Dirty Deeds... | R | 1 of 3
February, 2013
Sam leans forward, closes his eyes, rests his forehead against the cool, cement block of the wall. He listens, runs his fingers over the gun at his hip. Three people inside of a room at the end of the hallway, all of them talking in Urdu about the latest Test results down in South Africa. Shift change is in fifteen minutes, and one of the men gives a low chuckle, talking about his new wife, another says something about a sick child, medicine too expensive in the wake of Musharraf's near-ousting back in October.
He knows this, understands the words, because Sam is a natural with languages and never goes into a job without practically becoming an expert on whatever country his mission is in. His research-gathering has been good, this time especially, thanks to the amount of time he’s been working on it. All of his intelligence, collected over the past eight months, says that the three men inside, the ones he's listening to, are the ones that need to die.
The door at the end of the hallway clicks as someone on the other side punches in the combination to the first lock. Sam stiffens, stands straight, and looks at the door. Another click as the second lock tumbles open, and then the ratchet and scratch as a key turns the third lock. He doesn't move, merely watches the door swing out and open, eyes meeting the gaze of the person on the other side.
"Ah, Saleem," the man says, wearing the uniform of a guard. Someone come to relieve the shift, and early; the man smiles and waves, lets the door close behind him with a clatter-clang. "You are early as well, yes?"
Sam smiles, adjusts the collar of his military jacket, and replies in perfect Urdu. "I am indeed, Aamir. My wife, she ran me out of the house."
The man, Aamir, laughs, closes the distance between them, claps Sam on the shoulder. "Women are a blessing from Allah," he says, and Sam joins him as Aamir adds, "sometimes."
--
They walk down the hallway together, knock on the door to the guards’ room and then enter, the three inside greeting them with laughs and smiles. Sam smiles back, starts joking with them all, and makes plans to meet up with the others after his shift is done. Business as usual, just as it has been since Sam started working with them all.
"I'll drag Aamir along as well, whether he wants to come or not," he says as the original three leave.
"We'll be at the kebab house, to watch the cricket match, after the masjid jāmi," a shorter man, with a beaming face says. "Meet us there; we'll save you a place."
Sam nods, Aamir makes his token protests, and then it's just the two of them, keeping watch over a wall of computer screens.
--
That night, Sam drops a digitalis-based chemical into the drinks of the three men on the other shift while laughing and watching television with them. He takes everyone to their individual homes, sticks to the shadows, makes sure they die the next day, and then catches a plane to Japan.
December, 2001
Six in the morning and Sam's already out of bed, dressed in sweats and a t-shirt, running around Lake Lag. He's on his seventh mile, wide-awake and thinking about his exam later that day, Psych 201 and pointless, when he sees people on the trail up ahead. He slows down, cautious, but keeps jogging; he makes out two figures, both in suits, and stops when he's within five arm-lengths of them.
Between the generic black suits, white shirts, nondescript ties, and sunglasses perched on their noses, he figures government and feels his heart sink.
Sam stands there and waits, the suits do as well, neither making a move toward him until one fidgets and finally says, "Sam Winchester?"
He doesn't mean to be belligerent but Sam's been trained out of any respect for authority, so his "Who wants to know?" sounds more confrontational than wary.
The other agent cracks a smile, pushes his sunglasses up onto his head, and says, "We do. No names for now. Just wanted to say hello, see how school’s going for you."
Sam doesn't believe that for a minute and his mocking laugh tells the agents what he thinks about that introduction. "What did they do this time?"
The agents exchange glances, rookie mistake; Sam could've taken both of them out in the second they're distracted, could've made a run for it and been halfway to Arizona by the time they'd've caught up with him.
"We're not here about your family, Sam," the fidgety agent says.
"They're fine, both your father and your brother," the other, smiling man, carries on. "Dean's with a Pastor Jim Murphy in Minnesota and your father just finished a werewolf thing in South Carolina, he's on his way to pick Dean up."
Sam tilts his head, furrows his brow, and asks, "Werewolf? You guys actually know what's out there?"
The smiling agent laughs, says, "Just because we don't do anything about them doesn't mean we don't know about them, Sam. Your kind does well enough. There hasn't been a major outbreak to scare the public since Roswell. Until that happens, we’ll keep our noses out of it."
February, 2013
Twenty six hours after getting on a plane in Lahore, Korean Air flight 322 pulls to a gate at Haneda Airport. Sam unwinds his legs from their cramped position, thanks the flight attendants on his way out in an obnoxious southern accent, and pulls out an American passport. Getting through Customs and Immigration is a breeze; Sam makes his way to a bathroom and closes himself in a stall.
