Date: Wed, 8 Aug 2007 23:11:11 -0400
From: Tinnean <tinneantoo@embarqmail.com>
Subject: Mann of My Dreams 2: Best Laid Plans

Summary: Quinton Mann decides to take a WBIS agent to dinner for his
birthday. His POV of the events of Happy Birthday, Baby.

Note: The SSTs flew for the last time on 10/23/03. Obviously, this takes
place before then. Thank to Tim Mead for running his professor's eye over
it. This is for Gail, to commemorate 7 years of friendship, 8/8/07.


Best Laid Plans
By Tinnean


In the normal course of events, Mark Vincent and I would never come into
contact - that was the way it was between the CIA and the WBIS - but events
that late summer had been anything but normal.

A scientist by the name of Bruchner had been hired by the Huntingdon
Corporation to develop a renewable, nonpolluting form of energy which would
be inexpensive to produce, but for which they'd charge all the traffic
would bear. He claimed he did; however, for some reason suddenly fearing
for his life, he contacted the CIA to obtain protection.

A brief analysis of the data he provided us indicated that it would behoove
us to obtain this source and to give him the protection he requested.

Because Bruchner was so fearful, it was arranged that I, a senior officer,
meet him at a spot of his choosing. He chose the Wyman Bros. Warehouse, a
small, deserted building on the Patapsco River where it flowed into
Chesapeake Bay in Maryland.

I waited, and as more time passed, grew impatient, uncertain if he would
show up at all. When he finally did, the state of his nerves was
obvious. He was pale and sweating, repeatedly licking his lips until they
looked chapped, and his hands shook so badly that I was afraid he'd break
the key off in the lock of his briefcase.

"Here it is!" He finally unlocked and opened it.

"Very good, Dr. Bruchner," I said bracingly. Once I ascertained that it
actually held the reliquary madrigal cyclotron and the formula, I was
determined to complete the transaction as quickly as possible. "We'll be
more than happy to supply you with a safe place until you decide... "

A shot rang out.

Bruchner disappeared, leaving the briefcase and its contents, and a small
puddle of urine, but still somehow managing to take with him the cash and
papers for his new identity.

I was left bleeding from a wound to my upper thigh. I faded into the
shadows. The wound needed to be bandaged if I didn't want the shooter to
track me by the blood trail.

I sank down to the dirty floor, set the briefcase down beside me, and
enlarged the hole in my trousers with the small pocket knife that had been
a gift from my father and which I always carried. It was difficult to judge
the extent of the damage, although the amount of blood welling up was not a
good sign, but at least it wasn't pumping out, indicating an artery hadn't
been hit. I pulled out a linen handkerchief, made a wad of it and placed it
over the wound, binding it with my tie. Finally, uncertain if the shooter
was still around, I shifted my position, drew my weapon, and waited.

"Well, well. Fancy meeting you here, Mann."

I stiffened and my finger tightened on the trigger, but I didn't fire. How
had anyone managed to come up behind me without me being aware? I forced
myself to relax and slowly turned my head.

"Vincent." I recognized the WBIS agent from the grainy photo in his
dossier. He'd been smirking as if fully aware he was being photographed,
although how he could have known, when a telescopic lens was being
used... "I could say the same, although I shouldn't be surprised. I suppose
I should thank you for aiming low?"

"If I shoot, Mann, I shoot to kill."

"So you're saying - "

"I didn't shoot you."

"Then who... " What was I doing, asking that of Mark Vincent? Did I
actually expect a WBIS agent to be honest with me?

"Can't imagine." He grinned, cocky and a little manic. "I take it you'll
survive?"

"Yes, it's just a flesh wound." I dismissed it with a negligent shrug. I
wasn't about to let him know I could feel the blood oozing through the
makeshift bandage.

"Then I'll just take this and be on my way." He reached for the case
holding the formula and all of Bruchner's notes, but I refused to let it
go. "Don't be a dope, Mann. It's not worth dying for."

"According to whom?" I didn't release my grip.

"Look," he said patiently. "This belongs to Huntingdon."

"I won't... " A sudden noise distracted me, drawing my attention to the
front of the warehouse, and in the space of that brief instant, there was a
slight tug. By the time I turned back, Vincent was racing away, the case in
his left hand, his gun in his right.

"Shit!" I tried to rise to take a step forward, but my leg gave out from
under me. "Goddammit!"

"Are you okay, Mann?" Major Jonathan Drum, who worked out of the Pentagon,
crouched beside me. The military had been very interested in the formula
also.

"I'm fine, Drum," I said through gritted teeth. He had caused the noise
that had distracted me for the crucial amount of time it took for the WBIS
agent to latch onto the case and make a run for it. "Just go after Vincent
and get that briefcase."

"Vincent?! I'll see he doesn't get far!" He squeezed my thigh, and I
flinched, but he didn't notice, just took off. In a matter of seconds there
were shouts, shots, and then he came trotting back with the briefcase, a
smug grin on his face. "Got the bastard!" he gloated.

"Are you sure?"

"You think I was born yesterday, Mann? Mark Vincent won't be making my life
hell any more!" For some reason he believed the WBIS agent was out to get
him. I wasn't sure if Drum was being paranoid or if the two really had a
vendetta going on. An uneasy expression flitted across his face. "Here,
keep an eye on this." He thrust the briefcase at me. "I'll be right back."

