The last thing he wanted was to get up. But he had facts to check, and a meeting to schedule if everything was legit. The day was warm and he was less tired than usual after passing out near his laptop, the exhaustion dragging him down to a dreamless sleep for the first time that week.
Hacking was one of the skills their group had most trouble learning, the virtual and the real meshing and clashing, something new that they hadn't expected and couldn't entirely wrap their heads around it. He was the youngest and the only one that even halfway understood how to open doors and bypass firewalls, his criminal antecedents helping even in the changing contexts. The very concept of a human world within a machine was hard for Nicky and Andy to grasp. Joe was faster in accumulating knowledge, his past as a scholar and natural curiosity working to make him the second-best hacker in their four people army - and he would have been a heavy user of social media if Andy hadn't understood how it could be used to trace them and explicitly forbid its use. There were still some Flickr photos of Niccolo around the web from older albums Yussuf had created and 'forgotten' to delete.
The files were impeccable, sources genuine, no hint of a trap. The mission was in the usual forums for mercenary work, clearly marked and defined. Clear-eyed and rested, there was still something there that screamed trap to him. Terrorism was still a hot topic in the USA. It was understandable they would not want to spread even more the knowledge of the theft, but why not use their black ops agents? Why go for mercenaries? Has it already been tried? The risk deemed too high to try again? Or perhaps it was the opposite: the terrorists wouldn't target the United States, only one of their allies, so it was a low priority, a fool's errand to satisfy diplomacy, with no real intent of an effective response. He was intrigued and annoyed. Because it fits all their requirements and if the terrorists deployed the chemicals in public spaces, it would be a tragedy, and now he had to meet the handler. Again.
His memory wasn't the best, not like Joe or Nicky who could recite many poems or passages; or Andy for whom memory was a beloved friend and a hated enemy, the duality of her feelings mirroring the way her remembrance seemed to jump from inconsequential details to treasured instances, in a pendular movement, from one side to another. When he is able, Yussuf puts words or faces from her past into ink and paper, fixating them for a moment (years or decades, does it really matter to them?) He has no more recollection about Copley than he does about what he ate three years ago on this same day, but a quick search of his own files reminds him what there is to know about the man. A superficial sweep of the internet shows he's not CIA anymore, retired. Working mainly with pharma industries. Perhaps a favour for a colleague? Or a small test, to see if he still had the knowledge to operate if he had decided to go back to the agency. Too many 'ifs'
He set up the meeting, sending the date, magnanimously letting the man choose a place. He shouldn't have. The chosen place is a pub called Hanging Man in the area of London. A double wounding, even if not meant as such. It didn't make his temper better, even as he entered the building, knowing Copley would already be inside, waiting for him.
Approaching the corner table, and sliding into his seat, he studied the man in front of him: lines had formed in his forehead and face, a sense of heaviness in his expression, tiredness in the way his shoulders slumped. Even as Copley turned to him with a smile, greetings and a hand to shake, the... strained? Melancholic? atmosphere persisted.
"Mr Booker, I am glad to see you again. I am impressed, you haven't changed at all" Copley was smiling by rote, not because he wanted to. Booker would have considered it fitting for the situation at hand if in his notes he hadn't written down how calm and collected, professional the man was last time. Again, a red flag. If whatever discomfited Copley was about the mission, it meant it was much worse than he had been able to discover, and if it was something particular about Copley, it could badly affect their ability to complete the job in case they accepted it, as their handler and client was compromised from the get-go.
"Mr Copley, I have to admit I didn't expect to ever work with you again. And I am still assessing the situation. Please do not consider this an agreement of my group's involvement in your situation. I have serious doubts about your proposal and whether it is feasible. And even if it is, it will cost you. A magnitude more than what was announced, considering all the Intel you are lacking such as what is the substance and probable location. Honestly, it looks like your ex-agency either completely dropped the ball and is in a desperate bid to not call too much attention to the robbery or a poor attempt to pacify an allied nation" he said, watching Copley carefully for any emotion. Any mercenary group would have brought up the lack of information. He wanted to know what was the excuse the handler would give - both for the too-small fee as well as for the lack of care. With luck, he would uncover enough to turn it down and forget about it.
"Mr Booker, I am afraid I must confess to having my own doubts as well. This is a favour to one of my ex-colleagues. I have retired since we first met each other..." Here, Copley paused, a flash of pain (grief? longing? love ) flashed through his eyes, far away from the pub they were currently in. It was a familiar expression, one Booker had seen in Andy's face when she looked at the ocean, that he knew mirrored his own when thinking of the past. In an instant, he wanted to ask - who is your beloved ghost that haunts your existence? Who did you lose?
"Mr Booker?" Copley's hands were pressed against each other on the top of the table, the minute trembling of his shoulders, the way his breathing hesitated over the 'k'.
He had said that aloud. Normally he would apologize, he would let it go, but... They had just finished one mission, and here the world was throwing a new one in his lap, one that may call for his family's immortality. And that would still hurt them - physically and mentally because immortal did not mean invulnerable, and he was tired of this same song and dance with no direction and no relief (Carry on my wayward son, For there'll be peace when you are done, but there wouldn't - no peace and no rest, immortality saw to that). The person responsible for the whole mess of a job was in front of him, wounded and bleeding and for once, he pressed. Because the last thing he wanted was to get them embroiled in a botched job, to fuck them up worse than they already were.
