Primeval fic: Exception to the Rule (Lester/Ryan) 3/4
Title: Exception to the rule
Author: Stealingpennies
Characters: Lester/Ryan, Helen, OC
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 3,800 (Total 13,850)
Summary: Lester looked across sharply. “Don’t for one minute think I approve of this. Helen Cutter is going to disappear permanently whether the ARC gets involved or not. The one thing I can do is to ensure that whoever does the job does it quickly and professionally.”
AN: This was intended as a thank you to Fifi for all the beta work over the last year. In the event I wrote it and then pretty much begged her to beta it. So I still owe you. Thank you for the pairing - they rock! - and the much-needed nitpicking. Any mistakes left in the text belong to me. Anyone who knows anything about guns and forensics will have to do some wincing and hand-waving.
Trope Bingo: Fake Relationship.
*
Part One
Part Two
*
Lester emailed him the details of the Hotel Negresco where they would be staying along with a note to bring appropriate dress. Ryan restrained himself with difficulty from sending a rude reply. Lester was, after all, still his boss. He did, however, reserve the right to make a sarcastic comment later to James. For all Ryan’s internal doubts and misgivings somehow Tom was still able to make jokes with James. He thought maybe that too much contact with the anomalies had somehow screwed his whole perception of reality and he was now living several different lives at the same time. It was a nice thought, anyway. Perhaps he would ask Connor some time. One day when he had a long time spare to listen to the answer.
The hotel Lester had chosen, The Negresco, was almost comically showy from the gilt-painted exterior, to the cherub-bedecked dome of the Royal Salon and the individually themed guest rooms. A note on the company’s website noted that jackets and ties were to be worn in the restaurant.
“Hiding in plain sight,” said Lester, when Ryan questioned the fact they were sharing a room in one of the world’s most fashionable hotels.
“And you’re sure that’s wise?”
Lester pursed his lips disapprovingly and adjusted already perfect cuffs before deliberately choosing to misconstrue Ryan’s question. “This isn’t the 1950s, Tom, couples, even gay couples, do share a room when they go on holiday together. Plus, there’s the budget to consider. The Negresco is an expensive hotel. I know you all think otherwise but the ARC is not made of money.”
Ryan raised his brows and didn’t question further. Go somewhere cheaper and less showy was the obvious solution to cutting costs. Clearly there was something Lester was still not telling if he wanted to be somewhere they could - and would - be observed by the world.
Well, either that, or the thought of five days without being formally dressed was just too much for Lester and he had sought out the one place in town where he could be assured of needing a tie! Once again he decided he would just have to go along with his companion and trust that Lester knew what he was doing.
Meanwhile Ryan put his own feelers out for information and the hardware that would be needed. Lester might think he thought of everything but Ryan liked to choose his own weapons. Belt and braces was always a good maxim and, considering the man’s wardrobe, one of which Lester should approve.
*
The flight for Nice took off from Heathrow. Lester naturally complained about the crowds and the poor level of service, even in the business class lounge, but it made a pleasant change for Ryan. Most of his flying was done on transport planes from military bases. He’d already made arrangements to collect his weapons in France and the stringent airline security did not bother him. Lester seemed similarly unconcerned so had presumably done likewise but Ryan was determined not to broach the subject first.
He did not need to. Once checked into the hotel and in the luxurious environs of their shared room, Lester got swiftly to business.
“Babanin’s yacht, Garnet, is due to sail in Tuesday, mid-afternoon, and has booked a mooring until Sunday although our sources expect him to leave earlier,” he announced briskly. “There’s no point even thinking about trying anything near the ship as it’s got enough guns and armoury on it to take over a small city.”
Ryan took a swig from his beer bottle, one of the many pleasant things about their room being its well-stocked mini-bar. It was Sunday today so that gave two days for reconnaissance.
“Are you listening” asked Lester in what could only be described as a pissy voice. Ryan grinned.
“Garnet, Tuesday,” he repeated obediently. In fact, as Lester well-knew, he was already fully aware of both the Garnet’s schedule and its impenetrability to attack. The latter hadn’t needed much research as the multi-million pound yacht had been the subject of a number of magazine articles at the time of its commission, most of which were freely available on the internet. He’d accessed the information via a proxy server as a matter of course but did not think anyone would be checking those particular downloads.
“And I’d be storming the boat with what? The power of thought? Some well-aimed buckets of crème patissiere?”
Lester glared across at him, unamused at Ryan’s levity. “Naturally not.” He moved to the wardrobe and typed a few numbers into the room safe. The metal door swung open and he pulled out a small case and laid it on the bed.
“Gives a whole meaning to room service,” commented Ryan, his voice becoming serious. He put his empty bottle on a side table, and rose from the easy chair he had been sprawled across.
