Not My Spook!

  By TINNEAN

  NOVELS

  Bless Us With Content

  SPY VS. SPOOK SERIES

  Houseboat on the Nile

  Not My Spook!

  NOVELLAS

  No One Should Be Alone

  To Love Through Space and Time

  Published by DREAMSPINNER PRESS

  http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com

  Copyright

  Published by

  Dreamspinner Press

  382 NE 191st Street #88329

  Miami, FL 33179-3899, USA

  http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Not My Spook!

  Copyright © 2012 by Tinnean

  Cover Art by Paul Richmond http://www.paulrichmondstudio.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 382 NE 191st Street #88329, Miami, FL 33179-3899, USA

  http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

  ISBN: 978-1-61372-588-7

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Edition

  July 2012

  eBook edition available

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-61372-589-4

  As always, this is for Bob, who empties the dishwasher, folds the laundry, picks up takeout, and runs the vacuum over the carpet so I have the time to write.

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to Tim Mead and Jim for their unstinting help, to Tony for the brainstorming, and to Gail Morse who dropped everything to help me get this finished, and to Dreamspinner after the epic flash drive fail of January. A special thank you to my son, Bobby, whose brain I picked regarding the funeral. My boy, my boy!

  Author’s Note

  This takes place in 2002 and starts the night Mark’s apartment is blown up. The letters E.T.A. scratched into the back of the ashtray Mark made as a child stand for eu te amo: “I love you” in Portuguese. Even at that age, he’d tend to be cautious. In actuality, a Captain Proven did have the King George when she sailed from London for the last time, and the Lynx was helmed by Captain Palmer. I couldn’t find his first name, so christened him myself. My good friend Tony told me about foil condoms; I think we all know what that says about Quinton Mann, don’t we? *whistles innocently* Futé is French for “smart.” SDECE was France’s external intelligence agency from 1944-1982. In 1991 the KGB was broken up into a number of other agencies, and I chose to use the Foreign Intelligence Service. The movie that Portia gave Mark was not available on DVD in 2002. However, I have no doubt that her brother, who’d gone out to the West Coast to become technical advisor on a TV show, would be able to… persuade… someone to make him a copy. CIA officers can do stuff like that. A hand is four inches. For the record, Sweden took the gold for the Men’s Épée at the 1980 Summer Olympics, and the Soviet Union took the gold for the Three Day Equestrian Event. In 1980, the threat of AIDS had yet to appear, so the need for condoms had not become mandatory.

  Promises, Promises

  I

  I WAS familiar with the sense of devastation the loss of a loved one could bring. I’d first experienced it when my father had been killed in the crash of that jetliner in India when I was thirteen.

  Later it was there when my grandparents passed away.

  I was familiar with it to a lesser degree when a colleague wouldn’t make it home from a mission.

  But Mark Vincent wasn’t family. He might be considered a colleague in that we both worked in the intelligence community, but Jesus God, we weren’t friends. Granted he was more than an acquaintance, and certainly we’d—I’d—been enjoying this game we’d been playing for the past month or so. So often I was seen as the Ice Man, and of course that was fine, that was who I was, but I was also a flesh and blood man, and Vincent seemed to see me that way.

  Perhaps that explained my reaction to the knowledge that he was dead, that his death had been caused by something as fucking stupid as undoing the locks of his door in the wrong sequence, resulting in an explosion—

  All that vibrant, snarky energy snuffed out.

  Yes, perhaps that explained it.

  And yet, in spite of how he could irritate me at times, I refused to believe it—the man was too crafty, too cunning, to be that careless—and in the morgue I’d kept reiterating it couldn’t be his body. No matter what the lab technician said, how could someone six three appear six inches shorter in death?

  David Brendan “DB” Cooper was not only a fellow officer, but a friend as well, and we’d known each other for a long time. He’d accompanied me to the morgue, and he and the tech were in the midst of trying to convince me when Vincent came sauntering into the morgue, proving beyond a shadow of a doubt that it wasn’t his body lying there. I’d nearly been overcome by relief, followed closely by a wave of lust so powerful I’d never felt its like before. I’d wanted to throw myself on him, topple him to the cold tiled floor, and bury myself in his body to reassure myself he was really alive.

  I hadn’t, of course. Manns didn’t do things like that; the Ice Man didn’t do things like that. I’d reined in my emotions, said coolly, “Glad to know it wasn’t you, Vincent. Let’s go, DB. Good evening, gentlemen,” and I’d left the room, a perfect exit.

  I stood outside the morgue, taking deep, calming breaths, which, while they were deep enough, did nothing to calm me.

  It took me a minute to realize DB wasn’t behind me, and I dithered. I had no intention of going back in there to face Vincent again—how anticlimactic. The only thing that aided me in keeping my composure was the knowledge that Vincent had no idea how… troubled… I’d been.

  Why the fuck hadn’t DB followed me? I had no desire to stand here in the hall waiting for him.

  DB came out before I had to make a decision.

  “What took you so long?”

  “Nothing.”

  “DB.”

  “All right.” He hunched a shoulder. “I just let him know that I wasn’t glad it wasn’t him who was dead.”

