Author's Note: I'm BAAAAAAAAAAACK! Didya miss me? Anyway, I know its been nearly two years since an update to this story. My life has been insane as of late, so I apologise, but make at the same time, its not like i ever promised regular updates. As I say on every update, I'd rather give you longer, better, more well-written updates more slowly than the other way 'round.

Anyway, lots to cover here so let's get to it: as always, standard disclaimers, I don't own any of it. Anything you recognise is not original but merely an homage, anyhting you don't recognise might be original, but who knows. Regardless this is all just for fun story telling purposes, not for profit.

This chapter is EXTREMELY DARK for much of it. SIGNIFICANT use of adult language, including occasional slurs, occurs as does multiple character death. I am trying to make my characters as nuanced as possible whilst still making my "bad guys" the comic-book type of Big Bad but also a realistic view of the violence and brutality of the world of espionage. Whilst also still trying to keep the overall story be a lighthearted fun story about family, love, and redemption, just like Chuck itself (which is one of the reasons why this chapter took so long to write, it underwent like 6 re-writes). Anyway, BE YE WARNED this chapter has a lot of violence and suggestive content in it. I try to mix it up with some light-hearted stuff as well, but I'm not so sure how it came out.

Next point: this chapter, and probably the next several chapters will be set in/have characters from/deal with/etc Israel, that country where I am from. I know a lot of people have a lot of strong opinions about my country but this is not the place to voice those opinions. I will be trying my best to give people, through the context of this story using these settings almost as a character in itself, a more nuanced view of this country in which I was born, raised, and which i love deeply, through the medium of story telling. I am going to try to be as nuanced as I can in the characterisation of people, places, etc and you're just going to have to go with me on this. Here is your fair warning however: I will not tolerate my comments section being used as a place to discourse about I/P or related politics and any comments along the lines of "Israel doesnt exist, its called Palestine" will be automatically deleted.

With that, serious bit of business taken care of, again, standard disclaimers, English isn't my first language, bla bla bla. I hope you enjoy and forgive me for so late a delay in updating. Happy reading, and remember: comments are love.

- D

Several Months Later.

Main Square

Old Jaffa, Israel

12.39 IST

Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar! Allah hu Akbar Allahu Akbar! Ash-hadu an la ilaha illa Allah! Ash-hadu anna Muhammadun rasool Allah!

The cry of the muezzins from the minarets of the al-Bahr and Mahmoudiya mosques calling the faithful to worship Jummah prayer, one immediately after the other like perfect, synchronous, clockwork, rang out through the square. Every day, like clockwork, since the Ottomans controlled this land and built the mosques, they've called the same call to prayer five times daily. Probably before then, too, since Umar and the Muslims conquered the area from the Byzantines, albeit with a brief hiatus during the Crusades, he thought ruefully to himself. But those were different mosques. These mosques were built by the Turks, he remembered vaguely from school. He knew it was impossible, given the hustle and bustle and general loud, boisterous craziness that was the central square of Old Jaffa on Friday afternoon, but he thought to himself that if he could remove all the distractions: all the angry honking of horns from the equally ornery taxi drivers, the German and American tourists gawking at the beauty of the juxtaposition of the old with the new, the local Israelis in this part of Jaffa for a Friday afternoon stroll, the east asian tourists - usually Chinese or Korean, but sometimes Japanese, Christians - gaggling together in mid-sized, slow-moving packs snapping photographs of everything they could get a clear shot of, the Muslim faithful heeding the call to prayer and heading to the mosque, the smells of the rich spices, coffee, tea, and grilled meats being sold in ten different establishments just off the main square alone, the local shopkeepers hawking their wares - if he could somehow remove all the noise from them all, impossible as that would be, he chuckled to himself, he knew that if he really strained himself to listen, he'd hear the same call echoing from as far away as the Hassan Bek, al Jalabiya, and Nuzhar mosques on the other side of the city, where it juts up against Tel Aviv, bright, new, clean, and gleaming in contrast with Jaffa, as well. They rang out in cacophonous beauty.

Hayyah ala Salah! Hayyah ala i-Falah! Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar! La illaha ila Allah!

Jamal Bishara didn't care much for religion. Or politics or nationalism, for that matter. Growing up in a nominally pro-Zionist Arab-Israeli (or Palestinian-Israeli, depending on whom you asked) Christian family and being forced to leave your community for being an openly gay man had a way of rudely and abruptly disavowing one of their preconceived identities rather quickly. One thing he did care about however, was business. Or rather more specifically, making money. One thing he learned very quickly when he was kicked out of his father's house was that the mean streets of modern, urban Israel were very mean indeed, and they didn't give a single fuck about you, Arab or Jew, unless you could hustle and learn ways to pay your own way. So its rather unsurprising that he fell into what might be considered the "wrong crowd" from the very beginning. They were called many things: gangs, criminals, thugs, thieves, mafia, you name it; they made their living doing anything and everything: petty larceny, grand theft auto, extortion, prostitution, smuggling, drug trafficking, blackmail, you name it. If it made money and kept food in their stomachs and roofs over their heads, his group was willing to do it. But there was one area in particular which was particularly lucrative and in which he was particularly well-versed: the looting and trafficking of illicit antiquities.

Not only was he extremely good at this particular business, but he enjoyed it immensely as well. Like him, this business didn't care for national or ethnic or religious borders: Jew, Christian, Muslim...Israeli, Palestinian...Arab, Russian, Ethiopian, Druze, Jew...they were all equally pointless and arbitrary, in the grand scheme of the long history of this land. It favoured no single side over the other, but was more than willing to use any and all cultural groups' artefacts to make a profit. Much like himself, he thought, ruefully. It was an apt metaphor, for he cared for and had no longer had any loyalty towards any government, state, or ethnic identity: people were just people, and all governments, even the more benign ones, were prone to shitty behaviour, as he'd learned first hand through his own life experiences. No, his only loyalty was to himself and his organisation.

His organisation, of course, being the mafia-like crime group he was the local second-in-command of. But this was no ordinary mafia. Yes, they were an organised crime organisation much like the Moroccans and the Russians, but they weren't glorified petty criminals. Well, they were certainly criminals to be sure - after all, his particular specialty was the illicit trade in looted antiquities - and they were of course out to make themselves as personally wealthy as they could, and were willing to stoop to mafia-style violence to do it. But no, ever since he had met Graham several years ago, his organisation was far more than a simple crime ring. It was an allied sub-organisation of Graham's umbrella Fulcrum organisation. An organisation, he was promised, was working towards righting all of society's wrongs, reversing the crimes of the past, and to borrow from the Christian teachings of his own upbringing, to ensure that the meek inherited the earth today, and not waiting until the Kingdom of God came to earth. This was a benevolent goal that Jamal knew even then, several years ago, that he could easily get behind. He was after all, still an idealist, of sorts. He just no longer believed his ideals could be brought to fruition by any of the current options.

With Graham's help, he quickly rose through the ranks of his own organisation until now, when he was the local second-in-command. Whilst Graham ran Fulcrum and had influence over all the smaller organisations, he wasn't Jamal's boss, as such. The entire point, he had told Jamal several years ago, was decentralisation. If he ran everything himself, the organisation could be tracked, targeted, and shut down by government agencies much more easily than if Fulcrum had a large base of affiliated and allied but nominally independent organisations all working together under his direction - but not control - for a common goal. That way, if God forbid, one part of the organisation was successfully targeted by law enforcement or intelligence agencies, the rest could scatter to the four corners of the wind and go to ground, making it just shy of impossible to track down and shut down all the different factions and organisations, making the organisation next to impossible to shut down completely. To this end, Jamal and his organisation were essentially free to operate as they pleased and do as they like, but when Graham or the wider organisation needed him and his men to do a job, or provide certain services for the completion of the greater goal, they were available and at Graham's disposal.

And that was why he was currently sitting outside a small arab coffee shop tucked in a small alley between a tourist information office and the police station that looked out onto the main square of Old Jaffa, directly across from a fancy, overpriced fish restaurant, and St Anthony's Roman Catholic Church, smoking a cigarette and drinking a cup of dark, thick, and unbelievably sweet arabic coffee as the sounds of Lebanese pop music wafted in the air from the shop's open door, as he waited.

And like clockwork, there he was.

Inspector Yaniv Davidovich of the Shin Bet appeared, conspicuous in his attempt at feigning inconspicuousness, in Jamal's peripheral vision. He was young; Jamal would have estimated in his mid to late twenties, just out of the army, and still cocksure and arrogant and believing he knew everything and could conquer the world if only he was given the chance. Of course, Jamal also knew that that was not the case and he was about to find that out the hard way, because the real world didn't work like the army did and no matter how much of a hot shit he may have been in whatever specialist unit they had recruited him from, he still had a lot to learn about his new job. Or rather, he should have done. It might have saved his life. It was too late now though. His fate was sealed, and it didn't help the fact that he looked supremely out of place, leaning nonchalantly against the wall of a 250 year old arab bakery, smoking a cigarette, in what could only be described as the most obvious "gman" suit on the planet; that, coupled with his close-cropped army haircut and aviator sunglasses and deeply sun-bronzed skin which, given his parents' origin in Russia came entirely from exposure to the sun during his army service than anything else, made him stick out like a sore thumb in the diverse mass of people mulling around the ancient town's equally ancient main square.

Maybe Jamal was being too harsh on the kid, he thought to himself, as he observed his mark. After all, he has had years of training leading up to first his recruitment and then further training once he was recruited to the Shabak. Of course, he may as well have never shown up and and spent all those days at the beach, or with his family for all the good it would do him now - things that after Jamal had done his job, the young Inspector would never do again, he thought regrettably; after all, he had nothing personal against the kid, but he was snooping around and putting his nose where it didn't belong and he was getting too close for comfort for either himself or his bosses, and so the young inspector had to be dealt with. It was just business, as they said.

