Not My Spook!

by Tinnean

  “Spike and I have to go. We’ve shipped most of what we’re taking, but we still have a lot of packing to do.” They would be moving out to the West Coast sometime next week. Paul had applied for the position of obstetric nurse at a prestigious perinatal center in L.A., and he’d been accepted.

  Who’d have thought the former rent boy would wind up in Labor and Delivery?

  I extended my hand. “Thanks, Paul. I appreciate your help.” He ignored my hand and hugged me. He had always been a guy who used the least excuse to offer a touch. I felt his hand slip into my back pocket. “Are you copping a feel?” I asked gruffly. I pulled a slip of paper from my pocket. “What’s this?”

  “Our address. If you’re ever on the West Coast, and you don’t come to look us up, I’m going to hunt you down.”

  “Oh, yeah? Should I be afraid?”

  A mischievous grin curled his lips. “You should be very afraid, Vince. I’ll cry all over you.”

  He surprised a laugh out of me. “All right, all right! I promise I’ll look you up!”

  “I knew you’d see it my way.” He became serious. “We’ll see you before we leave?”

  Once I would have said, “If I can,” but as a deputy director, odds weren’t too good I’d be out of town when they left. “Sure thing.”

  “Thank you!” He hugged me again and stepped back, and Spike offered a shy embrace. I accepted it. He’d always seemed a little cautious around me.

  And then they were gone.

  Theo wrestled my computer onto the cherrywood desk and began plugging in the peripherals. I’d been drawn to that desk when we’d gone furniture shopping in Rockville.

  It was the secret compartments. I’d always been a sucker for secret compartments.

  I went into the sleeping area, where a box of linens sat on the bachelor chest. I wasn’t worried about leaving Theo with my computer. He’d never shown an interest in my occupation.

  There was also the fact that it was password protected and had more firewalls than anywhere outside of the WBIS.

  I tossed the fitted sheet onto the mattress and began to make up the bed.

  I was just finishing when Matheson showed up, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. He was slightly out of breath.

  “Mr. Vincent. Sorry I couldn’t get here sooner.” He looked at Theo. “I stopped by my place to change first.”

  “I appreciate your choice, babe.” Theo’s eyes were hot. He looked as if he wanted to crowd his lover against the wall and kiss him until neither of them could remain standing. Matheson licked his lips but backed off, his glance cutting toward me.

  Jesus. “Matheson, you have two minutes.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  I looked over my shoulder in time to see him actually pounce on Theo, who made a soft sound and melted into his lover’s embrace. I checked my watch. I would give them as long as it took me to store everything in the double dresser.

  I went back into the bedroom and started to unpack the boxes that contained my clothes.

  “What time is our flight, Wills?” Theo spoke in a low voice, but I was still able to hear him. Well, it was a small apartment. And even a CIA spook would have been able to tell he was anxious about something.

  “It’s not until next week.” Matheson’s voice was soothing. I’d told him he wouldn’t need to be available and had learned that he planned to spend the Memorial Day weekend with his family. Was he taking Theo with him? “You don’t have to worry.”

  “I’m a Capricorn. I’m going to worry until we’re in the air.”

  “It’s at six, babe.” There was silence for a moment, and I squeezed the bridge of my nose. I did not want to picture my agent comforting the former rent boy.

  “Six in the morning?” Theo groused, but he sounded a little breathless. “That ought to be outlawed!”

  “Don’t worry about it. I won’t let you oversleep.”

  “Well, I suppose I could sleep on the plane.”

  “Yeah. Theo, it will be fine, I promise you! They’re going to love you!”

  Apparently Matheson was taking his lover to meet his family. Neither of them realized I was standing by the frosted glass block wall that separated the two areas. I cleared my throat.

  Theo jumped. “Give a guy a heart attack, why don’t you, Vince?” he complained.

  Matheson stood relaxed but alert. I nodded in approval.

  “I’m meeting Wills’s folks next week.” Theo was tearing at his thumbnail. “Shit. Now I’m bleeding.” He stuck his thumb in his mouth and sucked on it.

