The following is a list of items that are mentioned in this chapter, but I do not own: "Chuck," a tiny umbrella, any tomato juice, a white bikini, a yacht, The Washington Post, or the Island of Jamaica.
The following is a list of how much I would like the above items: very much (at least for now), take it or leave it, not thanks, nope, absolutely, couldn't make it profitable, and sure why not.
Chapter 13. I'd Rather be Underneath the Mango Tree
February 23, 1977, 3 PM, Jamaica (mon).
Roan had never understood why people put umbrellas in drinks. Sure, he supposed they provided some extra cheer, and told the drinker-to-be that he or she was in for a festive experience. But as far as Roan was concerned, the drink itself was supposed to do that, not what was floating inside it. In his job, he'd learned a thing or two about misdirection. Using something flashy to take someone's attention away from what was important was a useful skill. He just wished bartenders didn't waste their time with it.
That was just about the only thing that Roan didn't like about Jamaica. Or at least it was up until that particular moment. Now, he could add the antiseptic conference room he was seated in to that list. He wouldn't even turn away one of those umbrella drinks right now.
There wasn't anything particularly offensive about the room, except for the fact that it was a room. By definition, that meant it was indoors, rather than out in the Jamaican sun. It certainly could have used a window or two, but since it was in the very center of the building's fifth floor, all that one would have been able to see through them was more rooms. To make matters worse, the CIA had put this particular room in a building that was located by the beach. Of course, anyone looking at it from the outside wouldn't know it was a CIA building. According to the signs, and any publicly available paperwork, the building was the headquarters of a company that manufactured and distributed lawn furniture. Or at least that's what Roan thought it said. He hadn't actually paid that much attention.
Agent Gunter and Bartowski didn't seem to care about any of this. Their initial doubts about Agent Beckman's message seemed to subside once Bartowski managed to do some research and confirmed that the mysterious company that had bought out Masterson did own a separate subsidiary in the Caribbean. The two of them had spent much of the time on the plane ride talking amongst themselves. Roan hadn't really paid any attention to either of them, figuring they were just hashing out their next plan of attack.
Fortunately, the two had remained quiet once they'd arrived at the island. The three of them had been taken directly from the airport to the CIA building, and then had been ushered into the room as soon as they'd arrived. That was fifteen minutes ago. Fifteen minutes he could have been on the beach, taking in the…scenery.
Finally, the door opened, and the Director himself walked in, followed by Miss Sparchange. The secretary handed everyone a packet, and managed to secretly flash Roan a grin when the Director wasn't looking.
"Despite your best efforts to screw everything up," the Director announced once Miss Sparchange had left, "you managed to uncover a real problem." He motioned for them to open their packets. Roan did so, and found several pages documenting a money trail, working its way back from Masterson's biotechnology firm. Part of the records matched what Bartowski had found; the company that had bought out Masterson and had an office down in the Caribbean was called Lazenby Holdings, Inc. But it had several other names as well, and seemed to stretch throughout the world.
"Osata Technology, Tananga Products Worldwide," Bartowski read. "Fulcrum Industries – that one sounds like a chain of hardware stores. All of these are part of the same company?"
"Fronts, from the look of things," the Director replied. "Under the umbrella of a single organization."
"SPIRIT?" Roan read from the top of one of the pages.
"SPIRITE, actually. With an 'E' on the end," Agent Gunter commented.
"Supervillains aren't much for spelling, are they," Stephen commented, earning a quick smile from Mary.
"Maybe it stands for something."
"Right. The Society for the Proliferation of Illicit, Revolting, Insane, and Terrorist Endeavors, maybe," Steve suggested.
Mary looked like she was about to reprimand him, but then said, "or how about the Society for the Production of Insidious, Reprehensible, Immoral and Terrible Efforts?"
"Hmm. That's good. Maybe the Secret Party for the Indoctrination of Really Insane, Terrible Events?"
"Ooh, Indoctrination. Nice."
"If you two have finished?" the Director finally burst out. Roan had been watching his face turn gradually more red during the exchange between Mary and Steve, until it seemed like he was either about to have a coronary, or leak tomato juice. Once the room had become quiet, the Director shook his head at Roan. "God help us all if you're the mature one on this team."
