Phoenix Rising
Two: Upping the Ante
- x -
Helen almost sighed with relief when MacGyver wandered up to her desk in the DXS Operations Department, perched on the edge of it, picked up her favourite pen and started twiddling it between his fingers. Normally, it would have annoyed her considerably; Mac often made a game out of dodging her petulant swats. But after a long day full of upsets, blustering, and edgy egos, she welcomed the friendly teasing and comfortable familiarity.
She swatted at his hand anyway, but smiled. He eluded her easily. "Is Pete in?"
Helen jerked her head towards the closed door. "He's been holed up in there since he got back from his most recent meeting with the new General Director over an hour ago, and I haven't heard a word out of him since then. I'm holding his calls and I'm not supposed to let anyone in."
"Yeah?" Mac gave her back her pen. "Helen, have you noticed that the list of things we're not supposed to do around here has been gettin' longer every day?"
Helen dropped the pen in her desk drawer, closed it crisply and stood up. "I've got some filing I need to get done. You remember what I said, now."
- x -
Mac dumped his armful of files into one of the chairs that faced the desk and slumped into another. Now that he'd charmed his way past the guardian dragon, much of the energy seemed to leak out of him; he slid down in the chair, slouching with his hands dug deeply into his pockets. He and Pete looked at each other in silence for a long moment.
"So how did it – " Pete began.
"So what's up with the – " Mac began at the exact same instant.
Both men broke off at the same moment and started to laugh in spite of themselves. The laughter didn't last long, but Mac pulled himself upright again and drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair.
"I just ran into Craig Bannister in the hallway," he said.
Pete pulled a face. "I can guess."
"Yeah? C'mon, Pete, what's going on? 'Once a vulnerability, always a threat' – does that hot-shot new Director think that anyone is perfect? Except maybe him? Bannister said they've busted him down to warming a desk chair. He's talkin' about getting out."
Pete rubbed his eyes, which seemed to start aching earlier every day. "I know."
"And don't even get me started on the way they're treating Bill Foy and Emily Breckenridge. Months in prison, and they come home to be told they're officially 'compromised'?"
"MacGyver, Bill spent three months in that hell-hole in Gdansk . . . and Emily was detained in Pankrác for seven weeks before they even ID'd her, and she spent another two months in Valdice after that. Under the new policy, reassessment is mandatory after any significant period of incarceration."
"Aw, Pete, that's just bunk. Emily's too tough and Bill's just too darn stubborn to crack."
"I know, Mac! And you may get to be selective about your assignments, but I don't get to be selective about regulations."
"Regulations," Mac grumbled. "So what happens if they count up all the time I've spent in one jail or prison or gulag or another?"
"I don't think you've ever spent more than a few days in any one facility, have you? Sometimes only a few hours."
"Probably not. But it's gotta add up to something 'significant' by now."
Pete sighed. "MacGyver, lateral transfers are always a challenge. We've always known the DXS has a different departmental culture from other intelligence organisations . . . and Brandon had a brilliant career with the CIA. He's just taking some time to settle in."
"Yeah? Well, speaking of settled, I'm supposed to go apartment hunting again. Right away." Mac pushed himself out of the chair and paced over to the window. "It seems I've had the same address for too long."
Pete frowned, puzzled. "I thought you were going to move months ago."
"I thought so too, but it didn't work out."
"You made a big enough fuss about it at the time!"
Mac shrugged, looking faintly sheepish. "Yeah, well . . . they rented that beach cottage to someone else. Vicky and I went skiing instead, and I unpacked again after I got back."
"Wasn't that when you broke your hand? Must have made all that unpacking a challenge."
"Well, it was. And I don't feel like doing it again just now. Darn it, Pete, I like that place. I like being on the ocean. You know the chances of finding another beach loft this time of year?"
"Let me guess: you have exactly two chances – slim and none."
"Yup. And anyway, I'm not even supposed to look for the same kind of place. 'Avoid any established pattern of residence.' My address is compromised, Bannister's compromised, Bill and Emily are compromised – with all that going on, there sure doesn't seem to be much of a spirit of compromise anywhere."
"I know, I know!" Pete's voice had risen; he dropped it again with a conscious effort. "Trust me, I'd like to 'compromise' him. But there's nothing I can do. I'm in a difficult situation here."
