Chronic Vertigo Chapter Nine: Preceeding Chaos
"I never think of the future - it comes soon enough."
Albert Einstein (1879-1955)
Joseph Bianchi was good at what he did.
Not only did standard security systems and encryption codes pose no problem for him, a self-taught computer expert, but when it came to completing missions with discretion to the point of keeping true alliances to himself, the lying he was forced to do was like second nature. He was always amazed with those in the black market, in the underground of society – more times than not he was under the employ of two separate forces who, in addition to paying him extremely well, didn't want the other to know of his existance.
The holding company's storage unit sat adjacent to the waterfront near the edge of the city, a location he felt ill-chosen for the equipment housed within. Waves of a salty sea crashed against the aging dock full of workers, saturating the air with the single most corosive element to electronic equipment. Bianchi sneered at a trickle of water snaking its way down the poorly paved road.
He had no team –- his kindergarten teacher told him he'd never be a 'team player,' displaying keen predictave abilities his life had prooven correct. Alone, there was no one to split the money with, no one to betrayal. His trust lay only within himself, his solitary style unpredictable yet safe.
His rented Jeep fit in nicely between the dusty vehicles most likely belonging to locals aiming to make a few extra dollars by driving vacationing millionaires around. The exotic local drew throngs of those seaking adventure from the back seat of a air conditioned car, their visits lasting a few minutes and their attention less so.
Yesterday, he'd bought an old vase. 'Authentic!' the salesman had laughed, teeth missing and accent thick. The shop itself was small, run by a man who's skin resembled leather in all senses of the word. There was no access to the servers Bianchi required from there, and after a walk around, he found the rear entrance behind a pile of discarded boxes and garbage.
Though Bianchi obviously wasn't as good at his job as he'd originally thought, or else the nondescript van down the next ally and the pair of 'tourists' exiting the shop just as he pulled up would have drawn his attention.
They put their hands to their ears as soon as he disappeared around the corner.
//
Compared to the CIA offices downtown, the JTF was a cold house with furniture covered with plastic.
The agents sat out in the open as if waiting for mother to come and chastise them for venturing into her perfect room -- the constant threat keeping their posture rigid and minds focused on the task at hand for fear of waking the authority in the next room.
And so, the room buzzed with the humming of computers and hushed conversations of the more brave, though no secrets could be kept within these walls. Computer screens lay where all could see, stacks of neatly-labeled files left out for anyone to steal. In an age of descrite communications between intellegence agencies, the JTF in its self-contained glory, set out to break the record when it came to how far CIA directives could be stretched.
Which is why Michael Vaughn was pissed off when a group secretary brought a manila folder over to his desk and unceremoniously dropped it on his keyboard with a snap of her bubble-gum and a cheery 'Here ya go, hottie.'
Was there no such thing as being discrete anymore?
He glanced at his watch – 14 minutes before Sydney's op – and noted the time; enough to read through the folder delivered before donning a headset most used by the members of boy bands and pretend he was okay with sitting this one out. Grabbing the ribbon keeping the intraoffice envalope closed with his left hand, he glanced around as he unwound it and opened the flap, green eyes almost fearful of what he'd find inside. Flipping open the file, he started browsing over the preliminary findings -–
"Agent Vaughn."
He might as well have jumped in his chair. Slamming the folder closed with eye-drawing force, he swiveled in his chair and gave Jack the benifite of his tired gaze.
"What can I do for you?"
"Give me a moment of your time," he requested. Vaughn sighed, glanced again at his watch, and stood as if there were nothing wrong and he didn't have a bandage on his head. "And bring the folder."
Vaughn leaned over and swiped the file from his desk, hoping to show his discontent with the proposed conversation with his girlfriend's father through the small, non-aggressive move. But Jack Bristow didn't care how uncomfortable the boy was; he was a man who needed to get things done, the consequences of his actions never as important to him as they were to his daughter.
"What do you - "
"Not here," Jack interrupted, briskly heading away from prying ears. "Follow me."
He snaked his way around the pods of desks as discreetly as possible, ignoring unwanted attention as he led the younger agent to a less-used conference room with solid walls and a small window in the door. While he respected the privacy he so desperately needed, Vaughn found himself somewhat disturbed with the idea of being left alone in a room with Jack Bristow where no one could see what was going on.
"Take a seat, Agent Vaughn," Jack offered, sitting in an old chair at the head of the table. Taking a last glance at the outside world as the door slipped closed, Vaughn sighed, his hand tightening around the folder as he took a seat.
