Chapter One: Alea iacta est
The Kensington Hotel, Downtown Los Angeles, August 1947
Sue knocked on the door for room 325 - the phone was off the hook and causing problems for other guests - and called, "Room service! The concierge would like you to hang up your phone." She waited for a beat, but didn't hear anything. Sue knocked again, repeating her presence, before bringing out her keys and unlocked the door.
The first thing she saw as she opened the door was a man laying on the floor and a bullet wound to the chest.
He's dead. The man's dead.
Her hands flew to her mouth in a vain attempt to stifle a scream as she backed out of the room.
…
Stark Estate, Hollywood
The ringing telephone is more like an air raid klaxon. Howard was rather excited at Peggy's decision to stay in Los Angeles and, unlike Jarvis, pours his drinks with a free hand.
And now she's paying for it. Oh to be nineteen and able to recover immediately from faculty parties that got out of hand.
"Hullo," she mumbles into the receiver.
Rose breathlessly asks, "Peggy, is that you? Is Sousa with you? I've been trying to call him all morning."
"Yes, it's me. Despite Howard's best efforts." She squints towards a chez lounge where Daniel had elected to sleep, snickering be damned. "Sousa's here. Unconscious, but he's here."
"Get him up. Thompson's been shot."
"What?"
"Thompson's been shot!" Rose's voice is almost hysterical. "He's at the County General Hospital. You need to get over there fast. It's not looking good."
Rose's words cut through the hangover. This is bad. Something's gone horribly wrong.
"Alright, we'll head over there. Where are you, by the way?" Peggy asks.
"I'm at the office. The acting director called me, apparently Thompson didn't land in New York so they started calling around. LAPD informed the head office this morning. Then they called us."
Peggy checks her clock. It's 8:36, so half past eleven on the east coast. "Good to know. And we'll let you know as soon as we get more information," she replies. Then after a beat adds, "And Rose, stay safe."
"You, too, Peg."
"Thanks. We'll speak with you soon."
Rose rings off and Peggy looks up to find Daniel sitting up.
"What's going on?" he asks.
Peggy swallows against the dryness in her mouth, "Thompson's been shot. He's at the County General Hospital. And apparently we're the last to be informed."
"God damn," he mutters to his lap. He sighs, "Nothing we can do about that now. But let's get moving, anyway."
"I was just thinking that."
…
Los Angeles County General Hospital
Getting past the front desk was easy. Getting to the trauma ward, and Thompson's room, was a different task.
"Who are you?" challenges a police officer.
Daniel flashes his badge, "Chief Sousa, SSR, LA branch."
The officer looks at him incredulously, like he's about to ask what the hell is the 'SSR' and who let a cripple be in charge? But whatever question he has dies on his tongue.
A doctor with an Antipodes accent interrupts, saying, "Isn't the FBI supposed to take over?"
The doctor, now standing just to the side of the police officer, is more interested in the papers on his clipboard.
"What do you mean, FBI? On whose authority?" Peggy demands.
He looks up, "Federal agent's been shot, it's their sort of thing to look into." The doctor's rather fetching; on the tall side, brown hair, blue eyes. Australia seems infested with the type.
"In any case, Chief Thompson is a member of the SSR, I believe that we have jurisdiction over this," Daniel replies.
"Now hold on…" the police officer tries to cut in.
"Well I'm Chief Thompson's surgeon, and aside from duty nurses, I'm the one who determines who will see him." He turns to Peggy and Daniel, "Donald Blake, thoracic surgeon."
"Pleasure," Peggy replies, "Can we see him? Thompson?"
Dr. Blake seighs, "Come in here." He gestures to a room, and once Peggy and Daniel have entered, the doctor pointedly closes the door.
Thompson lay stretched out on the hospital bed. He was attached to IV bags with blood, and saline, and God knows what else. During the war, Peggy had developed something of a distaste for hospitals. Whether a makeshift first aid station or convalescent home in the grand country house, a deep sadness entered her body and sunk right to the bones when she was in one. And here was Thompson, pale as the sheets he laid on. It hardly looked like he was breathing. He never looked more fragile.
"When did he get in?" Daniel asks.
"About half past seven last evening. Hotel manager rang for the ambulance. And the police, of course. He came in with a high chest wound near the heart from a single bullet."
"Any idea about the caliber?" Peggy asks, then regretting it, knowing the answer.
"No, I believe that's something for a detective to figure out. It was point blank, though. Didn't bounce around like dum dum bullets, so that's a mercy. Still, he's lucky to be alive. And in any case, I kept this."
