Chapter Text
Bill had tried reading, drinking, rigorous exercise. He tried simply taking in the wonders of being on firm ground again. He had even gone on a date with a woman he’d met in a bar – an evening that had turned disastrous when he realized were it not for the differences in appearance, she could have been Ellen Tigh’s twin sister.
Try as he might though, he was still restless and his mind inevitably kept drifting back to the white card that was now crammed behind his veteran’s card in his wallet. Questions flew through his mind: what was the Agency? Why was Yuen Nagala so concerned with even voicing their name? What kind of work would it be that he was suited for it?
Bill’s problem was that he couldn’t resist a good mystery. The best books, in his opinion, were the ones that kept you questioning the whole way through, torturing yourself to try and figure out the answer before the final page.
And this Agency had made him curious. Nag had said they did good work. If so, why had he never heard of them? Probably for the same reason that the Admiral had hushed him like a schoolgirl. Bill could understand that.
He wasn’t a big fan of secrecy, but years in the military had taught him how necessary and effective it could be. Maybe they could only do such good work so long as they remained anonymous.
It baffled him and he was practically twitching to find out the answers. But did he really want to keep working? The answer was an easy one; yes, he did. He’d worked his entire life, he simply wouldn’t know what to do with all the free time that retirement provided and it would drive him mad.
Gardening? Are you out of your mind?
He questioned himself for a whole week. To call, or to let it go and never know? Considering that he’d bought himself a disposable portable phone the day after the dinner with Nagala, he’d probably always known somewhere in his turning mind that he was going to call.
Eight days after he’d come into possession of the tempting little card, he laid it on the dining table in his rented furnished apartment and punched numbers into the phone. After hesitating a full minute at least, he finally pressed send.
A male voice answered after just two rings, surprising Bill. Whoever it was did not say hello, did not announce who he’d called, simply asked, “Name?”
“Bill Adama,” he responded after clearing his throat.
A minute silence and then, “Stand by for a return call.”
Then whoever it was abruptly hung up, leaving Bill staring at the phone in confusion and shock. What the hell? A return call from whom? Already regretting his choice, but still beside himself with wondering about it all, Bill placed the phone on the table and stared at it for a while.
Then he paced. Then he tried to read and when he could barely get through a paragraph, he paced some more. His impatient stare at the phone had, over the time that passed, turned into a glare.
And when it rang, even with almost a half hour of waiting, Bill was unprepared. He simply looked at it in shock for three rings, then dove across the room and picked it up.
“Adama,” he answered gruffly, pissed about how long he’d been kept.
It was a woman’s voice who spoke to him, her voice almost lyrical when she said, “I’ve been waiting for your call, Mister Adama.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve been waiting for yours too. A whole frakking half hour.”
She had the nerve to laugh at his response. “I’m terribly sorry for the delay.”
He demanded, “Mind telling me who the hell I’m talking to?”
“Soon, Mister Adama.” Insufferable woman was still amused. “First, where are you calling from?”
“I bought a disposable phone,” he stated.
“Good. Now are you serious about this call, or simply unable to stave off your curiosity?”
Bill hesitated, thought about his answer. He wasn’t going to deny being unbelievably curious. He was and that was a good part of the reason he’d called. But he really did want to inquire about the job. Like Saul had advised, if he thought it would be good work for him, he’d take it.
He told her, “I’m serious.”
“Your apartment is in the Seacade district, isn’t it?”
How the hell does she know that? he wondered, resisting the urge to peek out the window and look up and down the street for suspicious vehicles. A touch of paranoia making him a little hesitant, he answered, “Yeah.”
“There’s a lovely little bookstore not far from you, I believe, Readers Haven, about a block - - “
He cut her off. “I know where it is.”
“I’ll be there within twenty minutes. I’d like to meet you, so if you’re seriously interested, don’t keep me waiting too long. Oh, and Mister Adama? I have a weakness for mysteries.”
And for the second time in less than an hour, someone hung up on him. You and me both, lady, he thought of her last comment, staring at the phone in his hand, wondering what the hell he’d gotten himself into.
Who were these mysterious frakkers? He pondered answers to the questions in his mind as he snatched his jacket from the coat rack and strode from his apartment.
~~~~~~~~~~
The first thing Bill had done when he’d hit shore again and found a place to rent was scope out the surrounding neighborhood. He’d found himself a bar, a diner that made decent breakfasts, and a cozy little bookstore that he’d spent hours browsing through that first day.
Reader’s Haven was easily missed if you didn’t have a nose for books. Barely a notch of a door crammed between dozens of other, far more eye-catching shops, Bill had almost walked straight past it when something had made him stop.
He’d been immensely pleased. It was cramped, books were stashed from ceiling to floor, many stacked up beside shelves in a tight little maze of paperbacks and pages and hard covers. His first visit alone had set him back quite a few cubits and even then he’d only stopped browsing because he had just enough sense about him to remember he had to carry them all back to his apartment.
That day had been helpful for this one though, since when he entered, he was able to easily head for the general area that housed mystery novels. If he hadn’t been so curious about the mystery he was living, it would have been a much longer trip – even with only periphery glances, he’d already seen four or five books he’d have to remember to take a closer look at next time he visited.
She was crouched down between the shelves, a small stack at her feet and an old novel in her hand. He knew it was the woman he’d been speaking to, because there was no one else in this particular section and the twenty minutes had passed. Somehow, from their brief telephone conversation, he knew she would not be late.
Stepping closer, he was about to clear his throat to announce his presence when, without even looking up at him (and how she could see him with all that hair covering her face, he had no idea) she welcomed, “Good afternoon, Mister Adama.”
“Good afternoon.”
Another moment, and then finally she looked up at him, pushing black-framed glasses higher up on her nose and adding the book in her hand to the pile at her feet, which she picked up as she rose.
The first thing he took note of was that she was just about as tall as him. The second was the very casual clothing she wore, jeans and a sweater, which didn’t seem very appropriate for a business meeting. Then he remembered he himself was in little more than that as he’d been so impatient to find out what this was all about that he hadn’t bothered to dress up – so much for first impressions.
Third, he took in her nice, warm smile, which was immediately offset by the calculations he could see in the green eyes that were looking at him intently from behind her glasses. She was summing him up and unconsciously he straightened himself.
Holding out her hand, she said, “It’s good to finally meet you. I’m Laura Roslin.”
She had soft hands, but a firm grip. “Bill Adama.”
“I know. And I’m sure you’re just bursting with questions. Why don’t you let me buy you a cup of coffee?”