Willie.
"What do you mean?" Burnside's lips hardly moved but his voice was somehow perfectly clear, hitting the closed glass windows and rebounding in his skull.
"Both Sandbaggers followed the Russian delegates – I can only assume on your orders. According to Sandbagger Two, Caine noticed Filatov in the front car, derived the Russians' plans, spotted the sniper atop a building and managed to jump in front of the bullet just as Filatov was stepping out of the car. All in a matter of seconds. Remarkable feat – he certainly managed to prevent an already disastrous situation from getting any worse –"
"Is he alright?" Burnside's heart was pumping rapidly in his throat in a familiar, exhilarating panic but he swallowed it down with well-practiced self-discipline. There was no reason to panic, not when all the cards had yet to be shown.
"He was taken to the hospital. Bullet severed the spinal cord. DOA, I believe."
The letters echoed vacantly in Burnside's head and he struggled to prescribe any kind of meaning to them.
"I am sorry, Burnside." C's voice was gruff, his eyes still trained straight ahead. "Caine was a good man. I understand you'd been in the service together for some time. He'll be sorely missed."
Willie Caine. Dead. It refused to become a concept within Burnside's mind. Only three hours ago – only three hours – Burnside had left Willie and Mike – he had left them and Willie had been alive and well and – only three hours –
He struggled to press through the confusion of disbelief, rushing thoughts, sounds, sights, and memories, struggled to focus, struggled to wrap his mind around it, struggled to erase the violent images that had leapt to mind, the striking, cruel, breath-stopping notion that Willie – Willie, smiling – Willie, leaning against the office door – Willie, elbows braced on a desk – Willie, calculating, casual – Willie, laughing – Willie, dead –
"He – did he suffer?" He was suddenly unable to erase from his mind the image of Tom Eliot crumpled on the floor in the middle of a shabby flat.
"According to Sandbagger Two, he fell unconscious almost immediately."
"And Sandbagger Two –" Mike – Sandbagger Two – Willie – Sandbagger One – Willie, dead – Sandbagger One took the bullet for him. "Sandbagger Two was uninjured?"
"Yes, perfectly unharmed. I have ordered his immediate withdraw from the island, of course. He should be arriving later today."
"And the – gunman has been apprehended?"
"No, not yet. You understand that it was quite chaotic afterwards. The Soviets were certainly not expecting anyone to interfere. And, of course, the only available officers were Soviets themselves and you can imagine they were not very keen to mount a search for their own man –"
"Yes, of course," Burnside murmured. Pieces were beginning to click into place, questions nagging at the back of his mind. "How have the Soviets responded? They can hardly insist it was SIS if one of our own men was –" killed, Burnside hesitated merely a fraction of a second, "– killed trying to stop the attempt, neither will they be willing to reveal their own conspiracy."
"No word. The facts are hazy, whether simply because of the ensuing chaos or if the Russians' intentionally blurring. Everyone, besides us or anyone else who's guessed it – your friend in the CIA, for instance, only think that a low-ranking British official has been killed in an accident. A bogged assassination attempt has barely been suggested."
C's voice droned like a badly tuned radio somewhere in the back of Burnside's head. He struggled to comprehend it all, struggled to form some cognitive hypothesis, some strategy –
"Then the Russians – they haven't pulled out of the talks?"
"No, they haven't any excuse anymore, and they certainly seem to be putting forth their best efforts that it stays that way."
Burnside waded through the mental excess, tried to push aside the thumping of his heart, struggled to push passed the blinding image of the glint of Willie's sunglasses in the Malta sunshine, left only three hours ago to be replaced by the pouring London rain, this empty, aching feeling in Burnside's chest, the inability to take it all in. Burnside struggled to remember what else had been at stake, to what aims Willie had died for, what it all meant, but for some reason all he could think of was how much Willie disliked guns.
"Has his mother been told?"
Gibbs hesitated, not at all a common thing. "No. No, not yet. She's in East Sussex, isn't she? We'll have to send a man. It's just her at home, no father?"
"You've read his file," Burnside snapped.
"Any other relatives? Brothers or sisters?"
"No, he's an only child," it was strange, how stubbornly he clung to the present tense. Outside the buildings on the side of the street were rushing passed in a blur of gray rain.
