| Subject: The Ubiquitous Mr. Lovegrove Part Eight |
Author:
Schnee
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Date Posted: 14:44:04 03/03/01 Sat
In reply to:
Schnee
's message, "The Ubiquitous Mr. Lovegrove" on 14:10:08 03/03/01 Sat
“Hallo, Love!”
I roll my eyes as the Englishman’s chipper voice reaches my ears. Part of me had hoped that Centre had kept him longer. No such luck.
“Did you miss me?” Jones asks as he comes into view. I close the door firmly behind me in response.
“Got your panties in a twist, eh? Well, whatever it is, I didn’t do it. Nope. I’m innocent. As innocent as the day I was born.”
I just stare at him. Blankly.
I find it impossible to believe this man could run a McDonald’s, let alone Centre, one of the most powerful covert anti-terrorist organizations. I’m convinced as ever that he’s a fraud. But who is really in charge? And will this person reveal himself to me?
I let my bag drop to the floor, before walking past Jones without a word.
“Ouch! What has gotten you in such a foul mood? Or is it that woman thing? UPS or something?”
I muffle a laugh with that last line.
“Hey…got you to crack a smile there.” Jones gleefully prods.
“Yeah.”
Turning more serious, Jones begins, “Alas, I’m afraid our trip here will have to be cut short. More pressing matters remain at Centre. They require my undivided attention.”
“So you’ll be returning to Centre when?”
“Actually, we’ll be returning. Tonight.”
“Tonight?” I reply, taken aback by the suddenness.
“The plane is being fueled as we speak. It will be ready when we are.”
“I see.” I mumble as reality sets in. I very well can’t meet Michael and be at Centre at the same time. It seems Fate has chosen for me, as the cards had indicated. My heart sinks further.
“What’s got you so glum, Popsicle?”
“Nothing.” I abruptly answer.
“Ok-ay. I guess I will just go and pack the rest of my things. Why don’t you do the same?” Jones instructs carefully, sensing my prickly state.
My eyes feel misty as I begin to collect my things. As long as the decision was mine to make, I felt strong enough to walk away. But now that the decision is made for me, I don’t feel the same. I’m unprepared for this feeling of loss. The door behind me is closing. Will another open? Or will I be trapped in this room that grows darker with each passing moment?
~~~~~
I walk through the heart of the shopping district, but I have no interest in making any purchases. My body moves with the flow of the other pedestrians. But my mind intently contemplates my situation. I came to Monaco in pursuit of Nikita. In pursuit of answers. Instead I have only more questions. Despite reestablishing intimacy with Nikita, I feel pushed further away. Lies and secrets. Widening the schism between us.
Casting my emotions aside, I focus on my path. I view a mother and child before me, walking hand in hand. The woman guides her son to a wooden bench, urging him to sit. Kneeling down she begins to tie his shoe. My first thought is of Adam, since the boy appears to be the same age. I had been trying to teach Adam to tie his shoes just before I was forced to leave him. But his knots tended to be loose and would come undone. Adam would proclaim he was a ‘big boy’, insisting on tying them himself again. Eventually, I’d convince him to let me retie them so that he wouldn’t trip and fall
As the woman looks up toward me, I’m reminded of another person I loved deeply. Maybe it’s the soft smile. Or perhaps the color of her hair. It could even be the setting I find myself in.
Mama. She always gave me a sense of security. She’d kiss the pain away. She’d make it all better. Whether it was a bruised knee or hurt feelings. Sharing my nightmares or my daydreams. She was there for me. Giving me two parents’ worth of love and support, when Papa was incapable of expressing any feeling toward his son.
Helpless. It’s a feeling I vowed never to allow again. Despite the walls I construct, I keep letting people in. First Simone, then Adam, and finally Nikita. With each I was rendered helpless again, hurdling me back to that day. A day I could point back to that changed my life forever. The chilly November day that I lost my parents.
I begin to wall myself again. Too much loss over the years. Too much pain. I need to focus on something else.
Seeing an outdoor café, hunger filters into my consciousness. The waiter catches sight of my approach, and escorts me to a table. I am then left alone with the menu. I quickly make my selection, but have to wait for the older gentleman to return. Reaching into my jacket pocket, I find the envelope with pictures. I had not given them any thought since I acquired them from the Knowles’ bedroom.
With mild interest, I begin to scan through the photographs, flipping through them. People and places. Nothing of obvious significance. Until one photo catches my attention. I note a very familiar face. The photo shows Richard and Desiree at one of their homes. Seated with them is an elder gentleman. George.
The wheels begin to turn as I reconsider recent events. Operations cancelled George after discovering that the Head of Oversight was leaking intel to Red Cell. So perhaps the interest in the Knowles is more than strictly as an arms dealer. Could Knowles be connected to the now splintered Red Cell? Then, there was Nikita’s connection to Red Cell as part of her ‘escape’ from Section. How does that fit in? Did she have a role in identifying George as the leak? Or was he simply the patsy? And she the true leak?
