by Tinnean
So that was who it was—Sperling. I’d been so distracted at the ball at the convention center, first by Mark, and then by the execrable Senator Wexler, that I hadn’t even noticed Sperling wasn’t there.
I should have noticed. I scrubbed my face, the short amount of sleep I’d gotten over the weekend beginning to catch up with me.
“How did you get this, Syd?”
“It was in my handbag, and I have no idea how it got there, Quinn. It wasn’t there when I put my wallet and cell phone in my bag before I left for work this morning. But there it was when I went to put my car keys away.”
“And I can assume this mole wasn’t one of your connections?”
“No. David might know.” She met my eyes and clarified, “Cooper. But….”
Janet came in with the coffee.
“Janet, would you ask DB to come to my office?”
“Yes, sir. Should I get a coffee for him?”
“Good idea. Thank you.”
In a matter of minutes he’d joined us, holding his own cup of coffee. “Hi, Quinn. What’s up?” He saw Syd sitting there and gave a slow grin. “Syd.”
“David.”
“Take a look at this. Syd found it in her handbag.”
“Some clown got close enough to you to—”
She flashed him a look, and he shut up.
He cleared his throat, then took the message from me and studied it. “It has to be Travers. Talk about your loose cannon. He’s passed information to us from time to time.”
“Another Michael Shaw?” I thought briefly of the WBIS agent who’d been so eager to give us anything he could regarding Mark Vincent.
“No, he’s smarter. Well, he’s still alive. He’s one of Stanley’s—”
“Who?”
“Director of Foreign Affairs.”
“Ah.”
“Lost his leg in that clusterfuck with Sperling. Excuse me, Syd.”
“I’ve heard worse, David.” She smiled at him again, and he blushed.
Hmm. However, now wasn’t the time to ponder their interaction.
DB smoothed his tie. “The interesting thing about Travers is that he also did the odd job for Sperling.”
So he would know that was Sperling’s body. “In that case, it’s not surprising he’s concerned about Vincent. Are you sure this message is from Travers?”
“Yeah.” He shrugged and put the plastic back on my desk. “Well, as sure as I can be without having been in the same room with him as he wrote this.”
“Let’s see if we can pull any prints from it.” I pushed it toward Syd, and she rose and picked it up.
“I’m on top of it.”
DB murmured something to her, but Janet buzzed me on my intercom, and I didn’t catch it.
“Yes, Janet?”
“I have Major Drum on line 1 for you.”
I swallowed a groan. “Thank you.”
DB rolled his eyes, then ushered Syd out of my office, his palm on the small of her back.
Well, no sense putting this off. I picked up the phone and hit 1.
“Yes, Major, what can I do for you?”
VI
AFTER making short shrift of Drum’s demand—hadn’t the man ever learned more flies were caught with honey than with vinegar?—I filed my reports both to my director and to Undersecretary Sinclair, then spent the remainder of the day catching up.
I’d intended to take advantage of the fact that Mondays were usually quiet at Langley to leave early in order to run an errand, but it seemed one thing after another kept cropping up; it wasn’t until after six that I was able to shut down my computer, lock my office, and make my way down to the parking lot.
My father was a man who lived for the job, but one thing he enjoyed when he had the time was antiquing. He’d often have me join him; after he’d died, Mother would take me with her. Between the two of them, I’d learned the best places to go for eighteenth century thimbles, for fin de siècle timepieces, for statues of bronze or marble, terra-cotta, teak or monkey wood, even sandstone.
I drove to O Street Northwest in Georgetown, where Horatio Primm, who dealt in hard-to-find items, had his antique shop. It was elegant and uncluttered, and I knew from previous visits that the scent of the pipe tobacco he favored would fill the rooms, along with the underlying odor of the furniture polish he used on the shelves that held the beautiful, unique, and extremely costly items of which his inventory consisted.
The bell jingled merrily as I opened the door. He stayed open a bit later on Monday evenings, which was proving fortunate for me.
“May I help you?” Mr. Primm, a diminutive, dapper man of indeterminate years, appeared from the back of the shop. “Oh, my, my! Quinton Mann, as I live and breathe! This is a delight. It’s been a long time. And how is your lovely mother?” He’d been discreetly infatuated with her for as long as I’d known him, which was almost thirty years now.
“Quite well, thank you, Mr. Primm. And how are you?” We spent the next few minutes exchanging polite small talk before getting down to business.
“What can I help you find today?”
“I’m looking for a statue of a dog. Bronze, I think.” Ceramic didn’t seem to last around a man like Mark Vincent. “A life-size Rottweiler. I want him on his feet, ears and tail cocked, jaws slightly parted. Will that be possible, do you think? Or do I need to have it commissioned?”
“Hmm. Interesting conundrum.” He peered at me over his wire-rimmed glasses and tugged thoughtfully at the neat Van Dyke that covered his chin. “A Rottweiler is a little unusual for a woman.” I didn’t respond to that. “You know a bronze that size is going to be costly.”
“Yes, I imagine it would.” It didn’t matter. Mark had tried to be blasé about the destruction of Sam, but I’d seen the way he’d looked at it when he told me the story.
