Mind Games

Chapter 38

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer

A/N: Thanks again for the reviews - you've earned yourselves a bonus chapter. Someone asked who knows about Marsh's involvement in what happened to Don. Two people did, Dr. Allman and Joe Bishop, and they're both dead. There is only one other person who can link Marsh to the weapons deal (and therefore by extension, to what happened to Don), and that person is, of course, Charlie.

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Tuesday morning, Don zipped his case and carted the bag downstairs. He'd packed lightly; they assured him that his part of the grand jury hearings would only take a day, two at the most. As he shuffled into the kitchen, where Alan was puttering with breakfast, Don couldn't help but wonder what else the prosecution could be bringing against the Montreaux brothers, other than his drug testimony, and the little he knew about Charlie's piece of the assignment. He'd been told the primary reason for the hearings was to determine if there was enough evidence to try them for treason, but much of that evidence was gone. The Clemenceaus were dead, and Charlie…

He took a swallow of the hot coffee his father had set in front of him, trying to pretend the heat caused the moisture in his eyes. Then it occurred to him. Of course – the flash drive. Even if they didn't have Charlie, they at least had what he had loaded on the flash drive. Of course, Montreaux's lawyers could claim it had been fabricated. Without Charlie there to testify, it would lack a lot of punch. There were the two Iranians also, who had been taken into custody at the border. The only real thing the government had on them would have been Charlie's identification. Oh, they had evidence that the Iranians had been in New Orleans – hotel accommodations under their aliases, but that was all, now. No one else had actually seen them with Montreaux, other than Charlie. Khalid, their leader, had most probably escaped the country, and then there was the nameless American, who Charlie had observed, but who they had yet to identify. They had nothing to go on there but a rather generic pencil sketch of the man, generated by Charlie and the artist while Don had been recovering in Louisiana. Everything tied back to Charlie, and without him, the case had gaping holes that were going to be difficult to plug.

"Do me a favor," said Alan, resting a hand on his shoulder and breaking him out of his reverie. "Come back safely, okay?"

Don shot him a sad smile, and patted his hand. "I will, Dad, don't worry. This will only take a couple of days."

Alan sighed, and set a plate of eggs and toast in front of him. "I hate the thought of you going all the way out to D.C." The doorbell rang, and he frowned. "They're here already, and you haven't eaten anything yet. You tuck into those eggs, and I'll hold them off."

Don obliged, wolfing down a bite of eggs then shoveling in another, when a female voice from the other room made him choke, causing him to spew eggs back out in a pale yellow spray. He wiped his face hastily with a napkin, bolted from his chair, pushed through the doorway, and paused. Robin. She stood there in the living room, staring at him, Brian Rogan behind her.

"We finally had to break down and tell her," Rogan said. "She was threatening to spill the story to the press that something fishy was going on if we didn't let her see you." He grinned at her ruefully. "She's one tough lady. Anyway, we've got a little time, if you two want to talk before you go."

"Yeah," Don found his voice. "Yeah, okay." He sounded and felt uncertain, inept. He wondered what she was thinking. God, maybe she was here to break off the relationship. They said they had told her what happened, but it was a lot to deal with – knowing that your significant other was a murderer, even if he had been manipulated.

She nodded at Alan, and looked at Don, her expression unreadable. "Maybe we can take a walk in the yard?" she suggested, and Don nodded dumbly, and found his feet.

"Sure."

He somehow found the presence of mind to grab his jacket. He slipped it on, leaving it unzipped, and they went out through the kitchen into the back yard. A guard slid through the shrubbery and moved toward the front of the house to give them privacy. She looked up at him, and reached a hand tentatively toward his chest. "Let me see."

He stared at her for a moment; then realized she meant his surgery sites, near his collarbones. He pulled open his shirt to reveal the gauze bandage on his left side, and she traced the skin underneath it, gently, with a forefinger, then withdrew her hand, and looked up at him. "I'm sorry – I had to look. It all sounded so crazy."

His mouth quirked a little, sadly. "I thought I was crazy, for a while – until they told me."

She frowned a little. "When will they take the wiring out?"

"We're not sure yet. They left it in because they thought the guy who masterminded it was in the area – they thought he'd try to contact me. Unfortunately, he hasn't yet."

