Episode One: Killer
Chapter Two
Jim Phelps walked onto the peer with reticent anticipation, feeling the familiarity of the IMF protocols easily return. If not for the reason he was taking this mission, Jim might have admitted that he'd missed it—missed it immensely. The feeling was embittered by Tom's death. The reminder twisted heavy in his chest.
The fisherman standing by the peer's left railing was a typical IMF contact, nondescript and bleeding into the background—fitting precisely and naturally into the surrounds.
Jim might not have even recognized him as a contact, were it not for the fact that he knew him—casually. He'd worked with Tom on several missions.
In addition to the obvious, the man wore a white hat (never let it be said the IMF didn't have a sense of humor) and conveniently fished off the peer outside the same Marina where Jim kept his boat. All signs pointing obviously to an agent of the IMF—if only to Jim.
"What do you use for bait when you're fishing?" Jim asked, approaching the man casually.
"I don't use bait. I use a spinner," the fisherman answered.
"Oh, I only use a spinner when I'm game fishing." There was an inanity in the coded conversation that Jim oddly enjoyed.
"They say the man they buried this morning worked for one of those secret government agencies."
Jim swallowed. "That's what I understand," he said.
"I hear the man was a team leader, the best they ever had, except for the man who trained him. They say those two were like father and son."
"Yes, they were," Jim said carefully.
The man nodded, respect and consolation, then he slowly walked away, leaving Jim in solitude.
Jim stepped forward. He removed the IMF player from the fisherman's tackle box, and in moments had placed the provided digital disk into the player and keyed in the access code. The small screen snapped to life, showing a dark haired man engaged in varying activities.
Jim memorized his features, even before voiceover started explaining who he was.
"Welcome back, Jim. Though I wish it weren't under these circumstances. This man is responsible for the death of Tom Copperfield. No one knows his real name. He uses many identities. Currently he's using the name Mathew Drake. From what we can learn, Drake has an exclusive contract with a powerful underworld leader whom we know only by his code name—Scorpio."
Scorpio, Jim thought, realizing as he rolled the name through his mind that he felt cheated. The name should have meant more—hearing the name of Tom's killer should have been someone Jim's mind could dredge up and mentally throttle. Who was this man? What breadcrumbs had he left that had sent Tom in his pursuit?
"Tom Copperfield was moving in on Scorpio when he was killed. Eventually, Drake will be ordered to kill again. Your mission, should you choose to accept, is to prevent his next murder and discover Scorpio's identity—the man ultimately responsible for Tom Copperfield's death. Should any of your IM force be caught or killed, the Secretary will disavow any knowledge of your actions. This disc will self destruct in five seconds. Good luck, Jim."
Jim closed the lid of the player and stood. He wasn't sure which was more ironic, the fact that by killing Tom, Scorpio had garnered attention from the IMF he could never possibly escape, or that by sending an assassin after Tom, Scorpio had provided them with the perfect lead, one Jim would contentedly use to produce his downfall.
He didn't ponder the irony long. He walked away, possibilities already swirling in his mind and a self-destructing disk smoking behind him.
The house IMF had set up for Jim stood on twelve and a half acres of beachfront property that maintained its privacy by ensuring the nearest neighbors were ten miles away. He could tell, even before he'd made it through the front door, that they'd calculated it specifically for him. The open and graceful design, the neutral colors, even the semi-secluded location—all felt like an attempt to entice him out of retirement.
Permanently.
They would have to live in disappointment.
Just the same, he took his time wandering the premises in appreciation before turning to the task of choosing a team. The subtle yet distinctive surroundings lent themselves to Jim's confidence in the organization he'd dedicated his life to. He was confident that they'd know the agents he'd want to work with as well.
The granite-laid coffee table was empty except for the sleek black remote control waiting on its surface. Jim lifted it and punched in his code numbers while seating himself on the bordering black leather couch. The first button he pushed triggered the appearance of a secreted console, flawlessly waiting within the folds of the coffee table's granite top.
Shaking his head with a small smile, Jim couldn't help but be a little impressed. "Time does march on," he said to the empty room.
The next button he pushed yielded similar results, this time revealing a wide digital screen concealed in the support column opposite the console.
Though the technology had changed, Jim was unruffled. An instinctual part of him knew this would always be what he was meant for. This is what he was truly good at. Even in his absence he'd often felt the pull of it. Like a physical force.
Barney had always said that what sent IMF agents apart from other operations in the world of espionage was the inability of the agents to walk away. They took the impossible missions because they didn't accept impossible. They couldn't not try.
