ALIAS: Ten, Reversed
CIA Oversight Office Refuses to Release Documents
'Risk to Operatives Too Great,' Says Asst. Dir.
From wire reportsFrank Travers, an Assistant Director for the CIA's Oversight Office, informed the Senate Intelligence Committee in a letter delivered to Chairman Bob Wilbur's office yesterday that a "significant number" of classified documents that were requested by counsel would not be released by him or anyone within that office. The number, according to sources close to the committee, could be as high as two hundred individual memoranda, dossiers, field reports, and other miscellaneous files. Travers, a nearly thirty-year veteran of the U.S. law enforcement and intelligence communities, said in the letter that he believed "the risk to operatives currently in the field is simply too great to allow these documents to be used in an investigation that should have been completed two months ago."
Since March, the committee has been investigating the deaths of several American intelligence operatives, as well as the deaths of four operatives working for various foreign agencies, all of which occurred between late September and early December of last year. Over the past few weeks, as disturbing stories surfaced in the media about two of those killed – Frank Webber, a former CIA officer, and George Mackey, an FBI agent – there has been mounting pressure both from inside and outside the committee to uncover the facts surrounding these deaths.
Travers, however, insisted in his signed letter, dated this past Tuesday, that the documents would "shed no light on specific circumstances," but instead would jeopardize operations designed to bring about the end of terrorist activities "in both foreign and domestic theaters."
Committee Chief Counsel Ed Huang released a statement shortly after the letter was made public, declaring Travers's unwillingness to release the documentation as "a first step to a contempt of Congress citation." He repeated his request, and added that he would give Travers "one final chance to do the right thing."
A.D. Travers was unavailable for comment.
SIX
SOMEWHERE IN NEBRASKA
Vaughn stirred, and as he moved his head, felt a spike of pain in his neck. He reached up to apply some pressure to it, and felt the tackiness of blood and the cold blast of wind on it. His mind stumbled to remember events as he tried to loosen the tensed neck muscles.
Snowstorm. No visibility. A patch of ice.
Vaughn finally realized that he was still in his seatbelt. He reached for the release button and pressed it, hard, and felt his weight flop on to the ceiling. He felt his shoulder pop when he hit, and let out a loud groan.
Lefcourt. Going too fast. Brakes locked up.
"Hang on," the man had said, just as they caught the edge of a telephone pole.
Vaughn noticed the Suburban was upside-down in a snowy ditch. The windows had been broken out. And that Lefcourt was missing from his seat.
Panic flowed freely into his belly. He patted his pockets.
Oh, Jesus, no…NEW YORK
"Vaughn! Respond!" Dixon was shouting into his headset.
"He's gone, sir," Marshall said. "Signal's – signal's dead."
Dixon ripped the headset from his scalp and slammed it against the tabletop. He sat with his head down, staring silently at the screen where they'd been tracking Vaughn's movements. Finally he looked over at Marshall, who was staring helplessly at him. "We need to find him," he said.
"Mr. Dixon – I don't know if – " Marshall tried to respond, his voice choked.
"Marshall. We need to find him," Dixon responded, his voice flat and grim.
"What do you mean, 'Sydney went with Webber'?" Jack said, his face turning the most awful shade of crimson. His upper lip was quivering toward a sharp sneer.
The young agent felt a chill shoot through him. "She just – I didn't – "
"I hope you've enjoyed your employment in the New York office, because your next stop is a listening post in Nome," Jack hissed. "Pack warm." He turned his back on the now-ghost-faced junior agent, and put a hand on the shoulder of the female tech officer. "I need you to find Sydney Bristow's frequency, immediately."
The tech typed furiously, but to no avail. She shook her head. "I'm sorry, sir. That frequency is non-responsive."
"Agent Bristow," said Weiss, brushing past the slack-faced soon-to-be Alaskan who was slinking away from the desk. "There's a reason she's not transmitting. We were trying to see – "
Jack spun to face him. "We? Who's we?"
"Sydney and me," he said. "We had a hunch about these sellers, that they might be connected to the mole."
"Someone might have shared that hunch with me," Jack replied.
"There wasn't time. Webber wanted to meet them right away," Weiss replied.
"You've read the file?"
"Yes, sir."
Jack frowned. "Then you know that they're a mercenary band of thieves, and a particularly ruthless one at that."
