Episode One: Killer
Chapter Five
Jim had the team stagger their arrivals in England, for no other reason than the convenience of setting them to different tasks on different continents in the interim before they rejoined each other late Thursday afternoon. The anticipation for the coming job was high but Jim felt confident in their readiness for Drake's arrival. By Friday morning, however, the feeling of readiness was overshadowed by a continuing descent into chaos.
Jim, after seeing that his team was professionally and unemotionally dealing with the emerging hazards, called one last meeting with an old friend in the London office, just to cover all their bases. He wanted to ensure they'd have resources and support beyond what they'd already asked, should the need arise.
He just couldn't let this one go—not without every possible angle covered.
The accommodating London director shifted several agents into Jim's periphery, where they would stay awaiting Jim's orders. Enough IMF personnel to fill cracks in the plan if any opened up.
By the time he finally caught a cab back to Grant's blank hotel, traffic in that direction had frozen like ice. Ahead, Jim could just make out a tipped double-decker bus and the crunched moving van it had collided with. Cursing, he started to worry that he wouldn't make it back in time for Drake's arrival, but it was then that Max contacted him to say Drake's plane was over an hour late.
Even so, Jim couldn't seem to arrive at the hotel fast enough. By 10:55 he'd finally made it. Breathing in relief, he quickly paid the cabbie and jogged up the stairs. He could hear voices inside.
"The outside camera is operative… this one will be ready in a minute." Jim knew the voice wasn't Grant's and assumed it belonged to one of the London supporters already assigned.
"Good."
Jim knew that voice already—even with just one short word he could identify Casey. The two sounded like they were making progress fixing the camera wires that had blown that morning.
So far this operation is moving as smoothly as a train wreck, he thought.
Both Casey and the stranger looked at him when he opened the door and entered. "Anymore on Drake's plane?" he asked.
"It's over an hour late," Casey shrugged. With a small gesture she indicated the man she was with. "Jim, meet Tim Conner from our London office. He's here helping Grant with some of our laser work."
And camera wiring, Jim noted mentally. He stepped forward to shake Tim Conner's hand, saying honestly, "Glad to have you aboard, Tim."
"Thank you, sir. It's an honor to work with you." It was a sincere response.
Jim left off greeting Conner with a simple nod before turning back to Casey. "An hour late," he said, the morning's frustrations cutting into his voice.
"Will that affect our plan?" she asked, walking with him through the ornate but uncomplicated lobby—carrying the toolbox Tim had been using to fix the camera.
Jim led her behind the front desk as he answered. "It could. If he has to make his phone call at a pre-arranged time… if he has to make the call before he checks into his…" Jim gestured at the nameless, marquee-less room, "…hotel." They were already cutting the schedule close. If the plane was any later, they weren't going to have the time they needed to convert the 'blank' hotel into Drake's hotel.
Jim pushed on the rows of small shelves lining the back wall behind the desk. The entire section swung inward, revealing the secret room behind. This room truly did look like a war room. Cemented and unfinished walls framed the IMF equipment they'd brought in. Nicholas's makeup supplies and his and Max's clothing changes were sitting in one corner, Grant's electronics scattered throughout the rest of it.
Jim weaved toward where Grant sat at a makeshift desk, staring into a computer monitor. "Anything, Grant?" he asked, sliding out of his trench coat.
The young genius looked up from the screen. "Drake's plane will touch down in just about three minutes."
"Good." Jim smiled, feeling a sudden sense of déjà vu—certain he and Barney Collier had done this exact thing sometime before.
Grant saw Jim pause to stare at him while folding his coat over his forearm. He wondered, not for the first time, what Jim saw when he looked at him. His father, when persuaded to speak about work, spoke mostly of Jim Phelps, of his skills as the team's mastermind, and of his friendship. Grant had met Jim Phelps once not long after he'd figured out there was more going on then met the eye in his father's life. Though just ten years old he was already smart enough to realize his father and Phelps were involved in much more than international business.
Briefly, Grant wondered when Jim and his father had last been in contact with each other. He himself hadn't seen or heard from his father in months. He wasn't even sure if his father had heard of Tom Copperfield's death, or of his own son's assignment to Jim's team. But those were questions he'd have to worry about later. Right now, things were about to get busy.