First, Sam removes his jacket and balls it up, shoves it in the toilet bowl, and takes a tube of what looks like toothpaste out of his pocket, covering the jacket with the mint-smelling paste; the paste hits the water and starts disintegrating the jacket in seconds. Next, he reaches into his backpack, pulls out a small tube of lipgloss and unscrews one end of it, assembles a miniature plastic razor from the pieces that fall out. Quickly but carefully, Sam shaves off the small mustache he'd grown and trims his sideburns, rubs the petroleum of the lipgloss on the white patches of his face, and his skin darkens slightly, enough to match his tan. He flips his t-shirt inside out, and pulls a pair of jeans out of the bottom of the backpack, trades them for the suit trousers he's wearing and shimmies into the denim, bending so that they rest on his hips, cling tight to his ass.
Sam checks his appearance in a small hand-mirror, finally nods his approval and walks out, shades on his face, covering his eyes. Airport security, dressed casual to blend in, doesn't take note of him as he leaves the bathroom and heads for the Tokyo Monorail.
--
It doesn't take long to get to Shibuya, and Sam gets off of the train in a massive crush of people, emerging to the sights and sounds of one of the busiest areas of Tokyo, blending in with the crowd and all but disappearing. He ducks into several shops, gets back on a different train an hour and a half later, a few million yen poorer, wearing Center Gai clothes, looking like a trendy young gaijin wasting time and surfing the lines. No one gives him a second glance.
He rides the train back to the airport and boards a flight for Osaka, using a Japanese passport. It's a quick flight, then Sam's travelling to Kobe on another train, having changed again at the station. The train's full, so he falls into a half-sleep as he's standing up.
--
Departing the train, Sam could almost navigate the route he's taking blindfolded or drugged -- thankfully, he's neither, not like the first time he came here, to cement an agreement between NSA and the largest Yakuza faction. Since then, almost five years ago, he's kept in contact with some of the fuku-honbucho and the oyabun finds him entertaining, likes him to stop by when he's on the island. While Sam was able to dodge the police and airport security, the Yakuza's better about knowing who comes and goes, so he makes it a point to travel down to Kobe if he's ever in Asia. NSA never seems to mind, and neither do his superiors; both only encourage him to do so.
He walks up to the front door, knocks once, and bows when it's opened by a man he's never seen before, asks to speak with the saiko komon if possible, in soft-spoken Japanese. The man at the door stares at him for a few, long moments, but Sam doesn't lift up from his bow, waits there, neck close to being bared, and he knows the instant the man recognises the top edges of the Yamabishi tattooed on the back of his neck.
The doorman ushers Sam through a labyrinthine maze of offices, deeper and deeper into the building. He lets Sam into an office and bows at a man who Sam knows is a secretary. The doorman leaves and the secretary greets Sam with a smile, offers him tea. Sam declines and the secretary goes through a door behind him in to the inner sanctum, emerging to tell Sam he can enter to see the saiko komon.
Sam does so, with a smile and a murmur of thanks.
“Ah, our gaijin friend,” a man behind the desk says, standing and bowing, when Sam closes the door behind him.
Sam bows back, lower, and says, “I was in the area and thought I would visit the oyabun, if he wishes to see me.”
“In the area,” the other murmurs, slight smile on his face. “You came out of the subcontinent, Samuel. The oyabun will be pleased at your thoughtfulness. I have sent Hasada to contact him. Will you not have tea while we wait?”
--
The secretary who originally offered Sam tea must be Hasada, because he comes back in and says, “The oyabun will see you now.”
Sam gets ushered into the oyabun’s office and stays for three hours, sharing sake out of the same cup, before the oyabun instructs the others to keep Sam happy until his morning flight to Okinawa.
The saiko komon accompanies Sam to an okiya, takes Sam to his own house for the night, and puts Sam on the airplane himself the next morning, both of them wearing matching black suits, discreet gold bracelets identifying them as special advisors to the oyabun of the Yamaguchi-gumi. Every person at the airport treats them with the utmost respect, but when Sam disembarks at Okinawa’s airport, no one there takes much notice of him, the bracelet tucked away in his pocket, the tie left on the plane and his top two shirt buttons undone, jacket slung over one shoulder, sleeves rolled up, a different Japanese passport clearing his way through Customs.
Without much effort, Sam makes his way to Kadena Air Base. The guard in the gatehouse out front stops him, asks for ID, and Sam pulls out a card the size of a driver's license which makes the MP's eyes widen minutely. He salutes Sam with a flourish, calls him colonel, and lets him on base.
