The Trembling Of The Migratory Birds - Part 14: Burning Bridges
Burning Bridges
They get rid of the car in the afternoon, steal another one by the evening and make it to Helsinki overnight. Eames navigates and Ariadne drives while Arthur sleeps. Eames had insisted and when that hadn't worked, flat-out refused to let Arthur drive while he still hadn't caught up on his sleep. Ariadne had found herself agreeing. After all they've managed, all they've been through, having Arthur drive them into a wall because he fell asleep behind the wheel would be the worst sort of anticlimax.
They'll take the ferry to St. Petersburg from Helsinki. The mysterious Katya has provided a way out since Arthur's escape plans all prove to be compromised.
Now that every plan has gone to shit and they're on the run, Arthur's tension has given way to a blasé focus that baffles Ariadne. He's calmer than Eames. But, then, he's been on the run before; years of working beside Cobb meant he has experience staying ahead of the authorities. He has experience, she realises, which explains how he could nod off in the backseat of a stolen car like he hadn't a care in the world.
Ariadne's still not sure she trusts this Katya woman she's never seen and Eames' reaction to her makes her feel justified in her mistrust, but it's the only chance they have now. Planes are out of the question, and they can't get to Russia without a new visa which would have meant another few days of waiting, of sitting still, of involving more people who could potentially rat them out.
The ferry is a recent exception to the rule of visas: As long as you travel on a Russian passenger ship by sea, you get to stay in Russia for 72 hours without requiring a visa. It's perfect for them. Eames argued, though, and tried to persuade Arthur not to trust Katya, but Arthur's answer had been a firm, "We're paying her enough."
Eventually, Ariadne will ask how much is enough, but not today. Today it's six in the morning and she's tired and stiff; the drive along unfamiliar streets proved to be more exhausting than she'd likes to admit. Deep down, Ariadne's grateful for the distraction of driving and concentrating on the road because if her mind has nothing to do, it takes her back to the café and Saarela time and again.
She parks the car in a side street close to the ferry port and closes her eyes for a few moments. Arthur stirs in the backseat and Eames' hand falls heavy on her neck, rubbing his fingers along taut tendons. She sighs under her breath and tilts her head into the warmth of his hand. "You're hired."
She rolls down the window and the cool, salty tang of sea air touches her face on a light breeze; it's accompanied by the low, wailing roar of ship's horns and the cries of seagulls.
This is the one thing she missed the most in Paris. Growing up in Duluth, she spent hours and hours near the draw bridge, watching the ships roll in and out of the city's harbour, eating ice-cream on the boardwalk and listening to the seagulls. Flying trashcans, her dad had called them, just to watch her wrinkle her nose at him. To Ariadne, they've always been synonymous with large, open waters and freedom.
She listens to the sounds of the harbour with her eyes closed, relaxes into the gentleness of Eames' hand and, for a moment, forgets they're on the run. She can fool herself, and this could just be a vacation, a summer trip to the ocean.
A vacation with the two men she's slept with, the men she's bound to if she doesn't want to get killed or imprisoned for murder, the men -
Eames glides his hand into her hair, disrupting her thought. "We'll have to make some changes." He sounds as though he regrets the mere idea.
Ariadne breathes out, keeping her eyes closed as he strokes her hair. "I know."
She knows it's necessary, without him even having to say what changes he means, but she's always hated changing her hair drastically. In a childish moment of fear, she hopes that he won't suggest cutting it short.
Behind them, Arthur moves with a small groan. Ariadne turns to look at him, grateful for the distraction. She fights a smile. Something she's learned over the past few days is that Arthur is remarkably clumsy and uncoordinated once he's let his guard down around you. He blinks a couple of times, chasing the last remnants of sleep away, stretches ad promptly hits both hands against the car's ceiling and his knees against the passenger's seat.
Ariadne takes Eames' hand, presses a kiss to the back of it and says, "How about we get him caffeinated before he damages the car some more?"
They have breakfast on the pier. Or rather, just off the pier. The market at Pohjoisesplanadi is just beginning to set up its stalls, trucks roll in to unload crates of vegetables and fruit. A couple of smashed tomatoes and beans lie on the cobblestones, spilled from one of the crates. No one bothers to pick them up. No one notices Ariadne, Arthur, and Eames walking past, everyone's too intent in the stacking of items and ridding tents of puddles of water that have collected on the tarps during yesterday's thunderstorm. Water hits the cobblestones with a splash. Ariadne doesn't understand the language, but the yelp, curse and complaint as the water hits a man just walking past one of the tents is universal.
Eames grins, the curse must have been inventive. Arthur closes his leather jacket against the morning's chill. Ariadne smoothes an out-of-place lock of hair behind his ear that's been bothering her since they left the car. Arthur rolls his eyes at her but pulls her in to kiss her temple, anyway. He smells of body-warm leather and sleep. His stomach also rumbles loud enough for Eames to raise an eyebrow at them both. Ariadne points at Arthur. "Wasn't me."
The inviting scent of freshly brewed coffee guides them into the red brick-fronted Kauppahalli, the Helsinki Market Hall. It's too early still for all the shops to be open, but there's a bakery open at the end of the long rows of closed shop-fronts and the mingled scent of baked bread and coffee has Ariadne's mouth watering within seconds.
They decide in favour of slices of rye bread slathered with quark and topped with fresh herbs, sweet pulla, and several cups of the surprisingly good, strong coffee. Arthur reaches out to wipe a strip of quark from Eames' upper lip and Ariadne is once again struck by how easily these gestures come, how Arthur isn't' holding himself back any longer.
Around them, around their bubble of breakfast smells and momentary peace, the market slowly wakes up. Voices filter in, heavy shutters get pulled up with squeaky rattling noises, doors are opened, and boxes set up on wooden tables.
"The ferry leaves at 7 tonight," Arthur says after a while. He sets his mug down and slants a look at Ariadne. "We'll have to - "
"I know," she interrupts him and straightens her shoulders. "I saw a hairdresser on the way here."
He reaches out to touch her hair, winds a strand around his index finger. "I'm s - "
Again, she interrupts him. "Don't. There's been enough of that." She catches his hand before he can pull it away. "But," she continues, "I'm taking Eames with me so I don't end up with a pink mohawk."
Eames looks intrigued and she whacks the back of his head with Arthur's hand still in hers.
Arthur pulls his hand back, the corners of his mouth twitch. "I wouldn't mind you in a pink mohawk, actually."
"Give us something to work with, Arthur," Eames says before Ariadne can huff her annoyance and Arthur goes into business mode. He pulls out a passport that looks well-used, unlike what she had expected.
The picture in it shows herself with raven-black hair, pulled back, strict. She remembers having that picture taken before a work-out session at the gym she joined in Paris. It was for the membership card. She throws a look at Arthur, wondering how the hell he managed to both find out about the gym and acquire the picture. After a couple of seconds, she stops wondering. It's what Arthur does, isn't it? It just feels weird to be at the centre of his thorough research.
He's had the picture altered, the background changed, her hair and eye colour changed as well. He photoshopped sophisticated looking glasses onto her. The change is remarkable.
"Enough to go with?" Arthur asks.
Eames nods. "Plenty."
Arthur brushes flour off his hands and moves to slide from the bar stool. "Then you go and turn Ariadne into Tricia Todaro and I'll get the equipment to turn you into an invalid."
He's gone before Ariadne can ask what the hell he means.
"Come, Mrs. Todaro," Eames says and lifts her from the bar stool to gently set her on the ground. "I'll tell you on the way."
"Mrs.?"
Eames laughs.
***
The ship moves gently, sways up and down. It should be calming, hell, in the cabin they have, he shouldn't even feel anything, but Eames feels queasy as all hell and he curses Katya once again. Damn her for combining their escape route with a last practical joke on him. She knows about his disposition to seasickness. The heavy cast on his leg makes moving without Arthur or Ariadne's help impossible, at least if he wants to keep up the disguise so he holds his face into the breeze coming through the open window, breathes against the nausea climbing steadily, swallows the salty saliva pooling under his tongue, and hopes he doesn't look as green in the face as he feels.
Ariadne sleeps curled against Arthur, her hair now black, slicked back and tied into a dancer's bun. The Snow-white analogy is far too easy to make as she sleeps on the starched, crisp white sheets of the too soft bed. She hides her feelings remarkably well, but the guilt she's feeling over Saarela's death follows her like a shadow.
Arthur's sleep is light, he wakes the instant Eames moves and draws the curtain to keep a bright ray of light from hitting Ariadne's face and waking her.
Eames smiles brightly, hopes to cover enough of his problem to fool Arthur. But Arthur's not an idiot, is he? He narrows his eyes and looks right through Eames with an unnerving precision.
"I'd get you something from the infirmary, but - "
"That'd compromise the alias, I know."
"Why didn't you say something?"
"Would you have?"
Arthur ponders this for a while, then inclines his head while running a fingertip over Ariadne's knuckles. "Good point."
"Where do we go from here, Eames?"
It's a rhetorical question, Eames thinks, because he knows Arthur always has a plan, but the longer he looks at Arthur avoiding his gaze, the more he thinks that Arthur isn't asking about directions on a map.
"Wherever we want, I guess." He shrugs. "You've tried to upload the program key in Seinäjoki. You'll make it go live once we hit St. Petersburg." Eames shifts a little on the chair and looks out the window when the ship sways. "As soon as we turn on some news that aren't Russian-censored, we should find out that the world knows the program exists. They won't have any more reason to hunt us." They're all facts Arthur knows already, because they talked about them and they're immanent, but Arthur appears to take comfort in hearing them. And Eames? Well, it's enough when one of them feels miserable. Sometimes he's just gracious that way.
"First place to go," Eames says with a wistful sigh, "will be anywhere but on a bloody ship."
Arthur twitches a grin. Eames notices that the set of his shoulder is a little less tense.
"Give me your hand," Arthur says.
"Why, would you like to hold it and play nurse?" Eames waggles his eyebrows.
Arthur doesn't answer, just raises his eyebrow and snaps his fingers.
Eames obliges with a huff. The movement makes his stomach revolt and he breathes against the fresh wave of nausea.
On the bed, Arthur sits up a little and moves away from Ariadne. He reaches for Eames' hand and glides his long fingers under the cuff of Eames' shirt. He opens the button and pushes the shirt-sleeve up. Arthur's fingertips are firm but gentle, they stir the hair on Eames' forearm.
