Thanks to all the reviewers for the previous chapters. Don't know if I've said it before, but I'm saying it now: I don't own this show. If I did, it would still be on the air.
This one's a bit longer for you, since we're getting into the good stuff now.
Thursday, April 7th, 2011
Somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean - 7:35 PM (EST)
Cal squirmed in his chair as the small jet glided over the Atlantic Ocean. He'd left DC three hours ago, and with five and a half hours left in the flight he knew he'd have to do something to distract himself quickly. He'd already contacted almost everyone on his list, and of the six or seven names he'd written down only two were willing and able to help. The others were either unavailable, retired, or - in the case of one of his seedier contacts - permanently remanded to a rehabilitation facility. Still, the two he'd managed to talk into helping him were working hard, and Cal forced himsef to relax and wait. One of his old MI6 contacts was compiling an entire dossier on everything from local gangs to international terror rings, and Cal only had one more call to make. Deciding to save that for a bit later, Cal leaned back and attempted to get some sleep.
An email notification woke him from his light slumber, and he quickly sent a thank you reply before downloading the large file to his hard drive. The first few pages were just petty crime lists and mugging reports from that area, and Cal quickly committed the faces to memory before moving on to the heavier stuff.
The terrorist group listing was a bit more in depth, but as Cal sifted through them he didn't see one that used kidnapping as a modus operandi. More aggravating still was his complete lack of knowledge regarding any of the groups listed, and for the first time in his life Cal regretted leaving the intelligence business. He'd have to track down the DCRI to get more help, but even then he wasn't sure how much they would tell him.
As far as the local police were concerned, he should leave this to them and stay in his lab where he belonged. But as the plane inched ever closer to European soil, Cal could feel his old instincts awakening again. Already his mind was cataloguing and storing information for later use, and he could almost feel the weight of a sidearm on his hip. After the whole mess seven years ago, Cal had sworn to himself and to his family that he would leave that part of his life behind him. Every now and then he felt his body surging for one more adrenaline rush, which is what usually led to his rather colorful way of handling cases. But for the most part he had retired from that life, and he was content with running his company and raising his daughter.
If he was being honest with himself, this resurgence had begun the moment Harrington had told him Foster was missing. He'd felt it before, when Jenkins had rather unsubtly hinted that his partner had been targeted by a serial rapist, and again when Matheson had held him at gunpoint for the better part of the day. But nothing had prepared him for the realization of his best friend completely disappearing in a city halfway around the world. Even his small but exciting stint in Afghanistan wasn't comparable to the rush that was overwhelming him now. All of a sudden, living a quiet and safe life wasn't an option and his entire body screamed for him to jump into action.
That action took the form of a phone call, and ten minutes later he felt much better about this entire operation. There weren't many people he trusted to help him with this, and he'd contacted every one of them in the last five hours. Loker and Torres were connected back home, ready to give any assistance required of them. Cal had explained everything to them, trusting them to keep things together while he was gone. Emily had been notified by Torres that he'd been called away suddenly and, since her mother was also out of town for the foreseeable future on a big case, she would be staying with Ria if Cal was unable to return by Sunday night. Emily had of course launched into a tirade of questions about where he was going, what he was doing. After his impromptu trip to Afghanistan last year, she had become a bit paranoid whenever her dad took off unexpectedly. He reassured her that he wasn't heading into any war-torn countries (not a lie) and that he would call her within a day or two to check in. She'd grumbled a bit but accepted his promise, adding a heartfelt good luck that brought tears to his eyes.
Thinking of home, he opened up an email window and sent a message to his team that he was en route and he would contact them as soon as he was settled in Paris. Loker was doing his thing back home, researching the various terrorist groups and looking for anything that would indicate if any of them had been the one to snatch Gillian. Ria focused on the company, running things in Lightman's absence. She wasn't as solid on the science as Cal would have liked, but she knew enough to get by and her instincts were good; he trusted her to keep things running smoothly.
