The four p.m. meeting started late, but for a change, it wasn't Fawkes' fault. Eberts came rushing into the office at 4:20, carrying only a single slim file, which didn't bode well for the amount of success the über-geek's research had achieved.
"My apologies, the printer jammed due to the recycled paper we use and I..."
"Shut up, Eberts." The Official most assuredly didn't want to hear why his assistant was late, especially if it involved the compromises made because of the perennially strained budget.
Eberts did so and hurried to stand beside his master and commander's desk. He hugged the file to his chest and waited.
Several minutes ticked by, the silence only broken by the faint sound of traffic penetrating through the windows cracked for ventilation.
Fawkes and Hobbes glanced at each other with matching looks of bafflement then they both looked over at Alex whose lips were a thin line signaling an impending explosion.
"Eberts, the file," she growled, unable to take it any longer.
Eberts started. "What? Oh, of course." He opened the file, glancing over the contents he'd probably already memorized. "As we suspected, Murphy Pomerance doesn't exist. What few credentials we could find were forgeries. The car he drove was most likely stolen; the license plate most certainly was. It belongs to Mildred Dresden of Ocean Beach. She reported it missing a week ago, but was unsure when exactly it went missing as she rarely drives these days."
"So you have dead ends. Wonderful." Alex didn't sound any less irritated. "Anything on Arnaud? Last known location? His casino in Las Cruces, perhaps?"
Hobbes was wondering that himself. They knew Arnaud's 'holiday house' hadn't been used since they'd discovered it. The casino was still running, but didn't require his presence to funnel money into off-shore accounts, and the last sighting Hobbes knew of was in Geneva, which was where everyone from Interpol to the MI-6 had lost track of him.
The Official shook his head. "Nothing since Geneva. His Hacienda was confiscated by the Mexican government a year ago. He, by all accounts, has vanished."
"Could he be back with Dr. Rendell?" Alex asked, willing to grasp at any straw.
"Nope," Fawkes answered, surprising Hobbes almost as much as Alex. "What? I'd kinda like to get a hold of him for personal reasons."
"Darien is correct. Dr. Rendell is still out of the country. Milan, as of three weeks ago. We are reasonably certain Monsieur De Fehrn has not attempted to make contact with her." Eberts closed the file.
"So that's it then. We've got nothing." Alex crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back in her chair, discontent written in every line of her body.
Hobbes huffed. "Well, considerin' he could be anywhere..."
"Or anyone," Fawkes added.
"There just ain't no easy way to track him." Hobbes finished.
"He has to have a lab somewhere. He can't produce Quicksilver or cloned skin in the back of a van," Alex pointed out. "There is no way his operation, even with minimal staff, is a low cost one."
"I have searched, Miss Monroe, but he does not appear to be operating within the US. Cooperation from outside governments is limited." Eberts shrugged. "I am still attempting to trace his past activities in hopes of finding his current location, but there is an immense amount of data to sift through and our resources are not as extensive as I would prefer."
The Official cast a warning glance at his lackey, who ignored it. For once, Eberts' griping about resources was completely justified. It takes money to run a business, which the Agency ultimately was, and limited cash meant limited ability.
"All of you get out there and beat the bushes. Someone has seen him, or Pomerance, or Huiclov or..."
"Got it, Chief." Hobbes got to his feet, not entirely sure which bushes were left to beat.
"I have some people I could call," Alex offered as she too stood, clearly glad to have something to do. "I'll be in my office."
Hobbes watched Fawkes, who was just sitting there, looking thoughtful. "Problem?"
"Nope." Fawkes slowly stood, and they followed Alex out into the hall.
"I'll let you know if I find anything," Monroe said, as she turned and headed for the stairwell.
"Works," Hobbes called out as she swung the doors open. "Wanna head over to Wok, Drop and Roll and see if we can scare up some intel?" he asked of Fawkes.
Darien paused, fingers running through his hair. "Actually, I got some things I gotta do."