  “He’s a little nervous, sir.”

  “A little? Jesus, Wills, I’m scared spitless. If they ever find out what I’ve done—”

  “Then just make sure they don’t.” Both younger men stared at me, and I shrugged. “Keep your mouth shut about your past. That’s your business and no one else’s.”

  “But Wills—”

  “Has Matheson given you a hard time over your former occupation?”

  “No.”

  “There you go.” I turned to Matheson. “I want this case mounted on the wall above the TV.” It had taken some time to find a case that displayed the sword to its best advantage. “You’re delegated, Matheson.”

  “Yes, sir. Nice sword.”

  “Thanks.”

  “But—” Theo just wouldn’t let it go.

  I huffed impatiently. “Listen, Bascopolis. You’re a good man. You treated your customers fairly and gave good value. Don’t go looking for trouble when none is there. Now, you’re interfering with my move. My phone won’t be hooked up until next week.” I didn’t tell him I had my cell phone in my pocket. “Go down to your own apartment and order some pizza. I want bacon and pineapple.”

  “Okay, Vince. Wills, I’ll get artichoke hearts and pepperoni for us.”

  “Sounds good, babe,” Matheson said absently as he measured the wall to make sure the case would hang true. He waited until Theo trotted down to his apartment, then paused to look at me, his arms at his sides. “Thanks, Mr. Vincent. Most of the time Theo hides behind a—I guess you’d call it a brash exterior. He’s a good man. He didn’t deserve what happened to him.”

  Oh, fuck, Matheson wasn’t going to tell me he was going to spend the rest of his life making sure Theo knew that, was he? Before he could say another word, I said, “Matheson, you don’t eat until the case is on the wall.”

  “Yes, sir.” He turned his head.

  “That better not be a smile, Matheson!”

  “No, sir.” He coughed lightly. “Just looking for a plumb line, Mr. Vincent.”

  I growled and went into the kitchen to get some plates.

  V

  I SPENT the weekend getting my apartment in shape and installing a series of locks for my front door. And beyond tracking down the flight Quinn had taken and extrapolating which would be his return flight, I hardly thought of him at all.

  VI

  I CAME into work my regular time on Monday, and had barely got my computer powered on when Ms. DiBlasi called my private office line and told me to get my ass up to ten. Well, okay, she didn’t use those exact words, but that was what she meant.

  Now I stared at The Boss. “But I don’t golf.”

  “But you’ll learn.”

  “What about my department?”

  He smiled. Why was he smiling? “I’ll have Matheson handle it.”

  “Uh… don’t get me wrong, sir: Matheson is shaping up to be an excellent senior special agent, but—”

  “I happen to concur, and I’m so pleased to hear you agree with me. I think you’ll also agree that for five days he’ll manage quite well.”

  Shit. “Yes, sir. Where is this golf camp being held?”

  “In Arizona. And since you’ll be in the area, I’d like you to drop in on the project in Phoenix.”

  Hmm. After Fitzwilliam’s disappearance, management had scrambled to distance themselves from him. Was this a ruse to put them at ease so I could do a little snooping?
r />   “I’ll go home and pack, sir.” Something like this would call for more than a single change of clothing.

  “I knew I could count on you, Mark. Oh, and here.” He handed me a credit card. “You’ll need a new wardrobe.”

  “Yes, sir.” The name on the card was Ben Trevino. I stuck it in my wallet.

  “I’m sure you’ll think of an explanation for your name.”

  “Uh… yes.” I’d need to get on my computer and see what the fuck he was talking about.

  “Enjoy your stay at the Sago Palms Golf Resort.”

  “Thank you.” This meeting was done, so I turned and started to leave.

  “And Mark?”

  Okay, so it wasn’t done. “Yes, sir?”

  “Take the weekend off. You work too fucking hard!”

  I could have said the same for him, but all I said was, “Yes, sir.”

  This time I managed to actually leave his office.

  “I must say you never struck me as a… golfer,” Ms. DiBlasi murmured as I shut The Boss’s door behind me.