"I believe you heard me, Mr Copley. If we are going to work together again, I need to know more about you - specifically which loss has made a perfectly professional CIA man lose so much composure, and so much of himself that I can't help but note it. Even if you think it won't interfere, you are human, and your grief may distract you and negatively affect your capacity to handle the mission. So, Mr Copley, I must ask again, who did you lose?" And he knew what he was talking about. Each loss feels like an invisible scar (there should be a wound here) that hurts in the most inconvenient times, drawing his attention away from what he should be doing to try to alleviate the pain.
Copley's expression... For a moment he thought the man would shatter, composure lost. Then Copley seemed to drag himself together, shards of pain still piercing him, but at least he was in control. He sucked in air and deliberately loosened his body.
"My wife... After we met, she started to show symptoms of ALS. She died... some years ago already, but..." Copley didn't finish the phrase - he didn't need to. It was in the lines of his body, in the way he held himself, in the ring still in his hand.
Booker felt his own throat tighten, memories and regrets overwhelming him for a moment. His hand goes to his canteen, whiskey and bourbon mixed together. Not now.
The death scent of their room, just about enough for their bed, Hélène's small and weakened hand, blue skin wrinkled in his, as he cleaned her from her waste, washing her body as much as he could, dread sinking into his gut at the sight of rice-like diarrhoea. No matter what he tried, nothing helped her, the muscles of her hands and legs trembling, as if something was shaking her from the inside, her sweet voice reduced to a whisper he could barely hear. He prayed. Fast and pleading, sweet and harsh. For whatever he had, whatever protected him, to protect her, to heal her instead. It didn't work. He could only watch over her as her gaze became embittered, her smile more and more transforming into a snarl with his inability to do anything for her. Not even her death wish he could fulfil - as soon as she fell sick, he had sent their children to relatives, far from their town to protect them - so he couldn't bring them back for the last goodbye. He watched, useless, as she dried up like a flower exposed to the relentless sun, the disease sapping everything human and dignified from her, leaving an animal's corpse, dried up and cold in its place.
It was the bell ring from the door of the pub that brought him back to the present, looking again to the handler (Copley, James Copley), seeing his grief, their grief reflected and shared. It shouldn't surprise him, that the sentiment is not only his but... It has been so long.
Nicky and Joe are together and their troubles are always shared and halved, a concern or a worry smoothed over by beloved hands; and what weighs on Andy isn't just grief, but also another beast called guilt, and they mix with anger and a resolution to not look back that erodes her from the inside out, hollowing a bit more each decade. He hopes it takes more time, hopes he doesn't have to see the complete process, would rather die sooner than that - because he is selfish. He doesn't want to live without someone who understands a little what it means to lose your north and happiness and have the world keep going.
His own demon is not like that. He was ripped to pieces by Hélène's death, Pierre, Marc and Jamie... What is left of him is the ruins he could find and glue together into a semblance of a man (husband, father, soldier, forger) and none of them truly fit into each other, edges too shattered and sharp to smooth back together into place, the empty spaces too many to be filled.
He looks at Copley and sees something similar. And it is so tiring, to care... But he does. If he didn't, he would have left the others decades ago, would have holed himself somewhere and just waited for the end, whatever it may have been and been thankful.
He offers no platitudes, knows them to be only pretty words with a faint hope held by the speaker that time will truly help. It would feel like a disservice to Copley's pain (to his own) to dismiss it. "I am sorry for your loss and for your pain. May her memory always comfort you." He lets the words out as smoothly as he can, however, it is too late. He had flinched and lost time, awash in recollections of worse days.
"Like memories help you? I admit Mr Booker, I didn't expect... I didn't expect your question, and yes, it does affect me, even perhaps as you suggest, enough to compromise me. But considering your own reactions, it sounds hypocritical coming from you." Copley's eyes were fixed on him. Not for the first time, he wanted to drink, numb the words and remembrances away. After dealing with the agent. Soon.
"Does it? It is exactly because I went through something similar that I asked you. Or would you have guessed it if I hadn't reacted? Would I have given it away?" Booker snorts and smiles with teeth. He knows he wouldn't have. For good or bad, this was part of a mission, preliminary work. His pain and his drink have no place here. "And having said that, Mr Copley, I believe I asked if you had more information if you would be so kind...?"
As if reminded of the purpose of their meeting, Copley pulls himself together, a professional veneer papering over the cracks. Light still passes through them, their presence visible, but... better than before. Good. But not enough to disperse his doubts. The agent seems committed to getting him to accept this mission, but too much is unknown. Too uncertain. If it was only him... He wouldn't care so much, but it isn't. At the same time, it feels... it feels like a dereliction of duty to turn it down. Like leaving Pierre when he finally can do something. (He blames Nicky and his fate talk; Joe with his emotional self; and Andy who fights resolutely to make all of it mean something - the lessons he had absorbed from each one of them). So he doesn't tell Copley a permanent no as he walks away, dangling an offer to review any new intel Copley can bring him, and then decide.
It will take some time to collect more - to make sense of the odds and ends. At least one week. Long enough for him to ignore the world outside of a bottle. He keeps his steps unhurried as he exits the pub. He has a ticket back to France. There is no reason to stay in the United Kingdom when he doesn't have to.