All the Trouble in My Life Began (1/5)
Title: All the Trouble in My Life Began
Author: cybertoothtiger
Rating: PG
Summary: Michael meets Fiona for the first time while undercover in Ireland. Not a WIP, but I'm only posting one chapter at a time.
A/N: My take on the meeting. This mostly follows the original canon from the first and second season, rather than the retcon of S6 and the comics, apart from their first conversation. Originally written for the Het Big Bang as a little bang, but life happened and I didn’t finish in time. Burn Notice is the property of Matt Nix and the USA network. Many thanks to my wonderful, patient beta, bardsmaid.
Why should I blame her that she filled my days
With misery, or that she would of late
Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways,
Or hurled the little streets upon the great.
Had they but courage equal to desire?
- "No Second Troy" William Butler Yeats, 1916
Chapter 1
When you’re a spy, relationships are tricky. Lying for a living isn’t the best preparation for openness and honesty with loved ones. Plus, there’s always the chance that if you do get involved with someone, one day that person will be used against you. Or worse, they will be put in danger because of what you do for a living. Caring for someone or something is the easiest way to give your enemies something they can use against you. Which is why overall, relationships are a bad idea.
****
Michael is standing in front of the mirror, adjusting his tie, when Samantha’s hand snakes around his waist and wanders lower.
“Now is not a good time, Samantha,” he warns, but the corners of his eyes are crinkling.
“Oh, Michael, it’s always a good time.” She puts her chin on his shoulder and they both study his reflection. “Who are you tonight?”
“Texas oilman,” he replies in a southern drawl. “Taking a gander at opportunities for partnering up on Western Siberia.”
“Wealthy?” she asks.
He grins. “Is there any other kind, sweetheart?”
“Not for me, there isn’t,” she says, and starts a series of slow nibbles on his neck that threaten to make him late.
“Sam.” The warning is more emphatic. He turns to face her, brushing her long hair away from her face. He appeases her with a kiss before asking, “What are you planning?”
“I’m the Countess de Villeneuve. Minor French aristocracy, with exquisite taste.” She twirls, the silky black fabric of her evening gown swirling around her legs. “But don’t worry, Michael. It doesn’t involve you.”
“Make sure it doesn’t. My dance card is full tonight.”
He kisses her again and is almost out the door when she stops him. “Don’t forget this.”
He taps his breast pocket where his wallet was a moment ago and shakes his head at her. “Cute, Sam. Real cute.”
She feigns innocence.
Four hours later, the unfamiliar diamond necklace around Samantha’s neck digs into his ribs as she collapses onto his chest, breathing heavily. “Damn, Michael. It’s times like this I wish I smoked.”
“Trust me, I’m glad you don’t.” His hand trails slowly through the mass of curls that is splayed out across the bed.
“Mmmmm.” She snuggles against him. “Marry me, Michael.”
His hand freezes.
She raises her head and rests her chin on his chest, searching his eyes. “Whoops, now I’ve scared you.”
“No, no you didn’t, Sam.”
“I didn’t? Because I was serious, you know.”
“Okay, now you’re scaring me.”
“Ha, ha.” She puts her head down against his chest again. “Think about it - it could work. I know what you do, you know what I do. Neither one of us would have to change. And it might be the only way either of us could ever get married.”
The flush he feels could be the vodka, or the success of tonight’s op, or possibly the movement of her hand under the sheets, but he feels invincible, reckless.
“Okay.”
Her eyes widen. “Okay? Seriously? You are made of romance, Michael Westen.”
“Yes, Samantha, I will let you make me the happiest man alive.” Even as he says it, he doubts that it will ever happen. Long-term plans almost never work out in his life. Or, he suspects, in hers. But he lies to her, she lies to him, it’s the way they are together. It works. It’s comfortable and exciting at the same time, and who knows? She might be right. It might be a good idea. It’s too early to tell. They’ve only known each other a couple of months, but she understands him.
He doesn’t get much time to really settle into the idea, because the next day, the dead drop has a new passport, drivers license, credit cards and instructions from Dan, his handler back in D.C. He’s shipping out to Ireland. He leaves a note for Samantha:
The office called. I’ve got a sales trip, not sure how long I’ll be.
Miss you,
M.
It’s poor tradecraft, but he knows she’ll destroy it. Better she destroy a note than him for disappearing the day after they get engaged.
Engaged.
