Chapter 7
The list of names is up on the big screen, slowly cascading downward as I scroll through them with my remote.
These are the names of the people whose chips Logan stole. Most of the chips belong to him. The others are a mish-mash of names I mostly remember from my Weapon X days. Some names I don't recognise, and I figure I'll have to ask Raven about those.
"That same name keeps croppin' up," Remy notes from his spot leaning on the desk. "See that? Jean Grey."
"Yeah." I murmur half to myself. Jean Grey is one of the names I don't recognise at all. She certainly wasn't in my old collection. I'd always assumed my collection had had everything there was to have, but I guess not. The idea of that troubles me.
Jake's sitting on the nearby couch, laptop at the ready.
"Jake," I call over to the him. "See if you can find anything on Jean Grey. Might be useful to send a query over to Raven too."
"I'm already on it, Anna," he replies, his fingers dancing over his keyboard. "But I don't see how this woman's gonna help you locate Logan."
I look down at the screen as the names continue to scroll down.
"That depends on what exactly her relationship to Logan is," I reply. "Or what he thinks it is."
Jake's fingers halt mid-action.
"Ooooh. So you're thinking of stealing her identity?"
I send him a sideways smile.
"That depends on how similar our appearances are. Or if Logan even knows what she looks like."
"And how're you gonna find that out?"
I've reached the end of the document. I set aside the remote and turn to him.
"Simple. By 'facing with their memories."
Jake sucks in an audible breath.
"All of them?"
I shrug.
"All the ones MI13 has anyway."
He's still staring. My words have rattled him.
"Jesus. That'll kill you."
"It hasn't yet."
I turn back to Remy, who's still leaning against the desk, looking up at the screen.
"What're you thinking?" I ask him softly, walking up to stand beside him. His eyes move to my face slowly. That easy, devil-may-care smile is on his face, but it doesn't quite fool me.
"You know what I think, chere. This job stinks."
"But it might be workable," I counter.
"It might be," he answers matter-of-factly. "Still stinks."
He abruptly moves to the French windows and slides them open, stepping out into the courtyard to smoke. I watch him with a puzzled expression. I know he doesn't trust Wisdom, and I know he has a problem with Logan. Sure, throwing ourselves into the way of a psychopathic murderer is going to be dangerous any which way you spin it, but this is the kind of stuff I've been dealing with since I was a kid. It's what we've both been dealing with. It's been our way of life for years. So I don't exactly know why he's being so weird about this.
I consider following him and calling him out on it, but Jake's already speaking.
"Okay, I just sent a mail to Raven. I've started running a search on 'Jean Grey', and lemme warn you, they're are hundreds in the NY area alone. We're gonna need better specs."
I sigh and take my tablet out of my purse.
"Try cross-referencing with Logan and Empharma," I suggest. "You probably won't find anything, but it's worth a try."
I boot up the second file Pete Wisdom had sent me, the one I hadn't wanted to share. This file is a list of all the chips MI13 had recovered from the Empharma building. The list isn't long – there're are only about 15 – and I wonder how many more survived and who has them.
One stands out to me though.
Essex, Nathaniel. August 15, 2016.
The last mem-chip detailing what happened during the Crisis. What happened to me.
But I know what happened to me.
I stare at the words for what feels like an age.
The world is swirling – there's nothing but my heartbeat.
I quickly scroll down and everything else swirls back into focus.
There are other names here I don't recognise – probably from the second Weapon X project. When I get to the bottom, I get my second shock in so many minutes.
The last name is one I recognise well.
LeBeau, Remy. October 2, 2026.
I look up at him sharply. He still standing in the courtyard smoking, his back to me. I'm not entirely sure what this means. He'd always told me he'd never recorded his memories; but then whenever Essex had recruited new blood, a neural scan was required, and recording memories was a part of that process. Plus, Remy had been Essex's patient, and memory recording may well have been a way of monitoring a patient's progress.
Whatever the case, I'm confused to feel some strange emotion tug at me. I've felt it a lot recently – a nagging weariness… a gnawing sensation I've never felt before. It's so visceral for a moment it makes my hands tingle and sets my teeth on edge. A few seconds, and it's passed.
