I don't own "Chuck." Or James Bond. But, given that there have been about 4,217 different TV shows and movies about spies and the CIA in the last couple of years, there's a pretty good chance that I own at least one of them.

Chapter 10. When to Walk Away, and When to Run

February 22, 1977, 1 PM, Somewhere in the Alps.

As a trained operative, Roan was ready to handle situations that most men would shy away from. What would bring fear and anxiety to mere civilians would barely phase him. So, he stared calmly back at the five pairs of cold, dark eyes glaring back at him. This was nothing, a situation he had faced countless times.

Even if those cold eyes belonged to royalty. Or most of them, anyway.

"I'll raise," Roan announced, as he dropped a couple of chips into the center of the table. He glanced back at the cards. He had never been exactly clear what a jack was, whether they were, in fact, members of the royal family, members of the court, or just hangers-on. Still, the two he had were accompanied by those of a higher station, something he was not going to let slip.

He looked back up at the table. The next man to bid was studying him intently, so he decided to return the gaze. He had not seen Captain Rudolf Adagio at the party the day before, and he was sure he would have remembered him if he had. He was older, probably in his sixties, with a long thin face covered by a mat of grey hair. He had dressed for the occasion, wearing a white tuxedo that had likely been specially tailored given Adagio's long frame.

"I'm out," the Italian replied, dropping his cards onto the table.

"Not your night, is it Adagio?" the next man at the table asked in a deep voice. Hubert Trax was younger, with dark hair parted to the side, and a full mustache lining his upper lip. Like Adagio, though, he wore a white tuxedo. Roan had noted Trax's easy manner at the beginning of the game – he was confident, which the CIA Agent had immediately distrusted. Not too confident at the moment, though, as he merely called.

The next man over looked around at each of the other players. Carlo Hamburg was a florid, heavy-set man, with a few strands of white hair atop his head. Unlike the others, he wore a button-down shirt without a tie. His red shirt had a wide collar that appeared to be an attempt to appear fashionable. Unlike the other two, Roan did remember Hamburg from the party. So would Agent Gunter, since he was the man who had accosted her on the veranda the night before.

"As much as I'd like to keep going with you gents," Hamburg announced, "I think I'll sit this one out."

"I raise."

Everyone turned their eyes to the last man at the table as he spoke. This suited Roan just fine, since he was the reason for his presence, after all. Alexis Romanova seemed much more at home at a card table than at an exclusive party. The dim lights of the room de-emphasized his sharp features, and his current outfit, black from head to toe, seemed to fit him better, as if his dark heart had oozed out through his skin. His eyes darted across the room quickly, surveying the others as if daring them to object to his hefty wager. No one did.

Romanova could afford it, anyway, as he'd been winning all night. Roan, one of the few at the table currently holding their own, wasn't surprised. The tenets of communism never seemed to extend to the gambling arena, nor, for that matter, did they prevent its followers from cheating.

Roan wasn't about to be dissuaded, and replied equally tersely. "Call."

The last remaining player, however, showed no such bravado. "I'll you two duke this out," Trax commented dryly after dropping his cards.

Roan unveiled his hand, dropping the three kings and two jacks onto the table. "Full house," he said to Romanova, his lips curled up in a smile.

In response, the Russian merely grunted. He slowly dropped his cards on the table, before leaning back to let everyone see. Putting the ace in between the four sixes was a nice touch, Roan thought. It took some of the sting out of losing. But not much.

Romanova's cheering section rushed over and hugged him. Roan had been surprised to see that the young girl from the party was still around. She'd been by his side throughout most of the game, happily applauding his every call and raise. For his part, the KGB Agent seemed less impressed by his success. Presumably, he had bigger things on his mind.

The person the least happy about the hand's result was the host of this friendly get-together. Masterson had been pacing around the room through most of the day, and had occasionally sent an uneasy look in Roan's direction. The CIA agent could only imagine that the Austrian's decision to bankroll him was going to cost him a lot of money. Now he approached the table, giving Roan yet another annoyed glance. "Perhaps we should take a break," he said, before stomping away again.

Roan figured this would be an opportunity to see if he could pick up some information about Masterson and Romanova. The Russian had disappeared somewhere with his girl, but the other players had remained in the room. The CIA Agent strolled up to them and offered to grab some drinks.

There was a fully stocked bar at the end of the room. Roan had seen a bartender earlier, but he was nowhere in sigh now. This suited Roan perfectly. He still wasn't sure that no trap was forthcoming, so he'd much rather get his own drink and avoid the possibility of somebody slipping him something he didn't want. He grabbed a bottle of single-malt scotch, and poured the contents into four glasses.

The others nodded appreciatively when Roan returned with the drinks.

