MEANWHILE...
October 6th, 2012
Stan exhaled sharply, grinding his teeth audibly from the back seat, sitting up ramrod-straight with his hands clasped over his crossed knee. "It doesn't put you off even a little bit that these informants of yours wouldn't tell you what they had to inform on?" He snapped again, probably the ninth time he'd brought it up since they got on the plane in D.C. that morning.
Dave was patient behind the wheel, ready as ever to reassure him, but it was the Russian woman who responded first.
"Honestly, Stan, I'm hurt you would doubt me. Varys is an old friend of mine; I trust him completely. If he says he's got something of interest to us, then he's got something of interest to us," she huffed, flipping her unnaturally red hair over her left shoulder, where it evanesced into her blazer, the same shade of red (he'd never seen her wear any other color, it seemed). He caught a hit of her perfume too, that strange Russian blend smelling too strongly of campfire smoke to be pleasant. "And besides, you're not even supposed to be here."
Stan bristled, but had no response. The Red could be cryptic, sometimes, but she was always honest with him, just like Dave was. That was why Stan had picked them, he figured—it would have been Stan's taskforce if not for the fact of it being his brother's company they were investigating and all, and the conflict of interest therein. And so it'd fallen to Dave to head, with Stan playing backseat driver—in more ways than one, Dave found since they'd left the New Orleans airport in their rental car.
"Is the air conditioning broken or something? I feel like I'm getting heatstroke." Stan Baratheon was not one for relinquishing control of anything, and the necessary arrangement of the taskforce had him out-of-sorts, which left him crankier than Dave's youngest son, his namesake, after missing a nap.
"You're not getting heatstroke, Stan. It's October," Dave insisted flatly. "But we can turn it on if you want. Just remember we'll use more gas that way."
"For Chrissake," he grumbled, "would you step on it, then, Seaworth? We haven't even gotten there yet, and I'm already looking forward to getting out of this hellhole...the air feels sticky, can't you feel it?"
"Just be glad we're not back in Georgia," Dave said, resisting the urge to snicker. "You want sticky air, Augusta'll show you what-for."
Melissa just shook her head, chuckling, and looked out the window.
They couldn't be far now, rolling off the bridge onto the last stretch of land he could see on the horizon. To his right was the Gulf of Mexico, and to his left, the barrier islands of Louisiana. This was the Grand Isle, and they were on their way to the Quiet Isle Methodist Church, where they had arranged to meet their informants for coffee. Dave did his best to mask his own uncertainty—Stan could say whatever he wanted to his Russian pet and it would brook no consequences, but if Dave were to question her...well, even if he was the head of this taskforce in name, he had worried it would be the Red who would have more power in the end. And so far, he had been right.
It was a modest little church, red-brick and well-tended, outfitted with plain wood crosses and those clumsy, basic quilts of the same sort that hung on the walls of his son's preschool. He could see a gardener at work out back, a remarkably large man, his long black hair tied back at the nape of his neck, apparently digging something. A grave, might have been.
Two men met them within, as different from one another as they could be. The bald one in the fine suit that reeked of lavender was obviously the other Russian—Varys, his name was—which made the ebon-skinned man with the easy smile and his shirtsleeves rolled up the Elder Brother of the parish, about as American as you could get. He warmly greeted Stan and Dave while Melissa and her friend were exchanging pleasantries in their native tongue, and once all the introductions had been made, led them into a sparse sort of sitting room that might have smelled of detergent and coffee if the two Russians hadn't made it smell so strongly of lavender and campfire. He took a seat beside Stan, their backs to the door.
"Now's I come t' understand it, this yo' brother's company y'all 're investigatin', mista' Baratheon, which ought t' mean you just come along fo' the ride," the Elder Brother said, pouring Stan a cup of coffee and handing it to him.
"Strictly speaking," he huffed, taking the coffee and holding it in his hands, as if he didn't know what to do with it. "I am significantly more experienced in the courtroom than these two, so I'm watching over them to make sure they don't screw anything important up," he finished, glowering at Melissa where she sat beside her friend.
"This is a very important case to you, is it not, Mr. Baratheon?" said the lavender-scented Russian in perfect, formal English.
"It is," he said simply. Dave could tell by the way he clenched his jaw that he was trying not to act affronted.
"The Ironthrone Conglomerate controls many of the natural resources in the country, as I'm sure you're both aware," Dave said. "Should they keep operating as they've been operating, though, they'll be bankrupt in no time."
"They are, as I understand it, already deeply in debt with a bank in Brasil, is that right?" Varys asked, his mask of concern all too dramatic to be genuine, coming off smug instead.
"They are," Melissa said gravely. "And their current situation with Mrs. Lannister-Baratheon as the predominant shareholder is not one that is likely to promote improvement."
"She knows nothing about how to run a business," Stan snapped, unable to restrain himself.
"It seems 'at if they do go bankrupt, we's all headed back under recession, 's that right?" The Elder Brother asked.
"Doubtlessly," Stan growled.
"There's no way to know for sure, Brother, but it's likely," Dave corrected evenly.
"And y'all 're in need o' witnesses t' help yo' case along, then?"
"That's right," Dave said warily, "we do."
The Elder Brother exchanged a glance with his counterpart.
"We found Sansa Stark," the bald Russian finally said.
"Did you? Goodness, that's...that's fantastic!" Dave exclaimed. He glanced at Melissa, who looked less surprised than she should have. Did she know something and not tell us? But now was not a time to breed resentment. Stan stopped grinding his teeth for a moment.
"Where is she?" he inquired. "Is the Imp with her?"
"She is hiding out in rural Montana, and as far as we can tell, she is alone," the Russian responded.
