ALIAS: POISONED

ZERO PLUS ONE

CIA HEADQUARTERS
LOS ANGELES OFFICE

Al poked his head into what some of the field agents had nicknamed "The A/V Club", but was clearly labeled "Tech Analysis and Research Division". He was only there to kill time, really. Kendrick had just given him the order to send his partner home. That was something Al had no wish to do, but in truth, he couldn't disagree with the order, either. Jack needed to rest, even if he decided to do that with Al's head mounted on his office wall.

But Al knew there was also no reason to not check the progress. The research people in the office were top-notch – maybe they'd found something. Al decided to hope for the best as he swung the door open and stepped inside.

There was only one analyst manning the walls of flickering monitors and computer keyboards and technological bric-a-brac; a short, skinny woman with eyeglasses that gave him the impression that she could see through time. He knew her name, but it was eluding him for some reason. They were introduced at the unofficial Christmas party last year, he was sure – but she'd been without the glasses, and her hair had been down, and she was fairly soused. And they had danced and drank too much and –

She turned to see the man who'd stepped into her domain. His blue eyes met her green ones. The corners of her mouth rose as she blushed.

Oh, Christ, Al thought, as the memory of her shrieking his name in delight, came flooding back to him.

"Hi, Al," she purred.

"Hi," he replied sheepishly, while desperately combing his memory for a hint to her name, and added, "you."

"So, Al," she said, smiling broadly, and running her fingertips under the lapel of her blazer, "what can I do you for?"

She clearly wasn't thinking about work now, and Al could feel it. "Jack Bristow and I, we're working on that Donnelly murder, and I was wondering if anything had turned up," Al said, deciding to launch into work talk, thus attempting to dodge any other thoughts that might have appeared.

It seemed to have the desired effect. "We've been monitoring," she said, no longer flirtatious. She picked up a manila file folder. "One of our people inside the LAPD reported that there was a laminated ID from the conference found in a trash can across the street."

"Do we have it yet?"

"No, but we're efforting. If we can't retrieve the item, we'll at least have photos and prints."

"Any other news from our inside man?"

"It's early yet. He'll be in touch." Then her eyes warmed again. "Speaking of being…in touch," she said, slowly taking his hand. "I know I said we couldn't because we work together – "

"And I respect you so much for that," Al replied, furrowing his brow.

"I've – thought about you. A lot," she whispered.

She was practically glowing, all wishes and hopes, until it was radiating through her skin like heat. And much to his own surprise, he found himself not wanting to disappoint her. "Me, too," he lied. "But – you and me – we're in a dangerous life. No security, no promises. Last Christmas, you helped me get through a tough, tough time. And I won't lie to you and say you weren't amazing - " he said, letting his voice shake a bit, while thinking, because I honestly don't remember most of it.

"But we have to cling to our duties to the agency," she said, completing his sentence. "Last time, I was the one who said that," she added, trying to sound wry, but mostly coming off as sad. She let go of his hand, and lowered her gaze.

Looking at her clouding eyes, it hit him. "So, Miss Steinman, you'll find me the minute you hear anything?" he asked.

Her eyes met his again, and she smiled. "Certainly, Mr. Maxwell," she said. As Al offered a half-smile and spun toward the door, he heard her say, "You want to hear something weird? I thought you might have forgotten my name."

Al turned back and gave her an amused chuckle, then backed out of the room.

It wasn't until he'd cleared her sight that he shook off the expression. He decided to find some coffee before going to see Jack. Kill a little more time, he thought. Maybe run into another woman I've slept with and forgot about, he added. Make the day complete.

WINDSOR HOTEL
LONDON

A tall, thin man sat alone, excepting an empty teapot and a plate of biscuit crumbs next to him, and read through his London Times. The sun was out – strangely enough – and was strong enough to make him have to wear an old pair of sunglasses. That was why he was on the balcony of his hotel suite. But the air was still cool, and there would be rain soon enough, so he had a light jacket, and he was close to the door, in case the rain started again.

The cordless telephone on the table beside the china let out its cry. He answered it on the third ring, just as he'd been instructed. "Is our business completed?" he asked.

"As of seven a.m., New York time," the other voice replied.

"Where's my verification?" he queried. "I need it to authorize any transfers."

