Carter's Recourse - 31. Chapter 31

"They do something to the coffee up here," Johnson said, absently resting a hand on his window, studying the world beneath him waking up to another new day. "So what did you find out from following the kid?"

The newcomer lounged back on the uncomfortable makeshift furniture, setting the coffee aside and squinting up at the bright window framing Johnson, "Not much; I know where he's staying, that he and Carter have had some kind of a fight and they are taking some time apart."

"Is he still a good subject?" Johnson asked, his voice gravelly;"Can he still be used as bait?"

"I don't know," the newcomer replied shaking his head. "They haven't made any kind of attempt to communicate from what I can tell, and the tap Yani has on the phone lines confirms that."

"We need more information," Johnson said thoughtfully, his fingers tapping the cool glass, as his eyes followed a couple of kids walking out of the public library half a block up the street.

"We could go for the same kid we grabbed before," the newcomer offered. "We know he's close to Carter."

"No," Johnson said shaking his head, "once is enough, the boy's been through too much already. We're trying to break Carter, not some college kid that got in the way..."

"Growing a conscience?" the newcomer asked in amusement.

Johnson turned fully, his mirrored sunglasses shielding the look in his eyes; it made him seem cold, mechanical, and emotionless. "I like to stay focused. Also, the kid is going to be tough to get to, especially after the kidnapping. Hit him again, and Carter will run right to CSIS and the police; after all, they got him back the last time." Johnson folded his arms, "What we need is bait, something to draw Carter to us without the police and that little CSIS puppy yapping at our heels."

"When does he leave for England?" the newcomer asked, returning to sip his coffee, regretting that he hadn't picked up a couple of doughnuts.

"Two days, MI6 confirmed he's going. Off to dedicate a memorial to his hero father who died in the war; it's a nice little sound byte that will get everyone thinking. We get him when he comes back."

"Three days, then," the newcomer mused. "Not a lot of time to figure out how to lure him here."

"Do you think Yani's attractive?" Johnson asked, an idea forming.

The newcomer blinked at the abrupt question, "I'm not..."

Johnson smiled tightly crossing the floor to look into the disused side office where the young communications specialist was sitting monitoring phone lines and reading computer intercepts. Pretty in that Iowa-corn-fed kind of way, glasses and close-cropped blond hair with a naturally toned body.

"Perfect," Johnson said with a tight smile.

Yani pulled of his headphones and looked up at his boss in surprise, "What's up?"

"You're going to get me some information," Johnson said, smiling. "Ever seduce an informant?"

"N-no..." Yani stammered, his cheeks going red, uncertain as to what his boss wanted.

"Sacrifice, for the sake of one's country," Johnson said, glancing over at where the newcomer was chuckling into his coffee, "is a noble thing, and an open mind is an admirable quality in a good field agent."

"I... don't follow," Yani said, getting the impression he wasn't going to like where this was leading.

"You're gay for a day," Johnson said, smiling wolfishly.

"Sir...?" Yani suddenly looked panicked, glancing past his boss to the newcomer for support.

Johnson nodded coldly, "I knew you wouldn't let your country down, son."

* * *

Gregory Templeman leaned down to look at the CCTV camera panning over a view of a high street somewhere in Yorkshire. He nodded thoughtfully to himself, "Yes, that's them, do we have any more shots?"

"A couple, sir," the young technician replied, tapping away on his computer and calling up the other shots of the street and the two people walking back to a non-descript Volvo carrying their take-away with them.

"You recognize them, sir?" The young technician looked up at his superior questioningly.

"You learn a few faces when you work as long as I have," Templeman said, reaching out to tap the console controls and zooming in on the pair. "These two work for Sir Nigel."

"MI6?" The tech looked incredulous. "But they have no domestic..."

Templeman snorted derisively as he straightened up, "It doesn't matter to them, they are there for a reason, one they don't want us knowing about."

"I can try to figure out where they went from the cameras..." the tech offered.

