A/N: There should be a new installment of Reconnecting for AU 201 on the boards soon, hopefully by the weekend, and then we will begin reposting all of the Puppies AU stories in order with their associated Reconnecting chapters for each of the seven seasons under their own storyline.
This chapter is slightly shorter than our usual offerings, but long on action and intrigue, as Fiona finally has her much dreaded reunion with her former flame. So without further delay, on with our story.
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BE BRAVE LITTLE ANGEL
Chapter Forty Four
It's hard to forgive someone after a betrayal, even if it was for a good cause. There's nothing more difficult to repair in the field than trust.
Fiona Glenanne had always been a woman of passion, of deeply held convictions that led to decisive actions, for right or wrong she was full steam ahead, guns blazing, caution be damned and the like.
But if she had been able to find a feeling at that moment, any one feeling that is, it surely would have been screaming at her, because disconnected and numb was not her and yet it was silent in the helio except for the muffled sounds of the motor and the blades and the air being pushed by the machine.
Fractured images came back, assaulting her senses while she stared at nothing even though outside the Ecureuil AS355N chopper, the French countryside flashed by on one side and the azure waters of the Étang de Berre on the other as they headed towards her former favorite villa near Saint-Chamas.
It was almost as if she was still caught up in the vivid dream she'd had as sleep had stolen over her after the adrenaline she'd been surviving on had abandoned her once the immediate danger had passed and her body had betrayed her as surely her mind, her emotions, her family and her fiancée had…
Walking along the path beside the River Boyne, staring at the slow-moving water, trying to come to terms with her new status as an unwed mother...
Turning the key in the lock and pushing the door and immediately being hit by a welcoming wall of heat coming from the three-bar electric fire... the love of her life before her, pulling her rain soaked hat from her head and undoing the buttons of her coat…
Tiny plastic buttons which had held his shirt closed scattering about the room, ripping her lover's shirt open and jerking it half way down his arms before shoving him backwards against the bedroom door…
Clothing torn away and tossed aside, the old bed frame creaking and groaning from the force with which he threw her down onto the mattress before descending upon her…
Lying in her lover's embrace, her head resting upon Michael's chest, his arms wrapping about her waist and one hand resting flat over her abdomen...
That was what had been… but then it had twisted, morphed into something other than her memories as she had tried to calm herself in the wake of Aleksander Petrovic's reintroduction into her life and her impending reunion with another part of her past that was just as painful, albeit potentially less deadly for her. But that did not necessarily apply to the father of her child. Her blue-green eyes flicked for a second to the profile of the man currently known as Signore Gallo to the rest of the men onboard.
Her hand almost went involuntarily to reassure herself that the life growing within her was safe, but with a blink and a sharp shake of her head, Fiona forced her hands to remain where they were, fingers splayed over her leather clad thighs as she returned to staring straight ahead out the front windscreen.
Sitting at the table, a plateful of food giving off an enticing aroma, facing the man she was convinced was going to be her one great love… why tell him now? Why ruin a good meal?
The beef was excellent, swimming a red wine sauce over a flavorful mash and a Banoffee pie from her favorite bakery on Grafton Street for dessert. She hadn't told him… She'd lost her nerve… tomorrow, she would tell him tomorrow after they'd had a good night's rest and then she could figure out what to say…
Fiona could feel his arms around her, his body pressing against hers, his weight and his warmth upon her as she sat rigidly next to him on the helicopter, the recollection of their passionate lovemaking from her dream more solid than her current reality. Held me in his arms as I fell asleep, promised to be with me…
But it hadn't ended there… a blinding headache set off by the sounds of doors slamming and children shrieking on the balcony… reaching over to find cold empty sheets instead of warm skin… the rising vomit sending her fleeing into the bathroom, the contents of her stomach being tossed into the toilet…
Coughing and still gagging, her head spinning as she staggers to the sink to rise her mouth, only to feel the bile rising again as she realizes that his toothbrush is gone, no razors, no shaving cream in the cabinet, his soaps and shampoo missing from the shower stall as a cold sweat breaks out all over…
She sensed rather than saw Michael shift beside her and even if she hadn't been surrounded by her former personal security team, the redhead wouldn't know what to say to him in that moment anyway, her body stiffening against the reminiscences of her nightmare, knowing it wasn't real and yet unable to stop the memory any more than she could stop her reaction to what she found her senses engulfed in.
Racing around the bedroom, throwing open the half empty wardrobe, flinging the empty drawers out of the old worn dresser to the floor before heading for the kitchen, her pulse pounding into her ears adding a painful counterpoint to the pressure in her head and the waves of nausea coursing through her.
He had drugged her… the innocuous brown dropper bottle sitting in the top of the trash a silent testament to his duplicity… No, it's hadn't happened like that… the baby, it could have hurt the baby…
Pain shot through her body, pain worse than a gunshot wound, worse than any beating she'd ever taken in her life, and the agony brought her to her knees, collapsing on the floor and curling up into a ball with something wet and sticky saturating the skin on her thighs and spreading over the linoleum… blood, there's so much blood… more blood than she's ever seen in her lifetime and she's seen plenty in her life…
There's a voice calling her… his voice… but it can't be… he left her, he drugged her, he killed their baby…
Suddenly she's not lying naked in a scarlet pool on her kitchen floor, she's in a hospital bed… He's trying to tell her that it's alright, but she knows it's not. She knows she's lost the baby. How did she get here?