Kadena's somewhat peaceful, better than Karachi, definitely better than Shibuya, but the scream of planes overhead makes Sam look up, stop walking for a moment. F-15Cs, in a five-plane formation: the lead plane turns into a barrel roll while the other four curve off, two spiralling up, two down. Sam grins, watching, and when a woman says, "Enjoying the view, colonel?"
He turns his attention to her, nods, and says, "It's always good to see them performing, not out on runs. How're you doing today, lieutenant?"
"Good sir, thank you. How was your mission?" she asks, smiling at him, friendly but the tiniest bit stand-offish.
Sam doesn't begrudge the attitude, laughs instead at the question. "I'd tell you if I could, lieutenant."
Her smile turns wry and she leaves, telling Sam to have a good day. He wishes her a good day and turns his head to the sky. The planes are gone, so he goes inside and gets on a private line to Langley.
Eight hours later, he's boarding a military hop flight to Hawaii.
March, 2009
Sam closes the door behind him and glances around the one-room apartment before letting his mask down. He leans against the door and can’t help sighing heavily; his head aches and he’s got first-degree burns over his face and arms, courtesy of the shields and protections around the objective he was sent after. He knows he needs to report in, let his supervisor know that the paperwork is in his possession and his position’s secure enough to let him stay and tie up loose ends, but the quiet’s nice and something he doesn’t get very often.
Just as he thinks that, a car alarm goes off and someone else starts honking, an emergency vehicle turns on its siren and people walk past on the street below, talking loudly. A wry smile crosses Sam’s lips as he dips his head in acknowledgement of the universe’s poke at him.
He tried to get away from the hunter’s lifestyle but now, as he crosses the room and looks out of the window, over the Camden nightlife, he thinks that he’s only traded one life of hunting for another, the mundane for the supernatural, the jet-setting life of a modern-day James Bond for the more physical footsteps of a real-life Indiana Jones. The thought makes Sam ache, but then his watch beeps and a new IM window opens up on his computer.
Sam wipes his mind of lonely resentment and makes his report.
February, 2013
From Kadena, Sam’s flight lands at Hickam AFB, just outside of Honolulu, refuels, and goes on to Nellis AFB, on the northeast edge of Las Vegas. Sam thanks the pilots, deals with the saluting and kowtowing, and goes straight to an agency safehouse downtown.
He walks in, throws his hat on the kitchen table, loosens his tie as he moves to the communications room in the basement and sits down with a sigh, letting the others in the house move around him, set up everything he’ll need for the teleconference with his supervisor out east.
“Something to eat or drink while you wait, Samuel?” one of the others asks him, and Sam declines with a shake of his head. He knows he’s something of a legend to the people here, techies that don’t get out in the field and a couple agents who only serve to staff the house and keep it running with some level of obscurity in and amongst the general population. Usually he’d tell them stories, keep them entertained while they work but he’s tired after three days travel following eight months deep-cover work in Pakistan and wants nothing more than to fall into a bed, no matter whose, and sleep for a week.
--
“We received positive reports an hour after you arrived in Japan,” Charles is telling him, “both from our people in the field and the CIA agent masquerading as your wife. They sent in some more of their own operatives to secure the objectives and were successful. They’re very pleased with your work, naturally, but your next assignment’s coming from NSA.” Sam nods, but can’t help the sudden look of shock when Charles adds, “Your last assignment, Sam, unless you want to re-up. Obviously we’d love to keep you around.”
Sam leans back in his chair, thinks back, finally realises, yes, it’s been twelve years since Anderson and Smith approached him at Stanford, a year of training and supervised missions, nine years of work, and two years after re-signing. He’ll be thirty soon.
He’s not entirely sure he’s cut out for civilian life but he has a handful of diplomas from universities all over the world in a lockbox outside of St. Louis, a couple certifications for various jobs, and the thought of having someone different to answer to, having a certain amount of freedom and the chance to worry about safe, normal things, is more appealing now than it was two years ago.
“We can give you some time off, if you’d like to think about it,” Charles prompts, waking Sam out of his thoughts, “but after this mission. Are you ready for me to send over the particulars?”
“Yes, sir,” Sam replies, punches in his security code to the computer and the machine plugged in that will decode the files Charles is transmitting.
It doesn’t take long for the files to arrive and then Sam’s clicking through three different files, one a target briefing, one on locations, the last on personnel.
“As you can see, this one will be somewhat challenging,” Charles says. “Shevchenko’s more well-guarded than we usually like. We’d leave him alone or come back at another time, but NSA has definitively linked him to al-Qaeda’s European operations and POTUS wants him to serve as an example. The intelligence that NSA has gathered with the help of our friends in Europe should be complete. Preliminary impressions?”