Dr. Blake pulls a small, clear bottle containing a crumpled bullet.
"I figured you'd like to examine this."
Daniel takes the bottle, giving his thanks.
Thompson could be a royal arse. He's given her, Daniel, and so many others hell, but he didn't deserve to die. Not like this.
"What are his chances, doctor?" she hears Sousa ask.
"I'll be frank, they're not good. The science isn't there yet. There's damage to his aorta, not enough to kill him right now, but in an ideal world, I could graft aortic tissue onto his. Maybe replace it if I had to. If he somehow clings to life, I'll probably have to go back in and do more reconstructive surgery. And that could kill him, too. And that's the best I can do." Doctor Blake looks between Peggy and Daniel. He has a grim, but determined look about him. "Doesn't mean I'll give up that easily. Death's got to fight for this one."
It's a little reassurance. Better than nothing.
They give their thanks and Doctor Blake gives his card, "I'll give you updates on his progress."
"Thank you, again, doctor," Daniel replies.
"Do you think Dottie did this?" Daniel asks when they get in the lift.
"She's always seeking my attention. And if it's her, then by God she's got it."
He gives a lopsided smile, "I'd tell you to not go off half-cocked, but when have you ever listened to my advice?"
"I know what I'm doing."
"And that's why I trust you to do what you do best. Anyway…" Daniel checks his watch, "I'll head over to the office and meet up with the brass. Figure out what we're supposed to be doing."
"And I'll head to Thompson's hotel. The Kensington, right?"
"Yeah. It's on West 14th Avenue. Room 325."
"Alright, I'll call Jarvis and have him meet me… dammit!" Peggy exclaims.
"What's wrong?"
"I just remembered that I need to call Angie! Most of my things are with her."
"Right, you better get on that, Carter," he gives her a peck on the cheek, "Forgetfulness doesn't look good on you."
"I have a perfectly fine memory, Daniel. But thank you for the concern."
…
Cerro de la Estrella, Mexico City, Mexico
The meeting was scheduled for the morning before the heat became too much. Ivan Bezukhov was rather surprised there was a meeting at all. It seemed a pretty straight forward situation.
But Vasily had been sent from Moscow, and he wanted to keep this quiet. The Americans kept a paranoid eye on the Soviet embassy, and they had bugged the American one. So they arranged to meet on the uncovered Aztec platform at the top of Cerro de la Estrella. It's a small national park in the middle of the fairly rural Iztapalapa borough with, in Ivan's opinion, the best vistas of the city.
"Morning!" Ivan calls up to Vasily.
Since he was a boy, Vasily Dmitryvich Karpov had the appearance of a serious intellectual; older than his actual years. He looked uncomfortable in anything that wasn't a uniform or a suit, as he did in the light shirt, pants appropriate to the August heat and camera bag slung over a shoulder. It didn't fit the steel-framed glasses over grey-blue eyes, stern face, and close cropped brown hair. To the local fruit vendors below, Vasily must have looked some gringo academic interested in the ruins and had little time for anything else.
"I don't know how you tolerate this climate, Ivan Petrovich."
He shrugs, "You get used to it. Anyway, what is this all about?"
They start walking up to the platform's steps with its sweeping views over the Valley of Mexico. One could see the mountains and volcanoes through the haze.
"Leviathan."
Ivan lights up a cigarette, "I thought that was all sewn up." He offers Vasily a cigarette and he declines. It's a little ritual of theirs, Vasily doesn't smoke or drink, and don't get him talking about narcotics. But someone has to be his friend.
They were an odd pair. Scholarly, severe Vasily and Ivan the daredevil. Lean and dark, black hair and mustache. He has the sort of hair that grows too long too quickly and someone will be on him about a barber. And the sort of face - all angles and sharp features - that made people think of doomed revolutionaries and Renaissance assassins.
"For the most part. But we are only human and there are, of course, loose ends," Vasily continues.
From the bag Vasily pulls two sheets of paper with attached photos and brief profiles.
Vasily explains, "Fennhoff, a psychologist, though he often served as a surgeon during the war. A hypnotist as well. He is in FBI custody. One of our agents has informed us that he is to be transferred to Holloman Army Air Field in New Mexico. It appears that the Americans desire to create another research base, much like Los Alamos."
"When will he arrive?"
"On the thirty-first. You have eight days to get there."
"You want him alive?"
"No. He is far too dangerous to be left alive. But he left all his work and notes in the Soviet Union and we have them. If they so choose, his projects can be completed without him."
Ivan turns to the next page, blowing out smoke and glancing at Vasily with some surprise. "A Widow?"