"Wait a second! I... " But he was gone. "I think you'd better call 9-1-1,"
I muttered. Pain could be sublimated, but I was getting lightheaded from
the loss of blood.

Abruptly he was back, the uneasy expression replaced by one that was sick
and panicked.  "We gotta get out of here fast! Like yesterday fast!" He
tried to get me to my feet, but my leg wouldn't bear my weight. "C'mon,
Mann! Help me out here!"

"My leg. It's... "

"*Shit*!" The next thing I knew he had me over his shoulder in a fireman's
lift, and he was pelting out of the warehouse. "Hang... hang onto
that... that briefcase!"

"Yea... yeah." Each jolting step sending shards of pain through my
leg. "Drum... "

He dove behind the sporty little convertible he drove, and then there were
bright lights and a huge wall of sound seemed to engulf us. I wasn't sure
if there actually was an explosion or if it was Drum landing on top of me,
because abruptly everything went black.

****

I regained consciousness in the back of an ambulance. "How... how long have
I been out?"

"Not very long," the paramedic assured me. "Good to see you with us again,
Mr. Mann. We're taking you to the University of Maryland Medical Center ER
and should be there shortly." He unwrapped the blood pressure cuff from
around my left arm. An IV was hooked up to my right.

"All right. Thank you." My left leg felt cool in the air conditioned
ambulance, and I sighed. A perfectly good pair of trousers ruined. I
imagined my suit jacket wasn't in much better shape.

I sat up abruptly and looked around, but the briefcase wasn't to be seen.

"Looking for something, Mr. Mann?" He gently pushed me flat.

"My... uh... briefcase."

"The Army guy took it, I think."

I sighed again. As soon as I was alone I'd have to call Langley and inform
my people of what had gone down. I lay back and closed my eyes.

As the paramedic had promised, it wasn't too long before we arrived at
UMMC. He and his partner got the gurney out of the ambulance and rolled me
into the emergency room.

A resident who looked like she couldn't be more than twelve came in. "I'm
Dr. Forrester, and I'll be taking care of you." She peered at my leg,
"Gunshot wound, hmmm?" then grinned at me, injected a local anesthetic and
cleaned the area, and began stitching up the wound. "I'd guess a
ricochet. Looks nasty, but it really could be a lot worse."

Lucky me.

"Quinton." A stocky, craggy-faced man of average height stalked into the
bay.

"Oh, hell," I muttered.

Gregor Novotny was not only my mother's chauffeur, he was also her cook and
butler, and had been part of our family since his sister had come to keep
house for my parents before I was born. Eighteen years my senior, he had
become my surrogate father after my father had been killed in the explosion
of an Air India jet in 1978. He'd answered my questions about sex; he'd
given me my first condoms; he'd comforted me when the love of my life, a
young Frenchman I'd met when I'd gone with Mother on a tour of the wine
country of France in the summer of 1980, had broken my heart.

What very few knew was that he was also a retired FBI agent who also served
as Mother's bodyguard.

Dr. Forrester looked up from her handiwork. "You shouldn't be here, sir."

"Should *you* be here, girly?"

"I'm his doctor!"

"Yeah? Well, you look like you should be in diapers. Now, if you're done
patching up the man, I'll get him out of your hair."

"No, I'm not done, and no, he's not leaving this hospital," she snapped,
scowling at my visitor before turning her glare on me. "I'm going to give
you a tetanus shot, Mr. Mann, and once you've spoken to the police, we'll
see about admitting you."

I made a noncommittal sound. I wasn't about to tell her I wouldn't be
talking to the police and I'd be leaving as soon as I managed to find a
replacement for my trousers, which, judging by the flat, rectangular box
under Gregor's arm, shouldn't be in the too-distant future.

She taped a bandage over the stitches, then said, "If you'll lower your
trousers, please?"

"No, inject his arm. And don't give me any lip. The chief of residents and
I are old poker buddies."

She curled her lip at Gregor, but did as he ordered. Once she was done, she
disposed of the needle. "Excuse me, sir." She left the cubicle muttering
about talking to her chief, and *then* this so-and-so would see who was
running the show.

"I wish you wouldn't antagonize the doctors, Gregor, especially when
they're armed with a syringe with a long needle." I rubbed my upper arm. It
was already starting to feel sore. "I didn't know you knew the chief of
residents here."

"I don't. How bad are you hurt, Quinn?"

"Not bad. The doctor thinks it might have been a ricochet."

"She *'thinks*? Doesn't she *know*? What the hell kind of doctors do they
have in this place?"

"Don't make a fuss, Gregor. My head is starting to ache. I'm only repeating
what I was told, and I really don't want to get into it with you."

"Fine. You done with this?" He gestured to the IV, and when I shrugged,
went ahead and disconnected it, then handed me the box.

"It's not my birthday."

He didn't bother reminding me he'd been there the day I were born. "You're
gonna need pants if you plan on blowing this Popsicle stand." I opened my
mouth, his brows beetled, and I shut it without saying a word. "Smart
boy. I'm glad you didn't try telling me otherwise. I know you, and I've
been in the business. Now, do you need some help with them?"

"No, Gregor." I started unbuckling my belt. "Is... is Mother aware of what
happened?"

"Did you doubt it?"

I sighed. Of course not. "I imagine you broke any number of speed limits to
get here." I shifted, trying to get the trousers off my hips.

"Not really.  And hold still, will you?" He helped ease the damaged pant
leg over the bandage. "We happened to be in Baltimore on charity business."

