Line in the Shadow

by Clancy Nacht

  “Can’t imagine why. I’m better at watching than I am at coming in.” Rex’s face twitched into an almost-smile before he glanced away. Then Rex’s hand reached for Ike’s. Their fingers twined. Rex looked sidelong at Ike and did a better impression of a smile the second time. “You’re a good man, Ike.”

  “Is it wrong to admit I feel a little safer knowing you might be around to bail me out again?” Ike kissed Rex’s cheek and gave his hand a squeeze. Maybe it was a little creepy to be followed, but mostly it made Ike sad that Rex wasn’t comfortable joining them. Once bitten, twice shy? “And you know you’re welcome to call me or knock on our door at any time, right?”

  Rex studied Ike’s face, then nodded. “I know, Ike. That’s why you’re a good man.” There was such gentleness in Rex’s eyes as he gazed at him that it made Rex look years younger, almost innocent. Then Rex cleared his throat and the moment passed. “Promise I’ll do you the courtesy of letting you know next time I’ve appointed myself neighborhood watch captain. Then you can invite me in for coffee. Deal?”

  “Deal.” Ike kissed Rex again, then sighed as he glanced at the clock. “I have to get back. Drop me a line soon, yeah? Two weeks is too long for me not to see you.”

  Chapter 9

  Frowning with concentration, Rex pried the back off the flimsy disposable phone, palmed the battery, and swapped the SIM card with one he’d saved just for this purpose. He jammed the battery into place like a gun’s magazine, feeling the same thrill of arming himself. He fitted the back panel into place and powered up the phone, then gave a cursory glance at the mouth of the alleyway.

  Ancient walls rose around him, almost white in the oppressive noon sunlight. Heat shimmered like lip gloss kisses on the dusty ground. In the shadowed alcove where Rex waited, the temperature was less deadly, perhaps ninety-five Fahrenheit, an acceptable level compared to that of the plaza beyond.

  The phone gave a muffled chirp as its screen flared into life. Rex checked its reception, verified the correct profile had loaded, and placed the call. It rang once, then again, then a third time. With each ring, Rex’s gut tightened into a harder knot. On the fourth ring, a quiet voice answered, “A damsel with a dulcimer, in a vision once I saw.”

  The Samuel Taylor Coleridge poem was the sign/cosign passphrase for an asset long thought lost to poor tradecraft on the part of her handlers. The knot released, leaving Rex ebullient as he replied, “It was an Abyssinian maid, and on her dulcimer she played, singing of Mount Abora. Al-Ahmad? Sokolov. Time to come home, child.”

  “Oh, praise Allah. You must be quick.” The soft-spoken woman switched to Russian to give Rex a string of coordinates and landmarks, then hung up abruptly.

  Rex immediately removed the SIM card, replaced it with a third identity, and destroyed Sokolov’s. He shouldn’t need it again this trip, and if he did, it was already too late. Good tradecraft relied on these over-cautious measures. It was why Rex had been sent to Oman instead of a younger agent with a ready-made legend for the region; over two decades after its creation, his Ivan Sokolov identity still held water, and that allowed Ivan to go anywhere in the world without question. His contacts, his reputation, and above all his permanence made his credentials hold up to scrutiny in a way that no younger identity could hope to.

  As simple as it was now to cook an identity on the computer, to Photoshop and plant an entire false life on the web, nothing could compete with name recognition, the power of a familiar face, or the indisputably real existence of business and social transactions made over years and years of undercover living. A month or two a year as Sokolov for twenty years, and he was more real than Rex was.

  Rex hailed an orange-and-white taxi, slipped into the backseat, and gave the driver a landmark as his destination. Though he had been given several potential meeting places, Rex had hopes that this would be the only location he needed to convince al-Ahmad to come in. Perhaps it was egotism, but when he was Ivan, he was in his element. Ivan could persuade anyone of anything, and museums were his favored hunting ground.

  Two hours later, Ivan left the Bait al Zubair with a woman at his side, her face and hair concealed modestly and her eyes red-rimmed above the cloth. She’d set him a series of puzzles, and he’d solved them all. Now, this was his prize: her trust. He’d bring al-Ahmad back to the States, and then Hawthorne and his cabal could say what they liked; she knew the ground game, and her loyalty was to the team that had saved her.