Sam glances the briefing file over, the objective, the target’s normal movements, the potential ins, and finally says, “I don’t look eighteen anymore, but I can pass for twenty-two. If his regular hooker’s gone, I can insinuate myself in that way.” He looks up, sees Charles’ lips twist unpleasantly. “You disagree? I’m not seeing many other options.”
“We’ve managed to get you in and out of some unpleasant assignments without having to whore you out,” Charles says. “Your last mission, I should think we could do the same here. It’s possible, Sam.”
“I’ll do my best,” Sam replies after a moment, oddly touched at Charles’ concern. “But the objective is what’s important,” he adds, taking his eyes off of the teleconference screen, back to the file contents. “Whatever it takes, Charles, as always.”
--
Sam delves into the research behind the case, starts brushing up on his Ukrainian and Russian, and decides he needs better library resources than UNLV can provide him. Just for fun, when Sam flies to New York, he uses a Polish passport.
He spends two weeks’ worth of days flitting between a small, Ukrainian neighbourhood and the library, spends his nights walking the streets with the working boys. He went through a crash-course introduction to their lifestyle a few years ago, one of those missions where he had to observe the same building for a month or so and eventually get in and out without being noticed. The easiest way, at that time, was to stay with the prostitutes on the street, keep his eyes open and fixed on the building even when johns were shoving him to his knees and prying his mouth apart with their hands, cocks. He never told Charles he actually went through with the pretence then, won’t tell him about the other times he’s whored himself out for the sake of the mission, his goals.
Sam knows he should feel disgusted with himself, but it’s been a long time since he learned to separate his thoughts from his body. His father taught him how to do this when he was a child, part of the pain-management lessons Sam hated but took to heart: ways to minimise bodily distractions in order to continue hunts, do what was needed even with broken bones, dizzy-eyed from concussions, rattled from invisible injuries.
It’s not much different now, using his body as a tool, pushing it as hard as he can and paying his way with it while his mind is racing in a different direction. The hookers seem to recognise some of their jaded lifestyle in Sam’s eyes, seem to accept his bitterness and strut as kin to their own; once they realise he isn’t staying and doesn’t intend to poach on their turf, they teach him as much as they can in the two weeks Sam’s in New York.
After that, and once he’s unthinkingly replying to grocery store clerks in Ukrainian and idly wondering which eyeliner colour would bring out the colour of his green-gold irises the best, Sam heads to Lviv.
July, 2006
Sam’s in the main tech office when he has a vision too painful to ignore. He’s gotten good at dealing with them over the past two years, at first passing them off as migraines. He learned quickly how to force them to wait, to use the driving pain of stalling them instead of being crippled by them and then getting back to a safe place and giving into them, biting into belts in lieu of screaming. He’s never once broken cover thanks to a vision, something that seems improbable at best, and he’s proud of that.
This one starts while one of the techs is going over the latest camera/jump-drive combo in the form of a tie-pin. Sam’s nodding along as the tech, a twitchy girl they all refer to as Q, explains where the USB port is, how the infrareds work, what the file storage capacity is; all of a sudden, his head starts pounding. At first he ignores it, but then the aches split, multiply, and spread, deeper and more painful than anything he’s ever felt before.
Sam can’t help the gasp that escapes his lips, and Q asks if he’s all right the second before he passes out.
--
Starbursts explode in a night so black as to be all-consuming, but then things settle down and out, people and places taking shape. There’s a cabin in the middle of nowhere, it seems, and three people in a room: his father, his brother, and someone younger, someone he’s never seen before. The kid has glowing yellow eyes and John’s holding a gun that Sam remembers from his days as a trainee; John shoots and the kid explodes into a million pieces of electricity.
Sam vaguely recognises that his entire body is seizing in pain as the sparks of electricity flicker then fade, and he screams as what feels a hand reaches into his chest and pulls at something. Dean, the Dean in his vision, sprinkles something in the air and the feeling disappears. Sam’s body relaxes and he slips into psychic unconsciousness.
--
He hears beeping, opens his eyes and promptly closes them again. A surreptitious sniff and Sam groans as the smell of hospital cleaner floods his nostrils.
“You’re lucky, y’know,” a voice says, conversational but not necessarily friendly.
Sam cracks an eyelid and waits for the form of a woman in a white coat to coalesce. “Why’s that?” he asks, voice rasping.
She smiles, a wholly professional expression. Sam sits himself up, looks around, and wants to groan again when he puts two and two together and comes up with the agency’s medical compound, not his favourite place in the world.
