Mind Games

Chapter 21

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer

A/N: A little bonus chapter for you...

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"Let's check the video feed before he gets off the grounds."

Wilkes, Korb, Jamison, Dr. Allman, and a fifth man, new to the group, hunched over the screen in the monitoring booth. It was one week after Don Eppes' break, and they were watching as the parking lot moved slowly toward them, captured in the lens of a hidden camera.

"Where's the camera located?" asked the newcomer. He was the field director, the man who would command the mission from that point forward, and assure that the brainwashed agent would accomplish the mission. The rest of them knew him as Paul Ziegler, and even that jaded bunch regarded him with respect and a healthy fear. Had they known his complete background as one of the CIA's most notorious assassins, they would have been more uncomfortable yet.

"In his jacket," replied Jamison. "He arrived wearing a denim jacket – it was perfect. We have both signal boosters in interior pockets, and we removed a button from the front and installed the video feed in it, then reattached it."

"He knows he's to keep the jacket with him at all times, and to wear it except when he's sleeping. It's light enough to wear indoors without raising suspicion," added Wilkes. "They're taking a private jet to get to the safe house location, so we don't have to worry about him trying to get through airport security and setting off metal detectors."

Zeigler's gaze flicked to another monitor, which displayed a shot of the grounds in front of the building, and watched as Don Eppes walked toward the lot with Ian Crocker. "And how do you feel about his level of preparation?"

"He's ready," responded Wilkes, confidently. "His mind is completely under our control. We've convinced him that he needs to kill his brother; we've managed to persuade him that Charlie is a rogue agent, a threat to society. We've told him, however, that he needs to listen to the voice in his head – we told him that his own instinct will guide him, let him know the proper time. He also knows he is supposed to hide the boosters and not to let anyone know of his 'mission.' We do need to keep him under constant surveillance, however, and keep a certain level of electricity running in his brain. The minute we let our guard down, he begins to revert back to his old emotional state."

"We've got the monitoring teams already set up for you," said Korb. "We're going to the take the "B" shift, from 4 p.m. to midnight. We think that might be the optimum time of day for him to make a move, and we're the ones with the most experience with him, so we signed up for that one. We've got two other teams – Team C from midnight to 8 a.m., and Team A from 8 a.m. to 4 p.m."

"We're doing all the monitoring from here? We're not using an on-site agent with a mobile controller?" asked Ziegler.

"We don't know the location of the safe house, at least not until Don Eppes arrives," replied Wilkes. "He's got the boosters and the camera with him – we can do it from here."

Ziegler looked at Allman. "You've received the assignment instructions – are there any particulars that I need to know?"

"To prevent any fallout for the Agency, they want both of them out of the picture," replied Allman. "Charlie Eppes will be terminated. The desire is for Don Eppes to remain alive – if he were to be killed; an autopsy might reveal the circuitry inside him. The orders are for him to be taken into custody and to be charged with Charlie's murder. The assassination should be made to look like a killing that resulted from an argument. Once Eppes is in custody and is charged with the killing, we will send agents to engineer what will look like a prison break. Don Eppes will then be eliminated, and his body will disappear – making it appear as though he made a successful escape."

Ziegler watched the men reflectively as they moved down the sidewalk. "We will need to perform the killing in front of witnesses, then – but not so close that the witnesses can intervene."

The men fell silent and watched as a car pulled up to the edge of the lot, and the men climbed inside. The video feed in the button of Don Eppes' jacket picked up the top of the dash and the view out of the windshield as the car moved forward. Wilkes spoke, reflectively. "I have to admit, there was a time when I was beginning to wonder if we could get him to turn."

Allman grunted. "The only person who could possibly resist our methods would be a psychopath, someone without emotion, which Eppes is mostly certainly not. Trust me gentlemen, he'll do what he was programmed to do."

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Charlie paced anxiously back and forth in the living room of the safe house, and Brian Rogan watched him cross and re-cross the same patch of fading twilight on the carpet. The light was muted, coming through the drawn sheers; no windows in the house were completely uncovered. "You're gonna wear a rut in that rug," said Rogan amiably, and Charlie stopped, sighed, and ran a hand through already disheveled curls.

"I know. It's just – they were supposed to be here by now."

Even as they spoke, the sun dipped over the edge of the horizon, and the patch of light on the floor faded. An orange sky still backlit the sheer draperies, but the sunlight was gone, and the horizon below the sky was dark. A car pulled up, its headlights on, and Bill Masters pulled aside a bit of drapery to look outside. "They're here," he said.

