Chapter 22

James arrived at Barcelona’s El Prat airport at just after three in the morning. It was a lot colder than it had been in Miami, or Honduras for the matter, and James regretted not buying a thick jacket to wear over his suit. He nearly ignored the driver holding a sign that read “Carter” after getting his luggage off the conveyer belt. He was so unaccustomed to going by his real name; it almost didn’t feel like it fit him anymore. The driver led him outside to a black Peugeot 301 waiting outside. James took his seat in the back as the driver put his bags in the trunk. He was still a bit drowsy, though he’d slept well on the plane and he wondered if the driver was taking him directly to work (whatever that would be here in Barcelona) or if they had set up accommodations for him at a local hotel. He hoped for the latter, but doubted it. Deep Throat didn’t seem to sleep or eat, he doubted the rest of his cohorts would either.

They drove through the streets of Barcelona for almost thirty minutes, parts of it were utterly silent but as they reached downtown the city became alive. Apparently, three AM wasn’t that late for the Barcelona party crowd, James surmised. Depending on how long he’d be here, that was good to know. Not that he had any urge to go do shots with the Spanish co-eds, but because he liked that he’d be able to get a good drink at just about any time of night. Finally, the car came to a stop in front of an unassuming office building. The lights on the fourth floor were almost all on, though the rest of the building was quiet. James looked the building over from inside the car; probably a rented space, which would explain why the other floors (almost certainly rented to other people) were as dark as the time of day would warrant. He checked his pistol in its holster one more time before opening the door and stepping outside. It only occurred to him now that simply getting in the car with a man holding a piece of paper with his name on it wasn’t the most tactically intelligent thing to do and this dark office building would serve as an excellent place to kill him. He clearly had some catching up to do in the spy game, these thoughts needed to come a bit faster to be of any use.

The driver placed his bags on the sidewalk and James thanked him before handing him a ten dollar (American) tip; the driver looked at the money with a bit of disgust before providing a halfhearted “gracias” and being on his way. Suddenly alone, James looked around again, as though this time he might notice a group of spy assassins waiting in the shadows. Once he was certain there were no ninjas to worry about, he shrugged his shoulders and thought here goes nothing before heading into the unlocked front doors, his luggage in hand.

The interior of the building was exactly like any office building in the States: fake plants, generic black and white photos of landscapes on the walls, the only light on that first floor emanated from the bright red “Salida” (or exit) signs above each doorway, but the moonlight shining through the windows illuminated the stairway on the far wall James knew he’d need to go up to get to the fourth floor. He assumed there were elevators around somewhere, but saw no need to go looking for one; locking himself in a box that ascends to the secret spy headquarters he could only hope was expecting him didn’t seem like a sound method of gaining entrance. Instead, his healing injuries would simply have to manage the hike with his luggage. Somehow James doubted it wouldn’t be the only time his trip to Barcelona would end up hurting. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he didn’t expect to leave Spain. He was too green, too inexperienced and in too deep. The idea of dying didn’t concern him much though. He was much more worried he’d die before he had a chance to find whoever was responsible for the explosions on the Allure. His real fear was that he wouldn’t get a chance to see them die.

Despite how cold he had been, James was beginning to sweat when he arrived on the fourth floor. He dropped his bags to the floor on either side of him and flexed his shoulders in relief. Unlike the three prior, where there was a series of doors with different company labels spanning down a hallway, there was only a single, unmarked wooden door. As was becoming a nervous tick, James patted at his pistol, confirming that it was still where it belonged, not that he had any reason to suspect that it wouldn’t be.

“You should really stop doing that.” A woman’s voice came from behind him on the stairs. In a single motion that was much more fluid than James would have thought himself capable, he drew his pistol and span to face the source of the voice. She was standing on the platform that separated the two flights of stairs he’d climbed from the third floor, dressed in a casual looking pant suit that did little to hide her curves. Her full lips were accentuated by red lipstick that few women could pull off and her smoky eye shadow drew his attention to her intensely blue eyes. Her dark, Mediterranean complexion contrasted sharply against the blue, even in the low light. For a moment, James considered that he may have just pointed a gun at a super model.

“That’s no way to greet a woman,” her English was excellent, muddled only by a slight accent James thought might be Italian, “my name is Agent DePietro.” She glided up the steps and extended her hand to shake. Definitely Italian, he thought.

“I don’t suppose you’ve got any form of identification,” James didn’t lower his gun.

“No more than you do, Agent Carter.” She put her hand back down by her side, giving up on a friendly handshake.

