Cry 'Havoc': All Honorable Men | Four
Title: Cry 'Havoc': All Honorable Men
By: tea_diva
Chapter: FOUR
Word Count: 4,659
By 5:30 Brad has long-since found himself a suitable rooftop with swooping ornate stonework behind which he can crouch as he peers down at Pont Neuf through a pair of binoculars he stole from Walt. From this vantage point he is confident that he can see everything without running the risk of being spotted himself.
Ray and Walt had proven quite difficult to part ways with. Mostly, this was because Ray kept insisting they stick together: “You say you’ll meet back up with us, but you have no intention of doing that!”
Brad really has no idea where Ray’s devotion is coming from but he has to admit that when they had dropped him off on their way out of town, he had been sorry to see both of them go. They are the only two people he knows, and they are also the only two people he feels he can trust.
“I hope you know that if by the end of this month you haven’t shown up, and we haven’t read about your death on the front page of the paper, he’s going to start hunting you down,” Walt had said. He’d been filling a backpack with everything Brad might need, which included the binoculars that Brad is currently looking through.
Promptly at the set time, Brad watches a man in a navy blue coat and grey scarf step out of a white van. The bridge has been steadily filling with seemingly innocent bystanders who do not do as good a job of hiding the fact they’re talking into hidden microphones as they think. What’s clear is that whoever Treadstone is, they can’t run a clandestine snatch-and-grab for shit.
Apparently, they also can’t follow simple instructions.
He vacates his observation post moving swiftly through the building. Brad grabs Pappy’s phone from his pocket as he pushes open the side door and turns the collar of his coat up, obscuring his face. These people know what he looks like after all, and it wouldn’t do to get caught when he has gotten this close. When the phone rings he watches as the man in the navy blue coat and grey scarf reaches into his pocket and retrieves a cellphone. “Hello, Bradley?”
Brad really wishes the man would stop calling him ‘Bradley’. It makes him wants to say, ‘Yes Mom?’ which he’s pretty sure would be entirely inappropriate. He walks up behind the white van and ducks down, slipping a tracking device he assembled from a hodge-podge of electronic equipment from Walt’s house beneath the rear bumper.
“I told you to come alone. Apparently, you have difficulty understanding the simplest of instructions, but hopefully you will not have trouble understanding this: I’m gone.”
He disconnects the call but doesn’t pocket the phone. Still continuing at a steady pace as he walks through the streets, Brad keeps an eye on the phone’s screen. Precisely two minutes after he ends the call the little red tracking dot starts moving through the streets of Paris displayed on the small square screen.
Brad turns down a side road and starts following.
________________________
When the call comes Nate isn’t actually doing anything. It’s not like there’s any strings he can pull now that Brad has come forward and is playing the game. Mostly he’s sitting in his office running through a list of variables and wondering what an elite, highly trained asset with amnesia plans on doing to the Director of Operations for Treadstone. That is, if the men Dowdy cobbled together to run a snatch-and-grab on Brad don’t actually manage to get their hands on their target. Which, in truth, Nate finds extremely unlikely.
“Sir?” he says, picking up the phone.
“How long will it take to strike the office?”
Nate blinks, glancing at his watch. “Two or three hours.”
“Start the process now. Wipe the room down, and get everything prepared for moving. We should have done this days ago.”
Pressing his lips together, Nate considers not asking the only question on his mind, but he has to know. “What about Colbert?”
“I’ve activated the asset. I’m on my way. ETA five mikes.”
“Understood.” Nate hangs up, and then drops his head into his hands. “Fuck.”
Really, how many damned assets are they going to keep calling-in to deal with this? If Dowdy had stuck with the initial plan and sent Nate out, he’s certain the whole fiasco would have never spiraled out of control the way it has. They certainly wouldn’t have lost Barcelona. Not that the man was a great paragon of virtue, or even the slightest bit friendly, but he was a person and an asset, and it’s Nate’s job to make sure their assets don’t die needlessly.
In some corners of the CIA Treadstone’s Bravo-agents might be considered handlers, but Nate’s pretty sure those cozy, safe corners of the CIA have no idea what Treadstone assets are capable of. There’s no ‘handling’ them. Nate knows every one of them could function perfectly well entirely independent of the agency. Mostly, they operate like satellites scattered around the globe, carrying-on with normal life until someone like Nate or Craig sends them a message.
The trouble comes from the training. After Brad, Treadstone made a few modifications but it’s still the most grueling, disturbing process. Far beyond anything Nate encountered in the Corps, surpassing even SERE in its intensity. It’s beyond anything he thinks exists anywhere. When he’d read about the process he’d been infuriated and disgusted, and he’d wanted to quit. He hadn’t.
He reminds himself that he’s damned good at his job. That being a Bravo-agent means he is in a unique situation to work the system. It’s everything he was as a lieutenant but he’s not alone out here, stuck between the rain of shit coming down from on high, acting as the only umbrella providing protection for twenty-two men; a single link in a chain of command more interested in executing orders and earning a pat on the head than making effective decisions.
The CIA is all about subtlety and manipulation, and it rewards those who know how to work the system. Nate knows that system backwards and forwards. He walks the fine line between being good at his job, but not so good someone might feel threatened or take it into their head to try and promote him. That’s not what this is about. He's been playing a long game from the moment he was transferred and, from the looks of things, that game just got a lot longer.
He starts striking the office. Shredding documents that he knows are duplicated, wiping the computer hard drives. Prioritizing each task based on what would be the most incrementing or dangerous should it fall into the wrong hands. It’s a lot of work that needs to be done in a hurry.
Periodically, he double-checks the office security: everything locked, all the alarms intact. He goes back to sifting through old paperwork.
“How’s our timetable?” Dowdy asks as he unlocks the front door and comes inside.
