Title: Battle Lines

Author: MuttsandMoggies

Category: Covert Affairs

Episode Tag: 1.4 "No Quarter"

Rating: K+

Disclaimer: Not mine either

Summary: Character study. An anonymous psy ops officer prepares for his latest assignment. Set during 1.4 "No Quarter". Oneshot.

Battle Lines

I survey the terrain, carefully preparing the field. In a world where men trade in secrets and deception, the battle lines are thinly drawn, and distinctions between true and false, good and evil, hard often to distinguish. The truth, elusive at best in the civilian world, is damn near impossible to find in the world of espionage.

That's where I come in.

The harsh light bounces of the harsh gray walls. The buzz of the fluorescent fixtures adds an extra layer of discomfort. I cross the room and adjust the thermostat. Then, taking my seat, I check my equipment, and wait for my next customer.

There are few certainties in this world, but these things I know for sure. I know that everyone has secrets. Everyone has walls. And with patience, even the strongest wall can crumble. I know that the truest heart can falter, that courage is a close brother to recklessness, and that good intent can lead to betrayal. I know that fear can undermine even the strongest defenses.

I know, too, that they underestimate me. That's the plan. They resent having to deal with me when they could be out saving the world. I'm the anonymous hack in the cheap suit who disrupts their routine and threatens to shatter their cleverly constructed personae. I'm the unknown quantity, the stranger in their midst. As far as they're concerned, I'm the enemy. I can live with that, because as far as I'm concerned they're all potential traitors. On some level, they know… I know we're all on the same side. But here, in this cold, claustrophobic space, it's easy to lose sight of the grander scheme.

They're fair game. Besides, if they have their weapons, I have mine. Different triggers. Different fuses. But just as accurate, and they can be every bit as deadly.

Here's something else I know, few, if any, are better at this game than I am.

I can read a face like a book; see the secrets that hide beneath the veneer of self-assurance. I can hear the lies revealed in a moment's hesitation, see the excitement in a dilated pupil, discern the doubt behind a twitch, and the deception that forces the lines of a strained smile. Better than anyone else, I can tease out the truth from the tangled web of half-truths, omissions and outright lies.

I always could. Even as a small child. It drove my parents to distraction. Even little, I could see through their stories and lies. Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, or how smart I looked with my new glasses. My family soon gave up trying to get away with anything but the truth. Friends… well, for obvious reasons, I don't have many, but the ones I have, I trust implicitly.

The Agency plucked me out of grad school days before my doctoral dissertation on micro-expressions and public security was published. Once past the initial surprise, I found that I quite enjoyed this new and unforeseen opportunity. Up until the moment I'd found myself sitting in a conference room in a non-descript government office near Capitol Hill, I'd been floundering, with no idea what I would do after my studies. I feared I'd end up doing research, or, worse, working in a community college somewhere, teaching Psych 101 to freshmen more interested in texting prospective hook-ups than in exploring the intricacies of human behavior. The CIA offered me the challenge I'd been craving coupled with the sense that I would be serving a greater good.

The psy ops training that followed was relentless, and as rigorous as anything the other recruits endured at the Farm. I thrived on it, and in the years since then, I continued to hone my skills. The monitoring equipment serves only as a backup. I check the screens from time to time, to see if they register what I already know. Besides, the higher-ups love their gadgetry and who am I to refuse their toys?

Back to the task at hand. I glance at my watch and pick up the papers that scattered when Joan Campbell strode out of the room. I swear the temperature in the room must have dropped ten degrees while she was here. The Ice Queen of the DPD tried to play me as if I were one of her marks. When that failed, she turned on the authority that makes even her most seasoned operatives run for cover.

She's very good at hiding her feelings, but does she know that her voice drops to a lower register and takes on brittle quality when she's trying to avoid the truth? Or that she can't control the way her pupils react to surprise? In those pale blue eyes, the reaction is startlingly obvious. I don't doubt her patriotism or her loyalty to the Company, and yet, under my pointed questions, minute cracks form in her icy mask, revealing the doubt and … uncertainty?