"Come on, sweetheart, open yar eyes nar... Tis alright."
How could she be alright? Why would he tell her that? Didn't she lose the baby?
"Tis alright, me darlin' girl, yer fine. Come back ta me nar."
"Michael… yer back…" When did he come back for her? Did he take her to the hospital?
"I only left because you told me to…"
"I dinnae…." She is so confused, competing scenarios crashing together in her brain while she tries to sort out what is a vivid and horrific nightmare from what she thought she recalled. "Tha babby…"
"Our baby is fine, you're fine. You need to get up now. We're going to be landing soon. Do you understand?" He sounds scared as he pulls her into a sitting position. As she blinks, the interior of the Dassault starts to come into focus while the hospital room fades. But the devastation she felt lingers on.
Fiona closed her eyes in the present, feeling the moisture brimming in them as the distraught redhead attempted to separate herself from the emotions brought on by her lucid dream in the past, just as she had tried to do when Michael had awoken her by telling her they were about to land in Marseilles again.
The troubled Irishwoman had sent him away, needing space to sort out her actual memories from the hallucinations. He hadn't left her; they'd run away together. He hadn't drugged her; the baby was fine.
But as she'd sat there on the sofa in the back of the aircraft that was taking her back towards her former lover, mechanically applying mousse to the hair style she'd mussed in her sleep, every positive thought she'd had regarding the dark-haired man for whom she'd abandoned her family and their way of life had been met with a feeling of unease and mistrust.
When you work as a covert operative, there's no line between who you are and what you do. You are who you need to be for the operation. It makes you effective. It keeps things simple. But when you spend so much time living as someone else, sometimes the people you care about most begin to wonder who you really are.
Michael McBride was an illusion, the man she'd fallen in love with a carefully crafted fairy tale meant to get into her pants and thereby get into the inner circle of the PIRA through her Republican family…
But Michael Westen had walked away from his life as a spy, turned his back on his government and had run away with her at great personal risk from her family as well as his former employers…
Michael Westen had left the CIA, but apparently what he'd done with the CIA wasn't going to be leaving them alone any time soon. He'd worked with Aleksander Petrovic, left her to deal with that vile monster all on her own because he'd lived with the man for months, doing God only knew what to convince that foul beast that he was trustworthy… just like he'd spent months convincing her he was someone else…
His McBride persona is who Michael Westen had continued to hide behind, even after he'd told her his true name and his true purpose, which was one in the same as hers fortunately. But he still hadn't let her know anything about his past… how many more heinous things had he done while spying for his country?
She opened those weary red rimmed orbs again, focusing on the landscape moving by the front of the helicopter before turning her head slightly to look at the man seated next to her, staring at him as she had when she'd emerged from the back of the plane and taken her seat in preparation for the landing.
Even before she'd known his real name, she'd loved him. Well before she should have, she'd trusted him because she'd thought she'd known his heart. Hadn't he run away with her, proposed to her, tried to reconcile with her family despite what an appalling bad idea that had ultimately turned out to be?
Michael held her gaze, trying to tell her something important with those worried blue eyes without being able to say a word as soon as he'd noticed she was staring at him again. Her words to him in that little abandoned cottage, their first refuge on their mad flight from everyone, came back to her again.
"Yer tha man I fell in love wit', Michael..." She'd stopped herself from adding a surname. "Wa're both gonna change our names, change our looks and it's gonna work out so long as we donnae forget who we ar' inside, no matter whot we call ourselves fram har on out."
But as their eyes remained locked, Fiona couldn't help but wonder once more if she really knew who he was inside after all. The fact that he'd been prepared to drug her and sneak off in the middle of the night without a word warred with the fact that he hadn't done so. Would he have if she hadn't told him she was pregnant? Could she have found herself deserted, suffering through a miscarriage all alone?
The former international arms merchant looked away then and began watching to the co-pilot of the helicopter, observing from behind the man who had once been the head of her personal security team.
"Fiona Glenanne, where the hell have you been hiding all this time? Did you think I wouldn't find you?"
When the door had burst open and Jean Luc Renard had led the contingent that had once comprised her former security team into the large hangar in Marseilles, she had felt almost overwhelming rush of relief.
After all the stress of the situation her family had thrust her into and her lover had abandoned her to, seeing a friendly face had left her a little light-headed as the older man had clapped her on the shoulders before releasing her quickly. Everything Marcel had been telling the Irishwoman about her destination and mode of transportation had gone straight out of her head at the sight of Monsieur Renard.
"Did you think you could just come by without saying hello?" the muscle-bound man with the clean-shaven head had asked her in his native Basque, a tongue they had used frequently to talk in private.
"Nothing gets by you apparently," she'd returned in the same language, a genuine smile lighting her face.
"How did it go then, working for the losing side?"
Fiona had kept her happy expression frozen in place. When she'd left this life in the weeks following her disastrous trip to Bosnia, she had told Armand she was going home to fight for a chance for peace in her native land, but only after she was back at her mammy's house. But she had told that story to Jean-Luc face to face when she'd asked him to drive her to that very hangar to fly her to Dublin four years ago.
"I have to go," she'd been asking for his understanding or hoping he'd help her sell her story… Or both...
He'd shaken his head and reminded her that he had personally chosen to join the organization she was leaving because he'd no longer wanted to work for the losing side and perhaps she should reconsider.