  Yeah, me neither. “Ours not to reason why.” I gave her a toothy grin.

  “Indeed. Sago Palms is quite lovely.”

  “You’ve been there?”

  “Oh, yes. Trev—” She coughed. “That is to say, yes. Good morning, Mr. Vincent.”

  Holy…! Had she almost slipped and admitted to going somewhere with The Boss? I made sure I kept the grin that was struggling to burst out under tight wraps.

  “Good morning, Ms. DiBlasi.”

  VII

  I ENJOYED intimidating management at the new Huntingdon facility that was going up in Phoenix. Golfing, though—not so much.

  But it had distracted me enough that it wasn’t until I’d returned to DC that I realized I hadn’t heard from Quinn in more than a week.

  He’d said he’d be back by Thursday at the latest, but he’d probably gotten hung up in Paris. He was a thorough officer, even if he was a spook. I wouldn’t have to tell him to watch his ass.

  I emptied my suitcase—I’d had to buy so many clothes I’d run out of space in my duffel and wound up buying a pilot case as well—and sorted what needed to be dry cleaned and what could just be sent to the laundry.

  Dinner at Raphael’s without Quinn wouldn’t be the same, so I picked up some takeout, ate it while watching what was on AMC, and then went to bed.

  I’d slept alone all my life, but over the past month and a half, I’d gotten used to sleeping curled up around my lover’s body, or having him spooned up against mine, and it took longer than I liked before I slipped into even a light doze.

  Sometime during the night, I roused enough to reach sleepily for Quinn.

  He’s not here, my subconscious grumbled, and I came completely awake.

  No shit.

  I want him.

  You had to wake me up to tell me that? Listen, he isn’t here, so go back to sleep.

  I want him!

  I sighed and rolled over onto my back. Yeah. I did want him. So what? I was the master of my fate, and I was the captain of my soul, such as it was.

  And when I started quoting “Invictus” to myself, I knew I was in deep shit; this was going to be one of those nights when insomnia would ride my ass. It would take me hours to fall asleep again, if I did at all.

  I checked the clock. It wasn’t quite midnight. Even though tomorrow was Saturday, it was going to be a bitch on wheels, and I needed all the rest I could get.

  I swore, tossed aside the light blanket I was sleeping under, and got dressed. At that time of night, it didn’t take long to drive to Quinn’s town house.

  Sensor lights came on as I crossed the lawn. It didn’t take me long to disarm Quinn’s security system—Jesus, he deserved better than this. I’d need to install something for him.

  I let myself in and reset the alarm. A couple of lights on the ground floor were on timer, so I had no trouble making my way through the house. It was quiet, the normal noises of the night noted and dismissed.

  I climbed the stairs and walked down the hall to Quinn’s door, which he’d left standing open. Moonlight spilled through the gauzy curtains, splashing over the carpeting and across the bed. The bed was neatly made. I went to it, threw the covers back, then stripped off my clothes and climbed in. The sheets were cool but quickly warmed to my body heat.

  I had more or less resigned myself to a wakeful night, but I was out like a light almost as soon as my head hit the pillow.

  This time I slept soundly, and when I woke in the morning, Quinn’s pillow was cradled in my arms.

  Fucking hell. I was so fucking fucked.

  I shook myself, then made the bed, dressed, and drove back to my apartment, where I showered and changed and spent the day at the shooting range.

  VIII

  SATURDAY night was more of the same. The holiday weekend was in full swing, and I had no doubt the cops would have a field day pulling over DWIs.

  I sat in the kitchen, moodily pushing the Portuguese pork with lemon from one side of my plate to the other.

  I took a last swallow of my beer, then rose and stored the leftovers in the plastic containers my landlords had given me as a housewarming gift.

  Maybe I’d take a ride to the National Mall and watch the fireworks display.

  Maybe I’d go on to the WBIS, in spite of The Boss’s orders, and see if Pierre de Becque had come up with anything new.

  I scooped up my keys and headed out the door.

  But I really wished Quinn had called.

