Tipping Point

by Helena Maeve

  The bedroom door didn’t swing open no matter how much Elijah stared at it. The bed springs didn’t creak to the tune of Nate sitting up, scrubbing at his eyes. Wondering where Elijah had gone off to.

  Maybe he didn’t hear?

  For all his laundry list of federal, white collar crime, Elijah had never taken up the mantle of intelligence gathering outside his own apartment. That task usually fell to Jules, who knew what she was doing and whose instincts were honed to safeguard against wishful thinking. Elijah’s talents lay in coaxing answers out of servers and hard drives. Encryption was no setback and Nate hadn’t installed much, anyway. His email service was easy to access and easier to peruse.

  Elijah glanced over the last ten or so exchanges. The same name came up a lot—Jennings. It didn’t ring any bells and the content of the emails was, as far as Elijah could tell, innocently mundane. Frequent mention was made of places they’d visited, various shared acquaintances, even a house in Dorset and some reference to a fire.

  At first, Elijah assumed that Jennings and Nate had a thing.

  Only lovers would be so thoroughly in each other’s pocket—friends, too, but not with a man like Nate. He played his cards close to the vest. He was a lot like Jules in that regard.

  Elijah tamped down the flash of jealousy that threatened. It was none of his business, either way. Sleeping with a man a few times, no matter how good, no matter how perfect their chemistry, did not a relationship make.

  He wasn’t exactly relationship material, anyway.

  Then he parsed the tone of the emails. Nate’s clipped restraint struck him as unusual compared to his warmth in person. It was equally at odds with the intimate topics being discussed—family members suffering from Alzheimer’s, money matters.

  Father, Elijah read at last, the term of address slotted in between empty chatter about the weather and a note on how soon Nate might be able to visit.

  Face hot, Elijah backtracked as soon as he realized what he was prying into. Another email thread caught his attention just as he was about to close the laptop lid. The sender went only by Grig. The address was a throwaway, local, no country code. Elijah clicked the email.

  The contents were in Cyrillic.

  Could be nothing. Maybe he’s just a Russophile. Maybe this is work and it’s sanctioned and official and I’m going through state secrets again. Once had landed him in prison. Twice would probably see him deported—whether to Russia or some domestic gulag off the coast of Florida. It wouldn’t be a very long flight.

  He needed to know.

  Pulse kicking, Elijah brought up the browser and ran a search for a translation service. His fingers still knew their way across a keyboard. They only shook a little as he found the right link.

  He’d just entered an excerpt of the Cyrillic email and hit the translate button when a cold, blunt pressure dug into his nape. The click of a safety being switched off chilled him to the bone.

  “Don’t move,” Nate said, whisper-soft.

  On screen, a message rendered in crisp black and white.

  Uncle appreciates your work in the islands.

  Looking forward to your next visit. And a more permanent arrangement.

  Chapter Nine

  “Put the laptop down and get up.”

  Nate’s voice was low and dangerous, no trace of affection left. Elijah didn’t expect any, but he wasn’t ready to stand from the chesterfield and face him. He wasn’t ready to confront his livid, justified rage.

  He did it anyway. Now was not the time for faint-heartedness.

  “I can explain,” he started, in that pathetic, tremulous way he’d tried to talk his way out of thrashings in foster care.

  Nate leveled the Sig Sauer at his chest. “Did Jules put you up to this?”

  “What? No—”

  “Who do you work for?”

  “No one.” Elijah made to take a step closer, but the twitch of Nate’s finger on the trigger stopped him short. “I’m not spying on you. I’m just—I was concerned.”

  Nate scoffed. For all that it hurt to hear him dismiss Elijah’s attempt, it was something he’d seen coming. He deserved the scorn.

  Still, it was a few considerable steps above a swift execution.

  Elijah pressed his advantage. “I know you’re a double-agent. I know you’ve been spying on Section for the SVR and vice versa… I don’t care about any of that.” Elijah curled his hands into fists at his sides. “You don’t have to tell me anything. I’m sorry I looked. I know it’s none of my business—”

  “Then why did you? If Jules didn’t ask and you don’t care,” Nate spat out, the corners of his mouth tugging down into a sneer.