"Sir, we believed we had a shot at extracting some information," Weiss replied. "It jumped off too fast, I admit, and we should have come to you, but Webber said he knew their boss."
"And that gave you permission to circumvent authority?"
"Under the time constraint – "
"Listen closely, Agent Weiss," Jack said, his eyes shooting daggers. "You, my daughter, Agent Webber – you've all endangered a critical internal investigation, and making matters worse now, lives are in the balance. So perhaps you can appreciate my anxiety, and will endeavor to locate our agents. Because while Nome isn't the biggest outpost we have, there's always room for one more."
Henri wasn't smiling. That wasn't an unusual sight, Webber reasoned, but there was something about his expression that seemed extra-grim. He thought about bringing Sydney out from her post, but decided against it.
"My friend," Henri said. He didn't sound convinced.
"You have the item I want?" Webber asked.
"Naturally." Henri set a briefcase on the barrier between them. "And you have my money."
A smile from the agent. "You know the drill," he said.
"Of course." The Frenchman released his grip on the case.
Webber reached into his coat and withdrew a manila envelope. "Five hundred thousand. In our standard form." He set it next to the case, and Henri snatched the brown paper into his palm. This is the point in the meeting, Webber thought, where Henri usually says goodbye and walks away. As soon as he's gone, I'll bring Sydney up to verify the item, he added. It won't be the right watch, of course. She'll pursue Henri, and then the gunfight, and the sudden tragic wounding –
Except the other man didn't say goodbye. Instead, he stood almost perfectly still. "This watch – it must be some prize for you."
Webber studied the Frenchman's eyes, their color shrouded in the dim yellow light, looking for hints. What more did this bastard want? "You know I want the watch, Henri, and that the money is as good as it's ever been. Why drag me down here? I could pay you in some much more pleasant surroundings." He set the case on its side, and popped open the locks.
"Because, Mr. Webber," came the reply, "I haven't forgotten the last time we worked together."
Vaughn dragged himself from the cab of the vehicle, straight into the heavy, wet drift. The cold of the white snow stung his fingers and the wind ripped across his exposed skin. He took deep breaths, trying to shield himself from the blowing and drifting precipitation. The sky was still somewhat light, but the visibility was practically zero. He pulled himself up to something of a standing pose, and began to trudge through the snow. He took another breath, finding some strength in the act.
As he pushed himself through the snow, he discovered hollows in the drifts. Lefcourt, he thought. He gritted his teeth against the knifing wind and began to follow the footsteps.
"Wait a second," Marshall said. "There's something moving. Same coordinates as Vaughn's."
"Is it him?" Dixon asked.
"No, it's a different transceiver code. I was scanning frequencies to find our common ones. It's little-used, and kinda weak," Marshall said. "But I can track it," he added, setting his jaw. "And maybe even get a lock."
Dixon nodded his approval. Then, as Marshall began to type with his usual ferocity, he was struck with a queasy feeling in his gut. "Was there someone with Vaughn for his retrieval mission?"
The typing stopped. "Paul Lefcourt," came the reply.
Dixon felt his mouth suddenly dry. "Lefcourt? The NSC liaison?"
"I think so. What is it?"
"What's he doing on this?" Dixon asked, almost to himself.
"Sir?"
"Paul Lefcourt is under suspension by the NSC. Has been for nearly six months." Dixon reached for his phone, and dialed rapidly. "Get me Edgars at NSC, right now," he said.
A beep drew Marshall's attention, then a smile formed. "Mr. Dixon? I have a lock. He's five miles east of Indianola, Nebraska, right along U.S. Highway 6."
Dixon leaned toward him. "Contact Nebraska State Patrol. Tell them we have a Federal agent in need of urgent aid." Then he was drawn back to his phone, as Marshall began to type furiously. "Wally? It's Marcus. I need a favor." Then, after an obvious objection, he said, "Because one of your guys might be trying to kill one of mine."
As he was talking, Marshall saw the PDA come to life before him. "Mister – um – Mister Dixon? I've gotta – uh – go – " he said, palming the gadget and dashing from the room.
"Marshall?" Dixon called after him. "Marshall!"
Webber shook his head. "Henri, how many times do I have to tell you – that wasn't my doing. And I compensated you."
"I lost three men," Henri said. "I had to disappear myself for nearly two years. Whatever compensation you paid me, it wasn't enough." Then his voice dropped to a low growl. "And then I find that."