"What - "
"Neiguan P6," Arthur answers. "Now shut up and let me work."
He measures two finger-breadth, sets his thumb to a spot in the middle of Eames' underarm and presses down hard.
"Yes, dear," Eames replies, but shuts up after, because whatever Arthur's doing, whatever acupressure point he's hitting, it works.
When Arthur lets go after a few minutes, Eames can breathe normally again, his stomach has settled and he no longer feels dizzy. It's like being reborn. "You're rather handy to have around," he comments, his gaze firmly fixed on Arthur's. "Can I keep you?"
Arthur ducks his head, busies himself with a wrinkle on his shirt-sleeve. "Shut up."
There's a faint bit of colour in his cheeks that Eames finds endearing.
***
Ariadne slips out onto the deck while Arthur gets dinner and Eames takes a shower. The air outside is salty, crisp and clean. What's loose of Ariadne's hair flies as soon as she sets foot outside and she's glad that it's tied back and gelled as much as it is or it would be a giant mess. There are barely any people out on the deck at this time at night and she's glad. Her face is still on the news and all it takes is one person to look a little more closely and she'll be in real trouble. Arthur and Eames reassured her, though, that no one on a ferry like this looks that closely. People are way too busy gambling away their money at the slot machines.
Ariadne thinks of the way a huge migration wave toward the Nemo Casino started as soon as the ferry had reached open waters and is inclined to agree.
Still.
Now that she's alone for the first time in over a week, the enormity of everything that's happened in that week accosts her with a vengeance. She's a fugitive now. Her face is on Finnish television as that of a killer. She's accused of Saarela's murder. Poor, sweet Ari-Pekka. She's left her identity behind, has given herself completely into the hands of Eames and Arthur. The fact that she's had sex with them both almost blends into the background - only almost, because she still is sore and she remembers their lips and hands on her skin all too well. But her mind keeps tripping over her fugitive status, goes to pictures of high security prisons she's seen on TV, remembers her parents talking about Guantanamo and Cobb looking haunted, she remembers running in Seinäjoki, the gun pressed against her back at the library, the bullets whizzing around her at the internet café... Ariadne takes a gulping breath of air and rests her forehead against the cold railing. Underneath her, the spray of the waves splashes white against the ship's hull and she stares into the dark water behind it.
This is what she asked for, isn't it? After the Fischer job, Paris had bored her and going back to the States had seemed out of the question. She wanted for a more interesting life. Now she remembers the Chinese curse and wonders if she jinxed herself.
Her hands close around the railing and she straightens. Enough whining. Enough feeling sorry for herself. It won't get her anywhere. Arthur will make the program public this afternoon after they leave the ferry. They'll be safe then. They'll have made sure Saarela's wish is fulfilled. It won't make him alive again, and his death will never stop haunting her, but she'll at least know they'll have done right by him. As long as she stays out of Finland, she'll be fine. Now all she has to do is figure out what the hell to tell her family and what to do with the rest of her life.
Easy. Real easy.
She beats her head against the railing with a hollow plonk.
***
Arthur's phone vibrates when the sun just peeks over the horizon after a too short time of semi-darkness between three and four in the morning. He hasn't slept much and the gentle buzzing, the way the phone moves on the nightstand with the vibration has him bright awake within seconds.
Eames and Ariadne are still asleep, Ariadne's head tucked against Eames' back so that it looks as though she's spooning around him. Arthur smiles, but pulls his hand, already reaching out to touch them both, back and gets his phone instead.
He slips from the cabin quietly and walks outside on deck into the cool, diesel-exhaust filled morning air. He can't see land yet, just the sea around them, stretching flat and leaden in the dawn.
"Yes?"
"Took you a while, dorogoy," a low, female voice says and Arthur doesn't need the term of endearment to recognise who's speaking. She's one of the few people who have this new number. "Busy with Eames and your little lady friend?"
Arthur rolls his shoulders against the urge to tell her to shut up. Something in his back pops, he bites back on a groan. "Checking on us so soon, Katya?"
"Just protecting my investment," she replies. "I simply want to make sure you're well and safe." It's a little too light-hearted and a little too carefully worded to be as coincidental and as easygoing as it sounds.
"A social call?" Arthur frowns. "How very unlike you."
"You've been spending too much time with Eames. Don't believe everything he tells you."
Arthur has a feeling that he'd do better to believe more, not less.
"Where are you now?" Katya asks. Arthur hears the sound of cars going past, a siren howling in the background.
"On the ship."
Katya huffs. "Shockingly, I figured as much. Where exactly?"
"Three hours out," Arthur lies as he looks at his watch. They have an hour left, and he knows that Katya knows.
Her low chuckle glides through the phone line and straight under his skin. "In that case you have plenty of time to prepare a clean getaway."
Arthur's stomach plummets to his feet. He hates it when Eames is right. He keeps his voice level, though. "I wasn't aware we needed one."
A long exhalation. She's smoking a cigarette. "You are now, lyubimyy."
Fuck. He grabs the phone tighter, feels his teeth clench. "I wonder who could have told them where we were?"
"Solnyshko," Katya says and her voice sounds gently amused. "I gave you a head start, didn't I?"
She hangs up without another word and that, like the heads-up, is a kindness, because Arthur would have demanded to know more, would have demanded answers when they really don't have the time to stand around and talk.
His heart beats faster and it's hard to bite back on the need to shout in frustration. Cross and cross and double-cross. He really hates it when Eames is right. This just isn't his god damn month.
***
"Change your hair." Arthur walks into the cabin, the set of his shoulders tense and his face blank, his voice clipped. "Eames, get her the red wig."
"Good morning to you, too, sunshine," Ariadne says as she lifts her head from the pillow, a little annoyed at his tone. She'd thought they were past him ordering her around.
"Do it." To Eames, Arthur says, "Lose the cast." He doesn't look at them, moves to a duffel bag and gets out a fresh set of clothing, jeans and a washed out t-shirt and hoodie.
Ariadne narrows her eyes and scrambles to sit upright. Something in the way Arthur moves, precise and clipped, tells her that this isn't a game. "What's wrong?"
He doesn't answer.
"Arthur?" Eames sounds demanding and more than a little worried.
"We've been made," is all Arthur answers, as though it's the most normal thing in the world. He takes off his suit jacket and stuffs it in a plastic bag. Ariadne's brain stutters for a few seconds, hung up on the part where they've been found, where they're not safe, again. The safe bubble she'd thought they were in bursts with a soundless plop.
Arthur gets as far as stuffing his dress shirt into the bag before Eames, who has finally hobbled around the bed, stops him. Ariadne sees Arthur's skin turn white where Eames fingers press into his bare upper arms. "How do you know?"
"I had a call."
"Katya." Eames spits out the word as though it's poison.
Arthur nods, extricates himself from Eames, and slides out of his pants. This could be a moment to appreciate the long, lean lines of Arthur's body, but Ariadne's far from it.
"Why the hell do you even still talk to the traitorous bitch?"
Arthur looks up from the duffel bag. "It's business, Eames. Harbouring grudges is unprofessional."
"Harbouring - " Eames looks like he's about to have an aneurysm. He turns to Ariadne, his lips in a thin, white line. "Give me a knife."
She can't help her eyes from widening, she's never seen him this furious before. For a crazy moment, she thinks -
"I'm not going to kill him, though God knows I want to right now." He snaps his fingers at her when she still doesn't move. "Just give me the damn knife so I can get rid of this damn cast and bash Arthur's head in with it."
She throws him the pocket knife and has just enough time to see Arthur twitch a grin, one that she's sure it is a good thing Eames didn't see.
In the time it takes Eames to cut through the bandages that hold the half-cast together, she moves to tie her hair back and reach for the suitcase she knows contains Eames' vast array of disguises. When she'd first seen it, she'd thought him paranoid and over-cautious; after all, they were safe using new identities. But now? She's grateful for his paranoia.
Ariadne picks the smooth auburn bob wig and gets ready for the impossible task of stuffing her long hair underneath without having it look as though she's wearing a turban.
Eames is out of the cast by the time she has finally stuffed the final strands underneath the too-tight wig. It already itches on her scalp and she sends a quick prayer that she won't have to wear it for too long.
"How did she know?" Eames demands, back in front of Arthur, the cast still in hand. For a moment, Ariadne wants to laugh, because it really does look as though Eames is ready to brandish the cast like a bat. The look on his face stops her, though. She doesn't think she's ever seen Eames this livid before, this unhinged. It unsettles her more than Arthur's meltdown did after the shoot-out, more than Arthur's cool demeanour now or the recent news.
"How did she know, Arthur?"
Arthur finishes buttoning the jeans before he looks Eames directly in the face and says, matter of factly, "Because she sold us out to them."
Ariadne stops breathing. She waits. A beat. Another. Watching Eames is like waiting for lightning to strike. The air crackles.
Eames lets go of the cast, pushes Arthur against the nearest wall instead with a painful shove. "How the hell can you trust a single word she's saying? I warned you she couldn't be trusted. I told you she'd sell us to the highest bidder." Eames fists are clenched at his side and Ariadne calculates her chances of stopping him if he starts laying into Arthur. "How do you know she's not sending us straight into an ambush?" He's yelling now, his accent turning clear and crisp and horribly precise.
Ariadne realises that the only times she's ever seen Eames lose his amused indifference, his calm, is when it's about this woman, Katya. It makes her wonder if Eames is overreacting or if Arthur is overconfident. She doesn't like either option.
Ariadne looks between them, feeling as though she's watching the world's most loaded tennis match. Maybe one using grenades instead of balls. It's easier than thinking about what Arthur just revealed. Just a question of when the pin's going to come out.
"Indoor voice, Eames," Arthur chides, and Ariadne wonders if he's lost his mind. Is he trying to make Eames punch him? And is she seeing things or is Arthur getting calmer the more agitated Eames gets? Is there an undisclosed law of conservation of agitation?
"How do you know?" Eames repeats, his hands now crossed over his chest in an obvious attempt to stop himself from hitting Arthur. She sees his knuckles turn white, his jaw tense from the effort of holding back.
