Date: Sat, 16 Feb 2008 22:44:53 -0500 From: Tinnean Subject: Mann of My Dreams 5: A Civilized Man Notes: This is for Gail, who so graciously beta's. A Civilized Man Part 1/1 Ever since I'd taken Mark Vincent to dinner on his birthday, my nights had been plagued with torrid dreams. I'd find myself awakening each morning with the sheets tangled around my legs and my pajama bottoms sticky with drying semen. At the most inauspicious times - while I was at work, while shopping for groceries, even horseback riding on a Sunday with my mother - I'd remember being on my knees before Vincent, or a fragment of one of those hot dreams would ambush me, and I'd be fully aroused. I was starting to become used to going through my day half hard, something that hadn't happed to me since the randy days of my teens. After all, I was the son of Nigel and Portia Mann, and as everyone knew, ice water ran in my veins. However, now I found that when I got home from work I would jerk off. After dinner I would jerk off. At bedtime I would jerk off. And still, at some time during the night, I would come. I wasn't sure whether to be grateful that everything was in working order, or to be disgruntled because it had taken an encounter with a WBIS agent to prove to me that everything was in working order. I hadn't seen him since that night, but that was about to change. He'd been keeping a file on me, and I intended to find out why. **** "Hey, Quinn! Hold on a second, wouldja?" "DB!" I finished sliding my arms into my suit jacket and shrugged it over my shoulders, then draped my overcoat over my arm. "Don't you ever go home?" "Look who's talking! The man who has no social life whatsoever!" "Is this a case of the pot calling the kettle black?" I was about to lock up my office for the weekend, but it was to meet my team at the small funeral home in Williamsburg, not because I had a hot date. It was going to take at least two and a half hours to get there, and I wanted to get on the road. While the CIA did not approve of a mole being 'offed,' they looked even less kindly on having one of their officers under scrutiny. As a deputy director, as well as being the officer under scrutiny, I had the latitude to allocate resources for an investigation such as this. It hadn't taken much doing to learn where Michael Shaw, the young WBIS agent who had been feeding us information about Mark Vincent, was being laid out. The obituary notice was in every metropolitan DC newspaper, as well as in his parents' local one. DB and I had spoken of Shaw when we'd learned of his death. ~~~ "Do you believe the story the WBIS put out about a random break-in being the cause of his death?" DB asked, appearing shaken. "Who knows what to believe where the WBIS is concerned?" I shrugged. "Well, it seems too damn pat to me. You think maybe Vincent found out Shaw was puking on him and had something to do with it?" I shrugged again. I didn't want to, but I could hardly tell my friend that. If he had even the slightest inkling of what I'd done that night at Raphael's... Why *had* I done that? I'd never used the actual physical sex act in order to play mind games with my opponent, no matter how other officers might rely on it. The memory of Vincent, shock in his eyes as I swallowed his cock... I hadn't originally planned to do that. I was just going to get my hands on him, make him know what it felt like to have my fingers skillfully working him. Only after I was on my knees did it occur to me that that wasn't the smartest idea I'd ever come up with. But his hands had been gentle on my head even as he'd thrust in and out of my mouth, and his scent, clean and musky, had flooded my nostrils. It had been touch and go whether I would come when he did; it had been too long since I'd had the taste of a man on my tongue. Only by supreme effort of will had I been able to give the impression I hadn't been about to go over the edge with him. And dammit, there I was, getting hard again. Fortunately DB didn't notice - neither my aroused condition nor the flush I could feel heating my face. "Well, *I* think the timing is damned convenient. And let's face it, this is Vincent we're talking about." "And you wouldn't put it past him?" I made my words droll, steadfastly pushing aside the remembrance of what an interesting dinner companion Vincent had made. "C'mon, Quinn, get real here! I mean, jesus, how cold is that, killing one of his own?" "We don't know that he did." "No, but still... " "You were never tempted to kill one of our own?" I gave him a tight smile, thinking of Bonfiglio. "Moi?" He widened his eyes, doing his best to look injured that I could even suggest such a thing, but then he became serious. "I guess we all have a little list, but how many of us have taken to striking off the names on it? I suppose we're just too civilized." "I suppose you're right." DB wasn't a field officer though, and he'd never had to kill in the line of duty. The first time I'd looked into a man's eyes and pulled the trigger, the two men who'd recruited me, who happened to be my uncles, had afterwards given me a choice: they would take me out to get drunk or find me a willing body I could bury myself in. I'd chosen the latter, an action I'd never regretted. ~~~ My friend gave me an exasperated look. "I *almost* made it out, but this popped up." "I'm assuming it's important?" "Yeah. I've got my system programmed to flag any inquiries that come up on you." When he had that note in his voice, the hairs on the back of my neck started warning me of trouble. "And?" "There haven't been many; your cover is good, and it's mostly just the usual stuff from State, but... " He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it disheveled. It was a nervous habit I'd long since come to overlook, only this time instinct told me not to. "What's come up?" "Why would an anti-terrorist organization in Europe be interested in you, Quinn?" "Excuse me?" "Some hacker, and believe me, I say that with the highest respect: this guy has got to be one of the best... " "All right, I get it, you'll respect him in the morning." In spite of the level of danger of this situation, I couldn't help smiling. "What about him?" "He tried accessing your personal files here at Langley." My smile vanished, and I felt cold. The only reason I could come up with that would explain an anti-terrorist organization feeling there was a necessity to go into the CIA's database was that they didn't buy my official cover as assistant to the undersecretary at State. I hadn't been careless - it was bred into my bones not to be careless - but why then the interest? "Was he successful, DB?" His look became grim. "He couldn't have gotten much information; good as he was, within thirty seconds or so, he'd triggered a firewall." "'Couldn't have gotten much information'?" I didn't like that at all. "You're not sure?" "Well, it would depend on the speed of the computer, and these organizations aren't always the best equipped - " "DB, I'd