"Ah." Mother was on the boards of any number of charities, and also chaired
quite a few.

"She's not pleased about this. That shit Bonfiglio notified her."

I couldn't prevent a groan. Sometimes even organizations like The Company
screwed up in their hiring practices. I'd run across Louis Bonfiglio once
at State, and he'd actually had the temerity to come on to me. I had no
objection to a well-timed come-on - I was bisexual, although I tended to
keep that under wraps - but for the man to approach me in the men's room at
State, take out his dick to take a piss, then wave it at me and actually
say, 'I'm Bonfiglio, CIA. How'd you like this bad boy plowing your ass?'
was beyond unprofessional. He'd nearly soiled himself when I'd introduced
myself as 'Mann, State *and* CIA!'

Gregor looked me over carefully. "How are you feeling, Quinn? Really?"

"Well enough, Gregor. There was no need to inform Mother. It's just a... "

"Yeah, well, you can take it up with her." He untied a shoelace and removed
my left shoe, then went to work on the right one. "And don't tell me it's
just a flesh wound. A fraction of an inch lower, and you would have bled
out before the ambulance could have gotten you here."

"I'm sorry, Gregor. The last thing I want is to upset Mother." That made it
sound as if either I was a mama's boy or she was overprotective, but that
was far from the truth in both instances. Portia Sebring had been part of
the intelligence community herself, breaking Russian codes for the NSA
during the Cold War. She'd lost my father, a CIA officer whose official
cover was also as a member of State, when that Air India jet had exploded,
and she hadn't been happy when her brothers had recruited me into the same
organization. However, she'd let me follow my own path.

A relaxed smile lit Gregor's brown eyes, and he patted my shoulder. "You've
been given leave, of course."

I groaned. "Please don't tell me Mother spoke to Hazelton."

"No." The corner of his mouth quirked up in a grin, and I knew better than
to ask whether that meant no, Mother hadn't spoken to Hazelton, who was
DCI, or not. He wouldn't tell me. "I'll give you a hand to the car. Would
you like me to drive you home?"

'Home,' although I'd been living on my own since I'd graduated Harvard with
my masters thirteen years before, was not the Georgian manor the first
Barnabas Sebring had built in western Maryland and in which succeeding
generations of Sebrings had been born and reared, but rather the Tudor
house my parents had bought together after they'd married for the second
time. Their first marriage had been a hasty affair used as part of their
official cover when they'd gone to Berlin, shortly before the Wall was
erected.

"Thanks, but I'll be fine in my townhouse."

"Very well. But just so you know, your mother will not be happy with your
decision."

"You'll protect me the next time I come for tea after our Sunday ride,
won't you?"

"Count on it, Quinn." He helped me to change into the trousers he'd
brought, got my shoes back on my feet, and tied the laces, then handed me
my jacket. "Now take it easy while I see about getting you a cane. Then
I'll go bring the car around. And don't give me any lip or I'll make you
use crutches!"

"Yes, Daddy."

"Smart ass." He squeezed my arm -- *not* the one Dr. Forrester had injected
- and hurried out.

I didn't even bother looking over the trousers we'd removed. They were a
total loss. I got to my feet, transferred the contents of my pockets to the
trousers I now wore, and balled up the ruined ones, leaving them in the
trash.

****

As an assistant to an undersecretary at State, I had no business being
shot, and so I passed off my injury and its accompanying limp as a torn
ligament I'd acquired while playing squash, a preppy-enough type of
activity and one completely suited to my official cover.

After the stitches in my thigh were removed, DCI Stephen Hazelton agreed
reluctantly to allow me back at Langley. "But you'll be riding a desk until
further notice, Mann, and that's nonnegotiable."

"Yes, sir." I'd rather be out in the field, but I wasn't stupid enough to
put both my life and the lives of the people who worked under me in danger.

Shortly afterwards, David Brendan Cooper, one of the few officers I
considered a friend, strolled into my office, ostensibly to join me while I
had lunch at my desk.

"How's the leg, Quinn?"

"Acceptable. The stitches came out the other day, and other than a small
scar, the doctor has assured me that I should have no lasting ill-effects."

"Lucky thing." He took a bite of his sandwich and chewed
thoughtfully. After washing it down with a swallow of water from the bottle
of Evian he'd brought with him, he remarked casually, "Heard the news about
Bonfiglio?"

"Of course." The entire department had been buzzing about it. He'd been
found dead in his car of an apparent heart attack. "It's come as something
of a shock. No one knew he had an extensive myopathy."

"You don't think it was strange that something as obvious as that was never
discovered in any of his physicals?"

"He wouldn't be the first officer to have his files doctored."

"Yeah, well, I'll lay you odds Vincent had a hand in it."

"It wouldn't surprise me." Of course Vincent had survived the debacle at
Wyman Bros. Warehouse. The man had more lives than a cat. "According to the
scuttlebutt, Vincent's responsible for everything from the fall of the
Roman Empire to the failure of the latest space shuttle to lift
off. However, at the time of Bonfiglio's passing, Vincent was at that
roundtable meeting with Hazelton."

"Why would Wallace," Hazelton's opposite number in the WBIS, "suddenly want
to get cozy with us? Everyone knows they're all loose cannons who go their
own route."

I shrugged.