Aleksandra Nikolaivna Volkova would be quite striking if it weren't for the unsettling way she stared out of her picture. The look is feral and hungry.
"Yes. Last seen in Los Angeles. Fennhoff I believe you will be able to handle yourself. Just don't let him talk to you. But her… you will need help for that one."
"Good thing I know the people I do," Ivan says casually.
"Will they be reliable?" Vasily asks. There's a double meaning to the question. On the surface he was asking if Ivan's network wouldn't cut and run in the face of handling a Widow. Just beneath that was his ever persistent concerns over ideological purity. A sicario, no matter their skill, must first and foremost be loyal to the Party in Vasily's particular view.
"I wouldn't have them on the payroll if they weren't."
"Whatever you say, Ivan. I trust you."
They stare out over the city. The sun was getting high and hot. It wouldn't be long until lunch, then a siesta. Though Ivan imagines Vasily will retreat to a darkened office or conference room, then move on to his next destination.
Leviathan was meant to handle the enemies of the people with a level of discretion and subterfuge. If they have gone off the rails as much as was rumoured, well there is sanctuary to be found in Central and South America.
"How's Yura?" he asks, crushing his cigarette under his heel.
His son was a year old when he left. When they reunited, he was five, had been living in an orphanage, and didn't recognize Ivan. And Sonya was dead. He's now seven, quiet and studious, collects rocks, all while his papa's half a world away.
"He and Sasha get along well. And Tamara says that he's very good to Alyosha."
"That's good."
Vasily and Tamara's sons were adopted. Russia is a land of orphans, why not give two a home? At least Yura won't be alone.
They're quiet again. Staring at the distant mountains once more.
It's Vasily who interrupts the silence this time. "Do you think they sacrificed people here?"
What goes on in your mind? Now Ivan can't help but picture some pre-colonial priest holding up a freshly cut out heart. It's far too early for such thoughts.
He shrugs, "Maybe." Eager to switch the conversation, Ivan asks, "Do you have to be anywhere soon?''
"No." Vasily replies, cleaning his glasses with a soft grey cloth.
Ivan claps his friend on the shoulder, "Well I think I should introduce you to some actual local food. Good food. Not what they serve at the embassy canteen."
Vasily rolls his eyes once he puts his glasses back on.
"First off, Vasya, you need to learn how to enjoy yourself. And secondly I barely had breakfast. I know a place that has pretty good tamales."
"Fine. They give you a long leash anyway," Vasily relents.
"And how else am I to contribute towards the building of communism?"
…
Kensington Hotel, Los Angeles
The Kensington Hotel has seen better days. Its facade is in the Beaux-Arts style that would have been very nice fifty years ago, but now looks grubby with a layer of soot.
"Why'd they put Thompson here? Do they know there's been murders?" Jarvis asks, looking up at the building.
"Washington's cheap."
"Well they got their money's worth. According to Mrs. Jarvis, several patrons have taken their lives, a few found murdered - one's husband was executed last year for her death. A patron robbed at gunpoint, fights in the bar room. The kitchen staff got into a knife fight once and the butcher wound up dead."
"Thank you, Mr. Jarvis," Peggy cuts off Jarvis. She doesn't mean to be sharp but she's not quite in the mood for such morbid thought.
"Sorry."
"Quite alright. Now let's see if we can snoop around."
"Right."
They walk into the lobby, Peggy breezing past the concierge to Jarvis' shock.
"Shouldn't we ask…"
"I have a better idea."
Peggy wants to find a maid. They know everything and have access to everywhere in the hotel. And she doubts that whoever is watching Thompson's room will let her and Jarvis just waltz in.
The place was rather empty, though, given what had happened last night, who'd want to stay.
The first floor is empty; the halls eerily quiet and dimly lit. They have better luck on the second. About midway down the hall is a rather tired looking black maid folding towels on a trolly.
"Excuse me, miss," Peggy says, getting the maid's attention.
She looks up, a little startled, "Yes, ma'am?"
"I'm Agent Peggy Carter from the Strategic Scientific Reserve, I was wondering if you could help me with something," Peggy says, holding her credentials out to the maid.
The young woman, more of a girl really - she couldn't be older than twenty - looks taken aback. "Help you with what? Did you lose something?"
"Not really. I was wondering if you'd be able to get into a room."
"Room 325?"
"How'd you know that, miss?" Jarvis asks.
The maid keeps her eyes on the folding, but Peggy can't help but notice the tremble in her hand as she continues to fold towels. "I mean, a body was found there last night." She bites her lip. "Sort of obvious, isn't it?"
