I have found out that there ain't no surer way to find out whether you like people or hate them than to travel with them. –Mark Twain
Go Fish
18 NOVEMBER 2005
BUNKER 77142135
01:18 OMST
"Oh, you're awake."
Sarah glanced up in surprise to see Chuck sitting at the kitchen table, his head bent over a soldering project. Nonetheless, she finished closing the door to the bunk room without a sound. Bryce, it appeared, was asleep. "I thought you were asleep," she told him.
Chuck set the soldering iron in its holster, wincing when he realized that the kitchen smelled of molten metal. He was still adjusting to having others to consider. "I can't seem to sleep—figured I'd use up the extra energy."
Remembering that he was the host in this situation, he rose and began to put his current project away. "Can I, um, get you anything? I can heat you up some Spaghetti-Os—I don't recommend the MREs I usually eat, though come to think of it, you might not mind them so much. They're actually pretty tasty. They're just, you know, the only thing I have to eat, so I'm kind of tired of them—"
Sarah smiled. "It's okay. An MRE sounds great."
"All right." Chuck didn't have to move to open the cupboard. "Pick your poison. We've got—oh." He trailed off when Sarah merely grabbed the closest one. "Want me to show you how to heat that—never mind. You apparently know your way around an MRE."
Sarah completed the ministrations that would eventually heat the MRE completely. "I've been out in the field a few times."
"I can see that. Have a good nap?"
"Actually, yes. The cot's actually pretty comfortable. Bryce is out for the count." Sarah began to disassemble the Meal, Ready to Eat and glanced about for a cup to mix the powder drink with water.
"I wouldn't trust that flavor if I were you."
"Why not?"
"It's by far the dodgiest of the entire lot. Here, I'll mix up my specialty."
While Chuck dug out supplies, Sarah began to work her way through the meal, steadily and without seeming to taste much. It was probably the best way to demolish an MRE, in Chuck's opinion. He noticed that she ate everything with the mindset of a woman who was never sure when the next meal would be, but he didn't comment. He was too busy concentrating on moving around in such a small space. Normally it wasn't a problem, but now he had a stranger to contend with, and—well, beautiful women had always made him nervous. Sarah Walker was the female counterpart to Bryce Larkin's devastatingly good looks. The CIA couldn't have put two prettier people together if they'd tried.
"So what is it you do, Chuck?" Sarah asked once she'd finished the main course and Chuck had located his empty milk gallon.
"I analyze data sources to make sure they're not being used by terrorist groups to pass encrypted messages."
"Sounds important."
"I guess." Chuck measured out powder.
Sarah launched into something long and in another language—he figured Russian, though he had no idea why. "Say what now?" he asked without turning.
She was silent for a second. "You don't speak Russian?"
"Nyet."
"So why do they have you stashed in the middle of Siberia?"
Now Chuck did turn. "One of life's greatest mysteries," he said. "There were two guys here before me, and two with me at separate points. They listened to Russian chatter and the like, but me, I'm an English-only kind of guy with the occasional foray into bad Spanish. I've no idea why I'm here."
"Aren't you at least a little bit curious?"
He'd spent several months burning up with curiosity, but that had led ultimately nowhere. And curiosity, pushed for too long, became an exhausting mantle to bear. "Not really. My theory is that they spent too much money on me to just let me go when I apparently failed spy school, so…to the wilds of Siberia it is."
Chuck finished mixing the gallon and produced two glasses from a cupboard under the table. He flourished them and made a show of pouring the orange liquid, handing the first glass over to Sarah.
"Tang?" she asked after taking a sip. "Really?"
"Really. I live off of this stuff. It's what they give astronauts, you know." Chuck capped the gallon and set it on the remaining inch of table left. "It's the one thing they never forget to send, which is good because the water tastes like crap."
"Do you actually like Tang?"
Chuck took a long swallow. "Brent used to add vodka to make it better, but me…I'm a whiskey man, myself."
"Oh, are you now?" Sarah laughed and reached into her jacket, pulling out a flask. She took her time unscrewing the cap and pouring a generous amount into her own cup before she handed the flask over.
Chuck toasted her with it. "You're a goddess."
"I aim to please."
When Chuck had doctored his cup, he raised it. "To spies?"
"To spies."
