Finding the Fit Chapter 2

Richard Edgar Castle, as Rick's now legally chosen to be called, likes breasts at least as much as the next guy. Still, having women keep sticking them in front of his face while he's signing books is getting more tiresome than titillating. The redhead who gushes about In a Hail of Bullets is particularly annoying. She obviously expects him to hit on her. Unfortunately, he hasn't felt like hitting on anyone since Kyra. Having his heart broken once is enough for now. It may be enough for a long time. He tries his best to look only at the redhead's face when asking for her name.

"It's Meredith, but you can write it to Merry."

"All right, um, Merry it is," Rick agrees, using his fine point marker to dash off his autograph as quickly as possible.

A tall brunette rushes into the ballroom, taking her place at the end of the line. She wears a wrap coat appropriate to the temperature outside and her boots show white lines from the salty slush on the sidewalks. Rick can see her glancing around the room, intelligent eyes seemingly taking in every detail. When she finally reaches Rick, he notices that she's older than he is, by at least ten years. She's also wearing a wedding ring. Not that being married has stopped female fans and a few guys from coming on to him, but this woman just offers an open, if tired, smile. "Please sign it to Johanna, J - O - H - A -N - N - A."

"I'd be happy to, Johanna." Rick signs the book and hands it back to her. "You have a great night."

"Thank you, Mr. Castle," Johanna responds. "You just went a long way to making it one." Ignoring the opportunity to grab a free snack, she leaves the ballroom. Musing that whoever put the wedding ring on her finger is a lucky man, Rick watches her go.

"Look, Rick tries to explain to the public liaison for the CIA, I just want some background information, the kind of thing Tom Clancy puts in his books. That can't be need to know when it's already in 100 million copies."

The liaison flashes a practiced smile. "I'm sorry, Mr. Castle. Mr. Clancy doesn't and never has received any information from our organization other than what is available to the general public. The rest of what is in his books springs from what I'm sure is a very fertile imagination."

"Yeah, thanks," Rick says, disgust roiling his stomach. As the author walks away, the liaison carefully logs Rick's questions. The Company has to keep an eye on the too curious.

The tall man grabs the document he's studying and takes it with him into the director's office. "I recognize a couple of the names on here. They're spy groupies, always showing up at the site of rumored operations to see what they can pick up. They're just a pain in the ass. But," he adds, pointing to the sixth name on the list, "this one, Richard Castle, I think if we read him in a little to minor missions, he could be of some help to us."

"How is that, Hunt?" the director queries.

"He's a writer and a pretty damn good one. He could portray The Company in a favorable light, or at the least, not throw a bunch of idiotic trash about us into his stories. You could team him up with an experienced agent and give him enough access to get a feel for the kind of obstacles we face to get the job done."

"The agency could use some positive press," the director considers. "Even if it was the FBI that dropped the ball on 9/11, we all got tarred with the same damn brush. A lot of the country still views all of the intelligence services as a bunch of incompetent buffoons. But there are still Soviet sleepers ready to serve the new 'Mother Russia.' Castle will have to be completely vetted before I can even think about giving him a peek inside."

"I can take care of that," Hunt promises.

"All right," the director agrees, "if you can guarantee that he's clean, I'll consider your proposal."

"We really appreciate you coming back and doing this, Ricky – sorry, Rick – as well as all the support you've given us," Miss Lula says. "I always knew you had a creative mind, but a bestselling author? Even I hadn't hoped for that.'

Rick bends down to kiss an increasingly fragile cheek. "It's my privilege, Miss Lula. I saw an old detective show where the hero abandons his millionaire ways to pursue the bad guys full-time. When a long-time friend asked him why, he said, 'How big a steak can a man eat?' He had a point. What good is money if you can't put it to work to make things better for people who deserve it? And I love reading to the kids. They're the only ones who truly appreciate my attempts at doing sound effects."

Miss Lula giggles. "You do all have a good time. You know, you'd make a really good father, Rick."

Rick sighs. "I'd have to find the right woman first. For a while, I thought I had, but…."

Lula lays a hand on his arm. "You will. God won't let all you have to offer go to waste."

When Rick returns home to a ringing phone, the last person he expects to be on the other end is the liaison to the CIA. He's being invited to a briefing on the basics of intelligence operations. Rick quickly notes the time and place before the terse call ends. As he returns the receiver to its cradle, he idly wonders how the CIA got his unlisted number. He shakes his head. Of course, they could get his number. They're the damned CIA.

Instead of the classroom atmosphere that Rick expects when he arrives for his briefing, two men in dark suits lead him to a non-descript Ford sedan and instruct him to don a black hood. Nervous but fascinated, Rick does as he's told. From the traffic sounds and the motion of his body as the car makes various turns, he has a rough idea of where they're going. As he's led, still hooded, from the car, he catches the scent of oil and salt. They're somewhere near the docks. He can feel a familiar sensation that he interprets as a long downward elevator ride before he is conducted into a room and allowed to remove his hood. The first thing he sees is the dark hair and eyes and café au lait colored skin of a stunningly beautiful woman. She smiles. "Welcome to the CIA."

Tearing his eyes away from the vision of feminine perfection, Rick scans the room. There isn't much to see, just a metal table with a stack of papers on it and a couple of chairs. The woman gestures for him to sit. "Before we begin, you have some documents to sign."

Rick regards the pile of forms and releases. "It looks like I'm signing my life away."

"In a way you are," his greeter informs him. "Because if you break any part of the agreement you are about to make, you'll either be dead or wish you were. Or, you can put your hood back on and I'll have you taken home. No harm, no foul."

Rick reaches for the paperwork. "I've come this far. I'm not about to turn tail now."