[WINSTON]
Special Agent Ellis Winston was not having a very special day.
"Let's go over what we know." He ran both hands through his thick hair and stared at the large map pinned to the wall instead of the beautiful woman — his new partner — who was seated behind him. "We know she was in Beijing. Various street cameras confirm that. We know she had who we suspect to be the Carmichael twins with her."
"But," Genevieve Moreau interrupted the American in softly accented English, "we cannot confirm it was either of the Carmichaels because none of the angles allow for proper identification."
Winston nodded and his eyes skipped from one poor quality picture to another, all pinned to one side of the map, an arrow indicating that they were connected to Beijing. Winston could recognize Max Destin as plainly as he could his own face. She was a phantom that haunted his every step, dissolving just seconds before he could turn to face her.
"Do you have any intentions of bringing the CIA in on this assignment, now that we suspect Monseiur ..." She looked down at one of the various files on the table, "Daniel is involved? Or perhaps of consulting your Navy, due to Monseiur Dylan?"
At first Winston only shook his head. Then he laced his fingers behind his head. His focus shifted from a single shot of Destin to a picture of her between two tall, fit young men. At least, he was assuming the men were young — because he was assuming it was the Carmichael twins. "Not at the moment." He could have gone into detail and given Moreau a run down of the bad blood that stood between the FBI and the CIA because of Daniel Carmichael's suspected involvement with Destin, or even informed her that since his forced retirement, the Navy had jack-squat when it came to information on Dylan Carmichael. But that would've taken a while. Those were rabbit trails that he could not currently afford to follow. "Let's get back to what we know, please, Agent Moreau."
"Oui," Moreau acquiesced. "We know that in a few days she moved from Beijing to Madrid. But we do not know how."
"Only theories," Winston muttered as his attention skipped to the duo of photographs pinned above Madrid. This time it was not Destin that his eyes zeroed in on, but the beast of a man caught walking shoulder to shoulder with her. "Theories that get more dangerous."
"Because of the Russians," Moreau supplied.
"Yes," Winston nodded. His hands dropped to his hips. "If that is Alexei Zima, then we risk having to deal with GRU. And even though America's relations with Russia have improved in the past several years, pointing fingers at one of theirs for potentially assisting an international fugitive would be a political disaster."
"I thought you said—"
Winston interrupted before she could finish. "I did. The FBI does have verbal confirmation that that man—" he turned to face Moreau as he gestured at the picture of Destin and Zima, "—is Alexei Zima. But that doesn't make anything easier. There are political affairs to be considered— political affairs I have to take into consideration."
Moreau considered Winston in silence for a moment, her head canted delicately to one side. "Perhaps Interpol may not suffer from the same restrictions," she offered. She managed to pose the question in as cautious a manner as was possible, though the way she watched Winston for his answer suggested the shrewdness of a fox.
He considered it for a full sixty seconds. Then he shook his head. "No," he said, "Interpol's partnered with the FBI right now. America would be condemned by association. Besides, it's because of the situation with Russia that Zima's involvement isn't mentioned anywhere in the Obdurate files."
Moreau nodded and her brows arched in what Winston thought was either surprise or respect. He didn't have time to try to identify which. "So," she continued, "your working theory is that Monsieur Zima is responsible for Mademoiselle Destin's move from Beijing to Madrid. Oui?"
"Yes," Winston agreed. "It's the only thing that makes sense. I wouldn't have assumed it before we had pictures of them in Madrid, because goodness knows Destin has other contacts who could've smuggled her out of China, but, yes. That's my working theory."
"Back to what we know?" Moreau echoed his now oft-repeated phrase.
"Please."
"We also know that she left a note at the embassy, accompanied by a truck full of smuggled military-grade guns." A photocopy of said note was on the table before her, along with an assortment of her own notes about Destin, written in cursive so perfect that it could have been a font. When she glanced back up at Winston, his eyes had glazed over as he stared at a nondescript point on the table. "Agent Winston," she said, "how do you think she knew you were working with Interpol?"
That was more than enough to draw him out of his trance. He turned toward her with a calmness which could only be obtained from years working in an industry where difficult, off-the-wall questions were the norm. "Who said she knew I was working with Interpol?"
Moreau frowned. The expression caused a wrinkle to form between her brows. "I assumed, what with the nature of the note ..."
She trailed off because Winston had begun to shake his head. "No, Agent Moreau," he said, still eerily calm. "When it comes to Destin, one can never afford to assume. She is just logical enough, just ornery enough— she didn't have to know I was already working with Interpol. That note could've been intended as a catalyst to get me to where we are now.
"The real question we should be asking — the question I am asking myself — is why does Destin want me involved in this?" He paused as he turned away from Moreau to look back at the map. There was a string from Boston to Beijing, and a string from Beijing to Madrid, but from Madrid ... nothing. "And where is she now?"