The whiskey burned, a smooth, reassuring flame straight from throat to gut. Chuck took time to really enjoy it. "It's been years since I had whiskey. Real whiskey, not the crap Paul used to drink. I miss it."
"So what do you drink if not water or whiskey?"
"Tang." Chuck sighed. "Lots and lots of Tang."
"You're a stronger person than me, then."
Chuck gave a humorless chuckle. "Am I? You're out in the line of fire, kicking butt and taking names. Doing something active while I just sit here on my butt and…drink Tang."
"Sit here," Sarah corrected, "apart from all of your friends and family and life, and continue to work for the people who put you here because you believe in justice enough to keep going. Don't put yourself down."
"I notice you didn't mention the Tang," Chuck said when he regained his voice.
"Like I said, you're a stronger person than me. And my life is not like the Bond movie you make it sound like."
"Probably for the best."
"Why's that?" Sarah returned the flask to her jacket and pulled out a deck of cards, wiggling them at him in invitation. "Cards?"
"Sure. And I'm just saying, a woman who, um, well, a woman who looks like you has a very low life expectancy in a Bond film. Especially if she's so obviously on the side of good. It's like an unwritten law. Bond's good colleagues tend to die." Chuck paused to think about it. "Unless you're Miss Moneypenny. Or M."
Sarah laughed and began to deal the cards. He could see her shoulders relaxing, something they hadn't done all afternoon during Bryce's stories. "Why can't I be Bond? I mean, we've progressed in gender equality, haven't we? Bond could be a woman."
Chuck made a pfft noise. "Hello, Bond would clearly have to be Bryce, duh. Those chiseled looks, the blue eyes. Total Bond."
"Something you want to tell me, Chuck?"
"What?"
Sarah leaned close. For one blinding and heart-stopping second, Chuck couldn't move.
"Is there something," Sarah repeated, "you want to tell me about you and Bryce?"
She'd apparently taken a shower earlier, for she smelled like his soap—or rather, the government issued soap he used. Only it smelled a thousand times better on her. Not one bit astringent or clinical, just the good, solid, tantalizing scent of a woman. In that moment, Chuck understood how it felt to be Al Pacino.
"Chuck?" Sarah asked, uncertainty creeping into her voice.
"What?" Chuck jolted and shook his head, desperately grabbing at any possible thread to the conversation. "What? About me—and—and Bryce? What? Oh. No, nothing like that." He forced a chuckle. "We've just been friends for years, and I know what a great guy he is. Very James Bond like. And you have to admit, the guy does have a pretty face."
"Very true." Sarah eyed Chuck suspiciously, but let it go. "I still say I should be Bond."
"How about Bristow? Work for the CIA, travel the world, kick ass, take names?"
"Sounds acceptable."
"Though between you and me," Chuck said, leaning in as though sharing a secret, "you look like you can take Sydney Bristow in a fight. Don't tell Bryce I said that, though. He was always a fan."
"All right, will do. So…if I'm, as you say, Bristow, and Bryce is Bond, what does that make you?"
Chuck moved his shoulders and stared into his drink. "Tech support? I'm not sure I'm cool enough to be Q."
"No? Don't sell yourself short, Chuck." Seeming to remember the cards for the first time, Sarah shuffled expertly. "You're a lot more than tech support."
"There's not a lot of characters that sit in bunkers and decode all day." Chuck picked up the cards she'd dealt and frowned. "What are we playing?"
"What respectable spies always play when bored." Sarah rearranged her own cards. "Got any sevens?"
"You know what? I don't. Go fish."
27 SEPTEMBER, 2007
TRANS-SIBERIAN EXPRESS
03:17 YEKT
The train rattled and screeched by turns, clattering on the track and jolting everything inside. Sarah and Chuck had scored a car of their own, thanks to the fact that not many people chose to travel at this hour. Chuck had already attempted to stretch his length along one bench, leaving the other for Sarah, who was having a marginal bit more luck because there wasn't quite as much of her to stretch. If he moved just a hair, he would be able to see her out of the corner of his eye and study how she lay with her arms crossed, her legs tucked under her. It looked uncomfortable, which was putting how he himself felt mildly.
He kept his face turned to the ceiling. It was easier to ask the hard questions that way.
"Why would he do it?"
