Chapter four: want to get to the real you inside (Song: 'Like To get To Know You Well' by Howard Jones)

Adler stared out the grimy window, smoking the end of his pack. Not long before sunrise. People were starting to make their way around, lonely souls in their trench coats with their briefcases, heading for their U-Bahns.

It started to rain; the umbrellas began to pop up, like plants sprouting from soil. Vulnerable little saplings. How they managed to go about a daily routine, knowing the threats that hung over them, he wasn't sure. They must feel totally powerless.

His own power, however used or abused, allowed them to keep going. To enjoy the simple joys of a fresh coffee, and the mundane boredom of a comfortable office. They would bitch and moan, sure, but they knew deep down the alternative was much worse. The alternative was why he was here.

Adler turned on the radio, listening to the hit parade.

La vie est si triste

Dis-moi que tu m'aimes

Oublions tout nous-mêmes

Ce que nous sommes vraiment

The saccharine melody made his teeth itch. He felt like having a drink; as Miss Lio sang, a little chemical pleasure for his too dull brain. But today was too important. He was waiting on Hudson, who had to call Belikov; the time to catch him was when he took his 12pm coffee and sandwich at a small cafe behind the Hotel Metropol. Adler had did a good quavering Deutsch, and the owner knew Belikov's elderly German friend sometimes rang for him there. Hudson probably did a Russian voice; when this was all done,he would have to ask him what his little persona was.

Adler still had over three hours to kill. In his case was his well thumbed copy of Crime and Punishment. In Russian, just to make it extra light reading.

He had to check on Bell before he relaxed. Not that seeing her made him feel any more assured.

Her room was two doors down, and he had a key. Simple lock to break, even if he didn't. When he slipped inside, he panicked for a second; the room looked totally empty. The only sign of previous life in that space was the radio, crackling quietly in the corner, playing the same tune he had just left behind. Then he heard a small click in the bathroom and the slap of water, hitting the edge of a tub.

Bell must have been taking a bath. He probably shouldn't disturb her. But then again… he did need a cigarette.

"Hey, Bell."

The water sloshed suddenly. She didn't reply for a moment. Adler waited against the doorframe, for a moment unsure if he had made the right choice.

"Adler?"

Bell's voice was more confused than afraid. Adler knocked the door.

"Can I come in? I need a cigarette."

"Sure."

He opened the door and walked in calmly. It was fine. He'd seen Bell like this before. It was fine. It wasn't anything out of the ordinary. Nudity was normal, natural, so commonplace when in war that Adler he didn't register it anymore.

So seeing Bell's bare shoulders, breasts pressed up behind her crossed arms as she leaned against the side of the tub, water dripping off her soft skin— it was fine. The room was steaming up; he felt a little breathless because of that.

Then Bell's eyes met his, looking up under her brow in a rather obstinate way— like he was an inconvenience to her— and Adler swallowed his tongue.

"You're up early," she remarked. "Restless night?"

Adler held out his hand.

"The smoke, kid. You know I can't rest without them."

Bell smirked.

"You know it's bad when you need over a hundred grams of nicotine a day to settle."

She reached into her crumpled pack, lying beside the tub, and passed him one.

"Thanks."

Adler didn't quite know where to put himself. Should he leave? She didn't even ask how he'd gotten in. It was strange; she was so vulnerable yet she was the one staring cooly at him, and he was flustered.

"You can sit down if you want," Bell said, gesturing to the toilet seat.

"Thanks."

He close over the cracked plastic lid, sat down, and started to smoke. Bell pulled on her own cigarette, and relaxed back on her knees a little.

"So, you ready to go today?" She asked.

"I'm always ready, Bell. Just need to know where and when to be ready for."

"And when will you know that?"

"When I know, I'll let you know."

Bell placed her tongue in her cheek, and Adler found himself smiling wryly at his own obstinance.

"Want to go get breakfast?"

He asked it; why did he feel surprised at the words? But they had fallen out his mouth, naturally. Their banter felt almost— almost— genuine. It would pass the time, in any case.

"Sure. But we have to go to a place with real coffee. I think the whiskey hit me a little too hard."