I take in a breath and walk over to the French windows.
He's standing on the patio, staring at the floor, lost in thought.
"Remy," I say.
He turns.
"Chere."
His tone is neutral, pointedly so. I decide it's best to ignore it.
"Take a look at this."
I walk on over and show him the list.
"It's an inventory of all the mem-chips from the Empharma building that are currently in MI13's possession." I point out the name at the bottom of the list. "One of them is yours."
But he's already seen it. His face clouds over.
"That can't be right," he says casually, looking away and pulling on his cigarette. "I never recorded anythin'."
"You might not've been aware of the recording," I say. "Take a look at the date. Wouldn't that be during the time period when Essex was treating you for acute mem-intoxication?"
He blows out smoke and eyes me critically. After a few seconds he takes the tablet and looks at it closely.
"You might be right," he states nonchalantly. He hands the tablet back to me. "So what?"
So what? I stare at him in disbelief.
"Don't you want it back?" I ask.
"Non." He takes a final drag and drops the cigarette, grinding it out with his shoe. "Anna, there was a reason I asked Raven t' scrub my past. It's 'cos I don't want any of it back." He pauses and thinks about it. "Although now that I think about it, I don't much like the idea of anybody's government havin' a piece of my past, if that's really what's on that chip. I'd like t'have it, just so's I can destroy it."
"So you do want it," I conclude. He gives me a questing look.
"Look, let's not fuck around. I saw the other name on that list. Essex. I know what you have in mind."
He looks so damn sure of himself it instantly irks me.
"Oh, really?"
"Yes, really. You're thinkin' of makin' a play for that chip. Have Wisdom slip it into your pay-packet as a li'l bonus for services rendered. Am I right?"
He's being so fucking snide about this. I know he isn't happy about this job, but I don't get why he has to be such a jerk over it.
"Fine," I say, deciding there's really no point to making an issue of this. "You're right. If you want yours, I'll ask Wisdom to throw it in too."
Maybe he's annoyed I didn't rise to his bait, I don't know. He simply shrugs with false indifference and says: "Sure. Why not," and walks off.
I follow him back to the door, piqued.
"Why are you being such an asshole about this?" I hiss at him, unable to help myself.
He looks back over his shoulder at me, gracing me with that insufferable smile that can be charming at one moment and infuriating the next.
"Would I be an asshole to you, ma mignonne?" he asks me innocently.
"Yes," I retort irritably. "And you are."
"Well, Anna," he says, turning away so that I can no longer see his face, "maybe I'm just bein' an ass because I know you're gonna take this job. And there ain't a damn thing I can do t'talk you out of it."
I huff a bit, exasperated. At this point I'm beginning to think I'll take the job just to piss him off.
"You're not gonna believe this," Jake says as we walk in. "But Raven's already found our Jean Grey."
I slide shut the door behind me, unimpressed. It isn't hard to believe record-breaking retrieval times from Raven at all.
"And?" I prompt him.
"Turns out she was Weapon X."
I frown, confused.
"How come I've never heard of her, then?"
"She was staff," Jake says, switching the display to the telescreen. "Not a subject. Says here she was a neuroscientist. There's a photo on her profile. Take a look."
We look up at the screen as the image finally always.
Jean Grey stares back down on us, an enigmatic half smile on her lips, one that would've made the Mona Lisa jealous. Long red hair, bright green eyes, a light smattering of freckles sprinkled over her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. She looks young, fresh out of college, proud to be wearing her scientist's lab coat. Somehow I wonder how she'd felt about it after working with Nathaniel Essex.
"Whaddaya think, Anna?" Jake quizzes me. "Think you can pass yourself off as Jean Elaine Grey?"
-oOo-
Several black taxis are lined up outside the Hilton Waldorf, city lights sparkling off of their beetle-like carapaces.
Jake pulls up in the last space left and puts the car into neutral.
"You sure you wanna do this?" he asks.
His expression is concerned in the rearview mirror.
"Why wouldn't I be?" I ask him.
He shrugs.
"It's just…"
He trails off. I know what he means to say. Remy isn't here.