Peggy feels sympathy for the girl, she was clearly shaken. And given the tired expression and near whisper the maid talked in, she wonders if the maid was there when Thompson was found.
"Are the guards still there?" she asks.
The maid shakes her head, "No they… they left this morning. Right when they got on shift."
"Rather fast at processing the scene, wouldn't you say?" Jarvis asks Peggy.
She nods in agreement, "Rather odd."
"You'd think this place would still be crawling with them," continues Jarvis.
"Or they're going to come back with more people to do a thorough search." Peggy turns to the maid. "Forgive my manners, I didn't catch your name."
"Sue," she says quickly. "Susan Storm."
Peggy offers a hand, "Good to meet you, Miss Storm. Now would you be able to get us into the 325?"
"Yes," Susan answers with a nod and a shake of the hand. "But you'll have to be quick. We don't have a lot of guests right now, obviously, but the manager likes to check in on us."
"Of course. And if we run into trouble I am sure Mr. Jarvis can provide us with a distraction."
"I say I am of more use than that, Miss Carter. But yes, I can do that."
They take the lift to the next floor, Susan bringing her trolly with her.
The third floor, like the others, is largely empty. Susan leads them down the hall to a corner room. Peggy notices two things: it's a straight shot to the service stairs, and Susan has to steady herself before unlocking the room.
"Here you go," she says.
"Thank you. You and Mr. Jarvis can keep watch."
Peggy steps into the room. It could be any hotel room in any part of the world. There's the floral coverlet that's always too thin, the cheap wallpaper that mimics finer brocades, dark wood furniture that hides cigarette stains, and the dim lighting even so close to noon. The exception is the bloodstain on the carpet. It's not as big as one expects, most of the blood pools in the chest cavity and soaked into the floor.
This is where Jack fell.
She carefully steps around the stain, looking about the room. There's blood on the coverlet from the exit wound. It appears that the investigators have taken Thompson's suitcase, toiletry bag, and briefcase. But they always could have missed something. She carefully starts feeling around the nooks and crannies. Peggy's not entirely sure about what she was looking for, but she could count on the laziness of the average police officer.
Peggy gets down on her hands and knees next to the desk. A glint of gold from near the wastepaper basket catches her eye. It's strange how the light managed to find it, tucked between the desk leg and basket. She takes hold of what turns out to be a stick pin.
A stick pin with the insignia of the Arena Club. Just like the one Dottie stole in New York.
She had almost completely forgotten about that incident. So recent yet so long ago given how fast things had moved here.
Was it Dottie? There's no sign of a fight. So how did the pin somehow end up on the floor by the desk? And why would she lose it so easily when she went to such trouble to get it in the first place?
"Did you find something?" Jarvis asks from the door.
"Yes" she answers, getting up. "An interesting clue for sure."
Peggy walks back to the door to show Jarvis the find.
"Didn't Miss Underwood steal that?" he asks.
"Yes. Don't know how it got here. It'll be interesting to find out."
"Indeed. And I have also found out something interesting."
Jarvis gestures to Susan. She looks down at her shoes, clutching at her left arm with her right hand. The free hand balled up her dress and apron in a fist.
"I…" she swallows. Takes a breath that has the edge of a sob. "I found the man. I was just sent to ask him to hang up the phone properly. Never seen someone shot before."
The poor girl. It must have given her the fright of her life. And no break, either. Susan's practically a child, and to face an apparently dead man, likely forced to give a statement with little compassion, and told to come back to work. She looked like a feather could knock her over.
"Thank you so much. Must have been awful. And you know Susan," Peggy says, reaching for her pen and notepad to write down her number, "If you need any help, just give me a ring."
"Thank you so much Agent Carter. Mr. Jarvis." Susan replies, looking up from the scrap of paper. For the first time that day, the girl beams a shy smile.
…
Auerbach Theatrical Company
"Oh thank God, you're just in time," Rose says in a breathless whisper. "Chief Flynn has just arrived. He's in your office."
"Thanks, Rose."
Daniel's not excited for this meeting. Chief Flynn was interim head of the New York branch, and he didn't like Flynn. It's why he was in Los Angeles in the first place. If the rumours are right, then the vultures are circling the SSR.
"Daniel, how are you doing!" Flynn greets him in his office far too brightly. It's not the right mood for the situation. Doesn't help he's seated behind Daniel's desk, forcing him to take a chair when Flynn insists he sit down.
"I'm fine. Given the circumstances."
"That's good to hear. Sad about Thompson, though."
God, Flynn says that as if Thompson broke his arm. As if he isn't on the edge of death from a bullet wound to the chest.
