A/N the First: Happy birthday to A Common Spy Problem! I was thinking about holding off on this chapter until Monday as I didn't want to steal ACSP's thunder, but KateMcK has assured me that it would be a fine birthday present. So there you have it.

Loads of people to thank this chapter. First, every single person still reading and reviewing. It's been a long ride, Fates has, and sometimes I shake my head because this is probably a story that should be read in one go rather than piecemeal as it's been what with the pauses between updates and all. But to everybody still reading: thank you. Thank you even more to the world's greatest and most fantastic beta, mxpw, who toiled hard to get this chapter to me on time and encouraged me while writing it. Thanks also to the encouragement from quistie64, which has been so immensely helpful, you have no idea. And a thousand thank yous to Ayefah, who taught me some great legal humor and patiently explained to me the intricacies of law systems so that I could completely ignore them in favor of the plot. I couldn't have written this chapter without you. You are all, every one of you, aces.

Obstacles are like wild animals. They are cowards but they will bluff you if they can. If they see you are afraid of them, they are liable to spring upon you; but if you look them squarely in the eye, they will slink out of sight. — Orison Swett Marden

The Lincoln Conspiracy

16 MAY 2008
DOUBLETREE SUITES, ROOM 407
07:21 EDT

"Beards are unprofessional," Casey said for the third time. He removed his oil rag and wiped at an invisible smudge on the gun slide.

Chuck debated the skinny black tie and cast it aside for the silver and blue selection Ellie had packed for him. Skinny ties were probably not worthy for meetings with generals, no matter what ad agencies from the 60s had to say. "Honestly, I was expecting resistance from Ellie and Sarah, not you," he said as he fitted the tie under his collar.

Casey scowled.

"Plenty of professional men have beards. Riker has a beard. You don't get more professional than that."

"Unless that is a real person, Bartowski, your argument is worthless."

Chuck began tying a Windsor knot. After a couple of days in the same hotel rooms, he and Casey had fallen into a pattern of getting ready in the morning. Casey was cleaning his Sig in the shared living room. Chuck was avoiding looking at his sunken eyes and fighting off the vague, buzzing headache he'd had since February. "What about Abe Lincoln?" Chuck asked. "He had a beard."

"And look how well that turned out for him."

"What do you mean?"

"Bullet to the head, Bartowski. Bullet to the head."

"All because he had a beard? Casey, that conspiracy is just—" A knock at the door made both men look over. "—absurd. Who is it?"

"Delivery." The voice was unfamiliar, and unexpected. Of course the bosses knew where they were staying. Because of that, Chuck had lain awake in the night, waiting for the door to burst open, waiting for the final bullet. When dawn had come, he'd begun to hope again. Now, though, he traded a glance with Casey. He retreated away from the door, finger sliding beneath the bandage on his wrist. He nodded at Casey, once.

Casey opened the door to a man in a generic delivery uniform. Code phrases were exchanged before Casey signed for what seemed to be a garment bag. He closed the door.

"What is it?" Chuck asked, wandering back.

"Orders. Your cover, it looks like." Casey handed Chuck a file before he set the bag on a hook by the door and unzipped it. Both men stared at the contents.

"What the hell?" Chuck asked.

Casey's smirk spread. "Hope you weren't too attached to that beard, Bartowski."

16 MAY 2008
DOUBLETREE SUITES LOBBY
07:58 EDT

Chuck rubbed a hand over the quarter inch of hair left on his scalp and resisted the urge to scowl only because he had a feeling that once he started, his face might very well freeze that way. He'd been letting his hair grow throughout his time in the bunker, another small form of defiance (though part of it was honest neglect from being on the run). To have it right back to where he started—bald as a new recruit—burned. In addition, he'd liked the beard. He'd liked the beard a lot. His entire face still tingled from the aftershave.

"You're sure it's even?" he asked Casey.

"You're bald. Does it matter?"

"I'm not bald. There is still some hair there." Ideally, Chuck would have liked his hairstyle to be high and tight rather than the full "Buddha." But there didn't seem to be much he could do about it now, not when he was standing in the hotel lobby in Class As. The NSA had sent him an Army uniform as his cover. This had to be somebody's idea of a joke—though he had a sinking feeling that it wasn't.