"It's being slipped under your door as we speak," the voice said. "See for yourself."

The man turned and looked through the beveled glass of the door, and saw a manila envelope slide through toward him. The voice said, "Go get it. I'll wait."

Jack stared at Grace Donnelly's biography. He'd called it up on his computer screen, so it was his fault that his eyelids were drooping from the first words. He tried to keep his interest by writing down certain career details. Eleven years aggregate at two pharmaceutical companies, he noted, nine years at a genetics division of a seed corn company, five years consultant to a logging consortium.

Building a better tree, Jack remembered, stifling a yawn. And definitely not deserving of murder, he added.

Irina was sitting opposite him. "You're sure?" she asked.

Jack was about to respond when he noticed that Al had appeared in the doorway, holding a paper cup. When Jack glanced back at the chair – of course, she was gone. She wasn't there to begin with. Jack pretended to yawn to cover his imagining.

"Thrilling stuff, huh?" Al asked.

"Mm-hm," Jack replied. "Just what I needed to start my day." He didn't sound convinced.

Al shook his head. "Yeah, I hear you. You know, what you need is to go home."

Jack snorted at that suggestion. "Yeah. That's a great idea."

"I'm serious," Al said. "Tell everyone you're sick. Unplug the phone. Catch a quick nap in your own bed." He peered into the cup. "Spend time with your daughter, if she's around, maybe."

At that, Jack's eyelids snapped to attention. "It's not even ten a.m. yet," he replied, gesturing to a wall clock. "I'll go home when it is time to go home." Jack started tapping keys again.

"Jack," Al said, with some finality. "It's not a request."

Jack glared at his partner. An uncomfortable silence reigned. Then, through his teeth, he said, "I don't think you've got the authority…"

"It's not from me, Jack," Al replied, a look of resignation on his face.

The man flipped through the pictures of Grace Donnelly's ruined body. "I'm impressed," he said, in a flat, unaffected tone.

"You should be," the voice replied.

He stopped at the fifth photo, and gazed at it intently, remarking, "And you say the solution worked as quickly as we'd projected."

"Efficiently, too. I used less than half the recommended dosage."

The man moved to the next image, a much closer inspection of her burst-open belly. His expression remained granite, even in the light of the clinical detail. "That's excellent news," he said. "I'll note that in my report to the others. Any ill effects for you?"

"Only one, really," the voice replied. "I won't get to fuck her again." There was a mock-wistfulness in his tone.

The man did blanch at that. "I don't care for your choice of words."

An amused snort from the other end. "Well, then, allow me to rephrase. She was quite good in bed. Rather tasty, in fact. Those lonely older ladies, they're something special." The voice on the other end was soft, satisfied. "But you wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

The man grimaced, but tried to keep it out of his voice as he said, "I require your services in an additional - and related - matter." He slipped the photos back into the envelope.

"When and where?"

"Tonight. Lyon, France." The man dropped the envelope on to the table.

The other voice was quiet for a moment, then said, "I'm not available today. Especially to go to France."

The man didn't waste a word. "Your payment for Los Angeles plus fifty percent."

"Plus a hundred-fifty percent," the voice replied.

The man smirked. "A hundred percent."

Another pause, then, "All of a sudden, my calendar is open."

Kendrick was attempting to write something on a notepad and then scribbling over it furiously when Jack materialized on the carpet. "I'm working on something, Paul," he said, standing at his full height in front of his supervisor's desk. "You cannot simply send me home while I'm working on something."

Kendrick frowned, dropping the pen on to his desk blotter. Jack's sudden appearance in his office was a bit startling. "I'm aware that you're working," he said, not showing his surprise. He looked Jack square in the eye. "Did you forget that you aren't a lone wolf anymore? There's an office full of qualified, capable agents who can help. Not excluding your partner. Or the entire LAPD, for that matter. It's really their case, right?"

"I'm not excluding Al, or the police," Jack protested. "And I'll accept whatever assistance I can get from this office, that office, or any other. But in this office, only Al and I saw what happened to that woman's corpse, or whatever was left of it. Saw that – fluid – leaking from the mouth of a paid CIA source. And I need to help Al as much as he needs to help me. So pardon me for caring about a CIA asset, Paul, but this is my – our – case. And I am here for the duration."

