by Tinnean
“No, I took out the big guy.”
Pete stepped around the body. “Etienne Chambert? You were fooled by his size. The man might look like a bear, but he had the temperament of a rabbit.”
I had given Quinn the more deadly one? Fuck!
Pete saw my expression and laughed. “For that I could almost forgive you for killing Richard.”
“You don’t believe his mind was so far gone that he snapped and killed himself?”
“That is your story?”
“Yeah.”
“Very well, mon ami. However, you will not mind if I put it out that the Division was behind his death?”
“As you told me, Pete, he had ties to the Division. I wasn’t even here! By the way, where’s Kiska?”
“She’s looking after the captives. She’s always had a tender heart.”
“Then how the fuck did she wind up in the Division?”
“A long tale, and we don’t have time for it.”
“Fine.” I could always find out if I thought it was important. I took out a handkerchief, pulled the scalpel from Richard’s neck, and wiped the handle thoroughly, then returned it to the wound.
“Merde! It wasn’t you who killed him, was it?” De Becque was a top-level cold operative. He knew there was most likely only one reason for me to remove fingerprints. He also knew I wasn’t about to admit to anything. “Go!”
XV
THEY were gathered in a big room, all the operatives who’d been abducted by Prinzip. They looked tired and in need of some serious groceries, although none looked as battered as Quinn. Maybe they’d just been here long enough for the bruises to heal?
“Trust me, Mr. Mann. They’re in decent enough shape.”
The room had amazing acoustics, and although I was a good fifteen feet away from them, I could clearly hear what Robinson, a junior administrative officer of the Company’s Paris office, was saying. Yeah, I recognized him. We’d butted heads once, and he wasn’t one of my biggest fans.
“I’ve called their respective people to come pick them up, and they should be here momentarily.” He was almost dancing with impatience, the officious little prick. “Oh, my God! Mr. Mann!”
I watched as the last of the kidnapped operatives were shepherded out by Pete’s people, then turned my attention back to Quinn.
He was talking on a cell phone, and he held up a hand to let Robinson know he’d heard him but continued with his phone conversation. “I promise you I’m fine, Mother, just a little tired. Barring any unforeseen circumstances, I’ll see you for our ride on Sunday.”
My gut clenched when he stared blankly at the phone for a second. Had he been hurt worse than I’d thought?
“Um… yes?” He shook off his bemusement. “I love you too, Mother. Good-bye.” He turned to hand the cell phone back to Robinson. “Thank you.”
Why had he borrowed that asshole’s phone? He could have used mine, which I’d clipped to my belt. It had more than enough bars, and I had unlimited minutes.
Quinn was saying briskly to Robinson, “Now, what’s bothering you?”
“What the fuck is he doing here?” he demanded. He took the phone, but there was a disgruntled look on his face, and he glared across the room at me, then pointedly turned his back.
Why did people think this was a good idea?
I shook my head and dismissed that as inconsequential. It was time for me to get closer.
“Who?” Quinn asked. “Oh, Vincent? Why don’t you ask him?” He opened the roll of Life Savers and slid another one into his mouth.
“The man’s WBIS! He’s a sociopath!” Robinson sounded as if he thought Quinn was insane. “I wouldn’t go near him with a ten-foot pole!”
Quinn cleared his throat and nodded in my direction. Robinson wheeled around, and when he realized I was close enough that a ten-foot pole wasn’t necessary, his face turned chalky and his eyes became panicky.
I couldn’t prevent a satisfied smirk from twisting my lips.
Behave, Quinn mouthed at me.
My smirk broadened. Who, me? I mouthed back. “I think this is yours, Mann.” I held out the Smith and Wesson, still in its holster. I’d stopped at the Administrator’s office and retrieved our weapons. My Glock was in its shoulder holster, and the Beretta was in place at my ankle.
“Thanks.” He slid the harness over his shoulders, stifling a groan as bruised muscles protested. “You didn’t happen to find my Llama, did you?”
I took the subcompact from my pants pocket and stroked its lines lovingly. “I was hoping you wouldn’t remember this little beauty.”