"Slippery bastard," Stan grumbled, crossing his arms. "How did you find her?"
"Well," the Elder Brother began, leaning his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped before him. "There's a man here doin' his 12-steps at the clinic, an' he been real' torn up 'bout her disappearance. I aksed my frien' Varys here t' help see where she was, t' see 'f I could help bring 'im some peace, in knowin' if she's a'ight."
"When it occurred to me that this Miss Stark I was looking for was the same as my dear Melissa had expressed frustration over not being able to find some time ago, I thought to alert you to her whereabouts."
"I should say so," Stan huffed. Dave gave Melissa a wary glance and leaned forward.
"Who's this man of yours who's been asking after her?" he asked the Elder Brother. The man rubbed his legs before responding.
"Well, he's supposed t' be anonymous, but seein' as you's men o' the law, he go' by the name o' Sandor Clegane."
"Clegane!? Ow, shit." Stan jumped, spilling a little bit of his still-hot coffee over his fingers. "He's supposed to be dead, I thought," he hissed, wiping his fingers off on his pants.
"He gave it the ol' college try, sir," the Elder Brother smiled. "I's too good't what I do t' let 'im die on me, though."
"Clegane was one of Joffrey's bodyguards," Stan explained to Dave and Melissa. "He hardly left the boy's side. He has to know something useful."
"Can we talk to him?" Dave asked. The Elder Brother frowned.
"'Fraid that wouldn't do y'all much good. He don't want nothin' t' do wit' yo' corporate games. I can't tell y'all how many time he told me's much."
"Maybe not, but would you at least let us talk to him and ask him for ourselves?" Melissa asked.
"Y'all can talk t' him's much as y' like. But since he supposed t' be anonymous, I don' think I should show y'all his way."
Dave could hear Stan grinding his teeth beside him. "That's not how confidentiality wor—"
"—What about if we look at this from a more opportunistic viewpoint, gentlemen; ladies," the Russian interrupted. "You all still await the appearance of a certain number of...how would I say? Bad actors, perhaps, namely Tyrion Lannister and Petyr Baelish, yes? As well as some more conclusive evidence to crop up about the more contemptible achievements of the Tyrell and Redwyne families, I should think. Well, if you were to scuttle off north and fetch back Miss Stark now, she will need to be kept in a safe-house indefinitely until you are ready to prosecute. Fair enough, but, gentlemen, she does appear to be safe where she is for the time being, but just to be sure, how about we send someone to watch over her? Someone else we should like to keep track of?"
There was quiet for a moment as the taskforce mulled over the proposal. "Like who?" Stan finally snapped. The Russian man gave a sly little smile.
"Forgive me, I thought I made that obvious," he said haughtily. "Sandor Clegane."
Stan stopped grinding his teeth to speak. "Out of the question. That's not even close to observing protocol."
"It doesn't have to observe protocol. Officially, we don't know anything about Sansa Stark," Melissa said carefully.
"This is why we insisted on having this conversation face-to-face, gentlemen," Varys said with a smile. "To sidestep any formal measures that would actually hinder the advancement of your investigations." Dave furrowed his brow, sighing. He didn't like the sound of that, but the Russians had a point.
"If we send Clegane after her, we'll be able to keep tabs on both of them," Dave stated, a concession. "We'll know where they are, and we'll be able to get to them when we need them."
"It's not such a bad idea, Stan," Melissa insisted.
He ground his teeth another moment more in the silence. "How do we know she'll stay safe there? If you managed to find her, who's to say that the Tyrells won't?"
"My little birds destroyed any evidence of her they found that would lead to her discovery by any...unsavoury types."
"Including us," Stan spat. "That's obstruction of justice, you know," he threatened.
"Yet another reason why we're having this conversation now," the perfumed Russian responded cordially. Stan continued to grind his teeth.
"I think it's a fine idea," Melissa said boldly. Stan whipped around to glower at her as if she'd said something treacherous.
"I've got my reservations about it," Dave admitted, "but it seems like the best plan we've got in terms of keeping our yet-to-be-official witnesses safe while we build our case."
Stan exhaled sharply. "Well, you won't hear me condoning it. And there's nothing I can do to stop you, it seems...seeing as I'm not even officially on the taskforce, anyway," he said sulkily.
"So it's settled, then? We send Sandor Clegane to watch over the Stark girl?" Melissa chirped, hopeful.
"I don't see why not," Dave shrugged.
"We can't even talk to him for a minute, brother?" Stan interjected. "Not even to tell him about this...plot we're hatching?!"
"Not 'f y'all want this 'plot' o' yours t' work none," the Elder Brother conditioned with a squint. "We best jus' set 'im up wit' a place t' stay an' a job t' do, an' let 'im take care o' the girl on his own."
And they arranged to do just that. After the finances had been settled and the taskforce took the time to grab lunch at a local diner the Elder Brother suggested (with killer milkshakes, it had to be said) they were back on the road, Stan resuming his residence in the back seat, ever cranky still.
"I still don't understand why he wouldn't let us talk to Clegane. I mean, we don't even know if he knows anything."
"I'm sure he does," Dave tried to reassure him, but the man was set on his ranting. Note to self: Stan Baratheon is only a good boss so long as he gets to be the boss.
"Still. It's suspicious..." he insisted, looking out the window warily. It was, theoretically, but Dave had a good feeling about this, and after so long in the police force, he'd learned to trust his gut. "But for Chrissake, Seaworth, could we have a little bit of air back here? I'm drowning in my own sweat."
"If you say so, sir," he said, and flicked the air conditioning on high.
::
A/N: We're going to pay attention to the backdrop of this story for a minute or two. For those who are a bit slow on the uptake: Stan=Stannis; Dave=Davos; Melissa=Melisandre
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