Three
Life was not good for one Special Agent Arthur Dufault, although that didn’t seem to stop anyone from joining the pile on. His most recent assignment had been a half year long prelude to a disaster wherein months of meticulous infiltration leading to the arrangement of a private meeting between himself and his target had culminated in a lethal brawl.
He was beginning to suspect that thirty-seven was too old for any shit, let alone this shit in particular, though that might be the lack of sleep and eleven hour return flight from Kiev talking. His suit jacket rode uncomfortably over the bandage on his left shoulder blade, the knife wound a parting shot from his now deceased mark, and dry blood flaked off from under his fingernails as he carded a hand through his short blond hair. God he needed a shower.
“You do understand, Agent, that your orders were to leave Mr. Shevchenko alive, with he and his associates none the wiser to your information retrieval, correct?” Director Boothman’s irritation was palpable, underscored by the meeting occurring not in her office but in the formal briefing room, resplendent in dark wood and markedly unyielding chairs enough to seat two dozen individuals. Today, it held only three. The subtle rebuke chafed.
“A bit hard to manage, what with our last meeting beginning and ending with him drawing a knife to reveal how spectacularly my cover had been blown. To whom do I owe my thanks for that, by the way?” He shifted his attention to the Colonel, tone insouciant but blue eyes promising murder.
“We’re still waiting on confirmation, though the Russian’s seem to be involved,” Thompson supplied.
“When aren’t they?” Arthur muttered. Boothman snorted softly.
“Whoever tipped them off, the breach didn’t occur internally,” the Colonel continued, and that was something at least. Arthur heaved a sigh, eyes returning to the Director.
“I don’t suppose you managed to get anything of use, Dufault?” Boothman despised wasted time and resources nearly as much as Russian interference.
“As our original intel suggested, Shevchenko had direct ties with President Zelensky and carried out extrajudicial orders on his behalf, primarily weapons acquisition. Based on our conversations over the last six months, he was acting as go-between to several international terrorist organizations and a half dozen governments for the purchase of illicit missiles. Whether he finalized arrangements or not, I don’t know, though—” he paused, reaching into the carry-on bag at his feet. The movement reinvigorated protests from his abused ribs, but a peace offering was a peace offering. “This might.”
He slid Shevchenko’s laptop across the table. The Director’s eyes went sharp. “Now there’s something.” She shifted her attention to the Colonel. “Get someone started on it immediately. With any luck, we’ll be able to intercept the supply chain before they go back to ground.” The CIA had been tracking down this particular arms group for nearly a year; she was understandably loath to return to square one.
“It’s heavily encrypted with a self-erase feature and I worked ever so hard to get it here,” Arthur chimed in, and Boothman wondered once again why she kept the former Delta operator on her payroll. “Please don’t hand it off to one of the fresh-faced interns you keep as pets.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Thompson laughed, a touch of the mad inventor spilling out. “This will be like Christmas for S.”
"Who now?” If the Colonel’s eccentricism weren’t already established, Arthur would be concerned.
“One of his aforementioned pets,” Boothman helpfully supplied, relishing in Arthur’s expression. Somewhere between baffled and offended. Good, taste of his own medicine.
“My new deputy, or he will be, whenever I get around to the paperwork. I don’t think you’ve met yet.” The Colonel looked like a proud father, and oh, Arthur couldn’t wait to meet the man. Fresh blood, probably in the form of a scrawny computer nerd; he so looked forward to weaseling new toys out of the uninitiated. The day might be looking up after all.
The Director looked amused, as though she could read the course of his thoughts to a conclusion for which he hadn’t accounted. Arthur remained unbothered.
“If there’s nothing further, Dufault, I’ll expect your after action report on my desk Friday morning,” Boothman paused.“And kindly deliver Shevchenko’s laptop to operations, as well as the rest of your equipment. Dismissed.”
With that, she returned her attention to Thompson, and the agent collected both his carry-on bag and the laptop. As he exited the room, the Colonel called out to him cheerfully.
