A/N: Thank you for all the reviews for the previous chapter of this story, though I don't get the time to send out personal replies that often your reviews are very much appreciated. Thanks go out to Jedi Skysinger who is insanely busy at the moment for managing to fit in reading thru and BETAing this chapter into her schedule, and of course Amanda Hawthorn and Daisy Day for keeping me smiling every day.
Just one more note. Due to RL and a pesky five hour time difference between myself and Jedi Skysinger the posting of Puppies, Kittens & Gun Toting Babies, by Jedi's Pal will be delayed until Wednesday.
AIDEN.
Chapter Twenty Five.
Standing on the precipice
()()()()()
"Sam, I'm giving you one warning." Fiona's blue-green eyes narrowed as she glared over to where the older man stood with his hands on his hips on the other side of the large airy living room.
"All I'm saying, Fi, is you heard him. Mike said for us to lay low. You go out looking for him, you could -" He ducked as one of the large plump cushions which decorated Elsa's L-shaped couch flew at his head.
"He's been out there on his own for weeks!" she hissed, slipping her shoes on and getting to her feet. "He needs us, Sam. We should at least make sure he's okay. What's the harm in doing a bit of surveillance of our own?"
"Now, you know the answer to that. If Card sees us -"
"If Card sees us, I'll shoot him and that will be an end to it," Fiona quipped as she stalked determinedly across the marble floor of the penthouse towards the door that the former SEAL was preparing to defend with his life.
It had been a whole seven days since Jason Bly had released them from the Palm Island safe house, sending Madeline back to her own home with a small discrete security detail to watch over her from a distance, while they had been delivered to the Chadwick Hotel and ordered to not to leave Elsa Dearbon's penthouse suite.
In those seven days Fiona had seen Elsa's doctor friend three times, mainly because Dr. Adam Carrick was concerned for the expectant lady's worryingly high blood pressure. He had ordered rest, a healthy diet and strictly nothing that would get her heart racing or raise her stress levels. Unfortunately, all rest and relaxation had done was allow the Irishwoman's concern for her missing boyfriend to grow and her frustration about being cooped up to come to the boil.
"Michael is out thar wit' only thot bastid Bly as back up." She was nearly to the door when Sam stuck out his hand, stopping her in her tracks.
"Take yar hand outta me face or lose it," she snarled. Fiona's Irish brogue was a sure sign of her level of anger.
"Nope." Sam braced himself, settling his feet determinedly into the floor as he prepared himself for what he expected to be a violent onslaught. "Ah-ah missy... You're not thinking clearly. You wanna risk this deal, just to catch a glimpse of Mike? Cuz I tell ya that's all it would be. As soon as Bly's guys spotted you, we'd all be on our way to jail or maybe it would be Card's guys."
"Damn ya, Sam... Move – I – oh!" All of a sudden her vision tunneled and her mouth went dry. She took a step and immediately the floor was coming up fast.
"Fi! Fiona!" Sam saw the color drain from his friend's face and he just managed to get a hand to her arm as she began to crumple to the floor. "Dammit, Fi," he groaned and then quickly lifted her in his arms and carried her to the couch.
After checking her pulse and making sure she was still breathing, he ran to the intercom.
"Getta doctor up here!" he yelled into the device. "And get Elsa. Now!"
By the time Dr. Carrick arrived, Elsa had managed to coax a groggy and frightened Fiona into her bedroom. After he had completed a thorough examination, he gave his opinion.
"Bed rest, Ms. Glenanne," was the strict order. "If you want to keep your baby, you stay lying down and look after your own health. No stress, no caffeine, no alcohol."
To Sam's surprise, she just nodded her agreement and lie down. He knew how determined she was not to lose her baby, but this was the first time it really sank in. He watched silently from beside the door as Elsa took a seat next to bed while Fiona drifted off to sleep.
Then he escorted the doctor to the elevator and, after making sure neither of the ladies would hear what he was doing, he made a call.
"How long is this gonna take Bly?" he had asked as soon as the CSS agent answered his phone.
