AN: Thanks again to all of you who reviewed and/or sent private messages. I really appreciate your support for this story. Your questions, concerns and praise spur me on in the writing and telling of my tale. Also you will notice this chapter does not start with the usual continuation of my Gaelic legend. For those who are enjoying this bit of folklore, don't worry it will be back scattered here and there throughout the remainder of this story.
'**********'
Part 3
Apathy is the glove into which evil slips its hand. – Bodie Thoene
'***'
Monday
October 23, 2017
The CIA Offices
American Embassy
24 Grosvenor Square
London, England
"Fi!"
His assistant burst into his office without so much as an announcement or a knock. She found Michael sitting at his desk, shoulders slumped and clutching a cell phone. He didn't look up to acknowledge her presence, even when she cleared her voice to gain his attention. He remained frozen just staring down at the tiny screen on his phone.
She tried again, "Mr. Westen?"
He glanced at the door, staring through her, but not really seeing. His eyes were wide with fear, his fingers white from their tight grip on the phone. He offered no verbal or physical response, simply staring off into space.
"Mr. Westen?" She tried again, "Is something wrong, sir?"
His eyes drifted toward her, momentarily confused, before focusing on the task at hand. He shook his head to clear his mind, before answering, "What?"
"I asked if something was wrong. I heard you call out from my desk."
He gathered the posters at his feet, shuffling them until he found the right one. He held out the poster to her, "Uh, yes, could you, um…could you get the ah…the Interpol officer assigned to this case? I, um…I really need to...uh, speak with him as soon as…as soon as possible."
She took one tentative step forward reaching for the poster then quickly retreated to the threshold of his office door. Standing just outside, she took a moment to study him. He was new to the London office and she didn't know him very well. He'd been abrupt and tense since his arrival about three and half weeks before, the fuse on his anger always simmering just below the surface. She'd heard some rumors circulating among the office staff, when they gathered at the coffee pot or chitchatted over the latest gossip at lunch. There was something about a botched mission with resultant injuries. He usually came in a little late due to his medical appointments in the morning. He was extremely quiet, except for the niceties required for the job, and even those weren't always pleasant encounters. She knew he worked a lot, putting in long hours and staying late into the evening. She'd noticed his wedding band when he arrived, but unlike the other officials at the embassy, there were no photos or personal memorabilia displayed anywhere about his office. In the near month of his presence, there were no phone calls of a personal nature going out or coming in. She wondered what kind of wife tolerated such a self-absorbed, workaholic husband. Sure, she knew other administrators and officials were equally work obsessed, but they at least made the pretense of keeping up the appearance of a happy home life. She watched as he began furiously pushing the buttons on his phone again, only to sigh in frustration and toss it aside. He looked up to find her staring at him and glared back at the intrusion into his privacy.
"Are you sure you're all right?" She asked, rocking back and forth on the balls her feet, uncomfortable at being caught in her scrutiny. "I mean you look…."
Briskly wiping a hand over his face to calm his emotions, he barked, "Yes, Cynthia, I'm fine! Now, if you would please get that Interpol officer on the line…it's extremely important!"
She ran for her desk and immediately placed the call. Looking down at the poster, she browsed through the details on the criminal in question, noting his name, country of origin and numerous crimes. As she listened to the music while waiting on hold, she wondered about the nature of the criminal's link to her boss. At that moment, a deep voice echoed over the phone line. She offered the usual office salutations and immediately transferred the call to Michael's office.
"Hello Mr. Neville, this is Michael West…."
I'm sorry, but Mr. Neville is in a meeting at the moment. I'm Marty Drummond, one of Mr. Neville's associates, may I be of assistance."
"Ah yes, Mr. Drummond…."
"Marty, please."
"All right, Marty. As I was saying, my name is Michael Westen. I'm with the American Embassy here in London. I was hoping to trouble Mr. Neville for some information about an individual whom Interpol is currently tracking." Michael reached for a pen and pad of paper, shoving the other piles of paperwork to the side of his desk.
"I'm sorry, who is this?"
"Michael Westen, I'm with the agency here in London…."
"Oh, of course, who is it that your interested in, Mr. Westen?"
"Call me, Michael. I was browsing through your most recent posters and noticed a new face today. I was wondering if you could give me an update in regards to that individual?"
"Do you have the Interpol number for this fugitive?"
