I'll Not Say It, Ever (Part 1)
The picture on the screen was that of a woman in her early twenties, with a pair of brown eyes over subtly slanted cheekbones in a face framed by shoulder length blonde hair. Blake Lively’s first thought could be summed up into one word.
“Pretty.”
She looked up, startled, and the man in front of her nodded knowingly. “She is, isn’t she? Quite the looker.” He glanced at her expression and shrugged, suddenly all business. “Her name is Leighton Meester - and she is your assignment.” He cleared his throat and glanced at the smaller screen on the computer in front of him.
“Freelancer - believed to have trained with Mossad when they had their little outsourcing program a few years ago. She’s worked with the Israelis and the French, and twice - as far as we can tell - with the GRU. Six months ago she went fully private, and now contracts on a regular basis with several international criminal organizations.”
“Terrorist ties?”
“None. She seems to have her own little code of honor. For instance, she’s not one for wanton murder, nor does she consort with terrorist groups in the Middle East, even though they’re the ones with big bucks. Quite the oddity, our Miss Meester.”
“Why do we want her?”
The man looked at her, and shrugged again. “It’s classified. Your mission is to capture her, not to interrogate her.” He licks his lips and smiles - not a particularly happy smile. “She’s good.”
“She must be,” Blake observed laconically, “Or you wouldn’t get me to do this.” She grins at the man. “I’m always ready to clean up your messes, Matthew.”
“Just get the girl, Lively.”
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Blake Lively is a spy, and a particularly good one at that. She is what the Agency classifies as wetwork assets - the sort of agent that Hollywood often glamorizes in movies; the one that goes in with guns blazing to take out the bad guys and save the world. Blake isn’t too sure about the saving the world part, but she has been in her fair share of firefights, and she does carry two guns.
Intelligence reports places Leighton Meester in Madrid, and that is where Blake flies to, on commercial, because the CIA is not, contrary to popular belief, immune to budget cuts. She does however rate a seat in first class, and spends the flight reviewing the file on her target - a file that is admittedly rather lacking in information about the woman herself.
She sighs, and slips the folder back into the carry on bag on her lap, and pulls out another one. This one has her cover - carefully constructed to ensure that it passes the scrutiny of the Spanish Centro Nacional de Inteligencia. The Spanish were informed that the Agency intended to carry out an active operation in their country, of course - professional courtesy demanded no less - and their agreement was obtained beforehand. But intelligence agencies being what they are, the Americans jealously withheld any information of said operation, and the Spanish were determined to find out, lest things spiral out of control, as this sort of thing was wont to do.
The fact that both countries were supposed to be allies, at least nominally, is really just political fiction.
Blake sighs, glancing at her cover. It’s the usual for her…American student entering the country for a holiday, or to do some research or another…the Agency has never been creative when it came to forging identities, but then again, it made more sense to create a legend that was completely boring and thus forgettable, rather than one that would no doubt attract more than casual attention.
She has, however, another cover - and this one is in place for the benefit of the shadowy underworld of Europe’s organized crime. This one, at least, is much more interesting - she’s posing as a representative of a Medellin drug cartel. It is, in a way, completely true - the CIA was in fact the de facto drug cartel, and for various reasons - the most obvious one being that the drug business was a very profitable business, thus allowing for additional funds to assist in the defense of the United States, while at the same time corrupting the country - opium for the masses and all that.
The CIA, an agency familiar with black operations and other off the book activities, is not averse to dealing with the dark side in service of freedom.
She glances at the seats beside her, occupied by a young couple on holiday, or, judging from the incessant kissing and hand-holding, on their honeymoon. She smiles - a wistful smile - and forces herself to look away after a few seconds. It’s a lonely life being a spy - James Bond movies notwithstanding. An intelligence operative who flits through assignments in different continents never has time.
But then again, she thinks, who really does? There are agents who have successfully led a double life - Matthew Settle, her controller, has a wife and two children, and has, to her knowledge, never missed a baseball game in his life, and in addition to that, has helped his daughter achieve the highest cookie sale record in her school’s history…there was something oddly endearing about a grown man peddling pink plastic wrapped confectionaries around the offices in Langley, and anyone who was fool enough to remark otherwise was subjected to the patented Settle stare and guilted by his colleagues into purchasing more than a week’s supply of cookies. Or, in her case, subjected to a thinly veiled reminder that she could easily be shipped off on assignment in one of those countries where a manicure was considered a luxury, and what a shame it would be to see the glow in her hair fade, and wouldn’t it be nice to work in Paris sometime in the future…maybe on a permanent basis? And of course, when all else fails, there was always the “Buy, or you’ll find yourself working so far underground that you’ll find yourself popping up on the other side of the world.”
