A/N: So it seems a Glenanne reconciliation might be in the making, but can anything with Fiona's family really end without some fireworks? We hope everyone out there is still enjoying our story of what might have happened if Michael had chosen the love of his life over the life of a spy from the start and we truly appreciate everyone who takes the time to leave a review for this humble tale.
BE BRAVE LITTLE ANGEL
Chapter Thirty Five
In the men's bathroom facilities at Junction 17 of the M7 motorway, Davy Doyle, Liam Glenanne's personal bodyguard and head of security, stood in front of a row of sinks gazing at his reflection in the large mirror which stretched the length of the wall.
It had been one feckin' crazy day so far fer sure an' tha best part o' tha mornin' was nae over yet...
He narrowed his deep set blue eyes, and then raked his fingers through his short light brown hair, frowning at the gritty substance which coated his nails. A wash and a shave using the electric shaver he had brought with him had helped tidy up his appearance, but nothing less than a long shower and a complete change of clothes was going to get rid of the quarry dust in his hair or the subtle odour of cordite and smoke pervading his entire being from their early morning efforts to immolate the bodies of Tommy O'Neill, his henchman and the mystery man McBride had left in the woods.
Whot tha feck wa' goin' through Liam's little sister's head thot had tha bean dÚsachtach thinkin' runnin' off wit' a backstabbin' gobshite like Michael feckin' McBride wa' a good idea?
Doyle sighed wearily, as he thought about what was happening in the back of the car he had walked away from only minutes ago.
It warn't thot he wa' worried, he had faith in Liam Glenanne, he trusted tha Big Fella completely. He always had. If thar wa' a way outta tha shite Fiona had stirred up, he knew thot Liam would find it... only... only... Feck it!... Only thot didnae change tha fact thot lying ta one o' tha executive council wa' a desperate an' dangerous move.
He turned on the cold water and spat into the sink, his head bowed and his eyes closed as he fought against a rising tide of nausea.
It wa' an act o' treachery and he knew first hand whot happened ta traitors ta tha cause.
He had made the same pledge as Liam had, only he'd stood before the ruling council years earlier than his childhood best friend. While the second eldest Glenanne boy had continued to attend the local grammar school, at fourteen he had left behind the text books to work on his da's farm.
That was until not long after Patrick Senior's death at the hands of the prison guards at Long Kesh. He had, along with his two older brothers, abandoned the family farm to follow Pat Junior when the oldest of the Glenanne siblings had relocated his whole family to the Falls Road.
It hadnae taken long befer their little band had grown from four boys fresh from the countryside to nearly twenty as Patrick Glenanne Jr had taken over control of the streets.
Looking up, Davy half smiled at his reflection in the glass as a wave of nostalgia washed over him. It had been a grand time… When he wasn't earning money racing stolen cars through the streets of West Belfast, crashing through the occupying army's check points on a bet, he was raising hell as part of Pat Jr's inner circle.
Tossing Molotov cocktails at tha armored personnel carriers thot patroled tha streets an' breakin' tha skulls o' any bastid Ulster men who dared showed thar face in their neighborhood. They war tha cocks o' tha walk, 'tha boys' an' everyone feared tham. They got their own table in tha pub, tha prettiest girls at tha dances an' ta be honest they got whotever they damn well wanted and people gave it ta tham wit' a smile.
Until tha day an RUC man livin' across tha way on tha Shankhill Estate got blown up outside his house in front o' his wife an' kids. And thot had been tha end o' tha good times...
They all got busted thot day, dragged outta thar bed an' taken ta tha lock up fer questioning. Even Seamus an' thot kid never got involved in Provo business. Taa busy chasin' after 'Belle even back then... It had been Shay who gave tham tha bad news. Beaten an' bloody wit' tears streaming down his face he'd told tham all how Pat Junior had been cut down in front o' his whole family, left lying like a dog in tha street fer all ta see.
Roughly swiping at the moisture building in his eyes, one of the toughest men in Belfast forcibly pushed down all his feelings of regret.
That had all happened years ago, but it was the same feelings of fear and loss he was experiencing now as he had back then as a twenty six year old with a wife and a son not yet a year old, facing years in a top security prison for a crime he knew nothing about.
When he and the others had finally been freed without charge, they had soon discovered a lot of things had changed in their absence. Liam had come home and was now in charge and the scholarly second born had big plans for the family and the gang he had inherited.
Straightening up, Doyle turned away from the mirror and headed for the door and a hefty dose of much needed fresh air.
Lighting up a cigarette, he looked back towards where he had left the Mercedes. He had no problem with his boss lying to the executive council to save the life of his little sis, after all his loyalty was first and foremost to Liam and the Glenanne family. He had known Fiona all her life, he had held her in his arms as a baby and been there to witness her first ride on a push bike. He had coached her on firearm safety and stood back like a proud uncle on the day the little hell raiser had blown up her first car.
