ALIAS

Poisoned

ZERO PLUS FOUR

HEATHROW AIRPORT

LONDON

Sloane was quiet now. Staring out the window of the embassy car. Staring at the fluorescence that illuminated the nearly empty parking structure.

Al was silent as well. His hands were cut and bloody, and he still gripped a now-empty Walther PPK. He was staring at Sloane. "What's your angle?" he asked. "What do you get?"

Sloane didn't say a word. He turned to Al, locked eyes with him for a moment, then turned away again.

"Sorry, I didn't catch what you were trying tell me via brainwaves – or whatever the hell that was," Al said.

Finally, Sloane spoke. "Don't miss your flight, Mr. Maxwell," he said, in a soft, still tone.

Al spat back, "I've already missed it. Thanks to that little detour."

"There's a ticket waiting for you at the British Airways desk," Sloane said, his voice almost gentle. "Bought and paid for. Flight leaves in two hours."

"Great," Al groaned. "I get to hang around a major international airport terminal looking like I just got hit by a bus. That won't draw any attention."

"Then be smart," Sloane said. "Or as smart as you think you are." He opened a side panel on the door, and gestured at the pistol. "Put that in here. I'll dispose of it. Along with the contents of the trunk."

Al looked down at the weapon. His knuckles were white around the grip. "You want something from me, right? To keep me in your debt, so I can be beneficial to you?"

Sloane shook his head. "You've been through a traumatic event. Killing a man is never easy, no matter how the movies make it seem, right?"

Al nodded. He didn't want to, but he had to admit that Sloane wasn't wrong.

"I must admit, I didn't think you had it in you," Sloane said. "I'm surprised you're still alive."

"So am I," Al replied. He dropped the pistol into the space behind the panel, and Sloane closed it again.

"Good," the older man said, locking the panel in place. "Means you're actually learning something."

"Maybe. But I still don't get this philanthropic streak."

Sloane shook his head. "I am helping a fellow agent of the CIA, not out of need for indentured servitude, but because he needs the help. The sooner you accept that, the better for the both of us."

"So getting me a plane ticket in advance – "

Sloane sighed. "I didn't do that, Mr. Maxwell."

"Then who did?"

Sloane gave him that smile once more, and then unlocked the car door.

Al realized he was staring into the polished metal of the coin box. He blinked a few times to clear his vision, gave quick glances from side to side, then picked up the receiver and dialed. A series of buzzes, then a robotic voice: "Secure line passcode, please."

"Alpha-one-four-whiskey-delta-seven-nine-seven-tango," he said, pronouncing every syllable, but saying them as quickly as possible. He noticed that one of his molars felt loose. He rocked it back and forth with his tongue. Thank Jesus for the government dental plan, he thought.

"Stand by for confirmation." A moment passed, followed by two tones. "Confirmed. Please hold."

A ring. Then, "Bristow residence."

Sydney? "It's Al Maxwell. I was calling for your dad. Is he around?"

"He's not home. Sorry."

Not home? That son of a bitch. "Don't worry about it," Al said, trying not to sound as angry as he felt. "I just had some questions for him. They can wait," he lied.

"Should I have him call you?"

Great question. "I'm at a pay phone right now, so he wouldn't be able to reach me," he said. Good cover. Now be polite, you're the nervous junior executive talking to the boss's daughter, he told himself. "Any idea when he'll be home?"

"No, I don't," she said. Her voice sounded sad, and a little resigned.

He felt an empathetic sigh escape him. "Tell him that I called, would you? And that I'll call him back as soon as I can."

"Sure." She was still gloomy.

"Thank you, Sydney," he said, trying to cheer her a bit. The silence from the other end told him it didn't work. "'Bye," Al finally added, and waited to hear the click from the other end. He stood with a dead receiver in his hand, his jaw muscles working overtime. And beginning to stiffen and ache. Stupid bastard. An ambush? Yeah. Nice try.

He tapped the hookswitch, and the voice asked for the passcode again. Al felt more dull throbbing in his hands, and couldn't help noticing a bloodied kneecap through the hole in his pants. There was no way he could get on a plane looking like this. So he hung up, and felt for his wallet. There it was, snug in the inside pocket of his jacket. Time to do some shopping, he thought.

