Houseboat on the Nile

Chapter 2-1

Chapter 2Happy Birthday, Baby

I was in a piss-poor mood, and I scowled at the calendar on my desk.

February 25. It hadn’t miraculously changed in the time I’d been down to the cafeteria on two.

Jesus, I hated birthdays.

Yeah, it was my birthday. The big 4-0.

Big f*****g whoop.

Why did I hate birthdays? Let me count the ways.

To begin with, if my actual date of birth was known, I would have been retired from the field five years ago. The WBIS might have a lenient policy when it came to an agent’s s****l orientation, but not so much when it came to an agent’s age: hit thirty-five and you were consigned to a desk, no matter how good you were.

Sure, there were ways to get around minor inconveniences like that, at least there were if you were me. What was in my personal file was what I wanted in that file, that July 4, 1966, was my birthday. As a matter of fact, the fourth was my father’s birthday, and ‘66—well, it was the last good year we’d had as a family.

But I was starting to get the feeling that The Boss had never been fooled, not much at any rate, and as good an agent as I was, he would only bend the rules so much. Any day now, he was going to call me into his office and tell me my days in the field were over.

What the f**k was I going to do then? Become a freelancer?

Yeah, that could work….

Like hell it could. I liked the structure and foundation of the WBIS; it had been my home for almost fifteen years, more of a home than my old lady had ever provided.

Could I sit behind a desk and terrorize the junior agents, like that s**t Robert Sperling?

Not f*****g likely.

So where did that leave me? On the tiny island in the Caribbean that I’d put a down p*****t on? And what would I do there? Become a beach bum and contemplate my navel? And how long would it be before I went out of my f*****g mind?

Before I could continue mulling over all the reasons why I hated birthdays, the intercom buzzed, and I picked it up. “Yes, Ms. Parker?”

“Mr. Vincent, I have Quinton Mann on line 2 for you.”

Quinton Mann? Deputy Director of Operational Targeting of the CIA Quinton Mann? What the f**k?

I’d always had a dossier on him; I had a dossier on all the agents, officers, and operatives who were likely to get involved in any of my operations, and even those who weren’t likely to, but things had changed after that incident at the Wyman Brothers warehouse, when that s**t Buonfiglio, a spook who played both sides against the middle, had shot Mann.

Until that point, Mann and I had never crossed paths, but his reaction to the whole thing piqued my interest—he’d been shot, for f**k’s sake, and yet there he’d sat on that dirty floor, as cool as the proverbial cucumber. If I hadn’t seen the blood staining his trousers, I’d have thought he was slumming.

After that, I started keeping a private dossier on him, one that no one else knew about. I told myself it was strictly to keep track of what the C-f*****g-I-f*****g-A was up to. The more you knew about the way an agent, officer, or operative thought, the more likely you were to outthink him.

Well, look how easy it had been to outthink Buonfiglio. He’d had the gall to gloat about it to me afterward. “The CIA has the cyclotron now, asswipe.”

“I guess you do.” I’d shrugged and patted his shoulder, noting with satisfaction his wince.

“Damn, what was that?”

“Bee sting? Well, I’ve got to go.”

“Bees? Uh, yeah.” His eyes had become unfocused. “See you around.” He’d continued rubbing his left arm, and I’d known by the time I took my place at the meeting The Boss had set up with Hazelton, the CIA’s Director of Intelligence, Buonfiglio would be halfway dead.

By the time he was all the way dead, I’d have an airtight alibi.

No one f****d with my operations.

But I found I couldn’t get Mann out of my mind, especially after we’d chatted on New Year’s Eve. I’d altered my appearance enough so he hadn’t recognized me. Not that I’d been worried about that; he hadn’t been able to see me too clearly in that warehouse. Now I needed to know…everything, and not just what I’d been able to get from hacking into his files. What was his favorite pony’s name? Who were his favorite authors, movies, musicians? Why he got that A– in English lit his last year in college instead of his usual A?

And did he prefer blondes or brunets? Because, yeah, Mann was bisexual—something that wasn’t known in the intelligence community. Hell, did his family even know?

I’d gone so far as to disguise myself as an old school friend and interview his mother. After a casual remark by her about a wine-buying trip they had taken together in the summer of 1980, I’d done a little investigating, which had led me to discover the very interesting fact that when he was fifteen, Mann had lost his virginity to a French boy a couple of years older.

And wouldn’t the s**t hit the fan if he ever found out not only that I’d tricked his old lady into talking about him, but that I’d discovered something he didn’t want discovered? Not that he ever would learn about it. I was too good at what I did—the best, in fact—and I knew how to cover my tracks.

But when the hell had my desire for knowledge about Mann turned to desire for Mann? I wanted him, not as in “dead or alive,” but as in “in my bed,” and that wasn’t acceptable. Oh, not because he was a man. The WBIS had instituted a policy when The Boss took over twenty-five years before, and as a result, an active agent’s sexuality was taken out of the equation, as that pompous asshole James Adams liked to say, and the agent was able to function at the peak of his ability.

No, the problem wasn’t that Mann was a man. The problem was he was CIA.

The CIA got the jobs the NSA wouldn’t dirty their lily-white fingers on.

And the WBIS got the jobs the CIA wouldn’t handle.

There wasn’t any love lost between any of us. And that was the way it was.