  I would have taken him to task over that. Needless to say, the CIA and the Washington Bureau of Intelligence and Security weren’t bosom buddies, but we were on the same side. However, DB was watching me carefully, and I decided it was better to let the matter ride for now.

  Fortunately, when he saw I had no intention of challenging him, he let it drop. “Are you up to driving?”

  “Of course.”

  “Don’t of course me. I saw how shaken you were.” Then again, perhaps he wasn’t letting it drop. “I’m telling you, Quinn, if there’s anyone who deserves to be canceled with extreme prejudice, it’s Mark Vincent! The son of a bitch doesn’t even have the courtesy to stay dead, goddammit!” We took the elevator up to the first floor and went out to the parking lot.

  “No, but he wouldn’t be Mark Vincent then, would he?” I breathed out a silent sigh of relief. I had myself under control once more.

  He scowled at me. “Let’s go. I’ve got better things to do than hang around the morgue.”

  We got into my Lexus, and I drove back to the Rib Shack, where DB’s car was parked.

  “Come on. I’m buying you a drink.”

  “Excuse me?” All I wanted to do was crawl into bed and sleep for twenty years. “I don’t need—”

  “Quinn, get out of the goddamned
car before I’m tempted to kick your ass!”

  “There’s no need to be so—” My cell phone rang, and I took it out and stared at the screen for a moment.

  “You gonna answer that?”

  “It can wait until later.” I wasn’t going to tell him it was Mark.

  “Okay. Now, come on, Quinn. Have a drink with me.” He was good at wheedling.

  “Oh, very well.” Suddenly I wasn’t quite so exhausted. We went into a little bar down the street from the Rib Shack, found a small booth, and gave the waiter our orders—Jack Daniels for DB, ginger ale for me.

  DB arched an eyebrow at me, but waited until the man left to get our drinks before saying, “There, you see?”

  “See what?”

  “You ordered a ginger ale.”

  “I’m quite aware of what I ordered. Has a law suddenly been passed?”

  He scowled at me. “I’m worried about you, Quinn.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? You’re my friend, goddammit! And for half an hour, we thought Mark Vincent was dead. Shouldn’t I worry when I’ve never seen you so shaken up before?”

  “Surely not.”

  “Quinn.” His look was impatient.

  “DB, the man has a well-deserved reputation. As you said, it was like the end of an era.’”

  “I don’t remember saying that. Are you sure?”

  “You know some of our younger officers regard him as something akin to Keyser Söze.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  The waiter brought our drinks and set them on the table before us, buying me some time, and I shrugged, thinking fast. “Well, perhaps it was just that on top of a stressful week.”

  “Stressful how?” As I’d hoped, he’d risen to the bait.

  “Drum called again.” Major Jonathan Drum II worked out of the Pentagon, and he was an even bigger pain in my ass than Mark Vincent.

  “That—what did he want?”

  “What he usually wants: another favor. I wasn’t home, so he had to leave a message. Needless to say, he wasn’t pleased. He’s got quite an interesting vocabulary.” Lately it had seemed to me he was calling more frequently. Drum worked for the Office of the Inspector General and was a smart lawyer, but he was also good-looking, and he often got by on those looks. I didn’t mind helping out on occasion, but now it was as if he expected me to drop everything to do his bidding. I wasn’t about to permit him or anyone else to use me.

  “Son of a bitch. Why doesn’t he do his own legwork?” Fortunately, DB’s question was purely rhetorical. He picked up his drink and finished it in a few gulps.

  “You’d better take it easy, David. The last thing you need is to get stopped for driving under the influence.”

  “I’m okay. It’s you I’m worried about.”

  “There’s no need. I’m fine.” I pushed back my sleeve to check the watch that had been my grandfather’s—I’d been touched when Uncle Bryan had given it to me, telling me Grandfather had specifically requested I have it. “It’s getting late, and I’d better go.” I wanted to find out why Mark had called. “Are you staying?”

  “No.” He reached for his wallet.

  I stopped him, took out mine, and peeled off a bill, which I handed to the waiter. “Keep the change.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “You should have let me get this, Quinn. After all, Jack Daniels is more expensive than ginger ale.” He followed me out of the bar.

  “I can afford it. Besides, it’s only fair. I feel as if I ruined your evening.”

  “Not your fault things got exciting there for a bit. And you were right, much as I hate to admit it. Vincent wouldn’t do something as dumb as blowing himself up. Although I can still dream.”

  “You—we—may not like him, but you have to give the man his due. He does get the job done.” I unlocked the door to my car and got in.

  “Yeah, only people die when he does.” He leaned down, keeping me from shutting the door, and gave me one last warning. “Call me when you get home, Quinn. Or by God I’ll come knocking on your door!”

  “Yes, Mother. You drive carefully too.” I grinned at him, and fortunately the light was dim enough that he didn’t see how forced it was. I was relieved when he chuckled and shut the door.

  I put the car into drive and started home, wondering again why Mark had tried to call me.

