I don't own "Chuck", "James Bond", or the year 1977. They are owned by:
Chuck – NBC
James Bond – A complicated web of lawyers
1977 – George Lucas, Fleetwood Mac, and Reggie Jackson
Chapter 5. Dine Another Day
February 19, 1977, 6:30 PM. Soho.
"Ah, there you are."
Charlotte glanced around at the Soho rooftop that Roan had chosen for his surveillance, pausing momentarily at the bottle of wine chilling in an ice bucket. "I can see that you've managed to get yourself comfortable, while I was busy covering your tracks."
Roan gave her a quick smile. "No reason to work in discomfort. Everything's taken care of, then?"
Charlotte nodded. "It took a while to convince your pilot that there had been a change of plans, and he was supposed to fly back to Washington without you. But Hamilton will figure things out soon enough." She briefly glanced around at their surroundings. "So I hope it's worth it."
Roan looked back at the British agent. "I thought that you agreed with me about Warner's death."
"I do. I'm just not sure I'm trusting the right person to figure it out." Charlotte glanced back at the wine pointedly.
Roan merely shrugged in response. He hadn't asked Charlotte any further about her personal connection to the dead British agent. He just figured he could use any help from inside MI-5. Even if it was someone from currently working in its bottom rung. So, he had called her at the pay phone at the time they'd chosen, and told her to meet him at his current perch.
"So what have you found?" she asked.
"Well, Amasova is currently having dinner in the Indian restaurant across the way. Apparently, he prefers curry to borscht when given the chance," Roan replied.
Ilya Amasova, the head of the Soviet delegation for the peace talks, had been hard to find. Without the help of anyone within MI-5, he'd had to find alternate means. Fortunately, while Amasova himself was difficult to track down, the agents Hamilton had put in charge of guarding him had been much easier to locate. And then it had only taken a short amount of tailing to find the Russian himself.
"And that's all you have? A night out in a restaurant?" Charlotte didn't sound pleased.
"Maybe. Maybe not."
Before the British agent could question him further the sound of footsteps came from behind. Charlotte quickly retrieved her firearm, but Roan put a hand on her shoulder. A moment later, a young Indian boy appeared, carrying a plastic bag. Roan took the bag and handed a couple of crisp bills to the boy, who quickly scampered away.
"You ordered food?" Charlotte asked in annoyance.
"Among other things." Roan pulled a box from the bag, then frowned as he studied its contents. "Hmm. Biryani."
"You don't want it? Maybe you can waste some more time and get something from the Chinese place down the street."
"I do like it. I just don't like the message." Seeing Charlotte's confusion, Roan explained, "I asked for Tandoori chicken if Amasova was meeting someone at the restaurant. Biryani if he was alone."
"So that's it, then? A dead end?"
"Maybe, maybe not," Roan said again. "I suggest we wait." He grabbed a fork from the bag and took a bite of a piece of chicken. "Not bad," he commented, "I know a place or two in Bombay that do it better. But not bad."
Charlotte watched him eat for a moment, frustration still evident on her face. Finally, she sighed and asked, "Do you have another fork?"
"You were quick with that piece back there. I take it you've had some firearm training?"
Charlotte swallowed her bite of chicken, with some difficulty Roan noticed. Apparently, she didn't have much of a tolerance for spicy food. "I have. I wasn't always a glorified errand girl, you know. I used to be a pretty high-level agent. That was, until my recent demotion."
"And that had something to do with your… friend?" Roan asked, taking a sip of wine. "The one that was killed in the car crash?"
Charlotte's eyes narrowed. "You're a lot smarter than you let on, you know that Agent Montgomery?"
"It comes in handy sometimes. What are we spies, but actors with training in lethal combat?"
"Hmm. Well, you're right, about my demotion I mean. Let's just say I did something that was seen as unseemly for an agent of my stature. And here I am."
"Babysitting a spoiled American agent?"
"Exactly." Charlotte took another bite of the biryani and winced again.