“You could have cracked your head open on the floor when you fell,” she says, adjusting one of the monitors next to Sam’s bed. “One of the others caught you and they brought you here immediately. All of our scans came out clean; we have no idea why you collapsed and suffered such a massive seizure.”
She’s obviously waiting to see if Sam’s going to fill in any of the blanks, but looks only slightly amused when he merely shrugs.
“Observation for a week or until you drive us crazy, Winchester, and six months of supervised missions. We don’t want this happening while you’re in the field.” She fiddles with something else then leaves, heels click-clacking on the tile floor.
Sam leans back, stares at the ceiling, and finds he’s more upset about six months of hand-holding than he is thrilled that his father and brother somehow killed the demon that took his mother.
March 2013
NSA’s already taken out the target’s regular hooker and has him in custody, a sixteen year old kid with a sneer painted across his face. Sam sits down across from him, government-issue table between them, American agents watching through a one-way mirror. The kid looks older than his file states, is wearing strategically-ripped jeans, a battered Rolling Stones t-shirt, and the most artfully applied make-up Sam’s ever seen. Shaggy hair spills every which way in loose curls, and the kid’s got a tattoo on the inside of his forearm, visible as he sprawls there, taking Sam in.
Sam doesn’t say anything, and the kid cracks first, finally asks in Surzhyk who the hell they are and what the fuck they want with him. Sam grins, at that, and the kid scowls, hisses that Sam’s an idiot who wouldn’t be able to find his own dick if it didn’t get hard for children.
At that, Sam leans forward, says, “I’d be very careful what you say to me,” watching as the kid’s eyes widen with the menace underlying Sam’s words, also in Surzhyk. “One word from me, and those nice men out there’ll be digging your grave. Understand?”
The kid doesn’t say anything, just watches Sam, finally replies, “Yeah, sure.” The tone isn’t impressed but Sam wasn’t expecting that, not with everything they know about this kid: thrown out of the house at six, member of a street gang by seven, whoring by twelve. It would take a lot more than some random guy giving him a death-threat to make the kid sweat, and Sam’s not here to do that.
“Tell me about Shevchenko,” Sam says. The kid starts to say something about his politics, but Sam interrupts with an indulgent grin and says, “What he likes from you.”
Sam watches as the kid runs a hand through his hair, eyes calculating. He’s not surprised when the kid stands up, walks around the table, and kneels in front of Sam, running his hands over Sam’s thighs.
“To tell you would take too long,” the kid says, and looks up through his bangs, licking his lips. “Tell me what you need me to do and I will. I swear it, on the soul of my father; I’ll do what you want me to.”
To say that Sam’s amused would be an understatement. He starts to laugh and the kid looks disgusted, spits out some insults, rocks back on his heels. “I’ll make a deal with you,” Sam finally says, once he catches his breath. “You tell me what I want to know and I won’t kill you. We’ll even let you go once we’re done.”
That reminder of Sam’s power, delivered with a smile on Sam’s face, makes more of an impression than the menace had a few minutes earlier. With a pout, the kid goes back to his side of the table, sits on the chair, and starts talking.
--
Sam’s leaning up against the side of a building, wearing skin-tight black leather pants, tied at the crotch with silk lacing. A ragged Sex Pistols t-shirt does nothing to keep out Lviv’s chill, and goosebumps chase themselves up and down his arms, from the rolled-up shirt sleeves to the fingernails painted black. His hair’s left untouched, long ends curling around his ears, bangs hanging down into his eyes, which are circled by thick lines of black kohl. Boots and an earring complete the ensemble, stereotypical punk rocker or whore of a certain class.
He doesn’t expect Shevchenko to pick him up tonight, but he’s standing there when the man passes by, looking for the kid they have in custody. The next time, Sam’s on his knees, a different man’s hands knotted in his hair, and on the third pass, Sam’s got his hands pressed up against the building, pants down around his ankles, someone grunting behind him as they thrust.
The fourth time Shevchenko walks down the street, a week later, he stops in front of Sam and asks, “How much for the whole night?”
Sam wants to smile as he names what he knows to be a good price. Shevchenko bargains him down a little but, within minutes, Sam’s following him down the block and getting into the man's car. They go back to a hotel, Shevchenko’s room, and fuck for hours. When Sam leaves the next morning, he has a few thousand hryven' in his pocket and Shevchenko’s dead.
He doesn’t go back to the NSA field-house after it’s done, can’t risk anyone following him there. Instead, he fishes clothes out from a drop point and changes in an alley, emerging dressed in jeans and a designer button-down, jacket over one arm, expensive phone in one pocket, British passport and EU ID card in the other. Sam hotwires one of the nicer cars parked on the street and drives to Poland.