It unsettles me. I don’t believe in coincidences. There are simply too many related incidents that don’t quite fit together at first glance. There must be a clear connection that I’m not seeing. Or maybe one I don’t want to see.
“Are you ready to order sir?”
The waiter’s interruption leads me back to my present surroundings. I voice my selections, handing him the menu. As he leaves my table, I begin to consider my next step. Simply waiting for tomorrow to arrive is too passive for my inclination. Unfortunately, I cannot rely on Nikita alone in order to get answers.
But is it really answers that I want or just the key to Nikita’s heart?
~~~~~
With Jones occupied in the bathroom just prior to our departure, I put my plan into motion.
“The Concierge is not answering their phone. I’m going to run downstairs to see if I can find a bellhop.” I yell through the door. Not awaiting an answer I scurry out the door heading toward the stairwell, hoping to use every precious second.
Once downstairs near the lobby, I slip into the unoccupied alcove of pay phones. Rather than use one of the hotel phones, I retrieve my cell phone once again. Before dialing I silently pray that all this will be over soon. I’m not sure how much more I’m willing to sacrifice myself. But at the same time I do not want my sacrifices to be for naught. Walking that thin line, I feel empty, lacking the passion I once had.
Resigned to my fate, I listen as the line rings twice. With a click, the call connects and I speak knowing who listens on the other end.
“We’re leaving Monaco and returning to Centre tonight by private jet.”
“Good. That means activities on our part have been successful to get you inside. The rest is up to you.”
“I know.”
“Failure is not an option. I don’t need to remind you of that, do I?”
“No.” I breathe.
“We have all made sacrifices for this. Despite the pain these sacrifices may have brought, we can’t lose sight of the good that will come of it. And good will come of it, Nikita. Remember that.”
“Is there anything more I need to know? Jones will get suspicious if I’m gone too long.” I reply a bit abruptly, feeling bitterness over my own sacrifices. The lies. The deceptions. The pain I’ve caused Michael. No positive outcome can change that.
“You have everything you need. I don’t expect to hear from you until it’s done.”
The finality of her tone rings in my ears as the line goes silent. With my throat dry I swallow hard. Closing the cell phone, I slowly begin to move toward the front desk.
I swallow again before addressing the clerk.
“Yes, I was wondering if I can leave a message for someone?” The question passes my lips as almost a whisper. “Not a hotel patron, but a friend who may come looking for me. Unfortunately, I’m checking out earlier than planned.” I explain.
The young man passes me a piece of paper and a ball-point pen. I pause for a minute then begin to scribble the words ‘I’m sorry.’ Staring at the paper a moment longer, I toy with the pen, trying to find the words. Nothing seems adequate or appropriate. Gripped by frustration I crumple the paper in my hand and walk away. I can’t even be certain Michael will come here looking for me anyway, I try to justify to myself. But it doesn’t make me feel any better.
Amidst my mixed feelings, I remember to stop at the Concierge, just as I begin to walk past. I indicate that my husband and I are checking out and need assistance. With a bell-hop and his cart in tow, I return to Jones, prepared for the next step.
~~~~~
I look around my empty hotel room. The bed is neatly made. Fresh water glasses sit by the sink. The room is elegantly decorated, but it’s still just a hotel room. Not that my loft was much of a home. In contrast, the suburban house I shared with Elena had felt like a home. She had carefully chosen the décor, making it personal and homey. And Adam filled it with a child’s joy and curiosity. But I couldn’t really make it my home in my heart, knowing that the illusion would have to come to an end one day. And now I just have this hotel room until I move to the next one.
Setting my bag down, I decide to check on another hotel room. Nikita’s. I wonder if Jones has returned or if she’s sleeping alone in the room tonight. I wish to seek a glimpse of her state of mind. I want to know where to place my expectations so I don’t find myself blindsided tomorrow. Or so I tell myself.
Turning the audio on, I hear silence. It’s early for her to be sleeping. Perhaps she left to get some dinner. I rewind the tape some. Pushing play, I hear the shuffling of bags. Packing? I stop the tape and rewind it further. Picking up the phone I call the front desk at the Hôtel de Paris.
“Yes, I’m calling for the Lovegrove’s in room 422.”
“Could you spell that?”
After complying the woman answers, “I’m sorry but the Lovegrove’s have checked out.”
“Did they leave a forwarding address or phone number?”
“No. I’m afraid that there’s nothing listed here.”
“Thank you.” I put down the receiver. I find their sudden departure curious. Was Nikita desperate to free herself of me? Or had she been called back to Centre?
Listening to more of the tape, I soon learn that Jones and Nikita had indeed left for Centre earlier in the evening. The only clue as to its location is the mention of using a private jet to travel there. It’s not much to go on, but it’s a start.