"You know I can't discuss an active operation with a -."
"I'm not in the mood for joking Bly, Fi -" He swallowed down his worries. "I need to know an end is in sight."
He heard heavy breathing on the other end of the phone and then. "I have no new intelligence. Michael is working -"
Sam was well aware when he was being jerked around and his hand tightened on the phone. "Can you at least let Mike know we need to speak to him?"
"I don't -"
"Buddy, I'm not askin', I'm tellin'. You get word to Mikey that we need to speak to him or I'm gonna go find himself myself." Sam slammed the phone down angrily and then turned his gaze back to the bedroom. It was clear to him that the only thing that would stop Fiona from worrying was Michael at her side.
Jason Bly put the phone down and turned back to the stack of files on his desk. There was no way he was going to tell Michael Westen his friends wanted to see him. From his own experience he had a good idea that once the spy found out he was going to be a father, it would alter everything. In the long run it was better for everyone if Michael was discouraged from contacting his friends until after the mission was complete.
With that in mind, the CSS agent picked up his phone again. He needed to contact the men on surveillance at the hotel to tell them to tighten up security and to make sure neither Axe or Glenanne left the penthouse.
()()()()()()
The face of Aiden Malloy stared back at him, the old man's blue eyes filled with pain and fierce determination. Before he can stop him, the elderly former terrorist turns and he sees the old tin can in the aged man's gnarled hand; Aiden has ahold of one of Fiona's home-made grenades. He calls out, but his voice is lost in the roar of gunfire. He knows what is about to happen and tries to shield Sam from...
The heat of the blast wave nearly knocks him off his feet, shrapnel and exploding cartridges are sent out in all directions when the CIA tactical support vehicle is blown skyward and, as his ears ring, the only sound getting through is the piercing shrieks of the teenager, Sorcha Malloy, screaming for her granddad...
Michael tosses and turns, the thin sheet covering his body falling away to reveal a sweat covered torso and a lower body dressed in pajama pants. His face contorts and a whimpering moan escapes from between clenched teeth and then, with a jolt, he sits upright.
Aiden Malloy's face is gone, replaced by that of his brother, staring up at him with brown eyes full of pain and fear.
"I'm scared," he whispers, and then he is gone too.
Taking deep shuddering breaths, he looks around, getting his bearings, remembering where he is. He is back home, in the loft, only it isn't a home any more because she isn't with him. With a trembling hand, Michael wipes away the moisture from his eyes and, deep inside his head, he hears a familiar coldly disapproving voice...
Is this that what you do, Michael? you destroy good people?
Gulping down deep breaths, he tries to steady his nerves and, without conscious thought, he reaches out for the glass filled with an amber liquid sitting on the bedside table. Taking a long drink from the glass, the cheap alcohol burns the back of his throat as he greedily swallows it down. When he sets the glass back onto the table, it is only half full. It's the same every night and it has been for the last month. It doesn't matter what he does, he can't stop the nightmares which fill his head every time he sleeps.
Your life effects us all. It effects Fiona. It effects Sam. It effects me.
Unwilling to lay back down and face his demons again, he kicks the covers off his feet and heads for the bathroom. Stripping off his pajama pants, Michael climbs under the shower and turns it on full blast, subjecting himself to the ice cold water, which cascades down before the hot water finally kicks in.
He stays there until the water runs cold again before reluctantly stepping out and forcing himself to endure another day. Back standing beside his bed, he glances at the clock and sees it's only 5 AM. There was no way on earth he's going to go back to sleep, not now. Yet he really has nothing else to do.
So, with a heavy heart he does what he has been doing ever since Tom Card had ordered him to stay in the loft and rest up while waiting for further instructions: he exercises. Getting dressed in shorts and an old t shirt, he heads outside and goes for a run.
In the pre-dawn light, the air feels fresh and cool against his skin and, as his feet pound along the pavement, he tries to concentrate on his self imposed mission.
