Chuck vs The Woman Who Came In From the Cold

A/N-Greetings. It has been a while since I put pen to paper. Michaelfmx has graciously agreed to be editor and sounding board for this story.

"Intelligence work has one moral law - it is justified by results."

― John le Carré, The Spy Who Came In from the Cold

Chapter 1

Santuario de Nossa Senhora da Pendeda, Portugal, July 24, 2009

The tall young man trudged up the stone paved path. Each footfall stirred up dust along the trail carved out of the hilly countryside. The Pendeda-Geres National Park was a far tougher hike than he'd imagined or prepared for.

He cursed himself one more time for running out of water on his twenty-five kilometer hike. He checked his map, his destination was just up ahead.

The steeple of the remote church was now visible. Its granite walls shimmered in the rays of the late day sun.

It was like a beacon, calling the weary pilgrim….to come...to come. The Lady of the Snows awaits.

He laughed at the thought of snow with the temperature sitting at 29C. He finally reached the top of the stairs leading to the heavy, wooden front door. The calf muscle in his left leg spasmed once again. He was just about done hiking for the day.

He bent down and greedily drank from the public fountain outside the old 18th century church. He turned around to see where he'd come from. The long valley nestled between two towering granite mountains.

The exercise, the views and his exhaustion helped him forget.

The tiny street was almost empty except for two dogs lying in the shade and the old woman across the square. She walloped away at the two red carpets hanging from her balcony using an iron poker. She spared only a passing glance at the tall, brown-haired man as the dust from the carpets swirled around her.

He walked up wearily to the old oak door of the church. It swung open easily on well-oiled iron hinges.

The interior was darker and, thankfully, cooler. A welcome break from the heat.

The walls and ceiling were covered in a reddish brown wood, the pillars were made of granite. There was an ornate wooden diptych near the altar. The master craftsmen who'd lovingly labored on the interior of the church and the pillars had died more than three centuries ago. Their names long forgotten but their skills still evident.

He sat down, slowly lowered his head until his forehead was touching the wooden pew in front of him. He let out a long sigh. Life had not gone the way he'd planned. He thought about what the epithet inscribed on his grave stone might be. 'Betrayal was his constant companion'

The Franciscan priest came out of his vestry, looking forward to a quiet evening. He was surprised to see the young man sitting in his church. July was a quiet month for pilgrims, odd.

The priest spoke Portuguese to the man, who had an aura of sadness surrounding him like a swarm of black flies.

The young man looked up and shrugged his shoulders as if to say, I don't understand. The priest switched to English. "Hello, welcome to our Lady of the Snows. Can I help you?"

"I'm not Catholic, so I don't think my confession to you would be exactly kosher." The old priest smiled at the young man's witticism. He gave a soft laugh and sat down beside him.

"No need for a confession. Besides, that happens on Friday. Anyone of any faith, at any time, is allowed to unburden his soul in this place."

He was tall, this sad looking man. The priest looked carefully at the stranger. His brown eyes conveyed an intelligence alongside the sadness that clung to him.

In the midst of his great sadness, the young man still held onto a shred of his old sense of humor. "If I started to unburdened my soul you'd miss your dinner and maybe even your breakfast."

The young man gave the priest the merest of smiles.

The priest shifted his position. "I've forgotten my manners, I'm Father Owen Ruelas."

He reached across and offered his hand. The priest had a strong grip, but the young man's grip was equal to the task. The priest had learned over the years that a hand shake could convey a wealth of meaning about the person. This tall young man had a strong, firm grip.

The young man smiled. "I'm Charles, and why is it your English is better than mine?"

"Ah… yes….an accident of birth I'm afraid. I'm the son of a Portuguese father and a Welsh mother. My father went over to hike in Wales and Scotland after he finished University. In the first two weeks of his trip, he met my mother in the Brecon Beacons. My father's exact words were. 'She was a dark eyed, Welsh beauty'. He never left.

"I speak, English, Welsh, Latin and, of course, Portuguese. I'm afraid the rather polished English accent is from my four years at Oxford."

Charles liked the priest immediately. He was dying to ask the priest how he ended up here in this remote church. What was this man's story?

The silence stretched to well over a minute before Father Ruelas looked over at Charles and patted his stomach. "Charles, I hate to miss my dinner. It's been my experience that a good meal and some fine wine helps one's state of mind…wonderfully, especially when one wants to unburden themselves."

