Episode One: Killer

Chapter Seven

Nicholas tossed his false beard and mustache aside, leaning forward, forearms balanced on knees, waiting to hear what Tom Copperfield was going to say next.

The darkened theater felt filled with caution, the guarded heir of silence. Tom's face sat half in shadow. The physical display illustrating the enigma Tom Copperfield presented to Nicholas Black at that moment. Nicholas saw one side of Tom, knew one portion of him. The rest was… unseeable. Unreadable.

"Why do you think you can trust me?" Nicholas finally asked. "You don't even know me."

"I've read your file," said Tom.

"That's not the same thing," he countered.

Something flashed in Tom's eyes. Recognition? Appreciation? Nicholas wasn't sure what exactly it was, or what emotion the fleeting expression alluded to. He cocked his head to the side, trying to see Tom more clearly.

Tom looked down, scuffling his left foot along the plank floorboards of the production set, saying nothing, looking severely unlike anything Nicholas would have ever imagined him to be. Whatever brought Copperfield here must indeed be serious.

Nicholas was trying to formulate another question when Tom finally spoke. "Knowing someone and trusting someone isn't always the same thing, is it?"

The question was rhetorical.

Nicholas said nothing.

"I've always worked alone, even when I'm working with a team, in some ways, I'm still working alone. The only other agent I've really trusted was—"

"James Phelps," Nicholas finished for him. It wasn't as if Tom's relationship to Jim was a mystery to the rest of the IMF. Nicholas understood it, envied it even. But it still didn't explain what Tom was doing here. "That's a tiring way to work," he said simply.

Tom nodded, a small crack breaking his façade. "It is. It's the one thing Jim still lectures me about. It's stupid, I know, but what we do… the way we work… for years I've been waiting for someone to betray me, waiting to miss an angle and have the weaknesses I use against others used against me, my family, my... mission. I've held too many people at an undeserved distance."

Nicholas stayed silent, understanding more fully the weariness he saw in Tom's shoulders, and in his face. An undeserved distance for you as well, Nicholas thought.

Tom met his gaze, keen eyes sparkling softly in the dim studio lighting. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, matching Nicholas's pose, face now fully out of shadow, appearing relieved to have said this all out loud. Appearing, in some way, relieved of the burden he'd walked in with. As if he'd come across the country to talk to Nicholas for this reason alone. To confess this one… paranoia.

Maybe he had, Nicholas suddenly realized.

Maybe he had.

Still in the control room, Nicholas moved over to the voice recorder Grant had set up for him and popped in the disk Jim gave him. They were working so smoothly together—flawlessly, seamlessly. Contemplating his teammates, Nicholas didn't feel the slightest hesitation of trust with any of them.

What must it have been like for Tom to always question the motives of the members on his team? Nicholas couldn't imagine working that way. Though he could work alone, he never preferred it. If you took the other people out of it, for Nicholas, the job they did lost some meaning.

He blinked away his running thoughts, setting himself to focus on the task at hand. He pressed play on the machine in front of him and listened. It was a recording of Drake's brief conversation with Jim at the front desk. He picked one sentence from the recording and set it to loop. While in the cab, he'd already heard Drake's voice quite a lot. It wouldn't take him long to perfect it.

"I'd like to pick my own room," the disk repeated twice.

Nicholas paused the player and repeated the sentence aloud, copying only the cadence of the voice at first—adding more of Drake's intonation when he voiced it again. He was aware, somewhere in his mind, that Jim was behind him, checking his progress, perhaps checking how well he'd really be able to do this—wanting to see, as Tom Copperfield had, if he was as good as his file claimed.

"Sounds good," he heard Jim say confidently, shifting from observing Nicholas and back to monitoring Drake.

"No," Nicholas admitted while Jim walked away. "I think it needs a little more base."

"I hope you're comfortable," Tim-the-bellhop could be heard saying to Drake.

