#14 - Let Me See What I Will Become, for eclipse4815
Title: Let Me See What I Will Become
Recipient: eclipse4815
Author: becky_monster
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Eames, Robert Fischer, Peter Browning, Vivian Jones (OFC); Gen (may be considered Eames/Robert slash if you squint… hard!)
Word count: 3016
A/N: Thanks to nova33 for the last minute beta and to Caterine Tate for playing the role of Mrs Vivian Jones.
A Merry Christmas and a happy, peaceful and productive new year to all!
Conventional wisdom states that planting an idea in someone else’s mind - inception - is impossible.
This is clearly not true as advertisers and marketers have been doing this with various levels of success for many years now.
(Of course - inception is all about planting a fully formed idea that the subject is *sure* they created in their mind. Suggestion is a hell of a lot easier, cheaper and of course legal.)
Sometimes... it doesn’t even need that.
It can start with a chance meeting between two people. Say a forger pretending to be a lawyer, all the better to observe his subject and the job’s eventual mark.
They strike up a conversation, more to pass the time; nothing controversial. And that should be that.
Except, it isn’t.
***
Robert Fischer stood on the threshold of the large, homely kitchen of his Sydney home, unsure of himself.
“Master Robert? Is everything alright?” a warm, female voice at his elbow asked.
He took a step into the kitchen, feeling himself relax as he did so. He smiled wryly for her. “Insofar as everything can be right now, yes. Everything is alright, Mrs Jones.”
Vivian Jones, Robert Fischer’s housekeeper/butler, nodded. “Very good, Master Robert, she replied neutrally; her eyes showing the concern her voice hid. “How is your father today?” she asked as she walked over to the bubbling coffee machine, pulling two mugs from the cupboard above the machine.
Robert pulled his neatly knotted tie loose with a heartfelt sigh of relief. “My father is ‘resting’,” he replied quietly, not looking at her. He shucked his jacket to hang over one of the wooden chairs that surrounded the huge table that dominated the room.
“And you?” Vivian asked as she poured out a mug of steaming hot coffee, handing it to him. “It’s not like you to be home so early,”
He nodded his thanks for the coffee and took a sip before answering her. “Vivian, I need your help,”
“Name it.” She replied without hesitating.
“Thank you,” he replied, offering up a true smile. “You know how you describe yourself as being ‘Alfred’ to my “Bruce Wayne’?”
His smile widened as she laughed uproariously. It was an old joke between them. Borne of Sunday afternoons spent together at the local cinema, a tradition that had carried on long after Robert was of an age to go on his own.
“You don’t mean to tell me that you’ve decided to go into the crime-fighting business have you?” She asked brightly, grinning at him, her London accent colouring her words.
Robert laughed delightedly at the absurd idea. It had been so very long since he had laughed like that.
“No, I haven’t. So no Tumbler for you to drive to town,” He replied, lips quirking with delight.
“Drat!” Vivian declared dramatically. “I’ll have to stick with terrorizing the good citizens of Sydney with the Rolls then!” Her expression sobered. “You were saying?”
“I think I’ve found ‘Harvey Dent’,” he noted, staring down at his coffee mug. “I met him at the office today and he seems like a man I could work with.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Mrs Stewart ‘obtained’ a copy of his paperwork and his references are exemplary-”
“And you want me to run a background check on him,” Vivian stated, all business. In a previous life, Vivian Jones had been Army Intelligence; it didn’t hurt for her to keep her skills sharp.
He raised his head to look at her, relief writ large on his features. “I’d appreciate it.”
“This has nothing to do with.... Uncle Peter, does it?” She asked, mentally bracing herself for another fight. Robert Fischer was of age (and had been for a while) and she was his employee - Vivian knew this. Yet she had promised herself and Mrs Fischer, that she’d keep an eye out for him.
If that included helping to expose his godfather as being a two-faced cutthroat crook; then she’d do it gladly and the devil take the consequences.
Robert raised his gaze to meet hers. He shook his head. “No, it has nothing to do with the unfounded rumours about Uncle Peter.” He paused, sipping at his coffee. “Even so, Uncle Peter is not a young man. He’ll want to retire soon and I want someone who’ll stand by me like he did for Dad,” he explained, hoping that she’d see the logic in his argument. And perhaps convince himself that she was wrong about him.