The word rolls around in his head, bumping into other meanings. Two men were killed when they engaged the enemy. He is about to engage on a dangerous mission.
Engaged. Jesus.
A small knot of fear forms his stomach as he hefts his bag into the back of the cab, and he checks the street more carefully than usual, pretending the enemy is out there.
****
He lands in Dublin near lunchtime and stops at an airport kiosk for some yogurt. It isn’t much, but it will keep him going for now. He steps out into the light drizzle and hails a cab. The cabby is gregarious, and when he offers to give Michael a highlight tour, Michael accepts. He listens closely, noting the turns of phrase, the specific cadence of the speech at the same time he’s memorizing the layout of the city.
It’s a beautiful city. The river through the centre of town is lined with tightly packed stone and brickwork buildings, some painted in hues of red and yellow, cheerful against the grey sky. Wooden storefronts, thick with ancient layers of paint, sport windows wobbly with age. Cobbled side streets, Victorian influences of wrought iron railings and statues, and more recent post-war dull blocks speak to a process of urban renewal that has happened in fits and starts, much like the peace process in the north. He rolls down the window a crack and inhales the smell of the sea and the slightly ozone odour of abundant greenery.
He’s never been to Ireland before, but he thinks he’ll like it. He’d never travelled at all before he joined the army, except for that one summer his mother had somehow scraped together enough grocery money and surprised them all with a trip to Disneyworld. No one had been more surprised than his father, who could think of a few other uses for that much ready cash, but Madeline had stuck to her guns and they’d driven up in the Charger, the boys’ bare legs beneath their shorts sticking to the leather seats, no air conditioning to provide relief from the August swelter.
God, Michael had hated that car, probably in direct proportion to how much his father loved it. The car had been the only new one his father had ever owned - a gift from some guy he’d worked for in one of his many shady turns and schemes.
Michael might not have travelled much, but life with Frank Westen was a master’s class in moving between worlds: his mother’s fantasy world of a happy family, the one he’d created for himself at school, and the ever changing reality of his father’s, full of hard knocks and the constant promise of something better almost within reach, if only they could figure out how to get it away from someone else. Each new scam required the boys to take on a new identity - the sick kid, the slow kid, the injured kid. Sometimes Frank would give them a helping hand with the realism on that last one.
Michael’s almost chameleon-like ability to blend in and adapt to new situations was one thing that got him noticed by the CIA.
The driver finally drops him at a cheap chain motel on the fringe of the tourist area. The cabbie gives him a look approaching pity, but Michael has chosen carefully. There’s no bellman to see him carry his own bag into the washroom, where he exchanges his sweater for a suit jacket before heading back to the street through a different exit. After a few minutes, a battered grey sedan pulls up at the curb with a long-haired Asian woman in the driver’s seat. She leans over to open the passenger door.
“Get in.”
He smiles as he tosses his small bag into the back seat. Leaning over, he gives the woman a kiss on the cheek before he settles in. “Lucy. I didn’t expect to see you. I thought you were still in Jakarta.”
“Good to see you, too, Michael. I’m not here for long. Dan’s in town, too, but only for a few hours. He’s waiting for you at the office. He’ll brief you.”
He whistles. “Dan showed up in person. This must be big. Aren’t you going to fill me in?” He flashes his teeth at her. Lucy had never been able to resist him. He doesn’t really need the information before he gets to the office, and he knows Dan’s briefing will be more thorough, but he’d trained Lucy in counter-interrogation and they’d been playing this game ever since. “Please?”
Lucy concentrates as she slips back into traffic, then gives him a sidelong glance from under long eyelashes. She humours him with a reply. “The Brits got wind of an American financial connection for the IRA. They’re on track to try again with the peace talks, and they don’t want it fucked up by a bunch of Yanks. That’s all I know.”
Flirting out of the way, they catch up on personal news as she drives a pattern to flush out any trackers. He doesn’t tell her about Samantha. He isn’t sure why, exactly. Maybe it’s bad luck, maybe it’s too personal. Or maybe it doesn’t seem real, yet. It’s only been 16 hours, give or take. It feels like a lifetime since he was that person.
The ‘office’ is a small 24-hour photocopy shop and internet café. It’s a good cover - there is a reason for people to be entering and leaving at all hours carrying documents. Dan is in the back room, sipping a Sprite.
“Hey, Dan.”
“Hello, Michael.”