DB peeled back the top of his sandwich and grimaced at the contents. "I
swear they used that imitation mayo!" He scowled, took another bite anyway,
and after chewing and swallowing, resumed the thread of the
conversation. "What I want to know is why would Wallace go to all that
trouble, and then have Mark Vincent stand in for him?"

"Your guess is as good as mine. Wallace is another one of those enigmas
wrapped in a puzzle." I tossed a small plastic bag onto my desk. "Have you
heard that Bonfiglio was dirty?"

"No. What's this?"

"What was left of the warehouse was swept after Security got my call and
this spent round was found, along with the rounds Drum had fired." All
rounds except the one on my desk had been accounted for, and interestingly
enough, none appeared to have been fired by a Glock, Vincent's
weapon. "Standard CIA issue, DB, and it had my DNA on it. It was traced
back to Bonfiglio."

"Son of a fucking bitch! Do you think he was working with the WBIS?"

"It's possible. We've started an extensive check on his whereabouts and his
financial transactions going back for the last three years. He was so busy
looking out for number one, playing both sides against the middle, that it
never occurred to him he owed any one organization his loyalty."

"Bastard."

"Yeah. You know what aggravates me the most though? The formula for the
cyclotron is worthless."

"LIGH 1015? How? I thought our scientists checked it out."

"They don't have a clue, but from what I heard, they were all ready to
weep."

"Yeah, it does suck. Oh, well. Huntingdon is the organization that's out
all that money." DB grinned as if that thought pleased him, then sobered as
he apparently recalled that we'd shelled out a goodly amount as well. "You
think that was why Bruchner wanted protection all of a sudden?"

"Considering that whoever screws with Huntingdon answers to the WBIS? Makes
sense."

"Do you think Bruchner is still alive?"

The man had the cash and a new identity, but did he have the smarts to take
advantage of them? I shrugged, not wanting to commit myself.

"I didn't think so." He glanced at his wristwatch. "Time to get back to the
salt mines. You up for dinner at the Rib Shack tonight?"

"Sounds good. I've been meaning to try them. I understand the original in
Savannah has excellent barbecue."

"Yeah, the owner's son decided to open a branch in D.C. I've been there,
Quinn. The food's totally awesome, dude!"

"DB, Valley Speak is unbecoming a CIA officer of your advanced status."

He snickered, cocked his thumb and forefinger at me, and grinned. "I'll
meet you there about 7, okay?"

"Okay."

"And dress casually for once, will you? You've gotta loosen up a bit,
Quinn." He dropped his trash in my wastebasket and strolled out.

****

It was a few months after the incident at the Wyman Bros. Warehouse. My leg
was completely healed, but I was still riding my desk, and I couldn't help
wondering if this was in punishment for losing the cyclotron formula.

The knock on my office door broke my concentration. I'd been staring at the
computer screen trying to analyze the data for too long. I rubbed my eyes
and sat back, calling, "Come."

DB opened the door and entered.

"David. It's good to see you."

"Good to see you too, Quinn."

"I thought you were in London."

"I was. I just got back in. God, I'll be glad when they have the SSTs
flying again." He looked tired.

"Have you been to bed at all?"

He shook his head and propped a hip against my desk. "I came in to clear up
some loose ends, and I found this waiting for me. I thought you might want
to see it." He dropped a sheet of paper onto the desk.

I examined his face. He had tight control of his expression, but I knew him
too well not to see the concern he was trying not to betray. I lowered my
eyes to the page and scanned the lines rapidly. Then I reread them, more
slowly this time.

"How did you get this?" I stared in irritation at the information on the
page. It included a skinny-dipping episode that had occurred just before
I'd graduated from Phillips Exeter. Fortunately, it didn't include its
actual conclusion, where instead of using our towels, my friend and I had
let the balmy evening air dry us as we'd jerked each other off.

"I've got a contact in the WBIS. He got it out of Mark Vincent's
computer. How the fuck it got there... "

"Vincent?" My hands tightened on the paper.

After one of our recent Sunday morning horseback rides, Mother had informed
me that Skip Patterson, an old friend who had been at Phillips Exeter with
me, had called, stating he represented the alumnus magazine and requesting
an interview. His credentials had checked out to both Novotny's and
Mother's satisfaction, and Mother had agreed to meet with him. 'A charming
young man, Quinton, although he struck me as... intense.'

Charming Skipper might be, but he was the last person anyone would label as
intense.

Being cautious had been bred in my bones, and working for the CIA had only
reinforced it. 'May I see the surveillance tape, please, Mother?'

'Of course.' She hadn't been pleased when I'd asked her to have the system
installed, but she was as aware as I of the necessity for it, and had
agreed.

The tapes had been wiped, and I knew Novotny was too experienced a hand at
this to make such a careless mistake.

I'd called Skip and casually brought up the subject of an interview. 'Sure,
we do one every month. I'd love it if I could interest you in giving me
one, Quinn. Special assistant to the undersecretary at State... My editor
would be so impressed!' I'd laughed and declined, chatted a bit more, then
hung up.

So it had been Vincent who had appeared on my mother's doorstep, pretending
to be an old friend. But why? It might make more sense if he'd been trying
to get information about any of the operations I'd run, but he'd told
Mother he wanted to know about my younger years. What difference could it
have made to him that I'd named my first pony Darling, because that was
what I'd always heard Father call Mother?

"Quinn?"

"Sorry. You were saying?"

DB's grin wasn't pleasant. "Apparently my contact isn't too fond of
Vincent."