"Quit messing with your hair, Bartowski."

"I thought you said I was bald."

"I did. Either way, quit it. This is a briefing, not a date."

Before Chuck reply, Sarah and Ellie came around the corner, both wearing skirts and suit jackets. They both pulled up short.

Sarah blinked. "What the—"

Ellie, however, frowned. "Chuck?" she asked, as though Chuck had transplanted his head onto somebody else's body. She gave him a once-over. Sarah, on the other hand, shut her mouth, her face falling into that polite mask she'd worn since Moscow. "What's going on? Why are you wearing that? You got out of the Army years ago."

"It's my cover."

Sarah frowned at the rank. "Lieutenant?"

"First Lieutenant," Casey said. "No butter-bars here."

"Yes, I can see that, Casey. Thank you. Wouldn't you at least be a Captain by now?"

"Search me. I was only in the Army for a couple of months." When Chuck went to put his hands in his pockets, Casey slapped the hand nearest him. Chuck clenched his fist to keep from snapping at Casey. He saw Sarah's eyes flick down, catching the movement. "Are we ready to get this show on the road?"

"Almost. Hold on a second." Ellie put a hand on his arm—Chuck flinched—and drew him away from the spies. "Chuck, are you sureyou know what you're doing?"

Chuck laughed, his voice hollow. "No," he said, and Ellie's eyebrows shot up. "No, I don't have the first clue. Not really."

"Oh."

"But maybe that's okay. No plan survives first contact with reality," Chuck said, and shifted his cover from under one arm to the other. Holy crap. He was going to have to remember to salute officers. This day really was going to be hell. "But we've come too far for doubts."

Ellie smiled at that, though the expression didn't reach her eyes. "Right."

They were quiet as Casey drove them to Fort Meade. Sarah rode shotgun and for a moment, Chuck imagined they were actually a chuck wagon, heading west, Casey at the reins, Sarah spotting any trouble from the bench next to him, Chuck and Ellie waiting inside for that trouble to befall them. It was a ridiculous thought to ponder while they muscled through Virginia's rush hour, Chuck had to admit. He didn't voice it; instead, he let the classic rock (Casey's selection) roll over the car and watched Sarah out of the corner of his eye. She hadn't slept either, it looked like.

They arrived at Fort Meade earlier than Chuck had anticipated. Foolish on his part to think they'd be late, as Casey's D.C. Crown Vic could intimidate even the rush hour drivers, but Chuck still frowned at his watch as he climbed from the backseat. Casey steered him toward the entrance, Sarah and Ellie trailing behind them. "That's a Major, Bartowski. Don't you dare screw up now."

His salute was more than a little rusty, and he felt sick to his stomach, but Chuck managed to receive a brusque nod from a passing Air Force major after they'd exchanged salutes. Sweat leaked down his back. Why the hell couldn't his cover have involved wearing civvies? Or not being at the NSA headquarters at all, come to think of it?

At the entranceway, they were required to hand over their identification—and in Chuck's case, the paper copy of his orders—to the guards working the metal detectors by the door. Sarah and Casey were ushered through a special line; Chuck and Ellie went through the metal detector, Chuck grimacing when his various medals tripped it off. The others watched him from a few feet away while the guard waved a wand over him to make sure he wasn't packing.

Chuck suffered the indignity with a sigh—a sigh that died abruptly when he turned and saw the MPs heading from a hallway. He could see the others tense as the leader skirted around them, heading for Chuck.

Chuck backed up a step before training kicked in and saluted, automatically. Captain Forster returned the salute, his eyes hard. "Lieutenant Bartowski?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Please place your hands on your head."

"I—what?" Chuck blinked at the officer.

Sarah ignored the M16s dangling at the MPs' backs and stepped between Forster and Chuck. "What's going on, gentlemen?" she asked, her voice deathly quiet.

"Ma'am, this is no concern of yours."

"I highly doubt that." Sarah flashed her badge.

"With all due respect, ma'am, I receive my orders from a much higher authority than you."

"Whose orders?" This came not from Sarah, but from Casey.

