Gathering Facts
Chapter 17
Agent Pearce had a meeting with CIA director Harrison Wilson. The purpose was to review what had happened with the Tampa tourist/courier fiasco.
"Yes, it's true that there have been no actual sightings of Agent Westen or Fiona Glenanne," Pearce admitted, "But reliable sources tell us they are still alive."
Director Wilson did not look appeased at all, "Hmmph! If I never hear the words 'reliable sources' it will be too soon. Do you have a grasp of their actual locations? "
"We have narrowed down possibilities for both of them," Pearce reported, "and we plan to investigate further, however, as of this moment, we are low on available manpower."
"Low on manpower?" repeated Director Wilson, "I hope you are not putting this back on me! You know the state of economy these days-I've had to cut corners and deal with budget cuts all around!"
Pearce stared at him for a second before she bravely parroted, "If I never hear the words 'budget cut' it will be too soon."
Director Wilson did not find it humorous one bit.
"Then answer me this, Agent Pearce," said Director Wilson demanded, "how the hell in an operation of this magnitude did we ever let a civilian get mixed up in all of this? It's like you've assigned a housewife to gun down the mafia!"
The Director had been in a foul mood all morning. He didn't know how he was going to explain to the State Department how a civilian got mixed in with corrupt CIA agents in addition to the world's most wanted assassin. What's next?
"Actually, Director Wilson," Pearce was saying, "in the past, we have used private citizens many times in courier assignments with great success. And usually these deliveries do not involve any contact with our adversaries at all."
"So what was so different this time?" Director Wilson wanted to know, "Confound it, I have to explain to my higher ups how an innocent civilian…a lone female, no less!…disappeared in the middle of a covert CIA operation!"
Agent Pearce quickly rifled through a pile of papers she had on her lap and efficiently extracted the needed folder.
"This is Miss Glenanne's background folder," she explained, "As you can see, she is no stranger to dangerous situations."
Director Wilson reluctantly opened the file and quickly scanned the contents. At first his look was noncommittal, but as he read on, his eyes got very large at certain points.
"You are aware, are you not, " the director began, "that there is a penalty for falsifying an agent's official CIA file?"
"I do, sir," assured Pearce.
"This file, here…" he began awkwardly… "is this truly a file of one person's accomplishments, or a composite of several of our agents?"
Agent Pearce couldn't hide her smile, "Yes, just one civilian, Fiona Glennanne, although we consider her an agent trainee at this moment."
He looked once more at the file, flipping several pages.
"B-but how is this all possible?" The Director looked flabbergasted as he read on. He then looked back at Agent Pearce, "And look here at her field of expertise! Are you telling me that Miss Glenanne were proficient in all these skills beforeyou hired her for this agency?" he asked.
"Believe me, Director, she is tops in each of those fields. Her background story for the past six years reads like a best-selling thriller novel of international intrigue. Only with more explosives."
The Director cleared his throat, "Well, perhaps Agent Glenanne is qualified to handle herself in this crisis."
Pearce was relieved she wasn't going to take a browbeating from Wilson. However, she was secretly worried about Fiona. Although they were never on friendly terms, Pearce felt responsible for putting her out in the field with very little backup.
The bottom line was that despite Fiona's impressive skills, she like Western, was only human.
The Director interrupted her thoughts.
"My sources tell me that another agent, Michael Westen was also involved in this operation," he stated.
"Marginally," Pearce was quick to respond.
"Last I heard, he came up missing, too…is that the latest you have for me, Agent Pearce?"
Pearce showed him the surveillance picture with the showing two men carrying off an unconscious man who possibly could be Westen.
Just then there was a door knock. It was Pearce's assistant, Thomas Wright.
"Didn't I ask not to be disturbed?" Pearce asked it like a demand.
"I know," Tom stated tentatively as he held up a folder, "but, Dani, I think you might want to take a look at this."
Pearce sighed. What now? she asked as she took the file and opened to the first of six 8 x 10 pictures taken by a crime scene police photographer.
"My god!" Pearce was staring down at gruesome photos of Myrtle Hunter's bloodied disfigured body, "Who is she?"
"That's what Police discovered when they answered a call to the house of Gideon Hunter's mother," Tom explained solemnly."
"W-what exactly happened to her?" Pearce wanted to know, looking up at her assistant.
"Power drill," Tom responded, his mouth set in a straight line as Director Wilson was passed some of the photos. The Director had an expression of disgust as he scanned each pictured before tossing it back on Pearce's desk.
