CHUCK vs. THE NO-WIN QUESTION Chapter 5: Business and Pleasure 3...
BURBANK, CA, 1:15 p.m...
As they left the beach, Sarah observed that they were making their way toward a non-descript van-type vehicle parked on the parking lot not that far from her own car. The van had a sign on the side that read: 'Mitchell's Service and Repair', and looked to be slightly worn and battered. By the make it looked to be a 2014 or 2015 model.
Of course, Sarah mused, appearances were often deceiving, and sure enough, Edwin Neil opened the back door to reveal a fully equipped 'operations van', of the sort used to support either surveillance or active operations in the field.
"Wait a moment please, Ma'am," Neil said, "I have to make sure we don't interrupt your rectrans signal when you get in the van."
There it is again, 'rectrans', what the crap are they talking about?! Sarah wondered.
Neil stepped inside, and sat down at a control panel, adjusting several controls as he did. Some information appeared on the display screen, and he nodded.
"All right, Ma'am, you can come inside now," Neil said to Sarah, offering her a hand up. She ignored the gesture and climbed into the back of the van in one smooth motion.
"I'm not feeble yet, Eddie," Sarah said, sitting in another chair opposite Neil and the control panel. "Now, I've been waiting very patiently, and I still don't know what the eff is going on. What is this 'signal' you and Mr. Carmichael are being so mysterious about?!"
Neil sighed. "This is level nine classified information, Ms. Walker-"
"Eddie, so help me, if you call me 'Ms.' or 'Ma'am' again during this conversation, you will have bruises! We've known each other for years, My name is Sarah, please use it!"
Neil smiled a little. "All right...Sarah. Anyway, as I started to tell you, the CIA and the secret branch of the NSA consider the rectrans level nine material. According to the files, you're level eight. So I'm about to reveal information that your employer considers to be above your pay grade. Which means you know that you need to keep quiet about it.
"Keep talking, I'm listening," Sarah said. "And I still want to know how you made me on that beach today!"
"It's the same question, Sarah," Neil replied. "About six months ago, the Joint Intelligence Alliance, both the NSA and the CIA wings, implemented a new program. They've developed a new kind of transmitter, extremely miniaturized, powered by a tiny motion-absorbing system that converts motion into stored energy. Sort of like an old mechanical self-winding watch. When it's implanted into the body, or carried on an arm or a leg, it converts the movements of the body into just enough electrical current to keep a tiny battery charged.
"That wouldn't be enough power to make much a signal on its own," Neil went on. "But it doesn't have to be. It's only supposed to have a range of a few dozen yards, and it only transmits tiny, brief pulses according to a semi-random schedule. Each pulse only lasts a split-second, so it doesn't take up much power. But a receiver that has the right software can watch for those pulses and identify them. That's why it's called the rectrans, short for 'recognition transmitter'.
"The idea is that it can identify a CIA or NSA or other operative without bothering with code phrases or other traditional methods. All you need is a receiver able to use the appropriate software to recognize the signal. They've been distributing the transmitters to the field personnel over the last four months. You're carrying one, and that's how we spotted you. We hope the CIA and the NSA don't know we know it, but Carmichael Industries knows all about the rectrans program and we've worked out the necessary algorithms to tap into the signal.
"I'm not authorized to tell you exactly how we detected the signal," Neil went on. "But we did, and we decoded it to indicate that it was CIA rather than NSA. We tracked it down to the beach, and we knew Mr. Carmichael would be sailing near there, so it caused a stir. We weren't sure if the CIA was...well, if they acting against Mr. Carmichael or Carmichael Industries...again. So we scrambled a team and found you on the beach."
"But I keep telling you, I'm not carrying any kind of new equipment!"
Neil sighed. "And I believe you. But you're wrong, you are carrying it. Listen."
Neil turned to the control panel behind him, and flipped a couple of switches, and turned a dial, and a moment later, a faint crackle of static came from the speakers. For a moment that was all that was to be heard.
