Operation Jericho (closed)

[Scuttle Buttin']

Victory at all costs, victory in spite of all terror, victory however long and hard the road may be; for without victory there is no survival.


-------​

December 7th, 1941. September 11th, 2001. May 6th, 2014. Days that live in infamy.

Each one somehow seemed worse than the other. Pearl Harbor was a surprise attack, yes, but on a military base. While tragic, those types of things were to be expected. September 11th was far worse, civilian planes used to attack civilian structures, and the civilians inside. So much loss, so suddenly lost.

The attacks of May 6th were different still, and the loss even greater.

At approximately 11:15 a.m. Eastern Time, a series of bombing attacks happened in New York City. Five in the subways alone, collapsing tunnels, stranding survivors, and preventing rescuers from reaching those that had only been injured. More were detonated in buildings, including three in the Empire State Building alone. Two on separate floors began the attacks, and another followed as people were herded together and followed pre-planned escape routes. Lambs to the slaughter. It would be weeks before the total loss of life was known, but early estimates had it easily over six thousand.

At virtually the same time, 10:15 a.m. Central Time, Chicago underwent it's own attack. The Willis Tower, known to most still as the Sears Tower, was one of many targets. The El, just as New York's subway, was targeted as well. Terror rose up from under the street and rained down from below. The Red Line, running through the heart of the city, would never again be the same. The heavy foot traffic on Michigan and State Avenues were attacked as well, by between three and five separate bombs. Authorities never were sure of the exact number. As was the case in so many things, Chicago came close to New York but fell just shy yet again. Just under five thousand people never made it home that day in the Windy City.

Halfway across the country, at 8:23 a.m. Pacific Time, both Los Angeles and San Francisco suffered much the same fate. Attacks at LAX, on the Golden Gate Bridge, and in multiple buildings in both downtown areas that mirrored those at the Willis Tower and Empire State Building shed more civilian blood. Another six thousand would not see their children, their spouses, or anything else ever again.

Nearly twenty thousand perished in a single day. Osama Bin Laden was dead, but it seemed his ghost had returned for vengeance on the country that had hunted him down. The intelligence community, so under fire after 9/11 and the Iraq War, was caught flat-footed once again. Blame flew like spring pollen in Washington, with each side trying to paint the other as derelict in their duty. In the halls of Langley, most kept their heads low and tried to stay out of the crossfire. People would lose their jobs, of that there was no doubt, and it quickly became every man for himself.

Except in Department R.

-------------​

Gabriel Mallas had no idea why he'd been summoned to Langley, Virginia. He'd spent his adult life in the military, had even been on more than a couple covert operations in that time, but until now he'd had no reason to set foot in the city of Langley, much less in the headquarters of the CIA.

It was in a featureless room - save the undoubtedly two-way mirror that dominated the far wall - room that he learned of the reason he'd been summoned.

In the weeks following the attacks of May 6th, a plan had begun to form. Fashioned after Israel's Operation Wrath of God, that hunted and killed the terrorists of Black September, the CIA wanted to send covert teams into the field to find those responsible, and kill them. No trials, no extraordinary rendition, no Guantanamo Bay. A bullet in the brain, a poison in the system, an explosion that separated flesh from bone. They didn't care how it happened, but they wanted every last person involved in the planning and carrying out of the attacks to be killed.

They had reviewed his records (along with that of hundreds of others, though he was not told this), and they wanted him as part of the team.

Or, more correctly, as part of a team. Terrorists worked in cells, often independent of others, so that the disruption of one did not mean the disruption of the others. Department R, home to the best analysts and thinkers in the CIA's employ, had decided that copying that model might be the way to attack those cells most effectively. Small teams, working almost entirely on their own, securing sources and information, and hunting down the fuckers one at a time.

One would not be aware of the other. No numbers were given, and for all Gabriel knew there could be thousands of others like him or he could be entirely alone in this. Despite this, he agreed without hesitation. He didn't know how anyone in his position could say otherwise.

------​

The information gathering had begun almost instantly, and continued non-stop in the days and weeks that followed. Much had been uncovered, including many of the names of those involved in the planning, funding, and operation of the cells that had carried out the attacks. Much was still left hidden. What information they had found would be turned over to the teams, and while the analysts would continue to dig it was those sent into the field that would be the tip of the spear.

Gabriel spend six hours at Langley the first day, and another ten hours the second. By the third he was no longer going home, and his fiancée was growing worried when she couldn't reach him. Born with a sharp mind and strong memory, he turned those skills now towards the acquiring of information, memorization of faces and dates and places, and the beginning stages of forming a plan of attack.

He learned soon after that he'd been paired with a partner, a woman, and while he took this news with a professional neutrality outwardly, inside he was a bit irritated. It felt somehow more like being shackled than being partnered with someone. While there was no doubt she would be qualified, there had still been mixed results in the women he served with, and he thought it might be a decision they would regret. But, of course, it was not his decision to make.

An apartment in New York had been prepared for them, a jump site in Agency terms, where they would spend their final night before leaving the country via LaGuardia, destination currently unknown. They'd receive their final orders once settled in at the jump site, and have time to make their final preparations together. Cover stories, including passports and other necessary documents, were being worked on around the clock. Time was of the essence, and it was clear those in Department R intended to waste as little of it as possible.