The Shabak, or Shin Bet, as Israel's internal security service was involved in investigating any number of criminal, terrorist, counter-terror, espionage and counter-espionage elements within the borders of the country. This included anything from increased activity of incitement and recruitment of Palestinian or pan-Arab or pan-Islamic terror groups ranging from Hamas and the PLO to al-Qaeda from the relevant communities in the country, to the various mafias that functioned within the country's major cities, to smuggling and human-and-drug trafficking, to anything and everything in between. It just so happens that Inspector Davidovich had been assigned to inspect the recent uptick in the trafficking of illicit antiquities from Israel to abroad, for which Jamal's organisation was almost exclusively responsible and profiting from.

Neither Jamal, his comrades, his superiors, or even Graham himself could figure out how someone as young as Inspector Davidovich - and he really was young; he couldn't have been more than 25 or 26, he was out of the army for maybe a year or two at most, by Jamal's estimate - had made such progress and headway in his investigation when several of the previous inspectors given the same assignment had failed. Fulcrum's mole within the Shabak had mentioned to Jamal that Inspector Davidovich fancied himself a bit of an armchair archaeologist and cared passionately about the crimes being committed on a level that the others, who preferred to focus on terrorists and what they considered to be 'real criminals' instead, simply did not. Of course, if those previous inspectors had had half the brains of this Davidovich fellow did, they'd have realised that the illicit trafficking of antiquities was a huge financial boon to those very same organisations, both terrorist and criminal, which they cared so much about stopping. It was a quick and easy way of not only driving significant amounts of quick, cash-only profit, but it was also the ideal way to launder money in a country such as this one. The fact that Inspector Davidovich was not only passionate about stopping the trade in illicit antiquities in its own right, but was able to recognise the connection between this criminal industry and the other, arguably 'more important' ones also meant that he was a highly intelligent individual and would, in time, become a very skilled agent. Of course, this point was soon to become moot, since those other, dumber and-slash-or more arrogant inspectors who failed where Davidovich was starting to succeed had been able to live to see another day and be put on different cases. The poor young bastard Jamal was observing intently, waiting to put his plan into action, however, was not going to be so lucky. He couldn't be allowed to live and go further down the rabbit hole.

Jamal sat observing Inspector Davidovich for several more minutes, until the Jummah prayers had gotten into full swing, as his mark continued to lean against the wall of the bakery, trying - and failing - to feign nonchalance as he chain smoked several cigarettes. He was clearly waiting for someone, or something. Luckily for Jamal, he was paying attention just as the Inspector decided to make his own move, finding his own mark. Of course, the mark he happened to be following was actually a decoy, planted by Jamal and his organisation to draw the inspector away from his position and towards an area where it would be easier to snatch him out from under the watchful eyes of the police.

The plan worked like clockwork, as the decoy walked at a quick, but unhurried pace from the main square down a side street towards the cramped and confusing old market, with Jamal tailing the inspector at a reasonable distance. The decoy led him down several more narrow, crowded, ancient streets: right, left, right, left again, then two more rights taking them deep into the old market well past the sellers of fish and spices, or of nick-knacks to the more gritty areas, several more lefts, another right, then up a flight of uneven stone steps weathered by time and hundreds of years of winter rains, then another quick right and down another set of weathered steps, until they found themselves back on ground level, and in front of a flower shop deep within the arabic part of the old town far away from the tourists and the 'coexistence', where a white, windowless van with the name 'Flowers by Fadi abu Hawmzi' was emblazoned on the back and sides, was waiting.

By the time the young Inspector realised he had fallen into a trap, it was too late. The decoy was gone, and the sliding side door of the flower van opened to reveal several large, burly men. Each man grabbed a limb, immobilising him and another placing a gag in his mouth and a black sack over his head as they pulled him into the back of the van and restrained him, Jamal climbing in behind them. Once the inspector was restrained in the back of the van, the burly men exited the van from the opposite side and scattered, whilst Jamal knocked on the driver's partition three times, relaying the signal that it was time to drive the pre-arranged 'extraction' route. Jamal and Inspector Davidovich were now alone in the back as the van drove a confusing, winding route throughout old Jaffa and Tel Aviv: one which was specifically designed to be confusing and meandering so that if the young Inspector had had the presence of mind to count the turns and directions the van was making, even if he were to survive (which he wasn't), he would have no idea about where he was being taken.

Jamal gave the Inspector a few moments to calm his breathing before removing the mask over his head and eyes - but not the gag. Immediately, and without warning, Jamal withdrew his pistol from its resting place in its armpit holster, and holding it by the muzzle, mercilessly beat his captive with it, hitting him across the face several times, breaking his nose.

"Let me make one thing very clear, Yaniv," he began without preamble. "You're fucked. This van is soundproof: no matter how loud you scream or how much you struggle, no one outside this van will hear you. The only way you get out of this alive is if you give me what I want. Do you understand?"

Yaniv was still struggling at his restraints, trying to free himself, to fight back, to do anything. It was only after several minutes of desperate, but fruitless, effort that his eyes widened, briefly, in horror before his eyes narrowed and breathing slowed in acceptance and acquiescence of his fate. He nodded slowly.

"Good," Jamal said, calmly. "I'm going to remove your gag now, because I have some questions that I really need answers to. If you try to bite me or headbutt me, i won't hesitate to put a bullet in your skull and fuck your dead body's throat, before I dump it in front of your mother's house, do you understand me?"

Jamal thought that maybe he was going a bit overboard, but at the same time this was too important to risk anything going wrong. And he knew from a long series of personal experience that, for better or worse, it was usually safe to assume that the Russian guys in this country - especially the ones like Inspector Davidovich here, who fancied themselves super macho heroic defenders and brave fighters - tended to harbour more than a little bit of homophobia, so threatening to do such things to their dead bodies was usually a pretty good way to ensure compliance. And, in this instance he surely wasn't wrong, as Yaniv's eyes went wide in horror before enthusiastically nodding his understanding.

"Good," Jamal said, calmly reaching over to Yaniv and pinching his nose closed so that the Inspector would be forced to open his mouth to take in air, allowing the gag to be removed without tearing out all of his teeth.

"There, that wasn't so hard, now was it?" he asked his captive pleasantly.

"Piss off, ben Zona," Yaniv responded angrily.

Jamal beat him with the handle of his pistol yet again, making sure to avoid the jaw for now, so that he was still able to talk.

"My mother is most certainly not a whore, Yaniv. Though I guess you wouldn't know what it's like to be with a woman you didn't have to pay, would you?"

"Now," he continued, "I told you I have some questions for you. If you give me what I want and don't lie to me, I'll let you live," Jamal said in what he hoped was a fearsome-but-nonchalant way, similar to the way he'd seen Graham interrogate people on a few rare occasions he got to work directly on Fulcrum operations.

Yaniv, to his credit didn't recoil in fear like Jamal had hoped. In fact, he instead, cracked a wide smile that reached his ears and laughed.

"I'll never talk, and you'll never win"

Now it was Jamal's turn to laugh.

"Oh yes, you will, habibi, and we've already won," he said, gloating. "So why don't you be a lamb and make this easier on all of us and just answer my questions"

Yaniv's response was to spit in Jamal's face, earning him a right hook crashing into his nose, causing it to bleed. Because Jamal needed answers and couldn't let him just bleed out slowly in the back of the van, he staunched the bleeding, before continuing.

"Care to try that again?"

"Fuck you, gay boy," Yaniv said. "If you're so confident that you've already won, then why bother taking me prisoner and interrogating me? You should just kill me...but no, you need me because you have questions you need answers to, and you can't get answers out of a dead man," he said.

See, Jamal said to himself, I knew he was smart. And cute, too. For a Jew. Oh, well, in another life, maybe, he said to himself as he carried on with his work.

"You're right," Jamal said. "Dead men tell no tales, which is why if you want to continue breathing you're going to tell me exactly what I want, and you're going to do it now"

"You're living in a movie if you think I'm going to tell you shit, ya sharmouta"

"You're a mouthy little shit, aren't you?" Jamal countered, deciding to not respond to Yaniv's egging him on with violence. This time.

Instead, he withdrew several manila envelopes from the side compartment on the door. Each envelope has piles and piles of information they had compiled on him, and his investigation, thanks to Fulcrum - not least of all because of an extremely well-placed Fulcrum mole in the Shabak organisation - photo after photo after photo of Yaniv and all his loved ones and family members. Addresses, phone numbers, preschool names and entry codes, and more. Beyond that sheets and sheets and sheets of shipping manifestos, pages and pages of sworn affidavits and testimonies of archaeologists, conservationists, police officers, court officials, port and airport workers, you name it. Literally every piece of information they could scrape together about him, his personal life, and his investigation. All, save the one missing piece they were looking for.

"You and I both know the only piece of missing information here, Yaniv," Jamal said calmly. "Mind telling me what I want to know?"

"Not particularly," Yaniv replied haughtily. It earned him a smack across the face with the handle of Jamal's pistol. "Care to try again?"

"You clearly already know, why do you need me?"

"I want to hear it from your own mouth, ya majnoon, so how about we stop with the games and everyone can go home"

"Sure," Yaniv said, laughing again, through the pain. "How about we play a game, instead? You tell me what you're doing smuggling so much illicit antiquities out of the country, and why the Muslim and Jewish religious fanatics just so happen to be getting more vocal and bold at the same time and how not coincidental it is, and then I'll tell you how I plan to stop you?" he said, breathing heavily from his injuries and blood loss.

"Clever girl," Jamal said, quoting Jurassic Park, sarcastically. "Who else knows? How far up the chain of command have you sent your reports?"

Yaniv just laughed. This earned him another several punches to the face, this time giving him two swollen, black eyes.

"Who else knows?" Jamal demanded. "How far does this go?! Where is your data stored?!"

"I told you I'd never tell you, metumtam," Yaniv said. "You must be really thick to not get it. Or maybe you're just another dumb arab you can't speak Hebrew?" he said, purposely goading his captor, by purposely speaking extremely slowly, loudly, and using very small words. "CAN YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT I'M SAYING TO YOU? DO YOU NEED A TRANSLATOR?"