It’s been what…two years? She sighs again, and glances out the window, ignoring the girlish giggle coming from the opposing seat. Her last attempt at a relationship had not gone particularly well - the man had tried his best, but a girlfriend who disappeared for weeks on end, even with a plausible explanation - as prepared by Langley - is not the type of girlfriend that lasts. The breakup had been awkward - she had briefly flirted with the idea of utilizing her many skills to make the man’s life a living hell, but had backed down at the thought of a prolonged Matthew Settle lecture on responsibility and whatnot. And workplace relationships? She rolled her eyes - that was a line that no one wanted to cross.
Still, it’s her life now - and one that she chose willingly - but still…it would be nice to have someone to come home to.
Almost unconsciously, her eyes linger on the newlyweds again.
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The plane lands in Madrid-Barajas Airport, and Blake slips through customs with a breezy smile and a flutter of blue eyes. She is supposed to make contact with the CIA substation in the area - but that can wait. She heads over to the duty free section of the terminal, glancing at the array of perfumes, and wonders how she can sneak this particular expense past the accounts department - probably the most hardworking department in the entire Agency.
On the other side of the terminal, Leighton Meester steps through customs without a second glance. She pulls a trolley bag behind her and walks straight out - there’s a car waiting for her, and she believes in punctuality.
The drive is a quick one - the traffic in Madrid is not really as bad as it is in New York - and the driver deposits her at the address she gives him; the Melia Castilla, a five star hotel located at the heart of the city.
She checks in at the hotel reception, and tips a bellboy to bring her luggage up to the room, save for a small black case that she carries in her right hand. She glances at her watch and nods in satisfaction - she is perfectly on schedule - and makes her way to L’Albufera.
Q is already there, and he stands up as she makes her way to his table. He makes for an imposing sight - a huge black man in an ill-fitting suit who looks like he should be more at ease in a boxing ring than at one of the more famous restaurants in the city. It is deception in the highest order - his muscular bouncer frame conceals a mind sharper than a knife.
“I’m hungry,” she announces as she sits down.
“I’ve ordered,” he replies, and leans back in his seat. “How was the flight?”
“Tense,” she admits. “Anything new?”
He shrugs. He’s her information broker - the buffer between her and her clientele. He arranges for the meetings and provides her with any other information she should know. He is quite good at his job, and that means that he is quite expensive, and yet somehow she always ends up paying the bill at the end of their sessions.
A testament to his skill, she supposes.
“A little bird tells me that the Americans aren’t happy,” he says, reaching for his wine glass.
“They can join the line of people already unhappy with me,” she remarks sourly, making a face. “So now the CIA is on my tail. As is the Armenian mob. And that French billionaire, Boris Becker or whatever his name is.”
“It’s Hugo. Hugo Becker. And someone talked,” he says bluntly. “They know that you are here. They’ve sent an agent to apprehend you.”
Damn it. “Do you know who?” she asks, but it’s a vain hope. Q, despite his resources and skill, is only one man - one man against the machine that is the Central Intelligence Agency. The look on his face confirms this for her.
“My source in Langley isn’t that high up,” he says, almost apologetically. He pauses, and toys with the stem of his glass. “We could abort this…”
“No,” she says firmly. “There’s too much riding on this. Are you any closer to finding out who talked?”
“I’ve eliminated half of the suspects on my staff,” he admits with astounding honesty, although when you are in the business of brokering illegal deals, a reputation for honesty goes a long way. The leak must have come from his organization, and he is honest enough to admit the mistake when it is his. “I’ll find out, I promise. And when I do…” The words linger in the air, hinting of unpleasant things that best remained unspoken.
She nods, and reaches for her own glass. “At least we’ve managed to keep things quiet so far,” she observes, like a person struggling to see the light at the end of the tunnel. The look on his face makes her heart sink even lower than it already is.
“I got a call half an hour earlier. The buyer wants out. Says that it’s too risky.”