Well, Barney, you were right, Jim thought—I can't walk away from this one.
Tapping a few keys on the console's keyboard called up the information IMF had linked into Jim's computer. The wide screen came to life showing a thin young man with dark eyes, smoothly tan features, and black hair. The recorded voiceover started giving Jim the young agent's information.
"Nicholas Black—excels in disguise, languages and acting. When Nicholas isn't working for us, he's teaching Drama at an Eastern University."
The candid footage on screen showed Nicholas with several young students. He had an easygoing smile on his face but a serious set to his shoulders. Something in the way he seemed to carry himself reminded Jim of Tom. Though in looks they couldn't be more opposite, there was something there. In the way Nicholas stood, the astute expression. Jim pondered the picture a moment longer, but justification for the similarities he perceived never materialized.
Nicholas was younger than Tom, Jim noted, just over a decade between them. Tom's time in the IMF would have him weathering the rapid progress of IMF technology. Nicholas would have been brought right into the heart of an advanced generation of agents. A new generation from which Jim knew he would be selecting all his agents. He'd spoken truth—time does march on.
He punched the key on the computer that would accept Nicholas Black as the first member of his new team. Jim was still missing the details on the agent, which left him with remaining questions—like how Nicholas had gotten involved with IMF and why. But he'd have time to familiarize himself with those details later.
As though reading his thoughts, the computer voiceover continued, "As with all selections, further information is available in printout." The printer hummed, even as the word "accepted" scrolled across the screen, securing and encoding Nicholas's information onto Jim's computer.
Jim's light fingers sent the computer on to the next agent.
"Casey Randall—was a top designer on three continents when her fiancé was killed in a terrorist bombing. She helped trap the terrorists responsible and has worked with IMF ever since."
Watching the resourceful Casey Randall on screen made the next selection a no-brainer. Red hair framed intelligent eyes, the intensity in them evidencing her character. Jim had no doubt she would prove capable of adapting quickly to any rough situation or unforeseen complication. She would offer the team the balance from her able and calm reactions. She'd obviously stayed composed enough to capture her fiancé's killers. Doing so in an Impossible Mission's scenario couldn't have been easy.
He hit the computer key that would lock her information in with Nicholas Black's.
"Max Harte was still in high school when the Vietnam War ended. When his brother didn't come home from a POW camp, Max organized his own mission to find him and did."
Jim didn't hesitate in selecting Max Harte either. A few rapid key taps added him effortlessly to the new team file. Max Harte would prove essential, his skills a core necessity for any team. The blond man shown on the screen was tall, rugged, and built like a bulldozer. Strength and determination vied for dominance in keenly bright eyes. His history alone bespoke of his unwillingness to accept defeat, or loss, without expending every effort. If Max had been determined enough as a high school boy to successfully rescue his brother—Jim was certain he'd be proficient in taking down Tom's killers.
All Phelps needed now was someone technically inclined—someone intelligent enough to work the team's needs behind the scenes yet still step up to center stage when necessary. He didn't expect an exact replica of Barney Collier, but would give just about anything to have his old friend back working with him again. He'd have to see who IMF presented to him and hope for the best.
New footage rolled onto the screen as Jim hit another button on the remote.
"Grant Collier—that's right Jim—Barney Collier's son."
Jim smiled. He almost laughed. This was all the evidence he needed to realize how well the IMF knew him, how they'd know exactly what he'd want.
"…and where Barney left off, his son picked up. Grant graduated from MIT at 16, where one of his professors called him the greatest inventive mind to come out of MIT in 20 years."
Jim wondered how well Grant remembered him. He'd still been young the last time they met—ridiculously young and intensely smart, with a proclivity for trouble that had put Barney into worried flusters lasting for days. He hadn't heard from Barney recently, but… how had Barney's son started working for IMF without Jim knowing? He felt like he should have known.
Watching the screen, Jim noted that Grant Collier could no longer be called a boy. No more so than any of the other new team members. Although on the whole, the team was young—Jim recognized the keen experience they represented. Without a doubt, they'd be capable of handling any mission they were handed, no matter how impossible.
With another quick tap of the remote, Grant's downloaded information joined the rest. Jim gave a satisfied nod as his four new teammates appeared in different quadrants of the screen.
He punched another button on his remote, calling up the footage of Mathew Drake.
His shoulders tightened. He felt a jump in his jaw muscle.
You're finished, he thought. You're finished.
tbc