He will keep his friends out of prison and it doesn't matter to him what it takes to achieve his aim. He has no expectations of saving himself, just them. He owes them all so much, it is the very least he can do... There have been too many deaths; Nate lying on the ground, his eyes wide his torso covered in blood. He had seen wounds like that before and he knew there was no hope. "You'll be fine." He had lied.
He began to run faster, and faster.
"I was thinking that this in a small way might just begin to start making up for what happened to Nate," were some of the last words he had spoken to his mother. But, for some reason, his halting speech had just enraged her all the more. She had shied away from his touch and turned her back on him as if he was no longer there.
I don't want YOUR APOLOGY! Every mistake Nate ever made was because he wanted to be like you. He had no business being out there! NONE! The accusing hate-filled voice of the one person who should love him unconditionally spurred him on until he was sprinting at full speed in an effort to outrun the demon on his shoulder.
You're working with the man who killed your brother.
Because he had to, because it was the only way to keep his friends out of prison. This was his penance, his deep cover mission, he was going to expose Tom Card as a traitor, ensuring that whatever evidence the operations chief held against his friends would be discredited and then, once he was sure they wouldn't face prosecution, he was going to make sure the man who he had once trusted more than any other paid in full for his crimes.
He had played the scenario out in his mind so many times, how the gun would feel in his hand, the feel of the trigger as his finger flexed, the sound the casing would make as it was expelled and how the body of his one-time time friend and mentor would fall and how afterwards he would disappear, if he didn't get cut down by some branch of law enforcement or by an agent of the myriad of intelligence agencies who would be hunting him down.
But for now his aim was to become Card's friend, convince the operations chief that he could be trusted, that he was so broken and desperate that he was willing to work with the man who had orchestrated his brother's death.
"How do you see this ending, Michael, really?" Tom Card's voice sounded in his head, confident that the word of a high ranking Operations Chief would far outweigh that of a disgraced rogue agent. "Work with me and I'll keep your friends out of jail. What do you say?"
But winning the trust of a man like Tom Card was not going to be easy, the man was a decorated officer in the CIA, he had been instrumental in the training of some of the best agents to come out of Langley. He couldn't be fooled with a smile and a smooth lie. The only way to gain his trust was for Michael to become the monster they already thought he was.
He could only keep up running at full speed for so long, gasping for breath he slowed to a jog, but continued to push onwards. It was the only way he could get any rest. If he exhausted his body and numbed his mind, the nightmares didn't come quite so often and, if he was fortunate, the dark haired covert operative would get a few hours of decent sleep.
He was playing his role as hard as he could. Three weeks ago, Bly had released his friends from protective custody and, though the urge to go to see them was strong, Mr Westen had forced himself to stay away. As far as everybody was concerned, he had to appear to be a man without friends. If he showed any sign of attachment to the people he cared about, it would all be over, not only for him but for them too.
Of course that didn't mean he hadn't asked Bly to keep him informed on what was happening. He knew Sam and Fiona were staying at the Chadwick hotel and his mom had gone back home. But even when talking with the CSS agent, he did his best to keep his interest to a minimum.
By the time Michael got back to the loft, the sun had risen above the horizon and the sky had lost the dull grey of the dawn and was a clear blue with barely the wisp of a cloud.
Standing at the bottom of the rickety metal steps, he stretched out his hamstrings before trudging slowly up the stairs. When he reached the door to the loft he paused, noticing it was unlocked and open a crack. Reaching into the back of the waistband of his shorts, the ex-spy drew his gun and went through the door, ready to shoot whoever was inside.
"Nice place you have here, Westen." Olivia Riley was standing in the middle of his home, inches away from his unmade bed.
"What are you doing here?" he asked coldly.
While making his gun safe before returning it to his waistband, he walked past her on his way to the kitchen area to get a bottle of water from the fridge.
Card's right hand woman looked the same as the last time he had seen her. Smartly turned out in a black blazer over the top of a crisp white shirt and plain black slacks, her hair was slicked back into a high pony tail which hung down between her shoulder blades and in her left hand she held a manila folder.