prefer not to pin my chances of survival on the hope that whoever hacked into our database was using a computer with an outdated processor." "I know." He ran a hand through his hair again. "And on top of that, this guy is good." "You've already said he's one of the best." "Yeah." He gave a reluctant laugh. "He backed out fast, then left enough false leads to fool even an experienced programmer." "But he didn't fool you." "No, although I'll admit it was touch and go for a short time. I thought for sure I was going to lose him, but I managed to track his echo." "Back to Europe, to this antiterrorist organization?" "Yeah. Somewhere in Paris." He waited expectantly, frowning when I said nothing. "Doesn't that ring any bells with you?" I shook my head, and he scowled. "DB, tell me you know who it is!" I demanded, annoyed. He expected me to be familiar with every fly-by-night organization that popped up, only to disappear into the woodwork within a day or week or month? "It's the Division, Quinn, run by a real martinet, Robert Lynx. He's known as Tactics." "Tactics?" "Shit, everybody's got a nickname in this business." "Really?" "Sure. You're known as... " He choked trying to swallow his words. "Never mind. Anyway, that's not the half of it! One of their top operatives, a Pierre de Becque, knows Mark Vincent." "What the *fuck* is Vincent doing involved with an anti-terrorist organization?" DB's eyebrow rose, indicative of his surprise at my swearing, something I rarely did, since not only was it crude, but it generally proved useless as well. I waved my lapse aside. "His operations are all stateside!" "Are they?" "According to... " Dammit, had the information I'd accessed about him been deliberately set to mislead me? I scowled in turn at my friend. "What are you telling me?" "Shit, Quinn. Vincent goes where he fucking wants to go." He worried his lower lip, an alternative to running his hand through his hair. "There's more." "That isn't enough?" "Vincent was out of the country for a few days a week or so ago." "In Paris?" "Yeah." "Did he meet with de Becque?" "Uh... " DB looked uncomfortable. "We don't know." Whoever they'd had shadowing Vincent had lost him? "Never mind," I growled. "I need to contact this Robert Lynx and find out why the hell he wants information on me." And how Vincent was involved in it. I glanced at my watch. "Dammit. I don't have time for this; I have to be in Williamsburg." "You'll make it." DB gave me a tight smile. "I'll handle this for you, Quinn. Hell, I was only going to get some take out and rent a movie." "'Aliens'?" "What else?" It was his favorite movie. "Any chance you'll have company?" "No." He shrugged and gave a lopsided grin. "It's no big deal." It was, but I didn't say that, because the last thing my friend would want was what he perceived as pity. It never failed to amaze me, how much time he spent alone. Then again, if it came to that, I spent a good deal of the time away from the job alone also. "One last thing, Quinn. I know you're going to take the information I get for you and run with it, but do me a favor. Be careful, will you?" "Of course." I squeezed his shoulder. "I owe you, DB." "Damn straight you do. Next dinner at the Rib Shack is on you!" **** We were on the off ramp for the Williamsburg exit when my cell phone rang. I pulled it out of the inner pocket of my overcoat. "Quinton Mann." "I'll cut right to the chase, Mr. Mann. I am Robert Lynx, of the Division. I understand there has been a slight misunderstanding with one of my people." "Has there?" I asked the cool voice. "Perhaps your man would care to explain why he was trying to access the personal records of the assistant to the Undersecretary at State?" Booker, who was driving the car, snickered, tried to cover it with a cough, then gave it up as a bad job and whispered, "Sorry, sir." I grunted but otherwise ignored him to concentrate on Robert Lynx. "I'm hardly the person to draw the interest of your organization," I informed him. "Oh, come now, Deputy Director. You really don't expect me to believe that the son of Nigel and Portia Mann would do anything less than follow in their footsteps?" My parents' names were listed in my file at State, but only someone involved with intelligence would be aware of who exactly they were. Apparently whoever he'd had hacking into our database had done a thorough job in the short amount of time he'd had. However, I wouldn't permit this Robert Lynx to see I was anything more than mildly irritated. "In that case, perhaps you'd care to explain why someone in your organization was trying to access the personal records of the Deputy Director of Operational Targeting of the CIA, Mr. Lynx? "I assure you, Deputy Director, that this invasion of your privacy was totally unsanctioned by me!" "Really?" I wouldn't taunt him with his lack of control over his people. That wouldn't be professional. It also wouldn't be to my advantage, at least not at this point. "I'm sure you can understand that I'm less than pleased to learn about this, and I'd like to speak with your man. Or am I being chauvinistic? Should I say 'woman'?" "No, no, it's a man, but he's out of the country just now." "When will he return?" Lynx didn't want to tell me. I could almost feel him forcing his will against mine, trying to get me to back down, but I'd been in the business too long to do something as amateurish as that, and finally he conceded, but only to a small degree. "Pierre de Becque is on an extremely delicate mission... " De Becque? The same de Becque who had met with Vincent a week or so ago, according to DB? Did Vincent have something to do with de Becque hacking into my file? No, I realized. He was more than capable of doing that on his own, as he'd proven. Truly irritated now, I snapped, "Mr. Lynx, do you, or do you not, know when this operative will be back in the Division?" I heard his teeth grinding together, and was pleased I wasn't the only one who was unhappy about this turn of events. "Sometime late this evening." "Very well." I took out my PDA and accessed transatlantic flights. "I'll catch the first available Air France flight out of Dulles. I should be in Paris sometime in the morning, your time. Do you have a number where I can reach you once I've arrived?" "You're a very difficult man, Mr. Mann." He sounded decidedly unhappy, and knowing he couldn't see it, I permitted myself a small smile. "I'll have... someone meet you at Air France baggage claim at Charles de Gaulle." "Good. Needless to say, the CIA does not take something like this lightly." "Neither does the Division," he muttered sourly. "I look forward to getting this sorted out, Mr. Lynx. Good-bye." He growled something, but I was already disconnecting the call. "We're here, sir." Booker pulled into the parking lot of the funeral home, which was three-quarters full, indicating either Shaw or his parents were well-liked or respected. The officer I was sending in was already there with her partner. Syd was