“I guess I can’t fault you for that one,” James lowered his pistol, but didn’t holster it, “do you always sneak up on the new guy?”

“Only the ones that are too dumb to use the elevator.” She walked up the stairs past him, careful to step her designer heels over the garment bag he’d let lay on the floor. James’ face flushed, he hoped she wouldn’t turn around in time to notice. She turned the knob to the only door on the fourth floor and it opened, which was a surprise to James.

“No lock?” He asked as he gathered up his things.

“No need.” She replied as she slipped inside. James took a few hurried steps to catch the door before it closed and followed her inside. There, just behind an unlocked and unassuming wooden door on the fourth floor of an almost too average looking and seemingly empty office building, was a bustling army of agents, seemingly unaware of the late hour as they shouted to one another over hand covered telephones and stacks of papers. The sound rushed over James as he stepped across the threshold and he realized that the room must be sound proofed or he'd have heard to commotion from the street. No one seemed to notice his presence, or if they did, they didn't care. He followed sheepishly, a few steps behind the beautiful woman who had shown him in. He kept his eyes firmly at her heels, equally afraid to see something he wasn't allowed to see or to be caught staring at the shapely behind he was keeping within a few paces. James Bond, he realized, would make no such corrections to his behavior, but despite the suit, the holstered pistol and the expensive watch, James knew he was no Bond. More frightening though, was the realization that someone in this room legitimately could be. Suddenly, the reality of where James was, but more importantly, WHO James was settled over him and the fantasy of revenge that had kept his guilt at bay came crashing down around him. James was just another man amidst so many who probably each felt a sense of personal responsibility toward this mission. He was not uniquely suited to "solve the case" nor was he so tactically proficient that he could provide the necessary armed support he was certain this team wouldn’t be lacking. In fact, worse than not being significant, he probably brought the least to the table of anyone in the room: a cultural analyst with a drinking problem and girl he couldn't get out of his mind. James was about as much use as a stood up prom date.

On the other side of the bustling room was an open office door. The windows surrounded it were blocked with drawn shades but James could make out the back of someone's balding head as it peaked out from the doorway. He recognized the familiar posture of a man taking a verbal beating, it was one of the things he'd seen a lot of in the Corps. He assumed the man across from the poor fellow getting an ear full would be the agent in charge, but rank was murky with these intelligence types. Every experience he'd had with them had usually been one on one, without any other agents, assets, operatives or whatever other word they used to describe themselves, so rank was never an issue. Now, surrounded by a veritable Brooks Brothers army, he wondered what kind of hierarchy was in place to keep the order; he knew there had to be one otherwise so much work wouldn't be getting done. He also knew that however it was structured, it was safe to assume that he landed squarely at the bottom of it.

"In there, you need to report to the Cunningham." His beautiful acquaintance pointed at the door as the balding man made his hurried exit. James was familiar with reporting to a new commanding officer and the intentional intimidation that was involved. Commanders always made sure to come off as heavy handed, not to be trifled with, on that first day. There was always room to go easy later, but first impressions were about power. He wondered how much, if any, of that mentality was in play here. It didn't seem like intimidation would need to be faked in a place like this. James took a minute to put his luggage down and ensure his suit, still a bit sweaty but somehow also un-wrinkled, laid properly across his shoulders and chest, adjusted how his pants hung on his waist, and brushed himself off despite having nothing on him. Once he was confident that he at least looked the part of a reporting agent, he stepped into the room.

"James Carter." The man at the desk was in his late forties with thinning, curly hair that had only accents of its original black against grey. He was a black man and American from his accent (or lack of one by James' standard) wearing an ill-fitting button up shirt adorned with substantial under-arm sweat stains and a tie that didn't look like it had been synched up to his neck at any point. He sat amidst stacks of papers and at least four tall, paper coffee cups that if James had to guess, had probably accumulated over only the past few hours. This had to be Cunningham, James surmised, though there was no name placard or ID badge to be found.

"Yes sir. Reporting as ordered." A loose interpretation of how a Marine might report.

"And just what good is it that you're supposed to do for me, Agent Carter?" The man's eyes were exhausted and angry.

"I'm here in any capacity that you need me, sir." James meant that. Maybe there were some newspapers that needed reading.

"What if I told you that I've got a hundred agents that are here in any capacity I need them? What if I told you that taking on a new agent that's too dumb to use a damn elevator is exactly what I DONT need right now?" The man's voice was calm but antagonistic. James's face turned red. He really should have used the elevator.