"I hesitate to ask you this, Burnside, but you did know Caine best. Perhaps you would acquiesce to bearing the news – you could take the car after it dropped me at Collingstone. You needn't go alone, if you'd like me to send for someone –"
"It'll be more than two hours to East Sussex, sir. I've lost enough time as it is. Besides, that isn't part of my job. Certainly I'll go see her after…." After what? After the initial shock had worn off, after she no longer presented any danger of weeping or fainting into Burnside's arms, after the anger and blame stopped burning in her eyes, after Burnside, himself, erased Willie's face from his mind –
It added the tally to five under his watch, now. Jack Landy, Alan Denson, Tom Eliot, and Laura Dickens, and there had been Robert Judd before any of them. And then there had been Denson's girl. Sally Graham. Of course he remembered her name. He remembered all their names. He remembered the way she had looked, too, curled up on the blue and yellow checked coverlet, very small and very young, with a pale, peaceful face. Just another face to add to his nightmares. Like Willie's face now….
"You really needn't worry about coming into the office, Burnside. You've had a difficult few days, culminating in a nasty shock. Perhaps the car could drop you at your flat?"
At his empty, gaping flat with the echoing rooms and vacant, static air, ripe for the haunting of a hundred ghosts, "No. Thank you, sir, but I'll need to be there to clean up the pieces."
"I must insist, Burnside –"
"Is that an order, sir?"
"No," Gibbs said coldly. "No, it isn't."
Burnside looked away, staring straight ahead. His reflection in the patrician was wavering and transparent, face pale and drawn but perfectly unmoved. He looked down at his lap, his long folded fingers, unbearable as it was to even meet his own eye.
It was all so seamlessly useless. Had Burnside still been present in Malta he would have told Willie to leave Filatov, let the Russians pull out of SALT under their own terms, let them get the upper hand for – but would he? Would Burnside have told Willie to drop it? Would he have told Willie to let Filatov take the bullet, to let SIS take the blame?
If only the Soviets had pulled out of SALT, there would have been some purpose to it all –Is that your epitaph for Willie Caine? The voice sliced through Burnside's mind like a knife and he focused on breathing slowly, trying to quiet the pattering of his heart, refusing to allow his face to betray himself in the company of Gibbs.
"I don't want Sandbagger Two withdrawn," Burnside finally spoke. "He can do more good in Malta straightening things out than he can do here."
"I'm afraid he's already departed by now. I had him put on the twelve o'clock flight."
"Well then you'll simply have to turn him around again."
"It's not your place to tell me what I can or cannot do," said Gibbs sharply. He finally turned his head to address Burnside, eyes steely. "I was prepared to give you some allowance allotting to the shock, but I must tell you frankly now, Burnside, that I'd rather not have any Sandbaggers left anywhere near SALT, at least not while they still answer to you."
Burnside turned his head to stare out the window, at the rain weeping down the glass and the puddles rippling on the curb. They were approaching the Thames by now. He watched a woman, holding a child by the hand, and a black umbrella in the other hurry into a storefront before the car sped onward and they were lost somewhere behind them.
"Yes, sir."
He could feel the sand slipping through his fingers, feel his influence melting from his grasp, spiraling out of control as it had in Malta when Peele had walked in on the heels of Sarkisyan, when the French had asked for the Special Relationship, when Laura Dickens had sprawled across the wet East Berlin pavement, and somehow, somehow, Burnside was still left to have to live with it all.
It occurred to Burnside while walking through the hallways and being on the receiving end of sympathetic looks, nods, and comments, that he was the only one in the building who had known of Willie's death for less than an hour.
There seemed to be an unusual amount of people in the hallways, no doubt exchanging gossip and attempting to draw some kind of comfort from each other's company. Willie had been well-known in the building, beyond just the special section, which was why his death seemed to be creating more of a stir than either Denson's or Eliot's had, but Burnside considered each "sorry to hear the news, Burnside," to be more of a nuisance than any real comfort.
He shoved the door to his outer office open with his shoulder. Marianne Straker was sitting behind her desk with her head braced on her palms and, my God, Burnside hoped she wasn't crying. He didn't want to deal with any sobbing, hysterical girl.
She looked up sharply as he entered, arms falling to her side, face pale, voice soft, "Sir."