I have no evidence to suspect anything other than Nikita doing her duty for Centre. But my gut finds the sudden departure of Nikita and Jones suspect and warrants looking into further. I may not trust Nikita, but I certainly trust Jones even less.
I’m also conscious that I have difficulty accepting the role of Michael Samuelle, private citizen. I must admit I prefer this quest with its very small glimmer of hope to a quiet life alone.
~~~~
As the plane’s wheels touch the ground, I gasp with relief and anticipation. The flight time left me hostage to my thoughts and doubts. Especially since Jones occupied himself with Centre affairs via his laptop, leaving me undisturbed. But now I’m faced with the uncertainty that comes with my arrival at Centre causing me to push Michael from my mind for the moment.
With the plane coming to a halt, I grasp my handbag, prepared for de-boarding. Arriving after a flight of less than 2 hours, I assume that Centre is located somewhere in Europe, as I expected. I look up to see Jones at ease, smiling in my direction.
“Smooth as whistle. Just as I like it.”
“Yes. It was a good flight,” I mutter, replying to his small talk.
Leisurely, he unbuckles his seatbelt, and rises, stretching like a lazy cat. Placing his hand out before him, he bids me to lead. “Ladies first, my dear.”
“Thank you.” I reply graciously.
A floodlight shines down on the stairs, illuminating them. Taking each step carefully, I make my way to the bottom. With nightfall, the temperatures here are cooler then those we left in Monaco. I rub my bare arms feeling the chill in the air. Looking around I note that we’ve landed at a private landing strip. A Mercedes with a driver sits idling, waiting to take us to Centre.
The driver steps from the car carrying two light coats. He hands the woman’s jacket to Jones, while retaining the other. Jones grasps the coat by the shoulders, offering to help me put it on. I slide my arms into the jacket, grateful to have its warmth. But I’m caught off guard as Jones keeps a hold of my shoulders. Before I can shrug off his hold, I feel the prick of the needle entering my neck. The reality of my situation seeps in as the drug enters my body. I struggle at first, but the drug takes effect quickly. I feel my legs give out beneath me as everything turns to a haze.
~~~~~
My eyelids flutter as sunlight begins to shine on my face. The sofa I’m resting on is fine black leather. Squinting, I try to recall how I got here. Then, it all starts flooding back into my consciousness. I’m intrigued because I’m not restrained in any way. Sitting up, I clench my jaw in apprehension as I become alert to my surroundings. Soft music is playing in the background. Piano. Chopin?
Slowly, I rise from the sofa. Light-headed, I take a few steps before gripping the back of a chair. Shaking the dizziness, I look around the finely furnished room. The far wall holds two large wood bookcases filled with leather bound volumes. An oriental rug lies under my feet, covering the hardwood flooring of what appears to be a sitting room.
The piano music continues to flow in from the doorway. Curious, I begin to look for its source. Pressed against the wall, I slide toward the next doorway as I hear the music increase in volume. From my angle, I begin to see a baby grand piano. As I stretch to catch a glimpse of the musician, I feel the pulling of my skin. My attention shifts to the soreness to my lower back just above my hipbone. Pushing my clothing from the area, I find several neatly sewn stitches.
“Oh God.” I mutter under my breath, as I experience a sinking feeling.
“Nikita? Is that you out there?”
It’s Jones. It becomes clear that he’s the mystery pianist. Feeling like the mouse caught between the cat’s paws, I swallow hard and show myself.
“Ah! So you are up and about. Good Morning, Popsicle.” Jones says turning toward me while still seated on the small bench.
“No thanks to you. What the hell is this all about?” I demand, as I decide to take the naïve approach. “Why did you drug me?” My eyes glare at him as I take an angry tone.
“Oh, that’s right. You did say before that you aren’t a morning person. How could I have forgotten?” Jones mocks me.
I intently hold my stare. If I’m caught, I’d prefer that he’d cut to the chase.
“I’m sorry love, but it had to be done. I’m sure you’ve noticed the incision that was made. So you might as well drop the act.” Jones says looking more serious.
“Act?”
“I find it intriguing that an operative who removed her clock to escape Section in order to set up Red Cell, Section, and her lover, in just a few short weeks carries another clock. Since Centre is not responsible for it, I have to wonder who is.”
I cock my head slightly giving him an inquisitive look.
“I know nothing about it.” I say firmly.
“Lying doesn’t become you my dear.”
My eyes widen as he reaches into his inner pocket. But instead of a gun, he withdraws a cell phone.
“I believe this is yours.”
Standing up, he walks toward me and places the phone in my hand. I’m unsure what he expects as he circles around me with his hand on his chin, like a vulture around a carcass.
