A/N1: Yup. Ownership of Chuck. Glad we got that out to the way.
A/N2: Happy Thanksgiving to those of my readers who celebrate that holiday. And for all my readers (Thanksgiving celebrants or not), I'm personally incredibly thankful for your support and friendship over the years. I've said it before, but I cannot believe that there is a fanfiction fandom with better guys and gals in the community than Chuck FF. My wife initially forbade me from meeting in person anyone I met online (as they are all axe-murderers), but I've now met several of you in person and I'm still here. LOL.
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"This is crap," bitched Booker, looking at the file on Robertson's last mission, provided to them by the Carmichael team. "A misunderstanding led to a confrontation in which there was a friendly fire exchange resulting in several fatal casualties? What the fuck does that even mean? Misunderstanding?"
"No fucking idea. I think they cleaned it up when they put it to paper. Whitewashing it. But we need to understand this, Luke. This 'misunderstanding' torpedoed the guy's career. I want to talk to the Colonel who was with him."
Booker said, "I agree. Clearly there's something bad about the Noparnis/Acosta transaction, something they are hiding from us. If Robertson's Acosta's hammer, we should understand what's up with him. Christ knows those two tools from this afternoon weren't going to pull off anything like the Peralta hit by themselves. They were pretty much pissing themselves. No way they have the stones to call a hit. But I don't think we can just look up his number and call the Colonel. Not only won't he take our call, but how do we prove to him that we have the clearance for the conversation?"
"Ms. Bernstein?" asked Chen. "She might be able to get us in contact with the Colonel and can vouch for our clearances."
"Yeah. I'll make the call to her," said Booker.
An hour and forty-five minutes later, they were on the phone to Colonel Ramsen, Robertson's commanding officer who had accompanied him on the man's last mission to Sharbani.
"Colonel Ramsen, good evening. My name is Luke Booker and my partner on this speaker call is Detective Alan Chen."
"Yeah," the man said. "I've just gotten off the phone with the Secretary of Defense himself. I don't know what kind of pull two LA homicide cops have managed on the run up to Christmas, but I'm pretty fucking impressed. I don't get to talk to the Secretary too often and I was told you have top secret clearances and I'm to trust you. Answering your questions was left up to me. So, what's up, guys? Not your problem, but it's the middle of the fucking night where I am."
"Thank you for talking with us, Sir. We'll try to make this as quick and painless as possible. We read the file on Sergeant Robertson's last mission, but we didn't quite understand it. Can you..."
"OH, FUCK," screamed the man. "No way. Don't you tell me you're fucking looking at Jim for something. SHIT. SHIT. SHIT. FUCK. FUCK," the last imprecation was screamed loud enough that both Booker and Chen looked at each other with alarm.
They could hear him breathing hard through the speaker and waited almost a minute for Ramsen to calm before Booker said, "Sorry to upset you, Sir."
His voice was quieter. "No. No, I apologize for my outburst. This is my worst nightmare. That Jim would be so bitter and hateful that he would...do something. I'm sorry. I truly love that man and I was complicit in his destruction. I tendered my resignation rather than ... anyway. Sorry, Detectives. Ask me your questions."
"Well, Sir. One question only at the moment. What the hell happened?" asked Booker.
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Sharbani, 2006
Sheikh Abu Shihab extended his hand to Colonel Ramsen with apparent pleasure.
"Colonel, welcome to my home. Thank you for your visit and your guidance and wisdom in regard to my security." The men were speaking Arabic.
"Of course, Your highness. It is our pleasure. May I present to you Sergeant Robertson, who will be directly involved in the work we intend to do here."
Robertson stepped forward with his hand extended. With a sour look, Abu Shihab clearly hesitated a moment before taking Robertson's hand with a curt nod and no words of greeting. Both Ramsen and Robertson saw the intentional slight, but were duty bound to ignore it. Shihab stepped back after the handshake and seemed to wipe his right hand on his thwab.
