I don't own "Chuck."
I also don't own "James Bond." I don't think anybody actually knows who does.
Chapter 3. "Q" is for Quality
February 18, 1977, 11:25 AM. Langley, VA
After a few minutes of strategic flirting with Miss Sparchange, Roan headed down to the CIA's equipment bay. He didn't particularly want to spend a large amount of time there. Sure, some of the gadgets they seemed to have down there were interesting, but the techies that built them were not. The whole place had the pungent odors of bad coffee, old pizza, and what Roan guessed was sexual frustration emanating from it.
Still, he couldn't go off to London empty-handed, and he was supposed to pick up some additional background information about the mission. Roan was a professional, and would do whatever it took to do the job right. He might even have time to read through the info on the plane, depending on the quality of the stewardesses.
He stepped off the elevator at the third floor, still whistling to himself. As usual, the area was dimly lit by fluorescent lighting. Outside of that telltale hum coming from overhead, the place was quiet though. Doctor Llewelyn, the head equipment specialist, was nowhere to be seen.
"Ah, Agent Montgomery. There you are."
Roan turned around. Instead of seeing the gray hair of Dr. Llewelyn, though, he recognized the young man from the briefing. He still wore the wrinkled suit he'd had on earlier, but his tie was gone - either discarded somewhere or swallowed up by the wide collar of his shirt. His shoulders were slightly less drooped, and he seemed more relaxed. Apparently, he was much more at home in a laboratory then surrounded by high-ranking officials.
"Dr. L retired," the man seemed to guess what Roan was thinking. "I'm stepping in now. Name's Steven Bartowski. My friends call me Steve."
"Ok, Agent Bartowski…"
"Actually, I'm not an agent," the man responded, seeming not to notice the snub. "I'm a civilian."
Roan's face must have betrayed his surprise. "It's a new thing the government's trying out," Steve explained. "Bringing in private companies and individuals to help with some projects. Saves money. Don't worry, we go through a pretty heavy screening progress. So I can assure you I'm not a Russian spy."
"Oh, I believe that." Roan studied the younger man. "So you're here to get me ready for the mission?"
"Oh, right." Steve turned around and headed over to a table covered with a jumble of papers, transistors, tools, and what appeared to be a lava lamp. At the other end of the table, safely away from the mess, was a computer terminal. "Now where's that cassette?" he mumbled, upturning various printouts and notebooks. "Ah." He shoved the tape into the small terminal.
"This should have everything you need to know about the meetings in London, Simon Warner, and the Klebichok agents. Also, what we know about possible KGB agents that might have an interested in putting an end to the negotiations. I color-coded their names based on how much they hate us. Green for mild antipathy, yellow if they'd happily take you out if given the chance, and red for those that would shoot through their grandmother if you were standing behind her."
"Great." The boy was enthusiastic at least, Roan had to admit.
"It's just printing now." A screeching sound from the back of the room followed this statement, and Steve went over to grab the pages. "Here you go," he said as he handed them to Roan.
"This was never really where I figured I'd be a year ago," Steve went on while Roan flipped through the pages. "Teddy and I – Ted's my business partner – always figured we wanted to work for ourselves, you know. This kind of work oughta help us get started, though. Then I can really get to the stuff I want to work on."
Roan tuned out the other man as he went on about something he called neuromechanical engineering. Llewellyn had never talked this much. Instead he started looking around the room, pausing at what appeared to be a human brain, with various sections painted into different colors. "Be careful with that!" he heard a shout just as he was reaching for it.
"That's just a little hobby of mine, nothing important." Steve's hand was on his forehead, pushing his hair into an unruly mop. "It's not really anything that's going to help you with your mission," he added, more calmly.
"Ok then. Do you have anything that will?"
"Hmm," Steve said, rummaging through the room. "They didn't give me a whole lot of time to prepare. Maybe over here." He opened a closet door, and Roan winced at the crashing sound that came a moment later. "What do you have in mind?"
"Well, for one of my last missions, I got a briefcase with 40 rounds of ammo, tear gas, and a knife hidden inside."
"Huh, that does sound cool. Unfortunately, the only briefcase here is mine, and the only thing hidden inside is a ham sandwich. How about this?" He returned, carrying a small flat box, and a shiny round object.
Roan took the round item, and studied it intently. It was a flat disc, with a small hole in the middle. "Seems a bit dull for a weapon," he said thoughtfully.
"It's not a weapon," Steve explained. "It's the future. On that little disc, you can store over an hour of recordings."
"Ah, surveillance."
"Not exactly." Steve motioned to the box. "This only has the playback option. To record, you need something much larger."
"Then what's the point?"
"Music!" Steve responded. "I loaded this with some of the best: 'Seasons in the Sun', 'Billy, Don't be a Hero', "Afternoon Delight.'…"
"Well, at least it will come in handy if I need to interrogate someone." Clearly, Steve Bartowski was a couple of years behind in the music world.