Pearce was shaking her head as she scanned the other pictures that were scattered on her desk now, "I don't think I'll ever be able to eat on top of my desk again!"
The Director had completed viewing all the photos and looked none to happy when he turned to Pearce, "Are your agents responsible for…this…this situation?" the Director demanded to know, pointing to one of the gruesome pictures.
"What?" Pearce looked indignant, "No, what? Are you referring to Agent Glenanne? No, of course not!" she defended.
"You said she was well skilled in many fields, I assume, therefore, your agent could handily work a power drill!" The Director exclaimed.
"Excuse me for interrupting, Sir," interjected Tom, "But that is not Agent Glenanne's M.O." he stated it with certainty.
"My assistant is correct, Director," Pearce stated, "Check her file again…while I don't doubt that Agent Glenanne is well versed in using a power drill, my sense is that we would more likely see her using explosives to make her point."
The Director just shook his head, "Power drill? Explosives? I really...don't know which way would be considered the more chosen way to go."
"If you don't mind me saying, Sir, " Tom interjected again, "It's a matter of intensity...many sounds of rizzzz or one deafening ka-boom..."
"What Tom is trying to say," Pearce tried to smooth things over, "is that uh, neither is acceptable."
"Although Agent Glenanne's is the more impressive," Tom defended.
Before The Director could add to the comments, Agent Pearce felt the pocket of her jacket vibrating. Covertly taking out her Blackberry, she peered at the screen.
"Excuse me, Director," Pearce apologized, "I think I better take this call."
"This better be important!" insisted the Director.
Pearce gave a nod of acknowledgement as she brought the device up to her ear, "Pearce here… Harry, you've got something for me?"
Wilson could only hear gibberish coming from the other end before Pearce replied, "Alright. I'll handle it on my end here. Thanks."
The call only took a few seconds but Director Wilson still managed to look impatient as Pearce hung up.
"I hope you have some news for me to report back to my superiors!" he insisted.
Pearce nodded, "I do, in fact, Director Wilson. It seems we have narrowed the possible location of Agent Glenanne. Seems she, along with an associate, is holed up in a secluded government safehouse near the wharf."
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Michael was having a dream.
He was angry that Fi had taken on a CIA mission. He knew when he took her on as his girlfriend that she was no weeping wallflower, but he certainly did not want her running around the countryside risking her life at every turn.
And he told her that. She, of course, argued with him about it and ended up stomping off and slamming their bedroom door.
Fifteen minutes later, Michael worked up the nerve to approach the closed door. He knocked gingerly with two knuckles of his right hand. There was no sound or response from within. Perhaps she had already gone to bed, he thought.
The door swung gently open, leaving Michael's hand suspended in midair as he had planned on knocking again.
Michael gripped the doorframe with his hand to keep form falling backward. His gaze traveled over Fi in her red negligee. He greedily absorbed every detail: the way her breasts were enticingly pushed together and upward by the silky bodice, the sensual length of her leg, the lush outline of her body. The startlingly simple red nightgown was elegant yet provocative .
He had never seen a woman more beautiful in his life.
The ice in his stomach dissolved as he was filled with a raging inferno of desire. And like a glass of ice water exposed to a radically change in temperature, his self-control threatened to shatter.
"Does this meet with your approval, Michael?" she asked, her voice low and sensual.
Unable to speak, Michael managed a nod. Was she still angry with him? If so, why the red gown? Was it that she was trying to give him the worst possible punishment she could devise?
He wanted her so badly it hurt. He longed to touch her, to put his hands on her soft skin, to kiss her sensual lips.
Fi's gaze swept over him in feminine assessment, lingering on his face, "Come in Michael."
Was this a trick?
Who cares, he thought as he slowly entered their bedroom.
"Fi," Michael at last found his voice, "I'm so sorry. I was wrong to tell you how to run your life.."
His arms suddenly closed around her as he placed his hand on her chin to force her face upward. Her heart swiftly warmed to him.
Michael's mouth dove and captured hers, blazing, and insistent, as he fed hungrily off the warmth and taste of her. Fi quivered and pushed at him, struggling to ignore the wild pleasure that flared inside of her, the eager response that was immune to reason.
Her response seemed to cause a small shock within him. The kiss turned harder and deeper, his tongue exploring her in eager surges as she pressed herself tightly against him.