“Yes, well, ask Santa for one of your own next Christmas; you can’t have mine!”
Robinson stood there, his mouth gaping and his eyes sliding from me to Quinn and back again.
I handed the Llama to Quinn. If we’d been alone, I’d have let my fingers linger on his palm. I had a fleeting sense of regret that they couldn’t.
He put the pistol in a pocket.
“You might want these too.”
“My pocketknife! My grandfather’s watch!”
“Oh, yeah?” Of course I’d known they belonged to him; I’d seen them plenty of times on his dresser. “Well, the watch was in the drawer, and I figured you needed all the help you could get to know what time it was.”
“Bastard!” Robinson muttered. He’d have probably shit himself if he knew I’d heard him.
“Thank you, Vincent. It must have disagreed with your system to do an act of kindness for a CIA officer—” Quinn’s left eyelid lowered a fraction. “—but I appreciate it.”
“Hey, not a problem. It was the least I could do.”
“You didn’t happen to find my shoes, did you?”
“Nope. Sorry.”
“Well, at least they left you your socks.” Robinson didn’t notice how big they were on him? Jesus, he wouldn’t have lasted a week in the WBIS.
Quinn turned to face Robinson and winced, cradling his ribs. Now that the adrenaline was wearing off, every ache in his body was probably making itself known.
Although again that shit Robinson didn’t notice. I stared at his feet thoughtfully, but his shoes were too small.
“Drum is missing,” Quinn said, looking around even though we were the only ones in the room right then.
“What? Would that be Major Jonathan Drum II?” Robinson forgot all about me. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Jesus, he had as many tics as that asshole Davies. “From the Office of the Inspector General?”
“Yes. I was hoping we’d find him among the people who’d been taken by Prinzip, but—”
“Er…. A couple of weeks ago, someone identifying himself as the major called our Paris office. He… requested help with something he refused to go into detail about. Since he wouldn’t give us details, I… we refused.” Now he really looked sick. “Did OIG have something going on over here?”
“No, this was strictly personal.”
Robinson’s eyes flew to mine.
“Despite the general consensus,” I complained, “my happiness doesn’t depend on making Drum’s life miserable!”
“This has nothing to do with Vincent,” Quinn snapped. I had to get him out of here soon. I’d never seen him lose his temper. “You saw the young Russian? That was Kirill Aleksandrov, Drum’s half brother. Apparently someone in Prinzip kidnapped him when he was on his way back to his unit in Chechnya. Drum took a… leave of absence in order to find him. Well, we’ve found Kirill. Now we just need to find Drum. General Kirkpatrick isn’t happy.” From Quinn’s expression, I could tell that he wished Drum would just for once be where he was supposed to be, instead of gallivanting all over the free world.
“Is this Drum an American army officer?” Pete had joined us and caught the end of Quinn’s statement.
“Yes.”
“He’s an investigator for the Office of the—” Robinson shut up when he realized Quinn was frowning at him. “Uh….” He swallowed. “I think I’ll just….”
“I see. Perhaps the Division can offer its assistance.” Pete exchanged a glance with me, and I shrugged. It would turn out Tactics’s new playmate was Drum.
Quinn’s frown deepened. “And if you find him, of course you’ll expect quid pro quo from the CIA.”
“Of course.” Pete grinned at me, and if I hadn’t been involved with Quinn, I’d have dragged him off somewhere and jumped his bones. Nothing like one-upping the CIA to get the juices flowing.
But I was involved with Quinn. I grinned back at Pete and shook my head. He shrugged.
“Well, if you gentlemen have everything under control? Très bien.” He walked out.
Robinson shook his head. “Try to figure the French!” He flipped open his cell phone. “I’ll just make a few phone calls and see if I can come up with anything on Major Drum.”
“You need a doctor, Mann?” I kept my tone bored, but I was concerned, and Quinn saw it in my eyes. Robinson didn’t, which was a good thing. I’d be worried I was losing my touch otherwise.
