| "Behind the Lens" | ||
|
New York City, Lower Manhattan May 8, 2008 1430 hours Surveillance was never fun. It was usually boring. Once in a long while you'd get a subject/target that was aware of you and would make things interesting in an attempt to elude you, but that was more and more rare, especially when Eric was behind the lense. He was just too good, too discreet for most people to be aware of him unless he wanted them to be. Paige was on edge, but, as he had no need to learn of her activities, only to make sure she was safe, she was accompanied by another male operative who looked competent, and he had yet to find signs of other surveillance on her, Eric had kept a sufficient distance. Paige hurried to her vehicle as though trying to avoid something, seeing or hearing something, though something was out there. Eric's eyes went wide and he slowly blew out a long breath in-spite of himself when he caught a glimpse of her as she turned to open her car door. If Section succeeded in nothing they tried to do to their operatives, they had at least stripped the females of any inhibitions concerning their manner of dress. He'd seen worse, but hers was on the edge of being overtly provocative, and the result was stunning. He forced himself avert his mind and eyes, and concentrate on following her. She drove a beeline to the Safe House, near which Cindy waited, while the rest of the brood positioned themselves surrounding the building, two blocks away, to pick up her trail if/when she departed. An amount of time appropriate to a briefing later-for some reason those usually took the same amount of time-Paige exited Safe House 2 with her teammate, Baz, presumably, who had arrived earlier. Eric took advantage of the time laps to nap. He knew the place well enough, and had failed to spot any threats on his reconnaissance of the surroundings. The SH had its own security. He wondered if he worried over Paige needlessly, but something was up. If possible, she looked even more disgruntled exiting the place than she had going in. Hard mission coming up? Perhaps, but they'd dealt with impossible missions before without skipping a beat. Something wasn't right, and as he mused, a thought hit Eric. He pulled out his cell phone, speed dialing Gray on the agent's line. "Hello. This is Gray?" "With all due respect, permission to speak freely?" "Is this official business?" "Now or later, Gray. You have nothing over me, but I am here of my own accord. Thus, we will talk. When and where?" "I'm happy to talk now. Is there a problem?" "Yes. You told me an operative with whom I have a history, may be in immenant mental danger. You were right, but she comes now from a meeting with you being more agitated than she had been. Difficult missions do not have that affect on her. What happened?" "How do you know this?" "Do not try to send counter survailence on me. You hired me because I am the best at it. It will not work. Neither will evasive questions." Gray's voice rose ever so slightly. He had a problem with Eric's pronouncements, apparently, but was well in control of his reaction, and doing a good job in his attempt assert his authority. "Eric Schweig, whatever you may think of myself, this agency, or our methods, you are still our employee until or unless we see fit to terminate you in that capacity. You are an agent, and I a director. I use information to which you are not privy in making the decisions that are in the long term interest of my agents. I advise you to limit your criticisms to those areas of your expertise, and psychological profiling was not one of them, as I recall." He paused for a moment, gathering himself, and in that moment Eric was surprised not to find a retort ready on his lips. Then Gray continued, quieter now, understanding and making allowance for a mistake of a curious child, as it seemed. "But it is clear you are concerned for Paige, as am I, and I see no problem with that. Yes, I did tell her that I had sent you, and she did not seem to appreciate it, but I still believe your reunion will prove largly beneficial to both of you. Will there be anything else?" Eric, by this time, managed to reign in his rising temper, and, taking a slow, deep breath, responded. "What do you intend for the two of us? I will not be used without my knowledge in some deep scheme for your or the agency's or someone else's advancement." Eric could almost hear the patronizing smile. "That's quite simple. I wish for you both to settle into the "civilian" life, to stabilize emotionally and mentally, so that you will continue effectively as agents. You can help each other. I think that will do for now, and we'll see, once that is done, if we can make some greater use of your relationship. I suggest you let her proceed with her mission and get some rest yourself. When was the last time they saw you at work? Tomorrow morning would be a good time I think. Yes. Good night Eric." The phone went dead, and he slowly shut it, again breathing deliberately. He didn't appreciate the obvious disparity in rank, or the way it was being excercised. No doubt a few strings would be pulled, and National Geographic would call him in later in the morning. So be it. He would deal, continue to follow Paige till things settled down, sleep when he could, go to work, whatever was needed to maintain things in a tolerable state. But he would do more, too. He would not simply follow, go where told when told. No, that's what he'd done in Section 1, and it had nearly cost him his only friend, his daughter, and his