Chapter Two
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CIA Case Officer Pearce pointed to the handcuffs around Fiona Glenanne's wrists and told the guard to remove them.
The guard had the audacity to hesitate.
"I said remove them."
She could see he was weighing accepted procedure against her directive.
Somewhat pointedly, she glanced at his name tag. "Do you value employment?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Then remove them. Now."
With a soft click and snick, Fiona's wrists were freed.
"You can go," Pearce directed the guard as she placed a thick file folder and a small, wireless recorder on the table and motioned to Fiona to take a seat.
Again, the guard hesitated, but this time Pearce's stern look couldn't move him out of the room. She nodded with understanding. "Go ahead. Check it out."
He used the small communicator attached to his uniform lapel to verify Pearce's clearance to be alone with the prisoner. After it was confirmed, he left the room.
Pearce took the seat on the opposite side of the table and evaluated, without comment, the purpling and red bruise that crossed Fiona's left cheekbone.
"I assume," Fiona said, "I am no longer in custody of the FBI, although no one will actually speak to me or confirm that."
"You assume correctly."
"Do I have you to thank for that?" she wondered cautiously.
"No. You have my director to thank for that."
Pearce could tell she was not expecting that information.
It was true that she had arranged Fiona's transfer, but that was simply an operational task. Her director and his assistants interceded by sharing the embarrassingly unpleasant knowledge with the FBI that security breaches the agency thought it had sealed nine months earlier were leaking again, and Fiona Glenanne's unusual surrender to them was tied directly to a rogue operative they had not been aware of previously.
In the moments following the jet exploding on the tarmac, Jesse Porter arrived with a bloodied and battered Perkins in custody. She'd gleaned as much information as fast as she could for a sit rep. But she was stunned when he commandeered her laptop and asserted that time was of the essence, because unless he destroyed the PC's hard drive some good agents would be burned.
Following Rebecca Lang's defection, she knew this situation would open the door to places she did not want to go. Worse, she knew it fit with Westen's requests for access and relocation of Vaughn. She offered her help and he refused. She guessed she would be paying a price for his refusal.
"Where's Westen?" she'd forcefully demanded of Jesse. He explained he was trying to keep Fiona out of the FBI's hands since a DIA psychiatrist named Anson Fullerton would be following through on his threats against her.
Pearce quickly grasped that the massive mess needed containment before it grew into a mushroom cloud that would get her fired. She had no choice but to call her director to outline the situation.
He grasped the import immediately. It took them twelve hours to have Fiona Glenanne released to the CIA. She was their asset and they wanted her back. Pearce knew Fiona might not see herself as a CIA asset, but, thankfully, the director did.
He argued that situation within the agency made Miss Glenanne's coerced surrender an internal affairs situation, not the crime the FBI wanted to charge her with, and requested a change of her custody. His timing had been impeccable, and it included the guarantee that all details would be shared with them at the conclusion of the operation.
The fact that the purse taken from her was filled with CIA-related materials about Anson Fullerton, strengthened credibility of the CIA's request.
At the question in Fiona's eyes, Pearce explained the situation. "How long you stay in our custody depends on what you can tell me about the bombing at the British Consulate you've claimed responsibility for."
"Interpol? SIS?" Fiona asked.
"Not involved," Pearce said. "Won't be involved. But you need to cooperate with me and answer all my questions about what happened at the Consulate. And then we'll see if your answers match Michael's."
"You've spoken with him."
"Yes."
For a moment, Fiona's stormy green eyes clashed with Dani Pearce's clear, level gaze.
It took Pearce less than ten seconds to decide the air needed to be cleared before they could proceed.
"I'm Michael's case officer, so yes, I've spoken with him. Because of what he's done, my career is on the line, so if you don't like my attitude, there's a reason I have it. I'm not going to lose everything I've worked for because of what he and you were involved in, and consequently what you've involved me in. Whether the starting place for all of this was his fault or not, that's not what I have to deal with."