“Whatcha got for me?” Michael flopped into a chair and rummages through the bag of chips on Dan’s desk. He picks up the package and reads the label as he crunches a handful. “Roast chicken, huh? How ‘bout that.”
“Buy your own goddamn food, Westen,” Dan growls, snatching the packet away, but Michael just smiles at him innocently.
Dan pulls out a file. “You’re here as Michael McBride, a thug from Kilkenny with Republican sympathies. We want you to infiltrate the local cell of the IRA.”
“I thought they were more active in Belfast?
Dan nods. “They are. But their financing is coming from here. A source in Miami let us know about a possible American connection - ex-pats eager to help out the old country.”
“Or keep it from ever having peace.”
“Yeah. Well, we think they might be trying to get enough cash together for a last-ditch arms deal, but we don’t know who the suppliers are. Your best bet to find out is Sean Glenanne. He hangs out at a pub near the docks. Get to know him, see if you can find out what’s up.”
Michael takes the file and starts reading. His hand comes up just in time to catch a set of keys that Dan tosses to him.
“Your flat and car. Car’s around the corner. Address is on your driver’s licence.” He slides a thick envelope and a clipboard across the desk. “And five thousand Irish pounds to get you started.”
Michael grunts acknowledgement and tears his eyes away from the file long enough to scrawl his signature on the form and pocket the envelope. He has a lot to absorb.
****
Choosing a cover I.D. is more than getting a new name on a drivers licence. It requires knowledge of the target, and matching your skills and personality to what they might need. If they need muscle, you might want to go low-rent. If you want them to let you see their books, you have to inspire confidence that you know your way around the world of finance. But for an organization like the IRA, it helps if you can also show that you’re not afraid to get your hands dirty. A strong, silent type with a sense of style can allow you to walk that line.
Michael dresses carefully for the club. A well-tailored suit without a tie, and his shirt open just enough to show the St. Christopher’s medal at his throat. A decent-sized gold ring on his right hand, but smooth so there’s less chance of it catching on anything. And a nice watch. Not too expensive - he doesn’t want them to think he’s the type who will skim off the top. The money has to go to the cause. Just nice enough to show he knows the value of things.
The pub has two floors - one for drinking and conversation, populated mostly with older men, and one for the younger crowd, with music and dancing. Michael follows the steady thud of the bass up the stairs to the dance bar. Conversation is going to be an issue. He steps through the door and pauses, adjusting the cuffs on his shirt as he scans the place, or what he can see in the dark. Emergency exit in the far corner, the doors no doubt chained shut. Tables and seating along the wall to his right, bar to his left, and in between a throng of gyrating bodies highlighted in rotating search lights in a haze of smoke, rewarding the cover band with enthusiastic dancing. He ignores the urge to bob to the beat and walks, struts, almost, to the bar.
He orders a pint and holds out an extra five pound note to the bartender. “I’m looking for Sean Glenanne.”
The bartender looks at the money, then at Michael. “Who’s asking?”
“Name’s McBride. I’ve got a bit of business with him.” Michael pulls out another five and adds it to the first. The bartender shrugs and takes the money, tilting his head to the other end of the bar. “Haven’t seen Sean yet, but that’s his sister.”
Michael waits, but the bartender doesn’t offer the sister’s name. A third fiver slides across the bar.
“Fiona.”
“Thank you,” Michael’s flashes his teeth, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Much appreciated.”
He leaves his beer and picks up an empty glass from the bar before he turns away, allowing himself a small eye roll before heading down the bar. This time, he moves his head in time to the music, making a show of having a good time as he works his way through the crush to the bar once more, slipping in next to the petite woman with long auburn hair leaning back against the wood, the stiletto of one heel hooked over the brass rail near the floor.
“Whew,” he says, reaching across and setting his empty glass down while motioning to a different bartender for another, “The band’s that good. I’ve worked up a powerful thirst. Can I get you something?”
Fiona turns away from the man she was talking to and studies Michael, her eyes travelling the length of his body. “Maybe.”
The way she says it suggests something more than a drink, and Michael returns the sentiment in his grin. There’s an energy about her that he likes. “What’ll it be?”
“A shandy, please.”
“Shandy it is.”
He hands her the drink and raises his own glass. “Sláinte.”
“Sláinte.” She clinks.
“I’m Michael, by the way. Michael McBride.”
“Fiona Glenanne.”
“Care to dance, Miss Glenanne?”
