Scene XXI – Los Angeles, Restaurant
"So Sarah's in this pub in Belfast, talking in an Irish brogue that makes her sound like she's from a sheep farm in the countryside. Despite having downed four pints, her accent doesn't slip once; she's got every last one of them fooled."
Chuck could picture the scene in his head: a slightly younger Sarah, totally faking out an entire bar full of Irishmen on a whim. He let out a quiet laugh, wishing he could have been there.
She continued, "They start singing songs, and before you know it, Sarah's leading them in a chorus of 'Danny Boy' from the top of the bar, swinging her beer glass back and forth to direct the swaying of the drunken crowd. As an encore, she damn near takes down the pub dart champion. I still think she threw the match to avoid embarrassing the poor guy." Carina shook her head, eyes distant as she drew back into her memories. "She's probably a legend at that pub."
His grin grew. Carina had now told three different stories about the two of them during down times after missions. Each tale conjured mixed feelings: he loved getting some insight into her past, but each also showed him just how little he really knew about the mysterious Sarah Walker. And these were the fun stories, not the ones with Sarah Walker, ruthless secret agent. His grin faded a bit; he sighed.
"It's OK, you know."
Chuck looked up to find her staring at him intently, the reminiscing expression gone from her face. "What is?" he asked.
"To be sad that she's gone." Her eyes shown with understanding.
Something about her statement didn't sit quite right with Chuck. "That seems like an odd view for somebody who advocates not getting close to anybody in the first place."
Her face showed a hint of guilt, like a kid caught with a hand in the cookie jar. She quickly backpedaled. "Well, I'm talking for you. You're an analyst; odds of you needing to stick a knife in somebody tomorrow are virtually zero. It's a little different for the agents than the analysts."
Again, he wasn't buying it. Not entirely. "You sure you don't ever miss anyone? Not even a little?"
Carina hesitated; Chuck could see her marshaling her defenses again.
Sensing her discomfort, he added, "It's all right; you don't need to answer that."
She gave him a melancholy smile; his words somehow seemed to make it easier for her to answer. "Some times. I try not to think about things like that too much. Can't afford to."
Somehow, her answer meant a lot to Chuck. If even the seemingly coldest agents found it tough at times…
The question escaped his lips before he could stop it. "Do you think Sarah will miss me?" He looked at Carina, his heart in his eyes. He didn't bother trying to hide how he felt; he couldn't have hidden his feelings if he had wanted to.
She gave him an ascertaining look, her thoughts unreadable. After a long moment, she answered in an uncharacteristically soft tone, "Yes. I think she will."
Chuck offered her a bittersweet smile of thanks, looking away. He really didn't want Sarah to miss him if she felt the need to move on, but at the same time, he really wanted their time together to mean … something. Even though it was a bit selfish, he liked the idea of Sarah and Carina sharing a beer somewhere down the road, with Sarah wondering aloud to Carina what could have been. He liked the poetry of it.
Carina apparently decided it was long past time to shake off this kind of talk; she slammed the table with both hands, snapping him from his mooning. "But that's why I keep saying that you have to seize the moment. Live in the here and now. Take what's in front of you while you … what in the world is that?"
The waiter had brought over a dish with a spiny brown mass covered in cinnamon and chocolate sauce, with two lit sparklers spraying little silver stars into the air. He wordlessly set it down between the two of them, offering up two spoons and a smile before he departed.
Carina stared at the mass as if she expected it to sprout legs and walk off the plate.
"C'mon, you've never had fried ice cream?" Chuck asked her in disbelief.
"No," she responded, her face settling into an odd mix of fascination and dubious disdain.
"Wow, you need to get out more."
Carina directed an incredulous expression at him before realizing he was playing with her a little. She gave an abashed laugh and returned to her examination of the fried concoction, poking at it tentatively with her spoon. The whole scoop moved as she prodded the shell.
He was thoroughly amused. "Look, it's just a scoop of ice cream that they freeze solid, dip in batter and deep fry. It's good. Try a bite."
Carina tried unsuccessfully a couple of times to penetrate the shell with her spoon, but the ball simply slid across the bowl or spun slightly on the pool of warm chocolate syrup.
Suddenly frustrated, she stabbed down at the globe with her spoon. The blow peeled away a sizable piece of the crisp coating; her follow-through shattered the crust and sprayed fried shrapnel with gooey bits of ice cream and chocolate across the table.
The speed of the thrust was enough to push the ball of ice cream over the edge of the bowl and onto the table, the sparklers hissing in protest as they were pinned against the table.
Chuck burst out laughing at the carnage. "It's not funny," Carina stated, her unhappiness reflected in her face. Given the wreckage on the table and a couple of stray pieces of breading lodged in her hair, Chuck only laughed harder.
Carina surveyed the damage and fought to maintain her angry expression, but started laughing despite herself.
Scene XXII – Merida, Restaurant
Moreno and Varela shared a table in an upper corner of the tiered restaurant. Because of their location, Sarah and Bryce were in no position to hear what the two discussed. Sarah was more than a little frustrated that they weren't closer.
"Well, the view is nice from here, but unfortunately, it's not that view that matters."
"Oh, ye of little faith." Bryce tapped the ear closest to the window, which now contained an ear piece.
"You bugged their table?"
Bryce shot her an annoyed look at the obvious question.
Sarah flushed. "How did you know where they'd be sitting?"
"I didn't. I bugged every table."
"And if our friend had a way of detecting the bug?"
Bryce shook his head. "He couldn't. I used GLG-20's; they're almost impossible to detect because…"
"…they use very low power, but that only gives them a range of about 20 yards. Yeah, I have some experience with those." Very recent experience.