I laughed shortly. "Is anyone?" I wasn't about to let DB see how much this
disturbed me. "Why did he establish contact?"

He shrugged. "My best guess is he wants Vincent's ass, and he's willing to
go to bed with us to get it. Are you all right, Quinn?"

God knows what I must have looked like. The sudden image of Mark Vincent,
naked and in bed, his cock hard and glistening while *my* cock was buried
balls-deep in his ass, had lodged itself in my mind, abruptly and for no
apparent reason. Why? He was a good looking-enough man, with light brown
hair and hazel eyes, but the operative word was 'man.' I hadn't taken a man
to my bed in more years than I wanted to consider.

I licked my lips and shook myself out of my reverie. "A top WBIS agent is
compiling a file on me, DB. Of course I'm concerned. Is this source
reliable?"

"As reliable as anyone in that agency can be, Quinn. You know the people
they tend to attract are borderline at best!"

"This is true. Very well, thanks for bringing this to my attention. I'll
look into it myself. You'll keep me posted if you hear anything else?"

"Sure thing." He turned to leave, but paused at the door. "Quinn, Michael
Shaw, who's feeding me this information, is fairly low-level. If it ever
gets back to Vincent that he's being sold out, I don't think the little
prick will last much longer than the time it takes for Vincent to track him
down."

"Then you'd better milk him for as much information as you can get on the
WBIS."

"That's the problem. All he wants to do is puke on Vincent. If I try to get
anything else out of him, he's like the proverbial clam."

"Well, keep trying. It would be nice to be one step ahead of Vincent."

"Don't you mean, one step ahead of the WBIS?"

I grinned sourly at my friend. "No, they aren't half the headache Vincent
is!"

****

It had taken more time than I'd expected, but I had finally managed to
discover and access the records I needed. If Mark Vincent was keeping a
file on me, then it would be a smart idea for me to keep one on him. I
already had the basic facts: father out of his life before he'd even
started grade school; mother a heavy drinker who liked to pick up men in
the bars she habituated, bringing one 'uncle' after another into his
life. I felt an unexpected twinge of sympathy for the little boy who had
been shipped off to boarding school at thirteen by one of those
'uncles'. His grades had been remarkable, and after graduation he'd gone on
to a stint in the military, upon the conclusion of which, he'd been
honorably discharged.

That didn't sound correct. As DB had said, and even more than other WBIS
agents, Mark Vincent was considered a loose cannon in the intelligence
community, and he and military discipline were two concepts that did not
meld together. I would have expected him to spend most of his time in the
stockade. Something had to be missing, I was certain of that, but no matter
how deeply I dug, I found nothing.

Finally, buried under layers as tightly woven together as an onion, I did
find one thing: Mark Vincent's birth date. It was listed as February 25th,
1962, which was not what the WBIS had on file. According to this
transcript, he had shaved four years off his age as well.

Well, well. This was extremely interesting. Did the WBIS's best agent
suffer from gerascophobia, the fear of growing old? Even if it was just to
avoid that agency's rather stringent retirement policy, this information
gave me an edge.

How to use it? I sat back in my chair, folded my hands behind my head and
examined the ceiling, letting random ideas bounce around my mind. A glance
at the calendar solidified my plan, and I began to smile as I reached for
my phone. This was a call best placed by myself.

"Washington Bureau of Intelligence and Security. How may I direct your
call?"

"Mark Vincent, please. This is Quinton Mann." I didn't need to give my
title. Even that rogue agency knew who I was.

"I'll put you through to Mr. Vincent's office."

A brief moment later, a voice asked, "How may I help you, Deputy Director?"

If that wasn't just like the WBIS. The voice on the other end of the line
was either a low-voiced woman, or a light-voiced man. Nothing was as it
seemed with that organization.

"I'd like to speak to Vincent." I kept my irritation hidden; there was no
need to take it out on the person on the other end of the line.

"One moment, please, Deputy Director. I'll see if Mr. Vincent is
available."

He didn't keep me waiting long. "Vincent."

"Vincent, this is Quinton Mann."

"So my secretary informed me. My, my," he said with a sneer in his voice
that was vintage Mark Vincent. Oh, it was going to be sweet taking him
down. Abruptly, I saw myself flipping him onto my bed, and immobilizing him
with the weight of my body. Where had that thought come from? I banished it
to the recesses of my mind and concentrated on what Vincent was
saying. "The CIA's golden boy is calling the WBIS? To what do I owe this
honor?"

"I need to see you." I was as much the CIA's golden boy as he was the
WBIS's. I kept my tone bland. "Are you available for dinner?"

He cleared his throat. As much as he might want to conceal it, this had to
be a surprise. Over the phone line I could hear Vincent thumbing the pages
of his agenda.

"Hmmm. I have a 5 PM meeting, but after that it looks like I'll be
free. And don't bother asking who I'll be meeting, or why," he snarled.

Now, wasn't that interesting? Why would he assume I'd do something like
that? For whatever reason, he'd given me the perfect opportunity to play
him.

"Of course not, Mark. I know you wouldn't tell me, anyway." I made sure he
could hear the amusement in my voice. "Would you meet me at Raphael's?" It
would give me the home court advantage; the upscale Italian restaurant was
just this side of the Potomac, about a mile and a half from my townhouse in
Alexandria.

"Certainly, Mann. What time?" He was smooth, never asking where the
restaurant could be found. Still, a senior special agent of Vincent's
caliber... I had no doubt whatsoever that he would find it.

