Past Associations
a Mission: Impossible fan fiction

Jim Phelps was a large, silver-haired man with a handsome, weather-beaten face and bright blue eyes.  He lounged casually on a bench by one of New York's less busy streets and watched covertly as a small, dark-haired man dropped a crumpled piece of paper into an ashtray a few feet away.  Jim waited a few moments before tucking the newspaper he had been reading under his arm and getting up.  He retrieved the paper from the ashtray as he went by and unfolded it.

It read, '7N2WckatX661sparrow¢'.  They were instructions, in a special breed of shorthand.  Translated, they read, 'Seven blocks north, two blocks west. See Kat. Box 661.  Sparrow sent you.'  There was also a key taped to the paper.

Jim followed the directions and arrived at a bank.  He approached a young, pretty teller.

"I'm looking for Kat."

"Kat!  There's a guy here to see you."

Kat turned out to be a short, plump woman with too much makeup and curly red hair.

"Yes?" she asked.

"A friend sent me to get something for him.  It's in box 661."

"Who's your friend?"

"Sparrow."

"Just a moment."  Kat hurried away.

Jim soon found himself seated alone in a small office with safe deposit box 661.  He opened the box, picked up the manila envelope on top, and started the tape player underneath.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Phelps.  The man you're looking at," Jim pulled out the first photo, "is Karl Kerpi, a mercenary spy."  The man in the photo was heavyset, with dark, wavy hair, bags under his eyes, and a large nose.  "Kerpi has managed to get hold of a coded list of all American spies.  He intends to sell it, and the code, to the highest bidder.  The government will buy the list from Kerpi if necessary but would prefer not to have to.  Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to destroy that list, in such a manner that the United States will be in no way implicated.  As always, should you or any member of your IM Force be caught or killed, the secretary will disavow any knowledge of your actions. This tape will self-destruct in five seconds.  Good luck, Jim."

Jim stopped the tape, which immediately began hissing and steaming.  He studied the rest of the information in the envelope.  There were several more photographs of Kerpi, blueprints of his house, and schematics of the safe where the list was kept.

Jim pocketed the envelope and closed the deposit box. He returned the box to Kat and walked back to his car.

He arrived shortly at the Impossible Missions Force headquarters--generally referred to as the Apartment--and took out the black folder containing the dossiers of all the IMF agents.  He automatically pulled out the four agents he usually worked with.

First, there was Rollin Hand, Jim's best friend, and a master of disguise.  He had dark hair, blue eyes, and a 'bad guy' face.  His quick thinking had saved them all many times.

Cinnamon Carter was beauty, brains, and bravery all in one.  She was a former model, and was useful when they came up against a 'ladies' man', or any man for that matter.  For a woman, she packed one hell of a punch.

Barney Collier was the team's electrician.  The black man owned his own electronics company, and his electronic wizardry was often essential to their mission.

Last but not least was Willy Armitage, muscleman extraordinaire.  Willy, a 'gentle giant', was surprisingly soft spoken and unswervingly loyal.  He usually helped Barney, and usually played the part of security guards or truck drivers, but occasionally had a larger role.

Jim briefly considered how this would work.  The safe was pressure-plated, so even if Barney could get it open, he wouldn't be able to take the list out without setting off an alarm.  What if Barney could disable the alarm?  Wait, did the alarm use the same power source as the house?  Jim checked the blueprints; it did.  All they needed to do, then, was short out the power.  By the time electricians could get there and fix it, Barney would be in and out.  Jim could get the list himself, for that matter, and Rollin could take care of the power.  They wouldn't need Barney at all, except for equipment.  Good, the fewer people he had to risk the better.

Jim picked up the phone and dialed Rollin's number.

"Hello?"

"Rollin?"

"Yeah, Jim?"

"Can you be at the Apartment in half an hour?"

"Sure."

"Good, see you then." Jim hung up.

Barney was harder to get a hold of.  He wasn't at his office.  His secretary didn't know where he was but said she'd have him call when he got back.  He wasn't at home, either.  Jim decided to try the park where Barney went to jog when he was fed up with the business world.

He was in luck.  Within five minutes of situating himself on a park bench, Barney jogged by in a paint spattered T-shirt and cut-offs.  He stopped upon seeing Jim.

"What's up?"

"Trouble; we have a mission.  We're meeting at the Apartment in..." Jim checked his watch, "twenty minutes."

"I'll be there," Barney said, and jogged off.

Twenty minutes later, the three men were sitting in the main room of the Apartment.  Jim quickly explained the situation and his plan.

"The electricity is no problem," Barney said, when Jim had finished.  "I'll wire up something you can stick in a socket somewhere, and I'll get you a stethoscope for the safe."

"How soon can you have them ready?" Jim asked.