life. He had to take the initiative, to determine what was going on, and to do whatever it would take to bring it to an acceptable state of affairs. The job, obeying Gray for the time being, were simply yet another of the multiple layers of cover, of deception, that he'd spent his life learning to build. A small part of him wished for an end to it all, to just unwrap the true self, the true situation, the true desires that lay inside, but he quickly squelched the intrusion with hardly a thought. It had no part in his life. Honesty he would employ with Paige, so far as it would keep them alive and together, otherwise, even he needn't know the truth of himself, but only the truth that those around him needed to see. That being the truth he knew, it would be the truth he would show, and the truth they would suspect. When you are weak, appear strong, when you are strong appear weak, when you are interested appear disinterested, and when disinterested, appear interested. Such is the way of gaining advantage over the enemy, of winning the war. Thus Sun Tzu had written, and thus Eric lived. As he pulled out into the street upon losing sight of Paige and Baz's vehicle two blocks down, receiving the call that Dennis had picked them up and was tailing, he made another call. This one was to Timothy, requesting his "unsanctioned" and "discreet" assistance regarding intelligence gathering on subjects in Baz's truck and their activities. The techie didn't appreciate such a call at such an hour, but a harsh word about operating in combat as one did in training and life brought him around. He went to work, no doubt, hacking into some server or another from which he could troll for information that was supposed to be secure. Eric gave him the radio frequency the brood was on for their "training mission" reports, and thus he could monitor the progress of the subjects from his station at his lap top. The next stop, after some twists and turns to avoid counter surveillance that seemed to be in place, was a particular club, Samovar by name. A call to Timmothy of was in line, to focus his search on the club. Paige and Baz, clearly, had been sent to survail the structure, or more likely, people in it. Knowledge was power, so Eric wanted all the knowledge he could get concerning her mission. While he waited, Eric called the other members of the brood to stake out the club at safe distances, getting sleep wherever they could and watching it in shifts. He took the first watch, trolling about the place along, most likely, the same routs followed by Paige and Baz a few minutes later. Their training in this was similar, after all. He still saw no sign of anyone else''s survailence of Paige, but noted with increased interest the weight of counter survailence measures employed by the Samovar club, and how well they were hidden. He had the feeling, though, something was different about this target, this mission. His thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of the cell phone. He answered it midway through the pause between the first and second rings, realizing that he was somewhat on edge tonight himself, and spoke. "Schweig." He'd failed to note any results of the caller ID quary before putting the device to his ear, but did not believe there had been any. "I'm sorry," she said quietly on the other end, "I must have dialed the wrong number." It was Paige, and she was clearly surprised by this having gotten the wrong number. His mental wheels turned over at double time. Photographic memory. She'd seen his phone number, dialed it correctly, but did not know Eric Schweig, did she? He jumped back in quickly lest she hang up. "Paige, it's the Snowy Owl. They gave me a new name..." Why was she calling him now, anyway? He disengaged the clutch, allowing the truck to roll forward to where he could see the approach to her vehicle. No one approaching her as a threat for now, anyway. "What?" she asked, apparently not satisfied. Uncertain of what she had in mind with the call, but wanting to fill up time, he said the first thing that came to mind. It was plausible, after all. He didn't want people knowing who he really was. "This is an insecure line," he said flatly. She responded in a similarly neutral tone, as they'd been trained, but her use of "colorful metaphors" made up the difference. He frowned, hardly startled by them, but concerned more that, in her emotional reaction, he may have lost whatever ground he'd gained earlier that night. Furthermore, given her mental state, there was some concern over what she might say over the line, and he turned up the radio, tuned to an all classical music station, to drown out the conversation for listening devices. The music could be filtered out and differentiated from the voices by high end equipment, but one did what one could. "I don't give a ***** *** if the whole world is listening, Why did you come to my apartment last night?" Good question. Why did she ask it now, though? Perhaps her talk with Gray had brought it to the forefront of her mind. She wanted confirmation of what Gray had told her, or perhaps to know if Eric was really telling the truth. But what HAD Gray told her? Would she believe him, either of them, if Eric told her truly? He had little other choice, however, given his objective of gaining her trust. It was no longer given lightly, nor would he take it so. "To speak with you," he answered after a pause. "Are you all right?" "Who sent you?" she continued ignoring the question. "Sent me..." he began slowly, filling the silence