Episode One: Killer

Chapter Three

Grant Collier hung up his apartment phone with practiced frustration. His sister Jamie had just gone another round with him about his job. When he'd graduated MIT, he'd tried to hide his employment choice from her for as long as possible but she was no fool. Every bit as smart as he was, she had always been able to tell when he was lying to her. Grant knew Jamie too, with her calm intelligence, could have chosen to work for the IMF herself—they had wanted her, but she'd refused.

She hadn't wanted them or the life they offered. In her mind, the IMF had taken their father away from her, and from them. She didn't want it taking her brother too. Much as Grant understood that, for him, things were different.

He could no more not work for IMF than he could choose the color of his skin. It was in his blood, his genes. He was IMF—had been since the day he was born. He could try to deny it but the truth would never change. Working missions had helped him understand his father in a way he never had while growing up.

All he'd known then was that Barney Collier was a good man and he'd always wanted to be just like him.

The problem was that right now Barney Collier was also a missing man. It wasn't entirely unusual for his father to be missing. A few weeks or a month would go by with no word from him and then suddenly a letter or postcard would show up postmarked from the south of France, Northern Brazil, Kenya, an obscure Russian satellite country, or an endless list of other odd locations.

Grant even remembered one postcard that had been sent from Antarctica. To this day he didn't know what his father had been doing there, or where he'd found a post office, but true to IMF form, Grant usually didn't ask.

Barney's absences worried him just as much as they worried his sister but he was usually able to take them in stride. Conversely, when Barney Collier went missing, Jamie Collier tended to take most of her worry out on the Collier she could reach. It was usually those times that Grant regretted picking up the phone. Everything said between him and his sister on the subject was already old, but he repeated the practiced lines anyway. "I'm sure we'll hear from him soon, Jamie," and, "No, I'm not going to quit my job."

He was thinking he should just put the lines on a recorder—the answers would never change.

It wasn't even just that IMF was in his blood. It wasn't just the adrenaline rush or the conquered impossible challenge. Grant believed in the missions. He believed in what they did and what they stood for. Jamie could never quite accept that part.

When the phone rang again, less than five minutes after hanging up with her, Grant wanted to ignore it, certain that those five minutes had given Jamie the time to work herself up for another go at him. He tried to ignore it but a small nagging pull in his gut wouldn't let him.

"Grant Collier," he said formally.

"An old friend of your father's has requested to see you, Mr. Collier. I've been asked to see you get the message."

Grant recognized the voice. He'd heard it hundreds of times and knew what it meant. He had a mission. "Of course," he answered. "I'll be glad to see him. Is something wrong?"

"Yes, Mr. Collier, I'm afraid there has been a death in the family."

Grant slowly drew in air. An agent had been killed. The phrase could mean nothing else. "I'm sorry to hear that." He cleared his throat. "What is it he'd like me to do?"

Max Harte kicked idly at the wrench next to his toe, shaking his head in sorrowful frustration at the helicopter he'd been trying to fix. The damage he'd hoped was minimal was looking more and more like it was terminal. The thought didn't penetrate well. He had a hard time giving up on his birds.

He had a hard time giving up on anything.

Already his mind was spinning, considering replacement parts he had on hand and evaluating the prices of the ones he'd need to find. He could strip the bird and rebuild her from the inside out—make some power adjustments. It would be a long project but he could do it. He'd done it with the scrapped black GTO sitting behind his garage and the near totaled 1968 mustang his brother had bought at auction.

Jesse had had an enormous love for old machines.

Besides, it would fill the empty times between missions. And he needed to fill that time. He needed something to occupy his mind, and effort. It's not that he didn't enjoy his time between missions—it wasn't really in his nature to not enjoy things—but flying helicopter tours had lost some of the thrill since he'd started running the business alone.

It wasn't Jesse's fault. The cancer had simply proved unbeatable. Already a year had passed since his brother's death but Max felt Jesse's absence every time he went airborne. It was a natural feeling. Jesse was the one who'd taught him how to fly. He should enjoy flying for his brother's sake, if nothing else.

IMF Missions were different. They were situations in which he could act—he could actively do something about a problem in a way he hadn't been able to do in the face of his brother's cancer. On missions, Max knew he could make a difference. Maybe not for himself, but for someone, he could make things better.

Max considered the broken helicopter again, and started a written list of the supplies he would need.

The interruption of his crackling air traffic radio was almost a relief and he broke away from the extensive and daunting list with joy. He was even more pleased when the coded words cutting through the frequency revealed his unspoken wish to be called on for another mission had been fulfilled.

He'd be flying to San Francisco before the day was out.

"Casey, who was that?"

Casey Randall settled the phone back into its cradle, looking back into Mrs. Jennings's aristocratic features. "Oh, I'm sorry, Mrs. Jennings. I've had a situation come up in my family and I'm afraid I'll not be able to finish those designs. I'll pass them over to Cheryl—she's very good."

"Oh, dear, I hope it's nothing serious." The woman fluttered a hand over her heart in false sympathy.

"Me too," said Casey. "I don't mean to rush you, but I've got to leave right away." She picked up Mrs. Jennings's coat and purse, handing them to her before reaching for her own. "I'll walk you out."

Pulling on her jacket, the woman allowed Casey to guide her to the door. "Well, when do you think you might return?" she asked, as though only now realizing that Casey was serious about not being able to complete her designs—suddenly worried she was losing the elusive and hard to contract designer she'd worked so hard to hire.

"I'm afraid it's impossible to say. I've got to meet my uncle right away. Don't worry, Cheryl will be happy to take over. I promise you won't be disappointed."