What had the tough streetwise enforcer rattled was the fear of just how far they would all go to protect the family he thought of as his own.
With his cigarette smoked down to the filter, he tossed the remains into the gutter and set off slowly in the direction of the food court. He'd take his time buying breakfast… maybe pick up a newspaper to give his boss plenty of time to finish his calls in private.
His hand strayed to his jacket pocket, wrapping around his own mobile phone. Maybe he'd give his own old girl a call. He couldn't risk telling her to grab the kids and hideout, but he could take a few minutes to let her know he was okay and thinking of her.
()()()()()
There are times in any spy's career when someone, somehow figures out who you are. Usually the best approach is to just put on a good poker face and deny everything.
They had been standing by the sink, wrapped in each other's arms, his lover's head resting against his shoulder when Father Conlon had walked in on them.
Instantly Michael had been on alert, his highly tuned senses picking up on a slight change in the Glenanne family priest's demeanor. The way the older man had cleared his throat and rattled the door handle before stepping into the kitchen had been enough to gain the former spy's attention and they had moved quickly as he sat side by side with Fiona's small slender hand in his he could see the older man's expression clearly... How long had he been standing on the other side of the door listening to their conversation? Long enough to hear something he shouldn't have apparently...
"Under normal circumstances it takes at least three weeks ta arrange a marriage and thot would be pushing it. Tha Bans have ta be read, an' I have ta counsel tha pair o' ya at least three times ta make sure ya fully understand tha sacred promise yer making ta each other an' ta tha big fella above. Marriage is nae sommit ya do upon a whim..." The priest kept his level gaze on the both of them to ensure his point was made before continuing.
"But in this very special case Am willing ta forgo all tha formality. But I do want ta speak ta ya both separately befer yar mammy gets har, Fiona, ya understand thot dontcha? An' I will be expectin' ya both ta attend Mass and make yar confession befer tha happy day."
"O' course Father, whotever ya think is best. Ya agree dontcha, Michael?"
"Um, yes."
Michael, you are thinking about this all wrong. You are wasting time you don't have.
Ever since he had pushed away the soft voice of Samantha Keyes, reminding him of one broken promise, another far more dangerous voice had begun to stir from the deep recesses of his mind.
Do I have to remind you who you are? The Michael Westen I knew would have sliced his way through every one of those bastards hunting him down. The Michael I knew wouldn't be sitting here listening to some country preacher rambling on about the importance of family and the sanctity of marriage. The Michael I knew would have turned that nosy priest into nothing more than a stain on the carpet as soon as he realized the old man was listening in at the door... And he would have done it all with a smile on his face.
I'm not that person anymore, he answered his mentor's voice. I was never that person, not really, not deep down. Go away, Lare, you're dead.
"Michael?"
Stop the act, Kid, just stop it... I know your holier than thou boy scout routine by heart and it's boring. I was there, remember? I saw what you did and I know how it made you feel inside.
"Michael?"
What I did was necessary for the mission. That doesn't mean I wanted to do it or even liked it, the ex-operative contradicted, refusing to give credence to the ghost of his old partner.
"Michael?"
"Huh- Ow! Whot?" His beloved's sharp elbow had dug into his sore ribs just enough to bring him back to the real conversation that was taking place about the table.
"Am sorry, Father, sometimes Michael can be a wee bit dense when it comes ta relationships an' family. But ya mustn't hold it against ham, he's had a lot on his mind these days."
"Am sure he has, me dear girl... Nar if wa're all agreed?" Father Conlon's bright blue eyes flickered from one to the other of his guests.
I know what you did in Serbia, in Algeria – – in Chechnya – – and, oh, let's not forget Vedeno. That, that was the real Michael Westen, that's the guy who should be taking care of business now. What is one more body added to that count?
"Ah, agreed?" Michael shifted on the hard surface of the wooden chair and forced himself to concentrate on the present. He had obviously missed something important.
"We war just sayin' thot Father Conlon is gonna ring me mam an' tell har thot I phoned ham earlier this mornin' beggin' his help in arrangin' a marriage an' I wa' hopin' thot me family would fergive us both fer runnin' away... An' thot I wa' gonna be callin' back later fer an answer an' thot if she wa' har mabbe she could reassure us thot it wa' safe ta come outta hidin'... Tis a good plan, dontcha think, Michael?"
No, it is a terrible plan. After all those years working with me, didn't you learn anything? Kill the priest, take the girl if you must, and run! Have you forgotten about all our safe houses? The ones the company knows nothing about. The ones where we have guns, money, clean IDs. Jeez Kid, wake up before you get yourself killed with the Saint Michael show.
Swallowing thickly the former spy nodded his agreement, but at the same instant held up a hand. Fiona and Larry were both right, he was acting dense. He had chosen to put the wants of the woman he loved before his own safety and once he had committed to that idea he had no intention of backing out. But that didn't mean he had to throw away all his training and years of experience.