good, cool in the face of danger - although I didn't anticipate any on this occasion - competent, and with the ability to blend in with any background. Technically, I could have remained back at Langley. But because Vincent was here, I had to be here. *Had* he had a hand in the young agent's death? I didn't like to think so, just as I didn't like to think of him working hand in glove with a foreign antiterrorist organization. That startled me. Why did I feel that way? Were a pair of hazel eyes getting to me? No, I assured myself. It was simply a matter of it being a very long dry spell, so to speak. Once I was back from Paris, I'd look up one of the ladies I knew. Beautiful and sophisticated, we would have sex with no strings attached, and everything would be back to normal. "Mr. Mann?" "Right. Sorry, Booker." I pushed thoughts of sex and Vincent from my mind, got out of the car, and waited while Syd approached. "Any last instructions, Quinn?" "No. You're all set?" I offered her the last Lifesaver from a roll of Cryst-O-Mint. "No, thanks." The brunette looked up from the butterfly-shaped pin she was fastening to the scarf she wore around her throat. It was really a tiny microphone whose receiver was snug in my left ear. "I'm good to go." She smoothed the jacket of the sedate navy blue pantsuit she wore and crossed to the funeral home. "Are you receiving me?" the tiny voice in my ear asked. "Yes," I murmured into my tie tac. "Okay, it's show time!" She disappeared into the building that was too pretty and too quaint for its morbid purpose. I took out a new roll of Lifesavers and used my thumbnail to free the first mint, realizing only then that I still had one in my mouth. I tucked the roll back into my overcoat pocket. Syd's mic picked up scraps of conversations as she progressed toward the coffin. "So young... " "So unfortunate... " "... such a promising career... " Finally she got the conversation I was most interested in. I had known Trevor Wallace would be there - the head of the WBIS put in an appearance at every funeral, a policy that had been instituted shortly after he'd taken over fifteen years before - and where Wallace was, there would be Mark Vincent, his fair-haired boy. Wallace's voice was distinct, deep and smooth. "Very sad, Vincent." "Yes, sir. They're listing it as a homicide?" "Yes, a home break-in gone tragically wrong. I thought it was best the family not be informed it was actually autoerotic asphyxiation." So that was the truth of the matter. I frowned. Even though Shaw was WBIS, it was a pointless waste of life. "I understand, sir. That's very kind of you. It will be easier for them to believe their son died trying to defend his home rather than how he actually did." Syd was able to stay close, but nothing else of interest passed between the two men, and if she lingered much longer she'd wind up drawing attention to herself. It looked like that was all we were going to get. It didn't tell us much, but with that out of the way, I could look forward to Vincent's reaction when he saw me here. "Okay, Syd. Leave whenever you're able." "Yes." The word was a drawn out sigh, as if commiserating with someone else who was paying his final respects. She murmured some words of condolence to the parents, and then walked out into the afternoon sunshine, passed me without a glance and got into a car with the other officer who was her back-up. I took out the roll of Lifesavers, put another one on my tongue, and waited. **** Mark Vincent walked out into the parking lot beside Trevor Wallace, and they stood there for a short time. Wallace polished his glasses and spoke quietly, then rested his hand on his senior agent's shoulder before he reentered the building for the final service and the closing of the casket. Vincent stood there, apparently lost in thought, and I wondered what put that look on his face. It was replaced by a cocky grin, and he headed for his car, carefully scanning the area. I made no effort to conceal my presence, and when he stopped abruptly, I knew he had spotted me. He changed direction, striding toward where I leaned casually against the car I'd arrived in. "Stay here," I instructed Booker as he made a move to get out of the car. "This won't take long." I straightened and moved to confront Vincent, angling my position to keep my officer in ignorance of what might pass between the WBIS agent and myself. Visions of that night at Raphael's flashed through my mind, and my cock quivered. I was disconcerted to find the feel of the soft cotton of my boxers had it growing harder, but I made sure my expression revealed nothing of that. "Nice to see you again, Mark." I kept my tone casual. This was the first time we had met since his birthday. Our jobs kept us busy. And of course he had been out of town for a few days. "Mann." A faint flush colored his cheeks, and he licked his lips, drawing my attention to his mouth. I couldn't take my eyes from it, the curved upper lip, the full lower one. Kissing wasn't one of my favorite pastimes, but oddly I wondered how his mouth would feel on mine. His eyes dragged over my body in an almost palpable caress, and I was thankful that while my overcoat was unbuttoned, my trousers were of a loose cut, or he'd have known how much I wanted to drag him against me and rub my erection against that hard thigh of his. His eyes once more on mine, he cleared his throat. "Did you know Shaw?" "Shaw?" I wasn't about to let Vincent know I was familiar with the young WBIS agent's name. He nodded toward the funeral home, to the limousines that were waiting to take the mourners to the cemetery. "Ah. No, I didn't have the pleasure. Accept my condolences, please. It's difficult when someone so young passes on." Platitudes. Inanities. "If you didn't know the dearly departed... " Was there a touch of derision in his voice? No matter. Even if there were, that didn't mean he'd had a hand in the young man's death. "... what are you doing here, Mann?" "*Quinn*," I said caressingly, knowing it would irritate him beyond belief. "There's no need for formality between us, Mark. Not after our... dinner on your birthday." I lowered my voice and glanced at him through my lashes. Would he realize I was actually referring to what happened *after* our dinner, in the men's room? Of course he would. A very smart man was Mark Vincent. "How did you find out about my birthday, Qui..." He stopped himself, looking disgruntled by that near slip. "... Mann?" How long would it be before I got him to call me by name? "Mark, Mark, Mark!" I said, my tone indulgent this time, as if he were a naughty boy, and he scowled. Oh, yes, that aggravated him too. I bit back a smile, keeping my expression bland. "You have to let me keep some little secrets. After all, I don't ask *you* how you found out that my mother's butler is really her bodyguard." I could see that threw him. Let him think I was coming after him because of his masquerade as Skip Patterson, an old friend with whom