Mind Games

Chapter 10

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer

A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews and alerts, all. Things start to go downhill...

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Charlie pulled at the shirt collar of his tux uncomfortably as he looked in the mirror, and sighed. They had gone with Montreaux's personal assistant to rent tuxes for the party and had returned to their hotel room to change. The prospect of the next day and the pending business that Montreaux had promised should have been exciting – it was what they had come there for, but he felt oddly deflated. Part of the reason for that was the two days he had spent with nothing to do, while Don had been off with Ian and the Clemenceaus, but part of it, he knew, was due to other things. The big adventure was more grind than action, and even when things were progressing well, the underlying tension was draining. Worst of all, he'd envisioned it as a chance to bond with his brother, and that had been a complete disappointment.

As Ian had expected, they had found listening devices in their rented Monte Carlo and in their hotel room, and that had put an end to any chance for personal meaningful conversation. Not that Don would have opted for that kind of pillow talk anyway, Charlie thought morosely, but he'd had hopes. Any opportunities for a private conversation had to be set up specifically – a walk on the street, a meal at a noisy restaurant, a drink at a corner table in a bar, and they always talked strategy – they had to, there was no other time to do it. In fact, if anything, it seemed as though they had lost ground - he wasn't entirely sure who his brother was anymore. When Don was in public, he slipped into his cover persona, and when he wasn't, he was grim, intensely focused on the next phase of the job. Charlie had seen him exhibit intensity before on cases, but nothing like this. There was a hard edge to him that had been buried, apparently, since his Fugitive Recovery days. It made Charlie feel uncertain around him; he was keenly aware that there was a piece of Don that he'd had no idea existed. He wondered what else he didn't know, and how much of their relationship he had taken for granted. He'd thought that relationship had been strengthening, but after seeing his brother's acting skill, he realized that the perception that they were getting closer might be just that – perception. It was quite possible that a person only saw what Don wanted them to see.

It didn't help that his cover was messing with his perception of himself. Living daily life as a criminal toyed with a person's psyche. Don had warned him of that back in L.A. – that the job might require that Charlie would need to do things that went against everything he believed. So far, it hadn't been too much of a stretch – he was doing mathematical analysis on a computer, something he did every day. Granted, the reason for it was illegal, but it was something he could separate, and deal with reasonably well. Still, constantly thinking of himself as another person picked away at his identity bit by bit. He not only didn't know who Don was, he was beginning not to know who he was, himself.

He picked up his cell phone and glanced at it to make sure it was on before he put it in his pocket. Around midnight, he would need to turn it off. It was now the middle of the night for Amita and Larry, but they would be getting up for the day around midnight his time, and he didn't want them calling at an inopportune moment. That was another cause for feeling separated from his own identity. Every time he talked to them, he had to lie, had to make up another story about where he and Don were with their course work at Quantico. There were many times when he was in a situation where he couldn't answer the phone at all. The only good thing about the last two days was that he'd had free time, time he could spend out of the hotel room, and he'd been able to talk to Amita – at least about what she was doing, if he couldn't talk about himself.

Don was on his own cell phone; Charlie could hear him through the open door of the bathroom, and he turned as Don emerged, snapping his phone shut. "That was Ian," he said. "He said to bring a change of clothes to wear home – we can leave the tuxes there and Montreaux's guy will return them."

Charlie nodded and grabbed jeans, a shirt, and his jean jacket, and snagged a small bag from the floor. He and Don stuffed their clothes in it and Charlie zipped it up. "Ready?" Don asked.

"Yeah," said Charlie, starting to move toward the door with the bag. He felt the pressure of Don's hand on his shoulder as he passed him and looked up in surprise, to see a glimmer of something softer in his brother's eyes, something he hadn't seen in days. Charlie smiled at him, tentatively; then walked through the door, still feeling the sensation of his brother's hand, warm and unexpected. Was it a rare moment of affection, or was Don simply trying to bolster him for the job ahead? He put the question out of his mind – he knew what he wanted to believe and he was going with that.