"I've heard about your incident with the prisoner from China. Naturally, the entire office now knows," he continued. "What they don't know, and what I hope to find out, are the contents of that conversation."
"I submitted my report to Kendall. I'm sure you can read it at your leasure," Vaughn bit out, checking his watch –- 10 minutes. Jack shifted in his seat to gain a better vantage point on his subject.
Vaughn sat across from him, straight, hands resting with interwoven fingers over the folder he'd been asked to bring in. Protecting the contents. His eyes, cloudy, were on the watch on his wrist, the cuff of his dress shirt pulled up to give a clear view of the watch's face. Anxious, wanting to be involved.
Jack would have smiled, if he were a smiling man. He knew exactly how to play this. "I'm sure, like many reports submitted to superiors, you have left things out. Things I want to know. And if you hope to get out of here by the time Sydney comes on comms, it would be in your best interest to answer my questions."
He'd hit a nerve; Vaughn glanced back at his watch, then up at Jack as if mediating some heated debate in his own mind. Jack hoped he hadn't underestimated this man's devotion to his daughter and her safety, opening up to him in just enough time to leave the room and jump on comms. It was for this reason Jack had waited to sequester the younger agent when there was a definite time limit on their conversation.
Vaughn sighed and moved his hand, as if he were going to do something with it, but let it fall to the table anticlimactically. Controlling his movements. The key was wearing him down in the next 9 minutes. Less, if Jack were on top of his game.
"Listen, Jack, this hardly seems the time," Vaughn sighed.
"Who are you to judge when is the proper time."
"I've got to get on comms in 7 minutes – can we discuss this later?"
Jack leaned forward. Answering questions with questions, deflecting the attention from himself and having to answer. "I won't pretend to care, Agent Vaughn, about your poor choices and idiotic sense of morality that seems to have infected this office. But what you represent is put at risk, which is something we cannot afford right now. Your meeting alone with the prisoner was foolish at best, and if you feel the need to once again put yourself in harm's way, I will find it necessary to retain you until the feeling subsides."
"Your insults are getting a little tiring," Vaughn retorted.
"I'm glad you find some humor in this situation, because I find it lacking. It's this poor, unfocused attitude that grounded you for this mission and left you on base comms."
"I'm on comms because of a concussion."
"You're on comms because Kendall is considering pulling you from the case," Jack retorted quickly.
"What is this? A 'you scratch my back, I scratch yours' situation? You're going to tell me you'll talk to Kendall if I share what I learned?" Vaughn asked. His temper was rising despite his best efforts to control it, worry lines becoming clear upon his face as his voice rose. "I'm sorry, but last time I checked, we didn't work for a criminal organization."
"I have no intention of helping you with Kendall," Jack replied simply. "I will, however, let you out of here in time to do your job properly if you cooperate."
"Nothing."
"Excuse me?"
"I didn't learn anything," Vaughn stated. Jack narrowed his eyes; he couldn't tell if the boy was telling the truth or not, if he hadn't learned a thing or he was keeping something from him.
But then Vaughn shifted the folder on the table.
Bad move.
"What was so important that Agent Weiss had it sent over via courier from the main office?" Jack asked as innocently as Jack could ask a question. Vaughn stiffened, his hand reflexively tightening into a fist over the folder. Jack knew Vaughn had no idea what the file had said – he walked up just as he had finished unwinding the ribbon around the interdepartmental folder and opened it.
"I don't know," Vaughn admitted, looking down at it as if he had X-Ray vision, "I haven't had a chance to look through it."
He hadn't read it, Jack reflected, but a scan through had given him all he needed to know. Vaughn checked his watch again.
"Are we done here?" he asked. His voice was irritable but thin, stretched over so many emotions at once it could do none complete justice. A weakness, despite his horrible attempts to cover it. Em otions only got in the way.
"If you mess this up, Agent Vaughn, and allow this information to fall into hands of enemies of the CIA? I will need no excuse to kill you myself despite my daughter's attachment to you."
"Good to know," Vaughn chided offhand. "Let me express my surprise in your complete disregard for my personal well-being past my use as an object."
" Em otions cloud your judgment, Vaughn, or else you'd realize you are an object, a tool to be used however we see fit."
"A tool? An object? Well, I'd imagined I'd be objectified at one point in my life, but aren't you taking this a bit literally?" he quipped. Their voices were gradually rising as they played conversational ping pong, or at least Vaughn's was, climbing above Jack's as he volleyed for his side.