She sighs, because it turns out that the end of the tunnel is on fire. “So what now?”
The look he gives her is…hesitant. “The buyer says…” he trails off uncertainly, and picks up again at the look on her face, or perhaps it is the way she shifts her body, which implies in strong terms that a booted heel is about to descend like the wrath of God upon a leather shoe. “The buyer says that if we can remove the Americans out of the game long enough to make the sale, they are back in. But as long as the CIA is maintaining an active presence in the country, they won’t touch this with a ten foot long stick.”
“Remove the Americans…temporarily…” she muses, and then the waiter arrives, trays in hand.
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Wallace Shawn, her Agency contact in Madrid, was not naturally equipped for clandestine meetings conducted in shadowy alleys. Small, podgy and at best middle-aged, he was by appearance one of the meek who does not inherit the earth. His legs were short, his gait anything but agile, and his posture reminded Blake, rather unkindly, of an extremely nervous ferret.
Make that a ferret in a badly tailored suit, she thinks. Either the sleeves were too long or his arms too short, for, with his coat on, the cuffs concealed all but the tips of his fingers.
“There’s been a change in orders,” he tells her, as he squints up in a particularly ferret like manner that forces the taller blonde to banish the images her mind conjures in comparison. Blake leans down, her hands hanging uselessly by her sides - she had considered placing her palms on her knees, but that might seem too condescending. “Langley wants you to hold back for a while - find out who the buyer is, and then apprehend the target.”
“All right,” she says, although privately, Blake is a little dismayed at this. She is not, for all her other skills, the best actress in the world - the original plan was to make contact with the target, get her alone and then capture her. The new orders would require a little more…fraternization on Blake’s part, and that would require some play acting that would challenge her admittedly limited ability in the area. “So what’s the plan now?”
“Your original cover is still up - but when you make the initial contact, I’ll be escorting you.” He pauses, and a part of her dreads what he is about to say next. “I can be your husband.”
She keeps her face impassive.
“Boyfriend?”
She walks away.
“What about Father?”
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The plan for first contact was simple enough, and it reeked of a certain elegant style that she suspects is Matthew Settle’s handiwork. Madrid is known for many things, and in the criminal world, it is known for being something of a meeting place. There’s an unspoken treaty with the Spanish police and, to some extent, the CNI - so long as the meetings do not entail another terrorist attack, either on Spanish soil or anywhere else in the world, they can go on unhindered. This is a treaty strictly adhered to by the various factions that represent a significant portion of the world’s less than savory inhabitants, which is why alcohol is served freely with no fear of offending anyone’s religious sensibilities.
Besides, alcohol is the fuel of commerce.
The setting is a little soiree located in one of the grander ballrooms in the city. In deference to local custom, several politicians are also invited, some for innocent reasons, others for reasons less than worthy. It is, ostensibly, a fundraiser for a certain charitable cause, and the irony is that it is a real charity, and actual funds…significant funds…will be channeled towards that cause, because all criminals feel the need to atone for their ill-gotten gains. Being surrounded by visual reminders of God in all His majesty around the city might have helped this along somewhat. But while the air is one of goodwill towards mankind, not many in the room forget that business was still being conducted.
And business was being conducted - all kinds of business. Everyone there knew it, and everyone there was, in some way or another, a part of it. The participants were aware of this dualism, but to them, it was as much a part of life as breathing.
The room could be segregated into groups. First, there was the big timers - the crooks and politicians (for the government is the biggest thief of them all - what is taxation, if not legalized theft willingly embraced by the masses?) with significant clout and influence. One could discern these easily enough from their better-than-average clothing and erect posture, the ready, robotic smiles, and careful diction that endured even after the many alcoholic toasts. They were the masters, knew it, and their demeanor proclaimed it.
And then there were the soldiers and various hanger ons. One could not be taken seriously in the world of high crime if one did not have sycophants to constantly remind you of your lofty perch above. These were the lieutenants and glorified thugs, and could be distinguished by their constant drinking and roving eyes, as well as behavior some would deem inappropriate for high society.
The brokers moved in between, flitting like hummingbirds from one crime boss to another. They could be discerned usually from their clothing as well - rumpled suits from hurried packing and unpacking - although some, such as Q, made an effort to fit in with well pressed Armani suits and polished shoes. They had inquisitive looks on their faces, always ready to make a quick offer and counteroffer with a speed that would put any Wall Street trader to shame.
