Chapter 8. A Frosty Reception

February 21, 1977, 3 PM, 20 miles outside Vienna.

Roan nodded in appreciation as he studied himself in the mirror. Every mission should involve at least one night in a tuxedo, he thought. Every man looked good in one. Though few looked as good as he did.

He took a moment to check his profile to search for a bad side, before finally deciding he didn't have one. Roan then moved back to the hotel room bed, and studied the mission briefing again. The information on Gert Masterson was a bit flimsy, despite his notoriety. Everybody knew who he was, but few people seemed to know why he was as important as he was. Or, for that matter, how he had accumulated his wealth.

Nothing in the notes seemed to suggest any connection to the Soviets. For the most part, he was the stereotypical importer/exporter. That, of course, was suspicious in and of itself, but Roan wasn't looking for smugglers.

One thing he did notice was that Masterson had a partnership in a small pharmaceutical company. That could mean illegal drugs, which would certainly explain his wealth. It could also mean a connection to the development of the Klebichok agent.

A knock on the door interrupted Roan's thoughts. Before the CIA agent could respond, the door opened and Steve Bartowski walked in. Though Roan would never have imagined that anything could rival his prior leisure suit disguise for pure ugliness, Steve's suit certainly gave it a run for the money. It wasn't bad in and of itself, though it was a size or so too large, it had clearly been shoved carelessly into a suitcase before Bartowski had left. It would take several hours with an iron, or possibly a herd of stampeding elephants, to get the wrinkles out.

"So, an undercover mission," Steve said, both looking and sounding eager. "And at a party, too. Can't say I haven't been looking forward to this. Teddy will be so jealous."

"You can't tell him," Roan reminded him. "It's a secret mission, which means no talking to your friends." He studied the young man briefly. "The key is to fit in. Look like you belong at this party," Roan commented, while seriously doubting that Bartowski would be able to do that.

"Hey, give me some credit. I'm not that easily phased. It's not like I'm just going to freeze uh…"

Roan turned to where Bartowski had been looking, and immediately understood the young techie's reaction. Even though she'd entered the room unannounced, Agent Gunter had clearly made an entrance. The black dress she was wearing was tight enough in the right places, and obvious care had been taken with her hair and makeup. It was all an effect to turn all of the necessary heads, and loosen the necessary tongues, but it was clearly effective. It certainly was on Bartowski.

Agent Gunter gave Roan only the briefest of glances, then looked over at Steve. After a moment, she gave him a small smile before turning serious. "I guess we're ready to go," she announced.


A Volkswagen van wasn't the best way to show up to a party, but it was the best the CIA could get its hands on at the moment. Bartowski drove them down the slightly road leading to Masterson's villa, while the other two remained momentarily quiet.

"So how are we going to get in?" Bartowski finally asked.

After a while, Gunter replied. "We're not. This is a job for trained agents," Gunter added. "Undercover jobs like this are tricky."

"I wouldn't have to be a guest," Steve protested. "I could be a waiter or something."

"Waiters at these parties go through a bigger screening process than the guests do," Roan explained. "It's actually easier to show up as a guest."

"Then you just want me to…"

"Stay in the car!" both Roan and Mary said at the same time.

"It will be safer," Mary added, a little more kindly. "And we might need you out here, you never now. If things go badly."

Steve didn't answer, but he did seem somewhat mollified.

Before they reached the villa, Steve parked the car in a wooded area out of sight of the road. Turning to the others he said, "Even if I can't go in, I can at least keep track of you." He handed a bracelet to Agent Gunter, and a watch to Roan. "Put those on. They'll monitor your heart rate. At least then I'll know if you're in danger. It's the best I can do for now. There's also a small transmitter in each. Tap on it in morse code if you want to send me a message."

"Thank you," Agent Gunter said sincerely.

"Well, I guess it's my job. Now, be careful."


It wouldn't have been too much of an exaggeration to describe Masterson's party as a circus. This was partly due to the festive atmosphere, but also because the party was divided into three separate parts.

The first section was held in a large ballroom, and it appeared to be mainly attended by old money. Roan wasn't the only man wearing a tuxedo in this room, though most of the attendees were quite a bit older. It was all quite classy, exceedingly exclusive, and to Roan's eyes extremely dull.

The second section catered to a much younger group of people. It was held in yet another ballroom, this one decorated as a facsimile of Studio 54 in New York. Roan examined the attendees via the uneven light of an overhead disco ball. He didn't see Masterson or Romanova anywhere, though many of the outfits were outrageous enough to qualify as disguises. There were even a few females covered in gold paint. Roan didn't see much in the way of clothing underneath the paint, and made a mental note to revisit this room later on.

