Brandt's Story
A/N: This fic is basically Brandt's perspective of what happened in Croatia and later, prior to the events of Ghost Protocol. Obviously, there are Spoilers for that movie...
Washington DC
William Brandt was at a restaurant downtown, seated opposite a recently engaged couple. His old friend from high school, Terry Dixon, had just got engaged to his on and off girlfriend of five years, and had invited Brandt to dinner, to break the news to him, and to invite him to the wedding.
Brandt had smiled faintly when he'd heard the news, had congratulated the couple and promised to come to the wedding. But the cheerful front he'd put up was just that...a front. He somehow felt as though he were only half involved in the proceedings...like a ghost flitting in and out of reality. Somehow he felt...disconnected...from Terry Dixon and his fiancée, from his dinner, from the restaurant...from everything.
Deep down inside he knew the truth. His years as an IMF field agent had left him virtually incapable of relating to anything in the 'real world'. He had become a blank, a cipher to everyone and everything, including himself. His interactions with other people, with the world at large, were thought in terms of contingencies, infiltrations and 'ETA's'. To an extent this detachment was necessary...the only coping mechanism an agent had to deal with the unpredictable life and death situations on the field. But even the IMF psychiatric consultant had told him that he had perhaps taken this detachment too far...
Oh well, there wasn't much point musing over it, Brandt thought. He was after all one of IMF's best agents; a Team Leader with over a dozen successful operations under his belt. This was the life he'd chosen...and he was willing to live with the consequences of that choice.
His reverie was interrupted with the buzzing of his cellphone. He checked the new message he'd received. It simply read-
LOVELY EVENING FOR A WALK ISN'T IT, BILLY BOY
At one, his senses became razor sharp. He ceased to remain a ghost and became one hundred percent solid. He reacted like a machine come to life, which in a sense, he was. He had been activated.
"Um, excuse me for a moment Terry...a guy from my office's waiting outside...he needs to have a word with me urgently. I'll be back in ten", he said, getting up.
"Planning your next insurance swindle?" Terry joked. Brandt smiled to himself at Terry's little joke. If only he knew the precise nature of the 'insurance' Brandt's employers really provided...
He walked out the entrance of the restaurant. As he did, a blonde woman walking in bumped into him innocuously and Brandt felt something in his hand. He walked down a block, swiftly before pausing and looking down at what he held. It was a cellphone...or so it appeared at any rate. He switched it on and keyed in his code number...immediately the IMF logo appeared on the screen, and the almost mechanical voice spoke.
"Good evening, Mr. Brandt. 48 hours from now, two high value assets shall be arriving in Zagreb, Croatia". Two images that of a man and a woman appeared on the screen alongside a map of Europe indicating Zagreb's location. "The assets are one Ethan Hunt, a former IMF field operative, and his wife, Julia Mead. We believe there is a high probability that Hunt and his wife are targets to any hostile individual or organisation in Eastern Europe aware of his identity." The screen was now filled by several exterior shots of a hotel. "Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to provide cover for Hunt and his wife. You may select any three team members for this operation. Please note that it is essential that Hunt and his wife remain unaware of your presence and your mission. As always, should you or any member of your team be caught or killed, the Secretary will disavow any knowledge of your actions".
And then, inevitably, came the female voice. "This message will self-destruct in five seconds". Brandt waited for the electric charge hidden in the phone to short-circuit it beyond repair...and then disposed of the remains by dumping it into a storm drain. He then calmly walked back to the restaurant, apologised to Terry again for his impromptu 'business meeting', and spent the rest of the evening enjoying an excellent dinner, while at the back of his mind, furiously thinking about his mission.
Brandt had heard of Ethan Hunt of course. Virtually no one at IMF hadn't! Hunt was something of a legend at the agency, and not without good reason. Once the protégée of Jim Phelps, himself a legend who dated back to the IMF's Cold War era origins, Hunt, assisted by circumstances, became a Team Leader and over the years, had made himself virtually indispensable to the agency. Eventually, he retired from the field, but just a few years ago, had made a spectacular, if brief, return, bringing down a notorious arms dealer Owen Davian in the process. Clearly, it was no exaggeration to term Hunt, even inactive, as a 'high value asset'...and as he thought about it, Brandt realised that it made perfect sense for IMF to assign an agent of his calibre to protect Hunt and his wife.
