Mann of My Dreams Book 2: Things Happen That Way

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

It seemed the piper always had to be paid, because late that Friday afternoon, I was told Major Jonathan Drum II “requested” my presence at the Pentagon, and since my department had been ordered to cooperate with the OIG in this instance—the possibility of an audit loomed over us—I had no choice but to go.

So now, there I was, waiting to hear what allegations might be filed, but instead of listening to Drum drone on and on about preventing or detecting fraud and abuse, to my astonishment, all he did was complain about my lover.

Of course the major had no idea Mark was my lover, but I had the feeling that either way it wouldn’t stop him.

“I’m telling you, Mann, he’s a sociopath! He needs to be put down like a rabid dog!”

“You’re going overboard.” I fully understood why Mark tended to lose his patience with Drum. I could feel my blood pressure rise and my hands curl into fists. I was known as the Ice Man, but it took the restraint I had learned from my parents as a child to keep from punching him in that perfect nose of his.

“No, I’m not! Have you heard the latest about him?”

“I don’t have the time to listen to gossip.”

“It’s not gossip! This is intelligence that will affect everyone in DC!”

“Indeed?” Had word of what had really happened to Richard Wexler—that his having a stroke and flipping his car was no more an accident than the hit-and-run that had resulted in Mother being hospitalized—come back to haunt us? I kept my expression neutral.

“Yes, indeed.” He looked annoyed.

“In that case, I definitely haven’t heard. Why don’t you inform me?”

“He’s taken up golf!”

I bit down hard on my inner cheek to keep from laughing. “Seriously, Major? That’s hardly indicative of someone being a sociopath.”

He scowled at me. “He’s up to something—he has to be! Since when does a senior special agent of the WBIS golf?”

“If I recall correctly, Trevor Wallace golfs.”

“But he’s not a senior special agent!”

“If it comes to that, neither is Vincent. He’s Director of Interior Affairs.”

“What? When did this happen?”

“Last December.”

“Didn’t he have to be Deputy Director first?”

“The spring before that.” My cell phone rang, “Such a Night,” and I cursed myself for not putting it on vibrate.

“A lady friend calling?” Drum arched an eyebrow. “You want to take that, Mann?”

“Now that would be the height of rudeness.” I let the call go to voicemail.

“Self-righteous, arrogant bastard.”

“I’m cut to the quick.”

Drum flushed, and I realized I wasn’t supposed to have heard that.

He cleared his throat. “Okay, so why wasn’t I informed of Vincent’s promotion?” He glared as if this was part of my job description, and then his eyes narrowed. “And how is it you know?”

“Really, Drum, it wasn’t a secret. Didn’t you hear about the explosion that killed Director Sperling?” I’d thought it was Mark’s body on the slab in the morgue, and I’d been stunned by the devastation I’d felt. That was when it first occurred to me that what the WBIS agent and I had going between us might be more than mind games.

“Uh… Yeah, but I figured it was just one less sociopath on the face of the earth.”

“I know WBIS agents don’t have the best reputations, but tell me something. Where does your animosity toward Vincent come from?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” He was going for lofty indifference, but I could see the unease in his eyes.

“Come, come, Major. Such hostility has to spring from somewhere.”

“It was his fault my ass... uh... what happened last spring happened!”

“How do you account for that?” I strove to appear as puzzled as I sounded, but of course I knew what he was talking about. At the same time the disaster that was Prinzip was unfolding, Drum had crossed Robert Lynx—head of the Division—and wound up as his plaything for a period of time. And when Lynx was done with him, he’d had the name Marie-Ange tattooed on Drum’s ass, a joke not many were in on. Marie-Ange was the given name of Anacapri, Lynx’s psych operative. At least Lynx had made sure Drum was dropped off near my hotel and saw I was notified. Or perhaps it was Pierre de Becque behind that mysterious phone call. I’d assumed the woman’s voice belonged to Anacapri, but it could just as well have been Femme, who ran the Division’s intelligence extraction department.

“He was in Paris!”

“So was I. Are you going to insinuate that I had something to do with your condition as well?”

He flushed scarlet.

I hadn’t been in good shape myself, but I’d managed to get Drum to a hospital, where he “dried out.”