They took the Monte Carlo; the fact that they no longer required Ian as an escort to get access to the property said a lot in itself, and tonight, they were directed toward the front of the building, up the sweeping drive, instead of to the side entrance. Lights blazed from the mansion, illuminating the white pillared front and spilling out onto manicured shrubs and the lawn. A valet took their keys, and they ascended a short flight of steps with other well-dressed guests, for the first time, walking through the front door into the large foyer. It was impressive - floors, walls, and a sweeping staircase all inlaid with white marble, and they followed the flow of guests into the grand ballroom.

The crowd that filled it was glittering, and varied. Some of them were Montreaux's closer friends, who hung with a group that looked a little edgier, a little faster, judging by the women's appearance and attire. They were slim, young, beautiful, the gowns and pantsuits clingy and revealing – money and cocaine apparently bought women with finer physical attributes and coarser morals. On the other side of the room were some of the more respectable citizens of the community; Montreaux was careful to curry favor with local government officials and successful legitimate businesspeople.

He came forward to greet them himself, flanked by Macy and Charlotte, and Charlie and Don found themselves pegged as their escorts for the evening. Charlie stifled a sigh as Charlotte took his arm and steered him away. She was gorgeous, bubbly and fun, but he knew he would spend the entire evening fending off her unwanted advances, and it put him in an awkward situation. He was trying to be cool and worldly, and he was well aware that turning down a woman of Charlotte's magnificence made him seem timid and prudish. Although, he told himself, there was safety in numbers. There couldn't be any harm in pretending to have fun with her, with flirting back a little, in this crowd. He gallantly took her drink request, and pretended to enjoy her hand resting on his shoulder, her finger lifting up to toy with his curls, as they sipped their drinks.

One drink followed another, and by the time they trooped to the dining room for dinner, Charlie was feeling a decided buzz. He was actually starting to feel a bit of euphoria, a rush of confidence. It was starting to hit him – they were in, he and Don were in. They had been accepted – and the thought made him a little bolder, relax a bit more. He jumped into conversations, flirted with Charlotte, behaved exactly as Charlie Archer would if he were having fun. Maybe it was the alcohol, but the odd part was, Charlie Eppes wasn't minding it a bit, either.

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After dinner, Don took advantage of Macy's trip to the ladies' room, and made his way over to Ian. Ian gave him a bland look. "Seems like your brother is having a good time," he remarked mildly, and Don turned to see Charlie, laughing and whispering in Charlotte's ear, who was giggling and bending down to hear him. Charlie had a drink in his hand, and looked flushed and euphoric, and Don frowned.

Ian lowered his voice. "Relax; I stood next to him for awhile. He's actually under control, alcohol-wise, and he's putting on a great show. I actually think you guys need that – you've both been pretty uptight this week, and I think Montreaux senses it. If he's still testing, I'd say that Charlie is passing with flying colors."

Don's gaze flickered across the room to Montreaux; in fact, the man was looking at Charlie. Montreaux said something to Guy Clemenceau and they both nodded – with approval, it seemed. Before Don could reply to Ian, he felt his cell phone vibrate, and he pulled it out and looked at the number, his expression changing to one of surprise. "Blinkie," he said, and flipped the phone open and stepped out to the empty foyer for privacy. Ian drifted after him, drink in hand.

"What is it?" he asked, as Don flipped his phone shut.

Don frowned. "Blinkie's apparently decided on our offer – he wants to play. He wants me to come out, spend some time with him touring his territories, meeting some of his top guys. The problem is – he wants to meet now, tonight."

Ian pursed his lips. "You can't pass that up. You want me to come with you?"

Don shook his head. "No – he asked for me – it'll be a good chance to solidify my position with Montreaux. Plus, I need you to keep an eye on Charlie."