Lester moved aside to let him open the box. He clicked the metal snaps apart and gave a low whistle.
The gun was a Makarov 9mm semi-automatic - clean, clearly well-cared for but old-fashioned. The Makarov had been the gun of choice for the Soviets until sometime in the 1990s and was still in wide distribution throughout the former Eastern Bloc.
“So we’re the blaming the Russians,” said Ryan. “Figures.”
Lester gave a small shrug. That about summed it up, thought Ryan, snapping the case shut.
“What were you planning on using?” Lester asked.
“Luger,” answered Ryan, not bothering to comment on Lester’s assumption that he would have access to his own firearms. “There wasn’t a great deal of choice in what I could get hold of at short notice.”
“So we blame the Germans instead?” asked Lester with heavy irony. “Get it anyway. I’d rather you used your own weapon. I’d prefer to be armed too, but I don’t suppose you ordered two guns. I really don’t want to touch this weapon unless we have to.”
“Just one,” confirmed Ryan and added, “And no possibility of getting a second.” He didn’t make the mistake of asking if Lester could handle a gun. Nor did he ask if Lester was expecting trouble. Clearly he was but at this stage of the game that wasn’t exactly news.
Lester answered the unasked question anyway, his hand brushing lightly against Ryan’s in what appeared to be an unconscious gesture of reassurance. “I’m a competent shot in case you’re wondering. Not, you understand, that I am expecting anything to go wrong but I find it’s best to be prepared.”
He sipped his mini-bar whiskey and grimaced. It was Jack Daniel’s, apparently the wrong brand, but Lester was slumming for the cause. Apparently there was nothing, or no one, he would not do for the job.
Including Tom Ryan.
It nagged him again even here when he should be concentrating on the finer details of the mission.
Ryan was under no illusions about his attractiveness. He was fit enough and his body was certainly in good shape but he was no Mr Universe. Lester had never before hinted, either implicitly or explicitly, that he would welcome any kind of romantic relationship with the leader of his Special Forces unit. Of course, there were a whole lot of rules designed to discourage fraternisation between colleagues but lust had a way of circumventing these things. Ryan supposed that if anyone could suppress all their natural urges it would be Lester but that made his current behaviour all the more inexplicable.
While their meetings in London had shown Ryan that he found Lester desirable, and since bodies don’t lie, he read the same kind of response in Lester - the attraction had almost seemed to surface despite Lester’s intentions. As if he didn’t really want to respond to Ryan and was fighting the instinct.
Clearly Ryan was being used but how and why? It didn’t add up. And he didn’t buy Lester’s implicit admission that he didn’t trust Ryan. If Lester hadn’t trusted him he would not be working at the ARC. It was a simple as that. Meanwhile Ryan was being asked to trust Lester and walk into a situation that was clearly not all it seemed.
In opposition to every rule of covert operations Lester was deliberately advertising their presence. Right down to the public displays of affection. There was something to ponder but now was not the time to pin Lester down. Perhaps there would never be a time. It would always be either too early or too late. But right now Ryan had to give all his attention to the job they’d undertaken to do.
He returned the Makarov, still in its case, to the safe. There was a box of ammunition that Lester had not bothered getting out earlier. It was only three-quarters full. Typical ministry, Ryan thought. Spend a fortune setting up an operation and then attempt to cut costs by supplying the bare minimum in bullets. Ryan gave a cursory glance to the contents to ensure that the box contained the correct bullets and not some variant that was nearly but not quite the right size, before putting them back. He silently thanked his prescience for not relying on the ministry to come up with the goods. Then, with the safe safely relocked, he swung round to the mini bar and secured another bottle of Budweiser.
Lester was speaking again. He was clearly in one of his lecturing moods. “Babanin will stay on his yacht where he’s well protected and then drive or walk to the casino. He’s as safe or as vulnerable, if you prefer, either way. The roads are chock-a-block as are the pavements. Helen will do what Helen wants but I can’t see her agreeing to be imprisoned no matter how luxurious the cage. In any case, she’s apparently in the habit of keeping a low profile in the daytime and accompanying Babanin on his evening gambling forays.”
“Probably looking to stop him eyeing the competition,” said Ryan snidely.
He’d done some research and Helen was definitely not Babanin’s usual type. For a start she was over twenty.
That made Lester smile. “She’s not what you’d expect to find hanging off his arm. But I expect she decided on him rather than him on her. What Helen wants Helen usually gets.”
“In that case Babanin wouldn’t stand a chance,” agreed Ryan. Then the other meaning of the words hit him and he realised that it was Helen who didn’t stand a chance and all thought of humour left him.