The third part of the party was in a separate wing of the villa. Several gaming tables surrounded the room, with various games of chance being played throughout. Roan walked past the various poker and baccarat tables, fighting off the temptation to join in. He'd always liked gambling, and this appeared to be the exact high-stakes setting he preferred. Of course he had a job to do, and he guessed he did not have a high bankroll to work with. Still, this seemed to be a good a place to investigate as any.

He turned to Agent Gunter, who'd been surveying the place beside him. "I suggest you check the other rooms," he suggested. She was a bit young for the first room, and a bit conservatively dressed for the second, but she should be fine if she didn't stay in one place for too long.

"You know, we're supposed to be working together," Mary commented. "Like a team."

"I didn't ask to be on a team," Roan replied. "And I think I have a bit more experience in these things than you do. Still," he added, looking her up and down, "perhaps when we're finished we can team up for something tonight in my room."

The look of disgust on Mary's face said more than her words needed to. "I'd rather sleep with a diseased warthog."

"You might get your chance, then. I believe there was a guy dressed up like one in the other room. Look, just mingle and see if you can find out anything. Use your womanly charms." Roan added the last part doubtfully. Despite her outfit, he hadn't really seen any evidence that she had any.

Mary appeared to want to refuse, but eventually nodded and left the room. Roan smiled. Despite the young Agent's bravado, it was clear that she had been instructed that he was the leader of this mission.

Roan slowly walked through the room, studying the various attendees. As he surveyed his surroundings, he noticed that someone had left several chips in an abandoned jacket pocket. He carefully turned his back to the jacket, and reached back to grab the chips. Satisfied with his newfound plunder, he moved on.

After a couple of trips around the room, he still hadn't managed to find anything suspicious. Deciding to take a break, he paused by one of the tables. After all, what better way to further examine the room than by appearing to be one of the many gamblers?

Roan watched the table's current competitor roll the two dice onto the green felt, then slumped down when the double sixes were revealed. Bad luck, indeed.

Roan had never been a big fan of craps, but the table gave him a good vantage point. He certainly knew enough about the game to know that rolling double sixes was a bad move. The man was undaunted, though and rolled again, this time getting a six and a three. The roll after landed on a total of seven, sending the man to yet another loss. He finally stumbled off to another part of the room, probably to lose yet more money.

"Roll, sir?"

Roan looked up to see the croupier holding the dice up to him. With no hesitation, he grabbed them, and dropped a pile of chips he'd managed to procure from the entryway. He gave the dice an artful shake and rolled them across the table.

"Eleven, a winner. Care to roll again?"

In the interest of appearances, Roan continued on. After a few more successful rounds, Roan decided to cash in. "I'll take my winnings. I think."

"Ok. Just bring them over to the back of the room, Mr….?"

Roan had prepared an alias before entering the party, but he now decided that "Hilary Gray" would have to wait. He was in a gambling mood now, so another roll of the dice was in order.

"Mr. Warner. Simon Warner."


Roan headed over to the other end of the room, and waited patiently to cash in his chips. As he stood there, he scanned the room once again, but saw little of interest. The sadsack man from the craps table was now watching the roulette wheel spin, his eyes following it hopefully. When it stopped, he shook his head, and immediately dropped another chip on the table.

"Some people are just born losers."

Roan turned around to see who had spoken. Clearly, Roan's luck was continuing, as he recognized his newfound companion. Gert Masterson looked remarkably like his photograph. His bronze tan belied the current wintry surroundings, and his hair was blacker than his picture, presumably thanks to some liberally applied dye. He also wore a tuxedo like he had been born in it, enough to make even Roan jealous.

It was time to see if his ruse had worked. "Yes, his luck seems to be off tonight."

"Not just tonight," Masterson explained. "His family made its fortune in broccoli, of all things. But now the father's died, and the whole estate is being fought over in courts. Quite the mess. I'm afraid he won't do much better there than he is here." He looked over as one of the croupiers approached Roan with his winnings. "I see not everyone has been so unsuccessful tonight."

Roan shrugged as he accepted the money. "The craps table was good to me."

"Then I take it you're a man who appreciates his games of chance, Mr…?"

"Simon Warner."

If Masterson recognized the name, he didn't show it. "Gert Masterson." He held out his hand, and Roan shook it.

"Our gracious host," Roan said after he'd released the Austrian's hand.