“We’re on track.” Nate checks the security again. Nothing yet.
Dowdy pulls off his suit jacket and starts helping. “There’s extra security out front. We’ll move quickly, I don’t think that we'll have any problems.”
Joe Dowdy is an office worker. Or at least, has been an office worker for long enough that he’s forgotten what it’s like out in the field. He’s never dealt directly with an asset. Dowdy’s the one who calls Nate and says, “Get it done.” Nate’s the one who takes it from there. For all that the man might think he understands the program he’s running, he has no idea.
Dowdy looks at Nate and sees his cover, mistakes that cover for reality. A student studying abroad, a kid who’s undoubtedly worrying that there’s an asset out there circling closer and closer to their position. That’s not Nate.
“I’ll work faster, sir,” he says, keeps his head down.
Outside, a car alarm goes off. Nate glances toward the window. On the opposite side of the room, Dowdy turns from the filing cabinet and frowns. “Does that happen often?” he asks, but before he finishes his question one car alarm becomes five, becomes every car on the street.
Nate glances at the computer. “The system is going haywire.”
“Where’s your field box?”
Nate jerks his head toward Craig’s office. “Bottom drawer, right hand side of the desk.”
When Joe’s back is turned Nate slips his own gun from the drop-compartment on the underside of his desk. He tucks it in the waistband of his pants, against the small of his back.
Dowdy cocks the gun he retrieves from the field box and glances over, then he starts walking a slow perimeter around the office. After checking that the agents outside the door are on alert he completes a circuit of the front office before crossing back through to Craig’s, out of sight.
All the lights go out. The office becomes abruptly and utterly dark. Nate feels a cool draft, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. He turns and there’s Brad, perched in the window like he’s been there the whole time.
Seeing him after so long makes Nate want to smile; makes him want to breach the distance between them and wipe away the memory of the past three weeks.
He doesn’t move. They stare at each other.
Pointedly, Nate flicks his eyes in the direction of the other room. Brad shifts forward, steps down off the window ledge and glances where Nate has indicated. Then he turns back to Nate.
He looks different, paler and maybe a little thinner. There’s a faint shadow along his jaw, a hint of a beard circling his mouth. Nate’s seen Brad with facial hair before but usually he prefers to be clean-shaven. Nate finds himself wondering if the facial hair is the result of necessity, just Brad being unable to shave given everything that’s been going on, or if it’s something he likes, now.
Brad’s looking at him and there’s no recognition in his eyes. He’s frowning, like he’s trying to work something out but Nate keeps himself perfectly still, his hands by his sides, his expression inscrutable. There was a time when Brad could have read him anyway.
Nate can tell just by looking though, that time has passed.
________________________
This is why Joe Dowdy works in an office three floors underground in Langley: he hates assets.
Theoretically, he has nothing but sympathy for these men. He’s read the briefs outlining the extra training each asset goes through. It’s not pretty.
Practically, he can understand how having a small army of these guys living around the globe can come in useful. Dowdy is under no illusions; he’s in a particularly immoral line of work, however necessary he deems his job to be. The CIA is all about shades of grey.
Realistically, assets creep Dowdy the fuck out.
One minute, he is standing in the Paris outpost going about his business cleaning up this mess and the next there are car alarms inexplicably blazing, and then there’s no light anywhere at all. He’s walking a perimeter and crosses out of Fick’s office into the adjoining room for a moment. There’s no sound, there’s no indication at all of movement and he’s listening specifically for that.
When he crosses back to the main office the darkness reaches out and gets him into a pretty damned effective choke-hold. Fick’s standing there with slightly wide eyes, and what the hell can the kid do against an asset? Nothing. Especially when Dowdy’s got the only damned gun.
“Drop the gun,” Colbert says. His voice sounds smooth and sophisticated. Like he isn’t holding someone in a lock that could effectively break his captive’s arm in three places.
Out of all of them, Colbert creeps Dowdy out the most. Maybe it’s because he went through the training before it was sanitized. Maybe it’s because he went through the training before it was sanitized and came out the other side more human than some of their other assets. This little psychotic episode has probably been brewing for a hell of a long time. Fucking assets.
“Drop it,” Colbert repeats.
Dowdy lets the gun fall to the floor and watches as Colbert kicks it away. He’s not an idiot. With the gun or without it there’s not much he can do against the Paris asset. “This is bigger than me, or you,” Dowdy says, hoping that reasoning might work. “What exactly do you think you can accomplish here?”
There’s a pause, and he almost holds his breath waiting for the answer. Then Colbert says, “Tell me about Treadstone.”
“It’s a program. Run out of the CIA. Black ops.”
Brad slams him against the wall and hisses, “Assassins.”
Dowdy snorts. “I don’t send you to kill people, Colbert. I send you because you’re invisible. I send you because you don’t exist.”
“So what was Wombosi?”
“You were supposed to execute the mission so the only possible explanation was a member of his own entourage turned on him.” He wraps a hand around the edge of the door with his free hand because his cheek is pressing uncomfortably into the wall. “I don’t know what went wrong. You tell me.”
Colbert pauses. “I don’t know.”
“Bull shit you don’t know!” Dowdy snaps. “I’ve spent three goddamned weeks trying to cleanup the mess you’ve made. ‘I don’t know’ is not going to cut it here. That is unacceptable soldier!”
Colbert jerks away, and then actually steps away. Dowdy hesitates, but after a second he turns around.
Colbert has his hands up to his head and he’s wincing like he’s got a migraine. Dowdy wonders if he should take the opportunity and run for the gun but then Colbert whispers, “Kids.” After a minute he says it again, a little stronger. “There were kids on the boat.”
What the fuck?