"Of course, it's ah…could you hold a second, my assistant has that particular poster." Michael hurried around the desk and retrieved the poster, before reaching for the phone again. "I'm sorry about that…ah Marty, correct?"
"Yes that's right."
"Okay, the number is 416050. It looks as if he escaped on Friday, October 19th," Michael quickly scribbled those details onto the pad.
"Ah yes, Michael, let me just pull up that file in the system." The clicking of computer keys and occasional beeps could be heard in the background. "Let's see that was number 416050, correct?"
"Yes," Michael sighed in frustration wanting to hurry the phone conversation along.
"Ah yes, escaped from Whitemoor Prison in Cambridgeshire on Friday. Looks like he escaped from the infirmary sometime early Friday morning. He was noted to be present by the staff at 03:00 and 05:00, but the bedside check during nursing turnover at 07:00 revealed the wrong prisoner in the infirmary bed. In retrospect, infirmary staff did a head count at 05:00 without verifying actual ID bracelets or photos. Due to that deficiency in protocol, suspected time of escape is placed somewhere between 03:00 and 07:00 on Friday, October 19th."
Michael jotted down the additional details, "I take it this individual is still at large?"
"Yes, that would seem to be correct. It appears we've had no sightings or apprehensions since the initial escape."
Michael scrubbed at his forehead to remain calm, "How does a high-risk prisoner just escape from a maximum security prison like Whitemoor."
"Well," a loud disgusted grunt was heard over the line, "…it appears he had inside help. There were two prison guards and an infirmary assistant missing after the prison escape was detected. There's no further information in the record, but Colin…ah, Mr. Neville is in a briefing regarding this particular case at this very moment. I can have him call you when he's free."
Michael glanced at his watch, it seemed like the second hand was flying by and with it his patience, "Um, okay…well, do you know when the briefing should be completed?"
"Sorry, couldn't begin to predict. You know how briefings go, they can last 3 hours or be done in 10 minutes." Agent Drummond chuckled at his own form of a joke.
Michael shook his head in frustration, even before he replied, "If you could please have him call me the minute he's available. This is really important!"
"What's this case to you, anyway?"
"Ah," Michael sought for a plausible explanation, "…some of my colleagues were involved in the take down. I'm just…you know, watching out for them." Michael gave the agent his cell number and finished with the usual thanks and goodbye.
Hanging up his office phone, he tried again to reach Fi at both numbers, but only got the same request to leave a voicemail. He left a short message to call as soon as she was free. He then sent a text with the exact same message. His mind drifted off to thoughts of Sean, Fiona's brother, but he didn't have Sean's current point of contact with him there in London. He figured he could call Fi's parents, but he didn't want to worry them without more proof of risk.
"Damn!" He shouted into the room, pacing back and forth, getting more and more agitated as each minute ticked by. He thought about calling Sam, but hated to worry him unnecessarily. He picked up his phone to call Fi again, but realized his last call was only minutes prior. Needing to do something, he sat down at his desk and began searching the computer for flights from London to Miami. The last flight out of London, that would arrive Miami that same day, left in less than 3 hours. He checked on seating and found the flight was nearly full. Acting on impulse, he booked a seat on the flight. At least it was something he could accomplish, even if it was unnecessary in the end.
Checking his watch again, he found another 15 minutes had passed, a full 20 since speaking with Drummond. He made a rash decision and began gathering his things. He figured it was a bit harder to ignore someone in person, especially when that person was pacing outside your office door. If a physical presence was what it took, then he and Colin Neville were about to have a face-to-face. Grabbing his satchel and emptying its content onto his already over-burdened desk, he reached for the Interpol poster, office supplies and his portable computer, loading them all into the bag. He then retrieved an overnight case, which he always kept packed for emergencies, from the corner behind the desk. Once a spy, always a spy, he reasoned, as he headed out his office door with gear in tow.
He stopped at his assistant's desk just long enough to inform her, "Cynthia, I'm grabbing a taxi and heading over to the Interpol office. I'll probably be out for the day."
He turned to exit the area then pivoted back, "Actually, I might well be gone for several days, if not indefinitely. If anyone is looking for me, please patch them through to my cell. I've already left that number for Agent Neville, but if he should call back here…put him through, as well."
And with those few words of instruction, his assistant watched him jog out the door. Gone for days, she wrinkled her brow in confusion and pulled up his schedule on her computer screen. He was booked for a meeting that afternoon with his boss and another for breakfast tomorrow. He couldn't just take off on a whim, leaving her to calm the tempest. She wandered for the umpteenth time in the last few weeks just how long Agent Westen would remain in London.
