Author's Note: This will be my last update for a while, now that my vacation is about to end. From now on, new chapters will be written and posted when I feel like it. I won't forget this work, but do not be surprised at dry spells lasting multiple months.
My thanks to those who have left kind reviews. As always, constructive criticism and suggestions are welcome.
Prologue: Sam's Mission
II
"There's a rotten apple, Sam. We have to find it, before it poisons the whole bunch."
For the second time, the world seemed to stand still. For a full thirty seconds Sam stared at Jerry in mute, uncomprehending shock, her eyes as wide as saucers, unable to move or even think. All she could do was feel the pressure of Jerry's unwavering, iron gaze, filled with a fanatical, triumphant certainty, bore into her own eyes, and hear the slow, dirgelike thumping of her heart in her chest.
"A-A spy?" She asked at last, only then becoming aware that her mouth was hanging open. "One of us? A spy for t-the bad guys? For the Syndicate?" It can't be! She wanted to scream, but try as she might she found she hadn't the strength to - and even if she had, there wasn't enough air in the gaping void that had abruptly filled her chest to fuel it.
Jerry nodded solemnly. "One of the top five." He pressed a button on his desk, and behind him the massive TV screen that took up almost the entire wall flickered to life, displaying the portraits of five people, all of whom were familiar to Sam, although some were more familiar than others.
"Patrick Alister, my Deputy Director and treacherous, despicable second-in-command. Rick Boring, our Head of Investigations. Tomas Eviline, our Head of Agents. And you know Clover and Blaine."
Involuntarily, Sam winced as she heard the last two names. There was no sharp pang of remorse this time, though, only a silent, invincible shock and a dim awareness of the faces onscreen. She did know Clover and Blaine, of course, from her spy work, and she had infrequent run-ins with the three older men every now and then at WOOHP HQ, having first met them at one of Jerry's totally lame and hatefully mandatory WOOHP parties in her senior year of high school. Patrick, she remembered, had been - and still was, as far as she could tell - arrogant and dismissive, and had spoken to her in a patronizing, condescending manner, like a parent humoring a spoiled child. If he hadn't towered over her by a foot and suffocated her with smoke from his chimney of a pipe, she might've thrown her punch in his long, wrinkly face instead of fleeing with a case of smoke inhalation. Tomas Eviline had been an absolute creep - Evil Tomas, they'd called him, and the name stuck to this day. Clover had vented to Sam for sixteen minutes straight about how he'd spent an entire conversation with her staring at her chest and asking repeatedly, in his awkward, stiff, Estonian-style English, whether she was single. Only Rick Boring, ironically, had been any fun. He had told hilariously obscene jokes that made Sam turn beet red, sang karaoke with Clover in his boisterous barroom baritone, and, despite his beefy frame, cut a surprisingly good figure on the dance floor, according to Alex, who danced with him no fewer than five times that night.
As for Clover and Blaine, her (former? She wasn't quite sure how things stood between them) friend and boyfriend, respectively, all she could think of as she gazed as their portraits was how Clover's blazer - red like her catsuit - brought out her serene blue eyes, and how...how sharp Blaine looked in a suit.
"How do you know it's one of them?" Her voice sounded numb and dull even to her own ears. This is...this is insane! It has to be! A rotten apple? Any of them, one of our top people - a traitor?
Jerry sighed. "After Operation Horoscope - that bloody mess in Peru in June - I began to suspect that someone was compromising WOOHP operations from the inside. For the past two months, I've been going through old files, our operational history and our personnel records, looking and the failures and the aborted missions, doing my own investigations to see why they failed and who was involved. I've worked backwards, compared, contrasted, referenced and cross-referenced, and now I'm nearly there. I've narrowed the range of suspects to these five - all Section Heads or above, all with the necessary access to operations and information, all with the experience to pull something like this and get away with it." He turned to face the screen. "I've known Tomas and Rick even longer than I've known you. I despise Patrick, but even I don't want to accuse him without being certain. I love Clover like a daughter, and Blaine like a favorite nephew, but I can't discount the possibility that it could be them." Sorrowfully, he continued, "I don't want to believe it either, Sam. But all the evidence points to one of them, and I can't ignore that."
Pushing a few files out of the way, he grabbed a teapot sitting precariously on a corner of his desk, as well as two cups. "Tea, Sam? Darjeeling? You look like you could use a cup right now."
"N-no thanks." Slowly, Sam looked down at the file in her hands. "How does Franz March know who the spy is?"
He's been cooped up in here for two months...Jerry must be totally nuts, he must be, what he's saying can't be true...