"Ah, Masterson always has the good stuff. Takes some of the pain out of losing," Hamburg said, saluting Roan with his glass.

"Yeah, that Russian seems to be quite lucky tonight," Roan remarked.

Trax turned to the corner of the room, where Romanova had re-emerged with the young woman. "Yup. And he's been doing very well at cards too." Everyone dutifully laughed.

"He must be a friend of Masterson's," Roan suggested.

Trax shrugged. "Everybody knows Gert. Especially if they happen to play cards."

"So there are a lot of these games?"

"Masterson always has a game going," Hamburg replied. "That and parties are pretty much all he does."

Roan pressed on. "Then the pharmaceutical business doesn't interest him that much?"

Roan noticed that Adagio had scowled slightly. He seemed a little less willing to share than the others – though he certainly hadn't turned away the scotch. However, Trax didn't seem to care. "Oh Gert has almost nothing to do with that now."

"Then he doesn't own the company?"

"Not since that private equity company came in. Good thing they did, too. Things were floundering until then. Masterson is no genius when it comes to business. But they came in, brought a pile of cash to straighten things out. They even let him stick around, as if he's still making decisions. He's supposedly got an office that he never goes to."

Roan decided he wanted to learn more about this private equity firm, but he wasn't sure how much he wanted to push things here. The other card players didn't seem like they were working with Masterson or Romanova, but he couldn't be sure. Adagio especially seemed suspicious. Perhaps he should temporarily change the subject.

"I'm in electronics myself," Roan commented, adopting the persona of a chatty businessman. "You wouldn't believe some of the things we've come up with." His mind reached back to some of the toys that Bartowski had been playing with the last few days. "We've got this machine that will play back recorded images, almost like it was live television."

"Unless those recorded images happen to include Farrah Fawcett," Hamburg stated, "I'm not sure I'm interested."

After everyone laughed again, Trax said, "Well regardless of who your thing shows on it, you'd better hope it's lucrative enough to pay back our Soviet friend. I don't think he's the kind of guy to ignore debts."

"Not the friendly sort, is he?"

"He even seems to make our host uncomfortable," Hamburg said, point at Masterson. The Austrian was pacing back and forth once again.

"I think he's anxious for the game to start up again," Adagio said. Everyone agreed and headed back to the table.

As he was finishing up his scotch, Roan considered what he'd heard. Clearly, this 'private equity firm' was important somehow. Perhaps they were the connection between Masterson and the Soviets. A convenient way for them to develop chemical weapons right in front of the West's noses. He wasn't sure why they'd killed Warner, or Amasova for that matter. Perhaps they felt that their new weapons gave them the upper hand, and peace negotiations would keep them from using it.

He turned back to look at Romanova. Whatever his plan was, it would have to be stopped. Obviously sure of himself, the Russian strode purposefully back to the table.

Or at least he should be striding. To Roan, it looked like he was actually floating.

A moment later, he blacked out.

Roan awoke to a flash of bright light blaring in his face. He blinked a few times, trying to focus his eyes. Finally, a blurry form came into view. A blurry, fez-wearing form.

"Oh great, you again," Roan muttered. "Where am I?"

Fez stared back at Roan, but didn't respond.

Roan struggled, slowly realizing that he couldn't move his arms. He looked down to see that they were chained to the armrests of the chair he was seated in. So were his legs.

The room he was currently in wasn't exactly as lavish as the rest of the house. As a general rule, storage rooms weren't, of course, but the turpentine smell and peeling wallpaper were quite a difference from the rest of the chalet.

Roan wasn't interested in the nature of his current hospitality. Instead, he turned his attention to a small bottle on a shelf standing next to him. His eyes narrowed, and he turned to Fez. "You poisoned me?"

"That's the antidote, actually. If I didn't give it to you, you'd be dead by now."

Fez hadn't spoken. Instead, it was Masterson, who Roan hadn't even noticed was in the room. He seemed to be trying to act tough, though wasn't entirely succeeding. Being a heavy wasn't in the Austrian's nature. Plus, it was clear that he was frightened, even more so than Roan.

Roan thought back to earlier. He didn't remember being given anything. He had carefully guarded against that. It was why he had poured his own…

"The scotch. You poisoned it?"

Masterson nodded.

"But what about everyone else? Trax? Hamburg? Adagio? You didn't expect them to drink some too?" Getting no response, he asked, "Did you give them the antidote?"

"They owed money, nothing more. They didn't need to answer any questions. You do."

Roan watched Masterson turn to look at Romanova as the Russian entered the room and spoke. The Austrian had turned even more pale. He was clearly a bit over his head.

Romanova paid Masterson no attention, but instead approached Roan. "Now. We didn't give you enough of the antidote to get the poison out of your system. Just enough to slow it down. We might give you the rest. If you tell me what I want to know."