Vivian nodded and pushed herself away from the kitchen table. She pushed a stray strand of vibrant copper hair behind her ear as she moved to the sideboard to pick up a notebook computer, a well-thumbed address book and her handbag.
She placed the items on the table with a loud clatter. “How deep do you want me to go?” she asked, peering into her handbag to fish her phone from the depths. Closely followed by a fountain pen and a well-worn notepad.
“Mantle deep?” Robert asked innocently. She smiled at the old joke. He pushed his chair out. “Thanks, Vivian,” he replied, walking over to her.
“Are you going to be home for dinner or are you out schmoozing the major shareholders *again*,” she asked reaching out to sort his collar and tie out. He let her without a murmur. She was always better at it than he was.
“I promised Dad’s nurse that I’d drop by - sit with him. Give her a couple of hours of company other than him and the machines,” he explained, his voice betraying his emotion. “He... it won’t be long now.”
Vivian threw propriety out of the window and threw her arms around her charge and held him tight. Robert hung on for dear life until she pushed him away. Her eyes concentrating on making sure that he looked every inch of the corporate prince he was supposed to be. He tried not to notice the tears.
“You never told me ‘Harvey Dent’s secret identity.” she replied as she held his jacket for him to shrug on.
“Eames, Colin Blythe-Eames.’
***
Eames would be the first to admit that he was, what many would consider, a bad man. He lied, stole and cheated for a living.
So did Peter Browning. The main difference between them was that Eames did not try to hide what he did behind a veneer of respectability. Oh, Eames would quite happily sell out or run out of comrades if it was getting too hot. It was called self-preservation for a reason. Even so, there were some lines that Eames wouldn’t cross. Betraying family (either biological or chosen) was one of them.
Which is what Eames had found out Browning was planning to do. Quite by accident.
Of course, in the movies, such things are found out by the hero, searching for just that information at the dead of night. The clock ticking unnaturally loudly in the background and the orchestra playing ominous music as the hapless security guard’s flashlight strobed around the screen, highlighting empty, dark offices (and missing) the hero.
Eames had found the papers relating to Browning’s proposed ‘bloodless’ coup of Fischer-Morrow when he was looking for papers relating to a litigation over South American pipelines, in the middle of the day.
There was no one else in the store room and he wasn’t expected back at the Fischer mansion until mid-afternoon, so Eames read the paperwork.
Only to start swearing volubly thirty seconds later.
With hindsight, Eames wondered if Mrs Stewart, Browning’s secretary had purposefully asked him to pull this specific file, to see what he would do. His background reading had said that Anne Stewart had seen herself as an honourary auntie to Fischer Jr; so could this have been the straw that broke her loyalty to her boss?
It didn’t matter - he’d profit out of Browning’s ruthlessness.
The Fischer job relied on fact that an idea was planted (through near mythical and bloody difficult Inception) in Robert Fischer’s psyche to break up his father’s company when he became head of the company, something that would happen after his father’s death.
One small problem, Browning did not *want* Robert Fischer to take over Fischer-Morrow.
The documents in Eames’ hands said as much and if Browning got his way... Well, Fischer wouldn’t be becoming head of Fischer-Morrow, Cobb wouldn’t be going home to his kids and Eames wouldn’t be getting paid.
The first two matters, Eames had no opinions on either way Fischer was a looker but other than that... Cobb was damn good at what he did - he’d find a way home, regardless. The third was a different matter altogether.
Eames had done his reading on the Fischers and Browning and kept his eyes open and not just for observing Browning either.
Robert Fischer may have spent most of his career overshadowed by his father but he was still a force to be reckoned with. Even someone whose grasp of numbers was as shaky as Eames’ could see that.
Here was a man who was looking to the future - his support (and more importantly, his funding) of green energies and fusion research saw to that. To anyone invested in ‘old’ technologies, Robert was dangerous; especially if that person was the right hand of his father.
With change came casualties. When Maurice Fischer passed, one of those casualties would be Peter Browning. That much was obvious, which was the last thing that Browning wanted; hence the documents in Eames’ hands.
Blood may be thicker than water but it didn’t mean a damn when it came to business.