She smiles and leans into him, reaching one hand into the small purse hanging across her shoulder. Suddenly, there is something small, hard, and probably snub-nosed against his side, and beneath the music he feels more than hears the unmistakable click of a revolver being cocked.
He might be able to take her, but the pub is crowded and he has no idea how far she is willing to push this, so he smiles again, this time with less sincerity. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
“You’ll take that as a reason to tell me who the hell you are, and why you’re paying off bartenders to find out about me.” She’s speaking directly into his ear, her mouth so close he can feel her lips brushing his earlobe, and a shiver travels down his neck. She pulls back and tilts her head fetchingly, maintaining the appearance of a flirtatious couple. “Shall we step outside?”
Sometimes, the best defence is to appear defenceless. He laughs disarmingly. “You saw that, did you? It’s true, I did pay the bartender, but I was looking for Sean Glenanne. The bartender told me you’re his sister.”
She narrows her eyes. “Why are you looking for Sean?”
“I have some business with him.”
“But you don’t know him, or you wouldn’t have had to pay the bartender.”
“True. A mutual friend told me about him - David Flannery. Dave and I spent some… time together a few months back. He suggested Sean might be able to help me out with a spot of bother I’ve been having getting some currency changed.”
Fiona considers this and apparently decides he is telling the truth, because she points across the dance floor. “Well, he won’t be helping you much tonight. It’s his birthday. He’s that eejit half gone over there, with his tongue down that cow’s throat.”
Michael pushes aside his irritation at the bartender for messing around with him, and follows Fiona’s gaze to a man slow dancing to a fast song, clinging to a brown-haired girl. They stumble and it’s clear they’re holding each other up.
“His birthday, is it? Well, now. We should stand him a drink, too.” Before she can protest, he’s ordered a whiskey and is dragging her into the throng of dancers towards her brother.
Three hours later he’s in a group with Sean in the middle, weaving their way along the street, singing at the top of their lungs.
Fiona trips and twists her ankle, falling off her ridiculously high shoes. “Sean!” She shouts. “I’ve buggered my ankle. I’d best be getting home.”
“Ah, shite, Fi.” Her brother wobbles over to her and bobs his face up and down, undecided whether he should focus on her foot or her face. Michael claps him on the back.
“S’aright, Sean. I’ll see her home.”
A third point to focus on is almost more than Sean can handle, and he staggers a few steps. “Ah, McBride, you’re a lovely man, but I’ve only just met you. I can’t ask you to do that.”
“Not a bit of it. It’s no trouble at all.” He lifts Fiona’s arm over his shoulder, supporting her.
After a bit more dithering, Sean decides on the face and peers at her. “Is it alright with you, Fiona? Only I was going to Sheila’s, there, and -“
She cuts him off. “Sean, it’s fine. Michael will look after me. Be off with you, now.” Not too reluctantly, he obeys, and the rest of the group trails after him, leaving Michael and Fiona alone on the street.
“Are you alright?” he asks her, helping her to a low wall and crouching to get a look at the ankle. He reaches out a hand, then stops and looks up at her. “You’re not going to pull a gun on me again, are you?”
“Not right now,” she says, but her tone is not entirely reassuring. He lets his fingers explore the joint anyway, and she winces. “It’s just a sprain,” he says. “You’ll have to stay off it for a day or two.”
He looks up again when she shivers, her thin top not nearly enough protection from the January damp rolling in off the harbour. “Here, now. You’ll catch your death.” He removes his suit jacket, placing it around her shoulders.
“Thank you,” she says, drawing it close in front of her.
“Can you walk if I help you? My car is right around the corner.” He’s been careful, pacing himself, spilling drinks until the others were too far ahead of him to notice. He doesn’t get drunk on the job if he can possibly avoid it.
“I think so, if I take off the shoes.” She grimaces.
He leans forward, untying the laces that criss-cross her ankles. They’re such delicate ankles, and the skin under his fingers is soft. He blinks and stands, and she leans into him, letting him support her as he leads her to his car.
At her flat, he helps her to the door. “You’ll want to get some ice on that. Do you need any help?”
She shakes her head. “No, I’m fine. Thank you.” She raises her face towards his, the soft light of the streetlamp giving her skin a pale glow. “It was nice to meet you, Michael McBride.”
The corner of his mouth tilts up slowly. “It was nice to meet you, Fiona Glenanne.” He leans forward and lets his lips brush her cheek.