Pearce looked down at her hands for a moment before locking her eyes with Fiona's. "And just so we're clear on this, because I have always sensed your personal concern, but the only man I have ever . . . loved . . . is dead," she said, lightly touching the small necklace at her throat as she steadily held Fiona's gaze. "Once, I was as lucky as you are to have one man love me, but he is gone and no one could ever replace Janssen. No one will. I have no personal interest in Michael beyond our professional relationship. Understood?"
Fiona heard Pearce's voice change from calm and authoritarian to soft and quiet, and responded just as softly, the only way she could. "I am very sorry for your loss."
"Thank you."
Fiona took a small, audible breath. "How is he?"
"He's been placed on administrative leave and confined to his mother's home. He's been remarkably cooperative." She sighed. "Look, the operation we were working on was compromised spectacularly, and when he finally came back and started explaining just how much of a screw up it was, it took a while. He was tired when we finished. So was I. What I would like to hear from you is . . ."
Fiona clasped her hands together like a tent in front of her face.
"What?" Pearce asked.
"Being sidelined will . . ."
"Irritate him. Yes, I know. But he's going to have to accept it for now."
Fiona nodded and looked away, but not before Pearce saw the sheen of moisture in her eyes.
"Tell me when you became aware of Michael's suspicion that there were problems concluding the investigation into Vaughn Anderson's organization."
"Almost immediately when the CIA said it was finished."
Four hours later, Pearce smiled faintly and with much satisfaction when Fiona wrote down the Cayman Islands account number where Anson Fullerton had coerced her and Jesse into transferring several hundred million dollars.
"Good memory." A genuine smile lit Pearce's face when Fiona handed her the paper.
"Good insurance."
Pearce considered the account number the coup de grâce. Between the volumes of information Westen provided, the flash memory card he surrendered, his phone which they'd used to track the calls Anson made to him in the hours preceding the explosion, and the address of the weapons facility in Tampa which had already been secured, the organization Vaughn told Westen that Anson was rebuilding could be shut down. She hoped.
She clicked off the recorder, closed her file, and offered her hand to Fiona. "Thank you." Glancing up at the monitor, she motioned for the guard to enter.
"You'll be relocated in a different part of the facility soon, and you'll be allowed visitors, but Michael will not be permitted to visit you at this time."
"Because?"
"It's not my decision. I'm sorry."
Fiona nodded, and when she spoke her voice was barely audible. "I understand. Thank you."
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Within 24 hours, Fiona was relocated to a different area where she remained in isolation, but at least the handcuffs were gone. That was a bonus for her daily yoga practice.
She had almost become inured to the silence and lack of human contact, and she'd been amusing herself by counting the shades of gray in her new windowless environment. So far, there were nine different hues of the grimly colored paint ranging from charcoal to storm cloud pale applied to the walls, the floor, the furniture bolted to the floor, the bathroom, the ceiling.
She knew what she had set in motion by surrendering to the FBI, and knew Michael would suffer for it, but she knew would do it again. And that was the place where the pain began.
Gray suited her outlook, although since Pearce visited, she was beginning to think in slightly lighter shades. The exception was the scratchily uncomfortable and obnoxiously orange jump suit she'd been given after her clothing was confiscated. She loathed it but accepted it as suffering she deserved.
Moments ago she'd been taken to an interview room similar to the one she had met Pearce in and told to wait.
There was no more joyful sight to Fiona's eyes and her heart than Madeline's colorful arrival. She glared at the guard opening the door, swept into the room wearing a sunshine yellow shirt with neon pink slacks and gathered Fiona up in a tearful hug before holding her at arm's length.
"You look terrible, honey."
Fiona let herself be pulled into another hug and laughed. "It's wonderful to see you, though. Wonderful."
"I've been missing you."
Fiona felt as if her heart would implode from the loving gift of Madeline's presence.
"How is Michael?"
"Miserable," she said flatly. "Damn, I need a cigarette. This place gives me the heebie jeebies."
"Me, too," Fiona said with a hiccupy laugh as she kept her arm around Michael's mother and moved toward the chairs bolted to the floor. Madeline took a chair while Fiona scooted up and to sit on top of the table, next to her.