"I am to bring the rest of you as well, but Lieutenant Bartowski is a security threat. I have orders to deal with the threat. Lieutenant Bartowski, hands on your head."

Chuck's heart began to jackhammer. He'd scoped out the exits, of course, when he'd been pushed through the entrance line, but now they all seemed twice the distance, and those M16s strapped to the soldiers seemed much, much scarier. He'd walked right into a trap, wearing the bait uniform and all.

"Lieutenant Charles Bartowski, I am hereby placing you under arrest for being absent without leave. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do can and will be held against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. Do you understand these rights as they have been read to you?"

"What the hell is this?" Ellie demanded, surging forward. "He's not actuallyin the Army, you idiots!"

"Ellie, it's okay," Chuck said, though his heart thumped harder and his throat felt like sandpaper. This wasn't supposed to be happening. Gwen was supposed to be here to stop this. She had promised.

Had she betrayed him? What was going on?

"Lieutenant Bartowski, do you understand?"

Chuck swallowed. "I understand."

"I'm going to need you to back up, ma'am," Forster told Sarah.

She didn't budge. With a shrug, Forster moved around her and strong-armed Chuck into cuffs. The instant the metal snapped around his wrist, impossibly cold, the room shrank, going from a massive hall to a small cell. Black began to descend on the edges of his vision. He gulped in oxygen, faster and faster, as there wasn't enough air, would never be enough air, all of the air was rapidly leaving. His shoulders and chest began to heave.

He had not anticipated that Beckman would betray them so badly, or that Gwen wouldn't be there to back him up. He'd thought Beckman to be an ally of sorts, even with her questionable morals. He was an utter moron. Casey was right about that much. He should never have come back. And now Sarah was going to karate chop a bunch of MPs into oblivion and they would be forced to go on the run yet again and he was so tired of running. Oxygen dwindled. His body forgot how to breathe.

The black went from a vignette to full night. Chuck jerked away, trying to fight the restraints, trying to see his wrist—he had to flash, he couldn't lose control—but an iron grip held him steady. He struggled harder, almost oblivious to the sound of cursing that punctuated his thoughts. Whether it was him cursing, or Sarah or even Forster, he didn't know.

His wrist. He was vulnerable and he had to see his wrist. Chuck twisted, desperately trying to push aside the jury-rigged bandage with his thumb.

"Chuck." Sarah's voice cut through the black. Chuck blinked and his eyes worked again, though he could hardly see anything through the black and white sparks that made everything distant and hazy. He was standing, he realized, on his own two feet, and his hands were no longer cuffed behind his back. "Chuck, can you hear me?"

Chuck blinked harder, but the sparks didn't recede. In fact, he felt dizzy, dizzier than he had in a long time. "I..." The word came out as a croak. "I think I need to sit."

"Grab my arm."

"Where's Fors—what's going on?" His vision was finally beginning to return.

"What else? Forster's getting chewed out by the mighty Davenport. C'mon, this way. We'll take it slow." Sarah, after grabbing his hand and wrapping it around her arm, began to pull him. Since his vision was slowly returning, he could see a bench off against the wall, to the side. Sarah pushed him onto this. He felt himself sway in response. "Still with me?"

"I—I think so. What happened?"

"Power play." Sarah sounded disgusted. "You okay?"

"I will be."

"Stay here for a second. Don't move."

He heard her heels clicking as she walked away, though he could see little more than a blurry shape.

It only took Ellie only a few seconds to join him, and Sarah didn't return. His vision had cleared well enough for him to recognize his sister without any trouble as she rushed up to him. "Chuck! Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

"I'm dizzy," Chuck said, completely honest. His head felt as though it had been stuffed with cotton balls and tossed on a Tilt-a-Whirl. And his hand was still warm from Sarah's arm, but that was completely unrelated. "What happened? Did I pass out? What's going on?"

"You went catatonic, as far as I can tell. I want to check your pulse." Ellie checked his pulse, timing it against her watch. Her frown grew at whatever she felt, but she didn't comment and instead pulled out a pen-light. Chuck flinched away as she shone that directly in his eyes. "Hold still."

"Ow, Ellie. A little warning."

"Your pupils aren't reacting very quickly. Do you feel like you're going to throw up?"

