A/N: As always, thanks much to Amazing Amanda and equally awesome Purdy's Pal for their help and support and to Purdy for also being my architect. Love to all the ladies in the PCC and a special thanks to everyone who fav'd, alerted, reviewed and read what is fast becoming the biography of Michael Westen.

-ooooooo-

"Top side in thirty," the hulking mountain of muscle in a black suit had advised.

That told Michael three things. One, he would be going into the embassy building, so he needed to get cleaned up and into a suit. Two, he had less than thirty minutes to complete his preparations or these two would drag him out of the room in whatever state of preparedness he was in when time was up. Three-

He was either being cleared to return to duty or

He was in trouble; a lot of trouble.

The American Embassy London Chancery Building had been constructed throughout the 1950s and finally opened the same year JFK won the office and gave America the closest thing it would have to presidential royalty for decades to come. At the time of its construction, the buildings non-Gregorian facade had caused quite of stir with its surrounding neighbors. Officially, the building had nine stories, three of which were below ground.

Unofficially, the structure was actually twelve stories, the lowest three belonging exclusively to the CIA. Built during the height of Cold War paranoia, the entire compound was so vast in fact that it still occupied the six stories of underground space located under the Canadian High Commission, who had purchased the former Embassy at 1 Grosvenor Square when the US had abandoned it in favor of their current location on the western side of the square.

Between the two locations, there were extensive medical and training suites, temporary residences and associated facilities and various interrogation rooms and holding areas. The offices for the European Bureau Chief were in the embassy itself. Guard duty on the entrances that separated the Canadians from the intelligence community below their feet was considered a punishment detail for anyone needing a reminder of their place in the Company.

He stole a quick glance at the badges and then at the ear pieces on his two escorts; definitely not your everyday embassy employees.

"So, how's the pension plan with the embassy these days?" Not that he expected them to tell him what was really going on.

"Top side. Twenty nine."

Still, it didn't hurt to try.

The Army was fond of waking its recruits up at all sorts of odd hours and demanding their readiness on short notice. His training in the Westen household from a very young age had made him far more prepared than his contemporaries in the Ranger program to be able to assess a situation on short notice and react accordingly.

First order of business, secure your location.

"Somebody needs to return those files to the library," Michael declared over his shoulder on the way out of the main room.

"Twenty eight."

"It's on you."

Or cover your ass, as the case may be.

Something was either very wrong or very right here and he needed to be at his best either way, which he was far from this morning. Only the adrenaline of the situation was clearing his head at the moment. He wasn't sure how long it would last. The brass, he thought, have an uncanny knack for calling you out on your worst day.

"Right, Westen," the voice of Captain Novack, his CO from Afghanistan drifted through his brain. "That's why you only got 93% at six hundred meters."

Michael shook his head to clear it and took another quick look around his temporary bedroom. If he was being escorted through the embassy, whether for a mission briefing or a 9 mm retirement party, he wouldn't be allowed to take anything with him either way.

Mr. Westen opted to shower quickly and suit up, another skill he learned in the military, not knowing when he would get another chance to clean up.

After concealing as many non-metallic weapons on his person that he could, he slipped into his matching dark gray suit jacket, sans tie of course, and walked into the front area of his current living quarters. He noted that the files, and everything else in the room, were untouched.

"After you," the spy told them.

-ooooooo-

"Could I have another drink of water?"

It was a classic ploy; an innocuous request to test their defenses.

When he had been deposited in this sparse but expensively decorated office lobby on the seventh floor of the embassy, he had breathed a temporary sigh of relief. After about fifteen minutes, the receptionist had come out from behind the large dark walnut barrier that had effectively hidden her from view and offered him a drink.

He'd watched her partially vanish into a side room and heard her crack open a bottle with some carbonation in it. Effervescent mineral water was not on the list of his top ten favorite things to drink, but he had matched her dazzling smile with one of his own as she'd handed him the clear glass full of fizz. It had tasted just as horrendous as he'd imagined it would. While she'd stood in front of him watching him try to choke down the beverage while pretending to enjoy it, they had chatted about the virtues of mineral water and the benefits of the Highland Springs mineral water that he was drinking in particular and verbally dueled to determine their relative experience in tradecraft.

He was definitely in an Agency office.

The petite brunette in the tasteful deep brown pant suit had taken the glass from him and then vanished behind her security console masquerading as a reception counter.

She reminded him of a high powered criminal attorney who's "after hours" company he'd sought out for the primary purpose of having his criminal records cleaned once he'd decided to join the Army. His history of lawlessness would have prevented his entry into the Rangers program and it certainly would have hampered his entry into the Agency, though he'd had no idea at the time for what ultimate career path he was clearing the way.

He smirked at the memory. The secondary benefits of that situation had been very good indeed.

After he'd cooled his heels for another twenty minutes or so, his head had started to spin again, his shoulder and neck muscles began to stiffen and ache and his stomach got unruly.

Crap! Was he getting the flu? Or was this something more serious?

As much as he would have preferred one of the bottles of Aqua Pure that was back in his kitchenette, he calculated that the carbonation in the mineral water would probably do better to settle his gastrointestinal woes. As he approached from the side, he noted that the high wooden furniture wrapped around such that it would almost be impossible for him to sneak a peek at what was back there when she left the room without being obvious.

She answered his wide grin with one of her own as she stood up and reached to her right. Placing his glass on the counter top, she poured the remainder of the green glass bottle into it and inquired about his health. He made light of whatever she'd said and then drained the vile liquid, hoping it would be worth it in the end. Her expression became smug at that point, over what he wasn't sure. He went back to his overstuffed leather seat on the opposite side of the room and kept watch on the elevator doors.

