Not My Spook!

by Tinnean

  The smile she gave him was one Quinn had given me on occasion. “In this case, I think there’s no question of me not trusting him.” She released my hand. “Please sit and finish your tea.”

  I drew in a deep breath. Okay, I had it together, and I wouldn’t let it appear otherwise. I did as she requested, picked up a sandwich, and bit into it, surprised at how tasty it was. “You made this, Novotny? It’s good!”

  “I should have put arsenic in it!” Some people just didn’t know how to take a compliment.

  Mrs. Mann had her cup to her lips, but I could still see she was amused. However, when she set the cup down, all she said was, “I have one request, Mark.”

  She was making me nervous, using my first name like that. “Other than that I find your son, ma’am?”

  “Yes.” She turned that smile on me. “Stop calling me ‘ma’am’!”

  XIII

  THEY finally had the SSTs flying again, so the flight to Paris took a little under five hours.

  Pete met me at Charles de Gaulle Airport. He ushered me to a black van, gesturing for me to sit in the back where there were no windows. I didn’t have time to waste arguing with him. If I wanted to find the location of the Division that badly, I would find it.

  “Babineaux has come across some very interesting intel, Mark.” Pete’s voice came through the grill that permitted communication between the front of the van and the back.

  “Yeah?” I sat forward, listening intently. Babineaux was one of the best computer operators on the planet, and if he ever decided to leave the Division, the WBIS would take him in a shot.

  “He has ascertained that one of the two people responsible for creating the Division is behind Prinzip.”

  “Richard?” I made an educated guess.

  “Oui. Richard.”

  Richard had been part of the Service de Documentation Extérieure et de Contre-Espionnage in the early fifties; his last name had been lost even before Operation Condor at Dien Bien Phu. No one knew how or when he’d met Lindsey Gairden, who’d recruited him to MI6. Many felt that she had been the brains behind some of their more audacious operations. For a time they’d continued working with MI6 but had eventually vanished into the intrigue that was the Cold War. After the debacle in Munich in ’72, an antiterrorist organization, which became known as the Division, suddenly cropped up on the radar.

  Created by them, and covert in the extreme, only a few in the intelligence community were aware of their presence on the international scene.

  Now, although retired for the most part, they’d still been inclined to keep their hands in, dabbling in operations, which tended to aggravate Tactics.

  “If I recall, Lindsey’s mind is—” I remembered that Pete had been fond of the older woman. “—isn’t quite what it used to be.” That was the most polite way I could think of saying that her once razor-sharp intellect had been reduced to that of the flowers she had loved to grow in her garden.

  “Ah, mon ami.” There was sadness in his voice. “Richard was most unhappy when he learned—” He cut off the rest of his words, but I didn’t need him to tell me what had actually happened.

  Lindsey was reputed to have had a cerebral accident. Cerebral accident, my ass. In a bid to take over the Division for themselves, Tactics and Anacapri had been behind her “illness,” feeding her a drug that mimicked the effects of a stroke. They’d stashed her away in a villa outside Tarascon in the south of France, on the off chance she might be needed again. Unfortunately, the drug had done its job too well, and while her appearance was no different than it had been prior to the coup, her mind was gone.

  “So Richard tried to regain control of the Division, and when he failed, he started Prinzip.”

  “Oui.”

  “As what? An effort to recreate what the two of them once had?”

  The van slowed and turned, and the angle told me we were going down into a sublevel parking garage.

  “Qui sait? His actions are no longer rational.”

  “Okay, so who did he get to help him?”

  There was a pause. Did Pete think I was dumb enough to believe Richard managed this on his own?

  “You remember the operatives who fail in their objectives are relegated to Limbo?”

  “Yeah. Don’t tell me Anacapri decided to run another one of her humanitarian experiments.”

  He was quiet again for a minute or so, and this time when he spoke, there was irritation in his tone. As if I cared. The Division meant nothing to me, and if it came down to him or Quinn, he would be the hands down loser every time.

