Smoke and Mirrors (2 page)

“No doubt my wife would agree with you. Mind if I turn on the light?”

“Whatever.” Brad hated his sarcastic tone, but he’d never been able to sound neutral with the head of his SIS division for a very good reason.

The light, low as it was, cut through the darkness, nearly blinding Brad. “Fuck, that’s bright.”

“I wanted to see you, old boy. Not so pretty today; though I don’t think she’ll mind.”

Brad closed his eyes, maddened C knew he’d taken Parker to dinner. Not that any secret, especially one involving a gorgeous doctor with a penchant for ludicrously sexy frocks, could have made it past C. But that was Brad’s fucking business, not his boss’s. “You didn’t come here to talk to me about Ms. Brothers.”

“No.”

Brad sipped from the cup beside his bed despite initial protest from his raw throat. “The last thing I remember was setting explosives.” A black thought struck and the cup slipped through his shaking fingers. “I killed some poor fucking spelunker, didn’t I? Jesus, I checked that place for weeks, no one ever goes there.”

C came closer, an almost paternal look at odds with his stalwart features. “Nothing like that. I just came to…to see if you were all right. Got to be more careful, old boy, eh?”

Brad grew wary when C gripped his shoulder. It was highly uncharacteristic of his boss to visit anyone, let alone someone who had obviously screwed up and nearly gotten himself killed. “Yeah. I’ll be more careful next time.”

A faint smile tinged C’s face. “Good. I’m going to go have a chat with your doctor. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Brad dipped his head, and C vanished. It had been a most peculiar interview, the agent considered, eyeing the clock on the television display. Lying back against the repositioned pillows, he grabbed the controller and flipped through the channels, yawning.

The screen, clear and translucent in the darkened room, flared to detailed life on a reporter standing in front of the whirling lights of several police cars. Snowflakes dotted her hair as she pointed over her shoulder at the unexplained scene behind her. Squinting, Brad tried to read her lips, aware that a previous patient must have muted the sound.

Just then, the door opened, and he turned to view a doctor and C. “Volume’s off.”

The doctor’s almond-shaped eyes gave him the first clue. Wide and dark, they swung once to the screen before panning back to him.

“What? No sound allowed on this floor?”

C’s square-palmed hand swung in and filched the controller from Brad. He switched off the set. “I ran into your doctor. We’re both concerned about your memory.”

Sighing, Brad rubbed his eyes with the fingers and thumb of his left hand. “This is where you tell me I’ve got amnesia and I’ve been unconscious for two years, right?”

The doctor encroached upon his space, flashing a penlight into his eyes. “No,” she said, her rosebud mouth drawn up even tighter, “This is where I tell you that you’ve had a severe blow to the head which has caused you some temporary memory loss.”

The light flicked off, and Brad’s temper flared. “Either you tell me what the fuck’s going on or I’m calling Nigel.”

C’s face, drained of all color, brought everything back in that instant.

Jesus, not Nigel.
Brad couldn’t seem to get a full breath. His best mate – dead?

I’ve got to get to Sammy.
He needed to be there for her. Christ, she’d just lost her father a month before the wedding.

The wedding?

Oh fuck, not you too, sweetheart. No. No. This can’t be right. Not fucking possible.

Brad felt a surge of nausea blast its way upward. The doctor jumped back and he heard her call for help.

A pair of hands – C’s? – were pushing him back and Brad heard soft words of comfort. He was vaguely aware of a third figure in the doorway, but a wave of vertigo rushed through his numbed mind and he slammed his eyelids shut.

•   •   •

I watched him from the doorway, the doctor in me wondering why terror causes some people to vomit. The woman in me wondering why, our boss be damned, I hadn’t gathered Brad into my arms.

Instead, I stood frozen and watched as the petite Chinese doctor injected him with a sedative and repositioned his oxygen mask. His brilliant eyes were open again, but they looked right through us. C realized this too and, at last, let go of Brad to stand beside me. He was a powerfully built man, diminished somewhat by the scent of burned flesh and death.

“Did he remember or did you tell him?”

“Both.” C, thick, wavy salt and pepper hair unusually unkempt, looked as though he could’ve used a double scotch, straight up. “I can’t believe we lost Forsythe like this.”

I thought back to a few weeks before, to the day Brad first took me out and I’d finally met the legendary Nigel. The two, but for their very different coloring, might have been brothers.

