Chapter 3

Thanks so much for the comments/reviews! I really enjoy reading them. This chapter was difficult-and long-but after multiple revisions, I decided that I just had to put it out there. As always, comments/reviews are appreciated.

"What do you mean 'resigned?"

Hetty walked back behind her desk and motioned Sam to take one of the seats in front of it. Still stunned at what he had just heard, Sam remained standing, but Hetty made it plain that she wouldn't continue this conversation until he took a seat opposite her. He sat. Hetty studied her hands before she slowly raised her eyes to meet those of the former SEAL sitting before her waiting for answers.

"I believe, Mr. Hanna," she said and her voice betrayed a hint of remorse, "that Mr. Callen has moved on."

"What do you mean, 'moved on'? Moved on where? To what?"

"I'm not sure, Mr. Hanna."

"I don't believe it. NCIS is his life, his family. What else does he have?"

She sighed, leaned back in her chair, and interlaced her fingers then slowly leaned forward and looked at Sam without accusation, "You may have answered your own question, Mr. Hanna."

Sam fell silent. His face revealed his anger and confusion. "I didn't mean that, Hetty."

"I know, Mr. Hanna." She smiled and Sam noticed how tired she looked. If it hadn't been Hetty, he would have almost described her as frail. "I'm afraid I've failed Mr. Callen more often than anyone, and my failures are a primary cause behind his resignation."

"Failed him? Hetty, you've never failed Callen."

"Oh, yes, Mr. Hanna, I have," and she gazed behind him into the past. She saw Clara on the beach, Amy drowned, Callen taken from another foster home, and she said matter-of-factly, "I sent Ms. Blye to Afghanistan to prevent Jack from being killed, but I couldn't prevent Callen's father from being sent back to Russia."

"None of us could Hetty, but we tried."

She continued, "And then, of course, there was Anna."

"Anna? What could you have done for Anna?"

"Oh, Mr. Hanna," she said as she carefully moved her tea cup aside and collected her thoughts. "I have done many things in my career more difficult than derailing a prosecution." She took a deep breath, "I have been thinking about Mr. Callen since he returned from Cuba." She studied Sam. "You didn't notice a change in him?"

Sam was silent for a moment. "I noticed some little things."

"But with Mr. Callen, the 'little things' are indications of much bigger things, aren't they?"

Sam shook his head, "It's Callen, Hetty. He barely talks about anything, and less than never about personal things."

"True, Sam, but that doesn't mean that he doesn't need to. And it doesn't mean that we shouldn't listen." She paused and considered her tea cup. "Did Mr. Callen tell you that his father had another son?" She looked at Sam. His expression told her that Callen hadn't. She continued, "Well, he did. When Mr. Callen was in Cuba, he found out that his father had raised an orphaned boy as his own son." She paused again, "The boy was a Comescu."

Sam couldn't believe it. Why would any father send his own son into exile and then give a home to a boy whose family had murdered his son's mother? Sam thought back to a conversation he'd had with Callen years ago. Sam had complained about his father, about how he was so strict he had made Sam run in the snow. Callen's response wasn't what he'd expected; he seemed to admire Sam's father, "He was there. … No one ever pushed me. People push you when they care." It made Sam's complaint seem trivial. Sam's father and mother had always been there for him, but Callen's had never been. Nikita had given his life to his work, and it had destroyed his happiness and his family, and his children had suffered the most. Sam's heart broke for his partner.

"I should have made him meet with Nate the day he returned from Cuba," Hetty said, "but he always had a good reason not to, so I let it go." She sat back in her chair, and Sam shifted in his. Hetty stared into space and then back at Sam. "Mr. Callen lost his father and Anna twice. The first time, when his father was sent back to Russia and when Anna was sentenced. And the second time, he lost his father forever and perhaps Anna, as well." She collected herself and held her emotions in check. "I think, Mr. Hanna, that Mr. Callen must have felt very much alone for many years, even when he was working here among us." When she finished, she stood up and took her tea cup with her.

Sam stayed in his seat a moment and then abruptly stood up and walked out without a glance at or a word to Kensi and Deeks. He sat in the Challenger. When Michelle died, Callen made it a point to stop by often to see Sam: to know if needed anything, wanted to talk about anything, or just felt like getting a beer. Sam had often turned him away because he needed space and time to grieve, but he appreciated Callen coming around. And Callen always came back. And yet, with all that had happened in his partner's life in recent years, Sam and the team had gone on as though Callen's life was, for him, still somehow "normal." But it hadn't been for a long time.