"You're to hold any calls that don't come from within this building. Even Ross – especially Ross," said Burnside curtly, walking toward his office, trying to avoid looking at her.
"Sir," she said again, voice brittle but eyes, at least, mercifully dry. "Is it true?"
Burnside stopped and turned to face her. "Of course it's true," he snapped.
She continued as though she hadn't heard him, voice faint. "It's been going through the building like wildfire but no one's been in to confirm it. I suppose – I supposed you would know for certain."
"I've only just heard it myself, Miss Straker."
"It was – silly to hope anything to the contrary, I suppose."
"Yes, I'm afraid it was."
"But –" her voice took on a stifled, breathy quality that was dangerously close to tears. "It's so difficult to comprehend it. Willie Caine –"
"I suggest you get used to it, Miss Straker. Life is cheap in this day and age, and lately is seems a Sandbagger's is even more so."
She flinched as though he had slapped her. He couldn't bear to look at her any longer so he turned on his heel and pushed his way into his office, closing the door sharply behind him, and the silence that was there to welcome him beat heavily upon his ears.
He reached into his breast pocket to grasp his lighter and pack of cigarettes. He fumblingly pulled out a cigarette and flicked the lighter but it didn't light. He flicked it again but it must have been out of fluid. Fingers trembling harder, he hastily marched over to his desk and yanked open the top drawer. He shuffled through the collection of paper clips, notepads, and staplers, searching for a pack of matches or a spare lighter.
He couldn't find any so he yanked open another drawer, ruffling through a stack of stale forms and forgotten paperwork. He grabbed a fistful and shoved it on the desk and out of the way. The red light on the intercom flashed to life with a beep. Burnside distractedly pushed down the button with one finger, his other hand dislodging a heap of documents in a third drawer, unlit cigarette clenched in his teeth.
"Yes, what is it?"
"D-Int. to see you, sir."
"Send him in." Burnside stabbed the button aggressively to turn off the intercom and was shuffling through another drawer when Paul Dalgetty stepped through the door.
"Neil."
"Paul," said Burnside, not bothering to look up. He cursed and slammed shut the drawer he'd been pawing through.
"I heard about Willie, Neil. I'm sorry."
"Yes, well, so am I," said Burnside, pulling open another drawer with such force it almost pulled off its track. "You don't happen to have a bloody light on you, do you?"
"Certainly," Paul stepped calmly forward, reaching into his breast pocket to pull out a silver lighter. He clicked it once and a flame leapt to life. Burnside pulled his cigarette out from his mouth and noticed he had almost bitten entirely through the end.
Burnside's fingers were still shaking and Paul lit it for him. Burnside stuck the cigarette back into his mouth and breathed deeply, exhaling a cloud of smoke. Paul looked at him strangely, "Are you alright, Neil?"
Burnside waved him away, "Yes, yes. I'm alright."
"A bit of a shock, I know."
"It wasn't what I was expecting to hear, no." Burnside concentrated on shutting all the drawers he had opened, stowing a pile of forms unceremoniously into the top drawer. "Did you come up here to discuss something in particular or just generalities about my state of emotional well-being?"
Paul blinked and frowned, "I thought we should talk, Neil. You can understand that details have been quite confused. All I know is that Willie Caine was killed foiling an assassination attempt on Yuri Filatov – a KGB agent."
"Filatov wasn't KGB. He was one of ours," said Burnside, sinking into his chair and flicking his wrist in a way that indicated Paul should take a seat as well. He took another long draw from his cigarette, smoke billowing toward the ceiling. "We intended on lifting him but were…prevented from doing so."
Paul shook his head, "Lucky break, I'd say. If Filatov had been brought over and word gotten out that he'd defected the Russians would have been forced to pull out of SALT."
"Yes," Burnside flicked the ash off the tip of his cigarette. "Yes, they would have."
"It was the Russians behind the attempt, wasn't it, Neil?" said Paul shrewdly. "Of course, that's what I'd assume, seeing Caine's interference."
Burnside sighed, smoke seeping from between his lips, fogging up his eyesight in the brief moment it took for it to dissipate through the room, "Yes, it was the Russians."
"Peele has reported that the talks aren't going well for the Soviets. I suppose they hoped to frame SIS with Filatov's assassination to give them a more graceful exit to the talks. I can only assume Sandbagger One was acting on your orders to prevent it."