Charlie moved toward the door, and stood there, clenching and unclenching his hands, waiting as Masters opened the door. He caught one glimpse of Don's face through the glass-lined screen door over Master's shoulder, and disregarding his instructions not to show himself, pushed past him impatiently as the screen door opened and his brother stepped inside.

"Don," said Charlie, his voice thick with emotion, and impulsively clasped him in a tight hug.

Don stood there rigidly, not returning the embrace – one second passed, then two, and then Don said, with disapproval in his voice, "You don't need to get so worked up, Charlie, I'm fine."

Charlie stepped back quickly, confusion and embarrassment on his face. They weren't a family prone to hugs, but it had been two weeks, and he'd been so worried…

"Sorry," he mumbled, his cheeks flaming, aware that the eyes of the others were on him, including Ian Edgerton's gaze, cool and speculative. He had come in behind Don, and Charlie nodded at him, uncertainly; then looked up at Don.

He looked good, Charlie decided. He was thinner and there was the trace of a scar, already mostly covered by hair, over his brother's left ear, but other than that, he could see no sign of Don's ordeal.

Don looked at him and smiled, but his eyes were oddly expressionless. "It's okay, Charlie." He nodded at Rogan and Masters. "It's good to be back in L.A." His grin widened. "I'm starving – what do you guys have to eat around here?"

Charlie breathed a sigh of relief; now that sounded like his brother. "We ordered pizza," he said, enthusiastically, heading toward the kitchen, missing the cold flicker in his brother's eyes. "Brian just came back with it."

The others followed him from the room, and they trooped into the kitchen. Charlie opened the refrigerator door. "Beer?" he said, holding out a bottle toward Don.

Don made no move to take it, just shook his head. "Doc said I should stay away from alcohol for a month or two."

Charlie stared at him. "Oh, yeah, right," he said.

Rogan and Masters looked at him. "You know we can't," said Masters. "We're on duty."

Ian reached out and snagged the bottle. "I can," he said. "I'm not on watch." He indicated Don with a jerk of his head. "In fact, I'm just dropping this guy off – I'm gone tomorrow morning." He looked at Charlie pointedly. "You gonna join me?"

Charlie turned and ducked his head as he retrieved another beer, to hide his face. "Sure." He felt unaccountably embarrassed, awkward; there was something intangible in the room that made him feel as though he was being judged. He pulled out some water bottles too, passing them to the others, one by one.

They congregated around the table, and the atmosphere seemed to lighten a little as they dug into the pizzas. Don tilted back in his chair, looking comfortable, at ease, and Charlie felt himself relax a bit, and took a big breath of relief.

"So, Ian tells me you guys haven't seen any sign of surveillance on the Craftsman," said Don, as he took a mouthful of pizza. "How come you're still here?" The voice inside his head was talking, 'You need to get rid of them. Get them out of the house. You won't be able to get to Charlie with them right inside the house.'

Masters shrugged. "It's safer. Although we've considered moving there – we might yet, if we're convinced no one has figured out who you two are."

Don grunted. "This place is pretty small – the Craftsman would be a lot more comfortable. Although, now that I'm here, you guys don't need to stick around inside. You can put a couple of people outside, or across the street." He smiled at his brother. "I can take care of Charlie."

Rogan and Masters exchanged a glance. "Wouldn't bother me any," said Rogan. He looked at Charlie. "No offense."

Charlie grinned. Truthfully, one-on-one time with Don was just what he'd been hoping for. He had a lot to tell him. "None taken," he said cheerfully, and took a bite of pizza. A look of revulsion flitted across Don's face, and he lifted his water bottle to his lips to hide it.

"We'd have to get approval," said Masters, "from the big guys. But we'll ask."

"Good," said Don, his smile returning. "You guys do that."

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As things turned out, whether to move or not became a moot point the next morning.

Charlie stirred and stretched contentedly in his bed, as the morning light seeped through the space between the blind and the window. He hadn't had much chance to talk with Don the night before; his brother had gone to bed shortly after eating, claiming he was still on Central Standard Time, and it was late. It was enough, however, to know that Don was safe and in the bedroom next door; Charlie felt better than he had in a long time. He lay there lazily gazing up at the ceiling, looking forward to talking with Don – he wanted to tell him so many things – that he hadn't snorted cocaine; that he hadn't slept with Charlotte Sumner – well, he'd slept with her, but that was all. He hadn't cheated on Amita.

