King of Ghosts
By: BH72

Owen Granger left the bar after celebrating with Detective Deeks and Agent Blye. He had been disappointed Agents Callen and Hanna had declined, he was trying hard to have them accept him as part of their family. As he pulled into his new house he was renting, seeing he was spending so much of his time in the Los Angeles office, his thoughts went to his family. He knew he had failed at the duty of husband and father, which pained him deeply. But it came with the job, always off somewhere unknown and classified, for who knew how long.

He unlocked the door and switched on the lights. The house came with furniture, which he was pleased with, seeing he never had the time to shop for things like that. He had a tailor he used over the years for his suits, but other than that, he shopped as little as possible. What he spent his time, when not working, was something that had him driven from the early 1970’s. He had been caught behind the iron curtain in Eastern Germany, as a spy, but one man came to his rescue and aided him in escaping. He opened his laptop and signed in on the CIA’s system using his old ID, which he had managed to keep, since moving across to NCIS. He switched on his espresso machine to brew a cup of coffee. It was going to be another long night. He rubbed his shoulder as an ache from using right arm throughout the day took its toll. It was imperative he hid his pain from those around him. His shoulder hadn’t been the same since he had been shot nine months earlier. He had gone in full throttle with Agent Hanna to rescue Agent Callen from the Comescus, knowing how important it was to save the young man.

With coffee in hand, he returned to the table and began his search for an old friend. Old photos of the man who had once saved his life, when he should have died on German soil sat beside his laptop. Piercing cerulean orbs shone through the sandy blond hair that overhung his forehead. His smile plastered on his face, as he lifted his son high in the air. “Where are you Nikita? Your son needs you.”

It had been too long since he had seen his friend and saviour. Concern for his wellbeing had ensued him since he managed to get him out of the prison camp in 1980. He had help from Arkady Kolcheck, who had helped Nikita in getting him out of Eastern Germany, so he knew he could trust the Russian. Many times he had visited the former KGB officer, when in Los Angeles, hoping between the two of them, they could find Nikita Reznikov. Although he had hoped Arkady knew where Nikita was, he never gave up on his search, even when the Russian had disappointed him, in not being able to help him. He suspected Arkady was doing what he could to find his old friend as well.

Watching Callen’s expression inside Rhinehart’s house, when he saw the words written in blood, “Callen, we have your father,” kept him awake at night. He had tried to help Callen as much as he could, but without telling him that he knew his father, he couldn’t even tell him what the G stood for. He knew Henrietta had no knowledge of the man’s name, although she knew Clara Callen. Unfortunately, his first meeting with Agent Callen had gone so very badly. So much had changed the man, since he had seen him as a child, happy and loved by both parents. He should have known and been prepared for it, but it still bothered him just the same. He’d berated himself for his reaction to Agent Callen.

Since meeting Agent Callen for the first time in thirty-five years, he became more resolved in helping him find his father. Not just for Callen, but for Nikita, who he knew, loved both of his children and his wife dearly. They were his life, and it was reflected in the man, when he was around them.

Owen’s fingers froze over the keys, when an image match appeared on his screen. The man was much older than he had last seen him, which matched the age he would be now. In his late 60’s. But those cerulean orbs remained the same. Owen furrowed his brow as he looked at where Nikita was found. Pheonix, Arizona. He’s coming here. He must know where his son is.

The hairs on the back of Owen Granger’s neck stuck up, as he felt we wasn’t alone. He swiftly pulled his weapon out of his jacket, but was too late.

“You’ve become slow in your old age, Owen.” The Russian accent had faded over the years. It was tinged with an Texan accent.

“Where have you been all this time, my old friend? Your son needs you.” Owen turned and smiled, when he saw Nikita Reznikov standing by his back door, his weapon, now hung in the rear of his trouser’s waistband.

Nikita walked over, as Owen stood. Both men assessed the other. “I see you never gave up looking for me, Owen.” He moved in and hugged his old friend. “Michael told me how you moved across to NCIS to be closer to my boy.” Nikita’s eyes were sad , as he thought about the loss of an old friend.

“He doesn’t like me, you know. I’ve tried, but he has too much of Clara’s stubbornness in him.” Granger slowly pulled away from his friend and assessed how living on the run had aged him.

“You should tell him that you know me.” Nikita admitted. “He’ll let his guard down then. He’s only trying to protect himself. He’s been alone for too long.” Sadness was evident in his eyes. “But his partner looks like he’s taken him under his wing. Become a brother to him, like you were to Donald Blye.”

Granger smiled at the fond memories of his dear friend. “Your son works with his daughter. They’re good friends.”

“I know. I’ve watched you all from a distance. Michael and Arkady have been very good to me.” Nikita smiled, knowing how much Owen had tried to get information from Arkady. “Don’t be hard on him, Owen. He was on direct instructions from me not to tell you anything. I needed to know it was safe for my son as well as for me, before I showed myself.” His visage darkened. “However, I’m not sure how he’ll receive me.”

“He’s found a film of you and Amelia, with him when he was a baby. Until then, he thought you didn’t love him. But since he’s found the film, he’s been more settled. I think he’ll welcome you, Nikita. He needs you. Needs to know his name.”

“Tell him.” Nikita stated. He looked around him, at Owen’s house. “Maybe then, he’ll furnish his home more like this, instead of living like he’s on the run.” It had saddened him to see how little his son had in his life. “Then he might settle down and have a family of his own.”