Taking off her sunglasses and, with a look of distaste plain on her face, she followed him over to the bench which served as a kitchen counter top. Wrinkling her nose at the smell of stale spirits, Riley used two fingers to move an empty whisky bottle out of her way and then, with a slap of her hand, she placed the file down before him.
"Chief Card wants you to take a look at this," she announced stiffly, her eyes raking over him as she took in his appearance.
Leaning back against the sink, he took a long drink from the bottle of water as he returned her gaze. Mr Westen could see her disapproval and he didn't let it bother him. She was a living legend in counter intelligence circles, a hero. Yet here she was acting as a cut out, a willing accomplice to a murderous traitor. He had plans for ending her career too, though not quite as permanently as the end he had in store for her boss.
Once he had drunk his fill, Michael turned his attention to the file, flicking open the cover he began to skim over the first page as Riley gave him the highlights.
"Your target is Jabbar Hamady," the dark skinned woman announced, after a pause to light a cigarette.
"A Syrian intelligence officer?" Michael queried.
"An ex-Syrian intelligence officer...Mr Hamady was based in their embassy in Yemen, but he fled his post a year ago. About the same time the Yemeni government kicked the Syrian ambassador out of the country, Hamady's wife ran out on him. Since then, he has been supplementing his income by trading in automatic weapons while he spends his free time and large sums of money hunting down the now ex-Mrs Hamady." Riley paused to suck down a lungful of nicotine and then continued. "Certain people, associates of ours, are interested in talking with Mr. Hamady about the timing of what they are calling his defection to the west. Fortunately for us, nobody has been able to find him, until now... Hamady is in Miami hunting down this man."
She leaned forward and turned the page for him and then stabbed a finger down on the chubby visage of the man in the photograph attached to the page, causing Michael to waft a hand in front of his face as smoke drifted into his eyes and nose.
"Calvin Schmidt is a smuggler, supposedly one of the best operating along the eastern seaboard. He is the one who got the ex-Mrs Hamady out of Yemen to an undisclosed location. At the moment, Schmidt is in hiding too because our Syrian friend is tearing his businesses to pieces trying to hunt him down... We'd like you to find Schmidt so we can use him to flush Hamady out into the open."
"And do we know where to find this smuggler?" he asked looking up to smile at her.
"Not exactly, but we do have the location of one of his known associates. A man called Jack Dixon." She smiled, her eyes hard. "You used this Dixon once before to help you track down the murderer of your old agency contact... So we are confident you'll be able to talk him into giving up his friend..."
When he frowned, she misread his expression. He wasn't angry about using Dixon; he was remembering how his CIA contact, Max, had been murdered.
"Just make it happen, Westen... Give me a call when you have Hamady's location and we'll take him down. We just need a conversation with him before turning him over to either his government or our own." She walked to the door before turning and looking him over once again. "And get cleaned up." Then she was gone.
Once on his own, Michael stared at each page, reading through the details they had managed to find on both Hamady and Schmidt. He narrowed his eyes, Hamady had been a senior intelligence officer working in Yemen, one of the countries mentioned by Card. He needed to know what answers Card wanted off the Syrian.
Crossing the loft to where he had made a hidden compartment under the work bench which Fiona had set up for all their little projects, Michael retrieved the burner phone Bly had given him to keep in contact. In the last month, there hadn't been much call for its use, as Card had pretty much left him on the sidelines. Now though, he photographed the details on Hamady and sent them off with a few words about the man being a person of interest to Card.
With that done and the phone safely back in its hiding place, Michael took a yogurt cup from the fridge and a spoon from the sink and settled down in his favorite green leather chair to read all about Calvin Schmidt. As he sat and read, a seed of an idea began to take root and, as it began to grow, a smile broke out on his face, chasing away the tension that he'd been wearing like a cloak for so long.
Tom Card had survived when the CIA cleaned house after the Anson Fullerton affair because he had been acting in a small way. But now that, as he had put it, he was the only one left, the man was getting more brazen and looking to expand.
