All the Trouble in My Life Began (2/5)
Title: All the Trouble in My Life Began
Author: cybertoothtiger
Rating: PG
Summary: Michael gets in with the IRA and gets to know Fiona better
A/N: Don't own BN.
Chapter 2
He waits until late morning before he returns. Sean answers the door. “Alright, alright, we’re not deaf, you don’t need to wake the dead.” He’s holding a bag of ice to his head and he glares at Michael blearily. “McBride. What the fuck are you doing here?”
“I came to check on Fiona, and to get my jacket.” Without waiting for an invitation, Michael steps past Sean and into the hallway.
Sean nods. “Right. Thanks for taking care of her last night.” He stares at him. “I half expected to find you here when I came round this morning.”
Michael’s eyes narrow fractionally. “I saw her home safe, as I said I would.”
Sean nods again, leans in close. “And it’s well you did, or we would have had a wee problem.” He relaxes and claps Michael on the shoulder, hard enough to make him wince. “You’re an honourable man, McBride. I like that.” He puts pressure on the hand and directs Michael further into the flat. “Fiona! Your young man is here to see you.”
She’s standing by the stove with a spatula in her hand. One foot is resting on an open drawer, a tensor bandage around the ankle. A skillet sizzles on a burner and the delicious smell of fried onions fills the room.
“Michael! You’re just in time. I’m making steak and eggs.” She slides a portion onto a plate and hands it too him. “Good for what ails you. There’s hair of the dog in the pitcher, there, or coffee if you’d rather.”
Michael chooses coffee and thanks her. Sean has collapsed into a chair at the table and pushes out another chair for Michael. By the time they’re done eating, he’s revived considerably and fixes Michael with a steady gaze. “Thanks again, McBride. If there’s ever anything I can do for you, you let me know.”
Michael knows Sean’s just being polite, but he seizes the opportunity. “Actually, there is something you could do for me. I’ve just returned from abroad, and I have some money I need to convert.”
“You’ll want a bank for that.”
“Well, the thing is, I need to get it up to Belfast. Her Majesty doesn’t know about this money yet, and I’d like to keep it that way. I heard you could help me out.”
Sean’s head snaps up. “You heard that, did you? Who told you that?”
Michael keeps his posture relaxed as he smiles. “It doesn’t matter. If I’m mistaken, say the word and I’ll be on my way.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Fiona tilt her head in a signal to Sean. She doesn’t want him to go. That’s good.
“How much are we talking about?”
“Fifty thousand, to start.”
“Pounds?”
“Dollars.”
Sean ponders this, then comes to a decision. “Fiona, luv. Get the man some more coffee.”
xxxxxx
Michael drives around for a while, making sure he’s not followed before he pulls up a block from the safe house. The military intel operative is already there. Dan and Lucy have returned to the States.
“Sam Axe.” Michael says, pleased to see a familiar face. Sam is quirky but reliable and he can work magic. He has more connections than a switchboard.
“Mikey. Come on in.” Sam leads him to the lounge, talking over his shoulder as he goes. “You know what I love about Ireland, Mike?”
“What’s that, Sam?” Michael asks, even though judging by the tumblers on the coffee table, he thinks he could venture a pretty good guess.
Sam picks up a decanter on the sideboard and pours a generous serving of golden liquid into each glass. “The whiskey.” He sighs as he sinks into the somewhat iffy couch and picks up both glasses, handing one to Michael. “Ireland is home to some mighty fine whiskey.” He clinks his glass against Michael’s. “May you be in heaven half an hour before the devil knows you’re dead.”
“Aw, that’s nice. Except for the dead part. You been reading the tea towels in the gift shop again, Sam?” Michael grins and takes a drink. Sam’s right about the whiskey.
Sam ignores him, savouring his first taste and holding the glass up to the light as he swirls it around. “Yup, that’s what I’m talking about. Damn fine.” He reaches for an envelope on the table and pulls out a file. “The women aren’t too bad either. This Fiona Glenanne, for instance. Quite the looker.”
He hands Michael a surveillance photo. Sam’s right about that, too. But Michael isn’t here for things he already knows. “And?”
Sam’s frowns as he holds the next sheet of paper. “And like the whiskey, this chick packs a punch. I don’t know, Mikey, you’ll want to be careful with this one.”
Michael gives a low whistle as he reads over the file. “Fiona. You have been a very bad girl.”
“She’s implicated in some hold-ups, been responsible for car bombs all over the city, and we think a couple of murders, too.”
Michael cocks an eyebrow. “Murders?”