Chuck shook his head, and regretted that when it made the world shudder. "No," he said. "Just dizzy. It'll pass."

"You have fits like this often?"

"Not since Barcelona."

"I need to get you to a hospital."

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not, you're going into catatonic fits. That's a sign that things are not fine. And we need to get out of here as soon as possible and—oh, great." Ellie scowled. "No, no, don't stand—stay sitt—god, you don't even listen to me. Why do I bother?"

Chuck, however, had enough military training to know to rise when in the presence of officers. Casey and Captain Forster came over, neither of them looking pleased to be in the other's company. Or perhaps they weren't thrilled to be in the company of FBI Special Agent Gwen Davenport, who accompanied them, her face like a thundercloud.

"Agent Davenport," Chuck said, staggering only a little as he gained his footing. Ellie immediately popped up beside him to provide support.

"You know it's Gwen, Chuck. Are you okay? Agent Walker tells me you had an episode after this..." She sized Captain Forster up, distastefully. "Officer attempted to arrest you?"

"I'm fine, ma'am. What's going on?"

"I was running a little late, and the CIA decided to crash our little party. They brought Captain Forster with them."

"Ma'am, I had my orders—"

"We'll just see about that." Gwen turned to Chuck. "Are you well? Do you need to go to the hospital?"

"Yes, he—"

"I'm fine," Chuck said, cutting Ellie off. She glared at him. "I just want to get this over with. Is the CIA going to be a problem?"

"Aren't they always?" Casey muttered.

Since Sarah was across the room, talking into her cell phone and looking none too happy about any of it, nobody contradicted him. Chuck almost did, as a show of solidarity.

Forster looked pained. "I was following orders."

"I'm sure you were. Now you have new orders. Chuck, in or out?"

Chuck looked from Ellie to Gwen even to Sarah, still across the room. "Let's just get this over with. We should be okay, assuming they don't try to arrest me again."

Forster glowered at him in a way that seemed to offer no promises on that front. Great, Chuck thought. I've made an enemy at the NSA headquarters. "If that is how Agent Davenport," and Forster's voice told the assembled party exactly how he felt about the FBI agent, "wants to play it, very well. My new orders are to escort you to the meeting room, Lieutenant. Follow me."

He still felt a little too unsteady to walk properly, and he felt Ellie beside him the entire time, eyeing him, but there wasn't much he could do about it. Sarah rejoined their group, seeming to deliberately keep as much distance between herself and Gwen as possible. Perhaps, Chuck thought as he was led through familiar and unfamiliar hallways in the building, Sarah could bond with Forster over that.

"Here we are," Forster said once they'd reached the meeting room. He started to lead the way.

"I think you've come far enough, Captain," Gwen said.

How Forster could stay at attention and glare, Chuck didn't know, but the man managed it. "Yes, ma'am."

"In fact, you're dismissed."

"Thank you, ma'am," Forster said, his voice stiff. He left, the assembled Prometheus members and Gwen watching him go.

"Well, he was a bucket of sunshine," Chuck said, wondering if the others would worry should he lean against the wall to fortify himself. In addition to being dizzy, he was now feeling a bit ill, unsurprisingly: his stomach had tied itself into a series of rather intricate knots. He clenched his right fist, hoping to soothe the nerves away, but only served to intensify the knots. "And now for the firing squad."

"Chin up, Bartowski. I hear a bullet to the head is very quick without the beard," Casey said, and led the way into the briefing room.

Sarah rolled her eyes at him as she followed, with Ellie not far behind. Before Chuck could bring up the rear of their little group, Gwen put a hand on his arm. "We'll have time to talk," she said, "after this briefing. I've requested it. But first, how are you?"

Chuck looked at her, soberly. "The government turned me into a monster and then tried to arrest me. I'm just peachy."

"Well, you have people on your side. Don't forget that." Gwen patted his arm, like a maternal aunt, and gestured that he should lead the way into the briefing room. He took a deep breath before he did so and, legs still a bit unsteady beneath him, headed inside.

Beckman was waiting, as he figured she probably would be, stern expression in place. Instead of the myriad of expressions he'd imagine he'd see, she merely looked prim. She gave him a nod as he entered—and did a double take. "Mr. Bartowski, what are you wearing?"