Roan knew that Romanova meant business. He had a reputation of finding creative ways of torturing people. One unfortunate attempted defector had met an unfortunate fate involving a laser and his… crown jewels.

"First question," the Soviet said. "Who are you, and who do you work for. Obviously, your name is not Simon Warner."

"Why not? It's a common name."

Romanova nodded to Fez, who walked over and slapped Roan across the face. It hurt, but not as much as the confirmation that Roan's reputation hadn't preceded him. He knew he was young, and of course the mission would have failed…ok, failed more quickly, if his cover had been blown, but it would be nice to know that he was at least somewhat known in Moscow.

"Your name doesn't matter that much, anyway," Romanova said. "I know you're American, and you seem to have an interest in your little peace negotiations. You're probably CIA." He leaned in close to Roan. "Perhaps a more important question is how much do you know?"

"Well," Roan made a point of looking thoughtful, "I know that you used too much onion in your borscht today, you cheat at cards, and Bruce Jenner really kicked your guys' ass last year."

That earned another slap.

"Have your fun, CIA Agent," Romanova said. "But your time is running out. I'd say you have, oh, 45 minutes left till the poison does its work."

There was a knock on the door, and the bartender from the other room entered, holding a piece of paper. Romanova took the green-striped sheet, and studied it for a moment. A smile crept to his face. "Exactly what I thought they would do. Everything is going according to plan." He turned back to Roan. "I will be right back. Think about your situation, and realize it's in your best interest to be…accommodating."

Roan knew that being helpful wasn't likely to get him any antidote. Escape was his best interest. Unfortunately, Mr. Fez took the bottle with him as he followed Romanova out.

Masterson remained in the room. "You really should talk," he said to Roan. "This bravado will only get you killed."

"Why exactly are you doing this, Masterson?" Roan asked. The Austrian didn't seem like he fit in with Romanova and the others.

Masterson shrugged. "A few too many bad wagers."

"So you sold your soul to the Soviet government to pay off a few debts?"

Masterson smiled sadly. "If that's what you think you know, then you really are in trouble." With that, he left.

With the room empty, Roan struggled to free himself from his bonds. They were tight, and only seemed to get tighter with every attempt the CIA agent made to free himself. He still had his knife tucked away, but he didn't seem to have a way to reach it. Things were not looking good.

As his movements got more and more frantic, Roan's vision began to become fuzzy. Romanova was as good as his word; the antidote was wearing off. He was running out of time.

Roan began to wonder if his best bet was to stop wriggling. Thankfully, Romanova hadn't taken his watch. If the poison began to kick in, hopefully it would reduce his heart rate enough that it would register on Bartowski's sensor. Of course, he didn't know if the techie and Agent Gunter had any idea where he was. And even if they did, they'd need to figure out a way to get into the place and rescue him. It was a faint hope at best.

He was too young. He figured he'd made his mark on the CIA to some extent, though apparently not enough to attain any notoriety behind the Iron Curtain. He'd certainly had a positive effect on the many young ladies he'd spent time with. They'd all be very sad if they knew what was happening to him.

Roan's thoughts were interrupted mid-wallow by the sound of the door opening. Figuring that Romanova had come back to interrogate him further, he was about to make some retort when he felt his bonds loosening.

Forcing his head up, he expected to see Gunter or Bartowski. Instead he saw the blonde hair of Romanova's girlfriend.

"We don't have much time," she said. Her voice was sharp but not high-pitched. It was distinctly American. He even detected a slight New England accent.

"Much time for what?" Roan asked as he got to his feet.

"To get out of here, you idiot," she replied, handing Roan a bottle as she did so.

As the CIA agent studied the small flask with uncertainty, the woman said, "For God's sake, it's the antidote! You think I'd free you and then poison you?"

Roan considered the logic of this, and then chugged down the contents of the bottle in one swig.

"Now, we need to hurry and get out of here."

"Wait, who are you?"

The woman looked annoyed, but finally sighed. "Are you really stupid enough to think the Director would entrust this mission to just you? Well, they didn't. My name is Agent Diane Beckman and I'm with the CIA."

February 5, 2011. 11:00 AM, Burbank, CA

Chuck studied the glop of soda all over the flat screen at the Nerd Herd desk. The appearance of General Beckman had caught him by surprise, resulting in the remnants of his mid-morning refreshment having been sprayed all over the monitor. He glanced around the room, and seeing no sign that anyone had witnessed his embarrassing moment, headed to the bathroom to grab some paper towels.

As he returned from the employee washroom, Chuck heard a high-pitched squeal coming from the makeshift office of the Assistant Manager. Pausing, he looked around to see if anyone else had heard it.

Casey was nearby, peddling grills, and he gave Chuck a bemused look. "You heard that too?" Chuck asked.