"It is a great plan, but – – I'd just like ta make a coupla tiny changes." He barred his teeth in a smile, turning his head slightly to the side so only Fiona would see his eyes and his cold hard stare before he returned his gaze to the priest.
"Nothin' much," he assured the pair. "Jus' I would be happier if when me future mother in law arrives Fiona hare was watchin' tha security feed fer those cameras ya have outside. Jus' ta be safe ya understand and I'll be up in tha bell tower. I'm imagining I'll have a fine view fer miles. Thot way if things donnae go as we all hope I'll be able to see any gaps in Liam Glenanne's siege lines."
"Ya have a lot o' trust issues, Mr. McBride... Not thot I blame ya in this case." Father Conlon conceded. "So if wa're all agreed nar. Fiona, why dontcha go an' get cleaned up. Ya can use me bathroom upstairs. Thar'll be clean towels in tha airing cupboard at tha top o' tha stairs an' Michael, while yar young lady tis having har bath, ye can clean up tha broken glass ya've left outside so me front parlor is habitable fer visitors. Then after I make tha call ta Maeve, I'll join ya an' we can have thot little chat I mentioned earlier."
"I'd love a chance ta tidy meself up. A bath would be divine. We slept in tha car las' night didn't we Michael?" Fiona sighed happily, her pale wan features brightening up at the thought of a chance to soak in a bath.
How could he say the last thing he wanted was to be left alone with the old priest?
"Well young fella, shall we get on? Tha best part o' tha mornin' is already gone. I'll show ya whar tha handyman keeps his tools an' ya can cover thot hole properly fer me." Father Conlon slapped the flat of his hand down on the table top.
She leaned over, her palm landing lightly on his thigh as her lips briefly brushed against his cheek. "Thank ya fer this," his fiancée whispered in his ear before attempting to straighten up and head for the door. But the dark haired man laid a quick hand over hers, halting her movement.
"I think we'll be makin' thot call first... If ya donnae mind." Michael added, though the smile didn't reach his eyes. "Tis nothin' personal Father, it tis just over tha years I've learnt thot people aren't always as trustworthy as they first seem."
"Ya're about ta become a husband an' a father, yer nae gonna get far wit'out trust, lad."
"Oh, I trust Fiona wit' me life."
The redhead gave him a sidelong glance, beaming with quiet pride as her boyfriend finished his sentence.
"An' I appreciate tha fact thot Fiona trusts ya wit' har life, but as ya've already said we've just met. We need ta get ta know each other a little better befer thot level o' trust is established between us."
Father Conlon kept his expression carefully neutral as he considered what the young man had to say.
"So if ya donnae mind, I think it will be helpful in establishing thot greater level o' trust wa're talkin' about if when ya have thot conversation wit' Mrs. Glenanne, thar is an open line between tha three o' us."
He sensed Fiona stirring in her chair beside him, but kept his eyes fixed on the expression of the man of the cloth before him. After a momentary staring contest, Father Conlon broke into a big smile, not unlike the one Michael had worn many times when he was trying to cajole a jittery asset.
"As ya say lad, let's make sure we do what's best for everyone involved, especially yar young lady thar an' yar child she's carryin' eh?"
Removing a cell from within the folds of his robes, the Glenanne family's father confessor held the burner phone out, first for Michael's inspection, and then he extended it towards Fiona.
"Tis the phone we use fer emergencies an' I dare say this qualifies, my children. I'm assuming ya'd be feelin' a tad more trustful, my son, if yar intended thar handled making tha call?"
The dark haired man silently nodded his approval while his beloved reached out with a slightly shaking hand to take the proffered device.
()()()()()()
"Well, ya look like tha cat thot got tha canary as me old mam used ta say." Davy Doyle slipped into his seat behind the wheel of the luxury saloon car and twisted around to hand his boss a warm cardboard box and a large polystyrene cup with a plastic lid on top. "Things went well I take it?"
"I've got us some breathin' space," Liam conceded, taking the proffered meal and, after placing the hot drink in the cup holder in his door, turned his attention to unwrapping the half a French stick filled with bacon, sausage, tomato and smothered in tomato sauce.
"I just need ta make sure tha McCulloughs keep thar mouths shut... I've spoken ta Jamesy an' Donald, thar about an hour out fram tha farm. So tis a case o' who get ta tham first." He bit into the sandwich, relishing the flavors.
The home cooked meal Cathy Coleraine and Esme Hooley had supplied had been a welcome change from the hastily eaten truck stop meals he'd been surviving on while trying to pursue his rebellious sibling or contain latest fallout that her bout of insanity had caused. But there was something special about a hot sandwich from O'Brien's, especially after staying up all night.
"I cannae see tham two talkin' ta tha Gard. They know better than thot. So wa're in tha clear then?"
"Mabbe. Val says McGarry tis gonna be lookin' inta tha death o' Tommy an' his sister."
"Jayzuz! McGarry? Tha Taxman? I thought he died years ago."