Dowdy has been through a really shitty three weeks, that’s his only explanation. Instead of doing something smart like reaching for the gun, he perches his clenched fists on his hips and says, “You’re the one who picked the yacht as the damned strike point! You picked the boat, you picked the day. You tracked the crew, the food, and the fuel! You hid on that damned boat for five fucking days. You were in, it should have been over! You’re telling me this bullshit was because of a couple of kids? You’re an assassin!”
Colbert drops his hands from his head and Dowdy finds himself slammed back against the wall. Hard. He has no idea how he’s going to explain these bruises to his wife. If he lives that long.
“I don’t work for you anymore,” Colbert snarls. “I’m not an assassin. I’m done. Brad Colbert died three weeks ago. He drowned five miles off the coast of Marseilles. I’m leaving.” He knocks Dowdy back into the wall again. “If I even feel someone behind me, there is no measure for how fast and how hard I will bring this fight to your very doorstep.”
Dowdy’s head is throbbing, his back hurts like hell and he’s tired. “You can’t walk away from this.”
The street lamp outside is at the perfect angle to illuminate Colbert’s impossibly pale blue eyes. “Yes I can.” Then he proceeds to demonstrate just how perfectly capable he is of walking away by opening the front office door and stepping out into the hallway. Dowdy waits, expecting the sound of gunfire or at least a fight. He has seven highly skilled agents waiting in that hallway, each of which were thoroughly briefed and prepared to deal with almost any contingency.
Everything is quiet.
When he opens the door all seven agents are sprawled on the floor or draped across the stairs. All of them unconscious, or maybe dead. There is no sign of Colbert. Dowdy closes the door. “Jesus Christ.”
Fick looks at him. “What do we do now, sir?”
“I don’t even know,” he says. If it were anyone but Fick he probably would have said nothing at all. “I highly doubt Mattis will take Colbert’s resignation lightly. Assets don’t walk away from the program.”
Fick tips his head to the side, says, “Have we ever had an asset that wanted to, before?”
No, they haven’t. Dowdy sighs. “Colbert is a thirty million dollar weapon. When he worked, he was damned good. The most he can hope for is that Mattis gets distracted by another project, but it’s only a matter of time.”
The Bravo agent seems to mull that over. “What about the other asset?”
Dowdy shrugs, then pulls his phone from his pocket. “I’ll call him off. Colbert’s lost his memory, I think if we leave him be he’ll let us alone. That’s the best we can hope for at this point.” Fick shifts away as Dowdy sends out the message.
Mattis is going to have a thing or two to say. Dowdy wonders what story he should give. Maybe the man will believe it if Dowdy fakes a car-fire. If the fire burns hot enough, and if the body they get is tall enough, they can easily claim it to be Colbert and that would be it. Everybody happy. Colbert gets to walk away like he wanted, Mattis gets everything tidied and swept back under the carpet, and Dowdy can have his goddamned mornings back. At least until the next crisis comes along which, he thinks, can’t possibly be as much of a colossal rat-fuck as this one has been.
“Finish striking this place,” he tells Fick. “I’m heading back to Langley.”
Fick nods and Dowdy drops the gun from the field kit onto the man’s desk. “What a goddamned mess,” he mutters as he turns to the door.
He walks past the bodies of the agents as he goes down the stairs. Probably he call someone but he’s had about enough of all of it. Fick will take care of it, Dowdy’s certain.
Pushing open the door, he steps out into the cool night and realizes that somewhere in between that whole mess in the office the car alarms were turned off. His ears still feel like they’re ringing. He’s pretty sure that by the time he reaches the plane he’ll have a full-blown migraine. Fucking assets.
Pulling his keys out, Dowdy applauds himself for having the foresight to leave his rental at the outpost and take the van over to the bridge. He really hates driving large, unwieldy vehicles. Especially when he’s in Europe where the roads are all about half the size of the streets in America.
Ahead, a figure steps out of the darkness. Dowdy sighs, of course it couldn’t just be over so easily. “Colbert?”
It’s not Colbert. This shadow is shorter, and the coat he is wearing is longer. Dowdy frowns and then recognizes the asset he placed on standby to take care of Colbert. “Didn’t you get my text? I scrubbed the mission.” He sees the glint of the silencer in the darkness. Dowdy has a moment to recognize it for what it is and opens his mouth, though he doesn’t know what he’s about to say.
He doesn’t hear the shot. He doesn’t see the bullet.
There’s a sharp burst of pain in his chest that makes his breath hitch.
________________________
There’s sunshine and heat and vibrant blue water.
After the grey drabness of Paris in winter the Amalfi Coast is almost overwhelmingly saturated in color. Brad keeps his shades on and breathes deep. The wind is blowing the thin white cotton button-down he’s wearing. He has a tan already because he rented a convertible for the drive. As far as he can remember he’s never driven a convertible before, although he can’t remember ever passing a driving test, either. He’s all about new experiences but some of them he’s pretty certain he doesn’t need to duplicate. Obviously he can drive because he handled himself all right in a high-speed chase. Driving in Italy isn’t much different, actually.
Brad walks down to the pier. He bought himself a nice leather bag into which he stuffed some clothes and a few other things he had liberated from the duffel he’d hidden at the Paris train station.
He moved the duffel of course, stashed it somewhere else where it will be safe. Somehow, he can’t quite believe that making a clean break with whoever he was will be as simple as telling Treadstone he’s no longer interested. If and when the time comes he’s prepared, but for now he’s just a shadow. Nameless, history-less, brand new.
Only, not quite. There’s still that blue square of plastic and that single track on that CD. There’s a copy of The Odyssey in his bag, with handwriting in the margins that Brad knows isn’t his. There’s the smell of cloves and citrus, and a soft voice that welcomes him always into his dreams. There’s the distinct feeling that something is missing.