Burnside felt his upper lip pull upward slightly, a movement that felt rigid and unfamiliar. "Something like that."
"Caine did a good job, then."
"He did his job and nothing less, that's not unusual."
Burnside ground his cigarette butt into the ashtray on his desk, after uncovering it under a heap of papers. He reached into his pack and withdrew another cigarette. Paul leaned forward to oblige him with a light again.
Paul cleared his throat. "I've heard Sandbagger Two has been withdrawn. I'd have assumed you'd like him there as escort to our people just in case anyone decides to have another go."
"I doubt it," said Burnside. "Someone would have to be insane to try anything else now that the security has been stepped up by everyone in the ensuing panic."
"Yes, but now that the Soviets have opened the proverbial door, you don't think someone else might try something when we'd least expect it? Don't you think it would be wiser to have Wallace on hand, just in case?"
"Yes, well, C made it very clear that withdrawing Wallace wasn't my choice."
Paul cocked his eyebrow but Burnside ignored him, throwing away his cigarette and pulling out a third from his pack. Paul once again leaned forward with his lighter.
"I – er – quite understand if you'd rather not talk about it now, Neil," said Paul hesitantly. "Perhaps wait until tomorrow –"
"I said I'm fine, Paul," Burnside snapped. "I've a job to do and I intend to see that it gets done."
The intercom beeped again. Burnside stabbed the button with his finger, "Yes, what is it?" he said, rather more aggressively than he'd meant to.
"Jeff Ross on gray, sir."
"Damn it, Marianne, I told you not to put him through!"
"He's not through, sir. I'd only thought I'd ask if you'd changed your mind –"
"Well, I haven't."
"He says it's urgent, sir."
"Well tell him that he and his bloody urgent business can wait until I'm done here. I haven't time for any mollycoddling. And while you're at it, you can stop bothering me, as well."
Marianne's "Yes, sir" was cut off with the intercom's violent click.
When Burnside turned back to Paul, he saw that the other man had stood. "I think I'd better get back to my office now, Neil. There's not much more I need to know."
"Don't be silly," Burnside waved him back down. "I've been on a blasted plane for three hours. I need to know what's happening. How have the Soviet's responded? C says they haven't pulled out, but what are they saying? More importantly, do the other delegations believe them?"
"The most recent word is that now that the Soviets can't blame SIS, they're trying to avert suspicion away from themselves by introducing a third party as being behind the attempt. Honestly, however, with Sandbagger Two being withdrawn, we've lost our main point of contact."
Burnside cursed under his breath. "You're still communicating with Len Shepard?"
"Of course," said Paul.
"Good, we'll need to keep an open line through to him. He'll be able to help us discern what's actually going on as opposed to all the political doublespeak."
"What about Wellingham? I thought you had a direct line through him?"
Burnside hesitated, "I'm not particularly certain whether or not Wellingham and I are still on speaking terms." Unwilling to give Paul any more information than he needed and conscious that he had probably already said too much, Burnside changed subjects, "You don't think the Americans will think better of trusting the Russians, perhaps force them to pull out?"
"I certainly hope not," said Paul. "Armament control is something we want. Whether or not we have to play with someone we don't like to get it is beside the point. After all, won't a world with overall less nuclear power be better off?"
"Yes, I suppose so," Burnside murmured.
"What I can't understand is why Filatov felt the need to be lifted now," said Paul. "He could have waited a few more weeks, a month at most, at least until the talks had a chance to wind down. This way he's gotten himself recaptured by the Russians. They've already tried to assassinate him once. He certainly won't last very long."
"No, he won't," said Burnside. He pulled out another cigarette, but before he had a chance to light it, the red phone rang shrilly.
Burnside reached for it impatiently, "D-ops – Yes. – Yes. – Tell him I'll be right up." He turned back to Paul, who had sometime during the conversation lit his own cigarette, now gently smoldering pinched between his fingers. "I'm sorry, Paul, but that was C. I'm wanted on the sixth floor. We'll have to finish this later."
"Not at all, Neil. He didn't say if he wanted me as well?"
"No. I've got a feeling what he's got to say is for my ears only."