"The one and only." He took a gulp of his drink, and glanced around at his party. "I myself appreciate the draw of the random as well, Mr. Warner. But cards and dice don't interest me as much as used to, even though they paid for most of this."

"Than what does interest you?" Roan kept the question light, despite his interest in the answer.

"People do," came the prompt response. Roan would have like to have known whether those people that interested him happened to be communists, but Masterson didn't say anything further.

"Is that why you throw these lavish parties, then?" Roan asked. "Because you like people?"

Masterson smiled. "I said people interest me, not that I like them. But yes." He leaned over and watched the assembled crowd move around the room. "Every one of these people. Every action, every decision, every interaction occurring between them, an unknown. There are literally millions of possibilities."

"Then you don't know your own guests?"

"Barely a one. But you should know that, since I don't know you." Masterson's eyes sparkled. "This is what I like to bet on. The infinite randomness of people."

Roan couldn't decide whether Masterson was fascinating or just a nutjob. But he wasn't there to figure out that riddle. He just needed to know if he was involved with the Soviets. "I'm not sure what you mean."

Master motioned for Roan to follow. They walked around the room, surveying the various party-goers milling about the place. "Well, look over here, for example." Roan looked over to where Masterson was pointing. A waiter was carrying a tray with two sets of glasses. One set contained red wine, while the other carried white. The waiter was approaching a distinguished-looking gentleman. "Will he take a glass of the red, or a glass of the white."

"Red." Roan guessed.

"Care to wager one of your chips?"

Roan shrugged. "Sure." A moment later, the spy found himself handing over the chip, when their quarry took a glass of the white. From the man's reaction, Roan guess he had made the wrong choice. Roan decided he'd stick to the red.

"See, infinite possibilities. But perhaps sex is more to your liking?"

Roan couldn't disagree with that, though he hoped Masterson wasn't offering.

He wasn't. Instead, he pointed over at another corner of the room. Two men were busy talking to a young blonde woman. The girl looked like she was barely 20, but was quite beautiful, and had the undivided attention of the two men. "Which one will she leave with?"

Roan studied the two men. Both were young, handsome, and probably rich. The only difference between the two was that one man had blonde hair, while the second had darker hair. On the surface, there didn't seem to be a clear favorite. But as a spy, Roan was trained in reading body language. The second man seemed to exude a confidence that the first man didn't. It was clear that he would emerge victorious. Still, Roan figured he needed to humor Masterson if he was going to learn anything. "The blonde."

Masterson grinned. "We'll see. How about we wager half of those chips of yours on it?"

Sure enough, a few minutes later, the young woman took the hand of the blonde man, and walked away. Feigning disappointment, Roan handed half of his chips to Masterson. "See, it's all about people. Alright, how about we go double-or-nothing on whether our loser's next conquest is successful."

Roan watched the blonde man mill through the crowd, and had to fight off the laugh that almost came when the man found his new mark. He was a bit disappointed that Agent Gunter had come back to this room, but at least she might help him finally beat Masterson. "Ok. I say he fails again."

"We'll see." They watched as Agent Gunter engaged the man for a moment, probably trying to extract information from him. Roan could see that he would have to talk to the young Agent about her flirting skills at some point, but it didn't really matter. One way or another, it looked like she'd gotten what she wanted, and walked away.

"It looks like you've won one," Masterson said ruefully.

While Roan was good at reading people himself, he wasn't sure exactly what to make of the playboy. Fortunately, he figured that Masterson was struggling with trying to do the same thing. He'd need to keep him occupied a little longer. "How about one more?"

"Sure." Masterson looked around. "How about that guy. Will he end this night alone?"

Roan had been getting concerned that Alexis Romanova wouldn't make an appearance at the party, leaving the mission a failure – chips or no. But he had now entered the room, and was looking over at the high-stakes poker table with mild interest. Though dressed in a tuxedo, he certainly didn't look refined. Roan could make out a scar jutting out from near one of his narrow-set eyes, and his expression was mildly cruel. If anybody left with him, it was clear they would be taking their safety, and potentially their life, in their hands.

"He looks rather ugly," Roan responded, studying Masterson closely to see whether the host seemed to recognize the Soviet. "I'd imagine that would lower his chances."

Indeed, as they watched him, most everyone seemed to steer clear of Romanova. "I'll take that bet," Masterson said after a minute or so.

Roan accepted a glass of red wine from a passing waiter, and stood there with Masterson. He saw Agent Gunter disappear and reappear a couple of times. At one point, she seemed to recognize Romanova, and it took several frantic, but subtle, gestures to convince her to stay away. A trained killer like the Russian would be too much for her.