I'd gone to Exeter. It wasn't a shot in the dark; too much pointed toward it: Skip denying the interview, DB bringing me the knowledge that Vincent was keeping a file on me which just happened to contain mention of the skinny dipping incident that only Skip and I, and Gregor Novotny - and somehow Mother - knew about, Mother's description of him, tall, thin, intense. I drew closer to him, raising my hand toward his cheek, and let the backs of my fingers lightly brush across the stubble that was becoming evident. He'd need to shave soon. His expression was stunned, and he took an involuntary step away from me, then shook his head, his gaze raking the area to see if anyone had observed us. He frowned when he saw the car, with Booker sitting there. "Relax, Mark. He thinks this is simply business." "You touching me is business?" "No, that's strictly pleasure. In case you hadn't noticed, I'm standing so his view of you is blocked." "And that won't make him wonder what's going on? I could pull a gun on you, y'know." "But you won't, will you, Mark? We're just two civilized men having a civilized conversation. Besides, he knows I can take care of myself." "Yeah, right." "You doubt me? I am cut to the quick!" For a second I thought the corner of his mouth was going to curl into a grin, but, "Look, Mann, I have to get back to the Capital. Traffic is going to be a bitch, especially with all that construction going on around the Beltway. It's been... interesting talking to you, but like every CIA spook I've ever met, you're full of shit. I'll see you around. Maybe." "Oh, count on it, Mark." When I got back from Europe, we'd have a nice long chat about what, exactly, he had been doing over there with Pierre de Becque. His mouth opened, then closed, and he turned and stalked across the pavement to his car, his movements loose and fluid. The man did have a fine ass. I was smiling when he glanced back to find me still watching him. It was easy to read the word on his lips as he swore silently. My smile broadened. I imagined he'd spend the entire ride back to the Capital trying to deduce what had just happened. As would I. **** A head wind delayed my flight, and so it didn't arrive at Charles De Gaulle Airport until after 11:00 the following morning. I pulled my briefcase from the overhead bin and walked out of the 747 and through the gate. I hadn't checked any luggage, but Robert Lynx had told me my driver would meet me near baggage claim. I was curious as to how whoever it was would identify himself. He was hardly likely to be standing there with one of those little placards in his hand. Then again, I could be wrong. My attention was drawn to two men who lingered by the moving belt. I gave a slight grin as I spotted the piece of cardboard with my name on it. These were the men Robert Lynx had sent to escort me to the Division? The one holding the sign appeared to be in his early to mid- twenties. His hair was close-cropped, his clothes were shapeless, almost as if he sought to conceal himself in them, and round, tinted lenses shielded his eyes. The man beside him was another story. He gave off an aura of danger and seemed ready to confront the world on a moment's notice. A few inches taller and a few pounds bulkier than his companion, he seemed to dwarf him. His scalp was smooth-shaven, and in contrast, a dark moustache and goatee framed his mouth and a small soul patch drew attention to his full lower lip. He was dressed casually, but I had the impression he might be more comfortable in fatigues and a flack vest, carrying an Uzi - his jacket didn't disguise the fact that he was armed. They appeared to be arguing about something, and as I drew closer, I was able to overhear part of their conversation. "I *owed* him, Jules!" the shorter one was saying in some agitation. "Not your life, you dope!" "Don't you call me a dope!" The words were strident, and several heads turned in their direction. "I'm sorry, baby." It was hard to tell which of the two was more unhappy. "You know I don't mean anything by it. It would kill me if anything happened to you, and you *know* something would if it comes out you did this for Pierre... " My interest was piqued at hearing that name, but they caught sight of me, and the taller, tougher of the pair straightened and scowled, barely sparing me a glance. "Beat it, bub. This is a private conversation." "Excuse me, gentlemen." I nodded toward the placard. "I'm Mann." "*You're*... " The taller one's eyes widened, and he swallowed. "Sorry, sir. You... you don't look much like the photo Tactics gave me." He gave a sickly smile. "I'm Guiliani." The shorter one poked him in the ribs. "And... uh... four eyes here is Finnegan. Tactics sent us to meet you." I decided to play dumb. "Tactics?" "Robert Lynx." "Ah. Well, shall we get started?" "Sure. The wheels are right this way." They led me to a tan Citroen. Its side and rear windows were so heavily tinted it was impossible to see into the car, and I imagined it would be just as impossible to see out of them. I settled myself in the back seat. There was a partition in place between the front and rear seats. "Sorry, sir," Guiliani said just before he closed the door. "This is for your protection." "I understand," I told him. "If I knew where your organization was located, you'd have to kill me." The two men glanced at each other, startled. "Joke, gentlemen." I laughed softly. "Oh, yeah. Right." The door slammed shut, and my laugh became rueful as I saw, with no surprise, there was no handle on the inside. In spite of the blacked out condition of the little car, Guiliani drove a tedious and winding course, and it took close to two hours before we finally pulled into an underground parking garage. The back door was opened, and I was ushered through a van access into a corridor brightly lit with fluorescent lighting. They took me to a large, circular area that held a bank of elevators. Men and women passed us, purpose in every stride. They glanced at me curiously but made no effort to stop, continuing on into elevators that took them up or down. We entered one that stood open, as if waiting for us, and I was not permitted to see which button was pressed. There was also no display of the floors that we passed, although I could tell we were going up. Abruptly it jolted to a stop. "Goddammit!" Guiliani reached for a weapon. "No one's supposed to use this car!" The doors slid open, and he swallowed and stood down. A petite woman stood there. She wore a black outfit that did nothing for her. The skirt hung below her knees, the jacket appeared at least two sizes too large, and the white blouse beneath it leached what color there might be from her face. Her blonde hair was pulled back so tightly I wanted to wince in sympathy, and thick-framed glasses perched on the bridge of her nose, seeming too heavy for it. Flanking her was a man of average height, also dressed in black down to his own pair of glasses. In spite of how innocuous this pair