Carter's Recourse - 29. Chapter 29

It was one of those combinations that inevitably led to distraction. Not that it was too hot; it was more that the temperature was just right. One of those days that it seemed impossible to stay inside, or focused on anything except finding a patio, having a drink and relaxing.

The kind of day he had always liked to spend with Will.

He had to get a grip, and knew it. Blake was right, he couldn't go on living his life for another person. A relationship was about living with another person.

It had taken a couple of days for him to calm down; Andrew was always going to be a part of Will's life, and that was just the way it was. Like it or not, if Marc wanted to be with Will, he had to accept the baggage that came with him.

Marc took another drag on his cigarette and willed himself into motion, walking up Bank Street heading back towards Blake's apartment. He'd gone and applied for his student loans, and on the recommendation of the counsellor he had seen, a couple of bursaries and a scholarship... him... a scholarship.

A few years ago he was a homeless kid hiking across Canada, running from the demons of his past and trying to escape the one thing no one could ever escape. Themselves.

Everyone and everything in his life had been transient; he would get close to something only to lose it again, and he'd come to expect it. But then he'd met Will, a handsome, dignified, boring man with kind eyes, who had stood firm. Refusing to give up on him, giving him a hand up and helping him, only asking for love back in return.

Will was the first person Marc had ever known he was in love with.

Sure there were girls out there that he'd 'loved' in a purely materialistic, physical fashion that he wasn't proud of years later. But that was part of what growing up was all about. Realizing that there was more to love than sex, more to sex than the physical...

He tipped his sunglasses down and tried looking at a beautiful girl as he walked up the street. He was a handsome, if short, guy, and the sharp red bowling shirt he was wearing was eye-catching. She smiled and blushed at his attention, turning her head to follow him as he walked past.

She was cute, all curls and red cheeks. Yet another Brittany clone that seemed to be in every shopping mall or street, trying their best to appear innocent.

Marc shrugged as he slipped his hands into his pockets, pulling them out again when he realized that he was mirroring one of Will's bad habits. That and excessive coffee drinking. Marc secretly believed that if you were to stick a spigot into Will's belly button you'd be able to extract 100% Colombian.

He grinned; Will's belly button was very sensitive, and it was a guaranteed way of making Will blush a bright shade of red, no matter the situation. There had been a Liberal fundraiser a few months ago where Marc had 'pushed the button' just to enjoy Will's flustered reaction.

There he was, staring at a beautiful girl, and all he could think of was sticking his finger into his boyfriend's belly button. Now that just wasn't fair! He turned in his steps, walking backwards as he stared at her. Shouldn't he be thinking about having sex with her? Marriage, a mini-van and a mortgage?

He collided with a rather surprised businessman, who glared down at him accusingly for not watching where he was going.

Marc smiled sheepishly and continued his way up the street, jogging to catch up with Blake who was just coming out of the side door of his building.

"Hey!" he called, hopping to a stop and smiling.

"You look like the cat that swallowed the canary." Blake smirked putting his keys away in his trench coat pocket, not really caring that at a balmy twenty-seven degrees it was entirely too hot for that get-up.

"I applied for a scholarship," Marc nodded, folding his arms and walking with Blake as he set off back down the road.

"Ok, I told you to go get a job, I didn't mean blow the student-aid counsellor..." Blake's blue eyes sparkled as he grinned at his friend. It was the first time in days he'd seen Marc genuinely happy.

"I didn't blow him." Marc shook his head; Blake's brain was a permanent resident in the gutter and seemed to thrive there. "He said with my GPA and my prof's recommendation I could qualify."

"That's good news, right?" Blake asked, stopping at The Second Cup and buying both of them a cup of coffee. Blake surreptitiously chose a latte when he thought Marc wasn't paying attention.

"Fag!" Marc accused with a grin as Blake was handed his large cup.

"Just because I have taste, am ruggedly..." he paused at Marc's short barked laugh, "...handsome," he continued, "doesn't make me a fag."

"No, but the fact you sleep with a different guy every week does," Marc fired back, the two friends walking back out onto the street, heading for the core of downtown.

"I'm not a slut," Blake replied, dodging around a woman wielding a stroller like it was a lethal weapon. Her bawling kid strapped into the thing was clutching on for dear life and screaming its guts out. Both gay men looked at it, then at each other, suddenly very thankful they were gay.

"Ok, so what was the name of the last guy you slept with?" Marc asked pointedly, sipping his coffee.

"I don't know... Mike... Michael... Michelle or something..." Blake shrugged. "I still have his number."

"Right," Marc nodded. "What was his last name?"

"That's not the point..." Blake replied defensively. "You're not allowed to pick on me, I just bought you coffee."

Marc nodded and smirked into his cup, "Where are you off to?"

"You know all that food in the fridge?" Blake asked as they crossed Somerset Street. "Well it comes from these places... they're called grocery stores..."