With one ear still monitoring Nicholas's progress, Jim took a position standing between Grant and Casey—whose eyes hadn't left the monitor since coming back to the back room. Grant tilted the screen slightly, allowing Jim a better view.

"If there's anything else you need, sir, please don't hesitate to give us a call." Tim handed Drake his room key.

"Thank you," Drake replied, sounding bored, passing Tim the customary tip.

"Thank you, sir," Tim finalized, leaving quickly.

This is it, thought Jim. Drake would make his call now and they'd have him. He could feel his anticipation rise as Drake walked to the phone on the nightstand and picked it up. From the corner of his eye he saw Grant check the status of their planted wire, noting it activated automatically when Drake picked up the phone.

"Come on," Jim encouraged aloud when the assassin visibly hesitated. "Damn." He slapped the back of the chair he'd been leaning on when Drake put the phone down again.

Grant and Casey exchanged looks.

"He's leaving the room," Jim observed, already moving toward the secret door that would return him to his position at the front desk.

"As long as he misses the phone in the lobby, we're set," reminded Nicholas, knowing the lobby phone to be Drake's least likely choice. With their complications of the morning, they'd not been able to get a bug planted in that one.

Jim grunted in agreement, moving quickly in order to beat Drake. Shutting the secret door on the others, he picked up a prop stack of mail, feigning boredom as he flipped slowly through the envelopes. He was just in time to hear Drake's rubber-soled shoes trotting down the stairs.

As Nicholas predicted, with Jim at the desk, Drake gave the lobby telephone a miss, barely glancing at it before continuing on outside. Jim took cautious breaths while watching him exit, hoping he wouldn't stray too far. The minute the front door closed behind him, Jim clicked on his communicator. "Max, do you have him?" he asked.

From his discrete position as a window washer across the street, Max watched Drake jog lightly down the hotel's front steps and stroll briskly to the adjacent phone booth. Max moved the digitalized sound amplifier out from under his arm, aiming it covertly. "Right on target, Jim," he answered.

Jim moved back into the hidden war room just in time to hear the phone being dialed through the amplifier. Seeing him enter, Grant turned up the volume. He again took a standing position behind the camera monitor, this time slipping casually between Casey and Nicholas, resting a hand on the back of each of their chairs as they all leaned in to hear the pending conversation.

Grant had already shifted their monitor's view to the outside camera and though the angle was irregular they could clearly make out Drake standing in the phone booth. As he dialed, Grant's tracer displayed the punched numbers on the screen they were watching.

The plan was working. They were still ahead in this game. Even with the glitches, everything was working out just fine.

"I'm waiting for a friend to call," a woman's sophisticated voice sounded, echoing through the amplifier.

"This is the friend from California," Drake responded.

"You're late," huffed the voice, some of the sophistication replaced with annoyance. "I nearly wasn't here."

"It couldn't be helped," snapped Drake. "Do you have something for me?"

"Yes," she replied laconically.

"Alright, where do we meet?"

"City Botanical Gardens, by the river," she answered.

Grant nodded at Jim's questioning glance—indicating he'd already locked in the address.

"Be there at noon," Drake ordered.

"How will I find you?"

Drake's eyes followed a bus as it drove by—focusing on the elegant flower printed across its side. "Wear a white rose and I'll find you," he answered, then hung up.

Jim checked his watch while Nicholas quickly grabbed the phone. "That's a little more than an hour," Jim said, knowing this meant their original plan might not work.

"Maybe we can still catch her," said Nicholas, already dialing the phone.

Jim Phelps waited, leaned down further onto the back of his chair as the phone started to ring. He hoped Nicholas could pull this off. "Hello?" answered the same sophisticated voice, edged with a touch of confusion.

"It's me again. Your friend from California," said Nicholas. Jim almost did a double take to make sure it really was Nicholas sitting in front of him and not Drake. The voice was a perfect match. Jim had worked with several agents extremely capable of voice impersonation—Rollin and Paris from his own previous team were both masterful imitators—but overall, there were few who could replicate a voice as neatly and quickly as Nicholas just had.

