Interdepartmental Cooperation, Part II


felix_icon.gif feng_icon.gif

Scene Title Interdepartmental Cooperation, Part II
Synopsis It does not go nearly as well as last time.
Date August 12, 2009

Financial District

Twenty-six Federal Plaza, New York City. It's a place with a lot of history, and a place that houses a glass-faced testament to the system at large. Most specifically, the Jacob K. Javits Federal Building, New York City's home of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. It's here, in the halls of this skyscraper where the world moves at a pace of mechanicsm precision, where the beehive of federal activity in New York City hums with life even late into the afternoon.

It is also, perhaps surisingly, a place with one very unique room. On the 23rd floor of the office building, three doors down from the elevator and sixty-eight steps away from the nearest water cooler where a man who, at times, feels like his life is scripted by Franz Kafka lairs.

When afternoon light filters through venitian blinds, letting particles of dust in the air swirl and churn on eddies stirred by the air conditioning unit, knuckles rap soundly on the wooden door of that very particular room, knuckles tapping just below the engraved plaque of an office for a man that people around the office jokingly refer to as 'the living hurricane'.

"Agent Ivanov?" A voice with a stilted Chinese accent calls out through the door before turning the knob and inviting himself in to the office. Sidling his way inside, a short and sleekly dressed man of obvious Chinese descent steps into the office, one dark brow raised, his eyes sweeping the office for signs of the agent.

The hurricane in question is on light duty. Which makes him, one supposes, a spring zephyr at most. Fel's in one of those severely tailored suits that his boyfriend so loathes, as per usual. Protective coloration, really, though it fools no one. He is also sans his glasses, as well as most of his hair; it's been shaved back to almost nothing on the sides and not much more on the top, like a marine recruit's.

That he has an office here, a genuine room of his own even if one not much bigger than a supply closet, as opposed to a kennel out in the cube farm where most of the Agents work, is a sign that he's on the way up. Not that he's often -in- it - mostly he's slumming down with the hoi polloi in the NYPD's HQ. One long finger is lifted in acknowledgement as he winds down a phone conversation. "No, I really, really, really don't want to get transferred to Washington, Clay. Or Quantico. Teaching position my ass. There's nothing to teach they can't learn on their own. Listen, I gotta go. Gotta visitor." And with that, he gently replaces the phone in its cradle. The look he gives Feng is decidedly unwelcoming. He suspects who this is. "Yes. What can I do for you?"

Stepping into the room, the darkly dressed man pushes the office door closed, reaching up to remove a pair of sunglasses from his ace, folding them and carefully placing them into his breast pocket. "Feng Daiyu," he states in the certainty that a man who should be here would, "I'm with the Defense Intelligence Agency. I'd heard some…" an awkward and smirking expression creeps up over Feng's face, "well, I'd heard you were looking for me? I was contacted by Sabrina Waritz when she heard my name come up, but someone was saying you were sniffing around the CIA's feet for me?"

Politely smiling away the mistake, Feng strides over to the desk, leaning over it and offering out a gloved hand. "I'll admit, I got a little nervous when I heard the human hurricane was looking for me," says the military intelligence operative to the federal agent. It's almost like one bad bar joke waiting to happen. "I would've come to speak with you sooner, but it's been a busy week." For a man who should be missing half of his face from an encounter with Peter Petrelli, Feng Daiyu seems remarkably — and disconcertingly — whole.

Nearly as bad as the true CIA. Fel doesn't bristle when he rises and takes Feng's hand, but his expression remains stony and opaque. Afternoon, Mr. Anderson. He smiles thinly at the name. "I hear you're hunting the Vanguard. Hunting with high calibres, not merely looking for," he says. "As you know the FBI in particular is highly allergic to the agencies tasked with overseas intelligence gathering stomping around in our sandbox." Which happens to be the whole US of A. "Thank god you're not actually CIA. We'd've had to tar and feather you."

Feng's eyes narrow a touch at the question, the handshake firming just a touch before it relents and the short man stands up straight, sliding his hands into the pockets of his ink-black slacks. "I'm not entirely sure where you're getting your information from, mister Ivanov, but I think you might want to check your sources." Looking around the office, Feng takes a meandering step away from the desk, "Has pushing papers between the civilian sector and the FBI really dulled your edge that much?" Turning to look over his shoulder at Felix, Feng's head tilts to the side with a feigned good-natured smile.

