A SECRET, A SONG, AND A SPY
(Alias/Angel/American Idol)
This story is set during the first third of Season 3 of Alias and Season 5 of Angel, and the auditions for Season 3 of American Idol. It is not intended to make any sense.
DISCLAIMERS: All characters from the TV show Alias are the property of J.J. Abrams. All characters from the TV show Angel are the property of Joss Whedon and David Greenwalt. All characters from the TV show American Idol are the property of Almighty G-d, I guess, although the show is the property of Simon Fuller. Used without permission. No copyright infringement intended.
"Diamond Dogs" written by David Bowie. "Mandy" written by Barry Manilow. "We've Got Tonight" written by Bob Seger. Used without permission. No copyright infringement intended.
With thanks to the late Edward John Moreton Drax Plunkett for the names.
This story may be reproduced and distributed without charge if proper author credit is given and disclaimers are retained. Feedback is welcome.
Rated PG for some mild profanity.
Okay, I think we've got everything taken care of. Gentlemen, start your engines…
A SECRET, A SONG, AND A SPY
By wordwolf
1.
"Il Silencio." Jack Bristow's voice was crisp and ominous in the briefing room. "The most recently located Rambaldi device. Located, but not recovered."
"Not yet," Marcus Dixon replied, just as crisply.
All eyes were on the display screen and its image of an elegant cylinder of glass, carved pale wood, and polished copper. It looked something like a too-short telescope, or perhaps a too-expensive kaleidoscope. "What does this one do?" Lauren Reed asked softly, switching her gaze from the screen to look quickly around, reading the ring of faces.
"Exactly the point." Marshall Flinkman went into his usual near-random staccato. "If we had it, we'd be able to figure out what it does, except we don't have it – yet, as the Deputy Director was so helpful as to point out – so we're all here now to figure out how to get it, so that we – or maybe just me – can figure out what it does, which is where you come in, Sydney …"
Sydney Bristow smiled just a little. "Right. So where am I going, Dixon? And with whom?"
"Fortunately, travel will be easy on this mission," Dixon replied. "It's already right here in Los Angeles."
But the elder Bristow's set jaw and slightly narrowed eyes disputed his superior's optimism. "We've been tracking it as best we can since it was apparently unearthed in Turkmenistan and borne to this country by a courier of uncertain origin – "
"Not the Covenant?" Sydney felt cold along her spine.
"Apparently not," her father answered. "But whomever he was working for, it looks as if he didn't complete his mission. We lost track of him just outside O'Hare Airport, picked up his trail again at Colorado Springs, then lost him a second time. We think he was wounded somewhere along the way and possibly died here in LA ; his body hasn't been found yet, but we know where he hid the device before disappearing. And according to our present surveillance, no one has attempted recovery yet."
"So it should be no problem just to go pick it up," Agent Michael Vaughn observed reasonably.
"Not exactly." Bristow switched the slide. The image of a familiar downtown landmark loomed on the screen. "We know the courier ditched Il Silencio somewhere in one of the service areas of this hotel. We have to get in and out with the device this very day, before anyone else can get it – but it's going to be more of a challenge today than otherwise."
Placid as ever, Agent Eric Weiss even shrugged. "Why?"
"Unfortunately, this place isn't its usual quiet and businesslike self. By what must be some very poorly timed cosmic joke, it's currently the scene of several days of auditions for the most popular talent contest in the country."
Despite herself, Sydney's face lit up. "You mean American Idol is in town?"
"I love that show!" A look around at their faces showed that others agreed with Marshall.
Bristow barely concealed his irritation. "Yes. And now that they've begun, the only way in is to be an approved, auditioning contestant, or accompanying one." He picked up a set of papers from the briefing-room table; on one of them was a long string of large black numerals. "We've got all the paperwork for someone who's passed a producer audition and in the list to be seen by the judges' panel."
Sydney considered this. "So am I supposed to search out and recover the Rambaldi device before or after an audition? Timing could be critical."
"Exactly why you won't be faced with that particular choice," said Dixon with a grin. "Agent Weiss will partner you on this mission, and will handle the audition itself. The papers are for him. You're going to be looking for Il Silencio while he provides your cover." The grin was now aimed at Weiss. "Enjoy yourself, Agent. We'll see to it that your face doesn't end up on the broadcast."
"But what if I pass?" Weiss teased.
"Don't sweat that, Weiss. I've heard you sing," Vaughn teased back.
"Yeah. You're just jealous because you're not getting to do it; you can't pass for twenty-five anymore." Weiss ran a hand over his own smiling face. "Something to be said for a little extra flesh to fill in the wrinkles, right?"
"I can't sing, either," Vaughn admitted.