'*'
Michael caught a taxi out front of the Embassy, figuring every second saved was to his advantage. The quick 15-minute drive would give him a chance to call Fi again. When he got the same response as the 20 times before, he decided it was time to call in reinforcements. He dialed a familiar number and listened to it ring.
"Good morning, Axe residence…Sam speaking," Sam chuckled to himself, before continuing on, "…hey, what's up, Mikey? I haven't heard from you in a couple of weeks, and your wife isn't too chatty either!"
"Sam, I don't have time to explain all our problems right now," Michael breathed out on a weary sigh, which echoed all the way to Miami.
"Uh-oh, that doesn't sound encouraging," was Sam's sympathetic reply.
"No, probably not, but…well, never mind about all that right now." Michael pushed ahead in his conversation, "Look have you talked to Fi this morning?"
"Noooo," Sam shook his head for emphasis, "…she's not scheduled to spend the day with Elsa until tomorrow. Lose your wife again, Mikey?"
"Saaam," Michael swallowed back the crackle in is voice, "…when was the last time you did talk to her?"
Sam could clearly hear the emotion in his friend's voice, "Hey, you okay, buddy?"
"Not really," Michael tried to reel the conversation back in to his original intent. "Please, Sam, when was the last time you talked with Fi?"
"Mmmm, Thursday, I guess…she spent the morning with Elsa, while I ran some errands." Sam paused a moment, "Hey Mike, what's this really about?"
Michael released a loud anxious breath, "I don't want to worry you unnecessarily, but I need to know Fi is safe. Can you run over to the house and take a look around?"
"Wow, Mike, this is really bad timing. The hospice nurse just called to say she's running late. I don't expect her for another couple of hours, and there's no one else to stay with Elsa."
"Damn it," Michael cursed not so quietly under his breath, "…I really need someone to check the house!"
"Well, what about your mom?"
"No…no way, I don't want her anywhere near the house, just in case."
"Just in case what," Sam quizzed, an uneasy feeling settling into the pit of his stomach. "Come on, Mike, what the hell is going on?"
"Um, I just got a look at the most recent Interpol posters, and it seems an old buddy of ours has escaped from a prison here in England…Whitemoor to be exact." Michael waited for that little tidbit of news to sink in and hit its mark.
"Whewww," Sam whistled back. "You're not saying who I think you're saying?"
"Yeah, that's the one," Michael's voice fell in defeat, "…he escaped with some inside help on Friday morning and has not be seen since…."
"You don't think he headed to Miami, do you? I mean why not go to…."
"I don't know!" Michael barked back in agitation and then apologized, "Sorry, I'm just worried about Fi. I'm headed to Interpol to speak with the assigned officer right now. He's been tied up with a briefing about the case. Hopefully, he'll tell me the guy is back behind bars, but in the meantime…."
"Someone needs to check on Fi," Sam quickly replied. "You got it, buddy. I'll see if someone from the office can sit with Elsa and get back to you."
"Gotta go, taxi just pulled up outside Interpol," Michael grabbed his gear from the backseat and threw some cash at the driver. "Hey Sam!"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks for your help!" Michael rushed out in a single breath, as he ran up the step to Interpol.
"Anytime, Mike…you know that! Anytime!" Sam disconnected the link, leaving Michael listening to several beeps followed by dead silence.
'*'
London Interpol Headquarters
44 Featherstone Street
London, England
Once inside the building, he progressed through the security checkpoint and was directed to the information desk. The receptionist initially declined his request for Colin Neville's number, until he flashed his CIA credentials. He rode the elevator to the third floor and wandered his way through a maze of centrally placed desks to arrive at Neville's office on the far side of the building. Glancing into the agent's doorway, he saw four men sitting around a single desk. They all had their heads bowed, as they listened to a voice emanating from a centrally placed speakerphone. The conversation was much too soft for him to catch more than a few words here or there. He was so engrossed trying to capture any portion of the private conversation that he failed to hear a stocky gentleman approach him from behind.
"May I help you?" The gruff voice startled Michael, causing him to flinch away.
"I'm sorry what?" Michael tried to cover for his previous eavesdropping, "I was just…I was trying…." He fell quiet when the larger man pegged him with a withering stare.
"I asked, if I could help you?"