Pouring himself a cup, Jerry took a sip of his Darjeeling and set the cup back down before he answered. "As a part of his work for ETOKA, Franz was given a top-secret job - to set up the spy's private Swiss bank account. Now I don't know whether money is the spy's motivation for betraying WOOHP, but I imagine that even if it isn't, betrayal is hard work and deserves the odd million every now and then. Anyway, the thing is, even anonymous bank accounts need the client's personal details for the bank's own use - it's part of Swiss banking law. So Franz was given the spy's personal information and used it to open an account with a bank in Bern that the Syndicate is known to use. You remember the documents with the red and green marker ink? Red ink denotes the tax work he handled for transactions for the spy's private account."
At her dim nod, he went on, "So you see, Sam, this is why everything I've told you about your mission so far, no matter how strange it may sound, has to be that way. You must keep this a secret because if anyone else hears, the suspects might too - you know how quickly rumors spread - and they might escape or alert the Syndicate. You must travel by a false passport because it is likely the spy has leaked the names of all WOOHP agents and spies to the Syndicate, so that if you travel under your real identity, they'll see you coming. I can't inform the WOOHP Thailand branch of the mission because Blaine controls them as Head of Operations, and Blaine is a suspect. I can't ask the Investigations Section to conduct an internal security investigation because they report to Rick, and he too is a suspect. I can't send Alex - or indeed, any other spies - to assist you, otherwise Clover will notice that she has too many spies unaccounted for and that might alert her. And you must travel by commercial flight because Tomas controls all WOOHP vehicles as Head of Agents and he's a suspect as well, and anyways WOOHP flights must be cleared with local air traffic control and I don't want to tell the Thai authorities, in case a corrupt official or another Syndicate spy tips off ETOKA." He frowned. "I don't think I've told you this, but the Thai government knows nothing of Operation Impeachment, which makes it entirely illegal - WOOHP is supposed to operate with the knowledge and consent of local authorities, but I can't take the risk of informing them. The stakes and the dangers involved are just too high."
Jerry shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "This is why...this is why, Sam, if something goes wrong and you're caught, either by the Thai police or the Syndicate, you can't mention me, and why you can't communicate with me while you're on mission. I need...there has to be deniability, Sam," he said delicately, as if saying the word the wrong way would jeopardize the mission. "Do you understand? The way things are now, after all our recent failures...if you're caught and the Thais and the UN ask me what I was doing, I don't think WOOHP would survive the official consequences if I told them the truth, that I ordered it. If you're caught, Sam, I need you to lie. Tell them it was your idea, that it was all your doing, your own private mission." He looked at Sam sadly. "I feel awful about this, truly. I don't want to throw you under the bus, but it's for the highest cause."
Wow. Just one bombshell after another. This day just keeps getting worse, doesn't it?
"It's for WOOHP," she said blandly, after a long pause. Remember that, Jerry told her.
He smiled in relief. "That's right. Thank you, Sam. I knew you'd understand."
It's not like anyone will believe me anyway. "I just felt like flying to Thailand three days before my history midterm on a fake Canadian passport to rescue a WOOHP informer from evil international gangsters" - who's going to believe that?
Taking another sip of tea, Jerry cleared his throat before saying, "Back to the mission, now. Franz and his wife, Marjorie, will be staying at the Twilight Majestical Resort on the banks of the Chao Phraya River, just north of Bangkok." He pressed a button, and the images on the screen changed from the suspects' portraits to that of a beautiful hotel, decorated in gold, red and white, built in a classical Asian style, sitting amidst lush gardens next to a grand river, whose waters reflected the gold of the setting sun. "It's a lovely place, with five stars on TripAdvisor and its own uniformed security team - small wonder why Franz chose to hide there. Get there as soon as you exit the terminal, Sam. Marjorie will be expecting you in the lobby, at a cafe next to reception." He pressed another button, and the portrait of a blonde woman in early middle age appeared onscreen, sporting shoulder-length frizzy blonde hair that, Sam thought, would look better straight. "That's her. Look for her at the cafe. And check her table - if she has a drink on the table, it's safe to meet. If there's no drink or she's not there, you'll have to make sure the area is secure from any Syndicate thugs before she will agree to meet."
"Marjorie. Drink. Ok. Got it." Sam took a deep breath and closed her eyes for a minute, hoping that it would quell the butterflies that were, for all practical intents and purposes, throwing a rave in her stomach. It didn't work.
This is crazy this is crazy this is crazy this is a bad BAD idea, she thought, but for some reason she hadn't the heart to say it straight to Jerry's face. Every time she thought she might try to, the look of haggard exhaustion and desperate confidence on Jerry's face plucked a hidden chord inside of her, and her objections - persistent as they were - withered away and crumbled into a thousand pieces.