She didn't have to ask who he meant. "I don't know."
"I mean, the guy's like a boy scout—hell, he was a boy scout."
"Eagle scout," Sarah murmured.
"So why do this? Why betray his country like this?" Chuck squirmed to get a better position, but somehow only made it worse.
"I don't know," Sarah said again.
"You were his partner, surely you noticed someth—"
Sarah moved like a snake. In a blink, she went from lying down to looming over him, a martial set to her features and a handful of his parka in her fist. "I didn't suspect a thing," she said in a too-quiet voice. "I saw nothing, okay? I thought things were fine. I even went out and had drinks with him the night he stole the Intersect and, still, I noticed nothing!"
Chuck didn't dare do more than breathe. Even with a lack of human interaction he'd had lately, he knew better than to make any sudden movements when a woman was standing over him with that look in her eye. Still, he couldn't stop his mouth from asking, "Is it really me you're mad at?"
Sarah's grip slackened on the parka. She sat without saying a word.
Chuck deemed it safe to sit up. "Whatever happened with Bryce, it's not your fault," he said. "He's his own person. He'll face the consequences of his actions someday. I fully believe that. But he's good at pretty much everything he's ever done, so there's no use beating yourself up because he kept this a secret." Chuck straightened the parka. "He's got skills. That's why he's Bond."
"Except," Sarah said, her voice thick, "Bond wasn't a traitor."
Chuck couldn't think of anything to say to that. "Why don't, uh, why don't you lie down, get some sleep? I'll keep watch for awhile, make sure nobody disturbs you or anything."
"I'm supposed to be protecting you, not the other way around."
"And I promise that if we get attacked by bad guys, my girlish screams of terror will wake you up in plenty of time." Chuck gave his most bolstering smile and kept it up until Sarah had curled up on the bench. Eventually, her shoulders loosened and her breathing slowed. Chuck watched until he was sure she was asleep before he turned his gaze out into the black beyond the train.
His mind churned with the questions he couldn't voice. Why would Bryce do this? Was it for money? Ethics? For him? Would Bryce have done this, have stolen government secrets and stored them inside Chuck, just to ensure that Chuck made it out of the bunker? No, that wasn't possible. It made even less sense than Bryce working for money. Chuck had had maybe two months left in that bunker until his contract was paid in full and he could return to real life. There was no reason Bryce would ever commit treason for a measly two months.
Of course, there was no reason Bryce should ever commit treason anyway.
The train screamed again as they made a major turn. Sarah stirred, but didn't wake.
And what about her? How on earth had Bryce managed to keep such a secret from Sarah? It would take both a large amount of knowledge and willpower. And resources. Lots and lots of resources. Among them, Chuck knew, was himself because he'd given Bryce those heat-scans of DC areas. The government would definitely look into that when he returned to Langley—before they threw him in another underground bunker to be turned into a human lab rat. Thanks, Bryce.
Maybe Bryce had done the noble thing by keeping Sarah in the dark, giving her plausible deniability. Or maybe he just didn't want to leave a loose end that would have had to been tied up later.
After all, three people could keep a secret—if two were dead.
It made Chuck sick to think these things about his best friend. What had Bryce been thinking? What on earth had been going through that perfectly coiffed head when he'd stormed government property and blown up the Intersect database? Had he given a single thought to the consequences for his partner and his unwitting partner-in-crime?
Again, the train track curved and the train responded with a screech. Again, Sarah shifted. She looked perilously close to falling off the bench, but nudging her back to safety would only wake her. Chuck just decided to keep an eye out for her.
Of course, that was an avenue he still needed to explore. What did he really know about Sarah Walker? Would she keep her word? Was she really looking out for him? Or was she pulling him along by the nose that people could arrest him the second he set foot on American soil? Was he just (and this made him sweat just thinking about it) a vessel for the Intersect, to be delivered by Bryce and Sarah straight to the enemy? It occurred to him for the millionth time since the train ride had started that he was putting his life in the hands of a woman he barely knew. They'd shared one (very disgusting) drink, had spoken via satellite phone (usually in high-octane situations when Bryce and Sarah needed a back-up plan to get them out of the frying pan), and had only one real thing in common.
Bryce Larkin, rogue agent.
Chuck stared into the blackness and tried not to freak out.