appeared, I had a strong feeling they were anything but. That feeling was confirmed when Guiliani made an abortive move to prevent them from entering the elevator, then stepped back. I noticed that Finnegan stood behind him, not afraid precisely, but... cautious. Interesting. "No one is supposed to speak with Mr. Mann," Guiliani said, tension evident in his voice. "And of course, no one will." Her accent was faintly exotic. "I shall simply converse with my associate." She smiled, and Guiliani actually went pale. Finnegan gave a barely audible whimper. Even more interesting. The doors slid shut, and we all faced the front of the elevator. As it continued in its upward journey, the woman began speaking. "Mark Vincent is someone who once did me a kindness. I... care about him." The man beside her stiffened, and she looked up at him. A silent message seemed to pass between the two of them, and the man relaxed. "If anything... untoward... were to happen to him, I would, perforce, be obliged to track down and kill whoever was responsible. Comprends?" Her words were directed to the man beside her, but she had turned her head and was looking directly at me. Somehow the lenses of her glasses seemed to magnify that threat. I said nothing, keeping my gaze politely interested, although inside I was furious. How the... the *fuck* was it that Vincent, who was only supposed to work Stateside, even *knew* these people? And what did she mean, he'd done her a kindness? Vincent wasn't the kind of man who did people 'kindnesses.' Why had nothing of this been in his file? I stared into her blue eyes, then glanced at her companion. The man at her side was watching me also, his gaze flat and cold. Whatever the woman wanted done, the man would back her to the death. Unquestioningly. I could understand the tension and the caution exhibited by Guiliani and Finnegan. I'd had partners on occasion during my tenure with the CIA, but never one who would back me in that manner, and I felt a momentary twinge that I probably never would. She must have read something in my expression that satisfied her. She pressed a button, the elevator came to a smooth halt, and the doors opened. They exited without speaking another word. Beside me came a soft exhalation of relief. Finnegan whispered, "If she stayed much longer, I think I'd have needed to change my shorts!" Guiliani laughed, but it was strained, and he replied, "I hear *that*, babe!" **** I was shown into a small, windowless conference room furnished with a rectangular table, six uncomfortable-looking chairs scattered around it. Two men already occupied the room. One was seated in one of the chairs, an air of command about him, while the other lounged casually, arms folded across his chest, a hip propped against the table. They both seemed to study me intently. "Deputy Director? I'm Tactics." Robert Lynx rose and extended his hand. His age was indeterminate, and so his hair might or might not have been prematurely white, although his dark brows were a startling contrast. "I trust your trip was uneventful." "Tactics." I shook his hand and shrugged. "The usual. I'm sure you aren't interested in the boredom of a seven hour flight that takes fifteen hours. And an additional car ride whose sole purpose was to confuse me. Was that really necessary?" "You must allow us our security measures," Lynx said unctuously. "Whatever." The other man gave a snort of laughter, which was met with a cool stare. "I have a good deal of work waiting for me back in Washington, so perhaps we can get down to the matter at hand?" Lynx's lips tightened, but he nodded. "This is Pierre de Becque, who made the unsanctioned request. I will leave you to get this sorted out between you." His lip curled. "I trust you'll restrain yourselves." The door closed behind him, and de Becque laughed softly. "What he means is that he doesn't want to find blood spattered all over the walls the next time he needs to use this room." He pushed away from the table with lazy grace and approached me. "So you are Quinton Mann." I nodded. "I'd like to know why you were trying to break into my personal records." "It was not intended that you learn of this." The eyes regarding me were a changeable gray-green. A very attractive man with a curiously contained expression that gave away nothing. He was probably my own age or close to it if I ventured a guess, and now that he was standing, I could see he was a few inches shorter. "Why is it that every agency in the world thinks the CIA is staffed by incompetent idiots?" I asked in annoyance. It didn't escape my notice that he hadn't answered my question, and I was losing patience. I faced a return trip to DC, and since I never slept well on transatlantic flights, by the time I got back to Alexandria, I'd have been more than forty-eight hours without sleep. And that was if this nonsense with the Division was cleared up to my satisfaction. "But of course we here in the Division do not view our counterparts in the CIA in that manner!" "No? In that case, will you tell me what your intention was, or would you prefer that once I return to Langley, I request a full scale investigation into the Division, and its parent organization, Surveillance?" His expression became even more blank, but his eyes... They were indeed the windows to his soul. That disturbed him. Did he really think I wouldn't be able to learn about the Division and its roots? "You look tired, M'sieur Mann." He gestured me toward a seat. "May I offer you a coffee? The Division is not noted for the palatability of its coffee, but it is hot and extremely strong. And I promise that nothing extra has been added." "Christ!" I muttered as I sat down. "You're starting to sound just like Vincent!" The operative grew very still. "Mark Vincent?" "Don't insult my intelligence, de Becque. I'm quite aware that you and Vincent know each other. You and he were together a number of days ago." I gave him a tight smile. "I know he doesn't work the European theater. Were you trying to recruit him?" The blank look vanished, and he threw back his head and laughed, an action that made him appear younger, unmarked by his years in this business. "Mark Vincent is a friend of mine, M'sieur Mann, and you're correct; he has never worked for the Division, although if he ever chose to... change affiliations, shall we say? We would be more than happy to accept him. The Division does not have the same foolish regulations about age that the WBIS does." "What?" Suddenly I was being bombarded with information that I had been certain I would have to obtain with pliers and a crowbar, if sheer charm couldn't do it. He handed me the steaming cup of coffee, and I took an incautious sip. I grimaced, and his lips twisted in a grin. "Do not tell me you are unaware that the Washington Bureau of Intelligence and Security has set mandatory retirement from the field at age thirty-five?" "Vincent's past that age." Was that the reason he had his actual date of