"No need," Templeman replied, fishing out his cell phone and making a call to his superiors. "That's right, by Catterick Garrison... yes." He turned away from the tech, "I need a team, off the record... I'll explain on the way, have them meet me in," he looked at his watch, "ten minutes." He smiled, "MI6 have decided to play silly buggers on home turf, I'm going to show them that the home team always wins... understood, sir." He smiled and clicked his phone off.

MI5 was charged with defending the nation's security, and if MI6 had decided to stage an operation on domestic territory it was because they were up to something illicit. Templeman smiled chillingly; that just wasn't cricket in his book.

* * *

Marc stood on the landing of the fire escape, smoking a cigarette, staring eastwards. His arms were folded tight against his lean frame as he rested a foot against the rail and braced himself against the wall.

"I come bearing gifts!" Blake said, sticking his head out of the window and grinning at his new roommate. "Margaritas, mi amigo!" he shook the jug tantalizingly at Marc.

"I'm still in love with Will," Marc said as he watched a plane fly across the evening sky.

"Did you talk to him?" Blake asked, stepping out onto the balcony and pouring a couple of tall glasses with the strawberry-flavoured concoction he had whipped up with a little help from the blender.

"No," Marc replied.

"You gonna call him?" Blake asked.

"Uh-uh." Marc shook his head and flicked his untouched cigarette off the fire escape into the alleyway below.

"Oh, so you're torturing yourself, then," Blake replied, setting the second glass down and pouring his own.

"I know," Marc said sadly, taking the glass and running a hand through his hair. "It's horrible. And it's just getting worse 'cause I know I'm going to lose him." He blinked back his tears as he rested his head back against the wall. "Now it's just constant pain and anguish."

"I don't know what to tell you," Blake shrugged, sipping from his glass and looking at his friend.

"What would you do," Marc asked leaning around to stare pleadingly into Blake's eyes, "if you were me?"

"Me?" Blake grew pensive. "I just don't think men are worth spending emotions on, good or bad. But then I'm not the best guy to talk to about relationships. The only good one I ever had up and moved away to go to university." Blake sighed, "Look, relationships come down to actions and outcomes, all the rest of it is just bullshit." He drained his glass. "But then I've just been fucked over by too many men."

"Yeah, me too," Marc replied, as he let his shoulders droop, and his chin sank to his chest. "But you know what sucks the most? I love someone that will never, ever, feel the same way about me..." His bottom lip quivered, as he tried to find the words to express what he was feeling, his voice sounding lost as he spoke. "You know... not even a chance." He blinked as he looked up towards the sky as an errant tear slipped from his eye. "It's the worst thing."

* * *

West marched, wearing his dress uniform, the heavy woollen greatcoat and his peaked cap keeping the rain off him as he made to intercept Major Wessex as the man began to climb into his staff car.

"Major!" West called, drawing to attention, tapping the pommel of the polished regimental baton to the brim of his cap.

"Captain Harding," Wessex replied, adjusting the cummerbund of his formal uniform. "You had better make this quick, I have a regimental dinner to attend and the Brigadier doesn't like to be kept waiting."

"Understood, sir," West replied, reaching under his coat and pulling out a set of papers he had tucked there. "I was thinking of taking the men out on maneuvers again over the next few days, get them into fighting form. And since I'd hate to have to wake you early after a regimental dinner..."

Wessex smiled. "You're a bright man, Harding," he nodded as he took the papers and glanced over them, gesturing with a snap of his fingers for a pen and signing the first batch.

"These ones are for additional materials." West handed a second set across, as the Major glanced at his watch impatiently, taking a cursory glance and signing those as well.

"Hurry it along, Captain," Wessex demanded impatiently.

"Last set, sir." Harding handed across the last set of papers and watched at the Major signed them without even bothering to read what he was signing.

West saluted as he stepped away from the car, the precious papers clutched in a gloved hand as the staff car swept away. West smiled secretly as he looked down at them, tucking them back into the folds of his coat. He now had the resources he needed, and two days to prepare a plan. He nodded to himself, turned on his heel, the two guards at the doors to the Headquarters building saluting as he marched past them.

* * *

"Are you going?" Thorpe asked him, standing in the well-appointed study at 24 Sussex Drive.