One night was all he was given to say goodbye to his fiancée. It was, as goodbyes went, rather disastrous. Unable to tell her where he was going, who he was going with, or why he was going there, she ran the gamut of emotions in the span of a few hours. Accusing him of cheating on her over the last week and throwing the ring at him, calming and taking it back later, only to rage later about how unfair it all was and throwing a vase. Mercifully, it was the wall that took the brunt of the kinetic energy on that one. In the end, they'd found the bed a little past midnight, and in the darkness found each other.

Gabriel left her early the next morning while she still slept, his last touch a kiss on a soft cheek marked by lines from her pillowcase. The chances that she might not see him alive again were stronger than he'd led her to believe the night before, and were that to be the case he'd rather her last memory of him were drifting off to sleep while he was still nestled inside her than of tearful goodbyes.

He was collected into a black GMC Suburban, the windows tinted so dark that the sunglasses they wore seemed entirely redundant, just as the sun lifted over the horizon.



Operation Jericho was officially underway.

 

[thestruggle]

They were meeting at a small café. By the time she arrived, he had already been there for ten minutes, and was grumbling about the lack of ice in Paris. The waiter came and took her order once she sat down.

“Un café, s'il vous plaît,” was the reply. Her French was accentless. A smile for the waiter's patience, and he moved away to fill the request. Her companion groused.

“Really, why no ice? Is it so difficult?” The man glared down at his iceless water. He was dressed in a casually stylish jacket, white shirt, nice slacks, black shoes. A scarf. His attire and appearance were an attempt to blend in that he couldn't quite pull off, and she found herself wondering why he bothered. They hadn't been followed, and wouldn't be noted. She was wearing a black blazer, lace camisole, dark skinny jeans, black ankle heels. Her black hair tumbled down over the red scarf, for a dash of color. She was relaxed, comfortable in her own skin.

The conversation they had met for would not change that attitude.

“It's expensive, and difficult to keep up. Let's try manners, shall we?” Her voice was mellow, alluring. It had to be. Her vocal tone was integral to success in her line of work. Or at least the way she did her job.

He fiddled with his scarf before reaching down into a black attaché case. The waiter returned with the requested coffee, complete with sugar cubes. The man paused with his hand hidden inside the bag, obviously waiting for the moment to pass. After thanking the waiter and assuring him that nothing else would be needed, she dropped the sugar into her coffee and stirred, glancing up at her companion briefly.

“Well, go on then. I can assure you he's not going to eavesdrop, as you've been quite rude. I keep telling you, man--”

An envelope was tossed on the table between them. She looked at him more sharply, replacing her spoon on the saucer. This was unprecedented behavior: materials were never brought out at meetings. It was all word of mouth, debriefings, memorization. It was what made her mental catalog so valuable, a significant contribution to her work. In all the time he had been her handler, she had never seen him make a careless move. Gauche, yes; sloppy, no. She took in his face, the expression. There were dark circles under his eyes.

It would be about the Sixth, then.

She knew she should pick up the envelope, search its contents, take her orders. If she did that, the cycle would start all over again. It was the same every time, regardless of the shifting dynamics. The small cup came up to her mouth, and was replaced in its saucer. A finger dabbed at stray granules of sugar, brushed them away. Only then did she reach out for the envelope, leaning back in her chair as she opened it to reveal only a single piece of paper. On its white surface was one name, one number, one address: all in stark black ink. Nondescript. Laser printed. No stamp identifying the list for what it was: classified.

More than classified.
The paper was a ghost letter.

The envelope was closed and replaced on the table between them. She picked up her espresso again, sipping and watching the mirror above the bar. A man at the counter was drinking cognac and marveling at the weather. Paris in June.

“Just a dozen?”

“For now.”

“It's a deep list.”

“Are they ever shallow?”

“Starting when?”

“New York, immediately. Jump from there. Everything else will come.”

She smiled at that. Her cup was empty and so she set it down, regretfully, although her bloodstream was sparking with the effects of caffeine. Tucking her hands between her thighs she leaned forward, pursing her lips thoughtfully.

“No choice here. You know that. Don't make the face.”

“Who's making a face?”

“You make the face--”

A couple passed by their seats, heading for one of the corner tables in back. Laughing. She wondered if they looked like they were out on a date. It had worked that way before, but not any longer.

He lowered his voice, “--the face every set. Come on. This is straight down. Be ready to leave for your flight, tomorrow. The air is tight, obviously, but you'll get through fine.”

She opened her mouth to speak, to tease, but the hunted look in his eyes stopped her. They studied each other.

“I don't need to tell you that this is beyond anything you've ever done before. Your work has been perfect, your record spotless. Anything less would mean that we wouldn't be sitting here having this conversation. As far as they're concerned, we aren't. Just the usual. But they are very, very interested in how this goes. Carte blanche.”

She hesitated, then nodded. Nothing he said surprised her.

He fidgeted, drank a bit of his lukewarm water, grimaced. “There is one more thing.”

Instantly alert, she waited.

“It's not solo.”