27 SEPTEMBER 2007
YAROSLAVSKY TERMINAL, MOSCOW
05:52 YEKT
In Moscow, they moved to the corridor outside their cabin and squeezed by other passengers, ducking partitions when necessary. With every new person they passed, Chuck felt the walls close in a little bit. His throat dried up after a minute, became the Gobi desert after the next. He kept his gaze forward, focusing on just getting off of the train…where it would no longer be enclosed, where there would be even more people, all waiting, all cramming into spaces where there were far too many people, far too much color, far too much noise—
"Chuck?" A hand on his arm made his vision stop tunneling. Chuck blinked and twisted to look at Sarah, who was right behind him. "You okay?"
"What? Oh—yeah. Yeah, I'm okay. I'm good."
But Sarah narrowed her eyes. "You're covered in sweat."
"It's okay, I'm fine. Parka's a little warm."
"Are you sure?"
Chuck assured her that he was and turned around. He took a deep breath.
Outside, it grew worse. There was no longer a roof protecting him from the great open sky. He stepped out into the cold September morning and immediately felt his hands begin to shake. Though he wanted nothing more than to scramble back onto the train, to return to that horribly uncomfortable bench, he forced himself to step down onto the platform. No way was he going to chicken out in front of Sarah just because of a little government-induced agoraphobia.
She didn't say anything, but she did take his arm and wrap her own through it. "Don't want to lose you. We've got awhile before the next train leaves."
"Next train?" Chuck managed to ask in a normal voice.
"Yes, we'll take the Sapsan up to St. Petersburg. C'mon. I could really use a coffee." She maneuvered him forward, which was probably a good thing. At the sight of the crowds—admittedly thin, as it was early morning—milling about, everything inside Chuck had frozen solid. He walked a bit creakily beside her, the noise and the fury making him sweat underneath the parka.
By the time they reached the end of the platform, he was literally praying under his breath, wishing that it would all go away.
"Still with me?" Sarah asked.
Chuck just nodded, unsure that normal speech was possible. The edges of his vision were beginning to compact like the trash room on the Death Star.
"Well, good. We'll check the boards to find our train, and we'll get that coffee and find our berth on the train. It'll be a piece of cake, right?"
Chuck could feel the sweat sliding, greasy and unwelcome, between his shoulder blades. By the time they'd found the train, with hot, bitter coffee in hand, he was soaked. He collapsed on his seat and began to take deep, gulping breaths. Thankfully, they were alone in the cabin so far, though he figured that wouldn't last long.
"Going to make it?" She was smiling a little as she asked.
Instead of manning up, as his old instructors would have ordered, Chuck put his head in his hands. "Too many people," he said. His hands came away wet; he was drenched. "Is there, ah, a bathroom anywhere, do you think?"
"Just down the corridor," Sarah said. "Do you need me to go with you?"
Chuck shook his head and hurried away. In the bathroom, he locked the door and pulled off all of his gear, using water to slap most of the sweat away. He made a point of rewrapping his padding and pulling on his parka, though the train atmosphere was far too warm for such cold weather clothing. But removing the gear was like unstrapping a shield, and with everything happening around him…he needed the little bit of sanity he had left.
He avoided meeting the eyes of the tired and rumpled man in the mirror the whole time. There was always too much disappointment in that face.
Sarah was reading a Russian newspaper when he returned. "Feeling better?"
"Much. I'm sorry I freaked out on you—"
"You held it together better than I ever would have if I'd been stuck with limited interaction for three years."
"Five."
Sarah lowered the paper to stare at him. "They had you there for five years? You told me you'd only been there a year when Bryce and I came to see you."
Chuck shook his head slowly. "They had me somewhere else before that."
"Where?"
"I'm not sure. They knocked me out to transport me there and away." The fact that he'd been kept in a mysterious location for two years still sat in the back of his mind like a lump of lead that would never dislodge itself. At least in the Siberian Hellhole, he'd had internet connection and access to satellites.
Across from him, Sarah suddenly leaned forward and put a hand on his knee. She met his eyes. "I'm going to look out for you, Chuck. Nobody's going to put you in a bunker again."
"Why?" Chuck asked before he could think about stopping himself. "Why are you doing this? This is the next thing to treason."