He watches from his car until the light in her window goes out.
Author: cybertoothtiger
Rating: PG
Summary: Michael meets Fiona for the first time while undercover in Ireland. Not a WIP, but I'm only posting one chapter at a time.
A/N: My take on the meeting. This mostly follows the original canon from the first and second season, rather than the retcon of S6 and the comics, apart from their first conversation. Originally written for the Het Big Bang as a little bang, but life happened and I didn’t finish in time. Burn Notice is the property of Matt Nix and the USA network. Many thanks to my wonderful, patient beta, bardsmaid.
Why should I blame her that she filled my days
With misery, or that she would of late
Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways,
Or hurled the little streets upon the great.
Had they but courage equal to desire?
- "No Second Troy" William Butler Yeats, 1916
Chapter 1
When you’re a spy, relationships are tricky. Lying for a living isn’t the best preparation for openness and honesty with loved ones. Plus, there’s always the chance that if you do get involved with someone, one day that person will be used against you. Or worse, they will be put in danger because of what you do for a living. Caring for someone or something is the easiest way to give your enemies something they can use against you. Which is why overall, relationships are a bad idea.
****
Michael is standing in front of the mirror, adjusting his tie, when Samantha’s hand snakes around his waist and wanders lower.
“Now is not a good time, Samantha,” he warns, but the corners of his eyes are crinkling.
“Oh, Michael, it’s always a good time.” She puts her chin on his shoulder and they both study his reflection. “Who are you tonight?”
“Texas oilman,” he replies in a southern drawl. “Taking a gander at opportunities for partnering up on Western Siberia.”
“Wealthy?” she asks.
He grins. “Is there any other kind, sweetheart?”
“Not for me, there isn’t,” she says, and starts a series of slow nibbles on his neck that threaten to make him late.
“Sam.” The warning is more emphatic. He turns to face her, brushing her long hair away from her face. He appeases her with a kiss before asking, “What are you planning?”
“I’m the Countess de Villeneuve. Minor French aristocracy, with exquisite taste.” She twirls, the silky black fabric of her evening gown swirling around her legs. “But don’t worry, Michael. It doesn’t involve you.”
“Make sure it doesn’t. My dance card is full tonight.”
He kisses her again and is almost out the door when she stops him. “Don’t forget this.”
He taps his breast pocket where his wallet was a moment ago and shakes his head at her. “Cute, Sam. Real cute.”
She feigns innocence.
Four hours later, the unfamiliar diamond necklace around Samantha’s neck digs into his ribs as she collapses onto his chest, breathing heavily. “Damn, Michael. It’s times like this I wish I smoked.”
“Trust me, I’m glad you don’t.” His hand trails slowly through the mass of curls that is splayed out across the bed.
“Mmmmm.” She snuggles against him. “Marry me, Michael.”
His hand freezes.
She raises her head and rests her chin on his chest, searching his eyes. “Whoops, now I’ve scared you.”
“No, no you didn’t, Sam.”
“I didn’t? Because I was serious, you know.”
“Okay, now you’re scaring me.”
“Ha, ha.” She puts her head down against his chest again. “Think about it - it could work. I know what you do, you know what I do. Neither one of us would have to change. And it might be the only way either of us could ever get married.”
The flush he feels could be the vodka, or the success of tonight’s op, or possibly the movement of her hand under the sheets, but he feels invincible, reckless.
“Okay.”
Her eyes widen. “Okay? Seriously? You are made of romance, Michael Westen.”
“Yes, Samantha, I will let you make me the happiest man alive.” Even as he says it, he doubts that it will ever happen. Long-term plans almost never work out in his life. Or, he suspects, in hers. But he lies to her, she lies to him, it’s the way they are together. It works. It’s comfortable and exciting at the same time, and who knows? She might be right. It might be a good idea. It’s too early to tell. They’ve only known each other a couple of months, but she understands him.
He doesn’t get much time to really settle into the idea, because the next day, the dead drop has a new passport, drivers license, credit cards and instructions from Dan, his handler back in D.C. He’s shipping out to Ireland. He leaves a note for Samantha:
The office called. I’ve got a sales trip, not sure how long I’ll be.
Miss you,
M.
It’s poor tradecraft, but he knows she’ll destroy it. Better she destroy a note than him for disappearing the day after they get engaged.
Engaged.
The word rolls around in his head, bumping into other meanings. Two men were killed when they engaged the enemy. He is about to engage on a dangerous mission.