He saw the protest coming and raised a hand, repressively. “Just wait. Hear them out. You have to go, it's not like the team aspect makes a difference. And there's only one other.”

The cup was turned slowly in its saucer. The coffee had stained the white enamel around the bottom, a dark ring. She felt a sense of foreboding that had never been present before, a shadow passing over her shoulder. The street noise behind them filtered in through the open door. Someone rode by on a bike. She pressed the back of her hand to her forehead, rubbed hard. The damn envelope still sat there.

Twenty thousand people.

“And the pay?”

“You know I can't talk about that yet. I shouldn't need to talk about it. This isn't some--” His voice, while still hushed, was picking up in pace.

It was her turn to hold up her hand, silencing him. “Alright, alright. I'll be on the flight, I'll get there. Anything else?”

His eyes still gazed at her doubtfully, but his mouth made the proper response, “No, just get there. The rest will fall into place.”

Smiling she pulled her wallet out of her purse, extracting a few bills to pay for their drinks. “I love the scarf. You look quite dashing.”

Standing with her, he watched her place the money on the table and lifted the envelope, tucked it away. He replied, dryly, “What is it that was said? Quiconque flatte ses maîtres les trahit?”

The sun hit her hair and played on its strands merrily. She stood at the door and smiled at him, a glorious sight on a lovely day. “And you say I've been here too long. Go home, Thomas. Thanks for your help.”

-----​

There had been jobs before. There would probably be more jobs after. But as she stepped off the flight at LaGuardia she felt apprehension. A puppet. It was nothing new: her profession wasn't known for its independent thought. For all that she was very good at what she did, the plans were drawn out far in advance. It was her resourcefulness that mattered. Fluent in ten languages. Conversational in several more. Technologically savvy. And of course, handy with the small items that allowed a world traveling girl to move unimpeded. There were many like her, the people that didn't exist. The apartment she stayed in while in Paris was devoid of identification. No pictures, no journals, no pets. Not even a houseplant. What was the point of growing roots? She was never the same person. Carte blanche, Thomas had said.

C'est par mon ordre et pour le bien de l'Etat que le porteur du présent a fait ce qu'il a fait.

Selected, handpicked. She slipped through the system, into the cracks, under the doors. She and many others. And who else would there be?

A new identity every time.

The car pulled up to the apartment building that had been specified: nondescript and quiet. She had been picked up from the airport with minimal fuss and zero conversation, which was preferable to babbling. The flight had cured her of any desire for chatting. An eight hour flight was still an eight hour flight, no matter whose dime it was flown on. Her only luggage was an oversize black purse, with benign contents. For all intents and purposes, she looked like a friend out visiting. Boots, leggings, soft gray top, black scarf. She couldn't escape the scarves. Thomas was probably right, she had lurked around Paris too long. She pushed up her sleeves and opened the car door, with a quiet thank you to the driver. She stood on the sidewalk and watched the vehicle pull away.

“Just get it over with,” she muttered.

Once in the building, a short elevator ride took her up. Small spaces didn't bother her. Neither did waiting. Impatience was fatal. As the doors whirred open she stepped through, and counted apartment doors. Glancing over her shoulder, she caught her reflection in the gleam of the elevator entrance. A dark brunette. Green eyes. Who was she now?

Apartment 518. She knocked.

Her name before was irrelevant.
She was now Lydia Hughes.

 

[Scuttle Buttin']

Twenty minutes from LaGuardia International Airport was the jump site Gabriel was to meet his new partner at. Were he more versed in agency parlance, he would've said that he was "jumping" tonight. Instead, he thought of it simply as the place he would stay before flying off to... somewhere. He presumed there was a known destination for them, it was just not known to him yet.

The black Suburban slipped out of the stream of traffic in front of a nondescript apartment building, and then disappeared below ground, into the darkness of the parking garage. Looking at the cars they passed on the way to their empty parking slot, Gabriel thought the monthly rent for an apartment in the building must be a fine sum, and he wondered not for the first time just what the operating budget of the agency he now worked for was. Did anyone even know?

Two agents, who had identified themselves each with a singular name that could've easily been a first or last, sat in each of the front seats of the large SUV, but only the passenger stepped out once they parked. Gabriel's thanks for the ride went unacknowledged by the driver, and with a shake of his head he stepped out and followed the other agent wordlessly to a bank of elevators. The awkward silence of the ride up was broken only by the soft ding of the elevator as they arrived on their floor, and Gabriel glanced up at the floor indicator just before stepping off to see that they were on the 5th of five floors. The fact that they had picked an apartment with none above it was not terribly surprising.

The hallway was empty when he entered into it, and quiet as well. Their footsteps were rather muffled as well, the carpet underfoot more plush than expected, the lighting subdued and indirect so that things seemed dim, but not dark. He moved behind the agent as he walked, head swinging from side to side and charting their progress down the hallway.

501...

502...

503...

504...

It was the end of the hallway before he stopped, and again it was not surprising to find that they had the corner apartment. From his pocket the agent produced a key and slid it into the lock of number 518, then pushed the door open and stepped aside for Gabriel to enter first. He did so, and found himself in an apartment that was just as nice as it was small. The front room held a couch and a single armchair with a table roughly equidistant from each, and both of them facing a smallish flatscreen television.

