by Tinnean
It’s Time
I
A WEEK or so following my return from Cape Cod after spending a couple of days there with Quinn, I learned that my old apartment above the rent boys was almost ready for me. I went to see it.
My footsteps echoed hollowly as I walked through the empty space, reacquainting myself with it. It was filled with the smell of new sheet rock and fresh paint and the sharp bite of varnish on the finished hardwood floors.
I was impressed with the repairs that had been done.
Sweetcheeks leaned against the door frame, pride in his expression. “Wills did this, Vince. He even rewired it so you can have high-speed Internet access!” He leaned close and lowered his voice, as if worried someone would overhear him, even though we were alone. “He even did that for m—for us! You’ve got a really talented boy there.”
“Are you planning on keeping him, Sweetcheeks?” The last thing I needed was a “talented boy” who fell apart because he got dumped.
“Call me Theo. I’m not in the business anymore.”
“Oh?” I raised an eyebrow at that bit of news. “I’m glad you took my advice.”
He looked as if he was about to say something, but then just smiled and shrugged. He didn’t answer my question, though. Instead, he asked one of his own.
“When are you moving in, Vince?”
I shrugged myself. “Gotta order new furniture.” I figured that would buy me some time. Moving in meant moving out of Quinn’s town house, just when I was getting used to being around him.
I’d never lived with anyone, and I liked coming home and finding dinner expertly prepared and a glass of wine waiting for me. Or on the nights when Quinn would call and leave a cryptic message letting me know he’d be working late, I’d have dinner waiting, even though mostly it was just takeout. Or sometimes going out with him to one of the local restaurants in Alexandria that he enjoyed.
I liked spending the evening watching one of the movies in Quinn’s collection, or catching up on my reading while he played something classical on that baby grand in his music room, although he’d surprised me once with a red-hot jazz rendition of “Midnight in Moscow.”
“‘Moscow Nights’,” he’d corrected, grinning at me.
“Yeah, yeah,” I’d dismissed as I’d tumbled him to the sofa and run my palms over his thighs to the bulge in his trousers.
But he really was a talented pianist.
I surprised him myself one night, when I’d been so aroused by the thought of coming home to the hot CIA spook that I hadn’t been able to wait for bedtime, and so I had taken him over the kitchen island. He was laughing as I kicked his legs apart, undid his trousers, and prepared him hastily, and then he was moaning as I linked my fingers with his, thrust into his hot, tight ass, and fucked him into incoherence.
Most of all, though, I liked sharing that big bed with him.
Although there were times when I knew I wouldn’t be good company, and he’d be better off sleeping alone. Times like the day Josephson had been officially listed as MIA, and the Mossad had suddenly clammed up, Ben-David ignoring my e-mails and phone calls. MI6 and the Foreign Intelligence Service were being equally closemouthed.
Maybe I didn’t think much of Josephson, but he was mine now, my responsibility.
Stanley, Director of Foreign Affairs, had sent one of his people to find out what was going on. “Travers is good,” he’d assured me, and I’d scowled at him. If The Boss hadn’t taken me out of the field, I would have been loaned to Stanley’s department and would have dealt with it myself.
Times like a couple of weeks later, when I was summoned down to the room in the basement that served as the WBIS’ own private morgue.
Stanley was waiting outside the door, looking tired. He leaned heavily on his cane. He’d been on the outskirts of that debacle a few years before, when good men had been lost because of that shit Sperling. It had cost Stanley a leg, and as a result he had been assigned desk duty. He had a keen, analytical mind and proved to have a talent for the job, which was a good thing, because he wouldn’t have been allowed back in the field, even after he’d gotten his prosthesis.
“What’s up?”
“We’ve got Josephson. And Travers and Sinclair.”
“Mitch Sinclair?”
He stared at me. “Sinclair’s one of mine. There’s no reason why you should know him.”
I shrugged. “It’s a small world. I ran into him around the water cooler.” Like me, Sinclair was sent where he was needed most. He was younger, didn’t have as much experience as I did under his belt, but he was good.
Something was seriously off.
“I sent him after Travers when Travers didn’t make his scheduled contact.” Stanley scrubbed a hand over his face. “I hate it like hell when shit like this happens. I called Dr. Schmidt in to do the autopsies.”
Ah, fuck.
“It’s his day off, but—you haven’t had lunch yet, have you?”
“No.”
“Good. It’s not pretty. Come on.” He pushed open the door and went into the morgue.
I knew what he meant as soon as I saw what was on the tables. “Shit.” I bit down hard on my back teeth. I was used to seeing cut up bodies; hell, I’d cut up my share of them, but this….
Smitty put a hand over his mic. “Yeah.”
“Is it too much to hope all these wounds are postmortem?”
“Yeah,” he said again.
I knew of only one person who did work like this. Was Femme, head of the Division’s interrogation unit, involved in this? I had a fondness for her, but if she were… I’d have to call Pete and see if I could get anything out of him. He considered me a friend, but the Division was his home, much as the WBIS was mine.
“The remains were shipped to us via a private courier service.” Stanley sounded as if he’d have preferred they skip that shit and give us our agents back alive.