  II

  I RETURNED his call as soon as I got in. He sounded tired, and I wasn’t surprised when I heard myself tell him, “Come over. I’ll make you a sandwich and something hot to drink. You can ‘crash’ in my spare bedroom.”

  After all, it was simply the right thing to do for a… colleague.

  Now… toasted cheese and tomato soup?

  No, that was a boy’s comfort food. He’d need something more substantial—bacon, lettuce, and tomato, perhaps, and I had a fresh loaf of multigrain bread.

  The last thing he’d need was caffeine. I had some Earl Grey that was decaffeinated. I’d brew him a pot of that.

  It was drunk with milk, but I had none in the house. I did have half-and-half for my coffee, but that would make the tea richer-tasting.

  Since I had no idea if Mark preferred it that way, I drove down to a small, all-night grocery store, which was only about a half mile away. Most of the milk was dated for the next day, but I found a pint bottle whose expiration date was still a few days away.

  “You want a bag for that?” The cashier was bored and sleepy-looking as he took my money and automatically made change.

  “No, that won’t be necessary.” I took my change and the bottle and returned home, garaged the Lexus, and let myself back into my town house.

  After I put the milk in the fridge beside my half-and-half, I hung up my overcoat. Little, inconsequential things, all done by rote.

  Once they were taken care of, I brewed the pot of Earl Grey and categorized what I’d need to do:

  Switch on the fan in the hood above the stove, take out a frying pan and lay some strips of bacon in it, then turn the flame on beneath it.

  I got that accomplished, then glanced at my watch. I really hadn’t expected Mark to show up immediately, but… where was he? And what was he doing?

  Well, it was just as well he wasn’t here. I still had to put his sandwich together.

  While the bacon fried, I washed lettuce and a tomato and put a couple of slices of bread in the toaster.

  There were more things to do:

  Drain the bacon on sheets of paper towels, wipe the frying pan down, wash and dry it, and then put it away.

  Enumerating all the little tasks that needed to be done and then doing them did nothing to blot out the memory of Mark as he stood in the morgue. He’d been just so fucking nonchalant about the whole thing, as if bodies turning up and being mistaken for his occurred on a frequent basis.

  I put the sandwich together, and the sensation in the pit of my stomach grew colder, the rigidity in my jaw tighter. How could he…?

  My mouth was in a tight line, and my teeth ached from grinding them. I rotated my jaw, hoping to ease the tension.

  And to whom, exactly, did that body in the morgue belong? A lover, perhaps?

  A series of loud thwacks brought me out of my furious musings, and I stared, aghast, from the large knife in my hand to the sandwich. I’d had no intention of slicing off the crusts, but apparently my subconscious had other ideas.

  I put the knife in the dishwasher and was distracted by the sight of my breakfast dish already in place. I knew I hadn’t had the time to put it there, and it wasn’t my cleaning service’s usual day. That left Mark. He had been here at some point today—the photograph replacing JessicaTheDumbBlonde’s was proof enough of that. Although why he’d tidied my kitchen…. And then it occurred to me: what better way of thumbing his nose at my security system?

  But what had become of my coffee cup?

  I opened the microwave, and as I’d half suspected, there it was. Smiling wryly, I dumped its contents into the sink, rinsed i
t, and put it in the top rack of the dishwasher.

  As I closed it, I realized I was grasping at any excuse to interrupt my thoughts. I’d never lost my temper because a colleague had met with a near miss, and I’d certainly never been jealous.

  Why now? Why this man?

  Just then my doorbell chimed. I wiped my hands on a dishtowel and went to the door, pausing to peer through the peephole before opening it. Although I wasn’t expecting anyone except Mark, it would not pay to grow careless.

  Of course it was Mark standing there, and my breath caught at the sight of him, the lines at the corners of his eyes and bracketing his mouth deeply etched. I opened the door, and the weariness was wiped from his face, quickly replaced with a manic grin.

  I could understand why Major Drum was uneasy whenever he came into contact with Mark Vincent.

  “Come on in before you frighten the neighbors, Mark. You look like death warmed over.”

  His grin morphed into a scowl, but it took an effort. What had gone on with him today? Certainly it was upsetting to learn one’s home had been blown up, but his weariness seemed out of proportion to that.

  But then, someone had died in that explosion. Again I wondered if it had been a lover. I’d seen the way he’d curled his lip when regarding the deceased, but that didn’t necessarily mean that at some point in time there couldn’t have been warmer feelings between them.

  “Go on into the kitchen; I’m sure you know where it is.”

  He took a step forward, paused and looked down at his feet, then removed his shoes and socks, which were obviously soaked through. For a moment he seemed uncertain as to what to do with his socks, and then he stuffed them into the pocket of his suit jacket.

  That was… considerate of him. I reached for the duffel he carried. “I’ll take your bag up to the guest bedroom.”

  “Jesus, Mann.” He wouldn’t let it go. “We’re adversaries. Don’t treat me like a fucking guest.”

  “Shut the fuck up!” I snapped. “I have no intention of getting some kind of vicarious thrill by searching through your clothes, so give me your fucking bag, go in the kitchen, and eat your goddamned sandwich. And for God’s sake, call me Quinn!”