Fiona had tried to be casual."The ceasefire is holding and the politicians haven't managed to make a muck of everything we've worked for just yet." She'd managed not to grimace at the thoughts of what a mess she and Michael had almost made running away together as her mammy had so furiously told her.
"So, your work there is done, eh? Are you staying or have you just dropped in for a visit?"
Fiona had deliberately ignored his second line of questioning in favor of enjoying the reunion with someone she had truly missed after leaving to allegedly to assist in the pursuit of the peace process. "We shall have to see what comes of the accords. And you? Where have you been keeping yourself?"
"Here and there," he'd replied with a shrug and a smile of his own. "You know how it is. Armand, he keeps me very busy. Never as interesting as trying to keep you out of trouble of course."
The redhead had chuckled softly at the time, remembering all the times Renard had expertly steered her away from more direct and bloodthirsty ways of handling things and towards subtler solutions to the job at hand. One of the reasons no doubt that Armand had wanted the older man handling her personal security and also not unlike the way a certain faux Irishman turned American spy had operated with her.
"It's like that when you are the best at your job, you know?" he'd continued. "We can't all trade on our looks, eh? Some of us have to live by our skills, you know."
"Some of us are blessed with both looks and skills."
"That's what made you so damned dangerous… and modest of course." Jean Luc had chuckled himself then before running a critical eye over her attire. "That's a new look for you, isn't it?"
"I finally decided to take your advice," Fiona had teased back, recalling when her newly assigned personal bodyguard had remarked on the tactical impracticality of her long flowing auburn locks.
"Ah, I see, but you didn't take it far enough," Renard had countered, running his hand over his bald pate.
As she observed him in the present, the former guerrilla couldn't help but think back on when she had first met the man who was currently sitting in the front of the helicopter in the co-pilot seat, instructing the pilot on their eventual landing site which would take her to her reunion with her former lover.
The petite paramilitary had been working and living with for Armand full time for just over a year when she'd started handling business deals for him on her own. Up until that point, they'd been almost literally joined at the hip, so a separate security contingent had been irrelevant. She'd traveled with a team, but their purpose was to ensure the safety of the merchandise and not their mistress necessarily.
It had been on a delivery of RPGs to an Algerian warlord who thought he could get her alone and renegotiate the terms of the deal, trying to take what he should have been paying for, as well as trying to take something else she was never giving up involuntarily ever again. In the end, he'd fallen on her knife and she'd lost part of the security detail that had gone with her along with that particular trade route.
It had led to one of their very first infrequent arguments, as Ms Glenanne had blamed the problem on miscommunication with her team, which in turn had led Monsieur Andreani to insist she needed a permanently assigned and specialized security detail of her own since he'd been a bit put out by her agreeing to a meeting with Mustafa alone against the advice of her bodyguard de jour.
"There's no need, honestly," she'd said, working that cut-glass English accent that had served her so successfully in both recent negotiations and cons. "It certainly won't happen again, I'll see to that."
"Scared I'll teach you something?" the man at Armand's side had queried when she'd tried to dismiss him out of hand. "They said she always up for a challenge, eh? Seems I heard wrong," he'd finished, switching from French to his native Basque tongue to address his younger companion on his other side.
"That depends on exactly what you heard," the flame haired Irishwoman countered, looking at the pair of men standing slightly off to the left of her arms merchant boyfriend. The Basque dialect was tricky as compared to French or the other romance languages of the continent. She'd only picked it up from working with Shay while they had been running trade in Spain buying from a Basque separatist group.
Jean-Luc and his nephew Rene as it had turned out had been both been in French Paratrooper units and the ETA. But the elder had come to despair of the group ever achieving is aims following a 1989 cease fire and they'd taken up the offer to work for the Andreani organization, or as he'd told her, "Coming to work for the winning side and the rest, as they say, was history."
So much history… she thought, sighing internally. While she could hold a grudge with the best of her Celtic ancestors, the fiery former guerrilla had always been good at putting bad things out of her mind at the moment until something, usually the need for revenge, triggered her memories… and seeing her former lover after four years was forcing so many thoughts to the surface that she would rather not.
"I've got a long trip comin' up an' I could use yar help wit' this lot, Fi. Can ya see yar way ta goin' along?"
Following her assault in an alleyway by a UDF wannabe looking to make a name for himself after her graduation, she'd left the country with her Seamus almost immediately. Her sibling had concentrated on renewing old friendships and seeking out new lines of trade on the continent and in the Middle East.
The Irishwoman had initially been amenable to her older brother's overprotective ways. He kept her in the background while ostensively teaching her his trade as she had processed that horrific experience. Slowly, Fiona had found her footing again as the nightmares had finally begun to recede, her brother offering her room to work through things herself or if needs be, a stiff drink and a shoulder to cry on.
Later she had come to enjoy the sneakier aspects of it, knowing what their clients and suppliers were saying while they spoke openly in front of her, dismissing her as woman and ignorant of their language.
"They're planning on switching up what they're gonna deliver after ya've paid fer the guns, Shay."
"Is thot so? Well, we'll be seein' about thot, will we nae, boys? Daly, ya get tha door. Brody, ya make sure ya've got a clear line o' sight ta tha crates. Tony, ya an' Fi watch our backs in case they try it after all."