* * *

"I've located the boyfriend," the newcomer said into his cell phone, standing in the doorway of the old Duke of Somerset, closed now for renovations. He watched as the young man in the garish nineteen-fifties retro gear followed the lanky goth into the Hartman's grocery store.

"Good," Johnson said through the cell phone. "Just shadow for the moment, get a feel for where he goes, what he does. And if he tries to contact Carter."

"Understood," the newcomer replied closing his phone with a thoughtful snap, glancing up and down the street before he stepped out and across it, to continue his trailing of the young man.

* * *

Johnson tapped his own phone against his lip, his arms crossed as he stared out of the bright windows of the tall building, down upon the streets beneath him. He was learning more and more about William Carter from the way he reacted to the crisis he found himself in. Unlike most men who would choose to run and hide, Carter was a man who chose to engage. You slugged him and he got back up and slugged you. Direct men were easy to manipulate--set a trap and they would willingly walk into it.

The problem was the young CSIS pup that seemed to be following him everywhere he went. Andrew Highmore struck Johnson as being hot-headed, overconfident and aggressive. But his fatal flaw seemed to remain William Carter.

William Carter, Minister Without Portfolio. William Carter, gay rights advocate and Liberal spin-doctor. A backbencher who suddenly found himself mired in policy-making. All thanks to what Johnson had done. The more he was built up, the more spectacular the impact would be when he died.

Johnson's phone rang again, and he glanced down at it before putting it to his ear. "Ambassador," he greeted calmly.

"Outside, now," the Ambassador commanded before he hung up the phone.

Johnson closed his phone again, putting it back into his pocket, and taking a moment to check his pistol. He screwed the silencer onto the barrel of the Beretta before he tucked it away again into the folds of his coat.

If they wanted to kill him, the CIA recovery team would have done it by now. His eyes travelled across the rooftops to an unobtrusive patch of concrete and refuse, the sun glinting off of glass. The sniper that had been covering him for the better part of the last two days had no idea that the building Johnson stood in had once been used to house the Canadian Air Force's Administration Department, and that the glass was three-quarter-inch-thick bulletproof plexiglas. Johnson smiled tightly; let them think they had him at any time they wanted, as long as he knew where they were, he was safe.

He made his way outside, the ankle-length black trench coat and mirrored sunglasses made him stand out, as did his imposingly powerful frame. People avoided him; it worked nicely in the Middle East where the bigger you were the more respect you got. In civilized Western cultures they were loath to admit that was the truth, but you seldom saw anyone built like Johnson who was harassed, or bumped into 'accidentally'.

The Cadillac--it was always a Cadillac for this Ambassador--with its red plates pulled up to the curb and Johnson knew he was expected to climb in. And to answer pointless questions about what he was doing for people who, despite the fact he was disavowed, still felt he owed them something.

Johnson sat down in the back seat, and looked at the Ambassador seated across from him, and the none-too-subtle CIA agent that was seated beside him, hand tucked into his jacket as if the gun he was holding would actually save his life if Johnson decided to end it.

"You failed again." The Ambassador tossed the newspaper he was holding across at Johnson, where it announced that the House of Commons had been shut down for the third consecutive day by the Opposition alliance trying to force a vote for war, or a confidence vote.

Johnson didn't bother to look at it, he stared levelly at the Ambassador, "We have problems, but they are solvable."

"Bull," the Ambassador snapped, his southern drawl twisting the words. "Your man Carter isn't budging on his position to back his party, what happened?"

"The British failed to deliver his vote," Johnson answered. "They were too subtle, I'm not about to make that mistake."

"Contain this situation," the Ambassador snapped, "or you are a dead man, am I clear?"

Johnson smiled coldly as the limousine pulled to a halt completing its circuit of the block. "As a bell," he replied letting himself out of the car.

His superiors were growing impatient, typical politicians worrying about a little bad press. He glanced up to where his sniper was perched and licking his lips. He was running out of time and he knew it. And they wouldn't tolerate another failure.

* * *

Captain West Harding ignored the steady rain that fell about him, tucking his uniform cap onto his head as he crossed the small parade square to enter the Headquarters Building of Catterick Garrison.

The guards on either side of the doors saluted him as he went past, and he returned the salute as he stepped inside, looking about the lobby for the entrance to his commanding officer's office. Wessex had called for him, typically, to come across the base from where he was overseeing the training of a new recon company, readying them for their eventual deployment into Iraq.

He nodded to the sergeant in the outer office, who looked up from his computer to look over at the door to the major's office and nodded for West to wait inside.

Wessex, typically, was running late. The ornate office sat what had once been a luxurious house before the Army had requisitioned it for the garrison headquarters. Rich furnishings that had survived the numerous men that had occupied the office seemed steeped in the heritage of the house and the garrison. And West stood patiently waiting, his peaked cap tucked under his arm staring out of the rain-streaked window over the parade ground and the garish nineteen-sixties-style buildings surrounded by temporary barracks and mobile offices that rounded out the base's facilities.