Sam’s stopped at the border, asked his business, and with an Oxbridge accent, explains to the guard that he’s scouting locations for a film. “The Ukrainian government,” he says, “wasn’t very accommodating, but one of my underlings has spoken with the locals in Lublin and I’m going to talk with them, see if we can’t work something out.”
The guard looks uninterested and waves Sam through. He’s on a plane to London before the media breaks the news of Shevchenko’s death.
December, 2001
German history isn’t that entertaining, not after three hours of sleep for the past four nights. Sam’s been having strange dreams, people all over the world dying, dreams that wake him up and won’t let him close his eyes for hours, something innately disturbing about the way that these people die, people he’s never seen before. Monday afternoon and a final exam on Thursday morning, Sam needs to study like he needs to breathe, but even coming out to one of the busiest coffee-shops on campus isn’t keeping him awake like he needs to be. He reaches for his own coffee, tries to take a sip but then remembers that it’s empty and groans.
“Refill?” someone asks, and Sam looks up from his text, narrows his eyes as he’s glancing between the two agents. Both of them are wearing jeans and button-downs, suit jackets, dressed down but still with that government air about them. One of them, the one that smiled so much the last time, is holding out a steaming cup of coffee to Sam while the other watches.
Sam can see the outlines of guns under their jackets, wants to tell them to fuck off, but his back’s to the wall and there’s a crowd of people between him and the door. He gives them a grudging look of understanding, why they’re here, why now, and leans back in his chair, puts his pencil down.
“Why not,” he says, and the agents take that as the invitation it is.
The smiling one sits down first, passes the coffee over to Sam, and says, while Sam’s inhaling pure caffeine, “You can call me Anderson. That’s Smith,” gesturing at the other man, who’s turned a chair and is straddling it, arms resting on the back, chin on top of his arms.
“Not your real names, of course,” Sam says, and Anderson inclines his head in acknowledgement. “Take-off from The Matrix?”
“We thought you’d appreciate it,” Anderson replies. “After all, you’ve seen the movie quite a few times. Even written a couple essays on it, haven’t you?”
It’s not a question, so Sam doesn’t answer it; the last essay he wrote on the elements of Buddhist philosophy behind the film was due a week ago, but the one before that was during his junior year of high school. It’s more of an admission that they’ve been watching Sam for quite some time, so Sam feels comfortable asking them point-blank what they want with him.
Smith moves, the silent partner, Sam guesses, but Anderson doesn’t take his eyes off of Sam, studies him before finally saying, “Your father was regular Marines, back in Vietnam. Echo 2/1, they did some good work.” Sam nods, once, eyes narrowed, as he waits for more. “He received some awards during his time over there.”
“The Bronze Star and the Purple Heart,” Sam says, eyes flicking between the two men, keeping in sight the exits and the crush of people waiting in line at the counter. “He never told us what for, though.”
Anderson nods, says, “That’s because he wasn’t allowed to. He did some work for MCIA a couple times, hairy spots when they needed a sharp-shooter. Had a good eye, your father, and a steady trigger hand.”
Sam swallows, can’t help it. MCIA means Marine Intelligence, military intelligence, for all that he’s always privately thought that an oxymoron. A great many things click in to place at that moment, like puzzle pieces Sam’s been carrying around for years finally fitting together, and he narrows his eyes even more at the agents across the table from him.
“Your father was almost recruited, but he did his time and got out, went back to the States and got married before anyone could ask him,” Anderson goes on. “He was left alone, but then your mother died and John fell off the grid. We’ve kept an eye on him ever since, saw how he was raising you and your brother, got interested. A great deal of government intelligence training has gone into you and Dean, Sam, more than you’d know.”
“So, what, you’re coming to collect?” Sam spits out, suddenly seeing where this is going, feeling his heart skip a beat, his blood run cold. “Look, I’m not a hunter, I don’t like the life, and it’s not what I’m going to do.”
Smith snorts, where he’s sitting at, and the congenial smile slips off of Anderson’s face as he nods slowly. “We had our eye on Dean for a while, I’m not going to lie. He took to it better than you did, less fighting, plus he’s older. But our profilers think he’s too entrenched in the supernatural end of things to worry about more mundane events and too maladjusted to do what we’d need him to. He depends far too much on your father and sticks out like a sore thumb wherever he goes. His methods work for him but that aren’t exactly subtle, y’know? But you,” Anderson says, voice lowered, designed to make Sam lean in-Sam doesn’t, just reads the man’s lips-“you’re different, aren’t you, Sam. Independent enough to make your own decisions, headstrong and resourceful enough to follow through. You might not be as good with the weaponry as your brother, but you have talent and you’re much better at hand-to-hand. We’ve been watching you since you arrived here; you’ve had a few missteps, sure, who wouldn’t, but you managed to fall into the backdrop of campus life. That couldn’t have been easy.”