"Seven. Will that give you enough time?"

He was silent for a beat, and I had a sudden, strong hunch that he was
going to ask to change the time.

Sure enough, "Better make it eight."

"Fine." I made the word a caress. Before I was done I was going to have
Mark Vincent so confused he wouldn't know which way was up. "I'll see you
at Raphael's at eight, Mark." Quietly I disconnected the call, then
chuckled. I'd be willing to wager my father's gold star on the wall at
Langley that he would keep me waiting - that wasn't really how it was done
in the intelligence community, but then I'd be dealing with a WBIS agent,
and I was sure he'd do it just to make sure I was firmly put in my place.

Still chuckling softly, I dialed Raphael's to make reservations and talk
with the chef.

I'd order the meal in advance. I wanted nothing to interfere with
this. Mark Vincent was going to get my complete, undivided attention.

****

I had no intention of lingering in the shadows like some wet boy while I
waited for Vincent to show up. If I was wrong, if he was on time and I kept
him waiting, I'd just apologize and blame traffic.

However, I was correct in my assumption. I arrived at 8:15, and the table
I'd reserved was unoccupied.

"My guest hasn't arrived yet, I see," I told Giovanni, the maitre d'. "I'll
wait in the bar."

"Si, signore."

However, as I was about to sit down, I spotted Vincent's tall figure. He
removed his overcoat and handed it to the coat check girl, and I could see
his frown from where I was. I swallowed my grin, keeping my expression
bland, and sauntered casually across the room to our table. I remained
standing while Giovanni escorted him over, and as I waited for him to take
his seat, I smiled. It was a smile I might offer when I intended to have my
date for dessert, and I knew from his deepening frown that I had succeeded
in throwing him off kilter a bit.

I decided I'd start the ball in his court. "What's wrong, Mark? Difficult
meeting?"

His hazel eyes, more brown than green just then, were considering, and for
a moment I thought he wouldn't answer me, but then he nodded shortly. It
became obvious he would say nothing more, going on the assumption that I
was trying to worm information from him. That was what I loved best about
working a WBIS agent. Even when nothing was going on, they assumed
something was.

I didn't push. Quite frankly, I didn't care who had come under Mark
Vincent's tender ministrations. Anyone who did undoubtedly deserved
whatever he got. "I took the liberty of ordering for us both when I made
the reservations. I hope you don't mind?"

He opened his napkin and was placing it on his lap, but that gave him
pause. "Not at all," he said smoothly, but I could tell from the look in
his eyes he minded like hell.

The wine steward displayed the bottle of wine, and I took the glass he
offered me. I went through the procedure of tasting it, then nodded my
approval, smiled and swallowed. "Yes, this Chardonnay is excellent." I had
already selected it when I'd discussed the menu with the chef. "What,
Mark?"

He was trying to keep his expression bland. "I don't usually see that done,
Quinn."

I knew he preferred Samuel Adams - he was a Massachusetts boy, that was in
his file - but one did not drink beer at one of the classier Italian
restaurants in the Capital.

I poured a glass of the white wine and offered it to him. He raised it to
his lips, his eyes watching mine. My disappointed expression was not
altogether feigned.

"What?"

"Nothing, Mark. I was about to propose a toast, but it can wait if you'd
rather."

He smirked. "Here's to the CIA, who takes it up the ass?"

"Wouldn't you like to find out, Mark? Well, perhaps another time." I
shifted, surprised to find I had hardened at his words.

Vincent looked startled. Since when did Quinton Mann flirt with men?

Everyone thought because I was the son of Nigel and Portia Mann that I had
ice water in my veins, and I worked hard to maintain that image. But I was
a little startled myself to find the crude phrase set me on fire, and I
wanted to strip off Vincent's trousers, bend him over the table, and fuck
his brains out.

The contents of the platter of antipasto the waiter was about to place
between us nearly slid onto the table as the poor man choked down a gasp
and turned a fiery red.

"Scusi, signori."

"Shit," Vincent muttered under his breath. "It's fine. Don't worry about
it." Mark Vincent sorry that he had upset another human being? I didn't
want to think he was concerned because the man was a civilian who had
simply been caught in the crossfire. After all, according to Drum, Vincent
was a sociopath who cared nothing for collateral damage.

But was it possible he thought he had embarrassed me?

Hmmm. This might be an ideal way to fuck with his mind. I'd have to give
this some thought, but at a later time.

I smiled and raised my glass. "Happy birthday, Mark. Many happy returns."

He almost choked on his wine. "There must be some mistake, Mann. Today
isn't my birthday."

"Isn't it?" I licked a drop of wine from my lips, unsmiling, but I made the
humor I saw in his reaction visible in my glance. "My mistake."

He blushed. That hardassed WBIS agent, the best they had to offer, actually
turned red. Did he even realize it? Better and better.

We began to help ourselves to the antipasto. Mark seemed to favor the
roasted peppers, while I preferred the marinated artichoke hearts. When I
offered him one he declined. "No, thanks, Mann. Those little hairs always
get caught under my tongue, and it makes me crazy trying to get them out. I
feel like a cat trying to hack up a hairball."

I touched my napkin to my lips to conceal my smile. I didn't know if he was
trying to be amusing or not, but I found myself... enjoying him! How in
hell had that happened?

Time for a change in subject, I decided. "There's a show opening at Kennedy
Center. I saw it on Broadway with the same cast, and it's quite good." I
sipped my wine. "Would you be interested in tickets, Mark? I would have no
problem getting them for you."