Sam walked back into OSP and straight to Hetty. "I need to find him, Hetty."

She hung up the phone and said quietly, "I'm afraid we have a case, Mr. Hanna, and you're the senior agent now."

XXXXXXXXXX

Callen reached the Iberostar Parque Central Hotel in Old Havana around 1:00 am. After dropping his overnight bag on the bed, he stepped to the window and looked out over the city. The Capitolio and Gran Teatro nearby were illuminated and on the streets beyond, the lights of the restaurants and cafes indicated that many of Havana's residents were still out enjoying their city in the early morning hour. He had a lot to do tomorrow, so he needed to get some sleep. He stepped back from the window—leaving it and the drapes open—and removed his clothes, throwing them on the chair. Wearing only his boxers, Callen put his overnight bag on the floor and crawled into bed. In a few moments, he was asleep, and for the first time in weeks, Callen slept peacefully.

The next morning, Callen woke before 7:00 am and went downstairs for a quick breakfast of café con leche, Cuban toast, and fruit. He carried his passport, wallet, and the smartphone he'd purchased before leaving Miami. Once he'd eaten breakfast, he stepped out into Old Havana and placed a call to a person he hadn't ever expected to see or talk to again.

"Hello?" The voice on the other end sounded annoyed at being disturbed so early.

"Hello, Lionel. Remember me?"

The voice became friendly. "Agent Callen, good morning," Lionel said now wide awake.

"It's just Callen now."

"You've left the agency? Jojo didn't mention that the last time I talked to her."

"Jo doesn't know. It's a recent decision on my part." (Callen couldn't bring himself to call Joelle "Jojo.")

"I see," Lionel said even though he really didn't. "Are you in Cuba, Mr. Callen?"

"I am," Callen admitted, "and I'd like your help in finding someone."

"Ah," Lionel said and Callen knew that he was creating a cheap romance in his mind by the way he spoke that single syllable. "You are here to find la verdadera belleza you left behind." Lionel's interest was piqued and his imagination at work.

Callen ignored the urge to hang up. If Lionel could help him find Anna, that was all that mattered. "Can you help me?"

"I am a romantic at heart, Mr. Callen, so of course I can—and will—help you."

"I appreciate it."

"Mr. Callen, we men will do anything for el amor de una mujer , won't we?" Callen said nothing and Lionel continued, "Let me make a few inquiries and get back to you, say, in a few hours?"

"That'll be fine," Callen said as he crossed Calle Compostela and headed for the waterfront grateful that the conversation had finally come to an end.

XXXXXXXXXX

As Anna approached the door with her massage table and satchel of oils and lotions, the hotel's night porter opened it for her. "Buenas noches, belleza tranquila," he said as Anna entered. She smiled at him. "Buenas noches," she replied and then continued on to her final appointments that evening. Her first client was a large, rotund, flirtatious man who reminded her very much of Arkady. She had spoken to Arkady only twice since . . . the others had left. He had not mentioned Callen, and she had not asked. If only she could forget, but some things, some people, were not so easily forgotten.

XXXXXXXXXX

It was almost ten o'clock that evening when Lionel called, and Callen had gone back to his room.

"A few hours?" Callen asked, the sarcasm easily recognized even by someone whose first language wasn't English.

"I am a busy man, Mr. Callen, and in Cuba, a few hours has a very different meaning than it has in the United States." Lionel stated simply. He was enjoying the evening on the patio of a small café in Old Havana.

"So it seems."

As Lionel continued, he noticed a man walk past and take a seat at the table next to him. The man was slim, of average height, casually dressed, in his 40s, with dark hair and piercing, lifeless eyes. When he spoke to the waitress, Lionel recognized his unmistakable Russian accent, and Lionel's manner instantly became more guarded.

"But it was worth the wait. She is on the island, but she is not in Havana."

"She isn't?"

Lionel stood up and carrying his glass, nodded at his newest neighbor as he made his way between the tables to the counter and continued his conversation. "No. According to one of my contacts, she is in Playa Santa Lucia working as a masseuse. She provides massages to clients at some of the higher end hotels in tourist locations throughout the island on occasion." Lionel continued, "There are several hotels in Playa Santa Lucia, but I suggest you start with the expensive ones. The average tourist can't afford a private masseuse. That's why we have una amante femenina." Lionel gave a quick wink to the bartender standing nearby and indicated that he wanted his glass refilled. "But you should hurry, Mr. Callen, because I'm told she doesn't stay very long in one place."