Arthur - bastard, iceberg-cool Arthur - actually rolls his eyes. "Because she'd already been paid or she wouldn't have called and I didn't tell her where we planned on going now. Get a hold of yourself, Eames. What kind of a beginner do you take me for?"
Ariadne has just enough time to pull Eames back before he really does lash out. He shakes her off roughly. "It's not just you getting screwed over by her," Eames shouts at Arthur, "it's all of us."
Arthur narrows his eyes, and understanding begins to dawn in Ariadne as well. This isn't just about a personal grudge.
"I have it under control," Arthur says, a lot gentler now.
Eames gives a derisive snort.
"I do," Arthur says, sincere. "Have some faith."
This time, Eames really does lash out. It's for show, though, and Arthur grins while he dances away from Eames' fist. It's not an amused grin.
***
Getting off the ferry in a different disguise is, once again, laughably easy. Eames is surprised every time, though, at how easily people are fooled, how willing they are to believe, or just how careless supposed security can be. Russia should be different, especially with the 72-hour visa-free rule now, but it's not. Sure they make them all sign their names on a list, verify the passports, but no one double-checks the ferry's passenger manifesto to find out that three people have gone missing and three new ones have appeared. It'll get noticed sooner or later, but late enough for them to be out of St. Petersburg by then.
Or at least, that's what Eames hopes. The airport is out of the question. If Katya has ratted them out - and Eames has no illusions that she hasn't, the bounty was too good to pass by - then security will be on the lookout and they won't have a chance to do the same thing they did on the ferry. They'll have all the internet cafés and public Wi-Fi access points as well as libraries watched by hackers; Eames doesn't share Arthur's hope for getting the decryption program uploaded here.
Even getting out of the city will be difficult enough. Eames doesn't have the means to change their faces beyond recognition, not with the meagre supplies he has with him. And if the Russian underworld is out looking for them, buying supplies won't go unnoticed, either. So all that's out, which leaves the traditional way.
They won't get too far by car, not in a country as large as Russia, but right now, all they need is to get out of St. Petersburg and to Moscow. Buses or trains, especially the super-fast Sapsan that would have been so convenient, are out, as they require personalised tickets and passports with visas as well. Passports they're sorely lacking, because Eames is sure that all the names in his supply are burnt.
Once they've made it to Moscow, Eames has decided to do the unexpected thing, because Katya thinks - he never corrected her assumption - that he dislikes slow and uncomfortable travel. It leaves them with the slowest, most low-key and thus best option: Third class seats on the Trans Siberian. That is, if he can acquire them new passports and new visas.
There are few trustworthy people who can help. Sure, there are several good, even excellent fake papermakers, but they're all greedy little bastards, and would sell them to the first person who offered them a higher price than Eames does. His other contacts are outside of Russia, small, rundown businesses that still know what honour among thieves means. But South Korea is a little out of the way, as is Venezuela.
That leaves him with two options. One would be Katya, and, no, oh, hell, no.
The other one, Arthur's going to hate, but frankly, Eames couldn't care less. When it comes to espionage and the alphabet agencies, he knows he has more experience than Arthur does.
Only one person has never let Eames down and he trusts her with his life. She's the one person who will be royally pissed when she hears from him too.
Strangely enough, Eames looks forward to being chewed out. It'll be just like the old days.
He grins to himself as he receives the rental car paperwork from the bored-looking woman behind the ticket-counter. With the current burnt passports and fake visa, he knows they'll be traceable. Eames gives the clerk the wrong destination with an amicable smile. For a while at least, it'll throw their pursuers off. In the meantime, he knows what Arthur will think about his plan, so he doesn't tell him about it, nor about the transportation choice and his means to get new passports for all three of them. No one in their right mind would choose a means of transportation so slow for a quick getaway. No one in their right mind would ask a friend for the favour he's going to.
Which just proves that Eames hasn't been in his right mind for a while now.
***
Moscow at night is a thing of downright painful beauty when you see it for the first time. The Kremlin's colours are even more impressive against a dark night sky and the Red Square isn't overrun by tourists, giving you the time to admire the fragile beauty of the architecture. Eames lets Ariadne look her fill and gestures to Arthur to stay with her while Eames walks around a corner to make a phone call.
"Dream of my sleepless - "
"Shut it," the female voice interrupts him with an audible eyeroll, "and tell me what you want." A pause in which he barely has the time to take a breath. "And, Eames, this had better be good, or I will get very creative in my revenge."
And she will. Eames knows she's not kidding. "I need your help, Suz." During the drive to Moscow, he debated for a long time whether or not to actually call her and ask her for that one favour that might be too big. But they're out of options, and if the choice is between Katya and Suz, there is no choice for Eames.
"Whom did you piss of this time?" She knows fully well, but he knows she wants him to say it.
"I didn't," Eames says. For once, it's true.
"And then your arse fell off," Suz comments dryly and Eames has a hard time not bursting into laughter. God, he's missed her. There's a sound in the background, a sleepy, gruff voice asking a mumbled question. Everything is muffled suddenly, Suz has put a hand over the phone, but Eames still hears the subdued, Gaelic words telling her husband to go back to sleep.
"Did I wake you?" Eames goes for an apologetic tone of voice.
"No, I never sleep, anyway," she retorts and he feels bad instantly. It's two o'clock in the morning. He knows how little sleep she usually gets. "Smart arse. Of course you did."
"Sorry."
"You will be if you don't start talking sense." He hears a door squeak closed, imagines her padding barefoot into the kitchen, the lights still off, her feet sinking into the thick carpet of the corridor. "What do you want, Eames?"
Normally, he'd trade some more banter with her, but this isn't the time. "Passports for three. Russian visas. By tomorrow."
There's a short silence, then another door squeaks shut and Suz says, louder and wholly unamused, "And you call to ask me? Are you completely off your rocker?"
"No news there," Eames replies. He doesn't smile.
"How many agencies do you have on your tail now? And you've been working with Ertaeva again? Really?"
"You have your ears out. Don't tell me you don't already know."
He imagines her running a hand through her hair. "You realise this could cost me my job and my security clearance and have me arrested for treason?"
Eames keeps his voice light. "Then you never should have stayed in touch in the first place."
"Rat bastard."
Eames waits, gives her the time to come to the decision he knew she'd make before he called her.
"Fine." It sounds angry, as though spoken between clenched teeth.
"Thank y - "
"Before you say anything else, let me make this clear: I call the shots, I pick the aliases, and you will not complain."
Eames nods. "Would I ever?"
The resounding silence is answer enough.
"All right. All right."
"I will get them to you by tomorrow, but know one thing, Eames." The pause is ominous, he hopes to God she won't say what he fears she will. But she does. "This will be the last favour you ever get to call in." Eames' stomach drops. Her tone is serious, she's not joking this time. "And this time, you owe me. I get to call in favours whenever I want and whatever I want. Are we clear?"
"As mud."
He hears her breathing for a while. "God damn it, Eames."
He doesn't reply; she doesn't expect him to.
Eventually, after he's listened to the silence between them for what feels like a century, he asks, "See you tomorrow?"
"Komsomolskaya station, noon," she answers. "I'll find you."
"You always do."
She doesn't say goodbye, the lines goes dead with a click.
Eames is glad neither Arthur nor Ariadne ask any questions when he returns to them. Moscow's beauty is lost on him.
***
Walking toward Komsomolskaya station brings an odd feeling of déjà vu. Moscow is still hot as fuck, temperatures reaching the upper 30s Celsius even at night. Arthur's relieved to find that at least the smoke is gone. He hasn't had a chance to follow the news as meticulously as he usually does, but from the occasional look at a newspaper stand, apparently the forest and swamp fires around the city are contained.
The station itself is stunning beyond belief, more like a ballroom than a train station, with its high vaulted ceiling, stucco, frescos and chandeliers, but Ariadne no longer looks as interested in the architecture as she did the first time they set foot in it. She's tense and uneasy, Arthur knows she's running on too little sleep and too much coffee, just like Eames and he, but the jittery attitude clashes with her hippie-esque outfit.
"Remind me again what we're doing here?" she asks, thrumming her fingertips against her right leg.
"Picking up the new passports," Arthur explains patiently as he pulls her out of the stream of people rushing to get to their trains.
"The ones delivered by Eames' contact. Whom you've never seen before. Who's working for British intelligence, which, oh, by the way, is looking for Eames all over the place." She crosses her arms over her chest. "Really, this plan is just so flawless."
Arthur feels his hackles going up, both because of her attitude and because he shares her damn doubts but can't tell her that. "I trust Eames," he states.
Ariadne sucks in a breath to reply, but visibly swallows the words. "Fine." He can see that it takes an effort, but she relaxes. "It's not like I have a better plan, right?"
A grin flickers over Arthur's face. He likes her self-awareness, her capability to see when she's behaving irrationally. He takes her hand and squeezes it. "I really don't think smuggling us all out of the country as exotic dancers on a private plane would have worked all that well. I mean, me and Eames, maybe, but you really need to work on your dance-moves - "
She swats him, laughing. "Idiot."
"Who told you you could start without me?" Eames suddenly appears from a group of commuters.
"Who told you you were in command?"
"Well, I'm the brains of this outfit, Arthur's the looks, and you - " Eames looks Ariadne up and down, mischief lurking in the corners of his mouth, "You're obviously the muscle."
Ariadne punches Eames in the arm as well. "Small and mean, and don't you forget it."
A voice interrupts them suddenly, a harsh Russian command announcing the owner as police, ordering them to stay and not move and Arthur tenses so much his muscles seem to ring with it. Fuck. Fuck it all to hell, they've made it this far this just can't be happening now. Not here, not now. White hot fury at Katya wants to explode in his chest but he reigns it in brutally. Beside him, Ariadne pales and Eames... Eames starts to chuckle. First just a little, then it turns to a full belly laugh and Arthur wonders if Eames has lost his mind. He turns to look at him, sees tears of mirth pooling in Eames' eyes.
"It's good to see you, my little jock," Eames says to the uniformed police officer, a large-boned woman with bright red hair and a thousand freckles. "Arthur, Ariadne," he gestures toward the woman, "meet Suz."
***
"Not that I don't love the disguise, but you do know that you could get into one hell of a lot of trouble impersonating a police officer here, right?" Eames asks.
Suz raises a brow. "How is that any more dangerous than you impersonating a man?" Her accent is a heavy Scottish brogue.