"'pparently he's alive an' Sinn Fien want ham outta retirement. Nar if ya've finished eating ya can get me back home befer one o' me bloody family decides ta go off on another rampage."
"Haha, I'd loved ta have seen tham two ol' gals in action, tis been a while." Davy turned back around and flipped the key over in the ignition, starting up the engine of the Mercedes.
"An' I could do wit' tham rememberin' thar age an' thot Am tha one who has ta clean up thar mess... Tis like tryin' ta control tha weather."
"Aye, I bet Shay is gonna be glad ta hand things back over ta ya. Fram whot I've heard, they've worn ham down ta his last nerve."
"I'll wear ham down ta his las' feckin' nerve," Liam grumbled. "Do us a favour, Davy. Give Seamus a call an' let ham know he can get back ta runnin' guns an' makin' babies as soon as I get home."
Stifling a yawn, the head of the family sunk back in his seat, idly watching the traffic passing on the other side of the road, his eyes slowly sliding shut as his childhood friend maneuvered the large car through the light traffic.
It had been touch an' go thar fer a while, but he'd gotten it done… If McGarry found any evidence of Mc—Westen's activities, it would point straight back to Tommy O'Neill and give credence to the tale he had made up about that worthless hooligan and an American special forces team working to take down the Real IRA…
And with a little more encouragement, the higher ups would take care of Frankie Duggan and his CIRA lot, believing they were working hand in glove with the Yanks and neither of Martin and Kevin's parents would be inclined to open their mouths once they learned of the fate their sons and their good friend. All Jamsey and Donald had to do was remind the couple that there was far worse things that could happen to them than the death of their sons.
Thinking on it now that he had time to, they still hadn't had any word from the man he'd sent to watch the McCullough's farm and Liam was forced to conclude that Donald and Jamesy would most likely discover that his distant cousin Dylan had joined the ranks of the disappeared, another victim of Tommy's blood thirst no doubt.
And while he had been accused of being a cold hearted ruthless killer, he was nothing compared to the O'Neills, especially the older sister when it came to bathing blissfully in blood. Involuntarily, Liam's thoughts drifted back to his first and last personal encounter with the notorious IRA enforcer and certified madwoman.
"How tha feck does killin' tha man's whole family help us?" he had demanded, forgetting who she was connected to in his shock over the results of the blast that had blown a large hole in a very populated area of central Belfast.
He had seen the effect of bomb blasts before. He had avenged his own father's death by smuggling a device inside Long Kesh gaol. But all those times it had been to take out legitimate targets, not innocent civilians. What Scarlett O'Neill had done that day had been beyond senseless brutality.
A demonstration of how easily they could rip apart the man's family would have been enough. His target had taken the British government's blood money to save his child's life. There had been no reason for so many deaths.
He had thrown her back against the alley wall, the fingers of one hand gripped tightly about her slender throat. "Tha fecker has nae reason ta come back nar. All ya've done is made things worse than befer," he had accused, his nose inches off hers.
"I think ye'll find tha ones still alive will talk nar an' if not we'll pay his mother a visit next an' then a few o' his cousins." She had smiled back at him, totally unconcerned by the hand about her neck and that was when he had felt the point of a sharp knife pressing against his stomach, ready to gut him. "O' course, it doesnae have ta be just his family I destroy."
The ruling council had fed the Ulster constabulary a story of a defective device which had gone off hours before it had been expected to and apologized for the loss of life.
But that hadn't been enough for him. The young Irishman had begun to quietly plot the death of a living legend. However, before he could put his plan into action, Scarlett had been sent to liaise with the ETA over in Spain and he had been dispatched to Liverpool to hunt down a new target.
Liam shifted on the back seat trying to find a comfortable position, the pull of sleep almost irresistible now that he had finally gotten things under control. Fiona, wherever she was, would be on her way out of Ireland and that would be an end to it.
He still had McGarry to deal with and truthfully the man was one of the few people alive that gave him pause; however, the O'Neill siblings were dead and her bloody husband too. For all the hell Fiona had put them through, being able to put those three in the ground had been collateral damage Liam could most certainly live with.
It was a testament to just how worn out he truly was that the head of the family had asked Davy to call and let them know they were on their way home rather than tend to the matter himself. Drifting in and out of a light sleep, the eldest Glenanne knew he'd need the rest before dealing with them all.
Once he had seen Joey Lovatt back home in the arms of his fretting mammy and Robin Hennessey on her way to a new life in the Americas as he had promised, all the loose ends of the aftermath of his crazed sibling's actions would be tied up. Liam was contemplating what sort of reward to bestow up the elderly farmer and his family for sheltering his sister when something he had last seen on the Coleraine's farm caught the corner of his eye and his blood froze solid in his very veins.
"Davy, stop tha car nar!" Twisting around, he peered out of the back window, not quite believing what his eyes were showing him.
"FECK IT! Tha stupid feckin' bitch! I'll feckin' do har fer this! I swear it. Back tha feckin' car up an' be fast about it!"