"Now, in case everyone has forgotten," the Director continued, "we have a largely unknown entity that seems to want to sell chemical weapons to the Soviets. We can't let that happen." He turned back to the young techie. "Tell me, Mr. Bartowski. Can you develop something that can detect these Klebichok agents?"
"Well, without knowing the full chemical structure, it might be a challenge, but if you allow for an inflated rate of false positives…"
The Director held his hand up. "Fine, fine. I just need you to do it. And quickly."
"You know," Steve said, thoughtfully, "from what I've seen, I think it may be possible to set something up that would stimulate a chemical change. Turn the agent into its harmless breakdown products."
"Interesting," the Director said, "I think, though, that we should focus on detection for now."
"Really, once that's been established, the additional work to develop the chemical change algorithm wouldn't take…"
"It doesn't matter. The CIA's interest is in detection and retrieval only."
Roan watched Bartowski's eyes narrow. "Wait a second. You don't want to destroy the Agent. You aren't thinking that we keep the Agent ourselves?"
"There's no 'we', Mr. Bartowski," the Director said icily. "The decision lies with the US Government. And if we feel that possession of the Klebichok agents is vital to national security, that is precisely what we'll do."
"Sir, I don't think you realize the danger," Steve pressed on. "Everything we've seen is just the diluted form. At full potency, it won't be just a single person here and there being infected. Released into a public place, who knows what could happen?"
"That's precisely why we need to reclaim them." The Director's patience was clearly wearing thin.
"And then what? We hope that they don't get released by accident, or some crazy person doesn't get a hold of them?"
Before the Director could retort again, there was a slight knock on the door, and Miss Sparchange entered. "Sir, there's a phone call for you. They say it's urgent."
The Director sighed, and stood up. As he was leaving, he turned to them. "Just do as I tell you, please."
Once he had gone, Mary turned to Steve, her expression stony. "And what exactly was that supposed to accomplish?"
Steve threw up his hands. "He just wants to keep chemical weapons lying around! You know how dangerous that is?"
"Less dangerous with us than in someone else's hands," the female agent replied.
"How can you know that?"
"Because I happen to believe in the agency I work for. In case you haven't forgotten, I happen to be one of these people you have such little faith in. Do you think I would release chemical weapons?"
Roan decided he didn't want to listen to any more. Without excusing himself, he left the room and found his way outside.
The sun was beginning to set, giving the shoreline a crimson glow. Other than the crashing waves, the beach was quiet. This was fine by Roan, at least for the moment. Still an empty beach meant no bikini-clad friends to be made.
At least he was away from the meeting. The least interesting thing about his job was the politics, as far as he was concerned. He'd taken an introductory to political science course in college, mainly due to the number of beautiful women standing in line to register for it. He'd slept through most of the classes, but managed to fake his way to an A, which had helped him get recruited by the CIA.
The action of the mission was good. The post-mission celebration was better. But the inactivity, planning and endless debate was what he could do about.
He had half a mind to go find this mysterious SPIRITE's offices now. From the packet he knew the Lazenby Holdings headquarters was only a few miles away. He couldn't go in there as a member of the CIA, of course. He had no authority here in Jamaica. But he could always improvise his way in. All it took was one impressionable receptionist.
As he was considering his plan, the sound of splashing by the water. Turning, Roan saw a white figure in the waves. As he watched, the figure, a decidedly female one, took to her feet and walked onto the shore.
When the woman tossed aside her snorkel mask, Roan recognized Agent Beckman. That conveniently gave him the chance to return his attention to what she was wearing. The white bikini certainly did her justice, without question. He stood there on the beach silently, taking his time admiring the engineering achievements of her two piece suit – among other things. After a moment, she sensed someone watching, and met his gaze.
"I guess you got my note," Beckman commented.
"I did. It was quite satisfying." Roan gestured at the surrounding beach. "Your friend really knows how to pick his vacation spots."
"More business than vacation, I'm afraid. And not really his choice."
So Romanova wasn't calling the shots, Roan thought. "So no fun for you?" he said aloud.
Beckman shook her head.
"Still, I approve of his choice of dress code," Roan's eyes strayed back to the bikini.
"I'm here to deliver a message," Agent Beckman said, forcing Roan's attention back.