Finally, Romanova seemed to lose interest in the game and walked across the room. At first, Roan didn't see what had caught the KGB Agent's interest, until he saw the woman he was approaching. She was another young blonde, dressed in a dark blue, and rather revealing, dress. Roan had to admit that Romanova, evil bastard that he was, had great taste in women.

Not that it would matter, he thought to himself. But the woman smiled as he approached, and after a minute of conversation, took his arm. Masterson barked a laugh as the two departed from the room.

"I guess I owe you the rest of my chips," Roan admitted.

"You should, but I won't take them from you. I must admit, I saw the two of them come to the party together. Hardly fair, so enjoy your winnings."

As Roan pocketed the remainder of his chips, Masterson added, "Still, perhaps I will get another chance. You intrigue me, Mr. Warner. If you are interested, a have a proposal for you."


February 5, 2011. 3:00 AM, Echo Park, CA

"Hello?"

The voice on the other end of the line sounded wary and uncertain.

Chuck sat down on the ledge by the courtyard fountain. Other than the sound of the splashing water, everything was quiet, and he spoke in a hushed tone.

"Cole? Cole Barker?"

"Who is this?" the response was harsher than the refined tone Chuck remembered.

"It's Chuck Bartowski."

After a pause, "Chuck? Is everything ok?"

"Yeah. Everything's fine. Uh, how are you?"

"How did you get this…oh, of course. The Intersect."

"It's like the Yellow pages for international men of mystery," Chuck responded. "I'm sorry to bother you."

"It's fine. What is it, Chuck?"

"Uh, I have a question." Chuck stuck splashed the fountain water slightly with his hand, trying figure how best to proceed. Finally, he decided to be direct. "Your parents, were they spies?"

Another pause. "That was in the Intersect too?"

"Actually, no. I found some…records recently. They seemed to have some information about you."

"Damn. Records? Then somebody has burned me."

"No, it's ok. The documents are safe, and they're…encrypted. But I just wanted to confirm their…accuracy."

"I see." The line was quiet for about fifteen seconds. "Yes, my parents were spies."

"And they were both killed in the line of duty?"

"When I was very young. This was in these documents of yours?"

"They touch on it. Did you ever find out what happened to them? And, um, avenge them?"

"I did find out. But somebody got to them before I could. Why are you asking this?"

"I lost my father recently. And I had a chance to…avenge him."

"But you didn't." Cole didn't phrase this as a question.

"No."

"That's because you're a good man. You made the right decision. Vengeance can be like a cancer, eating away at you."

"I know, but it's difficult. It makes me wonder what it would be like for my kids if something like that happens."

"I see what you're worried about. My mother told me who she was after my father died, and I didn't really take it well. But I learned to understand as I got older. She was a hero. So was my dad."

"Then you followed in their footsteps?"

"I didn't want to at first. But when I got older, I realized that it was in my blood. I went to Oxford, then the Academy, and a couple of years later got my license to kill. And that was that."

Chuck considered the MI-6 agents words for a while. Finally, he decided to ask another question. "Do you know Roan Montgomery?"

A dry chuckle came through the phone. "Roan Montgomery. There's a name I haven't heard in a while. Yes, we've crossed paths."

"Then you met him when you were a boy?"

"Oh yes, he worked with my mother back then. I'm afraid he's no longer the bright, shining example that the CIA would like him to be."

"Then you've seen him recently?"

"Well, not exactly recently. He used to show up now and again at the orphanage. Bring me gifts. He even taught me stuff. Like how to fight. Convince people you're something you're not. Seduce women."

"Huh." Chuck tried to picture Roan Montgomery, father figure but it didn't quite compute.

"So that's what you wanted to ask me?"

"Pretty much."

"Ok, then. So, how's Sarah?"

"Oh, she's good. We're engaged now."

After yet another pause, "Well, that's wonderful to hear. I'd hate to think I lost out for no good reason. And she's happy?"

"Yeah. Yeah, she is."

"Well, good. Listen, Chuck, I've got to get going. I have a reclusive assassin I need to find and take out, and well, I'm on a tight schedule."

"Then you're not in England?"

"Hong Kong, actually."

"Wow. Sounds exotic."

"Chuck, don't be jealous. You got the girl, remember? Good night, Chuck, and it was good hearing from you."

"Bye."


So I'm considering, in yet another bit of hubris, to do a list of all of the James Bond references throughout this story. I've been tracking all of it in a spreadsheet, sadly enough.

I hope everyone is sticking by this story. More derring-do is up ahead!