"Things? What could be more important that this?" Hobbes was fighting the urge to give Fawkes a lecture on how to act like an agent; somehow, he managed to keep his trap shut, but barely. If the kid had things to do, then he had things to do.
"Hobbes..." Darien shook his head. "You know I suck at all that code phrase crap. And I really don't need to revisit my acquaintance with Johnny Castignacci."
Hobbes snorted in amusement. "You got a point, my friend." He cocked his head, thinking. "Meet me for breakfast and compare notes?"
"Fifth Street Café?" The look Darien leveled at Hobbes was imploring. The mook was more than a tad partial to the coffee at that place, or maybe it was the heavily sugared and cream filled pastries.
"Eight a.m.," Hobbes insisted, making Fawkes pout. "Bossman's gonna want us here by nine."
Darien sighed. "Eight a.m. it is. Thanks, man." With a wave, Darien trotted for the stairwell.
"Eight a.m.," Hobbes shouted, as the doors swung shut, though he knew likelihood of the King of Beauty Sleep being conscious at that hour was slim to none. Not that it mattered much. Hobbes was certain he'd find something out on the boardwalk. At the very least he could get some perogies for himself and Claire to keep the evening from being a total waste of time.
He had the feeling hitting the strip wasn't going to get him much in the way of info.
-----
Darien had his own key. He parked right next to Fallon's dusty Jeep, casting a glance in the rearview mirror to be sure the gate had closed before the desperate-for-any-parking-space driver had managed to pull in behind him. This small parking lot near the tourist mecca of Old Town, must seem like an oasis among the endless desert of buildings and no parking signs. The guy wasn't the first one to brave the 'private parking' decree to avoid walking any further than necessary. A few words from one of Fallon's boys was generally more than enough to encourage the driver to move along, especially when they came out carrying one of the weapons they'd been working on inside.
Fallon's people knew where to park on the rare occasion this particular location was full. Fallon had talked the owner of a lot a half block down to reserve spaces for her people. Well, talk and a substantial monetary remuneration. The guy blocked off a bunch of spaces and got paid whether or not they were used. Fallon had certainly learned how to work the system around here to her benefit.
Darien pocketed his keys, since the huge bay doors were rolled up to admit the cool January air. He wasn't worried about going through 'channels' anymore, since he was definitely counted as one of Fallon's people now. And not just because he was sleeping with her.
As soon as he neared the building, half a dozen people called out greetings, which Darien returned. He liked these people. Whatever they had been before coming to work at the fourth monkey, which ran the gamut from the boring to the unbelievable, no longer mattered. Here they'd become one squabbling, bickering, dysfunctional, and intensely loyal family. At first, they'd been aloof, but after his third job, it became obvious he'd passed some unofficial test and they'd invited him to an after-job party that had been astonishingly fun. It was what he had envisioned as his life as a thief, and while he still (or was that once again?) considered himself a thief, he knew he was also more.
'Not just a...' fill in the blank had become a dawning realization over the last few months. Not just a thief. Not just a secret agent. Not just an invisible man. He was 'not just a' lot of things these days. And yet, he still wasn't entirely certain what he was.
Some days it was all just little confusing.
The sculpture he and several others had helped get situated, the huge trunk hauled and held upright while Fallon secured it to the elaborate base, was coming along well, the painstaking detail work appearing to be about half done based on the drawings he'd seen of the piece. The ladder and welding equipment sitting nearby, suggested that Fallon had been working on it recently. A local gallery, upon discovering the Fallon O'Neill was living in town had requested the piece and she been more than happy to accommodate them. One thing Darien had learned about the frightfully aloof woman was that of all the things she did, working on her sculptures was her favorite, and when she was most likely to drop those walls she hid behind and let herself be seen by others.
"Darien, she's upstairs."
He gave Gilly a wave of thanks and headed for the back stairwell that led to the apartments on the upper floors. He took the stairs two at a time up to the second floor where he made a beeline for the open door that led into Fallon's personal space. He knocked on the doorframe as he stepped in and called out, "Anybody home?"