Returning home at close to midnight, Brandt logged into his secure computer and went through the IMF database. Fifteen minutes later he had selected his team. Victor Petrovsky, the grandson of a Cold War era Russian immigrant to the West, fluent speaker of various Eastern European languages, and highly capable computer programmer and hacker. Simon Harte, a recently recruited second-generation IMF agent who'd already proven himself to be as capable in the field as his father had been. And Jacob Benson, renowned within the IMF for his numerous contacts and sources within the Eastern European underworld.
It seemed a simple enough job, Brandt thought as he shut down his computer and prepared for bed. There was no real 'impossible mission' here...he was just security detail and he had a team qualified for ten times worse than this. What could possible go wrong?
ooo
Zagreb
Brandt had managed to get himself a job as a waiter at the hotel...feeding the manager a story about being an Interpol officer in search of an international gang of jewel thieves. The faked credentials IMF had provided him with certainly helped. Petrovsky had the suite above that of the Hunt's...he'd already tapped into the hotel's IT infrastructure and could now control everything from elevators to security cameras. Benson and Harte had secured an apartment overlooking the hotel, which gave them a perfect view of the Hunt's suite from across the street. They took turns, one of them patrolling the street, with the other up in the apartment providing a bird's eye's perspective...
Brandt had gotten a good look at Ethan Hunt in the five days since his arrival at the hotel, and had to admit the veteran IMF agent was certainly keeping in shape, even off the field. But there seemed to be a certain spark within him, a spark of life which Brandt hadn't felt within himself, or any IMF agent he'd worked with, for a long time. And it didn't take a whole lot of imagination to realise that it was Hunt's wife Julia who provided her husband that spark. Seeing them together, he'd almost started to envy Hunt. Often, he'd wondered how a man who'd lived and breathed the life of a clandestine operative almost 24/7 could possibly be able to leave it all behind to settle down to a normal life with a normal woman. Now he had a glimpse of what it was like...and that made him feel emptier inside.
It was on the sixth day that Benson had called him from the apartment with some intel he'd gathered from one of his innumerable sources. Rumours that a team of Serbian mercenaries, based in Moscow, had smuggled themselves into the country two days ago; their target, apparently an American agent and his wife.
The threat to the Hunts was definite now, not mere conjecture. And sitting in his staff quarters, Brandt was grappling with a tough decision. Whether or not to warn Ethan Hunt of the threat to his and his wife's lives. It seemed the right thing to do. The logical thing too. And yet, it was also contrary to the instructions he'd been issued. Brandt couldn't really question the logic of those instructions. If Hunt were fully apprised of the situation, he would want in on the op. And in the process, he would make of himself an even more visible target, and put his wife in even greater danger. Besides, orders were after all orders, and Brandt was convinced that he and his team could handle the situation easily...
Or so he thought.
ooo
"Eagle to Beaver, the Lion is moving out of the Den. I repeat, the Lion is moving OUT of the Den. Awaiting instructions", Harte's voice echoed in Brandt's earpiece, just as he was preparing to take some rich British widow her morning cup of tea.
Brandt cursed silently. Of course, it was hardly unusual for Ethan Hunt to go on a morning run. But in the last two days since the Serbian threat had been confirmed, he hadn't...almost as though he had somehow instinctively sensed there was danger. It had been a hell of a lot easier to guard Hunt and his wife as long as they were within the hotel's premises.
"Awaiting instructions, Beaver", Harte's voice sounded insistently in his ear again.
Brandt's initial reaction was to order Harte and Benson to intercept Hunt and herd him back to the hotel. That of course, would mean apprising him of the situation...which was against orders. Besides, damn it all, Brandt thought, wasn't he being a bit paranoid? Just because Hunt decided to go on a run didn't necessarily mean that the Serbians' attack was imminent! And yet, his field instincts told him that Hunt's wife was vulnerable without her husband and needed protection.