“And at least whoever did this had the courtesy to pack them in ice.” That was Smitty, always looking on the bright side. Although in this case he did have a point. The odor was starting to get pervasive.
“Courtesy like that I could live without,” Stanley snarled. “Show him the other present we received.”
Smitty set aside his scalpel and went to another table. He held up a jar filled with liquid. Something floated inside it.
“And that is…?”
“Browne’s little finger. God knows where the rest of him is. That’s all we have.”
“Shit. Browne too?” I’d had no idea the younger agent had even been involved in this.
“He was in Europe on vacation. How the fuck he got involved—” Stanley started limping toward the door. “I just wanted you to know what happened to Josephson.”
“What do you need me to do?” I knew without asking he was going after the sons of bitches who’d done this.
“Nothing. This is Foreign Affairs’s problem to deal with. The Boss knows. He’s notifying the families, not that they’re likely to care.”
No. Field agents in general didn’t have anyone close, and that Matheson did proved the exception to the rule.
Once Smitty was done with the autopsies, the bodies would be released to the small funeral home that had handled the burials of WBIS agents since the organization had been founded.
They’d be buried in Prospect Hill Cemetery.
The CIA had that wall. The WBIS had that section of land.
“When you get whoever did this, save something for me.” I met Stanley’s questioning gaze. “Josephson was one of mine.”
He nodded and limped out of the room.
“I’ll see you, Smitty.” I was about to follow Stanley when Smitty cleared his throat.
“Uh, Vince? About your boy….”
“Matheson’s still taken.”
“Why can’t I find someone?” Jesus, who did he think I was, Dear Abby? “I mean, look at me. I’m a nice guy.” He looked from the scalpel he was gesturing with, to the red he’d sp
lattered onto my tie, to the body on his table, and sighed. “Sorry.”
I unknotted my tie, yanked it off, and dropped it in a biohazard waste container. I’d liked that tie too.
“It’s my job, isn’t it? As soon as they hear what I do….” He raised a hand to rub his forehead, and for a second, I thought he’d poke his eye out with the scalpel.
He didn’t, but that distracted me. Maybe that was why I said what I did.
“When the right someone comes along—” Oh, shit, now I was spouting platitudes.
“But when?” He sighed again and went back to work, which was a good thing, since I had no answer for him. I got out of there.
Back in my office, I pulled out my cell phone and called Pete.
“De Becque’s phone,” a gravelly voice answered. It wasn’t Pete.
“Is he available?”
“Who’s this?”
“Mark Vincent.”
“Oh, yeah, that guy from the WBIS. Well, Pierre ain’t here.”
“Have him call me when he gets back. He has my number.”
“I’ve got your number too, friend.”
“What?”
“I said I’ll do that little thing.” He hung up before I could challenge him.
Four hours later, Pete called me back. “I’m sorry I missed you, Mark. Did Reuben tell you I was out on a training mission with Kiska?”
So it was Reuben who’d answered Pete’s phone. I’d never met the munitions operative, but from the little Pete had let drop, I got the feeling he was a possessive lover. Still, Pete was a big boy, and I had other problems.
“Kiska? Oh, that blonde who’s your material. How’s that coming along?”
“Eh.” I could almost see his shrug. “But you did not call to hear about my troubles with her.”
“No, I didn’t. What’s Femme up to these days?”
“Would you believe she and Homme—” He cut his words off abruptly. “What is going on, mon ami?”
“Should anything be going on?”
“Mark. After four years, you are not seeking to reestablish a relationship with her.” It sounded as if he wasn’t sure he was questioning me or stating a fact.
“No.” Femme and I had never had a relationship. Pete had asked for a favor, I’d complied: help the petite woman get over her aversion to sex.
She’d been coerced by the previous head of Interrogation, an ass who wouldn’t take no for an answer, and she’d dealt with him in her own inimitable fashion, although no one could bring his death back to her.
Not that they’d tried very hard in the Division.
That Femme was deadly as well as easy on the eyes—I’d watched as she’d unobtrusively slid a knife into a man’s kidney when he tried to hustle her out of the airport—was just an added bonus for me.
“This is good. Much as I want to see both of you happy, it would not be with each other. You would both battle for the top position. And how is your Quinton Mann?”
“Eh.” Let him make what he would of that. I wasn’t going to talk about Quinn with him. “Listen, Pete, I’ll lay it on the line for you. The results of Femme’s handiwork turned up in the WBIS morgue.”
“What makes you think—”
“C’mon, Pete. I’ve seen what was left after she got through interrogating someone.”
“Can you fax me photos?”
“Sure. Hold on a minute.” It didn’t even take me that long. I tucked my phone under my ear and hacked into the morgue’s database.
“To my knowledge,” Pete was saying, “Femme has not been out of the Division since that time with you.”
“Huh?”
“You must have been a very hard act to follow. It is only since Homme has joined us—I hope you will wish her happy?”
“Of course I do. But—”
“Un moment. Ils arrivent.” There was silence for a couple of minutes. Then, “How closely did you observe these wounds, mon ami?”