He heard a muffled, "Come in," and a moment later Fallon appeared, toweling her hair dry and wearing only a silky black robe.
"Hot date?" Darien asked, lips quirking upwards.
"Business meeting in LA," she set on hand on her hip. "Care t'join me?"
Darien fought the instant urge to say 'yes.' The offer was very tempting, but on this occasion, he was going to have to decline. "Can't," he finally said.
She tossed the towel over the back of a chair, her hair wild and unruly. "Hot date?"
Darien chuckled. Fair was fair, after all. "Actually, I need a favor."
She leaned back against the wall, arms crossing over her chest. "What kind of favor?" The flirtation had cut off instantly. She was all business now. He sometimes envied how easily she could switch tracks like that.
"Huiclov de Fehrn escaped from prison."
"Aye. I know."
"I need anything you have on his or Arnaud's whereabouts." Darien watched her, waiting for the axe to fall, but after a moment of silence, she smiled.
"I was expecting ye t'drop by," she casually informed him and pushed away from the wall. She sorted through the disks on her table and after a few seconds found the one she was looking for. "Ye'll owe me special for this."
"Done. We can negotiate specifics later." It hadn't taken long for him to get a solid grasp on how she did business, and he knew she would play fair with him, assigning work equal to the value of the intel and no more. "How'd you know I'd be dropping by?"
She shrugged once he'd taken the vivid red jewel case from her hand. "I 'ear things."
He wagged a finger at her. "You've been spying on the Agency, haven't you?"
She admitted nothing.
"Only fair, I suppose. I can pretty much guarantee the Official's been keeping tabs on you and yours."
"Trying to, more like." She nodded at the disk. "That's all we've been able to find out since Arnaud 'it the US three months ago. 'E is difficult to track, so we followed the money. 'E's made some interesting purchases the last few months."
Darien wasn't the least bit surprised that she had already succeeded at the very task Eberts had been set to. With her info, they'd be a step further along in the game. "Why are you looking into Arnaud's doings?"
Her look went completely blank. "I 'ave me reasons."
'Whoops. Wrong button.' Darien realized quickly and stepped back from the virtual precipice. "Any idea what he's up to?"
She paced slowly across the room to stand by the window, a contemplative look on her face. "'Ave your Mr. Eberts check into a DOD project code named Chameleon."
"Why?" Darien asked in curiosity.
"'Ow much are ye willing t'pay?"
Darien whistled. "That big, huh?"
Fallon declined to answer. 'Crap. What the hell was the Swiss Miss Mother mixed up in now?' He walked over to her and flashed the disk. "Thanks."
"No need. "Tis business."
He supposed it was, for her anyway. For him it was very personal. Speaking of which... he closed the distance between them, his free hand coming up to brush along her cheek. Fallon watched him, her eyes flicking from side to side as she searched his. As if by unspoken agreement, they came together, lips meeting and parting, partaking of each other one slow sip at a time.
He pulled back reluctantly, his heart pounding in his chest, wanting her, but resisted the temptation to part the material of the robe and slide it down her shoulders to pool on the floor at their feet, unneeded and forgotten. Slowly he released a shaky breath and rested his forehead against hers. Her hands sat comfortably on his hips, awaiting his decision as to whether or not they were going to continue.
When he did nothing she said, "Ye 'ave work t'do."
Darien sighed. "Yeah, I do." He shifted to take possession of her lips once more, staking his claim on her time and body. "Really gotta go," he muttered, still unable to move.
She laughed and gently pushed him away. "I be thinking ye don' want to."
He smiled. "Business before pleasure."
"Don' I know it." Her look turned serious. "Good 'untin'. Let me know 'ow it goes."
"I will." Darien finally found himself able to turn away and headed for the door. He had his cell out, number dialed, and against his ear by the time he hit the stairwell. "Eberts, got some info for you to dig up. Yes, it has to do with the case. A DOD project called Chameleon."