  “Because Jules does. And she’s not fooled.”

  In retrospect, Elijah should have known that bringing up the subject in the park would tip her off that all was not well at Casa di Nate. He forgot sometimes that Jules had her own agenda. Her own varied skill set. Nate wasn’t the only one whose powerful friends kept him in a life of comfort and constant suspicion. “She told me you’re struggling to make the right decision,” Elijah recalled.

  A muscle twitched under Nate’s right eye. “Did she?”

  “She also said there’s another way.”

  It was a stab in the dark, like trying to move around the room without putting a foot down. Nate probably wouldn’t shoot to kill if he depressed the trigger, but a flesh wound could be just as paralyzing.

  Elijah parted with dread and paranoia, and stepped around the couch, putting himself in easy range of Nate’s pistol. “Do you know what that means?”

  Nate swallowed hard, an answer in itself.

  Elijah went on. “I don’t have a dog in this fight, but I’ve seen you struggle. I know this isn’t easy for you.”

  “Save the reverse psychology.” Coming from an armed man, the rebuke wouldn’t have made much of an impact. Coming from Nate, while armed, was a different story.

  Elijah’s expression shuttered. “I can clear out, if that’s what you want. I nearly did it after the envelope. And again after I found the cell—” He cut himself off, embarrassed to recognize how many opportunities he’d had to leave and how many he’d let slip.

  “Why didn’t you?”

  It was a simple question. It deserved a simple answer.

  None was forthcoming.

  “Guess my self-preservation instinct is shot to hell,” Elijah replied awkwardly. “Although to be honest, I didn’t think I’d end up on the business end of one of your guns, so…”

  Nate bit down on thin air, jaw clenching. He lowered the pistol after a beat, sliding the safety back on with a near-silent click.

  “You should have left when you had the chance.”

  That stung more than Elijah could have anticipated. “Why?”

  “You have no idea what I’ve done, what I do…”

  You’ve killed people. Elijah started to speak, but the words died on his tongue before he could force them out. No need to wonder. The silence between them was fraught with secrets. Clandestine drops in broad daylight, assassinations—whatever else Nate got up to were among them.

  “Try me,” Elijah gambled, shifting his weight from foot to foot. The couch was near enough that he could still feel his way down to the armrest. He dug his fingertips into the upholstery.

  Nate arched an eyebrow. “You’re asking a spy to come clean?”

  “I’m not talking to a spy. I’m talking to you.”

  “Same thing.”

  Elijah shook his head. The differences were few and far between, but they were worth noting. Nate need not have slept with him if it was all work. He would have pressed the trigger as soon as his cover was blown. Yet here they were, seconds ticking by on an invisible stopwatch.

  “I was recruited by the SVR when I was sixteen,” Nate said. He kept his voice even, inflections chiseled down to a smooth, sleek tone. He’d never sounded more British or more unfamiliar. “My father was posted in Moscow. They leveraged his life in exchang
e for my cooperation.”

  “And you agreed.”

  “I was a kid,” Nate reiterated, as though that was an answer in itself.

  Elijah thought back to his own self at sixteen—simultaneously paralyzed with fear and eager to embrace his newfound independence. He’d been lucky to have Jules as a shield between himself and the big players. She had allowed them to suck her into the fold for both their sakes.

  “But you work for Section now,” he recalled.

  Officially, MI6 stayed out of friendly territory—and it didn’t get friendlier than the Anglo-American special relationship—but Section was an offshoot, a subdivision of a subdivision. Jules had sometimes described it as an integral part of the British Intelligence Services or when it suited top brass, a rogue operation.

  Nate didn’t bother trying to deny his affiliation. “In my family, it’s something of a tradition. I probably would have been recruited sooner or later even without nepotism to grease the wheels. With it… Look at me,” he snorted, twirling the hand that held the gun in a loose arc. “Thirty-one and already stationed abroad, tasked with surveying the comings and goings of a few prominent Cuban nationals… At this rate, I’ll be briefing the prime minister before I hit forty.”