"Remy trusts my judgement on this," I tell Jake firmly. "Don't worry."
Does he?
I open the door and step out.
"And don't worry about picking me up," I say. "If Wisdom is the kinda gentleman he pretends to be, he'll arrange a ride back."
I slam the door shut and Jake pulls out. I'm left on the sidewalk, and for a moment I pause.
Don'tcha wanna come with? I'd asked Remy earlier that evening. He'd stood in the doorway and watched me slip into the champagne gold silk cocktail dress, that black antique lighter of his dancing casually between his fingers.
Nope, he'd answered. Figure you can handle Wisdom pretty well by y'self, chere. Don't need none of my charm. It don't work on the likes of him.
He'd been so fucking sullen about this the whole day… since he'd found out about Logan, to be honest. I mean, I get it. He'd left Weapon X behind. Hell, he'd pretty much left mem-chips behind, and he hadn't wanted to take on the Marko job because of it. Now shit is getting real and he wants out.
I feel for him. I really do. Having to listen to Jake and I hash this out must've been hard on him. Only curiosity itself – and a need to keep tabs on things – had kept him hanging around.
It's just a business dinner, I'd told him, as I'd picked up my purse and grabbed at my stole.
And he'd looked at me with this rueful little smile hitching the corner of his lips and said, Chere, you an' I both know it's only fifty percent business. And if I come with, I'm jus' gon' end up bein' a third wheel.
He's right. I sigh and head inside.
The restaurant is busy, the room alive with the twinkling of jewellery and silverware, the clinking of wineglasses, the soft murmur of voices and the sophisticated strains of a live piano. Nothing I haven't experienced a thousand times before. The maître d' leads me off to a private little niche with a spectacular view of the river. Wisdom is already there, seated with a glass of wine. He's busy with his phone, and for a few split seconds he's not aware I'm there. It gives me a moment to assess him – his aquiline features punctuated by his slicked back black hair, his good looks complimented by his impeccable sense of taste. He exudes such effortless grace. Just like Remy.
A moment later and he's seen me. He stands, a smile of pleasure touching his lips.
"Ms. D'Ancanto," he greets me. "Good evening." His gaze brushes over me from head to toe and back up again as I slip off the stole and hand it to the studiously attentive waiter. "Has anyone ever told you you're beautiful, Ms. D'Ancanto?"
"Marie," I correct him with a warm little smile.
"Marie," he allows himself to be corrected. He lets the waiter do the business of helping me into my seat – for some men, the display of power and prestige trumps that of civility, and I guess I'm not the kind of woman who's at all bothered about that.
We sit a few seconds and look at one another over the short length of the table, while the waiter pours me my wine.
"I took the liberty of ordering a Riesling," Wisdom says. "I think you'll like it."
I subconsciously assess the statement. Here is a man who's used to taking control, who thinks nothing of it. It says a lot. There aren't many in his life who challenge him. He always gets his own way.
"Thank you," I say.
The next few minutes we go through the motions of desultory chatter and ordering food. The wine is perfect and the setting insidiously comfortable. My dinner partner is witty, intelligent, engagingly charming. Handsome as the devil with his dark hair and baby blue eyes. Sharp as a switchblade in his perfectly-tailored Savile Row suit. Suave as the rich bankers and politicians who'd always tried to woo me, yet impossibly better-looking.
I'd be lying if I said I didn't still find him attractive.
Two or three years ago I would've sat here with him and played out this game the way he wants – expects – me to. We would've booked the fanciest room in this hotel and made soulless love till the sun came up. The press of our desires would've been sated, whatever simple chemistry between us would've followed through its chain reaction to the same old, logical conclusion. The only twist to this story would've been who would've crept out on the other first.
I muse on the fact that such a scenario no longer holds any appeal to me. The temptation is there… a faraway siren call on the coasts of my mind, but… whereas before I would've fallen in step with it willingly, now I feel… Well. Like an outsider looking in on someone else's life, someone else's bad decisions.
Our dinner arrives.
"So," he broaches the reason we're really here for first. "I take it Gavin & Lord have come to a decision on MI13's job offer."