She looked alarmed. "After all of this, they're using you to get to him?" Anger flashed in her eyes. "Haven't they done enough?"

The expression in his own eyes hardened. "I agreed to it – I want to get the bastard. It's the least I can do for Charlie."

Her face softened, and filled with sympathy. "I guess I can understand that. Don, I'm so sorry – I know what Charlie meant to you." She watched as he looked away, emotion stealing over his features, and said, "Come here." She held out her arms, and he stepped into them, embracing her tightly, hiding his face against her hair, fighting tears that threatened to rise yet again. "I'm here," she whispered in his ear. "I'm not going anywhere. Do what you have to do, and I'll be waiting for you to come back."

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Bill Masters waited at the bottom of the jet steps while the frail-looking figure descended onto the frigid tarmac, moving slowly, his face pinched with exhaustion and the vestiges of pain. They'd choppered Dr. Eppes out of the Bodmans' mountain retreat to Denver, and then he'd boarded a private jet to take him to Washington, D.C., where Masters met him at the airport. He and Rogan had flown in hours earlier with Don Eppes. It was unseasonably cold even for the end of February, and he could see the young man shivering inside his wool coat, which was too big for him. The Agency had picked up clothes for him, a coat, a suit for the courtroom, and had guessed at his size. Not only had they guessed the size to be a little too large to be conservative, but the professor had dropped a good deal of weight – he looked like a shadow of his former self. Masters was reasonably certain that nothing they bought him was going to fit well.

The wind gusted, making the professor stagger as they walked toward the car parked outside the hangar, and Masters put up a hand behind him instinctively, preparing to support him if he fell. They walked the entire distance to the car that way, Masters' hand hovering behind his back, as if raised in a gesture of apology.

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Wednesday morning, J. Scott Marsh looked up from his desk at a knock on his door. At his invitation, it opened, and his superior, Mark Lewis, stuck his head in the opening. "Scott – you're leaving this afternoon for Vegas to help your sister, right? I have to head over to the courthouse; I just wanted to wish you luck. I'll see you when you get back."

"Thanks," murmured Marsh. His expression turned curious. "Courthouse – what's happening there?"

Lewis took a quick look behind him, and then stepped in and closed the door. "Conaghan asked me to attend with him – it's a grand jury hearing for treason. A couple of guys from your neck of the woods, actually – New Orleans - Jack and Pierre Montreaux. Keep it quiet – we're trying to keep this low profile, until the hearing is done. Remember the memo we sent out about Bishop? I don't know all the particulars yet, but he's tied up with this somehow."

Marsh had frozen, staring at him, his gut in a tailspin. 'Next week,' he thought desperately, 'the hearings were supposed to be next week!' His brain flipped like a cat, landing on its feet. No way could he take Eppes out now – he'd be under tight security here, plus the vest and the denim jacket were in L.A. He just had to hope that the Montreaux cousins had the sense to keep their mouths shut. This was just a grand jury hearing, after all, not the trial. If they kept their heads, he could still take Don Eppes out after the hearing, prior to the trial. There must be some way to get them a message…

Lewis was staring at him oddly. "What's wrong?"

Marsh realized that he needed to do some damage control. Now that Lewis had given him the names, he had to own up to knowing Jack Montreaux – if he didn't and it came out later; he'd incriminate himself by omission. "It's just those names… I was trying to think where I'd heard them before. I think I went to school with a guy named Montreaux – they called him Johnny, when he was younger. I think he changed it to Jack as he got older, but I didn't hang out with him much, then. You know, I bet it's the same guy. How many Jack Montreauxs could there be?" He made a face. "Never liked him much. And you say he's on trial for treason?"

Lewis nodded. "Yeah. I don't suppose you have any dirt on him?"

Marsh shook his head. "Nah – the last time I saw him was years ago. Man, that's strange. Huh. Johnny Montreaux."

Lewis shook his head and smiled as he turned toward the door. "Small world. I've got to go – good luck with your sister. I'll let you know how the hearing turns out."

He shut the door behind him, and Marsh sat, drumming his fingers on the desktop. He was going to need to cancel his trip now, because he'd need the time off for later, when Eppes got back to L.A. He could tell Lewis that his sister's blood count was off, and they were postponing the chemo until it improved.

