[This is an expansion of the original one-shot 'Before the Beginning' for Crisdin, who wanted to see all the first impressions.]

Before the Beginning

2008, before "The Nigerian Job"

The vibration of the phone against the hard surface of the table by the door was deafening in the otherwise silent apartment. The man who had been sitting, cross legged, in the center of the room, opened his eyes and glared at it, apparently for ruining his meditation. He picked up on the second ring.

"Hello? Is this Eliot Spencer?" a rather nervous, male voice asked.

It was. But anyone calling should know better than to ask that. Along with the fact that the caller had decided one in the morning was the perfect time to call (never mind that Eliot was, in fact, still awake), it screamed amateur. "How did you get this number?"

"Ah, erm… My head of security knows a guy. He said you specialize in retrieving things that have been stolen?"

Eliot suppressed a groan at the caller's lack of subtlety. It could be worse. At least this didn't seem to be an assassination. He would be making a point of finding this 'guy' and reminding him not to give his contact information to just anyone, though. "Who is this?"

"Victor Dubenich, Bering Aerospace."

"I'll be in touch," Eliot said shortly, and hung up before the possible client could say anything (more) incriminating. His phone was supposed to be untraceable – he had paid good money to ensure it – but that didn't mean that Dubenich's was.

…

In Chicago, Victor Dubenich glared at his phone, then at his head of security.

The taller man shrugged. "I told you, shoulda let me do the talking," he said.

"He said he'd be in touch."

"Then he'll be in touch."

"You'd better be right about this, Samuels…"

…

It was the work of two minutes' googling to confirm that Dubenich was, indeed, a vice-president at Bering Aerospace, and that his office was located in Chicago. Even if the job turned out to be a bust, Eliot mused, he had been in New York too long. His hands were already packing the non-essentials before the decision was consciously made (the essentials were always packed). Might as well head west for a while and see exactly what the damn fool wants. Another ten minutes, and one of Eliot's less-well-known aliases was booked on a red-eye to the Windy City.

…

Over the past fifteen years or so, Eliot has perfected a skill he calls napping – reaching a restful state of meditation, semi-conscious and still-guarded, even in the most questionable of circumstances. It's not as good as truly sleeping, but then, he can't remember the last time he had a good night's sleep, anyway. At least this way there are no nightmares.

When he disembarked at O'Hare, five hours later, he was, therefore, as well-rested as ever despite his lack of sleep, if not quite so alert as he might be in a fight. With several hours yet to go before it would be reasonable to call and get an appointment with his potential client, there was plenty of time to inspect the safe-house he had set up on the outskirts of town three years before. (Whatever else he may say about his line of work, it did at least pay well enough to maintain identities and apartments in half a dozen major US cities.) There was no evidence of surveillance, by government officials or any of the various groups who dearly wished to kill him, so after an hour of silent watching, he let himself in, retrieved the driver's license and car keys associated with the owner ("David Parsons") from the bedroom safe, and slipped out to re-stock the kitchen.

…

A quarter hour flirting with Dubenich's secretary on the phone netted "David Parsons" a lunch meeting, and conveniently distracted her from asking exactly what the purpose of the meeting would be. No doubt Dubenich would be irritated to have his schedule shuffled with no explanation, but it wasn't as though Eliot was about to say, 'oh, yes, this is about whatever it is you want me to steal.'

The airline VP was a horribly unimpressive, pudgy little man. He was accompanied by an ex-FBI agent who was most likely the "head of security" whose "guy" had recommended Eliot. This solved the problem of communicating that he was, in fact, Eliot Spencer, and not David Parsons quite neatly: the ex-FBI agent whispered something in his employer's ear, at which his expression shifted from red-faced irritation to clear nervousness, obviously concerned about contracting a retrieval specialist rather than waiting for the law to come through for him.

After a bit of hemming and hawing, the man outlined his problem: an engineer had defected from his company, taking all of their designs for a new, top-of-the-line plane to his chief competitor. Dubenich's R&D department would be out millions if Pierson Aviation managed to scoop them on announcing the new plane. What he needed was someone to retrieve the stolen plans before Pierson held their shareholders' meeting at the end of the month, at which they were nearly guaranteed to make their announcement.

"No."

"No? What do you mean no?"

"I mean I won't take the contract. I deal with physical items, not… intellectual property. Do you know how many copies of those plans they could have made by now? You need someone who deals with computers and shit."

Dubenich seized on this suggestion like a lifeline. "Like a hacker?" Eliot shrugged. He really didn't know how any of that tech stuff worked. "Shit. All right. A hacker…"

The man was still muttering to himself as Eliot walked away.