"Um, yes, I was looking for Colin Neville's office," Michael pulled his agency ID from his suit coat pocket and flipped it face-side up toward the other gentleman.
"Oh, of course," the teddy bear of a man smiled brightly, "…I spoke to you earlier, Mr. Westen."
Michael nodded his head and flashed his own smile, "Ah, you must be Marty Drummond…and it's Michael by the way."
"I thought you were going to wait for our call," the larger man motioned for Michael to follow him toward the coffee machine located in an adjacent alcove, "…can I get you a cup of coffee or tea?"
"Ah, no," Michael grimaced, "…had enough caffeine for today, I think, but I'll take some bottled water, if you've got it."
"Sure thing," Drummond reached into a small under cabinet refrigerator, pulling out a bottle of generic-brand water and handed it to Michael.
"Thanks," Michael tipped the bottle toward the other man.
"So, what brings you by?" Drummond frowned in question, "Did Colin get back to you already? 'Cuz, I could've sworn he's been stuck in his office with the briefing since noon."
Michael tried his most disarming smile, "No, haven't heard from him yet, but I hoped if I came by…ah, it might speed things along."
"Well, you're welcome to wait, just grab one of the seats outside his office." Marty nodded to the side, before taking a big swig of very hot coffee. He immediately grimaced in pain as the burning liquid hit his tongue. Pointing toward Neville's office, he cautiously lisped a reply," Can'th thell ya how long, he'll be thied up."
Michael offered the cool bottle of water to the other officer with an amused smile, but Drummond waved him off. Michael headed back to Neville's office, arriving just in time to see a tall, thin man behind the desk click off the speakerphone. The other folks in the room stood up, shaking hands with one another. Two of the gentlemen headed off, while one stayed behind to speak with the tall agent. Michael thought he could overhear them discussing what sounded like rugby scores and decided he'd waited long enough. He loudly dropped his gear into an adjacent chair then rapped his knuckles sharply on the door.
Both gentlemen looked up in surprise, which Michael took as his cue to flash an apologetic smile, "Agent Neville?"
"Yes," the taller of the two replied.
"Hello, I'm Michael Westen and I've been trying to reach you."
Neville eyed him with uncertainty, as the other man gathered his paperwork to leave. Michael stepped aside, allowing him to pass, then grabbed his satchel and stepped further into Colin Neville's office.
Extending a hand in greeting, Michael continued on, "I spoke with your associate, Marty Drummond, about an hour ago. He was going to have you call me, as soon as your briefing was through. I thought it might be quicker to just grab a taxi at the Embassy and come talk in person."
"You're with the American Embassy?" Neville considered him with a healthy bit of skepticism.
"Uh, yes," Michael flashed his ID, "…sorry, I'm with the CIA."
Colin nodded his head in welcome, "Ah, okay…I haven't had a chance to speak with Marty yet. What can I do for you, Mr. Westen?"
"Michael, please," he reached into his briefcase and withdrew the Interpol poster, "…I'm wanting some information on this fugitive."
Neville took the poster, studying it, before handing it back, "What is it you need to know?"
"Well, I wondered where you are with the case?"
"You have a particular interest in that fellow?" The Interpol agent pointed toward the poster clutched in Michael's hand.
"Yeah, as a matter of fact, I do. As I told Agent Drummond earlier, some of my associates helped take him down. I'm just looking out for their safety…you know, trying to keep them informed and in the loop, so to speak."
Neville pointed to a chair opposite his desk, before returning to his own. He picked up a file lying closed on his desktop and began leafing through the top several pages. "I ah…I don't see your name anywhere in this file, Mr. Westen."
"Michael," he corrected again, "…no, I was not specifically named at the time. But I believe if you look further, you'll see he was arrested in the waters off the United States."
"Okay," Colin Neville stared straight ahead at Michael, waiting for him to continue on.
"Look, Mr. Neville," Michael tried to keep the edge out of his voice, "…I was involved in the undercover operation, which directly resulted in his capture, trial and incarceration. The fugitive was apprehended in the coastal waters of Miami, right? He had a signature explosive device with him at the time, tying him to multiple bombings throughout Western Europe. He was also charged with the death of Tom Strickler in Miami. After capture the United States waved its right to trial, in favor of extradition to London…where he could be tried on the more substantial charges related to his culpability in those lethal terrorist bombings.
Neville finally smiled at Michael, "It's Colin…and what can I tell you about Thomas O'Neill that you don't already know, Michael?"