Barney thought for a moment.  "I should be done by five."

Jim nodded.  "Good.  Rollin?"

"I can have credentials and passports by tomorrow morning."

"Meet me here tomorrow at one, then," Jim said.  "Barney, I'll pick up the equipment at six."

It was midmorning when Rollin drove through the gate to Karl Kerpi's East European home less than two days later.  This was just a preliminary; Jim wasn't with him.  Each bidder was to meet with Kerpi three times.  First, to make his initial offer, then again to compare his offer with the others and change it if necessary.  Then there would be a meeting with all the bidders, so they could bargain with each other, and where Kerpi would make his final decision.  Rollin was making his first offer today.

There was one other car behind Rollin's--he assumed it was another bidder.  Rollin parked and got out; another car door slammed behind him.  Kerpi was just coming out of the house.

"Karl!" a vaguely familiar voice called from behind Rollin.

Kerpi glanced up.  "Stefan!"

Stefan?  Now Rollin knew that voice--Stefan Miklos, a man the IMF had tricked into believing false information several missions back.  Miklos had a photographic memory; Rollin was in for it.

As Rollin expected, Miklos recognized him.  He made less fuss about it than Rollin had anticipated, though.  Vincent, Miklos' aide, simply grabbed him by the elbow and stuck a gun in his side.

"Hello, Simpson," Miklos said.

He quickly frisked Rollin, taking his ID, keys, and gun.  Miklos looked the same as he had the other time Rollin had met him: graying, almost white hair combed back from his forehead, bored look on his face, and a pipe drooping lazily from the corner of his mouth.

Rollin didn't look at him.  "Stefan," he acknowledged.

"I didn't expect to see you here."

This time Rollin favored him with a condescending glance.  "Oh, no?" he asked.

Kerpi was watching all this with a curious expression.

"You know this man, Stefan?"

"All too well." Miklos leaned towards Kerpi and said in a stage whisper, "He's a spy, you know."

Kerpi feigned shock.  "Really?"

"Oh, yes."

Rollin stubbornly ignored all this as he was herded into the house.  Miklos had obviously been here before; he walked confidently to a desk across the room and produced a pair of handcuffs.

"Take him downstairs, Vincent." Miklos threw Vincent the handcuffs.

Vincent led Rollin to a bomb shelter under the house.  He shoved a chair against a support pillar.

"Sit," he ordered.

Rollin sat.  Vincent handcuffed his wrists behind the pillar and left.

Upstairs, Kerpi and Miklos discussed their prisoner's fate.

"If it's all right with you, Karl, I'll take him back to State Security with me when I leave," Miklos said.

"Fine by me.  How do you know this guy, anyway?"

"He was involved in a case of mine a while back.  A double agent was feeding us false information about the Americans.  I was sent to investigate, because at the time we thought it was true, but had to be sure because another agent--our friend downstairs--claimed it was false.  I uncovered a plot by the Americans to convince me it was false, so reported that it was true."

"But you said it wasn't true."

"It wasn't.  I thought the man that masterminded their plot was brilliant when I believed the information was true.  As it turned out, he was smarter than I realized.  He used my own mind against me, Karl.  He deliberately left minuscule clues that he knew I would notice, because of my photographic memory.  I thought I was smart, uncovering their plot, but he had me eating right out of his hand!"

Miklos paused for a few moments to calm himself and catch his breath.  Vincent appeared in the doorway.

"Search the car," Miklos ordered, then turned back to Kerpi.

"It was my only failure, Karl, but I'm lucky I didn't get discharged, or worse, for it. If I ever find out who their mastermind was I'll ruin him--humiliate him the way he did me."

"The fellow downstairs?" Kerpi suggested.

"No.  He's smarter than I gave him credit for, I think, but he's not brilliant."

"Shall we check on him, anyway?"

Only a few minutes had passed when Kerpi and Miklos came through the door.  Rollin watched them silently as the two pulled up seats in front of him.  Miklos gave Kerpi a questioning look; Kerpi inclined his big head towards Miklos.  Miklos stood.

"I can't say I'm glad to see you, Simpson," he began.

"My name isn't Simpson."

"Oh, no?  Well, I suspected as much.  Is there something you'd rather I called you?"

Rollin didn't answer.

Miklos made a thoughtful noise and studied Rollin for a moment.  "Let me explain this to you.  If you don't tell me everything you know now, then when you get to State Security they will drug you and put you through a rigorous--to put it mildly--interrogation.  If that doesn't work, and knowing your type I doubt it will, then they will move on to harsher methods.  Do you get my drift?"

Rollin still didn't answer, just stared blankly at Miklos.

"Listen, American--" Miklos began again.

"I'm no American," Rollin said softly.