He gestured at the case, making Webber glance into it, and when he saw the open dossier, the blood drained from his face. When his eyes rose again, he saw Henri again, this time with his pistol drawn, and aimed right between Webber's eyes.
"Au revoir, CIA," Henri muttered.
A loud bang bounced through the space, and Henri, suddenly stricken, toppled over. The yellow light made the blood look black as it saturated the back of his windbreaker.
Then a spray of bullets from the men with the MP-5s, slugs ricocheting off doors and tearing through anything soft. Webber dove for cover behind the barrier, knocking the case off its precarious perch. Faux strands of pearls rained on the cold ground, just before the aluminum case hit with a hollow thud.
Webber held his crouch next to the briefcase full of costume jewelry as more bullets pinged and zinged over and around him. He looked back from his position of relative safety toward the stairwell that Sydney was standing behind. He could see the pistol in her hand, and the hard look in her eyes, even as she peeked out to assess her situation.
Then her voice rang through the abandoned subway station, as clear as a bell: "Coming up!"
And suddenly, time was no longer an issue. Webber saw the blur of her movements, and he leapt to his feet and started to provide cover fire from his M-16 as she sprinted from the safety of her hiding place. It was a wild burst of shots, no real control to them, but then again, he didn't need to hit anything. Just keep their heads down.
Sydney was firing her Beretta with efficiency, though. It was like she was seeing every target just before it realized it had been seen. And she was knocking them down. Then she was at his side, and they both dropped behind the concrete barricade.
"We can't stay here," she said, as the return fire zinged over their heads. "Clips?"
"Two more for the rifle," Webber said.
"One left for me," she said, gritting her teeth. "Damn ribs. Gotta go see a doctor after this."
"How many bad guys left?"
"Three. I think." More fire over them. The concussion of bullets crashing into it was causing the barrier to develop long cracks. "Where's the watch?" Sydney asked.
"He didn't have it. We were set up," Webber replied.
"Then we're getting out of here," Sydney said, emptying her pistol into the vast space before them.
"Door's that way, at the top of the stairs," Webber said. "Behind them."
"Then we can't screw this up, can we?" Sydney rolled her head, popping her neck. "There's a concrete support post about thirty feet ahead and to the right, remember?"
"Yeah. In a line with about five more, and beyond that, who knows."
Sydney took a few deep breaths. "When I say go, you throw down suppression, and I'll run. As soon as I'm at the post, I'll cover you. We'll bound up, and we'll get through 'em."
"What if we go dry before we can get there?"
Sydney smirked at that. Her muscles tensed, becoming coiled energy. "GO!" she cried. And then she was a blur.
"Agent Weiss?" Marshall fairly shouted from the doorway as he burst through it. "We've got a pulse transmission off that disk that Webber burned coming from what appears to be a subway stop."
Jack shot an icy glare at Weiss. "How strong is it?" he asked.
"Not strong," Marshall replied, leaning over the handler's shoulder and rapidly typing in coordinates. "But not moving, either."
A detailed map appeared on-screen, with a faint blip appearing in the center. "That stop's closed for renovation," the handler said. "And only about thirty blocks from here."
"That's where we're going," Jack said. "Weiss, grab two men and meet me in the garage." He leaned over the handler's shoulder. "Notify Ops, give them location, tell them we need a small tactical squad there ASAP, and that we're en route."
"Agent Bristow?" Marshall said, holding out the PDA. "Take this. It's locked on the frequency, and'll give you precise directions."
"Thanks," Jack barely said, as he snatched the gizmo from Marshall's hand.
"Just – just tap the 'M'," Marshall replied weakly, and to no one in particular. Then he was off again.
Webber rose just a bit and began peppering the distance with short bursts from his rifle. When he noticed that Sydney had reached the post, he shouted, "Coming up!" and coaxed his aching knees into motion.
On his word, Sydney opened fire, squeezing off round after round, until she felt his hip press against hers. She felt the click of an empty chamber. "Mine's toast," she hissed, letting the heavy steel drop from her hand and clatter on the cold concrete.
"Now what?"
"We keep going." And she sprinted ahead again. Webber held his position and continued his three-round bursts until he saw her touch the next support, which was becoming harder to do in the growing darkness. He took another heavy breath, and pushed against the straining of his calves, sensing bullets nipping at his heels.
Marshall found Dixon hunched over the viewscreen, tracking the boosted signal. "Where the hell – " he started.
