Michael knocked on the door of Percy's office.
"Come it, but make it quick." said Percy tersely.
"I was just wondering, sir, how exactly are you taking care of the exposure issue with the pictures?"
"Our trainee Roger is going to frame a forger for photo-shopping me into the pictures and the police will shoot the forger. Nice and clean with no lose ends."
"Oh, I see." said Michael, as though Percy made perfect sense. But Michael did know enough to be able to guess Percy's plan. He knew enough to know that an innocent would be sacrificed to throw the media off Percy's trail.
"Is that all?" asked Percy.
Michael nodded.
"I can handle this little problem and I can handle Oversight. Be sure of that."
"Of course, sir."
Just how Percy was going to "handle" Oversight was a mystery even to him, but the wheels of Percy's mind were always turning. He hated that Division had to answer to Oversight. Percy and his organization did not need to be encumbered by the miles of red tape that surrounded every questionable operation. In order to function at its highest capacity, Division needed to be autonomous. Rather, it needed to be under Percy's sole control. Eventually Percy would hatch the perfect scheme and that day would come soon enough.
…...
Roger walked down the dimly lit street in New Orleans, grateful that the mission was almost over. But the hardest part was yet to come. It was almost midnight, and by the time the next morning rolled around he would be back at Division. After being isolated from the world for nearly a year, it felt strange to be allowed outside with no one watching him. This was as close to freedom as Roger had come in a long time.
He passed a drug deal going down in a back alley littered with filth. Many of the lights from the street were broken, probably shot out to hide whatever illegal activity was occurring. The gesturing from the men in the alley grew wilder and Roger could see that the deal was going to end badly. Someone pulled out a knife and blood was spurting everywhere. Either the murderer or the soon to be corpse could have very easily been Roger if Division had not picked him up off the streets. For that, Roger was grateful. Division saved his life and got him clean, but then they made him a killer all the same. At least here, Roger killed for the good of his country not just for his own personal gain.
A young woman marched hurriedly along the sidewalk opposite Roger. Unlike most of the neighborhood women out at that hour, she was fully covered in a set of foam green scrubs. When she noticed him, she instinctively tightened her grip on the purse slung over her shoulder. The familiar pang of hurt was just as painful as ever. Roger was sick of being treated like a criminal just because he was a tall black man. He was truly sorry that the woman was scared, but he was also a human being. Roger knew that he deserved better. An idea came to him. Wetting his lips, Roger began to whistle Vivaldi's "Four Seasons." At the sound of the classic, beautiful melody, the woman relaxed and even gave Roger a smile. Roger was able to come to terms with who he was and who he was expected to be. He had to do whatever was necessary to protect his country, but he would not harm an innocent.
He reached the location of the storefront where the forger set up shop. Roger had spent the past twenty four hours trying to find his target, Jean-Pierre Lefèvre. Division was able to track him to the French Quarter of New Orleans, but Lefévre had proven hard to find. The man was paranoid and reasonably so. He and Roger were part of a gang that sold drugs and fake IDs. Lefévre was their forger and he was damn good, too. He just made the mistake of selling a fake driver's license to an undercover cop, so he ran and had been hiding ever since.
Roger had been appointed to the mission because of his connection with Lefévre. Amanda, in particular, felt that the assignment would sever any remaining ties Roger had to the outside, civilian world. There was no alternative. This man was no innocent, and Roger knew better than anyone what Lefévre had done. Roger had to lead Lefévre to his death.
A light in the window of the store was lit despite the late hour. Roger knocked on the door using the gang's old code. Lefévre recognized the code and opened the door albeit with a gun in hand. He had not aged well. Lefévre looked more gaunt than Roger remembered, and he had a hint of grey at his temples.
"Que voulez-vous?" (What do you want?)
"I just want to talk to an old friend." said Roger. "How have you been, man? We've all been worried about you. You should have come to us; we could have helped."
"It's good to see you, brother, but you know I couldn't have met up with you. I'm sure our apartment was the first place the cops looked for me."
"Enough about the past. Let's talk about the future. I have a job for you. I was in the area and heard about a business opportunity for someone with your skillset. I figured you could use the work."
"What's the job?"
"I need you to take this picture and photo-shop this man out of it, but the result has to be flawless. That's why I came to you."
"You know me. I am a perfectionist. How much can you pay?"
"Five hundred now and double that after I get the final product."
"Not bad. Who's your employer?"
"You know I can't tell you that."
"What about the guy I'm cutting out of the picture?"
"I can't say, man." said Roger again.
"I know, I know." Lefévre said calmly. "I was just curious. You been in town long?"
"Long enough."
"So you came here just for me?" Lefévre was not asking.
Roger shrugged.
"I heard you were down here, and I wanted to help you out. We still need to have each other's backs."
"Alright." said Lefévre. "I'll get on it right away."
"I'll give you a bonus if you get it done quickly. How does an extra three hundred sound if you have it for tomorrow morning?"
"Sure thing, man. Thanks for the work."
"No problem."
Lefévre reached out and gave Roger a firm handshake. Roger rushed out of the store before Lefévre could see the guilty look on his face.
