---
The silence in the office was deafening, even the sounds of the early afternoon traffic failed to penetrate into the room as they waited for the Official and his pet lackey, Eberts, to begin this meeting that had been called. Neither man seemed to be in a big hurry. Eberts was skimming over the recently created file; papers had still been spewing from the printer as the partners had entered the room. The Official sat behind his desk, reading glasses on the scuffed surface before him. He seemed to be doing nothing more than staring at some point above the conference table.
Darien and Bobby had reported their less than helpful news to their boss as soon as they had returned. News he was plainly unhappy with, though, in point in fact, it was more information than they'd had before meeting with Fallon. Least they now knew exactly who they were trying to find. They'd handed over the lone sheet of paper and spelled out Fallon's name for Eberts to run that background check, just as she had guessed. Darien, for some reason he couldn't put a finger on, had been unwilling to part with the business card he'd stuffed deep into the pocket of his khakis.
Okay, so maybe there was some reason, considering every time he let his mind wander he caught himself thinking about a pair of brilliant green eyes and their raven-haired possessor who he was certain knew how to use every single one of those toys that had been in the showroom. Man, the things he could have done with just a couple of those pieces. But as Bobby had pronounced, thieving, at least for personal gain, was in the past. He was one'a the good guys now. Wasn't he?
There were days, today included, that his previous profession called to him with a fierceness that made his blood boil and heart pound. Even after all this time, after everything he'd been through, everything he'd learned, he still missed it. Trouble was he'd also figured out that the excitement, the challenge, was gone, thanks to the Quicksilver gland. The adrenaline rush from triggering the gland to pull a slick heist was not the one he was looking for. And the high he got working for the Agency was far more likely to be caused by sheer terror because, once again, his life - or Bobby's - was in danger. It just wasn't the same. Nothing was the same.
He couldn't be a thief with the gland and couldn't do his job at the Agency without it - he'd learned that one the hard way. Yet another time he'd come close to buying the farm since coming to work for the Fat Man, and it would certainly not be the last. There was many a day he wondered if it was worth it, as the good they did never seemed to make much of an impact on the world as a whole. There was always another Stark or Arnaud wannabe waiting in the wings and ready to step up and take over the spot vacated by the last one.
'Crap.' Why the hell was he thinking like this? The answer was as obvious as it was confusing. Fallon O'Neill. She had to be a thief or something. A very successful one, if he was any judge. Better than he'd ever been, that's for sure. He wasn't jealous, so much as envious that she had somehow managed to do what he never would. He thought he'd given up on that dream, moved on, and reconciled with the sudden left turn his life had taken a couple years back. But if he had, why, after one short, if enlightening, meeting, would he be rethinking the situation?
Maybe it was the straightforward way she'd dealt with them. Gave them what they paid for and just enough of a tease to guarantee they'd be back for more. Oh, yeah, he knew that ploy of old. Thing is, this time the price was a tad too high for his taste; for the Official as well, based on the sour expression that had crossed his face when Bobby had detailed her offer. Darien could only wonder if his boss was actually considering the trade. Guess that would depend on how important finding this Aristid guy was. Like there weren't enough people out there who knew about his abilities that shouldn't. Hell, would one more make that big a difference?
At this point, the Official might try anything, as they hadn't been able to verify papa Papadopoulos being dead, least not beyond the fact that the GPS tracking number did indeed put Icarius in the middle of one of his orchards, and, based on high resolution satellite imagery, that the ground had been disturbed within recent memory. Whether it was a grave or not had yet to be determined and would require the cooperation of the Greek government, which had been lacking from the beginning. Their concern seemed to be far less than that shown by the US over similar warnings, which was somewhat understandable given that the events of 9/11 had yet to fade from the public, never mind government awareness.
It had been MI6 that had clued into something going down involving Papadopoulos, but details were beyond sketchy. Mostly rumors and vaguely hinted at threats, but worrisome enough to be passed on... and panned by most of the major agencies in the US. They had bigger fish to fry, so, as usual, it got dumped on the Official's desk, and he took it seriously. Which meant the dynamic duo got to take it seriously as well, and spend their days running down informants and chasing leads that went nowhere fast.
The Official's voice broke Darien out of his musing. "Eberts."