"Boss?" Davy slammed the large car into reverse and drove back the way they had come. He could see it now, an ancient gold-colored Volvo almost hidden behind a screen of bushes.
"Keep yar eyes skimmed. Ya see anyone, anyone at all, ya shoot first. Donnae give 'em a chance ta run... It'll save me a bloody job." Liam was out of the car with a gun in his hand before the Mercedes had come to a full stop.
Jumping out from behind the wheel, Davy followed behind his employer as the other man strode rapidly towards the Volvo.
"Boss! Liam! Jayzuz, man, will ya slow down an' tell me whot tha hell is goin' on?" He closed in and reached out in an effort to make the man he had sworn to protect slow down on his headlong march into a possible ambush.
Grabbing hold of younger man's arm was a big mistake, as all of a sudden he found himself thrown onto the hard ground at the edge of the road and the muzzle of Liam's gun pointed at his head. "Boss, yer scaring me."
He looked up past the gun and saw death staring back at him. For several seconds, Davy Doyle wasn't completely convinced that he was going to live out the day. "Liam, whot are ya doin'?"
The red haze which was coloring the head of the clan's vision and clouding his mind lifted a fraction, but the drumming of his heart thudding in his chest along with the rush of adrenaline filling his veins made bringing the killing rage which had taken him over difficult to control.
He couldnae believe Fiona would try ta return home... Not nar, nae after everything she had done... Nae after he had just lied ta Val Temple about her whereabouts... If she wa' seen, if word got out everythin' every feckin' thing he'd done would be fer nothin. They'd all be dead men walkin'.
"Fer tha love o' God, will ya point thot thing someplace else? Am on yar feckin' side, man."
He heard his henchman's pleas as if Doyle's voice was coming from a long way off. He knew Davy was no threat to him, but the rage controlling him demanded blood. His fingers flexed about the chequered steel grips of his weapon and he watched dispassionately as his childhood friend closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
"JESUS FECK!" Liam yelled and hurled the gun away from him and the loyal man he had nearly murdered.
Davy Doyle opened his eyes in time to see his best friend stalk away from him off to investigate the classic Volvo, the sight of which had caused the uncharacteristic display of temper. Staring up at the cloud covered sky, the older of the pair took several deep breaths in an effort to quell the fear still inhabiting his bones, nosily blowing out each lungful of air.
Liam didn't blow up and give into his temper the way less disciplined members of the family did, or at least Davy had never seen that side of his childhood friend in all the years he had known him. The PIRA interrogator did his job with an icy cold detachment and, as head of the clan, Liam Glenanne calmly and coolly thought through each and every decision he made.
Slowly getting back to his feet, Davy watched as his best friend made quick work of the locked driver's door and begin to search the abandoned vehicle. Moving cautiously, the enforcer picked up the gun the younger man had thrown away and then, with the weapon safely in his own pocket, he approached his seemingly insane employer.
"Ahhh, boss. D'ya feel like explainin' ta me whot's got inta ya?"
Liam stiffened and then straightened up. The sudden rush of utter fury had subsided and looking at his friend, he felt a small amount of guilt for what he had done. "Sorry fer thot," he muttered softly. "Last time I saw this," he slapped his hand on the roof of Gerry Coleraine's pride and joy. "Fiona wa' behind tha wheel, goin' hell fer leather after she'd thrown a smoke bomb in me face."
"Jay-zuz," Davy stuttered. "So, thar both around har somewhare?"
"An' by nar Temple will have passed on tha good news about O'Neill an' thot Fiona has left Ireland... McGarry finds one friggin' hole in me story – I know ham, he won't rest 'til he's pulled tha whole thing ta pieces... Shite! Whot nar?" The last exclamation came as the phone in his pocket began to ring.
"Tis me." he answered the call, his pale blue eyes narrowing and a flush coming to his cheeks as he listened to what was being said.
As the unheard conversation continued, Doyle watched with growing dread as his employer's features formed into a murderous scowl and he was supremely grateful that he had Liam's gun in own possession and an automobile between them at that moment.
"Ya donnae do a thing, d'ya hear me, Shay?" The man's voice, so low, venomous and deadly, was a frightening contrast to his screaming moments before. "Nobody is ta do a thing 'til I get thar. Ya take a phone call, ya make a plan, ya even so much as set one toe outside thot front door an' I'll murder tha lot o' ya wit' me bare hands an' Ah'll do it wit' a smile on me face. D'ya understand me, brudder? Am comin' nar. Donnae let tham do a thing."
And as scary as looking down the barrel of his best friend's weapon had been, that was nothing compared to the horror that washed through Davy Doyle at that moment when Liam Glenanne lowered the cell phone and turned his terrifying black gaze upon him.