  When he put in the secured call to Masters, Rex heard his boss laugh for the first time in years.

  After recovering al-Ahmad, Rex had proven he’d not lost his chops. Though al-Ahmad seemed terrified at the thought of being processed by someone other than Sokolov, once she was returned to American hands, she was permanently out of Rex’s. He felt a pang at surrendering her to her new handlers—they hadn’t convinced her to come in; he had—but what could he do? His job was recovering assets lost to poor tradecraft, not reconditioning assets and debriefing them. Masters promised he’d get her intel to Rex as it applied to his cases, but after her years in the cold, that could take months.

  He returned to Manhattan to discover that the wall he’d hit in his research on Hawthorne’s unit—and on Rebelski and Broekner—had only solidified. As tantalizing as the implications were, Rex had abandoned further investigation on that matter to instead pursue the cold trails left by missing assets like al-Ahmad, and once she started talking, they’d bring in more. That search, at least, had yielded results. Their recovery would remain top secret, at least until they were all brought in and accounted for.

  Another place where Rex’s clearance had not failed him was in researching Ike’s neighbor, Vincent Whitman. Far from the harmless kook that Ike took him for, Vincent was Vietnam-era black ops. At the height of the cold war, Vincent Whitman’s record was almost completely redacted, but Rex’s clearance had given him enough access to see things that curled even his hair.

  About the time Rex was being recruited by the Company, Vincent had experienced a psychotic break. Thus started a decade of the government’s intervention, apparently an attempt to unbreak Vincent. Rex could understand now why Vincent would identify so much with Wolverine. Some of the underwater sensory deprivation treatments did appear familiar.

  On the bright side, it didn’t look like the government planted Vincent near Ike. Though undoubtedly an effective tool in his heyday, Vincent would no longer be dependable enough to give consistent reports, if any. The man had been released with his pension, heavy anti-psychotics, and a warning against danger to the public. He only became violent against those he considered threats.

  Rex had to hope that meant Vincent would be a pit bull for the Graveses. After all, Ike was powerfully compelling.

  Ike had changed Rex, hadn’t he? Made him less desperate, less hollow. The memory of Ike filling him sustained him. The compulsion to flee into another life—to go overseas and assume one of his legends just to escape being lonely, pitiful Rex Carver—had all but disappeared. Now he operated more smoothly undercover, gauged his responses and actions without the crushing pressure that had lurked behind his eyeballs not too long ago.

  Rex still took the pills, still needed his fried nerves and perpetually confused synapses to be told when to fire and when to rest. Now, though, it was just for the job. When he was safe, alone in his hotel room, he summoned Ike with his imagination and jerked off. He’d fall asleep after he came, and he’d wake up when he was supposed to, just like an innocent man. It was a thing of wonder, really; Rex hadn’t known lust could do that.

  Was it something more?

  Rex still thought of his wife during stakeouts, more so after Ike had brought her up during their last tryst. Heather had been his touchstone, the way in which Rex judged what was true in his life, what was worthy. She’d let him live as Piper’s father, let him pretend he was capable of having a family. To Piper, he was still a hero long after Heather had realized he was a governmentally-sanctioned criminal at best. Lying in bed
together after Piper fell asleep, it was Rex’s amorality that became the subject of Heather’s pillow talk, not so unlike his last afternoon with Ike.

  But it was all right that Ike knew what Rex was, different than it had been with her. Ike had still fucked him, still asked Rex to come inside instead of watch from the street. Clearly one didn’t require the same qualities in a booty call that one did in a husband and co-parent. Rex was lucky enough that Ike’s kink was making James Bond his bitch; he wouldn’t ask any more of that relationship. He had learned long ago how to feel deeply without expecting those feelings to matter to anyone else. He’d even learned how to believe that his feelings didn’t matter to himself.

  His marriage to Heather was one of the few times when those feelings had mattered. He’d loved her as he’d never loved anyone else because he had been permitted to. She was needy, a new mom with an open, confused heart for Rex to obsess over, analyze, and intuit on a nightly basis. During his desk jockey era, having a picture-perfect family and devoting his off-the-clock life to being a husband and father had been its own escape. While other men escaped from their family into workaholism, Rex escaped his work into familial fantasy. And in the end, it hadn’t been enough for her.