"Uh, how about his whereabouts after his escape from Whitemoor Prison on Friday?"
"Look Michael, I appreciate your concern for your colleagues, but that information is privileged at this time. And as far as I can see, the CIA doesn't have a current role in O'Neill's capture here in the U.K., or any where in Europe for that matter."
Michael's headache rushed back, throbbing in full force, and he briskly rubbed his temple to calm the pain. "Colin, I understand the jurisdictional issues between our two countries, while the fugitive remains in Europe. The problem still remains that O'Neill has ties to the U.S. One of my female associates, who was directly involved in O'Neill's apprehension, spent a particularly brutal time in his captivity before being rescued. I have reason to believe O'Neill might come gunning for her in a vengeful attempt to seek retribution for his capture."
"This associate have a name?"
"Undercover, can't say…but trust me, if O'Neill gets ahold of her again, there won't be enough pieces left to identify her body." Michael confidently stared down the Interpol agent trying to convey the seriousness of the situation.
"All right," Neville finally relented, "…but just so you can relate the details to the concerned parties in Miami. No detention or arrest attempts by you here in the UK. And I don't want you getting into the middle of our investigation, either."
"Of course," Michael nodded his assent. His mind pondering the absurdity of limits and boundaries, between countries, when terrorists like O'Neill were on the loose.
Neville withdrew some paperwork from the file on his desk, "It appears O'Neill had inside help with his escape. There was a possible 4-hour window of time during which the escape occurred early Friday morning. Given his prolonged head start, it's not surprising that an extensive search of Whitemoor Prison and its surrounding premises turned up no evidence of O'Neill or his three accomplices. The next area of pursuit included all transportation hubs into and out of the immediate area. All airports, train and bus terminals within a 50-kilometer radius of Cambridgeshire and Cambridge proper were thoroughly checked and cleared. The first break in the case came at a vehicle checkpoint outside Colchester, where we were able to apprehend the infirmary assistant. It took 3-hours of intensive questioning, but he finally gave up the escape plan for O'Neill and the two prison guards through Maldon Harbour en route to Ireland.
"So they were headed to Ireland, not the U.S?" Michael exhaled an audible sigh of relief and visibly relaxed in his chair.
Neville shook his head, "Can't exactly confirm that."
"What?" Michael whole demeanor immediately returned to full alert.
Pausing a moment to swallow from a mug of lukewarm coffee, Neville pulled out a map from O'Neill's Interpol file. "We immediately issued alerts to all harbor security and personnel, along with notifying local businesses and private boating clubs along the potential escape route," the agent pointed out the expansiveness of the waterway requiring coverage. "To our surprise, we received a fairly prompt reply from the captain of a cargo ship en route to Cork. Seems they had caught several stowaways on board after leaving the dock, at least one of which fit the description of the prison guard. Interpol agents were able to apprehend the stowaways, as soon as the freighter docked in Cork. Unfortunately, only one of them was our man, the other stowaways were simply petty thieves. The agents interrogated the guard for 12 hours. Initially, he only gave up the information about the planning and execution of the prison break…but in the end, he told authorities, O'Neill and the other guard were smuggled onto a Coyne Airlines flight departing out of the Anglia Cargo Terminal."
Michael stared at Neville with focused determination, taking in every detail of information, before offering, "Well that should be easy enough to track. It took them, what…7 to 8 hours to make it from Whitemoor to Colchester? That should've put them at the airport around say 10 a.m. to noon on Friday. How many Coyne Air flights originated out of the Anglia terminal over say the next 12 hours?"
Neville flashed Michael a sickly grin, "Half a dozen or so."
"Whoosh," Michael released an exasperated whistle of air, "…and should I ask where they were bound?"
"All over the place," Neville pointed to the map again, "…Coyne Air flies to the Middle East, the Baltic States, Canada and the U.S."
Michael pinched the bridge of his nose, "Any of the possible flights headed to North America?"
Neville wearily nodded his head again, "One went to Canada, the other to the east coast of the U.S." As Michael started to interrupt, the agent held up a hand then continued on, "The flight to the U.S. made stops in Boston, New York, D.C and Miami."
Michael felt his earlier fear surge and threaten to engulf him. Swallowing back the burning acid in his throat, he asked the only obvious question, "Did anyone see O'Neill on any of the flights?"