He stood up and smiled down at Charles. "Also, all that you share with me will be treated as if said under the seal of confession." The old man's face became serious. "I swear to God."

Charles looked up at him, still unsure. He'd never told anyone the whole story about his two encounters with the beautiful spy. He wondered if confiding in a stranger might be easier than to someone he knew.

Charles took a deep breath. "One condition, if….if I agree to unburden my soul to you. You have to tell me how you got from Oxford to this remote church."

Father Ruelas cocked his head to the right and considered Charles' condition.

The truth was this young man fascinated him. And it was obvious that the burden he'd been carrying was ever so slowly crushing him. "Yes...yes...I agree to tell you a little of my journey and why I'm here as the Priest in the remotest of charges."

{}

They walked out through the front door and then all the way around to the back of the church. A neat little apartment was attached to the church. Without any hesitation Father Ruelas pushed open the door and shouted out. "Maria, Maria…"

A woman in her fifties stuck her head out of the pantry beside the kitchen.

In quick fire Portuguese she interrogated the Priest about who this man was and what he was doing here. Charles picked up the meaning of the words by the woman's body language and the hard stares she sent his way.

Father Ruelas waved his hand at her and laughed. "Speak English, Maria, if you're going to insult my guest. "

Maria didn't back down for a moment. "Do you think me a miracle worker Father…that I can make an extra meal magically appear? Eh…" Her English was heavily accented, but Charles understood her.

"Maria, you always make more than I can eat...there'll be enough for my guest and me."

She stomped around the kitchen banging pots and pans.

Father Ruelas led Charles into his study. He closed the door. The study had one large window that had a spectacular view of the valley and river below.

He turned to Charles. "Don't worry about Maria, she doesn't like surprises. However, tomorrow you'll be the talk of the village and Maria will be the centre of attention."

Charles looked concerned.

The priest sighed as he sat down. "Don't worry, everything said between us in this room will be sub-rosa. Everything Maria tells the town folk will be her conjectures and what she makes up.

First came the fine, dark-red wine, then some olives, some crusty bread with olive oil and balsamic vinegar.

The wine had done its duty, Charles was warmed by the wine and felt his sadness lessen.

Father Ruelas knew that Charles would never tell his story until he'd volunteered his.

"I loved being at Oxford, and I thought my life was headed for the foreign office, I wanted to be a diplomat. However, during my last year at Oxford, God tapped me on the shoulder. He grabbed onto me and wouldn't let me go."

"After getting my degree at Oxford, I went to St. John's Seminary. It's southwest of London, in Surrey.

Father Ruelas reached forward for the wine bottle and refilled Charles's glass.

"I graduated with distinction. Many doors were now open to me. I had worked like a Trojan and now my efforts were going to be rewarded."

Ruelas smiled at Charles. "I freely admit, after my ordination, I was a pain in the ass to the Bishop…..but finally, I was allowed to go to a parish in Lisbon."

Over the next twenty minutes, Father Ruelas concisely laid out his faith journey over the next seven years. Charles was still waiting to find out why this man wasn't a bishop or even a cardinal. The Priest sensed his anticipation.

"In my eighth year I was sent to Rome, I'd been identified as having great potential. At first, I was mesmerized by the city, by the Vatican. Ahhh, the wonders of the eternal city can still overwhelm a young idealistic man.

"I worked very hard. After seven months being at the Vatican, I knew what my destiny was. I wanted to be a 'Papal Nuncio."

Father Ruelas had to explain that a Nuncio was the permanent diplomatic representative of the Holy See to a country. The Nuncio had the titular rank of an archbishop and possessed ambassador status and plenipotentiary powers.

Charles sensed they were close to the denouement of his story and leaned forward, not wanting to miss a single word of Father Ruelas' story.

"After another year, I thought that I had understood how the politics in the Vatican worked. I believed that I knew who was powerful and who wasn't in that small nation, beside the Tiber, that existed behind the Vatican walls."

The priest sighed. "I'd deluded myself, as it turned out, I was still a defenceless babe left in the woods, while the wolves sniffed all around me." A silence descended around them both. The priest was lost in his thoughts, but finally he continued his tale.

"As part of my training I had been assigned for four months to the comptroller's department."

Chuck obviously didn't understand what the hell a comptroller was. Ruelas patiently explained to him that it was the finance department. He then described his duties and responsibilities.

"In my third month I saw something was amiss. I challenged another fellow priest who I knew was 'cooking the books'".

He looked at Charles. "Do you know what I mean when I use that old phrase?"