Lester looked like he was going to say something and then took in Ryan’s expression and visibly changed his mind. Good. Ryan didn’t know what Lester would have said only that, whatever it was, it would have been wrong.
And once again he asked himself just what he was doing here and just what was keeping him from walking away from the whole sorry mess.
*
Ryan had arranged to pick up his gun at one of the stalls that formed the marché aux fleurs at Cours Saleya selling fresh fruit and vegetables as well as the flowers from which the market derived its name. He stopped and admired the displays at a number of vendors before homing in on the particular florist he was interested in. The stallholder was dealing with a woman ordering wedding flowers so Ryan lingered admiring the cut bouquets with their mixture of roses, peonies and sweet peas, before moving on to the bunches of freshly-cut lavender. He pressed a sprig between his fingers to release the scent and was instantly transported to his grandmother’s Kent garden on a rainy afternoon. His grandma was long dead and her garden concreted over by the property’s new owners to make a carport but for a bittersweet instant he was ten again in a different time and a different place. Then the moment of innocence was lost and he was again in present day France with the sun warm on his back and rhythmic click of heels against cobbled stone as around him shoppers went about their business.
At last the stallholder, a middle-aged man with short, greying hair and a moustache, finished with his customer and turned to Ryan.
“Can I help you?” he asked in American-accented English.
Ryan grinned. “Is it that obvious?”
“You have the look,” answered the trader cryptically. Before Ryan could ask if this was a good or a bad thing, the other man was speaking again. “Are you searching for something in particular?”
“I’m looking for lemongrass,” said Ryan.
The stall holder hesitated a moment, and licked his lips in a quick, nervous gesture. He stared at Ryan closely before replying. “What type? Are you looking for whole stalks, powder or an essential oil? Or maybe for something from a particular region?”
Ryan made his voice deliberately casual. “Do you have anything from Germany?”
Ryan left with a bunch of lilies and a gun cleverly concealed in the wrapping at its base. The bullets were neatly stowed in a box purporting to contain flower soap. He’d paid well over the odds for the weapon but that was to be expected. More importantly he was as sure as anyone could be in these circumstances that his purchase would prove in good working order. So far, so good.
Lester, when he collected him inside a church where he was sneering at a particularly sentimental rendering of the Madonna and child in stained glass, looked askance at the bouquet.
“If those flowers are for me you should know I hate lilies,” he said, the words falling heavy in the cloistered atmosphere.
“They’re not. And point taken,” said Ryan, unable to resist adding, “Are you also going to be expecting chocolates?”
Lester was unfazed. “Naturally. Richart, if you can remember that name. I still shudder at the memory of the salted butter and the burnt steak so you might want to take a note of the brand now because any offerings of Dairy Milk will be firmly repulsed.”
Ryan couldn’t help his grin. “And they say romance is dead. I understand that you’re not cheap but does that mean with the right incentive you’ll put out?”
For a moment it looked like Lester might reply in kind but Ryan laid the lilies down between them and abruptly his expression changed and was replaced by a mask of business. “Did you get what you wanted?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Then let’s get going.”
This was a small chapel and they were the only visitors but a tray of votive candles burned brightly in front of a statue of the Virgin Mary suggesting that it wasn’t always as deserted as now.
There were worse methods of disposal. Ryan unwrapped the packaging and slipped the gun inside his shirt. That done, he rewound the paper around the long stems and laid the flowers at the feet of the statue, remembering as he did so that for many people lilies were a token of mourning.
*
Ryan had been to France a number of times over the years but not to Nice. Once he knew their location, however, he had made it his business to memorise a map of the town so that there would be no question of getting lost if he had to move in a hurry. Now, as when he first went to New York, there was a sense of both discovering and remembering the town at one and the same time.
Lester matched Ryan’s pace as they strolled through the streets of the old quarter. As in London the outing felt unexpectedly natural, like this was a real holiday with his partner. Or rather, how Ryan had always imagined a real holiday with a partner would be. His nomadic lifestyle and reluctance to get involved meant that he’d never really progressed beyond the odd quick and dirty weekend. Ryan tried not to think about how it would be if this was real.
He and James would spend the day sightseeing and then in the evening they’d eat dinner somewhere nice and then go back to their hotel and go to bed. And it would be dirty but not at all quick, rather slow and lingering, and afterwards they’d lie wrapped in one another’s arms. And then, no doubt, James would spoil the mood by saying something sarcastic but even that wouldn’t matter because Ryan would just laugh and kiss him into silence.
But this wasn’t real. And Ryan could not even indulge in the fantasy that it was. Not least because he knew whatever feelings he might develop for Lester they would always be tainted by blood.
But here, now, they were just walking. Ryan could forget the gun tucked into the waistband of his jeans and allow himself to enjoy the day. His hand brushed against Lester’s and for a moment Lester held on to his fingers and brought them up to his lips mouthing at them gently before letting go.