He brought his glass to his lips. Buying time? I could see he was enjoying
the wine, and that pleased me, especially when I could tell he hadn't
expected to like it.

I really didn't expect him to be interested in the show. It was a musical,
and he struck me more as a blue collar, WWF kind of guy.

"I'd like that." He looked dumbfounded, and his gaze went from me to stare
accusingly at his glass. I dropped my own gaze to the decimated platter and
picked up a piece of proscuitto, concealing my amusement. Knowing what I
did of Mark Vincent, he had to be thinking I'd put something in his
wine. I'd considered it, knowing there was an antidote, so I could drink
from the same bottle and lull his suspicions, but then dismissed it as too
much like something out of an espionage novel, and not a very good one at
that.

"Are you going to eat that last roasted pepper, Mark?"

I was sure he was going to say yes, but to my surprise he speared it with
his fork and offered it to me. "Help yourself, Quinn." He'd picked up on my
ploy of calling him by his first name and was giving it back to me.

I leaned forward and took it between my lips, letting him feed me, which
had definitely not been his intention. I kept my eyes on his, then slowly
sat back.

His expression was unhappy, and he reached for his glass. I laid my fingers
over his hand.

"Gently, Mark. This is a vintage to be savored."

He stared at the back of his hand, then looked away. But not quickly enough
that I didn't see his tongue come out, licking his lips. Had I succeeded in
making him nervous? I was certainly making myself nervous. My fingertips
were tingling from where I had touched him, and I rubbed them together
surreptitiously.

The first course was cleared away, and the pasta dish, penne a la vodka,
was brought out. I began conversing about occurrences in the DC area, and
of course Mark had no trouble contributing. His eyes were bright, and I
wondered what was going on behind them.

After the pasta came the veal piccata, and the conversation flowed on. I
deliberately kept all talk away from business, knowing that Vincent would
be expecting me to do otherwise in an attempt to worm intelligence from
him, instead touching on the latest books, movies, football. I wasn't into
sports, but his dossier mentioned he followed the New England Patriots, and
so I'd done some intense research.

I was surprised at how much pleasure I got out of talking with this WBIS
agent.

And then Mark was neatly blotting his mouth and making noises about a
pleasant evening, and I was *disappointed*!

"You're not leaving yet," I stated flatly.

"I'm not?"

"Mark, if I take you to an Italian restaurant, the least you can do is have
the tiramisu."

His expression was nonplussed, and I swallowed a grin. He was unable to
tell if I was treating him as a date, or as a friend. Just when he was
certain we were here as colleagues, I'd make a remark like the last one,
and confuse him again.

The dessert was placed before us, as well as two of the tiny cups of
espresso. "Anisette, signori?" the waiter queried.

I always had anisette in my espresso. It was a taste I had acquired while
in the mountainous areas of Italy back when I'd been doing some work for my
uncles. Mark shook his head. I imagined he watched his alcohol intake due
to his family history.

The tiramisu must have been too sweet for him, because after a bite or two
he set it aside and concentrated on his espresso. He was lounging back in
his chair, and I couldn't resist. I toed off my wingtip and slid my foot
into his lap, kneading his crotch with my heel.

One of the things I'd discovered about Vincent, something I'd had to dig
*very* deep to learn, was that he had a penchant for brunets. He didn't act
on it often, but I knew he wouldn't run screaming into the night because
another man made a discreet pass at him. However, because *I* made that
discreet pass...

With each bite of dessert I took, I ground my heel more firmly against his
hardening cock. His pupils were so dilated his eyes appeared black, and his
lips were parted as he tried to control his breathing. Why was he allowing
me to do this? His dick quivered beneath my sole, and I knew with just a
little more judicious pressure I'd have him coming.

The thought made me so hot that I regretted the tablecloth that covered our
table wasn't longer. If it had been, I would have made a pretense of
dropping my napkin. Once under the table, I would have unzipped his
trousers, taken his cock out, and licked the head and shaft with broad
swipes of my tongue before swallowing it.

I wanted him in my mouth.

"Mann!"

"Relax, Mark. No one can see. The tablecloth is concealing what I'm doing."
And my napkin concealed the hard-on in my trousers.

"What CIA shit is this about, Mann?"

"What makes you think this has anything to do with business?" I asked, a
little breathless in spite of myself. He was turned on. *I* was turning him
on.

His eyes were looking a little... desperate? Hmmm. Interesting
concept. "What did you put in the wine, Quinn?"

"What would you have put in the wine, Mark?" I kept my tone cool, giving
away nothing.

"*Fuck*!" He threw my foot off his lap and surged to his feet, his chair
rocking back, drawing several pairs of eyes toward us. He glared at them,
and they became busy with their meals, then he glared at me. "Good night,
Mann."

I laughed softly, but even to my ears it sounded a little strained. I slid
my foot back into my shoe.

The waiter appeared. "Will the other gentleman be returning?"

"No." I watched as Vincent made his way toward the coat check. He wasn't
obvious about it, but he was observing the patrons, the staff, everything
going on in the restaurant.

"Would il signore care for more espresso?"

"Thank you, no. Just the check, please."

"Si." He pulled the leather folder from his apron. I opened it, glanced at
the bill, then removed my wallet from the inner pocket of my suit jacket
and selected a platinum credit card.