  “Eight operatives discovered they were on the list for Limbo.” It was supposed to be a deep, dark secret that if you were consigned to Limbo, your days were numbered, and apparently the Division believed its operatives were stupid enough to think they could screw up and survive. “They decided not to wait until their number was called, and so when they heard Richard was recruiting, they went to him.”

  “And the Division didn’t do anything to stop them?”

  “Eh. Tactics was regrouping. He didn’t see fit to inform either me or Reuben of these events until after the fact.”

  “Jesus.” I ran a hand through my hair. “So Richard’s got a bunch of losers working for him?”

  “Not quite the losers you deem them to be. They did manage to ensnare quite a few representatives of the various intelligence agencies.”

  Yeah, I’d have to give him that. They’d even grabbed four WBIS agents.

  The van came to a stop. There was a ratcheting sound, and then a harsh thud, and the vehicle began to descend. Within minutes, the freight elevator came to a halt, and the back doors of the van were thrown open.

  “Pierre.” An older man stood there, a bandana tied around his graying hair. “Hurry it up!”

  Pete came around from the front of the van. “Reuben, this is Mark Vincent of the WBIS. I’ve spoken to you about him.”

  Well, hell! No wonder Reuben had been less than thrilled when he’d answered Pete’s phone and I’d told him my name.

  He was a couple of inches taller than Pete, with black eyes that revealed nothing, and although he had to be in his late fifties, he was still muscled. The clothes he wore made it easy to tell that not an ounce of flab was on his body.

  “Mark, Reuben is the Division’s munitions expert.”

  “Vincent.” Hostility rolled off him in waves. Did he think I wanted to take Pete from him? “We finally meet.” He didn’t offer me his hand, I didn’t offer mine.

  “Reuben.”

  He dismissed me, glancing back at Pete. “Babe’s found a trace that might lead us right to Prinzip.”

  He turned on his heel and walked away, and we followed him to Comm.

  Babineaux sat before his computer, the graphics on his monitor reflected in the tinted glasses he wore.

  Beside him was a stocky man, his Native American heritage clear in his features, the hawk nose and high cheekbones. He was shaven-headed, and a black mustache grew down to frame his mouth and blend with a neat goatee.

  And he glared at the three of us. “Babe’s been at this fucking computer for the last eighteen hours. If he doesn’t have a break soon, his eyeballs are gonna fall out of his head.” His hand rested on Babineaux’s shoulder.

  “Jules, it’s okay. I’m done.” Babineaux leaned into him. He removed his glasses, revealing deep grooves on either side of his nose, and dug his thumb and forefinger into those spots, massaging them. He dropped his hand to caress the fingers that cupped his shoulder. “He’s rented this warehouse, see?” He pointed out the building among those that were pictured on his monitor. “The reason why it was so difficult to find was because he…”

  I tuned out what he was saying. I didn’t care why it had taken so long. Below the pixilated photo was a phone number as well as the address. I pulled out a notepad and jotted them both down.

  “Babineaux, thanks. I owe you. Pete, I need to get to the street level now.”

  “One mo
ment, mon ami. This concerns the Division, also.”

  “If the Division wants a piece of Prinzip, get in line. I’ve lost four agents.”

  “Mark, Richard has eight of ours working for him. Add to that he’s an old man who once ran the Division. If we do not deal with it personally, it will make us look bad.”

  I could understand his reasoning. “Come if you’re coming, then. But stay the fuck out of my way.”

  Pete leaned close to me. “How much is this for your agents, mon ami, and how much for Quinton Mann?”

  “What?”

  “Do you think we are unaware that M. Mann met with someone from Prinzip?”

  Reuben saved me the need to answer. He growled, “I’m going with you!” And he followed us through the emotionally frigid corridors of the Division back to the van.

  There were a number of other operatives waiting for us, including the blonde, Kiska. I glared at de Becque, but he just shrugged.

  “This must be ended now, Mark. You distract Richard, and we will deal with the rest.”

  “Yeah, sure.” I wouldn’t remind him that Richard was mine. I would just make sure that I was the one who took him out.

