CAPSTAN CABIN, EL DORADO FOREST, CALIFORNIA
Chance shook Olivia awake gently. She came to quickly, grabbing for her gun.
"What is it? Is Malone here?"
Chance shook his head sadly.
"It's your partner. He's been shot." Olivia's face dissolved into shock.
"What, Peter? Is he alright?"
Chance looked at the young FBI agent, eyes full of pain and compassion.
"You need to go, now. Be with him." Olivia leapt out of bed.
"What about Malone?"
Chance waved away her concerns.
"Don't worry about it. I'm going to get some answers from my clients. I'll be OK."
Olivia gathered up her coat and gun and stopped mid-maelstrom.
"Oh God…how am I going to tell Walter? He'll never forgive me."
Chance knew that now wasn't the time to ask.
"Just go, and the other stuff will sort itself out. Believe me, I know."
Olivia looked on Chance, with his humour, his taste in whiskey and his obvious decency and thought of what might have been, had the night gone differently. Then instantly visions of Peter in pain polluted her thoughts and made her feel guilty about what never even happened.
"Thanks" she managed weakly as she picked up her coat and with that, Olivia was gone.
Satisfied that Olivia was gone, Chance walked upstairs to the room where Graham and his wife were sitting, eating breakfast. He placed his cup of coffee on the table.
"You know, Mr Chance, you make a hell of an omelette." Graham said between mouthfuls. Chance smiled.
"Mr Graham, I've been patient with you, I've ignored the fact that you've been lying to me from the moment we met, I even ignored the information one of my associates provided me with that demonstrates that you have a, shall we say, manufactured life." Graham stopped chewing and both he and his wife began to look nervously at each other.
Graham began to speak, but Chance raised a hand, cutting him off before he began.
"Now two good people are in the hospital because of you. One will live, one may not. I need to know everything about you, Mr Fenton, including how it is you know Patrick Malone, and I need to know now and if you don't tell me, when Malone gets here, I'll show him up here myself."
Graham considered his options and seeing that Chance was his only remaining hope, he shrugged.
"In 1982 I was working for USAMRIID – the Army Infectious Diseases institute - in Gabon, central Africa. I was there because the eastern border of Gabon was suffering an outbreak of a new kind of Haemorrhagic Fever. I was out there with a CIA doctor called McLennan and the reason that the CIA were interested was because Ebola Lekomi was the Mount Everest of infectious diseases. It was an airborne, highly infectious haemorrhagic fever with an incubation period of 72 hours. I'll give you the edited highlights – it was the one that, if it gets into the western world, with its air travel and subways and baseball games, would be the grim reaper in aerosol form. In the end, McLennan made a phone call and 76 square miles of virgin rain forest and the three villages with Ebola Lekomi cases were napalmed by Intruders of the 317th Tactical air wing, USS Independence. In the two months we were in Gabon, we saw one man recover from Ebola Lekomi, and he had no right doing so."
"What do you mean?"
"He was called Joseph Mbengu and he had a disease called Histoplasmosis, a fungal lung infection fairly common in southern Africa. For some reason, I still don't know why, the fungal mycelium, in an attempt to fight the Ebola virus, spread through his system. He lived when everyone else died. Both McLennan and I were…..changed by the experience."
"So? This is all very interesting…" Chance began, "But where does it go?"
"McLennan became obsessed with fungal symbiosis. He needed to know why Mbengu lived through a disease that was, up until that point, 100% fatal." Fenton looked at the ground. "So did I." He paused for a second, and his wife placed a hand of his arm. "A few years later, McLennan calls me and asks whether I'd be interested in coming over to work on a CIA project with him, aimed at finding out whether what Joseph Mbengu had was the first stage in an evolutionary treatment for a range of diseases…or something more."
"Come on, Fenton, I'm losing patience here."
"McLennan had got the OK to set up his project – Project Mandrill – in Carolina, and he called me in. We infected people with Histoplasmosis, then gave them Lassa, or Smallpox or West Nile virus. It didn't work. We spent three years and tens of millions of dollars on a bust. Then McLennan starts reading about genetic manipulation, and he starts looking at the way that orchids lived in a symbiotic relationship with microrhizal fungus. A couple of years of experimentation and a change in Project name – by this time it was project Orchid - we began to test our symbiont fungus on critically injured people – car wreck victims, gunshot victims, industrial accidents…we literally gave them their lives back. Patrick Malone was one of those people."
Chance rolled his eyes.
"No offence, Dr Fenton, but I've saved more than a few lives, and I don't ever recall getting death threats instead of being paid, so you'll forgive me if I don't take that at face value.".
Fenton sighed.
"When we started to get results, the CIA, or some part of it at least, started to take a real interest. It wasn't good enough to save lives, they wanted to know how much punishment symbionts could take. So we tested them…"
"How?" Chance said slowly.
"Does it matter – I'm not proud of it, if that's what you're getting at."
"It matters to number 1 and number 9. Who are they?"
"Patrick Malone and Deborah Nichols"
"..And what did you do to them?"