"I'll show you who's the fucking idiot, ya manyak," Jamal replied, standing up and walking behind where Yaniv was restrained, placing his arm around his neck and squeezing his windpipe.

"Do you think this is a fucking game?" Jamal whispered, his voice like ice, as he was choking Yaniv, careful not to completely crush his prisoner's windpipe. "This is real fucking life, suka bliyet, and you better tell me what I want to know if you want to keep yours"

After a few minutes, Jamal returned to his previous position, before continuing.

"Now, Mr. Davidovich, I hope that i've made my position on this more than clear. So let's try this one more time: Who else is involved in this investigation? Where is your data and your reports?"

Yaniv replied by spitting in Jamal's eye.

"Kuss emak, ya sharmouta," Jamal cursed, immediately moving to wipe the offending element from his eye, as Inspector Davidovich struggled fruitlessly to escape his restraints.

Once the spit was removed from his eye, Jamal rose from his seat, no longer willing to do the whole "good cop" thing (never mind the fact that he was about as opposite to a cop as he could possibly get). He immediately proceeded to grab Yaniv's head by the hair and proceeded to bash his head against the side and floor of the van, repeatedly, over and over and over again, for several minutes, without stopping, until Yaniv's face, neck, and exposed torso were bright red from spilt blood.

"I told you, this wasn't a fucking game, Yaniv," he said, pausing briefly in his assault. "Just tell me what i want to know and this all ends"

"You'll have to kill me first"

"Dead men tell no tales, Yaniv," he replied. "But don't worry, tell me what I want to know and I'll end it quickly for you. Put you out of your misery. But you've got to tell me what I want to know"

"Go to hell"

"I have no doubt that you will," Jamal said, cruelly, as he continued to bash his captive's head against the steel wall and floor of the van. "Now answer the fucking question: where is your data?"

Yaniv, at the end of his strength finally gave in. In the smallest, weakest of voices, he choked out, in between coughing up his own blood, saying "Disk...disk-on-key….King Saul...Boulevard…"

"Thank you, Mr Davidovich," Jamal said, his voice immediately happy, perky, almost friendly, yet again. "That wasn't so hard, now, was it?" he asked, rhetorically, before pulling a switchblade out of his boot and slitting the Inspector's throat, watching as he gargled, and convulsed, choking on his own blood, until he finally lay still, dead.

Fulcrum Base

Undisclosed Location

23.47 PST

Former CIA Director and current Fulcrum Leader Langston Graham sat in his private office. Graham had many, many offices, to be fair - he had one designated, private office in each and every one of the Fulcrum or Fulcrum-affiliated bases he had established across the world over the past several decades - but this one was nothing like the others. This one was utterly, and completely private with several layers of additional security protocols in place that it was absolutely, completely secure. No one had clearance high enough to access his office without his permission in this particular office in this particular undisclosed location, and he liked it that way.

This is where he came to think and to scheme, because he thought best when he had complete and utter privacy and silence. So it was no wonder that in his most private of inner sanctums, as it were, that he had also stocked it with a full wet bar of only the finest Scotch and the most luxurious furniture. Which was why now, at a quarter to midnight, he sat in his plush, leather swivel chair behind his mahogany and cherry wood desk, nursing a glass of 50 year old Dalmore Scotch - nursing because each glass cost roughly $2500 - and sat in contemplation.

His plan was still progressing as it should, which was good, however there had been far too many close calls and unexpected upheavals than he would have liked. Upheavals caused by his having to call an audible far more times than he would have liked due to the situation on the ground changing, and unacceptably so, in ways that he had not predicted when he set his plan in motion. First, his plan regarding Sarah Walker: keeping her overworked, under cared for, in a constant state of mental distress and the like, forcing her to rely on him and only him, turning her into his own personal enforcer, unquestioningly and unflinchingly loyal to him and only him, had, despite his best efforts and his best laid plans that had been over 20 years in the making, went FUBAR, thanks in no small part to those fucking Bartowskis and his failure to account for their presence in the life of the human Intersect and how that would affect even his best laid attempts at making Walker an emotionally stunted, empty woman, completely emotionally, physically, and financially dependent on him and him alone.

But no matter, the Bartowskis were a major part of the reason why his plan had been hatched in the first place all those many years ago and they would certainly have their parts to play in his magnum opus. Things may have taken some detours along the way, but things in this front were progressing more or less as they should, and the plan remained more or less the same. Show both Walker and the Younger Bartowski just what they could have, and then rip it away from them mercilessly, breaking both of them; it would leave Walker even more broken and dependant on him than ever before, and, seeing that, would turn the young Bartowski into a broken shell of a man, a husk of his former self, little more than a vessel for the Human Intersect to exist within, both of whom would be dependant on him completely: Walker, because she would no longer be able to trust or rely on anyone other than him, and Bartowski, because the last shreds of what humanity would remain in him would look to him and his promises of being able to deliver Walker back to him, to give him the life that he - they - wanted to have, together, as long as he did what was asked of him. He would become Graham's personal secret weapon, at his personal beck and call on the - unbeknownst to him, completely worthless - hope that doing so would somehow, someday, deliver Walker - Sarah, his Sarah - and the life they had hoped to build together, back to him. Of course, it would never, ever, work that way, but the fact that that stupid man-child would hold onto such hopeless dreams for so long despite all the evidence pointing to the contrary would be the precise weapon that he could use against the man, keeping him a docile, willing slave to do his bidding, in the delusional hope for some impossible happy ending that would never come. He would simultaneously break the both of them, and have in them two docile, willing, super spies to help see his vision through to fruition.

Of course, Beckman had thrown him for a loop, throwing an unexpected wrench in his plan. There was a reason he had worked behind the shadows, helping her advance her career to get her the proper authority to be put on the Intersect Project. One reason, and one reason only: he needed her to ensure his plan went off without a hitch. Or, more accurately, he needed someone on whose reactions and decisions regarding particular external stimuli, especially as regards the developments amongst Bartowski and Walker were concerned, could be accurately predicted and planned on. And if there was one thing Diane Beckman was - at least, in all the years he'd known and worked with her - it was predictable. She had always been quite the strident martinet, and a stickler for the absolute letter of the law, following protocol exactly in all times and all places. She had to have been, in order to have won the respect of her colleagues and superiors enough to have advanced from petty enlisted to Brigadier General in not only the military, but also the intelligence community, of the United States, starting her career in the height of the cold war when both sectors were absolutely a man's world. In order to survive, let alone get ahead, she had to be better disciplined, more buy the books, in addition to more intelligent and able to get better results more regularly than her male contemporaries. Graham wasn't admitting that this was right - after all, there was a time in this country that he, as a black man, would have been relegated to even more menial tasks than Beckman, as a white woman, would have been - nevertheless, by his time in the service, those days were long over (at least in theory) and it nevertheless made Beckman and her reactions to certain situational phenomena absolutely predictable.

Or at least, it would have. From the reports he'd been receiving over the past several months, it appears that Diane Beckman had thrown a wrench in his plans by being the exact opposite of the predictable, by-the-book, hardass disciplinarian he would have been willing to bank his career on less than a year ago. By all accounts he'd been getting, it appeared that she was treating Walker and Bartowski less like a handler and her asset, and more as if they were partners, with Casey being the third in the 'dream team' that, by all accounts, those in the know were beginning to refer to as 'Team B'. But that wasn't the worst of it: rather than being the hardass, unreasonable Brigadier General who gave the orders and what she said goes and that was that thank you very much, she was running things more...democratically. Like she was a part of the team, and cared about their well-being as individuals, rather than simply as agents under her command. The thought of that alone made him gag and feel sick to his stomach on its own, to say nothing of the fact that such behaviour was throwing a major wrench into his well thought out, perfectly detailed plan to set his magnum opus in motion.

If Beckman was on Walker and Bartowski's side, how in the hell was he supposed to use her to drive a wedge between them and give him his two emotionally broken super spies he could use to do his bidding as he saw fit? The stakes were far too high to fail now. His vision….the world reborn anew as the utopian paradise he knew it could be...a world without war, or poverty, or racism; without religious squabbling, where science and logic ruled the day and technology advanced for the betterment of society, not for the newest doodad gizmo sold at the BuyMore….this was far too important to be left to chance, to fall by the wayside by one loose end. His vision must be achieved, and as he told Jack before he watched him blow his own brains out, one can't make an omelette without breaking any eggs. And those who resisted….well, then those poor souls would feel his full wrath and fury; he would raze their cities to the ground around them and grind their bones into dust, as the rest of humanity - improved, utopian, human society - marched into the future without their dead weight keeping them down.

No Matter, he thought confidently to himself, as he sipped at the divine whisky. He was no idiot and he never would have put such a perfect, all-encompassing plan into action relying on something as fickle and subject to change as the behaviours of an individual person - no matter how predictable and intransigent he thought they may have been - he had back up plans for his back up plans for his back up plans. He was not worried in the slightest about his plan going wrong. In fact, if all went well with this next stage, he thought to himself, things would be moving forward rather nicely indeed. It of course didn't hurt that his plan had a built-in failsafe in the form of a computer code that would wreak utter havoc and destruction on everyone and everything, enabling him and his people to come and swoop in to the rescue like heroes, to be given a free hand to implement whatever policies they may deem necessary to deal with the 'threat'; and it was called 'Doomsday'. Yes, Project Hastings was progressing very well, indeed, he thought to himself. It was at that pleasant thought that the phone on his desk rang.

"Yes?" he asked without preamble.

The voice on the other line was male, inflected with an ever-so-slight Arabic accent.

Its done.

"Good. Any problems?"

He put up more resistance to interrogation than we had originally suspected, but he broke. Eventually everyone breaks.

"Indeed. So what information do you have for me?"

He didn't say much, Sir. All he managed to choke out was two phrases.

"Oh? And those are?"

'Disk-on-key' and 'King Saul Boulevard'

"What the fuck is 'disk-on-key'?" he asked.