while pondering how to explain his attitude toward Gray. In the end he determined to simply give her the facts she asked for, and determine what more to offer when the audience was somewhat more captive. "Gray expressed concern and gave me your address." Not surprisingly, she asked for more. "And he told you to do what?" Why was it always about the superiors? HAD he told Eric to do anything? Not so much. He'd only suggested that Eric might be in a unique position to mitigate whatever troubled her. This he intended to do, anyway, but was she ready to hear it? To hear that she had a problem and needed his help? She thought he'd hurt her last time she'd accepted anything from him, and they had yet to settle on that issue. Would she, then, accept his help now? Sometimes in the hunt, though, it came time to stop waiting, stop creeping closer, and take the shot. He drew breath, let it half way out, and sent it flying. "He asked me to check on you. Paige, you know you are in danger. You are an operative, a good one. Trust your instincts," he ventured. She took it better than she might have. "Uh huh, well, I've got everything under control, contrary to what you may believe, so you don't have to 'intervene' anymore on my behalf. Really, I wouldn't want you to have to go out of your way or have to be nice to me," she let the sarcasm clearly be heard, "since you're all about 'honesty' nowadays." "NO, it is not like that at all" he wanted to protest, but before he began he was interrupted by the beeping of the phone off the hook. She had hung up on him. What, then, had been her purpose in calling him? What did she want? She didn't tell him to stay away from her all together, which was her perogative, but she continued to refuse his attempts to explain himself. What did she want from him, and how could he possibly supply it? He closed the phone against his forehead, resting it there for a moment before putting it away. A noise from down the alley. Two peole stepping on broken glass. Baz had returned to the vehicle. Eric put the SUV in reverse and retreated quietly to a safer distance as the truck pulled out into the street. Then he saw the cause for their hurry, and found himself taken aback, not for the first time that night. Safara, one of the level three ops from Section 1, and Paige's best friend, exited the club looking for all the world like an expensive call girl on drugs. Heavy drugs. She was oblivious to all around her, following directions like a dog with a broken spirit, on a short leash. She was not one who's spirit could easily be broken, he recalled. The files Madeline had made available to him stated it, and it was confirmed by her excellent condition at the conclusion of Stratus. Now there was no doubt, however, that she was out of it, doing the bidding of whomever financed the clothes and car, no doubt someone from the club, and was under covert survailence by two SIA agents including her best friend. Things did not look good. A few calls were in order. "Maintenance, Foreman. How Copy?" "Foreman, Maintenance. Copy five by five," came Dennis' reply. "Do you have the car pulling out now from in front of the club? Tall female burnett passenger with package, expensive driver?" "Affirmative." "Stay with them, close, but discreet." "Roger." "Miner, how copy?" "Copy you loud and clear, foreman." Cindy still held out on the use of some of the lingo, but she got the point well enough. "Stay on old primary, the truck, maintain distance, and report any unusual activity. Your safety and the subjects are of the highest priority. Understood?" "Understood. Got them." Eric would continue to watch the club, nap, think, confer with Timothy. He did not worry unduly about losing track of Paige, Safara, or the other agents, or what danger they might come under. With such a number of agents in play, anyone smart enough to spot them would also be smart enough to keep their distance and postpone an attack. Besides, they'd all proven they knew what they were doing, and the previous month of training had been productive. He had enough confidence that he did not need to micro-manage, nor to be there for every move. "Geologist, Foreman. Report." Timothy would be at a powerful computer by now with all the information readily available on his primary subject, the club, to give to Eric. "Roger. Samovar club, owned by one Alexie Konstantin, from, you'll never guess, Russia..." Russia. Eric had his connections there, both from his time with K-Zero, wannabe arms dealers for terrorists, and before that while in the service of the good old U S of A. The wheels were turning. Yes, he'd heard the name before, but never much talk of the man. "...who also owns a club on the other side of the pond, and is quite wealthy, perhaps beyond his means? Anyway, he and his club are under survailence, as you know, but I didn't find any criminal or military record beyond that expected for wealthy club owners. Then I tried searching our own Dbase, see what we had on him. Locked down tight, it is, and I had to scramble to egress and erase my trail. This isn't a training scenario, is it? It's not sanctioned, either, I bet." Eric sighed. It had to come out sometime, he supposed, and his people would operate better, he suspected, if they knew it to be real. He activated the radio connection to the others, and continued speaking to Timothy. "Confirmed. This is an actual mission, unsanctioned. The subject, the original subject, is a friend and former collegue of mine, and a fellow Agent. I believe her to be in