"What now, decided we don't like white roses?" the woman asked in bitingly bored annoyance.

"Decided I didn't want to wait so long for the information," clipped Nicholas with Drake's voice.

Casey and Jim could both sense the woman's confusion through the beat of silence that followed. "Look, that's the way I work," said Nicholas adding a touch of menace. He met Jim's eyes as if to reassure him that he wouldn't blow this, the complete calm he projected telling the team leader he knew just how much to push.

"Where then?" the woman asked.

Jim let his head drop approvingly.

"At my hotel—the Raeburn. Do you know where that is?" Nicholas asked, hoping she didn't.

"No."

Thank goodness, thought Jim.

"It's near the corner of Long Bridge Street and Military Rd," Nicholas informed, rattling off their actual address smoothly. "I'm in room eight."

"I can find you."

"Be here in thirty minutes. And, forget the white rose," he finished snidely, cutting the connection.

Jim tapped Nicholas's shoulder in appreciation. "Let's go," he ordered, unnecessarily. The agents were already on the move.

Grant jogged quickly out the back door and down to the street corner. He snapped the ladder he carried with him into place and smoothly removed the fake signs they'd used to manipulate Drake. He hoped when Drake left he wouldn't feel the need to double check his location.

Back in the war room, Jim helped Casey set up the recording they'd taken of the woman's voice. It was a bit grainy—having come from the amplifier—but it would suffice. He set one sentence to loop just as their team impersonator had done with Drake's voice, then looked up to check on Nicholas's progress, knowing Casey might need his help before she'd be ready.

Behind the provisional sheeting on the far side of the room, Nicholas emerged, free of his cabbie clothing, now wearing a Drake-like suit, excepting the jacket and tie.

Jim waved him over, helping him slip into the suit jacket while Casey played the tape, letting it loop twice. Nicholas threaded the tie Jim held out to him around his neck, tying it while he listened. Casey stopped the loop and repeated the sentence aloud, imitating the voice as much as she could, "What now? Have you decided you don't like white roses?"

"I think the resonance should be a little higher," Nicholas advised.

Satisfied with their progress, Jim moved back to watch Drake.

Still fiddling with his tie and listening to Casey, Nicholas followed him, watching the monitor while accepting the tie pin Grant handed him. Clipping it, he moved back over to Casey.

Jim focused on the monitor. Drake was calmly practicing his golf put across the hotel room floor—tapping golf balls into a water glass.

"For a guy who makes his living by killing people," Grant commented, finding Drake's choice of time-killing activity absurd, "—he's certainly relaxed."

"That's what makes him so good," Jim remarked, shaking his head.

Drake leaned his golf club against the wall and checked his watch. Appearing to come to a decision he plucked up his briefcase and started for the door.

"He's leaving early?" wondered Grant.

"He's a careful man," Jim answered. "He probably wants to have a good look at the botanical gardens." He adjusted his own tie and started back towards his front desk position.

"Jim?" Still staring at the monitor—the view now flipped to the outside camera—Grant cut Jim's exit short. "If I'm not mistaken, here comes Drake's lady." She'd clearly been a lot closer to their location than they'd realized.

Nicholas, busy helping Casey pin a white rose onto the dress suit she'd changed into, popped his head up. He looked first at Jim then craned his neck around to Grant, trying to see if he was serious then glanced again at Jim.

"It's time," Jim said to him, thinking what they were all thinking—now or never.

"This is going to be close." Nicholas gripped Casey's shoulders in a quick, encouraging gesture before bolting up the back stairs to room eight.

Jim slipped swiftly into the lobby and Casey—still fiddling with the rose—moved to watch the action on the monitor with Grant.

Jim made it into position just in time to see a tall, stylish, Veronica Lake-esk blond walk through the front door.