It's the Israeli word for USB drive, Sir.

"Excellent. And King Saul Boulevard? Is that where he's hidden it?"

Possible, but doubtful Sir.

"Why?"

King Saul Boulevard, yes, is a place in Tel Aviv, but it's actually the code name for Mossad Headquarters. Probably the worst-kept secret in the Israeli defence community, aside from perhaps the nukes in Dimona.

"Alright, very good Jamal," Graham said to the person on the other end of the line. "As of now, this changes nothing, and we proceed as normal. I'll figure out what specifically this may mean and how to deal with this, in the meantime, dump the body in the desert like we discussed, then I want you to head to Zürich for Phase 2 like we planned. Proceed as normal. Get me those flash drives."

Yes, Sir.

As soon as Jamal acknowledged his orders on the other end of the line he disconnected, and the line went dead. Yes, Graham acknowledged, there had been some hiccups with his original plan but thats why back up plans and contingencies on those back up plans exist. Figuring out how to split Team B up for good and get himself some eyes and ears inside Mossad aside, things were looking up. He took another long, happy pull of his whisky, draining the glass, before getting up, shutting off the lights, and heading to his car.

Zürcher Kantonalbank HQ

Bahnhoffstrasse 9, Zürich

3 Days Later

13.54 CET

Jamal didn't get the point of Switzerland and why people always thought it so great. It seemed to him like it was just a ridiculous playground for the obscenely wealthy and beyond that served very little purpose to exist. It was, to his view, a completely ridiculous place. He assumed, however, that if you had the kind of money to blow on one of those all-inclusive skiing holidays in the Alps where you stayed in a fancy chalet and spent your days skiing and exploring the beautiful nature and countryside, it might be a nice place. But since he was not one of those people, nor one of the people with the kind of money to need a secure place to hide it away like the one he was currently standing outside of, the entire country just seemed to be a bit of a joke to him.

For starters, it was far too cold for him. It was already early May and the weather was as temperamental as ever, with the temperature barely getting above the low teens centigrade. He shivered in his brand new, crisply pressed charcoal grey business suit and fleece naval-inspired pea coat in dark midnight, as he leaned against the facade of the bank, smoking a cigarette and holding his coffee cup in the other hand, hoping it would give him some sense of warmth.

But it was far more than the weather, of course. Beyond that, the city of Zürich was far too small and far too expensive and far too boring. A city as small and as boring as it was had no business being anywhere near as expensive as it was, in his opinion. With the conversion rate between the franc and the sheqel, to get into the city centre from the airport and get settled in his hotel alone, he spent nearly an average Israeli's normal weekly wages. The coffee he was now sipping cost him as much as he would pay for an entire meal in Israel. And to top it off, it was so utterly boring. There was no nightlife to speak of, no historical or cultural attractions unless you liked a few weirdly painted buildings from the mediaeval period, and a few historical placards dotted here and there throughout the city detailing the places where the few famous people and events that were the city's claims to fame happened; no music, no theatre, no nothing. The city was pretty much entirely dedicated to banks and the financial sector and banking industry as a whole, which contributed overall to Jamal's growing understanding of the ridiculousness of the city he now found himself in. And to make matters worse, not only was the food unconscionably expensive, but it was also bad.

So to say that he was not enjoying himself and wanted to get in, do his job, and get the fuck out so he could go home was the understatement of the century. With that in mind, he ground out his cigarette on the pavement, downed the rest of the coffee, tossed the paper cup in the bin - the streets in this city were clearly so pristine for a reason - and entered the bank building.

He was greeted upon entry at the help desk in the main foyer by a conventionally attractive woman who, were he a straight man, he assumed he would have found to be gorgeous. She was tall, with pale skin with a dash of freckles speckled across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. Her eyes were the most piercing shade of blue he had ever seen on anyone of any gender; they were slightly almond shaped and her eyebrows were perfectly manicured and both were paired with the perfectly complemented shade of eye makeup for her complexion. She had a small button nose that gave off the impression that, were she not otherwise so outwardly stunning should could have easily been described as mousey, and probably was in her earlier years until she properly blossomed. She had dark brownish-black hair that fell in ringleted curls on either side of her head framing her face perfectly. Her face wasn't the only beautiful thing about her, either. She was quite buxom and wore an impeccably tailored women's business suit top paired with a charcoal black pencil skirt, the combination of which showed off just the right amount of cleavage and leg to remain professional whilst also flaunting her beauty and showing off her curves. With the combination of her looks and clearly exquisite fashion taste, she looked like she could have walked into the bank by accident, right off the pages of a fashion magazine, or Milan fashion week, or the Champs-Élysées.

But what he noticed most - in particular, as a gay man who was not attracted to women in any way, even if he may appreciate their aesthetic beauty - was her smile. Two perfect rows of perfectly straight pearly white teeth flashed him a thousand-watt grin as he approached her at the help counter.

She greeted him politely in just slightly accented German.

"Guten Tag, meine Herr, Wie kann Ich ihnen helfen?"

"Ich Spricht Deutsch nicht," Jamal said, apologetically, in haltingly slow and accented German.

"Ne pas s'inquiéter, Monsieur. Je Parle Francais aussi. Puis-je vous aider?," she said, switching effortlessly into perfect French, a language which Jamal did speak, though with some difficulty.

"Trés bien," he replied. "I have an appointment with Monsieur Volkoff, regarding my safety deposit box?"

"Very good, Sir," she replied, continuing. "And the name on the account?"

"Charles Carmichael," Jamal replied, automatically, with the name he had been told to register the deposit box under. He had no idea what that was all about, but he trusted that Graham knew what he was doing, and so, doing his best to charm the girl, flashed her a cheeky lopsided grin. The colour creeping up her neck and cheeks as she picked up the telephone to dial up - conceivably to the office of Monsieur Alexei Volkoff - didn't go unnoticed.

"Ok, Monsieur Carmichael," she said after a few moments, straightening her clothes and dusting off imaginary dust bunnies as she came around from behind the counter to assist him further.

"Monsieur Volkoff is busy at the moment but if you will come with me I will show you to your safety deposit box and assist you with anything you might need. Monsieur Volkoff will be happy to meet you once he has concluded his current business. If you will please follow me?" she said, gesturing the direction the would be walking with her outstretched arm before leading the way.

After a few moments, they arrived at a grand, marble staircase with burnished bronze banisters with polished gold inlay and embellishments. They walked up four flights of stairs, and once on that floor down a long corridor lined with unmarked office doors. Finally at the end of the hallway, the woman opened the door and escorted him inside, where she then closed the door.

"I'm sorry for all the secrecy Monsieur Carmichael, but I'm sure you can understand and appreciate why. Our customers, yourself included, choose Zürcher Kantonalbank for its extreme levels of privacy and security," she said, and Jamal simply nodded sagely, accepting this as normal as any other customer of the bank would surely have done.

"Of course, of course," was all he said out loud.

Looking around, he saw that he was in a small room that looked more like an antechamber than anything else. It was rectangular in shape and flanked on all sides by the distinctive bronze wall facing of a bank of safety deposit boxes which were, apparently, stored around the room on all sides, just on the other side of each wall, respectively.

"This is our secure viewing room, Monsieur Carmichael," she said, explaining. "Only one customer is allowed here at a time, which is why we insist on setting appointments, as I'm sure you could figure out the obvious reasons for such protocol," she said, and Jamal nodded.

"Excellent," she said. "Now, if you could just present me with a valid photo ID, proof of ownership of the deposit box, and the key, we can proceed," she stated, holding her hand out patiently for the required items.

Jamal quickly proffered the items she asked for, which she gave a cursory inspection of, and seeing no problems - despite the obvious fact that the identification, at a minimum, was a forgery - thanked him, and proceeded alone to the other side of the room where there was a single door in the wall, which she exited through, presumably to fetch the safety deposit box belonging to 'Charles Carmichael'.

It took her several minutes to return, carrying the safety deposit box. It was large, probably about 30 centimetres long and about half as wide, and contained not one, but two, key slots. This was why the safety deposit box was purchased here, rather than other less secure banks. The triple forms of security: it could only be opened when his key, the key around the neck of the pretty female banker were both inserted, and confirmation of a pin code, all together.

She quickly brought the safety deposit box to the table that sat in the middle of the room, where Jamal, aka 'Charles Carmichael' moved to join her. She handed him back his identification forms as well as the key and withdrew her key from the chain around her neck. He placed his key in the slot, and she in hers, and they both turned simultaneously. This was quickly followed by a latch popping up revealing a keypad and prompting him to enter a pin code, which he quickly and efficiently did, enabling the box to open without incident or raising suspicion of any kind.

"Very good, Monsieur Carmichael," she said pleasantly as she turned on her heel to leave. "If you have any problems, questions, or concerns, do let me know. You can reach me with that telephone on the wall there," she said, pointing, before continuing. "Monsieur Volkoff will be with you in just a moment. Bonne journée"

"Bonne journée," Jamal replied pleasantly, waiting until she had left and the secure door had re-sealed with him alone on the inside before he began tearing through the box. The box contained many things: photos of a blond woman and a tall brunette man - he was rather cute, Jamal thought - as well as older, slightly yellowing photos of another couple; piles and piles of cash in several different currency denominations: Swiss francs, Israeli sheqels, British pounds sterling, American, Canadian and Australian dollars, Japanese yen and Chinese yuan, to say nothing of the piles and piles of euros. Whilst he pocketed approximately 100,000 euros as his payment for this job as he and Graham had agreed, this was not what he was here for, and he began searching deeper and further into the safety deposit box, withdrawing more and more items in his search for what he came for. He pulled out everything, disc after compact disc of what was surely important information, sealed manila envelopes, and even more besides, but the one thing he came for - the USB drive that contained the data that Graham needed - wasn't there. It was gone. He double-, triple-, and quadruple-checked, just in case he missed it. He knew that if he missed it, even on accident, the next throat that was to be slit would be his own. No, he was certain of it: the drives he was looking for were not there.

