Yet more from the double lives of politics regulars. If the italics are messed up just assume that where you see that particular mess it means italics.

The Regulars: Chapter 5

A broad, dull ache in her neck greets Fluff as she awakens. She's always had this trouble while sleeping in unfamiliar beds. She fights opening her eyes both out of base humanity and to spare herself the glare of the flat, white ceiling above.
Lounge quarters were designed as if someone had decided to open a hotel out of army bunkers. Attempts at comfort were made. Actual, if midrange, beds graced the rooms as well as some basic furnishings one expects in civilized life. Against the wall there's a small writing desk and a chair that just looks like it should squeak. A sterile looking dresser stands waiting to accept personal affects, for all the good that does her at the moment. "note to self" she thinks "first on the agenda, get some personal affects." Still, nothing she could bring to this place would make it feel like a home. It was never meant to be a home. This is where you go so people don't kill you. To the cynical corner of her mind the décor adds to the reason to resolve the issue quickly. She does not want to get used to this bed. In a halfhearted attempt to keep the waking world at bay a bit longer she thinks back to the night before.
The drive in with Pro had been awkward. He had been understandably nervous seeing as earlier that night her apartment had been blown up and he had vocally admired the detonation device, only to find out she was in the room. In the car she hadn't felt like talking and he wasn't bold enough to put on any music. So both of them were left alone with their thoughts, which of course made them that much worse.
Things didn't improve much when they arrived. In a fit of unthinking chivalry he had offered to carry her bags. She just glared at him for the long second it took him to figure that out. Neither of them said a word for the rest of the long walk through the building to the quarters. Once again the silence only adds to the problem. The Lounge is so quiet that it feels like a closed airport at night. At least she was finally indoors again. That was a big trade up that particular night.
The door slid open mechanically with a sound almost like an airlock. That befit the look of the place perfectly. Not only was it white but it was sterile, looking as if it was in waiting. In a way of course it had been. Now Pro finally has something to talk about.
"Ok, your bathroom's over there, your TV is over there and, ah, you know where the caf is." He gestured as he spoke and when it was all over nodded like someone both self satisfied and highly infused with caffeine.
She just took a deep breath and put her hand on his shoulder. "It's ok, really. Besides, I know if someone shot you with a long gun I'd think it was cool." What's creepy is that he completely got that.
"Yeah, I can dig that. You cool here?"
"As cool as I'm getting." She said while sitting on the bed and taking up the television remote, all this while still made up for night on the town. Fortunately it was cold out so she was bundled within reason to fashion. These things get cable.?"
"Just the basic package."
Already flipping through the meager choices "I'm living like a fucking savage."
With a warm laugh Pro excuses himself, closing the door behind him. And that's how the rest of her night had gone, not really watching anything until finally sleep came to call her.
It's hot like a bitch in Cairo. The man known only as Penguin is sweating through his khaki shorts and blue Hawaiian style shirt. He had contemplated getting a gift shop pith helmet to go over his thick framed sunglasses but had decided against it. The number one worst way to hide an American agent is to make him not look American but still he does have a modicum of taste. He had made sure his sandals went with the shorts.
He didn't stand out one bit in the tour group busing it around through all of Egypt's most predictable sights and treasures. The plan is to meet his contact at the next stop. It's just touristy enough that no one will be dumb enough to bring a gun. That makes talking a lot easier.
At the moment's he's taking pictures with a high end digital camera for ret-con, cover and aesthetics. A feign at attempting artistic shots gives him all the excuse in the world to shoot at the angles he needs. His cover comes under strain when a fat man wearing a Sphinx t-shirt comments to his wife about how the scene makes him feel like Indiana Jones. Breathing deeply Penguin reminds himself. "You're wearing sandals, fight the urge to act educated." To spare him further monolog his phone rings. Fitting perfectly with character it's a slightly digitized version of something classical yet recognizable. The sound grows as the phone is fished from the khaki pocket. He flips it open and the display says it's cousin Jim, as opposed to the Jim he's not related to. After stepping away a bit for the privacy anyone would want for a phone call he answers. "Hello" he says with a perfect non-regional accent.
"Hello back." The voice is exactly who it should be. "How's your trip going?
Status?
"Alright, little dull though."
Yet to make contact, no complications.
"Good to hear." It is.
"How're things back your way?" He assumes the call is for a reason.
"Not good."
Crisis.
"What's wrong?
Nature?
"It's Mom and Dad. They're fighting again."
Trouble at home. Agents targeted.
"And what's it about this time?"
Nature of threat?
"You know how it is. She's on him about wasting money on his big boy toys again.
Unknown. Assumption arms dealer.
"Wait, is this still about that thing before?"
Related to existing op?
"Yeah, we think so."
Assumption. Yes.
It's a misnomer that assumptions don't exist in the spy world. Yes one thing means another but that does anything but lay a clear road in front of you. More often than not said road is cobbled as you go and if you're smart and lucky you get to the right place. He knows they were in Russia and now that shootout that was in all the papers was indeed them. "Anything I can do?"
Orders?
"You were always Mom's favorite. You could try talking to her."
Seek out the source. Intel/non-confrontation.
"Can do."
I'm on it.
"Cool, I'll let you get back to your trip."
Current mission unaltered.
"Ok, send everyone my love."
"Just one thing though. How's the food over there?"
"Not great. What are you having?"
"Just some leftover Chinese."
Chinese.
"Goodbye."
"Bye." Penguin hangs up his phone and only on hearing a dial tone does Keither close the line. Now there are two things to do today. That, and fat ass remembers seeing pyramids like this in the DaVinci Code. It's going to be a long day.
In the afternoon in London a still sleep groggy Father Venom asks "Did not you say that......"
"I said not directly." Michael states, not even looking up from the papers on his desk. "At least not until things are in place. What has just happened is very important in the grand placement of things. Now get your boots off the table."
In France the same events are being questioned but in a decidedly different manner. In an interrogation room very much like those of any city in the western world a young man named Paul is being asked about his date last night. The use of these facilities was yet another benefit of local cooperation. There's no need to let everyone know there's a big dog in town. But it's still what it is and he's sweating in a way that would make a protective father smile. Thus far all he'd been told is that she's alive and in protective custody. "What happened in her apartment is very suspect, you see. So we're questioning the people around her to try and make sense of the situation."
"Why would I want to blow her up?" Paul insisted. "I just met the girl. And what is a woman from the American south doing asking me?"
Seven glares down at him. "First of all. You're only going to be on the answering side of questions today. But I will tell you this much. A lot of really bad people do things for a whole bunch of bad reasons and the more you act up the more it's gonna take to convince me You're not one of them. Do we understand each other?" He nods. "Good, now you're not exactly local either." His voice is clear enough to the trained ear but reading it from a file is so much more intimidating. "It says here you're originally from Wales. And that you were transferred here three months ago for your job at....."
"Sol industrial. I'm a graphic designer. I'm not a bomb...." Seven slams the files she was trying to read onto the table with a deafening thud.
"You will answer every one of my questions, little boy, but only when I have asked them!" He doesn't dare move or breath. It's as if the ice in her eyes has taken his very being. "Is this understood?"
He has to breath before speaking, yes.....yes it is."
"Good." Her voice has softened now, almost brightened. She lifts the file back up and straightens the pages, all on his time. "Now 'Paul the graphic designer from Wales.' Tell me all about what you did last night." And so he does.