I still kept an eye on Vincent, and noted when he changed direction
abruptly, making his way toward the restrooms. I wasn't ready for the game
to be over just yet, and I made a snap decision.

When the waiter returned with the credit slip, I signed it and pocketed my
copy, then took some bills from my wallet. I always tipped cash.

His eyes widened at the amount I handed him. He'd done a good job and
deserved it, especially since he'd succeeded in keeping the antipasto
platter from tipping onto the table. "Grazie, signore!"

"Prego." I smiled and nodded, and rose to follow Vincent into the men's
room.

Surprisingly, other than Vincent and the old man who was the attendant, it
was empty. Had whoever had been there taken one look at Vincent's stone
cold eyes and decided they'd had no need to use the facilities at that
particular moment? I watched from the door as he washed his hands, then
leaned forward to splash some water over his face.

"Problem, Mark?"

He turned around, the grin on his face one that was guaranteed to scare
people. That was Vincent, back to the wall, and ready to go down
swinging. I grinned back at him, glanced at the washroom attendant, and
jerked my head toward the door, signaling I wanted him gone.

As he shuffled past me I slipped a couple of folded bills into his palm,
then locked the door and approached Vincent.

The grin vanished. "What the fuck are you trying to pull here, Mann?"

I didn't answer, just kept stalking toward him. His lips parted, and his
tongue was barely visible as it touched his upper lip. He backed away until
the row of stalls prevented him from going any further. I was rather
surprised he made no move to shove me out of his way and escape. He could
have at any time; I wouldn't have stopped him.

I stroked my fingers down the front of his trousers, shaping his dick, and
then I had his zipper lowered and his cock in my hand. I knew the way I
liked being touched, and I jerked him off the same way, long and hard,
short and teasing, giving the crown a twist and a squeeze every so often,
rubbing my thumb over the tip which was oozing pre come.

His eyes were almost wild, dark with unexpected passion, and that made me
do something that hadn't been my intention, not consciously, at any rate. I
dropped to my knees before him and took him into my mouth.

Was I out of my fucking mind? Not even as a randy young man fresh out of
Exeter had I ever sucked someone off in a men's room.

Vincent wound his fingers in my hair, and if I thought he was going to pull
me off him, I was wrong. Instead he held me in place and began to rock
forward. I braced myself, expecting him to ram his cock in so brutally that
I'd choke, but he didn't.

I pressed my tongue up against the underside of his shaft, let him feel the
edges of my teeth. The pressure on my hair increased, and I had to look up
into his eyes, which now appeared almost black. The only thing that kept me
halfway sane was the fact that he was looking as shell-shocked as I felt.

I liked what he was doing. I made no effort to hide how much I liked
it. Over and over he drove into my mouth. I wanted to hear him moan. I took
his balls in my hand, rolled them against my palm, slid a finger back and
forth over the sensitive skin behind them.

And I did make him moan just as he came, his slightly bitter taste flooding
my mouth. Taking him deeper into my throat, I swallowed, until his cock
finally gave a last quiver, shot a last spurt, and then I let him slide
from between my lips, taking care not to put pressure on the sensitized
head.

My mouth felt tender, and it took a conscious effort to keep me from
touching my lips. I sat back on my heels, then rose easily to my feet,
never taking my eyes from his. His hands were unsteady as he attempted to
get his cock back in his pants.

I willed my erection down. He would not know how this was affecting me.

It was time to let him know I was aware that it had been he who'd entered
my mother's home, he who had interviewed her.

"I know you've got a file on me, Vincent. I don't know why yet. But I
intend to find out. I *will* find out." I walked to the door, unlocking it,
and glanced at him over my shoulder. "Happy birthday, Mark."

I collected my overcoat and walked out into the damp February night. His
taste lingered in my mouth. Was he as confused by what I'd done as I was?

"Shall I summon a cab for you, sir?" the doorman asked.

"Hmmm? Oh, no, thank you." My townhouse wasn't that far, and I could use
the time it took to walk there for a little introspection on my actions
this evening.

Would Mark Vincent give them any thought? No, I concluded. Loose cannons
didn't look beyond the obvious. He would view my sucking him off in a men's
room as my upping the level of the mind fuck game I was playing with him
and wouldn't consider the possibility that it might be anything else.

The more *I* thought of it, however, me on my knees before him, his hands
in my hair, his hips thrusting in jerky movements as I dragged that moan
out of him, the harder I became.

I increased my pace.

In spite of the chill night air, by the time I reached my townhouse, my
hairline was damp and a drop of perspiration was trickling along my jaw. I
let myself in, barely taking the time to reset my alarm, tossed my overcoat
over a convenient chair, and ran up the stairs to my bedroom. I shoved my
trousers down off my hips and took my cock in my hand.

Pre come oozed from the tip, and it was so hard I ached. I hunched over my
bed, one hand on my balls and the other on my cock, using the same strokes
I'd used on Vincent, and climaxed so rapidly I barely had time to catch it
in my hand.

"Jesus." I'd come too fast to really enjoy it, and it had barely taken the
edge off. I hadn't even bothered to remove my suit jacket.

I grabbed up some tissues and used them to wipe off my fingers, then tossed
them away and undressed.

I scrubbed a hand over my face. A shower seemed like a good idea.

Thoughts of Mark Vincent followed me into the bathroom. I growled, turned
on the water, and stepped under the hot spray, but the memory of his moan
filled my mind, and I jerked off again.

~End~