  That it had ended as it did was no surprise to Rex. He’d always known, deep down, that he was tainted by his work and unfit to be a husband or father. The amorality that enabled him to survive had stained his soul and left him grimy inside, coated with some foul oil that Heather’s tears would never wash away.

  That was, he’d reflected repeatedly during the days since his last talk with Ike, probably why he shied away from taco night. Rex sensed that once he crossed the line from family acquaintance and lunchtime quickie into dating-someone’s-parent, all would be doomed. Right now Rex was the random mystery man of easy affections and frequent absences. If he could avoid escalating the bond, Rex might delay indefinitely the dalliance’s inevitable end.

  Rex eyed the clock. It was 7 a.m., and Ike should be packing Kaylee off to school in a few, which left Rex enough time to shower, jump into his car, and follow Ike to where he was working.

  Though Ike had given Rex an open invitation to come inside at the house, showing up at the job would be awkward, so he stayed out of sight. Following Ike to the subway was always tricky, since Rex had to get out of his car, figure out where Ike was headed, and then hope traffic was kind. A couple of times Rex was left triangulating Ike’s GPS. Fortunately, Ike wasn’t the sort of man who turned it off, unlike Rex or most of his paranoid colleagues.

  This time, though, Ike headed for the bus. Rex followed, wondering how intrusive it would be to show up at Ike’s job for lunch instead of calling him with an invitation to the hotel.

  Ike departed the bus in the heart of a pretty little neighborhood in Queens—the sort of area with million dollar houses whose continual renovations probably kept Ike very busy. Rex rolled in not too far from the house and watched Ike ring the bell.

  The door opened, and the man who’d answered looked past Ike, straight at Rex, and smiled. Rex’s heart stopped. He knew that face.

  Whatever he could infer from Oliver Broekner’s presence, it couldn’t be good. The least alarming option—that the Company was keeping tabs on whom Rex was fucking—seemed unlikely. Broekner was under suspicion; no handler would authorize him for that assignment.

  As Rex stared at Broekner, he thought back to the files his elite clearance inexplicably failed to access—the problems in the Middle East, the probability of repercussions for the agents found responsible. And, as he looked at Ike, so fragile in the doorway beside a Company man Rex couldn’t trust, he remembered the night they’d met, when another agent had tried to murder Ike.

  Broekner’s attention turned then from Rex to Ike, and he settled a hand on Ike’s shoulder, the gesture so familiar it made Rex’s gut churn. He couldn’t hear Broekner’s words, but Rex could read lips well enough to understand Broekner was expressing pleasure at seeing Ike again. Then Broekner stepped forward, moving into Ike’s personal space.

  How sleek the other agent looked, how young and strong. If Rex had been planning an op on a gay man, Broekner was exactly the agent he’d send.

  Seeming uncomfortable, Ike edged backward and looked to the side, as if seeking a way around Broekner. Suddenly, inaction wasn’t an option.

  Rex powered down the car window and shouted, “Ike!” Ike’s body stiffened as he whirled around and spotted Rex’s car. His brow furrowed, but he gave Rex a hesitant smile.

  Broekner said something, but Ike waved it off and jogged over to Rex, ducking to look through the window.

  “Hey, baby, you lookin’ for a good time?” As Ike grinned at his own joke, Broekner mimed aiming a rifle at the back of Ike’s head.

  “I’ve got a nice hotel room...” Rex searched Ike’s eyes, hoping his uninvited presence wouldn’t spark an argument. He ignored Broekner; he’d proven Rex’s suspicions, but he couldn’t act in a busy neighborhood in broad daylight.

  Impulsively, Rex caught Ike in a kiss. After so long apart, the heat of Ike’s mouth set off a chain reaction throughout Rex’s body. He wanted nothing more than to order Ike into the car and drive away with him, take him to safety.

  Seeming of a similar mind, Ike reached through the window to cup the back of Rex’s head and deepen the kiss. Then he looked into Rex’s eyes and murmured, “Am I taking an early lunch?”