Charles nodded. "Father, I have a penchant for old black and white movies, especially the film noir stuff. The other priest was stealing funds and trying to cover it up."

Owen Ruelas gave Chuck a half smile and continued. "It was a little more complicated than that. The priest's name was Father Carlos. I discovered he was paying the same invoices from a construction company two and sometimes three times. "

Ruelas stood up and started pacing. "Later on, I found out that the construction company, Lombardi Construction, was run by two of Father Carlos' uncles. Back then, eighteen years ago, there was still a lot of paper pushing.

"Audit techniques, good audit trails and the use of Artificial Intelligence software, to spot this type of malfeasance, was nonexistent.

"I was someone who followed the rules, so I reported what I'd seen to my immediate supervisor, a Monseigneur. I thought that my supervisor would deal with it at once. Nothing happened."

Owen shook his head. "That's not quite true. Two weeks later, my bosses' boss came to my office with one of the Swiss Guards and asked me to accompany him."

Ruelas grabbed his wine glass and drained it. "I was taken to a room without any windows. The Swiss Guard positioned himself outside the door. Inside the room was a Bishop Lombardi. "

He looked down at Charles. "Can you guess who the Bishop was?"

Charles guessed the connection. "The Bishop was related to the priest who was cooking the books."

Ruelas bent down and patted him on the shoulder. "Yes, correct. The evidence they presented to me showed that I had been the one authorizing payment for false invoices to another construction company doing work for the Vatican, called Giannotte Construction."

Charles now stood up. "Why go to all that trouble to point the finger at another construction company?"

Ruelas walked over to the window. It was dark outside, their meal would soon be ready.

"It was rather ingenious, they would get rid of me, the whistleblower; and they would get rid of a competitor to the Lombardi construction company. Two birds with one stone."

Charles walked over and stood beside the priest. "What happened?"

"I was given a choice, fight this out in an ecclesiastical court….and most likely lose….. or agree to be reassigned to a small almost forgotten place where I would bother nobody."

At that moment, there was a loud knock at the door.

Ruelas went over and opened the door. Maria was wiping her hands on her apron. In English, and looking at Charles, she snapped, "Well it appears that miracles can occur, I've managed to make one meal stretch into two….come and eat. I'm going home now, so I can make another dinner for my family."

{}

An hour later, Ruelas and Charles cleared the dishes, rinsed them off and put them into the sink. Once again Father Ruelas led Charles into his study.

He closed and locked the door. He went to a side cupboard and brought out a bottle of Port. Charles snuck a look at the label, Quinta Do Noval Nacional Vintage 1985.

Ruelas poured two glasses of the delectable liquid, gave one to Charles and, with his hand, motioned for him to sit down.

"Charles, I've honored your condition. I've told you why I ended up here for the last eighteen years."

Charles took a sip of his port. He was no longer sure if he wanted to finally tell someone what had happened to him over the last two years. He thought he had the perfect way to avoid talking about his burden.

"Father Ruelas, I just noticed how late it's getting. I won't make it back to where….ahhh….I won't make it back to where I started out from. I probably should go and see if there is accommodation in the next village.

Ruelas smiled to himself. Over the years he'd dealt with hundreds of souls who did not want to speak about the secrets they kept buried deep within themselves. Secrets that at some point needed to come out to relieve the person's guilt or, sometimes, to make sense of what fate had done to them.

It was like lancing a boil, they must first go through the pain before there was relief and healing.

"Charles, the next village is ten kilometres away. I had Maria make up the bed in the other room, the one we reserve for those on a pilgrimage. And be in doubt, you are on a pilgrimage of your making. There is no need to worry about where you'll rest your head tonight. So….please… tell me what burdens you so."

The time for delay, the time for deflecting and the time for deferring was at an end for Charles.

Charles looked at the door, then the window. "Are you sure no one can hear us?"

Ruelas laughed. "The walls are two feet thick, the door is solid oak. Maria is upset with me, she has gone home to look after her family. We're alone….so…?"

"I'm not sure where to start…" Charles' resolve to keep his story to himself weakened.

Ruelas' was a patient man. "Just start….. talking…that always works..."

Charles held out his glass for some more Port. When the glass was half full, his resolve not to talk ….failed.

{}

Chuck's Story

The first thing I told Father Ruelas was that I liked to be called Chuck. He then asked me to call him Owen, so for that evening we dropped the honorific, 'Father'.