“How soon would you need it?”
“There’s no real rush. It’s for a housewarming gift, and my friend hasn’t even started looking for a new home yet.”
“Let me look into this. I’ll speak to my sources and see if they have anything available, and I’ll be in touch.”
“Thanks, Mr. Primm. You have my home phone number. Leave a message anytime.” We shook hands, and I left, feeling pleased with myself.
The feeling stayed until I got home.
The house stood there, silent as always. The lights, timed to go on at twilight, were casting their soft yellow glow over the entryway. Mark’s car wasn’t parked at the curb, but I assumed he was getting dinner and would arrive home shortly.
“I’ll pick up some takeout,” he had promised this morning before he’d left for work. “What do you feel like?”
“Surprise me,” I’d told him. I was looking forward to seeing what he would bring home. I already knew he enjoyed General Tso’s Chicken. I wondered how adventurous he’d get for dinner.
I went up to my bedroom to shower and change into something more… comfortable.
I noticed the small square of note paper on my pillow as soon as I entered my room, and for one brief, glorious, stupid minute, I thought Mark had left me a love note. I went toward it eagerly and picked it up, then stared down at the words in confusion.
Sorry about dinner. Had he had to work late? In that case, why not just leave a message on my machine? I read the rest of it, not that there was much. I’ll be in touch.
What did that mean, “I’ll be in touch?”
There was a post script. A friend will hold onto my stuff. Send it to this address. It was in a part of town that was unfamiliar to me.
What was going on? And then I saw the house key that was also on my pillow.
Cold crept into my gut. Was this his way of telling me he was no longer interested in what we had, in us?
I strode down the hall to his room. The bed had been stripped. The closet still held his suits and shirts, but the dresser was empty except for a handful of undershirts, shorts, and socks.
I sat down heavily on the edge of t
he bed. He was gone? But why—
No. I would not let him throw away what we had so easily.
Still…. If he wanted out of our relationship, I couldn’t make him stay. How could I? I’d never tried to hold on to anyone who wanted out of an affair. I was a mature, reasonable adult, after all.
However, at the very least, he did owe me an explanation. I went back to my bedroom, picked up the bedside phone, and speed-dialed his cell phone number.
“Vincent.” He sounded impatient.
“Where the fuck are you?” I snarled, thinking at the same time that he’d better damn well know it was me.
“Fall River.” His response was so reflexive, without a pause to think, that I had no doubt of its truthfulness. According to his records, Mark had been born in Massachusetts. My anger began to subside. But then he said, “I left a note—”
And my anger was back with a vengeance. “Oh, yes. That.” I sneered. “What the fuck was that supposed to represent? Sorry about dinner. I’ll be in touch.”
Before I could bring up that PS, he said, “I had to—”
I didn’t give him a chance to explain. “And why did you leave the key?” That was what hurt. I could have tried to rationalize that note, and even his denuded bed, but those goddamned instructions to put his belongings into another’s keeping, and the presence of the house key he’d left behind….
If something was wrong, why hadn’t he been willing to tell me to my face?
“C’mon, Quinn. You didn’t expect it to last forever.”
Not forever, of course not, but it hadn’t even been a week! I expected it to last longer than Five. Fucking. Days!
“I mean, c’mon,” he was saying almost desperately, “you’re CIA; I’m WBIS—”
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been so furious. I was the son of Portia and Nigel Mann. I had grown up learning to keep my emotions under strict control. It had never been a problem, not until I learned a certain senior WBIS agent was keeping a file on me and then became involved with him.
Vincent was the only person who could make me lose my temper. Even Jonathan Drum II, with his continuous demands for assistance whether it was in the country’s best interests or not, had never made me see red as easily as my lover could.
Anger boiled and sizzled through my veins, but I had no intention of letting him know how furious he’d made me. I kept my tone flat and unemotional. “Mark, fuck you and the horse you rode in on.”
Then I spoiled it by slamming down the phone.
Well, that was mature and reasonable.
I walked toward the door, balling up the note and stuffing it in my pocket.
To top it off, I was still hungry. Perhaps there would be some leftovers in my refrigerator.
The light in the fridge revealed its bare state. I picked up the cordless phone and speed-dialed another number. There was one person I knew I could count on, who would be there, no matter what.
“Hello, Mother? Would you mind if I came over?”
VII
GREGOR answered the door. “Good evening, Quinn. Your mother is in the small parlor.”
“Thanks, Gregor.”
He studied me carefully. “Are you all right?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I don’t know. You just look a little—”
I shook my head. “I’m fine. Thanks for asking, though.” How could I tell him that for a short period of time I’d been involved with a WBIS agent? Gregor had run up against them a time or two back in his FBI heyday, and had nothing good to say about any of them.
“Do you need anything? No, well, okay. Just remember I’m here for you.”
“I know, Gregor. Thank you.”
He patted my shoulder and turned to climb the stairs to his own apartment on the third floor, where he’d watch CNN, no doubt, until it was time to lock up the house for the night.
I went to the room at the back of the house. Classical music played on the sound system.