And then Seamus had asked her to go out for a night on the town with a tall, handsome stranger as a favor to himself, no doubt the international arms trade equivalent of a blind date. Fiona had considered refusing while she had stared at the man standing alone in the middle of an empty boathouse, seeming to take the entire space with his presence alone. But Armand Andreani had intrigued her from the start.
"Me brudder says yer lookin' fer a guide fer the evening. I dare say ya cannae know which bars will water yar Guinness in this part o' town wit'out someone ta show ya around. Ar' ya game, sar?"
He had shrugged. "When in Dublin I suppose… are you fond of the local cuisine or perhaps I could show you a restaurant I found in downtown? The chef is excellent and so is their selection of Dom. A rather interesting place near St Stephens Green, it's actually located in an 18th century Gregorian townhouse."
Fiona hated admitting, even just to herself, now that her arrival at the villa where the two of them had spent so much time together was growing closer by the minute, but being with Armand had helped her regain her confidence after what had happened to her. He had valued her abilities and her opinions and had eventually treated her like an esteemed business associate as well as a cherished lover. He had taken a twenty-two-year-old who'd already seen far too much in her life and shown her the whole world.
The redhead flicked her eyes towards her fiancée before returning her gaze back towards the front.
It was so hard not to compare the two men, the arms dealer and the former spy, despite her infinite desire not to do so. Their physical similarities aside, they had both treated her with a level of respect she had not received from her kinsmen or her countrymen. But their codes of ethics were very different.
Armand Andreani did things for his own reasons, reasons she didn't always follow and frequently found difficult to understand, but he had never lied to her. However brutal his truths might have been, he never had shied away from them. But part of who she had been had become lost in his powerful reality.
Michael Westen had lied to her from the start, from the very first time he'd declared that his name was McBride. But Michael had always claimed to have good reasons for everything he'd done to hurt her and she had forgiven him time and time again. They had worked for a common goal and a common good.
When you work with someone long enough, you learn to trust them. When things go bad, that trust is the difference between life and death. Of course, knowing that doesn't make it less terrifying, to back a play you know nothing about.
When they had run away together, the ex-American intelligence operative had insisted more than once that she didn't know what they were getting themselves into. Now the proverbial shoe was decidedly on the other foot, as Michael neither knew nor fully comprehended the danger they were facing. Fiona understood why he hadn't backed her up in Italy, but it wasn't something he could get away with here.
Operate in the field long enough and you'll find yourself getting tested by very dangerous people. The more immediate and unexpected the test, the more likely they're up to serious trouble and the more likely they'll kill you if you don't pass.
And as Jean-Luc Renard informed her of their estimated time of arrival at the villa she'd helped purchase a few short years ago, Fiona firmly reminded herself that she needed to shake off her own past and her feelings of mistrust brought on by her recent dream if she and Michael were going to have a future. It wasn't the first time this had come up since they'd left everything behind nor was it likely to be the last.
"Needs must when the devil drives, me darling girl," the voice of her father reminded her gently.
"Aye, tis truly tha devil in tha driver's seat, Da," she agreed quietly, shaking off her nerves forcefully as the landscape surrounding the helipad near the beautiful abode became painfully familiar.
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"Who the devil authorized this?" the dark-haired woman in the impeccable black pant suit quoted from a note written in the margin of the report she was reading as she flipped through the contents of the cardboard file provided by Sir Richard Chamber's office with one hand and pinched a nearly used up cigarette between her trigger and middle finger with the other.
Since she had her back to where Olivia Riley sat at Tom Card's former desk smoking and skimming through the intelligence that one Caroline Carruthers had sent over, Mrs Joyce did not feel the need to restrain herself from rolling her eyes at the younger woman, who had done nothing but criticize the work of everyone involved in the Westen investigation since her arrival this morning.
"They had Westen in custody and Tom lets him go to tie up loose ends…" she chuckled low, her laughter spiked with a nasty condescending edge. "No wonder Sir Richard didn't want to meet with me. He still has his panties in a bunch over this."
"It's time to wrap this up," the older woman thought to herself as she listened to the other agent continue to brag about how rapidly she would find their target now that Ms Riley was finally getting some cooperation out of their incompetent British hosts. "When I get back, Kay and I are going to crack that bottle and celebrate my retirement. Enough is enough."
It wasn't her forty plus years of service to the Company that was weighing down on her today. It wasn't even having just spent eighteen hours in an interrogation room over what Tom Card had been up to on the day he'd died after her boss had had her rent a car and leave it for his surreptitious use in a downtown parking structure. No, what was making Julieta Joyce feel ready to hang up her spurs on his fine spring day was the time she'd had to spend with one Olivia Riley since she'd returned to her office.
"Westen blew right by the tail Chambers put on him," Riley remarked as she paused in her page turning to light another cigarette, causing the silver fox to sigh internally. She hadn't had to put up with this much smoke in her lungs since her late husband had died back in the sixties. For all Tom Card was a drinker and a pompous ass at times, he never put her through having to deal with the need for nicotine.
Julieta thought again about the man whose body was waiting to be escorted by her back to his young wife. That's going to be a helluva funeral… between all the ex-wives and the former trainees showing up.
Michael Westen had been the training officer's star pupil, but not his only success story with the folks back on the Farm. Card's career in the field, like his best buddy William Raines, had been a short one. Mrs. Joyce smiled as she remembered the man lecturing his proteges about not thinking with their dicks, which was precisely what had gotten Tom Card pulled from the field and put into service as a trainer.