Then Neil pressed a button, and a moment later a clear, fast beeping sound came from the speaker.
"The rectrans units transmit semi-randomly, as I said. But they can also be externally triggered if you have the right codes, which we do just happen to have. I'm not authorized to tell you how we obtained them, but we have 'em. I just transmitted the code and that beep was your rectrans responding. Hold still for a moment, and I'll pinpoint it."
Neil took out a 'wand'-like electronic device, and ran it near Sarah's body. As he did, he pressed the button again, and the beep repeated. He did this more than once, and each time he narrowed the space the wand went through, until finally he had it directly above her left forearm.
"Looks like it's implanted," Neil said, "since I don't detect anything under your sleeve except your arm and the signal. "Hold out your arm and I'll confirm it."
Increasingly nervous and angry, Sarah complied, and Neil ran the wand over and under her arm. On a display screen behind him, a vague, shadowy image of her forearm appeared, nothing like as clear as an X-ray, but recognizable. Clearly visible on the screen was a tiny regularly-shaped...something...within the image of her arm, about the size of a pencil eraser, if Sarah could judge from the image.
Sarah stared at the image of her arm in disbelief. The implant looked to be well below the skin, but well above the bone, apparently it was actually embedded in the muscle of her arm.
"Had any invasive procedures done on that arm lately, Sarah?" Neil asked quietly.
She looked at him, back down at her arm, and at the screen again. She rolled up the sleeve of her shirt, revealing a small scar, now mostly healed, at approximately the matching location of the implant on the screen.
Instantly, her mind flashed back to the incident in Warsaw, a month before. An operation had been going very smoothly, really too smoothly, in retrospect. All of a sudden, it had gone sideways, and they had found themselves engaged in tight hand-to-hand with mercenaries hired by the mark. It had been well after sunset on a cloudy night, and nobody had dared use firearms for fear of giving away their presence, there were others in the area who would have been dangerous to both groups. It had turned into a back alley knife fight, and Sarah had found herself facing a hulking bruiser who was all too good with the blade he carried. A few minutes later, he was dead, but Sarah had been wounded.
"About a month ago," Sarah said slowly, "I was in-" classified top secret, Sarah! "-well, anyway, I got sliced in a fight."
She looked at the now largely-healed cut, as did Ed Neil. She continued, "and they stitched it up. It wasn't a big wound...they just used a local anesthetic! I was wide awake, they couldn't have implanted that damned...thing without me knowing it!"
"And you never once looked away from the wound they were dealing with? Not once? Not even for a second? Because this thing is tiny, and the CIA docs are trained for this. All they'd need is a couple of seconds."
Sarah thought back. Had she looked away? Of course she had. She had been carrying on conversations with the doctor, with Zondra, with their technical support chief, sometimes she had been watching the doctor work, but who enjoyed seeing their own flesh being cut and stitched? There would probably have been several opportunities for the doctor to slip that damned machine into her open wound, under the circumstances.
"Damn them!" Sarah cursed softly. "Damn those bastards!"
Naples, Italy, 10:15 p.m. local time...
"Team One, I need those snipers neutralized!" Casey snapped into his microphone. "Team Two, what's the status on the local authorities?"
Casey sat at a communications panel in an unmarked van, a few blocks from the concert hall, supervising the support teams remotely. Part of him itched to be at the cutting edge of the activity, but he knew he was in the right place for this operation. The more so because he had not yet fully recovered from the sprained ankle he had taken two weeks earlier.
"Sir, we've captured two of the three confirmed snipers," one of Casey's field officers reported. "The third is dead. However, we still have a Possible on the neighboring building, we had possible shots coming from that direction."
Casey hit a different button, and connected to 'Elaine Carmichael'. "White Gold, this is Rear View, we've dealt with the snipers on the roof but we have a Possible on the tower to the south, repeat potential exposure to the south. Status?"
