delga | fic: hard liquor. [13/14] (spooks)

hard liquor. (spooks)
Fiona, Adam, Tja; het./fem.
xiii. make me a promise

(Something is ticking over in the back of her mind. If only she can find it).

She doesn’t want to join Six. Would rather be alone than tied to a job or a Service. But Tja has ‘friends’ and Tja made plans and Tja expects this of her.

(Tja is putting oceans between them).

She should say no, should put her foot down, be firm. She can’t, of course. Disagreement is completely out of the question. Ostensibly, this is part of Tja’s newfound conscience crisis. Anouska isn’t certain how those two line up but she figures that Tja must have a basic plan of action somewhere.

So this is Damascus, the last stop. Endgame, if you will.

(Tja does not compromise).

(Fiona resents the double entendre. She is not here to ‘facilitate a weapons deal’. She is here to survive, to keep on surviving).

Night. She wakes, suddenly, sits upright in bed. (The pimp is not there; presumably he is off plying his trade). Something is wrong.

(Tja is in the corner, staring, unblinking).

“Tja…”

“Make me a promise.” Whispers, ghosts of words. Anouska strains to hear.

“What?”

“I said, make me a promise.” Still, her voice is cool and sharp. Precise. Tja has come to make a deal. (There is no compromise). This is all or nothing.

(She will remember the littlest things: the way the moonlight glinted in Tja’s eyes; the way Tja crouched as though ready to spring; the thought that crossed her mind, that Tja must have been cold and tired and did she never sleep?)

Anouska is wary of the tone in Tja’s voice. “What is it?”

“Promise me you won’t look for me.”

Pause.

“Tja, wha—”

“Promise me.” And she is there, right before Anouska’s eyes, teeth bared, forcing her back, forcing the eye contact until Anouska is dizzy. Her ubiquitous dagger caresses the flesh of Anouska’s throat.

(A whisper). “Where are you going?”

“Promise me.”

“Tja, please—”

“Promise me this one thing. I ask nothing else.”

(She weeps, feels alone. Feels as though she has been cast aside, a useless object, redundant), “Tja?”

“I don’t care how you do it, detka, I don’t care where you go or what you do but you are going to survive. You will live and you will make mercy of this life.” (Her voice cracks; Anouska can see tears in Tja’s eyes). “Do what you must and survive this but never ever look for me, understand?”

Anouska dares not breathe.

“Promise me…” Quiet, oh so quiet. Sweet, like a lover’s voice. “…or I’ll kill you now and save myself the trouble of worrying.”

(There is no compromise).

“Where are you going with this?” Out of the frying pan, into the fire.

Adam lingers, makes his point.

“I told you, I’m not a double.”

“I know.” He knows. He knows a lot. He wonders how much more he should reveal to her. How much he should keep to himself.

“What did he do?”

“To the wife?”

Fiona nods.

“What he was supposed to. Killed her. Didn’t have time for anything fancy so he set it up as a suicide. Slit her wrists.”

(Fiona’s face goes white and sickly. Now the frayed ends come together).

“Didn’t do the best job of it, the idiot. Didn’t leave hesitation marks. Police figured out it was a murder. Woman’s name was Kalakos, her son found her.” He grinned. “Turns out some housemaid chose that day to run off. She took the fall, saved our neck.”

Fiona (quiet): “What happened to her?”

He laughs. Slowly, sadly. “Six looked her up. Took her in.”

(And then the shit hit the fan).

He knows. Anouska’s cover has been blown to smithereens. Six is coming to get her.

(Tja was right; it went up in flames).

The pig is not a pig; the pig is a mole. Israeli Secret Service. (The double crossing seems pointless to Anouska. She is numb, alone. This is the end; the end of the line, the end of the road, the end, the end, the end).

She packs nothing, dresses somewhat sensibly and gets out of the house. (They killed him, the pimp, strung him up like a doll. She feels no pity for him. Knows now that Tja will never be back).

An officer, a Six agent, finds her, takes her away. He seems impatient. (Better he does not know that she is out of her mind, no longer connecting with the here and now). He drags her into an alleyway, a hand clamped over her mouth (whispers into her ear: “Don’t struggle. I’m here to extract you. Follow me”). Takes her hand, pulls her forwards when she makes no indication of moving, of doing as he’s told her.

The pimp is a pig is a mole is dead.

(And Tja is gone. Forever).

How Fiona ends up at the bottom, she will never know. Except— this is a conspiracy of sorts, targeted at her specifically and this country in which she thought she was finally sheltered (monotonous and lifeless as it is) now holds new secrets, more lies.

She says nothing to Adam, looks at her watch, walks away.

(Wonders what Harry Pearce really knows of her. Wonders why Tja chose her and no one else).

She would never have looked for Tja – would have kept her promise to the bitter end – but she found a file detailing an assignment gone wrong (somewhere in the east; Romania, she thinks) where the deep cover agent was identified by a scar, running up the outside of her leg (from the ankle, up past the knee to the middle of the upper thigh).

(Tja).

You can’t just have a taste. You can’t just take a sip. Tja was alive and back on the radar. Fiona had to know more.

Needed to know more.

(Her own fault, then, that now she knows too much).

end. [13/14]