Ariadne gapes for a moment before she begins to snigger. Touché. Eames' contact is as tall as Eames, compact, in her mid-forties with first grey hairs streaking the bright red hair and her face sports more freckles than Ariadne has ever seen, spanning a large nose and strong, broad cheekbones. Ariadne has no doubt Suz can kick Eames ass from here to Sunday. Probably has, in the past.
Watching Eames and Suz is fascinating, there's a dynamic there she's not seen even between Eames and Arthur. There's history between them, a lot of history, and a genuine, bone-deep fondness.
"Don't stare, little one, it's not polite," Suz chides Ariadne, and her accent, now that she's not talking to Eames, is a crisp clean Queen's English and some of the initial sympathy bonus flies right out the window. Fuck her. What does this woman take her for, an idiot child? Just because she has history with Eames and is two heads taller than Ariadne doesn't mean that she has the right to -
Eames gaze flickers to Ariadne, he shakes his head. Don't bother, the look says.
Ariadne plasters a smile on her face and suppresses a scowl.
"So this is your merry group of criminals?" Suz gives both Arthur and Ariadne a long once-over that has Ariadne's hackles going up yet again. "Cradle-robbing, hm, Eames? Since when do you go for the baby-faces?"
Damn that woman to he -
"Since the elderly ladies were off the menu," Eames counters, not missing a beat. He pulls Ariadne against him and presses a quick kiss to her temple "Do you have them, Suz?"
"What, your passports?" She shakes her head. "Eames, Eames. You owe me a little more of the story. Most of all I think you," Suz turns to Arthur, "owe me an explanation of how you got him into this mess." She nods toward Ariadne. "Her as well. Alone, Eames can take care of himself, but you and me know that he's too damn loyal to just leave your sorry arse behind and too damn chivalrous to leave Alice in Wonderland here, don't we?"
Fuck you and your confidence, Ariadne thinks, loudly. Just fuck you.
Suz smiles at her. "You can say it out loud, love, I'm used to it."
Ariadne gives her the middle finger. Eames rolls his eyes.
Suz' smile grows wider. "As amusing as this is, it doesn't answer my question."
"Which question was that again?" Ariadne asks, waspish. "I think it got lost in the insults."
"He heard me." She angles her body toward Arthur; her face is thoughtful, her look furtive. "It can't just be the looks. My Eames doesn't just fall for a pretty face."
"Your Eames is standing right here and can tell you - "
"Drop dead there for a moment, Eames," she interrupts him and Eames actually snaps his mouth shut. Ariadne blinks.
"Rumour has it you're the best in the business. So tell me, Arthur, how did you fuck this whole thing up so spectacularly?"
Next to her, Arthur has gone very quiet, his face distant. His jaw, however, works, and Ariadne sees him clench his teeth.
"You have, what, the Russian underworld, half the illegal dreamshare, Finnish, American and Japanese intelligence agencies all on your tail on your very first solo gig?" She shakes her head. "Not going so well without a boss, is it?"
Arthur rolls his shoulders and clenches his teeth even tighter. A vein at his temple pulses.
Fuck, she's not going to watch this any longer. If Eames is under this woman's spell and Arthur won't defend himself, Ariadne will. "Are you going to let her just stomp all over you?" she hisses at Arthur. "Arthur, come on!"
Arthur drops his shoulder, raises his head and looks straight at Suz. "She's right," he says.
"What?"
"She's right," Arthur repeats, and Ariadne can see how much it costs him to admit it.
Suz lifts the cap off her head and scratches just underneath the edge before she puts it back on. "I do like honesty," she says, foregoing the gloating Ariadne would have expected. "So just tell me one more thing - who got this whole thing rolling?"
There's a moment's pause, Arthur hesitates. "Saito," he eventually answers and once more, Ariadne feels like gasping, because no one mentioned Saito to her before this.
"The big fish Japanese businessman who disappeared a week ago?" Suz asks.
Arthur goes deathly pale. "What?"
"He did what?" Eames chimes in as well, his physical presence radiating tension to Ariadne's left.
"I forget you haven't been in the loop," Suz says. She pulls them out of the path of a group of people walking in their direction. Once they're in a more sheltered corner, once again away from cameras and prying ears, she continues, "Saito's company took a nose-dive in the stock markets about a fortnight ago. Nine days ago, he disappeared. No one has seen him or heard from him since, he's completely off the grid."
Arthur looks to Eames and there is such naked panic flickering there for a moment that, combined with the idea of Saito being dead, Ariadne feels as though somebody's pulled a rug from under her feet.
A warm, strong hand lands on Ariadne's shoulder. "If he were dead, we'd know about it," Suz says, and it's not longer cold or aloof. She must know about their connection to Saito. Ariadne shakes the hand off nevertheless. "Suit yourself," Suz says and gets out a notepad and a pen. The pad is thicker than it should be. Larger, too. The passports. Ariadne's heart beats a little quicker. This is their chance to get out of here, finally.
"I got you visas as well," Suz says as she hands the notepad to Eames. He doesn't check the passports, but seems to hold a silent conversation with Arthur, who shakes his head.
"Listen, I know this is a big favour to ask, but - "
"No." The word is quiet but cutting. "I told you this is the last favour. You're out of things to offer, Eames."
"Eames, are you - " Arthur begins, but Eames shuts him up with a sharp look.
"Suz." His voice is mollifying, gentle. Pleading.
"I said no." She turns away from Eames.
"What the hell are you talking about?" Ariadne demands.
Eames ignores her, his gaze fixed on his former colleague. "This could be leverage in case anyone finds out about you delivering passports to wanted fugitives."
Suz whips around, her face dangerously calm. Her physical presence alone is intimidating, Ariadne has no doubts she'd be able to kick Eames' ass should it come to a hand-to-hand match. "Please tell me you're not trying to blackmail me." She looks Eames up and down. "Please, for old times sakes, tell me you did not even think of trying."
"Eames, no." Arthur clamps his hand around Eames' upper arm, puts himself between Suz and Eames. "I'm not giving her the program. I'm not handing over the only thing that might still keep us alive. Not to someone we barely know."
"I know her," Eames states.
"You knew Katya as well," Ariadne spits, because damn it, she's had enough if this. Why is Eames even considering this madness? How is this situation any different?
Suz turns to her, her brow raised. "Little one, you get points for brains, but if you liken me to that traitorous skank again, I'll break your pretty face."
Eames isn't even hearing this, won't call his former colleague on her crap; he's in a heated argument with Arthur, one Ariadne only catches hissed single words of. So Ariadne swallows a white hot ball of rage, takes a deep breath, smiles and says, "The name's Ariadne, and I'd like to see you try."
Suz gives her a long once-over, then breaks into an honest smile. "This one has potential. I like her." The smile slips from her face as she slants a look at Eames who has just shaken off Arthur's hand. "But you don't need to worry, little one, because I'm not available for this."
"They're hunting us," Eames says.
"Eames," Arthur hisses.
"How is that any different from the past few years?"
"This could change the world."
"Eames!" Arthur's voice is cutting now.
Suz laughs, unamused. She completely ignores the argument between Arthur and Eames. "Eames, please. You and I both know that I gave up on idealism a long time ago."
"It's not idealism, it's a strategic asset."
"Eames, for fuck's sake, I said - "
Eames slants a heated gaze at Arthur. "Shut up, Arthur. Just shut the fuck up."
To Ariadne's utter astonishment, Arthur actually does. She feels like slapping him for it.
"The answer is still no."
"It could earn you a promotion."
"I'm happy where I am."
Eames rakes both hands through his hair, and Ariadne can't help but think that she's never seen him this desperate before. "Suz, they'll kill us. They'll kill me."
"It was bound to happen sooner or later," comes the reply, but even Ariadne can see that it's hollow, that the other woman doesn't mean it.
"Suz, please."
"Give me one good reason why we should give it to her, Eames," Arthur says, his voice calm and flat again. "Just one. Why are we supposed to trust her?"
Eames look between Suz and Arthur and opens his mouth, but Ariadne beats him to it, the sudden realisation hitting her hard. The sound of her voice surprises her when she realises she speaks out loud. "Because we have a better chance with her than without her."
It's nothing Arthur couldn't have come up with on his own, but it appears as though he pushed the thought aside. His face looks as though he just bit into mouldy bread but he doesn't disagree.
Eames fishes for something in his pocket. He receives one last, sharp look from Arthur. "Are you sure about this?"
Eames nods. "I trust her with my life."
Suz snorts, then holds out her hand, moving her middle finger in a come-hither motion. "Give it to me."
Eames hands over the flashdrive without fanfare.
She regards it for a long time, turns it in her hand. "A copy, I presume?"
Arthur nods, looking as though the movement costs him a lot. Of course it's a copy. Arthur would never hand over the original flashdrive.
Eventually, Suz closes her hand around the flashdrive and turns toward Eames again. "You don't ask any more favours," Suz says, and her voice is flat; she's stating demands, no, facts, not suggestions. "You don't write, you don't call." The gaze she fixes Eames with is cold, but only on the surface. Lurking underneath is bone-deep regret.
Ariadne sees Eames grow pale as he nods, wordless.
"From the moment the program's up, you're dead to me."
The look on Eames' face tells Ariadne that he expected this, but had hoped that it wouldn't come to pass. They're burning bridges left and right, Ariadne thinks. She both hates it and is selfishly glad that she's not the only one giving up almost everything she holds dear.
The sound of Eames' voice, gentle, honest, shakes her from her contemplation. "I'll miss you," Eames says simply, reaches for Suz hand and presses a kiss against her knuckles.
"Can it, ya bas," she replies, her Scottish accent coming through at full force. "Just bloody can it." She pulls Eames into a fierce hug. "I hate you."
"No, you don't," Eames answers, his voice rough in a way Ariadne hasn't heard before and she thinks she sees his eyes well up.
Suz lets go before they can attract too much attention. She straightens and addresses Arthur and Ariadne with a look that's all authority again. "You two watch out for him, you hear me? Because I will find you."
Ariadne nods; she doesn't doubt it. She looks to Arthur, sees him nod as well and is surprised to find Suz giving an approximation of a smile in return.
It vanishes when she turns to Eames one last time and says: "Goodbye, Frederick."