"You've made that painfully clear." Kendrick shook his head. "The fluid's in our lab's possession now, correct?"

"Yes, and a second sample is on a plane to Langley right now for additional study. As soon as anyone knows anything about it, they're instructed to contact me, nobody else."

"Then go home," Kendrick replied. "Wait for the call."

Jack laughed humorlessly. "See, I'm trying to stop an assassin from killing again. That's what a real field agent does, understand? Unlike you bureaucratic fuckers, I don't just pick up and go home."

"Don't push me, Jack," Kendrick snarled. "I am sick and tired of taking shit from one of my subordinates because he's on a mission to save the world without giving a good God damn about the rules. You want to stay on this investigation, you want to stay in this office, you get the fuck back in line."

Jack tried to contain his anger. "God damn it, Paul, that fluid's the biggest piece of evidence we have. And you don't seem to care."

"You think I don't care that Grace Donnelly was murdered?" Kendrick's eyes were ablaze. "Why the hell do you think I sent you guys over to that hotel this morning? Just because she was an asset? She was a friend of mine, you shit." Angry tears began to roll down his cheeks. He wiped them away with his palms. "I was her first contact in the agency. I know her kids by name. They don't even know she's dead yet, because I promised the police that I would tell them. And I haven't had the guts to pick up the phone."

Jack's fury was dissipated by his shame. "I'm sorry," was all he could muster.

Kendrick grabbed a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and dried his eyes. "Al will be here, and he will stay on top of it," he said. "Until the lab calls, you're staying home."

"What good can I do there?" Jack asked.

"What good are you here?" Kendrick shot back. "In case you haven't noticed, Jack, Al has already picked up your slack, but he can't stretch himself too much further."

Jack lowered his voice. "Is this him talking?"

"No, it's me, Jack. It's what I've noticed." Kendrick turned and looked out his window. "I can't have you nodding off during morning briefings. Or barricading yourself in your office, or disappearing for a three-hour liquid lunch every day."

Jack eyed the floor. "Not every day."

"Maybe not now," Kendrick replied.

Jack's gaze found his boss's. "So you're suspending me, or what?"

Kendrick shook his head. His eyes were reddened and moist. "Go home, Jack. Rest awhile. Spend some time with Sydney. How is she?"

Alive and well, Jack thought. At least, she was the last time I saw her. "She's fine. Had a class trip to San Francisco over the weekend."

"She'd be home by now, right?"

"Yes. Probably," he replied, although, honestly, Jack didn't know.

Kendrick sniffled. He appeared to be considerably calmer, but still not settled. "This is not a disciplinary action. No papers have been filed, Langley hasn't been notified. There are people around here who worry about you. Myself included. I consider you one of the top members of the agency, and that doesn't figure in your reputation outside this office. You might be able to coast on your natural talents on most things, but if you're staying on this case," he said, pausing to catch his breath, "I need you at your best, your sharpest. That means I need you rested. And sober."

Under most circumstances, Jack would have wanted to punch his supervisor right in the stomach for saying something like that, but not now. Instead, he nodded. "You might be right," he said. "If it's all right, I'll have Al drive me home. He and I need to go over some things."

Kendrick nodded his approval, then returned to his desk. Jack left the office, trying to reason away his embarrassment.

The man sipped the last of his now cold tea, and set the cup back on the saucer. "You'll find your ticket and papers when you arrive at Heathrow. Hope you don't mind having to take two planes in one day." He noticed a strange taste in his mouth. A bitterness. He dismissed it – must have been an off-brand, he thought.

"Don't worry about me," came the reply. "You've got bigger concerns. The people we work for, for example."

"You're not wrong," the thin man said. "That reminds me, where's the rest of the solution? I need to account for it, since you didn't use it all."

Silence on the other end, then, in a measured tone, "It's here."

"Where? In Anytown, USA, you mean?" the man said, smirking.

"No." There was a smug satisfaction in the voice.

"Then where?" The man noticed that his mouth felt dry, and bit the inside of his lip to get the juices flowing again. But instead, the bitterness intensified.

There was more silence over the phone. Then: "Here."

The man's eyes narrowed. Now there was pain. And the taste of blood. "With you?"

"Yeah," replied the voice. "And you, too."