"Deal."

He continued to smoke, listening to the fuzzy guitar playing in the background. He tossed his ash into a cracked glass (Bell's makeshift ashtray, lying her dressing gown on the floor). Bell stubbed hers out a few seconds later.

"Adler, can I ask you a strange question?"

"Shoot."

"Did I have this scar before? When we were in Nam?"

Adler looked at the discoloured incision mark below her stomach. He hadn't noticed it before but he could hazard a guess at what it might be.

"I don't think so, kid. Maybe it's best you don't remember some of them."

She leaned forward and looked up at the ceiling. He noticed she had done that a few times before; after Volkov, when she first reminisced about Fracture Jaw, as soon as she'd gotten on the plane back the night before. It looked like she was putting in eye drops, the way her eyes shone and she blinked heavily for a moment. Was she trying to remember? Or was she trying not to?

As she tilted her chin up, Adler saw two very faint white lines, patchy and varied lengths, crossing over her throat.

"Those neck scars, you remember how you got them?"

He wanted to get back the control- the power of knowledge. If she couldn't remember, he could spin something quick; he would have saved her from an ambush, knife attack, whatever came to mind as he spoke. She would trust him because he gave her the answers. She would trust him because he gave her a person to believe in.

But she wouldn't play ball. She leaned back into the bath, raising her legs up, and dunked her hair back into the water. She emerged, bangs plastered across her brow, and spit some water out of her mouth.

"I remember. Wish I didn't remember. Did I ever tell you?"

"No," he said, throat tight. Fuck. How much was in her mind he didn't know? Unless she was bluffing, to pretend she wasn't losing her mind? He just couldn't figure it out.

"I'll tell you over the next whiskey bottle. Pass me a towel."

Adler looked around and picked up one off the tiny rail beside him, then handed it over. Bell stepped out of the water, wincing as her feet touched the icy cold floor. She shivered before she wrapped the towel round herself, and Adler knew he had looked at her body tremble for a little too long. Was this really her feeling comfortable round him, former brother in arms, or was she playing him for a fool? There was something too calm on her face as she began to dry her legs, letting her chest bare. She knew he would look at her- was she testing his intentions? The steam in the room was beginning to get to his head.

"I'll leave you to it, meet you downstairs in five."

"Make it ten. You've got to fix your hair, after all."

Bell smiled up at him, bending to wrap her towel round her hair. Adler managed a roll of his eyes and made his way out. As soon as he got to the other side of her door, he leaned against the wall of the corridor, and ran a hand through his hair. He didn't notice how flat it was, how damp it had become from sitting in that tiny bathroom. He only thought about the line of Bell's shoulders, the curl of hair that had stuck to her cheek, the curve of her hip peeping over the white towel, the glistening water on her breasts, the freckles across her snub nose, the bubbles of soap dripping off her nimble hands as she had flicked that cigarette, the stupid wide grin, her teeth too big, pushing out her cheeks that dimpled along with her chin and—

His desire to have a drink had gotten stronger.

"All very Norman Rockwell Christmas, isn't it?"

Bell gestured up at the white and red canopy above them, golden lights still dimly lit as the grey morning sun failed to bring much shine to the city. She was a cultured girl, Adler would give her that. Of course Perseus would have at least one brain on his team. Seeing her sitting like this, so comfortable in the West— the place she was on a mission to destroy— was a little surreal. From bleeding out in a burned out truck in Trabzon one day, to sitting pretty at Cafe Kranzler the next, brought back from the dead; Bell's existence was unreal, but as artificially made as it was, he felt proud of her. Proud of human resilience. Proud of a body's endurance. Proud of his own handiwork, to make a terrorist so placid.

"It reminds me of being a kid," he said, replying to what she'd said at last. "I remember Mom took me to Macy's when I was about four or five, week before Pearl Harbour. They had seven foot tall candy canes, red ribbons round the columns, trees behind every counter. Santa giving out little wooden airplanes. It was great."

"That's sweet. I don't think my folks ever bothered. I just watched the Thanksgiving parades on TV."