Which in a facility as secure as this one could only mean one thing: someone had betrayed them, and they were going to pay. Putting all the items back in the deposit box as if nothing was amiss, the phone rang on the wall.

Perfect timing, Gospodiyn Volkoff, he thought to himself, as we trod over to the wall phone and answered it,

"Oui?"

"Monsieur Carmichael," he began on the other end without preamble. "This is Alexei Volkoff, I apologise profusely for missing our initial meeting. However my previous business is now concluded and I would be happy to meet with you. Do I have your permission to enter the secure viewing room?"

"But of course, Monsieur Volkoff," Jamal replied casually.

"Excellent," the voice on the other line said before immediately disengaging the line, and opening the door.

Alexei Volkoff was a tall, lion of a man. He stood nearly two metres tall, with a muscular athleticism that belied both his age and his lithe frame. His salt and pepper hair was cropped close to his head, but now in his old age after his retirement from service first in the Red Army and then the French Foreign Legion he let it grow out slightly in a much more fashionable style more befitting of his current profession. With his hair styled thusly and horn rimmed glasses perched precariously on his large roman nose, he looked much more the kindly school master than ex-Soviet special forces and French Foreign Legion who ran the security at the most secure bank in the world, which catered often to an extremely dodgy, and violent clientele.

"Bonjour, bonjour, Monsieur Carmichael," he began, extending his arm out in a friendly and firm handshake, before kissing Jamal on the cheek in the French fashion. "Comment ça va?"

"Bien, bien, très bien ma chérie," Jamal said, returning the greeting, before switching to Russian, Volkoff's native language. "Bal'shoiye spasiba, Gospodiyn Volkoff," he then quickly switched back to French, being extremely unfamiliar with all but the most rudimentary Russian.

"Is everything to your liking, Monsieur Carmichael?" he asked genuinely, even kindly. "Here at Zürcher Kantonalbank we pride ourselves on that personal service touch, coupled with the highest level of security possible, as I trust you are aware"

"I am indeed, and that is indeed why I chose this bank for my security needs. Though it does raise a question for me"

"Please, ask away"

"Due to your emphasis on security, I've been noticing the cameras and security infrastructure everywhere in the bank and I must say I am quite impressed," Jamal said.

"Thank you very much, we are quite proud of it"

"Of course, I don't doubt that for a moment," Jamal said. "That said, I find it curious that this room has no such security apparatus anywhere. Could you explain that to me please?"

"I see you have a very good eye for detail, Monsieur Carmichael," Volkoff said. "As you can see this room is completely devoid of cameras or any security infrastructure, precisely because it is the most secure room in the bank - outside of the vault, of course," he added quickly "In order to be granted access to this room, a customer has to undergo extreme vetting that would make even most intelligence agencies think we are being a bit heavy handed, and that process continues up until the very point of delivery of the safety deposit box. One wrong move or misstep or something that could be considered a security breach, well...let's just say that would be a very poor move indeed, on the part of whomever was stupid enough to try to breach our security," he said, smirking, clearly proud of himself.

"Additionally," Volkoff added, "given the extremely sensitive nature of some of the business interests of many of our clients - and therefore what they choose to store in their deposit boxes - we felt it prudent that there were no cameras or the like in this room - the only room like this in the bank, and the only place where safety deposit boxes can be opened to have things deposited in or withdrawn from - to avoid any sort of legal...complications….should something happen," he added, finally, tenting his fingers in front of his face and smiling broadly like a cheshire cat who got the cream.

"Very good, Alexei. Very good," Jamal said nonchalantly, nodding emphatically in agreement and mimicking Alexei's tone and candor. "Very impressive indeed, I see that I have made the exactly correct choice in keeping my valuables in your very capable hands," he added, before continuing,

"Which brings me to my final question, Gospodiyn Volkoff," he said, calmly as he manouvred himself into a position into which he could take better advantage of his physical advantages over the much larger man, whilst ensuring that it wasn't obvious that that was what he was doing.

Volkoff for his part simply cocked an eyebrow casually.

"Oh, and what is that, Monsieur?"

"Where the FUCK are my USB disks, Alexei?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Monsieur, I don't have any access to…"

"Cut the bullshit, Comrade," Jamal said, his voice like ice. "I chose to store my items here for a very specific and very particular reason...that being the extreme vetting and security, because I store some very important items here," he coninued

"I understand that, Monsieur Carmichael but I have no idea what you're talking about…"

"Shut the fuck up," Jamal continued. "There were two USB disks in this safety deposit box when I was last here, and now they are both gone. I am the only one who has access to the deposit box and i sure as fuck didn't remove them," he said, taking the opportunity to use their relative positions to his advantage, pinning the man to the wall with his dominant hand, his hand held tightly around Volkoff's neck.

"Which means, Alexei, that either one of two things have happened: the first option is that your bank and its security protocol are nowhere near as secure as you made it out to be when you gave me the tour of the the facilities when I opened the account," he said, continuing, tightening his grip slightly before continuing,

"But I don't think that's the case, is it?" he asked rhetorically, before continuing, "Or, the far more likely option is that there's a mole in your operation, probably either yourself or someone very close to you, who could have had access to my deposit box and stolen them from me," he said, releasing his grip on Volkoff without warning, causing the older man to drop to the floor like a sack of potatoes.

"You're former Soviet special forces, KGB, and French Foreign Legion," he began, proceding to kick the man in sensitive regions on his prone body, preventing the man from scrambling to his feet to defend himself.

"I don't trust anyone in this building as far as I can throw them, but least of all you, a man who has switched loyalties has no loyalties other than to himself, after all," he said, kicking him hard in the stomach, feeling the older man's bones begin to bruise. He continued,

"But beyond that, you're the only one with the connections, training, and nerve to be able to do what I know you did, suka bliyet," he stated, matter-of-factly as he pulled Volkoff to a kneeling position just so that he could grab the back of the old man's head and drive his knee into Volkoff's face, once again laying him out in a heap on the floor.

"So I'm going to ask you one more time: Where are my fucking USB disks, Alexei? Where are they? Who are you working for?" he asked, cruelly, driving further blows into the older man's body with every word, preventing the older man from scrambling up to defend himself. He knew that even though he was younger and fitter than Alexei Volkoff, if he let his guard down, and Volkoff was able to put up a fight the man was still built like a brick shit house and would put up a real fight, which was the exact opposite of what he wanted.

"Give me a name, Volkoff!"

"Never!" Volkoff spat out, angrily.

Jamal used that opportunity to deliver a crushing right hook to the Russian man's face, breaking the nose and causing several teeth to fall out, and resulting in the older man rotating nearly 180 degrees in the air until he was splayed out on the floor in a modified spread eagle, his face starting up at the fluorescent lights in the ceiling. He was panting heavily.

Jamal seized his opportunity and fell onto Volkoff's prone body, with one knee on each shoulder, preventing him from moving, struggling, or fighting back in any way.

"Last chance, Alexei," he said, pulling his switchblade from his ankle sheath, and placing the blade against the older man's throat. "Where the fuck are my disks?"

"Fuck off and die, Zhid," Volkoff replied, with a last ditch effort to struggle free.

"That's funny, Alexei, the Jew I killed a few days ago said pretty much the same thing, except he didn't call me 'zhid', obviously," Jamal said, chuckling at the predicament. "I'm feeling charitable so I'll give you one last chance. If you tell me where my disks are right the fuck now, I'll only kill you, not you're pretty French assistant or that beautiful daughter of yours"

At the passing reference to Vivian, Alexei's eyes bulged out.

"What, you think I didn't know about Vivian, Alexei? Its my job to know things...it would be such a pity if she met a similar fate as her father, wouldn't it? All that work you put in to protecting her...the English education and estate, the twenty-four seven protection detail, the fact you spend all your time away from her just so that she would be safe and kept away from the life you used to - and still do - lead...such a pity if I were to show up at that Hampshire estate you've squirrelled her away on and slit her throat too, wouldn't it?" he quipped. He continued.

"So I ask you one more time….where are my fucking USB drives?"

Due to the injuries he had sustained in his assault, Alexei Volkoff was able to ground out one word and one word alone:

"Frost"

"Da Svidanya, Alexei," was the last words Alexei Volkoff would ever hear, before Jamal slit his throat and he, too, sputtered and convulsed, choking on his own blood just as Inspector Davidovich had done.

It had been nearly a half hour since he slit Alexei Volkoff's throat. In the meantime he had moved the body to the corner of the room and picked the lock in the secure storage locker located in the pedestal of the table which he - and countless others, he had assumed - had used to inspect the safety deposit box as it was brought out to him.

It was there, just as he had been promised it would be, his getaway courtesy of none other than Langston Graham. In the past several years he had been working for Fulcrum - even if indirectly - he had learned that Graham didn't make plans lightly, and that whenever the man did make a plan, it was planned to the most extreme detail. He had never once seen a plan conceived by Graham that, if executed correctly and according to plan, hadn't gone off without a hitch. And today would be no different. He was told that he would be able to walk out the front door of the bank and to freedom scot free, and he absolutely would.

Inside the storage locker there was a small duffel bag, of the size and type workmen use to haul tools, or people may bring with them to the gym to keep their clothes in. Inside the bag was a pair of dark blue coveralls - the uniform of the electricity and telecommunications company that supplied power to the bank, with completely accurate branding, tags, markings and the like. If it wasn't actually authentic, it wouldn't matter because it was certainly a good enough facsimile to fool any casual observer. In addition was a baseball cap and raybans to cover any distinctive features and otherwise hide his face, and a ring full of keys that would grant him access to anywhere in the bank, and a hand-held device that, when attached to a power source, or the main grid of the bank, would mimic a power outage - and likewise, be able to reverse it as he so chose, with nothing but entering a few lines of code or pushing a few buttons.