Ian shrugged. "I'm sure Charlie can watch out for himself. I can see your point though – it would look good if you handled this yourself."

Don looked at little irritated at Ian's lackadaisical response. "Humor me, okay? Just keep an eye on him. I'm gonna tell Montreaux what I'm doing; then I'm going to change. I'll be back as soon as I can."

Ian nodded. "Okay – don't worry, I'll watch him. I'm betting Montreaux's closer friends are going to head up to the private party area eventually – don't panic if you get back and don't see us down here; that's probably where we'll be."

Don gave him a quick nod as he turned and strode back into the ballroom. He headed first to Montreaux, pulling him aside and explaining quietly that he had to leave, and why. Montreaux's eyes gleamed at the news, and he gave Don a slap on the arm. "Good work, mon ami, je comprend. You have work to do, a deal to seal. We will be here when you get back."

Don shot him a grin, and headed toward Charlie next, willing himself to slow his walk a bit. On a purely intellectual level, he knew that Ian was right, that Charlie would be fine, that he'd already spent hours here alone. Of course, Charlie hadn't been drinking then.

He stepped up quietly behind him and spoke, "Charlie, got a second?"

Charlie turned away from the conversation. He was smiling and holding a drink, but the question in his eyes made Don realize that he was all there, at least so far. "I gotta go out for a little while," he said quietly. "Something's breaking on one of my deals."

Charlie kept a slight smile on his lips, but concern crept into his eyes. "Something good? Is Ian going with you?"

"Yeah, it's good," Don assured him, "but Ian's staying here. I'll be gone a couple of hours, then I'll be back. Do you know where the valet put our bag of clothes?"

Charlie's smile had vanished, but he managed to put it back on his face as Charlotte turned and stepped next to him, dangling a manicured hand over his shoulder. He looked at Don. "He said it would be across the foyer – there's a coat room there. I'll see you later." His words were light, his smile casual, but his eyes screamed, 'Be careful!'

Don sent him a jaunty grin. "Yeah, see ya." He winked at Charlotte. "Tell Macy I'll be back."

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Charlie took a sip of his drink, and turned, with Charlotte, back to the conversation. He laughed automatically as he caught the end of a joke, but his eyes followed his brother from the room. A band was setting up – jazz, from the looks of the instruments and the sounds of the warm-up riffs being played by the tenor sax player. The lights dimmed, and the crowd began to separate, as Ian drifted up next to him. "The band is usually the dividing point," he murmured. "Slow dancing to jazz is a little too stuffy for most of Montreaux's close friends – they'll be heading upstairs to the private suite. The pillars of the community and the politicians will stay here. It'd be best if we went up with Jack's crowd."

Sure enough, Charlie noticed, some of the people he recognized from the yacht were already making their way out of the room. As if on cue, Charlotte appeared by his side, and said, "C'mon, sugar, let's go have some fun. The party's moving upstairs."

Charlie shot Ian a hesitant look, and Ian gave him a nod. "I'm right behind you," Ian said, with a smile at Charlotte.

The private suite was a section of interconnected rooms, each one a cozy, lush setting done in dark fabrics, filled with soft deep velvet-upholstered furniture, lit by antique lamps with jewel-colored shades. One of the rooms was larger, and contained a bar and a billiards table, and it was there that the crowd congregated first. Some of them started drifting off into the other rooms, and Charlotte pulled on Charlie's arm, steering him through them, giving him an impromptu tour. For an hour they mingled, pausing for conversation here and there, and waiters circulated, refreshing drinks. Montreaux hadn't arrived yet; he was making an appearance downstairs, but that didn't stop his guests from making themselves at home; most of them had obviously been there before, and all of them knew each other. There were no strangers there, and for good reason, as Charlie was to find out.

