1: Infiltration

Washington, D.C., mid-January:

Artemus Gordon Meriwether walked down the halls of the Agency in a brown study, wondering what the Deputy Director wanted to see him about. He’d just finished a long-term assignment infiltrating a home-grown terrorist cell and uncovering their pathetic little plots to take over the world and was promised vacation time. He’d been in the middle of packing for a trip to the Bahamas when he got the call.

Cursing silently, he steeled himself to defy the D.D. and whatever she had planned for him. He’d earned this vacation and not even God was going to stop him from taking it. Though, come to think of it, and knowing the D.D. as he did, he wouldn’t be surprised if even God took orders from the redoubtable Madison ‘Don’t-call-me-Maddy’ Washburn.

He entered the outer office where the D.D.’s secretary held court. Sarah Dunlap looked liked Norman Rockwell’s grandmother, and was in fact a grandmother, always bringing home-baked cookies or brownies to the office and passing out grandmotherly advice along with the goodies, but she had a mind like a steel trap and a backbone made of titanium. No one got past her to see the D.D. unless she willed it so.

"Morning Mrs. Dunlap," Meriwether said respectfully as he entered.

The secretary smiled up at him. "Artemus. Nice to see you again. Herself is waiting for you. Go right in. Oh, and have a cookie."

He mentally cringed at his name. Only Mrs. Dunlap and his mother ever called him that. Everyone else, whether friend or foe, called him Gordon. Anyone else foolish enough to call him Artemus generally died a slow and painful death, at least in his imagination. Why his mother had burdened him with such a name, he never could figure out. He only knew that she’d been a fan of some TV western about spies and ‘Artemus Gordon’ had been her favorite character. It was ironic that he ended up becoming a spy — excuse me, an intelligence officer. With a name such as his, it was almost inevitable.

He dutifully took the cookie — molasses, it turned out to be — thanking her before knocking on the inner door and opening it. Inside, he saw the D.D. at her computer, concentrating on the screen.

"Sit down, Meriwether," she said without looking up. "I’ll be with you in a moment."

Gordon complied, munching on the cookie. Not that he wanted it, but he knew better than to refuse one of Sarah Dunlap’s cookies. Even as he was finishing with the cookie, the D.D. looked up, her steely-grey eyes full of approval.

"You did a good job with that terrorist cell," she said.

"But..."

She raised an eyebrow. "But nothing, Meriwether. You did a good job."

"And you called me all the way in here to tell me that?" Gordon asked. "If that’s all Deputy Director, there’s a beach in the Bahamas with my name on it." He started to rise.

"Sit down, Meriwether."

He scowled and leaned over the desk, glaring at his boss. "I was promised leave. I earned it and by God I’m taking it. Whatever it is, Maddy, you have three hundred other agents just begging to take the assignment on, so pull another name out of the hat."

He started toward the door when the D.D. pushed a photo at him. "Look at this first before you leave," she said and there was nothing in her tone that told him what she was thinking.

He reluctantly complied, picking up the photo and giving it a cursory glance. And then he gave it a closer look as he slowly sat down, a frisson of shock running through him. He glanced up at the D.D. "That’s impossible," he protested. "He’s dead. I went to his funeral."

"So it would seem," Madison Washburn said in a noncommital tone. "I’m having his supposed body exhumed even now. Hopefully we’ll find out just who we buried."

"But...." Gordon stared at the photo again. There was no mistake. It was Ambrose Elwood, one of his mentors when he first joined the Agency. Elwood had been his primary instructor, a brilliant strategist, a consummate agent and a good friend. His death while on assignment in the Middle East had come as a blow to young Meriwether, for he had looked upon him as the father he’d never known, Howard Meriwether having died in a car accident two months before his birth. The photo was definitely recent, for he could see someone in the background talking into a cell phone and Ambrose Elwood had died before they had become popular. Yet, in spite of the fact that the man had supposedly died almost fifteen years ago he looked the same as Gordon remembered him and that was too unnerving.

