Stone of The Heart
The Ruse
A clear task reinvigorated the couple. Ever since Fiona had learned the truth, things had been awkward, their conversations stilted. Love was still present but the ease of being together disappeared along with 'McBride'. The pair now spoke through their eyes, longing gazes that spoke of their feelings, but words not always easy to come by.
Michael Westen had spent a lifetime bottling up any hint of emotion. He learned from an early age to guard his thoughts from others, keeping family secrets buried along with his feelings. Under the cover of Michael McBride, he cast some of that aside, revealing himself, his true self to the woman before him, but now, now that he no longer could hide behind the false persona he began building up those walls once again.
Fiona did not trust easily. Over the years she had learned to rely on a closed circle, mostly her family, a few others invited within. She had opened her heart and welcomed this man into that wee group only to be slapped with betrayal. She knew that that she was more than an asset, his eyes told her with every glance, but she also realised that Michael was driven by a purpose she neither completely understood nor fully embrace.
Despite the love, they were becoming profoundly unhappy, not with each other but with a situation appearing to have no solution that would satisfy both of their wants and needs. But working together with a common purpose, they could put the past indiscretions and the future uncertainty aside and concentrate on the present, a present that was honest and shared, a present that they both hoped would last for an eternity.
So, Michael guided his new student, introducing her to American pronunciations and common colloquialisms. They practiced in front of a mirror so that she could watch the subtle variations in her tongue placement when forming certain words. She also concentrated on keeping her tone even, eliminating the change of pitch often rising at the end of a sentence and slowing the pace of her speech. Fiona softened her consonants, hardened her vowels, and concentrated on pronouncing G's wherever they appeared at the end of a word.
Michael stressed the importance of using the words 'yes' and 'no'. In his time here he found the Irish tended to refrain from using these simple words. Instead they answered the question, sometimes briefly, oft times with a long convoluted explanation. It did not take long before she was able to emulate the syntax and accent flawlessly. Her attention then veered away from the mastered task and she probed Michael for American jargon for naughty acts delivering a message that class was dismissed.
Within hours, Michael had a plan, a prepared asset, and the confidence to use both. It was time to set this ploy in motion.
"This is never going to work." Fiona employed her recently acquired accent. She was dressed in a dark polyester suit, sensible pumps, and dark rimmed glasses. With her hair pulled back and dressed as she was, she resembled a stereotypical bureaucrat.
Michael, in a slightly rumpled off the rack suit, his hair parted at the side and flattened down, took a deep breath as they neared the entrance to the port. "It will be fine." Michael had done a little bit of solo reconnaissance as Fiona prepared their wardrobe. He was able to identify the Harbour Master and the location of his office. As it neared the end of the workday, the American hoped the man would be sufficiently fatigued and ready to head home. An unwanted visitor appearing at this time would be quickly rebuffed or given information more readily than usual. Michael hoped for the latter outcome.
"You think you are just going to walk up to this guy and start talking to him?" Fiona thought this idea had little chance of success. She favoured snatching the man at gunpoint, demanding answers, and eliminating him before he alerted others.
Michael had something else in mind with a great deal less risk. "I'm a spy, Fiona. That's what we do." Fiona opened her mouth, prepared to argue, but stopped once she saw that Michael was determined to follow this course of action. "Just... Just follow my lead." He was beginning to regret including her in this part of the operation.
Like con men, spies know that in the workplace, a clipboard is as good as a skeleton key. Michael and Fiona stormed into the office brandishing a clipboard, their expressions severe, their movement reflecting urgency. "You O'Reilly?"
"I am. Cannae help ya?" The Harbour Master greeted the pair warily.
"Well, I certainly hope so. I'm Inspector Cagney. This is Inspector Lacey. We're from the Food and Drug Administration of the United States of America." Michael flashed his 'credentials', a bit of Photoshop and a makeshift badge. Both operatives then stood at attention as the spy spun his tale.
"The Food and Drug Administration? Wot da hell are ya talkin' about?" The Harbour Master had his hands on his hips trying to sort out exactly who these visitors were and why they arrived on his patch at half five. "I nowt expectin' anyone from da States. Bit of a surprise. Why yer here on our turf?" The man looked sceptical of the pair.
Michael needed to sell it fast or the opportunity would be lost and the authorities soon called. "What part of surprise visit do you not understand?" Michael gambled that taking control of the situation would give him an advantage. He voice grew louder and more authoritative. "You want me to shut this place down right now? I'm not gonna sugar coat this. Mr. O'Reilly, we have a situation here." Michael and his accomplice exchanged uncomfortable glances trying to convey whether or not they were about to let the Irishman into their confidence. A slight nod of 'Inspector Lacey's' head gave permission for the spy to continue.