“Parker?”

I’d heard C the first time, but my voice hadn’t been up to answering him.

“Go home,” he directed. “Get some sleep. I’ll stay with him.”

“Doesn’t he have anyone?” I was casually aware that he’d lost his parents, but a complete lack of family was… strange.

Coincidentally so.

C opened his mouth, his eyes never leaving Brad. Words failed him for a moment. Then he said, “The Firm takes care of our own.”

“No. You go.” I couldn’t be absolutely certain what Brad would’ve wanted, but I didn’t imagine he thought of his boss as a parental figure. I certainly wouldn’t, and I’d lost my parents as well.

In the end, I won and C left, but not before he said, “I was the one who brought the news about his father’s death to his mother. The shock of it–she couldn’t take it–killed herself. I’ve never forgiven myself for doing that to him.” He stared at the bed for a long moment. “I’ll come by in a few hours. Call me if he needs anything.”

•   •   •

But I wouldn’t call, because there was nothing anyone could do for Brad.
How do you bring back the dead?
I had already learned you couldn’t. So, I sat next to him, stiff and quietly desperate. I had never figured out how to comfort anyone. Even in my profession, notorious for its callousness, I had the bedside manner of a stainless steel cart.

And as worse luck would have it, I fell asleep.

“Miss?” The morning nurse – a cherubic-faced, northerner who couldn’t have been more than a minute out of primary school – had lightly touched my shoulder. “I’m sorry to wake you, but I can’t change Mr. Milton’s bandages with you next to him.”

I jumped up, smoothing my rumpled clothing, mortified to the core. “Sorry.”

She smiled down at Brad, blessedly out-cold, impervious to our chatter. “You’ll have been tired after what you’ve been through. I saw the news, an awful thing to have happened and on their wedding day no less.”

I swallowed hard. “What did the report say?”

She pulled back the bleached sheets and changed his blood-soaked dressings with expertise that defied her youthfulness and uncultured accent. “It said the Bentley had a rare malfunction which caused it to explode. An antique fixed up the wrong way.”

Her words droned into obscurity.
Did the news have it right? Was it just a horrible accident and coincidence to boot?
I hadn’t considered that, knowing what I knew about Nigel’s profession. Knowing about Samantha’s peculiar connections and her mafia father’s recent murder. But now I wasn’t sure. Something had seemed wrong in that second before I called out to Brad. For the life of me though, I couldn’t imagine what it was that triggered my terror.

I made sure Brad was still asleep. “Did they say anything about the victims?”

She adjusted the oxygen line beneath his strong nose and squinted sadly. “Nothing left to bury.” Done, she patted his hand. “Terrible for him, isn’t it?”

An unfamiliar lump formed in my throat, and I tamped down an urge to panic. I couldn’t leave him now, but every fiber in my being wished to hell I had listened to C and run when I’d had the chance.

B
rad sat at the edge of the chair opposite C. Though his head pounded and body burned with shrapnel wounds, it was nothing to the savage ache within him. “You’re saying there was no evidence of tampering, nothing that would lead our experts to believe it was sabotage?” It seemed unreal, because right now he needed to destroy the bastards responsible.

“It was clean.” C shook his head, bafflement evident in his drawn features. “Just a rare mechanical failure brought on by metal fatigue and the wrong type of gas for an antique.”

Brad rubbed his unshaven face, his elbow braced on the leather arm. He could see remnants of the unusually deep snow outside HQ. It was dirty, like Nigel and Sammy’s deaths. “Nothing blows up like that accidentally. You know what he was working on. What was left unfinished when he resigned.” He looked back at C. “What about Samantha’s father, Vasiliv? Has his killer been identified? Because if Ivan Drasnov found out they set him up, he’d have sent sympathetic Kriminalnaya after both of them. Christ, we know Ivan’s got connections here in London.” He tapped the armrest in agitation. “And what’s going on with AG these days? It could have been any of those bloody bastards Turner worked with. Have we interrogated him yet?”

Swiping a tissue from its box, C said, “I admit that was my first thought. But we had the experts from Trades and Services look at it. Nothing out of the ordinary turned up. They even found two other such accidents on record. One happened in the States, the other in New Zealand.”

Brad locked eyes with C. He was out of ideas. Out of energy. “You’ll let me know if anything else surfaces, yeah?”

“Are you leaving?” C’s eyes flitted across Brad’s chest.