I tried to start my story when I first met her. But one digression followed the other. Owen was a great listener, he patiently followed my elliptical story with good grace.

I started my story by going back to 2003.

In January of 2003, I was sailing through my degree in computer sciences. One of the courses I'd taken was AI, artificial intelligence. I knew that this was going to be one of the shapers of the future. I loved writing algorithms which, you may or may not know, are the rocket fuel to make AI take off.

I developed two algorithms dealing with English grammar for AI software and then released them anonymously on an open source site. I wanted everyone to be able to use them, not just the billionaire corporations.

I wasn't looking to get rich and I wrote the algorithms just for the hell of it. Like I said, no need for the rich people just to get richer.

After I released the software, there was a lot of speculation and investigations into who'd written the code.

A month later, while walking across the campus at Stanford, I was approached by a guy called Bryce Larkin. We'd shared some classes and shared some laughs. Bryce had introduced me to Jill Roberts, who I instantly fell for, hard.

She was a beautiful brunette, a confident, intelligent woman, with a first class mind. I told Owen that within a year of knowing each other, Jill and I got engaged.

I didn't tell Owen about Jill and me fornicating like rabbits, that detail didn't seem really important.

Back to Bryce.

Bryce confronted me near my residence and asked if I was the one who'd put the two algorithms onto the open source site.

At first I lied and told him no, of course not, don't be ridiculous.

Ah, but Bryce was a very sharp person, a very persistent man. He and I had done some projects together. He knew the kind of code I was capable of writing. He was like a dog with a bone. Eventually, over the next four weeks, he wore me down….. I finally admitted to him that, yes, I wrote the code… but please don't tell anyone else. I thought he was my friend and that my secret was safe.

I figured out much later that Bryce must have been the one who tipped off the CIA. I wondered at the time what his connection was with the Agency.

{}

Same Day

Lisbon, Portugal, July 24, 2009

The tall blonde woman walked along the avenue, noticing things that most people missed. The license plate of a car that was idling, while the driver smoked a cigarette. The clothes and deportment of the young couple, apparently in love, who were strolling on the other side of the street.

The blonde had a keen eye for anything that was out of place, didn't fit. Nothing caught her highly tuned spy senses.

She stopped often and sometimes turned and retraced her steps.

Her counter surveillance training made her take an extra twenty minutes to arrive at the safe house on Rua Falcao Trigoso. She was now confident that she hadn't been followed. The safe house was ideally located, a mere fourteen minute walk from the US Embassy.

This was her temporary home, her lair for the next five days. The mission was classic ISR, intelligence, surveillance and reconnaissance mission. The CIA spent billions on ISR, which encompassed satellites at the pricey end of the spectrum to an agent with a handheld camera at the other end. Someone who could get in close and would not be noticed.

Agent Sarah Walker was in Lisbon with a several different cameras to gather information about and photographs of Faidi Zuebidi. Faidi was suspected as being the chief bomb maker for the al-Aqsa Martyrs' Brigade.

The CIA, Mossad and MI6 were planning an operation. They needed recent photographs of Faidi and anyone he might be meeting in Lisbon. Sarah was in charge of the watch team, one person from Mossad, one from the NSA and one from MI6. Everyone wanted a piece of this operation.

Sarah suspected that Faidi's days were numbered.

Her mission instructions were crystal clear, get information, don't let Faidi suspect that he's being followed or recorded and report.

Once safely inside her temporary home, she made herself an expresso and finally relaxed. Faidi was in his apartment, it looked like he would be there the rest of the night. Her watch team would call her if there was any change, but for now she had the night off.

She hated having time on her hands, time to think.

As she sipped her expresso, her right hand slipped down to her carryon bag. There was a hidden compartment that she opened. Her fingers unerringly found the small photograph. Sarah knew she shouldn't.

She hesitated for several heart beats. 'Leave it alone.'

Her heart overruled her brain. She pulled the picture out.

The picture was well handled. It showed a tall man, with brown curly hair, smiling and hugging her. A kind man she'd spied on, a gentle man whose heart she'd stolen, along with other items. She'd used him and left him…she'd scared him. As always when the mission was completed she moved on.

Her finger delicately touched the photograph and she sighed like she'd done a hundred times before.

He was in Burbank, best to forget him.

The hand reached down and put the photograph back into its home.

{}

A/N2- I'm not sure how long this story might be. I'm aiming for twelve chapters to tell the tale. As always, I will be governed by the interest level.