“Yeah. Turns out she’s pretty handy with a sniper rifle.”
Michael nods. “What about gun running? There were some Barrett parts in her apartment.”
“Seriously? Jesus, Mikey.”
“It’ll be in my report. I’ll try to find out more when I see her again.” He took a sip of his drink. “Speaking of reports, why wasn’t she mentioned in the file on Sean? She’s his sister, for God’s sake.”
Sam shrugs. “Don’t worry, some poor schmuck at the office is getting in loads of trouble for that little oversight. Listen, Mikey, I don’t know if she’s going to be your best play, here.”
Michael is quiet as he flips through the pages for a while, reading carefully. He doesn’t want to risk taking it home with him. Finally, he hands it back to Sam.
“Sam, if half of what’s in this file is true, she’s exactly what we need.”
“Yeah? So what’s your plan, Mike?”
“I’m already in, Sam. I think I’ll cosy up nice and slow. I don’t want to spook her.”
Sam allows himself a small leer. “It’s your call, brother. There are worse ways to die.” His smile fades under Michael’s withering glance.
Michael downs the rest of his drink and stands. “I’d better write up my report. Computer is--?”
Sam points down the hall.
xxxxxxx
Cozying up proves easy. Given the life the Glenannes are living, it’s not long before Michael has a chance to demonstrate his usefulness in the field as well as finance, and soon he and Fiona are given their first job together.
He shows up in a suit, as usual. Fiona eyes him, but says nothing. Sean gives them their mission.
“Right. Now, this is only a scouting operation. You’re to fill out an application for a loan, but that will get you into the back, past the tellers. Check out the security and get out clean.” He gives Fiona a hard look that makes Michael nervous. “You hear me, Fi?”
Her eyes widen innocently. “Of course!”
They enter the bank and approach the receptionist.
“Tom and Mary O’Doul,” Michael tells her. “We’re here about a mortgage, aren’t we, luv?” he puts his arm around her shoulders and gives her a squeeze. She leans into him. Her hair smells like ginger and lemongrass. He forces himself to focus.
“That’s right. We’re getting married, and I told Tom, here, I told him I wanted a nice place for the kids. I want heaps of kids.” She smiles up at him.
He’s looking around the room, checking the location of the vault, and she steps on his foot, subtly, but hard enough to cause pain when her heel digs in. He hopes his grimace looks like a grin. “Heaps.”
The receptionist leads them back to an office. As instructed, they fill out paperwork and make small talk while they note the locations of the security cameras, windows and alarm buttons. Michael is also making note of Fiona. She’s working the cover well, although she could be accused of trying to oversell it by the way she keeps touching his knee. He tries not to think about her hand on his knee.
xxxxxx
It’s the day of the job and she’s running out of the bank, pulling her mask off, her hair streaming behind her like a banner. He’s got the car moving before she’s closed the door and she has to hang on as he peels around the tight corner into an alley between stone buildings. She almost drops the detonator, but once the car straightens she holds it up and pushes the button triumphantly. A car explodes in the street, and behind him he can hear the frustrated sound of sirens piling up into a traffic jam. She’s laughing, and the adrenaline courses through him, and something else, too, and despite himself, the fake laugh of his cover becomes real.
xxxxx
Sean sends them to Belfast for a few days. Fiona picks him up. He opens the trunk and whistles. It’s crammed with rifles. Barrett M82s, matching the parts he saw in her apartment. “Uh, Fi? There’s not much room back here.”
“Oh, those. Sean wants us to deliver a few things to one of the units while we’re there.” She looks at his bag, then at him, raising her eyebrows slightly. “I’m sure you’ll find a way to get it in somehow, Michael.” She shifts a few things around. “There.” She smiles brightly as he tamps his small duffle into place.
On the drive up, she tells him about her life, how she got involved with the IRA after the death of her sister.
“I’m sorry,” he tells her, meaning it.
“Yes, well.” She’s silent for a moment. Then she adds, brightly, “We’re getting the bastards back now, aren’t we?”
xxxxx
The boy is crying. He can’t be more than eight and the soldier standing over him is enormous in comparison, all body armour and hard surfaces, hardly human at all.
Michael knows he shouldn’t get involved. They’re on their way to meet an IRA colonel named Ian Donovan, who could be an important contact. Michael shouldn’t draw attention to himself. But the soldier is yelling, and the boy is crying, and it’s his weak point. One he doesn’t necessarily want to learn to overcome. He crosses the street.
“Is this wee lad giving you trouble, corporal?” He holds his hands out and down, palms open, unthreatening.
