Stone of The Heart

The Dance

The dance began. Recruiting an asset is never an easy task. Often you take two steps backward for each one taken in the direction you actually want to go. You navigate your way around the floor hoping you don't step on anyone's toes. And when your target is as skilled as you are, it requires a bit of finesse. The voice in Michael's head continued the monologue, reminding him to tread slowly and carefully.

He had to admit there was a part of him that was actually enjoying his time here, well, enjoying it as much as he was able to 'enjoy' anything. His persona, Michael McBride, was quick with a laugh, easy to be around, a man with a bit of dash and flair. He soon became a fixture at the pub, picking up odd jobs to pay the rent, stopping at the local at the end of a shift. He adopted the pattern of the neighbourhood and found himself drawn into conversations more and more. It was an excellent way to gather Intel, men free with talk after a few pints of the black stuff, but it was also a risk that he may say the wrong thing, hoping that if he did that he could pass it off at being the fault of the drink.

The conversation always turned to politics. It was hard to ignore in this place that sat in the shadow of the 'Peace Wall', a five kilometre long, seven metre high wall laced with barbed wire that separated this part of town from the Shankhill, a staunch Loyalist community. Rumours swirled about the status of the talks in Stormont, London, and Dublin. Some here fervently hoping to end the struggle that consumed their lives, while others advocated ramping up the violence so all demands would be met. Michael tried to remain silent or use his quick wit to deflect the topic and ease the tension. He wanted to have no record of taking a position; after all, he had no idea where his target stood on this issue. One false word and each step he had taken would set him back to square one.

Fiona Glenanne was not an easy one to approach. The spy watched her for weeks, keeping a safe distance, noting her guarded nature, her honed covert skills. She was quite an enigma, setting up black market trades, planting a strategically placed bomb or two, brazenly robbing banks in the area. She was a woman seemingly without fear but a heavy dose of recklessness was there, as well. But there was another side not often seen by her comrades in arms. Her profits from these adventures rarely lined her own pockets but were passed along often to women in the community whose husbands were interned in the Cages or the H blocks of Long Kesh due to their IRA activities. The Army provided for their own, but too often it was not enough. Fiona Glenanne helped to fill in some of these gaps.

After considerable surveillance he decided the best approach would be here in the pub where she appeared to let her guard down slightly. She was rarely alone. Sometimes her stops here were brief, a quick word with another before gliding away; sometimes there were long hushed conversations with hardened men at the back tables, all others giving them privacy in this public arena. Each time, their eyes met; each time hoping that the other would make the first move.

Michael arrived a bit later than usual and was surprised to see that Ms. Glenanne had already made an appearance. She sat near the back deep in conversation with another. He caught a glimpse of her companion, surprised to find that it was Hannon himself. Negotiations of some sort seemed to be underway, both countenances firm and unyielding. A deal was eventually struck, compromise on each side, and Hannon took his leave. Fiona remained sipping her wine as she mentally reviewed the proposition agreed to, working out the logistics in her mind. He found himself staring at her and quickly averted his gaze.

"Jaysus! Instead uv gawkin' at 'er like a prized sow, why don't yer talk to the cailin." The grizzled old man bedside him waved his hand in frustration. "Go on wit' ye nowt, boyo." He stared Michael down until he finally moved.

Sufficiently humbled by this order, Michael realised the time had come for his approach especially now that other patrons were aware of his interest. His heart began racing, a wave of nervousness washing over him; surprising effects for a covert operative with a great deal of field experience. He moved toward her, cutting easily through the crowd; she, feigning no knowledge of his approach.

After several years as an operative herself, she was not unaware of the man's notice. He had been staring at her for weeks. She kept waiting for him to approach. She briefly thought of making the first move and introducing herself but then decided against it. If the man were too reticent to offer her a drink in a pub, she'd likely not want him in her bed. Pity, though, she mused as she turned her glance upward and there he stood.

"Can I have a dance?" He spoke the words softly. The click of a snub nosed revolver was the answer. Michael saw the weapon, impressed by the speed and stealth of the draw, and his smile widened, "I assume that means yes."

Fiona returned the smile pleased with his reaction. He certainly didn't seem bothered by having a gun pointed at him. That was a fact in his favour but she was not so easily won. "Sorry. I don't dance with strangers." Of course, she knew exactly who he was. He'd been making his attentions known these past few weeks and she had made her own inquiries.

"Good thing I'm not a stranger then. I'm the man who asked you to dance." The man had style as well as wit.

Fiona studied the man before her. Those eyes! She could get lost in those eyes. "You'll not be steppin' on my feet, now will ya? I've got on my good shoes." Her tone was playful but her expression was not.

"I make no promises but I'll do my best." Without another word, she lifted her skirts slightly as the American watched her every move. Replacing her gun into her thigh holster, she noted his interest, keeping her leg exposed slightly longer than necessary.

They moved slowly toward the dance floor, a large empty space cleared on Friday nights for the purpose, the tables pushed to the side. Their hands touched, their fingers soon entwined. Each felt the heat from the other. Fiona looked into her partner's eyes. "You've been watching me for quite a while. Are you sure a dance is all your after?" She liked the look of the man. He would be good for a dalliance; men so often bored her after a time. But he could prove valuable, if only for a night.

"It's a start." They leaned into one another, their bodies easily fitting, moving to the same rhythm, lost in the moment. She settled her head on his shoulder. Michael breathed in the scent of her as his arm encircled her tiny frame, her long auburn locks brushing against his skin. Fiona liked the feel of his arms around her. He held her with confidence and she relaxed in his embrace. They moved effortlessly around the floor clearly under the spell of one another as weeks of longing looks finally had an outlet.