Not that any of that mattered a damn to Eames. What mattered to him was that he had information, useful information. The only issue was... how to use it?
***
“Immigration form, Sir?” A feminine voice asked at Robert’s elbow asked.
He nodded, reaching out to take the form, from the stewardess, without really taking in his surroundings. He slid the form onto the sideboard as his thoughts flowed into new and unfamiliar patterns.
Philosophy had never been one of Robert’s strong points. Either something could be proven or not, science said as much and yet....
Was he on a plane about to land in Los Angeles? Or was he dreaming he was on a plane about to land in Los Angeles and was actually elsewhere? It was difficult to say.
That he had spent most of the flight asleep hadn’t come as much of a surprise to Robert. Ever since his Dad had died, Robert had been only able to snatch brief naps. Even if there was ever doubt cast as to whether he was ‘worthy’ to take up his father’s mantle as head of Fischer Morrow, everyone wanted his time.
From the board of directors, who wished to express their (in)sincere condolences, the major shareholders who needed placating that nothing would change (as if they would ever let him) as well as the crushing minute of preparing to finally say goodbye to the man he had loved and fought against for as long as he could remember.
Double espressos and sheer will power could only give Robert so much before his body bailed on him. He was grateful that he at least made it onto the plane and airborne before he crashed.
What had surprised Robert were his dreams. Yes, he dreamed like everyone else; but the dreams he had were so strange and vivid.
There was a hotel... or had he been kidnapped? There was a snowy fortress that would have made Cubby Broccoli weep with envy and inside his father who was dead.
There was also a beautiful blonde (who had walked away from him - nothing new there) with such familiar eyes.
He had also dreamed of the man who had found the passport he had dropped. A Mr Searle or Carls or was it even Mr Green?... Robert couldn’t remember.
Well, whoever he was, his subconscious mind liked him enough to use him as an avatar to lead the attack against an extraction attempt being made on him by men hired by his Uncle Peter.
Since it was a dream, seeing that Mr Carls’ (it was a good a name as any other) team was made of people he knew (Colin Blythe-Eames from Uncle Peter’s office and Mr Saito of Proclus, who had been supportive of his ideas for the future) wasn’t a surprise. It felt comforting that his subconscious was using the images of people he knew to aid him in his defence of his own mind.
Robert remembered facing his uncle in the dream; being told that his father was taunting him from the grave and that Browning didn’t want him to destroy Fischer Morrow in a fit of pique. Hence the hostile ‘takeover’.
If it hadn’t have been for Mr Carls being there to support him, Robert would have just folded like a bad hand at poker. Instead he turned the tables, aided Mr Carls and his team to perform an extraction on Browning.
The extraction itself played like a sequence from one of the old James Bond movies that Robert used to watch with his mother when he was young. She’d instilled a love of movies into her son. His father was always working on something that demanded his attention more than his only son did.
Explosions, gunfire and snow. White as far as the eye could see; only to be broken up by the grey of mountains or architecture. And red; blood (not his own) splatter on snow.
No one had told him that danger would drop in from the ceiling before shooting him dead. At least someone (himself? or the mysterious woman who shot him) dreamed up a beach for him on that level. Which was kind of them.
As for the whole bound and gagged aspect... Robert would have found it a bit more palatable if dinner and dancing had formed the prelude. There was also a beautiful woman with large, chocolate coloured eyes, who’d taken off his gag with gentle hands and a kick that a kangaroo would be proud of...
Which landed him back in the Blofeld-esque fortress and Blythe-Eames’ hands all over his chest. Best way to come back from the dead that Robert could think of.
Robert hadn’t needed much encouragement from Blythe-Eames to open the safe but then he had thought it contained Browning’s secrets.
Not his own. Not the realisation that his father had loved and treasured him. That he wasn’t disappointed in Robert; he was disappointed that Robert was trying to be something he wasn’t. That Maurice Fischer wanted his son to be his own man. To forge his own path.
And then Robert woke up. His heart aching but lighter than it had been in Sydney. His father had loved him and wanted him to be his own man.
And that was what Robert Fischer was going to do.
***
Nine days after landing in Los Angeles, Eames was back in Sydney. Partly to ensure that his exit was as clean as possible and to also ensure that Peter Browning didn’t jeopardise what he and the others had worked so hard to pull off.