As he wandered deeper into the apartment, Gabriel heard the agent close the door behind him and then, out of what he assumed was a force of habit, slide the chain lock and throw the deadbolt. Nothing was said between the men as they each made their sweeps through the house, one looking through the room, the other with a small cellphone-sized device checking for any electronic surveillance that did not belong.

While Gabriel was in one of the two bedrooms, this one dominated by a double bed topped with what seemed to be packed women's luggage, the agent stood in the doorway of the other and cleared it of devices. Gabriel moved out of what he presumed would be his companion's room for the night and flipped the light switch in the bathroom, which was just as equally nice and compact as the rest of the apartment. With nothing exciting to see, the light was extinguished and Gabriel discovered the man had moved to the room he just left, which gave him a chance to step into what would be his room for the night. Dark, masculine luggage that clearly was part of the same set he'd seen in the other room lay across his bed, and again it seemed packed and ready to go. It explained why they'd told him he didn't need to bring anything with him.

On the top of a chest of drawers, right in the middle and alone where it sat, was a small black clamshell box. Opening it, Gabriel discovered a simple gold band inside, and upon lifting the box for a closer look, he found the name Lydia inscribed in flowing script carved into the inside of it.

"You can go ahead and put that on."

The voice of the agent, who stood looking at him from the doorway of the room, startled him that he didn't quite understand at first, and only stood blinking at the man for a second. The box was tilted in his direction then, a brow arched at him as he did, and the agent nodded.

"I've got a marriage certificate for you to sign, too. If anyone checks into your backgrounds, they'll find you're a legally married couple from northern Virginia. Dating for three years, engaged for one, married for just a few days and on your honeymoon." He paused, and then actually allowed himself a slight smile. "It was a beautiful ceremony."

This was, in fact, the third couple he had sent out in the last few weeks, and the joke was stolen, deadpan delivery and all, from the first. Gabriel's short chuckle rather mirrored the agent's upon hearing the joke for the first time, as well.

"When she arrives," he said as Gabriel removed the ring from the clamshell and slipped it onto his finger, "I've got some intelligence to go over with you, as well as your destination and final instructions, and then you'll be-"

A knock at the door cut him off, and he left the thought unfinished.

"That must be her now, in fact. Let's go sit in the kitchen, there's a little more room there."

 

[thestruggle]

There wasn't any point to shifting from foot to foot – it was something she'd always been good at. The only way to get a door answered was to wait. Patience was something she possessed in excess. She leaned casually to the right side of the doorjamb, away from the knob. It was a minor space difference but it was enough to warrant a second look upon admittance. Something grumbled inside her head, Cat at a mousehole.

Well, fine.

The walls in the building were thick enough that noise didn't carry. She could tell that by the width of the expanse between each apartment door and the mental image of the apartments to the street. The carpet muffled footprints and the lights weren't too muted. No shadows to creep in around here. Enough corners, anyway. Enough light for the eye that was currently examining the exposed hallway in the peephole of the door. She smiled.

Locks clicked and there was a momentary pause as her eyes met those of a nondescript man through the hesitant frame made by door to chain. She wrinkled her nose at him.

“Step to your left.”

She complied. Sometimes the boys had itchy tendencies and she didn't fancy having a bunch of hands creeping up her thighs to find a hidden blade. Not that she needed one. The door was shut after a very brief assessment, and the chain whirred across its catch to free up her entrance. Click, tug, the timeless noises of unveiling and now-Lydia stepped across the threshold. She moved from the doorway and the agent commenced the ritual again, lock-lock-bolt-chain. It was only then that she turned from her examination of the room, like a snapshot – spare, easy, noncommittal – to face the gatekeeper.

“Thanks. Now?”

Her new green eyes were not quite flat, but the emotion that lurked in them wasn't a cordial one. The man cleared his throat.

“I'll show you the layout, then we'll debrief. Ahm, in the kitchen, afterward.”

Not quite meeting her eyes, the man gestured listlessly at the small living area. It needed no explanation. There was supposed to be an air of banal pleasantry in there but to her it felt stale, a set of rooms like couches in dressing rooms. Tinker-toy living arrangements. She didn't bother to remove her boots – after all, she had just purchased them – and the carpet muffled her steps anyway. The corner to the kitchen finally revealed a tidily compact space, with a neat table and chair set. Borough living, nothing like it. Her glance was comprehensive but concise. Plenty of time. She directed her gaze back to the agent's progress: a tiny hallway ran from the living room to rooms that she presumed were bedrooms and a bathroom. She glimpsed another man standing in the room furthest away from where the agent had turned. Their eyes met, briefly. Her gaze was neither friendly nor antagonistic. There was other business at hand. It's not solo. The agent snapped a light on, the tiny click running back to finely tuned ears.

“Here. Belongings, essentials... it's ready to go,” he backed away from the doorway to allow her entrance and then went to stand sentinel as she moved further into the room's confines.

After a moment of standing still by the bed, surveying the luggage, she unraveled her scarf from around her neck. Methodically she folded it and placed it in her purse. Unbidden, a memory of sugarplum ice cream rose to float in her mind and she pushed it off as she studied a suitcase. Paris was a long ways off. Tant pis.