Dating a Senator's daughter was a good move politically, knocking her up was nearly suicidal for his ambitions. But ever the wily one, he had found a way to make it work. With Raines' ability to spot raw talent and Card's almost supernatural insight into which buttons to push to get the most of his recruits, the pair of them had begun rebuilding the Company's talent pool in the wake of the Church committee.
With an eye at getting back into Operations, it was no wonder her boss had gotten on a plane to try to reel Michael Westen in before his boy could go native and splatter more proverbial mud on his training officer's reputation. Mrs Joyce wondered again for the millionth time since she'd gotten the call to get over to Ireland stat what in the hell had gotten into the super serious dark-haired young man she knew.
"They pushed him back into the field too soon," Card had ranted. "He'd barely gotten his head put back together after that lunatic Sizemore tried to blow him up before they were giving him a deep cover job."
At the time, his personal assistant had refrained from pointing out to her supervisor that he had been the one to push Raines to pull strings to clear Westen for the Irish Assignment, as Tom had started to call it, in order to prove that anything his apprentice might have done wrong under the tutelage of Larry Sizemore was in no way a reflection on the super spy or the man who had trained him.
As she put away the last file folder that the Agency had just returned to her soon-to-be former office now that Olivia Riley was officially investigating not only the disappearance of Michael Westen but the suspicious death of Tyler Grey, who had been apparently found conducting an off-the-books operation with one of the local paramilitary splinter groups, Julieta found herself mentally comparing the two.
They both had done time in special forces, which was not an uncommon place for the Company to recruit from, Westen in the Rangers and Grey in Marine Force Recon. The blonde was the most straightforward person she'd known in the intelligence services, earning the nickname 'Iceman' for not only his resemblance to Val Kilmer in a certain flight school movie but his relentless pursuit of his targets.
Westen also had a fierce reputation, but he was an expert at thinking outside of the box to accomplish his goals, which had led to some questions about his last few missions even before the head injury.
"I'm going to have to quiz Kay about this one," she decided, knowing that her best friend at the Agency, Kay Anderson, had been a mentor to one of Westen's former bosses, Rayna Kopec. That other Virginia Farm Girl might have been retired ahead of her, but that didn't mean Kay hadn't kept her ear to the ground.
"I'm making it my mission to chase you to the ends of the earth if that's what it takes," Ms Riley declared. "Glenanne's family can't protect you anymore."
The older agent turned around finally to see the younger one addressing a surveillance photo of her target.
"Too bad you won't be here to see me bring him back in chains and clear Tom's name," she boasted when Olivia noticed the other woman's attention.
"I'm sure that'll make everyone happy but him," Mrs Joyce agreed.
The raven-haired woman with the tight pony tail was a ball breaker, just like Rayna Kopec, only that blonde had more style in Julieta's opinion. Not that Riley wasn't sharp and not that most high-flying operatives weren't egotistical to some degree; it all went hand in hand. But Grey had been a gun and Riley at this point was a blunt instrument.
If Olivia Riley continued to acquire Michael Westen's creativity and Rayna Kopec's self-disciplined finesse, she would be unstoppable, as she didn't have the younger man's baggage or the need to plow the road like her predecessor… and given some of the things the silver fox suspected that Tom Card had been preparing to get his acolytes involved in, it was most definitely time for her to retire from HQ Langley.
The sounds of footsteps in the hallway alerted her to their impending visitors before the light rap of knuckles on wood proceeded the entrance of two sour looking men into the office spa.
"Agent Riley?" the taller of the pair questioned. "We're here to escort you to-"
"Good," the operative in question interrupted, coming to her feet and crushing out the last of her cigarette in an empty ceramic coffee cup. "Is Chambers finally ready to answer some of my questions?"
"Oh, Sir Richard is very anxious to speak with you, ma'am," the shorter one said. "This way, please."
And while it might have been just her imagination, Julieta Joyce was almost positive she saw a spark of self-satisfaction in the eyes of the two British spies in the sharp Savile Row suits as they led their American counterpart away to a meeting with their superior.
()()()()()()()()
If the former American ace operative had any doubts about the fire power, man power and wealth available to his fiancée's ex-boyfriend, they would be erased when the multi-million-dollar helicopter approached the expensive compound on a private jutting strip of coastline nestled between the small inland French sea and a sparkling shallow bay on the other side that would remind him briefly of the high dollar homes along the Intracoastal Waterway from the South Florida of his youth.
The closer they came to their destination, the less apprehension the ex-agent felt for his lover and the more he began to grow concerned for himself personally. Just like their encounter with Petrovic, which was no doubt extremely painful for Fiona too, involvement in her past could be potentially fatal for him should the head of his vast criminal organization choose to eliminate him for any number of reasons.
"If she does decide to keep you around, you better hope Monsieur Andreani doesn't take a dislike to you. Because if he does, you'll probably end up as mulch for the flower beds. You understand?"
Not the least of which might be as a favor to the Glenanne family, through whom she had met the man.
The head of the clan might have agreed not to kill him personally at its matriarch's request, but that didn't mean Liam wouldn't have put in a quiet word to an old family friend to accomplish a deed that couldn't be traced back to him. Her oldest brother's dossier clearly indicated he was capable of such and Fiona could have neither the knowledge of said plot nor the ability to stop it even if she were to know.