"We have," I reply.
"And your answer is…?"
"We'd be very happy to work with you, Mr. Wisdom."
He flashes me that gorgeous smile, says, "You have no idea how much that answer pleases me. And please, Marie… call me Peter."
"Peter," I say, with a modest little smile that is intended to fool neither of us.
"Forgive me for saying it," he speaks up after a moment. "But I was half expecting your answer to be the opposite. Mr. Lord… well, shall we say that he seemed less than enthusiastic about the job specs."
I notice how very delicately he uses Remy's alias. Such is his innate sense of spycraft that he's completely at ease with separating personas into public and private, real and fake.
"Mr. Lord won't be working this assignment," I reply, equally as delicately. I lift the wineglass to my lips and give him a pointed look.
"Ah," he says quietly. "Such a shame."
He doesn't even pretend to make it sound like a genuine statement.
"So," he continues after a moment. "What sort of plan do you and Mr. Gavin have in mind?"
And now we come to the meat of the matter.
"There's a woman called Jean Grey," I answer. "Most of the chips this Logan stole belong to her. It seems likely to me that he knew her from his past. Perhaps there were memories of him in those chips. Perhaps when he 'faced with them, and recognised himself in them—"
"They set him off," he finishes for me. I nod.
"Right."
"Hm," he considers my words carefully. "Whatever memories this Jean Grey had of him must've been quite… well, traumatic, for him to have lost his mind so completely."
"It's possible," I say, non-committal.
There's a short silence.
"Forgive me," he begins after a few beats. "But I fail to see what this woman has to do with retrieving Logan for me."
"Jean Grey might be our in with him."
He raises an eyebrow.
"Might be?"
"It depends on what her relationship with Logan was."
He mulls over the statement.
"And you could find that out by 'facing with her memories…"
"Yes," I say.
He gives me a penetrating stare over his dinner.
I break the look first and reach into my clutch for my phone.
"Jean Grey was on Weapon X's staff when it first started out," I explain, as I throw up her picture on my device. "My… contacts back Stateside managed to dig up some intel on her, including a picture."
I lay my phone on the table and slide it towards him.
He stares at the picture of Jean Grey a moment – Jean Grey with her green eyes and her red hair – then back up at me. His expression is entirely serious.
"You're suggesting that you impersonate this woman?" he half-questions, half-states. He's clever enough to be quick on the uptake, but I'm still surprised he guessed my intent that fast. I shrug, hiding my surprise behind false nonchalance.
"She's apparently deceased," I say. "But, if Logan really has no actual memories of her… he might not know that."
He pushes the phone back towards me and I put it back in my purse.
"He'll recognise her from her memories," he says thoughtfully.
"No." I shake my head. "He'll only have seen himself in her memories – not her face." I smirk. "Unless she looks at herself in a mirror or something."
Wisdom sits up a little straighter, eyeing me critically.
"And to ascertain that," he concludes, "you'll have to 'face with her memories yourself."
"That's the least of it," I reply as modestly as I can. "If I'm going to impersonate her at all, I'll need to 'face with every chip of hers that you have. Otherwise, this won't work."
He's quiet a long, lingering moment. I can tell this fascinates him, the whole wearing identities; that he's dying to ask me how I do it. Professional etiquette wins out over burning curiosity.
"I see," he states at last. "Logan is unlikely to take it on faith alone that you're Jean Grey. 'Face with her memories, though, and you know all her secrets – the way she talks, the way she thinks, the words they shared."
"More than that," I add softly. "I can become Jean Grey. He can scan me. My brainwaves won't say any different."
His eyes widen slightly and he leans back in his seat, regarding me. Now there's more than just the shade of desire in his gaze. I'm more than just a tasty morsel to him. I've impressed him in a way that's given him pause for thought. Perhaps he's a little scared of me now.
I hope so.
A few seconds pass before the shadow passes his face. All of a sudden he's smiling, this self-congratulatory little smirk that hits me because it's one I see Remy wearing so often.
"Marie," he says – and I clearly hear in his tone that this is the opening to some gambit he's thought of playing for a while now. "Can I be honest with you?"
