Chapter 16 - MI6

January 2004

Washington, DC

Alan Blaisdale had been his handler, his confidante and in a way, the man who had trained Harm to learn how to operate in the CIA. Military rules of engagement and structure didn't apply and when he struggled fitting in with the intelligence community, Blaisdale helped him fit in.

The months Harm worked under the man were smoother and although there had been several hiccups, Alan always brought him home. Then came a bombshell in the form of Catherine Gale who was sent to Harm in order to pass along information. She'd nervously shown him the diamonds which implicated what he'd suspected - Webb was working with Sadik Fahd.

Unfortunately, even their little art of separation hadn't netted new intel. Webb rarely discussed work with Mac and Harm was still finding his footing as a field agent with minimal training.

One day in January found him pounding pavement when he pushed past ten miles as he ran through Union Station. Harm was aiming for a quick six that turned to ten and now he was intent on running until his legs fell off or he collapsed.

That kind of punishing workout forced him to think, to work out scenarios that made sense. It also stopped him from thinking of her. Thoughts of Webb being anywhere near his Mac were already feeding his sleepless nights.

He'd seen her before leaving for the Farm and then, Harm chose to stay away and allow himself to sink into the shadows. He'd park outside of her apartment, act every bit the psychopath Webb claimed him to be.

The desire to see her in person was making him sick especially since the calls from their burner phones were short and distant. The intimacy they shared before was gone and although Mac constantly said she loved him, it was far too impersonal for Harm to reply in kind.

And so he pushed harder and harder until his work phone received a call. As a field operative, Harm was forced to carry a small phone everywhere he went should the agency activate him at any moment. When the device began to vibrate in the palm of his hand, Harm cursed loudly and stopped to answer.

All conversation from Langley came in the form of a parole - a question and answer that seemed normal to those around him and yet it wasn't. This time, the parole wasn't his normal QA that would either send him to headquarters or straight to a location outside of the country where he was needed. While Harm gave his usual answer, the follow up question was replaced with coordinates.

Something told him not to follow, that given his botched mission in Cairo some months prior, he still had a target on his back. He'd be careful, of course, Harm promised Mac he'd stay safe but when the digits led him to an abandoned warehouse three miles from his loft, he wished he'd carried a weapon.

The front entrance was completely boarded up and the floor to ceiling windows were coated in different coloured paints. It took two laps around the building for him to find a way in and once inside, the only light came from a glass ceiling so broken that shards of glass hazardly hung from its frame along with melted snow.

A foul scent wafted across the warehouse, an acrid combination of chemicals and fuel that made his head spin. There were heavy machines left to rot, broken glass strewn across the floor along with tools so rusted he doubted they'd ever be used again.

As he carefully walked inside, Harm stayed close to the walls, hiding in the shadows in effort to conceal his location as best as possible. But each step echoed in the massive hall. Each crunch from his shoes made him cringing and when the hair shot up on the back of his neck, Harm realized he was in trouble.

A sack was dropped over his head and pulled back hard until he couldn't breathe. Although his hands reached out to grab his assailant, he found nothing but air. A great lethargy brought him to his knees and he couldn't stop the drug induced unconsciousness which made him black out.

The last thing Harm remembered was Mac. Wordlessly, he begged her to forgive him and ask that she move on if he were killed. He prayed his death would be swift.

When he woke it was to the acidic scent of smelling salts being passed under his nostrils. It made his eyes snap open but his vision swam with a kind of haziness that made all figures appear to be behind a glass window. Voices sounded near and far although focusing on any one in particular was nearly impossible. His head was pounding and somehow he'd managed to swallow down the bile which rose at the back of his throat.

It felt like forever when the haze cleared long enough for Harm to realize that he was in an office. The walls around him were concrete except for one that was made up of glass. He sat on a comfortable leather sofa that matched the dark toned, wooden desk at his right.

As he stood and stumbled towards the entrance Harm was greeted with a bullpen so technologically advanced that it put the CIA to shame. Persons young and old manned a panel of computers that reminded him of mission control. A massive, floor to ceiling screen the length of the wall stretched out with a digitized flat map of the World.

He tried to make sense of it and the chatter his hazy mind couldn't process until a hand clamped down on his shoulder and he spun around to find Alan Blaisdale standing by his side.

"The dizziness will pass soon. I'm sorry we had to use such a crude drug but, you're a big chap and none of the men wanted a tussle with you." The man spoke but the voice that came from his mouth wasn't the gruff American accent Harm had become familiar with - it was British, eloquent and soft.

Whatever drugs they'd pumped into him had clearly made him lose his mind, Harm decided but not even shaking his head from side to side would fully clear the haze. "Why you talkin like that Blaisdale?"

"I'm afraid Alan Blaisdale is dead, Harm. He's been dead since 1999." The man helped him back to the sofa, offering a bottle of water that Harm gulped down in just a few swallows. He must have been given a hallucinogen, he thought because what happened next was like a scene out of a spy movie.