  It was, Elijah thought, an ambitious claim. But evidence supported it. Nate was young. He could probably swing the promotion, get in with the higher-ups. Preferential treatment had its uses, as long as no one suspected that his allegiance was split.

  “Bet the Russians would love that,” Elijah murmured.

  Nate pinched his lips. He seemed poised to answer for a beat or two, then thought better of it. He dropped more than sat in the armchair by the TV, as though some invisible hand had severed all the wires that held him up. “You can just say it.”

  “What?”

  “I’m a sodding quisling. I’m a turncoat and a traitor, and if my father knew, he’d—”

  “Blame himself for drawing you into this life?” Elijah offered. “That is, if he has any sense of personal responsibility. You were a kid.”

  “Jules was even younger when she was tapped for Section.”

  Elijah nodded. “Yeah, and look how well that turned out…” She’d lost three fingers to their machinations, to say nothing of the psychological scars she kept buried deep under layers of brusque standoffishness. “I’m not trying to absolve you,” he started, only to be cut off by a glare.

  “Of course you are,” Nate shot back. “You think holding out an olive branch is what’ll save your life. You think I’m volatile and dangerous… And you’re not wrong.”

  Aggravation curled Elijah’s lips into a sneer. “Did Section teach you to read minds or was it the SVR? Don’t put words in my mouth.”

  “I’ll do whatever I bloody well want. You’re in my home, going through my things. You don’t make the rules here.”

  Elijah called upon his last remaining ounce of patience and self-control, and jerked up his chin with a defiant thrust. “How long do you think you can keep this up? You’re good,” he allowed, “but if I was able to figure out your game, Section will uncover it too.” And they’ll send someone to dispose of you once and for all when they do.

  It was their modus operandi. A burned agent was a threat to their interests.

  Nate’s father wouldn’t be able to save him then.

  “They already know,” Nate answered, his smile tepid and tight. “And the SVR knows I’m officially a British civil servant… My life is a matryoshka doll collection of half-truths.” He sank back into the armchair, leather upholstery squeaking under him. “So you see? I’m covered. Section relies on my intelligence, while the Russians depend on me for their dezinformatsiya.”

  “And it’s killing you.”

  Nate steered his gaze away. To his credit, he didn’t attempt to deny it. “We make choices and we live with the consequences. You of all people should understand how that works.”

  “I do,” Elijah breathed, “and I’ve lived through seven years of consequences. A pretty steep price, right?”

  “You killed a man.”

  It wasn’t entirely wide off the mark.

  An undercover CIA operative had become tangled in Jules’ work on American soil and that operative was now dead. The devil was in the details, which no one cared to examine.

  “And you’ve killed…how many?”

  The wrinkle between Nate’s brows faded as soon as it had appeared. “You really care to know?”

  Elijah thought it over for the space of a heartbeat, then nodded. He’d always been too curious for his own good.

  “Come with me.” Nate gestured with the pistol.

  Even uncocked, the gun still sent a flutter of panic into the depths of Elijah’s gut. “Why?”

  The question fell on deaf ears. Nate was already on his feet and flexing his fingers around the hilt of the gun.

  Elijah’s feet might have been rooted to the spot for all the difficulty with which he rose from the couch. He took a first, hesitant step toward the bedroom, then another. He couldn’t avoid darting a glance at the bed where he’d lain with Nate, or the drawers that he knew concealed so many more firearms.

  “Bathroom,” Nate said, inflectionless.

  “No, wait. Why do you—”

  The sharp thrust of the silencer between his shoulder blades cut off Elijah’s query.

  Breath fled his lungs.

  Bathroom meant quicker cleanup. It meant a swifter execution, less evidence to worry about. Nate could wash off the blood with bleach and no one would be the wiser.

