To address a concern brought up by a reviewer about timely updates: Honestly, I don't think my updates have been slow…have they? I've got a whole load of stuff to do for school (cough finals cough) and in the recent few weeks, I've had a bunch of events aligned on Saturdays so that I haven't had that much time to write.

Anyway, I'm glad you're enjoying the story so much that you're asking for updates, and I'm sorry for any delay! Here's a new chapter, if that's any consolation. :P

Chapter 5

In which Ian has two meetings, the second of which is completely unexpected.

"It is a pity that what brings you back is not family or pleasure, but business," Fiske sighed.

The older man sat behind a large, wooden desk as he regarded the younger thoughtfully. Ian shifted uncomfortably. It was only the two of them in the office, as Nellie had separated from them after coming up the stairs. Fiske had informed Ian, with not a small amount of pride in his voice, that Nellie was quite busy nowadays with her Ambassador to France position.

To amuse himself, Ian had tried to picture the Cahill kids' au pair, together with her nose ring, pink hair, and concert shirts, in a U.N. conference room.

"But nevertheless, it's a pleasure to see you, Ian. It's been a long time," Fiske noted. "I haven't seen you at any of the various branch meetings we've held over the past few years."

"I haven't been active as a Lucian agent for a while," Ian said warily. "There have been…other matters that have required my total dedication."

"The British Secret Intelligence," Fiske acknowledged. "It's not uncommon for young Lucians such as yourself to dedicate themselves to a government agency for the majority of their youth and then re-involve themselves in their Cahill branch later on."

Ian remembered. His parents had been part of MI6 during their youth, when the Lucians had controlled every government and government agency in the world. Over the past few decades, however, the Lucians, along with the rest of the Cahill family, had lost much of their power and influence. The proof was the rise of non-Cahills in political organizations, such as Ian's superior Travis.

"I've come on the behalf of MI6 actually," Ian said, "on a matter of great importance to both the Cahill family and MI6. I assume you've heard about the Old Cat Head mission?" At Fiske's nod, Ian continued, "Well, what the press didn't report is that during the operation, there was a slight…disturbance. It didn't undermine the success of the mission, but was rather unexpected and drew the interest of MI6. You see, one of my father's lackeys was told to set up a meeting with me and convey a proposition that my father was offering."

Fiske's eyes were now more intently focused on Ian. "And the proposition was?"

"He told me he would 'take me back'—that's verbatim—if I killed you."

The older man didn't so much as flinch. Instead, he looked thoughtful. "What role does your MI6 play in this?"

Ian explained how Evell had caught sight of Ian's encounter and how he had been forced to inform MI6 of the chance meeting. "I didn't give any names," Ian assured him. "I didn't violate the Cahill Secrecy Act."

Fiske simply nodded and gestured for Ian to continue. The boy explained how MI6 had viewed the whole affair and their plan to turn it into their advantage.

"In short, they want me to regain my father's trust and then act as a double-agent for them," Ian concluded. "And that begins with your fake-death."

He prepared himself for Fiske's objections. "Alright, let's go back to the beginning," the older man said. "This lackey of your father's…do you know anything about him?"

"His name is Delun Hollingsworth," Ian said. "I know him from past family reunions that my mother held. Delun is a cousin on my mother's side."

"Are you certain he's working for your father?"

The question surprised Ian, who thought the answer was quite obvious.

"I mean, did he say outright that he was?" Fiske said.

"Yes, and he said he knew my father's exact whereabouts."

"You're sure?" Fiske pressed.

Ian wondered why he was focusing on this one, seemingly minute detail. But he knew first-hand that small details were often the most important—and the most overlooked. "My mother was always strangely fond of him, so it would make sense that she would recruit him. So yes, I suppose he's a Vesper now, working for my father."

Fiske was staring at him. "You sound very sure."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You sound very certain that your father is a Vesper."

"Well, I assumed that was what Delun was referring to when he said my father had a new group," Ian said. "Obviously, I couldn't tell that to MI6, but I never doubted he meant anything but the Vespers. My mother was one, after all, and probably introduced him to a few Vespers. You know Lucians like to form new connections and expand their associates list—it makes it easier to know who to support on the playing field. For power, that is."

He tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice. Power had always been his parents' first priority, even above their children.

As if reading Ian's thoughts, Fiske said, "Well, the fact that your father made an attempt to reconcile with you ought to mean something. Vikram Kabra is a complicated man, but I believe he sincerely cares about his children."

The contrast between Fiske's deduction and Travis' conviction that Vikram was using Ian was blatant. Deep down, Ian desperately wanted to believe Fiske, but his wary mind told him not to be naïve.

"Back to the plan," he said. "So are you willing to go along with it?"

Fiske folded his hands on top of the mahogany desk. "I have a few reservations."