SUN-RAY MOTOR HOTEL

LOS ANGELES

The shower pipes were squealing, and the water was on full-blast. And yet the bearded man was hearing a pounding. He rinsed his long hair, and rolled his head until felt the neck muscles pop. With his left hand, he dialed off the water. With his right, he reached for a dry towel, and felt the flattened cotton cloth being pressed into his hand. He flipped the towel over, taking the other man's hand with it. The wrist popped in his grip, and the other man yelped.

"Dammit, Charlie," a voice grunted. "It's just me, for Christ's sake."

Charlie released his grip and opened the shower curtain. When he saw who had disturbed him, a small smile crossed his face. "Detective Tim Roper? How'd you get in here?"

"Power of the LAPD badge. And fuck you very much for calling me Tim. You know I hate that name," he replied.

Charlie shot the other man a grin. "You're lucky I put my gun back in the night table. I thought a man had a right to shower in peace."

"Later," Roper said. "Right now, you need to get dressed and come with me."

Charlie stepped onto the bath mat, still dripping. He grabbed another towel from the rack and began drying himself. "If you don't mind," he said. "Since we aren't in jail or dating, you might give me some privacy." Roper grasped his wrist and rubbed it as he exited the bathroom, mumbling something under his breath.

Charlie closed the door, and studied his unshaven face in the mirror. "Why are you here?"

"Our guy in London didn't make his scheduled sitrep. Or his contingency call, so the boss said to consider him burned. And now we're on – "

"Loose end patrol," Charlie said, like the words had turned rancid in his mouth. "Shit," he groaned. He leaned his head out the doorway, and noticed the other man pacing nervously, clapping a manila envelope between his palms. "Toss me my pants, would you?" he asked, gesturing to the pile of clothes at the foot of the bed.

Al buckled the new belt, then turned to look in the mirror. Not bad. The sweatshirt-and-jeans combo he'd selected was comfortable, but not constricting, and he'd be able to take off the sweatshirt during the flight without feeling a rib shift. The jeans were a bit stiff, but not as stiff as his knees were going to be after a few hours on a plane.

He studied his wounded face. His jaw had finished swelling, but it wasn't too bad. He gingerly pressed the bruise with his fingers. Yeah, I'll be able to say I fell and have people believe it, he thought. If they don't, they'll think mugged tourist who just wants to be done with it. Either way, there won't be a lot of questions.

He and Sloane had made sure of that.

As he handed some cash to the salesgirl in the airport shop, after she'd eyed his bruisings, he gave her a sad, wistful smile, and she nodded at him, like she understood. She handed him the receipt and he wore the new clothes out of the store. He headed back to the phone bank at the end of the terminal. When he passed a clock, he noted the time; only forty minutes left in London, he thought. Just enough time to make some calls.

THE BRISTOW RESIDENCE

LOS ANGELES

The cab ride home had been as quick as Jack could have hoped for – less than forty minutes – and when the car pulled up in front of his house, he pushed a fifty dollar bill into the driver's hand, without even realizing it.

It had been over two hours – nearly three, really – since he'd been awakened on the shoulder of the 405. He hadn't been home for several more than that. He'd purposely stayed out of contact with the CIA since the call from the patrolman's phone. Something in Kendrick's voice was just wrong. And since he was sure that he was being tracked, he'd had the patrolman drop him off at a bus station, then he jogged eight blocks in the opposite direction to a coffee shop they passed.

"British Airways Customer Service, this is Daphne," the honey-voiced operator had said.

"Hi, Daphne," Jack had replied.

"Ooh, she sounds pretty," Irina whispered in his ear. "Don't you think so, Jack?"

He ignored this. "I'm calling from Los Angeles, and I'm wondering if you can help me." He kept his voice as light and friendly as possible, while trying not to speak too loudly.

"Let's find out. What's the situation?"

Her voice was rather nice, Jack decided. Empathetic. He would lean on that. "There's a friend of mine traveling in London – sightseeing and whatnot on fifteen dollars a day – and he needs to be back in the States right away."

"Is it an emergency?" Daphne asked helpfully.

"No, but it is a fairly pressing matter," Jack said, injecting a bit of gravitas by adding, in a grimmer tone, "Family stuff."

"Do you know where he is?"