Chuck dropped his salute. "I...what? The NSA sent this to my hotel room this morning." He looked down at the uniform.

"I can assure you, the NSA did no such thing. Major Casey, do you know the meaning of this?"

"General, I'm not sure that—"

"I can explain," said a much deeper voice.

The temperature of the room dropped fifty degrees; CIA Director Langston Graham strode in as though he owned the place, which was ridiculous because he was CIA and this was NSA, and the CIA had not been invited to this meeting.

A spike of fear and adrenaline drove right through Chuck's stomach. He stared in horror as it occurred to him that the two people on the planet able to turn him into a mindless killing machine were now in the same room.

He felt the entire room tilt. This time, though, the hand that grabbed his arm belonged to Gwen. "What is the meaning of this?" Her voice cut through the brief haze that had descended over Chuck's vision. "I thought I made my terms clear."

"You did," Beckman said, giving Graham a displeased look. "I assure you, Agent Davenport, I did not arrange this."

"That's the problem with running a company full of spies, General," Graham said, his voice laconic as he took his usual seat at the table for the briefing. "We have this tendency to spy. Makes us a downright nuisance, I think."

Gwen's grip on Chuck's arm tightened.

"This meeting is over," she said. "I'll not have Mr. Bartowski subjected to the threat of that man's company. Chuck, we're leaving."

"I wouldn't do that, if I were you," Graham said.

Gwen's furious look could wreck entire civilizations. "And why is that, Director?"

"Because the minute Bartowski steps out that door, Captain Forster will arrest him." Graham's teeth showed white against his dark skin. Chuck felt his hands begin to shake. "For real this time."

"Arrest him for what, precisely?"

"Being AWOL."

"That's downright absurd. Mr. Bartowski has been freed from his—"

"Has he?" Graham reached into his coat and pulled out a file folded in half. He dropped it on the table between himself and Gwen. The lawyer didn't look at Chuck as she let go of his arm to pick up the sheet. A few seconds later, her brow furrowed and an even scarier scowl took the place of the first. "So you can see, Agent Davenport, Captain Forster is perfectly within his rights to arrest Lieutenant Bartowski. Just like I'm allowed to be present for this top-secret meeting, as the man never left my employ."

"What is he talking about?" Chuck asked, swallowing hard. It was hard to make anything out over the way his heart was pounding, but even a deaf man could hear the smug superiority and calm assurance in Graham's voice.

Gwen, on the other hand, had begun to vibrate with anger. "According to this," she said without looking at Chuck, "you're being considered an Active Duty member of the Army, and can be arrested for being absent without leave."

"That's ridiculous," Ellie said. "There's no way you can make that stick in any court, not after what you did to Chuck!"

Graham merely raised an amused eyebrow at the elder Bartowski. Bad idea, Chuck thought. Ellie might not get combative much, but being a smartass was definitely one way to set her off. He knew this firsthand; he'd lived through being a teenager. Indeed, Ellie opened her mouth to retort, but Sarah, of all people, quelled her with a look.

"Of course," Graham said, "I could be persuaded to work around this."

"Dr. Bartowski is right," Gwen said. "There's no way you'd make this stick in any court of law."

"Perhaps. But these things do take time to arrive at court, and until then, Lieutenant Bartowski would remain in custody...and who knows what he might hear?" Graham turned and calmly looked at Chuck.

Fear turned Chuck's bowels to water. His hands, already shaking, trembled harder, but thankfully, black didn't descend upon his vision. Slime merely coated the inside of his stomach. This was all a mistake. He shouldn't have left the bunker. He should have stayed where it was safe, he should never have believed that Gwen could protect him against the bosses.

His thumb nudged at the bandage on his wrist, an automatic reflex, and the move drove the fear back enough that he started breathing again.

He'd taken measures to protect himself and everybody around him. He couldn't forget that.

"However," Graham continued, looking away from Chuck, his gaze sweeping over the assembled party, all of whom seemed to be tensed for battle, "I am, of course, willing to overlook this little jaunt of the Lieutenant's. In fact, he had several months of paid leave accrued. We could call it even."

"How magnanimous of you," Gwen said. "What is it you'd possibly want in return for such a blessing?"