There is also the bright yellow shop right on the edge of the pier, with a hand painted sign that boasts boat and scooter rentals. “Sweet Baby Jesus,” Ray says, pushing his ginormous sunglasses up to perch in his hair as he leans over the railing, grinning. “Hey Walt!” he cries. “Check who finally showed up!”
Walt pokes his head out the front door of the shop and grins. “Brad! We were wondering when you’d track us down.”
“Next time I advise you to go to ground,” Brad says. “Perhaps it would be wise to refrain from posting fucking personal ads in the newspaper advertising your location.”
Ray shrugs. “How else were you going to find us?” Brad shares a particularly long-suffering look with Walt that is disrupted as Ray starts shoving him into the shop. “Anyway, what were you doing reading the personal ads, Bradley?”
He’s probably certifiably insane for having the opportunity at freedom and then turning around and willingly going in search of Ray Person. Brad doesn’t care because he’s feeling only the giddy-rush of possibility, and Ray’s incessant chatter is distracting that part of him that feels like it’s empty, like he’s misplaced something important somewhere.
“Check this out, Brad,” Ray’s saying. “Walt’s so ridiculously loaded, we started this whole shop!” Besides the rentals, there’s also a small bar. “You can totally be our bartender,” Ray adds. “We’ve already got a room set up for you. This is gonna be awesome!”
There’s a journal in Brad’s bag, some of the pages already filled. Whatever he remembers, every notation, every filled page becoming a piece in a puzzle he’s working out. Sooner or later he will fill in enough of that puzzle to find out who it is whispering to him each night, describing the world like it’s a beautiful place worth seeing. Kissing Brad like he’s just as beautiful as the world, like he’s just as worthwhile.
It’s the only part of who he was that Brad still wants to know.
No matter how long it takes, he intends to find out.
________________________
“Damn,” Mike says, when Nate opens the door to his flat. “Tell me the first thing you plan to do when you reach Madrid is buy some furniture.”
Nate glances around. “I didn’t stay here much.”
“Long hours at the office is no excuse,” Mike says absently as he wanders in.
Nate tips his head down, his fingers balanced on the edge of the bag he’s been packing. It wasn’t the long hours. By the look Mike sends him, his friend knows what he's thinking. “You should take a vacation,” Mike says, his voice artificially upbeat. “Come round to Rome. Claire would love for you to visit.”
Nate raises his eyebrows. “This isn’t exactly a good time for a vacation, Mike.”
“With you, it’s never a good time for a vacation. If not now then when, that’s what I’m getting at.” He starts sorting through some of the things on Nate’s bookshelf, takes a glance at one of the half-packed boxes and figures out Nate’s packing scheme.
“Treadstone has been decommissioned,” Mike continues as he settles a stack of books into a box. “Mattis shut the program down. Things are changing now. If you establish yourself as a busy worker bee too soon, they’ll have you buried under so much work you’ll forget what the sun looks like.”
Nate shoves a sweater into his bag, hesitates. He drags the sweater out and folds it neatly, then returns it to his luggage. “Mattis tied up all the loose ends, except the most important one,” he says, darkly. “Treadstone is over. Dowdy is dead. Do you really think this is finished?”
Raising his eyebrows, Nate fixes his friend with sharp look. “The CIA doesn’t throw away projects like Treadstone. Not really. Those assets aren’t gone. You think things are going to get better? I never once thought you were naïve, Mike.”
Mike watches him quietly for a moment. “You know, for all that you talk about wanting to make things right, I think you like getting your hands dirty.”
“I work for the CIA,” Nate answers blandly. It’s answer enough. Nobody in his department can boast clean hands. Mike included. They’re both Bravo-agents, even if they have different ways of going about their work. Maybe Nate’s a little more committed. Then again, he has a damned good reason for that.
“I wish you’d tell me what your endgame is,” Mike sighs. “I can help, but you’re determined to go it all on your own.”
Carefully, Nate turns back to emptying his drawers. “My endgame is the same as it’s always been.”
“Now who’s fooling who here?”
“Don’t push this,” Nate says as he carefully folds another sweater. He finishes emptying out his dresser, zips the suitcase before he moves on to his closet. There’s not much in there. He refuses to think where most of those clothes are. Instead, he pulls out his garment bag and lays it out on his bed.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Mike asks, breaking the silence. “To him, I mean. He was right there.”
Nate glances at his friend. “And so was Dowdy.”
“He had Pappy’s cellphone. Which, don’t even get me started on Pappy, Nate. I keep telling you that you’re damned crazy, I can’t think of better proof.”
“It worked,” Nate points out. He sets one of his suits into his bag and then turns around, half-sits on his packed luggage. “He doesn’t remember me.”
Mike hesitates, looks a bit like he’s lost for words. “Nate…”
“No,” Nate says, waving a hand. “I’m not moping. This isn’t heartbreak you’re witnessing. I’m not running away from Paris because I can’t live here on my own.” He sighs, because as much as he trusts Mike he doesn’t want to jeopardize his friend by sharing more information than he should.
“You know,” he says instead. “You know this isn’t over.”
Mike holds his gaze, and Nate thinks he might actually get it. “You’re five steps ahead of every one of us, aren’t you?”
Nate smirks. “I used to be one step behind him, every goddamned time.”
Clapping a hand on Nate's shoulder, Mike flexes his fingers in an encouraging squeeze and smiles. “He’ll catch up, Nate. I know he will.”
“I know.” Nate lets his smile stretch across his face. It isn’t a question, it’s a certainty. He feels it down to the very core of himself. He doesn’t know how long it will take; maybe it will only be a few days or weeks. Maybe it will be years. It’s inevitable, though, all of them just biding their time.
Just catching their breath.
Because some day Brad will catch up and when he does, Nate will be waiting.