Michael could feel himself turning feverishly hot…
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The door to Michael's locked room immediately opened.
The CIA guard who had opened the door was heard another one of Michael's rantings. It seemed as if Michael slipped in and out of nighmarish dreams quite frequently since his internment.
"Westen!" the guard roughly shook him to wake him, "Westen!"
At the sound of the other man's voice, Michael quickly opened his eyes and realized that it had all been a dream. Looking about, he realized he was presently in a locked room that contained basically two cots, a wooden table and a sink.
"W-what?" Michael drowsily said as he lifted his head and looked about. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead. He realized he was still being held prisoner. He longed to go back to his dreamlike state.
"Nightmare," the guard blurted out before shutting the door behind him again.
Then the man was gone.
Michael wearily dropped his head back on the cot, figuring that would be the only people interaction he would receive for the day. Not that he was complaining. At least his name didn't end up in the obituary section of a newspaper, he thought gratefully.
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Michael took his time getting up. After all, what was his motivation?
With his stomach grumbling, Michael realized that he was hungry. When was the last time he had eaten? Right now, he would give anything to having something sweet to eat, which was unusual for him.
He could picture the General ordering agents to bring in an air freshener with the scent of cinnamon buns just so Michael could wake up with false hope. Hmmph. Michael might even be willing give up more names for that breakfast right now.
He surveyed the room, wondering how to keep himself occupied.
Spies know there are two absolutes in the world of espionage: 1) Keep your mind alert, 2) Ditto, your body.
And Michael planned to do the second.
It took an effort just for him to stand. His insides still felt rubbery, when it should be flexible. Now was as good as time as ever to begin. He started slowly by stretching his upper torso and legs.
After twenty minutes, he was feeling worn out, but he would work through the aches and tiredness. He tried to create positive mental images in his mind, but all he could hear in his mind was the empty sounds of his stomach. His body was telling him it must be nearing noontime about now.
He wondered how he might escape. He was too weak to even take down one agent, but at least he had the knowledge that the paperweight he had stolen from the General's office was safely tucked underneath his mattress.
Ten minutes later, the door opened.
It was mealtime at last, and along with the tray of food, the guard entered with what looked to be a new prisoner.
A man with Eastern European looks and a thick mustache was kicked unceremoniously into the room, ahead of the lunch trays.
Michael peered at the new arrival, then at the agent guard who smirked, "Say hello to your new roomie, Westen. He's not worth your time, though. The guy's a total mute; what you might call deaf and dumb."
Then the agent guard left, shutting the door behind him.
Michael didn't give the new prisoner a second thought as he rushed to get the tray of food that the guard had left on the lone wooden table. Food was all Michael could think about now, he was famished. Taking his seat on his cot with his meal on the tray, Michael tore at his bread and clumsily slurped his soup. It was actually a good sign that he had an appetite.
At one point, he stopped to look at the other man, who also sat on his cot, but was slowly nibbling at his food. Did the guard actually mean this man was deaf and mute or was he being facetious?
"Hello." Michael said, looking up from his meal, waiting for a reaction. The man kept his head down, hungrily eating. Michael shrugged and resumed eating his lunch.
At last, in the middle of this meal, Michael could feel the man's eyes on him. Facing the man again, Michael gave a friendly nod, only to be met with a silent reproach from the stranger, who then resumed staring straight at the wall, and continued stuffing food in his mouth.
"Hey," Michael tried later again to be friendly.
The man had no reaction, as if he were in his own silent world. He merely continued eating while staring straight forward. Michael sighed. Having a silent partner was almost like having no one around at all and Michael could do with some conversation.
Michael looked over at the man again. The new visitor was purposely avoiding any type of interaction with Michael. The lack of even an acknowledgement somehow bothered Michael. After all, two people locked in a room together against their will should be allies against their adversary.
Besides, Michael thought to himself, Why would these rogue CIA agents want to put two prisoners together?
Michael casually took another bite of his bread.
"Just be careful with your cot," Michael announced, although the man was not even looking Michael's way, "Earlier, I noted a rat scurrying among your sheets."
There actually wasn't a rat running about the man's sheets. Nevertheless, the man suddenly stopped chewing and looked down repulsively on his cot. He then stretched out his hand to whack at three different sections of his cot. When nothing popped out of his sheets, the man merely shrugged and continued facing forward to finish his lunch.
And that's when Michael knew.
The new prisoner was definitely not deaf and mute.
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