Tuesday morning. The day dawned bright and clear and with the predictable promise of sun. Ryan and Lester ate breakfast early - croissants and black coffee for James and a full English with tea for Tom - and went for a walk around town intent on solidifying their impressions from the day before and checking likely routes and potential hiding places. Not that either anticipated any such run and hide situation. The truth was either Ryan would shoot cleanly and would get away unnoticed or they would be arrested at once. The brush-by syringe or poison-in-the-drink options had been discounted as impractical at a very early stage in their planning although, as Lester pointed out, impractical and baroque was actually something of a hallmark of political assassinations. The more unlikely the better.
Place Masséna, Nice’s massive central square, was decorated in the way central squares so often are with a classical fountain. Tourists perched on the rim of the structure, dabbling their feet in the cold water, watched over by a naked man with what Ryan considered particularly unfortunate headgear composed of a team of rearing horses.
Ryan eyed the statue as he and Lester passed before commenting caustically, “It’s always the guys with the least to show off about who are keenest to get their cocks out.”
“Plus he has a doughy arse,” he added as they walked across a set of tramlines and down the steps into the Old Town.
Lester grinned. “It’s convention, as I’m sure you know.” He slipped an arm around Ryan’s waist dipping his fingers downwards and pressing lightly. “I like his arse. Have you noticed there’s someone following us?”
“Two someones,” clarified Ryan, leaning in and planting a kiss on the tip of Lester’s ear. “I think there may be a third lagging some way behind. Do you have any idea who they are?”
“No,” said Lester, stopping at a souvenir shop to inspect a postcard stand. He pulled out a picture of the château waterfall at night, eyed it for a moment, and returned it to its place. “I think they belong to Her Majesty.”
“They don’t trust you or they don’t trust me?”
Lester picked up another postcard. This one featured a basket of kittens in 3D. He apparently found it fascinating. Something clicked inside Ryan and it did so on a wave of fury that was no less intense from having to be hidden.
He kept his voice low with an effort. “So that’s why you insisted on coming. I suppose I should thank you for protecting me? And congratulate you on your acting skills.”
Lester put the kittens down and picked up another card. Whether it was still subterfuge or simply an unwillingness to face Ryan, he wasn’t sure.
“Would it help if I said I’m sorry? I told you the truth before, I don’t know who it is that Helen has crossed, or what’s she’s alleged to have done, only that he’s influential enough both to order a murder and to effectively cover his tracks. One man can easily have an accident. It’s more difficult with two - especially two who have taken no trouble to hide their presence.”
“And the disappearance of James Lester would be harder to explain than that of Captain Tom Ryan.”
“That too. But I wouldn’t stake my life on it.”
“As far as I can tell,” said Ryan quietly, the anger fading as quickly as it had come, “you already have - both our lives.”
*
Later, Lester and Ryan walked along the seafront, and watched the parasailers harnessed under bright orange wings as they were pulled up and down the coast by motorboats. There were windsurfers too and some kite sailing. Ryan thought it would be fun to have a go and wondered if Lester liked water sports and realised he had no idea. He didn’t even know if Lester could swim. They were still being followed but at a greater distance now and in almost cursory fashion.
They’d been silent for a while when Lester spoke. “I tried out for Hamlet at school, you know, didn’t get cast. My drama master said I lacked a certain warmth and expression. He gave me a non-speaking part in the crowd. I didn’t bother trying the next year.”
“That must have hurt.”
Lester laughed suddenly. “It did. But the next year’s play was scheduled to be Hair and in the event no one auditioned, the play got cancelled and Mr Pepper left very, very suddenly and was never spoken of again.”
*
Ryan could get used to luxury. The shower pulsed sharply against his back, steam swirling out of the open cubicle in a visible cloud. His hand drifted down to his cock. The bathroom was large and seemed larger by a clever mixture of glass and mirrors. There was a separate toilet but the bath and shower were only partially partitioned from the main bedroom. He looked in the large facing mirror and saw James watching him. Deliberately he raised his fingers to his mouth and then returned his hand to his engorged cock. He paced his movements slowly not breaking eye contact until the final moment when orgasm hit and his eyes fluttered closed despite his intentions. When he came back to himself, heart racing, body still pulsing in the aftershock of bliss his eyes sought the mirror once more. James was gone.
A ribbon of semen remained on the black granite floor. He watched it until it was washed away then resolutely picked up the shower gel and began to wash.
When Ryan came back to the main part of the room, towel wrapped round his waist, running his fingers through newly-washed hair, Lester was reading The Times. He did not look up. Ryan wondered if he had imagined the whole thing.
*
Part Four