by Tinnean
“Your uncle always was a cool customer!”
“The California climate seems to suit him,” I remarked, being deliberately obtuse. The undersecretary laughed.
“Anthony is a good man; one of the best.” He began to speak of his earliest days at State, when Anthony Sebring II had taken a young law clerk under his wing and begun grooming him to become undersecretary, and the meal passed pleasantly.
However, I was no clearer as to why I’d been called in to State today.
After a dessert of lemon mousse in an edible chocolate cup, he touched his napkin to his mouth a final time and rose from the table. I followed suit.
“Well, I imagine I’ve bent your ear enough, Quinton.” We walked out of the dining room and back to his office. “It was kind of you to come in and join me for lunch, especially after returning so recently from the Far East.”
“Excuse me, sir, but I thought you had requested me to come in to clear the paperwork on my desk.” I worried my lip. No one outside my department was supposed to be aware of that mission.
“Why would I do that? There are plenty of young men, and young women, if it comes to that, who are more than capable of entering those reports.”
Why, indeed? “Perhaps I misunderstood.”
“From where did you get those instructions?”
I gave a quick glance around the crowded corridor. “Where do you think, sir?”
“Like that, is it? If I recall correctly, your caller, who I’ll allow to be nameless for the time being, was also responsible for the fact that the rescue of you and other members of the Intelligence community this past spring was thanks to the efforts of the WBIS and not the CIA.”
“I wasn’t aware that was known by any other than DCI Holmes, General Kirkpatrick, and Director Wallace.”
“Information has a way of leaking out, my boy.” He gave me a shrewd look. “You’re too much the son of your parents not to get to the bottom of this. I have no doubt that you will.”
I said something noncommittal, and we shook hands. “It was good seeing you again, sir.”
VII
I RETURNED to my office.
“Oh, Mr. Mann, the Lexus dealership called.” Ms. Copeland picked up a yellow Post-it. “Your vehicle needs an oil filter, but they’re out of the ones for your model. They’re having one flown down from their New York affiliate, but it won’t get here until after hours tonight. They’ll work on it tomorrow. Also, they apologize, but they have no vehicles available to loan you.”
And there were no rental agencies either? I was too tired to give more than a passing thought as to what the fuck was going on.
“All right.” I could take a cab to Raphael’s after work, and as for picking up my Lexus, I had no doubt Mark would be willing to drive me to the dealership tomorrow. “Thank you.”
I went into my office and shut the door. The number of files remaining on my desk seemed greatly reduced. I sat down and turned on my computer, and while I waited for it to warm up, I checked my cell phone for messages.
There were two.
Mark. Short, sweet, and it felt like a slap in the face.
“I can’t make it tonight. Sorry.”
What…? For a second, I couldn’t catch my breath.
The other message was from Mother. “I’m going to look over a condominium with Mark, sweetheart.”
I was abashed at how quickly I’d been ready to think Vincent would throw me over.
“The condo is in Aspen Reach, and it’s listed by Francesca Dashwood, Allison’s sister-in-law. Allison asked me to send some business her way.”
Mother would do it as a favor to the woman who had been her “big sister” when she’d been initiated into Tau Zeta Epsilon at Wellesley and her matron-of-honor, as well as my godmother.
“Mark is insisting on driving me home from Aspen Reach, so I’m going to insist he stay for dinner. If you want to keep your usual Friday arrangement, I would suggest you call Gregor. He’s in town and will be more than happy to have someone to talk to on the drive home.”
I dialed Gregor’s cell phone.
“Quinn! How was your trip?” He would know about it—he’d been FBI before he left to become Mother’s butler-cum-bodyguard.
“A complete waste of time. I’d rather not talk about it, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course. Will you be joining us for dinner tonight? Oh, wait. I forgot. It’s Friday.” He sounded disgruntled.
“As a matter of fact, I will be joining you, if you’ll be kind enough to pick me up at State. I need a ride.”
