xp_logs | Log: Farouk/Langstrom, Farouk/Remy

Amahl Farouk and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day (at the end of which he bids adieu to the Mansion)

"Professor Farouk. It looks like you've had a misadventure. A fall, perhaps?" David Langstrom said as he stepped off on to the grass of the mall. A crisp wind swirled his raincoat around his legs, and he had his hands in his pockets and a black hat on his head; every inch the parody of the spymaster. It was a useful image. People who didn't know his power underestimated him as a relic of a Cold Warrior. People who did weren't apt to risk criticizing him openly.

Amahl kept the surprise hidden by instinct, habit so ingrained it was second nature now. His conversation with LeBeau was as secure as two men, both survivors of hardest schools, could make it.

Yet here the Kingmaker stood, at the very spot they had agreed upon for the meeting.

One could, of course, ascribe the meeting to chance and coincidence. If one was an utter and complete moron.

"Assistant Deputy," Farouk inclined his head fractionally, the ugly, purple bruise around his neck showing above the collar of his shirt. He shifted the suit jacket minutely in the crook of his arm, scanning the perimeter eve as he groped for the reassuring weight of the hidden pistol. "We really should stop meeting like this. People are starting to talk."

Above them Lincoln's marble edifice endured, the Savior of the Union reclining in his eternally impassive contemplation.

"They're not. If they were, I'd have heard them." Langstrom took off his hat, and set it down on the bench before sitting himself. "I'm surprised that you are back in Washington, Professor. Actually, I'm surprised you're back in the United States at all, considering the current fluidity of things in the Middle East."

“Well, I thought I deserved a little time off." Amahl smiled genially. "With my old friend D. Ken having left the arena, I find myself in a contemplative mood. Feeling my own mortality, you might say. And Middle East is just too hectic for an old academic to gather his thoughts in peace."

Langstrom appeared to be alone. At least in terms of the immediate vicinity. Still, relaxing his guard was the last thing from Farouk's mind. "Besides, I have always found that some distance is useful in evaluating a problem."

"Really? Coming to terms with a change in employment, perhaps?" Langstrom said innocently, although neither man had any illusions that it was anything but. He rubbed his shaved jaw, like a man considering an innocuous choice. "You know, there are some people highly motivated in seeking a meeting with you, about future opportunities. Tremont, I think the name was."

Farouk nodded as if American's words confirmed something for him and sat down next to him. "I am flattered that the vicissitudes of my career exert enough interest for the man in you position to become personally involved, Mr. Langstrom."

He shrugged, massaging his throat carefully, his other hand still on the handle of the pistol. "Yes. I have had what you might call a religious experience recently, arranged by master Tremont. Your sources are as impeccable as always. He seems to feel it is time for me to move beyond the earthly concerns that have so dominated my time. I am less confident, myself."

"That's a tough break, Professor, trading one set of religious fanatics for another. You could always try and piss off the Mossad, and go for the trifecta." His tone was amused, and a touch cruel.

Amahl looked at the man next to him silently and the weeks and months fell away and he was there again, in the dank underground hall where everything changed. The image of Imam's eyes, in his last defiant moments, facing down the end of the world, came unbidden, blossoming behind Farouk's eyes. The charge of the Opus Dei. And Stick, bloody and grinning, cleaning his guns, surrounded by corpses. Corpses like those of the Alamut which he would never see buried.

Corpses of the fanatics who died staving off the Armageddon alone and unmourned save for him...

He let go of the gun, suddenly tired of the dance, of the choreographed, preordained steps, intricate pattern of thrust and parry leading to the predictable conclusion.

If the American wanted him dead, it would have been done already, he decided. The pitch was coming.

Farouk wondered absently if LeBeau was still alive, whether he too was faced with an offer and... an alternative. He thought of the Imam again and briefly, incongruously entertained the impulse of shooting Langstrom just for the old man's sake.

Instead he smiled and shrugged. "Oh, no doubt that time will come again as it has before. You know Yitzhak. So volatile. But the make-up sex..." Farouk bunched up his fingers and kissed them zestfully, spreading the digits in an extravagant simulation of an explosion. "To die for."

Langstrom grunted, rolled his eyes. Oh, the humor of an old pederast, he thought. Still, a useful one.