Ellie's voice came through, with that odd tone that meant she was using the subvocalization system. "We're making our way along the west side of the hall outside, I have the client with with me."
"Status?" Casey growled. Even though he was, technically, speaking to his boss, many years of military experience and the age difference left him instinctively tending toward a different mindset.
"He's shaken up, but otherwise all right. He has, however, seen the 'special equipment' in operation."
Damn, Casey mused, he's seen her use the Intersect! That's gonna make a Hell of an uproar at the next liaison meeting with the NSA people.
"Acknowledged," Casey said. "Make for the intersection with the main street, I'll have my men move into join you."
"How soon can we get transport out of here?" Ellie asked. "If they were motivated and crazy enough to try this in a public place tonight, there's no telling what else they might try."
"We'll have an armored vehicle for you and the principal as soon as we make sure the local cops aren't going to swoop into the middle of this." Casey replied.
Speaking of which..."Team Two, what is the word on the locals?!"
"Chaos, sir. Looks like the local gendarmerie started to respond, then somebody tried to call them back, then somebody else ordered them into action again, and another group of local cops moved to interfere for some reason. But it's going to be a few minutes before anybody gets there!"
Not good, Casey thought, even if it's helping us right this minute. Looks like somebody's penetrated the local cops, if they're keeping the law off our backs right now that doesn't mean they're acting in our interest. It might mean they want to deal with us themselves without interference. Never mind, ride the ride as long as we can.
"Rear View to White Gold," Casey said into the mike after keying for his employer, "looks like we've got maybe a ten minute window before the locals arrive. Transport on the way, move fast when it arrives in case there are still any loose shooters we haven't dealt with."
Silence for a moment, Casey knew that Ellie would be processing the implications of the slow response time as well as he did. As convenient as it was, it was still troubling because of what it implied.
"Acknowledged," Ellie's distorted voice came back. "We'll be ready. As soon as we're clear, take the prisoners and clear the field, we don't have time to be delicate about it. Use the usual lies, we'll let this pass off as 'terrorists'. Meet with us at the number three safehouse...and make sure Mrs. Nachera is there."
"Will do, White Gold," Casey replied.
A few moments later, on one of the screens, Casey saw telephoto images of a non-descript SUV pulling up in front of an alley, and then he saw 'Elaine Carmichael', her party dress in tatters, hustling Mr. Nachera into the SUV with professional haste, watching on all sides for trouble as she did. Casey nodded in professional approval, an NSA secret branch operative could not have done it better.
As soon as they were safely inside the armored vehicle, it sped away, and Casey issued his instructions for the C.I. men to spread some deception around the site. As soon as the shooting had started, panic had set in, people had been running on all sides and the dance hall was a mess. C.I. did not have the governmental resources Casey had once had when he worked for the the NSA, but they had plenty of money and plenty of men, if they couldn't 'sanitize' the site, they could leave it in a state of such confusion that whatever story they made up would seem plausible.
Especially with a few juicy bribes here and there in Naples and Rome, Casey thought cynically. To help the story along and reduce official interest.
Of course, none of that changed the fact that they had broken Italian law, local Neapolitan law, American law, probably E.U. rules, and they would be breaking more laws covering it up.
Just like old times, Casey thought sourly. At least now I'm breaking the law for employers I can respect.
A smile came to his face at that thought. If someone had told me, thirteen years ago, that someday I'd be working for the Moron and his sister, and that I'd respect them more than I do the NSA, the CIA, or the military high command...man, I'd have probably thought they were sniffing glue.
Casey took out his phone and punched for a special C.I. secure line. He arranged for the chosen safehouse to be ready to receive its guests, and he called the security detail assigned to Mrs. Nachera and told them to bring her to meet her husband at the safehouse. That was a natural thing to do, of course, given what had just happened. Other C.I. people were hustling Mr. Nachera's children and grandchildren to various safe places as well even as Casey sat there.