“What’s the matter with the Lexus?”
“Nothing. It’s in for an oil change and a tune-up.”
“Didn’t you just have that done? Damned imports. Okay, I’ll pick you up—when?”
“About four thirty?”
“Good. That should get us home in time for me to make something… special for dinner.”
“Whatever you’ll be making, you’ll have to make sure it’s enough for four.”
“I know. Your mother told me we’d be having a guest.” He sneered the word. “I don’t know how you can trust that man, Quinn!”
“He saved my life, Gregor.”
“So buy him something as a token of your gratitude.”
“I think I owe him something more than monetary remuneration, don’t you?”
“Maybe, but I just hope you don’t give him your heart!”
“What?”
“Shit! Pretend you didn’t hear me say something so stupid! I’ll see you at four thirty, Quinn.” He hung up.
For a second, I couldn’t catch my breath. I’d never worried about giving away my heart—I’d had my one true love back when I was fifteen, and he’d spurned me, and since Manns and Sebrings only loved once, that had been my chance at the brass ring, the golden ticket. When Vincent came into my life and eventually my bed, love was the last thing that had crossed my mind.
The phone on my desk buzzed, providing a welcome distraction. “You have another meeting, Mr. Mann.”
VIII
AT FOUR thirty on the dot, Gregor pulled up in the Town Car.
I opened the passenger door, got into the front seat, and waited for him to say something about our previous conversation.
“You’re looking tired, Quinn.”
“Good afternoon to you too, Gregor,” I said dryly. Apparently he had as little desire to bring it up as I did.
He scowled at me, waited until I buckled up, and then eased the car away from the curb. “What’s the story with Holmes sending you to Bangkok?”
“That was supposed to be classified.”
He snorted. “I might not have been CIA, but I was a damned good FBI agent.”
“Everyone seems to know I was in Bangkok. Even Undersecretary Sinclair.”
“Hmm. It sounds as if there was a leak.”
“Possibly.”
“But there’s something else bothering you.”
“There was a message from Holmes on my machine when I got home this morning, telling me the undersecretary had requested me to come in to State today, ostensibly to clean up some paperwork.”
“But?”
“But when I got there, the undersecretary knew nothing about it. He said it could have been dealt with by anyone in State.”
“Hmm.”
“Yes.”
“And that trip to Bangkok was worse than useless.”
“Yes.”
“And this isn’t the first wild goose chase he’s sent you on.”
I leaned my head back against the headrest. “No.”
“Sounds to me like general pissiness on the DCI’s part.”
I had to laugh at that, but it did sound passive-aggressive, now that I thought about it. “But why? That’s the epitome of unprofessionalism.”
“If I recall correctly, he’s had a wild hair up his ass since that FUBAR in Paris. He wasn’t happy that someone not CIA was involved in your rescue.”
“But Mother
was going to have someone come looking for me anyway. Benjamin Monroe, if I recall correctly.”
“Yes. However, Monroe wasn’t WBIS; he was someone your uncle, who had been CIA, recommended.”
“Still—”
“Quinn, Vincent stuck his nose where it wasn’t wanted. Or needed.”
“But if Vincent hadn’t stepped in….” I was trying to be reasonable, but I found it difficult. I should have known he wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to snipe at Mark. “… I would have wound up dead, Gregor. I have no doubt about it.”
“Yes, well, I do! You’re the son of Nigel and Portia Mann. You’d have gotten yourself out!”
“No, Gregor, I’d be dead now,” I reiterated, and I could hear him grind his teeth. “Vincent’s a good man, and I… like him.” I hoped he hadn’t noticed the minute hesitation.
“You’re infatuated with him.”
“I’m not fifteen anymore.”
