Stone of the Heart
The Discovery
A chalk line in an improbable place cut through him like a saber, its message clear and unwanted. He had been summoned. He pulled up his collar trying to keep the wet away as a chill formed in his heart, a chill not caused by the weather. He would need to go, at least temporarily. The signal and its subsequent meeting details had been worked out in Langley before he ever set foot in this place. He chided himself as he recalled how he hoped he would get pulled, the operation deemed worthless, and he could be reassigned to a place with 'real' problems. What a fool he had been!
Another lie would need to be told, another story concocted. He would need to peer into those green pools and betray her once again.
"Ya're late." Fiona was putting the finishing touches on a meal she had just prepared for the two of them. Her cooking skills, at least in the kitchen, were limited. She could make napalm easier than a cake but she did have a few staple items in her repertoire that were rather palatable. A poached salmon was on tonight's menu along with some potatoes and sautéed carrots. She glanced in his direction as she sprinkled some chopped dill on the fish and immediately noticed his strained expression.
She approached him slowly, reaching for his face with her hand, seeing the pain in his eyes. "What's happened?"
"It's my mother. Just got word she's taking a turn." He could barely meet her eyes.
"Is it serious?" Fiona's brow creased as she posed the question.
Michael cleared his throat preparing to lace his deception with a thread of truth. "She's always been a bit of a hypochondriac. It may be nothing but I ought go to her." Michael's thoughts turned to his actual mother, Madeline. He had not been home in years, a visit long overdue. He sent money regularly but it was his presence that she wanted, a gift he withheld from her. Thinking about her added another layer of guilt to this situation but the right touch of emotion. "Think I'll head off first thing in the morning. Get an early start." She nodded slightly, unsure of what to say.
Dinner was a sombre affair. Michael was clearly preoccupied; he barely made eye contact through most of the meal. They ate in silence, Fiona drinking more wine than usual. Michael did not have much of an appetite, his stomach clenched with worry. Would he return here after the meeting? Were these their last moments together, strained and awkward, after so much joy? This is not how he would want it to end, not want these to be his last memories of her.
There it was again - that faraway look in his eyes, a sadness in the depths of him that she couldn't quite reach. She saw two distinct sides of the man the longer they were together. The public face of Michael McBride that was openly affectionate, quick with a joke, and the other side when they were alone. Outside, he was fun, easy to be with. Here, he was more serious, somewhat brooding. He looked at her as if he always had more to say but lacked the words but those eyes, those eyes, spoke volumes. This was the part of him that touched her soul, the part of him that stole her heart.
That night he made love as if he were a drowning man taking in his last breaths. He wanted his fill of her... just in case... but soon realised it would never be enough. She felt his unvoiced need and met him with the same intensity. Afterward, as he stroked her cheek, he wanted to utter those three little words, words he had never voiced to anyone, not even his intended. But he held back fearing if he did not return to her his declaration would seem false, another untruth thrown at her to keep her close.
Fiona felt his unspoken despair, wondering if this all had to do with his ailing mother or was it something more. She wanted to broach the subject but knew what the result would be. He would shrug aside his malaise, plaster that false smile on his lips, and tell her all was fine. His reassurance would only convince her that her instincts were spot on. So, she pretended to sleep, listening to the rise and fall of each breath, her love for him all consuming. Morning came all too quickly and he was gone.
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The ringing of her cell phone interrupted her solitude. She recognised the voice immediately, her brother Sean, his voice curt and hurried. "Big powwow at Stormont today. Lots from London makin' the trip. Pickin' up the regulars left and right for 'questionin'. Should be at your place within the hour." It was commonplace for suspected volunteers to be detained during high profile meetings where they could be watched and their potential as a threat eliminated. "Best be takin' a trip." Then, the call ended.