"Well, Professor, I don't know if you're as settled into waiting for death as you seem, but you'll recall I made you an offer once. We know Alamut is gone, and we know the Templars have resources in the United States. Unless you plan to disappearing back into the Middle East and hiding out for the remainder of your life, you don't have a lot of options."

He took off his glasses, polishing them neatly before replacing them. "You come inside the Company, you'll be well protected, and well compensated for your work. But-" He held up a finger. "This is the last time I'm going to make the offer. Alamut made you a security threat. Without it, you're a potentially useful asset, but not a factor in national security."

Farouk chuckled, the irony of the situation suddenly inescapable. Hunted by people who held him important enough to kill, recruited by the man who saw him as just barely useful enough to save.

Amahl leaned back, pulling himself into the coldly detached reasoning-trance he had learned so long ago. Calculating the aspects and probabilities.

The offer was tempting. At this juncture of his life and with the events that were sure to come - the resources of the Firm were not an asset to dismiss lightly. Especially given the suddenly unsure prospects of hos alternative.

Yet, on the other hand...

Did Langstrom truly believed him to be a spent quality in the grand scheme of things? If so, then any gain Amahl would garner out of this bargain would be temporary at best. As soon as the Kingmaker finished coopting his remaining networks and draining him of useful information, Farouk would become more than expendable. He would be a liability.

And what if the American was simply framing the bargain, forcing Farouk into position of weakness without truly believing it? The professor closed his eyes, thinking.

That changed little in the long run. Langstrom was a driven man, in that respect little different from Amahl himself. But their respective obsessions had little on common. So far.

The Agency had exhibited little interest in the occult as of yet. And even if (or rather when) they did, Langstrom's focus was on safeguarding the interests of the United States.

At best he would have to be manipulated into using the CIA's resources against Nur. And at worst he may very well seek to use him... And Amahl's freedom of maneuver and autonomy would shrink considerably once within the Company's structure.

He opened his eyes and glanced at the giant towering over the hall, Lincoln's face half-hidden by the shadows.

Langstrom was a reality. Whatever other odds, in the short term he promised a guarantee of safety and at least a hope of proven might that could be turned against Nur.

All else was a gamble. A throw of the dice. The dice that may very well be loaded in Langstrom's favor already, given his appearance in LeBeau's place...

Farouk thought, the odds assessed and discarded, the situation dissected and mapped, the rational choice clear-cut and inescapable. His eyes slid once again to the Greatest Gambler on his marble throne and the corner of Amahl's mouth pulled up in a crooked grin.

"I'll pass."

Langstrom gave him a long and considering look, before his eyes flickered to the statue of Lincoln and he shrugged. "Suit yourself, Professor. Some of us will miss you out in the shadows once Tremont and his lot catch up with you." He replaced his hat and stood up from the bench. He reached into his jacket, but instead of a pistol, there was an envelope. Inside were a small stack of documents.

"One of your friends called in a debt with the Company. You're officially granted 'landed immigrant status in the United States. For what it's worth, that means technically once you get killed, we'll be part of the investigation to who did it. You have to admit, that's funny." Langstrom said, and walked away without looking back.

In the long moments that followed, as Langstrom grew distant, it was quiet on the Mall, and only the sudden smell of tobacco entered the unnatural status.

"You know, Remy never liked dose hats of his. Made him look like a bad movie villian from de forties; especially when he was younger."

Farouk took a careful, measured breath. He could feel his shirt clinging to his back, wet and clammy with the sweat which was feeling chilly even in the sun-baked expanse of the Memorial, as the adrenaline-fueled focus of his conversation with the Kingmaker began to give way.

"Oh, I don't know..." He drawled musingly, reaching inside his folded jacket for the cigar. He felt more than saw Remy's weight settle onto the bench, almost exactly into the space recently vacated by Langstrom. "I was always rather fond of the fedoras. Eternal classic - never goes out of style. Unlike, say, punctuality...."

"Didn't want to interrupt your meeting with Langstrom. You both have a good talk?"

"Well, you know. Job interviews - always a little stressful." Farouk bit off the tip of his cigar and spat it out, smiling coldly at the tourist mother who gave him a faintly scandalized look. The woman huffed indignantly and, gathering up her children like a spooked mother hen, rushed out of the great hall.