It took a long time for Sarah to answer. "Because I don't think Bryce is a traitor," she finally admitted. "And even if he is, I owe him my life. I owe him to look out for his best friend. And I owe you, too. You saved my life a couple of times."
Chuck waved a hand, though he had a hard time shrugging off such sincerity. "All I did was call for a little backup or hide a satellite feed—"
"Chuck. Just accept my gratitude." Sarah kept her gaze focused on his until he relented and nodded. "I'm not going to let the government put you away like that again. You have rights."
"How on earth could you ever hope to stop them?" Chuck demanded, trying to keep the despair out of his voice and failing. "Sarah, they're the government of the United Freaking States of America. This is bigger than either of us. I appreciate the thought, but maybe I should just give up now."
"Trust me, Chuck. I'll get us through this."
Chuck opened his mouth to reply, but the cabin door opened and two men, newspapers tucked under their arms, joined them. Sarah hurriedly switched so that she was sitting next to Chuck. She bumped him with her shoulder and smiled, but he didn't smile back. Instead, he leaned his head back against the seat and stared at the ceiling.
27 SEPTEMBER 2007
PULKOVO AIRPORT
11:47 YEKT
In St. Petersburg, they took a taxi. It wasn't as much of an adventure as it could have been—Chuck spent the train ride to St. Petersburg shoring himself up for the trip into the crowds, so he held up somewhat better this time. His hands twitched, but he found that if he stared forward and didn't look around, it could become a game of one foot in front of the next and so on. And it was easy to trust a woman who could shout in angry Russian at anybody who bumped him and direct the taxi driver to their desired entrance at the airport with ease.
"What are you going to do about passports?" Chuck asked under his breath. He didn't have to speak loudly, crammed as they were into the cab.
"I've got it covered."
"Were you by any chance a boy scout yourself?"
"No." Sarah leaned closer to give the driver directions, guiding the taxi not to the terminal but to the private section. She pulled Chuck out into the September cold, heading for the on-tarmac transport. They strolled right past an unmanned gate and right up to a golf cart.
"Um, Sarah, hate to point this out, but the terminals are that way—"
"We're not flying commercial." Sarah climbed into the driver's seat and popped out a panel just below the steering wheel. She began to fiddle with wires, completely businesslike.
"Are we hijacking this?" Chuck gaped. "Wait, we're not hijacking a plane, are we?"
"No." Sarah twitched one last wire and the engine purred to life. "I just don't want to walk all the way to the hangar. C'mon, get in and hold on."
Chuck obeyed, grabbing onto the door and praying for what felt like the fifteenth time of the day. Sarah had obviously been Dale Earnhart in another life. They careened into a large hangar bay less than five minutes later. On shaky legs, Chuck climbed from the cart.
Sarah tossed him a cloth. "Fingerprints" was all she said, and belatedly, Chuck realized that she wanted him to wipe down the door. He hurried to catch up when she strode away.
The hanger, a huge, yawning building that caught every draft from outside and intensified it, spread out all around them. Planes rose like gods and titans from the smooth concrete, all shapes and sizes, plain to jewel-toned. Chuck stared at a few as they passed, wondering just how on earth he and Sarah had managed to walk into such a building so easily. Shouldn't these planes be better guarded?
"So you, um, hired a pilot?"
Sarah didn't answer—probably because she'd spotted the only other person in the hangar. Chuck blinked when a real smile blossomed over her face and she ran over to hug a tall, swarthy man. What she said, Chuck had no idea, but he was pretty sure it was French. He picked up her knapsack from where she'd dropped it and shouldered it himself. As he did so, he got his first good look at Sarah's friend.
The flash, of course, all but bitch-slapped him.
Jean-Claude Gestreaux, Belgian national, DOB 10 January, 1972.
Four known priors, suspected member of Templars, on retainer for CIA and Interpol, specialty IDENTITY FRAUD.
Chuck blinked off the micro-migraine.
"Bonjour," he attempted, using up the only French he knew that wasn't from the Lady Marmalade song.
"Oh, right. Chuck, this is Jean-Claude, Jean-Claude, this is—"
"Peter Rogers." Jean-Claude's white teeth flashed against his dark skin as he shook Chuck's hand. "It's an honor to meet you, Pete."