birth buried so deeply it was only by a sheer luck and determined cussedness that I had discovered it? "Only by a year," de Becque informed me. He shrugged, a casual roll of his shoulders, as Gallic as the Marseillaise and bouillabaisse. Did he not know Mark's real age, or was he trying to protect his friend? I kept my mouth shut. If it was the former, then I wasn't about to reveal Vincent's secret. If it was the latter, then *I* wanted to know why. I decided to revert back to the reason I had flown three thousand miles to talk to him. "Why were you looking into my file?" "I was curious." "You don't strike me as a man who lets idle curiosity run away with him." I cocked my head to the side. "I don't understand what could be in my file that you would find of interest. After all, I'm an ordinary man." "Hardly ordinary. Your father is a star on the wall at Langley. Two of your uncles were also CIA. Your mother worked for the NSA during the height of the Cold War, as did the eldest of her brothers." I swore under my breath. Yes, that information was there, but it was buried so deeply only an intensive search would find it. Just how fast were the computers here at the Division? "You, yourself, have received any number of commendations. No, not ordinary in the least." "I still fail to see why any of this would be of interest to either you or the Division." The coffee was horrible, and I set the cup down on the table. "Oh, you need have no worry about the Division, mon cher M'sieur Mann. My organization is not in the least interested in you. Not at this point at any rate." "I assure you that if the Division has plans to recruit me, they will be unsuccessful." He smiled enigmatically, and for the first time I felt a frisson of unease. I concealed it and returned his smile, although it was neither friendly nor easy. "If you think to use Vincent... " "Now, why would I think to do that?" I could have kicked myself for giving him that bit of ammunition. However, I refused to answer his question. "Then why go to the trouble of hacking into the CIA database, at the risk of bringing yourself to the attention of *my* organization?" De Becque propped a hip once again on the corner of the table and coolly sipped his coffee, seeming to have no problem with its atrocious taste. "Truthfully?" "Oh, by all means, let's be truthful!" "I wanted to see what it was about you that has one of the most single-minded men I know obsessed enough that he cries out your name when he comes." I shifted slightly to ease the sudden tightness of my trousers. The idea that Vincent moaned because of what I had done to him was as arousing now as it had been that night at Raphael's. And then it hit me what de Becque had said - 'when he comes.' Surely he didn't mean... "How would you know that?" "How do you think I knew of that?" It was his turn to become impatient, and I realized it was a stupid question. I told myself it was foolish of me to be resentful that Vincent had barely waited for his cock to dry from my mouth before he had gone to bed with someone else. After all, we were both consenting adults. We weren't lovers. We weren't even fuck buddies. "Very well." I thought it best to change the subject, and pushed back my seat, about to rise. "If you'll... " However, de Becque had no intention of allowing me to do so. "I think, M'sieur Mann, that were I you, I would take this man to my bed, and try to get him out of my system." "I beg your pardon?" I sank back down, stunned. "I do not think you will succeed, but, qui sait? Who knows?" He shrugged once more. "I am quite aware of what 'qui sait' means, de Becque," I snapped. "Pardonnez-moi." But there was a spark of deviltry in his eyes. "Mark Vincent is not the only one with an obsession, I think." "Why would you say that?" "You travel three thousand miles to see me on a matter that could just as easily have been dealt with over the telephone." I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. What could I say? He was right. There was a rap on the door, and it swung open. An older man with a bandana fastened around his head loomed in the doorway. Graying hair trailed over his shoulder in a tail, and he fiddled with it, his eyes darting from the operative to me. "You about ready to check out the new weaponry system, Pierre?" "Certainly, Reuben. I will be right there." De Becque waited until the doorway was empty, then turned back to me. "I apologize for causing you to come here on what was basically a wild goose chase. I simply wanted to be sure my good friend was not hurt." "Vincent's been injured plenty of times." I deliberately chose to misunderstand him. "So have I, if it comes to that. It goes with the territory." "Physically, perhaps, but this man guards his emotions well. If I hear that Mark has come to any harm due to his infatuation with you... " Infatuation? Obsession I could understand, because wasn't I facing pretty much the same thing? But infatuation? My cock was suddenly like an iron bar in my trousers. "Merde!" De Becque paused at the door and scowled, apparently realizing he'd given away more than Vincent would have appreciated. He snarled, "You threatened the Division with the might of the CIA, M'sieur Mann. Very well, let me return the favor. I understand that you have already met our head of interrogation. Whatever is left after she is done with you, *I* shall get." He muttered, "*Merde*!" again, and crossed back to where I sat. His hands closed around my upper arms, and he hauled me up out of my seat with astonishing ease. For a man who was shorter than I, and who was French as well, he had unexpected depths. He murmured something French against my lips and ground his mouth against mine. The force split my lower lip, and he licked at the blood that beaded there. Strong fingers traced the shape of my cock through my trousers, then fumbled to unzip my fly. "Who is this for, mon cher M'sieur? Me or my very good friend Mark?" "Son of a bitch... !" His tongue surged into my mouth, bringing with it the taste of coffee, overridden by the copper tang of my blood. I wound my fingers into the cool silkiness of his hair, tightening them, but before I could drag his mouth off mine, de Becque released me. "It is safe to say, would you not agree? that it is *not* for me." "*Pierre*! Goddamn it, we don't have time for this! Get your French ass in gear or I'll pound it!" A small puff of laughter bathed my mouth "I come, Reuben." "No, you don't, de Becque," I vowed in a hard voice, closing my hand over his wrist and squeezing until I felt the bones grind together before throwing it away from me. "Not with me. Not with Vincent!" He rubbed his wrist, his smile rueful. That smile made him appear much younger. He was a good looking man, and he would have been a beautiful boy. "It is too bad our mutual friend wants you. He has made it quite clear that my life would be forfeit if I were to take you to bed, so much as I would like to, I cannot." "What?" "I'm afraid I haven't