A/N: Wow, it's been awhile. Those of you who read my Easter fic exchange response know that I lost a great deal of this chapter due to computer problems, but I've managed to finish it at last, so here it is! I've also submitted this story for my Camp NaNoWriMo project, so I'm going to try to have the whole thing written by the end of April. It might not all be published by then, because I'll probably go back and clean it up, but the updates should get a lot more regular, so there's that.
I'm also unbelievably inspired by the film Atomic Blonde, which takes place in Berlin, 1989, and has one of the most incredible soundtracks ever.
Disclaimer: Not mine - is it ever? The few places mentioned are real and can be searched up with ease.
John spends the entire plane ride with sweaty palms and an incessant need to look over his shoulder, so much so that Wolf, with whom he's sharing the flight, traps him by the lavatory to tell him to 'Calm the fuck down, kid.' It's been three days since Jones gave him the mission, two since their meeting in Alex's house, and one since they finalised travel plans, and in the last twenty-four hours, John has tried to reassure himself exactly eighteen times. It hasn't worked yet.
It's not his first time out of Britain by any means, and not even his first outside mission, counting the one he'd done in Turkey years back, but for some reason, everything about this plane ride rubs him the wrong way. It might be the thought that every single person on this flight save him and Wolf could be a SCORPIA agent.
Stop being so paranoid, he tries to tell himself. It's only a couple hours, barely long enough to watch a decent film. It doesn't stop him from rereading the same page in his book at least ten times because the words won't stop blurring before his eyes.
He remembers the day they'd planned it. They'd arranged every detail meticulously. Alex would arrive first, they'd decided, setting up the safe house and scoping out any potential hazards—he knew the city best, had the most contacts. Next would be John and Wolf, and then Ben, Snake, Eagle, and Tiger, arriving by train. Their covers had varied, too—army buddies celebrating time off together, a businessman in town for a conference, a uni student visiting family. Everything had been arranged with the collective intelligence of two spies, four SAS soldiers, Smithers, and John himself, and yet he can't shake the apprehension that coils in his stomach.
"Prepare for landing," a flight attendant's voice sounds calmly over the intercom, and John feels his muscles unclench slightly. Thank goodness.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Wolf flash a hand signal, the type taught to all members of SIS. Remember the plan, Wolf's fingers say, cleverly hidden in his lap, and John nods quickly. He wonders if the SAS teaches its recruits the same signals, then decides he doesn't care. The plan, he reminds himself. You collect your case and get off. There's a car waiting, courtesy of one of Alex's contacts. Wait till he gives you the safe word. Wolf will find his own way.
The plane shudders, then, and John has to fight to keep his relief from showing as the wheels hit the ground. He gives Wolf a small, discreet nod and stands, reaching for the briefcase he'd packed under Alex's watchful eye two days previously. The leather handle warms under his slightly sweaty palm, but its weight is reassuring as he steps off the plane and into the airport.
"Passport?" the woman at the counter asks in heavily-accented English, and he jerks out of his thoughts, handing his documents to her with a patently false smile and a nod. He clenches his hands into fists to stop them shaking as her eyes rake over the passport that reads 'John Rivers' and the papers that declare him to be in his late twenties.
She gives a sharp nod, then, handing his documents back, and he almost goes weak in the knees with relief, just managing to lock his knees and offer her a smile.
"Thank you," he says, and he almost means it.
He walks past her, eyes on the doors of the airport, Alex's instructions sounding in his brain: 'Walk out of Tegel and turn left. Two blocks away, the car's waiting for you.' 'Black?' John had joked, and Alex had graced him with a faint smile that didn't match the intensity in his eyes. 'Actually, no. Black cars are for important people, and John Rivers is no one. The car's blue.'
He steps out of Tegel Airport, walks the requisite blocks, and there it is, as promised—sky blue and slightly dented, a dark-haired man leaning against it.
"John Rivers," he greets quietly, accent vaguely European. John regards him carefully, neither confirming nor denying the greeting as he waits. "Bags?" the man continues, and John shakes his head, heart sinking. He didn't say it.
"No bags, I'll not be staying long," he manages to croak, throat dry. 'The luggage'll come on the train with the others,' Wolf's voice reminds him sternly, 'we can't go bandying it about that we're leaving for who-knows-how-long.'
"Not staying long, then?" the other man asks, reaching to open the door for him. Mutely, John shakes his head, and the man shrugs. "Pity. It's a lovely city. Perhaps not quite as grand as London, or even Giza, with the Sphinx—"
And John's almost sighing, body humming with relief. There it is. The safe word. He looks up, then, to see the man watching him with a faint sort of amusement, and an unwelcome flush heats his ears. He clears his throat. "I'm sure it is. Can't wait to see it."
"Good," the man nods. "Get in." There's something about this man that unsettles him, something predatory in those dark eyes and white, white smile. John obeys, flashing one last glance around the airport, tugging his case into the seat beside him.
The man starts driving without prompting, and John looks up, curious. "What's your name?" he blurts, realising he really has no idea who this man is.
"Wilhelm," the man answers, meeting his eyes in the rear-view mirror.
"Ah," he nods, unsure of what to say, unsure if Wilhelm is this man's real name or if the title is as false as John Rivers—
"We will be there soon, Mr. Rivers. Perhaps you would like to sleep, or open the window? I understand jet lag can be quite debilitating," Wilhelm offers, and John nods, grateful for the out.
"I might, thanks. Tegel isn't in the city centre, is it?"
Wilhelm shakes his head. "It is not. Tegel is in the west of Berlin, near Reinickendorf, and I am taking you to Schöneberg, further to the east."