"Urgent situation, sir, I'm sorry," was the reply – apologetic, but not forthcoming. Just as ordered.
"Did you – "
"I've already made contact with the Nebraska authorities – they're saying that the roads are considered impassable at this time."
"So they won't send help?"
"The storm is too severe." Marshall brought up a weather radar screen. "See this bright white? That's a massive blizzard. Gale force winds, heavy snow, blowing and drifting…"
"Damn it," Dixon said, through his teeth.
"But they've contacted the county sheriff's office and they're attempting to coordinate some sort of action as quickly as possible."
"So in the meantime – "
Marshall looked at Dixon. "We have to wait."
"When we arrive," Jack said to Weiss, who was gripping the steering wheel, weaving and dodging bikes and cabs, "I want you and Agent – " Jack stopped and crooked a thumb at the man behind the driver.
"Clifford," the agent said, responding to the gesture.
" - to stay on the perimeter, and wait for the tac squad. Agent - "
"Nyquist," the other man said.
" – you're with me," Jack said, returning his attention to the PDA. "Take this left here. We're fifteen blocks out."
Weiss glanced over at his superior, then back to the streets ahead. "With all due respect, Mr. Bristow, I'd rather go with you – "
"I do not care what you would rather do," Jack glowered back. "Until this situation is one hundred percent unfucked, you are going to follow every instruction I give to the letter. Understand me?"
Weiss stared straight ahead. "Yes, sir. Waiting for the tac squad. Sir."
Jack drew his pistol from its shoulder holster, slammed a clip into it, and pulled back the slide. "Anybody else want to tell me what they'd rather do?" he asked.
The walk was turning into a slog. Vaughn's hands and feet felt like chunks of granite. He was moving so slowly now - mostly from exhaustion, but also from the inability to see - that he had to fight the urge to simply stop and collapse into the white.
And then he tripped over the form in the snow. "Lefcourt?" Vaughn said, his voice so tired, it didn't sound like it belonged to him. He pulled himself off the body, and rolled it over. It was indeed the other man, now a lifeless mass of fractured bones and freezing flesh.
Through the snow, somehow, he could see the red taillights of a pickup truck, stopped at the side of the road. At first, Vaughn couldn't quite believe what he was seeing, but then he saw the lights slowly approaching, and he realized it wasn't a bizarre hallucination. He began patting Lefcourt's coat, and found the curve of the fountain pen.
Thank God.
"Oh, Jesus in Heaven," a voice cried from above. "Fella? You all right?"
"Sir?" Vaughn tried to call, and failed. "Sir? I…need your…" he said, as he felt himself succumbing to unconsciousness.
Sydney's eyes were beginning to feel strained. It seemed odd to her that the light would be dimmer as she grew closer to the door, but that was indeed the case. Soon her steps slowed as the light had all but vanished. She didn't want to take a wrong step and find herself either face down, flat on her back, or worst of all, very, very dead.
Each step was now carefully considered, and she was listening for any sounds beyond her own.
Behind her: nothing. Webber hadn't moved from the last post. He also had stopped providing cover fire – probably because he was running out of ammo. She tried to keep her breaths as deep as possible; the darkness seemed to be swallowing the air, too. It wasn't quite panic that she was feeling – it was more akin to a creeping dread, and that was enough to make her lungs begin to shrivel a bit.
Suddenly, her hands found another cold pillar. Her pulse slowed in relief. She felt her weight slumping against the concrete, and she had to stiffen her back to keep from falling over. She pressed her body against the cylinder and smoothed her way across the surface, letting her fingers guide her way around it.
Then, like her skin had a sensor ring around it, she felt a warmth and softness. Not against her yet, but inches from her fingertips. And breathing. Not heavy, but heavier than hers.
Her mind raced with options. If Webber was out of ammo, or if he was following and had fallen behind, and she called out for help, she might be dead before the cry escaped her throat. If she tried to go around this mystery man, and misstepped, she'd take a bullet in the back. Right now, he didn't seem to notice her presence. That was her only real advantage.
So Sydney kept her breaths in time with his, and clung to the post for as long as she could. Then, with as much force as she could muster, she flung her weight around the post, and using the energy from her momentum, swung the inside of a fist at the place she guessed she'd find his sternum.