Engaged. Jesus.
A small knot of fear forms his stomach as he hefts his bag into the back of the cab, and he checks the street more carefully than usual, pretending the enemy is out there.
****
He lands in Dublin near lunchtime and stops at an airport kiosk for some yogurt. It isn’t much, but it will keep him going for now. He steps out into the light drizzle and hails a cab. The cabby is gregarious, and when he offers to give Michael a highlight tour, Michael accepts. He listens closely, noting the turns of phrase, the specific cadence of the speech at the same time he’s memorizing the layout of the city.
It’s a beautiful city. The river through the centre of town is lined with tightly packed stone and brickwork buildings, some painted in hues of red and yellow, cheerful against the grey sky. Wooden storefronts, thick with ancient layers of paint, sport windows wobbly with age. Cobbled side streets, Victorian influences of wrought iron railings and statues, and more recent post-war dull blocks speak to a process of urban renewal that has happened in fits and starts, much like the peace process in the north. He rolls down the window a crack and inhales the smell of the sea and the slightly ozone odour of abundant greenery.
He’s never been to Ireland before, but he thinks he’ll like it. He’d never travelled at all before he joined the army, except for that one summer his mother had somehow scraped together enough grocery money and surprised them all with a trip to Disneyworld. No one had been more surprised than his father, who could think of a few other uses for that much ready cash, but Madeline had stuck to her guns and they’d driven up in the Charger, the boys’ bare legs beneath their shorts sticking to the leather seats, no air conditioning to provide relief from the August swelter.
God, Michael had hated that car, probably in direct proportion to how much his father loved it. The car had been the only new one his father had ever owned - a gift from some guy he’d worked for in one of his many shady turns and schemes.
Michael might not have travelled much, but life with Frank Westen was a master’s class in moving between worlds: his mother’s fantasy world of a happy family, the one he’d created for himself at school, and the ever changing reality of his father’s, full of hard knocks and the constant promise of something better almost within reach, if only they could figure out how to get it away from someone else. Each new scam required the boys to take on a new identity - the sick kid, the slow kid, the injured kid. Sometimes Frank would give them a helping hand with the realism on that last one.
Michael’s almost chameleon-like ability to blend in and adapt to new situations was one thing that got him noticed by the CIA.
The driver finally drops him at a cheap chain motel on the fringe of the tourist area. The cabbie gives him a look approaching pity, but Michael has chosen carefully. There’s no bellman to see him carry his own bag into the washroom, where he exchanges his sweater for a suit jacket before heading back to the street through a different exit. After a few minutes, a battered grey sedan pulls up at the curb with a long-haired Asian woman in the driver’s seat. She leans over to open the passenger door.
“Get in.”
He smiles as he tosses his small bag into the back seat. Leaning over, he gives the woman a kiss on the cheek before he settles in. “Lucy. I didn’t expect to see you. I thought you were still in Jakarta.”
“Good to see you, too, Michael. I’m not here for long. Dan’s in town, too, but only for a few hours. He’s waiting for you at the office. He’ll brief you.”
He whistles. “Dan showed up in person. This must be big. Aren’t you going to fill me in?” He flashes his teeth at her. Lucy had never been able to resist him. He doesn’t really need the information before he gets to the office, and he knows Dan’s briefing will be more thorough, but he’d trained Lucy in counter-interrogation and they’d been playing this game ever since. “Please?”
Lucy concentrates as she slips back into traffic, then gives him a sidelong glance from under long eyelashes. She humours him with a reply. “The Brits got wind of an American financial connection for the IRA. They’re on track to try again with the peace talks, and they don’t want it fucked up by a bunch of Yanks. That’s all I know.”
Flirting out of the way, they catch up on personal news as she drives a pattern to flush out any trackers. He doesn’t tell her about Samantha. He isn’t sure why, exactly. Maybe it’s bad luck, maybe it’s too personal. Or maybe it doesn’t seem real, yet. It’s only been 16 hours, give or take. It feels like a lifetime since he was that person.
The ‘office’ is a small 24-hour photocopy shop and internet café. It’s a good cover - there is a reason for people to be entering and leaving at all hours carrying documents. Dan is in the back room, sipping a Sprite.
“Hey, Dan.”
“Hello, Michael.”