Sending a F-18 on a bombing run over a foreign country, using a black ops team to run them to ground in Panama and making deals with cartels were not the actions of somebody trying to stay under the radar. He wondered briefly if he had Bly look into the whereabouts of Greyson Miller, the arms dealer Tom had demanded Fiona give up to gain her freedom, it would turn out that he had been freed by the operations chief.
Calvin Schmidt allegedly had a lot of contacts, all of them very illegal. Gun runners, drug smugglers, arms dealers, human traffickers, forgers, not to mention most of his customers were the royalty of the criminal underworld, all who were always after exotic weaponry or tech. Michael leaned back in his chair. If he played this right, if he could convince Card that he could use an asset like Schmidt, he just might be able to attach his former mentor's name to some very illegal activities.
Humming a tune, the dark haired spy closed the file and went to his closet pulling out his grey suit and a white shirt with thin pale blue stripes. Leaving the clothes hanging off his closet door, he went to take another shower, this time though he would shave too. It was time to put his best foot forward.
()()
Showered, shaven, dressed in his grey suit and with his aviator sunglasses in place, Michael Westen drove across Miami to North Miami Beach. Leaving his sleek and shiny black Charger parked on the street, he walked the short distance to Beyl Technologies employee parking lot and took up a position under the shelter of one of the many palm trees which broke up the large expanse of concrete.
He didn't have long to wait for his target, as somebody on Olivia Riley's team had obviously done their research and just like it was written in the report on Dixon's daily activities, the hacker arrived at work at precisely a quarter to nine. Keeping his eye on the computer genius's bright red sports car, Michael moved swiftly to intercept the vehicle.
By the time Jackson Dixon was slamming the door shut on his pride and joy, Michael had glided silently up behind him.
"Dixon. My name is Michael Westen. I'm a friend of -" he announced loudly.
"AH! Oh Jeez, man!" Dixon jumped and, as he realized who he was facing, he paled. "I have nothing to say to you."
Dropping his head he tried to push past the sharply dressed spy only to find his way blocked when Michael refused to budge.
"Oh, don't be like that, Dixon." The dark haired man widened his smile and moved into the other's personal space, forcing Dixon to take a step back. "I only want a tiny piece of information, that's all. All I want is the location of an old associate of yours – Calvin Schmidt?"
"Schmidt? No – no! It's impossible." He shook his head. "Look, I'd like to help you, but -"
"Beyl Technologies, Dixon... I'm surprised they took you on. I mean a man with your record, how long did you spend in prison for hacking the computers of companies very much like this one? Not to mention your military record, Sam said a dishonorable discharge. How did you manage to hide that? Maybe I should go tell them the man they employed to monitor their hard drives is a HACKER."
Dixon's eyes went wide and he looked about worriedly. "Hey! Hey! There's no need for unpleasantness." He knew exactly who Michael Westen was and knew he had no choice but to give up his friend. "I'll give you an address... But you should know, he's probably going to shoot you on sight. He has trouble of his own right now."
"I'll take my chances."
A minute later, Michael walked away with a piece of paper in his hand and a smile on his face. Glancing at his watch, he saw it was only just after nine AM. With a bit of luck, he was going to have the first part of his plan wrapped up by lunchtime.
()()
Standing at the edge of the road, looking down on Calvin Schmidt's secret lair through a set of binoculars Michael had to admit the little weasel he was chasing down had a good set up. He could see top of the line surveillance cameras monitoring the perimeter of the single story house and heavy looking steel shutters covering all the windows. All in all, if he had been looking for a hideaway, he might have considered this place a good choice.
Tossing the binoculars onto the Charger's passenger seat, Michael turned back to regard the property a second time. Unable to sneak up and take 'Miami's No.1 smuggler' by surprise was a problem, but not an unsolvable one. Going to the trunk of his vehicle, he rummaged through his bag of supplies and then set off walking confidently along the driveway. Half way along the winding path, he stopped to smile and wave at one of the cameras, knowing that his approach was being monitored closely from inside.
Reaching the door, he knocked loudly and then called out.