"This is no time for sarcastic retorts."
Vaughn growled. "This is the perfect time for sarcastic retorts. I have a job to do Jack, something you've commented on before, and instead of being out there making sure your daughter is able to complete her mission and return home safely, I'm sitting in here with you as you pursue some personal quest," he ranted, but took a breath for a moment, scrutinizing Jack under his own untrained gaze. "What made you think I wouldn't know you pulled the FBI file on the task force my father was on?"
"Who are you, of all people, to lecture me on the safety of my daughter? Or the pulling of files behind one's back?"
Vaughn scoffed. "And you call me foolish."
"I don't investigate blindly, and the files I have pulled are directly related to this case, a case, I remind you, has only come to be because of your outburst four months ago," Jack volleyed. "You're somewhat of a masochist."
"Alright, that's it. This conversation is over."
"It hasn't even begun, Agent Vaughn. I can't believe you could be in that room for over 10 minutes and have learned nothing."
"You weren't there," Vaughn bit out.
"What does the file say?"
"Does it matter?"
Jack nodded. "Yes."
"Jesus, Jack, what is this? A witch hunt?"
"Tell me, Agent Vaughn, did your father's journals tell you what is at stake?" Jack asked, switching gears. The anger built up inside Vaughn found no outlet, the change in topic twisting his insides like a car often stalls as gears are changed mid-drive. "Codes, files, encryption. You are the only person standing between the CIA and a complete breakdown. So you understand Kendall's decision to remove you from the case and keep you sequestered until further notice."
"What?"
"You're not forthcoming with information that could redeem you, either."
"Damn it, Jack, I nothing happened!"
The outburst was unexpected, Vaughn finally reaching up to run a hand through his hair, a nervous tick that would one day give him away just as Sydney's tucking her hair behind her ear would give away her. One day, on some op in the future, someone would be there and classify it as a tell and it would end with capture or death. Now, at this moment, the tell gave Jack the verification that he'd finally broken through Vaughn's defenses. Complete with 5 minutes to spare.
"I…I swear, I can see myself going into the room and sitting down, but after that, it's all – it's fragmented, like I'm watching a movie but someone kept...God damnit, I don't know."
This was not what Jack was expecting to hear.
"Tox screen," Vaughn announced, throwing the file across the desk unceremoniously. Jack opened the file and spoke without looking up, reading over the contents.
"Under the wire?"
"According to Syd."
"Good, we can't afford to have you taken off the case."
"Excuse me?"
"I don't care what Kendall says," Jack commented, flipping a page in the file. "You're too valuable at the moment."
"Great." But it wasn't sarcastic or snippy, just a breath of air releasing the pent up pressure in his lungs. He didn't know if this was a good thing or a bad one, and Jack's previous threats on his life ran through his head. "I don't have the best drug knowledge, but I can say it's a great painkiller."
"Alters memory as well," Jack announced, scanning the page.
Vaughn clenched his jaw. "I assumed."
There was a soft knock at the door, the handle turning and opening before either had a chance to reply. A tech's head popped in, giving Jack a strange look before settling on Vaughn.
"Team just checked in," he said. Vaughn nodded and rose from his chair, leaning over to pull the file from under Jack's gaze before walking out without another word.
//
Sydney had always loved antiques.
Ever since she was a little girl, the old things found around her house captivated her imagination, plunging her into a time beyond that she knew, a happier time than her own. Photographs showed smiling families, complete, unbroken families filled with love. Children playing in fields, hearts carefree. The old things, sometimes found buried in the back corners of her childhood home's cramped basement, seemed like some kind of key to her escape for however long she could sit with them.
It wasn't an affinity she carried heavily into adulthood; the once and awhile purchase of something from a shop she passed on the way to work or school becoming her only tie to youth. So imagine her surprise at receiving an antique picture frame for Christmas one year from someone she felt didn't know her all that well.
The store's smell of age and mystery permeated the back storage room.
Dixon was familiar, a face she hadn't traveled with lately as much as she used to, but his movements and methods were still fresh in her mind. They worked well together, and despite a somewhat bumpy road filled with lies and deceit, their partnership seemed strong. He slipped through the cluttered back room, making sure not to hit the workman's table set in the center, tools and parts scattered upon it's marred surface. Sydney followed suit, giving the room a look over in case a quick exit was required.
