Chapter Text
Chuck Bartowski had just been summoned by General Beckman to Castle, the clandestine hideaway attached to the Buy More Store in Burbank, California. With an untucked white shirt, loosely dangling tie, ID badge, and pocket protector in place, he quickly used the secret access panel to meander his way to a room fully locked and loaded with high tech gadgets and other CIA spy tools. Sarah Walker, his wishful notion of a girlfriend, and Major John Casey were already there. Both seemed expectant as they gazed at a screen that showed Beckman’s face looking serious and impatient. It seemed obvious that their dour-faced and stern handler wouldn’t explain a mission to her operatives until the most important member of the team was front and center. Chuck was, indeed, the lynchpin for any covert op since he was the spy organization’s secret weapon. Chuck Bartowski had unwittingly been the recipient of the ultimate warhead—the “Intersect” implanted in his brain by an old college roommate from Stanford.
Beautiful, blond Sarah gazed at Chuck fondly, her devotion quite obvious. Against all caveats in the spy world, she found herself falling in love with a tall, naïve guy with a very pure soul. Jaded and tough John Casey could see the handwriting on the wall and just gnashed his teeth and growled in frustration. While others saw Bartowski as an asset, Casey viewed the young nerd as a liability. Intersect or not, he couldn’t always be trusted to carry out the hard stuff like killing people.
Beckman finally looked animated and was more forthcoming, but actually not all that informative. Her briefing had some details, but not enough for the trio to feel as if they had gotten the total picture. “Our counterparts in New York have detained a person of interest in an ongoing scenario they have been monitoring, but I’ll get back to that individual in a minute,” she began. “As background, I can tell you that our international compatriots in Prague have had a wealthy entrepreneur in their sights for months because they believe he is a conduit between a terrorist cell and a rogue thinktank of geniuses. Some very clever eggheads seem to have devised a microchip that could be used to cause malicious mayhem throughout the world. We don’t know what the ultimate objective could be or where it could be used. Chatter tells us that it is capable of dire things like toppling worldwide economies, our military, or even the space program. At this time, we can’t pin down its complete capabilities, but, as you can imagine, whatever the agenda, it doesn’t bode well and could be catastrophic.”
Chuck thought he knew where this was going, so he preempted his handler. “So, General, do you want the team and I to go to Prague to recover that microchip?”
Beckman scowled at the interruption. “No, Mr. Bartowski, that won’t be necessary. The term ‘microchip’ is actually a misnomer; it’s really a tiny microdot that has already left that country. It was cleverly embedded into the frame of a very old and expensive painting—a masterpiece by Titian that was put up for auction in Europe. Since the bidding was done anonymously via phone, we aren’t sure who the buyer was, but it was probably all prearranged between our Czech entrepreneur and another evil person. All we know is the painting was on its way to New York when it mysteriously disappeared. Unfortunately, the wealthy middleman isn’t talking, however, we do have someone in our custody who may have knowledge of the theft. Actually, he could even be the person responsible for stealing it. With the right incentives, he may be willing to help you recover the painting so you can extract the microdot.”
“I believe we can provide those incentives, General,” Casey smiled evilly as he cracked his knuckles.
“Not exactly what I had in mind, Major, at least not yet,” Beckman grimaced. “Chuck, I want you to go to New York City and have a face-to-face encounter with this suspected thief, and then you must contact me immediately. I am very interested in your reaction after the sit-down takes place.”
Beckman seemed enigmatic, and then even more so when she added, “Major Casey, you’ll accompany our asset, but Agent Walker, you are to sit this one out.”
“But General,” Sarah immediately objected, “I am an integral part of this team and I have to protect Chuck.”
Beckman sighed. “Agent Walker, you are a good operative, but you may have vulnerabilities in this instance. And, you, Casey, may also have issues, but I trust you can act professionally and keep them in check. Do I make myself clean, Major?”
“Crystal, General,” Casey answered with a growl.
“Good. We have a private Lear jet on standby, so get your go-bags and hustle. And Chuck, no communication with Agent Walker until you return to California for a debriefing,” the imperious woman decreed as her image flashed off the monitor.
Chuck looked at a concerned Sarah. “So, an impromptu little conversation 3,000 miles to the east,” he said tentatively. “How dangerous could that be? Don’t worry, Sarah. If Casey’s going along for the ride, I’ll be safe.”