"Tis ya thot needs ta watch yar back when ya land. Thar'll be no love lost between ya an' thot lot…"
The ex-spy hadn't missed the subtle way Marcel and his crew had separated him from Fiona. While it could have been nothing more than the French mercenary he'd spent the last three hours male bonding with attempting to keep Signore Gallo from getting into more hot water, it could also be trouble brewing.
The fact that he'd been instructed to leave the luggage they'd carried with them from Newcastle behind on the Dassault hadn't helped him feel completely reassured either, but again it could have merely been a matter of different protocols the organization observed once they were back at base in Marseilles.
He'd taken comfort in the fact that no one had decided to relieve him of the French-made Beretta knockoff still tucked in the back of his waistband and his beloved was still opening carrying the Walther in the front of hers and he still had the garret hidden in his belt along with Fiona's precious photographs.
When a side door had flung open and another quartet carrying weapons had surrounded the slender redhead, that tension had not lessened significantly even though her body language had said she'd been startled but pleased to see those people. He didn't know the tongue she'd been using with the older man with the bald head, but it wouldn't have mattered if he had. The noise in the hangar had been enough to keep even his keen ears from eavesdropping at the distance he was being kept from her.
Standing alone as you eavesdrop is too obvious. You need to engage in a cover conversation near your target. Pure lip-reading takes years to master and doing it in a foreign language is even more difficult.
Nor were they given an opportunity to converse privately since he'd awoken her from an apparent nightmare back on the plane. The petite paramilitary had been agitated and confused, a sorrow on her face that reminded him of that morning in the Braeburn Hotel in Derry when Fiona had talked about her deceased sister for the first time. She'd sent him away again afterwards and he'd seen no reason to push. Marcel had already given him more information on where they were going and what he might be facing than she probably would have and the bodyguards had been watching them too closely by then.
High-status cover ID's are rarely effective. Claim to be a big shot and people get suspicious. Claim to be a big shot's errand boy, people don't think twice.
Sticking to his identity as Fiona's momentarily disgraced manservant had seemed to work for him thus far, though it had the disadvantage of leaving them unable to communicate directly for the moment. This was going to have to be her play, whatever it was, and he would have to be ready to back it.
There's no substitute for improvisation. Even the best plans can't anticipate everything. You'd better be able to roll with the punches…
His lover had fallen in step with her old friends without a backward glance in his direction, eliciting a nasty albeit quiet laugh from Randy to his rear. Soon enough they were out of the hangar and being loaded onto a luxury helicopter, her newly arrived security detail taking over from the previous group.
Marcel had given him a punch in the arm and a loaded look before Michael had boarded the chopper and the French mercenary and his companions from the Dassault had headed back to a waiting SUV.
Once onboard, they'd been seated together along the bench in the back but there had been a man on either side of them while the other pair had taken the front seats at the controls. In his peripheral vision, it seemed to the former operative that while Fiona continued to stare straight ahead, her gaze appeared unfocused and her expression of blank, devoid of any emotion, not at all typical of the fiery Irishwoman.
Michael shifted in his seat, trying to draw her attention to himself without drawing the guards' attention too. She stiffened and closed her eyes tightly. Well, that didn't work. He took a chance, allowing himself to closely observe her profile, wondering if he was really seeing moisture build on that thick mascara…
Was it just his own guilt and paranoia at work? No, his lover was deeply disturbed, something deeper than anger over Petrovic and probably more than just the prospect of meeting an old lover that she'd abandoned over her principles. She'd said that they'd parted on good terms from Andreani's side, albeit not on hers as she'd obviously left Armand, so if that wasn't the issue then what was wrong with her?
Signore Gallo turned away before he could be caught staring at his employer too long. He spent his time studying the crew around him instead. The former head of her personal security was sitting in the co-pilot's seat, that much he'd been able to discern from the light-hearted banter between the other members of that team. While attempting to keep his suspicion and frustration under control as he'd been taught to do by years of experience, he suddenly noticed the woman he loved was staring at him.
It was with that same anguished expression he'd remembered from earlier. When the fiery Irishwoman had discovered who he was, Fiona had been furious, the fire in those blue-green eyes covering the other emotions underneath. But this was different. Betrayal was still included, but the depth of the heartbreak he now saw on her visage truly scared him. Was this about him or was it about Armand? And why?
He tried to reassure her as his beloved held his gaze, wanting desperately to say something to erase that look from her red rimmed orbs, but paradoxically also relieved that he could not speak because of the listening ears within the confined space, as Michael had absolutely no idea what comfort he could offer.
The Irishwoman turned away, redirecting her focus towards the front of the helicopter, a series of soft sighs escaping at irregular intervals until the co-pilot announced they were about to arrive. Then two buildings, one substantially larger and grander than the other, came into view. These were encircled by gardens and separated by a courtyard, an oasis of emerald on a white sandbar surrounded by blue seas.
The Ecureuil AS355N passed over the three-story rectangular building with the goldenrod exterior and gleaming white accents, including a highly ornate railing that surrounded the roof. As they came back around towards the helipad, Michael noticed a cadre of servants and half a dozen armed body guards near a pair of buffet tables and two circular tables partially hidden by large white umbrellas, which undoubtedly would offer any diners a magnificent view of the tranquil waters of the Étang de Berre.