Remy shook his head faintly but said nothing.

"You know he's keeping tabs on you, I suppose," Amahl inquired absently, contemplating his cigar.

"Non, Professor. Gambit be a complete moron."

Farouk nodded slightly at the use of the nom de guerre and glanced downward and to the left. Remy smiled a little scornfully and, shaking his head again, reached down under the bench and after a second's search found the bug that Langstrom planted before leaving.

The two men exchanged another look. The device crunched and popped with a soft electric noise as the Cajun's boot came down on it.

"Exciting day." Amahl observed.

"It was intended to be." Remy said, shifting away the bug's remains. "Figured dat Langstrom would talk to you sooner or later, so Remy dropped a few hints in de right place 'bout a meeting here. Knew dat he'd intercept you."

"Thoughtful." Farouk lit the cigar and took a long slow pull. "I must remember to return the favor one day." Exhaling with visible pleasure, he squinted at the sun. "Shall we cut to the chase?"

"You asked to speak wit' me, homme. Langstrom was to confirm dat you're as unfortunately independent as you claimed to be when we talked last." Remy wasn't worried about being seen, although he had taken considerable pains to check and make sure that Langstrom hadn't planted additional resources in the area. Not being worried about being seen and wanting to be seen were two entirely different things, after all.

"As I had said, I currently find myself unaffiliated with any major organization." Farouk puffed on his cigar again. "This puts me in something of a quandary, since over the years a number of people have taken an unaccountable dislike to me."

Remy snorted. "Shocking."

"Isn't it?" Amahl shrugged. "Nevertheless, such is life. I am not a field operative, Monsieur LeBeau. And, frankly, even if I were, I assess my chances as bleak at best were I to remain outside of established structures and on my own. I considered the mansion but recent events convinced me that my continued presence there provides only a nominal degree of safety both to myself and to the residents. And so - here we are."

"Here we are." Remy repeating, looking off into the reflecting pool. He sat mute for a time, either thinking or just trying to infuriate Farouk before he spoke. "Bringing you in means taking on a vendetta dat will splash over on to de rest of my people. Especially when Remy can be fairly sure dat if it comes down to a choice, you're toss us under de bus if it saved you, neh?"

Amahl smiled thinly, the irony of the former X-Man's thought paralleling his own assessment of Langstrom's offer, not escaping him.

"I have been at this game a long time, Monsieur LeBeau. Yet the most important lesson I have learned very early on in my career. The concept of honor among thieves is so much bunkum, of course. Romanticisation of scoundrels by fools. Yet the same is absolutely essential among murderers, like us."

He flicked the ash of his cigar and shrugged. "My skin is quite dear to me and I will go to considerable lengths to keep it whole and attached. I would not insult either of us by pretending otherwise. Yet the best way to do so, over the long term, is to answer loyalty with loyalty. And I always think in long term. I stand by my friends, Monsieur LeBeau, as long as they stand by me. That's just good business."

Farouk shrugged again. "As for vendettas I shall bring with me - I would suggest that, at worst, I am simply speeding up the time table. Sooner or later, you will find yourself fighting the same war, with or without me. And, of course, I shan't enter into this arrangement empty-handed, as you can imagine. The Alamut may have fallen, but I posses extensive resources of my own - in the very region where your organization has not been able to establish serious presence as of yet."

The professor finally turned around to meet Remy's eyes. "And then, of course, there's this." The cigar fell from his fingers, as he shrugged off the folded jacket of his arm and reach, past the pistol to grasp the small flash drive in his pocket.

"Whatever the result of our little talk today, Monsieur LeBeau, I would like your organization to have this. I do believe it is time for me to ensure that my work outlived myself."

Remy's eyebrow crinkled slightly as he dubiously considered the offered drive.

"The Ozymandius File."

Remy slipped the drive into his inside pocket with a nod. He'd listened to the vague outline of what 'Ozymandius' meant to Farouk, and wasn't inclined to write off the threat easily. Farouk's reasoning was what he was expecting, and he couldn't fault the logic. To be honest, Remy had made his decision prior to the meeting; this was all about double-checking whether his judgments were correct.

"Come by de office at the beginning of next week, and we'll work out de details."