"No," Neville shook his head in frustration, "…we've had Interpol, the FBI and CIA, as well as, all local authorities checking ports of entry throughout the U.S., Canada and the Middle East. No one interviewed to date has claimed to see or had interactions with either O'Neill or the missing prison guard."
"Ooohhh," Michael's response, delivered in a single long breath, came out as if someone had punched him in the chest.
"Yeah, oh," the Interpol agent leaned his forehead heavily into his left palm and glanced at Michael through spread fingers. "I'm sorry I don't have better news, but it seems O'Neill has disappeared from sight in the last 48 hours. He could be anywhere in the world and we'd never know. Until the bastard shows his next hand, I'm afraid we're all sitting ducks."
"Some more than others," Michael struggled with the emotion in his voice.
"I take it this female 'colleague'," Neville quirked his fingers to form quotation marks for added emphasis, "…means something special to you?"
"Yeaaahhh," Michael voice cracked, as his reply came out throaty and rasp. He cleared his throat and tried again, "Yes, she's someone very special to me." He's eyes fell to his wedding band, which he twirled around his ring finger with his thumb.
"I'm really sorry to hear that," Colin whispered in a hushed voice, "…O'Neill is one sick bastard!" He continued to study Michael, who was having a difficult time keeping eye contact. He appeared to be lost in his own little world. "Hey, are you going to be okay?"
"Uh?" Michael glanced back up at the Interpol agent, as his question startled him from his morose musings. "Ah, yeah…I ah…I have a 3 p.m. flight out of a…um, Heathrow to Miami." He diverted his face from Neville's view, when the scrutiny became more than he could bear. "Thought it best to head home…to, you know…be close just…just in case. I, ah…I'm sure things will be…will be fine."
Michael knew he was hanging on by a thread and needed to get out that office, as soon as possible. He grabbed his notes and Interpol poster, shoving them into his satchel. Hoisting the leather bag onto his left shoulder, he extended his hand to Neville, "Thanks for all your help, Colin. I really appreciate your time and honesty in this matter."
"No problem," Colin stood up to walk the CIA agent to the door. "Hey, if I can be of any further help, feel free to call." Michael nodded his head and took a few steps toward the door.
"Michael," Colin called him back, "…do I have your cell number, just in case I hear anymore news?"
"Yeah," Michael's voice quivered under the strain of his tentative emotional control, "…I uh…I gave it to Drummond earlier."
"Good luck," Neville clamped his hand on Michael's shoulder just as he was exiting the office door, "…don't let the bastard take her away from you!"
Michael stood to his full height and answered over his shoulder, "He won't, if I have anything to say about it!"
And with that Michael headed back through the maze of desks and walked straight into a waiting elevator. He flagged down a taxi outside the London Interpol building. Tossing his gear into the cab, he slide in the back seat, directing the driver to take him to Heathrow for a British Airlines international flight out of terminal 5. As he settled in for the drive, he checked his cell for messages from Fiona. Seeing none, he tried both home and cell again with similar results. His sense of fear was overwhelming, weighting him down in the seat. He hadn't heard a word from Sam, so he tried his cell again.
"Sam here," he answered on the first ring, "…what'd you find out from Interpol, Mike?"
"Nothing good, I'm afraid," Michael pulled the phone from his ear to urge the driver to take a detour, around a roadblock up ahead. "Sorry Sam, traffic is a mess and I'm trying to catch the last flight out of Heathrow that will land me in Miami tonight."
"You're coming here?" Sam asked, "How'd you manage that? I thought the higher ups were riding your six…."
"I don't care anymore," Michael cut Sam off, "…Fi is more important than my damn job at the agency."
"Wow brother, when did that happen?"
"What are you talking about?" Michael rebuffed the question with more than a little bit of ire in his voice. "Fi's always been more important…well, ever since those first few years after I got burned!"
"Hmmm, have you ever told that to her?" Sam tried to pacify his buddy, but still nudged him along.
"Well, maybe not in those exact words?" Michael backpedalled a little from his previous protest.
"In any words?" Sam knew he was treading on thin ice.
"Obviously not," Michael's voice took on a melancholy tone, "…otherwise, she wouldn't have served me with divorce papers today."
"Divorce?"
"Yeah divorce," Michael words came out stilted and slow.
"Wheww," Sam whistled back. "Sorry buddy, can't say I saw that one coming…Fiona never said a thing. Although…."
"I know…I know," Michael's defensively mumbled into the phone, "…that's one of the reasons I need to find her. I have to explain…make her understand…."