"Dead? No. You're here…you're-"

"I'm sorry." Blaisdale reached down his collar and began to tug on his skin. It raised and peeled off from his neck, his face and finally the latex was pulled off his bead head until a different man was staring at Harm. That man had a thinner face, a long nose and was completely bald. On his raised fist he propped up the skin he'd removed - a mask so realistic, it had fooled the agency for two decades.

"What the hell is this?"

The man sat in a chair and for a moment, the gruff American voice had returned except it belonged to someone else. "Alan was killed in 1999 in England while on assignment. I can't say it's tasteful but we hid the body and I took over for him." He extended his hand to Harm and returned to his natural voice, that of a man who was born and raised just outside of London, England. Any trace of the American was now completely gone. "I'm William Kitcher, but you can call me Will…Welcome to MI6."

Few things really shocked Mac. Her past had given her enough bumps and bruises to prepare her for anything but, this new information was, indeed, shocking. Having met Blaisdale once she found it hard to believe that anyone could seamlessly imitate his macho American male mannerisms or his distinct accent. What's more, she'd seen him speak and interact and found it impossible that any mask would make the wearer that believable.

Faking her pregnancy was one thing, completely changing the most dynamic parts of a person's identity was shocking. She supposed there were a zillion tricks she still didn't know about. In her line of work mastering the art of disguise wasn't in her repertoire.

When Harm fell silent and his breaths were shaky, she quickly figured out the reason for the mystery, the claims of treason and the high end items he acquired all made sense. "You were recruited."

"Yeah, I was." He thought back to that day inside of the hidden station which appeared far superior to the CIA's. Will made sure he was fed and bathed and given a change of clothes - a business suit that was tailor made and likely cost a few thousand dollars.

He was escorted through the bowels of what Will called 'The Sanctum' two underground floors that included a shooting range, barracks and a room full of disguises. All sorts of clothing and their matching accessories hung on infinitely long racks. There was a section with latex masks, appliances and even synthetic hair of all lengths and colors.

Harm was given the history of intelligence in Great Britain which more or less played down the length of time that a structured intelligence community had been established in the USA.

He knew the CIA was a fairly young institution and he also knew that the American way could often piss off the rest of the World with the need to flex their World Power muscles. What he didn't know was the constant battle between both agencies.

He knew he shouldn't have told Mac about the Station or the secret chambers that he'd accessed, even the ones he'd yet to see. Harm was sworn not to share information with anyone unless prompted and he was to retain that 'need to know' credo that the agency hammered home.

The decision to become a double agent wasn't taken lightly. After his initial meeting with Will, Harm was sent back home, back to Central Intelligence and an assignment where he came back with a souvenir - the scar he sported on his cheek. That was the deciding factor that would lead him down an odd path of life working simultaneously for two superpowers of espionage.

"I realized how weak I was, how poorly trained and I also realized that all of Will's rhetoric was spot on. The CI is flawed, severely so. Several years back MI6 did a sweep of the Central Intelligence officers when an assignment killed one MI5 and three MI6 officers. Someone on the inside leaked information that released crucial details about their field operatives. Guess who was involved?"

Mac didn't have to guess, she knew. "Let me guess, Webb?"

"Yes, only the proof disappeared and-" He stood and walked to the glass doors, staring out over the cove that was once again partially obscured by heavy rains.

Harm never understood how or why Webb became involved with the 'bad guys.' It wasn't money, his family had enough wealth that would last a few lifetimes. The man was, for the most part, a mama's boy and Harm always assumed he became a field operative as a way to continue the family legacy.

Webb's mother was a code breaker in her younger years. His father was rumored to be one of the many stars at the CIA's memorial at Langley. Their family had been part of the agency since its inception and were part of the pillars which upheld the organization.

"It was always the plan for that family to infiltrate the intelligence community in America." Will told him and then the pieces of the puzzle began to fit in the most terrifying fashion - the Webb patriarch, Horton Webb, was a Soviet sympathizer who passed along his beliefs to Neville Webb, Clay's father.

"Did you ever wonder why we weren't killed in Russia? They had plenty of chances. Us taking that plane…Alexie kept mentioning he worked for the man who paid the most."

"The highest bidder." Mac remembered although she always believed it was Falcon or whatever his name was. Webb was there too. Webb had set up Harm earlier that year with a dossier that would get a man killed. For a time she suspected Clay was hiding something and that helping Harm escape prison was a plot to kill the medling Commander.

She thought so then but when he came to her as a fugitive, all Mac could do was help. Help and pray that his obsession wouldn't get him killed. "He also got Sergei out of Russia."