___________________________________________________
|<< END PART FOUR ||
MASTERPOST
Series' MASTERPOST
By: tea_diva
Chapter: FOUR
Word Count: 4,659
By 5:30 Brad has long-since found himself a suitable rooftop with swooping ornate stonework behind which he can crouch as he peers down at Pont Neuf through a pair of binoculars he stole from Walt. From this vantage point he is confident that he can see everything without running the risk of being spotted himself.
Ray and Walt had proven quite difficult to part ways with. Mostly, this was because Ray kept insisting they stick together: “You say you’ll meet back up with us, but you have no intention of doing that!”
Brad really has no idea where Ray’s devotion is coming from but he has to admit that when they had dropped him off on their way out of town, he had been sorry to see both of them go. They are the only two people he knows, and they are also the only two people he feels he can trust.
“I hope you know that if by the end of this month you haven’t shown up, and we haven’t read about your death on the front page of the paper, he’s going to start hunting you down,” Walt had said. He’d been filling a backpack with everything Brad might need, which included the binoculars that Brad is currently looking through.
Promptly at the set time, Brad watches a man in a navy blue coat and grey scarf step out of a white van. The bridge has been steadily filling with seemingly innocent bystanders who do not do as good a job of hiding the fact they’re talking into hidden microphones as they think. What’s clear is that whoever Treadstone is, they can’t run a clandestine snatch-and-grab for shit.
Apparently, they also can’t follow simple instructions.
He vacates his observation post moving swiftly through the building. Brad grabs Pappy’s phone from his pocket as he pushes open the side door and turns the collar of his coat up, obscuring his face. These people know what he looks like after all, and it wouldn’t do to get caught when he has gotten this close. When the phone rings he watches as the man in the navy blue coat and grey scarf reaches into his pocket and retrieves a cellphone. “Hello, Bradley?”
Brad really wishes the man would stop calling him ‘Bradley’. It makes him wants to say, ‘Yes Mom?’ which he’s pretty sure would be entirely inappropriate. He walks up behind the white van and ducks down, slipping a tracking device he assembled from a hodge-podge of electronic equipment from Walt’s house beneath the rear bumper.
“I told you to come alone. Apparently, you have difficulty understanding the simplest of instructions, but hopefully you will not have trouble understanding this: I’m gone.”
He disconnects the call but doesn’t pocket the phone. Still continuing at a steady pace as he walks through the streets, Brad keeps an eye on the phone’s screen. Precisely two minutes after he ends the call the little red tracking dot starts moving through the streets of Paris displayed on the small square screen.
Brad turns down a side road and starts following.
________________________
When the call comes Nate isn’t actually doing anything. It’s not like there’s any strings he can pull now that Brad has come forward and is playing the game. Mostly he’s sitting in his office running through a list of variables and wondering what an elite, highly trained asset with amnesia plans on doing to the Director of Operations for Treadstone. That is, if the men Dowdy cobbled together to run a snatch-and-grab on Brad don’t actually manage to get their hands on their target. Which, in truth, Nate finds extremely unlikely.
“Sir?” he says, picking up the phone.
“How long will it take to strike the office?”
Nate blinks, glancing at his watch. “Two or three hours.”
“Start the process now. Wipe the room down, and get everything prepared for moving. We should have done this days ago.”
Pressing his lips together, Nate considers not asking the only question on his mind, but he has to know. “What about Colbert?”
“I’ve activated the asset. I’m on my way. ETA five mikes.”
“Understood.” Nate hangs up, and then drops his head into his hands. “Fuck.”
Really, how many damned assets are they going to keep calling-in to deal with this? If Dowdy had stuck with the initial plan and sent Nate out, he’s certain the whole fiasco would have never spiraled out of control the way it has. They certainly wouldn’t have lost Barcelona. Not that the man was a great paragon of virtue, or even the slightest bit friendly, but he was a person and an asset, and it’s Nate’s job to make sure their assets don’t die needlessly.
In some corners of the CIA Treadstone’s Bravo-agents might be considered handlers, but Nate’s pretty sure those cozy, safe corners of the CIA have no idea what Treadstone assets are capable of. There’s no ‘handling’ them. Nate knows every one of them could function perfectly well entirely independent of the agency. Mostly, they operate like satellites scattered around the globe, carrying-on with normal life until someone like Nate or Craig sends them a message.
The trouble comes from the training. After Brad, Treadstone made a few modifications but it’s still the most grueling, disturbing process. Far beyond anything Nate encountered in the Corps, surpassing even SERE in its intensity. It’s beyond anything he thinks exists anywhere. When he’d read about the process he’d been infuriated and disgusted, and he’d wanted to quit. He hadn’t.
He reminds himself that he’s damned good at his job. That being a Bravo-agent means he is in a unique situation to work the system. It’s everything he was as a lieutenant but he’s not alone out here, stuck between the rain of shit coming down from on high, acting as the only umbrella providing protection for twenty-two men; a single link in a chain of command more interested in executing orders and earning a pat on the head than making effective decisions.
The CIA is all about subtlety and manipulation, and it rewards those who know how to work the system. Nate knows that system backwards and forwards. He walks the fine line between being good at his job, but not so good someone might feel threatened or take it into their head to try and promote him. That’s not what this is about. He's been playing a long game from the moment he was transferred and, from the looks of things, that game just got a lot longer.
He starts striking the office. Shredding documents that he knows are duplicated, wiping the computer hard drives. Prioritizing each task based on what would be the most incrementing or dangerous should it fall into the wrong hands. It’s a lot of work that needs to be done in a hurry.
Periodically, he double-checks the office security: everything locked, all the alarms intact. He goes back to sifting through old paperwork.
“How’s our timetable?” Dowdy asks as he unlocks the front door and comes inside.