“How close did I need to be?” I shrugged, even though he couldn’t see me. “The damage was—goddammit. It wasn’t her.”
“It wasn’t her,” he concurred.
“And if it wasn’t….”
“Let me talk with her, show her these photos. She’s very guarded of her methods. If someone is copying her, she will not be happy.”
“Okay. Call me as soon as you can. I won’t be happy if any more of my people turn up like those three. Four.”
“You question the number?”
“We’ve only got a finger of one of them.”
“Hmm. If it were Femme who did this, she would leave the body intact.”
Carved up like a Thanksgiving turkey, but yeah, the better to intimidate her opponents.
“I will be in touch. Au ’voir, mon ami.”
“Au ’voir, Pete.”
Half an hour later he called back, skipping the amenities and going straight to the heart of the matter. “One of her recruits washed out a year and a half into the training period. You know what happens after something like that.”
“Yeah.” They’d be given missions that would eventually lead to their death. In that manner the WBIS and the Division were alike.
“Bien sûr. Anacapri, however, had decided to try an experiment to see how the person responded to being allowed to merge once again with the mainstream population. Why she did this at that time—eh. Who can fathom the mind of that woman?”
“So this clown was just let go? Not a smart idea.” Especially if he’d gotten to that point in his training—dangerous, but still lacking control. “I’m surprised Femme didn’t cancel him herself.”
“Her.”
“What?”
“It was a woman, mon ami.”
“Well, Jesus!”
“Femme, of course, didn’t approve with Solange’s release, but she had not much say in the matter.”
“How long ago was this?”
“Approximately eight months.”
“And no one kept track of this woman?”
“Of course we did.” He sounded irritated. “We are not imbeciles, Vincent.” Yeah, I’d pissed him off. He only addressed me by my last name when I’d annoyed him. “However….”
“Don’t tell me she slipped the leash.”
“Very well, I won’t. But apparently that’s what she did.”
“And you’ve got no idea what she’s been doing all this time.”
He sighed, and I took that as a no.
“So what are you going to do about this?” Division’s personnel, Division’s problem. Unless nothing was done, in which case they really wouldn’t be happy when I stepped in.
“We will look into it.”
“Yeah, well, just make sure you keep me in the loop.”
“Or?”
“Don’t get cute with me, Pete.” We were friends, but we’d never crossed in the line of business. I hoped we wouldn’t have to. I’d hate to kill him.
“Ah, mon cher homme, I’m so pleased you still think I’m cute.” He laughed when I ignored that.
“I’ll let you go, since I’m sure you’re going to be very busy tracking this Solange down.”
He continued laughing, and I hung up.
If I were still in the field, I’d be on the next flight to Paris, intent on finding this woman. As it was, I spent the rest of the afternoon going over Smitty’s report, updating Josephson’s file, and closing it out.
II
IT WAS almost time to call it a day when my office phone rang. “Vincent.”
“Mr. Wallace wants you to meet him in the parking lot.” Ms. DiBlasi hung up before I could ask what this was about.
My own secretary had left for the day. I shut down my computer, grabbed my suit jacket, and locked my office.
The Boss’s big black sedan was idling by the rear entrance. His driver got out, jogged around to the passenger side, and opened the door.
“Get in, Mark,” The Boss ordered.
I slid in next to him and waited for him to tell
me what was going on.
“I’ve spoken to the families of Stanley’s men.”
“Uh… yes?”
He looked out the window. “Mrs. Browne said, ‘Good riddance to bad rubbish’.”
I knew Browne wasn’t married, so The Boss had to mean Browne’s mother. Shit.
“We’re going to notify Josephson’s grandfather.”
“Why am I going with you, sir?”
“Because I’m asking you to, Mark.”
Oh, fuck. “I’m not really a people person, sir.”
“Do you think I was when I started in this business? All you need to do is keep a solemn look on your face. I’ll do the talking this time.”
This time? That didn’t sound good.
“Mr. Wallace, did Stanley go with you to make the notifications?”
“Of course. He’s Director of Foreign Affairs.”
Okay, I got it. Even though I was deputy director, I was the surviving head of my department.
I could do this. And as soon as The Boss promoted someone else to director, I’d be off the hook.
I frowned. I just hoped whoever he gave the position to wasn’t a complete asshole.
III
QUINN knew something was wrong. I barely said two words at dinner, and afterward, I sat staring at the same page in the book I’d chosen at random from his shelves.
He didn’t question me, just sat at that baby grand playing waltz after waltz. Later he told me it was the score of A Little Night Music.
Finally he put the cover over the keyboard and said, “Why don’t we go to bed?”
“Yeah.” I shut the book, not even bothering to mark my place. What was the point? I hadn’t turned the page since I’d opened the book. I pretended I didn’t see his concerned glance.
That night I passed his bedroom and went on to the room that he’d told me was mine for as long as I liked.
“Mark?”
“You don’t want to sleep with me tonight, Quinn. Trust me.” And I wasn’t disappointed when he let me go.
I wasn’t.
Sometime during the night, though, I woke up enough to realize I wasn’t alone. He’d come to my bed and had climbed in with me.