"So what's your name?" She lifted her face to look into his eyes, her hand moving upward to caress his neck, her fingers lightly moving along his skin.

"Michael McBride." A twinge of regret accompanied the name. He wanted it to be himself that she was meeting. This felt too right to be deception. Every once in a while, he disliked his job. This was one of those moments.

She purred slightly as she pulled herself closer into him. "Nice to meet you, Mr. McBride."

Her smile displaced his regret and he became Michael McBride once again, shutting out the Westen part of him if only for the night. "The pleasure's all mine." They stayed this way for quite some time, neither willing to break apart even for an instant. These two operatives were used to loneliness, but here, for this brief part of time, they communed with a kindred spirit. No words were spoken; no words were needed, as the dance continued.

Their unity drew the notice of several regulars. One onlooker shouted cross the room, "Jaysus, Glenanne. Get a room, will ya? No one wants to see ya actin' the floosie, eh." This comment was met with quiet laughter.

Fiona stopped mid step, turning her attention to her heckler. "I'm surprised ya noticed, O'Malley! Hearing yer bhean-cheile tell it, ya wouldn't recognise what some do behind closed doors." A whoop of laughter ensued as the instigator turned scarlet. Turning her focus back to her dance partner, she flashed a suggestive look at him, hoping he would take it as a signal to ask her to leave with him, to slip away to someplace private, someplace they could perhaps take this one step further. But the subtle hint seemed to be lost on the man as he restarted the dance, melding his body into hers.

Michael was not so dense to her implied suggestion as she supposed. He would have liked nothing more than to whisk her away. It took all of his willpower and training to squelch that desire, that rising need. But Michael Westen had a job to do, a job that would be over before it truly began if he slept with this woman before laying his proposition before her. He needed to be truthful with her about Hannon and the importance of her assistance in taking him down. Well, as truthful as an American spy stationed in Belfast to track IRA arms shipments and shut down an enterprising gun dealer was able to be. So, he continued the dance, romancing her to gain her trust, losing himself in her through the process.

The patrons dwindled as the hours ticked away. Soon they were alone on the floor, still locked in an embrace swaying to the music. A loud, "Ahem!" from the proprietor broke their reverie. "No lock in tonight, I'm afraid." It was closing time, the couple clearly overstaying their welcome. The proprietor already extending the time as to not offend the fiery woman but the hour was late increasing the chances of a patrol to come by.

Slowly, they broke apart, as the trance was broken. As they left the pub a moment of awkwardness ensued, each pondering the next move. Fiona hoped that he would suggest they have a nightcap or something more. She was reluctant to invite this relative stranger to her place. Privacy and security took precedence over her other needs. So, she tried to stall for time, hoping he would take the initiative. Fiona held onto his arm for balance as she removed her heels instantly losing four inches of height. "Ach, these heels are killing me! Next time remind me to wear flats."

"Next time? So there's to be a next time?" Michael grinned at the possibility.

She wanted to see more of the man before her. The way that he looked at her seemed to indicate that he felt the same. Still, a part of him held back. She could tell he was not ready to continue the evening. "Perhaps." The woman's smile implied it was more than just a maybe. "You'll at least get a mobile number and a name to go with it."

A name. A name that he already knew. The moment he dreaded had arrived. He could no longer hold back. Michael McBride faded slightly, the easy smile disappearing from his face, his expression serious. "I know who you are, Fiona."

Her body tensed at the way he said these words and she quickly reached for her revolver, furious with herself for letting her guard down. She pointed it at his chest, prepared to pull the trigger if he made any movement toward her. Michael's voice was tender as he put up his hands indicating he had no intention of harming her. "There's no need for that." He paused before proceeding. He was hesitant to continue, fearing what he was about to request might be answered with a bullet. "It's about Hannon." Her brow furrowed wondering what possible connection led the gun dealer's name to pop up in this conversation. "He's putting guns into some volatile areas. Sometimes, they wind up in the hands of children. I intend to put him out of business - permanently- and I need your help."

Her eyes flashed fury. She had been lured into thinking this man before her had designs on her in a personal way. She was wounded now to think this was all a ploy of some kind. Her skills more valuable than herself. "My help, it is? Thirty minutes ago I thought your 'need' was of a different sort." Her glance moved downward before returning to his face, the point delivered. "So all these looks of yours... the dancing... instead of tryin' to get me into bed it was all to get me to do a job for you?"

"No, no, no." He shook outstretched hands. "Not for me. With me." It was an encouraging sign that she hadn't shot him yet. "Look, can we go somewhere and talk. Somewhere more private." Michael looked around, uncomfortable with his surroundings. He stood in the dead of night in the middle of The Falls Road long after the gates out of the area were locked with an armed IRA volunteer ready to shoot him. He imagined there was more than one pair of eyes spying on the pair from the shadows.

"Ah, someplace private ya want, is it? Well, I propose ya go to hell but I'm sure you'll have plenty of company there!" She moved backward intending to remove herself from the area. She would be able to lose McBride easily through the warren of streets she knew so well. If he tried to follow, surely one of the patrols would cut him down.

Michael uttered a final plea. "Just... just think about it. Give me a chance to explain. I'll be here at the pub tomorrow night in case you change your mind." Her eyes remained hardened. Her pace quickened as she was about to reach the corner and slip away into the night. "And, Fiona, whatever you decide, it wasn't all just about the job." Michael Westen, using his alias' brogue, spoke those words from his heart. He picked up the shoes she had left behind in her escape and stood staring down the road long after she disappeared.