"Yes, sir," Eberts responded as he adjusted the pages of the file. "Fallon O'Neill, born February 29, 1972," Darien did the math and came up with a quick 30 years old, "fourth of six children. Both parents are alive, and living with an extended family in the northernmost part of the Republic of Ireland. Their lands actually cross the border into UK controlled Northern Ireland."
"Huh," Bobby commented. "Must make life interesting."
His interruption didn't slow Eberts down much, if at all. "Family makes its money via wool from a rare cold hardy breed of sheep and..." He paused, as if surprised at the information before him. "High end metalworking."
"Metalworking?" Hobbes repeated, sitting up straighter in his chair, his interest plainly peaked. "What? Security gates? Wrought iron fences?"
"That too." Eberts nodded. "They specialize in recreations of medieval swords and other weaponry." He flipped forward several pages. "Ms. O'Neill does as well, for collectors and the local movie production companies. She also creates artwork, for a substantial amount of money it appears." He turned back.
"Swords? We didn't see anything like that at the shop." Darien shifted, deciding it might be a good time to pay attention. Least the welding mask she'd been carrying about was now explained. She must've been working on some piece when they had arrived. "Artwork, yeah, quite a bit of it. Don't really explain how she knew about Papadopoulos though." Beside him, Bobby nodded in agreement.
"Let him finish," the Official suggested in that tone of voice that meant 'shut up and pay attention.'
"A'course, Chief." Bobby mimed zipping his lip while Darien rolled his eyes at his partner's sudden reversion to obsequious ass-kisser.
"Normal childhood, above average in her classes, but nothing spectacular. Oh..." Eberts' eyes widened in obvious surprise.
"Oh," Darien prompted.
"At 17 she was seriously injured in a car bombing in Londonderry. Her brother, Ian, was killed in the same attack. It is believed she was the target." Eberts looked up from the file at Hobbes' sudden intake of breath.
"Damn," he hissed. "IRA?"
"Yes... and no," Eberts responded, but didn't elaborate. "Ms. O'Neill graduated from the University of Cambridge with a Ph.D. in Metallurgy and minor in Chemistry. Straight out of college she went to work for a mercenary group known as Phoenix."
Bobby slapped the arms of his chair, startling Darien. "That's it. I knew I'd seen that before."
"Hobbes, what are you talking about?" Darien swung his head around to watch Bobby, who looked far too happy for this situation.
"The tattoo on her wrist. It was a fancy bird - a phoenix," he explained. "Members of the group were given one after completing their first job."
"Only ranking members wore them as tattoos," the Official added, proving once again that while he might be sitting behind a desk now, he hadn't always and still knew the business.
"She probably picked up her electronics and computer skills with them. Tibbetts was big on code breaking and such. Had some of the best hackers in the world at the time." Hobbes sounded impressed, and if that were true then this Phoenix, and therefore Fallon, were damn good.
"So, she's a high ranking mercenary? Killer for hire? Shouldn't we be arresting her or something?" Arresting her was the last thing on Darien's mind, though there was a variety of ideas battling for the top spot of or something.
"Nah, Phoenix weren't hired hit-men, at least not till the end there. Jobs were more up your alley, there, Fawkes." Hobbes chuckled, clearly amused by the irony. "They were high tech thieves. Stole..."
"Or planted," the Official interrupted and Hobbes nodded in agreement.
"Or planted information. You wanted something, they could get it. And they excelled at character assassination." Hobbes still sounded impressed, almost in awe, which disturbed Darien for some reason.
"For a price," Eberts added.
"A hefty one." The Official tapped the top of his desk with one finger, a thoughtful expression on his face.
"However, Ms. O'Neill split, amicably, from Phoenix in 1999 due to a difference methodology. Several other members went with her."
Hobbes nodded knowingly. "Tibbetts made some bad choices at the end and more'n a few members got killed because of it."
Eberts continued. "She and the other members formed their own unit, focusing almost exclusively on the buying and selling of information. They do hire out on occasion, but mainly gather the intelligence on their own. They've only been in the US for three months; prior to arriving in San Diego, they spent eight months in Montreal. The business is, obviously, the quasi-legal front for her more covert activities and covers the majority of her overhead. The metalworking seems to be more for pleasure than profit, though it too is well in the black."
The Official grunted in agreement. "Anything we can use to put pressure on her, Eberts?"