Unfortunately, though bringing the client's wife to the same safehouse was a natural thing to do, Casey had his own reasons for wanting to do it, and he knew that Ellie Bartowski shared his thoughts.
The difference being, Casey mused thoughtfully, that I'm pretty damned sure I'm right and I'm ready to act on it. Ellie's pretty sure I'm right too, I can tell by her voice, but she's going to want to hope we're wrong. Which could be...Chuck and Ellie are so good at this, but even now they're just a little too trusting for their own good. I don't want Ellie to hesitate a few seconds when she shouldn't, but we can't have very many people there. So...
Casey went back and forth on what to do. He wished he could smoke a cigar to relax, but Devon had made it clear to him that he needed to lay of the cigars at his last checkup. Devon had told him very firmly that either he was going to lay off the cigars or he was going to be sidelined by breathing problems within the next couple of years.
None of us are getting any younger, Casey thought morosely. Pushing aside that thought, Casey picked up the phone and made a call.
"Queen Mother, this is Stubborn Mule," Casey said. "Yeah, hi, Mary. Listen, White Gold is going to be in a possible confrontation soon, with only places for a few people as backup, and I thought it might be good if she had someone with her who's a little more...suspicious natured. Yeah, that kind of situation. You can? Good. I'll arrange for you to fly in immediately."
When he hung up, Casey sat back and smiled. Yeah, Ellie can be a bit too trusting, even now, but her mother doesn't trust the sun to rise in the east until she sees it happen. If things go sideways it's good if Ellie has her mom there.
Casey started issuing orders to finish up at the site, then he began laying his plans for the next few days. A yell to the driver and his van was in motion, heading by a circuitous route to a safehouse in the countryside outside Naples.
An office complex in Los Angeles, two days later, 9:00 a.m. local time...
Chuck pulled his 2018 Chevy Suburban into a parking place, and emerged, locking the vehicle behind him. Nervously, he adjusted his tie, then paused, berating himself for the 'tell'. A moment later, Chuck Bartowski vanished, and Charles Carmichael himself was walking across the parking lot. Clad in an expensive, finely tailored three-piece suit, his shoes smartly polished, he looked every inch the professional businessman. Only a trained eye would have noticed a few very tiny oddities indicating that he might be something rather different, or at least, something more than simply a businessman. If he was sweating in the suit in the hot Los Angeles sunshine, there was little external sign.
The office complex he was walking toward was likewise normal-looking. Ten stories tall, occupying most of two city blocks, with an extensive two-level parking garage to one side and a normal ground-level parking lot on the other. It was the latter lot where Charles Carmichael had parked.
The building itself was a typical 'modern efficient' office block. Glazed, tinted windows reflected the hot southern California sunlight. Tasteful shrubbery surrounded the building amid white gravel beds, a small fountain bubbled near the main entrance. It was no different than any of a hundred other such structures scattered across the L.A. basin. There was little to indicate that it was actually a facility of the Joint Intelligence Alliance.
The JIA had no official existence. Its mere existence was a deep, dark secret. The CIA was forbidden to do most things within the domestic bounds of the United States, under a variety of Presidential executive orders and Congressional actions. On paper, the NSA focused on signals intelligence and code-and-cypher breaking and maintaining. The fact that the NSA also operated a secret (and blatantly illegal!) enforcement arm, mostly made up of seconded military personnel, or that the CIA often operated domestically through the auspices of the JIA, or that other intelligence and security agencies used the Alliance to 'cover' each other's activities, was kept carefully hidden from the public and most of the elected government. Even most of the CIA, NSA, the DIA, the State Department's own intelligence branch, the military intelligence branches, and the rest themselves did not know about the JIA. The alliance was a secret within the secret world, only some of the highest officials, and the personnel employed through the JIA knew about it.