“Oi, stay out of it.” The soldier looks at Michael and his hand goes to his side arm.
Michael keeps coming. “Surely there’s no cause for yelling, now, is there? What’s he done, taken your football?”
The soldier swings his rifle around, levels it at Michael. “Stay there. Don’t take another step. Stay there!”
Michael raises his hands above his head, palms still open. Without taking his eyes off the face below the helmet, he speaks to the boy. “Run along home, now, lad.” Needing no further encouragement, he obeys at top speed, leaving the two men standing on the sidewalk as bystanders scurry to safety.
“Easy, now, corporal. I’m not going to hurt you. See? I’ve nothing on me.” Slowly, he turns around, lifts the back of his leather jacket to show that there is nothing underneath but a thin wool sweater. He does have a pistol strapped to his leg, but he’s hoping it won’t come to that. “I was just making sure the young man was alright.”
“He’s fine.”
“Well, then. That’s settled, isn’t it?” Cautiously, he lowers his hands. The soldier’s arms draw back, the tension drains out of his shoulders.
“I’d best be on my way, hadn’t I?” His voice is low.
The soldier nodded, then said, loud enough for the old lady hiding in the doorway across the street to hear, “Move along.” He waves his rifle, slightly, indicating the direction of the street.
“Aye, I’ll do that.” Michael backs a few steps, then turns, crossing the street at an angle to keep the soldier in his sight. He regains the other curb to find Fiona staring at him, open mouthed. He takes her elbow and starts walking. “Come on. Let’s go before the arsehole changes his mind.”
“Ian would have your hide for that,” she says. “You could have exposed us all.”
He looks down at her without breaking his stride. “And how would he find out about it, unless you tell him?”
Her silence makes him stop. His hand still on her arm, he turns her towards him. “You’re not going to tell him, now, are you?”
She’s studying him, weighing who he seems to be against what she’s just seen. He curses himself silently. His eyes harden and is calculating who can reach their weapon first when she finally speaks.
“I suppose not.”
“You suppose not.” He nods, and propels her forward again. “Let’s go, then. I want to meet this Ian.”
xxxxx
The meeting goes well. Michael is in like the proverbial Flynn, and Ian is in a chatty mood. He can’t wait to tell them what the money is for: an arms deal, a last-ditch effort to give the dissidents in the IRA the upper hand before the leadership sells them out and the peace talks begin in earnest. They’re scouting for sources, but top on the list are the Libyans. The deal could take a while, so there is no urgency, but intelligence is like ice cream - it’s best served fresh. Leave it out for a while, and you wind up with a muddy soup that’s no good to anyone. Michael is itching to get away for half an hour and make it to the dead drop for his MI-5 liaison to relay the intel to Dan, but Fiona has other plans for him. On their way back to the hotel, she steers him down a side street.
The pub is smoky and loud with the clamour of voices. Along the wall by the window, a tall girl wearing a scarf and peaked cap is playing a tin whistle, flanked by a another girl with a mane of ginger curls haloed around a fiddle and scrawny young man whaling away on a bodhran with a small two-headed stick. The beat is infectious, and patrons are tapping their feet and singing along.
They head to the bar, where a grey-haired man is pulling pints non-stop.
Fi leans over the counter and orders a pint of Guinness. She hollers back at Michael to make herself heard over the music. “What’ll it be? It’s my shout.”
He grins. “A pint of the home brew, of course.” She orders him a Kilkenny and pays.
She hands Michael his drink and leads him through the throng to the stairs at the back. They descend to the basement room with dark wood paneling to a battered chair rail and textured wallpaper painted green paint above. The noise from upstairs is muffled when the door closes behind them. Here there is quieter conversation. Men are playing billiards in the centre of the room, and there are two dart boards at the back. Every head turns to look at them. Fiona raises her head and throws back her shoulders as she walks past them to the dartboards.
She pulls the darts out of the board and hands them to Michael, letting her fingers touch his. “Let’s see how good you are with something pointy.”
He raises his eyebrows, lingers as he takes the dart from her hand. “I can hit a target, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“I certainly hope so.” She laughs and takes a sip of her beer.
“You’ve got a little,” Michael gestures to a trace of foam, “there, on your lip.”
“Are you looking at my lips, now, McBride?”
He just smiles and throws a dart, hitting the bull’s eye.
“Impressive, but it’s consistency that counts.”
He throws two more, forming a neat little cluster in the centre. He retrieves them and pauses, leaning in close as he hands them to her. “Now let’s see how well pointy things perform in your hands.”
She rolls her eyes and he laughs.