Eames was no pointman but he had still picked up a trick or two from the best (namely Arthur) in his time.
As such, Eames had approached Saito, post inception, with the information he had ‘appropriated’ from Browning’s office and the germ of a plan.
Saito met him, in the hotel bar of the best hotel in Los Angeles, surrounded by the great and the good, and listened to what Eames had to say.
“May I ask exactly why you are doing this Mr Eames?” Saito asked after Eames had finished his spiel.
“Because Robert Fischer will break up his company and then go onto create something far more extraordinary than you or I can imagine,” Eames replied, knowing the truth of his words. He’d bet on it.
Eames watched Saito take a sip of his whiskey as he contemplated what he had just said. He was half expecting a flat out dismissal but instead was pleasantly surprised when Saito wrote down a name and a number on a napkin for him.
“Someone took a leap of faith for me,” he murmured handing over the sheet to Eames, “It is only fair that I repay the favour.”
Eames later discovered that the name and number belonged to a very credible Australian business journalist with links in all the right places. A phone call followed by a fax obtained him a meeting with her.
A promise of anonymity and a read through of the folder did the rest.
***
Peter Browning retired from Fischer-Morrow just under a month after Robert Fischer inherited the company; citing poor health. The damning exposé printed in the Sydney Morning Herald may or may not have had a part to play in his decision.
*
Eames returned to Mombasa a very, very rich man. Doing the impossible with ease had its rewards. A while later, a letter arrived on his doorstep. Surprising as no one knew the address. Not as much as surprise as the content of the letter.
He had been ‘granted’ a full pardon for all crimes he may (or may not) have committed.
Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Eames retired from the mind crime game. He packed a bag and went travelling, eventually settling in Sydney, Australia. None of his former comrades could work out why.
*
After the passing of his father, Robert Fischer became a new man. It started with the break up of Fischer-Morrow; the proceeds of which went to fund a successful venture into Fusion technologies. Within ten years, his company was the world leader in the area. Becoming more successful than his father had ever been.
He stayed in Sydney, living with his house keeper, Mrs Jones and the love of his dreams. All in all, he was happy. Which is all anyone can ask for from this life.
Fin
Recipient: eclipse4815
Author: becky_monster
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Eames, Robert Fischer, Peter Browning, Vivian Jones (OFC); Gen (may be considered Eames/Robert slash if you squint… hard!)
Word count: 3016
A/N: Thanks to nova33 for the last minute beta and to Caterine Tate for playing the role of Mrs Vivian Jones.
A Merry Christmas and a happy, peaceful and productive new year to all!
Conventional wisdom states that planting an idea in someone else’s mind - inception - is impossible.
This is clearly not true as advertisers and marketers have been doing this with various levels of success for many years now.
(Of course - inception is all about planting a fully formed idea that the subject is *sure* they created in their mind. Suggestion is a hell of a lot easier, cheaper and of course legal.)
Sometimes... it doesn’t even need that.
It can start with a chance meeting between two people. Say a forger pretending to be a lawyer, all the better to observe his subject and the job’s eventual mark.
They strike up a conversation, more to pass the time; nothing controversial. And that should be that.
Except, it isn’t.
***
Robert Fischer stood on the threshold of the large, homely kitchen of his Sydney home, unsure of himself.
“Master Robert? Is everything alright?” a warm, female voice at his elbow asked.
He took a step into the kitchen, feeling himself relax as he did so. He smiled wryly for her. “Insofar as everything can be right now, yes. Everything is alright, Mrs Jones.”
Vivian Jones, Robert Fischer’s housekeeper/butler, nodded. “Very good, Master Robert, she replied neutrally; her eyes showing the concern her voice hid. “How is your father today?” she asked as she walked over to the bubbling coffee machine, pulling two mugs from the cupboard above the machine.
Robert pulled his neatly knotted tie loose with a heartfelt sigh of relief. “My father is ‘resting’,” he replied quietly, not looking at her. He shucked his jacket to hang over one of the wooden chairs that surrounded the huge table that dominated the room.
“And you?” Vivian asked as she poured out a mug of steaming hot coffee, handing it to him. “It’s not like you to be home so early,”
He nodded his thanks for the coffee and took a sip before answering her. “Vivian, I need your help,”
“Name it.” She replied without hesitating.