Everyone at Langley knows that her marriage is faltering, and that she mistrusts her husband. For rumors this place is worse than the local tavern. I used those rumors to try to chip away at her veneer, because she expected me to. Personally, I couldn't care less about the state of her marriage. All that matters is whether or not she is the leak. With motive and opportunity, she's a prime suspect in the Liza Hearn affair. And with Joan Campbell a direct approach has always been the best. Is she leaking classified information to punish her husband?

I steal a glance towards the vestibule. The chairs are beginning to fill again. Wilcox is there already, skimming a yachting magazine, trying hard to look unconcerned. In the corner, a clutch of techies talks shop in hushed voices, but they stop when Anderson appears in the doorway. The blind tech op shakes off offers of assistance, finds a chair, and sits. He props his elbows on his knees, rests his chin on his hands, and fixes his sightless gaze on the far wall. The look on his face silences any attempt at conversation.

I check the list. Wilcox is up next. The younger, alas. What I would give for the opportunity to question his father instead, the sly old bastard. Instead, I'll have to be content with the son. Jai Wilcox, for all his smoothness and swagger, is almost too easy to read. A little too studied, too poised. He becomes even more unctuous when presented with uncomfortable questions. His record is spotless, and in the field there's none better. Well up until the Ben Mercer fiasco, at least. Now, who knows what Wilcox would do to get back to the Seventh Floor? To prove his worth to Arthur Campbell… or to Henry Wilcox?

It's no secret that his relationship with his father is strained. Wilcox' air of arrogant self-assurance is something he puts on in the mornings with his custom suits and expensive cologne, and it fits him to perfection, but it's part of the costume he wears. Or perhaps it's his armor. He's not nearly as guarded as he thinks he is. How far would Jai Wilcox go to distance himself from the old man and make his own name at the CIA? How far would he go to get his father's approval?

I've saved Anderson for last. I've questioned him before, once when he when he admitted to dating a Russian hacker, and then as part of the vetting process when he returned to the DPD after the mission that cost him his sight. He'll test my skill again, and I relish the challenge. To Anderson, this is all a game. The man is smart, with an IQ well in the genius range. It's a given that he'll lie. Anderson lies like a rug.

His file shows he finished top of his class in Deception during his training at the Farm, and tops again during the resistance portion of his SERE training. I have no doubt that Anderson can outsmart the machines. All they do is register the physiological reactions to stress. But he's never lied well enough to fool me. Not yet.

Operatives often practice their false faces in front of a mirror, but Anderson hasn't seen his face in two years. Is he aware of the expressions that flit across his features, of the way he bites his lower lip to keep from smirking? Or of the mischief that glints in his sightless eyes? I guess it's hard to take anything seriously after Fate has played her cruelest joke on you. He seems an easy-going guy, considering. Were our situations different, he might be the sort of person I could share laughs with over a couple of beers.

Is he the leak? With his computer skills, he has access to all of the CIA's secrets. He's a plausible suspect with opportunity, access, and no one could have a better motive.

I check my watch, rise, and open the door. "Mr. Wilcox?"

Wilcox rises, but so does Anderson, and he reaches the door first, elbowing Wilcox out of the way. "Sorry, Jai" he sneers, "I didn't see you."

Wilcox gives a wry half-smile and returns to his seat, while the blind tech op pushes his way past me, sweeping his laser guide across the room to locate the chair. One look at his face, and I can tell this won't be our usual sparring match. Anderson is silent and sullen as I attach the equipment and adjust the camera.

"I'm going to ask you a series of questions to act as a control sample, okay?"

"No, it's not okay."

I look up, mildly surprised.

"You wanted the truth, correct?"

This time, there's not a trace of humor in Anderson's gaze. His features are set in a stubborn mask that reveals nothing. Our game, it seems, has moved into new territory. New battle lines have been drawn. So be it. He's good, but I'm better.

"Just answer the questions, please."

A/N: This is my first fic in a very, very long time, and my first in the CA fandom. A little out of character, maybe, but everyone at the DPD seems to be chosen for their special combination of intelligence and talent. Is it too farfetched to think that the CIA's anonymous polygrapher would be any less skilled at his game?

Thanks for reading, and let me know what you think. Con crit, though a blow to my ego, is always appreciated…eventually ;)

M&M