Now all he had to do was wait for the other witness to come check on him. There could be no witnesses, after all. It was a shame, too, he thought to himself as he waited. She was entirely innocent in all this: her only crime being that she had come to work that day and was the unfortunate person assigned to assist him - and Alexei Volkoff - when he entered the bank. Life could indeed be random and cruel, he thought. He comforted himself with the knowledge that once Graham's overall plan came to fruition, it would usher in a new world without pain or suffering, a utopia where everyone would be free and happy; her death would be that of a shahid for that cause.

He didn't have to wait very long. Not long after he moved Alexei's body to the far corner of the room and grabbed the duffel bag containing his means of escape, the secure telephone on the wall rang. When he answered it, it was her on the other end, asking if everything was ok, and wondering if he was ready for her to come collect and replace his safety deposit box where it belonged. He agreed immediately, and moved to stand at a section of wall that would hide him from her view as the door swung open and she entered.

It didn't take long for her to reach the room and less than two minutes later, the door swung open and immediately shut again. For the briefest of moments there was stunned silence as she took in the scene before her: her boss' broken, bloody body, its neck slit from end to end looking like a cruel Joker's smile, the cut so deep it looked like someone had tried to remove his head from his body, lying limp and broken in the far corner of the room. What remaining blood was in his body was pooling out of the wound in a dark red-blue pool and congealing in a corner around the body, staining his perfectly pressed and fastidiously clean light grey suit; the tracks from the centre of the room where there was signs of the struggle that had taken place showing the path his body had been dragged post mortem tracing angry red streaks across the floor to where the body had been unceremoniously dumped and now lay crumpled in a corner.

Her eyes widened in horror and just as she was about to scream, Jamal made his move, nearly sprinting from his hiding space - in her shock she had not bothered to scan the room for the perpetrator, and that was to be her undoing - and immediately clamped his hand around her mouth and nose, using his superior height and body weight to hold her tight against him, immobile, and unable to fight back. The other hand held his switchblade against her throat.

"Not a fucking word, bitch. You say anything, you try to bite me, you make any attempt to fight or scream or do anything i don't give you express permission to do, I'll slit your throat like I did his. Understand? Nod if you understand"

He felt the tears falling on to his hand as she fervently nodded her head up and down.

"Good girl. Now, I have one very simple question for you. Now take your time thinking of the answer because it's very important you answer me truthfully, do you understand? If you answer me honestly and truthfully, and tell me what you want to know, I won't hurt you, I promise. Do you understand?"

She nodded again, this time much less emphatically. The tears were coming much heavier this time, however. It was almost as if she knew he was lying to her.

"I'm going to take my hand away from your mouth now, because I need you to answer my question for me, okay? But if you scream, I will kill you, do you understand? Nod your head if you understand me," he said, making sure the knife blade was still placed directly on top of her carotid artery, demonstrating how serious he was.

"Now….who is Frost?"

"Please….please Monsieur….I don't know what you're talking about I don't know what's going on please don't hurt me…"

"Like I said...if you answer my question, I won't hurt you, now….who the fuck is Frost?" he asked, more insistent this time, pausing for dramatic effect after every word in the question.

"I have no idea what you're talking about...I've never heard anyone by that name Monsieur, please don't hurt me…"

"You're starting to get on my nerves, ma chérie," Jamal said, the frustration starting to seep into his voice. "You're going to tell me who the fuck Frost is, and where they are, and why the fuck they stole my USB disks, and you're going to do it right now…"

"Please, Monsiuer, please," she managed to bite out through her sobs, tears streaming down her face, ruining her until-recently impeccably applied make up. "I'm just a receptionist, I have no idea what you're talking about, please don't hurt me. I don't know anything...I'll give you anything you want, just don't hurt me, please. I have money….lots of it, say the word and it's yours, just please don't hurt me…"

"It's like I'm talking to a brick fucking wall today," Jamal grumbled dramatically. "First Alexei, now you...nobody seems to be willing to tell me what I want to know. All I want to know is who the fuck Frost is, and where they've taken my USB drives," he said, in a show of forced calmness

"Monsieur, please. I beg of you. I don't know what you're talking about...I don't know anyone by that name, I'm just a receptionist...a low level bank worker, I don't know anything. I promise if you let me go, I won't say anything to anyone. You can get away for sure, I won't say anything to anyone, I'll tender my resignation this afternoon and go back to Paris and never leave France again, I promise, Monsieur, please…"

Her begging was getting a bit much. Jamal knew she was scared and felt for her, but he also knew she was going to die, regardless. Promising to not tell a soul if they let you go - especially as a witness to such a brutal crime as she was - was just asking for trouble, and the number one rule was no surviving witnesses. It was a shame, because she really wasn't involved, he didn't think, but he had to keep prying. Maybe she knew more than she let on. And even if she didn't, he still couldn't let her live.

"Please, I promise i won't say anything…I have no idea what you're talking about, I don't know of any patron called Frost, Monsieur, please. Just let me go, I'll give you anything you want. I'll….I'll do anything you want...you can...you can…" she said, sniffling and weeping, as she continued, "You can have me, if you want, just please don't kill me," she said, her implication clear. Weeping, begging for her life.

He didn't blame her. He really, truly didn't, and he truly wished he didn't have to do this. It wasn't personal, just business. But nevertheless, he had a job to do, and he was going to do it, unless he wanted to be the next victim.

"Chérie," he said, finally and simply, before continuing. "I'm gay. And even if I wasn't, as beautiful as you are, that isn't going to save you. The only thing that will save you is if you tell me right the fuck now who Frost is, and where I can find my drives"

"I don't know...I don't know...I'm sorry, Monsieur, truly I am but I don't know anything that you're talking about, I cannot help you because I physically do not know, I'm sorry! Please don't hurt me!" she begged. She was pleading with him.

"You honestly, truly don't know?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

"No. If I did, I would tell you, I swear. I promise. I swear on my Father's grave, in the sight of God and all that is holy, I promise!"

"How very unfortunate for you," he said, not pausing even a second before slitting her throat in a swift, clean movement. She fell to the floor in a heap, convulsing, gurgling, and choking on her own blood, just as Volkoff and Inspector Davidovich had.

"I truly am sorry, Madamme," he said to her now-dead husk. "You will be remembered as a martyr for the cause when this is all over"

Five Days Later

Burbank BuyMore

08.37 PST

"Big" Mike Tucker loved the BuyMore. Despite a carefully crafted persona of laziness, ambivalence, and various other similar qualities, he actually cared a great deal for the place. He and Moses had gone back a very, very long time and he had worked at the BuyMore for almost as long. It was his first job he had ever gotten, way back in high school when he was a sexy young stud with an afro that would put Shaft to shame, and he had continued working there all through school, through his first and second marriages (and now his marriage to the Señora Grimes-Tucker which he hoped would finally go the distance), and all the adventures in between.

Sure, he preferred to go fishing and eat doughnuts to getting stuck in the nitty gritty of the day to day running of the story, but after all, he was a red-blooded American man, was he not? He worked to live, not live to work, like Emmett, his until-very-recently ass-kissing ass man. He had gotten rid of Mr. Milbarge, however, last week when it had come back to him that Emmett was the one who forced Chuck to come in the morning of his sister's wedding to fix a problem that he himself had caused, in the hopes that he - Big Mike, that is - wouldn't catch him out. That was the thing though: Big Mike Tucker may be hands off and cultivate a persona of laziness so his workers would figure out things for themselves like grown-ups, but there wasn't a damn thing that went on in his store he didn't know about. And even though he had been furious with Emmett he had almost been willing to overlook what he had done, had it not also come to his attention that the man was the one responsible for the rumour about Chuck's wife, that blondie - Sarah, that vision of loveliness - was a prostitute. That was the last straw.

He had taken an instant and protective liking of that woman, and he wasn't completely sure why. Just like he wasn't completely sure what she saw in a slacker like Bartowski, but nevertheless, here they were. And credit where credit was due, ever since Bartowski and Blondie had gotten together, Chuck had gotten his shit together and was finally starting to act like the Nerd Herd supervisor that he was, which he liked, because it meant less work for him to do. So whilst he was a forgiving and patient man, his patience and forgiveness had a limit, and Emmett Milbarge was no longer a member of the BuyMore family. Which he wasn't particularly happy about, as it meant that he was now down an assistant manager which meant until he found a replacement, he'd be forced to be much more hands-on than he liked.

It wasn't that he was lazy, of course. Sure, he liked to do as little actual work as possible these days, but that's cos he'd earned it. He'd been at the BuyMore since the day it opened and he had earned the ability to have a very "hands-off" approach to running the place, thank you very much. And his ability to do so lay almost entirely in his staff. And as much as he hated to admit it even to himself, let alone out loud, it's why he was glad to have Bartowski, Grimes, and Casey around. They were his go-to guys, and it didn't hurt that they all happened to be friends. Between the three of them, they not only practically ran the store, but they did so very well.

Bartowski was, by far, his best Nerd Herder and was an effective supervisor and leader for his nerds to boot. Big Mike knew that without Bartowski at the helm of the Nerd Herd desk, nobody else would be able to control Jeff and Lester, let alone all the other drug-addled misfits and burnouts who worked there. Grimes had been working at the Buy More forever and, despite being a bit lazy and a little bit of a slacker, he knew everything there was to know about how the store functioned, how to run it, and how to get the best out of each and every member of staff. Not to mention the fact that when the cards were down and shit was hitting the fan, he knew when and how to really put his nose to the grind and get shit done. It was a very particular form of knowledge and a valuable skill set that couldn't be taught at any college or university, no matter how much his mama complained about it. Grimes was an invaluable asset to the Buy More family, and besides...now that he and Señora Grimes-Tucker were happily married, the boy was, quite literally family.