He glanced up at his boss who sat there expressionless, letting him take the time to digest what he was looking at. "Where was this taken and when?"

"Alaska, two weeks ago."

Gordon raised an eyebrow. "Alaska? What’s he doing in Alaska? Where has he been for the last fifteen years?"

For an answer, the D.D. pushed a folder towards him. He picked it up and opened it, scanning the documents with growing disbelief.

"Elf Academy? Is this a joke?"

"No joke," Madison Washburn assured him. "Ambrose Elwood — or rather, Ryan McKinley, as he is now known — teaches at the Northern Lights Community College in Wiseman. Has been for the last year. Where he was previously to showing up in Wiseman...." She gave a shrug.

"How did you find him?"

"We didn’t. That photo was sent to us, anonymously, along with other photos." She gave him a set of photos, each one of individuals. They were unusually handsome or beautiful people, and Gordon, comparing the photos with that of Elwood, noticed striking similarities between him and the others, all strangers to his eyes.

"So, what is it you want from me?"

"I want you to go to Alaska and become an elf."

"Excuse me?"

Madison Washburn actually smiled and Gordon could probably count on one hand the number of times in the last ten years that he had ever seen her smile. She picked up another piece of paper and handed it to him. It was an application form for this Elf Academy. He noticed it’d been filled out except for a name.

"He knows what I look like," he said.

"It’s been fifteen years and you are very good at disguises. So what name should we put on this form?"

"How do you know I will be accepted? Aren’t I a bit old for this?"

"The average age of the students is about twenty-eight, actually," she answered. "You’re older, true, but I know you can look younger, so you should have no trouble blending in. As for making sure you do get in...." Here she gave him a wintry smile.

He sighed and took another look at the photo of his friend and mentor. Ambrose Elwood, why are you alive? he thought to himself. Out loud he only said, "Alaska. I’d better dig out my long underwear and put my bathing suit away."

"You won’t need to be there until August. Take your vacation, get a nice tan, then come back and pack your longjohns. Name?"

"Hmm... He knows some of my aliases, as he helped me to create them. I’ll use Alex Grant. I created that persona after he... well, supposedly died."

The D.D. nodded. "Good enough. We’ll send this through. I suggest in the meantime you acquaint yourself with this Elf Academy." She handed him a glossy brochure. "As far as we can tell, it’s a legitimate school training people for their tourist industry, especially during the Christmas season."

"Why did our anonymous person send us these photos, then?"

"Apparently, all is not what it seems, but our informant was less than forthcoming as to just what is going on, and that’s why I want you to go there. I want you to find out what Elwood is up to and what this Elf Academy is all about. I may have some other agents in place in and around Wiseman, acting as tourists or something. I haven't decided yet. You’ll get a list of email addresses if I decide to send them so you can contact them if necessary. In the meantime, enjoy the Bahamas, Mr. Alex Grant, and I’ll see you when you get back."

She pushed the application his way and held out a pen. Sighing, Gordon signed it with his nom de guerre.

"I’ll see you in two months," he said, handing the pen back. On his way out he stopped long enough to give Mrs. Dunlap a peck on the cheek even as he stole another cookie. As he walked down the hall towards the elevators, perusing the Elf Academy brochure, he began making a mental list of things he needed to do to prepare himself for his upcoming trip to Alaska. "Christmas elf," he muttered in disgust as he pushed the elevator down button. "Oh lord, I hope they don’t make me dress up like that dude in Elf. I don’t think I want to find out first hand if someone can actually die from an acute case of embarrassment."

The elevator door opened and he stepped in, punching the lobby button and closed his eyes, wondering, not for the first time, whatever had induced him to become a spy — excuse me, an intelligence officer — in the first place. He had no ready answer and pushed it aside, deciding to concentrate on his upcoming vacation. There was a beach in the Bahamas with his name on it and he intended to take every advantage of it before heading for the wilds of Alaska.