Ramsen's first thought was that the CIA analysts had blown it. If Shihab had a problem with black men, they should have known it before they staffed this mission. Fucking mistakes like that ruined missions. He wasn't concerned that Jim would overreact. The man was a pro and would take the slight without excessive anger.
Shihab said, "Colonel, perhaps we can speak about the mission while your sergeant has the freedom to look around the Palace."
"Of course," agreed Ramsen.
Ramsen glanced at Robertson who said, in Arabic, "Happy to, Your Highness." Robertson left the room, closing the door behind him.
Robertson looked around. Left, right, or straight ahead. Randomly, he choose right. The palace was opulent, as you would expect. Servants scurried to and fro on their domestic errands. Armed guards were roving in patrols. The women were fully cloaked in the head-to-toe coverings of purdah, but carrying trays of food or drink. What a pain in the ass, thought Robertson, not for the first time.
No one bothered him as he explored, turning randomly down hallways and up and down stairs. He was expecting to be based there for weeks if not months and was creating his own mental map.
Eventually, he was passing through a corridor with what looked like the bedrooms of important people.
Suddenly, he went into a higher level of alertness. Coming down the corridor was a fat man wearing a keffiyeh and a thwab. He was dragging a naked girl, prepubescent, maybe nine or ten. She was screaming and crying hysterically, trying to break out of his grip on her arm. The man made to pass by Robertson without even noticing him.
Robertson said, in Arabic, "My friend, what seems to be the trouble?"
The man looked at Robertson with unconcealed disdain and snarled, "Not your business, you American animal."
"The child seems upset," said Robertson, with a gentle gesture. Looking at the screaming child, he said, softly, "What seems to be the trouble, little one?"
The fat man tried to slap Robertson with an open hand and was blocked by an iron-hard forearm without any obvious effort on the part of the American. Robertson didn't even seem to look at the other man while his attention was focused on the child.
Humiliated by the casual way that the American had blocked the blow, the man let go of the child and threw a clenched fist at Robertson. The child took advantage and ran to hide behind Robertson's legs. Robertson grabbed the man's wrist and twisted to put him on the floor of the corridor in a painful armlock.
The fat man yelled for help and two palace guards armed with rifles ran around the corner. The fat man screamed for them to kill Robertson.
Robertson let go of the man and stood back, raising both hands in what he hoped was a calming gesture. "Be calm, my friends. We have a misunderstanding here." He continued moving his open hands gently up and down, helping it would encourage the men to keep their rifles pointed at the floor.
The fat man screamed again, and the men raised their weapons to fire. Robertson screamed at them to stop, but they did not.
While they were raising their weapons towards Robertson, he drew his sidearm and killed both men. The fat man was stunned into silence. The naked child was still hidden behind Robertson, now clutching at his legs and trembling in terror. The Sheikh and Colonel Ramsen ran around the corner followed by three more palace guards with their rifles in hand.
Once again, the fat man screamed from the floor for Robertson's death. The three guards accompanying the Sheikh raised their rifles. Robertson killed two as Ramsen pulled the rifle from the last man's hand, saving his life.
Ramsen had seen and understood instantly what had happened. He walked up to Robertson, who was breathing hard from the adrenaline rush. He said, quietly, "Stand down, Sergeant. Stand down."
Robertson lowered his weapon and reholstered it. Smiling gently, Ramsen reached for the small girl behind Robertson. "Come here, little one."
He picked her up and handed her to the Sheikh, whereupon she began to scream again, punching and kicking at the older man. The Sheikh turned her over to the surviving guard and turned back to Ramsen with thunder in his eyes.
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By the time Ramsen had finished his narrative, he sounded like he was crying. He told the detectives, "I've seen a lot of horrible shit in my career. That little girl...I have a granddaughter almost her age. Of all the horrible shit I've done...it's the girl's face that wakes me up in the middle of the night. Less often recently, but ...well, reliving it with you both tonight...I won't be sleeping for a while."
"I understand, Sir. And the fallout?" asked Booker.