“Oh, yes, I didn’t even think of that!” Robinson pulled a personal organizer from his inner jacket pocket. He stared from his phone to the organizer, then apparently decided to make the phone calls later and put the phone back in his pocket.
Jesus, what an asshole.
He scrolled through the organizer, searching for something. “Aha! Here it is! This is a doctor we’ve used on occasion. He’ll take good care of you.” He scribbled down a name and an address, and handed Quinn the slip of paper. “And he’s—uh—very discreet.”
What the fuck did he think they’d done to Quinn?
“Thanks.”
“And….” He wrote something on another piece of paper and tore it from the pad. “Here’s the name of a decent hotel that’s nearby. You look like sh… um… tired. Very tired. Why don’t you get some rest? I’ll get on this Drum matter right now.” And then he was gone too.
“Alone at last.” I smiled. “Are you—”
“Not quite.” Quinn sat down heavily.
“Huh?” I followed his gaze.
Two men had entered the room. I didn’t recognize the little blond guy, but I did know the man beside him. Rangy, a bit above average height, and with dark hair and eyes.
“Browne?” Well, fuck me! “I thought you were dead!”
“Rumors of my demise, etcetera etcetera. I’m hale and whole, or as whole as I’ll ever be again.” He held up his right hand, which was bandaged but showed it was missing a finger.
“There’s a bottle of formaldehyde at headquarters with your little finger in it.”
“You mean it wasn’t going to have a decent burial? I’m disappointed. I was looking forward to reading its obit in Spy vs. Spook. ‘Friends, Romans, WBIS agents, lend me your fingers’.” Browne’s attitude toward losing his finger was typical WBIS. As long as he made it out alive, whatever was sacrificed was worth it.
“You’re the only one who made it.”
“Yeah. I’m the only one. This is Max. Max Futé. He’s the doctor who rigged it so that fucking cocksucker of a lunatic would think I was dead. It was a fair trade: my life in exchange for a finger.” Browne’s expression became hard. “I’m assuming there’s nothing left?”
“You had to ask?”
“Sorry, sir. Never hurts to be sure, though I’d have liked a piece of him.” His eyes were cold. “Josephson, Sinclair, Travers. They died hard.”
“But well?”
“Oh, yeah. That’s why that fucker decided it didn’t pay to take any more from the WBIS.”
“I would have tried to save them also,” Futé murmured. “Solange….” He shivered. “I wasn’t in time.”
Browne had his uninjured hand resting on the young doctor’s shoulder. “Mr. Vincent, I owe him. I want to bring him back to the States with me.”
“The WBIS is always on the lookout for good help.” I studied them. “Doctor, you say?”
“I know Godard has been with us for a long time, but maybe Max could assist?”
“Godard’s gone.” He’d been the one to supply the drug Sperling had put into Pretty Boy’s drink, rendering him helpless. Pretty Boy was a healthy, active young man, and Sperling would never have gotten near him with his goddammed golf club otherwise. Godard thought his position as chief medical doctor of the WBIS would keep him out of harm’s way. It didn’t.
“What? How?” Browne saw the expression on my face and shook his head. “Never mind. That makes it perfect! Max is a good doctor. If Godard hasn’t been replaced yet…?”
“He hasn’t.”
“There you go!” He slung his arm around Max’s shoulders and gave them a squeeze. “I never liked the son of a bitch, anyway. He didn’t have your touch with a needle, Max. Did you do him, sir?”
“Jesus!” I glanced at Quinn from the corner of my eye. The last thing I wanted him to realize was how casual I could be regarding life and death. “He wasn’t canceled, Browne. He decided it was time to retire.”
“Doesn’t make any difference to me.” Browne shrugged. “Oh, shit. Did The Boss get in touch with my family?”
“Yes.”
“My mother’s gonna be pissed when I show up for Thanksgiving dinner.” The thought seemed to please him.
I shook my head and turned to the doctor. “So, Max—”
“I should tell you my license has been revoked, m’sieur. Euthanasia is not looked upon with favor in France.”
Browne gave him a slight shake. “Max, never give more information than you’re asked for, if even that.”