“Good. And the rest?”

The agent was momentarily nonplussed, but like all of his ilk he recovered quickly, “Of the apartment?”

“Yes. Carry on?”

“We- Alright. This way.”

As if there could be another way. She settled her purse onto the bed unhurriedly. It would've been nicer to have a houseplant on the dresser, a touch of color. The agent was lurking in a corner, gesturing at two doorways. Restroom, plain and competent. Another room, more luggage. Her eyes took it all in like a series of camera clicks. If she brought a purse, it was only because they had failed to provide one. Sometimes there were mistakes. Either way, she preferred the one she had obtained. Not too high of quality, not too conspicuous. Not too French.

The man was in the room, of course, and she finally looked up to meet his gaze. There was a slight – almost infinitesimal – change in her manner. She was never chilly, but she didn't allow herself chummy at a debriefing. It was merely for the sake of her own mental catalog. He filled the space easily, cut to fit the cloth. There probably weren't many places he couldn't find a niche in. He stood much more still than the agent, who radiated brisk direction.

“Hi,” her voice was low but she held it in pleasing control. Easy, rich, professional. It was enough to be good at this. “I imagine you swept already?”

“Yes,” answered the agent from behind her, rather testily.

“Great. This should go reasonably quick then.”

“I'm glad you approve,” the agent remarked drily. “The debriefing will begin now.”

He turned the light off decisively and started to walk back towards the kitchen. She followed, thoughtfully, fingers not touching the wall in trailing arcs nor fluffing her hair unnecessarily. The agent stopped abruptly in front of the door to her room. She managed to choke down an ill-natured retort and glanced over her shoulder at her new partner. This was going to take some wiggle room. The snap of a case brought her attention back to the agent, who looked momentarily happier. She flicked her eyes down to a nondescript snap box, with muted velvet on the outside. Black, anyway. She stifled a groan and centered her eyes on the slim band inside, gold with lacing designs. After a few beats, she cleared her throat.

“No gem, that's good.”

“Ah, would you prefer - ?”

“No, no. Gems can bruise and... cut, when you don't mean them to.” She reached forward, almost shyly, and plucked the band from the case. It felt strange, like a goose walking over her grave. Why did it have to be partners? She raised her left hand to slip it onto her finger, the flash of letters – Christ, did we wait until our wedding night? – and it was on, well-sized. That wasn't a surprise either. They probably had her favorite fruit and biggest irritation on file.

The agent seemed perplexed about something, but nodded. “Okay. I've got dossiers for you, marriage certificate to sign, all of those things.”

“Yeah. I'll just get - “ She looked behind her, feeling a bit frazzled – a rarity. The presentation of a wedding ring and she was feeling the unpleasant sensation of nervousness. Assez de baratin! She turned to the man in the bedroom. “I'm Lydia, by the way. Shall we?” She didn't extend her hand, but waited calmly in the hall. The control was back.

 

[Scuttle Buttin']

Gabriel was left alone in the room as the man went to let the final piece of their trio into the apartment, and it gave him a moment to stand in the relative silence and adjust to this new life he found himself taking on. It felt unwieldy and awkward, like he was putting on a full suit of armor one piece at a time, but he knew he'd adjust in time. Acting married to a woman that was a complete stranger up until a few moments in the future would be strange, no question, but he'd learn to walk in the new suit. In time, he thought he'd be able to run.

Taking the small step to the window, he slid his index and middle finger between two slats of the blinds and parted them so he could look out on the street below. A car turned at the corner and disappeared up the street, his eyes following it until it was out of sight behind the building across the street. At the corner, a woman waited with her little poodle until the car had passed so they could cross. The dog seemed annoyed it wasn't able to finish sniffing the base of the stop sign. It was a weekday, sometime in the afternoon by now, but the street still seemed weirdly deserted. It was as if the world outside the window was feeling the same apprehension that seemed to have crept into his chest and was momentarily as unsure to handle it as he was.

The female voice down the short hall roused him out of his thoughts and he straightened away from the blinds, letting them snap back into place. He turned towards the doorway as he heard them approach, the agent that had shepherded him in disappearing into the other room as he gave the tour. Standing at the foot of what, for the night, would be his bed, Gabriel was struck at the absurdity of them having separate rooms, separate beds, living like roommates for a night in preparation to live like newlyweds for... some undetermined amount of time. It was there he stood, caught in these thoughts, when she passed by 'his' doorway, their eyes meeting, and he almost laughed. Of course she was attractive.

If his fiancée could see the situation right now, she'd probably blow the building up.

Moving around the corner of the bed, he stood just inside the doorway of the room with his hands behind his back, not quite at attention but not exactly relaxed, either. They were back in the hall shortly, she'd taken less time in her room than he had in his - exponentially less so, since he still seemed to be occupying his - and when she was in front of him again, he found an easy smile came to him, even if it did feel a little too boyish in the moment.

