Chapter 2. The Set-Up
February 17, 1977, 9 PM. London
Simon Warner sighed in relief as he entered his hotel room. Tossing his tie aside, he sunk into the considerably sized armchair and put his feet up. A day of meetings was bad enough. A 14-hour day full of very tense, divisive meetings was worse. He doubted they would come to much, but there was always a chance. And that chance, as tiny as it was, could remake the world entirely.
He stood up, and headed over to the hotel phone. "Room service, could you send me up a bottle of scotch. Two glasses, please," he remembered to add. After all, company would be coming soon.
It was a shame, really, Simon thought to himself. As historic as these meetings were, they were completely shrouded in secrecy. The world would never know about his hard work, even if it ended in success. Or at least not for many years, and then he'd be dead and gone, and unable to reap the benefits.
Not that he was only in it for the glory, of course. His whole career had been devoted to the greater good, and he'd never lost sight of that, no matter where his job took him. Still, he thought, thinking of his upcoming rendezvous, spending all his time traveling did have his benefits.
Warner was so deep in these thoughts that he never noticed the soft hissing until it was too late.
February 18, 1977, 10:30 AM. Langley, VA
Agent Roan Montgomery whistled along with the music, the strains of 'The Girl from Ipanema' bouncing off the walls. At least that's what he was whistling, he wasn't actually sure what song was being piped into the elevator. Nor did he care. The song helped remind him of the warmth back in Miami, rather than the relative cold of aWashington,DCwinter.
Not that it was the warm weather ofMiamithat he was remembering.
Still, memories are meant to be fleeting, and he'd have to replace them with new ones as soon as his morning meeting with the CIA director was done. It wouldn't be too difficult, after all. He knew plenty of women in DC. He knew plenty of women everywhere.
He did not know the Director's current receptionist, however. At least not yet. He'd have to change that, he decided as he studied her briefly. Red hair tied back, dressed in a wide-collared white blouse buttoned close to the top. But Roan caught a faint whiff of perfume. She clearly wanted to be seen as efficient, but wasn't quite willing to hide her looks.
"May I help you?" the girl asked, somewhat brusquely.
Roan untied his scarf, and tossed it toward the hat rack. The scarf landed a hook, and hung there snugly. "Agent Montgomery, Roan Montgomery, at your service. And you are," he glanced at the nameplate, "Miss Spare Change?"
"It's Sparchange," the girl corrected, placing an accent on the not silent vowel at the end. "It's French."
"Ah, well then," Roan said, leaning up to the desk, "what do you say you surrender to me later this evening?"
The girl frowned. "Does insulting a woman's ethnic heritage ever work for you?"
Roan shrugged. "It depends. For Swedish, Jamaican, and Dutch women, usually. For Germans, Greeks and Italians, almost never." He leaned further in. "On the French, always."
The girl's returning gaze was momentarily frosty, until a slow smile crept on her face. "You're late, Agent Montgomery. He's been waiting for you."
"It's about damn time, Montgomery."
The Director didn't look up as he said this, instead keeping his focus on the stacks of papers on his desk. As always, the Director was dressed in his crisply-ironed uniform, with only a few more hints of gray in his thought he noticed a few wrinkles on the Director's face as well, probably the result of his never smiling.
Roan sat down at the office's conference table. "It's good to see you as well, Director."
The Director grunted. "Fortunately for you, being on time wouldn't have made any actual difference. We seem to be having technical difficulties this morning." Roan followed the Director's baleful expression and saw a young man in the back of the room fumbling with a slide projector. He was young, dressed in a rumpled suit. He looked like he should be selling encyclopedias door-to-door rather than being present at a high-level CIA meeting.
The other man in the room looked a bit more in place, though he didn't seem to be military. Already seated at the table, he glanced at Roan with some curiosity. He was about the same age as the Director, but appeared to be interested in hiding it, as his hair looks like it had recently been dyed. However, he seemed to be nearly as nervous as the other man. Only the Director seemed relatively calm. That wasn't a surprise. Roan had only seen his boss get angry three times, and for two of them he'd been the direct cause.
"Ok," Roan heard the young man in the back of the room say, and a moment later the lights dimmed. An image of an older man, dressed in a bland suit, appeared on the wall.