And finally came the invisible group - the spies and assassins and various other independant contractors, of which both Blake and Leighton belonged to, although at opposing ends of the spectrum. They melted into the crowd, standing out yet not standing out, circulating with their fine crystal glasses in hand and making contact with their employers and targets, exchanging hushed words and clinking glasses in agreement.
It was a game - and everyone in this room was a player, although some fancied themselves gamemasters. It is business masquerading as a ball, with the guests masquerading as benevolent rich.
Blake Lively glances at the glistening liquid in her glass, and raises it to her lips, her eyes already roving the room. Thankfully, a twenty minute long conversation with Matthew (at her own expense, at the insistence of the Accounts department, because encrypted calls made internationally are not cheap at all) meant that Wallace Shawn will not be attending by her side. It’s something of a relief, although it does mean that she will have to go at this alone.
She smiles a lot, weaving through the variety of conversation flung her way, and is in the middle of a conversation with a priest (the Roman Catholic Church, after all, operates one of the largest intelligence services in the world - a network of religious in plain sight, all reporting obediently to Rome) when she freezes, and covers that little slip with a cough.
Leighton Meester has entered the room.
It was her - Blake was certain of it. The hair was different - blonde locks turned amber, but the face remained unchanged, and for a moment, Blake wondered just how old the photograph in the CIA archive was.
A pair of brown eyes swept the room, brushing past Blake with a soft kiss that was so hard that it nearly threw Blake off balance. Leighton must have noticed, because her gaze lingered, sweeping up and down the full length of the blonde’s body with all the subtlety of a painter’s brush. Her clothes made no attempt at concealment; the shimmering dark dress fitted over her like skin. And for some people, skin was skin - but on Leighton Meester, it was an invitation to wine and dine and pillage afterwards. A smile flitted across her lips, and it told Blake things that most girls since Eve had tried and failed to put into words without seeming too obvious or too eager.
She was beautiful.
Blake watched as the woman gave her one last lingering glance, and then moved on. She returned to her conversation, shifting her body slightly to continue watching Leighton out of the corner of her eye. She saw the brunette approach a man and greet him with a familiar touch on the hand. The buyer, perhaps? She had to get closer - but that would be too obvious. So she waited, and slowly allowed the crowd to nudge her closer, drifting with the tide of humanity gathered round.
“Excuse me…Miss Lively?”
She turned, and the man was there by her side, his broad frame dwarfing even her. He offered a smile, and she noted the muscular body that made her think of a bouncer or bodyguard, and revised her opinion the moment their eyes met. The man had intelligent eyes - disconcertingly intelligent. You looked into them and several layers of person looked back at you.
“Yes?” she asked.
“I was told by a mutual friend that you had a proposition for a client of mine.”
Not the buyer then, Blake thinks to herself. “I may have,” she allowed, slipping into the veiled speech with ease. “Does our mutual friend come from Bogota?”
“Oh, he’s been there a couple of times. Maybe you two have more friends in common?”
“Perhaps,” she says carefully, and gives him another smile. “I have many friends in Colombia. But what about your client? I wouldn’t want to impose unless she…” The emphasis on the word was subtle, but Blake was aware of the man picking it up instantly. “…is similarly interested in the line of work we have in mind.”
“Oh,” the man said with a broad smile. “I have no doubt that my client would be amenable to any proposition of work you might have for her.”
“Then perhaps you could make an introduction for me?”
“I think that would be possible,” the man said. “But forgive me - I forget my manners…call me Q.”
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She had not really wanted to attend, but there were some receptions that even she could not avoid. This was one of those “power” parties, as she had taken to calling these impromptu meetings of the who’s who of the criminal elite. As with most "power" parties, it was really for the elite to see and be seen by one another, confirming their importance to themselves and their cronies. As was true in most parts of the world, the elite felt the need to pay for the privilege, although the cause was admittedly good. Leighton understood the phenomenon, but felt that it made little sense.
Or maybe she was just being cynical.
She never usually drank, but she indulged herself tonight, allowing for a couple of glasses thus far. Perhaps it was the sense of impending doom rushing down upon her, or just plain stress, but she felt the need to let loose a little, despite the warning glares that Q was shooting at her before business talk distracted him. And now she was basking in the warm, philosophical glow that made her cheeks flush and her eyes sparkle just a little brighter than usual.