“We’re on track.” Nate checks the security again. Nothing yet.
Dowdy pulls off his suit jacket and starts helping. “There’s extra security out front. We’ll move quickly, I don’t think that we'll have any problems.”
Joe Dowdy is an office worker. Or at least, has been an office worker for long enough that he’s forgotten what it’s like out in the field. He’s never dealt directly with an asset. Dowdy’s the one who calls Nate and says, “Get it done.” Nate’s the one who takes it from there. For all that the man might think he understands the program he’s running, he has no idea.
Dowdy looks at Nate and sees his cover, mistakes that cover for reality. A student studying abroad, a kid who’s undoubtedly worrying that there’s an asset out there circling closer and closer to their position. That’s not Nate.
“I’ll work faster, sir,” he says, keeps his head down.
Outside, a car alarm goes off. Nate glances toward the window. On the opposite side of the room, Dowdy turns from the filing cabinet and frowns. “Does that happen often?” he asks, but before he finishes his question one car alarm becomes five, becomes every car on the street.
Nate glances at the computer. “The system is going haywire.”
“Where’s your field box?”
Nate jerks his head toward Craig’s office. “Bottom drawer, right hand side of the desk.”
When Joe’s back is turned Nate slips his own gun from the drop-compartment on the underside of his desk. He tucks it in the waistband of his pants, against the small of his back.
Dowdy cocks the gun he retrieves from the field box and glances over, then he starts walking a slow perimeter around the office. After checking that the agents outside the door are on alert he completes a circuit of the front office before crossing back through to Craig’s, out of sight.
All the lights go out. The office becomes abruptly and utterly dark. Nate feels a cool draft, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. He turns and there’s Brad, perched in the window like he’s been there the whole time.
Seeing him after so long makes Nate want to smile; makes him want to breach the distance between them and wipe away the memory of the past three weeks.
He doesn’t move. They stare at each other.
Pointedly, Nate flicks his eyes in the direction of the other room. Brad shifts forward, steps down off the window ledge and glances where Nate has indicated. Then he turns back to Nate.
He looks different, paler and maybe a little thinner. There’s a faint shadow along his jaw, a hint of a beard circling his mouth. Nate’s seen Brad with facial hair before but usually he prefers to be clean-shaven. Nate finds himself wondering if the facial hair is the result of necessity, just Brad being unable to shave given everything that’s been going on, or if it’s something he likes, now.
Brad’s looking at him and there’s no recognition in his eyes. He’s frowning, like he’s trying to work something out but Nate keeps himself perfectly still, his hands by his sides, his expression inscrutable. There was a time when Brad could have read him anyway.
Nate can tell just by looking though, that time has passed.
________________________
This is why Joe Dowdy works in an office three floors underground in Langley: he hates assets.
Theoretically, he has nothing but sympathy for these men. He’s read the briefs outlining the extra training each asset goes through. It’s not pretty.
Practically, he can understand how having a small army of these guys living around the globe can come in useful. Dowdy is under no illusions; he’s in a particularly immoral line of work, however necessary he deems his job to be. The CIA is all about shades of grey.
Realistically, assets creep Dowdy the fuck out.
One minute, he is standing in the Paris outpost going about his business cleaning up this mess and the next there are car alarms inexplicably blazing, and then there’s no light anywhere at all. He’s walking a perimeter and crosses out of Fick’s office into the adjoining room for a moment. There’s no sound, there’s no indication at all of movement and he’s listening specifically for that.
When he crosses back to the main office the darkness reaches out and gets him into a pretty damned effective choke-hold. Fick’s standing there with slightly wide eyes, and what the hell can the kid do against an asset? Nothing. Especially when Dowdy’s got the only damned gun.
“Drop the gun,” Colbert says. His voice sounds smooth and sophisticated. Like he isn’t holding someone in a lock that could effectively break his captive’s arm in three places.
Out of all of them, Colbert creeps Dowdy out the most. Maybe it’s because he went through the training before it was sanitized. Maybe it’s because he went through the training before it was sanitized and came out the other side more human than some of their other assets. This little psychotic episode has probably been brewing for a hell of a long time. Fucking assets.
“Drop it,” Colbert repeats.
Dowdy lets the gun fall to the floor and watches as Colbert kicks it away. He’s not an idiot. With the gun or without it there’s not much he can do against the Paris asset. “This is bigger than me, or you,” Dowdy says, hoping that reasoning might work. “What exactly do you think you can accomplish here?”
There’s a pause, and he almost holds his breath waiting for the answer. Then Colbert says, “Tell me about Treadstone.”
“It’s a program. Run out of the CIA. Black ops.”
Brad slams him against the wall and hisses, “Assassins.”
Dowdy snorts. “I don’t send you to kill people, Colbert. I send you because you’re invisible. I send you because you don’t exist.”
“So what was Wombosi?”
“You were supposed to execute the mission so the only possible explanation was a member of his own entourage turned on him.” He wraps a hand around the edge of the door with his free hand because his cheek is pressing uncomfortably into the wall. “I don’t know what went wrong. You tell me.”
Colbert pauses. “I don’t know.”
“Bull shit you don’t know!” Dowdy snaps. “I’ve spent three goddamned weeks trying to cleanup the mess you’ve made. ‘I don’t know’ is not going to cut it here. That is unacceptable soldier!”
Colbert jerks away, and then actually steps away. Dowdy hesitates, but after a second he turns around.
Colbert has his hands up to his head and he’s wincing like he’s got a migraine. Dowdy wonders if he should take the opportunity and run for the gun but then Colbert whispers, “Kids.” After a minute he says it again, a little stronger. “There were kids on the boat.”
What the fuck?