“It wasn’t,” Sam says, slowly, an unspoken agreement that they have a point.
“You’ve gone unnoticed, you’ve blended in, you’re intelligent, physically fit, good with languages, practically half-trained already, and,” Anderson adds, “underneath that non-threatening, friendly exterior, you’re one of the most cunning bastards we’ve ever had our eye on.”
While some part of him wants to know where they pulled the ‘cunning’ label from, Sam can’t help grinning at the summary in whole, halfway baring his teeth. Seeing that grin, perversely, makes Anderson smile back and relax. “This is my life,” Sam says. “Like you said, I fought hard for it. I’m done with taking orders, so you can just go back to wherever it is you people crawl out from and tell your bosses that I’m a waste of time. My father said I was unteachable and intractable. I’m sure you’d find much the same.”
This time it’s Smith that speaks, and he says, “We know you, Sam. We’ve been watching you for years, so don’t give us any of that bullshit. We all know your father said things like that to goad you on, not condemn you. If you don’t take us up on this, you’ll always wonder what it would’ve been like. I can guarantee it’ll be a hell of a lot more interesting than your exams, or law school, or private practice. You want to change the world? We’re the ones that can give you the keys, not some professor in a classroom.”
Smith might have a point, but Sam doesn’t even know which organisation they’re from, why they decided to come after him now and not earlier, not later, so he just lets his eyes drift between the two of them, trying to remind himself that he likes school, German history, the stresses of final exams.
“Look, Sam,” Anderson sighs, “here’s the thing. We know about your family. We know what they’re doing and what they’ve done. We know about every charge that’s ever been levelled against them and where it came from, local, state, federal.”
He doesn’t need to say more before Sam’s running cold with rage. “So if I don’t agree to whatever deal you wanna make,” he hisses, “you’ll, what, give them up? Put them in jail?”
“And you,” Anderson replies, lips pressed thin, eyes hard, cold. “Maximum security for the rest of your lives. Separate, of course; we couldn’t chance having you in the same prison. We’d tell your father why, naturally, but not Dean, just say that it’s on your word this was done. I don’t think he’d appreciate it very much, Sam, do you?”
Sam’s mind is running in circles, and he asks, slowly, “How do I know that you really know where they are? You could be making this all up.”
Smith reaches into his jacket, pulls out a brown manila envelope, and slides it across the table to Sam, who studies it for a moment before opening it, pulling out pictures of his family. They’ve been taken recently, and they’re mixed in with a list of contacts, an itinerary of everywhere all three of them have been for the past year. Sam stares at the last entry on his own listing: Palo Alto, California: Stanford. Arr. 18 July, 18:47. The departure date is left blank.
“What agency would I be working for?” Sam asks, elbows on the table, cold cup of coffee next to him. His voice sounds empty.
“There’s a group that exists under the oversight of a select few,” Anderson replies, “those few being namely the Joint Chiefs, the directors of the CIA and NSA, and the president. You’d be working for them. Missions come out of any federal agency and are generally considered too difficult for regular operatives. Training will last as long as it needs to, but our profilers consider you well-advanced of regular recruits. Theoretically, and with your previous experience, you could be out in the field unsupervised in as little as twelve months.”
Sam nods, swallows. He can’t look at Anderson as he asks, “For how long?” but he can still see the two men exchange glances at each other.
“Minimum period of ten years,” Anderson answers. “With optional re-upping after that.” He pauses, then adds, “Really, it’s not that long. And you never know, Sam. You may find out you enjoy the work.”
“How long do I have to decide?” Sam asks, not giving the other man’s word the courtesy of a response.
Smith takes out his phone, glances at the time. “This is going to ring in seventeen minutes. You’ll need to give us an answer by then. We’re in place to apprehend both your brother and your father as we speak; in seventeen minutes, we’ll be forced to inform local authorities of arrests.” Sam looks up, and Smith smiles. “Think fast, Sam.”
Sam nods, just once, and picks up his cup of coffee, takes a long swallow of the tepid liquid. His mind aches from how furiously he’s thinking but he doesn’t really have a choice. Either he agrees and loses his freedom while John and Dean keep theirs or he refuses and they all go to jail. No matter which way he chooses, he’s already lost Stanford, lost the hope of his dreams, but one way it’s for ten years, the other, for life.