  Jules would be told Elijah had fled—again—and she’d believe it because he had a history of cutting and running. She’d search for him in parks and abandoned warehouses. Perhaps she would suspect Nate, but he was too important to burn on doubt alone.

  Elijah entered the bathroom with trepidation, eyes prickling once Nate flicked on the overhead neon. The scent of shower gel still hung in the cramped space, minty and pleasant despite the stench of dread. Elijah swallowed hard.

  “At least… At least be quick about it.” Please. He’d begged the same of others in the past only to be rebuffed. He wanted to believe that Nate was different.

  The past few days should have served as evidence.

  “Into the shower,” Nate ordered, ignoring the request altogether.

  The tile was cold and slick beneath Elijah’s toes, but it wasn’t that unpleasant sensation that triggered a shudder. He’d been here before—never at gunpoint, true, though it hadn’t made much difference when the penalty for disobedience was torture.

  Nate took no notice of his dithering. “Second tile from the corner. Far wall.”

  Per instruction, Elijah trained his gaze on the square slab. It appeared no different from its siblings on either side.

  “What about it?”

  “Pull it out.”

  Elijah glanced back at Nate when he registered the instruction. His hazy, waterlogged eyes reported strange incongruities. For one thing, Nate no longer held the pistol aloft. For another, his expression had softened. He made no move to urge Elijah along, let alone force his hand. It was—disconcerting.

  Bemused, Elijah crouched down in the corner of the shower cubicle. Even up close, the tile seemed secure enough, the lines of grout neat and white against dark ceramic. It wasn’t until he placed a hand to the slab that he discovered it was loose. He worked his fingernails around the straight edges with his pulse hammering against his eardrums. Something akin to euphoria surged in his belly when he finally found grip.

  The tile slid free with a gentle tug, revealing a narrow opening in the brick wall behind it. A plastic-wrapped dossier had been squeezed into the gap.

  “You wanted to know how many people I’ve murdered,” Nate said, voice echoing dully off the bathroom tile. “You’ll find everything in there. All the sordid details, all the proof that I’m the one who pressed the trigger… Read ’em. I’ll wait in the living room.”

  Elijah turned in time to wa
tch him go, shoulders slumped and hands empty. The pistol rested, innocuous, on the lip of the sink.

  * * * *

  In the bedroom, Elijah spread out the contents of the folder all over the floor. There were newspaper clippings and redacted, official documents, passports and printed transcripts. Some pages were yellowed or coffee-stained, but all were perfectly legible. He had no excuse to avoid considering their contents.

  Naïvely, he’d anticipated long-range assassinations, or staged suicides. He’d consumed enough video games before prison to have a strong stomach for indiscriminate murder, let alone targeted executions. But sitting there, cross-legged with his back against the bed he’d shared with Nate, he was forced to confront collateral damage—children who witnessed their parents’ final moments, protracted terror campaigns before and after the wet job.

  Punishment and reward was how Section operated. Elijah should have seen the controlled arson coming. He should have expected that somewhere along the line Nate, had threatened worse things than murder.

  Coercion hadn’t come easy to Jules until she’d joined the SIS. She and Nate had attended the same school, albeit for different purposes. Now it was practically second nature.

  Documents detailing Nate’s Russian exploits were also included in the files, but Elijah couldn’t make sense of those. He recognized dates and headshots, though, and that was enough to surmise what they meant.

  The manila envelope that had been delivered to Nate’s door earlier in the week was there too. Elijah pried it out carefully. The seal had been sliced off with a clean blade. He turned over the envelope and slid its contents free. No transcripts or letters trickled out, but the stack of photographs was its own threat. They showed Nate at a boardwalk café somewhere.

  Elijah didn’t recognize the location. He guessed Europe, if only by the architecture. One photograph revealed a corner of the breakfast menu. Elijah’s best guess was French. If he squinted, it almost seemed like the prices were in Euros too.

  Nate himself seemed unchanged. His hair was a little shorter, the lines of his suit a tad looser, but he seemed to be the same age as the man waiting for Elijah in the other room.