"Of course not.  Now listen--"

"I am not an American," Rollin said again.

"Yeah, and I'm Japanese," Miklos responded.

"You want proof?"

"I'd love it."

"I could be British," Rollin said, changing his voice and using an English accent.  "Or French," he continued, changing his voice again, "even Russian."

"You're an American."

"I realize my accent is a bit misleading, but I had to learn it for an assignment, and it's become a habit."

Miklos' expression said he knew which assignment, but he ignored the reference.  "All right, then; if you're not an American, what are you?"

"Do you expect me to answer that?"

This time it was Miklos who didn't answer.

Vincent arrived just then.  He produced another gun and the device Barney had rigged.  Rollin kicked himself mentally for not leaving it in the hotel room.

"This is all there was in the car."

Miklos took Barney's gadget and studied it.  After a moment he turned back to Rollin.

"What's this?"

Rollin was silent, and his eyes never left Miklos' face.

Miklos said in a tight voice, "If you don't cooperate..."

Rollin ignored the implied threat, changing the subject, "You know, the Americans weren't behind that plot; we were.  We discovered they had been giving your man false information, and that you were going to investigate.  We wanted you to believe it and make a fool of yourself and your government."

That was the straw that broke the camel's back.  Miklos nearly hit Rollin but instead leaned forward and grabbed Rollin by the lapels.  He spent several moments breathing angrily in Rollin's face, then slowly turned and sat down.

"He's all yours, Karl."

Kerpi stood and walked around behind Rollin.  He removed a fire extinguisher from its hook on the pillar.

"Unlike Stefan," he began, "I'm not much for talk."

He slipped Rollin's handcuffs over the hook he'd taken the fire extinguisher off of, then pulled Rollin's chair out from under him.  Rollin barely managed to stay on his feet.

Kerpi smiled cruelly.  He studied Rollin's face intensely, watching for a reaction, but got none.

Suddenly, he kicked Rollin's feet out from under him.  Rollin's arms were twisted painfully up and back; he didn't quite manage to stifle a cry of pain.  Kerpi laughed.

Rollin managed to pull his legs up under him, putting his weight on his knees, which was a relief.  However, the pain of getting there discouraged him from moving again.

Kerpi was watching Rollin with an even wider, meaner smile.  After a few moments, he walked over to the small heating unit by the wall and turned something Rollin couldn't see.

Kerpi and Miklos left then, for which Rollin was thankful.  He was satisfied with the way he'd handled Miklos; he was on the defensive.  Kerpi, on the other hand�  Well, the pain in his shoulders was proof positive that Jim had been right when he'd said Kerpi was mean.

Rollin found out soon enough what Kerpi had done to the heater.  After twenty minutes it was hot as Hell itself; within an hour he was drenched with sweat.  Between that and his shoulders he was miserable.

Rollin realized suddenly that this was the first time he had actually been caught.  There had been one time, when Dan Briggs was still the IMF's leader, that the team had had to arrange to be caught in order for the mission to be successful, and once he had set off an alarm when he tried to take something from a pressure-plated safe, but he had escaped (Jim, on the other hand, had been shot).  Never before had he been in serious trouble.

A feeling of utter hopelessness came over him, and he sternly reminded himself that they had never lost a team member.  The helpless side of him responded that there was a first time for everything.  No, he'd rescued Jim twice, besides saving the entire team countless times; they'd gladly give anything to save him, just as he would for any of them.  But if Jim tried to rescue him, Miklos would recognize him, and they'd end up in the same boat.

Rollin brought this pointless argument with himself to an abrupt halt.  He needed to concentrate on how he could help Jim get him out.  Unfortunately, this brought up the subject of his arms, which would surely be useless.  He started to second-guess himself again.  He wondered if Jim had felt this way after he'd been shot.

Rollin remembered then how upset Jim had been when Cinnamon had been captured, and was suddenly certain that Jim would do anything in his power to rescue him.  Besides which, Jim would figure out how Rollin had been caught and find a way around Miklos.

With that issue resolved, Rollin suddenly had very little to think about.  He spent the rest of the day bored and miserable.  When Miklos finally came back and freed him from the pillar it was nearly dark.

When Rollin hadn't returned by late afternoon, Jim became worried.  He spent more than an hour pacing the hotel room uneasily, occasionally glancing at the phone as though it was somehow to blame for the fact that Rollin hadn't called.

Finally, when the sun started to set, Jim drove out to Kerpi's house.  He could see Rollin's car in the driveway, definitely not a good sign.  He drove on until he could no longer see the house, then stopped and waited until it was dark.  He changed into black sweat pants and a black hooded sweater, stuffed a gun in his waistband, and strapped on the tool kit Barney had given him.  It included picklocks, a skeleton key, a glasscutter, a credit-card-like piece of plastic, a device for opening simple combination locks, and a Swiss Army knife.