Out of the corner of his eye, he catches movement at the booth nearest them. There are two men sitting there. One is tall and lanky, with a shock of light brown hair falling over his eyes. He’s wearing an olive green sweater with a leather patch at the right shoulder, worn smooth exactly where the butt of a rifle would tuck in against it. He makes a small gesture with his hand and the shorter, stocky man sitting with him picks up his pint and goes to join another table. The man stands and approaches them.
“If it isn’t the lovely Fiona Glenanne.”
“Hello, Roddy.” Her tone is less than enthusiastic. Clearly, she didn’t expect to see him, whoever he is.
His head tilts as he appraises Michael. “And who is this you have with you?”
“A friend.”
Michael looks away, scoping the room, and looks back slowly. He doesn’t like this.
“Name’s McBride.”
Roddy appraises him, finds him wanting, and turns his attention back to Fiona.
“It’s been too long, Fi, if you’re swanning about with the likes of this.”
“Feck off, Roddy.” Fiona sniffs.
His hand snaps out and around her wrist. “I think you’re forgetting your manners, Miss Glenanne.”
“I think you are forgetting yours, Roddy,” she hisses. “Let go of me.”
Michael steps in. “You heard her, let go,” his voice is low.
Roddy looks from one to the other and pushes Fiona’s wrist away, stepping back with his hands raised. “Alright, now.”
Suddenly, he takes a swing at her, but she’s too fast for him. Before Michael can do anything, she twists Roddy’s arm behind his back and slams his face on the table, holding the point of a dart to his neck. “You little prick, Roddy.”
The stocky man pulls a knife from his belt and runs at Michael. Michael grabs his wrist and uses his forward momentum to disarm and flip him. Michael stands with his foot on the man’s neck and looks at Fi.
“We’ll call it a draw, then.”
They back out of the room with Michael holding the knife in front of him. Just before the door swings closed, Fi throws the dart and it lands in the wood above Roddy’s head. They run.
In the alley, they can hear the shouts of Roddy’s men looking for them.
“We should split up,” Fiona pants.
Michael retrieves the pistol from his leg holster and offers it to her.
She shakes her head. “It’s alright, I’ve got one,” she says, and she’s off.
xxxxx
The next day, Michael makes the dead drop and meets Fi for breakfast.
“Interesting company last night,” he says, regarding her over the top of a cup of tea.
She shrugs. “Roddy’s nothing. I trained with him, we were involved. I got over it. He didn’t.” She pushes the eggs on her plate around with her fork, then takes a bite, swallows. “You handled yourself well.”
It was the first time she’d seen him fight, and for some reason, it matters to him that she was impressed.
“I’m glad you made it back in one piece.”
She looks at him, head tilted. “Michael, you were concerned. That’s sweet.”
He huffs the start of a laugh. “That’s me. I’m just an old sweetie,” he says dryly. “Let’s talk about the job for tonight.”
They get down to business.
xxxxx
The job goes sideways and the British are chasing them through the darkened streets, slick with rain. In the distance they can hear the sound of a chopper, getting closer. A search light shines down. It will be on them any moment.
“This way.”
She guides him over a low stone wall and through the broken window of an empty house, pushes him down half a second before the searchlight from the armoured personnel carrier finds the wall behind them. The noise of the engine fades as patrol moves on, and soon the only sound is their breathing as she lies on top of him in the darkness.
“Seems a shame to waste this,” she whispers, so close he feels her breath on his chin.
Then she’s kissing him.
He doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t stop to think if this will make it easier to run her as an asset, or make things impossibly complicated. Her fierce loyalty could mean forming a stronger personal attachment will help him, but if she sees his cover as a betrayal, it could mean she’ll kill him. He’ll analyse that later, in his report. He doesn’t stop to think about Samantha. She belongs to a different life. This does not touch that.
He doesn’t stop to think. He just responds. It turns out she’s passionate and more than a little reckless in everything she does.
xxxxx
The next night, they’re out again, holed up in an empty house. He rests his hand on her arm, applying gentle pressure to lower her weapon away from the shot she’s aiming to take.
“Not like that, Fi.”
She glares at him, impatient. “I’ve been waiting for this for hours, Michael. Plus, it’s my turn. You missed the last time.”
Across the street, the young soldier walks on cautiously, peering into the deep shadows of the shuttered shop doorways, griping his rifle so tightly Michael’s own fingers start to cramp in sympathy.
Michael shakes his head. “Now, Fi. Think about it. You could take out one soldier, or you could get the whole bloody fortification. Why ruin your chances at the bigger prize?”