MacGyver looked back from the unpromising cityscape to study Pete. "They still givin' you a hard time about our jaunt into Russia?"
"Well, you have to admit we didn't come back with much. But 'command staff are not supposed to expose themselves to the risks of field operations.' The whole department . . . "
Both men finished the sentence in a sour unison. ". . . could end up compromised."
Mac was scowling. "Didn't our nailing Piedra help get them off your back?"
"It would have helped more if we hadn't lost so many men." Pete sighed again. "So what are you doing around here anyway? I thought you were working on that investigation for the Phoenix Foundation. Are you finished already?" He looked at the stack of folders Mac had dumped on the chair and, somewhere deep inside, smiled smugly in spite of his anxieties.
"Finished? I've only just started. I came in to get a look at some files and talk to Vicky." Mac pulled two folders from the stack, steadied it absentmindedly as it threatened to topple, and opened the dossiers where Pete could see the contents. "I want anything we've got on these two guys. They're both Russian defectors, but Vicky couldn't help any. She'd never seen either of them before."
"Volen Andreievich Baranyev and Arvil Volenevich Baranyev . . . " Pete read.
"Easy for you to say."
"Not really. Father and son?"
"Yeah, but they defected five years apart. Junior got here in 1979, and Baranyev joined him just a coupla years ago. They weren't considered real important; no direct connection to the government. Just two average guys with enough money to get out of the country, and enough enemies to make it seem like a good idea."
Pete studied the black-and-white photos of the two men: one in his fifties, one in his thirties, both wearing dark suits and serious expressions. The family resemblance was unmistakable, although neither man would have stood out in a crowd. "Small-time or not, they'll have been under surveillance – not constant or consistent, but the records can be pulled. You think they're sleepers?"
"I don't know what I think. That's why I need more information, if we've got any." Mac tapped the younger man's photo with a long finger. "Junior here is general manager at Brookhearst Chemical – seems he put in several years as an administrator running Soviet chemical research facilities before he gave it all up for the lure of capitalism. You know how big the Russian community is in the Bay Area."
Pete nodded. "They help each other out with resettlement and jobs and the like – I've lent a hand there from time to time. So have you visited Brookhearst yet?"
"Sure – Ruth set it all up; flew me up there and even had me picked up by her own driver – who wasn't at all what I'd've expected." Mac was still looking at the photos and didn't notice the grin Pete swallowed. "I got a real nice, glossy, pointless tour of their state-of-the-art facilities up in Marin County – everything's clean as a whistle, and they couldn't do enough for the Official Representative of the Phoenix Foundation. They practically wrapped me up in cotton wool so I wouldn't bump myself on any sharp corners. You know, Pete, it really is a nice facility – they've got a great lab set-up. It's almost as nice as the ones at Phoenix."
"Yeah?"
Mac's eyes had taken on a distant expression, and he didn't notice the thoughtful look Pete was giving him as he continued. "I couldn't help thinkin' – if I hadn't'a been in such a hurry to see the world right out of college, I mighta ended up workin' there, or somewhere like it."
"And you'd be bored out of your skull by now, and probably thinking about blowing something up just to break the monotony."
Mac met Pete's eyes and grinned mischievously. "You been talkin' to my old chemistry professor?"
Pete picked up the photo of the senior Baranyev and leaned back in his chair to study it. "What about the father?"
"He seems to be involved with the lab operations as well – he's got a nice plush office there – but he wasn't around that day, unless he was just staying out of sight."
"So your next move will be to go back, sneak into Brookhearst and snoop around on your own. How soon? Tonight?"
Mac looked aggrieved. "Pete! Am I that predictable?" Pete simply looked at him, and Mac grinned and shrugged. "Not quite yet – I'm still figuring out what I'm looking for. I just got back from the Bay Area, and I'm gonna drive up there again tomorrow or the next day."
Pete replaced the photo in its dossier. "It looks pretty straightforward, but you're smelling something. What's the problem?"
"Their names."
"Names?" Pete looked at the dossiers again. "Huh. You're right. 'Volen' and 'Arvil' – are those names actually Russian?"
"Not really; they're Soviet names – there were a lotta names coined from Russian, celebrating Lenin and the Great Revolution and all that. They were real popular with the Party faithful. The thing is, they pretty much stopped using them after World War II."
"Baranyev's the right age . . ." Pete began.
