Disclaimer: I don't own the situations or characters portrayed herein. I'm just playing with them for a while.
Chapter Six: Infiltration
Lee went to Fort Detrick as instructed, for a full week of training and orientation.
The first day consisted of instructions concerning the new technology he would need to use. It was almost bewildering. Gadgets had progressed much farther than he was used to, and the amount of things he was able to do on one small device was staggering. He could only imagine how different his agency days would have been, if he had been able to reach backup at a moment's notice without the need for pay phones, or if he had been able to use the same device to video record without the need for bulky vans of camera equipment.
He didn't like it.
He wished Jamie was the one teaching him about these things. He enjoyed learning things from Jamie, who knew how to use all these electronic thingamajigs easily, because Jamie was tactful and never made him feel as though it was his fault he didn't understand the tools a photojournalist needed. His whippersnapper of an instructor at Fort Detrick did not have any of that tact.
Lee went to bed that night with a headache.
He received his cover and scenario on the second day. He couldn't convince himself that he was convinced by it. Supposedly his name was Spencer Randall. He had latent sympathetic feelings for Russian interests. His wife had died in a tragic yachting accident years before in the Gulf of Mexico. His daughter had died in a tragic freak oil explosion in Texas. His oldest son was an international diplomat, and his youngest son was a comanding officer in Afghanistan.
He skimmed through the scenario, noting that whoever had put it together had a real penchant for tragedy. Spencer Randall — which seemed like a weirdly British name for a philanthropic American with Russian sympathies — had been orphaned at the tender age of twenty-three, which was (what else?) tragic. His house had been lost in a fire at forty, which may have been either before or after his daughter died in the oils exlpotion.
Lee frowned. This document had not been checked for errors. He went back and re-read it, noticing new errors in spelling, punctuation, and timelines. He realized that this document was incredibly vague, too.
His uneasiness grew. The thought he had been mulling over ever since Leonard Baynes showed up unexpectedly on his doorstep came back to his mind, stronger than ever. Why am I the best candidate for this job? Wouldn't somebody younger, somebody with more recent experience, be a better fit?
He sighed and turned the paper over.
Spencer Randal's wife had been killed in a uachting accidnet in the Gulf of — I've already read that.
Something was wrong here.
The rest of the week passed quickly. He was trained in recognition codes, new espionage tactics, emergency procedures, and a Russian refresher course.
Finally, he was driven to his new apartment in D.C. and wished all the best of luck. Someone from the philanthropic society would, he was told, make contact that evening.
It was confusing, and Lee Stetson didn't like being confused.
A liaison from the society knocked on his door that evening, when he was already feeling tired. They had come in a limousine, with instructions to bring him to the society's headquarters.
He got into the vehicle with only a slight feeling of dismay. He would much rather have driven his own car, but apparently Spencer Randall didn't do that. Spencer Randall hadn't driven a car ever since the accident that killed his daughter. (Lee was still confused as to whether this was the same daughter or a different one, but no one he had asked at Fort Detrick had known for sure.)
The limousine drew up outside a well-proportioned building in a part of town he didn't know well. The chauffeur opened his door and helped him out, then handed him off to a red-suited doorman who greeted him politely.
He was ushered into a foyer that reminded him of the Estoccian embassy. The building was a massive one, with ponderous crystal chandeliers and marble floors.
Clearly, whoever balanced the books in this philanthropy business was very generous to the society itself.
The sound of chatter and laughter came from one of the doors off the main foyer, and the doorman opened it to let him inside. It was a large gathering, all of well-heeled people in furs and silks, talking and laughing and drinking champagne out of crystal flutes.
Again, he had his misgivings. This does not feel real.
Then he caught sight of a lovely woman across the room, dressed in a gown of stunning blue silk. Her hair, twisted into a simple chignon, shone in the light of the chandelier above her. He relaxed a little at the sight of someone he knew in this unfamiliar place, and he vowed to himself that as soon as he met his contact, he would go over to greet her.
A low voice spoke at his side, and he turned to see a cadaverous-faced man in a funereal suit. "Mr. Randall," he said, his lips moving only slightly. "Good of you to come."
"Mr. Thompson," he replied, shaking the thin hand.
"You know what to do?"
"Of course."
"Good."
He had forgotten how much he hated talking to someone who didn't move their lips. He wished Mr. Thompson would make eye contact, too.
"There is a senator here," Mr. Thompson went on, still not looking at Lee. "Mr. Wilson, of Utah. Find out who he talks to, and that will probably be our first clue."
Again, Lee wondered if he was necessary for this job at all. But he nodded, and turned away.
Talking to the senator was easy. All he needed to do was introduce himself as Spencer Randall, and the senator started telling him all about the subcommittees he was part of. He talked for a solid fifteen minutes before Mr. Randall managed to excuse himself.
He took a champagne flute and began to mingle, keeping one eye on the senator and one eye out for the woman he had seen earlier. And then, suddenly, there she was beside him.
His breath caught in his throat at her loveliness, and he reached out a hand before he even thought about moving.
It had been years since he had seen her; the last time they met had been before he left the agency. Her hair was white, now, but her smile was as radiant as ever, and he couldn't bear to tear his gaze away from hers.
"I never thought I would meet someone more beautiful than my late wife," he murmured, bringing her hand to his lips. "But let me introduce myself properly. My name is Spencer Randall."