“Thank you,” he replied, offering up a true smile. “You know how you describe yourself as being ‘Alfred’ to my “Bruce Wayne’?”
His smile widened as she laughed uproariously. It was an old joke between them. Borne of Sunday afternoons spent together at the local cinema, a tradition that had carried on long after Robert was of an age to go on his own.
“You don’t mean to tell me that you’ve decided to go into the crime-fighting business have you?” She asked brightly, grinning at him, her London accent colouring her words.
Robert laughed delightedly at the absurd idea. It had been so very long since he had laughed like that.
“No, I haven’t. So no Tumbler for you to drive to town,” He replied, lips quirking with delight.
“Drat!” Vivian declared dramatically. “I’ll have to stick with terrorizing the good citizens of Sydney with the Rolls then!” Her expression sobered. “You were saying?”
“I think I’ve found ‘Harvey Dent’,” he noted, staring down at his coffee mug. “I met him at the office today and he seems like a man I could work with.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Mrs Stewart ‘obtained’ a copy of his paperwork and his references are exemplary-”
“And you want me to run a background check on him,” Vivian stated, all business. In a previous life, Vivian Jones had been Army Intelligence; it didn’t hurt for her to keep her skills sharp.
He raised his head to look at her, relief writ large on his features. “I’d appreciate it.”
“This has nothing to do with.... Uncle Peter, does it?” She asked, mentally bracing herself for another fight. Robert Fischer was of age (and had been for a while) and she was his employee - Vivian knew this. Yet she had promised herself and Mrs Fischer, that she’d keep an eye out for him.
If that included helping to expose his godfather as being a two-faced cutthroat crook; then she’d do it gladly and the devil take the consequences.
Robert raised his gaze to meet hers. He shook his head. “No, it has nothing to do with the unfounded rumours about Uncle Peter.” He paused, sipping at his coffee. “Even so, Uncle Peter is not a young man. He’ll want to retire soon and I want someone who’ll stand by me like he did for Dad,” he explained, hoping that she’d see the logic in his argument. And perhaps convince himself that she was wrong about him.
Vivian nodded and pushed herself away from the kitchen table. She pushed a stray strand of vibrant copper hair behind her ear as she moved to the sideboard to pick up a notebook computer, a well-thumbed address book and her handbag.
She placed the items on the table with a loud clatter. “How deep do you want me to go?” she asked, peering into her handbag to fish her phone from the depths. Closely followed by a fountain pen and a well-worn notepad.
“Mantle deep?” Robert asked innocently. She smiled at the old joke. He pushed his chair out. “Thanks, Vivian,” he replied, walking over to her.
“Are you going to be home for dinner or are you out schmoozing the major shareholders *again*,” she asked reaching out to sort his collar and tie out. He let her without a murmur. She was always better at it than he was.
“I promised Dad’s nurse that I’d drop by - sit with him. Give her a couple of hours of company other than him and the machines,” he explained, his voice betraying his emotion. “He... it won’t be long now.”
Vivian threw propriety out of the window and threw her arms around her charge and held him tight. Robert hung on for dear life until she pushed him away. Her eyes concentrating on making sure that he looked every inch of the corporate prince he was supposed to be. He tried not to notice the tears.
“You never told me ‘Harvey Dent’s secret identity.” she replied as she held his jacket for him to shrug on.
“Eames, Colin Blythe-Eames.’
***
Eames would be the first to admit that he was, what many would consider, a bad man. He lied, stole and cheated for a living.
So did Peter Browning. The main difference between them was that Eames did not try to hide what he did behind a veneer of respectability. Oh, Eames would quite happily sell out or run out of comrades if it was getting too hot. It was called self-preservation for a reason. Even so, there were some lines that Eames wouldn’t cross. Betraying family (either biological or chosen) was one of them.
Which is what Eames had found out Browning was planning to do. Quite by accident.
Of course, in the movies, such things are found out by the hero, searching for just that information at the dead of night. The clock ticking unnaturally loudly in the background and the orchestra playing ominous music as the hapless security guard’s flashlight strobed around the screen, highlighting empty, dark offices (and missing) the hero.
