- Chapter three -
Berliner
"But a vague question lingered in my mind. Our rats consumed much more morphine when they were isolated. This fact definitely undermined the supposed proof that certain drugs irresistibly cause addiction. (...) People do not have to be put into cages to become addicted – but is there a sense in which people who become addicted actually feel 'caged'?" — Bruce K. Alexander, Professor Emeritus, Simon Fraser University, 2010
First, he had stumbled into the E.R. as if quietly drunk.
She had watched him bump softly against the front desk. He turned slowly, raising his arms like a child trying to protect himself from harm would do, but there was no one behind the desk to start a fight with. He moved like a man submerged in water, his movements slowed down by the density of invisible liquid.
Second, he started vomiting.
She had expected him to, so her pace had broken into a run in a feeble attempt to catch him. His flailing limbs disappeared behind the desk shortly after that. In less than ten seconds she was by his side, enough time to slip back into her profession. Young male in his twenties. Pale, vomiting, ataxia, now unconscious. Possible diagnosis: brain trauma (though no blood stained his shirt or hair), epilepsy (he smelled of urine, so plausible), intoxication (alcohol perhaps?), suicide attempt (God. He's only twenty). Her confident hands guided him to lie on his side and swiftly tipped his head back.
Third, his breathing came to a halt, but slowly, like a train carefully arriving at a packed station. As she tried to stabilize him—her fingers hurried to remove all the vomit from his oral cavity—what she feared became a painful reality. Small pin-pricks in the curve of his pale skin. Combined with fixed pinpoint pupils, it wasn't hard for her to conclude where this was going. His pulse escaped her fingertips pressed into the hollow between his slack neck muscles.
He had been the fifth to die of drug overdose that week.
"Anything else, miss?"
Mary jolted. Large brown eyes were watching her patiently. The woman's face, Mary estimated she was in her late twenties, reminded her of her favorite uncle. She hadn't seen him in years, and after today's ordeal, the desperate need to talk to him settled in her stomach.
Emotionally unstable, probably on her period. The words left a bitter taste in her mouth. She'd overheard her colleagues in the locker room, and she'd seen their judgmental stares. It stung, not because she'd fought so hard to gain her colleagues' respect, but because she was afraid they were right.
Her uncle had once explained to her that this was the way of the world. So, as cliché as it sounded, she shouldn't raise her voice, but her argument. It was the only thing the academic world responded to. Yet how could she do that if she wasn't even sure of her own abilities? If she couldn't save her patients, what point was there in trying to fight for her career?
The woman cleared her throat gently.
Shaking her head to clear her thoughts, Mary pointed to the pastries and hurriedly added a 'please'. The girl moved slowly, no, uncertainly was the right word, and Mary wondered if she had ever seen her before.
"This is my first day, actually. I'm from Germany."
"I've been to Berlin once, it was lovely," Mary smiled, feeling a little embarrassed. Get a grip, Marianne, right now. Her patients might always be drugged into oblivion, so her words would go unnoticed, but this fact didn't apply to the real world, with real social situations. She needed to keep herself together, at least for the time being.
"I'm Mary Summers," Mary started, "I work at Massachusetts nearby."
Oh so now you suddenly want to make conversation? A cynical voice jabbed at Mary.
"Liesel Herschdorfer. Nice to meet you, Miss Summers. Have a good day."
"You too, Liesel," Mary replied, accepting the paper bag with both hands. Liesel nodded, and, the money still clutched in her palm, watched Mary leave. Berlin had sparked another memory, of Peter, one that usually reared its ugly head when she'd had too many drinks after a difficult case, and for the second time that day Mary wondered if maybe, just maybe, her colleagues weren't entirely wrong about her.
Took you long enough, the voice whispered, ugly with repugnance. Perhaps now we can get back to repairing the damage you've done?
The heavy door shut softly, and Gaby had been silently watching Mary hesitate at the threshold for about 20 seconds. Crisp October air had filled the Bova Bakery, and Gaby fingered the money she was still holding with her fingers. Was it something she had said? Had she blown her cover somehow? Gaby had made sure not to hesitate when speaking her name—a rookie mistake she had made on her first undercover op—but something about Mary had seemed…distinctively off. Seconds after making a mental note about it, the door swung open again, and with it came jet black hair and the penetrating smell of cheap perfume.
"Oh, my, God, you must be the other newbie! So excited to meet you! That is such a cute dress! I just saw Doctor Summers outside the store with her pastries and—Oh my God you probably have no idea who you just met, do you?" The girl's voice had gone from high-pitched to a whisper as she said all this in one breath, her light brown eyes alight with excitement and her eyebrows raised high.