“Be good to S! He bites!”
Arthur smirked, pulling the door shut behind him.
“They’re going to kill each other,” Thompson noted, stroking his beard thoughtfully.
“Saves me the trouble, Daniel.” Jeanette sighed. “Now, about Bolivia—”
---
Arthur sauntered to the operations branch with the satisfaction only a seasoned agent freshly returned from deployment could carry off. That is to say, aching and in need of a bottle of scotch, but too proud to let it show. He waved lazily to the staff he passed, grin easy, and relished in not only being home but being known. The covert affairs division of the CIA was small, with comparatively lower turnover than other agencies on account of both contracts and vetting, and the paramilitary operations officers, himself chief among them, were afforded a certain level of notoriety for their roles as field agents. Seven years of active service had certainly afforded him such notoriety, much to the Director’s eternal irritation.
The operations bullpen was unchanged. The side walls were flanked with servers, while the far wall contained a multitude of screens, each displaying active missions and relevant intel. The technicians desks still made up neat rows in the center of the room, an attempt at order that was firmly at odds with the miscellaneous projects and reports scattered across nearly all of them, dotted with bits and pieces of tech that might one day be his to explode.
A handful of technicians and junior officers scurried about, leaving the command desk manned by a lanky technician in a mustard colored cardigan that caused his too-large gray button down to bunch awkwardly at the shoulders. ‘Intern,’ Arthur corrected, catching sight of the deeply unfortunate striped tie a few shades too dark to really go. The young man’s attire positively screamed first attempt at professional wear. He was as good a place to start as any, Arthur supposed, stepping up to the man without preamble.
“I’m looking for S.”
“Yes,” the man replied, looking over at him briefly, adjusting his glasses as he did. “And you are?”
Arthur contained the urge to snort, barely. So much for the notoriety of being home. “Special Agent Arthur Dufault. You must be new.”
“I’ve worked here a year and a half.”
“Unobservant, then.” Oh, there was that shit day slipping out again. Uppity interns had that effect.
“Do you generally place such undue emphasis on your own importance or is it a special occasion?”
Arthur contemplated finding someone else, preferably without an abysmal sense of style, who could actually assist him. The rush of being back was fading, rapidly. “Just get me S.”
“Yes, hello, how can I help you today, oh great Special Agent Dufault?”
“...you must be joking.”
“‘fraid not.” S, as it were, was entirely unsympathetic to his plight. “Again, how can I help you today?”
“Christ, I knew Thompson wanted a younger deputy, but recruiting out of high school is a bit much.”
Syler turned to face the other man squarely, eyeing him up. Close-cropped blond hair, blue eyes, broad shoulders, athletic build, tailored suit. He positively radiated arrogance, clearly fresh off the adrenaline high of a recent assignment. Syler was decidedly not impressed by his peacocking. “Put your equipment in the tray, hand me the laptop, and kindly stop taking up space in my department. There’s no room for work with your ego in the vicinity.”
Arthur barked a laugh, relinquis
hing the computer to the other man’s open hand, and leaned up against the table, settling in. “Alright, whiz kid, show me your best.”
Fifteen minutes later, Agent Dufault let out a low whistle, forced to concede he was a bit impressed. It did nothing to stop his ribbing, though his tone was decidedly more friendly.
“Shame you weren’t in the field with me,” he crooned, watching raptly as the files containing information on Shevchenko’s dealings displayed on the command station monitors. The potential for a successful outcome in the face of setbacks bolstered his mood. “Would’ve shaved months off the deployment.”
Syler hummed an agreement, already mentally preparing a report for the Director. “I’ll be sure to outfit you with an earpiece on your next retrieval outing. If you can behave yourself, I might just be able to walk you through the process remotely without hanging up.”
“Earwigs aren’t terribly on trend for deep cover, I’m afraid. Too loud, too large, too obvious.”