Grant turned his attention back to the computer. "Twenty five minutes," he said to Jim. "That's all I'll need once he hits his cab."
Jim dropped his coat onto one of the tables as Grant turned up the volume on the scanner to his right. The squawking voice from the box clarified why Grant had suddenly turned it up. They were listening for the movements of the taxi cabs going to and from the airport. The dispatcher was one of their London supporters. As requested, she was sending a majority of the drivers away from the airport, giving Drake limited choices on the ones he could take.
Max Harte leaned casually against the door of his appropriated taxi, looking menacing and in desperate need of a fare all at once. He maintained the casual pose effortlessly while marking every face that emerged from the airport's main doors.
He growled at anyone who approached him for a lift—they'd have to find other ways to get where they were going. He was saving his ride for Mathew Drake.
Max had met Tom Copperfield briefly, twice. He'd liked the man. He'd heard good things about the way he lead missions and, like most IMF agents, was fairly impressed with some of the jobs he'd pulled. For Max, catching the killer of a fellow IMF agent made this personal enough on its own, but knowing the man had been the pseudo-son of Jim Phelps got Max doubly invested. As pleased as Max was to work with a leader like Phelps, he hated the circumstances that had brought it about.
He'd never been one to take defeat or loss easily, particularly when it involved someone he cared about. He wasn't one to let things like that go—not if there was something he could do about it.
When he saw the murderer finally emerge from the airport, he had to consciously wash the contempt from his face.
He watched Drake stroll to a telephone booth, heedless of Max's stare as he carelessly tore a page from the anchored telephone book. When Drake dropped his head Max allowed himself one last vindictive smile in his direction. "You're finished, Drake," he whispered, but by the time Drake looked up from folding his torn phone page, all he saw was a muscled cabbie, desperate for a fare.
Sure enough, Drake walked toward him. Max abandoned his casual lean, stepping out toward Drake and then to the back door of his car. He yanked it open with a jaunty, "Cab, sir?"
Drake stared at him, giving Max the impression of a spider staring down a fly. "No thanks," he answered. With a cold smile, he shifted directions, fluidly moving to the next cabbie down the line.
"Hey!" Max shouted. "I'm the first cab in line. You've got to ride with me!"
Drake gave him the spidery look again, peering at Max as though he were a too-skinny fly, not worth the spider's effort, dismissing him without comment.
Max watched as Drake stepped up to the window of the second cab. Though now some distance away he distinctly heard him ask the driver, "Say, do you know where the Raeburn is?"
Max smiled sardonically as Nicholas popped his head up at Drake's question—the glasses on his nose, the pencil in his mouth, and the papers in his lap giving him the absolute appearance of distracted and aloof. "The Raeburn?" said Nicholas, taking the pencil out of his mouth and reaching for the ripped paper Drake handed him, blinking his eyes as though trying to place where he'd heard the name before.
Despite the morning's unexpected disasters, Max felt confident in their plan. A smile snuck up to his lips. Nicholas was good. Nicholas was very good.
"Oh, the Raeburn Hotel in Kensington." Nicholas nodded with a self-deprecating shrug, acting as though he should have recognized the name right off. He stepped out of the car with an easy smile. "Sure, I know where it is." Nicholas moved around the front of his own car. "As a matter of fact, I took this nice lady there last week."
Max slipped around his car and into his cab's driver's seat, continuing to watch Nicholas and Drake with a slightly giddy smirk. Step into my parlor, said the spider to the fly.
Drake was already opening the backdoor. "Spare me the details. I'm in a hurry."
Nicholas stepped quickly in front of him, cutting off Drake's access to the door handle, opening it for him instead. "Ah, please," he protested. "Let me get that for you, sir. Can I take your bags?"
"I can manage," Drake intoned, annoyed and sounding like a man who annoyed easily.
That could work for them.
"The Raeburn it is," Nicholas said loudly, ensuring Grant would pick up the transmission from his hidden communicator. He shut the door for Drake, and as he crossed back to the driver's side, he threw Max a small smile.