()()()()()()
Two hours earlier and several thousand miles away to the east, Abishuly Nazarbayev was thoroughly enjoying his lunch, a delicious repast of mini stuffed rabbit in a morel sauce with crispy potatoes drizzled with just the right amount of truffle oil. The chef he'd brought in who had prepared the meal was quite skilled in making excellent use of the local produce and the flavorful mushrooms had just come into season. Things were going so well that he felt the need to celebrate.
Ten days ago, his primary acquisitions specialist and unrequited love interest had disappeared while procuring a million euros worth of diamond jewelry for him from the CEH Manezh in Moscow during the flurry of activity around fashion week. The fact that whoever had taken her away was uninterested in the bounty Tatiana Samoilova had acquired for him was a small consolation.
Five long days later, his surveillance of her apartments had paid off. While it had slightly perturbed him to allow American intelligence agents, as clearly they were not the local полиция or the potentially more troublesome FSB, to ransack the penthouse he had acquired for her here in town that too had resulted in what he had desired the most. She had turned up at his second home in the darkness of the predawn, frightened out of her wits and looking for his help and protection.
The Kazahstani smiled at his new lover, watching as the woman picked delicately at her meal before noticing his interest. She returned the look before flushing slightly at his intense gaze.
"What is it, Charlie?" the brunette asked at length.
"I am thinking you are beautiful," he replied honestly, admiring the highlights the afternoon sun produced in her chocolate brown hair as they dined across from each other on the veranda under the watchful eye of a bevy of bodyguards, whether openly displaying their high powered weapons or hidden carefully in the landscaping surrounding the nearly palatial dacha deep in the woods.
"And I am appreciating that you are mine." And Abishuly thoroughly enjoyed the view as the color in her cheeks intensified and then spread down her pale slender throat before she dropped her brown doe eyes back down to her plate.
Three days ago, it was not Tatiana Samoilova who had come into his bedroom. He had shared that woman with other men, particularly a haramzade named Victor Roshenko that she also worked for, and he was not happy about that or in the habit of sharing. No, it was Zlata Galinevna Mezentseva or Samantha Keyes, as she called herself since she had immigrated to England and later the United States with her family as a young woman, who had surrendered herself to him that night.
And she had given the powerful black marketer another gift almost as valuable that day.
When the master thief had asked for information on a gun runner and suspected terrorist named Fiona Glenanne, Nazarbayev had included any known associates in that request, suspecting that he would find something more in that search and so he had. It had been his pleasure to provide her with a dossier on the petite paramilitary, which included surveillance photographs of the woman's current boyfriend, one Michael McBride, a man allegedly involved with the mafia before fleeing Italy to return home to his native land. Only that man looked suspiciously like her ex-employer.
Nazarbayev took a long sip of the ice cold Snow Queen vodka and felt the spirits warm his throat as the sight of having Samantha willingly remaining at his side warmed his heart. Now she had presented him with the perfect opportunity to make not only a possibly lucrative new business contact, but to test her loyalty while potentially allowing him to sell a spy to the highest bidder.
He had received word from his people that Armand Andreani, a man known to him by reputation only until this moment, had much more than information on Fiona Glenanne and her boyfriend. It had taken not much digging on his part to learn that said Irishwoman had once been the consort of that international war merchant. As jealous as he was of the apparently former man in Samantha's life, he could easily understand how the Frenchman would also like to see that other man dead.
"Are you finished, любимая? I have people we need to meet soon."
"We?" she echoed as the younger woman lowered the silver fork back to her now empty fine china plate, reaching for the linen napkin on the table to remove a smudge of sauce from her mouth.
The intensity of the raven haired man's stare had her blushing once it again. It pleased him greatly to have such an effect on the woman he had desired for so long. "I am considering business proposition and you will be perfect person to deliver it for me. This we need to discuss with some comrades. Then perhaps we go to Bolshoi tonight after we finish. You would like that, da?"
The talented master thief nodded affirmatively and rose from her chair. "Of course I would."
"Come then, let us prepare." Abishuly offered her his arm, patting her slender hand as she slipped it into the crook of his elbow and leaning over to kiss her cheek, his lips lingering there a moment.
As the couple departed the deck and headed towards his office within the inner sanctum of his secret residence, the solidly built power broker flashed his teeth, mentally manuevering all the pieces into place for the next phase of the game.
If Armand Andreani could be persuaded to arrange an introduction to his former lover and her new boyfriend in exchange for some highly desirable merchandise, then he would send Samantha to deliver it. Andreani had sent Fiona Glenanne all over the world as his emissary and would understand the meaning of the gesture should the Kazahstani send his woman to the meet.
And although his brunette beloved had never said it directly, Charlie knew she wanted to have a tête-à-tête with the dark haired man in the photographs he had provided her and so she would.
If, at the conclusion of that conversation, Samantha Keyes wanted that man dead, then he would die, preferably after Victor Roshenko had been sold to the highest bidder as a spy he surely was.