He flipped to the end and froze for an instant. "Sir." He held the file before the Official and pointed to something on the page.
The Official put his glasses on and read the information before him. "Well, that changes things."
"Chief?" Hobbes asked, in an effort to appear attentive.
"We can't touch her."
Darien rubbed his face, just thrilled to hit upon another dead end. "Why not?"
"She has provided information valuable to the US government in the war on terrorism." The Official leaned back in his chair looking like how Darien felt.
"Great, so now what?" Darien had the sinking feeling that his life was suddenly under a microscope. "You're not seriously considering her offer. Are you?"
The Official shook his head. "No. She's just the kind of... person in whose hands I don't want that information to fall." The unintentional pun went over like a ton of lead bricks. "She'd sell it to anyone with the cash to pay for it." He leaned forward, arms coming to rest on the desktop. "I'll make some calls, try to get confirmation on the Papadopoulos situation."
"She's telling the truth about that," Darien stated, certain it was true, but uncertain of his sudden urge to defend her. It was unlikely, based what he now knew, that she needed defending.
"She probably is, but the Greek government might be interested in the info. Maybe then they'll get serious about this threat instead of thinking we're jumping at shadows." His jaw clenched in obvious irritation. Apparently, he'd run into the same sense of indifference that Hobbes had during his requests for more information. "What's the name of her business again? Maybe I'll see if there are any strings to pull that won't jeopardize her relationship with other agencies."
Eberts scanned the pages looking for the name, but it was Darien who responded.
"The fourth monkey." He hadn't gotten the meaning at first, but when he had it only added another layer of mystery to Fallon.
"What the hell does that mean anyway?" Hobbes grouched, plainly not getting it.
Eberts piped up first, "Traditionally, the three monkeys are, 'see no evil'..."
"'Hear no evil'...," the Official took his turn as was mandatory. They had to do the finish each others sentences thing at least once every meeting.
"'Speak no evil.' Yeah, I know. But the fourth monkey?" Hobbes questioned, again.
"Uh," all eyes turned to Darien, "it's kinda a Zen update of the thing." He paused, glancing about at the men in the room, but it was obvious that none of them had an inkling what he was talking about. "The fourth is 'do no evil'."
"Huh," Hobbes grunted. "Kinda weird for a merc, even a reformed one." The 'Fish and Eberts agreed with that sentiment with sage nods. Funny, but it made sense to Darien, fit right in with her line about 'if she don't like 'em they don't get in the door.'
"Hardly reformed," the Official commented.
"She's not our enemy," Darien asserted, though even he couldn't explain the why of it.
"That don't make her our friend, pal," Hobbes pointed out. "Just 'cause she sells pretty toys that remind you of your hey-days as a thief..."
'Ouch.' "It's not that," Darien argued anyway. If push came to shove, he'd have to admit, if only to himself, that it was part of it. Though why he'd trust another thief... He wouldn't, not anymore. He'd learned that lesson the hard way several times. He just had the feeling there was something more beneath the surface of Fallon than just a mercenary who would sell out her grandma for the right price.
"A con knows a con?" Eberts surmised.
Darien shook his head. "More like the opposite."
Hobbes sighed dramatically. "Taken in by a pair of green eyes and feminine curves." He raised his hands to pantomime an hourglass figure, making Darien chuckle. "What's with you and chicks on our cases, huh?"
Darien heard the question, but failed to respond as his own, 'more like the opposite' had given him an idea. "Ebes, we know Papadopoulos is in town buying, right?"
"That's what the intel suggests," Eberts confirmed.
"What're you thinking, Fawkes?" Hobbes turned to sit sideways and eye Darien speculatively.
Darien held his hand up for patience. "Buying what? Weapons? Drugs? Hookers?"
The Official chuckled. "None of the above. Icarius may have liquidated a large portion of his arsenal, but there is certain to be a cache or two left behind. Drugs... Not the kind you're thinking of."
Darien nodded his head slowly. "So he's after something like a virus or poison. Sarin gas? Ricin maybe?"
"Sounds 'bout right," Hobbes agreed, sounding like he might have gotten himself on the same train of thought as Darien.
"So, who's he buying it from?"
Darien's seemingly simple question caused the room to go still for several long seconds. It was broken by a single word.
"Eberts."