"Well, the first thing I had to do was convince him to eat, and then sleep, and now I've got him painting the front porch and fixing things around my house. I need to keep him busy."
"He wasn't eating?"
"He wasn't doing anything. He was just sitting, staring off into space, the zombie, and it was making me crazy, so I drugged him."
Fiona laughed. "How?"
"It was easy. I opened the capsule of one of my sleeping pills and stirred it in the spaghetti I made him eat. It hit him like a ton of bricks. He never suspected a thing, but at least he slept for about 14 hours. He needed it. He's just not himself. It's more than you being locked up in here, too. I just don't know what to do for him, honey. And what can I do for you? They won't let me bring you anything . . . "
"Just being here is enough," Fiona said as she wiped her hands across her eyes and patted Madeline's hand. "Really, it is."
"Well, you're getting Sam tomorrow and Jesse's coming after that. You wouldn't believe what we have to do to get in here to see you," she said, pausing and looking at Fiona more closely. "You're pale. You need some sunshine, honey."
It felt so good to smile, and Fiona couldn't help herself. Madeline was just the dose of medicine she needed. "Pearce said Michael couldn't visit."
"She told us that, too. I don't know why, except it's mixed up with all the stuff about Anson. When I had to talk to her about him killing Benny, I told her I didn't think it was right that we got to visit but Michael didn't. And by the way, did he tell you about what Anson said, that he killed Frank?"
Fiona frowned. "No, he didn't . . . what?"
"Apparently, he was gloating and told Michael that Frank got too nosey so he had to get rid of him. I told Pearce that Michael didn't believe him, but I do. I mean, he killed Benny, didn't he?"
Fiona clutched Maddie's hands in her own. "I'm so sorry about Benny."
"I really thought . . . " Madeline started to say more but stopped.
She took a moment to compose herself before speaking again. "I found your note to Michael. I was doing laundry and . . . well, I read it. I probably shouldn't have done that, but I didn't really learn anything I didn't know already."
It's all right, Madeline."
"I'm beginning to think," she said slowly, "that maybe what's wrong with him is that he doesn't like anyone making a sacrifice for him."
"No, he doesn't."
"I think Pearce is really on his side, too, but I don't think he can see it."
"I think she is, too. I just wish I could see him, though," Fiona said softly.
"Me, too, honey. Me, too."
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Within the day, Sam arrived, but his arrival played a bit differently than Madeline's.
It started with Fiona gently examining the healing gash and bruise on Sam's forehead and her apology.
"I'm sorry, Sam." She clasped her hands together and looked down at the floor.
"Geeze, Fi. This is gonna make me crazy, the way you and Mikey are acting, like both of you committed some kind of crime. Well, technically, you did, but you didn't. Know what I mean? At least that's what I told Pearce. Let's just say I understood the first time you said 'I'm sorry' at the loft, and we don't need go there again. OK?"
"Okay," Fi said with a smile, and was grateful when Sam gathered her into a big hug. When she pulled away, she realized the scent of his Old Spice was on her cheek.
He held her at arm's length and shook his head. "I don't know what I'm going to do about the two of you."
"What do you mean?" Fiona wiped her hands across her face and sat on the table top next to where he settled. He put his arm around her shoulders and for once in her life, she didn't push him away.
"Okay, so this is what I'm looking at here. You're not eating, right? He isn't either."
"Have you ever tasted prison food, Sam?"
"Well, yeah, but the prisons in South America are known for bad food. And I see you haven't stopped the workouts. Neither has he. You're both going to look like . . . never mind. You two need to make some adjustments. It's not like you're going to be in here forever."
"Yeah, well . . . it's my fault I'm here, and-"
"Not your fault, Fi. I'm grateful you did what you did. I think Mikey is, too."
"You think?"
"Now don't do that," Sam chastised when he saw the flash of misery his words created. "It was going to happen. This thing had to end. You just got fed up first."
"He thinks I didn't trust him to fix it and get rid of Anson his way." She slid to the floor and took a few steps away from him.
When Sam didn't respond, Fiona knew she was right.
Sam's silence told her everything. And so did the comforting hug he offered.