"Beaver to Eagle and Owl. Converge on the Den and cover the Lioness. I repeat...cover the Lioness", he spoke. "I will cover the Lion myself".
Within minutes, Brandt raced out into the streets, stripping away the false moustache and other prosthetics he'd worn to alter his appearance while masquerading as a waiter. Feeling the reassuring weight of the Glock in his shoulder holster hidden beneath his jacket, Brandt followed Ethan Hunt as the IMF veteran jogged down the street.
"Owl to Beaver. We have converged on the Den. The Lioness is still secure. I repeat...the Lioness is still secure", Benson's voice echoed in his ear-piece.
"Copy that, Owl. I have a visual on the Lion", Brandt replied tersely. He realised he was getting a bit out of breath...a week playing waiter had put him a bit out of shape. Hunt of course, was still in perfect shape, and as such, Brandt was having a little trouble keeping up with him.
As with most things in the field, it happened suddenly and unexpectedly. Brandt, for all his instincts and all his contingencies, couldn't possibly have foreseen it. Or maybe he should have. In the weeks to follow, he was convinced he should have...
It began with Hunt stopping and stealing a quick glance at his cellphone. For a moment, his face was frozen, and then transformed by an expression of shock, panic and abject terror.
Something had happened! And Brandt needed to know what it was. "Beaver to Eagle and Owl. Is the Lioness still secure? I repeat...is the Lioness still secure?"
No response.
"Eagle and Owl...Dammit...Eagle and Owl! IS THE LIONESS STILL SECURE?" he practically shouted into his comm-link, causing a few passer-by's to stare at him. Bad form, he told himself. "Okay, no need to panic..." he whispered, remembering what his field instructors had told him in the early days of his training. In a potential crisis situation, stay calm and evaluate all the possibilities.
Brandt looked down the street and was only half surprised to find Ethan Hunt had disappeared. Hunt's disappearance only confirmed his suspicions that something was wrong. And that combined with the wall of radio silence he was faced with from Benson and Harte...what did that mean? What did that mean?
He raced back towards the hotel and decided to try another tack. "Beaver to Oracle", he said, calling Petrovsky. "Do you copy?"
"Oracle online", came Petrovsky's voice, having an almost reassuring effect on Brandt.
"I've lost the Lion. The Den might be compromised. I repeat...the Den might be compromised. Wait for me, and then we'll converge on the Den. ETA three minutes", Brandt shouted.
Three minutes later, Petrovsky and Brandt, guns in hand, were standing at the doorway of the Hunt's suite. Brandt honestly couldn't claim he was surprised...
Harte and Benson were lying unconscious on the floor. Julia was gone. A cellphone lay on the floor...presumably hers. Brandt checked the phone, while Petrovsky checked up on Harte and Benson. The last text sent from Julia's phone was a single word-"Echo". It was obviously a code between husband and wife, indicating danger. It was the reason for Ethan's sudden disappearance.
When the two unconscious members of Brandt's team had recovered, they reconvened in Petrovsky's suite and conducted an impromptu post-mortem of their obviously failed op.
Petrovsky, despite all his surveillance, had failed to notice the Serbian hit-team approaching. The reason being that the Serbian hit-team had no need to approach. They had already been in position all along...having innocuously checked into the hotel perhaps days before Ethan Hunt's arrival. The Intel about their having smuggled themselves into the country six days after Hunt, and Brandt's team, arrived was merely a smokescreen; a rumour which had been fed to Benson's contacts. They had simply waited for Ethan to leave the hotel, then slipped into the suite, disguised as waiters, and swiftly knocked out an unsuspecting Benson and Harte, without Petrovsky noticing anything suspicious through the cameras.
It was simple. So simple that Brandt felt sick to the stomach. It had been an easy enough mission...seemingly straight-forward...and he'd blown it. Blown it big-time.