the time to go into that just now." His fingers stroked my cheek. "Adieu, Quinton Mann." I was left alone in that conference room. I sank down onto the chair I'd used and rubbed the bridge of my nose. I could feel a headache starting to build behind my eyes. What the *fuck* had just happened? Mark Vincent obviously had a long term friendship with Pierre de Becque, had clearly had sex with the man, yet the WBIS agent had threatened to kill the Division cold op if he tried to go to bed with me. My lips throbbed from the pressure of the operative's mouth, and my cock throbbed from unsatisfied lust. But most of all my head throbbed. De Becque was right: I was as obsessed with Mark Vincent as he was with me. It had been a long time, longer than I liked to consider, since I'd taken another man to bed. Perhaps it was time to change that. **** It was late Sunday evening by the time I arrived home from that informative visit to the Division. My flight had been cancelled at the last minute, but I'd managed to find transport on a private jet, courtesy of an old friend of Jefferson Sebring. It paid to have an uncle who had been something of a rogue in his younger years. Now, however, I was feeling the effects of crossing too many time zones in too short a span of time. Water. Yes, that might help, and I went into the kitchen of my townhouse, took a bottle of Evian from the refrigerator, and gulped it down. The woman who came in a few times a week to clean also saw to it that the pantry and freezer were kept well-stocked, and a late night snack seemed like a good idea too, but I'd barely finished the water before even heating something in the microwave was suddenly beyond my resources. I dragged myself up the stairs to my bedroom and stripped off my clothes, leaving them lying across a chair as I headed for the adjoining bath. Fortunately I managed to remain on my feet and not fall asleep in the shower. If I hadn't been so exhausted, I would have wondered at the extent of my lassitude, but as it was, I simply chalked it up to transatlantic flights and jetlag. I pulled on my pajamas to ward off the March chill and crawled into bed. **** In the dreams I'd had previous to my return from Europe, Mark would be sucking me off, or masturbating me, or holding our naked cocks together as he thrust wildly, desperate to bring us off. The dream I had that night was even better than the ones I'd been having. This time, skillful hands wielded a stiletto blade that sliced through the material of my pajama bottoms, exposing my cock, then cut the buttons off my pajama top with just a whisper of sound. The soft cotton was parted and the flat of the knife scraped over my torso, across my nipples, and then was tossed aside. I groaned and stretched my arms over my head, and he hummed approval. That action pushed my chest up as if I was offering myself to my dream lover. I undulated my hips upward, wanting to fill that mouth of his with my cock, that mouth that Shaw had insinuated was so very talented. Mark's lips were nuzzling my nipples though, and I liked that. I liked it too much. They were so sensitive that I usually wore an undershirt when I made love, or else I'd climax too fast. "No!" I moaned, biting my lips, and starting the cut to bleeding again. "I'm going to come!" But Mark just laughed triumphantly. He wasn't paying any attention to my whimpered protests. He licked and suckled and bit down with just enough pressure to let me know he could hurt me if he chose, but that he didn't choose. My nipples were pebble hard, and I shivered, knowing I was going to come at any moment. "Not yet, baby," he whispered darkly in my ear, and he squeezed the base of my cock until the need to come abated. His fingers trailed up my body, stroked over my arms. Warm lips nibbled my earlobe, distracting me from what his hands were doing. There was a sharp sting in the side of my neck. As I fought my way to consciousness I realized my arms really were positioned above my head, and I heard the rattle of metal handcuffs against my spindle headboard. Abruptly I was wide awake. This wasn't a dream. The bedside lamp was on, and I could see that lying on top of my partially clothed body was Mark Vincent. "Cut your lip, baby?" His voice dropped, became low and hot. "Let me kiss and make it better." Much as de Becque had done, Mark licked the drop off. "Goddammit, Vincent, are you out of your fucking mind?" I demanded hoarsely as I tried to twist my head away from his mouth. Between the vee of my thighs I could feel the hard bulge of his cock nudging against me. I tugged on the cuffs, but these weren't plastic kiddie toys, and they weren't adult toys. No plush velvet padded them; they were tight enough to threaten to pinch if I struggled against them. "It's my turn now, baby." He licked the spot on my neck that was still sore. "What did you do to me?" "Pressure syringe. It doesn't break the skin, but it does sting a little." "Why?" I demanded. "A little antidote to what I placed in your water. I'm surprised at you, Quinn. You never listened to Drum when he told you how bad I was." "Drum's an idiot!" I snapped. That surprised a laugh out of him. "You won't get an argument from me about that. I guess that's something else we have in common." Warm breath in my ear, and then the damp tip of his tongue flicked into it. I struggled to keep from moaning. Lips roved across my cheek. Everywhere his mouth touched, his tongue caressed. He... he was *licking* me? Shouldn't I have found such an action repugnant? "Oh, you should have shaved, baby. You'll definitely have to come morning! Want me to set your alarm a little early? I could do that, if you'd like." "Don't do this, Vincent!" I hated the raw begging I heard in my voice, not because I didn't want him touching me, stroking me, driving me wild with passion, but because I did. It had been so long... "Quinn, I'm the best! You can't tell me you don't like what I'm doing to you! Oh, maybe intellectually you can convince yourself you don't want it, but your body is begging for it!" He angled his hips off me so he could get his hand on my cock. If I had the breath, I would have cursed him and my unruly flesh, but my breath was coming in harsh pants, and I was so hard that once again I was shaking with the need to come. Vincent began working his way down my body, pausing to tug on my nipples. "Want me to fuck you, baby?" I jerked at his words, and fought wildly against the cuffs. The only time I had done that had been years before, with my first lover, the young man with whom I'd fallen headlong in love. Armand. Oddly enough, I hadn't thought of him in years. He had been a Frenchman too, and slightly older, almost seventeen to my almost sixteen. I'd had no experience, and he only slightly more. His parents had objected to the liaison, however, and I'd never seen him again after that giddy, sex-drenched, emotionally-wrenching summer... The cuffs bit into my wrists, and I was unable to stifle a