Chapter Eight
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"You," he nodded at Michael, "not only have been compromised, you compounded the problem. And then you kept on compounding it. Thank Glenanne for stopping you before you went some place you couldn't come back from, and it was a damned close call."
Michael closed his eyes briefly at the ludicrous situation he found himself in again, listening as patiently and as humbly as he could possibly manage to another identical lecture from Raines. But, he'd endure it because there was nothing else he could do, no task at hand, nothing. He'd put himself in this operational mode weeks ago. Do what they ask, just do it. Put yourself at the mercy of the CIA for Fiona.
"You think this is funny, Westen?"
Apparently he hadn't hidden that wry grin as much as he'd thought. Michael rose, walked to a window that overlooked a parking deck and put his hands in his pants pockets.
"What do you want me to do, Raines? Ever since Fi turned herself in, I've done everything I can to set this situation right. I don't know what else I can do for you or anyone else. I've answered every question. I've handed over every bit of information I can think of. I've gone where you want me to go, when you want me to go. Followed directions. Got polygraphed. Split the Harris and Lane job with Sam, reported back. You gave me this lecture last week twice, and I lost track how often you said this a month ago. Word for word. I can't change what I can't change."
"You don't seem to grasp what a political hot potato you and your girlfriend passed on to me," Raines said.
"Yeah, well, we all have our crosses to bear."
When silence followed for a few minutes too many, Michael turned around to see what Raines was doing. He was studying a report on his desk, fingers thumping on the cover. When he glanced up, Michael turned back to the window.
For weeks now, he'd found himself fighting against the despair that threatened to overtake him since he lost Fiona.
It had become a struggle every waking hour to maintain some kind of exterior normalcy, so that what he saw if he passed a mirror was not the same man who fought the dark curtain of despondency that encapsulated him, restricted his freedom to breathe and threatened his composure. But, to maintain projecting a calm exterior while securing his ping-ponging emotions was becoming more and more difficult the longer Fiona was without her freedom. The brief moments he had with her were the glue keeping him whole. When Raines spoke, it took him moment to refocus on the present.
"Sometimes I forget that you are the victims."
The word made him bristle. Composure restored itself with instant indignation.
"We are not victims," Michael gritted out.
"Targets, then."
He took a calming breath before agreeing. "Targets."
"Because you are phenomenally skilled at what you do."
He clenched his jaw. "Thanks, Raines, but this version of the lecture isn't going any place. Yada, yada, how could I misuse my abilities? Oh, damn. Well, sorry I lost my patience there for a minute, but feel free to continue lecturing me how I've screwed up your plans to make assistant director."
Raines walked over to the window where Michael had planted himself and held out the folder he'd been looking at.
Michael turned, glanced down at the folder but didn't take it. "What is this?"
Raines continued to hold it out to him.
Finally, he took it and, opening the file, he found a new security badge with his name and photo clipped inside the front of the file jacket along with the report he'd given Max months ago outlining why they had not completed the mission of taking down Vaughn's black ops network. He looked at it, frowned and glanced at Raines and then held up the badge.
"What's the catch? This is for a higher security level than I had five years ago."
"Polygraph. And Fiona passed, too, by the way."
Michael studied the badge for a moment before repeating his question. "What's the catch?"
"No catch."
"I've been . . . reinstated?"
"Temporarily."
Sarcastic weariness grazed his features as he turned away from Raines. "Temporarily."
He turned and shoved the security badge and file back at Raines. "No thanks."
"No thanks?"
"I'm not ready to go from being under Anson's thumb to yours, Raines. I'm not doing the carrot and stick thing anymore, for you or The Company. Forget it." Michael turned and walked toward the door. Leaving, he knew, would be a better decision than slugging the man who had the power to get Fiona out of the CIA holding facility.
"Stop, Westen," Raines said as Michael's hand closed around the doorknob. "It's not temporary; you are reinstated."
Michael swung around and walked back to Raines and grabbed the front of his suit jacket with both hands. "What kind of game are you playing, Raines? I don't get this."
"You don't?" Raines asked.
Michael released his hold and shoved Raines back and away from him. Interestingly enough, Raines did not seem all that offended by what he'd just done. He spared a wary glance his direction.
All the tumblers fell into place as Michael exhaled. "Another test. Dammit, I'm . . . "
"Tired of it. I know."