Jim walked back to Kerpi's house and quickly searched Rollin's car.  Both his gun and Barney's device were missing--this was looking worse by the minute.

There were no lights on in the house, so Jim let himself in.  The door creaked, and he froze.  There was no response, however, so he went on.

He immediately spotted Kerpi's desk across the room, so began by searching it.  He didn't find anything that related directly to Rollin, but he did find a letter that caught his attention.  It was from Stefan Miklos, whom he remembered from several missions back, and who had a photographic memory.  It mentioned something about him planning to stop by in a week, and was dated a week before.  It was no wonder Rollin had been caught; Miklos would have recognized him instantly.

Jim started to leave, but froze when he heard someone coming down the stairs.  He sprang to life again, diving for the couch, which he barely managed to squeeze under.

The light came on, and Kerpi flopped down on the couch, on the end towards Jim's head.  The bottom of the couch sagged, and Jim had to turn his head to the side to avoid having his nose smashed.

Soon snores started coming from above him.  It looked like he was going to be there all night.

He had been lying there for at least an hour, and had nearly fallen asleep himself, when he suddenly needed to sneeze.  He fought it for as long as he could, but finally he couldn't stand it; he sneezed explosively.

At State Security, Miklos paced the small office like a caged tiger.  Simpson--or whatever his name was--now in prison clothes, was watching him with an unnerving calm.

Miklos had liked the old Simpson better.  When Miklos had met him in America he'd seemed jumpy, unsure of himself, and easily intimidated.  Now he radiated cool and self-assurance.  He was contrary as hell, too.  Miklos prided himself on being able to stay calm in the most trying of situations, but Simpson had played him like a fiddle that morning.  He remembered how the man's eyes had laughed at him when he'd lost his temper.  He'd never been one for the sort of interrogation Karl enjoyed, but he had to admit he'd relished the pain on Simpson's face.

Miklos determined not to let Simpson get the best of him again.  Maybe he'd be more cooperative now.  After all, he was hurting and hungry--it had been almost eleven hours since he'd shown up at Karl's house, and who knew how long before that he'd eaten.  However, Simpson's calm gaze made him doubtful that the man's attitude had changed much.

"You know, the real Simpson was loyal to you.  We arrested him so that I could take his place.  You probably passed him in the hall on your way up to meet me that day."

Miklos whirled to face Simpson.  The man hadn't changed his approach.

"Rest assured, however.  Your friend Townsend was loyal as well.  The treachery was entirely ours."

Walter, innocent?  He'd been executed for treason and he was innocent?!  Miklos forced himself to calm down--hurting Simpson would gain him nothing.  Except satisfaction--it was tempting.  He cut short that line of thought and changed the subject.

"Who came up with that whole thing, anyway?" he asked.

"I could tell you, but you wouldn't like it."

"I don't care."

"You won't like it."

"Tell me!"

"All right, all right.  It was Willoughby."

"Him?" Miklos remembered the large, silver-haired man as being the lackey sort.

"I told you you wouldn't like it.  Willoughby's not his real name, of course.  You should be flattered; you were his toughest opponent."

Miklos went back to pacing the room.  He wished they would hurry up and finish whatever they were doing in the interrogation room so he could go home and go to bed.  Having those bright blue eyes follow him everywhere was making him nervous.  After half an hour or so a guard finally came and took Simpson away for questioning.

The snores had stopped.  Jim tensed, expecting the worst, but Kerpi just got up and left, probably to go back to bed.  Jim relaxed with a sigh; that had been close.  He waited another ten or fifteen minutes before crawling out from under the couch and letting himself quietly out the front door.

The first thing he did upon arriving back in town was to find a phone booth and call Barney.

"Hello?"

"Barney, listen, we have a problem.  Get Cinnamon and Willy, and be at the Apartment in half an hour.  I'll call you there." Jim hung up.

He drove to the hotel and changed back into normal clothes, then walked to another phone booth and called the Apartment.

Cinnamon answered.  "What's happened?"

"Rollin's been caught."

"What?  How?"

"Stefan Miklos."

"Wha-? Oh!"

"Look, I need you three to find someone Miklos won't know to take Rollin's place so we can complete our mission; preferably someone we've worked with before.  I want all of you to come as well; I don't know yet where Rollin is or how we're going to get him out.  Oh, and tell Barney to bring another of his gadgets; Rollin had his with him."

"All right."  There was a long pause.  "Jim, is Rollin all right?"

Jim took a deep breath and hoped fervently that Rollin was.  "I wish I knew, Cinnamon."

There was another, longer silence.  Finally, Jim told Cinnamon where he was staying and hung up.