"Hey," he said, casual, friendly, not too bright, hopefully not betraying the fact that he was going to over think every word that was about to spill from his mouth, "I-"

The agent cut him off, and he found himself grateful for it. Not that he'd ever admit as much to either of them. Something of a wry grin found it's way to his lips as the agent made his way back towards the kitchen, the dry officiousness of his manner seemingly suddenly constraining in the little apartment. The person that was to publicly be his wife was now here, and delaying getting to know her felt somehow wrong. But, the choice was not his to make, and so he moved to follow the pair of them to the small eat-in kitchen.

An abrupt stop nearly sent Gabriel crashing into her, but rising onto his toes seemed to absorb most of the momentum he'd created, and as he settled back on his heels he saw the reason for the sudden halt. His eyes lifted to meet hers and, realizing she'd not seen it yet, he tensed a bit, his spine stiffening as he watched. Seeing her slide the ring on his finger reminded him that he'd not done so, and he was able to reach the dresser he'd left the box on without taking a step.

The gold band slid easily and settled snugly around his fingers, and he held his hand out in front of him, fingers extended, looking at it as if trying on an item he was considering for purchase. Her comment about a gem bruising and cutting lifted his attention to her, and for the first time he truly wondered just who the woman was he'd been paired with. Plenty of time to find that out later, but he had the sense that she was more experienced in the practice of espionage - perhaps vastly more experienced - than he was. It seemed to him, in that moment, that it would make sense if she was. One experienced in gathering intelligence, the other in ki-

Oh, God. Am I the killer of the group?

Her eyes were on him then, and he did his best to shove that thought to the back of his mind. The briefing would tell him more. Besides, he'd passed the point of no return long ago. It wouldn't be the first life he took, he'd amassed an impressive total while in Afghanistan, but never someone that was living as a civilian. Never someone he had to hunt among unaware, unsuspecting innocents. Never...

"Lydia," he repeated, swallowing down that line of thinking and offering her a quick nod, "I'm Gabriel. Pleasure to, uh..."

He hesitated, then held up his hand, fingers extended, and wiggled his ring finger.

"...marry you, I guess."

A short chuckle was left in the room, left behind with the luggage of a new life while he followed her down the hall. The agent was already seated at the table in the kitchen, papers spread out before him. Across from him sat two empty chairs, waiting for the pair of them. Not much of an altar, he thought as he lowered himself into a chair.

"We'll start with the documents for each of you that need signatures, and I'll give you all of your new identification and collect your old, and then we'll move on to Fahid Salim Ali."

He paused in the shuffling of his papers and looked up them, first one and then to the other.

"You've probably not heard that name before. He's your first target."

------​

He'd shaken the agent's hand in the kitchen, nodded his thanks as he wished them good luck, and had the door of the side-by-side refrigerator open before Lydia had closed the door behind him. Pleasantly surprised to find some fresh produce within, he was stood over the sink with the water running when he heard her boots on the tile floor.

"So," he said without looking up, bouncing the fruit in the colander to shake off the excess water, "Is this your first marriage, or are you an old hand at getting married to..."

He trailed off. Frowned.

Hunt terrorists.

Kill people.

Break international laws.

"...do this?" he finished unconvincingly. "It's my first," he shoved in after it, dumping the fruit on a paper towel that he then lifted in his hands. Turning to her finally, he held it up. "But I'm sure I'll get the hang of it pretty quickly. Strawberry?"

He took one himself and bit into it, chewing thoughtfully for a moment before he looked back up to her, head slightly cocked.

"Is there something I should call you? In public, I mean. Dear, or honey, or... sugar? Mooshy? Or... something?"

 

[thestruggle]

There should have been something strange in signing paperwork that gave her another identity but it was all a matter of form. Only the ring on her finger was anything different, and she had worn artifacts to disguise herself before. Hardly ever anything so visible – jewelry was only to her advantage when it caught needed attention. Lydia didn't think that was the case there. For a moment, after the uncomfortable banter in the hallway, she wanted to ask for individual debriefing but knew better. In it, now. She probably came off as humorless but it was better than seeming ill at ease. He – Gabriel, her mind supplied helpfully – seemed like the boy next door. Well, as long as he was willing to work...

There was a period of silence around the kitchen table as the documents were selected, perused, and signed. They were carefully organized – some made to look old, such as Social Security cards and birth certificates – and put away. Lydia felt relieved. The easy part was coming, now. It was the information, the memorization, the data collection. These things were familiar and were what made her successful. That, and probably a large dollop of luck. Gabriel didn't need to know about that part.

This was just a minor briefing in a list of briefings. The nuts and bolts, as it were. Here they were to learn about the first member of the first cell, and then it would go on down the line. Apparently, the line would number twelve – like the face of a clock. As Lydia shifted through red and manila folders with glossy prints of Fahid Salim Ali, she numbered him at one. One seemed like such a short distance from the start – twelve, tick-tock, and she could be back in Paris by July. August, perhaps, or September at the latest. She took in the list, mentally. Perhaps that was a bit hopeful. Ali was married, and probably had children. She flipped to a list of his known contacts.

“Morocco. Internet cafes?” Lydia asked, not taking her eyes from the page.

“Correct. Now, here's that flight information, tomorrow at...”

She listened with half an ear, taking in every word, and thought about Marrakesh.