  “Mark.” A petite woman dressed in black seemed to have appeared out of nowhere.

  “Femme. It’s been a while. You’re looking well.”

  “Thank you. I heard you were paying us a visit. I also heard why, and I wanted to wish you good luck.”

  “Thanks.” I ran my eyes over the man who’d followed her. “I have to go.”

  “Of course.” And just like that, the two of them were gone.

  “You will need this, mon ami.” Pete handed me a capped syringe filled with a clear liquid.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “This is simply a normal saline solution, but for all intents and purposes, you will act as if it contains the genuine drug, the one that makes whoever it is used on extremely… compliant.”

  The one that Tactics was using on the snoopy American?

  “You’re not giving me the real thing?”

  “And give the WBIS the opportunity to duplicate the formula?” Pete was as amused as this situation would allow. “I think not, mon cher Mark.”

  “Okay, let me get this straight. I get to Mann. I let him know I have a plan. I pop him in the ass with the needle and get him to react the way the drug would.”

  “Not at all difficult for an agent of your caliber to convey to someone as intelligent as Quinton Mann struck me as being.”

  “Sure, Pete, not a problem.” We could do this, Quinn and me. I put the syringe in an inner pocket of my suit jacket. It was a good thing it didn’t really have the drug in it. When I was ready to make my move, I needed Quinn at my side helping me, not on my back humping me.

  “If you two are quite done?” Reuben stood, arms folded across his chest, impatiently tapping his foot.

  Pete smiled at him. “Oui, mon très cher Reuben.”

  I guessed he was serious about the man. Well, that wasn’t my concern. Getting Quinn out of whatever hellhole Prinzip held him in was.

  We all piled into the mission van, and it rose through the sublevels of the Division.

  Once we were back on the street, I flipped open my cell phone and dialed the number that would connect me with Prinzip. “This is Mark Vincent. You’ve heard of me? Excellent. I’m looking for a change of pace, and I understand you’re recruiting.”

  XIV

  TWO men were waiting for me at the outer door. I was relieved of the syringe—“Be careful with that!”—my cell phone, Glock, and clutch piece, and they were satisfied that they had disarmed me.

  Amateurs. I hadn’t chosen this suit and this shirt just because they brought out the color of my eyes.

  I was shown to an austere office. The syringe was dropped on the desk that took a big chunk of the space.

  “I said be careful, asshole!”

  The tall one met my glare indifferently. Someone who concealed his emotions so well—I knew he was the one I’d need to keep an eye on. As for his short partner, he’d bear watching too. He snarled and stuffed my guns and cell phone in a drawer in the desk, slammed it, and gave the key a vicious twist.

  “C’est M. Vincent.”

  “Bien.” The man behind the desk was not aging well. He looked like the portrait in Dorian Gray’s attic. The skin at his throat was crêpey. His cheeks bore scattered age spots that stood in sharp relief against his yellow-tinged skin, and deep lines ran from his nose and bracketed his mouth, giving him the look of a marionette. His eyes, the whites as yellow-tinged as his skin, were sunken and wavered between showing the keen intelligence he’d once had, and the vagueness of whatever was eating his mind.

  Was this what waited for all of us at the end of our careers?

  “I am the Administrator.” He rose and walked around his desk, his hand extended. “I’m so pleased to finally have the opportunity to meet you, Mr. Vincent.” He didn’t bother to introduce the two men who flanked him. Bodyguards? Flunkies? Whatever they were, they’d have been smarter to stay close to me rather than him, but this made it easier to keep them in my line of sight.

  I took his hand. It was dry, and the skin felt paper thin, and I released it as soon as I could. He smelled of old age, and I breathed as shallowly as possible without bringing notice to my action.

  “I understand you wish to join our—my organization. I must say I was a trifle surprised when you contacted us. WBIS agents are not known for switching their loyalties lightly.”

  “That’s true, Administrator, and if I hadn’t been taken out of the field, we wouldn’t necessarily be having this conversation.”

  “Ah. I see. I of all people know how addictive the adrenaline rush of a successful mission becomes.”