"I have to," Will replied from his seat, staring into the coffee mug. He realized he was fast becoming a teetotaller in a world lubricated by alcohol. It unnerved those people who weren't used to his habits. But Thorpe had long grown accustomed to Will's abstinence from intoxicants.

"Well I agree," Thorpe said stroking his temple, his fingers brushing the wings of white hairs that contrasted with the mostly dark hair atop his head. He felt it made him look distinguished, to Will it gave him the appearance of a badger--an observation he had always kept to himself.

"If I don't go," Will mused, "then the opposition will attack me for not being sensitive to veterans affairs, or family values." He shook his head, "And they don't need any more ammunition."

Thorpe smiled, "You're under a lot of pressure, William, perhaps the vacation will do you good, get you away from all of this for a couple of days."

"Perhaps," Will agreed, "but it doesn't change the situation; have you given any thought to whether you will call a vote for war?"

"I have little choice," Thorpe responded, setting his crystal glass down on the heavy oak desk. "Hesston is paralysing us, and the longer this goes on, the weaker our government appears. We are already down significantly in the polls."

"When's the vote?" Will asked, resting an ankle on his knee and his chin on his hand.

"The day after you get back," Thorpe replied, "Monday afternoon. Hesston can't do anything over the weekend, and that frees you up to do what you need to do in England." He paused and looked over at Will, "Were you close to your father?"

"No," Will replied, "we barely saw eye to eye on anything. But I do remember this one time." He uncrossed his leg and leaned forward in his chair, "Little Peter had decided to run away from home."

"Peter, the young man you were close to that was abducted," Thorpe said, nodding.

"Yes, he got it into his head that he could run away from his problems. I was having a conversation with my father at the time I found out, Peter's mother was a mess and I wasn't much help. But he just took charge of the situation, knew where to look and even stopped some guy from trying to take Peter right there in the bus station." Will shook his head, "I guess I never really realized the kind of man he was until that moment."

"'People sleep peaceably in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf,'" Thorpe quoted.

"Orwell," Will replied. "He had a point there. My father wasn't an easy man to get along with, but he was a damn good soldier."

"And you are a damn good statesman," Thorpe came across the study and sat down opposite his young friend. "Have you given any thought to what you would do if you lost the next election?"

"Pessimism, Mister Prime Minister?" Will asked with a soft smile.

"Pragmatism, there's a difference," Thorpe responded. "Myself, I think I'd like to spend some time with my wife and my children; they're going to be off to university soon, I'd like to spend some real time with them before they go."

"Yes," Will nodded. "Myself, I want to teach."

"Let me guess," Thorpe said smiling knowingly, "English?"

Will frowned, "How did you...?"

"It's mentioned in your security file, you used to teach high school English before you went to work for Robert Avery and became a Member of Parliament." Thorpe nodded, "Those files are wonderfully detailed, did you know Bob Hesston was once a member of the Communist Party of Canada?"

"What happened?" Will asked in surprise at the revelation.

"Power," Thorpe replied. "You don't get to live in this house being a socialist."

"You did." Will smiled.

"Shh, no one's supposed to know that," Thorpe shook his head. "And last I checked I wasn't the only closet socialist in this room."

"I'm out and proud," Will declared with a grin. "But seriously," he looked up at the clock above the mantle, "I should go; I need to pack for my trip and get Alicia to book a flight for me, and it's pushing ten now."

"Well tomorrow is Friday," Thorpe said nodding thoughtfully. "I'll announce the vote for Monday during question period, and see if we can't keep the House open long enough to get some work done."

"Good luck." Will nodded, setting his cup aside and reaching for his jacket.

* * *

"You know I'm sure there's a joke in the whole switching-teams-to-take-one-for-the-team thing," the newcomer remarked sitting in a booth at the Centertown pub, watching young Yani looking uncomfortable decked out in club gear nervously playing with the umbrella in his drink.

Johnson shook his head as he stabbed a straw at the lime floating in his rum and coke. "He looks like an undercover cop," he remarked, "tell him to relax."