His wife put on a little simper. "Oh, honey, don't say that!"
"Why not? It's true. I can't carry a tune in a wheelbarrow."
"Enough," Bristow cut in, ending the banter. His tone made it limpidly clear what he thought of intelligence agents who would waste a second of their precious lives watching reality TV. "Sydney, Weiss, go home and change. You'd better arrive together. T-zero is exactly 10 AM."
XX
The CEO leaned back luxuriously and swung his feet onto his immense desktop. The array of gleaming weapons on the back wall seemed to surround him like a cold steel aura. "So what do you have for us today, Wesley?"
Wesley Wyndham-Price laid the dusty leather-bound book on the desk. It was already open at the correct page. "Il Silencio," he said darkly, portentously.
The others gathered for a look. Angel himself swung his feet back off his desk and leaned in, studying the illustration. The exquisite engraving, set within a handwritten black-letter Latinate text, depicted an elaborately chased and polished tube. "Nice," Angel observed. "And this concerns us because?"
"Because Ebalon of Zarkandhu paid an immense sum in pure gold to the Brethren of Omrund for its recovery and transportation here to Los Angeles." Wyndham-Price ended on a slightly haughty note.
"And why would he do that?" asked Charles Gunn suspiciously.
"It's obvious!" came a hearty, British-accented voice as the door burst open. "It's just the proper objet d'art 'e needs to set off 'is new drapes. Or something."
Angel turned narrowed eyes up to the doorway and the newcomer. "Spike, you're late."
"Hi, Spike," said Winifred "Fred" Burkle shyly. "At least you're not that late."
"Late enough, I should think," the blond vampire replied cheerfully.
"Late enough to piss me off. But let's move on." The CEO of Wolfram & Hart stood up and leaned over the book, bracing himself on his arms. "What's the significance of this artifact, Wesley?"
The slim dark man used his own much classier British accent to best effect. "This is the latest to be located of the notorious creations of the fifteenth-century Italian alchemist-sorcerer Milo Rambaldi. I can't find a specific reference as to exactly what this one does, but considering both the devastating effects of some of the other pieces, and their rate of disappearance in the last three years, we certainly cannot afford to let this one fall into the wrong hands."
Gunn probed, "And those wrong hands include Ebalon of Zarkandhu's."
"Exactly." Wesley nodded. "Not to mention the Yarnith Circle, and the cultists of Averon the Damned. I for one am astonished that the Brethren of Omrund honored their bargain with Ebalon and did not keep the artifact for themselves, for eventual use or sale to the highest bidder. It might have had something to do with Ebalon's penchant for extracting the viscera of those who displease him through their anuses." He shut the book dramatically. "Gentlemen, and Miss Burkle – " at this Fred blushed and smiled – "we must recover Il Silencio as quickly and quietly as possible. Who here of us can sing?"
"HUH?" Gunn had clearly spoken for them all.
"Let me explain … "
"Oh, as if anyone 'ere can stop you from running on!"
"Spike!" Angel rumbled warningly. "Go on, Wes."
"Thank you. The Brethren apparently unearthed Il Silencio somewhere in Central Asia and brought it here by means of a carefully programmed homunculus – a solid magical simulacrum of a human being. This seems to have been done to avoid any ill effects to a Brother from the influence of the artifact. But apparently the homunculus was slowed down by the need to shake some kind of pursuit – by whom, we do not know – and by the time it arrived here in Los Angeles, its life force was drained almost completely. The last thing it was able to do was conceal its burden before it used the last of its energy and faded away."
"So where do we have to go to get this thing?" Angel demanded.
"Unfortunately," and Wesley sighed, "somewhere under the hotel that happens to be crammed to the penthouse windows today with the auditions for that silly pop-singing contest show. Now do you understand why we need someone who can sing?"
"Yeah, now everything is starting to make sense. Sort of." Gunn shrugged. "That's usually the best we can get." Then he perked up a bit. "On the up side, that throw-down between Ruben and Clay last year was cool."
"Yes, of course." Wesley used the tone of a man with little patience for trivia. "Angel, if you could be so kind as to ask Harmony to come in, and to bring those papers I told her to obtain …"
"What kind of papers?" Gunn wanted to know.
"Forged identifications and passes for the auditions," Wesley explained. "After all, there's not much to be said for controlling a powerful supernatural law firm if we can't make use of its resources now and again."
Angel was considering carefully. "No way can we send Lorne," he observed. "We need a singer who's human – or at least can pass for one most of the time."
From where he paced at the edge of the room, Spike suddenly halted in his tracks, an itchy feeling rising up his spine. "Now why the bloody hell is everyone suddenly staring at ME?"
TO BE CONTINUED