"Calvin Schmidt, my name is Michael Westen, I'm here to help you with your problem..." He waited and, when he got no reply, he added, "I really don't want to hurt you Calvin, but if you don't open the door and let me in, I'm gonna make a phone call to Jabbar Hamady and tell him where to find you."
Michael waited and, after a minute had past, he began to lose his patience. He had one last card to play. He'd looked at the locks on the door and knew he couldn't easily pick them, at least not without risking getting shot through the door, but he had other ways to make an entrance.
"Fine, you want to play it that way Calvin." He moved back and then held up a hand in front of one of the cameras, showing a piece of C4 wired to a detonator. "I suggest -"
The door swung open.
Michael didn't move straight to the open door. Instead he stepped to the side as he suspected that the smuggler was waiting on the other side with a shotgun.
"I'm here to make a deal, Calvin... I'd really like to help you with your problem."
"Hamady has a whole army at his back. What could you do? Just get outta here and tell that slack jawed, turncoat douche bag Dixon that he's off my Christmas card list."
"I take it he called you? Told you I was coming?"
"No, the useless piece of slime is the only one who knows about this place... Now, go away. I don't need your help. I'm leaving the country tonight."
Michael sighed. He was trying his best to remain calm and, if it wasn't for the fact he needed the smuggler for his own purposes, he would have already started calling every Syrian in the phone book knowing that the word would eventually get back to Hamady.
"Believe me Calvin, you're not going anywhere. Think about it. I found you in less than two hours. Do you think you can last until tonight all by yourself?"
After another long silence, the small pudgy figure of the smuggler came hesitantly into view. "Fine, come on in... But keep your hands where I can see them."
The inside of the property was a mess; every available surface covered with a dirty plate, bowl or glass. "You, on your own, are going to kill Jabbar Hamady.. I don't think so." The short man snorted in disbelief and crossed his arms over his chest, glaring at his unwelcome guest.
"If that's what you think, what do you have to lose by hearing me out? The worse that happens is you tell me where to find Hamady and I get killed."
"Okay then, Mr. Super Spy, what's the deal?"
Michael smiled. "Good, you know who I am. That saves me a lotta time. As for saving your life, if I succeed, I want to know all about your business, your contacts, what you have in your warehouses, everything."
Schmidt coughed and gagged. "You're joking ,right? What do you take me for?" Then all of a sudden he was backing up as Michael covered the floor in three quick strides, all signs of good humor and patience gone. His blue eyes were narrowed, hard and icy.
The curved blade of the knife Larry had given him as a birthday present twenty years ago was pressing into the smuggler's soft broad throat, the hand holding it shaking slightly as it struggled not to add the tiny extra bit of pressure necessary to end the life of the obnoxious man at its mercy.
"Do I look like I'm joking?" he hissed. Nobody would ever know how much effort it took for Michael to remove the blade from Schmidt's throat. But once he had, he stepped back and took a couple of deep breaths, as he pushed back the red hot anger burning in his blood.
Gaining back control, Michael smiled again and watched as the shorter man shrank back. "Good, I'm glad we understand each other. Now tell me what you know about Jabbar Hamady and then you can tell me the rest of what I want to know."
()()()()()()
"I don't see why I have to be here? I mean, I thought the whole idea was that you would deal with all the bad guys while I stayed back, a long way back."
"It won't work unless you're here. Now shut up and look scared."
"Look scared? I am scared, scared I've entrusted my safety to a -"
Then there was the sound of a gun being cocked.
"How about now? You feel scared now, Calvin?"
"Okay, okay... Oh jeez, they're here, you promised me. Remember you promised -"
"Shut up... Now, stand up and let them get a good look at your face... And then be ready to duck."
What followed was the sound of gunfire and then several loud explosions and interspersed all the way through were the loud whiny complaints of Miami's No.1 smuggler, Calvin Schmidt, as his warehouse in Tampa was decimated by automatic weapons fire and a few carefully arranged explosive charges.