"Well I hope you can find a place for me, sir. I'm eager to help." James had already shifted into the same mode of conversational survival his bald predecessor must have adopted a few minutes earlier. He would provide as many generic, motivated and team work oriented responses as he would need to in order to survive the conversation. It was clear to him that this man, like more than one field grade officer he'd dealt with before, wasn't looking for right answers. Only a wrong one could alter the course of this conversation, and would certainly prolong the abuse. It was best just to nod and keep repeating that he was happy to be "a part of the team."

"Well, I hope so too Carter. I've got no room for dead weight on this one," his tone softened, almost as though they'd finished the part of the conversation that he had to yell through. Apparently, James thought to himself, intimidation is just as important in the intelligence world. "Speak to Agent DePietro for further assignment." His attention was already back on his papers before James could respond.

"Good evening sir," James spoke as he turned to head out the door.

"And enough with that Marine shit Carter," he called after James, "operatives have to talk like human beings!" James paused to hear him and suppressed the urge to reply with a "yes sir." Instead, he just continued to walk toward Agent DePietro who was leaning patiently against a nearby filing cabinet.

"If you hadn't called him sir he'd have yelled at you for that instead," she consoled him as he approached. James knew she was trying to be nice, but resented it a bit. He wasn't a child in need of coddling.

"Yeah, I know the drill." James tried to keep his souring mood from affecting his tone.

"Oh honey, you don't know shit." She smiled at him without a hint of mocking.

"I suppose that's where you come in then?" James squared his shoulders toward the small woman, not to intimidate her, but as a conscious effort to make himself seem confident.

"I suppose so." Her eyes clung to his for a moment, as if she were sizing up some part of him that only she could see. A long pause stifled their conversation as each of them waited for the other to speak.

"So... What's next?" James blinked first.

"First we head back to the hotel and get some rest," her smile faded, "then you show me why I had to stay up all night to meet some... Some boot agent." It was the first time he'd heard her struggle with the language, but he knew why. "Boot" was an insult thrown around by Marines when referring to a "new guy" who wasn't trained enough to be valuable. She'd picked up a little bit of Corps culture somewhere along the way and was trying to use it to admonish him. James smiled. These types of games meant the beautiful woman across from him was just as human as he was. She might as well have been in her underwear, though that would have probably been more flattering. The fact that she felt the need to get under his skin meant that he’d already gotten under hers. Though exactly how, he couldn’t know.

“We’re staying in the same hotel?” James meant only to keep the conversation afloat.

“Yes,” she paused and eyed him up and down, “but in separate rooms.”

“You struck me as though you’d be more of a stiletto girl.” James observed with a nod.

“Excuse me?” Her carefully crafted, fem-fatale demeanor cracked a bit when she spoke.

“Certainly not the kind of girl that’s into boots.” James continued to himself as he stepped past her and toward the door. He’d already picked his luggage up and was eager to get to a hotel room. DePietro followed behind him. Her silence could suggest that he’d won their brief interaction, but James knew better. She was sizing him up, which was fair as he was doing the same to her.

“Have a car pick us up downstairs, will you?” She spoke to a young man at a desk near the door that James had walked past without noticing on his way in. He stopped and nodded to him in thanks, “is this your first time in Barcelona?” Now she was back to talking to James.

“It is.” James replied.

“Tomorrow we’ll spend some time driving around the city, get you accustomed to it.” She’d returned to her friendly tone.

“Which side of the road do they drive on around here, anyway?” James set his bags down to open the door, but she stepped in front of him and opened it before he could.

“How long have you been in the business?” She replied with a question of her own. There it was. James didn’t know the way the rank structure worked in his new environment, but seniority was universal… and James had some suspicions about hers.

“Seems like I’m just a bit newer than you,” James squeezed past her with his bags, “thanks.”

“What makes you think I’m new?” She was still at the door, though he was making good time toward the elevator.

“You’re too hot to be unsure of yourself.” He called back to her casually as he pressed the down arrow at the elevator. She stared at him for a moment with her mouth agape and although the bright light from behind her conspired with the darkness of the hallway to make her features difficult to see, James was pretty sure he saw her blush, “you’re gonna be dangerous once you get things figured out.”

“You think you’re pretty good at this, don’t you?” The elevator was coming up from the first floor, allotting her ample opportunity to let him watch her walk. Unlike in conversation, her walk exuded all the confidence of a woman who was well aware of what she brought to the table. James caught himself admiring the sway of her hips like a man stops to watch the sunset. It was less sexual in nature than pure appreciation for the beauty of God’s work.

“I think I’m terrible at this,” James spoke to her in a lower tone of voice as she floated up to the door, “but I can still be right sometimes.”