"On it, sir." Eberts rushed to the laptop on the small table off to one side of the room. "I'll have a preliminary list for you in 15 minutes."
"Good work," the Official proclaimed.
---
Darien glanced at his watch, forcing his eyes to focus and then decipher the meaning of the numbers and hands on the face. He finally discerned it was quarter past one in the morning, which made him grumble under his breath. They'd been on this search - ha! more like a frickin' snipe hunt - for about 36 hours now, running on coffee that made his nerves sing and Hobbes even more paranoid than usual, and catnaps that did little to restore energy and more often left reddened eyes aching worse than before they'd been shut with the false promise of actual sleep. Both he and Bobby looked like they'd been gnawed on, reminiscent of table leg discovered by a teething puppy. And for what? Zip. Zilch. Nada. Bupkus.
They'd been all over the frickin' place the last day and a half. Hit every corner of San Diego county looking for the creeps on Eberts' list. When the first dozen turned up nothing - most of them hadn't any more clue about Aristid being in charge of the Papadopoulos family business than the Agency - he'd expanded the search area. Sending them as far west as New Mexico, north to Los Angeles and most recently Nevada, just a stone's throw away from the military nut-house where Charlie Fogarty had spent 30 years of his life trapped in his own mind.
Thank god they were almost home. Luckily, traffic was light on Interstate 15 as Hobbes had plainly zoned out and was driving on autopilot. Darien had offered to take his turn behind the wheel a while back, but was refused. Bobby tended to get more possessive when wired extra tight, so Darien hadn't pushed it. However, he had stayed awake just in case. Not that he didn't trust Bobby, but he was just as exhausted as Darien and an accident was something neither of them needed.
The half mile warning sign for their exit flashed by without any reaction from Hobbes. Darien counted slowly to 20, waiting for the lane switch, and when it didn't happen he said, "Hobbes."
Hobbes twitched, snapping back to full awareness with a growled, "What?"
"Our exit." Darien kept calm, it really wasn't a big deal if they missed it, there were other ones that'd get them home; this one was just the quickest.
Darien expected Hobbes to snap back, but instead he simply mumbled, "Oh. Yeah," flipped on the turn signal and eased his way over into the exit lane with a couple car lengths to spare.
"You doing okay over there, Skipper?"
"Huh?" Hobbes ran a hand over his face and sat up straighter. "I'm beat," he finally answered.
"You and me both." Darien watched the buildings grow taller about them as they arrived in downtown proper. "Hobbes, you are so not heading for the Agency."
Hobbes glanced Darien's way. "Course I am. Maybe Eberts has come up with some more names."
Darien shook his head, noting absently that it had the side effect of making him lightheaded. "Screw the Fatman. We're wiped. He can find someone else to run down leads while we catch some Zs."
"Fawkes, it's our case...," Hobbes whined, much to Darien's amazement. "We could try contacting Monroe, maybe she..."
"She ain't gonna have nothing more than anyone else. 'Sides she's officially incommunicado, remember? We need some frickin' help on this one," Darien groused.
"You heard the Chief, if we ask for assistance we'll have to share the credit," Hobbes reminded Darien.
He muttered, "Inter-agency cooperation my ass," then yawned hugely. "We're running outta road here and there's one hell of a cliff at the end of it."
Bobby apparently couldn't drum up the energy to argue. He stopped at a yellow light, drooping noticeably while waiting for it to cycle through to green.
"Hobbes..."
"Look, all the intelligence agencies in the country, hell, half the world, are in an uproar for missing the boat on Bin Laden's plot, and now they're too busy trying to find 'im to worry about some minor delusions of grandeur by Papadopoulos, especially when his target ain't in the US." Hobbes pressed the accelerator when the car behind them honked. The light had turned green without either of them noticing.
"Then why are we?" Darien really wanted to know. He'd been damn surprised the CIA or someone else hadn't tried to co-opt him for duty in Afghanistan, not that he wanted to go, mind you, he got into enough trouble right here in San Diego on any given day to want to go out looking for more.
"Two reasons." Hobbes took the next left, heading towards Darien's place instead of the Harding building. "First: the bastard's doing his buying in our backyard. We have the time and the ability to find him. Second: The Official wants the Agency to stay... anonymous. What with the shake-up and the new Homeland Security Bureau that's being planned, he don't want to get absorbed."