He pinched the bridge of his nose as the pressure behind his eyes built to a crescendo. He shut his laptop and dimmed the lights, hoping to stave off a headache by getting some more sleep. He had another four hours to go, and he'd be getting very little sleep once he landed.
He was jostled awake by a rather rough landing, and he ignored the apology of the captain over the intercom as he scrambled to get all his things together. By the time they taxied to a stop, Cal was already standing at the hatchway. He nodded a quick thanks to the pilot and flew down the portable steps as soon as the door opened, jogging the short distance to the nondescript black SUV that was parked some ways away. The sun was just cresting over the tops of the buildings as he slid into the passenger seat.
"Cal Lightman?" the driver asked shortly, and Cal flashed him a quick but meaningful smile. "The boss said to take you straight to headquarters." He was the stereotypical agent, Cal thought humorlessly. With close cropped blonde hair, earpiece, and sunglasses, he looked like a bad movie villain rather than an up and coming agent. But he had that air of smugness that accompanied all young agents, and Cal thought it best to establish the pecking order quickly. With a sharp nod, he directed the younger man to start driving.
"Did he get everything I requested?"
"It's all waiting for you, sir." Cal tried to relax into the seat, but the adrenaline was already building in his system so he settled for bouncing his leg impatiently as they slipped through the busy streets. He closed his eyes briefly, trying not to remember the last time he'd been in Paris. That op had gone south so fast, he'd barely had time to slip away before it all came crashing down. He'd managed to pull a few local operatives out with him, earning him his current favor with "the boss."
"Has anyone made any headway into the file I sent you?" The driver pressed his lips together, preparing himself to deliver unpleasant news. Cal glanced back out the window in defeat even as he spoke.
"I'm sorry, sir, but no one has been able to locate anything further on your missing scientist." It had been the easiest thing to tell them, he reasoned as he recalled his story. Doctor Gillian Foster, a scientist on loan from the American government, had gone missing from her hotel room the previous morning. It was technically not a lie, but if he gave any indication at all that this was completely personal for him, they'd keep a tighter leash on him.
"I expected it," he let the younger man off the hook with a simple statement, knowing he'd be no good if he felt guilty for something beyond his control. "How long until we reach headquarters?"
"Forty minutes in good traffic."
As it turned out, traffic was horrible and a very irate Lightman shot out of the SUV two hours later into an empty parking garage. Sensing his companion's urgency, the young agent directed him quickly to a service elevator. Two minutes after that, Cal was standing in a plush office with two opposing doors and one large window that overlooked the City of Love.
"Doctor Cal Lightman," a graying man emerged from the door on Cal's left with a thin smile and tired eyes. He wore dark slacks and a white button up shirt, complete with bland tie and shiny shoes. David Turner had been a formidable operative in his day – one of the best – but he'd obviously traded his sidearm for the uniform of upper management. "I never thought I'd see you again. Word had it you were out of the business." He held out his hand and Cal returned the pleasantry quickly.
"Yeah, well, you've certainly moved up in the world." Cal looked around the lavish office pointedly, and David laughed.
"I can't complain. Look, I don't want to keep you, but I do have some things I need to go over with you before you get started." He looked up at the young agent who'd driven Cal. "Thank you, Barton, that'll be all." The agent nodded once and closed the door behind him as he left. Cal waited, but when David offered no further information he stared at his friend accusingly.
"Is there something you want to say to me?" Cal inquired harshly. But David wasn't intimidated by the Lightman glare, and even returned it with one of his own.
"I've gone through a lot of trouble to get the things you requested." What he wasn't saying was more telling, and Cal wondered if the room was bugged. He guessed not, seeing as David was about as high on the intelligence food chain as you could get, but he'd learned long ago never to assume. "So you owe me the truth, Cal. What is going on?" They held their battle of wills for a moment longer before Cal's eyes broke away.
"Gillian Foster isn't just an American scientist on loan here," he started, turning to face the picture window as he spoke. "She's…my colleague, my partner."