Bryce's expression conveyed his curiosity, but he set it aside for another time. "It took me a bit to find their table on the receiver," he said, patting his coat pocket, "so I missed the very beginning of their conversation. But I've been listening to a live feed for the past few minutes."
"And…?"
"Either Moreno is talking in code phrases, or he is being carefully vague. We'll need to do some translation work on the recordings. Best I can tell, Moreno is informing Varela that there needs to be some changes in where the funds are being sent, whatever that means."
"That makes no sense. Why would COPEI send money where Fulcrum wants?"
"They wouldn't; certainly not directly. Half the reason that Chavez was able to seize control of the Venezuelan government is because COPEI and the other major political party got caught in a series of corruption scandals. They couldn't chance getting caught again."
"Well, then what…"
Bryce gave her a look and subtly held up a finger, obviously trying to listen to the conversation. Sarah was left to do with nothing but wait. She scraped together the remains of her dulce de leche flan before deciding she was well past the point of being full; she set down her spoon and stared out at the lights below.
In a normal, conversational tone, Bryce said, "Moreno is leaving." He stole another bite of his sinfully rich chocolate cake.
Sarah ran a hand behind her neck and casually stretched, allowing her to steal a glance at the table. Sure enough, Varela was vigorously shaking Moreno's hand. The two exchanged a final smile, and Moreno walked away. Varela sat back down, signaling to the waiter that he wanted to order something.
Bryce summed up the rest of the conversation. "Our friends arranged a meeting at a local estancia tomorrow night. The guy who can redirect the funds will be there."
"Surveillance at those estates is tough. The grounds tend to be huge, and if the owner has any type of security, we're not getting anywhere close to the main house."
"Well, the meeting is happening during a fundraising event, likely to camouflage the people who are meeting. We can probably sneak in pretty easily."
Sarah grinned. "I've got a better idea. Follow my lead," she said, folding her napkin and standing up.
Bryce was a bit taken aback. He subtly removed his earpiece as he stood, slipping it into a pocket as he buttoned his jacket. He took a couple of quick steps to catch up to her, placing a hand in the small of her back as if to guide her.
The pair strolled up one of the two main aisles leading towards the top of the restaurant, with sets of three stairs raising them from tier to tier. When they reached the top tier, Sarah looked at Gustavo as if noticing him for the first time, grabbing Bryce's sleeve and indicating he should follow her. The two approached the table.
Sarah, with Bryce closely in two, approached Varela's table. "Senor Varela?" she inquired.
"Yes?" he answered in Spanish.
In nearly perfect Spanish, Sarah responded, "I thought it was you. I'm a great admirer of what your party is trying to do."
Varela looked pleased. "Thank you. Somebody needs to stand up to Chavez and his increasingly socialist regime."
"Do you think there is any chance that your party can gain enough power to stop him?"
"It's a difficult fight, but one we think we can win, Ms…?" At the comment, Gustavo stood up and leaned across the table to offer Sarah his hand.
"My apologies, where are my manners? My name is Sarah Wilkinson, and this is my husband, Bruce."
After he finished shaking Sarah's hand, Varela stepped out from behind the table and gave Bryce another of his vigorous, two-handed handshakes. "You are a lucky man, Mr. Wilkinson. Your wife is a truly beautiful creature."
His Spanish slightly more polished than Sarah's, Bryce answered, "She is a remarkable woman. I am always a better man with her by my side."
Sarah caught the double-meaning in Bryce's words; she couldn't help but be affected by the compliment. Apparently, he still had some pull on her.
As was typical in South America, Gustavo focused on the male when matters of business were at hand. "So you share your wife's interest in our work?"
"Absolutely. We have heavy stakes in a number of American companies in Venezuela, and the privatizations have cost us a lot of money. We wish to see a return to more of a free market to protect our interests."
"Well, that is exactly what we are fighting to do. Would you care to join me to hear more about our plans?"
"We would love to."
"Are you sure we aren't interrupting?" Sarah added.
"Not at all. My dinner partner was called away early, so I would appreciate the company."
Bryce seated Sarah in the chair opposite Varela. Signaling to the waiter, soon Bryce was sitting in a third chair to the side of the table.
Over coffee, Varela explained some of the party's initiatives, but both Sarah and Bryce found it difficult to believe any of them would release the stranglehold that Chavez had on the country. Still, they feigned interest, and gradually acted as if they were becoming more enthusiastic about the party's prospects as the conversation went on.
Sarah could sense that Gustavo had just about reached the point in his sales pitch where he was going to ask the two for a donation. Knowing it would be more believable for her to be the one to beg off, she gently tapped Bryce on the arm, not needing to act too much to put a tired expression on her face.
"I apologize, Senor Varela," Bryce said. "My wife's plane landed in Sao Paolo very early this morning and she has had an eventful day. Perhaps we could continue our discussion another time?"
Varela looked a little disappointed, but concealed it well. "I hope you will forgive my presumption, but if you happen to be free tomorrow night, we are holding a fund-raising event just northwest of Ejido. Perhaps we could continue our discussion there?"
"We would be honored."
"Excellent." Varela pulled out a sheaf of oversized cards from inside his jacket pocket; the front contained a picture of an elaborate estancia, the back directions and details about the event. He pulled out one of his business cards and scribbled notes on the back. "Bruce and Sarah Wilkinson. 'Wilkinson' with an 'o', I presume?" he inquired.
"Correct."
He wrote the names down before standing. "I will make certain you are added you to the guest list. I look forward to seeing you there."
Once again, Bryce was subjected to an overly vigorous handshake that was apparently a trademark of Gustavo Varela, while Sarah again received a much gentler version. After bidding Varela good night, the team casually made their way back to their table to pay their bill.
Switching back to English, Sarah wryly whispered, "Looks like I'll be doing some shopping tomorrow."
"Me too," Bryce replied. "You don't want to know what happened to my last tux."