Daniel swallows, "Yeah. Really worried about him, you know. Doc doesn't give him good odds."
"No, not with his sort of injuries. I've informed his family."
Have you? Because Daniel can't help but note the false concern in Flynn's voice. And the sick feeling forming in his stomach.
"Of course, sir. So how do you want us to proceed?"
"Proceed?"
"Yes. Of course. A SSR agent - a station chief - was shot. Practically on my watch. Shouldn't we be doing something?"
"Washington has decided to give the case to the FBI."
The statement hangs in the air for a good moment.
"Why?" It sounds so stupid coming from his mouth but it's the only question he can come up with.
"Sousa, we can barely staff our stations. And the SSR was never meant to be a law enforcement agency. Intelligence gathering, special operations, research and development. And during the war we acted as support for Captain Rogers. Then he disappears, the war ends, and we've been running down for two years playing cops and robbers. Washington decided it's better if Hoover handles this."
Flynn isn't wrong. Especially when you see things on a big scale. But it sure makes everything feel like it was all for nothing. That so many deaths didn't mean anything.
"In any case, I don't think there'll be enough time for us to investigate."
That hits him like a truck.
"What do you mean, sir?"
"In September the SSR will be dissolved. We are still negotiating how that will look like, but quite a few of you should be able to find homes among the FBI and this new Central Intelligence."
Flynn goes on, but Daniel's too shocked to listen.
He was lucky to be recruited into the SSR. Proud of his work. He could swing some sort of desk job, but it's no guarantee of work. Then there's Peggy. Her paperwork is up to date, she might even consider getting US citizenship. But who knows how long that would take. And would she get hired in the first place? The DC crowd is an old boy's network. They're Ivy Leaguers, went to the same schools, belong to the same clubs, and worked for the same law firms. Nepotism runs deep. For all her Cambridge education, her skills, her successes, Peggy's been a thorn in the side of the wrong people. And he had no idea what her situation was like in England.
What stings the most, though, is the feeling that everything the SSR has done was all for naught. All the triumphs and defeats. All the happy times and the pain. Every single death. All of it.
All of it was to be tossed into the dustbin of history. A footnote for someone else's story. An afterthought.
Always an afterthought.
"Actually, Sousa, there is something you and Carter could do."
Daniel's brought back from his reverie.
"What's that, sir?"
"When the LAPD collected Thompson's things for evidence, they found a suitcase and toiletry bag. We know that he had traveled with a briefcase as well. One with rather sensitive documents. We need those back, of course."
"Of course, sir. Not a problem."
…
Venice Beach, Los Angeles
Emily Gower lights up a Camel cigarette. The second since she's gotten up late this morning. Not her preferred brand, but you couldn't get Gitanes for love or money in the States. It'll be a rotten day, despite the bright summer sun and cheerful beach. The last weekend before school starts.
She woke up crying this morning. She'd been thinking about Edith. She needs to stop doing that, all it leads to are more thoughts. Bleak thoughts. How she deserves this. You didn't have to do it, make your life miserable. Didn't have to be a coward about breaking someone's heart. You didn't have to do it at all.
Stop it.
It's unseemly.
An aggressive sip of coffee helps swallow back the new tears. Thank God she has sunglasses to hide them. She hates the sympathetic glances, no matter how well meaning.
She tries going back to her book but can't pay attention. It's a political thriller, supposedly based on an assassinated governor. It's good, but she's not in the mood. So Emily looks at the ocean, slouching further into the cushions of the rattan couch.
"I say," Roger says with a rustle of newspaper.
"What's wrong?"
"'Federal agent shot in hotel room,'" he reads off the headline. "He's in hospital. Critical condition they say."
She blows out some smoke. "Poor lamb. They know who did it?"
"They don't say. But it happened last night."
Roger passes the newspaper for her to read. His expression is of cool acknowledgement. The name of the hotel, the Kensington, leaps off the page.
Emily tuts, putting on the air of an Edwardian matron, "Whatever is this city coming to?" And tosses the folded paper onto the glass coffee table.
"Nothing good I say," replies Roger.
Sotto voce, dropping the charade, she asks, "Is he in the study?"
"Yes. Since dawn. I don't think he's slept at all, really."
She taps her cigarette into the ashtray and goes back to watching the ocean. Emily now has something new to think about: what is our next move?
…
Stark Estate, Hollywood
Peggy sighs, "Alright, third time's a charm." It's almost five o'clock here. It'll be close to eight in New York.
She dials Angie's number. Waits. Gets an operator who doesn't sound annoyed. Yes I'll accept the charges. More waiting. She checks her watch.