"Insane. The shitstorm was epic. Never seen anything like it, but somehow we kept it out of the press. The State Department had to come in and try to clean up the mess. The Sheikh wanted Robertson turned over to them for their own justice. The State Department wanted Robertson prosecuted and imprisoned by the military, to placate the Sheikh. The Defense Department stood by their man, somewhat anyway. The two departments were screaming at each other. Ugly, ugly shit. The justice of the thing didn't matter, only the politics. Eventually, the President made the decision, mostly siding with the military. No prosecution. Just drop Sergeant Robertson from the Army quietly and without fuss. Bury the whole incident. Sweep it under the rug. Keep kissing up to our allies in the Gulf."
"How did Robertson take it?" asked Chen.
"Horribly. Awful. It broke something inside him. He'd always been the perfect soldier. An idealistic and optimistic man. A pleasure to be around. A natural leader with an easy smile. Firm believer in the greater good. But he changed. Darker. Much, much darker. He became bitter and very, very angry. He lost his faith in the Army, in institutions in general, maybe even the nation as a whole. He'd always believed he was one of the good guys. For him to suddenly realize that the men and women he thought of as the good guys could do what I did, consigning that poor little girl to her fate...well, he hasn't forgiven me and never will. I don't blame him even a little bit. He's right. I haven't forgiven myself either." Now he definitely sounded like he was crying.
"Do you know what he's doing now?"
"I heard he moved out west, where he grew up. Where you guys are. So, your turn. Tell me what he did," said Ramsen.
"We don't know, Sir. Maybe nothing. The rumor is that he is a hitman for the local Mafia. We are looking into a murder of a journalist who was investigating the Mafia don," said Booker.
"Oh, shit," said Ramsen. He sighed heavily. "This is tragic. Just so fucking tragic."
"Could he do it?" asked Chen.
"The man I served with would never do something like that. Jim today? I don't know. I just don't know. I hope not, but..." Ramsen's voice cracked and he almost sobbed. "I just don't know. I'm so sorry." They weren't sure exactly what he was sorry about, but could surmise that it was more than one thing.
"Would he have the skills?" asked Chen.
"The skills? Oh, shit. That and more. He is one of the deadliest badasses I've ever met. And I've known some pretty exceptional guys. No question," said Ramsen. "You want someone taken out? He's a fucking ghost. You'll never even know."
"Thank you, Colonel," said Booker. "We'll let you get back to sleep."
"Not fucking likely, Detective. Not anymore. Good luck. And, if possible, if you end up taking Jim in, please try to take him alive. I don't want anything to compound the tragedy," he said.
"Yes, Sir. Good night," said Chen.
Once the call was disconnected, Booker said to Chen, "Shit. For the first time in my life, I find myself liking some of the bad guys."
"I hear ya," agreed Chen, nodding.
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The next morning, Booker and Chen stepped into the aikido studio and quietly closed the door behind them. James Robertson was getting to the end of teaching a class of five students. From their research, they knew that he was an employee of the studio and not an owner.
Seeing him in person, if anything, underlined the impression they had formed from his file and the conversation they had had with his one-time commander. He was tightly compact man of medium height and appeared strong, but moved with an easy grace and balance that was the hallmark of exceptional fitness and long training. Their own experience and training had taught them how to judge the danger a man presented. Neither of them would look forward to facing him in a bar fight. At least without a very big gun and a bunch of strong friends.
They waited politely and silently while he finished the class and dismissed the students, who went off to a locker room of some kind to replace their hakama uniforms with street clothes.
Robertson approached the detectives and said, polite but reserved, "May I help you, gentlemen?"
They showed their badges and said, "We hope so, Mr. Robertson. My name is Luke Booker. This is my partner Alan Chen. We'd like to ask you a few questions if you wouldn't mind."
"May I have your cards, please?" asked Robertson. It wasn't confrontational, just a quiet request. In response, they handed over their business cards.
He glanced at them for a moment and then said, "Thank you. I'll have my attorney arrange a time when we can all meet and discuss whatever it is you want to talk about. In the meantime, have a nice day."
