“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, relinquishing the computer to the other man’s open hand, and leaned up against the table, settling