"Thanks, Lionel."

"Like I said, Mr. Callen, I'm a romantic at heart. If I can help you with anything else while you're visiting our beautiful island, I am at your service."

"You've been more than helpful," Callen said as he stood by the open window and gazed out at the stars far above the city lights. "By the way, how's your family?"

The question surprised Lionel because Callen didn't seem the type to engage in small talk. "They're visiting Florida. Jojo thought it best that they leave Cuba for awhile after what happened death and I agreed. I'm not worried about myself. I can take care of myself, but I wouldn't want anything to happen to my family."

"I'm glad they're safe, but you need to be careful, Lionel. Volkoff was a very powerful man with loyal friends. Even though the FSB has disowned him, some of his friends may be very angry about his death."

Lionel glanced back at the patio and saw that the table where the Russian had been sitting was now occupied by a young couple. His eyes casually scanned the café as he spoke, "Oh, I am always careful, Mr. Callen." He took another sip of his drink. "How is your father?"

Callen stepped away from the window and sat on the edge of the bed. "He died shortly after he got home."

"I am sorry."

"Thank you."

"Was he able to say goodbye to his family before he died?"

"Yes, he was. That meant something to him, I think."

"Of course. Being able to say goodbye to family means everything." There was an awkward silence, and Callen wondered how long it would be before he was replaced and his team forgot him. They would, not right away, of course, but eventually life would overwhelm their old memories with new ones. Hetty and Sam wouldn't forget, but even they had lives outside NCIS. Callen wanted, needed, a life built around more than his work, and he hoped, he prayed that Anna would help build that life with him. If she wouldn't, Callen wasn't sure what he would do. He only knew that he needed something more than another case. He realized he wasn't Joelle or his father, but he wondered if it might be too late . . . . Lionel's voice cut through his thoughts, "Good luck, Mr. Callen. I am sure you will find her."

"Thanks for your help," Callen said and then he undressed and crawled into bed. He had a long day ahead.

XXXXXXXXXX

Lionel lingered in the café for almost an hour, nursing his drink, and then took a final sip. He gave the bartender a generous tip and explained it should be shared with the waitress who had served him at his table. The bartender agreed and Lionel gave him a pat on the shoulder as he left.

On his walk home, Lionel received a phone call. He listened, thanked the caller, and then Lionel made a call.

"Hello?"

"Yes, it's me, Mr. Callen. I needed to correct something I told you earlier." Callen waited and Lionel continued, "I told you she was in Playa Santa Lucia, but she is not. She is in the small town of Santa Lucia near Cayo Jutias."

"And these are some distance apart?"

"Oh, yes. Playa Santa Lucia is almost an 8-hour drive east of Havana. The town of Santa Lucia where she is now is a 3-hour drive west of Havana."

"Thank you, Lionel," Callen said and then Lionel continued.

"You may want to hurry. I could be wrong, but I think someone else may be looking for her."

"Why do you say that?"

"Tonight in the café a Russian man came in and sat near me. I put some distance between us during our conversation because he made me uneasy. There was something about him … I can't say exactly, but I would bet a lot of money that he is not a tourist. I make it my business to know all the Russians who have business in Havana, and I have never seen him before."

Callen thanked him and told him again to be careful, and then put the phone down and got out of bed. He didn't have any reason to wait.

As he continued home through the streets of Old Havana, Lionel realized that the stories about Volkoff not being much of a spy must have been true because the man now following him was anything but stealthy. It was the Russian man from the café. Lionel sighed. Good spycraft was becoming rarer and rarer these days. Maybe, Lionel thought, it was because there was too much reliance on technology. He was glad he didn't rely too much on technology. When he reached his small apartment, he walked upstairs, but the Russian passed by without a glance in his direction. Still, Lionel was sure it was only a matter of time before he would see him again, but he would be ready. Lionel entered his bedroom and took off his jacket, but he felt slightly unsteady—a sensation he'd never experienced after only two drinks. The unsteadiness increased and he felt a slight cramping in his stomach. He sat down on his bed and suddenly realized that perhaps the Russian's spycraft wasn't as bad as he had thought. He struggled to get his phone out of his jacket pocket. As the pain increased, he reached out and toppled the large ornate lamp on the nightstand before he collapsed on his bed. Lionel's last thought as he stared at the ceiling and hoped that help would arrive in time was that if he survived, he would make sure that that bartender was fired.