Stone of the Heart
The Aftermath
The light was pouring into the room by the time Fiona began to stir. A quick glance at the bedside clock showed she had a bit of a lie in, waking much later than usual. It was difficult for her to shake off slumber, a consequence of too much wine the night before she supposed. She reached toward his pillow, running her fingers around the imprint of his head. A smile crossed her face as she recalled the previous evening, the feel of his hands, the touch of his lips.
He would have already been up for hours, going through his morning ritual. She would probably find him reading the paper or using weights as a follow up to his daily run. There was contentment and joy in this new shared life, each learning the patterns of the other. Her solitary life had often been unscheduled, chaotic at times. Now, there were periods of calm, Michael providing a cool analysis of their daily situation, always alert for sudden dangers, another pair of eyes to keep away the darkness. Fiona stretched wrapping the duvet around her and luxuriated in this moment before rising. She would seek him out and begin the day anew within his arms.
Fiona's mouth felt dry as if it were stuffed with cotton. Cursing the excess of the previous evening, she went in search of water and perhaps some paracetamol, stumbling into the bathroom barely able to open her eyes, her head throbbing. Reaching the sink, she paused, leaning on it for support, feeling a bit wobbly, not at all like herself. Perhaps, she was coming down with some sort of bug, its onset sudden and unexpected like so many events in one's life.
She reached for her toothbrush anxious to clear away the foul taste in her mouth. Fiona's mind felt dulled as she stared, trying to make sense of the sight before her. A single toothbrush in a glass. A single toothbrush where once a pair rested! A rush of adrenaline shot through her body, casting away all remnants of grogginess. She opened the cupboard, searching for comfort, but found none. His razor, shaving foam, hairbrush - all gone!
The woman raced into the next room, opening drawers, searching the wardrobe, but the result was the same. Nothing remained. He was gone!
She steadied herself against the wall, her heart racing as the possibilities swam before her. Was this a planned extraction or did he leave of his own accord? Fiona went room to room, searching for some sign that his disappearance was temporary, that some sudden emergency precipitated such a hasty exit. But she knew in her heart it was a futile wish. There was no sign of forced entry; no sign a battle had taken place. Instead, everything was pristine, cleaned, straightened as if this was merely a facade, a place filled with neither life nor love. There was a slight scent of bleach throughout the cottage, an effort to erase every trace of his presence in this place. All that remained were a few containers of blueberry yogurt, a cruel reminder of his absence.
He had planned this exit, planned this abandonment. Her torpor now explainable, not some random virus entering her body but a purposeful attack. He slipped something in her food or drink, never suspecting her former lover capable of such duplicity. What she believed to be a night of romancing was actually an evening of subterfuge. She closed her eyes, the pain of betrayal nearly unbearable.
The initial panic began to subside and the operative was able to focus, able to put her own skills to use. She took a deep breath and tried to think of what the man would do if he were forced to leave. Michael was an American spy. Ever since she learned that painful truth, she was aware that one day he would be recalled, the CIA demanding his return, his assistance required in another part of the world. He had told her and shown her repeatedly that she was more than just an asset over the past few months. She was missing something. Surely, he would have left her a note, some way of communicating the urgency of his departure and how to contact him. The thought gave her a glimmer of hope.
Fiona worked methodically, going room to room, and searched for some form of communiqué. It's always a challenge hiding something sensitive that you might need quickly. Any hiding place involves a trade-off between security and access. Hiding something in a sewer main under your floor and it's secure, but good luck getting to it. Hide something in your sock drawer, and it's easy to get to but hard to secure. The best hiding places are easy to get to but tough to find. The do-it-yourself versions are known in the spy trade as "slicks". Easy to slip something in, easy to slide it out. She checked door frames, outlets, recessed lighting. She checked and double-checked every possible hiding place positive that she would find something. But, there was nothing, no note, no clue, no point of contact. He had left her, without a word, without a thought.
What a fool she had been! She had given him her heart. She had risked everything for what she believed was real. She had been played. Apparently, it had all been nothing more than a lie. She was an asset, used and discarded.
Slowly, she re-entered the bedroom, the bed empty, the linens in disarray. The memories came unbidden. What was just recalled with fondness now had the sting of betrayal. Fiona rummaged through the laundry basket, a place overlooked by many men. There, at the bottom lay one of his shirts, the one she used occasionally as sleepwear. She picked it up gently, her fingers running over the fabric. His scent still present and she inhaled deeply wanting to feel his presence once more. Fiona slipped it on, the garment dwarfing her. She closed her eyes as she imagined it was his arms enveloping her frame, his arms cradling her in her despair. Fiona slid to the floor, bereft, as tears began to fall. Soon, a keening wail reverberated in the once happy cottage... Mourning for all that was lost, for all that would never be. Fiona Glenanne, PIRA operative, explosive expert, gunrunner, lover, was once more alone.