When she felt not cloth but skin, with tough rings of tissue beneath, she knew she had struck him higher than she'd expected. But it would be an even more palpable hit. The henchman gagged and wheezed, and crashed on to his knees, clutching his throat. The shock of a blow to the larynx, then his inability to catch his breath had caused him to collapse.
It was the best opening Sydney could have hoped for. Hearing where he'd fallen, she swung an axe kick on to the back of his neck, wanting to put him out of commission. His head made an unpleasant thwack on the ground, ultimately confirming Sydney's intent. She dropped to a knee next to his very unconscious form and patted him down. She unclasped his MP5 from its sling, and snatched the pistol from his hip holster.
A heavy footfall behind her caused her to swing around, pistol in hand. She felt the edge of the muzzle press into flesh. She tightened her fingertip on the trigger, just as she heard Webber's voice come from above her. "Syd," he whispered. "That's my crotch."
She wanted to say something cleverly emasculating, but didn't, deciding instead to lower the weapon, and rising to meet him.
Vaughn woke in a warm pickup cab. The air was heavy with the smell of cheap cigars and alcohol. A middle-aged man in heavyweight coveralls was next to him on the bench seat, pouring coffee from a Thermos bottle into a well-worn mug.
"Are you all right, fella?" the man asked. "Looks like you were in a nasty accident."
"Yeah," he said. Suddenly, he felt a rush of fear. "My traveling companion, is he – "
"He was struck by this very pickup truck. The driver found you on top of the body. He put you in the cab. Your friend, he put in the bed." He crooked a thumb back toward the rear of the vehicle.
Vaughn didn't have to look. "So he's dead."
"For some time, too. Poor Joe, he didn't see your buddy until it was too late. Bad weather like this, you're supposed to stay with your vehicle. Cuts down on accidents, you know," he said, holding out the steaming mug.
"I'm sorry about Joe," Vaughn replied, taking a big swig.
The man in the coveralls took a long look at him. "So you're Michael Vaughn," he finally muttered.
Startled, he nearly spit the coffee all over the truck's interior. "Yes. How – "
The man smirked. "We've been looking for you."
The CB radio squawked. "Base to Pratt. Base to Pratt. You out there?"
"Just a minute." He picked up the mouthpiece. "This is Pratt, go ahead."
"Are you at the Howell place?" a male voice asked. "Sheriff's looking for you."
The man looked squarely into Vaughn's eyes and said, "No, I'm pulled over near Rep Valley."
"Joe Howell just called the office, said you were there in his Quonset hut. He was sounding pretty near tears. Talking about some accident he had."
A bigger smirk. "Sounds to me like he's into the apple brandy again."
There was a bit of static on the other end, then the voice continued, "Yeah, that's what we figure. Could you check on him anyway?"
"I'll swing by his place when the storm clears, straighten it out. If he calls back, tell him I'll be there when I'm able."
"Okay, as soon as you can."
"Right. Pratt out." He reset the mouthpiece, and turned the key in the ignition. The pickup's engine roared to life. "We need to get you on your way." He reached into his coat and withdrew the pen. "And when you get there, tell Marcus Dixon hello, and that he owes me."
Vaughn grasped the cylinder and stuffed it into his pocket. "How are you going to – "
Pratt threw the truck into gear and zoomed out of the steel building into the dark winter night. "Storm's over in North Platte. Agency's sending a plane. Should be there by the time we arrive. Just relax." He put the truck into gear and pulled onto the icy highway, beginning to pick up more speed than seemed safe to Vaughn's shredded nerves. "And put your seat belt on," he added, with a tiny smile.
"We aren't here for a shootout, Nyquist," Jack said as he and the blond agent exited the vehicle and started down the stairs. "What I want you to do is stay on my hip, and we'll do a standard two-man entry."
"Right, sir," the young agent replied. Jack noticed the crispness of his diction. An educated man.
Jack moved into the meat of his speech as they approached the hole in the iron fencing. "We don't have a number of tangoes, and I don't know how this is laid out, so we need to be prepared – "
The sudden darkness stunned him. It was like someone had cut away whatever light there was - the natural and the artificial - then wrapped heavy sackcloth around his head, just to complete the effort. He went to his comms. "Weiss, are you reading me?" When he let off the talkswitch, nothing back static came back to his ears. "Agent Weiss, do you read me?"
Back in the car, Eric was fiddling with the steering wheel when Jack's call came through. It was in pieces, and full of static. "Agent Bristow?" he asked. "I can barely hear you."