Tim Conner, still dressed as a bellhop, stepped swiftly to greet her. "Excuse me," she asked him. "Could you tell me where room eight is, please? Mr. Drake's room."

"Yes," Tim answered cordially. "If you turn right at the top of the first flight of stairs you'll find Mr. Drake's room there."

"Thank you." The woman moved toward the stairs, starting up just as Drake was starting down.

Watching, Casey and Grant held their breath when the two passed each other, sighing in relief when no recognition passed between them.

At the top of the back stairs, down the hallway from room eight, Nicholas waited until Drake was out of sight before hastily slipping into his room. The last thing they needed was for Drake to get a glimpse of his airport cabbie hanging around his hotel.

Moments after Nicholas shut the door he heard a knock. He closed his eyes, taking a second to focus, pushing a Drake-like expression to his face. The best way to not be discovered as a fake was to be as close to the real thing as possible. He could do that. He just had to find the headspace. Drawing a deep breath, a bored sneer appeared on his lips as he cracked the door open.

The blond woman outside his doorway bespoke of elegance. Nicholas opened the door wider.

"I'm looking for a friend," said the woman.

"From California?"

She blinked, looked down, and handed him a manila envelope. "It's all in there," she said simply, and turned to leave.

"Oh," Nicholas stopped her. "Who pays off when I make the hit?"

"I do," she answered. "As I said, it's all in there. Let me know when it's done."

Jim Phelps opened the envelope Nicholas handed him, sliding the contents carefully into his hand. A newspaper clipping appeared with a paper-clipped, handwritten note attached to the back. He turned the clipping right side up, holding it out so the agents gathered around him could see. The picture accompanying the article presented to them a distinguished looking black man.

"So this is the man," Jim said, catching Grant's eye with a meaningful and slightly regretful look.

"Looks like I'm elected," Grant declared with a grin, being the most logical double for the man on Scorpio's hit list.

Jim grunted and started to read the note accompanying the article. "William Breton—President of a California based construction union—will be at the Crown Regent Hotel, room 526. He'll be in his room from 4:30 to 5:00pm today working on a speech. He'll be alone."

"At least we know where he's going to make the hit and when," commented Nicholas.

"As well as who he's going to kill," said Jim with another glance at Grant, a speck of worry appearing in his stomach.

"Let's hope not," said Grant with a reckless smile.

Without further comment he and Nicholas moved away from the other agents. Grant stripped off the windbreaker he'd been wearing and replaced it with a sternly colored suit jacket. Nicholas grabbed their modified digital camera and flipped the desk light toward the large map on the back wall while Grant buttoned the top buttons of his shirt and slipped a previously tied necktie over his head.

Jim fed the article they'd received into the IMF copier—checking to make certain the camera was already connected. He looked up, indicating to Nicholas that he was set, and said, "Camera interlock—ready?"

Grant struck a distinguished pose in front of the map layout as the picture was snapped and automatically transferred to a copy of the newspaper article, overlaying the image of the real William Breton. Jim picked it up as it slid from the machine. Briefly checking it for flaws, he then slid it, and the written note, back into the manila envelope Casey held open for him.

"You're on," he said to her.

The look she threw back showed confidence. She couldn't mimic voices quite like Nicholas but she could improvise every bit as well.

The short haired—and thankfully silent—taxi driver let Drake off in front of the botanical gardens, leaving him at the area farthest from the adjacent river. Excessively pleased at the lack of speeding tickets and truck blockades, Drake left the driver a large tip.

When he walked away he dismissed the cab and its driver from his mind. He didn't notice that the driver kept watching him as he carefully evaluated his contact's chosen setting, nor did he notice him lift a communicator to his lips and say, "He's all yours, Australia," with a heavy British accent.

"Thanks, England," Max replied, overextending his natural accent in response to the London agent's subtle barb, but he grinned, saying sincerely, "Without you London guys, this job would be a lost cause."

"You're welcome," said the cab driver.