Upon landing, they were met by a six-seater Royal Limo luxury cart, an odd cross between a golf cart and a black luxury SUV. But Michael was grateful for the canopy that allowed him to examine the grounds without the bright noon time sun impeding his observations and even more appreciative of the fact that Fiona's former security squad took the place of the four guards who had arrived to escort them to the nearer of the two buildings on the compound. She had trusted those men in the past with her life…
For a spy, deep cover assignments often mean going into enemy territory alone and unarmed. If you want to survive you better have a support team you can trust watching your back… even if that means relying on the good will based on the old loyalties of your girlfriend's one-time group of personal bodyguards…
The landscaping and the gardens were breathtaking from an aesthetic point of view and ideal from a tactical perspective if he had been the one in charge of safekeeping this sanctuary. There were plenty of places for unobtrusive observation and a multitude of clear sight lines for snipers between himself and the helipad. Making a run from the helicopter in broad daylight would be a really bad strategy.
A low stone building outside the perimeter covered in ivy could have been a maintenance shed or a garage and might contain vehicles, although from what he had seen from the air, making a break for the road would also be problematic at best as there was little cover and they were surrounded on both sides by water. Possibly there was a boat dock located on the other side of the residence that could be used...?
While the ride was uneventful, it was certainly informative. Fiona seemed to have finally shaken off whatever malaise had been affecting her since she'd awoken from her unplanned nap, chatting up the older man whose name was apparently Jean-Luc in a friendly fashion in French. As such, he was able to largely follow the conversation. Like Marcel, the former head of her personal security detail was very interested in just how deeply she would be renewing her association with the head of the organization.
The Irishwoman was apparently continuing a conversation they'd had privately in the hangar for the benefit of himself and the other members of her old team. She'd finished her work attempting to help secure peace at home and was on her way to conduct business for her brother overseas when Armand happened to call. So, a quick hello after a job well done and they would be on their way to Stockholm.
They had discussed going to Scandinavia it seemed like a million years ago while standing in Father Conlon's kitchen after his marriage proposal. Had she picked the Swedish capital, which they had not discussed, to disguise where they were actually intending to end up or was there more to it than that, as 'see you in Stockholm' had been one of their code phrases for going solo on a potential suicide mission?
It was just as likely, Michael decided, that she was also attempting to take Jean-Luc into her confidence regarding their plans since the bald man with the graying goatee seemed to react to the phrase as visibly as he had internally. With any luck at all, they could use all the obvious resources that had once been hers to command to quickly recuperate, resupply and renew their flight from his CIA masters.
Luck is where skill means opportunity… that had been Captain Don Novak's words to him the first day he had come under his command in the 75th Ranger Regiment and it had echoed in his head when he had been the sole survivor of his team on his first assignment in Bolivia and he'd beaten the odds ever since.
Though his luck often seemed to come in the form of skin of his teeth kind of escapes, he thought wryly.
When you're outgunned and outnumbered in enemy territory, paranoia is inevitable. If you don't know what to do with it, it turns into cold, directionless fear. With the right training, it turns into hyper-awareness of your surroundings. Not always pleasant, but a lot more useful.
The other complicating factor in Fiona's plan was how willing their host might be to let them go again.
The foyer was gleaming white marble and white washed walls adorned with tastefully restrained art, which made tall tanned man wearing a dark suit and gray button down open to mid-chest stand out all the more in its midst. Mssr. Andreani was wearing a bright smile and an expensive gold chain, his body language conveying not only his pleasure at seeing his former girlfriend again but his utter command of his environment and Claire Glenanne's warning came to the forefront of Michael's mind once more.
Armand moved immediately to greet Fiona while the ex-spy stood back with the security detail as was his place in this scenario, giving her an old friend hug that lingered a little too long and a couple of kisses on the cheek in the French style before letting her go. Michael was fairly certain he was the only one that caught the slight stiffening of her spine or the release of that tension once she'd been freed.
"Fiona, what have you done to your hair?"
The redhead shrugged. "It was time for a change."
"Indeed," Armand replied, cocking an eyebrow and looking over at Signore Gallo for just a fraction of a second before refocusing on the Irishwoman. "I think it might have been a little too much of a good thing this time," he chuckled lightly, her slicked-back hair matching the style of his own long dark brown locks which ended in a tight pony tail at the base of his neck.
"I'd heard you had run into a bit of trouble in Ireland. A bad business, bad company and all, having to leave on such short notice... but you're here now." He smiled and leaned in a little closer, laying a hand to the small of her back, guiding her towards the wrought iron spiral staircase in the corner of the room.
"You'll be happy to know I had your suite cleaned and stocked for you, all your favorites... the wine from that little vineyard in Tuscany we found on our way home after that trip to Libya and the perfume you introduced me to in Morocco. I still keep a bottle or two around. I've had the sheets changed back to the Egyptian cotton you're so fond of and the bath restocked with those lavender salts you liked, fresh in from the lavender fields in Provence. From what Seamus said, I think you could use a bit of pampering."
"Well, if ya've talked ta Seamus, Am sure he mentioned that I've got a bit o' business ta take care fer him thot needs doing," she said over her shoulder as she proceeded her former lover up the staircase.
"Timing is everything, isn't it? It was terrible timing when Seamus called me, but it couldn't be helped. So good that we were able to work that out. By the way Alek sends his regards. He was quite satisfied with the delivery and was very pleased, as he said, that my lovely assistant was back working me."