I take a sip of my wine and return his smile.
"Please," I say.
He is suddenly serious again, leaning towards me confidentially. His eyes fix mine intently – eyes as blue and disarming as Cody's once were. I hold his gaze, momentarily entranced by the similarity.
"I have a proposition to make," he finally says, with the kind of lilt that says he knows I've heard this particular line a fair few times before. "A very serious proposition, of course."
I say nothing. It's rarely a good idea in these cases to do so. He drops his gaze and toys with his fork perfunctorily.
"I'm sure you can imagine, Marie, that I find myself in quite a predicament. Logan is… extremely precious to our outfit. But he is also… a liability. Damaged goods, one might say."
His hand goes still. His eyes lift to mine again. He's meant to be communicating something to me… but all I hear are those words, echoing in my ears. Damaged goods. How many times I have heard those very same words, said about me?
Neither of us says a thing for what seems like a very long time. Does he expect me to speak? If he does, I can't. He's tripped a wire in my head, and I can't seem to let go of it.
"Marie," he begins again, his tone more honest than I've ever heard it. "I would still very much like for you to undertake this assignment for me. But I would like to… propose an alternative that I hope would be very beneficial… for the both of us."
He's suddenly back to talking in terms I can understand. I take in a breath and try a smile, playing coyly with the stem of my wineglass.
"Mr. Wisdom… Peter." I consider my words carefully. "I'm flattered… But if you're suggesting what I think you're suggesting…"
He raises a hand suddenly, cutting me off.
"Oh no." His expression is wry, apologetic. "Don't misunderstand me. I'm not quite as uncouth as to suggest anything unseemly." The words are delicately put, and sound slightly strange in his London accent. "You and Mr. Lord are quite clearly…" and he opens his hands in a non-committal gesture, finishing, "in some sort of a relationship. No. I'm not talking about that."
"Then—"
"Marie." He holds my eyes again, and I barely realise I'm holding my breath. "I hope I'm not being facetious when I say that… well, that Gavin & Lord seems a little… small time, where you're concerned."
He pauses and fixes my gaze, gauging my reaction. I'm silent. He places his hands on the table and links the tips of his fingers slightly together. I stare at them absently.
"The work that you do, Ms. D'Ancanto… your obvious talents… they put you a cut above the kind of work that Gavin & Lord is currently engaged in. Several cuts above, I may even deign to say. I might even be so bold as to say that your considerable skills are wasted there."
He pauses again, that expectant look still on his face. He thinks I know what he's talking about, that I'm playing hard to get with my silence. And of course, I know what he's talking about. I know exactly what he means… it's just…
"I think you're jumping to some awfully big conclusions," I say, and, just like that, his countenance snaps back into serious and he cuts in, almost on top of my sentence, with: "Am I?"
I drop my gaze. It's a mistake, but it's too late, and I can't help it. He reads it all effortlessly.
"Do you think you could be happy with Gavin & Lord?" he persists. "In the long term, I mean? Do you think it could satisfy you?"
My eyes snap back up to his.
He knows as much as I do what he's implying. How intimately Gavin & Lord is so bound up with Remy himself, with this some sort of a relationship he'd so glibly referred to. I'm stunned to find I've underestimated him. There are things about me he's somehow managed to intuit, and a part of me resents him for it, but… He understands. He understands the very thing I've been trying not to acknowledge myself. This creeping sense of dissatisfaction – the insidious whisper in my head that tells me I don't belong.
"I admit," he is continuing, "I have no idea what kind of a life you lived back in the States. But I can make a few guesses, going off what I know of Mr. Lord's past. If that kind of life… 'calls' to you again, well then… you might want to consider working for MI13. Your sort of talents would make you an exceptionally valued member of the team."
At last he's come right out and said it. I give a small, humourless laugh.
"Mr. Wisdom, I don't think you realise what kind of work I was engaged in back in the States."
The barely-there curve of his smile tells me one thing – he isn't fooled at all.
"And I don't think you realise what kind of work MI13 is engaged in."