"Merely to attend this meeting." Graham's smile was pure charm.

Gwen glanced at Chuck. He avoided looking down at his wrist on principle; it wouldn't do to tip his ace in the hole to the bosses. Even so, the tattoos were there. They would fortify him.

"If he wants to stay, let him," he said, his voice surprisingly steady. "My business today is with General Beckman."

"Is it," Graham said, smiling politely.

The woman in question rolled her eyes. "Are you quite through?" she asked, and Chuck understood in that moment just why she was the one with stars on her shoulders and nobody else. "Because I'd like to get this little joke moving now, if all of the drama has passed?"

"Certainly, General," Gwen said, and pulled out a chair at the table. This was enough of a cue for Sarah and Casey to take their seats, Sarah keeping her gaze fixed on the table in front of her. Ellie shot Chuck a bewildered look before she followed in suit. "Thank you for taking the time to meet with us."

"My pleasure," Beckman said in a tone that told them it was anything but. "Nice to see you've come out of your hole, Bartowski."

Chuck didn't know what to say to that, so he chose to say nothing.

Casey didn't seem to have the same problem. "Took you long enough," he said under his breath.

Chuck gave him a dirty look.

"I don't wish to beat around the bush here," Beckman went on. "But it's come to light that the CIA and the NSA have much different definitions of the term 'inter-departmental transparency.' Which is, to put it frankly, a pain in my ass."

"What happened to Bartowski had nothing to do with the Intersect," Graham said easily. "Therefore it wasn't any of the NSA's business. I can't possibly think of any reason you might have wanted to know."

"Imagine that," Beckman said, her voice so dry it put the Sahara to shame. "Not wanting to know whether or not our most valuable secrets had been put into the head of a man conditioned to receive orders like a trained dog. I can't possibly think why we would want to know that."

Chuck flinched.

"Trained dog?" Ellie asked, her fists clenching on the tabletop.

"I see no point in pleasantries, Dr. Bartowski. The fact of the matter is that Bartowski is mentally compromised in a way that makes him a danger to society and especially to the Intersect."

"And whose fault is that?" Ellie asked.

Beckman glared at Graham. "Precisely," she said, "what the NSA might have appreciated knowing about—from the relevant parties—when the Intersect was put it into the head of a sleeper assassin."

Chuck flinched again.

"From any of the relevant parties," Beckman said, staring directly at Sarah.

She merely gave the General a cool look.

"Obviously, we can't go on like this. Mr. Bartowski presents a danger to both himself and those around him."

"Through no fault of his own," Gwen said.

Beckman rolled her eyes. "I highly doubt Bartowski had no knowledge of what he was getting into when he volunteered for Lincoln."

"If he volunteered at all," Sarah said. Graham narrowed his eyes at her.

The others all turned to look at Chuck. He felt a single bead of sweat leak down the collar of his uniform shirt. Had he been forced? Or had he volunteered when they'd found him unfit for Omaha because of Bryce's machinations? Bryce—he couldn't think about his friend without wanting to hit something, so he took a deep breath and pushed it away. "I couldn't tell you," he said, hoping that he sounded calm. "I don't remember."

"Volunteer or not, it doesn't matter. What happened to my client is an atrocity against humanity," Gwen said.

"And he'll be handsomely recompensed," Graham said. "Make no mistake of that."

Beckman did not look pleased.

"But of course," Graham said, "there are other matters to consider."

"What other matters?" Gwen asked.

"Lieutenant Bartowski presents, as my colleague pointed out, a danger to society. We simply can't allow for that to pass."

"We all know who's to blame for that!"

"It doesn't change the fact that it's true, and that Bartowski is a threat and needs to be treated accordingly. I can't, in good conscience, let Bartowski loose in society."

"Why ever not?" Beckman asked, turning waspish now. "You didn't seem to have a problem with this before."

Graham merely smiled; Chuck felt a surprisingly strong hatred begin to form deep in his midsection. He'd never hated anybody, he thought. No, that wasn't fair. He'd hated George Fleming, his professor, for years. He'd hated him with such intensity that it had made him uncomfortable. And now that he'd had time to think about that, he knew that hatred had really been aimed at Dr. Carver, the man who'd driven him insane over two years and programmed him to forget all of it. But since the conditioning hadn't allowed Chuck animosity toward his handlers, he'd channeled that to the one man he figured could take the heat.