"Partner? I thought you were retired –"
"Not that kind of partner – my business partner. You know what I do now?" David made no indication that he did, but Cal could read it on his face. "Doctor Foster is the other half of my company, and my best friend to boot. I've got to find her." David paused for a moment, always careful to assess his own words before he spoke. Cal supposed it was what made him so good at his job – and why Cal had never really fit well in the organization.
"Cal, you're too close to this. One wrong step and this could end badly for everyone." He emphasized the last word fiercely, and Cal growled.
"No, the only other one I'd trust is you, and you've obviously gotten out of field work. I may not be young, but I'm not dead. If Gillian can still be saved, it's me who's gonna do it." It killed him to phrase it as though he might fail, but Cal had always been good at seeing all the outcomes. It had made him a good agent, and it made him an even better gambler. And right now, he was betting that Foster was still alive.
David walked over to the corner of his office and pulled up a briefcase, handing it across the desk to Lightman. "The code's 790. There's a safe room set up under one of our aliases in the hotel around the corner; we've used it before and the manager is one of ours." Cal gripped the leather handle tightly as he turned to walk away. "Oh and Cal?" he turned back with his brow lifted in question, "tell Adrianna I said hello."
Cal found the hotel with some help and smiled at the young woman behind the counter as he relayed the message from David. Adrianna handed him the key to the room, as well as a small yellow envelope with the phrase "Cleaning Crew" on it. Cal pocketed the item and thanked her again, eager to get started. He found his room on the second floor next to the stairwell, and when he slipped the key card into the slot it beeped twice before unlatching.
The noon sun was glaring down on the city, and Cal pulled his curtains closed immediately as he tossed the briefcase and his bag onto the bed. He'd worry about unpacking later; right now all he cared about was the contents of the briefcase. He slid the tumblers to the right code on each side before pressing the latches open.
"Thank you, David," Cal murmured as he lifted the Colt 1911 and shoulder holster from the case. He pulled his black jacket off quickly, glad he'd thought to bring it along, before securing the weapon under his arm. The holster fit perfectly, and he spent the next thirty minutes practicing his draw from every possible position. There were a few that were rather difficult, but he didn't have time to deal with them; he would have to improvise if it came down to it.
Once his weapon and extra magazines were secreted away on his person, Cal turned to the remaining contents of the briefcase. A small netbook was powered and ready to go with a direct link to David's computer, as well as several contacts that might assist him in the operation. Cal set it to the side and fished for his cell phone. It was early back in DC, but Cal had told his people to expect calls at all hours of the day.
"Loker," he sounded exhausted but coherent, and Cal wondered briefly if he was even asleep.
"Loker, it's me. I'm in country now. How are things back home?"
"Quiet," Loker responded quietly. "Ria's been running interference with the staff, so no one knows where you are but us."
"Good, keep it that way. What about your research project?"
"Well, that's a little less than good," he commented wryly. "There's no activity to indicate any of the groups have captured an American. They could be biding their time, but that's out of character for the one or two groups who would resort to kidnapping. Prior activity indicates they would have…made a statement by now." The way he said the last phrase made Cal glad that Gillian wasn't in their hands, and he took a steadying breath before replying.
"Right, well, keep your ears open. You get any info, you let me know."
"You got it, boss." They didn't say goodbye, and as soon as the line disconnected Cal turned his attention to the envelope. He ripped it open, pulling out the folded piece of paper. On it was a simple number, local by the looks of it. He programmed it into his phone quickly with the label on the envelope. Once that was done, he found Harrington's number and dialed.
"Doctor Lightman, are you in Paris yet?"
"Just landed, actually. Fancy a cup of coffee?"
Ten minutes later Cal was sitting across a small table from a balding man in a tweed jacket and brown loafers. Their cups of coffee sat untouched in front of them as Harrington detailed everything he knew about Foster's disappearance. Unfortunately, he didn't give Cal any new information, and the older man barely hid his disdain.