The Harbour Master looked confused but ready to show his guests the door as Fiona blurted out the news. "There is a strong possibility that a deadly virus is being transported through this port." The Irishman froze and waited for an explanation.
Michael assumed the lead. "The FDA has tracked the potential source of the pathogen. There is a strong likelihood that it is being transported through a medical supply company based here in Ireland." The spy hesitated allowing the man to assimilate the news.
"A virus? Is it serious den?" The man was being sucked into the tale.
Fiona jumped in once again, beginning to enjoy herself. "Yes." She said the word with force, a quick glance at Michael before she continued. "It is. Sort of like potato blight but in people. One day you're right as rain; the next, you're dried up and shrivelled." She leaned toward the man before adding, "Nasty, nasty bug." She narrowed her eyes and grimaced allowing the man to form a mental image. Michael's eyes widened at the description Fiona had just invented.
"Jaysus! Is it contagious? I've got wee ones at home, I have." O'Reilly grew pale at the thought of disaster striking his family.
Michael stepped in hoping to silence his partner. He needed the man's cooperation, not set off a full-scale panic. "No, at least we do not believe it is at this time. The virus appears to have contaminated some intravenous medicines and that seems to be the only method of transmission. Not all the medicines seem to be affected." The spy watched the man visibly relax. "The incidence of disease has been contained - at least, so far. We'd like to keep it that way." The American knew he had the man's attention and thought there was an increased chance of getting his cooperation, as well.
O'Reilly nodded, "Whaddya need? I'll be after helpin' youse, I will."
"The most important part of this task is to ask for your silence. News like this could cause unnecessary panic, which we would like to avoid. It's best if this situation is handled with the fewest number of people aware of the potential danger. We get through this and there's likely to be a commendation in your future." 'Inspector Cagney' placed a hand on his new ally's shoulder, in an effort to solidify their new partnership.
"Possibly a monetary reward, as well." Fiona added an additional incentive, understanding that was a common expectation among dockworkers for their assistance and their silence. Michael scowled urging Fiona with his eyes to retract that statement. But Fi held firm. Michael might be a spy but she knew something about moving contraband in and out of the country.
The Harbour Master smiled. He had visions of appearing on the telly being interviewed on RTE, hailed as a hero. It would likely result in others buying him pints the rest of his days and the missus treating him with a bit more respect.
The American spy recognised the look of a recruited asset. O'Reilly was now invested. Michael continued to draw the man in. He showed the man the clipboard. The number of the shipping container they found at Hannon's warehouse topped the list of suspected means of transporting the infected material. "This is the container we believe may be carrying the virus."
O'Reilly took the clipboard and moved toward his computer. He entered the number to see if it had already entered the port. The answer was immediate. "Bloody hell. Already shipped out, it has." The man began to fret.
Michael was reassuring. "We need to know where it's headed. That way we can alert the authorities, possibly seize the shipment before anyone else becomes infected."
The Harbour Master returned to his database. "Shipped out two hours ago. Headed to Hamburg it is." He scribbled the name of the ship, ports of call, and expected arrival at the port in Germany. Fiona and Michael shared a conspiratorial smile. Mission accomplished.
"You've done a great service for both of our countries, possibly the world." 'Inspector Lacey' extended her hand in thanks.
Michael presented his card. "We'll be in touch. Keep you updated about our progress containing the spread. If the same company orders another container, we need you to contact us. It may help us save lives. We'll let you know when we can go public with this. Bring you in for the press conference unless you prefer anonymity."
"Ah, tat's grand, it is." O'Reilly's head was spinning. "Let me know if ter's anythin' else I can do." The man puffed out his chest proud to be playing a small part in preventing a possible pandemic.
The information they desperately needed was now in hand, a lead that could be followed. 'Inspectors Cagney and Lacey' turned to leave. The operatives stifled smiles as they exited the building. "Potato blight?" Michael looked askance at the woman beside him.
"It worked didn't it." Michael did not dispute her claim. "Nothing fills the Irish heart with more terror than those two words." Her small smile indicated that she enjoyed the ruse much more than she anticipated. "Except maybe: pub closed." Then she leaned in a bit closer to add, "Somethin' ya'd know if ya were really Irish." She winked at her partner. "So, when Inspectors Cagney and Lacey aren't savin' the world from death and destruction, what do ya think they do here in Dublin?" Fiona's natural speech returned, a devilish glint in her eye.