The elevator was silent as Burnside rode up to the sixth floor. His heartbeat sounded strangely loud in his ears. He rubbed his eyes, head pounding, trying to control the trembling of his fingers. He tried not to think about Willie, tried not to think about Willie being dead, tried to erase Willie's ricocheting voice inside his skull, you're not going to kill me.
It was a relief when the elevator doors slid open with a rush and Burnside stepped into the sixth floor hallway. He strode down the corridor and was met in C's outer office by his PA.
"Mr. Burnside to see you, sir."
C's voice crackled through the intercom, "Thank you, Sandy, send him in."
Burnside nodded to Sandy on his way into C's office. Gibbs was seated at his desk.
"You wanted to see me, sir?"
"Yes, take a seat, Burnside."
Burnside felt dread settle in his stomach. It was never good when Gibbs, usually never bothered with civility, asked him to take a seat.
"I've just got word that Wallace has arrived at Heathrow."
Burnside raised his eyebrow, "Yes, sir?"
"He should be arriving within the hour. Before he does, I thought it best for you and I to clear the air."
Burnside thought it prudent to remain silent and wait to see where Gibbs took the conversation. It wouldn't due to open aggressions too soon.
"First of all, I think you should know that Peele has phoned and told me all about your underhanded dealings in Malta. It won't do to deny anything. I understand all about Filatov, how you, Caine, and Shepard were hiding him from Soviet authorities, how you hoped to use his defection as leverage against the Soviets to get them to pull out of SALT."
"If you do indeed know all about it, sir," said Burnside coolly, "then I cannot see what you hope to gain from my further interrogation."
Gibbs' face was stony, his voice cutting as a whip, "I would watch my attitude, Burnside, if I were in your place. I should hardly like to burry myself deeper than I already was, not when I was already far enough down into what a less understanding observer might deem as treason."
Burnside tilted his head upward, the word "treason" coiling viciously in his stomach, clenching his teeth hard to keep from retorting.
C continued, "What I called you up here for, Burnside, is to find out just how much Wallace knew of your actions in Malta, whether or not he knew that you had Filatov in hiding, and whether or not he deliberately denied this knowledge when asked by both the Deputy Chief and Permanent Undersecretary."
Burnside tightened his fingers around the arms of his chair. "You can't persecute Sandbagger Two for what he may or may not have done in Malta, not if he was only acting under my orders."
"Sandbagger One now, isn't he?"
Burnside blinked. It took a moment for the fact to sink in, took a moment for him to recover his breath. "Indeed."
"What you say may be true, Burnside," C proceeded briskly, "but it still remains to be seen whether or not it would be best for the service to have a Sandbagger under so much of your power."
"The Sandbaggers have always been under the power of the Director of Operations, sir."
"Yes," said C slowly. "Yes, that's quite true, Burnside."
Burnside stood from his chair. "I've work to get back to, sir."
"You still haven't told me about Wallace."
"Knowing whether or not Wallace helped me is inconsequential, sir," said Burnside, working hard to control his voice, refusing to ball his hands into fists. "But if you must know, then the answer is yes. Wallace and Caine both knew I had Filatov in hiding. Both of them helped me keep him there – in whatever way they could. Whether that involved lying to the Permanent Undersecretary is up to you to decide."
Gibbs narrowed his eyes, jaw set in a scowl.
Burnside continued, "I think you should also know, sir, that both Wallace and Caine wouldn't ever do anything to damage the Service, and certainly not anything that wasn't in the country's best interest – and nor would I."
"You may go, Burnside," said Gibbs stiffly. "I think I've heard everything I needed to."
Burnside turned on his heel without another word, and swept from the room with jaw clenched and stomach twisting.
Ending Note: The final product will have seven chapters, posted every week on Friday. Hope you enjoy!
I don't think I got Gibbs quite right. I kept channeling Peele.
I'm really sorry about the whole killing Willie thing, but, regardless of what the actors said may have taken place after "Opposite Number" I consider plot-points up for grabs after the final credits rolled. Besides, a shot through the neck that resulted in paralysis would have affected his upper body, as well, which means not just Willie in a wheelchair, but Willie with no or impaired use of his arms and hands which probably means no Willie as D-Ops, and no Willie even being able to live independently, and, anyway, Willie just looked pretty dead to me, and this is just making me depressed because Willie is pretty awesome.