He'd been back only a couple of days, but readjusting to duty in England, after serving with the Expeditionary force abroad for so long, was proving difficult. He found it hard to relax, and his mind kept wandering to Peter and Canada. Even though the danger was past, and Peter was safe, that didn't stop West from worrying about him.

West stood ramrod straight, the way he had been trained to, feeling the weight of the olive-green uniform he wore. Three captain's stars sat on either shoulder, the Sam Browne belt supporting his service pistol. There were medal ribbons on his chest, all of which he had earned for his time in Iraq. But it still made no sense why he was there, far from the front lines where he was needed, in a job normally reserved for older officers nearing the end of their term of service.

He looked through the rain-soaked window to where Wessex had appeared, addressing a group of his soldiers at the far end of the parade ground. He would typically take ten minutes to make his wishes for them clear, and from where West stood Wessex appeared in no hurry.

West glanced down at the desk, to the stack of files that sat there, West's file amidst them, waiting for their meeting. A hefty tome that detailed much of his career for the Commandant to review as he lectured West on some small detail of procedure that he liked done a certain way.

West looked up out of the window again, Wessex gesturing with his regimental baton to a couple of young lieutenants, as West's hand snaked out to turn the file towards him, flipping through the pages of fitness reports, psychological reports and letters from his former commanding officers.

He paused for a second on Colonel Carter's last performance review, written hours before his death in Basra, commending the young lieutenant's performance and recommending him for promotion to captain.

West reached up and touched his third star, his because of that report. The last official act of a true war hero...

He passed through after action reports, looking up out of the window again, at Wessex still in the middle of his lecture, turning the Xeroxed pages as he tried to find some hint as to why he had been dragged back behind the lines.

He stopped at the distinctive portcullis and crown over top of a griffon. The words 'Regnum Defende' appeared in bold print beneath the crest. MI6. Anyone in the military knew that crest from intelligence reports, and West drew a deep breath throwing up a glance to check on Wessex again before he leaned in to read.

His brow furrowed, "strategic gains," "influence exerted through association." His eyes scanned down, looking up at Wessex heading across the parade ground, and he knew he was running out of time. He scanned faster, skipping over the details of the plan, trying to catch the gist of what he was reading. That was the advantage of being on the front lines and reading such intelligence briefings while bullets whistled over your head.

He felt his fist ball up, as he closed the file and turned it back to its place. He stood straight again as Wessex marched into his office to take his desk. Looking at the young captain standing before him, the Commandant's eyebrow arched as he shrugged off his wet trench coat and set his cap and baton aside.

"How are your training programs coming along?" The Commandant asked, taking his seat.

'Exploit the death of Colonel Carter in an effort to secure the required vote.' West's fist tightened till his knuckles went white. "They are reacting well to the program, sir," West replied tightly.

Wessex nodded, digging out West's file and clicking his pen, reading over the last couple of reports.

He'd been played--his emotions, the request of a dying man. All of it had been used as an ace to get what they wanted. Peter's kidnapping... the pieces started to fall into place, and West felt his stomach tightening as he realized he'd played right into their hands by delivering his message at exactly the moment they wanted it delivered.

The fact that he was there, at Catterick Garrison, was supposedly the reward he had earned by unintentionally betraying everything he had ever believed in. Everything the uniform he wore stood for, and the rank insignia on his shoulder he had bled to earn.

He felt cold, answering Wessex's questions automatically. His brain was long used to responding despite the shock he felt setting in. He was a soldier, he could still operate despite it, and Colonel Carter had trained him well.

His mind sifted through the pieces of the puzzle and he knew he had to figure out a way to get a message to Will, but short of picking up a phone and dialling... He lived on the base; all his calls would go through the main switchboard and were monitored. That meant he had to wait until his next furlough off base, the weekend at the earliest.

No, the only thing he could do was try to find a way to get a message to Will or Peter via another route. Email perhaps, but the computers on the base were as closely monitored as the phones. The problem of being in a state of war and living with the terrorists-hiding-under-the-bed mentality.

What would Colonel Carter do?

"I want you to make sure they are ready for anything by the time they get deployed," Wessex was saying.

"Yes, sir," West nodded. "Perhaps I should conduct a night exercise with them?" he asked, knowing full well what Colonel Carter would do.

Wessex nodded. "I like your commitment," he said, nodding and noting it in the file. "When were you thinking?"

"Tonight, sir, there's little point in waiting. I might as well get them used to it earlier rather than later. If I could have your permission to take four Land Rovers from the motor pool?"

Wessex nodded, "Very well, put it together and I look forward to hearing your results."

West saluted as he turned and marched from the room. They had used him. Now, he was going to use them. And the idea that was forming in his head would probably get him into a lot of trouble, but at least he would get the warning out.