Yet again, resentment streaks through me – resentment at his assumptions, about my life, my feelings, my past. I'm no stranger to this subtle encroachment into my life, but… Maybe my resentment comes from the fact that the things he says and the things he does are the language of a world I understand – espionage, assassinations, sabotage. It's as natural to me now as it once was to Logan.
I'm silent. There's no point in pretending I don't know what he means.
"I'm going to give you a choice, Marie," he finally speaks. This time there's no attempt to dissemble on his part. His expression is open, serious. "It's completely up to you what you decide to do with that choice. I won't hold it against you either way."
I know what he's going to say. I know.
"Option number one." He holds up a finger. "You impersonate Jean Grey. Find Logan, wherever he is. Bring him back to MI13. We have our mem-chip reader back. I'm happy."
I let out a pent-up breath.
"And option number two?" I ask.
"Option number two." He holds up a second finger. "You impersonate Jean Grey. Find Logan, wherever he is." He pauses. "Tie up this loose end for me. Eliminate Logan. Take his place."
Take his place.
Be the thing you were born to be.
And maybe it is what I was meant to be.
He slouches back in his seat, gives a faint smile.
"So. What do you say?"
-oOo-
I have my car drive Ms. D'Ancanto back to the apartment she shares with Mr. Lord – no pretence, no need to hide the fact that MI13 knows exactly where they live.
Marie sits beside me on the backseat, lost in thought.
She is a mystery, a conundrum. Completely devoid of an identity, despite the best efforts of my team to pinpoint one.
She… intrigues me. Beauty is the least of her accomplishments. For the first time I've come to appreciate first-hand just why the US government once considered Weapon X one of its most precious assets. For MI13 to get its hands on a former member of that project… well, it'd be quite a feather in the cap. Quite an advantage to the team. But to have Marie D'Ancanto in particular… …
I steal a momentary look in her direction.
She's a hard nut to crack – not that I'd expect anything else. But there's a something else about her – a spark, perhaps, of chemistry, between the two of us. Whether she'd give into it or not is hard for me to say – perhaps a moot point, since she appears to be in some sort of relationship with LeBeau.
A shame. But still – it leaves me with a palpable advantage. Something to work on her with.
The car pulls up outside the apartment my team at MI13 managed to nail down pretty much as soon as we had hired Gavin & Lord. This time I make the effort to help her out of the car and onto the pavement.
We stand under the streetlight, and suddenly she's hard to read again. Her expression is even, composed. Back in the restaurant, there had been moments when I had thought I could see right through her, when I had imagined my words had needled her… but now I'm not so sure. She is formidable; impenetrable. A challenge.
"Well," I say neutrally, "I hope you found this evening as pleasant as I did, Ms. D'Ancanto."
The smile she bestows me with is calm… proper. The orange glow of the streetlamp illuminates her face. I've enjoyed the company of many beautiful women in my time, but… she's the kind to launch wars. Intellectually, I know she's dangerous. On every other level, I find her deliciously alluring.
"I had a very pleasant evening, Peter," she says. "Thank you."
There's a sudden movement up on the balcony above us, and it catches my eye.
It's LeBeau, standing there and watching us, a cigarette in his hand.
I've never thought of myself as a petty man, but an impulse streaks through me. I hold out my hand, and when she shakes it, I don't let go. I let my thumb brush the inside of her palm – a subtle gesture, but one I can tell, from the look on her face, that she's read effortlessly.
"Then I hope we get to repeat it again sometime," I murmur.
I drop her hand, take a step back. I flick a pointed glance up at LeBeau, avert it just as quickly.
She's wasted on Gavin & Lord, I think, and she's wasted on you.
"I'll be in contact," I say in a softer tone. "About Jean Grey's chips. We'll arrange a time for you to come to headquarters and interface with them."
"Yes," she replies. "Thank you."
I nod and open the car door.
"Goodnight, Marie," I say.
"Goodnight."
I get inside, and as the driver pulls away I glance back at her, standing there on the pavement. She's looking right up at LeBeau, and I turn back to the road ahead, I smile.
Another productive evening; another hand successfully played.
I glance down at my watch.
With a bit of luck, within a few days, Marie D'Ancanto should be a part of the fold.
-oOo-