“May I speak to you for a moment?” Q was by her side, and she smiled pleasantly at him. “Of course,” she replied, and allowed the man to steer her into one of the smaller rooms, especially reserved for those touchy conversations and negotiations that could not be done in plain sight.
“A little bird tells me that we have a potential new client,” he starts, and the words are a harsh reminder that counteracts the pleasant alcoholic sensation she had been relaxing in.
“Seems a little too convenient, don’t you think?” she asks, voicing his very thoughts. “Here I am being hunted by the CIA, and suddenly a new client appears out of the blue.”
“It might be real, or it might be the Agency attempting contact. It seems a little clumsy, but then again…” he grins, and it’s the sort of grin that brings to mind a fin cutting through water at high speed. “They don’t know that we know. Either way - it’s an opportunity.”
“True,” she sniffs, and reaches for her purse. “Male or female?”
The look on his face tells her precisely what she needs to know, and she winks at him. “Send her in, then.”
He looks like he wants to scowl again, but realizes that it’s a complete waste of time, and so he walks out, and returns moments later with a blonde in tow.
Leighton watches, her eyes carefully assessing the newcomer. Tall, slim, her skin the gentle sheen of tanned skin that was only just sun-kissed, and a face that was oddly angular, crowned with bright blue eyes - the same blonde she had noticed earlier that evening. And there was something more about her face and the expression on it - there was a breezy openness there, and her eyes told a story of adventure and a taste of excitement, and there was just a hint of something…else.
The blonde smiled, and the effect of it was like throwing a handful of beauty on her face. Leighton feels an answering smile curving her lips.
Q made the introductions, and discreetly left.
“So you have a job for me,” Leighton says. “A personal job, or…?”
“I represent certain parties in Colombia,” Blake replies. “Who are interested in retaining your services.”
“Please,” Leighton says with a smile, waving her hand in a flapping motion. “It’s a little too late in the day to discuss business. Or…” She steps closer to Blake, moving slowly. No - not slowly, Blake thinks. It’s more like a low-pressure spring unwinding, the movement delicate and graceful, and yet very much like a concert of savage beauty. “Maybe it’s too early in the night to be discussing business when there are so many other things we could do.“
“In any case…” Leighton continues, now facing Blake, the close proximity allowing the blonde to catch a whiff of the other woman’s perfume, like a scent of summer still lingering in winter’s cold. “Perhaps I could offer you a drink?” she asks, her eyes twinkling.
Is she flirting with me? Blake allows herself to smile, and takes a step forward, feeling the rustle of silk against her skin, and closing the distance between them, her eyes watching and judging the brunette’s reactions. She is flirting with me.
“Perhaps you could,” she replied.
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The party winds down, and the various guests drift away into the night. Leighton slips into the chartered limousine - which will be charged to her account, she is sure, because Q is notoriously tight fisted when it comes to money, except when such money being spent is not his own - and the man himself follows behind her.
“Anything?” she asks, reclining in the seat. At least it’s comfortable.
“Her cover checks out,” he replies, glancing at the screen on his Ipad. He brushes a finger over, and frowns. “Everything looks to be fine. I’ll have to check it out further, but I think it’s pretty much confirmed.”
“She’s not CIA then,” Leighton says with certainty. That was said with a certain amount of relief, because she had been planning certain things for the agent sent after her, and the thought of such things being put to good use with Blake Lively as the subject did not sit too comfortably with her. “That’s good.”
“Like I said, I’ll have to confirm it with my contact in the Agency,” Q looks up from the screen. “So what are you going to do?”
“I…” Leighton pauses, and the look on her face tells him that he isn’t going to like her answer at all. “…am going to meet her for breakfast tomorrow.”
“Is that entirely smart?” Q asked, with that special inflection that means, “That is definitely not the smart thing to do.”
“Of course it’s not smart,” she snaps. “If we were smart, we wouldn’t be in this business, would we?”
She had him there, but he feels compelled to try again. He has other clients, of course, but she is one of his favorites. “Are you sure,” he tries again, attempting to keep his face blank of all emotion, “that this has nothing to do with the fact that she is blonde and beautiful?”
She keeps her face straight. “It’s just the job, I assure you.” A pause. “You worry too much.”
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