Rollin would have fought them, just for the hell of it, if it hadn't been for his shoulders.  As it was, he didn't resist when he was strapped into the high-backed interrogation chair.  There was a leaden feeling in the pit of his stomach as he felt the doctor stick a needle in his neck.

  It had only been the last mission that he'd had to fake the same situation.  He tried to remember how he should handle this.  Because of the drugs, fatigue, hunger, a few fried circuits from the events of the day, or some combination thereof he was drawing a blank.  Finally he just bit his tongue to keep himself focused and determined not to talk.

Ten hours and three unsuccessful interrogators later he was taken to a small, dark, bare cell.  He was exhausted, but he couldn't get to sleep.  At first he was hot from the bright lights that had been shining on him for hours, but he quickly cooled off.  Before long he was shivering, though it wasn't all that cold.  Some detached part of him realized that the strain of the past day, especially the last several hours, was taking its toll.

He was lying flat on his back, but he wanted desperately to curl up.  He'd be ever so much warmer that way, and he'd feel safer, less exposed.  The thought of the pain moving would cause prevented it, however.  Eventually he drifted into an uneasy, almost feverish sleep.

A few hours later the sound of the door opening woke him, and he was taken again to the interrogation room.

He was dizzy; the slightest movement caused his vision to bounce crazily.  He was also hypersensitive; every cold was colder, every hot hotter, and every twinge a sharp pain.  None of this was a surprise, really, considering it had been more than a day since his last meal, and he hadn't had any real sleep, either.

He noticed that they didn't drug him, which made him nervous.  The man that entered only added to his anxiety.  He was built like Willy, and it was obvious that his sole purpose was to hurt Rollin, who, for his part, wished he wasn't feeling so sensitive.

Barney rang the doorbell and waited impatiently for Dan to answer.  They had hoped the IMF's original leader, Dan Briggs, would help them, since their hands were effectively tied by Miklos' presence.  Besides, he would be just as concerned about Rollin as they were.

Barney was nervous, though; he hadn't seen Dan since their last mission together, and Dan had said he wanted nothing more to do with the spy business. 

The door opened.  Dan was a few inches shorter than Barney, with short dark hair and soft brown eyes.

"Barney!  Hi!  What--" Dan stopped when he saw the serious expression on Barney's face.  He continued, more softly, "What are you doing here?"

"We need your help, Dan."

"All right."  Dan paused.  "Come in," he said finally.

Dan escorted Barney to the living room.

"Now, what do you need me for?"

"Several missions back we worked against a man with a photographic memory."

"And he's involved in your current mission, so you need someone he doesn't know," Dan supplied, when Barney didn't continue.

"Yes and no.  Jim and Rollin were on a mission, when he--Stefan Miklos--showed up unexpectedly and�"

"They were captured."

"Just Rollin.  We need you to take his place, so we can finish the mission, and possibly to help rescue him."

"You know I said I was finished being a spy."

"Yes, but we figured you'd be willing to help us out in a pinch."

Dan smiled wryly.  "And you were right."

Jim decided to try the State Security Headquarters first.  That was where Miklos worked and where he was most likely to have taken Rollin.

Getting in was fairly simple.  He waited until after dark, and then, using a grappling hook, climbed over the outside wall.  He climbed up the main building to an unlit window, and from there jimmied the window latch and was inside.  If he'd had more time he could have gotten false ID and used the 'front door', as it were, but this was good enough.  Besides, sneaking in lowered the chance that he would run into Miklos.

Jim located a storage locker and changed into a uniform.  He went to the main desk and flipped through the file of prisoners.  Rollin's name, or rather his alias, was among them.

He found the cell, but it was empty.  He let himself in and sat in a dark corner out of sight of the door to wait.

About an hour later someone shoved Rollin in.  Just before the door closed again, Jim reached around and slipped a piece of plastic over the bolt to keep it from locking.

Rollin was in bad shape.  He was unconscious, and his face was covered with bruises.  Jim pulled on one of Rollin's shoulders to roll him onto his back and noticed that it was swollen.  He felt the other shoulder and discovered it, too, was puffy, like a sprained ankle or wrist.

Jim brushed Rollin's bangs back gently.  He wanted to let Rollin know he'd been there, that he was going to get him out, but he couldn't think of anything he could do that the guards wouldn't notice.  He left reluctantly, wishing there were something more he could do for his friend.

Once he left the cell, however, he was all business.  He went back to the main building to do more research.  Jim discovered that they were planning to move Rollin to another, permanent prison in a few days.  Good, the IMF would have the opportunity to get him out then.  He noted bitterly that Rollin was scheduled for another 'interrogation' the next day.

