A/N: The mission proper begins.

The Light of the World

Chapter Ten: Banker's Hours

I wake up and Chuck's not in our bed but I hear the soft, quick rata-tat-tat of typing from the other room.

I rise and find my blue robe and throw it over my shoulders unbelted and I walk into the other room.

The sun's not up yet but snow is still falling and Chuck's busy, his face a picture of absorbed concentration. He doesn't notice me at first and that is a measure both of his concentration and of my habit of silent movement.

When he does notice me, his face breaks into a wide smile. He reaches out his hand and I step toward him and take it in mine. Our hands are a bridge between us and an electric conduit. I'm buzzing at his touch.

"What are you doing?"

His eyes show mischief. "I'm fooling the US government," he says with deliberate casualness.

He tugs me closer to him so that I can stand and see the screen while I watch him type. He lets go of my hand and slips his hand beneath my robe and rests it on my hip, rubbing it.

I want more but I know we are now on the mission schedule, D-Day with H-hour approaching.

"Fooling the government?" I look at the screen and see a video of a car parked on a street in a foreign city. I don't immediately recognize the city. But then I see Chuck seated behind the wheel. He's drumming the steering wheel with his fingers.

But he's not there, drumming. He's here, rubbing my hip. I face him. "How?"

"A bit of my own programming, although I'm standing on the shoulders of giants. I've found a way to impose my…avatar, I guess you might call it, anyway, my image…on video feeds. McDonald sent me on a mission, a training wheels sort of thing. I've done several. She sent me to Bordeaux, thinks I'm in Bordeaux, prepping for a meeting that's to happen tomorrow.

"I've been moving myself around the city, making sure I show up on the CIA's facial recognition." He punched a button and the image of him on the screen vanished, replaced by our hotel lobby. "I've also found a way to superimpose random images over my own image in other video feeds, like the hotel's or the City of Zurich's or the airports. I've done the same for you — had it in place before you arrived.

A thought strikes me and makes me panicky. How had I not worried about it before? Because — Chuck. This is my brain on Chuck: all kisses and sex and baby blue. Un-spy-like.

"But won't McDonald wonder where I am? I finished my last mission; she knew that."

Chuck nods calmly. "She got a request from you the same day you finished, and she approved it, a request to use ten of the mountain of personal days you've accumulated over the years and never used. No one at Langley is expecting to see you until after the holidays."

"She approved it. Even though it was an unprecedented request?"

Chuck smiles at me. "Your email was very persuasive, despite its brevity."

"Oh, so you're imitating me now, too?" I put a mock challenge into my tone.

"I am. But now I know how little I really understood."

"Is that so?"

He cups my naked bottom and presses me to move closer to him.

"I was banking on the fact that you were a good person — that's the pattern that emerges from the data, looked at right-side up, and not upside down, the way Graham and the CIA looked at it — but I had no idea how good."

He stresses the last word, punning with it as his hand on my bottom shows, but he also means it in the other sense. His eyes underscore that. He believes I am good.

With him I am. Good. With time, I can be even better.

I lean down and kiss him. He's dressed and wearing brown dress shoes and navy dress pants and a white dress shirt. A dark brown tweed blazer is folded on the back of the couch.

"I see you're already costumed as Mr. Black," I say with a chuckle, partly to hide the tears that have formed in my eyes and the tightness in my throat. Good. "I should get ready."

"Yes, we need to talk about how today is going to go, what I expect — and what I worry about." He frowns a bit.

"Okay, give me ten minutes." I hunt through the bags and boxes for the pants suit I plan to wear and some new underwear, and then I walk to the bathroom.

It's time to focus. For Chuck's sake. For the future's sake. I started this all thinking that missions and missing things went together, but this is a mission that will secure things for me.

That's how it feels.

The stakes have never been higher for me. My other missions came with a chance of dying, this one comes with a chance of living.

A life.

I emerge from the bathroom fully dressed except for my shoes. Chuck is in the bedroom, and there is a briefcase I had not yet seen on the bed, as well as a black backpack.

Chuck looks at me with admiration and purses his lips and whistles. He actually whistles and it thrills me.

"Mrs. Black, you are stunning. Blickensderfer won't know what hit him."

I twirl on my bare feet, delighted by the look on Chuck's face, by his whole reaction and by my ability to cause it.

He grins for a moment longer then bends down and pulls the briefcase closer to him. By the time he has it open, I'm beside him.