The first step of the plan was complete. Roger then jogged to the police station. The city was fairly quiet and traveling on foot was less noticeable than riding in a taxi. Pulling a note out of the pocket of his jeans and making sure his face was securely covered with the hood of his sweatshirt, Roger slipped the piece of paper underneath the door of the station. He went around to a window on the side of the building with his head still hidden from the security cameras and waited for the policemen to notice the note on the floor. One man picked it up and read the contents of Roger's message. He called over the other agents to try to determine whether or not the note was legitimate. The policemen agreed that it was worth an investigation and headed to a patrol car.
Lefévre's base was only about a mile away from the station. Once the police car pulled out of the parking lot, Roger sprinted after it. He reached Lefévre about five minutes after the car arrived. Roger was glad that he could still run a seven minute mile. While bending over to catch his breath, Roger surveyed the scene that was unfolding before him.
The policemen were shouting through a megaphone that Lefévre had to exit the premises or they would storm Lefévre's shop. Roger ran around the shop and climbed onto the roof as silent as a ghost. His dark clothes concealed his presence. He laid on the roof like a sniper, ignoring the shingles that dug into his chest, and trained his gun on the policemen.
Lefévre opened the front door cautiously peeking out his head. The policemen immediately pointed their weapons at his head. He slowly exited the shop and the policemen realized too late that he had a gun. Within seconds, one man was down and another was clutching his wounded shoulder. The two remaining officers fired simultaneously, and Lefévre went down under a hail of gunfire.
One agent collected the dead man and the other tended to the wounded officer. As soon as an ambulance came to take the men to a hospital, the two healthy policemen searched Lefévre's shop and found the evidence as explained in the note they were given that Lefévre had doctored the photo that was sweeping news stations across the country. It was clear that the news story had been fabricated completely and the sale of arsenic had never taken place. The whole scandal was simply the work of an individual who hated the government and had acted to bring chaos to the United States. Other files had been found on his computer that suggested ties to fanatical anti-American organizations. The media sensation about the arsenic quickly died down thereafter.
The chief of police was puzzled about one detail of the account of the shootout. He knew that his men were justified in killing Lefévre, of that he was positive. But the autopsy report on the two men showed that the bullet that killed the cop – and the one that prompted the other policemen to shoot to kill – had been fired from a different trajectory than the other bullets from Lefévre's gun. However, the bullet that killed the policeman was fired from the same type of gun as the other bullets. The police chief quickly dismissed the notion that someone else had shot the dead policeman. It simply made no sense. Lefévre was simply trying to take down as many people as he could once he saw that he was surrounded.
Roger stopped on the sidewalk and threw up into the bushes. He had betrayed his former partner, his brother. Lefévre was no saint and he had committed countless crimes. Some might say it was karma; that Lefévre had it coming. But who was Roger to execute judgment? Killing Lefévre had been for the greater good. Kill one, save many more. That was Division's motto. On the way to the operation, Roger had convinced himself that it was true. Now he wasn't so sure.
Dizzy, Roger stood up and nearly fell onto the woman standing next to him. With surprising strength, she helped him find his balance. Roger looked at his savior and was startled by her appearance. Her skin was completely pale and was offset by black hair that had been pulled back into pigtails. Her alert, light green eyes twinkled and her deep red lips parted in a smile. She was dressed in all black and teetered slightly in her high heels.
"I almost never wear high heels," she giggled, "so when I do I get a little tipsy. Well, actually it's the whisky I've been drinking that makes me tipsy. I was at a funeral, you see, and it was an Irish funeral and there was a wake before which means there was a lot of drinking. I never understood why people drink alcohol when they're upset since a depressant, but here I am totally drunk."
"Do you have any whisky left? I sure could use some." admitted Roger. "I lost someone today too."
"Sure thing." she said, slurring slightly. "I'm Abby by the way."
"Roger. I actually have a plane to catch in an hour, but until then let's get plastered."
"Sounds like a plan."
Abby led Roger to the house where her family had gathered after the funeral and snuck him through the back. They headed upstairs after snatching a bottle of whisky from a well-stocked liquor cabinet that was left over from the wake. They sat on the floor of a bedroom passing the bottle back and forth until the pain of Lefévre's death had dulled considerably and everything was suddenly hilarious. Abby was witty even when inebriated. During a lull in conversation, Roger cocked his head and looked at her. Within seconds they were kissing heatedly with the desperate need to fill the void of grief.
"What the hell is going on here Abigail?" shouted an elderly woman from the doorway.
"Uh, sorry Nana." said Abby sheepishly.
"I'd better go if I want to catch my flight." said Roger awkwardly. "It was nice meeting you even if the circumstances were a bit – "
"Sucky?"
"Yeah."
"Well, bye."
"Bye." said Roger, tipping an imaginary hat to Abby's grandmother.
He left the house feeling confused and miraculously found a taxi to take him to the airport despite the time. Since all Division agents were supposedly dead, they could not travel by airplane except under false passports. It was easier to just train Division pilots to fly cargo planes and have them work for airlines while transporting Division operatives when necessary. Roger sat in the hull of the plane and called Percy.
"It's done. Everything went exactly like you said."
"Good." replied Percy and he hung up.
Everything had gone according to plan except for the guilt eating away at Roger's insides. The whole night seemed completely strange and surreal. Roger could almost convince himself that it had all simply been a bad dream. Almost.