"Once you meet with Marjorie, she'll inform Franz of your arrival and he'll come down from his room. When he does, you must ask at once for the name of the spy. He will tell you right away, and when he does, you must tell me immediately." A sly, mischievous look crept into his eyes. "We'll need codenames, Sam, for the suspects. If you tell me the spy's real name, the spy might be alerted in the event - in the highly likely event, unfortunately - that the spy has compromised WOOHP's secure communications. If that happens, it is entirely possible that the spy may escape before I can order his or her arrest." He smiled, a little cheekily. "Are you familiar with the nursery rhyme 'Tinker, Tailor?'"
"Um...no?" And suddenly, all at once, Sam was seized by the urge to scream aloud at how ridiculous the whole mission seemed and how...how...bad and unthinkable Jerry's premise seemed. Nursery rhymes? Codenames? Nursery rhymes as codenames? What is this, a bad spy movie?
Jerry looked unperturbed, oblivious to the turmoil inside her mind. "No, of course you wouldn't know it. You aren't British. Well, it goes, 'Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Sailor, Rich Man, Poor Man, Beggar Man, Thief.'"
"That doesn't even rhyme that much," Sam said, skepticism written on her face. Inwardly, though, she was secretly pleased with herself for having finally found the courage to raise an objection, as small as it was.
"Never mind that," Jerry said irately. "Repeat it, if you can."
To her surprise, Sam was able to, despite having heard it for the first time only moments before.
Jerry smirked. "The point is not that it rhymes perfectly, but that it rhymes well enough to be easy to remember. Which is why the words from the rhyme will work well for our codenames. We'll assign the codename of 'Tinker' to..."
Five minutes of assigning and reviewing codenames later, Sam was now totally convinced Jerry had gone cuckoo. This is...the lamest, weirdest, most...bad, bad mission ever!
Sam let out a long, long sigh. "Whew. Wow. Ok. Um...really, really not feeling any better about this, Jer."
Jerry nodded sympathetically, an indulgent bob of the head, while opening a desk drawer and rummaging about inside. "I realize this can be a lot to process at once, Sam, and I know you haven't the benefit of my own investigations or my interactions with Franz March. But I hope that you trust me, and in any event you'll have a twelve-hour air trip to think it through. In the meantime, I have a few things that I think will cheer you up."
He began laying the contents of the drawer on the desk for Sam to see. "And now for your gadgets. For this mission, you'll be having a practical loadout, things to help you spot and get out of trouble. You'll be using the Laser Lipstick, the All-Weather Umbrella, the Jetpack Backpack, the Lipbalm Smokebomb, the M-Ray Contact Lenses, and the Ultra-Sensitive Earring Microphone."
Despite her misgivings, Sam couldn't help but grin as she ran her fingers over the shiny new - yet reliably familiar - gadgets she'd been issued. They had all gotten her out of sticky situations before, and knowing that she'd have them on hand for this mission made her feel like she could handle whatever came her way. "You're right. I do feel better." She smiled gratefully. "Thanks, Jerry."
"Glad to know it." Jerry stood up now, a laborious, ponderous movement that seemed absurd for such a slender man, and began making his way around the desk. He knocked over a few files, but didn't seem to notice or care. "All I need, Sam, is one codename. Whatever happens, if the Syndicate finds him and shoots him as he comes down the stairs, or if they chase you into Bangkok, whatever happens, you must get me that codename. Call me on your compowder, write it in your blood on the front door of the Thailand branch, yell it down the telephone into the Head Manager's ear - do whatever you have to do, Sam. Just let me know."
"Well, you know, if I do run into trouble, I think I can take care of myself," Sam muttered through clenched teeth, as she struggled to stuff the All-Weather Umbrella into the backpack portion of the Jetpack Backpack. "Aha! Got it!"
Slinging the backpack over her shoulders, she set Franz's file back on Jerry's desk next to the teapot and stuffed the envelope with Rebecca Turner's passport, the plane tickets, and her Thai money into her pocket. She looked up to see Jerry standing before her, looking at her with a pitiful, hopeful flicker in his eyes.
"Bring the Marches back. Get that codename. Come home safe." He set his hand on her shoulder, squeezed gently, and smiled, and for the first time since she arrived Sam felt the tension in her nerves loosen, ever so slightly, and a warm surge of affection in her breast.
"I-I will, Jerry. I won't let WOOHP down." She wished she could know that for certain.
If Jerry could sense her doubts, both about the mission and his theory, he gave no indication. "Good luck, Sam." He took a step back and reached for a button on his desk, and Sam braced herself for what was about to happen. "Ta-ta."
As the floor opened up and swallowed her whole - and a few stacks of files, for good measure - Sam closed her eyes and wished for the best, hoping with the desperate, irrational optimism of the unknowingly damned that Jerry wasn't crazy, that his rotten apple theory wasn't real, and that, against all odds and all logic, everything would turn out all right.
Operation Impeachment
Mission Status: ACTIVE
Spy Samantha Simpson Deployed