"But his son's awful young to have that kinda name. They had to have really bought into the system to stick with it like that. And why did two generations of a hard-line Party family take it into their heads to defect? At different times?"
"Soviet politics are a real snakepit, MacGyver. Even the most loyal families can come under suspicion." Mac could see from Pete's face that he was thinking of people he'd known who had become snakebite victims – he'd helped Pete with more than one extraction from the gulags.
"I'd like a look at the full transcripts of the security debriefings from when they defected – there isn't much in the summaries."
Pete nodded. "Shouldn't be a problem."
"And what I'd really like is a talk with whoever interviewed Baranyev. I need to find out if he's particularly superstitious."
"What?"
"Something I saw in his office made me wonder . . . it might be a way of getting closer to him." MacGyver started to gather up the files again.
Pete handed him the two Baranyev dossiers. "So how's that kid you were mentoring – Reggie – how's he doing? Do you ever hear from him?"
Mac shrugged, less energetically than before. "Aw, you know kids that age don't write much. But he's fine. He's doin' great. He likes Atlanta, his grandmother loves having him around now that she's got a good place for them both to live, and he'll be all settled in by the time school starts again."
Pete frowned. "So when are you going to talk to the Big Brothers Association again? I remember you were looking forward to continuing in the programme."
Mac didn't meet Pete's eyes; he was studying the fingers of his left hand. "Um, Pete . . . they turned me down."
"What?"
"They wouldn't assign me to anyone new. They said I'm out of the country too much . . . it seems I don't meet their standards for stability."
"Mac, that's just crazy. You're terrific with kids . . . listen, do you want me to talk to them? Pull some strings?"
"Naw . . . " Mac shrugged again. "The thing is, they're right. Reggie never knew when I'd be around. He said he didn't mind, but I always wondered."
Pete noticed how heavy the callouses had become on Mac's fingertips; he knew it meant a lot of solitary evenings spent playing guitar. He stood up from behind his desk. "I'll walk out with you – I need to have a word with Helen."
"Now, Pete, don't give her a hard time just 'cause she let me get past her."
"Relax, Mac. I'm just going to let her know I'm all right. And . . . I really should apologise. I was a bit snappish to her earlier."
"I'll bet."
The two men parted at the desk of the unrepentent Helen. "We'll track down whoever it was that debriefed Baranyev after his defection – they should get in touch with you in the next day or so."
Helen watched MacGyver leave, striding energetically down the hallway. "You didn't tell him, did you?"
"No," Pete said shortly. "And I don't want a word or a hint to reach him, understood? I'm going to have a few more shouting matches with Brandon first." Helen looked pessimistic, but Pete looked determined. "Our new General Director can argue with me all he likes, but when it comes to MacGyver, he's going to have to argue with the results."
- x -
MacGyver hung up his phone and wandered out onto the balcony of his apartment to lean against the parapet and look out across the beach to the broad Pacific, reaching away to the distant horizon. He could imagine the line that reached out from his loft to span endless miles, never touching land again until it reached Japan, or – if he turned towards the south – the Philippines, or Indonesia, or even Australia. Turn farther south, and the line ran all the way to Antarctica, ten thousand miles of water open and empty enough to soak up his most restless moods. Living this close to the ocean, it was like having infinity within arm's reach any time he wanted a piece of it. When he'd lived at the observatory, he'd felt the same way about the nighttime starscape – except you couldn't actually go out into that.
He really didn't want to move again already. How many addresses had he had in the last six years? It wasn't like he spent much time at home anyway. Funny how thinking about that made him restless again.
It might be the light, of course – this late in June, the sun was only just beginning to set at this hour and the fiery light blazed across the water, still bright and warm on the face and shoulders, catching glints on the breakers. There were still diehard surfers chasing waves below him – one sport he'd never taken up; he liked diving better. Who would want to flounder around on the top of the ocean when you could explore underneath it? There was plenty of surface, but way more depth.
Mac realised he was procrastinating. There was no reason to hesitate about making his next phone call – it wasn't as if he was worried about being turned down. But he waited until the sun had dipped all the way down to the distant edge of the world, flaming the blue water into scarlet and orange, before he went back inside and dialed.
"Hey, Jason. It's MacGyver. Um . . . fine. Say, Jason – you remember you told me to call if I ever needed a favour from you?"
- x -