Which left John Casey. When he hired Casey he knew there was a lot in his past that he kept covered up and under wraps. He assumed probably some sort of ex-military or police. He knew the type. He'd had guys come in for jobs before who'd spent years doing things well above his own pay grade to talk about, which was just fine for Big Mike. He didn't want or need to know. Everyone had a past, Big Mike thought, some people's just happened to be more colourful than others. And everyone deserved a second chance. Or a third, or fourth, of fifth chance. Lord knows, he thought to himself, he himself benefitted from just such a situation many a time in his younger years. If John wanted his second chance to be doing good, honest, simple work as an electronics salesman, well, more power to him, in his book. And boy did he do it well. Since the day he started, John Casey has been the top performing salesman in every category for every month, nearly single handedly keeping the store's numbers in the black. Not to mention saving his ass from Corporate several times with the new Green Initiatives he'd helped push through. He shook his head ruefully at the thought of big, burly probably-ex-military Reagan-loving John Casey being an environmentalist, but the numbers didn't lie. It was truly a strange world they lived in.

Which was why Big Mike let the three of them more or less get away with whatever they wanted, as long as they were still able to get their jobs done. If Casey lost his cool with a customer and started growling until Chuck or Grimes stepped in, that was fine with him. If Grimes and Bartowski wanted to spend their lunch break playing video games on the store display models, that was their business. If Sarah came on her breaks to spend some time with her husband and it was slow and they wanted to just hang out, or if they wanted to slip away for a quickie or some afternoon delight here or there, it was no skin off his teeth. After all, who was he to judge? And seeing how happy Bartowski had been the past few years since Blondie came into his life, compared to where he was when he had first been hired after he was booted from Stanford...well, the kid deserved it, to say the least. It was, after all, only natural. And the three of them had more than earned it, several times over. Between the three of them, they kept the store running in tip top shape which made him comfortable taking a much more hands-off approach to the day-to-day operation of the store, which is exactly the way he liked it. Sure, it wasn't exactly "by the book" and some of the other employees grumbled and complained, but when those other slackers gave the same kind of performance as Grimes, Bartowski, and Casey did, then they'd have something to discuss. Until then, he didn't want to hear it.

But despite all that, he did, honestly and truly, love the BuyMore. He especially loved it in the early hours of the morning, when he was the only one in the store, before all the other morons he employed arrived for their shifts, when he could sit in his office, in quiet contemplation, read the newspaper and eat a doughnut in peace. Which of course meant that he was significantly less than pleased when he walked in this morning and saw Grimes sleeping in the Home Theatre room. And not in a working-late-and-fell-asleep sort of way. He was there in those damn fool Star Wars pyjamas and everything. How an almost-thirty-year-old man still wore pyjamas, let alone pyjamas of fictional science fiction characters was beyond him. Well, that wasn't exactly true: his mother had always babied him, being her only child, and doubly so once the boy's father left. It was, to a certain point understandable and only natural. But Big Mike wasn't just the kid's boss anymore, he was also his step father, and if that boy was ever going to amount to anything - if he was ever going to be the man he could be, maybe even take over for Big Mike someday - it was time for a little tough love. Which gave Mike an idea...what Grimes really needed was some more responsibility. A sense of purpose. Some drive. And he was about to get it, whether he wanted it or not.

He stood in the half-open doorway of the Home Theatre room, where Grimes was waking up and starting to get ready for the day, using...some surprisingly involved and also rather ingenious combination of floor-model units to maintain proper hygiene. Big Mike steeled the features on his face since he realised that Grimes had yet to realise he'd been discovered or was being watched.

Suddenly, he cleared his throat. Loudly. Grimes nearly jumped out of his skin and certainly several feet into the air, clearing the tops of the sofas and recliners, whilst emitting a rather girlish shriek.

"Grimes! My office! Five minutes!"

Morgan quickly finished the morning routine he had developed over the past several weeks for how to maintain normal cleanliness and hygiene using BuyMore floor model products and materials from the break room and storage closets, before slowly making his way to the office of the man who was not only his boss, but also for several months now, his step father as well. And who, by the looks of things, was not very pleased.

He knocked on the door frame and popped his head around the corner before entering.

"You wanted to see me Big Mike?"

"Get in here, close the door, and sit your ass down, Grimes," he said, pointing angrily at the chair opposite his manager's desk, whilst he fiddled with some calculations on his desk.

Morgan did as he was told, and after an uncomfortably long silence, Big Mike finally looked up at him and fixed him with a look of equal parts frustration, amusement, and anger.

"What in the hell is wrong with you, boy?"

"You'll, uh...you'll have to be more specific, there, Big Mike….that could be a great many things"

"I'm well aware of that," Big Mike countered, before continuing, "I meant why in the hell are you turning my Home Theatre display into your second bedroom? Especially since you've got a perfectly good one at the house?"

"Well, uh….well, you see, Big Mike, the thing about that is, well…."

"Come on, out with it," Big Mike said. "Spit it out"

"See the thing is, ever since you and my Mom got together, well, it's been a bit….how shall I put this delicately?" Morgan began, fumbling for words, as he continued, "Well, it's been a bit loud at night, and it's made it a bit difficult to sleep"

"What in the damn hell are you on about, boy? Your mother and I have been married for almost a year! And we got you those noise-cancelling headphones for Christmas, why don't you use those?"

"Reducing"

"What?"

"They are noise reducing headphones, sir, not noise cancelling. You of all people should know that we don't sell proper noise cancelling headphones here"

"So? They still work don't they?"

"Well, yes," Morgan agreed. "They do work, to an extent up to what they were designed to do, however…"

"'However' what, Morgan?"

"Well, not meaning any offense sir, or anything like that, but uh...those headphones were not designed to counter the sounds you and Mom make at night," he said, flinching as soon as the words were out of his mouth, as if the very act of uttering them earned him physical violence.

Big Mike just looked at him coolly, daring him to continue. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound, as the saying went. So Morgan soldiered on, continuing.

"It sounds like two cats in heat, Sir. Every night."

"Your mother and I are two grown ass adults who love each and are married and are enjoying the passionate pleasures of love, son, and there ain't a damn thing wrong with that"

"Yes, Big Mike, I know. I get it. I know that, and I know that you make my Mom very happy and I'm not complaining about that at all, Sir, it's just...it makes it very difficult to sleep"

"Well then, it sounds like its time for you to move out"

"What?"

"Morgan, your mother and I are two middle aged newlyweds who are trying to enjoy each others company in the privacy of our own home. You're a 27 year old man with a full time job who still lives with his Mama," Big Mike said, incredulously but not unkindly.

"But, but...Sir…"

"Now, Morgan, I know you and your Mama are...very close, given the way the past unfolded for you, and I respect that. But you're a young man on the prowl, you can't be bringing young ladies back to your Mama's house to your childhood bedroom with the Star Wars sheets, come on now, son…" Big Mike said, not unkindly. "And your Mama and i also need some space and time alone. Believe it or not, the noise you're complaining about is us being quiet and respectful of you," he said, smiling.

At that comment, Morgan decided, there was not enough brain bleach in the world to scrub that image from his mind.

"Son," he said, continuing, "You've gotta move out. This is getting ridiculous"

"How can I move out, Big Mike?" Morgan asked, honestly. "You know what i make here, I can't afford any place on my own, and now that Chuck and Sarah are married I don't exactly have anyone to move in with, either," he said, glumly.

"What about John Casey?" Big Mike replied, trying to be helpful. "I know he lives in the same complex as Bartowski and lives alone, and he doesn't make that much more than you...although if you would get off your ass and make more sales, you'd be getting the same kind of commissions he does," he said, continuing. "Maybe you could move in with him"

"That, ah...that may not be such a good idea, Sir," Morgan replied.

"And why the hell not?"

"Well, I'm...uh...I'm dating Alex, Casey's daughter, so...things might get a bit...awkward…"

"Casey has a daughter?"

"Yes?" Morgan said, surprised. "She's been hanging around the store a lot the past few months, basically since Christmas...how have you not noticed?"

"You know I don't notice shit like that!" Big Mike said. "I'm paid to manage this big beautiful haven of retail wonderment, not cluck like a chicken of who is dating who are who is who's kid"

"Right, right, yes of course Big Mike, of course...plus the Colonel does like to keep things close to his chest…"

Both Morgan's and Big Mike's eyes went wide with recognition as Morgan called him 'the Colonel', but both equally entered into an unspoken agreement to not delve any deeper into that.

Big Mike cleared his throat and was the first to recover.

"Regardless, son, if I were you, I'd figure it out, and quick. Because your Mama and me, well, we need our space"

"What am I supposed to do, Big Mike? Like I said, I don't have any potential roommates, and I can't afford anywhere where I won't get murdered in my sleep on my own…"

At that, Big Mike smiled, a big, toothy grin that unnerved Morgan just a little bit. He got up out of his chair and motioned for Morgan to do the same. Following suit, he grabbed his step son in a one armed embrace and stood, both of them, leaning against his manager's desk and looking out the window as the store slowly began to come to life.

"Morgan, tell me. When you look out there on the sales floor, what do you see?"

Morgan, for his part, didn't understand what was going on and thought it was some kind of test, and started listing off the appliances and various other electronics items the store had for sale in his line of sight, and spouting off their specs, as if it were some kind of test.

"No, no, Morgan. I'm not asking what we have for sale. What do you see?"

"I...I don't know, Sir...I see the Buy More"

"Exactly, son. Exactly," Big Mike replied, sighing contentedly. He continued, giving Morgan a brief side hug.

"You know, I've dedicated my entire working life to this place," he said. "When Moses first started this company and asked me if I wanted to be a part of it, I told him absolutely. He always handled the corporate aspects of running the company, but he let me stay here, where I felt comfortable. My own little domain of perfect electronics retail heaven," he said.

"I know everyone thinks that I'm just lazy and don't like it here, but that's not true at all son. Its a managerial style I've consciously chosen to develop over many many years, and looking at how you and Bartowski and Casey have taken on leadership roles because of it, i know I made the right decision," he continued.