Jack spoke a bit quicker. "I've already contacted him, let him know what was going on. Problem is, now he's misplaced his return ticket." He paused for effect, then continued. "What I'm wondering, is if I could buy a ticket over the phone here, in his name, and have it waiting for him at the counter at Heathrow." Then to seal the performance, he added, "I'll pay extra if I have to, but I just need to know if I can do it," with just enough desperation leaking into his voice to make her go against her better instincts, just in case.

"Always worked with me, didn't it?" Irina whispered.

It was a long second before Daphne replied, "That won't be a problem, sir. What's the name?"

Jack smiled, partially for Daphne, and mostly for Irina. "Maxwell. First name Al."

Jack was sure he saw Sydney's face in the window next to the foyer, and it pulled him back into the now. He dashed up to the door and fit his key into the lock, hoping to catch her…but no. Maybe he'd just imagined her standing there.

"You tend to do that these days," Irina muttered from right behind him.

Jack tried to ignore that. "Sydney? I'm home," he said, hearing no reply.

He tried again. "Sydney? About last night - I'm sorry. I was out of line." He wandered down the hallway, into the kitchen, through the dining room and the living room. No sign of her. He opened his study door. "Sydney?" he asked to another empty room.

"Jack," Irina said in his ear. "I don't like this one bit." She sounded a bit scared, which was something that chilled Jack's blood.

"Sydney," he said, more forcefully. "Please say something."

He walked back up the hallway and began to climb the stairs.

Charlie was by the bed now, buttoning his shirt. A cigarette dangled from his lips. Roper was sitting in a chair by the door, tapping the envelope against his leg. "My guy at the crime lab made sure that the sample they retrieved got lost, along with whatever research they'd already done," he said. "It was easy enough. But the CIA still has their sample. The boss is hoping that our insider there will be able to do something about that."

"Wasn't smart to let them have it, was it?" Charlie asked, turning off the lamp over the night table.

"Hey, I didn't know they were CIA until later."

"You're local law. You can stonewall."

"I've already had this conversation, Charlie," Roper said sourly. "There's nothing I can do about it now."

Charlie nodded, but didn't look up. "Final instructions in there?" he asked.

"Yeah," Roper said. "I haven't looked at 'em yet. Wanted you to see 'em at the same time."

Charlie smirked. "Damn decent of you."

The other man frowned. "This stinks. We were promised six weeks to do this…"

"That's the way these things go," Charlie said. "You'll get used to it."

"Yeah, but having to burn an identity?"

"That's the price. Lay low – do off-continent work for a while. It'll give you time to build another face."

"Easy enough for you to say. You actually get to use whatever ID you want. Me, I dedicated eighteen months building this one, and now – sorry, but going back to square one is gonna suck."

Charlie snorted smoke. "You're gonna have all the time in the world, Tim."

"One thing I'm not gonna miss? That stupid name," he said, taking his badge from his pocket and looking at his photo. "Tim Roper," he said with a childish sarcasm. "Do I look like a Tim Roper?"

"A little."

"Very fuckin' funny."

"Everybody's first field assignment, the names are random selections from the cemetery file. Company policy," Charlie said, crushing a cigarette into the ashtray. "Mine was Willard."

"First or last?" Roper asked, flipping the wallet, and admiring his badge.

"First," Charlie replied, sliding open the night table drawer and finding his watch. "I don't even remember the last."

Roper grinned. "Hey, you'll always be Charlie to me."

Charlie's face fell. "Yeah," he said. "And you'll always be Tim." Then, in one swift movement, he pulled the pistol from the open drawer, spun around, and put a single bullet through the other man's right eye. Roper didn't even have time to be stunned by it.

"Company policy," Charlie said, tossing the pistol on the bed, and walking out, past the dead man's ruined line of sight.

"Why the hell aren't you already on a plane?" Kendrick hissed.

"There was a – misunderstanding – regarding me keeping my wallet," Al replied. "I'm fine. I've got a commercial flight into JFK, and from there I'll get back to LA. Transportation isn't the issue right now, sir. If you want my intel - "

"Fine. So the death in London was similar?" Kendrick asked.

"It was practically identical," Al said. "The only difference was no sex. But the body had gone through the same ordeal. The pictures that you'll be receiving over the secure network in the next hour will confirm that."