***
Part 15: Burning Bridges (ctd.)
They get rid of the car in the afternoon, steal another one by the evening and make it to Helsinki overnight. Eames navigates and Ariadne drives while Arthur sleeps. Eames had insisted and when that hadn't worked, flat-out refused to let Arthur drive while he still hadn't caught up on his sleep. Ariadne had found herself agreeing. After all they've managed, all they've been through, having Arthur drive them into a wall because he fell asleep behind the wheel would be the worst sort of anticlimax.
They'll take the ferry to St. Petersburg from Helsinki. The mysterious Katya has provided a way out since Arthur's escape plans all prove to be compromised.
Now that every plan has gone to shit and they're on the run, Arthur's tension has given way to a blasé focus that baffles Ariadne. He's calmer than Eames. But, then, he's been on the run before; years of working beside Cobb meant he has experience staying ahead of the authorities. He has experience, she realises, which explains how he could nod off in the backseat of a stolen car like he hadn't a care in the world.
Ariadne's still not sure she trusts this Katya woman she's never seen and Eames' reaction to her makes her feel justified in her mistrust, but it's the only chance they have now. Planes are out of the question, and they can't get to Russia without a new visa which would have meant another few days of waiting, of sitting still, of involving more people who could potentially rat them out.
The ferry is a recent exception to the rule of visas: As long as you travel on a Russian passenger ship by sea, you get to stay in Russia for 72 hours without requiring a visa. It's perfect for them. Eames argued, though, and tried to persuade Arthur not to trust Katya, but Arthur's answer had been a firm, "We're paying her enough."
Eventually, Ariadne will ask how much is enough, but not today. Today it's six in the morning and she's tired and stiff; the drive along unfamiliar streets proved to be more exhausting than she'd likes to admit. Deep down, Ariadne's grateful for the distraction of driving and concentrating on the road because if her mind has nothing to do, it takes her back to the café and Saarela time and again.
She parks the car in a side street close to the ferry port and closes her eyes for a few moments. Arthur stirs in the backseat and Eames' hand falls heavy on her neck, rubbing his fingers along taut tendons. She sighs under her breath and tilts her head into the warmth of his hand. "You're hired."
She rolls down the window and the cool, salty tang of sea air touches her face on a light breeze; it's accompanied by the low, wailing roar of ship's horns and the cries of seagulls.
This is the one thing she missed the most in Paris. Growing up in Duluth, she spent hours and hours near the draw bridge, watching the ships roll in and out of the city's harbour, eating ice-cream on the boardwalk and listening to the seagulls. Flying trashcans, her dad had called them, just to watch her wrinkle her nose at him. To Ariadne, they've always been synonymous with large, open waters and freedom.
She listens to the sounds of the harbour with her eyes closed, relaxes into the gentleness of Eames' hand and, for a moment, forgets they're on the run. She can fool herself, and this could just be a vacation, a summer trip to the ocean.
A vacation with the two men she's slept with, the men she's bound to if she doesn't want to get killed or imprisoned for murder, the men -
Eames glides his hand into her hair, disrupting her thought. "We'll have to make some changes." He sounds as though he regrets the mere idea.
Ariadne breathes out, keeping her eyes closed as he strokes her hair. "I know."
She knows it's necessary, without him even having to say what changes he means, but she's always hated changing her hair drastically. In a childish moment of fear, she hopes that he won't suggest cutting it short.
Behind them, Arthur moves with a small groan. Ariadne turns to look at him, grateful for the distraction. She fights a smile. Something she's learned over the past few days is that Arthur is remarkably clumsy and uncoordinated once he's let his guard down around you. He blinks a couple of times, chasing the last remnants of sleep away, stretches ad promptly hits both hands against the car's ceiling and his knees against the passenger's seat.
Ariadne takes Eames' hand, presses a kiss to the back of it and says, "How about we get him caffeinated before he damages the car some more?"
They have breakfast on the pier. Or rather, just off the pier. The market at Pohjoisesplanadi is just beginning to set up its stalls, trucks roll in to unload crates of vegetables and fruit. A couple of smashed tomatoes and beans lie on the cobblestones, spilled from one of the crates. No one bothers to pick them up. No one notices Ariadne, Arthur, and Eames walking past, everyone's too intent in the stacking of items and ridding tents of puddles of water that have collected on the tarps during yesterday's thunderstorm. Water hits the cobblestones with a splash. Ariadne doesn't understand the language, but the yelp, curse and complaint as the water hits a man just walking past one of the tents is universal.
Eames grins, the curse must have been inventive. Arthur closes his leather jacket against the morning's chill. Ariadne smoothes an out-of-place lock of hair behind his ear that's been bothering her since they left the car. Arthur rolls his eyes at her but pulls her in to kiss her temple, anyway. He smells of body-warm leather and sleep. His stomach also rumbles loud enough for Eames to raise an eyebrow at them both. Ariadne points at Arthur. "Wasn't me."
The inviting scent of freshly brewed coffee guides them into the red brick-fronted Kauppahalli, the Helsinki Market Hall. It's too early still for all the shops to be open, but there's a bakery open at the end of the long rows of closed shop-fronts and the mingled scent of baked bread and coffee has Ariadne's mouth watering within seconds.
They decide in favour of slices of rye bread slathered with quark and topped with fresh herbs, sweet pulla, and several cups of the surprisingly good, strong coffee. Arthur reaches out to wipe a strip of quark from Eames' upper lip and Ariadne is once again struck by how easily these gestures come, how Arthur isn't' holding himself back any longer.
Around them, around their bubble of breakfast smells and momentary peace, the market slowly wakes up. Voices filter in, heavy shutters get pulled up with squeaky rattling noises, doors are opened, and boxes set up on wooden tables.
"The ferry leaves at 7 tonight," Arthur says after a while. He sets his mug down and slants a look at Ariadne. "We'll have to - "
"I know," she interrupts him and straightens her shoulders. "I saw a hairdresser on the way here."
He reaches out to touch her hair, winds a strand around his index finger. "I'm s - "
Again, she interrupts him. "Don't. There's been enough of that." She catches his hand before he can pull it away. "But," she continues, "I'm taking Eames with me so I don't end up with a pink mohawk."
Eames looks intrigued and she whacks the back of his head with Arthur's hand still in hers.
Arthur pulls his hand back, the corners of his mouth twitch. "I wouldn't mind you in a pink mohawk, actually."
"Give us something to work with, Arthur," Eames says before Ariadne can huff her annoyance and Arthur goes into business mode. He pulls out a passport that looks well-used, unlike what she had expected.
The picture in it shows herself with raven-black hair, pulled back, strict. She remembers having that picture taken before a work-out session at the gym she joined in Paris. It was for the membership card. She throws a look at Arthur, wondering how the hell he managed to both find out about the gym and acquire the picture. After a couple of seconds, she stops wondering. It's what Arthur does, isn't it? It just feels weird to be at the centre of his thorough research.
He's had the picture altered, the background changed, her hair and eye colour changed as well. He photoshopped sophisticated looking glasses onto her. The change is remarkable.
"Enough to go with?" Arthur asks.
Eames nods. "Plenty."
Arthur brushes flour off his hands and moves to slide from the bar stool. "Then you go and turn Ariadne into Tricia Todaro and I'll get the equipment to turn you into an invalid."
He's gone before Ariadne can ask what the hell he means.
"Come, Mrs. Todaro," Eames says and lifts her from the bar stool to gently set her on the ground. "I'll tell you on the way."
"Mrs.?"
Eames laughs.
***
The ship moves gently, sways up and down. It should be calming, hell, in the cabin they have, he shouldn't even feel anything, but Eames feels queasy as all hell and he curses Katya once again. Damn her for combining their escape route with a last practical joke on him. She knows about his disposition to seasickness. The heavy cast on his leg makes moving without Arthur or Ariadne's help impossible, at least if he wants to keep up the disguise so he holds his face into the breeze coming through the open window, breathes against the nausea climbing steadily, swallows the salty saliva pooling under his tongue, and hopes he doesn't look as green in the face as he feels.
Ariadne sleeps curled against Arthur, her hair now black, slicked back and tied into a dancer's bun. The Snow-white analogy is far too easy to make as she sleeps on the starched, crisp white sheets of the too soft bed. She hides her feelings remarkably well, but the guilt she's feeling over Saarela's death follows her like a shadow.
Arthur's sleep is light, he wakes the instant Eames moves and draws the curtain to keep a bright ray of light from hitting Ariadne's face and waking her.
Eames smiles brightly, hopes to cover enough of his problem to fool Arthur. But Arthur's not an idiot, is he? He narrows his eyes and looks right through Eames with an unnerving precision.
"I'd get you something from the infirmary, but - "
"That'd compromise the alias, I know."
"Why didn't you say something?"
"Would you have?"
Arthur ponders this for a while, then inclines his head while running a fingertip over Ariadne's knuckles. "Good point."
"Where do we go from here, Eames?"
It's a rhetorical question, Eames thinks, because he knows Arthur always has a plan, but the longer he looks at Arthur avoiding his gaze, the more he thinks that Arthur isn't asking about directions on a map.
"Wherever we want, I guess." He shrugs. "You've tried to upload the program key in Seinäjoki. You'll make it go live once we hit St. Petersburg." Eames shifts a little on the chair and looks out the window when the ship sways. "As soon as we turn on some news that aren't Russian-censored, we should find out that the world knows the program exists. They won't have any more reason to hunt us." They're all facts Arthur knows already, because they talked about them and they're immanent, but Arthur appears to take comfort in hearing them. And Eames? Well, it's enough when one of them feels miserable. Sometimes he's just gracious that way.
"First place to go," Eames says with a wistful sigh, "will be anywhere but on a bloody ship."
Arthur twitches a grin. Eames notices that the set of his shoulder is a little less tense.
"Give me your hand," Arthur says.
"Why, would you like to hold it and play nurse?" Eames waggles his eyebrows.
Arthur doesn't answer, just raises his eyebrow and snaps his fingers.
Eames obliges with a huff. The movement makes his stomach revolt and he breathes against the fresh wave of nausea.
On the bed, Arthur sits up a little and moves away from Ariadne. He reaches for Eames' hand and glides his long fingers under the cuff of Eames' shirt. He opens the button and pushes the shirt-sleeve up. Arthur's fingertips are firm but gentle, they stir the hair on Eames' forearm.