"Why now?" Michael wondered.
"Several reasons, which begin with the polygraph. You were a step away from being fully reinstated when Max was killed. Anson's not the only DIA psychiatrist. Your files were also reviewed by one of our guys who called you a 'maligned agent, targeted for skills.' After that firefight with Vaughn, that lengthy debrief had been reevaluated. Pearce indicated misgivings, and . . . "
"You always listen to the case officer with misgivings," Michael filled in.
"But we had your history with the CIA for the past year, and the fact that we'd still be in the dark about Anson if you hadn't come in when you did. Given the length of your relationship with Glenanne, your reviewers were sympathetic. Now, we need you to look at Anson's network and the Consulate bombing. You need resources and credibility. Full reinstatement without restriction does that, for you and our friends in the FBI. You'll be running the team that's going after Anson."
"Team?"
"Check the back of the folder. We'll bring on specialists as we need them, as you need them. Consider me clean-up and support."
Michael flipped the file open from the back, looked at the team members Raines recommended.
"My team is missing a member."
"It is. Make the Consulate bombing priority one. I can help. And, something else. I know she was with you when you got my wife out of Germany in '97."
He glanced over to Raines then.
"I didn't realize it until I was reviewing some of the reports you filed early in your career. A couple of dates stood out more than others. For me. Personally."
Michael looked down at the folder and the badge in his hand. It was what he wanted, but not the way he had wanted it five years earlier. It was a tool to use now to regain Fiona.
"I spoke to her this morning," Raines said.
Michael held up the security badge. "Does she know about this?"
"Yes."
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Fiona couldn't help but wonder why she was being taken to a small room without windows in a different part of the facility. As had become her new habit, she looked to see where all the eyes and ears were located. She studied the lights, switches and fixtures and tried determine where the audio-video devices were located, but there were no obvious places she could see. She was studying the circular vent above her head when the door opened and Raines walked in.
"Good morning," he said. "There are no cameras or listening devices in this room. The attorneys won't stand for it. Me, either."
"I guess I'll need an attorney then."
"No need. I'll make sure this will be your new area for visitors." He sat down across from her.
"Is Michael all right?" She had to ask.
"He was fine the last time I saw him late last night."
Raines looked as if he was deciding something, she realized.
"Is something wrong?" she asked.
"Nothing's wrong. Something's . . . complicated."
She looked away. "Isn't everything?"
He looked down at his fingers on the table for a moment. Fiona waited, not sure what to expect from "complicated."
"I wonder if you've ever had an . . . experience . . . like I had recently? Seeing something you thought you understood from an entirely new perspective. It started when I was reviewing Michael's agency files, looking at reports he filed a couple of years after he began working for us.
"One of his reports caught my eye. It was 1997. He'd been sent to Germany to extract an operative who'd infiltrated a radical paramilitary unit. He got in, located the operative but received a leg wound in the process of getting out. Fortunately, he was assisted by someone in the IRA who hid him and the agent he'd extracted in one of their safe houses. There was another fight before either the IRA operative, Michael or the agent could get out. They were caught in a crossfire between the IRA and unknown parties. At least the report said the parties were unknown.
"Michael was injured a second time, but not as badly, a ricochet, he described it. Luckily, he had made contact with the team waiting to take them out of the country, but when all three arrived at the prearranged location, they ran into more resistance. He and the agent he'd extracted got out because the IRA agent provided covering fire . . . against some of her own people."
Fiona wasn't sure where Raines planned to go with his story so she remained silent.
"After I read that report, I called home. My wife told me she remembered something unusual about that night, something not in Michael's report, something that had made her laugh. After you both worked to patch him up so they could move out, you kissed him, and then you gave him a black eye."
Fiona had clasped her hands together in front of herself as Raines told his story. She found herself smiling in remembrance.
She looked up and met Raines' gaze.
"He deserved it," she said.
Raines reached over to cup his hands around hers. "Thank you."
She smiled.
"I'm also here to tell you that Michael has been, if he accepts it, reinstated. I expect he'll take it, but . . . "
"Everything has changed."
"Yes. I hope you see him later today."
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Three days passed before Michael found his way back to Fiona.
Once again, she was waiting, not knowing who she should expect to see come through the door. Guards had escorted her from her cell to the attorney/client room and she was sitting quietly because federal holding facilities, she learned, did not announce guests.