When it had been time to go home from the wine country around Avignon, I’d left my first lover with avowals of everlasting love. Average height, with dark, gypsy looks, Armand Bauchet was the love of my life; I was positive of it. When the single, stilted letter I sent him—even at fifteen, I knew better than to commit anything indiscreet to paper—was returned with an equally stilted note from his parents informing me Armand had been sent away, and I was never to attempt to contact him again, I was certain my heart had cracked in two and would never heal. The more so when it became apparent he wouldn’t try to go against his parents’ wishes.
“I won’t tell you no one dies of a broken heart, Quinn.” Gregor had sat beside me, his arm around my shoulders.
“But no one does?”
“No one does.” He’d rubbed my arm, his attempt at being reassuring, and surprisingly, it had helped. “And one day you’ll look back on this time with fondness, and if there’s any regret, it will simply be that you wasted a moment of time grieving over him.”
Now he took his eyes from the road for a second to meet mine, then shook his head and seemed to deflate. “And you’re not going to stop seeing Vincent just because I happen to think he’s wrong for you.”
“I’m not fifteen,” I said once again.
“No, you’re not.”
“And I know what I’m doing.”
“Do you?”
“This is my life, Gregor.”
“All right. But I should have shot him before I let him step one foot into your mother’s house.”
“You didn’t know it was him.”
“Don’t remind me. Who’d have thought he would do something so unpredictable?” He snorted. “What am I saying? Vincent’s middle name is unpredictable!”
I laughed, but leaned forward to turn on the radio. The station was a classical one that Mother favored, and Debussy’s “Clair de lune” filled the car.
Gregor took the hint and concentrated on driving us to Great Falls, and twenty minutes later pulled into the garage.
“I’ve got some plump, fresh shrimp that will make a nice scampi,” he said as we entered the house.
“That calls for garlic, if I recall.”
“Yeah. A lot of it.” He grinned, and in spite of his best attempt to appear innocent, that grin was evil, but I couldn’t prevent myself from smiling back at him. “Why don’t you go up to your room and lie down for a while?”
“You know I won’t be able to fall asleep.”
“Try anyway.”
“Yes, Daddy.”
“Go!”
I went up the stairs to the suite of rooms that had been mine since before I’d entered Phillips Exeter.
The room was spotless, not a speck of dust on the furniture, not a wrinkle in the curtains or bedspread that Mother had changed seasonally, even though I was no longer living there.
On one wall were framed photos of the horses I had ridden. Darling, my first pony, Jack Be Nimble and Quasimodo, the horses I would have taken to Moscow with me for the 1980 Summer Olympics, and Montezuma, the horse I took to Seoul and the Pentathlon in the summer of ’88.
Trophies and blue ribbons from show jumping and dressage competitions were in a cabinet that my father and I had built together when I was nine. It wasn’t perfect, but I treasured it. I smiled. I’d heard some choice words when he’d slipped with the hammer and hit his thumb, and he’d made me promise not to repeat them in front of Mother.
On the opposite wall was a bookcase that held classics such as The Hunchback of Notre Dame, The Count of Monte Cristo, and A Tale of Two Cities.
Beside the bookcase was a pair of crossed dueling swords. I thought briefly of the sword Mark had in his living room. It had belonged to Basil Rathbone, and Mark had provenance stating it had been used by the actor in The Mark of Zorro, Captain Blood, and The Adventures of Robin Hood.
I removed my suit jacket, loosened my tie, and went into the bathroom to freshen up. I didn’t bother lying down. The occasional nightmare I’d been having had escalated over the past week to the point where I was reluctant to even try to sleep; I knew that had contributed to my exhaustion.
I crossed to the bookcase and took down a book. There was a window seat fitted in the bay window that overlooked the back lawn, and I made myself comfortable on the padded cushions. I began to leaf through The Three Musketeers.
My eyes grew heavy, the words blurred, and before I realized it, I had dozed off.
I sat in a corner of the cell, my arms wrapped around my knees, trying to conserve what body heat I could. The cold and damp had seeped into my bones, and I shivered uncontrollably. A heavy chain shackled me to the wall. It had started to rub my ankle raw, and I no longer paced the confines of my cell.