Inside it are the weapons he said he had gotten for me. There's a handgun of the type I prefer, ammunition, two thin, all-grivory knives with sheaths, two long, stainless steel hairpins, and a dark vial. There's also a tranq gun and darts. I point to it. "Not my usual," and the comment makes me suddenly self-conscious, aware of what my usual used to be — death-dealing for Graham.

"Right, that's mine. Not really comfortable with real guns."

This does not surprise me. What does surprise me is the choice of the other weapons. The gun is my preference, but I have used grivory knives on a number of missions, and the steel hairpins I used on a termination I performed on a beach. The target was at an event that required me to wear nothing but a bikini to blend in. I dipped the pins in a nerve toxin (contained a dark vial like this one) and stabbed him with one while he tried, drunkenly, to grope me. I left him sitting dead by the bonfire, no one aware that he was anything but passed out. I wonder now if that was a sanctioned termination or an unsanctioned one. These memories are bad enough without that question darkening them more.

Chuck does know me, my history. This briefcase is a small curated display of my past.

"I chose the knives and the pins because I believe you can get them inside Credit Suisse, up to the three-zero office."

"And my gun, your tranq gun?"

"There's a car stationed two blocks from Credit Suisse. After Hilda drops us off, we will walk there and stow the briefcase. There are other supplies in the rear of the car. After we finish in the three-zero office, we will need to make it back to the car and then get out of Zurich." He seems tense and I don't think it's only the approaching face-off with the graphological scanner.

"So what are we worried about?"

He looks at me, marking my use of 'we'. His eyes soften and he takes my hand. "I hope these things don't upset you."

"No, Chuck, I just want to be done with these." I want to have a child, I want to be with you, to have that child with you. I don't say this out loud but I feel it all through me. It's not the right thing to be thinking before the mission. No need to make the stakes higher, adding dream children to the total.

"I want out too, Sarah. Just a little longer."

"So, what are we worried about," I ask again.

He pushes the briefcase away and sits and I sit beside him. He looks at me and explains: "I mentioned the possibility of the account being une fiche, of it having some sort of instructions attached to it, should anyone show up and access the account. I have no idea if the account is une fiche or not, or, if it is, what the instructions might be. This is part of why I wanted you with me, not only as muscle (he laughs softly) but as extra eyes. If there's an attachment, someone in the office will react to it, do something in response to it — maybe make a call or send an email. I need you to watch what happens once I go into the private room in which the graphological test will be performed and in which I will be able to open the safe deposit box if I pass the test. Someone, probably Blinkensderfer, will stay in the room with me at all times, that means someone else will have to execute the une fiche, if there is one."

"What kind of instructions would make sense on one of these attachments?"

Chuck shrugs. "It could be anything. It might not even be anything bad or problematic — but that's unlikely. More likely would be for the une fiche to trigger some sort of observation or contact or retaliation."

"But Graham's dead."

"I know, and I searched everything I got my hands on and could not find out whether there was an attachment or not. But the thing is, the account belongs to anyone who can reproduce the numerical sequence to the satisfaction of the scanner. There's no name attached to it. I called and announced my intention to visit the three-zero office with my wife, but I did not supply the number of the account. They won't know which account I am here for until I produce the account number, assuming I can counterfeit it well enough. Graham's death would not affect the account or any attachment because the account was not linked to Graham as such, only to the number."

"So I'll be watching outside. What will you be doing inside, if you succeed with the scanner?"

"I'll be given the account records, deposits and payments, and so on. I will also have a chance to move money around — wire amounts to other accounts, and I plan to do that."

Chuck reaches into his shirt pocket and takes out two slips of paper and hands one to me. It contains a sequence of numbers written carefully in pencil, with two 'M's beneath the numbers.

"That's the account number in the Cayman Islands to which I will be making a sizable deposit. I've already DHL-ed the number and instructions to your mom. She and Molly will be set. A new house. College. Whatever they want or need. MM — Mom and Molly."

I stare at the number and then, tears on my cheeks, I hug Chuck. "Thank you!"

He hugs me back. When he releases me, he goes on. "I'm doing the same sort of thing for Ellie and Devon." Then he hands me the other slip. "And for us. This account is ours. I'll move the rest of the money to it."

"Ours," I say aloud simply because his word moves me, and because the number sequence has 'CB + SW' written beneath it. The little things I missed in high school are suddenly being gifted to me. A boyfriend.

I run my finger over the initials and look at Chuck. He puts his hand on my chin, holding it lightly, his gaze deep in mine. "Together, right? You plus me?"

I nod, too overwhelmed to speak. I promise myself that we will live through this, escape. We will escape together. I'm done missing things. "And the backpack?"