It began to click, all of it. Webb's involvement accompanied every engagement with the former Soviet Union down to the submarine mishap and subsequent investigation that nearly got Harm killed. "The Cold War never really ended, it just thawed slightly. We still spy on one another only this time, the Webb's took it a step farther."

From a small drawer at the helm Harm produced a velvet bag that he placed in Mac's hand. "Webb was sent to find Sadik under the guise of bringing him to justice. MI6 is not exactly sure what Russia wants but, diamonds are part of it and American weapons are another."

"Both of which have Webb all over it." She felt slapped and very much like a fool for even slightly trusting Clay. What's more, she felt like a failure, her own investigation netting such little information. "He's never talked about any of it with me."

"That's why they faked my death. With me out of the way maybe he'll relax some." As a dead man Harm could easily move through the shadows and be a ghost that MI6 would fully activate when the time came.

He hated that it had all come to this; he could have prevented Mac's assignment, stopped her - loved her. "Blaisdale, uh Will…he doesn't exactly trust you."

"Me? What have I done?"

"Nothing. But, he thinks you're…" He snorted because it was too wild to believe that Mac could be spying on him. Curious, yes. He'd given her enough reasons to worry during his middle of the night adventures. "Will thinks Clay sent you to spy on me. That you've been spying on me since we met because of my father. Because he knew where my search would lead."

Mac tossed the velvet bag onto the Monopoly board and sat back. Her face was a mask of indifference but, inside, she felt the apprehension. If he didn't trust her, what hope did they have? Maybe she'd been leading herself on in believing the storm would pass but after a year apart, her faith was waning. "I'm not spying on you."

Harm sank into the sofa and took her hand. He kissed her palm, her knuckles, her wrist which he then covered with his fingers. Her pulse was strong and steady, not racing. Her irises were small and not dilated. He didn't catch a flush to her skin or the beads of sweat anywhere on Mac's face to signal that she was lying.

Once his 'test' was over, Mac pulled her arm out of his grasp and tilted her head. "Satisfied?"

"I'm sorry. I trust you, I do but-" When your hammered at every conversation and every meeting about your lover's secret affiliations, you wonder. Harm took her arm again, his fingers sliding down to her hand where he threaded his fingers through Mac's. "I know you love me, I know you wouldn't. I'm just fucked up, Mac. All of this is, I wasn't prepared and I don't know if I'm doing the right thing."

"What does your gut say?"

He shrugged, her keen intuition wasn't his which wavered these days. "That I made the right choice although I hate myself for it."

Mac sighed, she'd made her own choices, one that put him in this particular mess. She wanted to apologize over and over, forever until it felt like she atoned for her sins. Instead, she brought her free hand up and pressed it to his damaged cheek. "I want to see you clean shaven sometime. You don't have to hide this from me. You don't have to hide any flaw from me, ever."

"I know. Just give me time." Harm's thumb brushed over her bare ring finger that he hated seeing empty. He proposed, she agreed and it was tradition to seal the overture with a token of the man's affection. "I have something for you."

"Oh?"

He grinned and stood, telling her to wait a moment while he raced to the kitchen and fished for a crude alternative that he spent a little time shaping after his nightly three am watch. The tiny hose clamp was sitting on the deck having fallen out of the tool box when he made to tighten the bolts on the aft cleats.

It was small and round and in the light it the small screw glimmered like a diamond. He'd waited for Mac to fall asleep and used a rotary tool in order to file off the sharp edges and make it smooth. "It's nothing really, just a hose clamp I filed down. No stone, no precious metal."

He held it in the palm of his hand and watched Mac's expression turn from curious to content. She pinched the ring between two fingers and held it up to see where it was buffed to a perfect shine. No it wasn't an engagement ring but the sentiment behind his effort meant more than the biggest diamond.

Mac placed the clamp back in his palm and then held out her hand to him. "I don't need a diamond ring."

"I promise, there's one at home waiting for you."

"And there's one here now." She dangled her fingers, urged him to slip the small circle over her finger and once he did, Mac felt a sense of joy she didn't know was possible. "I love you."

"I do too." Harm swallowed hard, "I want to say the words, Sarah. I want to tell you exactly how I feel but I can't. I can't until all of this is over."

The shade of his eyes was a stormy blue, like the waves of a tumultuous ocean. She'd told him time and time again that the words didn't matter. Harm had shown his affection time and time again; she'd never push for more. "Yes."

"Yes?"

"In case you forgot, my answer to your proposal is still 'yes.'"

"Even after everything I told you?"

"Yes." She leaned close to him, enough so that their lips were a breath away. Mac's eyes fluttered closed as she anticipated a long, lingering kiss that never came. Instead he backed off a little and when she opened her eyes he was staring at her with an awkward expression.

"It may take a while for a wedding to happen."

"I know. Now shut up and kiss me."

Harm laughed at her demanding tone and when his lips touched hers, that empty feeling, a product of the secret he kept, disappeared.