"I can't believe you, Al," Jack said from the passenger seat. "Going to Kendrick behind my back." He stared out the window.

"I didn't go to Kendrick," Al replied, sounding offended. "You started snoring in the middle of his meeting. The man looked like he was going to pop. You'd still be in the conference room if I didn't wake you up, and you'd be out of a job if I hadn't told him it was my fault you hadn't slept."

"Your fault?" Jack asked.

Al sighed. "Told him I went out to a bar last night. You were supposed to meet me, but you were late. I got hammered, hit on anything in a skirt, and just as I was about to get my ass kicked by some guy, you showed up and saved the day. He tried to shake me on that story, details-wise, but I didn't budge." Al's frown was hard now. "Kendrick almost bought it, I think, seeing how he believes I'm a fuck-up anyway."

Jack kept his attention out his window, and was quiet for a long minute. Then, he faced his partner. "I'm sorry," he said, with some finality. "It was just that he was specific in his accusations. That I'm drinking too much, that I'm not focused when I'm at work. I thought you might have – "

Al offered a half-smile. "Jack, I wasn't kidding when I said you're my hero. Besides, I know what it is to be a good partner. You take up for your guy, like you know he'd take up for you."

"I trust you're staying on top of the Donnelly case, then?"

Al nodded. "I saw that body, too."

"She was a friend of Kendrick's. He admitted it to me," Jack said.

Al shook his head in disbelief. "That stinks," he said finally. "No wonder he was so quiet during the slide show. Poor guy."

"So what's your next move?" Jack asked.

"We're actually a bit ahead of the curve," Al replied. He turned off the wider, straighter street, and onto a winding suburban avenue. "Analysis has already been alerted that there was an ID retrieved from a café across the street…"

Jack thought, I saw her there.

Al was still talking when his attention returned. "Any prints on it, we'll find out. I'm going to comb the security camera tapes, see if there were any familiar faces hanging around. If Donnelly had CIA connections, especially with the AD of an office, then she might have had enemies."

"That makes sense," Jack agreed. "Also check in with those detectives we met this morning. If their crime lab was able to pull any new evidence from the scene, we can pass that along to our people."

Al nodded as he turned on to a tree-lined street. "I've already tasked a couple of analysts to double-check witness statements. And our police department source is keeping his ear to the ground in case anybody had their memories come back."

Jack exhaled, noticing his house just ahead. "Sounds like a plan. Call me right away if you find anything."

Al grinned. "You're number one on the speed dial."

"Me, too? What do you – aghh?" the man asked, beginning to feel a rush of panic when his throat snapped shut mid-question. He scanned the windows of buildings around him. His face was suddenly burning.

The voice was coy. "I already knew about Lyon. I'm supposed to be there next week."

"Next – what?" he choked. Suddenly, the heat had spread through his entire body. He pulled off his coat, but the heat only grew more intense.

"They gave me the hundred-fifty. L.A., plus a hundred." A long pause. "Plus fifty."

A wave of pain ripped through the man's body. He felt his stomach muscles straining against forces from the inside – a distention that couldn't be relieved. He could even hear the sounds of popping – and even tearing – going on deep within his torso. And as he opened his mouth to speak, he choked and coughed, and blood spattered the phone. His voice gurgled, "…why," wetting the phone even more.

The voice on the other end was smug now. "If you have to ask, you don't deserve to know." Then, in response to a groan, he added, "Bet your throat's really sore. Too bad you're out of tea."

The man dropped the phone and clutched his chest, feeling like nails were being driven into his still-pounding heart. Then a spasm, unlike any he'd ever felt before. It sped from the base of his spine, all the way up to the back of his skull, and as it moved, it snapped individual vertebrae along the column like dry twigs. And then, almost like an afterthought, his being seized again, but this time his body was limp and uncontrolled. His musculature, now operating on an electrical impulse his nervous system had nothing to do with, flung him, back first, through the glass door, like a rag doll tossed aside by an angry child.

The thin man lay on the carpet for moment, seizure finished. Through one open eye, he noticed his legs dangling through the now shattered frame, and noticed too, the fat raindrops beginning to fall on to the table top outside. Then there was blackness, and he was no longer in a position to notice the rain, or to even care.

TO BE CONTINUED…