If not, whatever she decided was his fate then it would be so. That way he would test not only the veracity of her devotion to him, but also the ability of his potential business partner to follow his instructions, for he was certain Mr. Andreani would prefer Michael McBride to die. As long as Samantha Keyes was truly his in heart, he cared not what she decided to do with that haramzade.
Arriving in his office, he pulled out a chair for the woman at his side before barking out orders in his native language to the assembled personnel there. He had much work to do and phone calls to be made. It would take time for this to be arranged through the proper channels and Abishuly Nazarbayev fully intended to take his time with his new lover before going to the ballet tonight.
()()()()()()
And completely oblivious to the powerful men currently plotting the potential death of her fiancé, the auburn haired woman at the center of the upcoming storm watched with growing amusement as the father of her unborn child and Father Conlon bantered on their way down the hall to collect the tools necessary to secure the window the pair had compromised whilst sneaking into the family priest's home in hours earlier.
She really should be following them along the hallway to climb the stairs to take up the good father up on his offer of a long soak in a bath before her mother showed up, but right at that moment the petite red head just wanted to bask in a peace she hadn't felt since she discovered she was pregnant.
The phone call to her mother had gone better than she had hoped for….well, it had after Sean had reluctantly handed the phone over to their mam.
"Father Conlon? Whot can I do fer ya?"
They had all been surprised when it had been Sean who answered Maeve's personal phone instead of the woman herself. Luckily, while she and Michael had looked on in mild panic, Father Conlon had stuck to the plan and calmly asked to speak to the lady of the house. They had continued to hold their collective breaths while from the background came the familiar sound of her family bickering.
"Gimme thot phone nar, Sean. Yer nae taa big I cannae give ya a clip round tha ear... "
"Shay told me ta monitor all tha calls coming in an' donnae ferget whot he said about no more gallivanting about on yar own."
"An' ya need ta remember whose house yer in, laddie. I go ta one little meetin' an' yer all actin' like tha it wa' tha end o' tha world. Nar, off ya go while I talk ta Father Liam."
She had clutched Michael's hand tightly as a wave of homesickness washed over her and the urge to call out to her mother had been almost too much to bear. With her lips firmly pursed to stop the words she wished to utter from tumbling from her mouth, Fiona had listened with rapt attention as the elderly priest had chatted to his favorite parishioner, expertly calming down his best-friend's widow and then explaining to her the reason for his call.
"A marriage ya say - ta McBride - she thinks thot will fix things? Father, I donnae see how thot is gonna help. Ya donnae know all tha facts. Michael McBride is a - well, it doesnae matter whot he is..."
"It'll be fine," Michael had whispered in her ear at her mammy's lukewarm response to the news of her daughter's upcoming nuptials.
And her beloved had been right, as over the next few minutes they had listened while Maeve Glenanne, under the gentle prompting of her spiritual advisor, came around to the idea that a wedding might be the catalyst to bring peace back to the family.
"A wedding, well it's a step in tha right direction I suppose... If he's prepared ta marry har, an' ya say ya believe she really loves ham? Ya know how stubborn Fiona can be, an' how she hates bein' tol' whot ta do and then tha's Liam who isnae exactly tha best at dealin' wit' har when she's like thot. But if ya're sure... When is she callin' back?... I should be thar, if I can talk ta har. If I could hear it fram har, face ta face, Am sure we could work this out...
The smile on her face grew as the memory of her mother's hard won approval warmed her heart.
"Thank ya, Father, an' bless ya. Ya have no idea whot this means ta me. Me little girl... She's been away fer longer than this in tha past, but this time - it's breaking me heart. Whotever else happens she needs ta be wit' har family, and if thot means we have ta take in McBride taa, well, so be it... I donnae care what this lot say, I want me girl back... I'll be over after lunch. Just let tham try an stop me."
It had been a hard fought battle for Father Conlon, but in the end they had a powerful ally on their side. It had been obvious from the discussion they had heard between mother and son that Liam wasn't the one giving orders at the moment and it had sounded very much like Seamus, with his more lackadaisical approach to command, had little control of the matriarch of the family. With one hand caressing the small but fast becoming noticeable baby bump, Fiona couldn't resist widening her smile, outright beaming with happiness now.
While Liam might still be a little angry at their repeated refusal to go with him and the smoke bomb she'd thrown had possibly been a little over the top, none of that would matter as they would have Maeve Glennanne on their side.
Hadn't she been tha one ta snatch har love away fram a life in tha clergy an' then raised a family while he fought ta free Ireland fram tha British invaders? Har mammy would understand, she was sure of it.
Glancing at the clock on the wall above the kitchen door, the petite redhead pushed herself upright and slowly made her way along the hall to the large wooden staircase which led to the upper floor. On her way she caught a little of the conversation taking place in the Father Conlon's front parlor.
"I've known wee Fiona all me life. Har father was me best friend fer many years, and Maeve, well Mrs. Glenanne is very special ta me. It would help me a great deal when I ta counsel tha pair o' ya if ya could tell me a little about yar own childhood an' whar ya grew up."