He nodded to himself, and reached for the phone to call the airline, when his cell phone rang. He glanced at the number, then frowned sharply and rose as he answered.

"I told you not to call me here. Give me fifteen minutes and I'll call you back."

A little over fifteen minutes later, he was in his car, and already a few blocks from Langley. His cell phone was secure, its transmissions scrambled for eavesdroppers, but he was not about to take this call at CIA headquarters. "Okay, I'm here."

Khalid's voice came over the line. Judging by the country code in the phone's display, he was still in Iran. "We have a problem. The hearings are proceeding earlier than planned."

"I know, I just heard," replied Marsh irritably. "What do you care? You got out of the country, anyway."

Khalid hissed with anger. "I have two men going through those hearings, and if my name comes out, I will be useless. My effectiveness depends on being able to travel to Western countries, and if they identify me when I am in one of them, I can be extradited to the U.S. I cannot be stuck here in Iran and still achieve our goals, which would mean no deal, and no money for you."

"Look, everyone needs to relax," said Marsh. "This is just a hearing. Even if they bind them over for trial, it will take a while to get it scheduled – probably months. I'll have plenty of time to take Don Eppes out before then. If we can get a word to them somehow, and tell the Montreaux cousins and your men not to panic…maybe through their lawyers somehow."

"My men will not talk; they know their duty. I have already had the Montreaux lawyer checked – he cannot be trusted with information like this. I have a man, however, on the inside, a guard. He is not assigned to their cellblock, but he can make an excuse to go there. I will have my man give them word."

"Good." Marsh's gut, in a knot since Lewis' revelation, flooded with relief. "That's good. Tell them to hang tight, and I'll take care of things before the trial. We'll get through this."

"When you are finished with this deal, we need to talk. I want to find another source to handle the weapons equipment, formulate another plan."

"Okay. I'll talk to you soon," grunted Marsh. He flipped his phone shut, and took a deep breath. No need to panic. No need at all. He swung his car through a drive-through for a coffee, and headed back to Langley.

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Charlie sank wearily onto the hotel bed Wednesday evening, limbs trembling with fatigue. A dull ache had started in his chest again toward the end of the afternoon – it was clear that he wasn't fully recovered yet, and an afternoon of testifying had pushed him to his physical limits. One thing kept him upright, made him determined to push through his two days of testimony, and that was the promise that after this, he could return home to Pasadena. He would still be under watch until the trial, but they were videotaping the hearing – they would have recorded admissible evidence if anything happened to him. Masters had told him the mere fact that the truth would be out and on record would greatly reduce any risk to him, but they would keep a protective unit on him until the trial occurred, just to be safe.

Home. He ached for it, ached to see his father again, and – he had to admit it, Don, too. A piece of him, deep inside, hoped that his brother's snap was temporary insanity, induced by the stress of the last few weeks of their undercover assignment, and with some medical help, he might be cured. In the back of his mind, however, cold reality intruded. Even if Don could be helped, his career was likely over, and he very well could spend time in prison, unless a plea of insanity could free him. Charlie had to face the possibility that Don would forever hate him – hate him for pushing him, hate him for putting him in an untenable situation, hate him for being the catalyst for his mental break.

The fact was, Charlie had come to a realization that he was physically, mentally, and emotionally in danger of breaking himself. He could feel it – as if he were on the edge of something dark; and he knew he couldn't go on much longer without help. He wasn't sure who he was anymore – maybe Don had been right, maybe he really was an intolerable jerk, with an ego so huge it blinded him to the fact. Don had been right about one thing – undercover assignments could play on one's mind, could change one's perception of oneself. He needed his father, now, Amita, Larry – someone who could vouch for the person he had been – or at least, whom he thought he had been. His brother's life would never be the same, and Charlie desperately needed to hear that this horrible situation wasn't his fault – at least not entirely.

Of course, there was the possibility that he'd find the opposite to be true – that he really had driven his brother to do this, and if that were the case, he knew that he'd wish that the knife had found its mark.

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End Chapter 38

A/N: The boys are so close, in the same city, but neither knows the other is there. That all changes with the next chapter – yep, it's a biggie.