Don probably didn't know that they'd apprehended a second Iranian suspect trying to cross the border into Mexico. They'd apprehended Pierre Montreaux the same way, although at the Canadian border. The remaining Iranian, the leader, bore features that were distinct enough that even from the pencil sketch, the CIA had been able to identify him as a Spanish businessman who had been born in Iran, named Khalid. They had been watching him for some time, and even though they suspected he had successfully fled the United States, chances were good that his discovery had made him useless, at least in his current role. The CIA didn't expect him back in the U.S., and had sent word to the Spanish government to watch for his return. Apart from him, they were only missing the fourth man, the American, and of course, the Clemenceaus, who were still skulking somewhere in the swamps of Louisiana. Don probably also did not know that the initial treason hearings for Jack and Pierre Montreaux, and the espionage grand jury hearings for the Iranians, were being set concurrently for the same week, two weeks from now. There was a lot to discuss.

His cell phone rang, and he grabbed it without looking, thinking it was probably Amita. Eight a.m. L.A. time was just before dinner Swiss time, and it was the time she usually called. When he answered, there was a female voice on the line – familiar, certainly, but not Amita. His eyes opened wide and he sat up in surprise.

"Megan! Hi."

"Hi, Charlie," she said, her voice cheerful, but businesslike. "How the heck are you?"

"Good," he said, regaining his equilibrium. Her next comment, however, had him flailing again.

"That's good," she responded cheerfully, "now where the heck are you? I was out in Washington a few weeks back and tried to get hold of you guys – Larry told me you were at Quantico developing a course. I came back out to D.C. this week for a follow-up meeting, and Larry told me you were still here. I checked with friends at the Bureau, both times. Charlie, you are not at Quantico. Don won't even answer my phone calls. Is everything all right?"

"Uh," stammered Charlie, thinking furiously of a way to cover. "We're back in L.A., actually. We uh, had a little car accident – nothing serious, but Don was in the hospital for a while. We just got back – we're recuperating."

Megan's voice was full of concern. "Charlie, are you serious? Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah, really, we're fine," said Charlie, frantically trying to think of the ramifications of his response. Megan wasn't in L.A. anymore; she wouldn't know they weren't at the Craftsman. The falsehood should work. "I don't imagine either of us will be off more than a couple of weeks."

"Charlie, is there anything I can do? I've been traveling and working some weekends – I've got some time off coming. I can come out there."

"No, Megan, really, we're fine," protested Charlie. "It was a minor accident. We're fine."

"All right," she said doubtfully. "But if you need anything, don't be afraid to call."

"I will," Charlie assured her. "Thanks." They disconnected, and he ran a hand through his hair, nervously. Hopefully he'd set her mind at ease, and she'd drop it. He'd have to report it, though, he thought with a sigh. The men in charge would need to know that their cover story was blown, at least for one person.

Make that several persons. He'd been off the phone for only minutes, and was up and had one foot into a pair of sweats, when the phone rang again. This time it was Amita.

"Charlie!" she railed, worry and accusation in her voice. "Larry just called me – he said Megan told him you were in an accident! I just talked to you yesterday – you didn't say anything about it! Are you okay?"

Charlie had been awkwardly trying to get his other leg into the sweatpants, and paused, standing with the phone to his ear, on one leg, like a flustered stork. "I didn't want you to worry," he said. "It was nothing – I was going to tell you about it when you got back." He managed to mollify her and get her off the line, and sighed as he pulled on his sweatpants. Still not too much harm done – Larry and Amita were in Europe – they wouldn't know that he and Don weren't at the Craftsman, either. He'd have to talk to Rogan and Masters, immediately, however. He was just heading for the door, when the phone rang again.

The last call was a problem. Colby was on the line, saying he and David were going to stop by the Craftsman that evening, to see if they needed anything. Megan had also apparently called them, too, and told them they should check in on the Eppes brothers.

Charlie hung up, groaned in exasperation, and ran a hand over his face. How could he manage to keep their cover intact for weeks while face-to-face with dangerous criminals, and then blow it with one innocuous phone call? He dragged downstairs, sheepishly, to confess.

In the end, it worked out. The powers in Washington decided that perhaps Charlie's tale would be a suitable continuation of their cover story – the brothers had been at Quantico, and came home early because of an accident on the roads just outside of Quantico. In fact, they actually commended Charlie on his quick thinking. Director Conaghan decided that they would transfer the brothers to the Craftsman from the safe house, and protective surveillance would be established unobtrusively outside the house until the hearings. Don seemed pleased with the arrangements, and as they stepped in through the front door of the Craftsman that afternoon, Charlie breathed a sigh of relief. Things might work out, after all. He was home; he was with Don. Everything was going to be all right.

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End Chapter 21

A/N: Whump alert, next chapter...