Dowdy has been through a really shitty three weeks, that’s his only explanation. Instead of doing something smart like reaching for the gun, he perches his clenched fists on his hips and says, “You’re the one who picked the yacht as the damned strike point! You picked the boat, you picked the day. You tracked the crew, the food, and the fuel! You hid on that damned boat for five fucking days. You were in, it should have been over! You’re telling me this bullshit was because of a couple of kids? You’re an assassin!”
Colbert drops his hands from his head and Dowdy finds himself slammed back against the wall. Hard. He has no idea how he’s going to explain these bruises to his wife. If he lives that long.
“I don’t work for you anymore,” Colbert snarls. “I’m not an assassin. I’m done. Brad Colbert died three weeks ago. He drowned five miles off the coast of Marseilles. I’m leaving.” He knocks Dowdy back into the wall again. “If I even feel someone behind me, there is no measure for how fast and how hard I will bring this fight to your very doorstep.”
Dowdy’s head is throbbing, his back hurts like hell and he’s tired. “You can’t walk away from this.”
The street lamp outside is at the perfect angle to illuminate Colbert’s impossibly pale blue eyes. “Yes I can.” Then he proceeds to demonstrate just how perfectly capable he is of walking away by opening the front office door and stepping out into the hallway. Dowdy waits, expecting the sound of gunfire or at least a fight. He has seven highly skilled agents waiting in that hallway, each of which were thoroughly briefed and prepared to deal with almost any contingency.
Everything is quiet.
When he opens the door all seven agents are sprawled on the floor or draped across the stairs. All of them unconscious, or maybe dead. There is no sign of Colbert. Dowdy closes the door. “Jesus Christ.”
Fick looks at him. “What do we do now, sir?”
“I don’t even know,” he says. If it were anyone but Fick he probably would have said nothing at all. “I highly doubt Mattis will take Colbert’s resignation lightly. Assets don’t walk away from the program.”
Fick tips his head to the side, says, “Have we ever had an asset that wanted to, before?”
No, they haven’t. Dowdy sighs. “Colbert is a thirty million dollar weapon. When he worked, he was damned good. The most he can hope for is that Mattis gets distracted by another project, but it’s only a matter of time.”
The Bravo agent seems to mull that over. “What about the other asset?”
Dowdy shrugs, then pulls his phone from his pocket. “I’ll call him off. Colbert’s lost his memory, I think if we leave him be he’ll let us alone. That’s the best we can hope for at this point.” Fick shifts away as Dowdy sends out the message.
Mattis is going to have a thing or two to say. Dowdy wonders what story he should give. Maybe the man will believe it if Dowdy fakes a car-fire. If the fire burns hot enough, and if the body they get is tall enough, they can easily claim it to be Colbert and that would be it. Everybody happy. Colbert gets to walk away like he wanted, Mattis gets everything tidied and swept back under the carpet, and Dowdy can have his goddamned mornings back. At least until the next crisis comes along which, he thinks, can’t possibly be as much of a colossal rat-fuck as this one has been.
“Finish striking this place,” he tells Fick. “I’m heading back to Langley.”
Fick nods and Dowdy drops the gun from the field kit onto the man’s desk. “What a goddamned mess,” he mutters as he turns to the door.
He walks past the bodies of the agents as he goes down the stairs. Probably he call someone but he’s had about enough of all of it. Fick will take care of it, Dowdy’s certain.
Pushing open the door, he steps out into the cool night and realizes that somewhere in between that whole mess in the office the car alarms were turned off. His ears still feel like they’re ringing. He’s pretty sure that by the time he reaches the plane he’ll have a full-blown migraine. Fucking assets.
Pulling his keys out, Dowdy applauds himself for having the foresight to leave his rental at the outpost and take the van over to the bridge. He really hates driving large, unwieldy vehicles. Especially when he’s in Europe where the roads are all about half the size of the streets in America.
Ahead, a figure steps out of the darkness. Dowdy sighs, of course it couldn’t just be over so easily. “Colbert?”
It’s not Colbert. This shadow is shorter, and the coat he is wearing is longer. Dowdy frowns and then recognizes the asset he placed on standby to take care of Colbert. “Didn’t you get my text? I scrubbed the mission.” He sees the glint of the silencer in the darkness. Dowdy has a moment to recognize it for what it is and opens his mouth, though he doesn’t know what he’s about to say.
He doesn’t hear the shot. He doesn’t see the bullet.
There’s a sharp burst of pain in his chest that makes his breath hitch.
________________________
There’s sunshine and heat and vibrant blue water.
After the grey drabness of Paris in winter the Amalfi Coast is almost overwhelmingly saturated in color. Brad keeps his shades on and breathes deep. The wind is blowing the thin white cotton button-down he’s wearing. He has a tan already because he rented a convertible for the drive. As far as he can remember he’s never driven a convertible before, although he can’t remember ever passing a driving test, either. He’s all about new experiences but some of them he’s pretty certain he doesn’t need to duplicate. Obviously he can drive because he handled himself all right in a high-speed chase. Driving in Italy isn’t much different, actually.
Brad walks down to the pier. He bought himself a nice leather bag into which he stuffed some clothes and a few other things he had liberated from the duffel he’d hidden at the Paris train station.
He moved the duffel of course, stashed it somewhere else where it will be safe. Somehow, he can’t quite believe that making a clean break with whoever he was will be as simple as telling Treadstone he’s no longer interested. If and when the time comes he’s prepared, but for now he’s just a shadow. Nameless, history-less, brand new.
Only, not quite. There’s still that blue square of plastic and that single track on that CD. There’s a copy of The Odyssey in his bag, with handwriting in the margins that Brad knows isn’t his. There’s the smell of cloves and citrus, and a soft voice that welcomes him always into his dreams. There’s the distinct feeling that something is missing.