Michael grinned. "I have no idea but I think I'm about to find out."
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
The 'uniforms' of the false FDA inspectors littered the floor. Fiona lay against Michael's shoulder drawing circles along his bare chest. "I was thinking when we get to Germany maybe we could play American tourists. I could wear one of those hip packs, a pair of white trainers, and carry a camera with one of those enormous lenses. Get some grand pictures of the port that way." Michael began to tense as she spoke. "We could do some vacationy things when we get to Hamburg. Make the most of our trip. You know, maybe a fancy dinner one night, take in some of the sights."
Things had been almost normal for the two of them and Michael dreaded the conversation that would need to take place. "Fi, the thing about Germany is..."
"You're going to need backup." Fiona turned her body so that they could speak face to face. She recognised that look. He could barely meet her eyes. She sat up clutching the duvet about her. "I'm not invited to Germany." Her jaw tightened and her gaze moved upward toward the ceiling.
"I'm going to need to reach out to some contacts. Once I locate the container I'll likely need to pass off the operation to someone already in place, someone who can follow the trail on the ground." He noticed that Fiona completely avoided eye contact. Michael Westen knew far too many people in the area - associates in both the military and intelligence communities. The PIRA operative's presence would raise numerous questions. Besides, solo he might even be able to set up another meet with Card, open up a discussion on what it would take to relocate a CIA asset stateside. It would be impractical, perhaps even dangerous, to include her in the next phase of the operation.
Fiona removed herself from the bed, her body stiff, her tone icy. "I get it. Good enough for a shag when yer stuck in bloody Ireland. Is that about right, McBride?" She said the name with disdain.
Michael stood up intending to try to explain, his thoughts jumbled. He had expertise with weapons, languages, and strategic planning but dealing with women, this woman in particular, he was a novice.
She grabbed her mobile, put up her hand to silence him, and dialled. "Been reconsiderin' your offer. The London op still on? We should meet. Not sure, but I'll hear ya out. Half eleven then? Slan."
Michael listened to her portion of the conversation becoming increasingly concerned about what he heard. "London? What the hell are you doing?" His voice was louder and firmer than he intended.
"Doesn't concern ya, does it now? Ya go off and play with yer wee friends, and I'll play with me own." Fiona glared at her lover. She had been used for too long. She had wanted to believe there was more to this relationship but Michael, despite his protestations, clearly did not feel the same. Who knew if he even would return? All along he had been talking about the importance of taking down not just Hannon, but also the major player above him. Now, perhaps, he had the chance to follow that lead and leave Ireland behind. It was the perfect way to extricate himself from her without the threat of a bullet to the head.
Michael clutched his forehead trying to come up with the right words to keep her from doing something incredibly stupid. Out of all the potential assets in this place, why did he have to choose her? Fiona dropped the duvet. She defiantly kept her gaze on the man as she reached for her jeans and a tank top, dressing quickly. Michael never took his eyes off of hers. She moved back toward the bed, picked up her pillow, and removed the Walther from beneath it. She checked her weapon and placed it in the small of her back. No words passed between them but plenty was said despite the silence. They were playing their own version of 'chicken'.
Fiona took a last look at the man and then headed for the door. "Wait!" Michael Westen was able to stare down FSB agents, armed terrorists, and Chechnya rebels, but this Irishwoman defeated him with nothing more than a cryptic phone call and a cold expression. "Call your 'associate' back. Tell him you're unavailable." Michael knew this was a big mistake but he saw no viable alternative at the moment. "You can't very well be in two places at one time."
Her face and voice softened slightly. "And where would I be goin' if not London then?" She moved slightly toward him, victory within her grasp.
"You do have a passport?" Once Michael made the decision, he turned his attention to practical matters.
"Several actually. But it may be best if I make some unconventional travel arrangements." She smiled as she picked up her mobile once more. "How do ya feel about boats?"
The American spy's eyes narrowed wondering what the next few days would bring. He had agreed to bring an Irish national with terrorist ties into a CIA operation on foreign soil. He may have done something worse at one point in his life, but if he had, he had no recollection of the incident. Too late for regrets, he was committed. They would follow the lead and hope no surprises awaited them there. Michael Westen thought the chance of that eventuality was remote at best. He put a finger gun to his head and pulled the trigger wishing it would deliver a real bullet and put him out of his misery.