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Sleep eluded her. He appeared in her dreams nightly but when she awoke, he will still gone, the pain beginning anew. Still, Fiona was hopeful for a time so she waited. She waited for a phone call. She waited for some message, some explanation. She waited for his return. She waited until the walls of the cottage began to close in upon her. Her sanctuary, her refuge, this place away from Belfast used to give her comfort, but that was no longer the case. He had turned it into a prison of memory. It was time to leave it, and him, behind.
Fiona moved about the cottage in a daze, each corner brought him to the forefront of her mind. Carefully, she packed her snow globes, some clothes, a few photos and intending to set off for Belfast. It wasn't clear if it was safe for her to return, but for now, she was unconcerned what fate held. A bullet to the head would swiftly remove her misery. Belfast was home. It was a town of sorrows, a place that would understand her profound sadness.
She paused at the doorway, soaking in a last view of the home where she had known love. She shut the door behind her almost reverently and left the cottage for the final time.
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Fiona hunkered down in her Belfast flat. This is where she had first been duped, where she had allowed 'Michael McBride' into her bed and into her heart, where she had been recruited and used unwittingly by an American spy. She should have shot the bastard when he first asked her to dance. How long ago that seemed! As regret coursed through her, she kept the lights low, barely moving from the sofa, shutting out the world as she wallowed in despair.
Three days later, they came for her.
The Provo operative was not expecting visitors. She had finally showered but had paid scant attention to her appearance. Her hair was dishevelled, her face devoid of makeup, her eyes red and swollen. Fiona heard the banging on the door but paid it no heed until she heard her brother's voice.
"Fiona. I know dat yer in der. Open up. I need to speak wit' ya." It was Eamonn, his voice deep and solemn. He rarely 'stopped' by. His presence indicated something was amiss. Her mind turned outward for the first time in days, worried about the reason for his visit, trying to remember when she spoke to her mam last.
She opened the door without another thought expecting a solitary figure. He was not alone. Four others accompanied him. Fear coursed through her as she realised this was not a social call. Their eyes met and she saw deep concern. "Da lads here have a few questions fer ya. Tought I'd come ta keep tings friendly while we get it sorted." His tone was calm yet serious, his expression intense. Fiona noted the worry in his eyes. She nodded meekly ushering in the men.
They looked about the flat. Empty wine and whiskey bottles littered the countertops. An empty ice cream container sat on the table. The men exchanged amused glances as they surveyed the scene, apparently the woman's skills in the field did not spill over to housekeeping duties. Fiona folded her arms an annoyed expression on her face. She appeared to be alone but two of the men disappeared momentarily, checking the remaining rooms, returning quickly once their search was complete.
"We're lookin' for yer man, 'McBride'. Is 'e 'ere?" One of the four began the questioning.
Fiona bristled, a hardness returning to her eyes. "Does it look like the bastard is here?" She swallowed the last vestiges of fear as she realised her former lover had been compromised just as he suspected.
"Do ya know where 'e is? We need to 'ave a wee chat." The man placed his hands on his hips revealing a rather large weapon.
"I have no idea. But if ya find the man, let me know. I have a few things to tell him meself. But I'll be using a Walther or some C-4 to get me point across." Her chin jutted out as she made the pronouncement. Self-preservation overrode her recent bereavement. These men would pounce on weakness. Eamonn's presence guaranteed this initial inquiry would stay blood free. If they didn't believe her answers, they would return. The next time, it would not be so cordial. Fiona's heart raced as she sought a tale that would allay any suspicions.
"Da man's in da wind, he is. Some are sayin' he's a killer, knifed Hannon. Others are sayin', he's nowt but a tout. Wonderin' where he is and why he left in such a bloody hurry. Ya, two, were rather cozy. Somethin' tells me ya know 'bout the man." A man named McAleese moved closer, attempting to intimidate his fellow Provo.
"Ta, I do. Said he was a Capricorn." Fiona made a snide comment, letting her displeasure known. The confrontation had brought her to life. She would not go quietly as long as there was breath in her body.
Eamonn stepped in, shaking his head softly, warning her not to make this tenuous situation worse. His little sister never developed the best of people skills. These men would not hesitate to get their answers another way. "Fiona. When was the last time ya saw Michael?"
"About five, maybe six days ago, maybe a bit longer." She feigned nonchalance. She could actually tell them how many hours, how many minutes, exactly how long ago that she had noted his disappearance.
"Do ya know where he went, luv, or why he left?" Eamonn's voice was tender but his eyes were hard. He wanted the information just as much as the others but he approached the interrogation differently.
"Dunno where he is. Rather not discuss the leavin'." Fiona folded her arms in front of her giving the impression she had said all that she intended about the matter. The others moved forward but Eamonn shot them a cold glance and all motion ceased.
"Fiona." He said her name differently, a more serious inflection to his voice, delivering the message that silence was not an option.