"I received a message from my father this morning, who thinks I'm on board with our deal. Once you fake your death, I can locate my father and infiltrate the Vespers. It'll be a win-win," Ian persuaded. "The Cahills can defeat the Vespers, and MI6 will be able to prosecute my father."

"Yes," Fiske said after a moment of consideration. "It will greatly turn the tide in the recent war between the Cahills and the Vespers. The latter have increased their attacks on the Cahill family since the battle under the Rocky Mountains three years ago. I fear the vendetta they've harbored toward us all these hundreds of years has increased into something deadlier."

"Exactly," Ian said, his voice ringing through the room. "This may be your opportunity to extinguish them once and for all."

He saw Fiske open his mouth and then close it. "Is it the Madrigal branch that is making you hesitate?" Ian asked. "If so, there is no need to worry. An assistant or someone can surely temporarily step in for you, right? All operations will resume and you will still be able to work from behind-the-scenes."

"No, I'm not worried about that," Fiske answered slowly.

"Then you'll see that everything has been meticulously planned out by MI6," Ian declared.

"What I'm worried about is you," Fiske said.

Ian was surprised into momentary silence. "I beg your pardon?"

"You've been put in a situation where you've had to choose between MI6 and your father," Fiske said. Ian hated the sympathy in his voice. "They've made your enemy your father. Your family, your blood. I can't imagine how that must feel."

"I'm fine," Ian said stiffly.

"You're brave," Fiske corrected. "You put on a front, but…" He shook his head. "I want you to know that if you ever need to talk, I'll always be here."

"I'm fine," Ian repeated.

"Alright, then," Fiske said, though he didn't sound convinced. He leaned back in his chair. "We'll still have to discuss the nitpicky details, but if you're sure you want to go through with the plan, you have my support."

"Great." Ian held out his hand and Fiske shook it. The younger one was eager to get out of the office, but the older stopped him at the door.

"So Amy—you remember my niece, of course?"

Ian assured him that he did. Amy Cahill and her brother had always been a vibrant part of his recollections of the 39 Clues hunt.

"She brought a friend over for this summer," Fiske said. "Miss Livia Tranc. I believe you met her at dinner?" Ian replied in the affirmative. "I apologize for not giving you notice sooner. It was a rather spontaneous decision that my niece made. It's rather unfortunate, but we'll have to keep Cahill matters hushed."

"I understand," Ian assured him.

"You'll be staying at least a week?" Fiske asked.

"At most," Ian corrected. Grimly, he told Fiske about the text message he had received.

"Your father is awfully eager to dispose of me," Fiske said, his tone the most serious it had been since the entire meeting. "Alright, I won't keep you here any longer. Good night, Ian."

After the boy left, Fiske sat for a long time contemplating. The poor Kabra boy had no idea what he was getting himself into. He was a pawn, taking his first step forward into a long and complicated game of chess.

Finally, Fiske stood up. He moved toward a small cabinet and opened the second drawer. His hand darted inside and came out with a plain black DeOssie phone in its grasp.

The phone was only able to call one person. As Fiske hit the dial button, he fervently hoped that person would pick up. It would save him a lot of complications, after all.

One ring. Two rings. Three rings. Four rings.

Fiske sighed and hung up.

He now reached across the left-hand corner of his desk for his iPhone. Unlocking it, he opened TravelUs and scrolled down for tomorrow's flights. With only a moment of hesitation, he chose one that would leave at 8 am tomorrow for New York, where he would make a few transfers.

In the old days, no one used cell phones to reach each other. They physically found each other and talked face-to-face.

It was time for Fiske to go back to the old ways.

Ian took slow steps up the stairs. His mind was playing back the conversation between him and Fiske.

There was one question that Fiske hadn't addressed, that Ian hadn't dared to ask. What had Fiske done to incur the wrath of Ian's father? Ian hadn't asked firstly because it wasn't any of his business and he'd long learned to keep his nose out of such things, and secondly because despite Fiske's claims of family trumping all, he wasn't sure Fiske would've answered honestly.

A single light lit the dim third floor hallway. Ian padded down the velvet carpet, tired from jet lag and the whirl of recent events.

At least you're making progress, he told himself. Fiske had agreed to fake his death, which was the first step to fulfilling the mission.

It was just a mission. Ian had been on dozens of them. So why did this one fill Ian with so much dread?

Stop, he told himself. He had been taught over and over by MI6 instructors that getting personal feelings involved in a mission was a terrible idea that could have fatal consequences.

Just a mission, he repeated to himself silently. Just a mission.

He was still repeating these words as he pushed open the door to his bedroom. He was about to turn on the light, when a voice from behind stopped him.

"I-Ian."

Without turning around, Ian recognized the stutter. "Amy."

The girl appeared at Ian's side. Her bright eyes appeared luminous in the darkness and looked directly at Ian. Despite her stutter earlier when she had said his name, there was a familiar set to her mouth that Ian recognized as determination.

"Listen, we have to talk."