(Alias/Angel/American Idol)
By wordwolf
Disclaimers in part 1.
Chapter 2.
Sydney Bristow and Eric Weiss strolled into the hotel lobby. No untrained eye could have marked how they quickly and precisely sized up everyone they passed – eager young people in every shape, size and color, every one accompanied by at least one encouraging relative or friend. In their own turn, the intelligence agents were gratified to find themselves ignored by all those eager young people and their encouraging escorts, and especially by the television cameramen who seemed to be wandering around everywhere. In their supremely ordinary t-shirt and blue jeans ensembles, they expected not to be noticed, and they weren't.
It was touch-and-go for a moment, though; from the corner of her eye Sydney noticed a flash of spiky blond hair and frenzied motion, coming up quickly on their left flank. "Hug the wall, Weiss," she whispered.
He angled his eyes, but not his head, betraying nothing. "What is it?"
"Ryan Seacrest at eight o'clock," came her warning. "If he talks to us, it could be broadcast."
"Got it." Smoothly, subtly, they altered course, moving from the main drag of the lobby to slip into a group of contestants and companions huddling and hanging near a quieter corner. The American Idol host, wearing what looked like safari gear for an expedition to the dark heart of Greenwich Village, bounced past them and buttonholed a trembling young thing who seemed about to fall to her knees in homage.
"Wow," Sydney commented sotto voce to her companion as she watched from across the room. "Some people are pretty worked up about being here." Getting no immediate reply from Weiss, she turned to him; her eyes widened. Her colleague was shaking. "Weiss, are you okay?"
"Oh, I'm fine, Sydney, but there's something going on here that you might not understand." He indicated the numbered paper pinned to his shirt, then met her eyes, his gaze entirely serious, his tone grimly professional. "Think about it, Syd. You just have to recover the Rambaldi device ahead of the Covenant's agents. I have to walk into that room and sing in front of Simon Cowell!"
Sydney nodded darkly. She understood.
Far sooner than they were ready for, a door gaped open. Behind it could lay one thing and one thing only. In a voice that might as well have been machine-generated, a scrubbed young lady read off a name and a string of numbers that froze Weiss in place. His.
He turned to his colleague. "This is it – for both of us. Good luck, Sydney."
"Not to worry," she replied gently. "Good luck to you, Weiss." Unexpectedly she landed a peck on his cheek, enjoyed his answering smile, then watched as he entered the audition room. Yes, he'd be all right. Now it was time to move the mission forward. Wait a minute or so, so as not to seem in any hurry, then casually amble over to the nearest stairwell door; once behind it, activate the hookup back to Marshall. "This is Mountaineer. Penetration achieved."
"Beautiful, Mountaineer, just beautiful, as always. Have you activated the signature tracer yet?" Marshall sounded pantingly eager, as always when one of his new devices was to be put to the field test.
"Activating now." Sydney brought out the cellphone-seeming device, opened it up, and got it working. A pinpoint of blue light blinked pale on the tiny screen. "I'm getting a reading on Il Silencio, Marshall, but it's very weak."
"Yeah, the range isn't everything I would have wanted for it, but you gotta go with what you know, as they say, right, Sydney? Oh, and you remember from my briefing – you always remember my briefings; that's why I love working with you – that it'll also give you a heat signature for any active human presence within four meters of you. That way you'll know if anyone is near the device, or sneaking up on you, or if you should just slip into a shadow and hang out for a little..."
Michael Vaughn leaned in closer above Marshall's shoulder. "Marshall, you yourself observed that she knows all this already."
"Oh, yeah. Sorry, Mountaineer."
Sydney smiled. Thanks, Vaughn, she thought. Of course, she would die before letting the sentiment slip out to Marshall. "Heading downstairs and southeast. Mountaineer out."
XX
Rubbing his hands together, partly to hide their shaking, Weiss entered the audition room, his heart racing. This is it! burned through his mind. He crossed the room to the mark and with a final gulp, turned to face the table – to face THEM. Randy Jackson, Paula Abdul, and especially Simon Cowell. The Aeacus, Minos, and Rhadamanthys of the pop music world would now sit in judgment upon him.
The first thing he noticed was that Paula wasn't there. Ice suddenly formed around his heart – Oh NO! She's the nice one! I'm sunk for sure... That was when something suddenly occurred to him, all at once in a flash of inspiration: Wait a second. I'm an agent of the Central Intelligence Agency, member of an elite secret corps entrusted with the first-line defense of these United States. I've been shot at and shot, been hunter and prey on five continents. I have NO REASON AT ALL to spaz out over a goddamned talent show.
Now he felt a lot better. He was actually able to relax a bit, even as he heard that familiar British-accented voice say, "Let's see ... Eric Weiss." The notorious Simon Cowell looked up from the list on his clipboard and actually smiled. "Well! A name to conjure with – pun intended!"
"Yes, sir," Weiss replied with a smile of his own. "My mom loved magic."
At Cowell's right, a perplexed Randy Jackson turned to his fellow judge. "Magic? Simon, you mind letting me in on the joke?"
The Englishman didn't mind at all. "Eric Weiss was the birth name of the performer you no doubt know better as Harry Houdini."
"Ah! Cool. Then let's hear if you can make a little magic right here," Jackson said heartily. "What are you going to sing for us today, Eric?"
Weiss had this part all worked out, of course. "I thought I'd sing 'We've Got Tonight,' by Bob Seger."
Cowell flipped a hand. "Off you go, then."
Weiss took a deep, centering breath to begin, then closed his eyes. Now's not the time to play it cool, he told himself; it's all about feeling...
"I know it's late, I know you're weary
I know your plans don't include me
Still here we are, both of us lonely
Longing for shelter from all that we see
Why should we worry; no one will care, girl
Look at the stars so far away
We've got tonight; who needs tomorrow?
We've got tonight, babe, why don't you stay?"
It was working. He was feeling it; the ache, the stinging behind his eyes, and it was all coming out in the voice as he went into the second stanza:
"Deep in my soul I've been so lonely,
All of my hopes fading away
I've longed for love like everyone else does..."
Another voice suddenly cut across his. "Eric."
Weiss stopped, opened his eyes. "Yes?"
"Eric, your voice really does have potential," said Cowell, turning his pen over and over in his fingers. "But I must ask you a question: Have you ever had any kind of singing lessons or voice training?"
"No, I haven't." It felt oddly bracing to be able to tell the truth in the field for a change.
"One can tell," the British judge replied, not unkindly. "I'll be quite honest with you; you have a strong voice with fine tone, but utterly untrained. If you ever intend to sing other than in the shower, you simply must develop your instrument."
Beside him, Jackson shifted his bulk and nodded. "I've got to agree, man. You got some real talent there; I heard a lot of feeling in your song, but Simon's right. You're just not ready for this show, dog."
It was even more bracing not to be dismissed out of hand. "I understand. Thank you, gentlemen." Weiss left the audition room with a smile, and kept his tightly trained presence of mind to check carefully for cameras and Ryan Seacrest before stepping out into the public area. Now to reach the rendezvous point at the north atrium entrance/exit and wait for Sydney. He got there in a minute's strolling and found a wall to hold up. Settling in to wait, he let his mind wander from the mission. God, it felt so GOOD not to suck! Maybe some voice lessons might be a nice diversion after all...
TO BE CONTINUED