"Relax, probie," the newcomer whispered into the small microphone he was wearing in the collar of his jacket, "and you'll be on your knees in no time."

Johnson watched Yani's reaction and the none-too-subtle finger gesture thrown in their direction that was his response. And Johnson gestured for the newcomer to hand him the microphone. "You need to relax; no one's going to stick something up your butt if you already have a stick up there. Smile, that's an order."

"I wonder if he qualifies for danger pay?" the newcomer commented, nodding towards a group of men wearing leather jackets, chaps and little else that were eyeing the young CIA agent like he was a piece of prime roast beef.

"Hi, huns," the waiter sashayed up to their table, and collected their glasses. "You two love birds want another round?"

The newcomer started and glanced at Johnson, who in return smiled and in a flawless lisp replied, "Certainly, hurry back and I'll give you a tip."

"Just the tip, hun?" The waiter smiled and bounced off to go fetch their drinks.

"Do I look gay?" the newcomer asked worriedly looking down at his outfit, and back up at his boss.

"Relax, you're supposed to blend in," Johnson snarled, surveying the bar. "Where is he?"

"There, just coming in from the patio. The lanky dark-haired one with the blue eyes..." The newcomer nodded.

* * *

Blake wandered in from the patio, sipping at the bottle of hard lemonade, smiling at a couple of older guys that made way for him to pass while they played pool. Typical Thursday night crowd, guys just off from work, others looking to get laid.

CP's was mostly a pub, but on the weekends they threw open the upper floor that had a small dance floor and the infamous third floor. Blake was about to make no comments whatsoever about the third floor, but considering his smile and his mischievous eyes, he was popular.

He leaned on the bar, squeezing his way past a leatherman who was trying to chat up some poor defenceless American who was obviously heavily closeted by the terrible choice in clothes, and the embarrassment all over his face.

He turned just as the leatherman reached forward with the intent of coping a feel from the terrified young hick.

"Hey," Blake said interrupting, "Jordan, isn't that your boyfriend?" he asked nodding down the bar to where a larger man was glaring angrily.

The leatherman paused, considering his options, but he turned to Blake and murmured, "Bitch," at him before he swept off dramatically.

"Uh, thanks," drawled the young man, shifting uncomfortably.

"Hey no problem," Blake replied, leaning back on the bar and smiling at his damsel in distress, appreciating the way his tee-shirt hung loosely hiding the well-developed body. The guy was cute, and didn't seem to know he was. Blake had to admit, there was something about guys that were freshly out of the closet--shy yet adventurous.

"I'm Yani..." the guy swallowed, nervously, as he stuck out his hand.

"Russian name, American accent, quite a combination." Blake grinned, "I'm Blake. You don't seem very comfortable here, want to go somewhere quieter?"

Yani blinked, "W-what?"

"You know," Blake tilted his head from one side to the other, "get out of here, go for a coffee. My place is close by here..."

"Your place..." Yani swallowed.

"Sure," Blake smirked broadly, "I have great coffee at my place, and whipped cream if you're into that..." He bounced an eyebrow suggestively, slipping his hand onto Yani's waist.

"I don't know..." Yani chewed his lip, but didn't flinch from the touch.

* * *

"Go home with him!" Johnson growled into the microphone.

"Maybe he's not that kind of boy," the newcomer quipped with a wry grin.

"Shut up," Johnson snapped, rolling his eyes

* * *

"Can we just... have a drink first?" Yani asked, trying to ward off the panic he felt settling in. He'd grown up in a small Baptist town, and job or no job he wasn't...

He was kissing Blake. Just like that, they were kissing, and Yani's eyes flew open in panic before he settled back into the kiss, feeling his own hands snake up and around Blake's waist and pull him close.

* * *

"Way to go, probie!" the newcomer said, clicking his stopwatch as he watched Blake lead Yani towards the door by the hand. "Five minutes, thirteen seconds, that has to be a record."

Johnson snorted getting up and paying for their drinks, pausing as he held out his hand to the newcomer.

The newcomer rolled his eyes and fished out a fifty that he handed over to his boss--a bet was a bet. And he knew when he'd lost.