Their plane landed very late--or rather, very early; it was 2 AM in that time zone--and they took a cab to the hotel Cinnamon named.  They found the room, but the man they were meeting wasn't there.  Barney picked the lock, and they all sat down to wait.

Dan was aware of an almost tangible void where Rollin should have been, and could tell the others felt it as well, Cinnamon in particular.  Her normally sparkling eyes were distant and sad, and her whole attitude was strangely somber; she was usually so cheerful.

They had a long wait, but there was little talking; they were all lost in their own thoughts.  Finally, the door opened.

The man who entered was taller than Dan, with silver hair and blue eyes.  Cinnamon's face lit up upon seeing him, but only for a moment.  Barney stood and handed him a small black case with a plug for an electric socket, undoubtedly another of his electronic miracles.

"Thanks for getting here so quickly," the newcomer said.

Barney nodded and gestured towards Dan.  "Jim, this is Dan Briggs.  Dan, Jim Phelps."

As soon as Dan and Phelps shook hands, Cinnamon cut in softly.

"Jim?"  Her eyes searched Phelps' face anxiously, looking for the answer to her unspoken question.

Phelps closed his eyes and took a deep breath, looking pained.

"He's hurt isn't he?" Cinnamon asked.

Phelps nodded unhappily.

"How badly?"  This time it was Barney.

"It's mostly bruises, except� there's something wrong with his shoulders; they're both swollen pretty badly.  I doubt he can use his arms at all."  Phelps sat down suddenly.  "Cinnamon, I need you to get the supplies we'll need to take care of him."

"All right."

Phelps pulled out a map and opened it on the table.  He explained that Rollin was being moved in a few days and described how he planned to rescue him.  After going over one point with Barney he wrapped up the discussion about getting Rollin out.

Barney, Cinnamon, and Willy left to get rooms, leaving Dan and Phelps alone.  They both watched the door speculatively for a few moments.

Finally, Phelps turned back to Dan.  He told him what their mission was and how Dan was going to explain his late arrival to Kerpi.  Dan was almost ready to leave, but he was still worried about Cinnamon.

"Do you have any idea why Cinnamon's taking this so hard?" he asked.

Phelps seemed about to shake his head, but never did.

"Yes�yes, that would explain it."  He was talking to himself as much as he was talking to Dan.

"What would explain it?"

"Cinnamon's the only one of us who's been through anything like what Rollin's going through."  Phelps was silent for a long time, and Dan was beginning to think he wasn't going to elaborate, when he finally continued.

"Several missions back she was captured.  I don't know how, but they found out that she's claustrophobic and used that against her."  Phelps ran a tired hand through his hair.  "Rollin doesn't have a weakness like that, but he's not unbreakable.  Normally he could handle it, but with the condition his arms are in he's got to be in almost constant pain.  I'm worried."

"That he'll talk?"

"That he'll break."

Despite the apparent agreement of the two statements, Dan knew there was a difference.  Phelps was worried more about Rollin than about the damage the information he knew could cause.  Dan took some comfort in that; he knew his team was in good hands.

The first thing Rollin was aware of as he drifted back towards consciousness was thirst, a terrible, ravaging thirst that burned and tore at his throat with every breath.  Then he was fully awake, and a headache was pounding at his temples with the pressure of Niagara Falls in flood season.  The pounding in his head quickly eclipsed the dryness in his throat, and he tried to put his hands to his head, only to remember, too late, that he couldn't.  Pain knifed his shoulders, evoking an involuntary cry.  His stomach reminded none too politely that he hadn't eaten since before his capture.

He dropped his head back to the floor, panting slightly, and on the verge of frustrated, helpless tears.  The pain in his shoulders gradually subsided, and the pounding in his head faded to a dull throb.  He kept his eyes closed; even the dim light cast by the single bulb suspended from the ceiling exacerbated his headache.

Rollin noticed suddenly how quiet it was.  The only thing he could hear was his breathing; there was no sound at all from outside his cell.

He lay still, listening to the blessed silence and his own even breathing.  He had almost fallen asleep, the first real sleep he would have had since his capture, when the door of his cell clanged open, and a guard hauled him roughly to his feet.

At Kerpi's house, Miklos, or at least Dan thought it was Miklos, was circling the room like a hawk, ignoring the bidders seated around the table and watching Dan out of the corner of his eye.  Dan was talking to Kerpi, apologizing and explaining why he was late.

"I really don't understand it.  I was detained entirely without explanation, until just yesterday evening."

"Can you describe the men who detained you?" Miklos cut in.

"Two big men in military uniform; lieutenants, I think.  One was strong, square jaw, dark hair, dark eyes, and tall; over six feet," Dan gave a rough description of Willy, then of Barney.  "The other was a Negro, also tall, though not as tall as the other."