"Understand what?"
"THAT I STILL LOVE HER, DAMN IT!" Michael's declaration erupted like thunder and lighting across a late July sky.
"Well, I for one am glad to hear that," Sam's voice raised an octave, as he became more upbeat.
"What?" Michael's confusion came through in his voice.
"That you still love her…and that you're willing to put her first."
"I always did," Michael argued back like a petulant child, "…I mean, I may not have been the best at communicating…."
"Wow, that's the understatement of the century!" Sam blurted out then hurried on, before Michael could get peeved. "Don't get me wrong, Mikey. I know how much Fiona means to you. My point is, I don't think Fi knows how much she means to you! She's been in a bad place for a while now. The fact that she's the one willing to call it quits, says a lot. That's like…you know…monumental!"
"I know, Sam…I know," Michael rubbed his temple, willing his headache to go away. "Look, all I want is a chance to make her understand all the things I couldn't say, but first…I have to find her!"
"Okay, so what did the guy at Interpol say?"
"O'Neill is off the grid and has been for the last 48 hours."
"Not good," Sam moaned, before yelling something away from the phone. "Hang on, Mike…the hospice nurse just arrived."
Michael spent the next few minutes watching traffic whiz past his side window. The taxi driver suddenly hit the brakes, sending Michael careening forward and jamming his right shoulder into the front seat, before the cab accelerated again around an accident in the middle of the intersection. Michael rubbed his shoulder, dying for some Advil and a pack of ice. His eyes caught the sign announcing the exit for Heathrow 2 kilometers ahead. Glancing at his watch, he sighed in relief, realizing he would make the flight with 30 minutes to spare. Just at that moment, Sam came back on the line.
"Hey, sorry 'bout that, Mike." Sam's breath was noticeably labored, as he spoke into the phone. "The hospice nurse is finally here, so I can head on over to your place. I couldn't find anyone from the office to stay with Elsa earlier."
"What?" Sam's voice caught Michael unaware, as he pondered O'Neill's escape and potential for harm.
"I said, I'm heading over to your house now. I couldn't leave earlier," Sam repeated. "So, do we have any idea where O'Neill was headed?"
"Several possibilities, actually. O'Neill and a guard jumped on a cargo plane departing out of the UK. The carrier delivers all over the globe. Best guess, puts him somewhere between Canada, the U.S. and the Middle East."
"Nothing like narrowing it down," Sam grumbled snidely. His key fob beeped, as he unlocked his car door.
"Yeah, Interpol and local authorities have questioned all personnel aboard the flights, but no one remembers seeing O'Neill." Michael paused for a moment. "Sam?"
"Yeah Mickey?"
Michael's voice softened in obvious distress, "I got a bad feeling about this…the U.S. flight made stops in Boston, New York, D.C and…Miami."
"Oh crap…I'm on my way right now!" Sam inhaled a deep breath, as the car tires screeched in protest, "Hang in there, buddy. I'll call you as soon as I get to your house."
"Thanks Sam," Michael struggled to control his emotion, "…my ah…my flight leaves…in ah, 20 to 30 minutes."
"You'll hear from me before then…promise!"
"Bye Sam," Michael disconnected the call and shoved the cell phone into his lapel pocket, as the cab driver pulled up to the curb at the terminal. Michael handed him the fare along with a good tip for expediting their travel time, then grabbed his gear and headed inside.
Once checked in, he stopped at the first newsstand to purchase some Advil, bottled water and a newspaper. Any newspaper would do, it didn't matter the edition or size. A well-versed member of the frequent traveler's club, he knew an opened newspaper was the best deterrent from the endless chatter of a noisy seatmate. He had just swallowed two Advil, when his cell chirped from his front pocket. Thinking it might be Sam; Michael quickly answered the call.
"Hello," Michael held his breath expecting a dire report.
"Mr. Westen, this is Cynthia from the office…."
"Cynthia, did Colin Neville call back?" Michael prayed they'd found O'Neill stashed in some two bit Arabian hellhole.
"Ah, no sir," she sounded nervous to his ears, "…um, could you please hold for Assistant Deputy Director Morrow?"
"But…." He was immediately cut off by elevator music. Wondering what was going on at the Embassy, he sought out a private corner of the terminal in which to talk.
"Michael?" Director Marrow came on the line, "I was under the impression we had a meeting today to discuss the case reviews I gave you."