Roan smiled. "Want some wine?"
"One of us should be clear-headed, if something actually happens." Despite her words, the British agent took a swig from the bottle.
Roan turned his attention back to the restaurant. Amasova had not yet left the restaurant, and the only patrons to enter the place were a couple of fashionable couples out for a night on the town. No one appeared that matched the description of Romanova or any other KGB agent.
"So why are you so interested in all of this anyway?" he heard Charlotte ask. "Are you worried that the negotiations might work, all the cloak and dagger stuff would come to an end, and you'd be out of a job if the Soviets become your friends?"
Roan chuckled. "I really don't care about the negotiations. What the politicians do is up to them. But I'm not really worried about spying becoming obsolete. People are still going to be people, and distrust comes naturally. If the Soviets become allies with the US, someone else will appear to take their place. Hello, who's this?"
Charlotte followed Roan's gaze. "Is that a fez?" she asked.
Sure enough, the man walking into the Indian restaurant was wearing a small cylindrical, red hat. "Not one of yours, I assume?"
Charlotte shook his head. Roan wasn't surprised. The British detail, including two men seated outside at a coffee shop, and a third that had been walking a corgi around the block continuously, had been easy to spot. Whoever this new man was, he wasn't working for Hamilton.
"Do you think it was Romanova?" Charlotte asked.
"I don't think so, though he did look Russian. We'll have to wait and see what he's up to."
They didn't have to wait for long. After about ten minutes, the strange man reappeared in the streets. He looked around briefly and glanced upwards, seemingly at Roan and Charlotte. He smiled briefly, then waved.
"Did he see us?" Charlotte asked in surprise.
"I don't know. But we should follow him." They climbed back down the fire escape and down onto the street. They managed to get a brief glimpse of the mysterious figure as he headed into traffic.
"We'd better hurry if we want to catch up." Charlotte followed Roan towards the street. Unfortunately, it was a busy intersection, and when they could finally see past the cars and various pedestrians, the man had disappeared.
"Damn."
"So now what?" Charlotte asked.
There probably wasn't any hope of catching up to the mystery man, especially if he'd caught a taxi or other form of transportation. Instead, he gave smirked at his companion. "I'm sure we could find something to do to pass the time, Lotty."
"It's Charlotte, and don't be an idiot. I was talking about Amasova. Do we speak with him?"
They returned to the restaurant and peered inside, but the Russian appeared to have left, as had the British agents watching him.
"I guess that puts an end to our surveillance," Charlotte remarked. "And before you make any more lewd suggestions. I really have to get home. It's late already."
Before Roan could ask why, the British agent had vanished down the street.
February 19, 1977, 8:30 PM. London.
Seeing nothing further to be done in Soho, Roan returned to his hotel. His instincts told him he was on the right trail; the man with the fez was part of what had happened to Warner. Romanova must have sent him. But was Amasova himself part of the plot? Had he acted to sabotage his own negotiations? After all, who knew what the Soviet interests were in all this. Were they really interested in peace, or was this some elaborate ploy?
As soon as he entered his room, he could feel that something wasn't right. Still, he didn't have time to unleash his firearm before the attack came. Struggling to breathe from the hands clasped tightly around his throat, he pushed himself to the case he had carried with him. The man's grip was tight, however, and he was unable to find the knife he had tucked away, so he frantically dug through his other belongings. Unfortunately, all he could find was the music-playing gadget that he had been given in DC.
He pulled the headphones out of the bag and wrapped the cord around the neck of the man behind him. He tugged on the cord until the man's grip around his own throat was released, and the assassin finally collapsed.
He wasn't given more than a moment to react, as a second man appeared from the shadows. This time, Roan grabbed the metal disc from the machine left in the bag, and snapped it in two. He whirled around, stabbing the assailant in the side with the sharp edge of the disc piece. The man fell.
"I'd say your song is over," Roan commented laconically. Apparently, he'd have to thank Steve Bartowski if he ever saw him again.