danger, and intend to determine why. I leave the decision whether or not to continue to each of you." A small pause ensued, shorter than he expected, before the other three tried to talk at once. Timothy's voice broke through. "Hey S.O., don't sweat it. It's cool. It's life, at least with you, the brood, and the taskforce. We didn't suffer together for ten days and train ever since then for nothing. Count us in and lets get on with it. What do you need?" Eric nodded to himself, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. This team was shaping up to be a good thing. They'd found the unit integrity vital to survivability and increased POS on real missions. There was nothing too new or revolutionary in Timothy's report, either. Obviously Paige & Baz had been sent by the SIA to survail the place, making it an open case file, hence its inaccesability to those not overseeing the case. The Russian element was juicy, though, and bore looking into. "Good. Send me what you have on the new primary, via usual channels. I want blueprints and schematics on the club and surrounding structures, and anything you can find, suspect or not, on his friends and organizations, back in the motherland and here. Geologist, I want you to play spy for a time." "Roger Wilco. I'm all over it..." His excited voice trailed off in the sound of a cascade of depressed keys. Eric continued to the others. "Brood, stay sharp. Subject is the real thing, and being Russian, we can assume nothing based on our own ways. A connection with the Russian Mafia is also likely, or there would not be an open case file on him. Think ahead to possible contingencies for further penetration, snatch and grabs, or rescues. ASSUME NOTHING, and be ready for everything." Almost as an afterthought, he added a quiet "Hoo'Ah?" "Hoo'Ah" the chorus of subdued replies came over the line, and he disconnected the phone and turned the radio back down. It was time to settle into mission mode. 1600 hours Paige went out for Pizza and more watching. Mind and other games to stay alert, and a ten minute power nap. The sky was cloudy. The pigeons had moved down the street. Ten new pieces of litter had entered the view from the SUV, blown in or dropped by passersby. An employee showed up, or so he appeared by the manner in which he entered the building. Not a New Yorker by upbringing though, something didn't match, though he tried to look the part. Eastern European, perhaps? Or was that Eric's imagination building on the fact that the owner was Russian? It was not as though he had any distinctive features by which to identify his ethnicity, after all, but then, to send an agent in WITH distinctive features was to send him to death, prison, or deportation. Assume nothing, he reminded himself. But the man had a way about him, the walk, the slant and movement of the eyes, the posture. If the wasn't an operator he was at least in a related field, had the training and experience. Eric instinctively hoped he wouldn't end up against the man. He took a few digital photos to send to Timothy. 1700 hours Customers of the club arrived, & Paige and Baz joined them in line. Risky, Eric thought. Did they know the place? It wasn't friendly,he knew they knew, and he hadn't seen any backup, unless he considered himself and the brood. Had they mapped out multiple egress contingencies? Clubs seemed to attract targets and their assasins like light draws moths, so to enter such an environment when one had enemies was not the best way to stay out of trouble. Eric, at any rate, was not going in until he knew the ways out, and the blue prints were not in yet. Early Morning Customers exited the club in various states of inebriation, exhaultation, or dissapointment. They were finally joined by Baz and Paige, who, by whatever chance or mirical, managed to find their truck while still on their feet. How they could think to drive anywhere was beyond Eric, but, perhaps miraculously again, they made it back to Safe House 1. He wondered at their condition, Paige's at least. Baz, at least, seemed competent still. Agents going into hostile territory and getting themselves THAT drunk, while on a mission? He would never have considered it, but he knew there were significant differences between himself and they. Paige, at least, was Section 1 trained, which meant being competent in such environments, and even while more or less inebriated. Of course, the emphasis was more on ACTING drunk than on functioning WHILE drunk, but the effect was the same to most on-lookers. The operatives could be stumbling drunk one moment, and take out a target with 85% clarity, precision, and accuracy the next. 85% was not the 98% usually required, but one made tradeoffs to blend in. Paige's behavior, Eric was convinced however, was not an act. She was in trouble. At least now she was back at the Safe house, Dennis was taking the watch, and Eric could rest before going to "work" in the morning. It occurred to him that the extra change of clothes in the trunk probably would not be acceptable, and he didn't want to waste the hour and half drive time to get more from the nest. He'd have to buy a cheap suit on his way to work in the morning, to pick one up at the safe house would be too obvious, that and hit the local public university for its showers. For now, though, he simply reclined the driver's seat, turned onto his side with an arm crooked under his head, and went to sleep. He would worry about the coming day when it came, for it would carry with it enough worries of its own. Return |
||