"Hello?"
"Angie! It's Peggy!"
"Oh my God, Peggy! I've been dying to call you all day! I'm going to Hollywood!"
"What?"
"My big break finally happened, English! Paramount's signed me! I'm so excited!"
In the time between arresting Fennhoff and Dottie's re-emergence, Peggy had helped Angie with her auditions and memorizing scripts. And maybe lowering her ambitions. Angie was young, but she wouldn't be Olivia de Haviland overnight. So she her sights on an off-Broadway play company, and swung for the role of Cecily Herrington in Love From a Stranger. Angie was pretty good, the director thought so, too, and she got the lead role in their production of The Lady Vanishes. And she was doing some modeling, too. She managed to get into Cosmopolitan recently, dressed in one of those New Look suits.
"That's brilliant, Angie. Did you audition for something?"
"Well, a producer from Paramount saw me on stage two months ago and invited me to an audition for an audition. They're adapting a Chandler script. And I got the role."
"Can't wait to see you. So when will you get here, by the way?"
"Monday next week. I'm coming by train. New York, Chicago, LA. I should be there by Friday. I'm practically done packing, and I was just thinking about you, cause you left a bunch of stuff here."
Peggy replies, "Yes, that's why I was calling you in the first place. I've decided to stay in Los Angeles."
"Oh my God! Peggy! This is so exciting!" Angie squeals with delight. It's loud enough for Peggy to pull the phone away from her ear.
Angie rushes on, not letting her get a word in edgewise. "Okay, so I think I can put most of your stuff into a box. There isn't too much stuff here. Do you want the bedding? Do you need the bedding? Because my sister and brother-in-law moved into a new place and their oldest is moving into a big kid's bed. And what about…"
"Angie," Peggy tries to interrupt, "Angie, please, breathe."
Angie takes an audible gulp of air and breathes out loudly. "Alright. Sorry. This is just… too amazing."
"I know. Anyway, your sister and brother-in-law can have the bedding. I have more linens here than I could ever need. Just pack my clothes. Though I may not need my winter things right away."
"My parents are coming down from Buffalo to help, I'm sure they can put your winter stuff in the attic until you need them."
"Thank you. And send them my thanks. In any case, aside from the clothes, I have some personal items - letters, photos, that stuff - could you make sure you bring those with you."
"Of course. Oh, and Peggy."
"Yes?"
Angie's voice goes soft, "I can't wait to see you again. It's been too long."
"I know. We'll need to do a lot of catching up."
There's a tapping at her door, and Peggy turns to see Daniel.
"I need to talk to you," he whispers.
She nods and turns back to the phone.
"Angie, I've got to go. Work waits for no one, you know. I'll see you soon."
"Yeah. I'll be arriving at Union Station. Not this Friday. The Friday after."
"Yes, I'll be there to greet you. Bye, Angie."
"See you soon, English."
…
So that was it. The end of the SSR tied up in a neat bow. As if all they've done meant nothing.
Daniel's words hung heavily in the air. A drawing room revelation from a bad Dorothy L. Sayers novel.
"And we're to run an errand?"
"I mean, lost documents are nothing to sneeze at," Howard says.
There in one of the sitting rooms. Dark and cool, thank God, it's sweltering outside. The bottle with the bullet and the Arena Club pin are laid out on the coffee table. Jarvis was tending to Ana, who is still rather bed ridden.
She sighs, "You're right. Especially when Thompson had my file."
"Your file? Why would he have pulled your file? Was he doing a performance review?" Daniel asks.
"No," she answers flatly. Peggy's still surprised Jack got his hands on that file. "No, that file is from before I was loaned to the SSR."
Daniel raises an eyebrow. She knows she'd have to break Official Secret at some point, she just didn't think it would be under these circumstances. "I think Howard sort of knows, but did you ever hear about an organization called the Special Operations Executive? The SOE?"
He shakes his head, "No."
"Good, you weren't supposed to."
He looks a little taken aback by the blunt tone, but Peggy continues. "The SOE was a clandestine organization meant to 'set Europe ablaze' according to Churchill. We were called the 'ministry of ungentlemanly warfare.' We conducted intelligence gathering, sabotage, assassinations, and general terror campagnes against the Germans. I was recruited because I speak fluent French, German, and Russian and I have experience as a wireless operator. I speak French with a Bordeaux accent. It drove my teachers mad when they tried to get me to speak à la Parisienne. I can't help that the Lopes de Villeneuve side is an old Occitane family. But I'm getting off track. Jack somehow got his hands on that old file and was making such a fuss about it."