Brad stood. “I’ve got business with my Colombian target. Only planned on being here until yesterday, but the debriefing was held this morning. I’m late as it is.”

C wouldn’t argue the point. They had all suffered losses, albeit some worse than others. Unfortunately it was what they were bred for.

“I know you’re pulling in the net; don’t get careless.”

Glad to be reproved instead of coddled, Brad took two excruciating steps toward the oak door. “Do me a favor?” A ragged breath rattled his teeth. “Make my regrets.”

“If it’s what you wish.”

Brad opened the door and walked through. He could have made the memorial service if his life depended upon it. Never. Hell, he couldn’t even imagine facing Parker’s penetrating green gaze right now. Maybe ever again. It was bad enough being back at Vauxhall HQ; for the last time he’d been here, it had been for Nigel’s final debriefing. Huge, complicated plans were in motion because of his friend’s tenacity and brilliant fieldwork.

But that was over. Nigel and his clever, perfect Sammy were over.

C’s door clicked shut, but not before Brad heard the beep of a line being picked up. “Monroe,” C’s low voice murmured, “I’d like to talk to you about one of our agents.”

Brad ignored the rest of the conversation. If the head of his division wanted him to see The Firm’s shrink, he’d have to send the quack to Sardinia.

“D
r. Monroe sent over Parker’s file.” Jack handed the thick ‘Eyes Only’ folder to C. “And here’s this morning’s debriefing. The e-file’s been sent as well.”

C traded the folders for a signed requisition form, which Jack folded away into his shirt pocket. “You were a Vetter when she applied, correct?”

The Reports Officer nodded. “She was an unusual case. Met the criteria for being a British citizen born to British parents, but Dr. Brothers was basically raised in the States.” Jack paused before saying, “I also handle Agent Milton’s dossier.”

C eyed Jack over the top of his glasses. “What of it?”

Jack stepped toward the door, a smile kicking up the corner of his mouth. “I’ve been around here long enough to know nothing’s a coincidence.”

C grunted and reached for his tea. “Close the door on your way out.” Then he opened the first file and eyed the thick, meticulously detailed debriefing. He scanned the pages until he found what he was looking for.

Debriefing File 22B

10, February 2012

GMT 8:10-17:28 (30 minute break from 10:30-11:00 and 61 minute break from 13:00-14:01)

Interviewers:

Report Officers Ellen Fleming and John Thibaut

A. SIS Employees:

 1. Administrative Officer (s): Chief of SIS

 2. Operation Officer(s): Report Officer Jack Kingston; Case Officers Alasdair MacLeod (Italy) and Jared Mahoney (Russia)

 3. Trades and Services Personnel:

   a. Security Specialists: Sean Brighton, Dean Mulvaney, Brian Smith; Driver: Benjamin Conroy (off duty)

 4. Medical Section: Dr. Parker Brothers

 5. Agent Section (to be removed unless copy given to C): Bradley Milton

 6. Technology Personnel: Alison Bridge

B. Non-SIS Employees:

*London CID and MI5 will file reports separately

Minutes recorded by Administrative Officer Sheldon York

C flipped to the summary. He liked Ellen’s style. It was concise, accurate and unwaveringly impartial. John’s would be useful too; but C knew, in this case at least, very few of the interviewees were likely to be harboring suspicious motives for which John’s heavy-handed tactics and cynical postulations would be needed.

So C read on.

Summary:

Without detailed reports from Forensics (preliminary attached as appendix D), Technology (pending), and Trades and Services (pending) it would be imprudent to assume that the events occurring outside St. Paul’s Cathedral on 10, February, 2012 were caused by the deceaseds’ (SIS Agent Nigel Forsythe and SIS Driver William Blake) involvement with British national security. Furthermore, there is, as of yet, no evidence that Agent Forsythe’s wife’s, Samantha Forsythe (nee Bond), enemy(ies) might have planned her death, despite her work for ‘AG’ and her connection to Russian Kriminalnaya through her deceased father, ex-agent and Russian-born, Vasily Demidov or her mother, former American CIA Operative and MI-5 attachment, Kirsten Bond. Yet, with data gleaned through the statements given by abovementioned SIS personnel, it is reasonable to suppose that further forensic evidence may indicate otherwise. Certain irregularities, which may be brought to further light by future depositions, possibly point to a carefully planned and perfectly executed terrorist attack/assassination.