Miklos and Kerpi exchanged a glance, and Miklos nodded almost imperceptibly; Dan wouldn't have noticed if he hadn't been looking for it.  He had seen Miklos doing something similar just after he had arrived and guessed Miklos was telling Kerpi whether he recognized Dan and his descriptions.

Kerpi asked Dan to sit down, and the meeting started.  It continued for several hours, until finally the list was sold to a tall, dark man whose nationality Dan couldn't place.  By that time, most of the bidders had left already; it was down to Dan, the man who bought the list, and another man, who was most decidedly Russian.

Now that the meeting was over, Dan asked where Kerpi's restroom was.  Kerpi pointed down a hallway and turned back to the discussion he was having with Miklos.  Dan headed in the direction Kerpi had pointed.

As soon as he was out of sight of the others, Dan started looking for an electric socket for Barney's device.  He spotted one several feet down the hallway and headed for it.  He casually plugged Barney's device in.

Instantly, the lights went out.  Dan smiled to himself, and made his way to the kitchen, where he let himself out the side door.  He caught a glimpse of a window sliding closed as he jogged to the car.  He drove a quarter of a mile down the road to wait.

Fifteen minutes later Phelps climbed over the fence at the edge of the road and hopped into the seat beside Dan.

"Go!" he ordered.

As soon as they'd arrived back at the hotel, Phelps took the envelope containing the list out of his pocket.  He set it on fire with a cigarette lighter and dropped it into a trash can.  He watched it burn with a fierce vindication that startled Dan.

After a few minutes the fire burned out.  Phelps made sure the list was completely destroyed before turning back to Dan and the rest of the team.

"Let's get out of here."

Karl had been furious.  First the power had gone out.  Then Jenko--undoubtedly an assumed name--hadn't come back from the bathroom.  Karl got suspicious, and they had gone down to the bomb shelter to check on the list.  They found the door open and the safe empty.

Karl had proceeded to throw a screaming fit, raging at his own incompetence and Miklos's.  He was so out of it that Miklos, for the first time he could remember, had been truly afraid for his life.  Karl managed to scare his buyer off, too, not that it mattered much without the list.

When Miklos had left, Karl had still been mad, but he had cooled off enough to be able to sit down and put together a coherent sentence.  Miklos would have stayed longer, but he had to get back to State Security.  He had, for reasons unknown even to himself, agreed to escort Simpson to his new prison.

He stood now in the door to the office of one Captain Sveltz, watching Sveltz finish interrogating Simpson.  He winced inwardly as Sveltz gave Simpson's unconscious form a frustrated kick.

"So close," Sveltz muttered to himself, "So damned close.  If I'd just had another hour or two�"  He huffed unhappily and shook his head in resignation.  "Clean him up," he ordered the guard, giving Simpson another kick.

Half an hour later, Simpson, awake now, was sitting across the van from Miklos, wincing every time they went over a bump.  Miklos had found himself liking Simpson in spite of the man's antagonistic nature, or perhaps because of it.  He was forced to admire Simpson's ability to manipulate him, even though he was angry at being manipulated in the first place.  He sympathized with Simpson, too; he knew how he would feel if he were in Simpson's position.

Miklos was determined not to let his actions be affected by his sympathy for Simpson, but every wince or hiss of pain put another dent in his resolve.  Ever since Walter's death he had been letting his emotions have far too much control over him.

He had changed a great deal after Walter's death, less than a year ago, and he knew it.  Now, finding out that Walter wasn't a traitor, that he had been executed for a crime he hadn't even committed, Miklos found himself wondering if any of the things he'd accomplished had been worth it.  Depressed by his thoughts, Miklos half-seriously considered defection.  Maybe if the opportunity arose�

Miklos was jolted out of his reverie when the van jerked suddenly and skidded to a stop.  The front end sank, and Miklos concluded that they'd blown a tire.  He got up to investigate, but before he got to the back of the van the door started rattling; someone was trying to get in.  Sveltz leaped to his feet, grabbing Simpson and throwing him against the wall.  Simpson cried out, but the cry broke off suddenly as he sank to the floor, unconscious.

The doors flew open, revealing three men, all holding guns.  Miklos recognized all three.  There was Haskell, the black one; the big, muscular one, from the airport; and Jenko, from the meeting that morning at Karl's house.  Miklos remembered his thoughts of defection from a few moments before.  The opportunity had certainly arisen.

"Ask and ye shall receive," he muttered under his breath.

He realized suddenly that none of the men in front of him were moving; they were all staring rather nervously past him.  He glanced back and saw that Sveltz had his knife to Simpson's throat; stalemate.

"Get their guns," Sveltz hissed at Miklos.

Miklos hesitated.

"Get the guns," Sveltz repeated.