It wasn't the first time he'd been faced with failure. But in the few past instances, failure to fulfil mission parameters had simply meant that his team had lost the opportunity to get their hands on some valuable intel, or had failed to grab a valuable target. In this case though...a woman, whose life Brandt had been entrusted with, was in imminent danger of losing her life...
Five minutes after the meeting was over, Brandt privately called Mission Control over at IMF Headquarters and informed them of Julia Hunt's abduction. He was instructed to have his team withdrawn and flown out of the country immediately...while he was to stay put and rendezvous with the local authorities and Interpol officers who would be arriving at the hotel shortly. He had false DOD credentials with him, and as such, would temporarily enjoy official cover. When he asked whether he should continue to search for Ethan Hunt, who had yet to resurface, he received a reply in the negative. Hunt had likely gone to ground and it was the Secretary's opinion that things were best left at that.
ooo
They found her body three days later. What was left of it at any rate.
"Are you sure you wouldn't like to see it for yourself, Mr. Bernard?" the detective in charge of the case asked.
"No", replied Brandt. "I'll take your word for it", he muttered, before he walked out of the police station into the night.
Brandt had quit smoking well over two years ago, but under the circumstances, he did not grudge himself the half dozen cigarettes he'd gone through as he contemplatively walked the streets.
He tried to think of nothing...but instead he thought of many things. He thought of Ethan Hunt, and Julia. He thought of how happy they had been together, even as the shadow of death perpetually hung over them. He thought of what Hunt had given up to lead a relatively normal life, and what Julia had given up to be with him.
And he thought of himself. And his failure. Yes, somehow it always came back to that. Failure. The evidence of which was lying back at the police morgue in little pieces.
For all his skills, for all his razor-sharp instincts and vaunted talents...he had failed utterly and completely. And this failure had not cost him his prestige...it had not cost IMF valuable intel...it had not cost the world anything...but it had cost a woman her life. Her life. The death of an operative he could try to live with; after all, they all knew the risks of the life they'd chosen. But this was a woman who had unknowingly delivered herself to his protection...and he had failed to protect her...
He didn't know what it was that went wrong. Was it an error of judgement he'd made? Had he underestimated the enemy? Should he have stayed with Julia himself?
Should he have warned Ethan Hunt?
It would have been against orders...but orders be damned! Lives were at stake! Innocent lives...and what were orders compared to lives?
He should have warned Hunt. There was no justification whatsoever, moral or otherwise, not to have done so...And he hadn't. He'd made a decision, in a life and death situation, freely and unilaterally...and it had resulted in death.
And it struck him now that this wouldn't be the last time he'd have to do it. There would be other occasions...many times in the years to come when he would be compelled to make choices that would result in either life or death. And given the inherently dangerous nature of his profession...death always seemed the likelier possibility...
But he couldn't do it. He wouldn't...not anymore. There wouldn't be any more dismembered corpses. Any more deception. Any more failure.
He swore to that...
ooo
Washington DC
"William, I beg you to reconsider", said the Secretary.
It had been a week since Brandt had tied off things in Zagreb and flown back to the States. He'd been given the customary month-long leave given to all agents recently returned from the field. However, on the fourth day after his return, the Secretary himself had called him, and requested a meeting with him. It was at this clandestine meeting, in a high-end restaurant at the heart of DC, that Brandt dropped the bombshell.
"I just don't think I can do it anymore, Mr. Secretary", said Brandt. "All this time I thought we could accomplish the impossible...now I know I can't even be sure I can do everything possible".
"Don't be so hard on yourself, William", said the Secretary. "No agent has a hundred per cent success rate. Failure, sadly, is almost endemic to this business".
"Dammit, this isn't about statistics and success rates!" Brandt said hotly, slamming his fist on the table. Calming down a little, he said "Real people are out there. Real people who will die if we make the smallest mis-step in our goddamned cloak and dagger games. And I don't want to play those damn games anymore. I don't want to play God with people's live".
The Secretary remained silent for a few moments, as he sipped his wine. He then said, in a persuasive tone, "William, you're one of our best men. In fact, after Ethan Hunt retired from the field, you pretty much were our best man!"
"Well, I wasn't good enough to save his wife, was I?" Brandt asked bitterly.