Fi considers this. “What’s your plan?”
“Do you have any Semtex on you?”
She grins. “When do I not?” she places her rifle on the floor and turns to the duffle beside her. “I like the way you think, McBride.”
Over her shoulder, he watches the soldier turn the corner and breathes.
xxxxx
Back in Dublin a few days later, Michael finishes typing and hits send, watching until the cursor turns from hourglass to arrow again, telling him the message is safely away. He stands, stretches. When he first joined the CIA, he had been surprised at how much writing is involved in the spy business. Washington wants a report on everything - not just the intelligence, but how it was gathered. It makes sense - the more they know, the better they can find ways to corroborate and verify. And knowledge is useless unless it reaches the right eyes. He’s only been working for the agency for a few years, but already he knows a few of his reports have slid across the desk in the Oval Office. It is a sobering thought, considering an audience like that for what he’s just written.
He hangs his head and rotates his chin toward each shoulder in turn, working out the kinks in his neck muscles, then looks towards the ceiling for the counter stretch. Undercover operations are always tricky. Do too little, and you can’t get close to the valuable sources. Do too much, and you risk losing the moral high ground. He isn’t the first agent to participate in terrorist acts, although he had mitigated as best he could. Dan will be okay with that, he is sure.
Dan will be less comfortable with Michael’s relationship with Fiona. He isn’t the first agent to have sex with an asset, either, but the longer it goes on, the more the lines will become blurred, and the more dangerous it will become. If he is smart, he’ll find a way to end it, but that, too, could cause problems. Jilted ex-girlfriends have a way of becoming vengeful, and Michael has a feeling Fiona’s vengeance would be terrible indeed.
He tries not to think about Samantha. He won’t tell her anything, of course, and she knows enough not to ask. His life is a series of watertight compartments - unsinkable, until someone tears a jagged hole along the side.
He sighs and walks around the desk to the small fridge in the corner of the office. He pulls out a yogurt and rummages in the drawer by the sink for a spoon. He leans against the counter to eat it. He’s had enough sitting for a while. The copy shop in the front is quiet tonight. A feed from the security camera shows one young man with long hair and skinny jeans using the self-serve copier. Bill, the local agent who pulled clerk duty, sits by the till, reading a magazine. The date stamp on the bottom of the screen clicks over as the clock hits midnight and Michael looks at the numbers for a while before it sinks in: it was his Mom’s birthday yesterday. Still is, in Miami. He calculates - they’ll just be sitting down to dinner, if they’re home.
Madeline will probably be starting in on how he didn’t call. How he never calls. It’s her birthday, she just wants to hear from her son. Nate is probably there. And his father.
Shit.
He drops the empty yogurt container in the garbage and puts the spoon in the sink.
He waits for the kid in the front to leave, then dials, waits while the switchboard patches him through from the secure line in Washington. Maybe she won’t answer and he can leave a message.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Ma. Happy birthday.”
“Michael? Michael is that you? Frank, Nate, it’s Michael!”
He holds the phone away from his ear. In his mind, he can see her gesturing toward his brother with her cigarette, Nate rolling his eyes, their father glowering into his beer as he turns up the volume on the game.
“Michael, how are you? Where are you? Are you coming home?”
“I’m fine, Ma. You know I can’t tell you that. No. I’m working.”
“Michael, it’s been years since I’ve seen you. Why don’t you come home?”
“I’m working, Ma,” he repeats.
“You could get a job here, Michael. I could really use you. Your father could use you --”
He cuts her off. “I know, Ma. We’ve talked about this. I just can’t, right now.”
“Nate’s here,” she says, in a way that emphasizes he’s not, yet again. “Do you want to speak to your brother?”
“Nah, that’s okay. I have to go. I just wanted to wish you a happy birthday.”
“That’s it? So soon? But you haven’t told me anything, Michael. How are you doing, are you sleeping okay? Are you eating enough?”
This was a mistake. It’s always a mistake. He leans toward the phone on the desk. The receiver is still against his ear, but it’s that much closer to the cradle. “I’m fine.” He picks up a piece of paper on the desk and crinkles it in his hand, close to the mouthpiece. “Listen, Ma, I’m losing the connection. Did you get the money I sent?”
“Yes, thank you!” she’s shouting. “But Michael, I might need to see a specialist, I don’t think the medicine’s working.”
His eyes rise to the ceiling. “Yeah, okay. I’ll send more next month.” He crinkles some more. “I gotta go, Ma. We’ll talk soon, okay?”
“Okay. It was nice of you to call. I -“
He hangs up.