Max had changed clothes—again. This time selecting a touristy shirt and no hat, blending in easily as he followed his quarry's explorations through the gardens, hanging back enough to not be obvious, but staying close enough to not lose him.

The day was warm, and there were a lot of people to blend in with. Max usually hated crowds. Today he was glad to see the area well populated. Many of the garden goers were dressed just like him. Not once did Drake even glance in his direction.

Nearly thirty minutes later—just before noon—Drake started a gradual stroll down the walk to the river. Max followed carefully, knowing he'd be easier to spot on the less crowded trail. He didn't want to tip his hand, but he wanted to stay close enough to ensure Casey had back-up if she needed it.

He saw her before Drake did—wearing her white rose with a dazzlingly dress. As much as Max knew Casey wouldn't appreciate it, he couldn't help the rushing wave of protectiveness that surfaced when he saw her. Easing himself down on a nearby park bench, just up the hill from where she stood, he prepared to keep careful watch for the slightest hint of danger.

Drake spotted her, eyes lingering on the white rose and Casey's sleek posture. He trotted slowly down the steps leading to the river, keeping his eyes pinned on hers and ignoring the boats bobbing in the river just yards away. "You looking for a friend?" he asked.

"Depends upon where he's from," she answered.

Max innately evaluated her voice as he watched—deciding her impersonation of the woman on the phone was pretty close.

"California do?" Drake asked, still sounding bored.

"That'll do just fine," replied Casey in the same casual manner. She handed him the envelope, eyeing him appraisingly. "So you're the famous man," she said.

Drake's eyes flickered, but he didn't seem interested in pursuing her praise. "And you're Scorpio's messenger," he replied.

Casey smiled, tilting her head brazenly.

Catching her temptingly secretive expression, Drake rapidly changed his mind about pursuing polite conversation. "Well I must say you're the most attractive one I've seen so far."

A couple strolling along blocked Max's view when they stopped. He stood, shifting causally to another bench just a few yards down the walk. Drake didn't seem to notice the movement and Max decided his view of the two had actually improved with the switch, but he'd missed part of the conversation in doing so.

Drake now held the envelope Casey had brought. It was already open and he was looking down at Grant's picture with a slightly confused look on his face.

For a moment Max thought they must have messed up somehow, but quickly he realized Drake wasn't thinking about Grant's clipping at all. Drake pinned Casey with a stern look and said, "You called me the famous man. Why is that?"

"Your last job attracted a lot of attention. Rather spectacular."

Drake frowned.

"That doesn't please you?" Casey asked.

"Look, I work in one of the few businesses where fame is not something one hopes for."

Casey nodded, blatantly unsympathetic.

"Now, the hotel where this guy's staying, how far is it from here?" Drake moved back to business.

"Just under a mile," she answered and even Max could hear her accent slip.

"And when I'm done, who pays?" asked Drake, cocking an eyebrow in her direction.

"Call me. I'll be there." The accent was back in place. Max wondered if Drake had even noticed.

"You know being famous could have its advantages." Casey held out a slip of paper with a phone number.

Drake caught it out of her hand, crinkling it as he said, "You're not the girl I talked to on the phone." He leaned into her.

Damn, thought Max, he had noticed. He tensed, ready to take action if Drake pushed, ready to do whatever necessary to keep Casey safe.

He shouldn't have worried.

Casey smiled slyly, unfazed by Drake's discovery. "Should I take that as a compliment?"

Drake watched her face closely and smiled demurely back. The tension left his shoulders. Max felt his own shoulders ease as well. For the moment, the serious and calm Mathew Drake looked embarrassed by his suspicious mind. "Take it anyway you like," he answered her. "I was planning to leave tonight but maybe I'll stay."

Hook, line, and sinker! Good girl, Max cheered.

Drake lifted his briefcase and left, walking past Max without so much as a snippet of recognition. Max stood to follow, throwing Casey a brief, impressed smile.

tbc