After Fenton told him, Chance suppressed the urge to go across the table and take Fenton by the throat. Instead, he mustered every ounce of self-control he could generate, got up, left the room and phoned Olivia.
CALIFORNIA PACIFIC MEDICAL CENTRE, SAN FRANCISCO
Guerrero sat next to Ames bed. She was asleep and he sat in a plastic chair next to the bed, feeling awkward and out-of-place. Ames was sleeping, with a bandage wrapped tightly round her head. She looked peaceful. Guerrero felt angry that he hadn't made the little assassin suffer longer. In the old days, Guerrero would have dragged the man to the nearest empty warehouse and drilled holes in him until he'd got bored. Instead he'd delivered a quick and pain-free coup-de-gras. In part it was because Bishop was lying on the tarmac bleeding out, but only in part. There was something else at play here – he didn't want her to look at him like he was a monster. The revelation was something he found genuinely disturbing.
"You look like I feel."
Guerrero jerked his head up. Ames was upright in bed, looking at him. He smiled at her.
"How are you feeling?"
"Like someone brained me. How's Winston?"
"He'll live. The guy did a number on him."
Ames face wrinkled in disgust.
I know, I saw some of it I think, it's all pretty hazy." She looked at Guerrero and he thought he detected fear behind her eyes. "He'll be coming back, won't he?"
Guerrero leaned into her.
"No, he won't." He let the truth hang in the air without an explanation. Ames searched his eyes and found the answer. Guerrero waited for the look to come, the look that gave away Ames fear of him and of what he was capable of. It never came. Instead she lifted her hand and placed it over Guerrero's and squeezed.
"Thank you."
Guerrero didn't know what to say, so he left his hand there as she squeezed it and settled back in his seat and said the only thing he could think to say.
"You're welcome."
Olivia was sat in the ER waiting room with Guerrero, who'd finally left Ames so she could catch up on her sleep, and half a dozen SFPD officers who remembered Peter from his actions in saving Winston and who had taken Peter's injury very personally. Guerrero had not giving any information on the fate of Peter's attacker, though Olivia suspected that he had taken care of it in his own way and she felt no compulsion to quiz or question the brooding man about it, given that he had probably saved Peter's life. They were still waiting for an update when Walter, Astrid and Broyles burst in through the door. Broyles walked over to Olivia and sat next to her. Astrid flashed Olivia a sympathetic look, but Walter ignored her completely and stormed up to the ER reception desk.
"My Son, Peter Bishop….How is he?"
The Nurse behind the desk stood up.
"I don't know sir, but if you follow me, I'll get you an update from the ER Surgeon."
Astrid took his hand, and they both walked through the double doors into the ER proper. Olivia got up to speak to Walter, but he shot her a glance of pure, unadulterated malevolence as he walked past, and he hissed at her as he went
"Stay away from me…you were supposed to protect him!"
Olivia slumped back in her seat and Broyles patted her arm sympathetically.
"Step outside for a second with me."
When they were outside, Olivia rubbed her eyes and Broyles waited for the inevitable.
"I should have gone with him, instead I let him go with Guerrero. I chose to stay with Chance, not because it was the right thing to do, but because it was easy."
"Why?"
"Because I didn't want to spend any more time with Peter." She looked at the ground. "We've been having some problems lately…"
Broyles laughed mirthlessly.
"I'm your boss, Olivia, I know you two were having problems, but this…this isn't your fault and that Guerrero guy, whatever his faults, as I understand it, he saved Peter's life, so I wouldn't be too hard on him."
"How is this not my fault?"
"You had to keep your eyes on Fenton, but someone had to check out Malone and Nichol's address, maybe you should have got the Sacramento field office involved, but we all make calls we can second-guess. You didn't send Peter to that house because you wanted rid of him, you did it because it was the right thing to do."
"Walter won't think so…"
"Perhaps not, but that's a different conversation." Broyles lead her to a bench and they sat down.
"Where is Fenton now?"
"He's in a cabin in the Eldorado National Forest. He's being watched by a private bodyguard….."
"I think we probably need to get Field Agents up there."
Olivia gave a shrug.
"You were right, by the way. Chance, the Bodyguard with Graham, got him to talk. He did work for the CIA, and they are trying to clean house. Walter needs to talk to him, most of what Chance told me went way over my head. I'll go back up there, see if we can get more information from him – if he was tied to the CIA, I'd rather keep this between as few people as possible, we don't know how far this thing goes. "
"It's your call Olivia, but at least let me get the Hostage Rescue Team on stand-by and close by. We don't need to give them details yet…"
Olivia nodded and Broyles took a sip of his coffee. As he did so Astrid ran out of the ER over to them. Both Olivia and Broyles stood up.
"Peter's about to go into surgery." Astrid was downcast. "Walter's with him, he's conscious. He wants to see you, Olivia." Astrid's voice hitched as her chest lurched. "The surgeon says if you've got anything to say to him….you should do it now."
Olivia couldn't help herself. She started to cry.