There is also the bright yellow shop right on the edge of the pier, with a hand painted sign that boasts boat and scooter rentals. “Sweet Baby Jesus,” Ray says, pushing his ginormous sunglasses up to perch in his hair as he leans over the railing, grinning. “Hey Walt!” he cries. “Check who finally showed up!”
Walt pokes his head out the front door of the shop and grins. “Brad! We were wondering when you’d track us down.”
“Next time I advise you to go to ground,” Brad says. “Perhaps it would be wise to refrain from posting fucking personal ads in the newspaper advertising your location.”
Ray shrugs. “How else were you going to find us?” Brad shares a particularly long-suffering look with Walt that is disrupted as Ray starts shoving him into the shop. “Anyway, what were you doing reading the personal ads, Bradley?”
He’s probably certifiably insane for having the opportunity at freedom and then turning around and willingly going in search of Ray Person. Brad doesn’t care because he’s feeling only the giddy-rush of possibility, and Ray’s incessant chatter is distracting that part of him that feels like it’s empty, like he’s misplaced something important somewhere.
“Check this out, Brad,” Ray’s saying. “Walt’s so ridiculously loaded, we started this whole shop!” Besides the rentals, there’s also a small bar. “You can totally be our bartender,” Ray adds. “We’ve already got a room set up for you. This is gonna be awesome!”
There’s a journal in Brad’s bag, some of the pages already filled. Whatever he remembers, every notation, every filled page becoming a piece in a puzzle he’s working out. Sooner or later he will fill in enough of that puzzle to find out who it is whispering to him each night, describing the world like it’s a beautiful place worth seeing. Kissing Brad like he’s just as beautiful as the world, like he’s just as worthwhile.
It’s the only part of who he was that Brad still wants to know.
No matter how long it takes, he intends to find out.
________________________
“Damn,” Mike says, when Nate opens the door to his flat. “Tell me the first thing you plan to do when you reach Madrid is buy some furniture.”
Nate glances around. “I didn’t stay here much.”
“Long hours at the office is no excuse,” Mike says absently as he wanders in.
Nate tips his head down, his fingers balanced on the edge of the bag he’s been packing. It wasn’t the long hours. By the look Mike sends him, his friend knows what he's thinking. “You should take a vacation,” Mike says, his voice artificially upbeat. “Come round to Rome. Claire would love for you to visit.”
Nate raises his eyebrows. “This isn’t exactly a good time for a vacation, Mike.”
“With you, it’s never a good time for a vacation. If not now then when, that’s what I’m getting at.” He starts sorting through some of the things on Nate’s bookshelf, takes a glance at one of the half-packed boxes and figures out Nate’s packing scheme.
“Treadstone has been decommissioned,” Mike continues as he settles a stack of books into a box. “Mattis shut the program down. Things are changing now. If you establish yourself as a busy worker bee too soon, they’ll have you buried under so much work you’ll forget what the sun looks like.”
Nate shoves a sweater into his bag, hesitates. He drags the sweater out and folds it neatly, then returns it to his luggage. “Mattis tied up all the loose ends, except the most important one,” he says, darkly. “Treadstone is over. Dowdy is dead. Do you really think this is finished?”
Raising his eyebrows, Nate fixes his friend with sharp look. “The CIA doesn’t throw away projects like Treadstone. Not really. Those assets aren’t gone. You think things are going to get better? I never once thought you were naïve, Mike.”
Mike watches him quietly for a moment. “You know, for all that you talk about wanting to make things right, I think you like getting your hands dirty.”
“I work for the CIA,” Nate answers blandly. It’s answer enough. Nobody in his department can boast clean hands. Mike included. They’re both Bravo-agents, even if they have different ways of going about their work. Maybe Nate’s a little more committed. Then again, he has a damned good reason for that.
“I wish you’d tell me what your endgame is,” Mike sighs. “I can help, but you’re determined to go it all on your own.”
Carefully, Nate turns back to emptying his drawers. “My endgame is the same as it’s always been.”
“Now who’s fooling who here?”
“Don’t push this,” Nate says as he carefully folds another sweater. He finishes emptying out his dresser, zips the suitcase before he moves on to his closet. There’s not much in there. He refuses to think where most of those clothes are. Instead, he pulls out his garment bag and lays it out on his bed.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Mike asks, breaking the silence. “To him, I mean. He was right there.”
Nate glances at his friend. “And so was Dowdy.”
“He had Pappy’s cellphone. Which, don’t even get me started on Pappy, Nate. I keep telling you that you’re damned crazy, I can’t think of better proof.”
“It worked,” Nate points out. He sets one of his suits into his bag and then turns around, half-sits on his packed luggage. “He doesn’t remember me.”
Mike hesitates, looks a bit like he’s lost for words. “Nate…”
“No,” Nate says, waving a hand. “I’m not moping. This isn’t heartbreak you’re witnessing. I’m not running away from Paris because I can’t live here on my own.” He sighs, because as much as he trusts Mike he doesn’t want to jeopardize his friend by sharing more information than he should.
“You know,” he says instead. “You know this isn’t over.”
Mike holds his gaze, and Nate thinks he might actually get it. “You’re five steps ahead of every one of us, aren’t you?”
Nate smirks. “I used to be one step behind him, every goddamned time.”
Clapping a hand on Nate's shoulder, Mike flexes his fingers in an encouraging squeeze and smiles. “He’ll catch up, Nate. I know he will.”
“I know.” Nate lets his smile stretch across his face. It isn’t a question, it’s a certainty. He feels it down to the very core of himself. He doesn’t know how long it will take; maybe it will only be a few days or weeks. Maybe it will be years. It’s inevitable, though, all of them just biding their time.
Just catching their breath.
Because some day Brad will catch up and when he does, Nate will be waiting.
___________________________________________________
|<< END PART FOUR ||
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