"Looks like the life of the party," Roan remarked.
"His name is Simon Warner," the Director said, ignoring Agent Montgomery. "He was found dead in his hotel room in London last night."
"Really?" Roan voice displayed the requisite level of solemnity, though he still wasn't clear as to why this was important to them.
"Warner was an emissary of the Secretary of State," the Director explained, as if sensing Roan's confusion. "For the past two months, he's been engaging in some under-the-table meetings with representatives from the Soviet Union."
"Ah," Montgomery said, "so he's a spy."
"You misunderstand, Agent Montgomery. He was there at the behest of the President. The meetings were diplomatic in nature."
Now Roan was beginning to see the interest. "So this was some attempt to put a thaw in the Cold War? Then I'm guessing that there are some members of the Evil Empire that don't like the idea of making nice with the US." Some here as well, Roan thought, but didn't say out loud. There was a reason these meetings were so secret. There would be plenty of hardliners on both sides that wouldn't like the idea.
Instead, he asked, "How did Warner die?"
"Officially, he died of a massive heart attack."
Roan didn't miss the Director's stress on his first word. "But unofficially?"
"An excellent question." It was the first words the third man at the table had spoken. Roan had almost forgotten he was there.
"Agent Montgomery, this is Dr. Hargrove. He's with our chemical weapons department."
Roan smiled briefly. As far as anyone knew, they didn't have a chemical weapons department.
"For some time now," Dr. Hargrove resumed speaking, "we've suspected the Soviets have been developing certain specialized weapons. Something called Klebichok agents." He nodded to the back of the room, and after a momentary fumbling from the assistant, the slide on the wall shifted. Now Roan found himself staring at an odd maze of Cs, Hs, and Ps.
"That's the chemical formula, or at least part of it. We haven't been able to isolate the entire structure. But here's what we do know. It's odorless, and dissipates so quickly in the atmosphere that it's almost impossible to detect. And it's completely lethal."
"And I'm guessing the effects look like a heart attack," Roan spoke up.
"Exactly."
"But how can you be so sure? I mean this guy didn't look that young, and he was in a high-pressure situation, from the sound of things. Maybe he did actually have a heart attack."
"We thought of that as well," the Director said. "The only thing is, it's not the first heart attack that has happened at these meetings."
"So," Roan said, leaning back in his chair, "You want me to go to London and have a look around. See if we can find our artichoke…"
"Klebichok."
"Klebichok poisoner," Roan shrugged off the correction. "See if the Bolsheviks are behind it."
"Anyone with ties to the KGB, for starters. They would have ample motivation for putting an end to their little confab with us." From his tone, Roan could sense exactly how the Director felt about the diplomatic effort.
"When do you want me to go?"
"There's a plane ready to depart in 90 minutes. So no time for flirting with my secretary," the Director added pointedly. "But before you leave, go down to the equipment bay on the third floor."
"Got it, Sir." Roan said, standing up.
"Good luck, Agent Montgomery. And don't go getting yourself poisoned."
February 4, 2011. 10:15 AM, Echo Park, CA
It wasn't until the fourth knock that Chuck finally dropped the notebook onto the table and headed to the door.
"About damn time," Casey said once the door had been opened. "What the hell are you doing in there?"
"Uh, comic book," Chuck responded, figuring that would end any further questioning.
"Whatever. Here, take this."
Chuck glanced down at the envelope.
"For your eyes only, Bartowski. We've got a meeting at Castle in an hour."
"Really, a new mission? Cool. Think they'll send up someplace exotic?"
Casey grunted. "Job's not about where they send us. It's about finding bad guys and hitting them as hard as you can."
"Has anyone ever told you that you're a poet at heart, Casey?"
"Just be there in an hour, Bartowski." With that, Casey turned around and headed back out the door.
Chuck glanced at the envelope momentarily, then headed back to the kitchen and grabbed the notebook. He should still have a good thirty minutes of reading before the briefing.
I was worried that the title "From Burbank With Love" would have been used in an earlier fanfic. Turns out, it wasn't. It turns out it was used for an episode of 'Animaniacs' though. Still, I liked it better than "You Only Flash Twice." And obviously "Moonflasher" would have its own set of issues.