“Be careful, Chuck. This all seems rather bizarre and a little lacking in clarification,” she answered with a frown.
~~~~~~~~~~
But Chuck knew Sarah was right. It did all seem too cloak and dagger, even for Beckman who liked to be in charge and have her minions scurrying in abject blind obedience. The puzzled man with an Intersect in his head fought the urge to take out his phone and call his potential girlfriend during the long cross country flight just for moral support. It wasn’t that Chuck was afraid that he couldn’t handle danger. The embedded skills in his brain would manifest themselves if necessary and enable him to kick ass when the situation called for it. But tonight, he just wanted to hear Sarah’s voice. To be honest, maybe he had become too emotionally dependent on her. Maybe Beckman saw that as a liability and was forcing him to man up and be responsible for his own wellbeing. So, while Casey snored with his head tilted back on the padded seat, Chuck—well, Chuck did enough worrying for both himself and Sarah.
The private jet touched down at Teterboro airport later that day, and, as per instructions, Chuck and Casey made their way to Queens. When X marks the spot proved to be a small combination liquor and tobacco store called “Bottles and Butts,” Casey grimaced. “Well, I suppose this is as unpretentious as it gets.”
“Right, it’s certainly no Buy More,” Chuck agreed.
“Yeah, you may even get carded in this joint,” Casey taunted.
Chuck endured the verbal mocking; it wasn’t like it was a new thing with Casey. The former NSA operative came with the territory if Chuck wanted to keep his cover intact and Sarah by his side. The two men casually entered the small establishment and looked around. They were the only customers, so Chuck sauntered up to the cash register, grabbed a packet of Slim Jims jerky from a display, and plunked it down on the counter. He intended to pay with a credit card, the holder’s name being Charles Carmichael. When the swarthy clerk looked up, he murmured, “You don’t need to sign. A thumbprint will do,” he added as a new LCD screen coalesced on the apparatus. When his identity had been verified electronically, the clerk next nodded at Casey, who mimicked the action.
“Follow me,” the proprietor commanded as he led them back through the aisles to a steel door in the rear of the store. He then placed the palm of his own hand on a plate in the wall and the door clicked open. “We sell rare wine as well as rotgut and cancer sticks in this place. There’s a very unusual vintage down in the cellar that we keep under lock and key. Why don’t you take a look for yourselves,” he said quietly.
Chuck and Casey descended a set of cement steps and found themselves in a sort of tunnel that had rusted railroad tracks stretching into the darkness. “Probably an old defunct subway spur. Pretty clever,” Casey remarked. “C’mon, numbnuts, let’s see where they lead.”
As they made their way along the underground passage, lights flickered on to provide illumination until they came to a dead end. At that little cul-de-sac was a square enclosure, dimly lit, made out of thick plexiglass. An armed guard in fatigues stood at attention just outside of the large box-like space and another was inside hovering behind a dark-haired man seated at a table with one wrist shackled to a steel ring. Right now, the captive’s face was hidden because he was resting his head on his folded arms. When the sentry saw Chuck and Casey, he used the butt of his M16 to viciously jab the prisoner in the back. A weary man lifted his head and stared at the two new visitors.
Chuck drew in a horrified breath. “Bryce?” he murmured in disbelief.
Casey was also dumbfounded. “Damn! How many times do I have to shoot that little fucker so that he stays dead?”
Chuck tore his eyes away from the vision of his former college roommate, the one responsible for sending him the Intersect. Bryce was a challenging riddle—once he had been a valued friend, but he had also been responsible for ending Chuck’s chance at success by getting him expelled from school for cheating. Most upsetting of all, however, was the fact that this handsome man had once charmed Jill, Chuck’s first girlfriend, as well as managing to become Sarah Walker’s lover in a new incarnation. And let’s not forget that he could possibly be a traitor to his country.
Chuck suddenly became aware of Casey’s menacing presence. “Remember what General Beckman said, Buddy—professionalism while on the job. We need to talk to Bryce, not shoot, garrote, or break his neck. If he has something the CIA needs, that let’s proceed with finesse not fists.”
The sentry outside the enclosure punched in a few numbers on a touchpad and the transparent door retracted. The interior guard stepped out into the hall and allowed the prisoner and the new interrogators their privacy as the door slid shut again. The restrained young man looked from one to the other and quirked an impudent smile. “I guess you two are the new reinforcements.”