“Whatcha got for me?” Michael flopped into a chair and rummages through the bag of chips on Dan’s desk. He picks up the package and reads the label as he crunches a handful. “Roast chicken, huh? How ‘bout that.”
“Buy your own goddamn food, Westen,” Dan growls, snatching the packet away, but Michael just smiles at him innocently.
Dan pulls out a file. “You’re here as Michael McBride, a thug from Kilkenny with Republican sympathies. We want you to infiltrate the local cell of the IRA.”
“I thought they were more active in Belfast?
Dan nods. “They are. But their financing is coming from here. A source in Miami let us know about a possible American connection - ex-pats eager to help out the old country.”
“Or keep it from ever having peace.”
“Yeah. Well, we think they might be trying to get enough cash together for a last-ditch arms deal, but we don’t know who the suppliers are. Your best bet to find out is Sean Glenanne. He hangs out at a pub near the docks. Get to know him, see if you can find out what’s up.”
Michael takes the file and starts reading. His hand comes up just in time to catch a set of keys that Dan tosses to him.
“Your flat and car. Car’s around the corner. Address is on your driver’s licence.” He slides a thick envelope and a clipboard across the desk. “And five thousand Irish pounds to get you started.”
Michael grunts acknowledgement and tears his eyes away from the file long enough to scrawl his signature on the form and pocket the envelope. He has a lot to absorb.
****
Choosing a cover I.D. is more than getting a new name on a drivers licence. It requires knowledge of the target, and matching your skills and personality to what they might need. If they need muscle, you might want to go low-rent. If you want them to let you see their books, you have to inspire confidence that you know your way around the world of finance. But for an organization like the IRA, it helps if you can also show that you’re not afraid to get your hands dirty. A strong, silent type with a sense of style can allow you to walk that line.
Michael dresses carefully for the club. A well-tailored suit without a tie, and his shirt open just enough to show the St. Christopher’s medal at his throat. A decent-sized gold ring on his right hand, but smooth so there’s less chance of it catching on anything. And a nice watch. Not too expensive - he doesn’t want them to think he’s the type who will skim off the top. The money has to go to the cause. Just nice enough to show he knows the value of things.
The pub has two floors - one for drinking and conversation, populated mostly with older men, and one for the younger crowd, with music and dancing. Michael follows the steady thud of the bass up the stairs to the dance bar. Conversation is going to be an issue. He steps through the door and pauses, adjusting the cuffs on his shirt as he scans the place, or what he can see in the dark. Emergency exit in the far corner, the doors no doubt chained shut. Tables and seating along the wall to his right, bar to his left, and in between a throng of gyrating bodies highlighted in rotating search lights in a haze of smoke, rewarding the cover band with enthusiastic dancing. He ignores the urge to bob to the beat and walks, struts, almost, to the bar.
He orders a pint and holds out an extra five pound note to the bartender. “I’m looking for Sean Glenanne.”
The bartender looks at the money, then at Michael. “Who’s asking?”
“Name’s McBride. I’ve got a bit of business with him.” Michael pulls out another five and adds it to the first. The bartender shrugs and takes the money, tilting his head to the other end of the bar. “Haven’t seen Sean yet, but that’s his sister.”
Michael waits, but the bartender doesn’t offer the sister’s name. A third fiver slides across the bar.
“Fiona.”
“Thank you,” Michael’s flashes his teeth, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Much appreciated.”
He leaves his beer and picks up an empty glass from the bar before he turns away, allowing himself a small eye roll before heading down the bar. This time, he moves his head in time to the music, making a show of having a good time as he works his way through the crush to the bar once more, slipping in next to the petite woman with long auburn hair leaning back against the wood, the stiletto of one heel hooked over the brass rail near the floor.
“Whew,” he says, reaching across and setting his empty glass down while motioning to a different bartender for another, “The band’s that good. I’ve worked up a powerful thirst. Can I get you something?”
Fiona turns away from the man she was talking to and studies Michael, her eyes travelling the length of his body. “Maybe.”
The way she says it suggests something more than a drink, and Michael returns the sentiment in his grin. There’s an energy about her that he likes. “What’ll it be?”
“A shandy, please.”
“Shandy it is.”
He hands her the drink and raises his own glass. “Sláinte.”
“Sláinte.” She clinks.
“I’m Michael, by the way. Michael McBride.”
“Fiona Glenanne.”
“Care to dance, Miss Glenanne?”