They were now standing on the broad walkway outside the exclusive design studio. "Oh, well…"

"Goodbye, Mrs. Jennings, Cheryl will be in contact by tomorrow." Casey moved toward her car without a backwards glance. Ever since she'd lost Peter, dealing with the insincere platitudes of customers that only wanted to keep her happy enough to get her work, grated on raw nerves. She'd loved design—the art and expression of it. But losing Peter had made it all meaningless—highlighting the falseness of the society she'd been mixed up in. None of them really cared that she'd lost her fiancé and no one had wanted to do anything about it—even Peter's family.

Casey hadn't been able to be complacent about it. She wouldn't just accept his loss as a tragedy she could do nothing about. When IMF had approached her with their offer, asking for her help, she'd not hesitated to accept—not then and never since.

"Tom Copperfield." Tom held his hand out openly, but Nicholas Black noted the wariness in his eyes. Wariness was part of their profession—an innate part of working for IMF that was either part of you when you started or didn't take you long to develop.

But it was the weariness in Tom's eyes that bothered Nicholas more. Wariness gave you an edge. Weariness, the kind of weariness Tom Copperfield was showing, was the kind that got you dead. The burden of suspicion—always being on your guard and never able to let it slip.

Nicholas had decided if he ever saw that look in the eyes staring back at him from the mirror, it might be time for him to quit IMF—no matter how much that would kill him.

"Nicholas Black," he returned warmly. He shook Copperfield's hand securely, but let the hesitation and curiosity he felt surface in his voice. "Do you take in student theatre often?" he asked skeptically. IMF was known to contact him in a variety of curious ways but rarely had that included an agent such as Copperfield attending his student's plays.

"Not often," Tom answered. "But yours are no ordinary students. I've never seen the play performed better."

There it was, thought Nicholas, the inane codices of the IMF. He smiled, ready to play along. "I can take you on a tour backstage if you like."

"I'd like that," said Tom. "As long as it's convenient. I don't want anything official."

So, Copperfield wasn't here on official business—curiouser and curiouser. "We don't often get official around here—only when we perform Macbeth—so I think you're safe. Come on, I'll show you the sets. Nicholas turned, walking up the steps to the stage.

Looking relieved, Tom followed.

Nicholas had heard of Tom Copperfield. Few in IMF hadn't. But he'd never met the man in person, and couldn't fathom what he would want to speak with him about… unofficially.

By the time he led Tom into the stage's wings, pointing out the backstage props so Tom wouldn't trip over them in the dark, the theater was mostly empty. Nicholas took a seat in one of the prop department's cushioned chairs, and started pulling off the mustache and beard he'd applied for his small part in his student's play.

Tom sat opposite, choosing the hard bench rather than the easy chair.

Nicholas waited.

This was Tom's game.

"Nicholas." Tom hesitated, dragging a thumb across his chin. "I've come to ask your help with something, and I think I can trust you."

"Nicholas?"

Nicholas popped his head up towards his office door, subtly shielding the folder of information he was reviewing. "Professor James. I'm sorry, I didn't hear you knock."

"Are you all right? You look like you've been here all night."

Nicholas closed the folder containing his notes on Tom Copperfield and dropped it on his desk, rubbing hands over his eyes. "I'm fine. I just got… caught up in something."

Professor James opened the door wider and came in to lean on the desk. "Anything I can help you with?"

Nicholas shook his head, trying to clear the remembrance of Tom's hesitant voice from his mind. Nicholas, I've come to ask your help with something…

"I'm afraid not, Professor—just a personal matter."

…and I think I can trust you.

"You've got to take care of yourself, Nicholas. You're not always going to be a young man, you know. Someday you'll be old like me."

"Thanks, Professor." Nicholas smiled ruefully. "Was there something you needed?" He hoped Professor James didn't dwell too much on the abrupt change of subject. Ever since he'd started teaching, the friendly professor had taken him under his wing, inviting him to join his family on holidays and take occasional Sunday meals.

"Actually, yes," said Professor James, dropping a written phone message in front of him. "You got a call at the front desk. They tried to transfer it back, but you weren't picking up your phone. It seemed urgent."

Nicholas opened the folded paper. Your uncle needs help with your cousin's funeral, it read, followed by please call and a phone number. Nicholas swallowed. Tom's mission. He was being called to Tom Copperfield's case. His uncle—Uncle Sam or Jim Phelps. Likely a reference to the latter.

He'd always wanted the chance to work with Jim. He hadn't really expected it though—the man was retired. And he'd definitely not expected it to come like this.

"Nicholas, I didn't know you had an uncle," Professor James questioned, looking abashed, as though he didn't want to pry. It was less than common knowledge, but most in the drama department knew Nicholas didn't have any family.

"He's not my real uncle, exactly," he explained. "In fact I've never met him. I only met my cousin just last week—barely acquaintances really."

"Ah yes," Professor James said. He dropped a hand on his Nicholas's shoulder. "Even if you didn't know him, it's still hard to lose family."

Nicholas nodded, swallowing carefully again, noting the truth in the old professor's words. He stood up, rubbing hands over his face again. "Thank you, Professor. I'd better get going. I'm sure Jean will cover my class."

"She usually does," the professor commented wryly.

Nicholas shrugged that comment off, focusing now on other things. If he was going to be of use on this mission he needed to not look like walking death. He wondered if he would have time to grab a quick shower.

At least he would have time to sleep on the plane.

tbc

To The Reviewers: MI fan and Doc—thank you both for your comments. I was also disappointed with the series was cancelled. I watched the tapes recently and couldn't help myself. There were a few fan fictions that popped into my head, but it seemed useless to write them if no other fans existed that would get them. I started converting the pilot to maybe possibly introduce people to the fandom before trying anything else. It's majorly helped me get over the writer's block. I'm also really glad to know I'm not the show's only fan.