As Roan paused to catch his breath, he heard footsteps from out in the hallway. He rushed outside, but only managed to catch a glimpse of a fez-wearing silhouette. He made his way down to the lobby, but once again, the man had disappeared.
When he was back in his room, he looked over at the two bodies lying on the floor. He would need to do something about that. He headed over to the room phone and dialed.
"Yes, hello. This is room 1007. I'd like to order room service. Duck a l'Orange, a bottle of Chateau le Chiffre, 1967. Bring it up as soon as you can, and just leave the cart by the door."
Once he'd finished his meal, and cleaned up the mess, he did what any self-respecting spy what do under the situation. He fell asleep.
February 20, 1977, 4:30 AM. London.
It took almost of minute of insistent knocking for Roan to emerge from his slumber. Pushing himself to his feet, he grabbed a hotel robe and answered the door.
"Well, Lottie. It's a bit late, but I take it you've reconsidered my offer."
The British agent shook her head insistently. "It's Charl- oh, never mind that now! Just explain to me why your knife is currently in the chest of Ilya Amasova!"
February 4, 2011. 7:00 PM, Echo Park, CA
"…And there's this new QB we've just recruited. Awesome arm. They're already calling him 'The Man with the Golden Gun' on campus. And then the whole defensive line is returning next year, and…"
Chuck flashed his best, polite small as his brother-in-law droned on about UCLA's Rose Bowl prospects for the coming year. Even after all the years they'd known each other, Devon still didn't seem to have grasped that Chuck didn't care for football. Or maybe he had, but didn't want to give up on a captive audience.
From the other end of the table, Ellie gave her brother a sympathetic smile. She was probably used to it by now. Sarah, meanwhile, managed to show some interest. Chuck had been surprised to learn that his fiancée was something of a football fan. One of her many secrets, he guessed. She'd even gone to the trouble to explain what 'The Wildcat' was to him at one point. It had taken a while.
Despite the mild interest, nobody seemed to upset when a sharp cry came from the baby monitor. "It's your turn, honey," Ellie said immediately. Devon nodded and uttered an "Awesome," though his tone didn't seem to match the choice of word.
"I think you owe Clara one," Ellie remarked when Devon had gone upstairs.
Chuck nodded. "Do you think she accepts payment of the stuffed animal variety?"
"I'm sure we can work something out." Ellie glanced over at Chuck and Sarah. "Now, on to more important things. How're the wedding plans coming?"
After a half-hour of sisterly prodding, Chuck went to the kitchen to help with the clean-up. "So," Ellie spoke up, "Did you find anything useful from that notebook?"
"Still looking into it," Chuck replied. He'd read a little more in the afternoon, and had gone through the CIA database to learn more about the people mentioned in his father's notes. Amasova had been mentioned, but not Romanova. He even tried to search on the word 'fez' but naturally that came up blank.
Of course, the most complete database the CIA had was the one residing in his cranium, but other than revealing the actual names of the people as he read through the notebook, it was offering little in the way of information. He'd even written down Roan's name, but the flash that generated when he looked at it was full of redactions. Whether due to the top-secret nature of his missions, or just for the sake of common decency, Chuck wasn't sure.
"Is it all spy stuff then?" Ellie interrupted his thoughts. "Nothing about Dad himself?"
"Um, a little. In his younger days."
"Wow. Dad as a swinging bachelor," Ellie smiled as she finished drying off a platter. "Can't picture it."
"Yeah, I know what you mean."
"Hey, do you have time to look through the things I found?" Chuck's sister asked. "Maybe we can find his little black book or something."
Chuck was tempted, but he had a mission to go on. A dull, surveillance-based one, but a mission nonetheless. "Actually, Sarah and I have a late date tonight."
"Oh, ok," Ellie sounded disappointed but understanding. "You two make sure you keep the fires burning, now that you've sealed the deal. Can't let things grow stale."
Chuck hurried away before Ellie made any more, or detailed, suggestions.