She smiles and leans into him, reaching one hand into the small purse hanging across her shoulder. Suddenly, there is something small, hard, and probably snub-nosed against his side, and beneath the music he feels more than hears the unmistakable click of a revolver being cocked.
He might be able to take her, but the pub is crowded and he has no idea how far she is willing to push this, so he smiles again, this time with less sincerity. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
“You’ll take that as a reason to tell me who the hell you are, and why you’re paying off bartenders to find out about me.” She’s speaking directly into his ear, her mouth so close he can feel her lips brushing his earlobe, and a shiver travels down his neck. She pulls back and tilts her head fetchingly, maintaining the appearance of a flirtatious couple. “Shall we step outside?”
Sometimes, the best defence is to appear defenceless. He laughs disarmingly. “You saw that, did you? It’s true, I did pay the bartender, but I was looking for Sean Glenanne. The bartender told me you’re his sister.”
She narrows her eyes. “Why are you looking for Sean?”
“I have some business with him.”
“But you don’t know him, or you wouldn’t have had to pay the bartender.”
“True. A mutual friend told me about him - David Flannery. Dave and I spent some… time together a few months back. He suggested Sean might be able to help me out with a spot of bother I’ve been having getting some currency changed.”
Fiona considers this and apparently decides he is telling the truth, because she points across the dance floor. “Well, he won’t be helping you much tonight. It’s his birthday. He’s that eejit half gone over there, with his tongue down that cow’s throat.”
Michael pushes aside his irritation at the bartender for messing around with him, and follows Fiona’s gaze to a man slow dancing to a fast song, clinging to a brown-haired girl. They stumble and it’s clear they’re holding each other up.
“His birthday, is it? Well, now. We should stand him a drink, too.” Before she can protest, he’s ordered a whiskey and is dragging her into the throng of dancers towards her brother.
Three hours later he’s in a group with Sean in the middle, weaving their way along the street, singing at the top of their lungs.
Fiona trips and twists her ankle, falling off her ridiculously high shoes. “Sean!” She shouts. “I’ve buggered my ankle. I’d best be getting home.”
“Ah, shite, Fi.” Her brother wobbles over to her and bobs his face up and down, undecided whether he should focus on her foot or her face. Michael claps him on the back.
“S’aright, Sean. I’ll see her home.”
A third point to focus on is almost more than Sean can handle, and he staggers a few steps. “Ah, McBride, you’re a lovely man, but I’ve only just met you. I can’t ask you to do that.”
“Not a bit of it. It’s no trouble at all.” He lifts Fiona’s arm over his shoulder, supporting her.
After a bit more dithering, Sean decides on the face and peers at her. “Is it alright with you, Fiona? Only I was going to Sheila’s, there, and -“
She cuts him off. “Sean, it’s fine. Michael will look after me. Be off with you, now.” Not too reluctantly, he obeys, and the rest of the group trails after him, leaving Michael and Fiona alone on the street.
“Are you alright?” he asks her, helping her to a low wall and crouching to get a look at the ankle. He reaches out a hand, then stops and looks up at her. “You’re not going to pull a gun on me again, are you?”
“Not right now,” she says, but her tone is not entirely reassuring. He lets his fingers explore the joint anyway, and she winces. “It’s just a sprain,” he says. “You’ll have to stay off it for a day or two.”
He looks up again when she shivers, her thin top not nearly enough protection from the January damp rolling in off the harbour. “Here, now. You’ll catch your death.” He removes his suit jacket, placing it around her shoulders.
“Thank you,” she says, drawing it close in front of her.
“Can you walk if I help you? My car is right around the corner.” He’s been careful, pacing himself, spilling drinks until the others were too far ahead of him to notice. He doesn’t get drunk on the job if he can possibly avoid it.
“I think so, if I take off the shoes.” She grimaces.
He leans forward, untying the laces that criss-cross her ankles. They’re such delicate ankles, and the skin under his fingers is soft. He blinks and stands, and she leans into him, letting him support her as he leads her to his car.
At her flat, he helps her to the door. “You’ll want to get some ice on that. Do you need any help?”
She shakes her head. “No, I’m fine. Thank you.” She raises her face towards his, the soft light of the streetlamp giving her skin a pale glow. “It was nice to meet you, Michael McBride.”
The corner of his mouth tilts up slowly. “It was nice to meet you, Fiona Glenanne.” He leans forward and lets his lips brush her cheek.
He watches from his car until the light in her window goes out.