Michael couldn't see her reaction to these words, sandwiched as he was between Jean-Luc and the man he had learned was his nephew Rene lower down on the staircase as they moved from the first floor towards the second story. "I understand that Liam wants to keep contact to a minimum, but you should know that I sent a coded message to your family letting them know you are safe," he continued.
"Thank you," the Irishwoman replied with sincerity.
"I've had some refreshments laid out on the roof. I know how much you used to love sunbathing up there. The view is still magnificent, though it is still a bit chilly yet for a clothing optional brunch."
Based on where he was below her at that moment on the twisting stairs, Michael could see Fiona's face reddened beneath all the makeup at the clear reference to something from her past with her French arms dealer boyfriend. He wondered then if Andreani was speaking English because the war merchant thought that the ex-spy wouldn't understand or rather because Armand wanted him to, as Marcel could possibly have informed his employer that Signore Gallo did speak English and not French. It seemed likely scenario given what he had learned about the man's organization. It's what he would have done.
"Tis been a long day, Armand," Fiona countered. "I'd like to use me suite before we eat, since ya went ta all thot bother ta stock it fer me, and then we can talk about getting me on a jet over some pate later."
As they progressed from the second floor to the third, the former American agent looked out over the shimmering waters through the large glass windows, noting the boat house he'd been hoping was there in the distance, but not missing the plethora of guards amongst the pathways in the garden and beyond.
"Before you go to freshen up, there is somebody I think you would enjoy meeting," Armand was saying. "She's an envoy for a hopefully new business contact. As we're in the early days of negotiations, I would appreciate your opinion on the venture. You always had such a sharp sense of who to deal with."
Stepping out onto the sunlit balcony on the third floor, they were joined by four more men, who Michael assumed were Armand's personal security team while Fiona's old body guards moved closer to where she was standing near the international arms dealer. A light spring breeze might have been the reason she shivered, but the ex-spy assumed it was far more than that.
It would be extremely difficult to get out clean if this went badly. The only option he could see would be to take out two of the men next to him and use the other for a human shield should Fiona decide to pull her weapon on her old lover and attempt to hold him hostage. Then the dark-haired operative figuratively held his breath, waiting to see what her next move was going to be.
"Armand, I donnae think Am really dressed fer guests... perhaps after a bath an' a change o' clothes?"
"I would dearly love your first impressions before lunch, Fiona, if you could manage it? I promise, just a brief hello and then you and, ah, oh yes…" Armand seemed to notice where she was looking back towards him. "Oh yes, Signore Gallo… or is it Michael McBride…? With so many names, it must be hard for you to keep track of, sometimes… I believe I have something that you'll be very interested in too."
Mssr Andreani motioned for Fiona to proceed him up the stone staircase from the balcony onto the roof.
With another glance over her shoulder towards her fiancée, the redhead ascended the stairs with Jean-Luc and Rene following after her. The four heavily armed assumedly French house mercenaries fell in behind Michael as they made their way upwards.
"I understand you had some business dealings farther east before you two met in Italy… I believe you were using another name then, too?" Armand asked, sending Michael's paranoia levels well past eleven. "It seems you have a well-established habit of undertaking other identities in your business dealings."
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.
"It was useful in my work for the families to keep their name out of it unless they wanted it known," the ex-agent answered as they came onto the rooftop, wondering if it was possible that Andreani had somehow found out that he used to be a Kiev gun runner named Oleg Markarkin as well. His eyes flicked towards Fiona before returning to the penetrating dark gaze of the former man in her life.
"Well, I believe you might know my potential new business associate as well from your previous line of work… for the families of course." Armand gestured toward a table where a figure in beige sat looking out over the water, though it was difficult to see who with all the servants bringing food from the long buffet table to set on the round ones shaded by large white umbrellas.
The petite paramilitary moved towards those tables, apparently eager do the introductions and leave.
"I have a bottle of Dom on ice and some fresh juice, squeezed just this morning. I remember how much you loved a Buck's Fizz with omelets. Andre has prepared all your favorites. I would hate for you to miss this, Fiona," he said as he led them forward, his personal guards falling back to form a loose semi-circle in front of the exit from the rooftop, a move that did not go unnoticed on Michael's part.
The operative moved closer to his fiancée and her ex, knowing his best move at this point was to take out their leader should things go wrong when the woman at the table stood up and turned around.
"Ma dulcinée, I would like you to meet Mr McBride's former business partner… or was it asset? Though from what she's told me, I would have gathered that she might actually have been his wife as well."
"We never actually got to the ceremony part," the brunette contradicted quietly.
The ex-spy couldn't believe what his senses were telling him was true. That tall statuesque woman with the body of a ballet dancer and the slender fingers that could pick any lock that he'd met back in Saint Petersburg was actually there in front of him, wearing a beige long sleeve silk dress under a light coat with a taupe fur collar and looking nervous, waves of chocolate curls wafting in the light breeze as her large brown eyes started to brim with tears.
And Michael Westen, for all his training and years of field experience, was unable to keep the expression of utter shock off his face at the sight of the woman he'd agreed to marry two years ago standing there.
"Fiona, this is Samantha Keyes. Samantha, I would like you to meet Fiona Glenanne, my former business associate and… well, we never actually got to the ceremony part either, did we? Though I think our relationship truly was much more than that, wouldn't you say, Fiona?"
And that fraction of a second was all that was necessary to do all the damage that Armand had intended.