He saw a little frown above her shades, and she fumbled for a cigarette. He held out his lighter.

"What did your mom do, Adler?"

Adler lit his cigarette and took a long drag. Deflect was the best option. She would never find out if he was lying. But he couldn't remember the last time someone had asked about Mom, or the last time he had ever mentioned her. Isn't that what they say is true death? When your name no longer passes through the lips of someone who loves you.

It was a lot to ask of her: "accept brainwashing, fight for your life, betray your beloved leader, play pin-up girl in my messed up dreams, and be my free therapist for the next hour." But Bell would soon die— what else was going to happen after they used her up?— so it wouldn't come back to bite him. He might as well let himself feel for a few minutes.

"My mom was a dentist's assistant before the war. Then she signed up. Navy nurse. Made it through 3 years, not a scratch. Until Okinawa."

He had heard stories from survivors over the years. He never let himself think of what they'd said; he had a knack for going temporarily deaf any time the pacific war was brought up. Julie had been foolish enough to remark to him once, after a few drinks, that it must be so sad to die at sea trapped in a room, unable to escape. Adler hadn't spoken to her or anyone for days afterwards.

"She raised me by herself, Dad was gone before I was born. Grandparents helped out sometimes, but they lived out of state. Mom was always giving out free help, darning socks for everyone, making everyone dinner on Sundays, living on a shoestring. It was nice, real Canaryville then; all the Irish piling into the parlour, singing their songs, and the Mexicans overtaking with theirs, then the Poles finishing the night with low hymns. I learned a lot by just being there. Mom helped me with homework every night, no matter how tired, and wanted me to be a doctor or a police officer. She thought I could go all the way, Harvard and Yale, then Westport. Or the other way round. I don't think any of it was ever going to happen, to be honest, but she wanted me to dream. I try to keep those dreams alive, even if I went a path she wouldn't have been able to imagine."

"She sounds like she was a very strong and sweet woman."

Bell spoke quietly. Adler gave a gentle nod, concurring with her analysis. Even as he sat there, in such a different world from the one she had left decades ago, he thought he might suddenly feel a small hand on his shoulder and have his hair ruffled, and a kiss planted on his brow as a cloud of magnolia toilette floated round him. If he thought about it long enough, the scent began to fill his nose as if it really was there.

"It… It's nice to share her with somebody. Thanks, Bell."

"You're welcome."

Adler felt awkward.

"I should ask you the same, Bell. But I don't want to pry. Maybe the less I know about you the better."

"I… think I'm a better listener."

"Well, I guess I'm sometimes a talker."

Bell flicked her hair back over her shoulder, and he tilted his head.

"What?" He asked.

"Nothing, nothing."

But her smirk said otherwise. He then heard what she'd heard; and laughed.

"Alright, Bell. Keep it professional."

"Do we have to?"

She was hitting every ball, square on target, even if his serves were very half-hearted. A true pro.

So he would have to strike with something special, enough to break her bat.

"Let's go to the Tiergarten. Go see the pandas. Hold hands. Buy some corny keychains."

Bell pulled her sunglasses up, showing her wide eyes and raised eyebrows. But her lips were twitching, smile dancing across her face, and he knew she was open to him.

"Are you asking me on a date, Adler?"

"Well if I was, you would be calling me Russ."

"I couldn't possibly. I have to keep it professional."

Adler took another drag of his cigarette and committed himself to making his exploitation complete. He leaned across the table, wrapped his fingers round her jaw, and kissed her, quick and hard.

Her button nose was crushed against his. Her lips were soft, breath hot, and a taste of sweet almond and coffee lingered upon it. He felt the beat of her heart on his fingertips, and felt her eyelids flutter against his cheek.

Just as the tip of her tongue met his, he pulled back. He wanted to make her wait. Make her want him more. Keep control. Because his own heart was bounding, beats thundering in his ears, and a flare of nausea swept through his churning stomach. He had finally found the thing that could depower him.

Bell looked at him, eyes as amused and smile as genuine as ever. Now Adler began to wonder whose game he had been playing. But then he realised, in that moment, he didn't care.

"OK, Russ," she whispered. "Let's go."