That didn’t bring me any closer to figuring out why the phone call from Mann. I drummed my fingers on the arm of my chair. I wouldn’t find out why he’d called by just staring at the phone. I took a breath and punched two on my phone. “Vincent.”

“Vincent, this is Quinton Mann.”

“So my secretary informed me. My, my,” I said in my snidest tone. I was not about to let a Deputy Director of the CIA know I was caught short by his call. “The CIA’s golden boy is calling the WBIS? To what do I owe this honor?”

I could have been referring to the state of the weather for all the attention he paid to my words. “I need to see you. Are you available for dinner?”

My mouth went dry. The sound of his voice alone had my c**k hardening, and the unruly thought flashed through my mind, “Sure, if you’re the dinner.” The image of him bent over a dinner table and me pounding into him made my c**k even harder.

Shit. This had never happened to me before. I controlled my c**k, not the other way around.

I pushed those thoughts and images out of my mind and concentrated on the matter at hand. He wanted to meet for dinner.

This would be an ideal opportunity to learn more about him. And by extension, the CIA, of course. I cleared my throat and made a show of loudly turning the pages on my daily planner, knowing the sound would be picked up over the phone line. I was a busy man, after all, and I wanted that to be plain to him.

“Hmmm. I have a 5:00 p.m. meeting….” Someone who saw that the necessary funding for the WBIS was unobtrusively filtered into our coffers through contracts awarded to Huntingdon Corp. and who was becoming recalcitrant. Normally, this would have been Sperling’s job, but The Boss had delegated it to me. Now, as senior special agent in charge of the matter, it would be my job to show him the error of his ways, and I could hardly wait. I had no liking for the good senator. “But after that it looks like I’ll be free.” I couldn’t resist adding, “And don’t bother asking who I’ll be meeting, or why.”

“Of course not, Mark. I know you wouldn’t tell me anyway.”

I stared at my phone in suspicion.

He’d called me by my first name, something no one did. I was Vince to my few friends, Vincent to my colleagues, even “that sociopathic son of a b***h,” according to certain members of the intelligence community.

Why had Mann done that? And why had there been a smile in his voice as he’d done that? Sure he’d seemed to like Kane Flint, the persona I’d used on New Year’s Eve, but me, Mark Vincent? If I were on fire, no one in the CIA would piss on me to put it out.

As a matter of fact, they’d probably pour on gasoline.

“Would you meet me at Raphael’s?”

“Certainly.” I wasn’t going to let him know he’d taken me by surprise. And I wasn’t going to relax my guard. He was still CIA. “What time?”

“Seven. Will that give you enough time?”

I considered the man I would be seeing at five o’clock. It would be more than enough time, but Mann didn’t need to know that. “Better make it eight.” After all, I didn’t want to appear too eager.

Too eager? s**t. I was ready to bang my head against my desk. All right, Vincent, get your head out of your crotch. Mann might be bisexual, but he’s the last person you want to get bisexual with. Don’t forget, you’re WBIS.

“Fine.” His tone was almost caressing. What the f**k was going on here? “I’ll see you at Raphael’s at eight, Mark.” There was a click and then the hum of the dial tone.

He called you Mark.

Mann hadn’t told me where Raphael’s was, and I wasn’t familiar with it, but before I left for my last meeting, I would know everything about the restaurant, down to how much the owner had left on the mortgage and if he’d had to grease someone’s palm to get his liquor license.

He called you Mark.

All right already. So f*****g what?

I shoved the unexpected invitation—and the fact that he’d called me Mark—from my mind; I had work to do, after all.

I thumbed the intercom. “Ms. Parker, get me a cup of coffee, please?” I pulled up the senator’s file.

He called you Mark.

* * * *

It was a quarter past eight when I arrived at the classy Italian restaurant. I knew Mann wouldn’t want to be kept waiting, but I’d decided to make him wait anyway. That was how we played the game in the WBIS—always keep ‘em guessing.

And if it was rude, so f*****g what? It led to dumb mistakes on their part.

As I approached the door, the doorman sprang forward and politely opened it for me. I checked my overcoat, and as soon as I gave the maître d’ Mann’s name, he nodded, also politely, and led me to a small table in a discreet alcove. The lighting was subdued, and nestled in the centerpiece of red rosebuds and ferns were a few candles.

What the f**k? This was the kind of table you’d reserve for your lover—or someone you hoped would soon be your lover.

Quinton Mann was just arriving from the other direction. So I hadn’t kept him waiting. Post, riposte.

His smile was warm and welcoming as I seated myself. Was he trying to make me confused, keep me off balance? I scowled at him, and his gaze became concerned.

“What’s wrong, Mark? Difficult meeting?”

In spite of his saying he wasn’t going to ask who I’d met with, I wondered if he was trying to make me slip, and I was tempted to laugh and tell him not to try teaching his grandmother how to suck eggs. I let nothing slip except what I wanted to “slip.”

I accepted the “difficult meeting” as a reasonable enough excuse and gave a brief nod, although it really hadn’t been anything I couldn’t handle. I’d simply explained the facts of life to Senator Wexler. Either he backed off and stopped sitting on our funding, or he’d do a Jimmy Hoffa. The senator tried to bluff his way out of that, claiming that our meeting was under video surveillance and was being recorded. I simply countered with a little device that emitted magnetic waves that wiped the transmission.