When the door shut behind him, Michael smiled. He knew what the room was typically used for. "Privacy."
She reached for him as he reached for her with the knowledge that this moment was theirs and theirs alone. No one would witness this much needed, so very necessary exchange of greedy tenderness. Once again, he wrapped his arms so tightly around Fiona she thought she might disappear into him, if she could catch her breath.
"Michael," she whispered, urging some space between them. "Michael," she tried to laugh. "Air, please."
He relaxed his crushing hold. "Sorry, Fi. I'm so sorry." He buried his face in the curve between her chin and her neck and placed busy kisses under her jaw to her ear. "I'm so sorry."
His tone of voice and the words he used alerted her that something was out of sync.
She wiggled and gained a small distance between them, and slid her hands down his arms to just under his biceps then pushed out to look at him. "Michael? What's going on?"
He met her gaze, looked away and then moved away from her to sit down with a tired thump on the bench by the table bolted to the floor. He clasped his hands together and looked down and moved his head in one of the variations of the universal negative.
Fiona moved to sit next to him on the bench, and as she did, he wrapped his arm around her and pulled her close. She moved her palm up to cup his cheek and gently moved his face so they were again looking into each others' eyes. She slid her other arm up and across his shoulders, she smoothing muscles that were rock hard tense and taught.
"What are you so upset about?" A tiny flame of panic flickered inside her with a promise to grow.
"I don't know if I can do it, Fi."
"Do what, Michael?"
"I can't find anything to link Anson to the Consulate bombing, and we've been trying. I can't . . . I can't . . ."
"I'm worried about you . . ."
He hugged her tighter as a response.
"Michael, back up. Raines was here and told me you're reinstated. Are you?"
"Yeah."
"So . . .I don't understand why you're so upset. You should be . . ."
" I have to get you out of here, Fi. I have to!"
It was then she took a long, second look at the man she loved and carefully scrutinized each feature. He was gaunt and pale, the skin under his eyes was dark with fatigue, and frown lines seemed permanently etched on his face. "Where are you staying?"
He frowned. "At the loft."
"When was the last time you slept?"
He glanced up but didn't answer her.
"And when was the last time you had a meal?"
"I have some . . . yogurt."
Fiona extracted herself from his arms, then paced in front of him, shaking her head, letting the entire scenario of what he'd been doing come to life.
"You haven't been taking care of yourself."
He frowned at her. "Of course I have. I've just been working . . ."
She held up her hand and started counting fingers. "Stop me when I get something wrong, OK? One, you're at the loft instead of your mother's house because she'll fuss at you until you eat or sleep. Two, if you're at the loft, you won't go to bed or sleep on the couch upstairs. Three, you had two yogurts today and are calling that food. Four, everyone around you is grumpy or grouchy because you're unpleasant. Five . . . "
Michael reached for her hands and held them together, placing a soft kiss on each of her knuckles. "Enough, Fi. Point taken. I am . . . tired."
"You are."
Michael still held her hands, but she returned his gesture by kissing his hands and pulling him closer so she could wrap her arms around him and look up into his face. "Please, go to your mother's house. Don't stay at the loft. Let her pester you into taking care of yourself. For me, please?"
He pulled away from her and with an exasperated frown and instant irritation in his voice spoke in an unpleasantly disagreeable manner. "Fiona, I do not need you to harass . . . "
It was Michael's instant change of tone that nicked Fi's safety off. She drew back her fist and in the blink of an eye, and with all the force she could marshal, whacked her beloved's face. "I most certainly do need to harass you!"
Not expecting the blow, Michael's head snapped to the left. "Ouch," he yelped. "That hurts, Fi."
"Good! Maybe it'll remind you to take care of yourself. Now, go to your mom's house, take one of her sleeping pills and sleep. Tomorrow morning, take her out for breakfast so you can eat something decent, too. And come see me tomorrow," she said, losing some of her steam. "Because I'll need to see you tomorrow," she added in a much, much softer tone of voice.
He smiled, closed the distance between them and took her in his arms again, and, with a much lighter heart than he had moments earlier, kissed her deeply. When she finally opened her eyes to look into his, he asked. "Are you going to do this after we're married?"
She gently pulled his head down to place her lips on the faint red spot under his eye. "Maybe."