I Loved France But Did France Love Me
Harry woke up, remembered the night before in a head-splitting Kodak polychrome blur, thought: Oh great.
Really lucked out this time. Seduced by an older woman, drugged, probably pumped for information, although he couldn't recall much of that. Harry started to panic a little. It was so undignified. He was a spy, for Pete's sake! This kind of thing didn't happen in real life.
And now you can add 'handcuffed to the hotel bed' to the list. His superiors were never going to let him live this down.
Jesus.
Harry's eyes darted around and, after a spell of bumpy disorientation, got a message through to his brain. He started breathing again. So, at least he was still wearing most of his clothes. Things might be looking up, for a generous and forgiving definition of 'up'.
A woman's voice said: "Sorry about the headache."
She'd stuck around. Unbelieveable.
No doubt, later, he should check that all his organs were still present and accounted for. Harry clung to the idea that there was going to be a 'later', even if it meant getting a yelling from the Paris operations chief and being scoped out by local doctors, all of whom glared at him while conducting their examinations as if he had committed the unforgivable impertinence of interrupting them in the middle of a coffee and cigarette.
Harry raised himself up on his elbows and tried to look unfazed. She stood at the foot of the bed, wriggling into her skirt. The sofa looked slept in. Harry supposed it was too much to hope for that she'd twisted her back. "What did you give me?"
"Nothing that will show up on a blood report." Not exactly reassuring, but at least that ruled out impromptu lobotomy. He said: "What now?"
"Now? You go back to your job."
"Just like that?"
"Of course. I just wanted to know why you were following my husband. And now I know." She patted his cheek maternally. The migraine, Harry noticed, eased a little. "You'll feel much better once you've have a good night's sleep."
"Wait a minute -" He caught himself. Don't sound so bloody surprised, you arse. She raised an eyebrow at him; how does she do that? In a tone that under no circumstances could ever be counted as accusing, he said: "You're not CIA."
She shook her head, started buttoning her silk blouse by touch. "And neither is my husband."
"KGB? MfS?"
"Tough cookie. No bite."
"Who then?"
Dark hair was pulled into a loose but tidy knot; a spare pair of panty hose came out of the purse. It was like last night, only reversed and minus the carpet burn. Harry winced mentally.
"There aren't any initials for the work I do, love." A hand on hip, Angela pulled out a pair of big black sunglasses, winked at him before she slipped them over her eyes. "Hairpin on the bedside," she said at the door, "I know you'll see yourself out."
THE END
11 November 2007
Author's note: The precise nature of Angela Petrelli's ability is undetermined at the moment, but for the purposes of this story, I assumed that it's some type of mental ability.