That opened twenty minutes later revealing a different large, heavily muscled man in a black suit with a buzz cut. His embassy badge and his earpiece were identical to his previous 'guides'.

"Michael Donavan Westen?"

What was this obsession with his middle name today?

He nodded instead of answering, which was a mistake because it set off another wave of dizziness. Clamping down on it, he walked silently into the elevator with his usher, taking the far corner and turning toward the front. The man inserted a key into the control panel and turned it to the right. The slight jerk under his feet told him they were moving and the position of the key hole told him they were headed to the lowest level of the embassy building.

"Donavan? What the hell kinda name is Donavan?"

"It's for my grandma, Andre. Donna van Gelder. Dona-van."

He remembered his paternal grandmother fondly. She was one of the few wholly good things he could remember from his childhood. He'd decided once that she must have adopted his father.

"Shit, you ain't no Donavan. You's M.D. Westen. As in Doctor Westen, cuz you's always trying to play doctor wit' the girls."

Mike had laughed instead of answering. Andre had him there, but he wasn't about to tell him he'd already shed his virginity. They just were a couple of fourteen year olds on the prowl.

"No, no, no. I got it. You Mad Dog Westen," Andre had laughed uproariously at his own joke. "Cuz you one crazy sonuvabitch!"

Michael couldn't argue with that either.

The ping of the elevator shook him out of his reverie. The doors opened onto a long, dimly lit corridor.

He took a deep breath and stepped out.

-ooooooo-

Rayna Kopec was wearing a trench in the concrete when Michael spotted her at the end of a long, narrow corridor that was inset with steel doors at irregular intervals. He blew out another short sigh of relief. That made it more likely that he was on his way to getting cleared for duty, unless he was unlucky enough that they would be "retiring" both of them today. Although, anything was possible and, he recalled, she was only known to pace at that speed when she was particularly agitated. She was usually very still and collected. The last time he'd seen her that disturbed was-

Chechnya.

"Westen," she acknowledged, heading quickly towards him and not waiting for him to come to her. That was not good.

She was dressed in a navy blue power suit with medium height black heels, her sandy blonde hair pulled back in a tight bun, a style leftover from her Navy days. She usually dressed more practically in the field and wore a long braid. While the upgraded wardrobe could be a good or bad sign, it was certainly an indicator that something official was going on.

She stopped in front of him and gazed intensely into his cobalt blue eyes, hers almost the same color. Rayna apparently didn't like what she saw because her somber visage began to twist into a scowl. His superior crossed her arms over her chest tightly and continued to stare at him.

"We have to stop meeting like this," she said tightly as Ms. Kopec began tapping her index finger on her upper arm, the sound muffled by the thick fabric of her suit coat.

Months earlier, Rayna had debriefed him while he was still in the medical unit and later again when he had gone up before the review board regarding his final mission with Larry Sizemore.

"That would be my preference," Michael agreed, wishing he didn't feel so light-headed.

He returned her unabashed stare now. Rayna didn't have any tells except for the pacing, so why was she demonstrating such an obvious nervous tick that she'd never had the entire time he'd known her? What was she trying to let him know? He glanced upwards briefly. Of course they were being monitored. That went without saying.

The station chief huffed and rolled her eyes at him, just like she'd done during the briefing for their very first mission together in... that was it! That's what she was signaling in Morse code: the name of the town where they'd first worked together.

Now if he could just figure out why that mission was so important...

A door two down from where they stood swung out slowly.

"There's not going to be any commendations today, but there should be," she advised him, just barely above a whisper. "You did the right thing this time."

And with that, Ms. Kopec turned on her heels and marched towards the open door. She gave him one last long look before redirecting her attention to the occupants of the room.

"Gentlemen," the blonde said in a tone that clearly indicated she thought they were anything but as she disappeared into the entrance.

Rayna had deliberately said it loud enough for him to hear, but hopefully not enough that she'd alerted whoever was in there that he now knew they were being recorded and watched.

Michael didn't find himself alone in the corridor for long.

The steel door inset into the wall nearest to him moved aside, revealing a plain white space. White washed concrete floor, white sound insulated walls, plain metal furniture bolted to the floor on the left side and on the right side, adjacent the empty table and chair,

A panel of assembled bureaucrats; all senior members of the Agency from the look of them.

Even in his impaired condition, he knew what he was supposed to do.

Agent Westen settled back in the chair, grateful to be sitting down at that particular moment, and unbuttoned his suit coat.

He tried not to think about how nauseous he was or about who was sitting with his boss behind that large piece of one-way glass centered on the wall behind the trio of officious looking pencil pushers. He tried to focus on what she'd "said" and what it could possibly mean.

"Did you see the look on the bitch's face when she had to stand there and recommend us for that commendation, Kid?" Larry chuckled with utter delight.

Michael couldn't decide if the three of them all looked substantially alike by design or if his vision was starting to fail him as well.

The White Coat in the center of the table was flanked on either side by equally self-important, nearly retired old men with white hair, pasty complexions and identical black suits. These three clearly did not spend much time in the field, but then again what upper management types did?

"Do you know why you're here today?" the gaunt man in the lab coat asked, not unkindly. Michael thought he remembered him vaguely from his time in ICU.

"Smile Kid," his mentor instructed. "It confuses the hell out of them."

"Do you find something amusing about your situation, Mr. Westen?" queried the decidedly larger one on the right, obviously in more of an ill humor.

A thousand sardonic retorts crashed together in his brain simultaneously.

"And that would be?" Michael returned at length.

The oldest man on the left side of the tribunal narrowed his dark eyes and gave the spy a penetrating glare before he spoke.

"This review board has been convened to determine your complicity in the death of Agent Larry Sizemore."