"For the diamonds, to carry them out. They won't be too heavy but I want them protected."

"They'll let you take it into the room?"

"Yes, they'll know it's empty. They'll scan us on the elevator. But neither the grivory nor the pins should set off any alarms."

"So I guess I should go and put my hair up?"

"Yes, and prepare the pins. The vial contains a toxin but it's not deadly; it will just incapacitate anyone dosed with it, almost immediately."

"And we'll leave the guns in the car?"

"Yes."

"So we will have to get from Credit Suisse to the car without any?"

"No way around it, yes."

"Don't take long in there, Chuck; the quicker we get out, the harder it will be for any kind of une fiche instructions to be followed."

"Agreed, I will do my best. But the pacing will be decided by Blinkensderfer. But I chose to schedule the visit on Christmas Eve in hopes that the bank employees will be eager to be done. In a hurry, maybe careless. Don't forget to wear your watch. If I'm in there for over forty minutes, leave without me."

I bend my arm and show him the watch already on, but I'm shaking my head vehemently. "No way I leave you behind, Mr. Black. No way. The Blacks leave Credit Suisse. Together."

Chuck blinks at the terminal fervor of my words and then he kisses me.

Hilda arrives with the car at 9 am. She and Chuck make small talk as she drives but I am too nervous to speak. I'm never nervous on missions, but my stomach is a kaleidoscope of butterflies the size of vultures.

My life will never be the same after this morning for better or for worse.

I pray it's for the better. I actually pray.

Hilda drops us in front of the bank and drives away. Chuck waits until she's out of sight, then he starts walking away from the bank. We walk quickly in the falling snow but without seeming to hurry. We walk two blocks and Chuck slows. There's a silver Skoda Octavia parked on the street in a line with other cars and Chuck is looking at the Octavia. A thin layer of snow has accumulated on the front and back and on the roof.

He steps to the back driver's tire and runs his hand along it. He removes his hand and has a key in it. He pushes the lock and it sounds.

He gets inside, leaving the door open, and, once behind the wheel, he puts the briefcase in the back seat, then puts the key in the ignition and turns it, starting the car while staring at the dash.

"Okay, it starts and it's full. Good to go."

He gets out and shuts the door, locks it. "Alright, Mrs. Black, showtime."

We retrace our steps and I force myself to pay close attention, to make sure I can return to the car without misstepping.

I'm settling into my mission mindset but the background is different, not Zurich but my psyche.

I'm a different woman than the one who arrived here, who met Chuck outside the Urania.

Though doing the spy thing, I do not think of myself as a spy. Doing vs. being.

I'm in transition to something else. A new creature. A new being.

Free, for one thing.

Soul and body integrated, not estranged.

Maybe innocent — if innocence, like paradise, can be both lost and found.

Back at the doors of Credit Suisse, the main ones we saw Blickensderfer use when we ate at Zeughauskeller, we look at each other.

Does he know that I love him? I wonder as I look at Chuck. I know I do though I would have said I had no idea about love two days ago. Love.

I whisper it to him with my eyes but now is no time to say it aloud.

Later. I promise myself. For Christmas.

He takes my hand. "The Blacks enter," he says. Snow gently whirls around us.

I nod. "Freely, and of their own free will."

He gives me a glance and opens the door. A few wayward snowflakes and I follow him inside.

Inside, Credit Suisse fuses the Old World with the New. Charm and efficiency.

The interior consists of wood, highly polished, and gleaming, showing its age, not in wear or scars but in the sheer depth of its shine, lovingly attended to daily for many years.

But the wood is accented everywhere with glass and steel and computers and TV screens, and a murmur of busyness can be heard in the otherwise still and stately environment.

Blickensderfer stands in the lobby, lowering his arm; he had been checking his watch.

Up close, I can see that his rosacea is aggravated and redder than yesterday even though yesterday we saw him outside in the cold. He's wearing half-glasses, reading glasses, and he studies me over the lenses. There's a bit of business and a bit of pleasure in the way he studies me, and I'm careful to push my hair back at my temple with my left hand, displaying the ring Chuck bought me.

I actually haven't had it off since he slid it down my finger.

"Altherr Blickensderfer. Mr. Black, I presume," he says, as he turns his attention to Chuck.

He strides forward, wide and dumpy but charged with authority, his hand out.

Chuck shakes it and motions to me. "This is my wife, Sarah."

I smile at the words.

Maybe not the best reaction for the cover, since perhaps I should play Mrs. Black as used to the title, a trifle jaded maybe, but I can't.