Chuck wondered why the Intersect had neglected to mention that Jean-Claude Gestreaux was a few Belgian chocolates short of a sampler box.
But Jean-Claude hadn't finished. He held out an envelope to Chuck. "Your documents."
"What?" Confused, Chuck slit open the envelope and watched a driver's license and passport tumble onto his palm. A social security card fluttered to the floor. As he knelt to retrieve it, he opened the passport. That was his picture, certainly, but the name was indeed Peter Rogers. "What?" he asked again.
"Jean-Claude's what we call a grease-man," Sarah explained. "He's the one that arranged airport security to let us in. The best in the business, right here."
Jean-Claude chuckled and waved off the compliment. "Always glad to help my favorite face. Don't forget about your own papers." He handed Sarah an identical envelope.
She raised her eyebrow at the passport. "Diana Rogers?"
"Clever, isn't it?" Jean-Claude lapsed back into French. From the way the Belgian glanced Chuck's way often and the way Sarah avoided looking at him entirely, Chuck knew they were talking about him. He didn't care. He was too busy studying his new documents. DOB for Peter Rogers—October fifteenth, which meant that he was still a Libra. And, hey, he could possibly celebrate his birthday with other people present this time instead of alone in a bunker.
"Chuck?" Sarah touched his arm. "We'd better move out."
"What? Oh, oh, sure. Right." Chuck collected himself and shook Jean-Claude's hand. "Thanks for the new identity. I appreciate the name."
"No problem. Sarah—oh, my apologies. Diana. I shall be in touch."
"I'm sure."
"Look for my bill." And Jean-Claude wandered away, whistling.
Sarah took her bag back and shouldered it. "Our ride's this way. If I know Jean-Claude at all, it'll be cleared and ready to go." She led Chuck to a bright-yellow Cessna parked just off the main strip through the hangar bay.
"This is really our ride?" Chuck held up a hand to block some of the brightness.
"Yep. I call her the Sting."
"Like the thing a bee does, or the movie? Or the singer?"
It turned out there was quite a bit of work to be done on a plane before it could take off. Sarah ran down a checklist while Chuck climbed up into the cockpit and stowed their bags. It almost comforted him to be in such an enclosed space after all the openness of Moscow and St. Petersburg. He relaxed into his seat while Sarah communicated with the tower.
"All right," she said, adjusting her headset. "We're clear to go."
"Just like that?"
"I'm in black ops. I know how to travel expediently when I need to. Hold these." She handed over her documents. "Whatever you do, don't touch anything."
Since the sheer amount of toggles and switches and gauges was throwing him for a loop, Chuck just nodded. He didn't particularly feel like dying in a horrendous plane crash after everything that had happened in the past forty-eight hours. He chose to focus on the passports to distract himself. "So, same last name, huh?"
"Yeah." Sarah toggled a switch. "Same last name."
"What's our, uh, cover? Rocking a little brother-sister identity action?"
"More like husband-wife, since we look nothing alike. You're in software, your product is selling well. I'm your extreme sports-loving wife that you met six years ago when mutual friends introduced us."
"Wow, detailed. How come you're the extreme sports lover in this situation?"
"Because I'm flying the plane. We left the little ones with Uncle Bryce while you had to be in St. Petersburg to meet with clients. And now we're taking a second honeymoon in eastern Europe." While she spoke, Sarah geared up the plane so that the engine purred to life. She began to drive out of the hangar, but she spared Chuck a brief smile. "I've always wanted to, and Pete can't say no to Diana."
"Can't he now? Good to know."
Chuck fell silent as Sarah taxied the plane to the runway, contacting the tower occasionally. Though she seemed confident as she guided the plane along, doubt proved stronger than his resolve. "So, um, uh, how good a pilot are you? What are we talking about here? Every once in a while, recreational type flyer or more hardcore stuff? Like, look out, MIG, while I fly upside down, flip you the bird, and maybe get a Polaroid just to treasure the memories?"
Sarah smiled at the control panel. "Relax. I'm a great pilot." She held up a hand to let him know she was getting a message from the tower, and replied back in something that sounded like code, more numbers than words. "Ready for take-off, Chuck?"
"Sure," he managed, and tried not to reveal that he was holding for dear life.
And just like that, they were cleared to leave Russia.
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