Byrne's fell asleep as soon as he was airborne, a first as flights were used for catching up on his ever growing inbox, true rest was a thing he had not achieved for over twenty years as he used his insomnia to keep up with his workload. On the flight from Paris to DC, he slept like the dead in his business class seat, waking as the plane began its descent. His first action on reaching his basement office was to sign off the file for Fallen Angel as inactive. The Deputy Director of Covert Operations then went upstairs to see his boss for a verbal sign off as his blackwork was never part of the official filing/memo/email trail nor on the CIA mainframe and archive. Joe Byrne had typed up the brief contact report on the official reason detailing the only surviving witness to the deaths of two American Tourists, tying Sarov to their murder. His official report nicely covering over the unofficial reality of the debrief, as he alone knew the details of why Sarov was a person of interest. The only reason the whole debacle had not been public knowledge was the Russian cover up was airtight, which had included protecting Alex. Byrne had a bad feeling that Blunt had expected the FSB to make the teen agent disappear.
It was after five before he made it to his favourite watering hole for a Guinness and a chaser of Irish Whiskey. The place full of tourists and students, loud to make it the perfect cover for meeting both allies and the opposition. Sat in the corner booth was the Professor of Russian Literature at Georgetown.
As the CIA spook joined the poet, the FSB deep cover spy poured him a glass of champagne, then raised his glass, "to the young lovers in Bonny Scotland."
Byrne laughed then sipped the fine chilled wine. "To all young lovers. Fools like me got caught up in the Great Game and then my childhood sweetheart found lawyers to clean up for my neglect. How is the lovely Diandra?"
"Pregnant again. Number five. My students think I'm sex mad. In truth, great makeup sex has consequences. Five trial separations and now five kids. Chelsea is now heading for college herself, so I won't need to scale up again. I need another film deal to pay for medical school though. The scenario of an efficiently dull bureaucrat acting as black-ops spymaster is perfect for a quick bestseller, don't you think?"
"Ask Jeanette Williams that. She's the new deputy director of covert operations. If you are writing such a thing, make the protagonist female. You have met Tulip Jones. The bitch buried Blunt after Alex turned up alive and trapped in Russia." Finishing the fizz, he took a big gulp of his Irish stout. "I'm just an instructor back at the FBI now, counter espionage and counter terrorism. Think, nine to five, no more life and death decisions. So, what is the betting pool on Sasha's next move? I put fifty on wedding bells in two years and being the perfect partner for the ambitious Mr Sprintz. I watched them in Italy and on the flight to Glasgow. After reading the reports from Moscow, I was damn sure we had potential Cossack on our hands. Boris has been a miracle worker."
"It was a team effort from the outset for us. We are all waiting to see if MI6 wants their toy back. That will be most amusing to read about. I will keep you in the loop. My counterpart in London is fully aware of the Presidential interest of the young Mr. Kiriyenko. Sasha out played that bastard perfectly by becoming the dance partner of his youngest daughter. He's practically family to the most ruthless bastard in Moscow."
...
Margaret left another message for her only surviving child, this time with the agent she despised, knowing that individual was the worst bottom feeding parasite in her daughter's clique. She was livid after posting an invitation the week before. Tomorrow, there was a family party at the Hilton. Dieter was coming to be polite, when he had never been comfortable with large gatherings of his grandson's Scottish relations. For his son that man would walk on coals. Becoming a mother had made Blythe a coward, running from her responsibilities. Love was not enough for her daughter, not compared to the liars and cheats she preferred to share her time with.
The old woman then went to look at the fabulous creation Sasha was constructing in her tiny kitchen. He had just made caramel for spun sugar as the final decoration on a tower of profiteroles too tall for her tiny fridge, which would be stored in the fridge at the hotel overnight. She and Jamie had taste tested these morsels and it was one of the best puddings she had eaten in her life. The buffet catered for, as the party was to celebrate Jamie's coming of age, start of university and finally to welcome Sasha to the family. Everyone happy Jamie had put his difficulties behind him. At fourteen, he had been staring at a future in jail.
It was going to be grand party, with or without her daughter turning up. The etiquette of coming out meant the entire family now knew Jamie was gay, with one exception his mother. It was her loss.
...
The vase sailed through the air, missing it's mark and shattering on the floor as he walked out of the door for the last time. Blythe McCudden screamed in frustration as her status shifted back to single. The young actor had used his time with her to use all her connections and was now moving to LA for the starring role in an A list movie. She was stuck in the rut of starring roles in forgettable rep revivals and second rate TV dramas to keep the wolf from the door.
She walked away from the mess to go back to bed, ignoring the messages on her phone. The one time muse and centre of fashionable London was intent on a monumental pity party. It had been a miserable summer, chasing the few jobs passed to her by Colin. Her agent doing a piss poor job of getting her work. The day to day grind of phoning contacts, visiting open castings for TV, stage, even attempt to stay current by modelling or adorning a few pop videos was not paying off. Her status was precarious, known for second rebate productions and flops, fighting for work with actors far more talented, respected and liked by their peers. Blythe was more at home on the pages of the tabloids than the industry press. The slime, Laurence had probably already given his kiss and tell exclusive for Sunday's headlines. Maybe she should write her own screenplays, give herself a juicy role. It couldn't be that hard.
...
Alex ran faster as it started to drizzle. It was another miserable morning, not helped by his hangover. He blamed the three glasses of champagne, not the several rounds of vodka shots as he introduced Jamie's cousins to adopting Russian good luck rituals. Dieter had brought several bottles of the best quality grain vodka for his new son. Today they were travelling to London for Jamie to give his mother the ultimatum of every neglected child after years of therapy, he was now in control of their relationship and it was going to be closure or the new start, untainted by her past failings.
The ex spy had his own reason for the brief stay over in London. He had to confront his past abusers, some with civility of bygones be bygones and some with the enmity they deserved.