I’d lost track of time, had no idea how long I’d been imprisoned in this place. I was starting to believe that I was destined to die here.
Had they forgotten me, the people for whom I worked?
When I heard the key in the lock, I looked up, expecting to see Max, the little Frenchman who had been caring for me in between beatings administered by Etienne and Gaston, henchmen of the madman who’d had me kidnapped.
Instead, it was the dastardly duo themselves.
Rather than have them think I was intimidated by them, I hauled myself to my feet.
“That time again, is it, boys?”
Gaston glared at me. Then his expression shifted to a combination of sly and lecherous. He spoke to me in French. “The Administrator has a visitor who is most desirous of….” His leer became even more pronounced. “… having you on your knees before him.”
“I kneel to no man.”
“You fool! You will kneel to Mark Vincent!”
“Vincent?” My heart gave a stutter.
“Ah. You know the man. I look forward to seeing him fuck that pretty mouth of yours.”
“In your dreams, pig!”
A hard flush colored his cheeks, and he backhanded me. I rolled with it; otherwise he could have easily fractured my cheekbone.
“’Tienne,” he snarled, “free him.”
“Gaston….” The larger man seemed uneasy. “I do not think….”
“That is your trouble, imbecile! You do not think! Do what I say!”
“Of course.” Etienne’s tone was resentful, but he obeyed him.
They dragged me down the long, dim corridor, Gaston muttering in detail what Vincent intended to do to me. Sodomy, both oral and anal, featured greatly in it.
“And once this Mark Vincent is done with you, then it will be our turn, eh, ’Tienne?”
But I knew that escape and retribution were in the offing. Vincent, my lover, was here to rescue me.
I’d been in the interrogation room before, had been drugged and beaten there, and I couldn’t prevent a shudder as the two shoved me through the doorway, but I was ready to put on the performance of a lifetime.
“Ah, M. Mann,” the Administrator murmured, “you’re here just in time to say au ’voir to M. Vincent.”
“I should have known you’d be behin
d this—” I started to growl, but then I caught sight of him, and the words caught in my throat.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to be!
Battered, broken, bloody—Mark was on his feet only through an act of sheer will. He gazed at me, all trace of his normally cocky attitude vanished, and I felt myself turn as gray as the room.
“No!”
“But yes, M. Mann!”
A shot rang out, reverberating in the confines of the room, there was a sodden thud, and my body flinched as if it had taken the bullet.
Mark lay on the floor, a small, neat hole between his eyes, which stared sightlessly at the ceiling. Blood pooled beneath his head, obscenely red on the stark white floor.
“No! He can’t be dead!”
“Oh, but he is, M. Mann.”
I went to him, one faltering step at a time, like a marionette whose strings had been sliced through, and dropped to my knees. I gathered his lifeless body in my arms and cradled his ruined head. Blood soaked into my sleeve.
“Such a disappointment, I’m afraid. His weakness for you, you see, M. Mann. He was no longer the perfect killing machine.” The Administrator grinned at me, the expression in his eyes showing he had parted complete company with sanity. “And now I’ll shoot you.”
He pointed the gun at me. In a matter of moments, I would be dead. I thought fleetingly of Mother, of my uncles, of friends who would mourn my passing, but I was uncaring. My lover was already dead.
I watched as the Administrator’s finger tightened on the trigger.
The gun fired and….
I jerked upright, lost my balance, and slid off the window seat onto the floor. My stomach heaved, and I scrambled to my feet and bolted into the bathroom, emptying my stomach of the lunch Christopher had worked so hard to create.
I leaned against the commode and shuddered. It had only been a nightmare.
Only. I gave a short laugh. That nightmare had been haunting me for weeks, growing increasingly more violent, until now, in every one, Mark was killed.
Finally, I rose to my feet, splashed water on my face, and rinsed out my mouth. Under control once more, I tidied my appearance and then returned to the bedroom, put on my jacket, and went downstairs.