"Wait, so that night he came here and took you aside?" Daniel asks.
"Yes. He said he'd release those files if I didn't go back to New York with him. That was when Masters was in his ear," she answers. "I don't know what he got out of that. It was heavily redacted, but he should have seen that I was in France for only six week!"
"What were you doing there?" Howard asks.
"Wireless operator. I was in the Limousin region helping a maquis there and we went bust like the rest of them. Someone fell into gendarme hands and I had to run. I made it to Zaragoza, then Madrid, and back to London. Wound up at Camp X before I was lent to the SSR. I'm lucky to be alive anyway; six weeks was the average life expectancy of wireless operators at the time. Most didn't even last that long. They got scooped up quickly, and some were never heard from again. The Dutch section was a death sentence, apparently.
"I basically called Jack's bluff because I knew there was nothing in that file that wasn't in hundreds of other SOE files. Nothing too shocking if he knew the context. Good Lord, we were fighting the Nazis and HYDRA, they weren't going to show us any mercy, so why would we be merciful to them?"
Daniel sighs, "True. Can't say I grew fond of them after Bastogne."
"But now, we have two questions," Howard says. Counting off with his fingers, he continues, "One: who has those files and where are they? And two: how did Thompson get Peggy's file in the first place?"
Peggy looks down at the coffee table, eyeing the Arena club pin. "I couldn't tell you how Jack Thompson got my old SOE file, but…" She picks up the pin. "I do know that Dottie went to a lot of trouble to get her hands on this or a pin just like it. And if there's one thing I know about Dottie is she doesn't leave loose ends if she can help it."
"Jack's shooting was in the newspapers this morning," Daniel adds. "Didn't put his name in them, but she can put two and two together."
"And come up with murder," Howard snarks.
Peggy stands, pocketing the pin. "In any case gentlemen, I believe we should go back to the hospital. Keep an eye on Jack and see if Dottie comes by for a visit."
"I'll have Jarvis bring the car around," says Howard. "And Sousa, you should send that bullet over to Wilkes to look at. You know, quietly."
"Of course, thanks."
"No problem. And while you two and Jarvis go looking for answers for question one, I'm going to see if I can get answers for question two," Howard replies.
"I thought you were in exile?" Peggy asks, raising an eyebrow.
"There's still people who know things who still talk to me. Stark Industries is a bit too valuable for them to drop."
…
Los Angeles County General Hospital
Jarvis had to fight against the evening rush hour traffic, turning a forty minute drive into nearly two hours and they arrive at the hospital around sunset.
"Visiting hours are over," a tired nurse says with a bored voice. She doesn't even look up from her desk.
Daniel replies, "We're not visitors. We're agents of the Strategic Scientific Reserve. We're here on business."
"For Chief Jack Thompson?"
"Yes."
"He's being guarded by LAPD officers, on order from Chief Flynn. You can come back tomorrow morning at ten when visit hours start."
Behind him, Peggy whispers to Jarvis, "We're getting nowhere, cause a distraction."
"What sort of 'distraction'?"
"I don't know, just… talk to her."
She gives Jarvis a bit of a push. Rather amazingly, he improvises a vague, complex scenario with half-remembered medical terms and doesn't let the duty nurse get a word in. All the while, Peggy tugs Daniel out of her line of sight to the lift.
"They sure don't want us doing anything," Daniel says as they ascend.
"No. Smells like a lot of ulterior motives," She agrees. "There were no guards at Thompson's hotel room when Jarvis and I got there. It looked rather neat and tidy."
"Yeah. That stinks."
They get off and walk down the hall on Thompson's floor. It's a little more quiet and a few lights are off for the evening. At the duty desk, they find a nurse who's been informed of the situation by Doctor Blake and is willing to help. Even stay overnight if they need to.
"Has he woken up yet?" Peggy asks.
"Well he's opened his eyes and kinda looked around," the nurse answers. "But he's heavily sedated, so I don't know if you'll get anything useful from him. If he can talk. So be gentle."
"We will," Daniel replies.
It's worth a try. One of the officers has gone to get coffee and the other's too tired to care, and just waves them into Jack's room.
Peggy shuts the door as Daniel goes to Jack's bedside. He gently shakes Jack's shoulder, "Thompson, you awake?"
He stirs a little, his flutter open. Jack looks up in confusion. "Sousa?" he mumbles.
"Yeah, Thompson, it's me. And Carter's here."
He nods. Every breath he takes is laboured, and he has to gather his strength to say anything.
"What happened?" Jack asks, coming out as almost one word.