"What - "
"Neiguan P6," Arthur answers. "Now shut up and let me work."
He measures two finger-breadth, sets his thumb to a spot in the middle of Eames' underarm and presses down hard.
"Yes, dear," Eames replies, but shuts up after, because whatever Arthur's doing, whatever acupressure point he's hitting, it works.
When Arthur lets go after a few minutes, Eames can breathe normally again, his stomach has settled and he no longer feels dizzy. It's like being reborn. "You're rather handy to have around," he comments, his gaze firmly fixed on Arthur's. "Can I keep you?"
Arthur ducks his head, busies himself with a wrinkle on his shirt-sleeve. "Shut up."
There's a faint bit of colour in his cheeks that Eames finds endearing.
***
Ariadne slips out onto the deck while Arthur gets dinner and Eames takes a shower. The air outside is salty, crisp and clean. What's loose of Ariadne's hair flies as soon as she sets foot outside and she's glad that it's tied back and gelled as much as it is or it would be a giant mess. There are barely any people out on the deck at this time at night and she's glad. Her face is still on the news and all it takes is one person to look a little more closely and she'll be in real trouble. Arthur and Eames reassured her, though, that no one on a ferry like this looks that closely. People are way too busy gambling away their money at the slot machines.
Ariadne thinks of the way a huge migration wave toward the Nemo Casino started as soon as the ferry had reached open waters and is inclined to agree.
Still.
Now that she's alone for the first time in over a week, the enormity of everything that's happened in that week accosts her with a vengeance. She's a fugitive now. Her face is on Finnish television as that of a killer. She's accused of Saarela's murder. Poor, sweet Ari-Pekka. She's left her identity behind, has given herself completely into the hands of Eames and Arthur. The fact that she's had sex with them both almost blends into the background - only almost, because she still is sore and she remembers their lips and hands on her skin all too well. But her mind keeps tripping over her fugitive status, goes to pictures of high security prisons she's seen on TV, remembers her parents talking about Guantanamo and Cobb looking haunted, she remembers running in Seinäjoki, the gun pressed against her back at the library, the bullets whizzing around her at the internet café... Ariadne takes a gulping breath of air and rests her forehead against the cold railing. Underneath her, the spray of the waves splashes white against the ship's hull and she stares into the dark water behind it.
This is what she asked for, isn't it? After the Fischer job, Paris had bored her and going back to the States had seemed out of the question. She wanted for a more interesting life. Now she remembers the Chinese curse and wonders if she jinxed herself.
Her hands close around the railing and she straightens. Enough whining. Enough feeling sorry for herself. It won't get her anywhere. Arthur will make the program public this afternoon after they leave the ferry. They'll be safe then. They'll have made sure Saarela's wish is fulfilled. It won't make him alive again, and his death will never stop haunting her, but she'll at least know they'll have done right by him. As long as she stays out of Finland, she'll be fine. Now all she has to do is figure out what the hell to tell her family and what to do with the rest of her life.
Easy. Real easy.
She beats her head against the railing with a hollow plonk.
***
Arthur's phone vibrates when the sun just peeks over the horizon after a too short time of semi-darkness between three and four in the morning. He hasn't slept much and the gentle buzzing, the way the phone moves on the nightstand with the vibration has him bright awake within seconds.
Eames and Ariadne are still asleep, Ariadne's head tucked against Eames' back so that it looks as though she's spooning around him. Arthur smiles, but pulls his hand, already reaching out to touch them both, back and gets his phone instead.
He slips from the cabin quietly and walks outside on deck into the cool, diesel-exhaust filled morning air. He can't see land yet, just the sea around them, stretching flat and leaden in the dawn.
"Yes?"
"Took you a while, dorogoy," a low, female voice says and Arthur doesn't need the term of endearment to recognise who's speaking. She's one of the few people who have this new number. "Busy with Eames and your little lady friend?"
Arthur rolls his shoulders against the urge to tell her to shut up. Something in his back pops, he bites back on a groan. "Checking on us so soon, Katya?"
"Just protecting my investment," she replies. "I simply want to make sure you're well and safe." It's a little too light-hearted and a little too carefully worded to be as coincidental and as easygoing as it sounds.
"A social call?" Arthur frowns. "How very unlike you."
"You've been spending too much time with Eames. Don't believe everything he tells you."
Arthur has a feeling that he'd do better to believe more, not less.
"Where are you now?" Katya asks. Arthur hears the sound of cars going past, a siren howling in the background.
"On the ship."
Katya huffs. "Shockingly, I figured as much. Where exactly?"
"Three hours out," Arthur lies as he looks at his watch. They have an hour left, and he knows that Katya knows.
Her low chuckle glides through the phone line and straight under his skin. "In that case you have plenty of time to prepare a clean getaway."
Arthur's stomach plummets to his feet. He hates it when Eames is right. He keeps his voice level, though. "I wasn't aware we needed one."
A long exhalation. She's smoking a cigarette. "You are now, lyubimyy."
Fuck. He grabs the phone tighter, feels his teeth clench. "I wonder who could have told them where we were?"
"Solnyshko," Katya says and her voice sounds gently amused. "I gave you a head start, didn't I?"
She hangs up without another word and that, like the heads-up, is a kindness, because Arthur would have demanded to know more, would have demanded answers when they really don't have the time to stand around and talk.
His heart beats faster and it's hard to bite back on the need to shout in frustration. Cross and cross and double-cross. He really hates it when Eames is right. This just isn't his god damn month.
***
"Change your hair." Arthur walks into the cabin, the set of his shoulders tense and his face blank, his voice clipped. "Eames, get her the red wig."
"Good morning to you, too, sunshine," Ariadne says as she lifts her head from the pillow, a little annoyed at his tone. She'd thought they were past him ordering her around.
"Do it." To Eames, Arthur says, "Lose the cast." He doesn't look at them, moves to a duffel bag and gets out a fresh set of clothing, jeans and a washed out t-shirt and hoodie.
Ariadne narrows her eyes and scrambles to sit upright. Something in the way Arthur moves, precise and clipped, tells her that this isn't a game. "What's wrong?"
He doesn't answer.
"Arthur?" Eames sounds demanding and more than a little worried.
"We've been made," is all Arthur answers, as though it's the most normal thing in the world. He takes off his suit jacket and stuffs it in a plastic bag. Ariadne's brain stutters for a few seconds, hung up on the part where they've been found, where they're not safe, again. The safe bubble she'd thought they were in bursts with a soundless plop.
Arthur gets as far as stuffing his dress shirt into the bag before Eames, who has finally hobbled around the bed, stops him. Ariadne sees Arthur's skin turn white where Eames fingers press into his bare upper arms. "How do you know?"
"I had a call."
"Katya." Eames spits out the word as though it's poison.
Arthur nods, extricates himself from Eames, and slides out of his pants. This could be a moment to appreciate the long, lean lines of Arthur's body, but Ariadne's far from it.
"Why the hell do you even still talk to the traitorous bitch?"
Arthur looks up from the duffel bag. "It's business, Eames. Harbouring grudges is unprofessional."
"Harbouring - " Eames looks like he's about to have an aneurysm. He turns to Ariadne, his lips in a thin, white line. "Give me a knife."
She can't help her eyes from widening, she's never seen him this furious before. For a crazy moment, she thinks -
"I'm not going to kill him, though God knows I want to right now." He snaps his fingers at her when she still doesn't move. "Just give me the damn knife so I can get rid of this damn cast and bash Arthur's head in with it."
She throws him the pocket knife and has just enough time to see Arthur twitch a grin, one that she's sure it is a good thing Eames didn't see.
In the time it takes Eames to cut through the bandages that hold the half-cast together, she moves to tie her hair back and reach for the suitcase she knows contains Eames' vast array of disguises. When she'd first seen it, she'd thought him paranoid and over-cautious; after all, they were safe using new identities. But now? She's grateful for his paranoia.
Ariadne picks the smooth auburn bob wig and gets ready for the impossible task of stuffing her long hair underneath without having it look as though she's wearing a turban.
Eames is out of the cast by the time she has finally stuffed the final strands underneath the too-tight wig. It already itches on her scalp and she sends a quick prayer that she won't have to wear it for too long.
"How did she know?" Eames demands, back in front of Arthur, the cast still in hand. For a moment, Ariadne wants to laugh, because it really does look as though Eames is ready to brandish the cast like a bat. The look on his face stops her, though. She doesn't think she's ever seen Eames this livid before, this unhinged. It unsettles her more than Arthur's meltdown did after the shoot-out, more than Arthur's cool demeanour now or the recent news.
"How did she know, Arthur?"
Arthur finishes buttoning the jeans before he looks Eames directly in the face and says, matter of factly, "Because she sold us out to them."
Ariadne stops breathing. She waits. A beat. Another. Watching Eames is like waiting for lightning to strike. The air crackles.
Eames lets go of the cast, pushes Arthur against the nearest wall instead with a painful shove. "How the hell can you trust a single word she's saying? I warned you she couldn't be trusted. I told you she'd sell us to the highest bidder." Eames fists are clenched at his side and Ariadne calculates her chances of stopping him if he starts laying into Arthur. "How do you know she's not sending us straight into an ambush?" He's yelling now, his accent turning clear and crisp and horribly precise.
Ariadne realises that the only times she's ever seen Eames lose his amused indifference, his calm, is when it's about this woman, Katya. It makes her wonder if Eames is overreacting or if Arthur is overconfident. She doesn't like either option.
Ariadne looks between them, feeling as though she's watching the world's most loaded tennis match. Maybe one using grenades instead of balls. It's easier than thinking about what Arthur just revealed. Just a question of when the pin's going to come out.
"Indoor voice, Eames," Arthur chides, and Ariadne wonders if he's lost his mind. Is he trying to make Eames punch him? And is she seeing things or is Arthur getting calmer the more agitated Eames gets? Is there an undisclosed law of conservation of agitation?
"How do you know?" Eames repeats, his hands now crossed over his chest in an obvious attempt to stop himself from hitting Arthur. She sees his knuckles turn white, his jaw tense from the effort of holding back.