Mother was leafing through a photo album. She smiled up at me, and after I’d leaned over and kissed her cheek, she gestured toward a tray that held my dinner: a bowl of soup, a plate of sliced bread slathered with butter and caviar, and a bottle of Perrier.
I walked over to it and inhaled appreciatively. “Crab tomato bisque soup and Gregor’s Russian black bread.” I remembered as a young boy sitting in the kitchen with him while Alyona, his sister, made us that very same meal. “Definitely comfort food. Thank you, Mother.”
“You’re very welcome, sweetheart. You sounded in need of comforting.” She went back to looking at the photos, and I sat down and began to eat. Neither of us said anything for a short time, allowing the soothing music to fill the silence.
Finally, I put down the soup spoon and ran a hand through my hair, coming to the decision I had somehow known all along I would make. “I don’t know what to do, Mother.”
She set the album aside, folded her hands on her lap, and waited.
“I’ve been seeing someone since February, and we’d just taken our… our involvement to a physical level.”
Again she said nothing, simply watched me.
“It wasn’t a one-night stand.” Although not by much. I counted the nights since I’d gone to Mark’s apartment with a bottle of Pol Roger to celebrate his promotion. No, not by much at all.
“I’m relieved.”
“Don’t be. It’s over.” I laughed mirthlessly. “I came home from work tonight and found what was basically a ‘Dear Quinton’ letter on my pillow.”
“Oh, sweetheart, I’m so sorry. But you were involved enough to give… this person a key to your house? You’ve never done that, to my knowledge.”
“No, I haven’t.” Although not having the key hadn’t prevented Vincent from entering my town house at will. “It certainly wasn’t the smartest thing I’ve ever done, and I can’t imagine what possessed me to give hi—to give out my key this time.” I’d nearly slipped, and I could feel the telltale color in my cheeks.
“Could it be because this time more than your head is involved?”
“Please, Mother. I’ve already had my one love. It didn’t… there wasn’t a happy ending.”
She frowned at me. “What makes you so certain that person was your one love?”
“How did you know Father was the one, Mother? How did Uncle Jeff know that Ludo was the one for him? I just knew.” I felt like cringing. For all my assertion that Armand was my one love, I hadn’t given him a thought while I’d been writhing under Mark.
“Very well, I won’t argue it with you. However, if your new lover was aware you couldn’t love with a whole heart—”
“That didn’t weigh into things. Anyone can tell you that Mar—that this person is not the best bet for a long-term relationship.” I picked up the spoon and went back to my soup.
“But you were willing to try.” She cocked her head, waiting until I responded.
“I suppose.” Oh, God, that sounded so adolescent!
“This is the room where I spoke with Skip Patterson,” she murmured casually. “Did I ever tell you that, Quinton?”
“Mmm.” I tried to keep that as noncommittal as I could, wondering at her words. It wasn’t Skip Patterson who had interviewed my mother, it had been Mark. She knew that. I had been the one to tell her. “He was fascinated by this picture of you.” She turned the album so I could see the photo on the page, a snapshot taken while Jack Be Nimble and I were in midjump at the Hampton Classic. That was the year after the United States had boycotted the Summer Olympics, and taking the blue that August day had gone a long way to easing my disappointment.
Mark had been fascinated by that picture? I studied it carefully, but all I saw was a gangly youth, all elbows and sharp angles. “I fail to see anything that would interest…” A man of my lover’s—my former lover’s—personality. “… anyone.”
“Your intensity, Quinton. Your unwavering concentration. Even someone unfamiliar with the sport cou
ld see you throwing your heart over that fence for Jack Be Nimble to follow.”
“Be that as it may, Mark Vincent is a man. What he felt—thought,” I hastily corrected, “about me would only matter on a professional level.”
Mother sighed and shook her head. “Sweetheart, I’ve known since the summer we spent in the French wine country when you were fifteen that you—” She paused, as if seeking a delicate way to phrase it. “—enjoy masculine companionship from time to time.”
“Excuse me?” I froze, barely able to hold onto the soup spoon. Gently, I put it down.
“I have no problem with that, sweetheart.” She smiled her warm, accepting, you’re my son and I love you no matter what smile, and I felt much better.
“Uncle Jefferson and Ludo.” They’d been together for the last twenty-five years.
She gazed at a small painting that hung on the wall. The violets were amateurishly done, but she’d never permit the painting to be moved. Her expression was wistful.
When she looked at me again, all trace of it was smoothed away. She hesitated a moment, then nodded. “Your Uncle Jefferson. And… others. Of course, after the inception of the AIDS pandemic I worried, but I trusted your innate good sense not to take foolish risks.”
“I’m always careful, Mother.” I saw no need to tell her that after Armand, I’d never gone without a condom again.
“Now, if I may offer a word of advice? If it were I who was being unceremoniously discarded, I would go after Mark Vincent—I’m correct in assuming it’s Mark Vincent about whom we’re speaking?—and demand he tell me what possessed him to react in such an asinine manner. You’re a Mann, Quinton, but you’re also a Sebring. If anyone is going to do the breaking up, it will be you!”
I leaned over and kissed her cheek. “You know something, Mother? You never fail to amaze me!”
“Thank you. Now finish your dinner before it grows cold.”