"I don't think you have the correct information, but I'm also fairly certain it's neither any of your business nor within your pay grade." Turning to face Felix, Feng's shoulders rise and fall slowly. "The Vanguard is an international threat, and last I checked the FBI's handling of that incident was somewhere between piss-poor and terrible, your own one-man cowboy show not withstanding."

"So," Feng raises his brows and dips his head down into a nod, "I'd probably keep any more polite inquiries into my activities to yourself, because right now you're barking up a tree that I think could make certain that a…" one hand slips out of his pocket to vaguely motion at the phone, "what was that a teaching position?" His eyes flick up to Felix's, "are the least of your worries."

Oh, you did not just go there. You didn't. Fel tilts his head, faintly, brows raising. "Was that a threat? In this case, my source was a former member of the Vanguard herself. On the contrary, the Vanguard is very much my business. If you want to cooperate and share information, I'm sure we could come to a reasoned agreement. By all means." He makes a grand gesture with one long hand. "If you want to interfere with an ongoing FBI investigation, well, maybe I -will- reconsider that little trip to DC. Talk to the Director about how we're getting smoke and mirrors from the DIA, who're way, way out of what can even remotely be considered their jurisdiction."

"So you know the location of a member of a terrorist organization wanted for an attempted biological attack on the United States…" Feng folds his hands behind his back, squaring his shoulders, "and you're assuming that she's telling you anything in semblance of the truth? The Vanguard is a DIA matter, Ivanov. They're a foreign military threat, and while the FBI may be handling the fotwork investigation, the piss-poor performance it had in the winter, I think, has colored some opinions."

Stepping back over to the desk, Feng leans forward, curling his fingers around the underside of the desk as his elbows bent and eyes narrow. "You want to head up to DC, talk to the Director? Go right ahead." Straightening some, Feng's head tilts to the side. "But if you did your homework, you'd be aware that President Petrelli put together a co-op task force of CIA Special Activities Division and DIA operatives to handle the investigation into the Vanguard."

Rolling his tongue over the inside of his cheek, Feng takes a slow step away from the desk. "The people in the FBI who matter are well aware of what is going on, Ivanov. I know you may think you're a big fish in this little duck pond, but you're not." Dark eyes narrow slightly, "You're an embarrassment to the department who happens to have enough public opinion on his side to win a medal. You're neither fish nor fowl, agent, and I think you're finally tarting to realize just how unimportant that makes you."

All the expression falls off his face, but his eyes are blazing. "By firing indiscriminately and killing civilians? This isn't some little banana republic where you can show up, do what you want, and sweep the rest under the rug, Daiyu. These are US citizens we're talking about, not cardboard cutouts for you and the Waffen CIA to knock over. Welcome to New York." Fel says, in a voice that should etch glass. "What do you mean, neither fish nor fowl?"

"I think you might want to question your source again, Ivanov, and hope that by hiding her behind your skirt you're not risking your job or worse." Feng starts to turn, then stops to look askance at Felix as the question is posed. There's a dark brow raised, and he reaches up to lightly rub at his chin, shoulders moving in a shrugging motion. "When you straddle the fence between the NYPD and FBI for as long as you have, Ivanov…" Feng can't help but smirk, the expression creases the pockmarks in his cheeks, "you get more then just bow legged."

Fel's gone a patchy and unpleasant mingling of red and white. Is that a reference to Teo? "I'm not hiding behind her skirt. If a wanted criminal is desperate enough to come to me to tell me that some shadowy group of black hats and mirrorshades is running amuck playing at being 007, it's our fucking concern. Task force or no, commission or no, it's not a Do Whatever You Want And Get Away With It Badge. No, I'm no great power in the Bureau. But I can raise enough hell to make your life very, very unpleasant."

"Then start raising, Ivanov." Feng holds one hand up in the air as if motioning to the roof. "See where telling everyone you've been sitting on a known terrorist will get you, aside from perhaps a holding cell." Turning towards the door, Feng reaches out the for the knob, then falters and looks back over his shoulder. "Oh, and one more thing…" dark eyes narrow a touch as his head tilts to the side, "when you see Ruskin again…" the curtain pulls back, just as Feng's lips do, revealing a too-white smile. "Tell her I send my love."

The door cracks open, and Feng turns out into the hallway, quietly stepping out of the office as he closes the door with a soft click behind himself, leaving Felix to his red-faced frustrations in his office.

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