  “Yeah, hop in.” Rex smiled at Ike as he struggled to stay focused on the danger Broekner posed. “We need to talk. Privately. Yell at your boss from here. Don’t go back over to him.”

  At that, Ike pulled back and studied Rex with a strange look. Then he turned, cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted, “I’ll be back after lunch.”

  Broekner’s jaw tightened, but he just waved. “I’ll be waiting!”

  He could wait all he wanted. Rex wasn’t letting Ike come back.

  Seeming oblivious to the deeper tide through which he swam, Ike hopped into Rex’s car and smiled at him. “If it’s about him flirting with me, you have nothing to worry about. His family should be moving in soon.”

  That comment caught Rex off-guard, bringing his focus from the fatal back to the romantic. Did Ike see them as exclusive? Did he wait faithfully for Rex to return from his frequent trips?

  Ridiculous. Ike had better options for a relationship. Rex was just there, eager, and maybe kinky with the whole secret agent thing.

  That thought shouldn’t hurt so much.

  Eyeing Broekner, Rex put the car into gear and drove off, watching the other agent in the rearview mirror until he was out of sight. Then Rex looked over at Ike and tried to smile. It fell flat. “You can’t trust that man.”

  Ike looked over his shoulder as if Broekner might be there. “What, Oliver? I think he’s just bicurious. Not really my type anyway. Don’t worry, I’m not telling him anything or giving him any hope. It’s strictly professional.”

  “I don’t doubt that.” Might Rex’s car be observed? Would telling Ike the truth now put him in greater danger? If Masters was bugged…

  Why was Ike a target at all? It was maddening. Could it really be his proximity to Rex?

  To Rex’s knowledge, there’d been no more attacks or even threats until Rex showed up and gave away to Broekner that he cared. It was only when he’d called Ike to his car that Broekner made that aggressive gesture.

  His working conclusion had to be that Rex’s involvement put Ike at risk. As much as Rex wanted to think anything else, there was no data to suggest otherwise. His heart sank as he realized what he had to do.

  Rex navigated traffic as if in a trance, utilizing the skills learned from a dozen specialized driving classes over the years. He avoided jams, people waiting to turn, and squeaked through yellow lights, ensuring they would be nearly impossible to follow. As they neared the hotel without sign of a tail, Rex relaxed just enough to take a deep breath for the first time since Broekner’s door had opened to reveal just what a mess I
ke was in.

  Biting his lip, Rex reached over to place his hand on Ike’s thigh and spared him a searching sidelong glance. He was going to miss Ike, more than Rex could afford to miss anyone. Chest clenching, Rex returned his attention to the street.

  The valet stood curbside waiting to take the car when Rex pulled up, and he wasted no time herding Ike inside and up to the relative privacy of his room. He kept one hand on Ike the entire time, on his arm or shoulder or at the small of his back. Inescapable paranoia built in his mind; somewhere, someone was waiting to harm Ike for nothing more than the bad luck of Rex valuing him.

  Rex opened the door to his suite and immediately began his series of security checks. Nothing appeared tampered with. Despite his persistent sense they were under surveillance, Rex had to move forward. The tingle at his nape wouldn’t go away until Rex got to the bottom of what had Hawthorne’s team so spooked.

  With everything as safe as Rex could make it, he turned to look at Ike. As he gazed at Ike’s face, took in the familiar angles and the irresistible curve of his lips, he felt an unquantifiable sense of loss. His feet moved unbidden, carrying him toward Ike despite everything warning Rex to keep his distance. Then his arms were around Ike, clinging shamelessly, so far ahead of Rex’s thoughts that he couldn’t make sense of what he was doing.

  In return, Ike wrapped his strong arms, firm and protective, around Rex. “Hey, it’s okay. You have nothing to worry about.”

  Ike drew in a deep breath, as if he was about to say something monumental, but instead, he kissed Rex’s temple and tightened their embrace. “You all right, Rex? Something happen at work?”

  Why couldn’t Rex be an ordinary man? Live in a world where he could be the protected for once instead of the protector?

  It felt so safe in Ike’s arms that it took an effort of will to remember from one moment to the next how dangerous this situation had become. It would be so easy to let go of reality and lose himself in Ike’s warmth.