"You were shot," Peggy answers. "But you're safe now."
He nods again. They shouldn't tax him too much. He needs his rest."
Daniel asks, "Do you remember who shot you?"
Jack shakes his head. "I… open the door. Then black."
"That's okay," he replies. Then to Peggy, "We can ask him later."
Of course. Maybe his memory will come back to him when he's better.
Hopefully.
Peggy takes a breath and brings out the Arena Club pin. "Thompson, I found this in your room. Do you know where it came from?"
Jack looks at the pin for a long moment. Concentration strains his face, willing his eyes to focus. "Masters," he gasps.
"Vernon Masters?" Daniel asks.
He nods.
"Isn't he dead?" Peggy asks.
"Pretty sure he is," replies Daniel. He looks down at Jack. "Hey, Jack, get your rest. Carter and I are going to stay the night."
Jack nods and settles himself back on his pillows and swiftly drifts back to sleep.
They leave, Daniel shutting the door firmly. Jarvis is outside with a carafe of coffee and some mugs.
"The nurse was about to call security but luckily someone came in with a stab wound," Jarvis explains.
"And where'd you get the coffee from?" Daniel asks, gladly taking a mug.
"Why I asked."
…
It's half past eleven when everything goes wrong.
The LAPD officers change over, meeting their colleagues at the hospital entrance. The night nurse goes to make her rounds. Jarvis nods off. Daniel goes to use the loo.
For maybe a minute, Peggy is left alone.
"Peggy! How funny to find you here!" says an all too familiar syrupy voice.
She jumps up. Jarvis bleats in surprise. Dottie's dressed in a nurse's uniform, the night nurse in a choke lock with a pistol to the chin.
"I see you couldn't stay away."
"Well you do have something of mine."
There's that glint in her eye. A predator ready to pounce.
"This?" Peggy says, holding up the Arena Club pin.
"So shiny. I bet you don't even know what it's for." The nurse struggles. Dottie tightens her grip and the nurse looks close to fainting. "Give it to me and show you wonderous things."
Peggy puts the pin in her pocket. "Let the nurse go and I may consider it."
Dottie smirks, "That's not how this is going to…"
Jarvis shoves a trolly at her. Dottie dodges. The nurse falls in a heap. Dottie fires her pistol. Peggy and Jarvis duck out of the way.
As Peggy looks up, firing her pistol in response, Dottie bolts, and she gives chase.
Dottie can run like a gazelle and knows better than to fight Peggy hand to hand. She's doing her best, not winded, but takes a corner hard while Dottie stays just a little out of reach.
They get to a stairwell. Dottie takes the opportunity to leap over the banister to get some distance. There's not too much of a gap and Peggy takes the leap, lands hard, tries getting up.
A fist slams hard into Peggy's abdomen not far from where she'd been impaled by rebar mere weeks ago.
She feels the wind get knocked out of her. Sees stars as she falls hard on the stairwell landing. She feels someone go through her pockets.
Dottie comes into view, holding the pin and smirking, "Thanks doll."
Peggy closes her eyes against the pain. Trying to catch her breath even though it only seems to come in gulps.
"Peg?"
Someone roles her onto her side. The voice is familiar.
"Good Lord," another voice. English and educated.
"Are you alright, Peg?"
When she opens her eyes, she sees Michael staring down at her. Can feel his hand on her cheek. He looks exactly like Michael, but dressed in a police officer's uniform.
I must be hallucinating. You're dead.
He says something. She barely hears it's like being under water. He looks behind himself at whoever's trying to get his attention. She follows his gaze, and finds that along with this look-alike Michael, is Roger Aubrey. Dressed as a police officer, too.
Peggy closes her eyes and falls back onto the cool tiles.
…
"Miss Carter?"
"I think she's waking up. Peg? Peggy? Can you hear us?"
Peggy comes to. Jarvis crouched beside her. Daniel holding her. Her head and chest hurt, but she's breathing normally at least.
"How are you feeling?" Daniel asks.
"Horrid."
"Yeah, figured."
"Are you alright?"
"Well," she looks up and sees Daniel's growing black eye and bloody nose, "A little worse for wear, but not too bad."
Jarvis looks disheveled and shaken. "Got a little manhandled and locked in a room with the nurse."
"Poor you," she tries quipping at Jarvis. Rather hard to do when one's head feels like it's being used as a gong. "Is Jack alright."
Daniel and Jarvis share a look of bleak resignation. There's a long pause before anyone says anything. Even in her roughed up state, it doesn't take Peggy long to realize what's happened.
"He's dead," Daniel breaks the silence. "Jack's dead."