"Anyway, here's the disc, the box, and a set of headphones." Seeing Roan's own case on the floor, Steve opened it and placed the items inside.
"Don't you have anything useful? Say, a jetpack or something?"
"I wish! It would make getting here a lot easier, I'll tell you. I don't know how people can stand to live around here. Hold on," Steve snapped his fingers in excitement. He opened a drawer from the desk across from the table, and retrieved a pair of small silver objects. "I do have these."
"Cuff links?"
"Yup. They shoot this tiny little darts. They should incapacitate someone in seconds. At least if they're under 180 pounds. More than that, I can't guarantee anything."
February 18, 1977, 12:45 AM. Andrews Air Force Base, MD
"Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Montgomery?"
A smile slowly crept onto Roan's face as he looked up at the smoldering eyes of the stewardess. It was nice to know that the CIA still didn't spare any expense on their private jets.
"As a matter of fact," he said giving her the full once over, "how about a Tom Collins? Exactly two ice cubes, freshly squeezed lemon juice, and one Marischino cherry – as long as it was harvested from the state of Washington in the past two months."
"Sure thing, Mr. Montgomery."
Roan watched the stewardess walk back up the airplane's aisle, and turned back to his information packet. Once he'd finally managed to extricate himself from the talkative techie, the trip to the Air Force Base had gone pretty quickly. The drive had been too quick for him to even glance at what he'd been given, and the plane had left on time. So, he figured he should make time now. Generally, Roan was more of an improviser than a planner, but in this case it wouldn't hurt to be ready.
He flipped through the pages that Bartowski had handed him. Most of the details on the Klebichok agent weren't of much interest to him. Chemistry wasn't his favorite subject. Still, the description of its effect on people was eye-opening. Death was close to instantaneous, but not instantaneous enough, judging by the description of its effects. If this is what caused the death of Simon Warner, he felt bad for the guy.
Roan perused the enclosed photographs with greater interest. They were grainy and shadowy, as they had been taken at great distances from their targets. But they did show the faces of a few suspected KGB agents seen in England in the last few months. Most of them looked only vaguely familiar to Roan. Then again, KGB all seemed to fit a type – swarthy, scowling, and with body odor that practically jumped out of the picture.
He only recognized one face - Alexis Romanova. He had a fearsome reputation, having been linked to the deaths of several American and British spies. Bartowski could have given him his very own color on his scale of hatred. Pure black. If there was a chief suspect, Romanova would have to be it.
"I'm afraid we're out of gin, Mr. Montgomery." Roan looked up at the stewardess, who was giving him an apologetic look. "I brought you a vodka martini, if that's ok."
Roan studied the wide-rimmed glass in disappointment. So much for the CIA not sparing any expense. He'd have to make the best of it, he supposed.
"I hear there's going to be some turbulence," he said, grabbing the stewardess by the waist and pulling her close. "You shouldn't be on your feet."
Studying could wait.
February 4, 2011. 1:30 PM, Burbank, CA
"Surveillance?"
"You have something better to do, Agent Bartowski?" General Beckman asked with a raised eyebrow.
Chuck wasn't about to bring up his father's notes, especially now that it had given him a glimpse at Orion's humble beginnings in the spy world. The General would probably redact the whole thing, and hide in some warehouse in DC, probably underneath the Ark of the Covenant.
"It's just…well, there's…" Chuck could see Casey glaring at him out of the corner of his eye, while Sarah gave him a look of concern.
"…a lot of downtime."
"Yes, I know Mr. Bartowski," the General said drily. "Perhaps you can take advantage of that, and catch up on some of the paperwork you need to fill out about the Volkoff affair." With that, the conference ended.
Chuck groaned inwardly. He'd hated the paperwork when it was just about completing Nerd Herd runs. It wasn't any better when working for the CIA.
"Idiot," Casey grumbled. "You know, Bartowski, sometimes I wonder why don't just knock the living daylights out of you."
Chuck rolled his eyes. "I think it's because of my natural charm and charisma, Casey."
Casey stalked off, muttering to himself. "He seems grumpier than usual," Chuck remarked.
"I don't think he's likes stakeouts much either," Sarah replied, before giving Chuck a long look. "Chuck, are you ok? It seems like you've been preoccupied by something lately."
Chuck hesitated before responding. Reading what his father had left him was something Chuck wanted to do himself. It felt like it gave him a chance to know his father in a way he never had before. Before he'd been weighed down by the pressures he'd put on himself. The pressures of the Intersect.
But, he knew he had made a mistake the last time he'd kept his family secrets from Sarah. Now that they were engaged, they should be sharing everything. And he knew he didn't want her worrying about him. So, he made up his mind.
"Sarah, I have something I want to show you."
I know it's a bit early for this particular reference, but given the recent news:
"Chuck" will return in
Season 5