“Mon cher, it is only fair. What would your organization think if they went to the trouble of getting me a green card and then learned I could not practice medicine?”
I raised an eyebrow. “‘Mon cher’?”
Browne flushed and hunched a shoulder. “He calls everyone that. It doesn’t mean anything.”
He really believed that? I didn’t know this Max from a hole in the wall, but from the look in his eyes, he hadn’t risked his life to save Browne’s just because of an oath he took in medical school. But if Browne wanted to be oblivious about it, that was none of my concern.
“Browne’s right about giving out information, Max. You’ll live longer. As for your license, it won’t be a problem.”
Quinn cleared his throat. “I have no doubt the WBIS has ways of getting around that, but I really don’t want to hear about it!”
Browne wheeled around. “Who’re you?”
“Quinton Mann.”
“Mann—CIA? Oh, fuck!”
“It’s okay, mon cher. Prinzip… how do you say? Put the snatch on him too.”
Browne ignored that. “Yeah, but Max….”
Quinn laughed. “I think you’ve read too many Philip Marlowe books, Max.”
I scowled. How chummy had this little Frenchman gotten with my… with Mann?
“I won’t do anything to interfere with your plans for Max,” Quinn said. “He helped me too, although I’m sure he wasn’t aware of it.”
“Don’t count on it, Mann. He’s a clever bastard. Mr. Vincent, I need to speak to you in private.”
Max watched us, worrying his lower lip. Browne followed me to the far end of the room.
“What is it?”
“All my papers were destroyed. ID, credit cards, passport….”
“Is that what’s worrying you? There’s a shop on Rue Evariste Galois in the 20th Arrondissement. Ask for Athos. He’ll see you and Max get whatever you need.”
The name made him laugh, but something was still bothering him.
“What’s got your shorts in a twist, Browne?”
“There really isn’t anything between Max and me.”
“He looks at you like the sun rises and sets on you.”
“I’m not gay.”
“Okay.”
“Mr. Vincent, I’m serious. I owe Max a lot, but not—”
“Look, this is something you’ll have to sort out with him.” Although if it was me, and s
omeone risked more than his life to save mine…. Well, what was a blow job or a fuck in payment?
“I don’t want anyone to get the wrong idea.”
“You know the WBIS doesn’t give a flying fuck one way or another.”
“I know, but—”
I heard Quinn laugh and turned in time to see him wince. “Shit.” I took out my wallet and handed Browne a credit card. “That will get the two of you on a flight for DC. Once you get there, go to headquarters. Get that stump looked at, and see Max’s paperwork gets processed. Even if he’s a piss-poor doctor—”
“He’s not. He’s good.”
But not good enough to take to bed. I shrugged. That wasn’t my problem. I gave him a wad of euros.
“Sir?”
“Athos will want cash up front. Use what’s left for a hotel room.” I held up a hand. “You’re not gay. I get it. You smell, though, and even the French won’t let you on a jet in that condition. Buy some clean clothes, take a shower, and go home.”
“Yes, sir. Max, let’s get out of here!”
Max nodded and turned to Quinn. “À la prochaine, M. Mann.” They shook hands. “Perhaps we shall meet again.”
“Perhaps. It is a small world.”
“Charles.” He gave it the French pronunciation. “I am ready.” He looked at Quinn one last time, and I forgot all about how he’d looked at Browne.
Jesus, was I going to have to kill him? Quinn was mine!
Futé lifted his hand in farewell, and he and Browne left.
“Cute guy,” I growled.
“He saved my life.”
“Yeah.” It seemed he’d saved everyone’s fucking life. “What was so funny?”
“Excuse me?”
“You were laughing earlier.” Hard enough that it had hurt.
“Oh.” He smiled, and my nails dug into my palms. “I told Max I owed him a scalpel—”
“Huh? That was his scalpel you threw into the Administrator’s neck?”
“Yes. I thought I was being so clever, picking Max’s pocket and relieving him of it, but all the time he’d been doing everything but handing it to me on a silver platter.”
Okay, in that case, I wouldn’t kill him. But Quinn was still mine.