A big bag lined with pink fabric was unceremoniously dumped next to the cash register. The girl was still talking, something about the weather and god-awful shoes, and there was little else Gaby could do but let the intensity of this woman's personality wash over her. Long nails tapped impatiently on the worn wood, and a nasty headache was already pounding just behind Gaby's right eye.
"So? Do you?" the girl asked impatiently, leaning in as if she was about to tell Gaby the juiciest gossip of last weekend.
Which Gaby, for the record, totally expected her to.
Clearing her throat, Gaby brushed her fringe out of her eyes. What she wanted to say was: Oh, yes, as a matter of fact, I am a secret spy appointed to shadow and protect Doctor Mary Summers, because she might become the target of a large drug cartel, which earns money by selling diamorphine on the streets while sharing the profit with a traitorous colleague of Doctor Summers. Also, I absolutely hate baking.
What came out was: "I honestly don't have a single clue." Judging by the look on the girl's face, Gaby gave the correct answer.
"I know we're both newbies but please! She is the best and youngest anesthesiologist in the country! She became an anesthesiologist at age twenty-six. Twenty-six! Can you believe that? She's basically a prodigy, and she comes to our bakery! I'm Nina, by the way, Nina Bova. This is my daddy's store, obviously. I love your haircut, so European."
"Bova?" Gaby echoed lamely. She didn't remember seeing anything in the file saying that the boss' daughter would work here. How could Waverly leave out this kind of information?
Nina took Gaby's outstretched hand with both of her own and pulled Gaby closer, her voice dropping to a low whisper. Mentally, Gaby already struggled to keep up with Nina. "Daddy owns the company, and he asked me to help out for a couple weeks starting today while he's away for a business trip. Naturally, I agreed, because Jeff is the hottest guy in town and a girl needs some eye-candy, right? Just don't tell him I said that."
"Don't tell what to whom?" a deep voice interrupted, and Nina quickly let go of Gaby's hand. In the door opening was a face Gaby did recognize from the files, and she had to agree with Nina; Jeffrey Mayfield had a strong jaw, chestnut colored hair, hazel eyes and no apparent excuse as to why he was still single.
"Nothing, Jeff. You're looking handsome, as always." Nina flirted shamelessly. Gaby barely managed to resist the urge to roll her eyes.
Jeff chuckled, looking visibly embarrassed. "Thank you, Nina. You do realize I'm ten years your senior, right?"
"Doesn't affect my eyesight, does it?"
"I'm Liesel!" Gaby interrupted hastily, stretching her hand towards Jeff. His hand was warm and calloused, and reminded her of Illya. Only Jeff smelled of bread and aftershave, and Illya was this musky smell of dark chocolate mixed with gunpowder and—focus, Gaby!
"Ah, another new colleague. Good to see you two are getting along. How is your first day going, Liesel?"
Gaby opened her mouth to respond, but her voice was drowned out by the laughter of three young doctors stumbling into the bakery. Jeff gave her an apologetic look and squeezed her shoulder. "Back to business, both of you. If you need anything girls, let me know. I'll be out in the back."
And with that, Jeff turned around, leaving Gaby to deal with three hungry customers and a hysteric Nina who just witnessed Jeff physically flirting with Gaby, and demanded Gaby tell her everything about anyone she had ever dated in the past.
"Were you followed?"
Gaby shook her head. "I had a tail for one minute, but lost him after I took a detour to the nest. We're alone."
Solo nodded his approval. It was 6.30 P.M., but the sky was nearly dark with the purple and blue colors of an autumn night. Street lights illuminated the harbor, them and a couple of other people going out for an evening stroll. Napoleon offered his arm and Gaby placed her hand in the crook of his elbow. Together they started for the crime scene 200 yards away, while exchanging today's information in low murmurs.
"Met my new colleague. Can I work at your place, please?"
"That bad, huh?"
"Hm. Hummingbird came in today. Paid with cash. She seemed distracted."
"I spoke to Eagle. Blackbird was sighted and safe. We already reported it to Phoenix."
"Any word on Crow?"
Solo shook his head. "Negative. We're here." Gaby looked up and followed his gaze towards the small fisher boat resting next to the dock. If it hadn't been for Napoleon, she probably would've walked right past it. The red paint was so worn it was almost pink, and the wood of the small pilothouse was clearly rotting. The boat looked ready to sink, and Gaby found it hard to believe that people had actually lived there.
"Pigeon was found in there?" Gaby asked.
"No. A hundred yards northwards. Pigeon was carried outside by someone. We don't know by whom."