Innocent and not-so-innocent people had been imprisoned illegally without trial because they knew about it. Other innocent and not so innocent people had died simply because they knew about it. Inside the calm, confident façade that was 'Charles Carmichael', Chuck Bartowski was sourly amused to recall how many times he himself had almost fallen into one of those categories.
"Chuck, I may have to aim my gun at you, so just don't freak out!" Sarah said.
"It's late, I'm tired. Let's cut the crap and give him to me, now! He belongs to the NSA!" Casey had said.
Sarah's gun had appeared in her hand in a lightning-fast move. "CIA gets him first!"
Casey's gun had appeared in his hand just as quickly, pointed directly at the beautiful blonde.
"You come any closer and I shoot!" Sarah had snapped at Casey, and Chuck's heart hammered as he hoped and prayed that either she didn't mean it, or the huge man stopped advancing on them. His whole mind was focused on that terrifying little piece of metal in her hand, he was suddenly, acutely aware that he was only a finger-twitch away from dying.
"Sarah," Chuck had gasped, so afraid he had worried that he might pass out, or at least loose bladder control, and he wasn't sure which thought terrified him more, "I'm freaking out!"
"You shoot him, I shoot you," Casey had said, his voice terrifyingly relaxed and casual, "I leave both your bodies here, go out for a late snack. I'm thinking maybe pancakes."
Chuck shook his head. Even now, thirteen years later, he could remember the ice-cold fear, the metallic taste in his mouth, the chills that ran down his back and the paradoxical sense of being hot. The feeling of being helpless, powerless, his fate out of his hands. Panic had almost overwhelmed him.
Hell, I did panic! Chuck admitted to himself. I had no idea where I was running to or what I was going to do...and I flashed. If I hadn't flashed just then...if I'd said the wrong thing after I did, or said it the wrong way...either one of them was completely capable of killing me. Either one of them would have killed me, if things had gone just a little bit differently than they did.
Along with the memory of the terror and fear, another memory came bubbling up, the memory of the anger, the rage, at what was happening, at what was being done. Who were these people to presume to come into his life, point guns at him, casually discuss murdering him? By what right did they do it? He'd done nothing wrong, and he knew it. He remembered the terror and the fury, and the knowledge that he had to hide the anger, suppress it, if he wanted to live.
Chuck shook off the memory. It had been a very long time ago, but thirteen years, and everything that had happened since, had not dimmed the intensity of the memory.
Charles Carmichael hid the reaction so well that only someone who knew him very well would have noticed anything at all, he never broke stride and he walked up to the front doors as calmly as if he owned the place.
Much had happened since that horrible night, Chuck mused. But he had not forgotten.
But things change. The helpless, terrified computer nerd of thirteen years ago had changed, too.
Before he had even left the estate, Chuck had made a point of making sure his people at C.I. had known where he was going, how long he expected to be there, and why. If he entered this building and did not come out when he was supposed to, if he did not make contact with his people on schedule...a number of very interesting things were going to start happening, and Chuck took considerable satisfaction from the fact that he knew the high-ups in the intel world knew that, too.
A little smile played over Charles Carmichael's face as he mused over that. Money and power. Things were different when both sides had access to them.
Through the front door, and across the lobby to the desk. The receptionist, a pretty brunette, accepted his ID card, and waved him toward the elevators with a smile. Chuck pretended not to have noticed the .45 automatic she wore concealed under the office-appropriate skirt and blouse. Into the elevator, which whisked him to the seventh floor. Elevators were always nervous-making for people in his line of work, a small enclosed space, no easy way out, a wonderful place for a trap. Still, one could hardly avoid using them.
The elevator doors opened, and Chuck stepped to one side. Basic tradecraft, you always wanted to avoid standing in the door as it slid open, it left you too easy a target. No one fired on him today, though, as he came through the opening and showed his credentials to another receptionist. She waved him through a door into a long hallway, and suddenly the office complex no longer seemed quite so conventional and ordinary.