They remained silent for a few more minutes. Then the Secretary sighed, a gesture that he'd accepted defeat. "I can't force you to change your mind, William", he said regretfully. "But I can make you an offer...one I hope you won't refuse".
The Secretary was right.
ooo
And so, within the span of a little less than a year, Brandt had already become one of the Secretary's chief analysts. Though his years of field experience had failed him on the Croatia op, they continued to remain of great value in assessing situations, and the actions of other field agents; as well as devising strategies for the successful implementation of IMF ops. Brandt knew deep down inside that he was still helping make life and death decisions...but the final decision rested in the hands of more capable, more assured men...men who were not tainted by failure.
In time, Brandt had started to forget it all. Forget about Croatia, about Julia's death...about Ethan Hunt. But then, around fourteen months later, he had been in the Secretaries' office, discussing his report on a recent successful IMF op, when the Secretary had received a phone call from his point man in Moscow.
The Secretary sighed as he put down the phone. "Our man just got word from his source in the FSB. Ethan Hunt was arrested last night just outside Moscow".
Brandt was surprised, not so much by the news of Hunt's arrest as much by merely hearing about him. Hunt had virtually vanished from the IMF radar since his wife's death over a year ago. Not that the IMF had particular even tried keeping tabs on him...the Secretary had made it clear that finding Hunt was not a priority.
"On what charges?" he asked.
"Of cold bloodedly killing six Serbian nationals", the Secretary replied grimly.
Brandt understood everything. It did not make him feel better.
"So what are we going to do about it?" he asked.
The Secretary made it clear from the expression on his face that he did not truly want to say what he was compelled to say. "As far as we're concerned, officially, this was an unsanctioned hit. Hunt was no longer on active field duty; he had no assignment. He'd been AWOL for over a year. His actions are consistent with those of a rogue operative...and considering his history, that's hardly an invalid assumption".
"Those men killed his wife!" Brandt explained. "We can't just leave him there!"
"I share your sentiments, William...but unfortunately there's nothing we can do without compromising ourselves. Not at the moment anyway", the Secretary said, shaking his head regretfully. "Maybe", he said hesitatingly, "if...when...we need him, we will get him out. But right now...the risk is simply not worth it".
"Jesus", Brandt muttered, sitting down and burying his forehead in his hands.
"I know you still blame yourself for what happened, William", said the Secretary. "I wish you wouldn't. We can't win all the battles...no matter how hard we try. There are limits to what is possible...even for us".
But the Secretary's words did not make Brant feel much better.
ooo
Moscow, Russia
Nearly nine months later, Brandt found himself in Moscow, accompanying the Secretary, when all hell broke loose. Literally.
True to his word, the Secretary had given the order for Ethan Hunt to be broken out. Hunt was dispatched on a mission to infiltrate the Kremlin, and unfortunately, the terrorist 'Cobalt' whom IMF had been on the trail of, had chosen that precise moment to detonate a bomb there. Things were looking bleak for the IMF, considering that the President had lost no time in invoking 'Ghost Protocol' and having the entire agency disavowed. Brandt and the Secretary were on their way to the airport when the Secretary received the call.
"It's Hunt", he told Brandt after the call ended. "He's requesting extraction".
The Secretary then stared at a thumb drive he'd removed from his pocket.
"You're sure about it", Brandt said.
"'Ghost Protocol' is essentially a smokescreen, William", said the Secretary contemplatively. "It only means that we can't officially extend support to our agents in the field. And if there's one agent who's capable of functioning without agency support, it's Hunt. He's our best man."
"Well, is that him?" Brandt asked, motioning towards a man in a black hood steadily approaching the limo. Though the man's face was obscured, from his posture and his stride, Brandt clearly recognised him as Ethan Hunt.
"Yes, it is", the Secretary said.
The limo stopped, and Hunt got in, pulling off his hood. "Mr. Secretary", Hunt said, "I wasn't aware that you were in Russia".
And for the first time in nearly two years, Brandt found himself looking at the man whose wife he had failed to protect...