Eames had found the papers relating to Browning’s proposed ‘bloodless’ coup of Fischer-Morrow when he was looking for papers relating to a litigation over South American pipelines, in the middle of the day.
There was no one else in the store room and he wasn’t expected back at the Fischer mansion until mid-afternoon, so Eames read the paperwork.
Only to start swearing volubly thirty seconds later.
With hindsight, Eames wondered if Mrs Stewart, Browning’s secretary had purposefully asked him to pull this specific file, to see what he would do. His background reading had said that Anne Stewart had seen herself as an honourary auntie to Fischer Jr; so could this have been the straw that broke her loyalty to her boss?
It didn’t matter - he’d profit out of Browning’s ruthlessness.
The Fischer job relied on fact that an idea was planted (through near mythical and bloody difficult Inception) in Robert Fischer’s psyche to break up his father’s company when he became head of the company, something that would happen after his father’s death.
One small problem, Browning did not *want* Robert Fischer to take over Fischer-Morrow.
The documents in Eames’ hands said as much and if Browning got his way... Well, Fischer wouldn’t be becoming head of Fischer-Morrow, Cobb wouldn’t be going home to his kids and Eames wouldn’t be getting paid.
The first two matters, Eames had no opinions on either way Fischer was a looker but other than that... Cobb was damn good at what he did - he’d find a way home, regardless. The third was a different matter altogether.
Eames had done his reading on the Fischers and Browning and kept his eyes open and not just for observing Browning either.
Robert Fischer may have spent most of his career overshadowed by his father but he was still a force to be reckoned with. Even someone whose grasp of numbers was as shaky as Eames’ could see that.
Here was a man who was looking to the future - his support (and more importantly, his funding) of green energies and fusion research saw to that. To anyone invested in ‘old’ technologies, Robert was dangerous; especially if that person was the right hand of his father.
With change came casualties. When Maurice Fischer passed, one of those casualties would be Peter Browning. That much was obvious, which was the last thing that Browning wanted; hence the documents in Eames’ hands.
Blood may be thicker than water but it didn’t mean a damn when it came to business.
Not that any of that mattered a damn to Eames. What mattered to him was that he had information, useful information. The only issue was... how to use it?
***
“Immigration form, Sir?” A feminine voice asked at Robert’s elbow asked.
He nodded, reaching out to take the form, from the stewardess, without really taking in his surroundings. He slid the form onto the sideboard as his thoughts flowed into new and unfamiliar patterns.
Philosophy had never been one of Robert’s strong points. Either something could be proven or not, science said as much and yet....
Was he on a plane about to land in Los Angeles? Or was he dreaming he was on a plane about to land in Los Angeles and was actually elsewhere? It was difficult to say.
That he had spent most of the flight asleep hadn’t come as much of a surprise to Robert. Ever since his Dad had died, Robert had been only able to snatch brief naps. Even if there was ever doubt cast as to whether he was ‘worthy’ to take up his father’s mantle as head of Fischer Morrow, everyone wanted his time.
From the board of directors, who wished to express their (in)sincere condolences, the major shareholders who needed placating that nothing would change (as if they would ever let him) as well as the crushing minute of preparing to finally say goodbye to the man he had loved and fought against for as long as he could remember.
Double espressos and sheer will power could only give Robert so much before his body bailed on him. He was grateful that he at least made it onto the plane and airborne before he crashed.
What had surprised Robert were his dreams. Yes, he dreamed like everyone else; but the dreams he had were so strange and vivid.
There was a hotel... or had he been kidnapped? There was a snowy fortress that would have made Cubby Broccoli weep with envy and inside his father who was dead.
There was also a beautiful blonde (who had walked away from him - nothing new there) with such familiar eyes.
He had also dreamed of the man who had found the passport he had dropped. A Mr Searle or Carls or was it even Mr Green?... Robert couldn’t remember.
Well, whoever he was, his subconscious mind liked him enough to use him as an avatar to lead the attack against an extraction attempt being made on him by men hired by his Uncle Peter.
Since it was a dream, seeing that Mr Carls’ (it was a good a name as any other) team was made of people he knew (Colin Blythe-Eames from Uncle Peter’s office and Mr Saito of Proclus, who had been supportive of his ideas for the future) wasn’t a surprise. It felt comforting that his subconscious was using the images of people he knew to aid him in his defence of his own mind.