He turned and began to walk away from the policemen.
"Mr. Robertson, don't wait too long, please. Our investigation is somewhat urgent." said Chen.
"Yes. I expect it is. I'll keep that in mind," he said, neutrally.
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It was the next day when Robertson and his attorney, Mr. David Cook, met Booker and Chen in a conference room of the police station.
They had checked with Captain Wallace. Cook was the regular lawyer for the Acosta family.
Cook accepted a cup of coffee. Robertson declined both coffee and water.
"Thank you for coming in, gentlemen," said Chen. "May we record this conversation?"
"You may," said Cook. "But I would like a copy of the recording when the conversation is concluded."
"That won't be an issue, counselor," said Chen, putting his phone on the table. "And thank you for the permission."
"Always happy to cooperate with the police, Detectives."
Chen went through the expected beginning of the recording, participants and permissions. When he was done, he said, "Thanks for coming in to speak with us."
"Of course. What can we do for you?" said Cook.
Chen said, "We are investigating the death of Mr. Vincent Peralta. He was a journalist and, among the other matters under his scrutiny was a real estate transaction to purchase an office building. One of the purchasers was Tony Acosta. We have reason to believe that there may be something of interest in that transaction. Do you have any knowledge of that real estate transaction, Mr. Robertson?"
Without looking at his lawyer, he said, "No. I do not."
"Ok," said Booker. "Can you tell us anything about your relationship with the Acosta family?"
"Don't answer that, Mr. Robertson. That question is merely fishing, Detective. Please restrict your questions to specifics."
"Do you know anyone in the Acosta family?" asked Booker.
"Same thing, Detective. Don't waste our time or yours. If you want to ask something about Peralta's murder, ask it."
"Very well," said Booker, addressing himself to Robertson. "Have you ever met Mr. Peralta?"
"No," said Robertson.
"Have you ever seen him?"
"No."
"Did you kill him?"
Watching him, both Booker and Chen saw a flash of ...something, go across Robertson's face. Just for an instant. It wasn't guilt. It was almost akin to annoyance or anger...maybe disgust.
The flash of emotion was gone and Robertson said, "No. I did not."
"Alright," said Booker, "Where were you last Thursday night at around 9PM?"
"I was at the Laker's game at Staples. They beat Milwaukee 105 to 92," said Robertson, calmly. He was very calm. He looked like you could set him on fire and not upset him.
"Did you have company? Someone who can put you there and then?" Booker asked.
"No. I had another ticket but my friend got delayed and I ended up selling the ticket to a scalper," said Robertson.
"So, really, no one can put you there at the game?" asked Chen.
"I suppose not," said Robertson calmly.
Booker said, "Would you object to providing us with a DNA sample, Mr. Robertson?"
Cook said, "Absolutely we would object. You want DNA, get a court order. But you can't, can you? If you had probable cause, you'd have done so already."
"You know, Mr. Robertson, how big criminal prosecutions are created? We give beneficial deals to the lower-level operators in an enterprise only to get the conviction of the more powerful men and women," said Booker.
"Alright. That's just insulting, gentlemen. We'll be leaving now," said Cook.
Booker looked at Robertson and said, "Perhaps you should question just who Mr. Cook is loyal to, Mr. Robertson."
Robertson looked back at Booker with hard eyes and said, "You're barking up the wrong tree, Detective. I was at the basketball game. You should be looking elsewhere for the murderer."
"And I am personally offended by the suggestion of a conflict with my representation, Detective. We've been nothing but cooperative with you and your investigation. I'm going to mention your rudeness to you superior officers," complained Cook.
"Yes, Sir," said Chen as the men left to see themselves out of the station.
Booker and Chen looked at each other and let out long sighs. "Shit," said Chen. "That could have gone better."
"Yeah. You're right. But the boots he was wearing looked like size 10 to me," said Booker.
"How about that?" said Chen.
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A/N3: Most (but not all) folks seem to like this arc. I'm happy to see that, as I'm having fun writing it. Do let me know what you think.