Clifford pressed his earpiece further into his own ear. "I can't hear him, either," he said.
Weiss opened his door and stepped out, speaking louder. "Say again, Agent Bristow. You're breaking up."
Nyquist was shaking his head. "It's like we're behind something so dense we can't get a transmission past it. I mean, I know he said something, but damned if I know what it was."
"Either there's interference because we're too far underground, or frequency's been jammed," Jack said, keeping his voice flat. "That's why we couldn't pin down a location before."
"So now what?"
"Tactical squad's on the way," Jack said. "And we need to secure a front door for their entry." He took a few steps into the emptiness ahead of them.
He heard a click behind him, then saw an intense beam of light pierce the void. Jack turned to see Nyquist's face, somewhat illuminated. "Mini Mag-Lite," the younger man said, a grin spreading across his face. "Troop 18 Eagle Scout of the Year, 1992." He held the flashlight out for Jack to take.
"Stay on my hip," Jack replied tonelessly, grasping the aluminum tube, clenching it, then crossing his wrists, using one to support the other.
Sydney stayed in the lead, continuing to count posts. When Webber butted up against her on the sixth, she turned back toward him. She could feel his face near hers, and it made her a little queasy. "Bad guy count?" she asked.
"How many, you mean?"
"Yeah. We saw seven, right?"
"Uh-huh. It was down to three when we started this odyssey."
"How about when you were keeping heads down?"
"I know I got one."
"I heard another fall when I was covering you."
"And with Mr. Unlucky back there…"
"That's all of them. Right?"
"If my first-grade math teacher wasn't lying to me about the basics of subtraction."
"And this is the sixth post. We've got maybe two left," Sydney said. She peered back into the darkness. Indeed, unless her imagination was taking possession of her visual cortex, she had seen a flash of light. "See that?" she indicated.
"What?" Webber asked.
"A light, coming from above. Less than five hundred feet, I'm thinking."
Webber peered into the dark. A flicker of light, then nothing. "Three-to-five hundred," Webber replied. Damn it, he thought. Someone had found them.
"We'll bound to the next post, and hopefully when we get there, we can go back-to-back up the stairs, and that'll be our exit."
"Then that's the move," he replied. "Lead the way."
As Sydney slowly advanced, Webber's hand tightened around his M-4's handgrip. Henri's personal vendetta had cost him a clean getaway and a fall guy for Sydney's murder. Now he was running out of the time he'd needed to eliminate her. He could still pin it on Henri or one of his men, but the clock was ticking.
If he was going to kill her, he'd have to do it now. He listened carefully for her breathing and steps, and dropped to a knee to focus his attention.
Jack was using the flashlight sparingly – no need to let any sentries know that someone had wandered into their lair. He'd snap it on for a second or two to sweep through the space to check for obstacles of any sort, and to take a quick lay of the land, then cut the light for a minute or so to advance in the space, zig-zagging across the floor.
He noticed that Nyquist hadn't left him. He could hear the younger agent's breaths shortening. "Calm down. Don't start panicking," he said.
"I'm sorry, sir," the young man replied. "It's my first real action."
"And it'll be your last if you start hyperventilating," Jack said, clicking on the light again.
This time as he swept, his light found forms – one had his back to Jack and Nyquist, the other was approaching a post at the bottom of the stairs. Still another was aiming an assault rifle. Jack recognized the one approaching the post.
Sydney, Jack thought.
"FEDERAL AGENTS!" he cried, training his weapon on the rifleman.
Dad? Sydney's mind stumbled over the relief she was feeling. Her eyes caught the edge of a flashlight beam, and the form that interrupted the light. She dove behind the next pillar and tried to catch her breath.
Son of a bitch, Webber thought, hearing Jack's voice ringing through the air, and seeing Sydney – barely – as she disappeared behind the next post, into a position he couldn't hit. And while he'd be able to hit Jack, just his presence with another agent made it clear that more were coming. Webber felt his blood simmering. He knew that now he'd have to wait.
The henchman, startled by the light, pulled his weapon from its holster and spun to face the voice. He met Jack's bullets on the way. They tore into his gray-green camouflage shirt, and he collapsed to his knees, then fell face-first on to the stairs, and his piece clattered as it tumbled out of his dead hand.