-----​

The agent had left and Lydia had shut the door, locking all of those friendly locks. She wanted to go and lay down, or at least organize some things inside the crowd of facts that now pushed for her attention. It was tempting – very tempting. But that was the attitude of someone working alone, and as far as she knew, Gabriel was still roaming around the kitchen. She felt like they were little kids, playing house. What had happened to the adults? The fridge door closed and the sound of cascading water traveled the entirely too short distance to her ears. Lydia went to lean against the wall by the table, watching him wash strawberries. The fruit was jostled and drops of water clung to his fingers. Her expression was one of mild interest.

Is this your first marriage, or are you an old hand at getting married to...

She was quiet, observing him, although she shifted on her feet so only one shoulder was in contact with the wall. She didn't smile or frown, although her eyebrow raised slightly after his question. It wasn't up to her to make him feel better about the assignment, although she guessed it would make for an easier partnership. She moved forward, carefully, and picked a berry from the basket he had made out of the towel. She hulled it with a twist of her fingers and dropped the leaves into the sink, before considering its seed-pocked surface.

“Do whatever you feel is comfortable,” Lydia said. It was the first thing thing she had uttered since the agent had gone. She nibbled on the point of the fruit, careful not to get any red stains on her fingers or her lips. “I could say, put on a show. Does that help?”

She opened the fridge and freed a bottle of water, swallowing the last of the berry and opening the container's lid. She seemed to be thinking of the words.

“I'm sure you'll be fine. There's procedure, and... well, there's procedure.” She shrugged, and took a drink. The cap was replaced and she rubbed her forehead with the back of her hand. “Anyway. There's been a lot to take in. I'm going to get organized, make sure I have everything. I also need to make sure I packed enough proper scarves. I'll have to wear hijab. Let me know if you need anything.”

Lydia went to the bedroom – her room – and shut the door. It was time to get ready to go.

-----​

The morning passed quickly. They were leaving early and she had slept lightly, if at all. Parts of her brain kept clicking on without reason and she had to go over what she knew again. First flight nerves. It wasn't unusual but it was a new experience with a stranger. She had silently sipped a paper cup of tea in the kitchen and secretly resented the hell out of having to go without coffee. It wasn't that she was used to it – it had just been another facet of Paris life that she was reluctant to let go of. Enough. At least she had dressed with care. She wore good walking shoes, and had a few pairs of sandals in her luggage. A pair of dark brown sunglasses rested amongst the waves of her hair, which fell down into a headscarf that was wrapped around her neck. She would pull it up once they were really leaving. The scarf itself was dark green, with varying colors interspersed throughout its design. It was large enough to form the distinctive cowl around her face, and keep her hair completely covered. She wore dark khaki pants, fitted but modest, and a nondescript tunic top that had some nice designs on the end of the sleeves. Her wedding ring and her watch were visible, but she could take the watch off on the plane. If necessary, she had packed a djellaba or two and could blend in further to avoid hustlers. She drained the rest of her tea.

“The car's here,” Lydia observed, and they began the process of moving from the temporary space to an even more transient one. Soon they would be in the air. What do we look like? She wondered. Another jet-setting couple? Their flight time was 9:05 am to Marrakesh. After that, it was time to find Fahid Salim Ali.

 

[Scuttle Buttin']

After she took a berry, Gabriel leaned back against the edge of the sink and took one himself. Holding it between his teeth for a moment, he twisted his body so he could set the makeshift plate on the counter and then gathered the stem and leaves up in his fingers, biting off a chunk of fruit at last. He was quiet, chewing slowly and letting the ripe flesh tumble about over his tongue as he watched her, his only reply at that moment a small nod of his head. He may've been shooting, unsteadily, for a bit of brevity, but clearly she was having none of it.

"Mm," he said with a little side-bob of his head, and reached for another strawberry as she opened the fridge for a bottle of water. His eyes were pointed somewhere near her feet as he began to retreat into his own thoughts, into the insanity of the world they found themselves in - they the two of them, they the country itself after such a devastating attack - when her voice drew him out of it again.

"Yeah," he said, his weight lifting from the lip of the sink so he could turn and gathered up the couple uneaten berries.

"Okay. Yeah," he said again, back still turned to her, mulling over what she'd said, "Night."

He slid the paper towel with the pieces of fruit on it onto a shelf in the fridge, then had a second thought and stole another one before closing the refrigerator door. His teeth sank into it as he heard her door close, biting off all the way down to the stem. Stepping on the pedal for the small silver trash can, he dumped the small collection of stems and let the lid clap back down. Turning to face the doorway of the kitchen, he stood in some approximation of the center, and surveyed his surroundings. It was the last moments within a stone's throw of normal, in an environment that could be considered fairly normal, for what felt like...

Forever. It felt like forever.

He should do as she had, he knew, walk down the hall into his bedroom, close the door, check through his luggage and try to get some sleep. Try to take it all in. It was not the first time he'd had a briefing, not the first time he'd been giving a specific target and told to go end that target's existence. But this was as a civilian, essentially, with a woman he didn't know for a partner. This was espionage. Becoming a different person, and doing so with the express purpose of killing. It felt like he might not be able to find his way back to the person he was right then, standing in that kitchen, and he found himself struggling to end that moment and step into the next one.