Robert remembered facing his uncle in the dream; being told that his father was taunting him from the grave and that Browning didn’t want him to destroy Fischer Morrow in a fit of pique. Hence the hostile ‘takeover’.
If it hadn’t have been for Mr Carls being there to support him, Robert would have just folded like a bad hand at poker. Instead he turned the tables, aided Mr Carls and his team to perform an extraction on Browning.
The extraction itself played like a sequence from one of the old James Bond movies that Robert used to watch with his mother when he was young. She’d instilled a love of movies into her son. His father was always working on something that demanded his attention more than his only son did.
Explosions, gunfire and snow. White as far as the eye could see; only to be broken up by the grey of mountains or architecture. And red; blood (not his own) splatter on snow.
No one had told him that danger would drop in from the ceiling before shooting him dead. At least someone (himself? or the mysterious woman who shot him) dreamed up a beach for him on that level. Which was kind of them.
As for the whole bound and gagged aspect... Robert would have found it a bit more palatable if dinner and dancing had formed the prelude. There was also a beautiful woman with large, chocolate coloured eyes, who’d taken off his gag with gentle hands and a kick that a kangaroo would be proud of...
Which landed him back in the Blofeld-esque fortress and Blythe-Eames’ hands all over his chest. Best way to come back from the dead that Robert could think of.
Robert hadn’t needed much encouragement from Blythe-Eames to open the safe but then he had thought it contained Browning’s secrets.
Not his own. Not the realisation that his father had loved and treasured him. That he wasn’t disappointed in Robert; he was disappointed that Robert was trying to be something he wasn’t. That Maurice Fischer wanted his son to be his own man. To forge his own path.
And then Robert woke up. His heart aching but lighter than it had been in Sydney. His father had loved him and wanted him to be his own man.
And that was what Robert Fischer was going to do.
***
Nine days after landing in Los Angeles, Eames was back in Sydney. Partly to ensure that his exit was as clean as possible and to also ensure that Peter Browning didn’t jeopardise what he and the others had worked so hard to pull off.
Eames was no pointman but he had still picked up a trick or two from the best (namely Arthur) in his time.
As such, Eames had approached Saito, post inception, with the information he had ‘appropriated’ from Browning’s office and the germ of a plan.
Saito met him, in the hotel bar of the best hotel in Los Angeles, surrounded by the great and the good, and listened to what Eames had to say.
“May I ask exactly why you are doing this Mr Eames?” Saito asked after Eames had finished his spiel.
“Because Robert Fischer will break up his company and then go onto create something far more extraordinary than you or I can imagine,” Eames replied, knowing the truth of his words. He’d bet on it.
Eames watched Saito take a sip of his whiskey as he contemplated what he had just said. He was half expecting a flat out dismissal but instead was pleasantly surprised when Saito wrote down a name and a number on a napkin for him.
“Someone took a leap of faith for me,” he murmured handing over the sheet to Eames, “It is only fair that I repay the favour.”
Eames later discovered that the name and number belonged to a very credible Australian business journalist with links in all the right places. A phone call followed by a fax obtained him a meeting with her.
A promise of anonymity and a read through of the folder did the rest.
***
Peter Browning retired from Fischer-Morrow just under a month after Robert Fischer inherited the company; citing poor health. The damning exposé printed in the Sydney Morning Herald may or may not have had a part to play in his decision.
*
Eames returned to Mombasa a very, very rich man. Doing the impossible with ease had its rewards. A while later, a letter arrived on his doorstep. Surprising as no one knew the address. Not as much as surprise as the content of the letter.
He had been ‘granted’ a full pardon for all crimes he may (or may not) have committed.
Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Eames retired from the mind crime game. He packed a bag and went travelling, eventually settling in Sydney, Australia. None of his former comrades could work out why.
*
After the passing of his father, Robert Fischer became a new man. It started with the break up of Fischer-Morrow; the proceeds of which went to fund a successful venture into Fusion technologies. Within ten years, his company was the world leader in the area. Becoming more successful than his father had ever been.
He stayed in Sydney, living with his house keeper, Mrs Jones and the love of his dreams. All in all, he was happy. Which is all anyone can ask for from this life.
Fin