Casey nodded. "Whatever is going on in there, I want no part of it. It's almost as bad as listening to Jeffster without earmuffs."

"Um, ok. Do you think we need to call in backup?"

Casey chuckled. "I'm sure you can handle it. I would, but I'm due for a break."

Before Chuck could object, Casey vanished into the break room. As he cautiously approached the office, he heard another squeal. Taking only a brief moment to note that Lester's 'AssManOff' sign had finally been removed from the door, Chuck tensed himself. Hopefully, a flash would hit if any immediate danger presented itself.

As the door opened, Chuck saw Big Mike seated at his desk, an uncomfortable look on his face. The object of his unhappiness, and apparently the source of the noise, was seated unhappily in his lap.

It was a white cat, its hackles up, flashing its teeth. It was currently making a hissing sound that Chuck would have otherwise guessed would come from a snake or a leaking air mattress. It gave the room's new occupant a momentary glance, then returned its ire to Big Mike.

"Bartowski!" the assistant manager bellowed. "Get in here!" Once the door had closed, he added in a quieter tone, "Please tell me you know something about these beasts."

Chuck had never had as much as a goldfish as a kid. He'd talked with Sarah about possibly getting a dog at some point, but they'd realized that their duel spy lifestyle wouldn't permit it. So he wasn't exactly experienced when it came to pets. "Uh, I'm not really sure…"

"Look, you've got to help me. I promised Bologna that I'd take Miss Jinxie McLazenby to Pussycats Galore today to get her shots. But the damn thing hates me!"

"Your cat's name is Miss Jinxie McLazenby? Are you…"

"Don't look at me. It's Bologna's cat. I swear she…hey, you alright Bartowski? Not allergic to cats, I hope?"

Chuck stopped as the familiar surge hit his head. Now he had quietly moved over to the still angry cat. He shook his head in response to Big Mike's question as he slowly kneeled down onto the ground and held out his hand. The cat got to its feet and waddled up to sniff Chuck's hand. After a moment of this, Chuck slowly petted the beast, quietly muttering to it. It was probably the quietest flash in the history of the Intersect, but it was effective nonetheless.

"I thought you didn't know anything about cats," Big Mike commented as he studied the now purring Lazenby.

"Just guessing," Chuck responded.

"Well, good guess," Big Mike eyed the cat warily. After a moment, he said, "So, Bartowski, hear you're taking the plunge."

"Yeah," Chuck replied, smiling. "Almost can't believe Sarah said yes."

"I can't believe it either," Big Mike said archly. "Still, congratulations." He leaned back in his assistant manager chair, the one nice item in the otherwise messy office. "You know, Bartowski, family's important. You gotta grab onto that special someone, never let her go. Gotta do everything you can for Blond Girl, wait on her hand and foot if that's what it takes. Because you winning her, that's a win for all of us. Guys like us, we don't get a lotta chances. I mean, I'm lucky to have Bologna, but the rest of these guys? The best Patel and Barnes can hope for are mail-order brides. Unless they finally get honest with themselves and marry each other."

Chuck let that one pass.

"The point is, you have to worship the ground your lady walks on. Keep her happy. Even if it means putting up with her damn cat." He gave a baleful look at the white ball of fur, which had now returned to his lap. "You're going to use all nine of those lives to torment me, ain't ya? Well, I've got bad news, that's all a lie. You only live once. Twice, maybe, if you're lucky."

Big Mike continued to focus his attention on the cat, making Chuck wonder if his complaints about the animal had been all for show. Feeling as if he had been dismissed, he headed out the door, and back into the showroom.

Chuck had every intention of devoting himself to making Sarah happy for the rest of his life, so none of what Big Mike had said had been news to him. Still, Big Mike's devotion to family was kind of inspiring. He had practically adopted Morgan, after all.

In the last year, Chuck had lost his father and found his mother, so he shared the assistant manager's appreciation of the bonds of family. He figured that was why he was so interested in his father's old notes. Sure, the mystery of the fez-wearing Russian had spilled over into his current life, but at points it almost felt like Stephen Bartowski was in the room with him, telling stories of his past. Even if most of the story was about Roan Montgomery.

Chuck returned to the work station and wiped off the monitor. Then, making sure no customers were looking for help, he flipped open the notebook and continued to read.

Ok, this time the delay in updating wasn't my fault. I've been wrangling with the phone company over a lost internet connection for days. They'll turn about anybody into John Casey (Season 1 edition).

This chapter probably has the most Big Mike of anything I've ever done. I've never really known what to do with him as a character. He's less fleshed out than the main characters, and less cartoony than Jeff and Lester. Sometimes it seems like he's just there to sell subs. But you know what, he was kind of fun to write for.