"This place...this place is probably the closest thing to heaven outside of fishing, and staying home in bed all day with your Mama," he said, not noticing how uncomfortable that made Morgan feel. "The rest of the world could be going to crazy, and let's face it, it almost always is. It doesn't matter what's going on outside: crazy weather, droughts, riots, terrorist attacks, it doesn't matter. In here, its always the same. Safe. Calm. Peaceful. Routine. Yes, we might get some crazy whackadoos every now and again when new releases come out and the nerds get antsy, but on the whole...this place is pretty close to perfection son"

"Your Mama and I are too old to have any children of our own together," he said, without preamble. "So you're the closest thing to a son I'll ever have, Grimes," he continued, "and this place...this wonderful, amazing, beautiful place is the closest thing to a family business I'll ever have or ever be able to pass down to you," he added, building up steam.

"You and I working here together, side by side, father and son," he said, dreamily.

"Ah, that's, uh, step father and step son, Big Mike. No offense, I like you a lot and you're great for my Mom and I'm glad your happy but…"

"Your Daddy abandoned you and your Mama when you were a baby, Grimes"

"Yes, and my mother raised me my entire life, she was both my Mom and my Dad. No offense Big Mike, but I'm perfectly fine with things the way they are in that regard"

"Me too, Grimes, me too. I just wanted to let you know," he said, before continuing. "But anyway, as I was saying...you and me, working here together step father and step son like this...its gotten me thinking about the future"

"Oh?"

"Yeah...well, me and your Mama aren't going to be around forever, and I hope to retire long before I kick the bucket...I fully plan on saving enough money to retire, buy a Winebago and spend our golden years fishing and eating danishes across the country, just your Mama and I," he said.

"But before I can do that, I need to make sure the store is in capable hands. Cos lord knows if some corporate buffoon came down here and chose someone they wanted to run this place, the place would go belly up within the year," Big Mike said.

"What are you saying Big Mike?"

"I'm saying that now that I've canned Emmett, I need a new assistant manager, and you're it, Grimes"

"What?"

"You're the new ass-man, Grimes. Get used to it, congratulations"

"But...but...Big Mike, what about…"

Big Mike cut Morgan off before he could finish his thought.

"No, Morgan. It's not because we're family now, though that is a nice benefit. I've watched you grow up during your time here, Morgan. You've become a responsible adult who takes his life and his job seriously, and knows everything there is to know about running this place, about how to keep this big, beautiful, lady singing along. You earned this on your own, Grimes. And besides, its a helluva pay rise and you need it so that you can get the hell out of my damn house"

"I don't know what to say, Sir"

"Say 'thank you', shake my hand, and get the hell out of my office and get to work, Grimes"

"Yes, Sir. Thank you Sir," Morgan said, proceeding to do exactly that.

Castle

Burbank, California

The Same Day

0900 PST

"Good morning, Team," General Beckman said, her face and voice as unreadable as ever as she initiated the morning briefing.

"Good morning, General," Chuck, Sarah, and Casey replied. They were all in good moods: the past several months had been very quiet on the Fulcrum front and, true to her word, General Beckman had done her best to keep them out of pointless grunt work unrelated to the coming war against Fulcrum or otherwise related to the Intersect Project.

It had given all three of them time to relax - practically a vacation, despite still having their cover jobs - and to take time for themselves. Chuck and Sarah had been using that time as one might expect: going on dates, taking short day or weekend trips, spending time with their family and friends, just generally being as much of a normal, regular couple as they could. Even Casey had gotten used to it. Against his better judgement, he had followed the advice Beckman had given him several months earlier and had gotten in contact with his daughter, and they had been spending hte past several months, since around Christmas time, building and strangthening a relationship. It had been awkward and difficult at first, but despite his many reservations, Casey found that not only did he quite enjoy it, but he took to parenthood - or at least, whatever vestigial remnant of parenthood what he was doing could be called - quite easily and willingly. It had only been a few months and already his relationship with his daughter was one of the most cherished things in his life, right beside his guns, his NSA career, his BeastMaster grill, his Crown Vic, and the picture of President Reagan that hung in his front entryway.

"This morning I'm afraid I have some good news and some very bad news," she said. "Let's begin with the good news," she said, continuing.

"The good news is, that I have it on good authority that Morgan Grimes has been, as of this morning, promoted to Assistant Manager of the Buy More," she said. "Normally, I wouldn't concern myself with such trivialities, except for two reasons: the first is that with someone as close to Mr. Bartowski as Mr. Grimes is in such a position of authority in the store, it enables us a significantly greater degree of leeway and wiggle room with how we conduct our operations, how we adapt Castle, and the like," she said.

"And the second?" Chuck asked plaintively.

"The second, Mr. Bartowski, is that I am trying to show you, how remorseful I am over how you have been treated, by myself and the intelligence community at large over the past several years, and am trying to make amends for that. Mr. Grimes is important to you, Mr. Bartowski, and therefore he is important to me, for the overall success of Project Intersect"

The entirety of Team B stood, wide-eyed, in stunned silence at her admission. It had, they thought, appeared as if she was trying to do exactly that over the past several months, but to hear it openly admitted, out loud, and in person, was something else entirely.

"Th-th-thank you, General," Chuck managed to stutter out.

"You are quite welcome, Chuck. Now, moving on to the much less happy news," she said, steeling her face into a sombre line, before continuing.

"Several weeks ago, an Israeli Shin-Bet operative was murdered in Jaffa, near Tel Aviv," she said, pulling up official photos of the gruesome scene where the body was found, as well as the truck and all the other elements which the local investigators had taken. Chuck did not, however, flash on anything.

"The murder, as you can see, was quite brutal, with significant amounts of non-fatal wounds on the body before the final killing blow, which as you can see was done with a knife. Forensics suggests a military grade weapon such as a commando knife or perhaps a very large switchblade. As you can probably tell by the photos as well, there was a significant amount of force and pressure applied to the victims during the cutting act, suggesting perhaps that merely slitting the throat wasn't the goal, perhaps up to and even including the desire to remove the head entirely," she said, steeling her features and forcing herself to keep calm.

Chuck felt more than a little woozy, but the calming presences of his wife by his side kept him centred enough to neither lose his cool or his breakfast.

"Normally, this wouldn't be any of our concern," Beckman continued. "The Israelis are more than capable of handling their own business and tackling their own investigations," she said, as she continued with the briefing.

"However, three days ago in Zurich two more bodies were found, murdered in exactly the same way," she said, pulling up the photos of Alexei Volkoff and the woman, before continuing.

"These photos were taken in the secure room of Zürcher Kantonalbank HQ in Zurich. The older man is Alexei Volkoff, former Red Army special forces, KGB, and later, after the fall of the Soviet Union, he did a stint in the French Foreign Legion before settling in Switzerland and taking up a post as head of security for ZKB," she continued,

"The woman has no connection to the security or intelligence community. Her name was Marie Dubois and was a receptionist, teller, and financial analyst employed by the bank,"

"As you can see, they have both been brutally murdered in exactly the same way as the Israeli operative. As it is, this is suspicious enough with three nearly identical murders with two of the three victims somehow involved in the intelligence and law enforcement community," she said, in a voice that everyone knew meant business.

"But again, normally, this is not within our remit as our job is actionable intelligence specifically regarding the security of the United States and its interests abroad," she said, continuing. "That said, the most distressing part of all of this is that the last person the two individuals killed in Zurich were seen with was a man described as having a very similar height and build as Chuck, and going by the name 'Charles Carmichael'," she said, sombrely.

Chuck's stomach plummeted out of his chest, Sarah's eyes grew wide as saucers, and Casey growled.

"General, I...I didn't...I could never…I…."

General Beckman cut him off before he could spiral further.

"I am 100% aware of that, Mr. Bartowski, beleive me. I am without a shadow of a doubt confident that you had nothing to do with any of this. Trust me, if I had any shred of doubt whatsoever, we would not be having this conversation, and likewise, I'm sure your relationship with your wife would be very much significantly different than the happy one I'm happy that you are currently enjoying," she said, nipping his rant in the bud. That, coupled with Sarah's calming presence and her ministrations rubbing small circles on his palm with her thumb, seemed to calm him enough for them to be able to continue, though Sarah knew that this hit him in a significant way which they would have to work through together, moving forward. However, in the meantime there was work to be done.

"Ok, General, so what does that mean, now?" he asked, shocking both Casey and Beckman with the relevant question. He was learning.

"It means that these murders probably have something to do with Fulcrum and the Intersect," she replied matter-of-factly.

"How?"

"Whoever did this clearly knows about 'Charles Carmichael'," Casey said, half-speaking, half-growling. "They're calling us out. This is their way of saying 'Catch me if you can'," he said, flexing his fingers into fists and back again over and over again. Clearly, his trigger finger was very itchy.

"So what do we do now, General?" Chuck asked.

"First, it means that we need to retire the Charles Carmichael alias, Sweetie," Sarah said, speaking for the first time during the briefing. She was deep in thought, though no matter how much she wracked her brain at the moment, she kept coming up empty, as to how this could happen or who could be behind it. Never mind that, she swore to herself. It didn't matter now. She, Chuck, and Casey would find out, and they would stop them and the perpetrators would pay. Of that, she was absolutely certain.

"If they know enough about your alias to find someone who looks sort of like you to use your alias to go on a murder spree...that means that that alias is no longer any good. We'll need to come up with a new one," she continued.

"Agent Walker is right, Chuck. But that's not the primary concern as of now. Right now, I need my best team on the case to figure out what the hell is going on."

"Understood, General," Sarah and Casey said. Chuck just nodded nervously.

"Luckily, I have very good relations with the Israeli intelligence community, and as a personal favour to me, they are letting me send you over to join their investigation. Your plane for Tel Aviv leaves LAX at 2100," Beckman said.

"Oh," she added, almost as an afterthought, "Remember: the Israelis practically never let foreigners get involved in their investigations. I had to pull a lot of strings and personal favours for this. So remember, you're not just going there are Team Bartowski: you're representing not only the United States of America, but me, personally, as well. Don't make me regret it."

With that, she closed the chat connection and Castle was silent for a moment, until the members of Team B sprang into action, preparing for the mission they had just been assigned.