He glances over his history texts, thinks about the few friends he’s made, the dreams he’s been having lately, school. Stanford’s been great, but it hasn’t been everything he’d thought; classes are easier than he thinks they really should be, there’s no excitement, and the people here, they seem so young even though he’s one of the youngest around. It’s not just the naïveté, there’s something more, and it’s already started to grate at his nerves.
“Ten minutes,” Anderson murmurs, interrupting Sam’s train of thought, and he doesn’t even hesitate before baring his teeth again and growling at the man. Anderson raises an eyebrow, tries to play it off, but Sam can see something in the back of his eyes that means a weak point, a vulnerability. Not fear, not calculation, but the seeds of it are there, planted, because he knows what Sam’s been through. Anyone else here at Stanford would have laughed or rolled their eyes, shaken off the uneasiness that action is designed to provoke.
For the rest of his time, Sam drinks coffee and looks around, takes in the laughing students, getting ready for Christmas break, groups cramming for exams next week around table covered in books and coffee cups. He’s wondering, idly, what the blonde in the corner’s working on, but then Anderson says, “Five minutes.”
“I want assurances that my family’s free,” Sam says, and Anderson nods. “I want to know that they’re immune from prosecution when it comes to the felonies already on their records or what felonies they might be charged with in the future. Parking tickets, fine, whatever, but everything else will be erased.” Anderson nods again. “You’ll pay off my school loans and the bills that I’ve accrued since I’ve been out here.”
“Of course,” Anderson says. “We take care of our own, Sam.”
Sam thinks, then asks, “Will I be able to tell them anything?”
Anderson shakes his head, says, “I’m sorry. No. No doubt they’ll come up here to check on you but we’ll make sure all traces of you are completely gone. They’ll think you disappeared or died and they’ll look for you. They won’t find you. Standard practice for the type of operative you’ll be.”
Smith’s phone, still on the table, rings once, twice.
“I’ll do it,” Sam says.
Smith answers his phone, says, “Yes,” and hangs up.
When Sam goes with them to file papers with the registrar, he leaves his books on the table.
March, 2013
This time, Sam travels straight back to headquarters, not bothering to stop and report in at any of the safe-houses. He ditched the British passport and the movie producer persona in London, visited one of his contacts in Belfast before flying out of Dublin three days later, carrying an American passport and sporting the attire and accoutrements of a student; it makes strolling through American Customs and Immigration much easier.
From JFK to headquarters is a short trip and, as Sam’s walking into the agency’s headquarters, the entire crew of people, techies to operatives to trainees, applauds him. He grins, taking it in; it’s rare to find an agent with as varied a mission history as Sam, doubly rare to find one still alive that’s used to pulling out operations in the Middle and Far East these days. He’s proud of that, proud of eleven successful years in the field, but also slightly relieved that he decided not to re-up again.
Charles is waiting for him at the end of the hallway, smiling. He debriefs Sam, who glosses over the sex, and begins the process of clearing Sam for retirement.
--
That process takes a few months, during which time Sam moves out of his agency-provided apartment and buys a house just outside of Cape Girardeau, Missouri. The Cape's suburban sprawl but nice, small enough to enjoy and big enough to hide in, near the water on one side and rolling green hills on the other. It’s close enough to the St. Louis area for Sam's taste, good enough for those of Sam's contacts who might travel to see him, and St. Louis has a few good universities and research libraries, some entertainment, but a mere two hours south on I-55 has Sam seeing hills, smelling fresh grass and river water.
Sam applies for a job teaching high school history and is hired almost immediately. One of the administrators on the hiring board is married to a realtor; she gets Sam a good deal on an old-style farmhouse with a wrap-around porch on a few dozen acres. He has enough money to pay cash but he gets a thirty-year mortgage instead, no sense in standing out. He’s trying to pass for normal, after all; he's had plenty of offers from other agencies around the world and Charles keeps asking if Sam knows what he’s doing, retiring to teach high school, but Sam wants something to keep him busy while he’s re-integrating into normal, civilian life.
Sam starts work right away, the former teacher having apparently run off with one of the town's city councilmen; it's something of a scandal but most people are looking forward to Easter and the start of summer. The outroar dies down quickly as Sam settles into a routine.
He likes the kids, finds most of them like him, and soon enough he's getting recognised at the grocery store when he's picking up couscous, or at the library when he's checking out a book in Russian, or at the post office when he's sending off mail to contacts around the world. Sam's just enough a figure of mystery to be whispered about, especially when one of his colleagues lets slip to the town gossip that Sam's former military, served in Afghanistan with NATO forces and has friends around the world, but it dies down quickly when something better comes along.
Part Two