Mark, who was out making arrangements for our return to Washington, wasn’t pleased with me when he discovered what I’d done.

“Goddammit, Mann! You could have pulled your stitches!” he growled.

I gave him the cool stare that had seen me labeled the Ice Man. “I don’t have stitches, Mark.”

“My God, you drive me crazy!”

I realized how distressed he was when he removed my clothes with careful fingers and examined my body, which was still bruised from the beatings I’d received at Prinzip.

If this had been one of my previous, restrained affairs, nothing like that would have happened, simply due to the nature of the companion I chose. And if by chance it had happened… well, I’d have walked away. However, nothing about my relationship with Mark was like anything I’d had before, and that was only in part because the majority of the people I’d dated had been women. The last man I’d had in my bed had been years ago in Ireland, the summer after my graduation from Harvard. I’d flown to Europe to do some odd jobs for my uncles and had met Donnel O’Hara, a sweet-natured Irishman. Perhaps that was why we didn’t last longer than the three weeks I was in Tullamore.

Mark Vincent, on the other hand, was snarky and testy and, as he would be the first to declare, the best at what he did. He was a challenge—mental, physical, and eventually, emotional. Perhaps that was why we were still together, more than a year after I’d learned he’d had the audacity to pretend to be an old schoolmate and interviewed my mother.

Once Mark was satisfied I had no new bruises, he pulled me—gently so as not to hurt me—into his arms and kissed me.

So no, I wasn’t going anywhere.

“I know what I know!” Drum’s lower lip thrust out. The man was actually pouting.

“I’m sure you do, Major.” Although I sincerely doubted that. The Division’s R&D had come up with a drug that was—libido enhancing, to say the least, making a man crave c**k without regard for his actual s****l orientation. If the antidote wasn’t given, if the subject recovered cold turkey, he would recall the days and nights he’d spent spread under a man who should have been nothing less than his worst enemy.

However, the antidote had been given, and Drum’s memories of that time were replaced with something more innocuous and suitable to his sexuality—a buxom, long-legged brunette by the name of Marie-Ange, and a souvenir of his time with her was the tattoo on his ass. And what he couldn’t remember—how he’d met her, why they’d parted, why he’d done something so out of character—was explained away by the amount of alcohol in his system.

I glanced at my watch. It was getting late. Drum had been ranting for three quarters of an hour, and I still had no idea why I’d been summoned here. If this meeting didn’t end soon, I wouldn’t have time to shower and change before meeting Mark at Raphael’s for dinner. “Suppose we get down to business?”

“I’m telling you—”

“You’ve told me nothing. Look, what did you need to see me about?”

His scowled once again. “Didn’t I make it clear? I want you to get the goods on Vincent.”

“Goods? What goods?”

“How the hell should I know? Make something up for all I care! He’s WBIS—he has to have done something illegal. I want him in Lee!”

“You’d send an innocent man to prison?” I stared at him, dumbfounded. Lee was a maximum security penitentiary in Southwest Virginia.

“Even on the day he was born, Vincent wasn’t innocent! And if he could be put away for a thousand years, that still wouldn’t be long enough!”

“Are you out of your mind?” I’d kill Drum before I let him do that to Mark.

“I am not—” He glared at me. “Are you worried about losing your job? You don’t have to.” His expression shifted to not only smug but sanctimonious as well. “I have friends in this administration. They’ll make sure you come out of this smelling like a rose.”

“Yes?” It was a good thing I was seeing Mark later; I had to inform him about this. I drew on my years of experience as the Ice Man, sat back in my chair, and crossed my legs, giving Drum an ironic smile. “And why would I do this for you?”

“Why wouldn’t you? I’m not the only man in DC—in this country!—who has a beef with him. Vincent’s been a thorn in your side as well as mine!”

“My side?”

“Well, the CIA’s, and that’s the same thing.”

How had he come to assume that? “I’ll have to give it some thought.”

“I knew you’d see it my way!” His expression became almost zealot-like. “You had dinner with him once—I remember now. Why?”

I gave him a bored look. “Seriously, Drum? You expect me to reveal all my secrets?”

“Right. Yeah.” He sounded disgruntled. “Goddamned spook. Okay, do this however you want—just make sure you keep me in the loop!”