Even misplaced, the hatred had burned strong, but it had nothing on the inferno of rage he felt toward Langston Graham now. It robbed him of the capability to speak; he sat, silent and rigid, staring at the man who had signed off on Omaha and its dirtier younger brother, Lincoln. He could feel his heart beating, since the blood was still rushing to his face, but otherwise, he might as well have been a statue, stuck there, glaring.

He felt Sarah look at him, side-long. It did nothing to bank any of the fury.

"So there would, of course, have to be provisions made."

"My client is under no obligation to bow to any of your demands, Director."

"He does if he wants the money we all know he came here for."

How did Graham do that? How was he so blithe, so unfeeling about the fact that he'd ruined Chuck forever? Did human lives mean so little to him? Most of the men and women involved in Lincoln and Omaha had died thanks to the fact that the government had literally loosed a mad scientist on them. The few that remained had been left to rot in mental institutions and bunkers—though Chuck's research had freed most of them in the past three months. Did Graham simply not have a conscience about all of the lives he'd ruined?

Gwen scowled. "I think this meeting is over."

"I wouldn't leave, if I were you."

"No? We've met your demands; you've attended this meeting, we've heard you out. Now, Mr. Bartowski and I will be walking out of this building without fear of arrest. An arrest I highly doubt you could ever make stick, I might add."

Graham stared at her, seemingly unaffected. Gwen glared back. The smash of a fist hitting a glass tabletop, however, made even the hardened spies in the room jump.

As one, they all looked at Beckman.

"Are you all quite finished?" she said. "Because if you'd like to sit around here all day bickering, that's perfectly fine, but I have other, much more valuable things to do with my time."

Her gaze moved over each of them in turn. Chuck felt the urge to mumble "Yes, General" along with Casey like a schoolboy caught passing notes. Even Sarah looked down at the table at that.

"As grateful as we all are," Beckman went on in exactly the same tone of voice as before, "that Mr. Bartowski has graced us with his presence, there is still a lot we need to discuss and sort out, and I'd like to get on with it." Without any ceremony, she picked up two folders and dropped them in front of Chuck and Gwen. "This is what the NSA and the CIA are prepared to do for you, Chuck. There are stipulations, but then, you can't deny you were expecting that. I'd like to cut the fanfare and let you talk about them with your lawyer. You can give me your answer in the morning."

"That's it?" Chuck asked, picking up the file. "All of this...for that?"

"There might have been more, but my patience with idiots has sorely been tested. Think hard about this offer. It might be the only one you receive. Now that we've cleared that order of business, I want to know precisely what happened the night of February fourth that led you back to that godforsaken bunker. Start at the beginning and don't leave anything out."

Chuck swallowed hard.

16 MAY 2008
FT. MEADE
16:07 EDT

Chuck let his weary body sink into the chair and, ignoring Casey's stink-eye, unbuttoned his dress jacket, pulling it off with a defiant look. He tossed it over the back of the chair.

It was all such a damn farce.

Casey, though, didn't say anything. Granted, he'd already removed his own suit jacket an hour before—it lay over the back of their meeting room's small sofa, discarded so that Casey could roll his sleeves up to the elbows, cross his arms over his chest, and scowl at the door. Even Sarah had buttoned down some, though she'd merely kicked off her shoes and tucked her feet under her.

Ellie had left to call Devon—her fiancé, Chuck thought. Ellie was getting married, and Devon had waited until Chuck had returned to propose. They'd want him to be in the wedding, Chuck realized with a sinking stomach. Which meant more exposure, more people. He rubbed his hands over his face; Sarah's eyes flicked toward him, obviously catching the movement, though she looked down.

To Chuck's left, Gwen didn't look up. She was still poring over the contract Beckman had given them. She'd filled up two pages of lined yellow legal paper and from the way her pen was flying over the page, would likely fill up several more before she reached the end. Chuck had attempted to look through his own copy, but so many heretofores and aforementioneds and even res ipsa loquitur had stood out to him and made his head swim. The scant amount of sleep he'd had the night before hadn't helped.