Gaby carefully removed the remainder of police tape and set foot on the wood, the boat rocking slowly underneath her feet. The wood moaned, but held her weight. Solo was closely behind, and Gaby was grateful he was there with her. The crime-scene was downright eerie.
The pilothouse door was ajar, and a peculiar smell filled Gaby's nostrils the moment she pushed open the door. Solo stayed in the door opening, keeping watch for any unwanted visitors. The police had already cleared the area, so most items that held any significance were already taken to the bureau. However, what the police didn't know is that a local unit of Waverly had observed activity in the fisher boat following the girl's death. Clearly, someone had come back, and it was up to Gaby and Solo to figure out who this person was.
No moonlight illuminated the boat, so Gaby was using all her senses to try and uncover any clues. "It smells like chicken. Someone had lunch here today," Gaby whispered to Solo. She walked towards the cupboard, her hands finding the door unhinged, as if someone had knocked into it hard. The cupboard was empty. Her eyes caught an empty syringe lying on the floor. It was unused. "There's nothing here, Napoleon, they took every—"
That's when she saw it.
"—thing. Hang on."
Napoleon turned his upper body towards her, his dark eyebrows raised. "What is it?"
It was so small she had almost missed it. Behind the cupboard, carved into the wood, was a name, encircled by an asymmetrical heart. "A name, Simon H., or something. It's in the wood, right there," Gaby pointed at the wall, and when Solo's eyes adjusted to the light he saw it too.
"Excellent. Write it down, will you? I think Phoenix would like to see this."
There were many things Illya Kuryakin was good at. He played chess at a high level; he was an experienced judoka; he could operate a power boat with his hands tied behind his back. He believed he was a good spy, loyal to his colleagues and his country, at least up until the moment he and Solo had decided to burn the nuclear codes. Yet every agent had to acknowledge their weaknesses in order to improve themselves, and unfortunately, Illya was currently dealing with one of them.
Children.
During his career as a KGB agent, children had always been a nuisance. They got kidnapped, they spilled truths when they needed to hold their tongues, told lies when they were asked for truth, and most of all they rubbed salt into the emotional wounds of his own childhood. And as if that wasn't enough, he was currently being observed by fifteen of them. Uncovering a terrorist network in Istanbul suddenly didn't seem like such a big deal anymore.
Never thought I'd prefer Istanbul over this… Illya thought bitterly.
The children were all seated against the back wall of the school's gym, their white uniforms in stark contrast to the red brick. Like Illya, everyone was wearing a judo suit with matching black belts, theirs a first degree, Illya's a fourth degree. He was demonstrating the characteristic judo roll in silence, when a small hand shot up into the air. Illya settled on ignoring the girl with blonde pig-tails, and allowed his body to fall back into the judo roll.
"Excuse me, why are you so tall?"
Several children chuckled, and Illya finished his demonstration before he turned his attention to the girl. At full height, Illya supposed his posture would be enough to intimidate the class into silence. "Only questions about judo, not me."
Another hand went up. "You talk strange." More chuckles. Are these children deaf? Illya wondered irritably. He glanced at his watch, desperately wishing for this day to end. "Was there a question, child?"
"Cool scar, did you bump your head?" It was Alexander, his dark hair messy and his brown eyes big with curiosity. Blackbird, Illya thought warily. All I need to do is watch Blackbird.
"Arab spy. He attacked me with dagger. But don't worry, I killed him."
To Illya's confusion, Alexander turned very pale. Now what? Did I say something wrong?
"Can I use the lavatory?" Alexander squeaked, his eyes darting from Illya to the door. He was fidgeting on his seat, and he looked ready to bolt. "I really need to go. Sir."
"Yes. I mean, no! After training. First, we practice judo roll. Now, pay attention."
He demonstrated the judo roll again and again, the familiarity of the movement taking his mind off the children watching him. Unlike popular believe, it had been his mother who had instilled in him his passion for judo. His father never bothered to show up to practice or a competition, as he was always at work; his mother had encouraged and supported him from the sidelines week after week.
Childhood with her had been peaceful, his life with her had been peaceful, until his father had ruined everything Illya held most dear with his selfish greed. Just like that, at the age of 12, a young and innocent Illya had watched everything around him tumble into a black hole of pain and suffering, like a judo roll in a blazing fire that would never come to an end.
"So… Do you come here often?"
She blinked dramatically, her head angled at his question. When she answered with her silence, Napoleon cleared his throat and tried again.
"I love your necklace, very haute couture. Correct me if I'm wrong, but is that a Paco Rabanne?"
More silence. Napoleon stirred in his tea. "I thought so. Fabulous choice. So, enough chit-chat already: I leave at 7 so I can pick you up at eight. Where do you live?"