Fiona sprung to action, dressing quickly, throwing a few essentials in a bag, getting on the road without delay. A shopping excursion to Dublin was much preferred over a holding cell in Armagh, facing questions about the recent informant who had 'disappeared' or any other of her exploits. Michael was away for a few days anyway, a bit of self-indulgence would suit her well. She would need to take a circuitous route to Dublin, as the border checkpoint would likely be heavily scrutinised if Sean's information was correct. There was little time to lose. She set off ready for a few days removed from the troubles of Belfast.
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Michael had no trouble navigating himself to the designated meeting point. St. Stephen's Green was in the city centre, a huge expanse of park with ample benches for lolling away the hours. The area was filled with families, tourists, and often, suited businessmen, lunching or grabbing a few rays of sunshine on a day like today. Michael wandered along the pathways making his way to the predetermined spot, wondering whom his point of contact would be. As he made the turn, he stopped short, surprised at the sight before him. It wasn't some unknown entity waiting for him. It was Tom Card himself, the man who trained him, the man that he respected the most in the world. He sat on a park bench, sipping his coffee, pretending to soak up the rare Dublin sunshine. His protégée settled at the opposite end of the bench, opening The Irish Times, pretending to read. They sat this way for several moments both scanning the perimeter, making sure neither had been followed to the site.
Michael was the first to speak, "Must be important to call a meet. What's going on?"
"What's going on?" Tom chuckled. "That's what I'm here to find out. Luckily, I was already in the neighbourhood." Michael looked at him questioningly. "London. But made the trip to knock some sense into you. Seems my protégée is thinking with the wrong head these days! Good chance you're gonna blow this whole operation." Michael feigned ignorance planting a puzzled expression on his face so Card continued, "I'm talking about Fiona Glenanne. Ring a bell?"
"My asset. I told you she was giving us info about the gun shipments, about Hannon's operation..." Michael couldn't meet Card's gaze as he interrupted.
"I know what she is supposed to be doing for you, for us, but it seems like you found a few other uses for her talents." Michael was ready to deny what Card was implying but the older man's expression told him the argument was pointless.
Michael's voice turned stony, his jaw tightened. "I did what I had to do Card. I recruited an asset - like I was trained to do, using whatever tactics would get us the result needed."
Card knew the man well. He had poured over Westen's psychological evals over the years. The man would do whatever it took to succeed. But there was something else there this time, something deeper, something he had not observed before in this particular recruit. All these clues along with Behan's report seemed to indicate that his protégé was getting too personally involved. That trademark Westen emotional distance had disappeared despite his protestations. Tom's voice softened slightly. "Look, Michael, I know what it's like. Hell, I was in the field for eighteen years. If things are getting too complicated here..."
"The only complication is that I was summoned to this meeting possibly compromising everything I've done. You were the one who sent me here. Now, let me finish the job - my way." The spy glared at his mentor, the ring of truth of his mentor's words seeping into his soul, churning up the confusion already prominent in his mind.
The CIA Training Officer put aside his fatherly affection for the young man and delivered an unequivocal message. "Understand this, Michael, I don't care if you do a nasty jig with every cailin on the Emerald Isle here. But with that one it stops now. I am not having one of our top field agents sleeping with a foreign arms dealer with ties to the IRA that he met while under a cover ID." Card's tone was firm. There was no room for negotiation about this issue. "Got it?"
Michael knew he was right. He nodded. Before Card left the park, he noted, "Take a break. Go to Amsterdam for the weekend. Sow your wild oats there, for God's sake. Then, come back here and get your head," knocking on Michael's skull, "back into the game." With that, he was gone.
Michael sat for a long while on the bench that day mulling over Card's words. He wondered how Card got his information. Apparently, he was not alone on this operation. Of course, the spy knew that his mentor was right. He knew that he should stay away, find another asset. He also knew that he wouldn't.