"Did your sources help you gain access to anything besides photos?"

"Eddie?" Parker had said to the man who was waiting by the elevator, a stunned expression crossing his face.

"I was able to speak with two of the people that found the body," Al replied. "One was the hotel concierge – he didn't even go into the room. The other was a security chief named Parker. Turns out he's ex-SAS, and was allowed to accompany some of the MI-5 people to canvass the hotel and surrounding buildings."

"Parker?"

"What are you doing here?" Parker asked, puzzled. Al felt the world slow to a crawl as a grin formed on Eddie's face and he raised a pistol at his supervisor - and pulled the trigger.

"Right," Al said.

"First name?" one of the analysts asked.

They're taking notes, Al thought. Good. "Jeff. Or Jeffrey."

"Go on," Kendrick said.

"What happened was, the concierge got a complaint from the room next door about noise," Al said, trying to keep the details as brief as he could. "He calls his security people, they go up to the room to check it out. When nobody answered, they opened the door. And on the floor, one very dead British chemist, with enough glass shards in his back to be fatal – but its pretty obvious what really killed him. Apparently, he'd been enjoying some tea on the balcony."

"Name?"

Al retrieved the information from his memory, like he was pulling it off the graffiti scratched into the booth. "Oliver Whitton. Age fifty-seven. Twice-divorced, no kids. Ph. D in psychology from Oxford – and another in molecular biology from Stanford."

Steinman spoke up quickly. "Is it possible that he knew our – "

"Al Maxwell? No way it's you," Eddie said, training his Walther at Al, who couldn't take his eyes away from the groaning man who was clutching his throat.

"Possible just became likely," Kendrick said. "See if we can find a match."

"Already found one," one of the unnamed analysts said. "He's on the Japanese transcripts."

"Japanese?" Al asked.

"Scientist named Hiro Rikku was shot and killed yesterday in Kyoto," Steinman said. "Grace Donnelly was a former colleague of his, and apparently so was Whitton, according to this."

Al's stomach was burning. "Whitton had a tail put on him by MI-5 in spring of 1978. There was concern that he was selling his skills to the highest bidder, but no real proof. According to the source I was talking to – Parker hooked me up with him – they have cabinets full of intel on this guy, but none of it added up to anything more than a strong suspicion."

Eddie and Al threw one punch after another at each other, then Eddie swept Al's legs from under him, putting him flat on his back, inches from the ledge to the next level of the garage. "Sorry, my friend, nothing personal," he said, reaching for the gun he'd lost. Al set his jaw, took a breath, and rolled off the ledge.

"Guys?" Another strange voice had piped up. "You need to hear this. About two hours ago, the Japanese authorities were searching Rikku's apartment, trying to find out about his Yakuza contacts. One of the cops – one of 'em gets a dry throat, coughing. Five minutes later, he's feverish. They send him to a car, and ten minutes later, they find him busted open and folded the wrong way on the sidewalk."

Kendrick's voice was forceful. "Warn our Kyoto team. And get them full details."

"This isn't pinpoint targeting – it'll kill anyone who comes in contact with it," one of the tech officers said.

"We've got more than a strong suspicion now. Especially of a link between these three," Kendrick said.

As he pulled his stunned body between a sedan and a support post, Al couldn't get the over-riding image out of his mind: a smiling Eddie, casually executing his boss, and then coming after him.

"And with these deaths occurring over such long distances in such a short span of time – "

"This is definitely not the work of one man."

Al suddenly slammed his injured fist against the wall of the phone booth. "Goddammit! Why didn't -"

"What? What is it?"

"I just put this together - Halliwell remembers in the hall outside the room that the complaint came from next door, and starts freaking out – the caller said he had a wife and kids with him, what if the killer got to them, that sort of thing. Parker and another security officer – "

"You've got a job to do. I've got a job to do. We're professionals," Eddie called through the empty air, while Al gripped the edges of crumbling concrete with bloodied fingers, trying to catch his breath, and keep from being seen as the man passed his field of vision, not ten feet from him.

" – those two open up the room next door. There's nobody there. Room's clean, bed's still made, balcony door closed and locked. But when MI-5 does an electronics sweep, the detector goes off the chart. They check the phone – and find that it's been seriously rewired. Apparently, someone – or some ones - rejiggered it so that they could reroute their calls through the phone in that room, and then trick the PBX system into thinking that calls were coming from there."