Miklos drew his gun, but not to point it at the men outside the van.  Between Walter's death and this whole affair with Simpson, he had gotten sick of the suffering and dying. His only goal at the moment was to see that Simpson was freed.

He aimed his gun directly at Sveltz' head.

"Drop the knife, Captain," he said softly.

Sveltz stared at Miklos in shock for several moments, then let the knife fall to the floor.

"Sorry about this," Miklos said as he took Sveltz's gun out of its holster.

Already the men outside were moving again.  The big one, the security guard, picked up Simpson while the one from Karl's house took charge of Sveltz.

When they came around the side of the van, Willoughby, the silver-haired one, was just closing the door to the cab of the van.  His eyes went straight to Simpson, not even acknowledging any of the others.  Willoughby's face crumpled when he saw the condition Simpson was in.

"Oh, God," he said, his voice barely audible.

  For a long time there was silence.  Willoughby put out a shaking hand to touch Simpson's face, but yanked it back as if afraid Simpson would crumble at his touch.  A myriad of emotions crossed his face, ranging from his initial grief, to shock, guilt, and anger.

With the sole exception of Sveltz, no one there wasn't at least a little moved.  Even Miklos found his eyes watering, not so much because of Simpson's condition but because of Willoughby's reaction.  Miklos would have felt the same way if Walter had been hurt like Simpson was.

  Suddenly Willoughby spun around and drove his fist through the window of the van.  Haskell stepped around the man holding Simpson and grabbed Willoughby's arm.

"Jim, take it easy!"

Willoughby had gone almost completely limp.  He turned and sank to the ground, leaning heavily on the van.  Haskell exchanged a glance with the man holding Simpson, and jerked his head in the direction of the other van, the one Willoughby and his group had been in.  The man with Simpson moved off, as did Jenko.  Sveltz had joined the stunned driver on the far side of the van, leaving only Willoughby, Haskell, and Miklos.

Miklos suddenly felt like an intruder, and wanted to leave, but he didn't want to draw attention to himself by moving.  He stayed put.

"I should have seen it coming," Willoughby said to no one in particular.  "Something like this was bound to happen; it should have happened sooner."

Haskell opened his mouth as if to say something, then thought better of it.  He sighed softly and shook his head.

"Jim, we don't have time to argue about this.  We have to go; now."

Haskell gave Jim another sympathetic glance, then straightened and turned to Miklos.

"You coming with us, or are you sticking around to be executed?"

Put that way, there was only one possible answer.

In the van, Rollin had been laid out on the floor.  He had looked bad in the cell, but now he was much worse.  Trying to make comparison was like trying to put a cat scratch on the same scale as the bite of a tiger. The bruises were worse now and were accompanied by small cuts.  There was one cut running down the left side of Rollin's face, from just under his eye to the back edge of his jaw, that was much worse than any of the others.  Jim hadn't noticed it earlier because that side of his friend's face had been turned away from him.

Cinnamon had done her best to immobilize Rollin's shoulders, but really there wasn't much she could do.  Satisfied that she'd done everything she could for Rollin, she turned her attention to Jim's hand, which had been badly cut up when he'd put it through the window.

"What happened?" she asked.

Jim glanced up at her and said simply, "I punched out a window."

"What? Why?"

He opened his mouth, shut it again, and finally looked back down at Rollin.  "Do you have to ask?"

She studied him intently for a few moments, then followed his gaze.  "No."

Cinnamon was about to say something more, but just then Rollin woke up.  His breathing, which had been soft and even, turned ragged and his entire body tensed.  He moaned softly.

"Rollin," Jim said.

Rollin's eyes opened.  "Jim?"

Jim leaned forward and squeezed his friend's forearm reassuringly.  "Yeah."

"Did--did you get the list?"

"With a little help, yes."  Jim gestured towards Briggs, seated across the van from him.

Rollin turned and looked up at Briggs.  "Dan�  I--you said�"

"What I said still stands, Rollin.  But I couldn't have lived with myself if I'd let one of the team down."

Rollin managed a weak smile.  "Thank--"

He never got to 'you'.  They went over a particularly rough bump just then, and Rollin's face crumpled in pain.  Cinnamon gripped Rollin's arm, as though she was the one who was hurt.

"I can give you a pain killer," she said.

Rollin nodded weakly.  Cinnamon filled a needle and gave Rollin the shot.  Almost immediately he started to relax.  Within a few minutes he had drifted to sleep, pain having been the only thing keeping him awake.

The silence that fell then was eerie in its completeness.  It was Miklos who broke it, finally.

"Where do we go now?"

Briggs answered him.  "To the airport.  We came in on a private plane."

"And from there?"

"Home," Jim said.  "From there we go home."