Blickensderfer notices my smile and he seems to rein himself in a bit.

"Yes, Mrs. Black, lovely…lovely to meet you."

His English is impeccable. Only an exactness in his pronunciation reveals him as a non-native speaker.

"Good to meet you too," I say.

I do not offer to shake his hand and he does not seem surprised — Old World manners — but he smiles at me, a smile now all business and as polished as the gleaming wood.

"Well, let's get started. Credit Suisse is closing early today, shortening the already legendarily short banker's hours. But many have families and long to be with them."

Chuck nods, taking advantage of the opportunity. "That's fine, we're actually in a hurry too, with unexpected lunch plans, so we're hoping we won't take much of your time."

Blickensderfer smiles again. "Well, three-zero accounts make their own demands, as you know, but we will work to expedite matters. Come, let's go upstairs to the office."

We follow him through the lobby and down a hallway to an elevator with a surprisingly narrow door. Blickensderfer punches the button and the door opens. We enter it in single file, starting with Blickensderfer, then me, then Chuck.

The door shuts. The elevator is small too. Chuck takes off his backpack. It had been on one shoulder and now he grips it in one hand.

Chuck gives Blickensderfer a look, slightly troubled. "I'm a bit claustrophobic. Close quarters," he gestures around, then at the narrow door. "'Enter ye in by the narrow gate: for wide is the gate, and broad is the way, that leadeth to destruction, and many are they that enter in thereby.'"

I realize Chuck is adding to the cover, adding to what he said outside, planting a seed, subtly putting more pressure on Blickensderfer to hurry since Chuck will undoubtedly mention his supposed claustrophobia again in the private room. Smart.

Blickensderfer seems surprised by the quotation. "Are you a reading man, Mr. Black? That was from The Gospel of Mark, correct?" Blickensderfer stretches for height; he is pleased with himself.

Chuck shrugs off-handedly. "No, The Gospel of Matthew. I read sometimes. The elevator door reminded me."

Blickensderfer smiles uncomfortably up at Chuck.

Chuck has managed to shift the balance of authority between them, just with an unexpected quotation and a correction of Blickensderfer. I wonder if it's the Intersect but I bet it's Chuck. Smart, again.

We exit the elevator in reverse order, again in single file. Blickensderfer walks quickly to pass us in the hallway, to arrive at the three-zero door (there are three zeros on it, nothing else) ahead of us. "Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Black," he says with a hint of fanfare as he opens the door.

We walk inside. The office is not a fusion of Old with New. It is just Old. Old World. The same gleaming, polished wood but now accented not with glass and steel but with black leather. It looks like a room in a 19th Century British Mens' Club, a scene from an old novel. Or a Sherlock Holmes story.

A woman with short red hair is seated at one of the two desks. She looks up. She's pretty with large hazel eyes and a small red mouth. A laptop is open on the desk in front of her, surrounded by papers.

"This is Frau Apfel," Blickensderfer says, and I catch something passing between the two of them, something connected to the way he first looked at me downstairs. I wonder if Chuck notices. Apfel and Blickensderfer, both married to others, are sleeping together.

The woman smiles carefully, disengaging her eyes from Blickensderfer. She picks up a sheet of paper that is on her desk and hands it to him.

He takes it and hands it to Chuck. "As we discussed on the phone, to access your three-zero account, you will need to write the number of the account several times on this sheet. It will then be tested by our graphological scanner. Once you've been authenticated, then I will provide you with account information and/or a safety deposit box if the account carries one. But we will need to do all that in the private room, Mr. Black. Mrs. Black, I will ask you to wait here. Frau Apfel can see that you have coffee and/or pastries." He actually says 'and/or' twice.

I smile at him and at her and walk to the comfortable couch against the wall. I sit down.

Blickensderfer puts his hand on Chuck's elbow and gestures with his other hand toward a door. It is heavy and oak, with a small window in the center. The window is obviously thick; I can see wire inside the glass.

Chuck glances back at me then at the large grandfather clock standing against another wall and then when Blickensderfer opens the door to the private room, Chuck goes inside.

The door closes behind them and I hear it lock and my heart begins to pound.

Frau Apfel gives me a look, her eyes disapproving now that the men are gone, but she smiles with her lips.

"Coffee? Pastry?"

"Coffee, please."

She picks up her phone and pushes a button and requests a coffee. I glance at the clock and hear it ticking heavily.

Time seems to be hounding me.

Hurry, my love.

A/N: Can Chuck pull it off? Can they escape together? More soon.