One one side of the hallway was a combination dojo and gymnasium, currently being used by a number of (mostly) young people to practice various combat activities. On the other side was a firing range. Excellent soundproofing muted the noise, even from the hallway. Carmichael walked the length of the corridor, unlocked another door at the end with his pass card, and stepped through...and something slammed into him, hard!
Carmichael was pressed to the wall in a split second, and his Intersect flared to combat mode before he even stuck the wall. His mind and body began to react...adrenaline boosted...time sense accelerated...all perceptions on full alert...Carmichael became aware that his attacker was shorter than he was, slender, female...pain perception dulled...a familiar scent filled his nose, a perfume he had long known, another scent that was just a certain woman...combat mode on momentary standby...his eyes registered shimmering golden hair, the feel of the body pressing him to the wall was suddenly intensely familiar...combat mode standing down...
Other memories and thoughts filled his mind, displacing the now quieting Intersect.
...sausages cooking in a Wienerlicious...impure thoughts as he watched her hugging Carina...the kiss when the bomb did not detonate...jealousy over Lou...pizza without olives...burgers medium well with extra pickles..."What did you do, attend Bad Guy High?!"...arguments, kisses...seeing Bryce with her...desperation at seeing Jill pointing a gun at her...seeing her with Cole...the suspicious look on her face when he told her how Jill had 'escaped'..."we have to run!"...waking up with her in that motel room...seeing her with Shaw...her jealousy over Hannah..."I'm Sam" and the gut-punched sensation hearing it...racing to catch her before Shaw pulled her over the edge of the bridge...terror at her reaction to hearing that he had shot Shaw...the kiss in the hotel room in Paris...anger and resentment, satisfaction and joy...the way she had held him after his father's death..."no secrets, no lies"...waking from the artificial dream to find her there...relief and joy when she awakened after Decker's efforts...their wedding...their dream house...the utter joy that night when he had brought her to see her mother and sister at Echo Park...Sarah taking Morgan hostage, leaving them all to die from her bomb...him falling headlong down the stairs, Sarah pointing a gun at him and about to fire...Quinn about to shoot her..."I don't feel it."...the kiss on the beach...him crying like a baby when he first saw the divorce papers...anger and bitter resentment when she did not come back or contact him, long months after he knew that she remembered again...meeting her again during the Innsbruck operation...that terrible moment at the Innsbruck Christkindlmarkt when she had encountered him with Stephanie's mother, and recognized Stephanie's mother...fury and anger, arguments and mutual allegations...the unforgettable night when she first held Charlotte-Mary in her arms, still exhausted from labor, and he sat beside her, that moment when their daughter had opened her eyes and looked up at them...the mixed emotions on her face the day she first saw baby Stephanie...the day she had watched him coach Charlotte-Mary to take her first steps...the Antarctica operation...her saving Stephanie's life...Jenny Burton's 20th high school reunion...
All those memories and a thousand others flashed through Chuck Bartowski's mind in an instant. Memories and emotions, all tangled together in a stream of consciousness and perception that were indelibly associated with one person. Love and hate, anger and lust, devotion and betrayal, tangled together in an inseparable whole.
The Intersect was quiescent now, and Charles Carmichael nowhere to be found as warm lips pressed onto his, hands that could kill in a dozen ways gently rubbing his neck as her arms went around him. The kiss went on for what seemed like forever, but he suspected it was really only a few moments. Chuck was not sure, though, because the normally flawless time sense the Intersect provided him seemed to have gone quiet as well. Or perhaps it was working normally, and he was simply too stunned and distracted to find it.
"Hi, Chuck," the woman said very softly, as the kiss finally ended.
She remained pressed against him, though, her arms around his neck, and Chuck heard himself stammer for a moment as he finally managed to put together a semi-coherent comment.
"Sarah," Chuck said, a little breathlessly. "Uh...hi."
To Be Continued...