Before I could inform him that I hadn’t agreed to anything, there was a tap on the door to his office.

“Come,” he said smoothly.

The door opened, and Lieutenant Colonel Abigail Francis entered. “Jon, are you—”

Drum and I both rose to our feet—him because she outranked him and me because that was simply what a gentleman would do.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you had a meeting.”

“Well, it’s hardly important,” Drum said. “It’s just Mann.” He grinned to show he wasn’t serious. “You know Quinton Mann, don’t you?”

I crossed to shake her hand. She was a very attractive woman, even more so in her Marine uniform.

“Yes, we’ve run into each other a number of times. How are you, Quinton?”

“I’m fine, thank you, Abigail. And you?”

Her smile was serene. “Fine.”

I gave her a slow smile in return. “I must say you’re looking very tanned.”

“Jon and I just returned from an assignment in Australia.”

“I hope it went well?”

“Yes. Beyond that I really can’t talk about it.”

“In that case, I wouldn’t think of inquiring further.”

“You’re such a gentleman, Quinton. Are you seeing anyone now? I was sorry to hear you and Susan are no longer together.”

“Our interests diverged.”

“It’s sad when that happens.”

“Still, it’s better to learn of it sooner rather than later.”

“Very true.”

I had hoped, since Susan and I both worked for the government, that we might have interests in common. I’d thought I could settle for friendship and liking. And to tell the truth, I was feeling the urge to marry and perhaps start a family.

Unfortunately, I realized fairly quickly that such a tepid emotion wouldn’t work for me—I might as well remain single.

I’d seen what my parents had, and for a few short months when I was fifteen I’d been certain I’d had it myself, that Armand Bauchet, my first lover, had been my “one.” Our relationship had disintegrated after his father discovered we were much more than friends.

I’d been devastated, and although I’d eventually recovered, no one over the years had led me to question my belief that I’d lost my “one.” Especially not Susan.

However, she had been excited by the prospect of dating a CIA officer who actually was involved in espionage, but between my cool nature and the fact I could be sent out of the country at a moment’s notice—not to mention the fact I never spoke of my assignments—that excitement quickly faded. She’d have been willing to marry me in spite of all the ticks in the con box, for the cachet of the Sebring name, which came from my mother’s side of the family.

It wasn’t enough for me, though, so I’d used the opportunity of an assignment that took me out of the country for a few weeks to break up with her.

And shortly after I’d returned, I’d… met Mark.

Unaware of where my thoughts had wandered to, Abigail murmured, “I understand she’s engaged to Richard Custiss.”

“Hmm? Oh, so I’ve heard.” Occasionally I’d run into him at Langley. He worked in Financial Management, which meant he was home every evening for dinner, and that had to please Susan very much, as well as the rumor that Custiss was descended, in a roundabout way, from Martha Washington. It was possible even given the spelling of his last name. I recalled a story I’d once read about a tiny lizard who was certain he was descended from dinosaurs. If those beliefs made the lizard—and Susan—happy, who was I to reveal the unlikelihood of both?

“Are you sorry she broke up with you, Quinton?” Abigail arched an eyebrow at me.

“Good God, no!” I wasn’t about to correct her assumption that Susan was the one who’d walked away. That was one of the conditions necessary in order to extricate myself from that situation.

Abigail patted my shoulder and turned to Drum, who’d been fidgeting during our conversation. “Since this isn’t an important meeting, Jon, are you ready to leave? I made reservations at Raphael’s, and we don’t want to lose them.” She’d made the reservations? Did Drum prefer Abigail to wear the pants in their relationship? “Quinton, would you care to join us?”

“That’s very kind of you…” Unseen by Abigail, Drum was vehemently shaking his head. “… but I have plans for dinner.”

“What a shame,” Drum said, although it was obvious to me he really didn’t think so.

“Yes.”

“Perhaps another time, Quinton?”

I simply smiled at her. Having dinner with her would be pleasant—she was an intelligent conversationalist—but Drum’s inclusion would give me a headache. “And I’d better be on my way.”

“Don’t forget what we talked about!”

“I’m hardly likely to do that, Major. Good evening, Abigail.” I raised her hand to my lips and kissed it, and she blushed. “Drum.”

He growled something and slammed the door shut after me.