"Yes sir," Michael rolled his eyes heavenward, "…we did, sir…but something important has come up. I'll most likely be out of town for the next several days."
Michael heard the Director's irritated sigh, "I don't recall approving any PTO time for you. Since you just arrived here in London less than a month ago, I think it's a bit premature to be cutting out for personal time, don't you? Especially considering how your last assignment ended, I doubt it's wise to press your luck with the Agency!"
"I'm sorry, sir, but this important…."
"Michael, I believe I just made myself very clear," the Director's words were abrupt and to the point, leaving little doubt as to his intentions.
"I understand, sir…but I need to return home to Miami," Michael tried once again to plead his case.
Morrow angrily took the call off speaker and lifted the handset to his ear. "Mr. Westen, in light of your previous troubles related to family issues…I believe Director Woodrow made it quite clear the Agency would not tolerate anymore shenanigans. I suggest you forget about home and head back to the office, immediately. I'll reschedule our meeting for 16:00.
"NO…SIR!" Michael firmly declined, "My wife is missing and potentially in harm's way…I intend to fly home to insure her safety!"
"Mr. Westen…"
"NO! I have spent 30 years in loyal service to my country, sir! I have put my interests and my family's interest behind the wishes of the Agency, time and again. If Deputy Director Woodrow isn't happy with my performance, then he knows how to reach me! As of this moment, I am boarding a plane to Miami to assure my wife remains alive! Good afternoon, sir!"
Michael hung up the phone feeling freer than he had in years. He heard them announce the boarding call for his flight and double-timed it down the terminal to his gate. As he was about to hand off his boarding pass, he phone chirped back to life. He thought about disregarding the call, in case Morrow was calling back, but pulled it from his pocket anyway. Glancing at the caller ID, he visibly relaxed.
"Sam!"
"Hey Mike, I just got here. The house is locked up tight as a drum. I don't see any broken windows or other signs of forced entry. I checked the garage and Fiona's car is missing. I'm not sure if she's gone or has it parked elsewhere, as your garage door opener is still on the blink."
"Damn it," Michael cursed under his breath, "…I was supposed to fix that before I left for London."
"Yeah, I've heard all about it," Sam started to elaborate, but thought better of it, "…ah, never mind."
"So, there's no sign of her anywhere?"
"Nope," Sam shrugged his shoulders, "…like I said, no car, no mess or signs of a struggle. I picked up your mail, looks like about a day's worth or a little more." Michael heard a seal give way, as a door opened, "Fridge is still full, so I doubt she's gone on a long vacation. Besides, she's supposed to spend the day with Elsa tomorrow."
"I don't understand," Michael groaned out in weary frustration.
"Don't know what to tell you, brother. Maybe she went away for the weekend."
"Maybe? Did you try to call her on her cell?"
"Sheesh," Sam burst out, "…I've been trying all morning, ever since you called me!"
"I don't like it, Sam…even if I'm not her favorite person right now, why wouldn't she talk to you? She knows you wouldn't keep calling her, unless it was important, especially now that Elsa's…." Michael let the word hang out in the air.
"I know," Sam's previous adrenaline rush plummeted at the mention of his dying wife. "So, what do you want me to do? Should I call the police? Though, I'm not sure what I'd tell them. You're worried about your wife, because…"
"No, I'm about to board my flight now. I should be in Miami around 10-11 tonight."
"You want me to pick you up at the airport?" Sam offered freely without thought.
"No, stay with Elsa…I'll catch a cab."
"Ya sure? I don't mind…hospice will be covering tonight." Sam tried to lighten the mood, "Besides, Fiona will probably be home by the time you get in. She probably just took off on a little weekend holiday. You know the scenario: you'll surprise her by showing up at the house…she'll kick your butt to the curb…I'll have to come rescue you!"
"I don't think so, Sam," Michael's voice was quiet and dejected. "I have a bad feeling about this whole O'Neill thing. I'd like nothing better than to show up at midnight and have my "fiery old" Fi show me the door. But…" he let the thought hang, "Well, I gotta go, Sam. They're about to close the jet way doors."
'***'
To be continued…
'**********'
AN: The next chapter may be a little longer in coming. I've been able to stay one chapter ahead, so as I posted a chapter, the next went to my Beta. I'm in the middle of a particularly brutal stretch of 24-hour call shifts. With the holiday thrown in this week, I'm pulling five 24-hours shifts in 9 days. I promise to update as soon as possible, but it might not be this weekend. Sorry...