The Irishwoman understood. She averted her eyes, turned scarlet, as she blurted out her tale. "Thought I was up the pole, I did. Told the man. Thought he'd be pleased, bloody eejit that I am. Cleared out that very night." An unplanned pregnancy spirited the man away. It was a common enough occurrence; one that many of these men could relate to and 'McBride's' actions in such a case would be understandable to them. She faced Eamonn, a slight quiver to her voice. "'Twas a false alarm. Don't tell mammy. No need fer her to fret." Then, she steeled herself once more as she faced the others. "So, if I could tell ya where the bloody chancer slunk off to, I would. Better yet, I'd wire his car and then tell ya where to find itty bitty pieces of him." She smiled as she had a mental image of her moment of revenge.
All five men looked uncomfortable at her disclosure. There were no further questions and all were in a hurry to leave. A slight nod of their heads indicated they were satisfied that their job was done here. Fiona Glenanne had apparently been another of McBride's victims.
"Sorry fer yer troubles, Fiona." The men shuffled out wanting to distance themselves from the awkward episode.
Eamonn stayed back. He wished he had the bastard in front of him right now. His Ma had welcomed him into her home. His wee sister loved him of that he had no doubt. He saw the look in her eyes when he brought the man to tea. "If we find him, I'll be lettin' ya know. Let ya take the first shot, right so." He squeezed her arm and joined the others as they disappeared into the night.
Fiona leaned against the door, breathing a sigh of relief that her ruse appeared successful. She had avoided a possible death sentence by her quick thinking.
She stayed against the door for several moments, fully taking in the scene before her. Her once tidy home was in complete disarray. She had been so absorbed in grief and self-pity that she had taken no note of her surroundings or her attire. She wore grey sweat pants and 'the shirt'. It still had the scent of the man and she had been loathe to part with this last piece of him. But the visit had triggered a new emotion: anger.
Michael Westen had used her, played her for a fool after all. Questions had risen about the man; likely Marchuk had arrived in Dublin after all and had begun the inquiry. He left her knowing full well they would arrive on her doorstep, others believing that she would have the answers they sought. He left her at their mercy even after all that she had told him, all that she had done for him, all that they had done together. Despite it all, he left her, not caring about the aftermath. Luckily, her instincts had not deserted her along with her lover. A plausible tale was told. An unwanted pregnancy, a feckless partner, an abandonment.
Fiona wondered if any of it had been real. She thought that she knew his heart, now she wondered if she knew him at all. He lied to her, more than once, drugged her, and ultimately had forsaken her. Did he care for her at all or was she just a means to an end?
Although it was extremely unlikely, Fiona wished she could face the man once more and tell him what a bastard he was. Then, she would look into his eyes to see if there was any residual feeling behind them. He guarded his emotions well but she had found a way to break through his self imposed barriers. What she found there would determine whether or not she would shoot him on the spot. But those were thoughts based on a fantasy. He was gone and would not be coming back. His mission complete, his asset discarded. The spy had moved on, another success noted in his government file. Or perhaps, he was dead, his own people eliminating another loose end to this operation. She would never know. Her heart ached but he had made his choice. It was time for her to make her own.
Fiona Glenanne needed to move on, as well. She began with the flat, gathering up trash, wiping down surfaces, putting her life in order once more. Someone had already been through her home, eliminating traces of her former lover. There were very few physical reminders of the man. She picked up the shirt that had become somewhat of a uniform as of late and ceremoniously dumped it into the dirty laundry, ready to wipe away the last traces of him.
Then, she turned her attention to her own toilette. She primped taking great care with her appearance. It was time for normalcy. Her tale to the lads would soon be around town. A pregnancy, even a false one, would set tongues wagging. Often men were the worst at rumour mongering. As word got round, some upstart might be thinking to overtake her business, believing her to be wallowing in feminine distress. She would put that idea to rest. If someone was about to pounce he was soon be choking on her high heel.
The PIRA guerrilla planned to drop by the newly reopened Black Sand Pub. She would have a drink or two, listen to the local chatter, and maybe even pick up a distraction for the night, replace his touch with another's. She would become herself once more. She reached for her wallet, searching for that slip of paper. She had already committed the number to memory, supposedly the phone contact for Madeline Westen. But memories fade, the note more permanent. Once found, Fiona tossed it into the bin, a small smile at the finality of the act. Good riddance!
She stared at the digits written in his hand. Who knew if it really was what it was purported to be? The number might be a take away restaurant in Miami. He had told so many untruths over the course of their relationship. It was the last thread, the thinnest of connections, but it was a connection. Fiona reached back into the rubbish, salvaging the remnant, annoyed with herself for the unwarranted sentimentality. She tucked it once more into the small compartment in her wallet not quite ready to erase the man from her life. Fiona Glenanne headed for the door, ready to reinvent herself once more.