Arthur - bastard, iceberg-cool Arthur - actually rolls his eyes. "Because she'd already been paid or she wouldn't have called and I didn't tell her where we planned on going now. Get a hold of yourself, Eames. What kind of a beginner do you take me for?"
Ariadne has just enough time to pull Eames back before he really does lash out. He shakes her off roughly. "It's not just you getting screwed over by her," Eames shouts at Arthur, "it's all of us."
Arthur narrows his eyes, and understanding begins to dawn in Ariadne as well. This isn't just about a personal grudge.
"I have it under control," Arthur says, a lot gentler now.
Eames gives a derisive snort.
"I do," Arthur says, sincere. "Have some faith."
This time, Eames really does lash out. It's for show, though, and Arthur grins while he dances away from Eames' fist. It's not an amused grin.
***
Getting off the ferry in a different disguise is, once again, laughably easy. Eames is surprised every time, though, at how easily people are fooled, how willing they are to believe, or just how careless supposed security can be. Russia should be different, especially with the 72-hour visa-free rule now, but it's not. Sure they make them all sign their names on a list, verify the passports, but no one double-checks the ferry's passenger manifesto to find out that three people have gone missing and three new ones have appeared. It'll get noticed sooner or later, but late enough for them to be out of St. Petersburg by then.
Or at least, that's what Eames hopes. The airport is out of the question. If Katya has ratted them out - and Eames has no illusions that she hasn't, the bounty was too good to pass by - then security will be on the lookout and they won't have a chance to do the same thing they did on the ferry. They'll have all the internet cafés and public Wi-Fi access points as well as libraries watched by hackers; Eames doesn't share Arthur's hope for getting the decryption program uploaded here.
Even getting out of the city will be difficult enough. Eames doesn't have the means to change their faces beyond recognition, not with the meagre supplies he has with him. And if the Russian underworld is out looking for them, buying supplies won't go unnoticed, either. So all that's out, which leaves the traditional way.
They won't get too far by car, not in a country as large as Russia, but right now, all they need is to get out of St. Petersburg and to Moscow. Buses or trains, especially the super-fast Sapsan that would have been so convenient, are out, as they require personalised tickets and passports with visas as well. Passports they're sorely lacking, because Eames is sure that all the names in his supply are burnt.
Once they've made it to Moscow, Eames has decided to do the unexpected thing, because Katya thinks - he never corrected her assumption - that he dislikes slow and uncomfortable travel. It leaves them with the slowest, most low-key and thus best option: Third class seats on the Trans Siberian. That is, if he can acquire them new passports and new visas.
There are few trustworthy people who can help. Sure, there are several good, even excellent fake papermakers, but they're all greedy little bastards, and would sell them to the first person who offered them a higher price than Eames does. His other contacts are outside of Russia, small, rundown businesses that still know what honour among thieves means. But South Korea is a little out of the way, as is Venezuela.
That leaves him with two options. One would be Katya, and, no, oh, hell, no.
The other one, Arthur's going to hate, but frankly, Eames couldn't care less. When it comes to espionage and the alphabet agencies, he knows he has more experience than Arthur does.
Only one person has never let Eames down and he trusts her with his life. She's the one person who will be royally pissed when she hears from him too.
Strangely enough, Eames looks forward to being chewed out. It'll be just like the old days.
He grins to himself as he receives the rental car paperwork from the bored-looking woman behind the ticket-counter. With the current burnt passports and fake visa, he knows they'll be traceable. Eames gives the clerk the wrong destination with an amicable smile. For a while at least, it'll throw their pursuers off. In the meantime, he knows what Arthur will think about his plan, so he doesn't tell him about it, nor about the transportation choice and his means to get new passports for all three of them. No one in their right mind would choose a means of transportation so slow for a quick getaway. No one in their right mind would ask a friend for the favour he's going to.
Which just proves that Eames hasn't been in his right mind for a while now.
***
Moscow at night is a thing of downright painful beauty when you see it for the first time. The Kremlin's colours are even more impressive against a dark night sky and the Red Square isn't overrun by tourists, giving you the time to admire the fragile beauty of the architecture. Eames lets Ariadne look her fill and gestures to Arthur to stay with her while Eames walks around a corner to make a phone call.
"Dream of my sleepless - "
"Shut it," the female voice interrupts him with an audible eyeroll, "and tell me what you want." A pause in which he barely has the time to take a breath. "And, Eames, this had better be good, or I will get very creative in my revenge."
And she will. Eames knows she's not kidding. "I need your help, Suz." During the drive to Moscow, he debated for a long time whether or not to actually call her and ask her for that one favour that might be too big. But they're out of options, and if the choice is between Katya and Suz, there is no choice for Eames.
"Whom did you piss of this time?" She knows fully well, but he knows she wants him to say it.
"I didn't," Eames says. For once, it's true.
"And then your arse fell off," Suz comments dryly and Eames has a hard time not bursting into laughter. God, he's missed her. There's a sound in the background, a sleepy, gruff voice asking a mumbled question. Everything is muffled suddenly, Suz has put a hand over the phone, but Eames still hears the subdued, Gaelic words telling her husband to go back to sleep.
"Did I wake you?" Eames goes for an apologetic tone of voice.
"No, I never sleep, anyway," she retorts and he feels bad instantly. It's two o'clock in the morning. He knows how little sleep she usually gets. "Smart arse. Of course you did."
"Sorry."
"You will be if you don't start talking sense." He hears a door squeak closed, imagines her padding barefoot into the kitchen, the lights still off, her feet sinking into the thick carpet of the corridor. "What do you want, Eames?"
Normally, he'd trade some more banter with her, but this isn't the time. "Passports for three. Russian visas. By tomorrow."
There's a short silence, then another door squeaks shut and Suz says, louder and wholly unamused, "And you call to ask me? Are you completely off your rocker?"
"No news there," Eames replies. He doesn't smile.
"How many agencies do you have on your tail now? And you've been working with Ertaeva again? Really?"
"You have your ears out. Don't tell me you don't already know."
He imagines her running a hand through her hair. "You realise this could cost me my job and my security clearance and have me arrested for treason?"
Eames keeps his voice light. "Then you never should have stayed in touch in the first place."
"Rat bastard."
Eames waits, gives her the time to come to the decision he knew she'd make before he called her.
"Fine." It sounds angry, as though spoken between clenched teeth.
"Thank y - "
"Before you say anything else, let me make this clear: I call the shots, I pick the aliases, and you will not complain."
Eames nods. "Would I ever?"
The resounding silence is answer enough.
"All right. All right."
"I will get them to you by tomorrow, but know one thing, Eames." The pause is ominous, he hopes to God she won't say what he fears she will. But she does. "This will be the last favour you ever get to call in." Eames' stomach drops. Her tone is serious, she's not joking this time. "And this time, you owe me. I get to call in favours whenever I want and whatever I want. Are we clear?"
"As mud."
He hears her breathing for a while. "God damn it, Eames."
He doesn't reply; she doesn't expect him to.
Eventually, after he's listened to the silence between them for what feels like a century, he asks, "See you tomorrow?"
"Komsomolskaya station, noon," she answers. "I'll find you."
"You always do."
She doesn't say goodbye, the lines goes dead with a click.
Eames is glad neither Arthur nor Ariadne ask any questions when he returns to them. Moscow's beauty is lost on him.
***
Walking toward Komsomolskaya station brings an odd feeling of déjà vu. Moscow is still hot as fuck, temperatures reaching the upper 30s Celsius even at night. Arthur's relieved to find that at least the smoke is gone. He hasn't had a chance to follow the news as meticulously as he usually does, but from the occasional look at a newspaper stand, apparently the forest and swamp fires around the city are contained.
The station itself is stunning beyond belief, more like a ballroom than a train station, with its high vaulted ceiling, stucco, frescos and chandeliers, but Ariadne no longer looks as interested in the architecture as she did the first time they set foot in it. She's tense and uneasy, Arthur knows she's running on too little sleep and too much coffee, just like Eames and he, but the jittery attitude clashes with her hippie-esque outfit.
"Remind me again what we're doing here?" she asks, thrumming her fingertips against her right leg.
"Picking up the new passports," Arthur explains patiently as he pulls her out of the stream of people rushing to get to their trains.
"The ones delivered by Eames' contact. Whom you've never seen before. Who's working for British intelligence, which, oh, by the way, is looking for Eames all over the place." She crosses her arms over her chest. "Really, this plan is just so flawless."
Arthur feels his hackles going up, both because of her attitude and because he shares her damn doubts but can't tell her that. "I trust Eames," he states.
Ariadne sucks in a breath to reply, but visibly swallows the words. "Fine." He can see that it takes an effort, but she relaxes. "It's not like I have a better plan, right?"
A grin flickers over Arthur's face. He likes her self-awareness, her capability to see when she's behaving irrationally. He takes her hand and squeezes it. "I really don't think smuggling us all out of the country as exotic dancers on a private plane would have worked all that well. I mean, me and Eames, maybe, but you really need to work on your dance-moves - "
She swats him, laughing. "Idiot."
"Who told you you could start without me?" Eames suddenly appears from a group of commuters.
"Who told you you were in command?"
"Well, I'm the brains of this outfit, Arthur's the looks, and you - " Eames looks Ariadne up and down, mischief lurking in the corners of his mouth, "You're obviously the muscle."
Ariadne punches Eames in the arm as well. "Small and mean, and don't you forget it."
A voice interrupts them suddenly, a harsh Russian command announcing the owner as police, ordering them to stay and not move and Arthur tenses so much his muscles seem to ring with it. Fuck. Fuck it all to hell, they've made it this far this just can't be happening now. Not here, not now. White hot fury at Katya wants to explode in his chest but he reigns it in brutally. Beside him, Ariadne pales and Eames... Eames starts to chuckle. First just a little, then it turns to a full belly laugh and Arthur wonders if Eames has lost his mind. He turns to look at him, sees tears of mirth pooling in Eames' eyes.
"It's good to see you, my little jock," Eames says to the uniformed police officer, a large-boned woman with bright red hair and a thousand freckles. "Arthur, Ariadne," he gestures toward the woman, "meet Suz."
***
"Not that I don't love the disguise, but you do know that you could get into one hell of a lot of trouble impersonating a police officer here, right?" Eames asks.
Suz raises a brow. "How is that any more dangerous than you impersonating a man?" Her accent is a heavy Scottish brogue.