“We’re your worst nightmare, Larkin,” Casey snarled.
The beleaguered man sighed deeply. “I keep telling all of you people that you’ve got the wrong guy. I’m not this Larkin fellow. My name is Nick Halden, and I work for a very influential businessman named Vincent Adler right here in New York. I’m sure he’ll vouch for my identity if you’ll just ask him.”
At the mention of Vincent Adler’s name, Chuck experienced that now familiar neural sensation of images flooding through his brain like a flipbook on steroids. Ghost depictions of the Nazi regime during WWII, a submarine, Ponzi schemes, Argentina, a stolen Rafael painting of St. George and the Dragon, the Louvre, Amalienborg Palace in Denmark, a music box, and then that missing Titian painting. Dotted through the swirling montage were various names: Danny Brooks, Neal Bennett, George Danvary, Steve Tabernacle, Victor Moreau, James Bonds, and Neal Caffrey. Nowhere in that litany was there a Bryce Larkin.
When he regained his breath, Chuck couldn’t help himself. He blurted out, “Bryce, or whoever you are, Vincent Adler is one bad dude, Buddy. You need to keep your distance because it won’t end well for you.”
Casey threw up his hands in frustration and rolled his eyes. “I know you flashed, you moron,” he grumbled. “You only flash when there’s a bad guy in the vicinity, so what’s the need for all that fabled finesse? We’re supposed to interrogate Larkin to get the information we need, not coddle him! For somebody who’s supposed to be so smart, sometimes you’re just plain dumb.”
“This isn’t Bryce,” Chuck finally clued Casey in, even though his own eyes were telling him that it was.
“Of course it is,” Casey disagreed. “And I ought to know. I shot him point blank in the chest! When we get what we need out of this slimeball, I’m going to do it again, maybe even twice, just to make sure this time.”
The prisoner's eyes were darting between these two strangers. “Now let’s not be too hasty,” he said quickly.
“Look, Nick, or whoever you really are,” Chuck tried again after giving Casey a glare, “you look uncannily like someone I used to know. Does the name, Bryce Larkin, mean anything to you? How about Stanford or strange computer downloads? I mean, can you even speak or understand Klingon?”
“Nope, sorry on all counts,” was the quick answer.
“How about a girl name Jill, or maybe one named Sarah,” Chucked fairly squeaked out those words.
“Still drawing a blank,” the prisoner responded.
“Maybe you have a twin brother or a look-alike cousin?” Chuck pushed with hope in his brown eyes.
“Sorry, but not one of those things rings a bell. I’m an only child and I don’t have any cousins, at least to my knowledge,” the dark-haired man insisted.
“Of course he’s deny everything. It’s what a traitorous bastard would do if he was caught,” Casey snorted at this ridiculous line of questioning. “Maybe it’s time I got a little more persuasive.”
The trapped man gave Chuck’s associate a dark glance before returning his attention to Chuck. “Maybe you can tell that big ape standing beside you to stand down. I’m not easily intimidated, so he’s wasting his time with the knuckle-dragging theatrics.”
That didn’t sit well with Casey, and he suddenly lashed out with his fist and clocked the impudent suspect on the jaw causing a line of blood to trickle down his chin.
“Casey, what didn’t you understand about being professional?” Chuck sputtered in an appalled tone. “What happened to finesse not fists?”
“That was your stupid idea, not mine,” the Major snarled. “What’s the matter, sissy boy? Does a little blood freak you out. Well, man up. You’re in the big leagues now and it ain’t always pretty.”
“Well, I’ve got an even better idea,” Chuck insisted. “I’m tired because I didn’t sleep during that long flight—nope, not one wink. Maybe going through all those time zones messed with your biorhythms, too, and it’s made you a bit cranky. So, let’s do this in the morning, shall we?”
“Let’s not,” Casey said obstinately.
“Maybe we should let the General decide,” Chuck said obliquely, not allowing Beckman’s identity to escape his lips. A good spy was circumspect and discrete, right?
Casey shook his head and glowered. “Just like a little girl to run and tattle.”
“I’ll do it,” Chuck threatened.
“Of course you would,” Chuck’s angry sidekick grunted. “Well, first thing tomorrow, 0600 hours, it’s gonna get down and dirty, whether you like it or not.”