  Yeah.

  “You realize that I’ll need a good-faith gesture?”

  “Sure. Frankly, I’d be concerned if you didn’t want some sort of proof.” I nodded toward the syringe. “If I may?”

  “Certainly. But no unexpected moves, if you please?”

  “Sure.” I picked up the syringe and uncapped it.

  “What is it?”

  “A little drug that will make Rohypnol look like kid’s stuff. It’s specifically designed for men, makes them hotter than hell.” I winked salaciously. “Once it’s injected, the only thing they’ll want more than a cock in their ass is a cock in their mouth. Maybe both at the same time.”

  He looked intrigued by the premise. “How long does it have that effect?”

  “As long as you keep injecting it. If you give the counteragent, the… subject remembers nothing. If you let it wear off on its own, let them go cold turkey,” I improvised, “he remembers every one of his actions in glorious Technicolor detail. It’s guaranteed to break someone who’s previously thought of himself as nothing but straight.”

  “Hmm. Very interesting.”

  “Got someone you’d like this demonstrated on? Maybe one of these guys?” I nodded toward the two men beside him. The big guy stared at me blankly, but the short one didn’t look too thrilled.

  “No need. I do have someone.”

  Hopefully, he had Quinn in mind.

  According to the most current intel, no new agents had been “recruited.” If they brought someone other than Quinn to be the guinea pig, I’d have to reveal that I knew he was here and that it had to be him.

  “I have just the subject for you!” His eyes became cold and flat, almost reptilian. “A CIA operative who has proven to be very recalcitrant, no matter what we’ve injected into his system. Gaston, Etienne, fetch Quinton Mann. Bring our… visitor to the interrogation room.”

  “Mann, huh?” I breathed out silently and gave a nod. He took it as being respectful. Some people only see what they want to see.

  For a long minute he smiled, and it was one of the scariest expressions I’d ever seen on a human being. Finally, he shook himself. “If you’ll come this way, Mr. Vincent?”

  “Lead the way, Ad
ministrator. This is gonna be sweet.”

  “You’ve heard of Mr. Mann?”

  “Yeah. I like to stay aware of the competition. Damned CIA spook. He’s so straight this will be guaranteed to push him off the deep end.”

  “I like the way you think. I should have contacted someone like you from the start. Why didn’t I?”

  “Perhaps you were advised against it, Administrator?” Never let an opportunity for sowing seeds of discontent pass. “By someone you thought you could trust? Someone within your organization who didn’t want you to succeed?”

  “A possibility I will have to—ah, here we are.” He opened a door and stepped inside, and it was as if we hadn’t had that conversation.

  Oh, well, it was just an idea.

  “And here, as they say, is where the magic happens.” He pointed to the various pieces of equipment with pride. “It’s quite something, no? I used some of Femme’s—you’ve heard of her? But of course, you have. She’s extraordinarily talented, and her decorating choices are very inventive. Do you see this here?” He indicated a laser drill. “Sheer genius!”

  Femme’s or his? I’d never seen the area she worked in, but she’d spoken to me about it during the time we’d spent together, and I knew it was nothing like this.

  Prinzip’s interrogation room smelled of fear and death, and it was a symphony in dingy gray—the walls, the floor, the ceiling. There were no windows, but I didn’t have a doubt that if there had been, they’d have been gray too.

  A shitload of Mr. Clean wouldn’t be able to get rid of the dinge.

  Blood had dried to a dark brown in the crevices of the tiles on the floor as well as the wall. A large chair with straps dangling from the arms, back, and leg rest was bolted to the floor. It was streaked with blood. The ceiling was likewise patterned.

  I recognized arterial spray when I saw it.

  A slop sink in the corner was spattered with unidentifiable bits of bone and tissue.

  “Don’t let that disturb you.” Richard had seen the way my lip curled in distaste. “I had to have some bodies dismembered for disposal.”

  Browne’s among them? Once I had Quinn, I was going to make sure this insane son of a bitch paid for screwing with the WBIS.