Then, as if on cue, a swarm of black-clad figures with automatic weapons flowed into the space, coming down the stairs, flashlights and laser sights dancing with their every step. Jack frowned at no one in particular, then turned and began to make the trek back outside. Sydney and Webber met at the base of the stairs.
"I don't like that look," Webber said, as they started to climb.
"It's one of his patented 'disappointed' faces," Sydney replied. "I only saw it once or twice, and that's when I was a girl." Her voice became very soft. "It means we're about to take a beating," Sydney replied.
The deputy hadn't lied. By the time they reached the small airport just outside North Platte, Nebraska, a small, untagged jet was rolling towards the tiny terminal. Vaughn looked at Pratt. "Thanks for the help," he said, extending his still-aching hand.
Pratt grasped it gently, and leveled a hard gaze into the younger man's eyes. "Don't lose the pen again, Mr. Vaughn," he said, turning on his heel and walking out of the building.
Vaughn watched him go, then tucked that cold hand into his pocket and reassured himself that the pen was still there. Then he made his way to the plane, stretching his legs to keep the blood flowing. He looked at the clock above the closed ticket window. 11:25, it said. He felt a small flicker of dread in the memory of his orders. It was late, and his day wasn't over by a mile.
Jack was just getting warmed up in the off-site debrief location, a Winnebago RV parked at a construction site in New Jersey. "Reckless disregard. That's what that's called. And the three of you know better." His eyes scanned the faces of the younger agents, and paused a little longer on Sydney's.
Webber could take no more. "Mr. Bristow, I believed we were running out of time."
"Believed?" Jack's sneer was razor-sharp.
"Henri Courant was one of my top sources," Webber explained. "We worked together on multiple occasions over the last five years. If he was making contact about it, then I was sure that he had the watch. And I was equally sure that if I didn't meet with him, we'd lose him."
"But he didn't have the watch, did he, Agent Webber?"
"No, sir."
"And now, he's dead."
"Better him than us," Webber replied.
"That remains to be seen."
"You gave us free reign to pursue leads. That's what we were doing."
Jack seized on that. "No, you were playing James fucking Bond. Pursuing leads doesn't entail putting your lives and the lives of other agency officers in jeopardy so you can work out your hero issues and other such bullshit."
"What were we supposed to do then?" Webber's voice rose. "Just sit on that intel, wait for him to do whatever he was going to do?"
"No. You have a lead, you talk to me," Jack replied. "We work out a solution. As a team. Christ, how long have you worked for the agency? It's in the damn manual. Protocols have to be followed."
"Respectfully, sir, then we should have been held to those standards from the inception of this operation. If we are to follow protocols."
"Did you believe your contact when he told you he had the watch? He gave you no reason to believe otherwise?"
"I believed him, yes."
"Then you should've come to see me before any of this happened." Jack shook his head. "Hell, as soon as he reached out to you, you should've let me know. And if you, Agent Weiss, saw that he wasn't going to do that, you had a duty to tell me." Weiss tried to hide in his hand, but to no avail. Jack again lowered a disappointed gaze at his daughter. "And so did you." She frowned, but said nothing. Jack continued, on a roll. "Instead, everybody kept their mouth shut to preserve God knows what, and now, we're no closer to the watch or any of the people who are seeking it, and any intelligence that Courant could have given us went to the grave with him." Jack frowned. "We've already lost too many of our people in this. I sure as hell do not want to have to attend any more funerals. We are trying to catch a traitor here, not just you and you and you, and the agency does not need any loose cannons."
Webber stifled a snort. Jack shot a dagger at him with his eyes. Sydney tried to break the tension. "So what do you want us to do?"
"Sydney, you're staying in New York to brief your replacement."
"Replacement?" She hadn't been expecting that.
"Webber, you are being moved to the Los Angeles office, effective immediately. Weiss, you're to report to the Director's office at Langley at nine a.m. tomorrow for foreign reassignment."
Webber took to his feet. "What? The bastard who murdered our agents is still out there. And he's laughing his ass off."
Jack's voice was cold. "Your plane leaves in two hours, Agent Webber; I suggest you pack. Quickly."
"Mr. Dixon?" Marshall whispered. "Vaughn's on his way."
"He's aware that we're under orders to park him in few locations?" Dixon asked, as if this plan made sense to him. Sure, it's Jack's call, he thought, but do we have to do it like this?