Darien thought on that for a few minutes. "You mean he's worried about losing control of me - the gland - don't you."
Hobbes shook his head. "That's part of it, yeah. But so long as the Agency is the Agency we aren't accountable to anyone."
"C'mon, Hobbes, the Official answers to someone," Darien pointed out, knowing it was true. He was even willing to bet he knew exactly who that someone was; he just hadn't confirmed it yet.
"That he does, my friend, but to who?" Hobbes got this sly look on his face that meant he did know who the fat man's boss was.
"And he ain't gonna be making a call to the Agency?"
"I'm thinking he's too busy chasing ghosts to give a rat's ass about the Agency. Six months from now that situation might be different." Hobbes turned onto Park Boulevard, which meant Darien was almost home.
"So, while the CIA, NSA and others are after the big bad wolf, we're stuck playing with Little Red Riding Hood." Darien wasn't quite sure how to react to that fact, not that the Agency had ever been a front runner in the intelligence biz, but still... It just wasn't all that thrilling to be reminded exactly where his employer was in the pecking order.
"Someone has to keep the home fires burning." Hobbes pulled in front of the building and put the van into park. "Get some sleep, Fawkes. I'll give you a call 'round lunch time and get you up to speed."
Darien opened the door and slipped out into the cool, damp night air. It felt like there was going to be fog by dawn. "You heading to Claire's?" he asked out of curiosity.
"Not tonight. No need for her to be going short on sleep. I'll stop by the Keep and say 'hi' tomorrow."
"Do more than say 'hi' I'm betting," Darien said around a grin.
Hobbes returned the grin. "Maybe. G'night, Fawkes."
"Night." Darien swung the door shut and waited as the van rolled down the street, took the next left and vanished from sight. He fumbled out his keys with one hand and rubbed the back of his head with the other. He wanted to solve this problem, wanted this current mission over with so he could go back to worrying about ordinary things like, oh, Chrysalis or Arnaud's next attempt to screw up his life. 'Crap.' He needed to do laundry - now there was something with a direct impact on his life. But not just this second. Later, hours later, after he'd gotten some sleep.
---
It was only a few minutes past 7 a.m. when Hobbes made the final turn in the basement corridors on the way to Lab 101. He'd stopped by his office first to write up a quick report detailing their failure to find any leads on Papadopoulos or his whereabouts. He'd been hoping there would be some new names and addresses from Eberts, but there was nothing but the usual day to day crud sitting on his desk, which he ignored. He was left wondering if the whole mission was nothing more than smoke and mirrors. 'Cept that didn't make any sense, as the Chief had even, albeit grudgingly, agreed to pay overtime, and there was no way in hell he'd do that for anything but a real threat.
Hobbes just couldn't figure out why they were unable to get a handle on this mook. Flashing his picture around hadn't done a lick'a good either. Oh, a few of the dealers they'd badgered recognized him, but none would admit to having any recent contact with him.
It was driving him nuts. Okay, more nuts than usual. To the point where he'd only managed to get a couple hours of sleep before waking with the need to pour over the rough, vague, uninformative information that they did have in a vain attempt to squeeze just one more drop of insight out of it. He came up blank. Just as blank as every other time. And now... now he was just plain tired.
He slid his mag key through the slot, the light changing from red to green, and stepped through the as soon as the door had moved far enough to the side. "Morning, Claire."
"Good morning, Bobby." Claire looked up from the microscope and frowned as soon as her eyes settled upon him. "You look like crap." She was up and at his side in an instant. With a gentle, but insistent urging, she had him across the lab and seated upon the exam chair.
"When was the last time you slept?" she asked as she retrieved her stethoscope and set the diaphragm over his heart.
"Uh..."
"A full night's sleep," she elaborated, as if knowing he was gonna try and dodge around the question.
"Coupla days," he admitted.
"Have you been taking your medication?" She slipped the stethoscope about her neck and took his wrist in her hand in an effort to check his pulse.
"Yes, mom," Hobbes snarked, though he fully realized her concern was valid one. He'd forgotten to take them in the past when work got crazier than usual.
"Mission not going well?" She shifted her grip, her hand curving warmly about his.
"Not going anywhere is the problem." He rubbed his face with one hand, while giving hers a squeeze with the other and tried not to let the wave of exhaustion that crashed upon him show.