Welcome to our parlor said the spiders to the fly, Max thought again, grinning. Make no mistake, Drake, we are the spiders here.
"Alright you heard it—the Raeburn," said Jim.
Grant's fingers flashed across the keyboard as Jim walked to look over his shoulder. In seconds the information they wanted was splayed out before them. "The Raeburn Hotel," read Grant, "Sixteen Craven Hill." He looked up at Casey's questioning glance. "R-A-E-B-U-R-N," he spelled.
Casey immediately set to work, pulling out the magnetic lettering she would need for the hotel's street sign and front desk.
From Grant's communicator they heard Drake ask Nicholas, "How long will it take to get to the hotel?"
"Depends on traffic," Nicholas answered smoothly, epitomizing the voice of a tired cabbie who dealt with traffic all too often. "Twenty, maybe twenty-five minutes."
"The phonebook says fifteen," snarked Drake. "Now if you can't do it in that, I've got to find a cabbie who can."
"Hey," Nicholas protested indignantly, "if any cabbie can get you there in fifteen minutes, I can."
The car's motor jumped as Nicholas started it and pulled into traffic. They knew Max would already be pushing ahead of him, preparing to stall in any way he could.
"Fifteen minutes, Jim," lamented Grant, standing up from his desk and pulling his jacket from the back of his chair in one smooth movement. "It's just not enough time." He moved hastily to the door.
"We don't have a choice," Jim gestured, Grant's concern echoing in his own voice. "We have to make it work."
While Nicholas made his way toward the hotel with a nervous Drake hovering in the backseat, Grant was busy hanging Casey's hastily made Raeburn Hotel sign above the front door. Max was breaking speed limits and changing into a cop's uniform while he drove. Tim Conner was tracking Nicholas's progress on the large computerized map linked to Grant's main computer, and Jim was completing the replacement names for the streets outside.
All were praying they'd be ready in time.
When Grant finished hanging the hotel sign, he checked Casey's progress in the lobby, then moved back into the war room to check on Jim. As he entered, the bleeping spot on his computerized map confirmed what he already feared. "We'll never be ready at the pace he's going," he told Jim. It wasn't a complaint, just the truth.
Jim glanced back at the map. "Max will do what he can, but Drake's insistence he be here in fifteen minutes probably means he has to make the phone call to get his assignment. If we slow him down too much, he's libel to bolt."
Grant accepted Jim's statement as truth also. They'd just have to do the best they could and hope Drake didn't get spooked by the gaps in their décor.
Jim handed him the completed street signs. Grant took them carefully, double checking for errors while nearly running to put them in place. From the corner of his eye he saw Tim Conner open the glass burner, pulling out an elegant goblet with an elaborate "R" now cresting its side.
In all, it took Grant less than five minutes to get outside, set the step ladder, and place the new street signs. When he got back inside, Casey had finished much of the lobby and had moved on to Drake's bedroom, apparently having to reset the bugs, not realizing they too had been affected by the mornings blown wires—as if they didn't have enough to do already.
He wasn't going to give in just yet. He had great confidence in this team. If it could be done, they would do it, and maybe even make it with time to spare.
Casey moved rapidly around the room they'd selected for Drake. She set new towels in the bathroom, arranging the newly embroidered R's ornately on the towel racks, adding other finishing touches as she slipped from area to area, her mind all business. She was almost finished when she realized that morning's camera problems had included the hidden scope in the bedroom mirror. Alerting the others to the problem, she quickly set to work.
Abandoning her current decorating endeavors, she retrieved a repaired camera from Conner and set about placing it behind the two-way mirror. Tilting it to face her she spoke aloud to test the audio. "All set, Jim."
She stepped back, waiting.
"Casey, give me a level." Jim's voice came from the communicator clipped to her waist.
She smiled in relief as she stared into the mirror, picturing Jim's serious face looking back at her. She felt unable to resist. "Mirror Mirror on the wall," she lightly intoned.
"Alright, you'd better finish off in there," Jim instructed.
She could hear the smile in his voice, however faint. "Just another minute," she answered, completely back to business.
Jim watched Casey a moment longer to ensure the video and audio feed were indeed working. When both were confirmed, and seemed unlikely to blow out on them again, he turned back to the map, checking Nicholas and Drake's progress. They were getting much too close—they still needed more time.