The door to the warehouse wasn't locked, and it looked oft used, the doorknob hanging in its socket; it didn't even need to be turned to open the door. The room beyond was dark and musty, the smell here even stronger than the one in the office. The man who ran this shop appeared devoted to his work, disregarding what happened in the larger room beyond his converted storage area, and the dust seemed to grow thicker the farther into the warehouse the pair progressed. Finally, the footsteps in dust came to a halt; the shelves here empty and rotted from years of sitting next to the salt water.
Dixon gave her a sideways glance, noticing the state of the wooden shelves. Like a warning light on a car's dashboard, the pair instantly knew something was off here.
"Retriever," Sydney whispered, a finger to her ear, "how reliable was that intel?"
"Reliable enough to send three of us out," Weiss' voice crackled in her ear. The connection was weakening with every step they took. "I'm reading a large concentration of electrical energy about 20 meters to your right – this place sure uses a lot for an old antiques store."
"Could be preservation systems in a secondary storage area," Dixon suggested. Sydney shook her head.
"Look at these shelves – there's still stuff on them. If they had something like you're suggesting, then wouldn't they move these out of this area?" she asked him. He looked to the side, pondering her question as she turned to gaze over the path they'd taken thus far. "Do we have any more information on the owners?"
"Should be coming in from LA any moment," Weiss replied. Sydney took a few steps forward to gain a clearer connection, her voice muffled by a hand in ront of her mouth. They'd seen Bianchi come in the building this way, which meant the footsteps in the dust should have extended all the way back through the storage unit.
But they didn't.
"Sydney, behind you!" Dixon cried. Sydney whirled around just in time to come face to face with Bianchi, a small hand pistol pointed at her. He smirked, confidant with having the upper hand, and leveled the gun at her head.
"Hi."
"Hi," she responded with less enthusiasm than his cheerful greeting, and, waiting a second, saw Dixon signal to her to move to the right. She waited – patient, hoping he knew what he was doing, and swooped down to her right side as Dixon delivered a kick to Bianchi's right side, sending him sprawling into old shelves, a single shot ringing out in the damp room.
"Shit, what's going on in there?" Weiss shouted, half the words garbled as the fight pulled them father and farther into the single aisle of storage.
Dixon was on the man in a second, restraining him to the ground with a foot on the base of his neck. He turned to Sydney, urgency written all over his face.
"The shopkeeper won't hesitate in calling the police. Hurry and get the files, I've got him under control," he told her, motioning for her to progress through the heavy metal door at the dark end of the corridor. She ran, smirking as Dixon threatened to sedate Bianchi without the use of medication, and sprang for the door, hoping it too would be unlocked.
It wasn't.
Time was of the essence; shouts heard through the thin walls coming from the showroom floor, loud, accented voices calling out for assistance. A lock pick set came from her pocket, as the door was a standard key-lock, security looser than she'd have imagined. She gave Dixon only a quick glance as she forced the door open and walked inside, the door slamming shut behind her.
This room, to her surprise, was considerably cooler.
She took a second, only a second, to appreciate the lower level of humidity, and went to work. The walls, an eerie black, were lit only by computer monitors, the pale blue glow casting shadows over the collection of high-priced servers. Sydney found a terminal and slid into the lone chair in the room, sliding across the tiled floor to land directly in front of a monitor.
She pressed a few keys and was presented with a log in screen asking for the access code. Her eyes narrowed, examining every aspect of the screen, looking for some kind of clue. Unable to find one, she looked over the servers, wondering what secrets they held, and turned her attention to the other monitors.
One for each server.
While standard servers had screen terminals attached to them, these didn't, each one hooked up to a separate terminal.
Through a junction .
"Dixon!" she yelled almost frantically through her earpiece, hoping the metal walls would allow her signal through. "They're cycling servers! I need the system's access code!"
"All right, hold on," Dixon replied, his voice foggy. She could hear some scuffles, nothing too loud, and Bianchi cry out.
She tapped her foot as she waited, mentally counting down the time it would take the authorities to arrive. And being discovered illegally entering a building in Malaysia wasn't the best outcome to this mission, however ill-conceived.
"062777," Dixon said suddenly. Sydney typed in the code, hoping there was no failsafe in place if Bianchi decided death was a worthy alternative to failure.
"Are you sure?" she asked, apprehensive, her finger hovering over the enter key.
"Positive," Dixon replied. Giving no thought to the methods of extraction he'd used, she hit enter.