“I’ve recently finished a new design that fits undetectably into the ear canal and shuts off all transmissions with a tap for discreetly passing through electronic security screenings. Say please and it’ll be in your next kit.”
“Sweetheart, I think we’re going to get along beautifully.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere. Now shoo, some of us have work to do.” He paused, eyeing Arthur’s pocket. “And put that back. It’s not for you.”
Arthur grinned his way out of the department, pocket bereft one nicked prototype, but day substantially improved.
Four
The data from Shevchenko’s laptop did, indeed, prove fruitful, salvaging months of work on the agency’s part and leaving a tidy package of clean up work for the military to handle. Agent Dufault, in his opinion, received little thanks for this, as his next assignment was as a security detail for an Ambassador in a hot zone that amounted to little more than babysitting. Director Boothman, ever the clairvoyant, beat back any protests.
“Consider it a paid vacation,” she stated, passing him the file. “If you get bored and need something to do, make sure you don’t sleep with anyone important.”
“Including the Ambassador himself?” he quipped back, unable to resist prodding the Director’s buttons whenever he could. Honeypot missions were part and parcel of intelligence gathering, and his, he would proudly admit, were some of the most fruitful in the department. That she was tacitly forbidding it now spoke volumes about how routine this particular diplomatic milk run was going to be. Boothman fixed him with an exasperated look; he shamelessly waggled an eyebrow in return.
“You’re a pox on this department, Dufault, and I’m half-tempted to reassign you to the mailroom.”
“You’d miss me too much if you sent me to the pit, ma’am.”
“Six months on a different continent didn’t do it. Report to operations for your equipment distribution. Dismissed.” He waved a jaunty salute in reply, mocking from anyone else, but he and Boothman had worked together for too long for any real offense to be taken.
And if he smiled charmingly at the Director’s secretary on his way out, blue eyes twinkling in her direction, folder tucked neatly under his arm, well, that was just to keep in practice.
---
“Oh, you’ve come back again,” Syler announced from his position at the command desk, back turned towards Arthur. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Can’t I just come to enjoy the artistry of the agency’s latest talent acquisition in action?” Today’s tie was especially garish, Arthur noted absently, a shockingly bright blue patterned thing that really should qualify as a war crime.
Syler rolled his eyes, pulling up the agent’s dossier on one of his monitors. “Shameless flattery really doesn’t impress me.” One of the junior officers three desks over snorted, quickly covering it with a polite cough. Arthur flashed her a winning smile and winked; Syler ignored them both. “Dubai, then,” he noted, turning in the direction of the armory. “Come along, Agent Dufault. You’ll need a few things.”
Arthur hummed, rolling back playfully on his heels, before following the other man out of the main room. The armory was to field agents what a candy shop must be to a small child. Perhaps he could convince the younger man to send him out with a few extras…
“Glock 19,” Syler announced, passing over the delightful rack of modified sidearms and to the agency’s latest standard issue of choice. “And six expanded capacity magazines, which I expect to be returned equally full given the relatively low risk assessment of this assignment.” Arthur most assuredly did not pout.
“I do so miss the specialty Sigs,” he began, eyeing his former darlings, neatly racked to the left. “I don’t suppose—”
“No, now sign the outtake form.”
Ah, yes, paperwork. The glamorous life of an international spy. “You know, the Colonel just trusts that I’ll bring things back.”
Hazel eyes darted away from the locker of communications equipment to fix him with a baleful look. “Then I won’t need to worry about whose pay I’m docking to make up for the hole in my budget, as this will most assuredly come back to me unharmed.”
“So feisty for someone so recently eligible for a driver’s license.” Arthur accepted the bulky ear piece, also standard fare, dissatisfied. “I recall I was promised your latest innovation last time.”
“You’ve yet to say please and that is standard issue for the Ambassador’s security detail whom you’ll be coordinating with. Compatible tech is a helpful start. I’d let them outfit you, but then it wouldn’t come with a wireless bridge to our device as well. Sign,” Syler opened the topmost drawer, reaching for a thin box without pause. “Now. Say please.”