A car horn outside the window did it for him, like a fan blowing away a fog, and he sighed quietly and shot his fingers back through his hair. Flicking off the light in the kitchen, he followed the same path she'd already blazed down the short hallway, deviating only when it came to the room he disappeared into.

The night that followed was fitful and restless, with sleep coming to him at random intervals and leaving no evidence behind save the change of the math on the green digital clock next to his bed. Laying in the dark, he heard no sounds from her room, and found himself wondering if she snored. If she was an active sleeper. If she spread out, balled up, hogged the covers. If she had cold feet. They'd barely touched, if at all. He suddenly couldn't recall a single instance during the preceding hours where their skin came in contact. And now, once out the door, they were to be husband and wife.

And the Oscar goes to... he thought, with a small smile, as he drifted off again.

---​

The tea had probably steeped too long, and the water was probably too hot, and so the tea he sipped was bitter even through the milk he'd added to stave off the tannins. He was happy for the caffeine, though, and to give him something to do as they waited for the car to arrive. In his room, the luggage was stacked on the bed, much as it had been when they'd first been shown the place yesterday. Standing at the window, he peered down at the street and took another regretful sip of the unfortunate tea, his thumb running along the curve of the band around his ring finger. The costume he now wore. The new person he was.

"Yeah," he said, loud enough so she'd hear him when she announced the arrival of the car a moment after he'd seen it, and he tipped back the rest of the black tea, shaking his head at the attack on his tongue. The cup was left on the top of the dresser with no regret - he was jetting off with his new stranger wife to kill people for the agency, so he had no problem letting them clean up a little after him - and lifted his luggage off the bed. They moved single-file together down the hall, the elevator ride down silent. He stared up at the readout showing their descent to the ground floor, and wanted to remember this odd moment.

Later, when there was time, when they were strangers no more, when they had spilled blood together and shared a new and lasting bond that only people who have killed another human can share, later he would ask her if she felt the way he did right then. He would remember.

---​

"Thanks," he said, dropping the handful of change in the Take a Penny/Leave a Penny cup and taking up a bottle of water in each hand. They had a short wait before their flight, and he'd volunteered to find them both something to drink while they sat. The trip through security had been quicker than expected - through sheer luck, it seemed, and nothing to do with the agency or it's manipulations as far as he could tell - and sitting next to her and playing newlyweds still felt awkward. It was something he'd have to get over before they landed, but having something to busy his hands with might help that, even if it was as simple as a plastic bottle.

"Here you are, honey"

Ugh. The word felt like a hair in his mouth, uncomfortable and wrong, and he couldn't seem to find it and rid himself of it no matter how much his tongue searched. Honey definitely wasn't it. He'd never been much for pet names, a frequent point of contention for the woman he'd left in their bed so recently, and it was proving to be just as awkward on his lips as it always sounded in his head.

He handed the water to her, condensation already gathering on the outside, and slid into the seat connected to hers. Unscrewing the top, his arm stretched along the back of her seat, and he took a drink. A closeness, but not quite touching her. His thumb did not reach out to stroke the ball of her shoulder, his fingertips did not play along her upper arm absently. Somehow, his preoccupation with how he acted with her had almost entirely distracted him from the fact that he was on a collision course with Fahid Salim Ali.

---​

He had a small carry on bag that they'd left a couple magazines and an iPad in for him, and now that they were in the air he pulled the tablet free and powered it on. Strict instructions were given that no mission-specific information was to be placed on the tablet, at any time, because it was simply too easy to be remotely hacked or, worse, forget somewhere, and they couldn't have their cover blown because of a moment of absentmindedness. Instead, it was made to look as if Gabriel had owned it for a while, and made fairly frequent and personal use of it, and after unbuckling his seatbelt, he browsed to the e-reader to see what books they'd left for him.

A quick snort of laughter issued from him, and he tilted the screen in Lydia's direction so she could see the list of books placed on the device. First among them were a collection of Robert Ludlum novels, making up the Bourne series, in what must've given someone a bit of a laugh while putting the iPad together for his use. Tilting it back to face him, he scrolled through the rest of the list, eventually settling for picking a book at random. By the time the flight attendant came around with the cart, he was thirty pages into The Shining, and yet somehow Fahid Salim Ali had moved more into his mind. Were a book report on what he'd read required when they landed, he would have to rely more on his previous reading of the Overlook Hotel and it's winter inhabitants than he would what he would manage to read during the flight. Strangely, though, it was a relief to be worrying more about the man they were hunting, and less about the way he acted with the person he was hunting him with.

"I'll just have a ginger ale, thanks," he said to the flight attendant's query. Setting the iPad aside, he reached over to slide his hand into hers as he waited for his drink. It was strange, and felt almost like a violation of her personal space, but he knew he'd have to push through the hesitation and apprehension, and simply think of her as his wife.

He was Gabriel Mallas, she was Lydia Mallas, and they were on their honeymoon. Anything before right now, before her hand in his and their fingers intertwined, anything before this plane and this honeymoon and this life, were tales written of another life, shelved to collect dust until he could return to them again.

With a thanks and a smile, he took the clear plastic cup of iced ginger ale, and sipped from it. Just over ten hours until they landed in Morocco.