Ariadne gapes for a moment before she begins to snigger. Touché. Eames' contact is as tall as Eames, compact, in her mid-forties with first grey hairs streaking the bright red hair and her face sports more freckles than Ariadne has ever seen, spanning a large nose and strong, broad cheekbones. Ariadne has no doubt Suz can kick Eames ass from here to Sunday. Probably has, in the past.
Watching Eames and Suz is fascinating, there's a dynamic there she's not seen even between Eames and Arthur. There's history between them, a lot of history, and a genuine, bone-deep fondness.
"Don't stare, little one, it's not polite," Suz chides Ariadne, and her accent, now that she's not talking to Eames, is a crisp clean Queen's English and some of the initial sympathy bonus flies right out the window. Fuck her. What does this woman take her for, an idiot child? Just because she has history with Eames and is two heads taller than Ariadne doesn't mean that she has the right to -
Eames gaze flickers to Ariadne, he shakes his head. Don't bother, the look says.
Ariadne plasters a smile on her face and suppresses a scowl.
"So this is your merry group of criminals?" Suz gives both Arthur and Ariadne a long once-over that has Ariadne's hackles going up yet again. "Cradle-robbing, hm, Eames? Since when do you go for the baby-faces?"
Damn that woman to he -
"Since the elderly ladies were off the menu," Eames counters, not missing a beat. He pulls Ariadne against him and presses a quick kiss to her temple "Do you have them, Suz?"
"What, your passports?" She shakes her head. "Eames, Eames. You owe me a little more of the story. Most of all I think you," Suz turns to Arthur, "owe me an explanation of how you got him into this mess." She nods toward Ariadne. "Her as well. Alone, Eames can take care of himself, but you and me know that he's too damn loyal to just leave your sorry arse behind and too damn chivalrous to leave Alice in Wonderland here, don't we?"
Fuck you and your confidence, Ariadne thinks, loudly. Just fuck you.
Suz smiles at her. "You can say it out loud, love, I'm used to it."
Ariadne gives her the middle finger. Eames rolls his eyes.
Suz' smile grows wider. "As amusing as this is, it doesn't answer my question."
"Which question was that again?" Ariadne asks, waspish. "I think it got lost in the insults."
"He heard me." She angles her body toward Arthur; her face is thoughtful, her look furtive. "It can't just be the looks. My Eames doesn't just fall for a pretty face."
"Your Eames is standing right here and can tell you - "
"Drop dead there for a moment, Eames," she interrupts him and Eames actually snaps his mouth shut. Ariadne blinks.
"Rumour has it you're the best in the business. So tell me, Arthur, how did you fuck this whole thing up so spectacularly?"
Next to her, Arthur has gone very quiet, his face distant. His jaw, however, works, and Ariadne sees him clench his teeth.
"You have, what, the Russian underworld, half the illegal dreamshare, Finnish, American and Japanese intelligence agencies all on your tail on your very first solo gig?" She shakes her head. "Not going so well without a boss, is it?"
Arthur rolls his shoulders and clenches his teeth even tighter. A vein at his temple pulses.
Fuck, she's not going to watch this any longer. If Eames is under this woman's spell and Arthur won't defend himself, Ariadne will. "Are you going to let her just stomp all over you?" she hisses at Arthur. "Arthur, come on!"
Arthur drops his shoulder, raises his head and looks straight at Suz. "She's right," he says.
"What?"
"She's right," Arthur repeats, and Ariadne can see how much it costs him to admit it.
Suz lifts the cap off her head and scratches just underneath the edge before she puts it back on. "I do like honesty," she says, foregoing the gloating Ariadne would have expected. "So just tell me one more thing - who got this whole thing rolling?"
There's a moment's pause, Arthur hesitates. "Saito," he eventually answers and once more, Ariadne feels like gasping, because no one mentioned Saito to her before this.
"The big fish Japanese businessman who disappeared a week ago?" Suz asks.
Arthur goes deathly pale. "What?"
"He did what?" Eames chimes in as well, his physical presence radiating tension to Ariadne's left.
"I forget you haven't been in the loop," Suz says. She pulls them out of the path of a group of people walking in their direction. Once they're in a more sheltered corner, once again away from cameras and prying ears, she continues, "Saito's company took a nose-dive in the stock markets about a fortnight ago. Nine days ago, he disappeared. No one has seen him or heard from him since, he's completely off the grid."
Arthur looks to Eames and there is such naked panic flickering there for a moment that, combined with the idea of Saito being dead, Ariadne feels as though somebody's pulled a rug from under her feet.
A warm, strong hand lands on Ariadne's shoulder. "If he were dead, we'd know about it," Suz says, and it's not longer cold or aloof. She must know about their connection to Saito. Ariadne shakes the hand off nevertheless. "Suit yourself," Suz says and gets out a notepad and a pen. The pad is thicker than it should be. Larger, too. The passports. Ariadne's heart beats a little quicker. This is their chance to get out of here, finally.
"I got you visas as well," Suz says as she hands the notepad to Eames. He doesn't check the passports, but seems to hold a silent conversation with Arthur, who shakes his head.
"Listen, I know this is a big favour to ask, but - "
"No." The word is quiet but cutting. "I told you this is the last favour. You're out of things to offer, Eames."
"Eames, are you - " Arthur begins, but Eames shuts him up with a sharp look.
"Suz." His voice is mollifying, gentle. Pleading.
"I said no." She turns away from Eames.
"What the hell are you talking about?" Ariadne demands.
Eames ignores her, his gaze fixed on his former colleague. "This could be leverage in case anyone finds out about you delivering passports to wanted fugitives."
Suz whips around, her face dangerously calm. Her physical presence alone is intimidating, Ariadne has no doubts she'd be able to kick Eames' ass should it come to a hand-to-hand match. "Please tell me you're not trying to blackmail me." She looks Eames up and down. "Please, for old times sakes, tell me you did not even think of trying."
"Eames, no." Arthur clamps his hand around Eames' upper arm, puts himself between Suz and Eames. "I'm not giving her the program. I'm not handing over the only thing that might still keep us alive. Not to someone we barely know."
"I know her," Eames states.
"You knew Katya as well," Ariadne spits, because damn it, she's had enough if this. Why is Eames even considering this madness? How is this situation any different?
Suz turns to her, her brow raised. "Little one, you get points for brains, but if you liken me to that traitorous skank again, I'll break your pretty face."
Eames isn't even hearing this, won't call his former colleague on her crap; he's in a heated argument with Arthur, one Ariadne only catches hissed single words of. So Ariadne swallows a white hot ball of rage, takes a deep breath, smiles and says, "The name's Ariadne, and I'd like to see you try."
Suz gives her a long once-over, then breaks into an honest smile. "This one has potential. I like her." The smile slips from her face as she slants a look at Eames who has just shaken off Arthur's hand. "But you don't need to worry, little one, because I'm not available for this."
"They're hunting us," Eames says.
"Eames," Arthur hisses.
"How is that any different from the past few years?"
"This could change the world."
"Eames!" Arthur's voice is cutting now.
Suz laughs, unamused. She completely ignores the argument between Arthur and Eames. "Eames, please. You and I both know that I gave up on idealism a long time ago."
"It's not idealism, it's a strategic asset."
"Eames, for fuck's sake, I said - "
Eames slants a heated gaze at Arthur. "Shut up, Arthur. Just shut the fuck up."
To Ariadne's utter astonishment, Arthur actually does. She feels like slapping him for it.
"The answer is still no."
"It could earn you a promotion."
"I'm happy where I am."
Eames rakes both hands through his hair, and Ariadne can't help but think that she's never seen him this desperate before. "Suz, they'll kill us. They'll kill me."
"It was bound to happen sooner or later," comes the reply, but even Ariadne can see that it's hollow, that the other woman doesn't mean it.
"Suz, please."
"Give me one good reason why we should give it to her, Eames," Arthur says, his voice calm and flat again. "Just one. Why are we supposed to trust her?"
Eames look between Suz and Arthur and opens his mouth, but Ariadne beats him to it, the sudden realisation hitting her hard. The sound of her voice surprises her when she realises she speaks out loud. "Because we have a better chance with her than without her."
It's nothing Arthur couldn't have come up with on his own, but it appears as though he pushed the thought aside. His face looks as though he just bit into mouldy bread but he doesn't disagree.
Eames fishes for something in his pocket. He receives one last, sharp look from Arthur. "Are you sure about this?"
Eames nods. "I trust her with my life."
Suz snorts, then holds out her hand, moving her middle finger in a come-hither motion. "Give it to me."
Eames hands over the flashdrive without fanfare.
She regards it for a long time, turns it in her hand. "A copy, I presume?"
Arthur nods, looking as though the movement costs him a lot. Of course it's a copy. Arthur would never hand over the original flashdrive.
Eventually, Suz closes her hand around the flashdrive and turns toward Eames again. "You don't ask any more favours," Suz says, and her voice is flat; she's stating demands, no, facts, not suggestions. "You don't write, you don't call." The gaze she fixes Eames with is cold, but only on the surface. Lurking underneath is bone-deep regret.
Ariadne sees Eames grow pale as he nods, wordless.
"From the moment the program's up, you're dead to me."
The look on Eames' face tells Ariadne that he expected this, but had hoped that it wouldn't come to pass. They're burning bridges left and right, Ariadne thinks. She both hates it and is selfishly glad that she's not the only one giving up almost everything she holds dear.
The sound of Eames' voice, gentle, honest, shakes her from her contemplation. "I'll miss you," Eames says simply, reaches for Suz hand and presses a kiss against her knuckles.
"Can it, ya bas," she replies, her Scottish accent coming through at full force. "Just bloody can it." She pulls Eames into a fierce hug. "I hate you."
"No, you don't," Eames answers, his voice rough in a way Ariadne hasn't heard before and she thinks she sees his eyes well up.
Suz lets go before they can attract too much attention. She straightens and addresses Arthur and Ariadne with a look that's all authority again. "You two watch out for him, you hear me? Because I will find you."
Ariadne nods; she doesn't doubt it. She looks to Arthur, sees him nod as well and is surprised to find Suz giving an approximation of a smile in return.
It vanishes when she turns to Eames one last time and says: "Goodbye, Frederick."
***
Part 15: Burning Bridges (ctd.)