"I see," John says noncommittally, even though he really doesn't. Reaching into his case, he withdraws a slip of paper marked merely with a 'J' as he'd been instructed. The note is brief, Eagle's words clipped and to-the-point just as he is. Two blocks west, five north. Blue shutters. Don't be followed.
John swallows, thoughts whirling. So even Wilhelm isn't to be trusted with the location of the safe house. A bitter smile crosses his face, then. Haven't you heard, John Roberts? No one is to be trusted. Again, the feeling of helplessness, of sheer incompetence rises in him, and he clenches his hands into fists, willing his face to stay blank. It's a losing battle, and he feels the panic well up in him—
Ben's advice is like air to a drowning man. 'Who are you?' he'd asked, his calm, collected nature at odds with the urgency of their situation. 'Pardon?' John had answered, and Ben had explained, 'That's the question you need to answer, always. Whether you're undercover for long periods of time or for the duration of an auto ride, know who you are. Who is John Rivers? How does he behave when he's in a rush, when he's happy, when he's on his way to work? That's the secret to going undercover.'
So John takes a deep breath and sinks into his cover as he'd been taught, shedding everything that makes him John Roberts and replacing it with John Rivers, English accountant heading to Berlin for a conference, supposedly—wealthy, in a bit of a rush, and decidedly boring.
"So, Wilhelm," he says, "any idea how much longer it'll be? I've got to make this conference."
The other man's eyes flash with something like amusement, but despite John Roberts' slight embarrassment, John Rivers doesn't react. "Perhaps five minutes," the German man answers, and John nods.
"Thank you," he answers politely, and turns to look out the window, for all intents and purposes passing the time. In reality, though, he's going back through Eagle's letter. Blue shutters. Two blocks west. Five blocks north. And the last instruction, the most important—don't be followed. A month ago, a week ago, even, he'd have scoffed at the thought of someone following him with this cover, because who could possibly care about an accountant? Inwardly, he grimaces at his younger self's naïveté.
The car pulls over on the right side of the road, then, stopping in front of a tall, elegant hotel building. "We have arrived, Mr. Rivers," Wilhelm tells him, and John collects his case, giving the other man a nod and a polite, 'thank you.' Stepping out of the car and onto the kerb, he walks purposefully toward the hotel building, nodding at the concierge and settling down in one of the lobby chairs.
Two blocks west, five blocks north. John opens his attaché again, this time passing over the slip of paper with Eagle's writing inside in favour of the compass beneath it. Memorising the correct direction in which to walk, he makes his way out of the building, careful to keep a harried look on his face as he walks down the street (that's one block north, four more to go) and turns left.
The air is cool on his face as he turns to glance behind him, checking for tails under the guise of looking at his watch and frowning—'don't be followed,' Eagle had written, and John intends to follow through. Grey suit, burgundy tie, he notes, remembering the man as one of the patrons of the hotel he'd been dropped off at and a customer at a small store he'd passed. I'll have to lose him…Spotting a street vendor up ahead, John takes his chance, ducking into the crowd waiting in line and hiding his face with a menu. His tail joins the line behind him, and John swears under his breath. Thinking quickly, he shrugs off his dark coat, turning it inside out so that the lighter silk lining faces the elements. Then, with one last surreptitious look at his tail, he ducks into an alley on his right.
Moving quickly, he strides down the street, scanning intersections for familiar faces before continuing on. Another right, then two lefts, and he's heading west again, and John allows a tiny bubble of pride to fizz and pop within him at having lost his tail…
Then he hears it, the faint footsteps that dog his every move. Damn it. Stopping by a glass display, he checks his reflection, swearing as he spots the grey suit jacket, the corner of a maroon tie peeking out from one pocket. Heart thumping as his tail draws closer, John turns into the least busy street he could see and takes off running, dodging pedestrians and dogs alike. A brief glance backward reveals his tail in hot pursuit, and John increases his speed, swerving around corners, trying not to trip over the occasional stray cat. Shit, he swears, chancing a look behind him and realising that his tail's been joined by another man in a dark jacket, hood pulled up so John can't see his face. Hurry up, he orders himself, the corners of his briefcase bouncing painfully against his leg. I can't lead them to the safe house…I'll have to lose them some other way, but how?
He sprints another two blocks, and just as he feels his lungs begin to tire, John spots his chance in the form of a dark alleyway, the end of which is shrouded in shadow.
"Stop!" one of his pursuers shouts from behind him, but John doesn't listen, dashing into the street, intent on reaching another intersection where he can turn and lose his tails. Putting on a final burst of speed, he makes a break for the darkness at the end of the lane…only to come up hard against a brick wall.
Oh, sodding hell. It's a dead end.
"We've got you now," his grey-clad tracker points out, stalking closer, his partner a dark shadow behind him. "You've got nowhere to go, so why don't you tell us what you're doing here?"
John gulps, trying to paste a look of innocence on his face. "Business trip," he tries, sticking to his cover. "I'm an accountant, and there's a conference here—"
"Nice try," his tail sneers, and John notes that the man's accent, while vaguely European, isn't German. Oh, hell, if he's SCORPIA…
"Really," John insists nervously, wondering if he can call for help and pass the encounter off as a mugging before he's killed or captured—
"No one's coming to help you," his pursuer asserts, and John swallows hard. "Really, you might as well give up now—"
And then John jumps as the man's eyes seem to widen in surprise before rolling back in his head as he collapses, unconscious. Looking up, he sees his other pursuer shaking out his hand, having delivered a swift blow to the back of his partner's head.
"What—" the words die in his throat as the other man slides his hood back, revealing familiar features.
"Welcome to Berlin," Alex shrugs.
Oh, I enjoyed writing this. Leave a review to let me know if you enjoyed reading it, yeah?