Breached. *editing*

I. Bowie Lyndon

"Hey Lyndon." The tired voice of Winston Dormand, my producer and assistant researcher, was about the last thing I wanted to hear at one am on Sunday.

I groped around my nightstand until my fingertips found the switch that turned on my lamp, flooding the minimalist apartment with bright, white light. "Hi."

"Sorry for waking you."

"It's fine." I lied, sighing slowly, as I squinted in attempt to adjust to the light. "Is everything okay?"

He paused for a moment. "You weren't expecting any packages to the studio were you?"

I furrowed my brow. "No, I've never put that down as my shipping address."

"I was heading out the studio just now, and there was a package at the door. Addressed to you," He said.

I rubbed at my temples, moving to turn the lights off again. Dormand seriously woke me up for a random package. "Okay, I'll look at it in the morning."

He made what sounded like a very tired laugh. "No, no, I wouldn't have called you at one for just a package. It's very odd. No return address. Just your name and the work address on the front, no stamp either. Someone hand delivered it."

"Maybe a tip?" I offered tiredly.

"Do you mind if I open it?" Winston asked.

I yawned. "No, of course not. Tell me what it is in the morning."

"You got it."

The line went dead, and I pushed the charger cord back into the base of my phone before turning the lamp off again, and sliding back under the covers.

It was only about five minutes later when I was jarred to a waking state again. The caller ID on the lock screen unsurprisingly read "Winston Dormand." I huffed to myself as I slid the screen to pick up the phone.

"What." I didn't even bother to disguise my annoyance. I'd clearly told him to talk to me in the morning. It was one o'five.

"It's an address," Winston's voice came quickly through the phone line. "2 avenue Gabriel 75008 Paris."

"Should that mean something to me?" I asked tiredly.

"Address to the United States Embassy to France."

"Okay..."

"There's two first class plane tickets to Paris."

I frowned. "So what's happening at the embassy?"

"I assume that's what you're supposed to find out."

"Have you looked around at all?" I huffed at him.

"Of course I have." He sounded a little offended.

"And?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary. Ambassador is Lewis Davenport, appears to be a very well-educated and charitable, albeit very rich, man." He replied.

"What are you trying to tell me?"

"That plane tickets from DC to Paris aren't cheap, so I say we owe the embassy a sweep."

"Dormand, they're random tickets to Paris. There's not even a lead."

"Lyndon, this is me informing you, as your producer, that we're spending tomorrow in Paris. Flight leaves at seven am."

"Fine."

"No one's going to send us to Paris without there being a good reason. If I'm wrong I'll give you Thursday off."