It became obvious that he had failed when Claire said, "Go home."
"Keep, I..."
"You will go home, get a minimum of eight hours of sleep, and eat at least 1500 calories of food. Doctor's orders."
"But the Official..." Hobbes began, only to be interrupted again.
"Can find someone else to do the work for today." Her face was set and tone firm. He knew there'd be no changing her mind.
With a sigh he muttered, "Fawkes said the same thing."
"A very wise man," she affirmed. "I'm ordering the same for him. I don't want to see either of you in this building before 8 a.m. tomorrow. Understood?"
"But..." he tried.
"I will deal with the Official." Her look softened. "You're no good to him like this, Bobby."
"Yeah, I guess." Not agreement so much as acquiescence . He really was tired. "You gonna tag along and make sure I'm tucked in?"
Claire ducked her head, blonde hair hiding her face. "Bobby..."
He tugged her closer, curving an arm about her waist. "How about dinner then?" He'd known she would demur, if only for the simple fact that if she went home with him, he wouldn't get the sleep he needed. Not for a while, anyway. "I'll cook," he offered, his face moving slowly closer to hers. "And then you can tuck me in."
Claire's eyes sparkled as she leaned in closer, lips mere millimeters away from his. "I believe I could be persuaded," she said softly, her breath tickling along his skin.
"What do I hafta do to persuade you?" His heart was pounding in his chest and he suddenly wasn't the least bit tired.
She wormed her body between his legs and pressed herself against him. "A token, kind sir, is all that I require."
'Damn.' She'd done it again. Hit upon one'a his personal fantasies. Him the white knight upon his charger saying farewell to the maiden fair before heading off to fight evil and injustice. His own private Camelot. Once upon a time it had been Vivian with whom he'd tried to create that idyllic setting, but that dream had been shattered, his various mental issues finally becoming more than she could handle. No longer would he be her cure to the risk of suffering through a life of sameness. Viv had moved on.
And now, so had he.
Hobbes buried a hand in the glorious golden strands of Claire's hair and closed the remaining distance between them. His lips brushing across hers for an instant only. Bad enough he'd jumped off that damn pier, even worse to go fishing at the office, but today he didn't care. Perhaps hoping that the intimate meeting of lips and bodies would act like some magic potion and instantly revitalize him, granting him the strength to return to the proverbial field of battle and save the day. With a small sound that was equal parts desire and frustration, he dove back in. Claire proceeded to turn into soft butter in his arms, her lips parting ever so slightly in obvious invitation, which he took, the tip of his tongue sipping at her lips prior to diving inside to drink deep.
Claire moaned, the sound swallowed up by his mouth, her hands sliding up his thighs and creating a delicious ache at their apex. He shifted his hands to her shoulders and gently, but firmly put some distance between the two of them. "Will that do, milady?" His voice was little more than a basso rumble.
Her eyes were drowsy with desire, but she managed a soft, "Ah, yes, that'll do quite nicely." She took a step back, creating just enough space to keep them from succumbing to temptation again, and straightened her clothing. Not that it was needed, only her hair was mussed, though the pink color of her cheeks might be a dead giveaway to some. But no more so than the obvious evidence of his own arousal.
"Claire..."
"Go home, Bobby, and get some sleep," she said in the best doctor voice she was capable of at the moment.
"Sleep. "Hobbes snorted in amusement. "Eventually, Keepy, once things... settle down a bit."
Claire blushed, smiling. "I'll come by around seven. Can I bring anything?"
Hobbes hopped off the exam chair and resisted the urge to wrap her in his arms and do far more than just kiss her. "Wine?" he suggested.
"Done. Now get going before the Official finds you here. I'll call Darien and let him know he's off the hook for today."
"Not till noon, Keepy, he was wiped." Together they walked towards the lab door.
"I imagine he was. Noon then." She chuckled softly. "He'll probably still be asleep."
"Well, that's our Fawkesy, never one to miss his beauty sleep." The door slid open and Bobby stepped through.
"Not that he needs it," Claire observed. "Has he spoken to you about..."
Hobbes knew exactly what she was referring to and shook his head. "Nah, and asking him just makes him clam up and sulk." Claire frowned. "Claire, don't worry about it. When he falls, and he will, it'll be a bigger surprise to him than us."
"I hope so, Bobby. I really hope so."