Jason Bly ended that particular part of the recording and moved onto the next point of interest. He had no wish to subject himself to Michael interrogating one of the few survivors of the ambush to get the location of Hamady or to listen to Schmidt's endless hysterical musings about how close he came to losing his life.
The next part took place in the street on the corner of Twelfth and Bayshore, late at night. More gunfire, louder this time and more intense, followed by near silence. Then:
"Jabbar Hamady. Do you hear that sound?" Far off and very faintly, it was possible to make out the sound of police sirens. "That is local law enforcement on their way here. When they arrive they are going to arrest you and, within an hour, you'll be in the hands of the FBI and do you know what will happen next?" The unmistakable voice of Olivia Riley came through clearly in the recording. Unfortunately, Hamady's reply wasn't as clear, but Riley obviously heard what he had to say, as she spoke again.
"I only require an hour of your time, one hour, Mr. Hamady, and if you answer all my questions, I promise you I will do all in my power to see you go free."
He had no idea how Westen had managed it, but while the fire fight was taking place, the spy had tagged Riley with a micro RFD tracker, which allowed the CSS agents monitoring the situation to get out all their best and brightest surveillance toys to track Riley and Hamady to her chosen interrogation spot and use their hi tech grossly expensive listening devices to hear all she and the Syrian talked about.
What Riley discussed with the Syrian spy could be explained away as an overzealous intelligence officer overstepping her bounds, but doing it for the good of her country, worthy of a censure, at most. But when the questioning finished and she had all her answers, the next words out of her mouth sealed her fate when she offered for the sum of two hundred thousand dollars to arrange for the prisoner to leave the US on a fast boat to Cuba.
From that moment on, it was only a matter of time until Olivia Riley was arrested and brought before a Congressional hearing to explain her actions. All the paperwork was being prepared to freeze her accounts and put her name at the head of the travel watch lists.
With a heavy sigh, Jason Bly closed down the recording and leaned back in his chair. Congressman Cowley was ready to go, filled with righteous indignation and already making preparations to call an extraordinary meeting of the IOC to present the findings of his own investigation.
The congressman wasn't Jason's problem; what had the CSS agent concerned was the mental health of his asset. Michael Westen was getting results, there was no doubting that. But Bly believed the spy was also very close to losing control. When he had listened to the complete recording for the first time, he had been disturbed by the coldly detached tone to Michael's voice as he had questioned Hamady's injured lackey and the casual way he was throwing out threats of violence or death.
Though he wouldn't hesitate to throw Westen into a deep dark pit if he crossed over the line, it didn't mean he wanted to do it.
Jason Bly still had vivid memories of how close he had come to being killed in that bank robbery gone bad several years ago. The arm he'd been shot in still gave him trouble from time to time. Though they had been ready to go nuclear as Westen has put it at the time and attempt to destroy each other, the disgraced spy had still saved his life, all the hostages and gotten the criminals arrested. Those were not the actions of a burned spy with a homicidal streak as the man had been portrayed.
Bly had also spent the last six weeks reading through every file Congressman Cowley had sent over. He now had a certain degree of sympathy for what the spy had been put through over the years and of course the latest piece of news that the man was about to become a father weighed heavily on the CSS agent's conscience.
Slowly, he reached forward and picked up his phone. A month ago when he had first become Westen's handler, he had made a call to Dan Siebls for advice on how to manage the spy.
"I was Michael Westen's friend and his handler for fifteen years and, let me tell you, once you point Michael at a target and let him loose, forget about managing him... Your job as his agency contact is to run damage control. You clean up all the messes he leaves in his wake... Of course you also get all the praise and recognition for a job well done... You want my advice, develop a thick skin and keep reminding all the people he pisses off, he gets results and, at the end of the day, that's what counts."
But that wasn't enough, not any more. What he needed was somebody who could second guess his agent, somebody who could help him wrangle Westen back into the pen. Who would know not only when, but what support the agent in the field required.
"Carney," he spoke to the agent manning the communication desk. "Get me the Chadwick Hotel; I want to speak to Sam Axe."
()()()()()()