"Doing okay?" Sarah asked when Chuck scowled at the contract.

"Yeah," he said, though he felt hollow. The adrenaline spike after seeing Graham had tired him out more than anything else. "Did you know he was going to be there?"

Sarah shook her head. "Bastard," was all she said of Graham, and the subject dropped.

Casey snorted, making them both look over at him. "Really, Bartowski?" he asked. "Monks?"

Casey was only getting to that point now? His briefing, where he'd confessed to fleeing to Europe, then Asia, and finally Siberia, had been over an hour before. "What of it?"

"That's a kung fu movie cliché. Everybody knows that. And yet you tried to go study with monks anyway?"

"I thought they would help me find my inner calm," Chuck said, feeling defensive.

Casey looked skeptical. "And did they?"

"They..." Chuck looked down. "They wouldn't talk to me. It didn't help that I didn't speak whatever it was they spoke—I couldn't tell what it was. And they didn't speak English. So I left. And before I realized it, I was in Moscow. The next step only seemed logical."

"You're a moron," Casey said, rolling his eyes.

"Casey," Sarah said.

"What? He is."

"You could try being a little nicer."

"I'm calling it like I see it."

"It's all right, Casey. I missed you, too," Chuck said.

Casey gave a mild grunt at that, but didn't glare at Chuck. Oddly enough, Casey's putdowns helped normalize things far better than Chuck expected. To think he'd been apprehensive about seeing Casey again due to the scorn, only to find comfort in the very same thing he'd dreaded. He really was a contrary being.

Gwen shushed them as she turned the page. Chuck loosened his tie.

When Ellie returned, she was carrying Chinese food, which had been sent up by General Beckman's aide. "Nice man," she said with a shrug. "Seemed a bit afraid of his boss."

"Wonder why," Chuck said, and Gwen shushed them again.

It was awhile before Gwen finally turned to the last page of the contract and sighed. She rubbed at her neck, looking uncomfortable. "Remind me," she said, "to take the NSA's lawyers out back and shoot them, if I ever get a chance."

"Should you really say that right now?"

"What do you mean? Idiot pissants, every single one of them."

Chuck's stomach dropped; whatever Gwen had read in the contract hadn't been good.

But she just rolled her shoulders. "Can't write a contract to save their lives. I haven't seen such dense language since that indemnity clause in the parachute purchase contract. I think it was translated from Czech."

"I...what?" Chuck asked.

"Simply put, Chuck, Graham's posturing today was a bunch of blustering. Uncle Sam knows he screwed up, and he's willing to pay you, handsomely, for your silence. Actually, he's willing to pay all of you handsomely for your silence, as far as I can tell from this contract. Seems the higher-ups don't really want it getting out that they've unleashed a bunch of Manchurian candidates on the world."

"Yeah, that can't be good for PR," Sarah said, frowning.

"Just how handsomely?" Ellie asked.

"Well, the tune this contract is whistling is ten million, give or take, but from the language, I expect they'll be offering you all contracts with similar—if reduced—numbers. I imagine your reps will be—Chuck, are you all right?"

Chuck choked. "Te-ten million?"

Gwen blinked at him. "Oh, right, I suppose that's probably a big deal. Yes. They want to pay you ten million for your silence, but there are some parts of this contract that I don't like."

"Hold on," Chuck said, and coughed. Ten million dollars, his brain told him. The government wanted to give him ten million dollars. It seemed like an impossibly big number, like...well, ten million anything. His brain literally could not process that, though, absurdly, an image of Scrooge McDuck leaping into a swimming pool full of gold bullion and coins and jewels and—ten million dollars. "I...I think I need a drink."

"Bartowski's going to be a millionaire?" Casey asked, looking dubious. He cast his eyes to the ceiling. "Lord help us all."

"There's a catch," Gwen said.

Chuck, Ellie, Sarah, and Casey all went still. "Of course there is," Ellie said for all of them, and sighed. "What is it?"

Gwen told them.

A/N the Second: Yes! We're finally out of the 50s. Miserable time for Sarah! (And Chuck) Hopefully the 60s will be better.