"He's not happy about it, but yeah. Minneapolis is stop one. The remainder are being kept confidential until he's en route," Marshall replied, with a tone equal to his supervisor's.
"His contacts have already been notified?"
"Yes. Each one will accompany him from stop to stop, to maintain security."
"When's his New York ETA?"
"Three p.m. tomorrow. Then they'll jump him to Langley for a full debrief."
"And he has the pen?" This question was the only one that made any sense to Dixon.
"That's confirmed. And it isn't leaving his sight anytime soon," Marshall replied. He understood why that part mattered, if not the rest of it.
Sydney looked out the RV window at the waiting car. Webber and Weiss were sitting in the front seat, complaining aloud to each other, she was sure. "Why are you being so rough on them?"
Jack grunted. "Rough, Sydney? If was being rough, I'd have been passing out pink slips. And secondly, they screwed up. So did you. Take your medicine and stop complaining about who's doing what to whom, and how unfair it is."
"Fine. So what am I supposed to do, after I brief my replacement?"
"You'll come with me to Baltimore."
She was silent for a moment. "Why?"
"Surveillance. I need you to help keep an eye on Gilchrist. He's meeting his connection in an abandoned warehouse there.""So we'll sit in a car together for God knows how many hours. Delightful."
Jack shook his head. "We'll operate separately. It's likely that someone from Langley will be calling you."
"For a debrief on today," Sydney said.
"It's going in the report. You might not like it, but it is."
Sydney snorted. "I never thought I'd see the day when the great Jack Bristow turned into just another suit who didn't have the guts to back his people. But I was obviously mistaken."
"People often are," Jack replied.
Webber didn't look at Weiss when he talked. "That son of a bitch."
Weiss frowned a bit. "I know you're pissed, Frank, but – "
"But nothing. I'm so sick of that asshole and his holier-than-thou shit. Pushing us around like we're fucking interns. Nobodies. Fuck him. Fuck him, and fuck going to L.A."
"That's your assignment, like it or not," Sydney said, appearing in the seat behind them. Webber noticed that he hadn't even heard her. Damn it, he thought. If Jack hadn't blown his shot… "And in case you forgot, you can't just skip out on a CIA assignment," she continued.
"No matter how you feel about the prick who gave it to you," Weiss said.
Sydney shot a look at her friend, then turned her attention back to both men. "My father has tasked me to travel with him to Baltimore. We're going to be keeping separate eyes on Gilchrist."
"Separate," Webber said.
"And I'm probably going to be pulled away during," she replied. Sydney's pager went off. She looked at it sadly. "It's Marshall. I have to leave."
"Then go. We're on top of this," Webber said.
"Don't do anything stupid," she said, climbing out of the car and slamming the door.
Webber sensed his opportunities slipping away. It was time to play his trump card. "Eric. You and me – we're on the same side, right?"
"I hope so," Weiss replied.
"About Cathy and Rick, I mean."
"What's this about?"
"I just need some – reassurance."
Weiss gritted his teeth. "You know I'm with you on this."
"Good," Webber said. "I'm not going to L.A. If Gilchrist is in Baltimore, then that's where this ends."
Weiss's eyes narrowed. "Are you serious?"
"Deadly," Webber replied.
"Then I'm coming with you," Weiss said.
"No."
"No? What do you mean, no?"
"You've got a future with the agency. My career, it's pretty much shot to hell. Jack Bristow is after my job – it's like a personal vendetta with him. So I've got to do this alone."
"Do what?"
"Gilchrist," Webber said. "He won't get away from me again."
"He won't get away? What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means that I'll use any means necessary to bring a killer to justice – whether Gilchrist pulled the triggers or had someone else do it. He knows what happened, and he's going to tell me."
"Christ," Weiss said. "Listen to yourself. If you go rogue, there's no turning back."
"No offense, Eric, but you're sounding more like Jack every day," Webber replied.
Weiss sighed. "I won't just sit on the sidelines. If I can help you, you need to let me."
Webber leaned over to Weiss. "Okay. Go to Langley like Bristow ordered. As soon as you're out of your meeting, get a car, and drive into Baltimore." He reached into his jacket and pulled out a piece of paper and a pen, and started to write. "Go to this address."
Weiss took the paper from Webber, a frown forming on his lips. "A coffee shop? What will I do there?"
Webber's smile mirrored the other man's expression. "Drink coffee. Have a hot dog. And make a phone call for me."
TO BE CONTINUED…