 
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Granger, O
By: ncisnewbie

Owen Granger sat on the bed in a sterile extended-stay hotel. “This place isn’t bad,” he thought. “More decorated than my studio back in DC.” He stared at his day planner, doodling one last time on the number 29. Seven months he’d been staring at this day, covering, covering the entry for the twenty-ninth of July. If he had his way, July would simply skip from twenty-eighth to thirtieth, but if need be, there would be a day called ‘Box of July’ just to keep things balanced. The day came anyhow, like it had thirty times before, and the way he marked it never changed.

He poured his Scotch, then went to the wall safe and extracted a lock-box. From the lock-box he extracted a small pile of photos. From the top photo, a smiling couple looked back at him. The man looked like a younger version of himself: close-cropped black hair, a forehead prematurely barren. The nose, that was the difference: Then it was carved, sturdy and angular, like some 1950’s-era movie star; now it was bulbous and whiskey-swollen. The woman was petite and beautiful. Blazing red hair with a slender, bony frame: 160 cm high, and 48 kg of pure muscle, he remembered. The couple was framed by, of all things, a bear and its trainer. Young Owen stood next to the bear, which wore a flashy red costume and a muzzle. His love stood next to the trainer who held a motorcycle in his other hand. All the tumult of the famed Moscow Circus gamboled behind them.

The second photo showed the same woman, all in white, precisely posed en pointe, her red hair glossed and formed into an intricate swan-winged bun, topped with a feather hairpiece. A cygnet, he remembered. Swan Lake choreography that traced back ninety years. The part had been, she said, the best in her career. His finger traced along her form. “How, Marina? How could they take you away?” He rubbed her cheek; he slid his finger up along her arm, as if to offer what little support he could in that precarious pose.

* 0 *

Henrietta Lange ambled into the armory and initiated the security procedures for her wall safe. When it opened, she gathered a pile of CIA Top Secret files, and from it selected one for review. “MARINA BARZAKOVA / OWEN GRANGER, 8/27/84”

In the folder, a picture, taken with a long-focus lens, showed the happy couple sitting in the bleachers at the Moscow Circus. The photo only partially covered a yellowed, typewritten document, which Hetty extracted for review.

Report of H. LANGE 7/30/84, Chief, Station Elmer:

On 7/27, I was approached by Agent E. DAVID, Mossad, as I crossed Red Square, Moscow. We arranged to meet again in a mutually-acceptable secure location. There, Agent DAVID provided photographic evidence of a romantic entanglement between Agent O. GRANGER, also with the company, and USSR National, MARINA BARZAKOVA, 23. At the time, BARZAKOVA was a soloist with the USSR National Ballet Company, the Bolshoi Ballet. Originally from Baku, Azerbaijan SSR, she rose to prominence with the Bolshoi due both to her skill and to the sponsorship of DMITRI AGAMALI, 67,Chair, Azerbaijan People’s Committee. …

 
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Anja’s Smile
By: Motsie of Atlantis

Every year, except the one when he was hospitalized, Owen Granger makes a quick trip to Germany. He flies into Berlin from wherever he is stationed at the moment on June 17th and returns three days later. While in the German capitol, he buys a small floral arrangement of black-eyed susans, because those are the flowers Anja loved the most. He goes to the Evangelischer Friedhof Böhmischer Gottesacker (Bohemian Evangelical Converts Cemetery) just off the Karl-Marx-Platz and finds his way to the tiny grave site, lovingly placing the flowers there. Resting his hand on her tombstone, he closes his eyes and says a silent prayer for her and all the others who suffered the same fate as she did. Walking across the street to the Cafe Vux, he orders two servings of Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte (Black Forest cake) with its decadent Bavarian chocolate, the very last thing that the two of them ate together, and slowly eats one as he lets his mind wonder about what might have been. Leaving the other serving untouched, he rises, pays for the food, and strides out of the cafe, the look of determination settling over his face again for another year.

)( )( )( )( )( )(

Owen Granger was one of the brightest and the best, at least that is what he was told, time and time again. When he was 22 he had graduated from Southern Illinois University with a double Bachelor’s degree in Political Science and modern European History, also auditing several courses in at Washington University in St. Louis. Duke University granted him a scholarship to do graduate work, and he received his Masters only a year later. The CIA placed him on their radar and he passed his FLETC training at Glynco, Ga. in June of 1979.

1980

His first operation for the CIA was a two week protection duty stint. He was teamed with seven other agents in three person teams that were on for eight hours every twenty-four. They were guarding a material witness that had been called to testify in the case of a major defense department contractor who was providing shoddy electrical components to Navy contractors. Nothing became of it, and he was then sent to NATO headquarters in Brussels, Belgium, to serve as part of the security squad for the various US officials that had gathered for the annual meeting. There were a few security alerts, but they all proved groundless.

He was surprised when he was ordered to stay in Brussels, and await the arrival of a different agent, one with whom he would be teamed for a new operation. Two days later he was introduced to a tiny woman, Hetty Lange, who would be his handler.

“How do you want to be addressed, Ma’am, Miss or Mrs.”, he asked, after seeing no wedding ring on her left hand.

“For you I am Fraulein Regina Krumm, secretary for Klaus Schmidt, shipping department foreman of Eckhart Manufacturing in West Germany.

“Jawohl, Fraulein Krumm.” he said.

“And you are Ralph Hess. a West Berlin truck driver, picking up materials in East Berlin every other day and driving it West. You will be staying the night in a Gasthaus (hotel) while your truck is loaded. At some point you will receive a list of East German spies that you will transport back across the border at the Dreilinden crossing (Checkpoint Bravo) with your regular load of materials.”

“Do you have any idea on how long this operation will take”. Granger asked.

“It will end when you have completed the mission, or you have been killed.” she said, looking at him deliberately.

Somehow, Owen Granger realized that he had graduated to working in the big leagues.

 
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