"Were the calls made locally?"

"I don't know who you are," Al said emphatically, hurling himself at his ultimate assailant, and attempting to wrest the pistol away from him. Suddenly, he felt the shock of the weapon discharging, and thought he might have been the victim for an instant, until he felt the other man seize.

"No clue," Al said. "Their tech guys were still working on it. But from what Parker told me about the canvass, they found a set of binoculars and a 35-millimeter camera with a very long lens on it across the street. And the camera had no film in it."

"There's multiple suspects then. I'll notify Langley. Situation report and options papers, two hours," Kendrick said. Then, with a surprising magnanimity, "Good work, Al. Get home."

Eddie lay in a pool of his own black blood. Al had the Walther in his hand and was pressing the muzzle to the dying man's temple. "Do your…job…Al," Eddie said.

"Thank you, sir," Al replied. "Miss Steinman, could you stay on the line, please? There's a few questions I have about the Kyoto incidents," Al said. One by one, he could hear the sounds of analysts and agents disconnecting from the call.

Then, they were alone. "What is it, Agent Maxwell?" she asked.

Al felt the rage build inside him. And he said each word slowly: "I don't know you. Eddie." And then he squeezed the trigger, putting the last bullet in the Walther through the prone man's skull.

"I'm...sorry." Al breathed in and out. There was more to say, but he just didn't have the words handy.

"About what?"

"About...about a lot of things," he said in a near-whisper.

"It's okay," she replied.

"Look, Sarah, when I get back to LA…if you want to…maybe…get some dinner…" he felt himself stammering.

"Al," she said.

"I know it's kinda out of the blue – I just need to talk to somebody," he said.

He could almost see her smile. "I'll meet you after debrief," she said.

"Thank you," Al said, feeling a sharp pain in his hands. He flexed the knuckles, reopening the cuts. "And Sarah, I need you to connect me to Jack, ASAP, if you can. I haven't had any luck trying to reach him myself."

"Hold the line," she said.

Charlie's assigned callbox was a bus station pay phone twenty blocks from his motel – a half-booth right next to the usual assortment of homeless vets and down the hall from a broken soda machine. Nobody went near it. That made it an ideal location for phone calls that you didn't want broadcast. Unfortunately, he didn't want to be making this call. "You know I hate this cloak-and-dagger shit. This is why I left the service to begin with," he said.

"Charlie, just do the job," the voice on the other end replied. "And it'll be done, and you'll get paid."

He had to admit, his handler was always calm. Bored, even; the world had nothing that could make him boil over. "Why'd you send Roper to me?" Charlie asked.

"Because we're closing up shop here, and he's a loose end," the voice responded. "You're my loose end guy."

"How exactly was he a loose end?" Charlie hushed his tone. "Having a homicide detective on the payroll isn't usually a liability for our business."

An audible sigh on the other end, then, in a firm – but never curt – tone, came the response, "We are hired to do specific tasks, to handle specific threats. Tim Roper wasn't capable of performing his duties in the simplest posts. Sooner or later, he was going to screw up." A pause. "Matter of fact, he already had. Several times."

Charlie nodded, mostly for himself. "Christ, you think I didn't know that?" he asked. "Our problem is, the LAPD recognizes him as one of their own. They're going to launch an investigation – heads could fucking roll."

The firm tone stayed. "I'm not dancing about it, either. But the London situation paired with our freelancer getting capped in Japan means that we've got loose ends to tie up."

Charlie exhaled. "And that's what I'm going to be doing for the rest of my time here."

"Yep," was the response. Bored again. "Have you opened the envelope yet?"

"Yeah," Charlie said, flipping through the bound dossier. "This is everything? Names, faces, places?"

"And the exit strategy."

"Kyoto was totally fucked up?"

"Total botch," the voice said, showing little spark. "That and London combined means that I have to do Lyon myself. And possibly Amsterdam, unless you want it."

"Pass," Charlie said. "Once the money's in my hands, I'm going to Rio for the next six months. Nothing but sun, sand, bottomless drinks and topless chicks." He noticed the CIA imprint at the top of the second sheet.