"From Romanova?"
"From me. And I don't have much time."
Roan nodded. "I take it he's nearby."
"For now." Beckman gestured back to the ocean. "His yacht. But he won't be napping much longer."
Roan was impressed. He couldn't see any boats in the distance, so Beckman must be a very strong swimmer.
"What's the message?"
"There's a meeting tomorrow. With an emissary of the Soviet government."
"A potential buyer?" Roan asked. "For the Klebichok agent?"
"I don't know for sure. But I wouldn't put it past him."
This was bad news, and Roan would definitely have to relay it to the Director.
Seeing that Beckman had retrieved her snorkel mask and was headed back to the ocean, he said, "That's it? That's all the information you can give?"
"It's all I have. And I have to get back."
Raon smirked. "I trust you'll give our friend my best."
Beckman looked like she was about to retort, then smiled. "Should I be impressed with that?"
"Trust me, my best is very impressive."
The female agent rolled her eyes. "Well, trust me, I'd just as soon not. He seems to think that good hygiene is beneath him, and his breath smells like beets."
Roan watched her swim back out into the water, then headed back inside.
Roan returned to the conference room to find Bartowski and Agent Gunter staring at each other silently. Undaunted by the chilly atmosphere, he took a seat and waited. His amusement at his cohorts' discomfort didn't make up for his restlessness, though. He wanted to act, especially after what Agent Beckman had told him.
Finally, the Director returned to the room. His brisk pace and set expression seemed to indicate that the phone call had not gone well.
"We have a problem. The Washington Post is set to run an article tomorrow describing Simon Warner's death, including details on the meetings he was attending in London. I am to return to DC and join a meeting with the President and the Joint Chiefs tomorrow morning. I don't think I need to explain the added urgency to your mission."
"Sir, there's something more you need to know." Roan relayed what he'd learned from Beckman to the others. Needless to say, the Director was less than thrilled by the news.
"Lucky for me, I get to be the one to deliver the news to the President of how poorly this mission has gone. If the Soviets get their red hands on the Klebichok agents, then our worst fears will be realized. There's no more time for you to waste."
He turned to Bartowski. "You are to fly to Miami immediately. The CIA has a laboratory there, and you are to work around the clock to develop that detection system, and only that detection system. You will have a team of CIA scientists at your disposal. They will do as you ask…within reason. And know that they will be in communication with me in case you decide to improvise."
Bartowski silently nodded.
"And I'm going to need results immediately, as Agents Montgomery and Gunter will be paying a visit to the offices of Lazenby Holdings tomorrow morning, and I'd rather not have them do so empty-handed." He turned to Roan and Mary. "I'll leave it up to you to decide what ruse you'll use to get in there, but you are going to need to search the place from top to bottom. We need to recover the agent before the Soviets get it."
The Director's last statement apparently was a dismissal. Steve stood up, looked at the others uncertainly, then walked out of the room. A moment later, Mary followed.
Before the Director could leave, Roan approached. He still had some doubts about the plan. "What if the Agents aren't at the Lazenby office? Agent Beckman said she was on a yacht with Romanova. Maybe he has them on him."
The Director studied Roan for a moment. "Yes, your Agent Beckman. I am quite familiar with her. Very ambitious. To be honest, I wouldn't put it past her to leak the Warner story to the press. Perhaps build up her own role in everything. Even if she didn't leak anything, I don't trust her lofty aspirations. Seems to think she'll be General someday, if you can believe that."
Roan suddenly remembered what Lottie had said about her difficulties with working at MI-5 as a woman.
"In any event, she's put in a transfer to the NSA, and as far as I'm concerned she can have it. Frankly, I'd take everything she says with a grain of salt. And even if it's true, do you know where this yacht is, or what it looks like? We have one real lead, and that's Lazenby Holdings. Give it the attention it's due."
With that, the Director left.
February 5, 2011. 6:45 PM, Echo Park, CA
Chuck glanced up from the notebook to study the uncharacteristically quiet Bartowski kitchen. Part of it, of course, was due to the missing third roommate. But the main reason was that in the last hour since they'd finished dinner, both Chuck and Sarah had been fully immersed in reading.