"Walter…" Peter's voice had a musical lilt that suggested he was on some impressive painkillers. "…..it's fine, you heard what the Doctor said – a quick bout of surgery and I'll be right as rain."
"I know Son." Walter sniffled, eyes red, his tone disbelieving. "It's a shock, that's all. You must be more careful."
"Short of growing eyes in the back of my head, I'm not sure what else I can do to be careful. I don't suppose you can sort out that 'eyes in the back of my head thing'…"
Walter smiled for the first time since arriving at the Hospital, it was weak and Peter felt an intense wave of sorrow wash over him even through the painkillers as he studied Walter's face.
"You know Belly and I once grew a fully-functional eye in an inert solution. It had to be in saline as we didn't grow it any eyelids…"
The door opened and Olivia stuck her head round. Walter trailed off and Peter saw the look of malevolence return to his face. He put a hand over Walter's.
"Can you give us a couple of minutes Walter?" Walter reluctantly stood up. He looked back at Peter, who smiled at him. "You can come back in a few minutes – and see if you can find a thin guy with round glasses and odd facial hair, his name is Guerrero, and he saved my life."
"I'll find him. Son, I…..I"
Peter smiled at his Father.
"Dad, I promise I'll be OK."
Walter left Peter's side reluctantly and on the verge of tears, fixing Olivia with a ferocious glare as he shoved passed her. He paused just out of Peter's line of sight and leaned into Olivia, hissing into her ear.
"You of all people should know how far I'll go to protect Peter, and what I'm capable of. It he doesn't come through this…."
He then stormed past leaving the threat unfinished, looking for Guerrero. Olivia walked into Peter's room looking shaken and feeling a complex tide of different emotions, none of them pleasant.
"He blames you…" Peter began. He was too tired, and it was too difficult holding back the morphine curtain for him to sugar-coat the words. "…and you know how long he can hold a grudge."
"Maybe he's right." Olivia's voice hitched as she saw Peter, connected to bleeping and humming machines. She slumped down in the chair next to Peter's bed.
"He's not. Even if things had been all wine and roses between us, we both know I'd still have gone with Guerrero and I'd probably have been shot, so what happened to me isn't your fault, it's mine for doing this job. Maybe it's the right time to stop."
Olivia looked at Peter, white and broken, voice shallow and barely above a whisper. How on earth had they got to this place.
"What are you saying Peter?"
"I'm tired Olivia. I love the job, I love feeling like I'm starting to make a difference. I'm just tired of this, I'm tired of us. I'm just not really able to pretend anymore. I'm sorry."
Olivia didn't even try to hide the tears that had formed at the corners of her eyes and were running down the side of her face.
"Peter, I don't know what to say to you. You kept me going over there, you were the only thing keeping me sane…..I want it to be better, I do, but I can't help it, all I see when I close my eyes is you and her. I…..I…."
Peter, with great effort raised his hand and placed it over hers.
"I know, Olivia." He licked his lips and wet his mouth, the effort of speaking burning off his pain medication and helping the agony flood in. "I've not got long, Olivia – I made the doctor give me an adrenalin shot because I told him I had vital information to give you. It was only a half-lie."
"Peter!" Olivia looked mortified that he'd put himself through that.
"Liv, please!" Peter's voice was barely above a whisper. "There's one thing I need you to know, in case….well, in case I don't get through this…."
"Peter No!" Olivia's voice was strident and brittle. "Don't you dare talk like that. Don't you dare!"
"Olivia, let me finish. I've got an even chance, the doctors say. I used to gamble and even I wouldn't play those odds." Olivia's silent tears became open, raw sobs. Peter did his best to ignore the pain, no longer just physical, and finish what he had to say. "Olivia….no matter how much you hate me for what I did to you, it's a fraction of how much I hate myself for not seeing it, for how much I hurt you. I know sorry isn't enough, Olivia. I just don't know what else I can do, except go."
"Peter…..what do you mean, go?" Olivia's voice was low and full of pain. "Peter?"
He winced and struggled to get the final words out.
"Take Walter to talk to Fenton. I don't want him here whilst…..keep him occupied. Get to the bottom of this."
"I doubt Walter would do anything I ask him at the moment." Olivia said between sobs, rubbing her hand across her nose.
Peter smiled serenely, like a monstrous weight had lifted from him and with it some of the pain in his face appeared to evaporate.
"I think you might be surprised." He said, voice so quiet that he was barely audible. He closed his eyes, face serene and as he did so every bell, alarm and klaxon in the room started howling. Olivia jumped up in surprise and terror, only to be bustled out of the way by two ER nurses.
"Blood pressure is 80 over 50 and falling, ECG is erratic." One of the nurses fixed Olivia with a sympathetic look. "We've got to get him into surgery right now or he's going to die. You need to go."
"But he'll be OK, right?" Olivia pleaded.
They ignored her and began to move Peter's bed in the direction of the operating theatre in double-quick time, leaving Olivia alone, and in shock, surrounded by a phalanx of wailing machines there to record the condition of a patient who was already gone.