"Sounds like a frat boy's fantasy," the voice responded.

"So I'm a frat boy," Charlie replied.

"But take care of those loose ends first, Charlie," was the other man's interjection, as Charlie's attention was drawn to the blank expression of the man in the photograph. "We're counting on you." Then a click on the other end, and the dial tone.

Charlie hung up. He turned away from the phone booth, his eyes reading the name on the top sheet.

Jack Bristow.

"Sydney," Jack said, through her closed bedroom door. He knocked again. "Sydney, please."

No answer. He turned the knob, opened the door, and found her bedroom as empty as the rest of the house. He realized that he was trembling now, just a bit.

"Oh, God, Jack," Irina said. "You lost her. You hurt her feelings, just like you always do, and now, you've lost her."

Jack wanted to throttle the bitch, but there was no traitor's neck to grab.

The phone rang, breaking the silence, and making his heart skip a beat. He found himself racing to it, nearly stumbling down the stairs. Luckily, he caught himself on the handrail, and on the fourth ring, picked up the receiver. "Sydney?" he asked with some urgency.

"It's Sarah Steinman, Mr. Bristow," the woman's voice replied. "Mr. Maxwell is on a secure line for you."

A trio of beeps. Then Al's voice came over the phone. "Where the blue fuck were you? I've been trying to – "

"Sydney's gone," Jack said.

"Gone? Where?"

"I don't know. No note, no message."

"Strange," Al said. "I just talked to her - "

"Just? When?" Jack asked, his voice tensing.

"About two hours ago," Al replied. "I was looking for you. She said you weren't home."

Two hours? She could be anywhere, Jack thought. His mind was a-whirl. "Did she say anything to you? About if she was going somewhere?"

"No, Jack," Al said. "She just sounded…."

"What?"

It took a moment for Al to reply. "Sad," he said.

Charlie parked in the open space on the tree-lined street, and began to walk. He'd secured the weapon to his body so it wouldn't cause his jacket to shift unnaturally. He noticed the green lawns, the large front porches, the kids playing in a yard not too far away.

He remembered the number of the house he was looking for: 12004. And there it was, just across the way, with its impeccable lawn, and a white picket fence.

This was one hell of a nice neighborhood, he thought. He turned his face away and pretended to cough as he crossed the street. He wanted to avoid being seen by the children. No need to have more loose ends.

"I was a real jackass to her last night," Jack confessed. "And then, worst of all, I left her alone while she was asleep."

"Yeah, that's not good parenting."

"I know, I've been kicking myself all morning."

The sound of a PA echoed over the line. Al's voice tightened. "That's my plane. Listen, Jack, have you been in contact with the office at all today?"

"When I woke up on the 405," Jack said. Was there somebody coming up the sidewalk? He could have sworn he saw a shadow on the fence.

"You what?"

"I don't want to talk about it right now," Jack said, trying to see through the crack in the drawn curtains. "I called the office. They brought me up to speed."

"With what they had then. I've got confirmation that our boy wasn't acting alone."

"How?" Footsteps. On the porch. Jack was sure.

The static on the line increased dramatically. Then Al said, "Shit, they just called my row. I'll talk to you more at home. Look, check in with Sarah – Steinman – or one of the other analysts, or hell, if you have to, even Kendrick. Let them know you talked to me, and I brought you up to speed. You need to meet me at LAX, and no one else."

"Why?" Jack asked. A shape crossed through the shaft of light streaming through the window. Jack was feeling the alarms going off in his head.

"I can't tell you now. I promise, when I get back."

"Damn it, Al. What is it?" A knock at his door. Heavy. Hard. Jack's brain immediately flashed to the location of his nearest weapon – the .38 revolver in his desk drawer. Too far away to retrieve now.

A pause. "I can't say, Jack. I can't. Aw, shit. Second call, I gotta run," Al said. Jack held the phone to his ear and starting walking for the door, craning his neck to grab a glimpse of who might be outside, but seeing no one. The next knocks were even heavier.

Al's voice grew more and more distant. "It's just – I don't know, Jack," he said, a twinge of fear creeping into his voice. "Maybe I'm just imagining things – but I don't think our boy was finished with his business in LA. I think he's still there."

At that, the line went dead…

…and the knocking stopped, too…

TO BE CONTINUED…