The French Bulldog barked, then whimpered pathetically. Several people in the library looked up irritably, some hushed at the dog and resumed their afternoon reading session. Solo downed his lukewarm tea and leaned against the desk. How did people work in libraries all day? Didn't they ever get bored? Museums he could understand, but libraries? They weren't exactly his scene.
"I thought you should know, that dog is a male."
Napoleon whirled around. Light blue eyes were watching him, the corners of her lips curled up in an amusing smile. Napoleon wasn't sure why they called her Hummingbird, but she sure matched its beauty.
"Now that explains why he resisted my advances. And here I was thinking it was the language barrier."
Mary chuckled, bending down to ruffle the dog's hair. "He's a real sweetheart, this one. Mrs. Dubois owns him, but she always leaves him at the desk when she's in the library. I'm Mary, by the way."
"Nathan, Nathan Harris." Napoleon grasped her small hand, "Is there anything I can do for you, Mary?"
The siren of an ambulance disturbed Napoleon's memory. He was standing at her doorstep, black purse clutched in his hand, unsure why he was hesitant to knock. Was it unusual for a librarian to bring customers their forgotten possessions? Would this compromise his cover? Or would he perhaps learn something valuable to the mission?
At the library, he had been watching her closely behind his newspaper. He even brought her a book: Gray's Anatomy, in order to casually look over her shoulder and find out what she'd been reading. But the only peculiar thing was that nothing had seemed out of the ordinary. As far as he was concerned, she was just a renowned anesthesiologist brushing up on her theoretical knowledge in her spare time. Yet his gut told him that she was the last person who needed to refresh her memory. So why was she there? What, or who, was she looking for?
He pushed the doorbell. Here goes nothing, Napoleon thought absently. The door opened slowly, and Mary peeked around the corner.
"Mr. Harris? What—Oh, my purse!"
Solo shrugged his shoulders, giving her a small smile. "I hope I'm not overstepping my boundaries here," he started carefully, "But I thought you might want this back as soon as possible."
She looked a little flustered, her blonde hair pulled up in a high ponytail. Either he had really overstepped his boundaries, or she'd been looking for her purse in a blind panic. Taking his experience with women into account, it could very well be both options. He thanked his lucky stars that it was him, not Illya, who was assigned to work at the library. Peril would have made a right mess, that's for sure.
"That is very kind of you, I was just getting ready to go back to the library to get it. Please, come in. Do you want some coffee? I just made a pot."
"I never say no to coffee," Napoleon replied. Thin ice, Solo, thin ice, a voice in the back of his head warned him.
Mary's house was neat, and decorated in a very British manner. The file said that she was born in England, but moved here when she was twenty-one, right after finished med-school at record-speed. His eyes skimmed over the furniture. A couple of toys were scattered next to the couch, but no sign of Alexander. Either he was still in day-care, or Illya had killed him during judo practice. Solo put his money on the latter.
"There you go," Mary said softly, handing Solo his cup of coffee. "So, Nathan, did they upgrade your position of librarian?"
"Huh?" He stammered. Smooth, Napoleon.
"You don't usually bring customers their forgotten items, do you?" Mary continued, sipping her coffee. Solo blinked, his brain finally catching up. "I make exceptions every now and then."
She nodded slowly, shyly averting her eyes to the wall. Picture frames decorated it, and he felt his gaze following hers. There was Alexander, next to a man he didn't immediately recognize (probably Peter?), a picture of Mary and her best friend, a picture of a dog, a picture of—
No way. It can't be...?
He walked towards the wall. "You have a wonderful family, Mary. Forgive my curiosity, but could it be possible that I saw this man today at the library? He has one of those faces…"
Mary squinted her eyes, then laughed. "That would be impossible," she said, sounding amused, "He's in England, last I heard. Haven't spoken to him in years. He's my uncle, Alex. Peter insisted on naming our son after him, they were quite close…" her voice trailed off, as if she felt like she had overshared. Napoleon had already stopped listening, and swallowed a mouthful of coffee.
No fucking way.
And sure enough, the light blue eyes of Alexander Waverly were staring back at Napoleon.
A/N: Surprise! I'm back! I can't apologize enough for leaving you hanging for so long, but I have something to make up for my absence: I'm publishing two chapters in a row! Which is why I will leave this author's note short, so I can get back to finishing the fourth chapter. I have also decided to slightly update previous chapters by taking out part of my rants: I really want to focus on my writing technique and I want my readers to enjoy this story without having to skip too much to get to the next chapter. Alas, enough talk (it's an occupational hazard, people): it's time for chapter four!