“Please, sweetheart, do show me your marvelous improvements.”
“Better.” He flipped open the lid, box marked light beige #3. “Yes, that should match well enough. Try it on.” The earwig was half the size of a penny, and nearly as thin, thoughtfully tinted for added discretion. Arthur slipped it into his right ear, space to spare for the standard issue piece to fit over it.
“It has the looks, but does it work?” He questioned, grin all charm.
Syler tapped his right ear before speaking. “You tell me,” Arthur heard, from both in front of him and his earpiece. No echo, no lag.
“Not bad, kid, not bad.” The other man seemed inured to comments on his age. Pity no one had informed him that playing hard to get was Arthur’s favorite challenge.
“Sign, please, and if you lose it, I won’t issue you so much as a paperclip for the remainder of your tenure.” This time, Arthur did pout, though the effect was somewhat mixed coming from a man of his build clothed in a slim charcoal suit. “Now off you go. You’re scheduled to meet the Ambassador at the Embassy in two hours. Reyes will be your handler for the duration; I’ll transfer your comms to her this evening.”
Arthur shifted back on his heels, expression considering. “Please,” he drew out, tone theatrically pleading, at least for a grown man. Syler sighed and the agent began counting down to his victory, watching raptly as the other man moved to another locker, nearest to the armory doors. His inner child crowed. ‘Something new then.’
“They need field testing anyway and you’ve enough security screenings to go through to make for a decent trial on that front.” He retrieved a slim case, flipping it open to reveal a lovely trio of knives, varying in size from pocket-carry on up, accented by two holsters designed to fit the larger pair of the three. “Composite material, durable enough to embed in concrete without blunting the tip or breaking. Won’t come up on a metal detector screen, though I’d like to verify that with a lower stakes assignment.” The agent waited, sensing more.
Syler sighed again. “Yes, alright, the shortest one contains a small explosive in the handle with a thirty second timer. The detonator is in the concealed slot on the inner edge of the clip, flip it out and over to arm it. The other two are on sixty second delay, trigger in the faux bottom of the hil
t. For emergencies only, of course.”
Arthur grinned. Now this was more like it. “I’ll give it a good test run for you,” he signed, obligingly. “All in the name of science, of course.”
“I’m sure. Have a pleasant trip.”
“Pleasure to see you again, S!” Arthur sauntered off, chipper, equipment in tow, and Syler was left alone to lock up the armory.
Syler hummed thoughtfully to himself. He’d learned early on that the field agents really were like children, where equipment was concerned anyway, and it never hurt to start positive reinforcement training early on. Besides, letting them think they were more clever than he was kept him entertained.
Five
Special Agent Arthur Dufault, Syler rapidly learned first hand, was a menace. Maria had left the night shift the prior morning muttering roundly under her breath about field agents and their magnetism for trouble, threatening all manner of bodily harm that he would genuinely pay to see. Given what he was being subjected to himself now, he’d gladly offer to hold her coat if it meant freeing up her arms to speed up the other man’s execution.
“If you will recall, Agent, I issued you a Glock 19, six magazines, two ear pieces—one of them very expensive—and, against my better judgment, a set of knives capable of blowing through a steel wall in an emergency.” The equipment return tray presently contained a scuffed firearm, three magazines, no ear pieces, and one frighteningly scorched knife. The man returning them sported an equally alarming bruise on his right temple, but Syler was feeling unsympathetic.
“The knives worked wonderfully, thank you.”
Syler resisted the urge to snarl, barely. “How the hell did a milk run end in explosives?”
“Problems arose, wound up in a bit of a tight spot, had to make a quick exit,” Arthur shrugged. “The charge on that knife really did punch straight through the door, helpfully enough.”
Covert Affairs: Partnership : A Covert Affairs Romance (Book One) Page 2