She stopped her hand from drifting to the door, the urge to continue eavesdropping almost unbearable. Oh, how she would love to hear how Michael held up under her mother's priest questioning, but Maeve would be here soon and she needed to be clean and respectable if they were going to win over the queen of the clan.
Reaching the stairs, her eyes settled on the many photographs that covered the wall, documenting the life of Father Conlon. There were ones of Pope John Paul II recent visit to Ireland, which decorated virtually every home in the country and still others showing the local congregation at various fundraisers and special services.
It was as she climbed higher that she noticed the pictures became more personal to the priest. There was one of a young Liam Conlon before he took his vows with an arm about the shoulders of a smiling Patrick Glenanne, obviously taken years before the British soldiers and the internment camps had wiped away that carefree smile. What would thar lives have turned out like if hadn't been fer tha death of her Uncle Milo? Whot would har da think of whot she wa' doin' nar?
There was another picture a little higher up of her parents together, her mother holding a baby in her arms wearing the same white silk christening gown all the Glenanne children had worn. Squinting up at the old photograph, she tried to make out if it was Pat Jr. or Liam being cradled but it was hard to be sure.
Moving further up the darken staircase, the pictures of her past brought forth a heavy feeling of nostalgia that began to weigh on the young woman, unable to take her eyes off the various photos: Pat Jr's confirmation, Liam and Seamus as choir boys, Seamus, Colin and Sean in the uniform of the Na Fianna Eireann, the Irish Republican Youth Movement and finally the one that brought tears to her eyes right at the top of the stairs. one of herself at twelve years of age dressed in her Sunday best holding the hand of an eight year old Claire at the youngest of the Glenanne's sibling's confirmation.
Life had seemed so uncomplicated back then, they had all so been so happy and free. Biting down on her bottom lip, Fiona moved on, not liking one bit bit what it said about her current circumstances if now the images of her past suddenly seemed so idyllic and carefree by comparison.
Golden haired Claire, who had always had a smile for everybody and who had been incapable of holding a grudge for longer than a day, would have been happy that her big sister had finally found her soul mate.
"Oh Fiona, whot a fabulous dress! Look, tis by Dolce and Gabbana. Have ya ever seen such a beautiful thing?" While every other member of the family had been admiring the yet to be publicly available HK50 project semi-automatic assault rifle with a customized gold inlaid pattern on the stock, seventeen year old Claire had only had eyes for the shiny emerald green cocktail dress and the matching four inch stilettos which had accompanied it.
"Yer so lucky. Armand Andreani is so handsome and rich and charming. Ya know he sent mammy a bouquet this morning, I donnae think I've ever seen one so big... D'ya think ya might marry him one day?" her baby sister had asked breathlessly before Fiona had thrown cold water on the idea.
"We've been on two dates, thot's all, an' I've told ya befer I have no plans ta marry, ever." She had given her answer without even taking her eyes off the magnificent weapon which Sean and Seamus had hogged since she had pulled the rifle out of the crate it had been delivered in.
They had all loved Armand... If she was being truthful, she would have been forced to admit that she had once thought herself in love with him as well.
The petite redhead huffed. Claire had been right, he was handsome, rich and exceptionally charming. But he had also proven he could be manipulative, decadent, arrogant and possessed of the most Byzantine business ethics imaginable. Her family, while certainly not saints, would never do business with some of the monsters Armand counted on his client list.
Other times he gave away weaponry to certain causes for no good reason she could perceive. Occasionally she had wondered if he was slightly mad, though she herself had often been accused of being insane and recently at that.
Fiona forcefully shock off thoughts of her ex-lover. If they had known the truth about him as she had, they would not have been so pleased with the match. Her whole family might think her crazy for running off with an American spy and maybe she was to give up everything for that man when she'd only learned his real name ten months ago, but they didn't know Michael, not like she did.
It wa' as she'd told him, she'd always known his heart. Spy or no, he'd come ta Ireland ta help tham put down tha Real IRA, bastids who'd blow up a church fulla children on a Sunday to make a point. He wa' nae a traitor. If Claire wa' still alive, she would have loved Michael McBride twice as much and Michael Westen nearly as much as thot for no other reason than he made har big sister happy.
Tossing her head back, Fiona opened the airing cupboard door in a search for clean towel. She was letting her past get in the way of her future and worrying about things that she had no hope of controlling. Hadn't har mother as good as promised to help tham? If anybody could make Liam drop his objections, it wa' thar mam.
With the towels folded over one arm, she went into the bathroom. After what would no doubt be a lively discussion, her big brother would come around to helping them out. Seamus would get them safely out of Ireland and they would set up home in Norway, or Sweden or maybe even Denmark.
If she, Fiona Cairan Glenanne, declared it would happen, then it would because she would shoot tha first one who tried ta stop it. With that firmly in mind, she turned on the taps and prepared to meet with her mammy.
If a man like Michael Westen could drop to his knee and propose, anything was possible.