Mistral-PG13, Alias-Vaughn
Peregrine (E. Klisiewicz)

Rated PG13 for language and sexual innuendo.

mistral: a cold, dry, northerly wind common in southern France and neighboring regions.

Summary: Vaughn's thoughts on Alice, office Christmas parties, and the meaning of life and death.

Epilogue I

"It was never a dangle operation."

Silence on the other end of the phone while Weiss plays with his yo-yo. "Is that what they told you?"

The Demerol is wearing off and I'm in a pissy mood. "They told me to meet with him, see what he has to say, and get the hell out of there."

"Why would Kendall lie?" he asks through a mouthful of Reuben on rye.

There are so many ways I could answer, but this is Eric, best buddy and confidante. "Damned if I know. Maybe it was an honest mistake."

He coughs and I hear a laugh in the mix. "C'mon, Mike…we both know why they sent you."

I sigh, rubbing my throbbing left eye. "Yeah. And here I am…alive."

He chuckles mirthlessly, then says, "Markarov was the real deal, wasn't he?"

My grandmother seemed to think so. "I think he was…sincere." And it got him killed (just like my Dad).

"Did they debrief you?" Weiss asks quietly.

"In excruciating detail." Five hours of intense scrutiny while I sweated under their halogen lamps (Randall's stolen cigars dropped below their radar).

"Christ," he offers in sympathy. "Want me to meet you at LAX?"

"That would be great. See you tomorrow."

*****

My report is a blank page with a blinking cursor, mocking me with its pixelated energy. I want to hurl the screen through the window, but I might disturb the other passengers, so I sit there and stare at nothing.

You know what a dangle is, right? It's like giving candy to a little kid. Offer up something irresistible and they'll bite, only we're talking about the very large teeth of the CIA. So someone passes the message that they want to trade information and screw the motherland. Only the joke's on us, because they're really passing bogus intel. After being burned a few too many times, the CIA got wise to the rules and started shooting the shit back at them.

Of course, the Cold War is over and they've mostly stopped pinging us. There are occasional floaters, but we ignore most of them. But you can't ignore someone like Markarov. When a big fish approaches one of our assets, we sit up and listen.

He was willing to spy on his own people. I'm sure of that now. And I'm also sure that someone caught wind of it and sent Ana to clean up.

That night comes back to me, festering in my head like raw sewage, and I can't make it add up.

The shot that killed Ana was fired from my Sig Sauer. Ballistics proves that, and my prints are all over it. Open and shut case. Write it down, file the report, and it's over. Get a slap on the wrist and a black mark in my file and life goes on.

Easy come, easy go. But not for someone like me, who has an actual conscience and the desire to do the right thing. So I can't write this one off. If I have to take the fall, then so be it.

I still don't know what happened that night, but I want the truth, even if it kills me.

*****

How do I start my report when I don't know the ending? Did it begin with Sharon's phone call, or were the seeds planted on that long ago day when she resurrected me?

If I remember nothing else, I remember my rage. I was a fuse, waiting to be lit. And that is completely in line with the way I usually act. Emotional, hot under the collar, totally reactive. You know what they call me at the office? Volcano. Lame (I know), but completely accurate.

Jumping the Russian the way I did…totally me. No argument there.

But after that…man, I'd have to say I was tripping. 'Cuz Ana Espinosa is lethal…I know this in my bones. And she scares the best of us, but I'd never let her see my fear. And to hesitate like I did when I had a clear shot…totally not me.

So if it wasn't me, then who was it?

*****

More coming later this week