  IX

  THE latest intel from Pete wasn’t much use to me, just about some American who had been caught prying around the Division; and Tactics hadn’t been pleased. Robert Lynx, the head of the Division, was a good tactician, so I could understand why he’d chosen to be called that. I thought it was pretentious, but he wasn’t my boss. And anyway, not my business.

  He prided himself on the Division’s covertness, so when people poked their noses into it, he wasn’t pleased. He’d given the man to Femme, who was an artiste in her own right, and under her ministrations, she’d been able to squeeze out a garbled tale of a Russian half brother who never made it back to his unit.

  Anacapri, head of the psych section, had taken over when it became clear that the American wouldn’t be shaken from his story.

  “You’re telling me this for a reason?”

  “She’s had R&D create an interesting injectable, Mark,” Pete murmured in his soft voice. “It makes the subject amenable to whatever sexual suggestion he is given, no matter his orientation.”

  “The perfect submissive.”

  “Yes. Tactics has taken him to his bed and is having quite a pleasant time making this man spread it for him.”

  That sounded like something I might say.

  “Would you like to try that drug on me one time, mon ami?” Pete sounded curious.

  I thought about it, Pete submitting to my every whim. I pictured him on his knees before me, nuzzling my groin, his lips stretched wide around my cock, but as I tipped his head up, I found it was hazel eyes I was looking into, not gray-green.

  I sighed. “No, Pete, I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

  “Perhaps not.” He laughed. “Reuben would be most displeased.”

  I didn’t think Quinn would be overjoyed either. We’d never discussed exclusivity, but a discussion hadn’t felt necessary: this was the way it was.

  I changed the subject. “How is Carlyle taking it?” Carlyle had been Robert Lynx’s boy toy almost from the time he’d been recruited into the Division as assistant computer coordinator. Most of the intelligence agencies were unaware of Lynx’s predilections, but we at the WBIS knew. The Boss frowned on it, not because of the male/male aspect of it, but because Carlyle worked under Lynx. Since The Boss had been close enough to Lynx to owe him a favor—me leaning on someone who had incurred his displeasure—he kept his opinion to himself, and so did the rest of the WBIS.

  “Oh, he is pouting and sulkin
g. I imagine that Tactics will enjoy teaching him his place once the American has been released. I understand he has already acquired a collar for Carlyle. Fortunately, that has taken his mind off his intention of replacing Babineaux as the head of Communications.”

  “Speaking of Babe, how’s he doing?”

  “Much better, now that he’s getting his ashes hauled on a regular basis.”

  “No kidding.” Babineaux was the quintessential geek. He poured so much of his time into his department that he’d had no personal life. And while he was only a few years older than Carlyle, the younger com tech had a lot more experience. “Who?”

  “Guiliani.”

  “How did that happen?” I wouldn’t ask if Pete was kidding; his sense of humor didn’t reach that far.

  “Do you know, mon ami, I don’t know! I returned from a mission, and voilà: it was a fait accompli.”

  “Hmm. What about Guiliani? Did anyone ever learn how a Native American wound up with an Italian name?”

  “He claims his father was Italian.”

  I bit back a laugh. The Division was better than a soap opera sometimes. “So the American will be let go?”

  “Mais, oui. There was never any question of keeping him, especially after it was learned he is in your army.”

  “Isn’t Tactics worried about repercussions? Or does he think that going against those particular military regulations will keep the American quiet?”

  “One can never be sure of his thought processes. However, Anacapri also had R&D come up with an antidote that completely wipes away the memory, replacing it with one that is most pleasant.”

  That was interesting to know. I’d keep it in mind and see if I could get the formulas for both drugs for Romero in the WBIS’s R&D. I had no doubt he’d be able to improve on them.

  “Listen, Pete. If you hear anything about what happened to my agents, how they wound up the way they did, contact me at once.”

  “This I will do. I must go now, mon ami.” He suddenly sounded tired. “I have a mission with Kiska. For all that it is simply a training mission, one hopes she does not do anything that will get us both killed. Au ’voir.”