He wasn't prepared to panic yet, however. Max was still out there, ready to get in Nicholas's way.
Jim turned up the audio on the communication speaker and sat down to hear how Max and Nicholas handled themselves. He believed that both could, but couldn't fight the nagging worry in his stomach that reminded him the two agents would be in close association with a killer they'd be purposely annoying—a killer who was known best for his unpredictable actions and his affinity for violence.
Nicholas drove fast, going just enough over the speed limit to convince Drake he'd picked the right cabbie for a hasty trip. So far, Drake seemed relatively content, which was good, but Nicholas was gritting his teeth because he knew he wasn't giving his teammates the time they needed for Drake's arrival.
Where are you, Max?
As he rounded the next corner, his question was answered. Max had made it to the exact spot he was supposed to. Nicholas felt a wave of gratitude. Once confirming it really was Max he saw, he punched his gas pedal a little harder, zooming the cab past the cars building themselves into a traffic-jam on the other side of the street.
A siren sprung to life behind him. He glanced into the rearview mirror, watching Drake's annoyed realization that the siren was meant for them. Nicholas dropped his foot off the pedal, gifting Drake with a repentant shrug. "Oh, now what?" he said aloud, making himself sound as antsy and anxious as Drake looked. "I guess I put my finger in it a bit," he apologized, working his London accent overtime. It was one of his favorites. "But don't worry, I'll bluff my way out of it."
Drake said nothing.
Nicholas pulled the car to the side of the road and stopped, watching in his rear view mirror as Max slowly stepped off his commandeered police motorcycle. In the patrolman's uniform he wore—complete with helmet and dark glasses, he was barely recognizable, even to Nicholas.
He swaggered unhurriedly to the cab window, slowly pulling off his gloves. Nicholas almost couldn't withhold the grin—Max was good. His fellow agent had to have double timed it to get changed and get in place, but was managing to look like the poster boy of habitually slow, unhurried, traffic cops.
"Can I see your license, sir?" he asked laconically.
"Why not, sir," answered Nicholas, digging in his wallet for the appropriate document. "Did I do something wrong?"
Max leaned down in the window. "You were going twenty miles over the speed limit."
"Twenty miles?" Nicholas blurted indignantly.
Max responded with a slow nod.
Glancing again at Drake in the rearview mirror, Nicholas pretended to change his tactics, he slumped closer to the window and spoke to Max in a soft, supplicating voice, "Listen, officer, this fare of mine is in a bit of a hurry. You see I picked him up at Heathrow—"
"Could I just see your license, please, sir?" Max cut him off flatly.
"Would you have a heart, mate?" Nicholas returned—exasperated.
"Just get it over with," ordered Drake from the back. "I'll pay you what the ticket costs."
Nicholas nodded, defeated, pulling out his license and handing it to Max with a bitter shrug. "Lousy cops," he muttered, unaware that back in the war room Jim Phelps was trying not to smile at their byplay. "I mean, how do you make a living these days?"
Max handed him a clipboard and he signed where Max pointed. "Thank you, sir," Max stated.
Nicholas gave him a yeah whatever look in return.
As Max ambled back to his bike with the license and clipboard—at an achingly slow pace—Nicholas shrugged helplessly at Drake.
In the war room, Jim let his smile disappear, waiting in concern for Max to give his take on the situation.
"Drake looks nervous," reported Max over his communicator. "I'll hold him as long as I can."
Jim glanced at his watch and then up at Grant who, aided by Conner, was busy making Raeburn labels for the lobby's desktop magazines and reference books.
Sensing Jim's gaze, Grant looked up from what he was doing and focused on the speaker to hear what was going on with his fellow agents.
"I know you're in a hurry," Nicholas was saying to Drake. "I'm sorry about this."
"Ah, keep it going, Nick," Grant encouraged aloud, as though Nicholas could hear him. "We need the minutes, pal."
Jim nodded at Grant's words, still listening to the speaker intently—hoping Grant's encouragement, as well as his own, was somehow carried through.
"What is the holdup?" they heard Drake complain. "Why is he taking so long?"
tbc