| Subject: Hide in Plain Sight 7 |
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Date Posted: 19:24:00 10/24/02 Thu
In reply to:
's message, "Hide in Plain Sight 6" on 20:02:15 09/21/02 Sat
It was full dark and Graeme was more than halfway through the bottle of [brand] whiskey before he heard the scrape of a key in the lock. Light speared into the darkened flat, causing Graeme to squint painfully.
“Close the goddamn door, would you?”
“Turn on a light,” Michael replied.
Martin reached over to flick on the table lamp before slumping back into his chair. “Shit, that’s bright.”
“You often sit in the dark drinking?”
“I do when I have to tell parents their sixteen year old son drowned the night before.” When I have to see the look on his father’s face when he answers the door and sees me there with the priest at my shoulder. When I have to hold his mother as she sobs. When I can’t – as much as I want to – haul that pissant [Andrew’s last name] off to jail, because it’s not illegal to be an asshole. Michael crossed in front of him, removed his suit coat and settled comfortably on the couch. Graeme eyed him up and down. Michael’s hair was clean and smoothed back into a neat ponytail, giving him a polished continental appearance only enhanced with the obviously expensive suit. “You sure clean up well for a transient. What store did you knock over to get your hands on that get-up?”
“It’s mine.”
“Yours? You can afford clothes like that – is that a custom-made suit, by the way? – then why the hell are you sleeping in a homeless shelter?”
“It is convenient.”
“Oh, yeah, sure, the Salvation Army is well known for its amenities. Don’t bullshit me, Michael, I’m not in the mood.”
“What does the beggar look like, the one that works your corner?”
“Eh?” Graeme paused, the bottle halfway to his mouth.
“There’s a man that sits panhandling on the corner outside your building every day. What does he look like?”
“I haven’t…. ah. I take your point. A nice way to remain invisible.”
“People tend not to make eye contact with the homeless, even if when giving them money.”
Graeme tipped back the bottle, draining the remaining whisky. [There was a knock at the door.]
“I’m not expecting anyone.”
“Yes you are. It should be dinner.” Michael rose and stepped behind the door, drawing a gun from his belt as he did.
“What the hell are you doing with that?”
“Answer the door.”
Martin looked out the peephole, it was the delivery boy from his local Chinese restaurant. Casting a quick glance at Michael – and the pistol – Martin opened the door and greeted the boy easily.
“Here’s your order, Mr. Martin. You havin’ company tonight?”
“Yeah, [name, Jimmy?], got a hot date with a new lady. I’m going to tell her I made this myself.”
The boy smirked. “She’ll have to be really dumb to buy that line.”
“We’ll see, won’t we? Thanks [name].” Martin paid the bill and gave the boy a hefty tip, before closing the door with a bad-tempered snap. “Is it really necessary to lurk behind the door with a loaded gun? What the fuck are you doing with a weapon, anyway?”
Michael flicked the safety and returned the pistol to his waistband. “The Moo Goo Gai Pian is mine.”
“Jesus, Michael.” Martin let the argument drop; he was suddenly famished and it wasn’t worth trying to argue with the man when he wouldn’t fight back.
Michael wielded the chopsticks with the ease of a native. Graeme contented himself with a fork from the kitchen. “You still didn’t answer the question,” he mumbled between bites of Kung Pao Beef. “Where did you get the gun from?”
“The same place as the suit.”
“Oh, yeah, the local designer-suit-and-gun-shop around the corner. Can I get a straight answer from you?”
“The gun is mine, the suit is mine. I didn’t rob a store or steal an old lady’s purse. That’s all you need to know.”
“Jesus. You sound like the military – ‘need to know’ my ass.”
“Do you want to hear what I found out [discovered] or would you rather throw a tantrum?”
“Tell me, by all means. God knows you’re not going to answer my questions.”
Michael reached into his suitcoat and pulled out a sheaf of papers, handing them across to Martin. “I downloaded this from MI6.”
“Anyone look or act suspicious?”
“Other than the three agents that walked in the library just as I logged off?”
“Shit. They tracked you?”
“Not exactly. These files were protected by extremely tight computer security. MI6 knows something was touched, but they don’t know which files, or by whom.”
“How can you be so certain of that?”
Michael gave him another of those infuriating blank stares. “They don’t know what was taken. Look at the files.”
“Why the hell do I try to have a fucking conversation with you?” The whiskey was buzzing pleasantly in Martin’s system now, taking the edge off his frustration and anger. He began to scan the first page on the stack, then his head snapped up and he met Michael’s eyes in amazement.
“Holy fucking God. She was the personal secretary to some mucky-muck in MI6?”
“Keep reading.”
“Screw you, Michael,” Graeme said mildly even as he obediently continued to read. Two pages later he felt the world lurch under him and it wasn’t due to the liquor. Speechless, he met the placid gaze across from him.
“Not just the secretary,” Michael said softly, “she was the Director of Personnel and Administration.”
Martin reread the personnel record again, just to be sure his eyes hadn’t deceived him.
Educated at Cambridge. Joined SIS in 1966. Postings in Nairobi, Paris, Geneva and Washington. Broad-ranging operational career has given her particular experience of working closely with national and international intelligence, security and law enforcement agencies. In 1998 became Director of Personnel and Administration of MI6.
“Jesus H. Fucking Christ,” Martin breathed. “You think they knew this when they attacked her?”
“What better way to kill an intelligence officer and not have it investigated?”
“Make it look like a random act of violence. Jesus,” Martin shook his head slowly, feeling the room rock with the movement. “Why?”
“That’s the next question.”
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