cry. "Stop that, Quinn. You're just going to hurt yourself." Mark was up by my head again, one hand keeping my hands immobile, and he took my chin in his fingers, forcing me to meet his eyes. They were steady and serious. "Listen to me! I won't fuck you. I promise." He released my chin and tapped the side of my face. "I *promise*!" "That's supposed to make me feel better?" I sneered. I needed to get to him, ruffle him, change the balance of power. I couldn't do that physically, but maybe verbally... "Your promises aren't worth any more than your friend, de Becque's!" Vincent became very still. "What are you talking about, Mann?" "De Becque told me he promised you he wouldn't fuck me." "Are you saying he lied?" "Yes, that's what I'm saying, so if you plan on fucking me, you'd better use plenty of lube, because spit isn't worth spit, and he left me really sore!" Had I succeeded in convincing him that he couldn't trust his friend? I needed to get this back to where he was the one off balance and confused. "Pete fucked you? He really fucked you?" Vincent started to laugh, a sound that began low in his chest and then burst forth. "Quinn, I... I *like* you!" What? I felt as if I'd taken a tumble down the rabbit hole. Obviously I must have missed something in his relationship with the Division operative, but before I could decide what that might be, my thoughts became splintered. Vincent was trailing his fingertips over my throat and nuzzling the spot where neck and shoulder joined. I licked my lips, wincing a little at the split that bisected my lower lip. "Then you won't fuck me?" He chuckled. "I had no intention of fucking you tonight, Quinn." "I'm glad you've got that much honor." I *was* glad he wasn't going to do anything to me. "Who said anything about honor?" "What? You just said... " "Ah, baby, you really should have paid attention to Drum. Not tonight, but one night, and in the not too distant future," he brushed his lips back and forth over my jaw, "I'm going to be buried balls-deep in you, and you're going to love it." "Oh, really?" "Yes, really. I'm the best." "You're a bastard." "No. My father actually married my old lady." "What are you talking about?" "Nothing." He started sliding down my body, and the fabric of the black turtleneck he wore abraded my nipples, causing me to moan, making me forget everything except the fact that I still needed to come. As soon as Vincent left, I'd take my cock in my hand and start stroking it, just the way he was doing right now. Just as soon as he left... "Jesus christ, Mark! What the fuck are you doing?" "Can't you tell, Quinn? I was sure I was doing it right." And then my cock was in that hot, educated mouth of his. My hips surged up, driving me deeper into his throat, and the vibration of his laughter pushed me closer to the edge. Vincent's tongue flicked and dipped, teased and toyed and generally did things I didn't even know were possible. His hands on my hips held me still, controlling the level of pleasure while his head bobbed up and down on my shaft. He shifted position slightly, and while one hand resumed tormenting my nipples, the other insinuated itself between my ass cheeks, finding my puckered opening and pressing against it with the ghost of a touch. "Please! Please!" He pulled off me. "What's my name?" "Wha-what?" My breath sobbed in desperation, my wrists struggled against the restraints, and my hips jerked futilely. "It's simple. I want to know that *you* know who's blowing you. So say my name, baby, and I'll give you an orgasm you'll never forget!" I didn't have to obey him. I was an intelligent human being, a civilized man, and as such in complete control of myself at all times. But my body felt like a live wire, exposed and ready to erupt in an explosion of rockets and roman candles. "Mark!" I groaned in surrender, fully expecting him to laugh and mock me, to rise and leave me there, cuffed to my bed, my pajamas in ruins and my cock like an iron bar. Instead, the next thing I knew, he was swallowing me down again, his teeth scraping lightly along my length, and a finger he must have somehow lubricated slid deep into my ass, to lodge against my prostate. It flicked back and forth once, twice, three... I came, the most violent climax I'd ever had, shuddering and gasping for breath for what felt like an eternity. He let my cock slide from his mouth, careful of the sensitive head, and nuzzled the hair that covered my groin. "You're welcome, baby," he chuckled again. I lay there bonelessly, my hands manacled to the headboard, legs spread wantonly, a WBIS agent between them, and I could have stayed like that for the rest of the night. There was sudden coolness along my body, and the voluptuous feeling vanished; I tensed and opened my eyes. Mark was leaning up and grinning at me, his tongue gathering drops of come from his lips. "You taste good, Quinn. I knew you would." He rolled off me and reached for something on the nightstand. It was a syringe. I thought I was a good poker player, but he must have seen the incipient wariness on my face. "I'm going to uncuff you, but since I don't think I'm your most favorite person right now, I'll have to send you beddy-bye, first." "I hate needles," I groused, closing my eyes again. "I know." Of course he knew. He'd gotten into my file even more easily than de Becque had. "It's not a needle, Quinn." "No? Then what is it?" "You really don't expect me to tell you, do you, baby?" No, I guessed I didn't. Instead of answering, however, I simply said, "And stop calling me 'baby'." It was his turn not to answer. "Now pay attention. This will wear off in about half an hour, and you'll fall into a natural sleep. Why don't you sleep in tomorrow? I'll even call in for you, if you'd like. You're supposed to be in Langley, right?" "Bastard. You know I'm going to kill you, don't you?" I tried to growl at him, but there was no heat in my voice; I was feeling too satiated. He'd fulfilled one of my darkest fantasies. And if he wasn't going to leave me to be found by some innocent bystander - my cleaning lady, or god forbid, my *mother* - I could forgive him a lot. Vincent laughed. "You can try." He brushed that lock of hair that was forever falling into my eyes off my forehead. "Know what you need, Mann?" I opened an eye and regarded the smug countenance that hovered just in view. It took a bit of a struggle to sound bored, but I was determined to give it my best shot. "I feel sure you're going to tell me, Vincent." "You need to be kissed. Long, and often, and by someone who knows how." Great. Now he was quoting Gone With the Wind. I opened my mouth to tell him that he didn't know what the fuck he was talking about, to tell him to get the fuck off me and get the fuck out of my house. Instead, I heard myself saying, "You have someone in mind, Mark?" He pressed the syringe against my neck. Damn, that spot was going to be sore in the morning. "Me?" He was laughing as I lost the battle to remain conscious. ~End~