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Dublin felt so far removed from the grittiness of Belfast. It was easy to see why the Irish government sometimes forgot or ignored the plight of those up north who wanted to be united with their brethren. The Republic wanted to leave the 'bad old days' behind and join modern Europe enticing overseas businesses to the shores, offering tax incentives and bucolic living. Sometimes, she wanted nothing more than to settle here full time, leave Belfast and it's unhappy memories in the past, but the city of her birth kept drawing her back.
The day was unfolding quite nicely. A bright day, shops beckoning her name, and she even got a call from Hannon. They had set up another exchange for a few days hence. Michael would be pleased. They could set up another tail, a location that would avoid railway crossings, and would follow the rat back to his nest. She hoped Michael's mother would soon be on the mend so they could take advantage of this opportunity.
There was nothing quite like a day of shopping on Grafton Street to lift her spirits. Having a penchant for shoes, she splurged on a pair of heels that she found on clearance at Brown Thomas. She decided to rest awhile on the Green, perhaps then popping into The Shelbourne for tea after she soaked up some sunshine. She headed toward the lake hoping to watch the swans glide across the water. And then she saw him!
At first, Fiona caught just a glimpse of his profile, thinking her mind was simply playing tricks on her. She continued walking, slipping her sunglasses in place for a longer inspection. Michael McBride was not tending his ailing mother as he claimed but was sitting on a bench in Dublin reading a newspaper looking as if he hadn't a care in the world. She seethed and moved to a better location for continued observation.
Then, she noticed the other on the bench. This was no random conversation; it had all the markings of a covert meet. By the look of the other, his haircut, his shoes, he was not Irish. Likely, a Brit, possibly a Yank. The bastard, McBride, was a tout! He had used her and played her for a fool. She could feel tears begin to form, her heart wounded, but she brushed them away, replacing her hurt with a growing anger. Fiona Glenanne wished she had shot him or used that C-4 when they first met. She would make the man regret he ever asked her to dance.
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Covert operative is one of the most stressful jobs there is. Like soldiers, ER doctors, and astronauts, spies have to schedule extended downtime for decompression. Carry that stress too long, and it's easy to start missing details. Michael's mind was a muddle. Card had travelled all this way to reprimand him, his points valid and operationally wise. He knew that he was playing with fire getting romantically involved with an asset but emotion had overridden all sense of logic. The spy usually had time between encounters to rest and refocus, but in this case, he was for all practical purposes living with his asset, never truly able to let down his guard. The toll was mounting and he was not sure how much longer he could continue. He never noticed that she was tailing him, so great was his distraction with Card's unexpected arrival.
Fiona knew the city far better than he did. She could give him a wide berth, use parallel alleyways, and keep to the shadows. Ordinarily, he would have sensed the surveillance, but not today. His mind was on the complicated web he had spun. He fell in love with an asset. A woman who believed him to be someone else entirely. A woman he would eventually be forced to leave. Card's visit was a stark reminder that this game he was playing could not go on indefinitely. He arrived at the flat that had been set aside for his use in Dublin, paid for by Uncle Sam. He slowly mounted the steps overcome by fatigue. A quick nap was in his future before he foraged for some yoghurt. He would head back to Belfast in the morning, back to her, and try to maintain this charade a little longer.
Fiona watched from the street until lights appeared as he entered the flat. Now at least she knew where the bastard lived. She would need to pick up a few supplies in order to set her plan in motion. It shouldn't take her long, then she would return, stake out this place, and prepare a Fiona Glenanne-type surprise for his return. A smile crossed her face as she plotted her revenge.
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Pubs he could easily find but blueberry yoghurt was a more difficult quest. He prowled the streets eventually finding a Centra stocked with the specific flavour. He bought several containers before returning to the empty flat and the bed that seemed too large, missing the warmth of her body. He needed to refocus, put aside these distracting thoughts. This is how operatives die in the field, he thought. He needed to 'get his head back in the game' as Card had emphatically pointed out. He was determined to do just that as he unlocked the door to the flat and opened the door. He froze at the sight that welcomed him home.