He strolled back into the larger room with Charlotte, and a couple vacated a loveseat at the same moment. Charlotte dragged him into it, and Charlie sat, gratefully; his rented shoes were starting to pinch, and he could feel it in spite of the drinks. He could feel the drinks, too; and he made a decision to try to slow down. Charlotte settled in beside him and draped an arm languidly across the back of the sofa, toying with his curls. He had the sensation he was being studied by the others in the room; there was a strange sort of tension, and so he turned and gave her a dazzling smile, for show.

Jack Montreaux's voice came from the doorway, smooth, and sounding even more Gallic than usual, preceding him into the room. "Ah, chérie," he said, as Charlie turned, and he saw Montreaux pat a young woman on the arm as he came through the doorway. "You are having a good time?"

"I'll be having a better one in a minute," she returned, and Charlie's eyes widened as one of the other guests knelt next to the glass-topped coffee table in front of him, and poured out a small pile of white powder. The man deftly separated it, cutting it into lines with a thin blade, and tossed a straw on the table. "Party's on," he said with a grin, and rose to his feet.

"I'm all that," declared one of the women, and she knelt, holding one nostril and deftly snorting a line of cocaine into the other with the straw. One after another, several of the guests followed her, until the lines were gone. Charlie's gut tightened, but he tried to look as though he'd been there before, and casually took a sip of his drink. He looked around, searching for Ian, and finally caught sight of him, standing back in the hallway, behind Montreaux. At the same time, he noticed that Montreaux was watching him.

Montreaux smiled, but his eyes were calculating. "Don't be shy, Charlie, there is more - enough for everyone."

Charlie shrugged, trying to look nonchalant, but his heart was starting to hammer. He was keenly aware that the others were looking at him, and he felt Charlotte tense beside him. She was apparently in on it – this had to be another test. "That's okay," he said, with an offhand wave of his drink. "I try to stay away from the stuff – too much partying dulls the thought processes."

He was trying to sound casual, and he hoped fervently they would drop it there. He undoubtedly would lose face, but cocaine? He couldn't do that.

Montreaux kept his smile, but his voice softened ominously. "You do not understand, mon ami. We are family here, and this is initiation into the family. You refuse this, and you refuse the invitation. You will insult me, and my guests, and all deals will be off."

Charlie stared back at him, his mouth dry. Don's earlier words resonated through his head, 'When you're undercover, you're committed. You have to play the part, no matter what. It means that for the sake of your cover, you may have to do things that you don't ordinarily believe in…' He looked over Montreaux's shoulder at Ian, searching for guidance, but Ian's face was inscrutable. This was it, Charlie thought. The whole fate of their mission was resting on this. If they were to continue, he had no choice.

He swallowed; then took a deep breath, shrugged and smiled. "If you wish – I don't mean to refuse your hospitality." He cocked an eyebrow at Charlotte. "Ladies first, however, I insist." The truth of it was, he hadn't paid close attention to the other users, and he wanted to watch someone again to see exactly how it was done, or he would betray just how little experience he had.

Charlotte was staring at him, but then she smiled brilliantly. "Someone get me another straw," she called out, "we'll do it together." She grabbed Charlie's hand and pulled him off the sofa, and they knelt together in front of the table. It actually was a good thing for him she was there, Charlie thought desperately; when Charlotte bent over the table, he was sure most of the eyes would be on her cleavage, rather than his shaking hands. Montreaux was still smiling, still watchful, but Charlie could see approval in his eyes. Charlotte rummaged in her purse and pulled out a small compact, waving off a man who was approaching the table with more cocaine. "That's all right," she said, "I've got some." She dumped some of the contents of the compact on the table, and using the blade, cut the white powder into two lines.

Someone produced another straw, and at that moment, Charlie was sure he was going to vomit. He had a sense that he was being pushed by an inexorable force, like the flotsam in the Mississippi, as he placed a straw in his nose and bent over the table.

"Ready - go," murmured Charlotte, and Charlie closed his eyes and inhaled.

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End Chapter 10