Chuck was slightly impressed that Sarah had taken to his father's writing as much as she had. Because she didn't have the benefit of the flashes to let her know who was actually who in the story, Chuck had provided her with a guide, which she occasionally consulted. But she hadn't said anything further about the writing style or technical implausibilities, which suited Chuck just fine. In face, she seemed as interested in the story as he was.
Finally, Sarah looked up and caught Chuck's eye. "How far are you in?" Chuck asked.
"The poker game," his fiancée responded. "You?"
"Uh, a bit ahead of that." He figured he'd let Sarah catch up before discussing anything he'd just read.
Sarah cleared the dishes off the kitchen table, and walked over to the sink. As she was loading the dishwasher, Chuck returned to the notebook. A moment later, he was interrupted by a "Huh."
"What is it?" Chuck looked up. Sarah was staring out the kitchen window.
"Well, I think we may need to intercede out there, or we're going to have an unobstructed view to a killing."
Chuck quickly jumped up, and went to the window. While the courtyard seemed quiet, he could just make out some movement in the parking lot beyond. He leaned in to try to get a closer look. "Is that Casey?"
"Uh huh."
Chuck couldn't make out his face, but judging from the man's gestures, posture, and years of experience, he could tell that the NSA agent was angry. He was also leaning down at a car that wasn't his.
It was Morgan's.
"Oh boy. What did he see?"
A moment later, Casey opened the door, and dragged Morgan out of the driver's seat. Chuck couldn't see the panic in his friend's eyes, but he knew it would be there. At least Morgan was dressed, though it looked like his shirt was very untucked.
"Maybe we should step in?"
"Wait." Sarah pointed to the other side of the car. Alex had just jumped out and rushed up to her father. From the little Chuck could make out, Alex had inherited her father's temper. Casey had released Morgan, and had backed away slightly. Alex could hold her own against Casey, even if Morgan couldn't.
Finally, Casey walked away, and Morgan and Alex returned to the car.
"I guess the big guy's still a bit new to the whole parenting thing," Chuck remarked.
"Well, he missed out on a lot. I think he's trying to catch up on the whole teenage daughter experience now. I think the whole 'attacking the boyfriend' thing is a rite of passage."
Chuck smiled at her. "Your dad ever do that?"
Sarah shook her head. "I wasn't exactly popular in high school, remember? He never got the chance. I think the closest he's ever come is calling you shnook."
"Glad to be of service. And you probably had it better than Ellie. I had to fill in for Dad when she brought dates home. I don't think I was very effective."
"Well, I'm sure Ellie could take care of herself."
"Yeah." Chuck helped Sarah load the dishwasher silently, and then went back to wipe off the kitchen table. After a while, he said, "Sarah, do you ever wonder if we could do it, as spies? Be good parents?"
Sarah gave Chuck a pointed look. "You know, maybe we should focus on planning our wedding first, before we get into that."
Chuck knew she was uncomfortable in talking about family and the future. "Ok, but eventually we are going to need to talk about it."
Sarah smiled. "And we will, eventually. But at the moment, we should focus on our mission. Then maybe we can name our firstborn. Just promise me one thing."
"What's that?"
"If we ever have a boy, we're not naming him Roan."
"No problem. What is that even short for, anyway?" Chuck wondered aloud. "Roanathan? Roanstopher?"
"I guess that little tidbit isn't revealed in your Dad's story?" Sarah asked, as she retrieved her copy. "Maybe if we keep reading we'll find out."
"Good idea." Chuck grabbed the notebook, and followed her into the living room. He sat down on the couch, and a moment later Sarah joined him, her head on his lap.
"Chuck?" she said a few minutes later.
"Hmm."
"We will talk about it, you know. I promise. Just be patient with me."
I probably didn't describe it well enough for it to be obvious, but Beckman coming out of the water was supposed to be a nod to the infamous scene with Ursula Andress in 'Dr. No' (and later redone with Halle Barry in 'Die Another Day.') Somehow, evoking the full imagery of Beckman in a bikini was a bit more than I could muster – though I'll let anyone curious try a Photoshop experiment (note – I don't own Photoshop and am not advocating its use or purchase, that was only an example).
Again I apologize for the recent slow update pace. It'll get better. And we're actually nearing the home stretch.
As always, please review and let me know how things are going!