"So you haven't found out anything more? Even just a hunch? I need a starting point, mate." It was a simple question, one Cal didn't really expect an answer to. But something flashed in the younger man's face, something that made the scientist in Cal sit up and take notice. Ian Harrington was ashamed. Cal leaned forward, pressing the issue with his body language.
"I…I really don't have the foggiest –" But Cal was done playing games, and he reached across the table in a lightning fast move to snatch Harrington's lapel in a tight grip.
"Whatever you're not about to say is probably something I need to know. Gillian's life may depend on it, so you'll forgive me for forgoing the niceties." Ian looked properly fearful, an expression not easy to fake, and Cal let him go. They'd attracted a bit of attention from the other patrons, but no one was brave enough to stare for long. Ian straightened his jacket and slid his palm over his sweat-covered brow before speaking.
"Some time ago, I was approached by a man. He didn't tell me his name, just that he and his associates were interested in my work. I'm sure you're aware that I am an attaché to the British Embassy here. My work largely involves working with foreign guests and arranging conferences, symposiums, etc. I wasn't sure what they wanted from me, but I set up a meeting for the next day." Ian's face tightened as he recalled the rather unpleasant events that followed. "His thugs ambushed me on my way to the car that night. He told me I was working for him now, and that if I told anyone they would kill my mother."
"Your mother?" Cal interrupted, the question he wanted to ask obvious in his tone. Ian nodded quickly and took a deep breath.
"My mother lives in Mildenhall, Doctor Lightman. They knew things about her, about her house, that no one should know. I had to take them seriously."
"Continue."
"At first it was small things – pretending to be someone over the phone, signing for things I had no business signing for. But as time wore on they demanded more and more from me." He didn't elaborate, but Cal could imagine what people like that could do to a man. "But then I got a break, and I had to take it. One of the thugs that had attacked me was arrested for assault and battery. He's still being detained right now, waiting our – my – arrival."
"Our?" Cal hadn't missed the slip, and Ian's posture became more defensive. Guilt was the main expression etched on his face, but if Cal's suspicions were correct then he had every right to feel ashamed.
"I…I was the one who suggested the conference. I knew of your group's reputation, and I thought it would be a good excuse to get you here. I must admit, I had thought you would come personally, Doctor Lightman." Now it was Cal's turn to feel guilty, and he closed his eyes briefly as he remembered the easy manner in which he'd sent Gillian off to Paris.
"Yeah, well, Foster's better at the people thing; it's the psychiatrist in her. So the plan was to get me in country under this bollocks story of a conference, then have me interview a street thug? For what?"
"To see if my mother really is in danger," Ian replied forcefully. "If they're lying, I can report what I've done under duress and they'll be arrested."
"Yeah, or you'll be killed for squealing. Funny how that works."
"My government will protect me," his chin was raised defiantly, and Cal decided not to start that conversation. Ian's posture deflated immediately as reality crashed down on him. "When you're man called and said Doctor Foster was coming instead, I didn't think anything of it; if she's good enough to be your partner, I figured she could do it."
"Yeah, she's top notch. So you think these people kidnapped Gillian to keep her away from their man?"
"Or to remind me that they're always watching. Maybe both, I don't know."
"Right, well step one, we'll go and see this thug of yours. I didn't arrive in country through local channels so the odds of anyone knowing I'm here are slim." Ian nodded as if memorizing a grocery list. "Step two, call this number and ask for Harold. That's not his real name, and don't bother asking it. Tell him that you have a message from a countryman that needs to be delivered immediately. He'll tell you when and where to meet him. You tell him everything you just told me, you got it? Everything. He'll make sure your mum's safe, and you as well." Ian accepted the business card gratefully, and Cal could practically see the man's relief flooding from him.
"Thank you, Doctor Lightman. You don't know what this means to me."
"Tell you what," Cal downed his cup of coffee in one go and stood. "We find Foster alive, we'll call it even."