“Betrayal is such an ugly thing. It seems that you’ve been doing what Americans would refer to as playing the two ends against the middle. What a pity. Here it was I thought you were interested in saving lives. Striving to make the world a better place. Instead it would appear you’re out to save your own neck.”
I watch him with a confident air, though I feel more like the child caught with her hand in the cookie jar.
“It’ll be much easier if you cooperate and dial the number. If I have to do it…well, that isn’t advisable.”
“Just who is it that I’m calling?” I ask flippantly as he continues to move around me.
Before I know it, the back of his hands cracks across my face. I press my hand to my lip. Feeling warm moisture oozing from it, I stand silently watching Jones carefully for his next move.
“That was the wrong answer. I wouldn’t want to be forced to do anything more drastic for your cooperation. Tell me what loyalty could you have for a woman who would have you stripped of your emotions and conditioned to be a cold-blooded killer with no remorse?”
~~~~~
“Madeline is dead.” I state bluntly. “Cyanide capsule. You saw it yourself. We both did.”
“I’m sure you’re familiar with Madeline’s ability to stop her own heartbeat. A trick she learned from Adrian. Her performance was nothing less than what I’d come to expect from her.”
“If you thought she was alive why didn’t you say anything?” I ask sincerely.
With his back to me, Jones walks over to the bar. Taking a bottle in hand, he pours himself a snifter of brandy. After taking a taste, he returns my look and answers.
“Letting her believe she pulled it off gives her a false sense of ease. I knew before long she’d make her move against me.”
I nod, but I begin to wonder why he’s tipping his hand. Why tell me this? He has me, not her. Does he think that Madeline would allow for him to trace a call? He must be smarter than that. What is he up to?
I try to act more relaxed moving toward the center of the room, examining the artwork on the walls.
“So this is Centre? It’s not what I imagined. I expected it to be more sterile. Somber and clinical. Instead it’s rather warm and extravagant. Suited to its leader’s tastes?” I ask, having learned from Madeline the art of getting into my adversary’s mindset.
“Let’s not stray from the business at hand. The phone call.”
“Sorry, I don’t have the number for Hell.” I shrug my shoulders.
“Here I thought you were a smart woman. I guess I assumed that’s what attracted Michael to you. Must have been your other talents.” Jones says eyeing me up and down.
I clench my jaw annoyed by the veiled insult. It seems he’s studied me well during his time as my neighbor. Jones holds a determined look as moves toward me and grasps the phone from my grip.
“I’m afraid that was your last chance.” Jones flips the phone open and begins to dial. I find Jones was not bluffing as I hear the familiar series of tones. He then holds the phone out to me and demands “Say hello.”
I give him a defiant look before grasping the cell phone.
“It’s me.” I say, feeling defeated.
“It’s done?”
Jones takes the phone from me and replies, “Well, hello Madeline.”
After a pause Jones continues, “You gave it a good go, but I’m afraid your bid for the top spot has failed. I’m wondering what Paul would think if he knew of your alliance with Adrian. Yes, Adrian. I know she is alive and well. Where he believed the adversarial nature of your relationship with her, I did not. When Paul overthrew Adrian, he interfered with your rightful succession to the ‘throne’, shall we say. Of course, he never realized that’s what he had done.”
“What happens now? Well first, I put a bullet between the eyes of the mole I have here in my presence. I do not tolerate traitors in my organization.” Jones says to Madeline as he looks toward me.
My stomach churns as I hoped it would never come to this. The image of Michael sitting alone in the brasserie plagues me. I look towards the door, but I know any attempt to escape would be futile. I’d be lucky to get out of the building, let alone off the grounds. I pray silently that Michael has the strength to move on and finds happiness and peace. Unhappy with who I’ve become and all the pain that I’ve caused him, I find some comfort believing Michael will be better off without me.
“Then, there is you and Adrian. My people are already positioned to extract you. This little chess match has been a nice diversion, but I’m afraid it is over. Checkmate.” Jones closes the phone, smiling like a Cheshire cat.
Clutching my arm, he leads me out of the room to the central hall covered with a marble floor. My shoes make a hollow echoing noise as the heels tap on the stone surface. I look into Jones cool blue eyes as we halt.
“You had so much potential, Chickadee. But you trusted the wrong people.” Jones says softly touching my chin. “Adrian and Madeline are most adept at getting into people minds. Finding what is necessary to control them. It’s a pity that it must come to this. Now who am I going to being able to borrow sugar from at 3 am?”
“You never borrowed sugar at 3 am. And it’s a good thing, too. You would have been a dead man.” I reply, choking slightly on the word ‘dead.’ Why is it that I get an executioner who wants to chat about the good ole days? I just want this over with.
Jones reaches into his suit jacket and withdraws a pistol.
“I figured the marble floors of the hall would make for an easier clean up.” Jones cracks. Personally, I didn’t need to know that. I’m not sure if he’s trying to rattle me or if he just likes to hear himself talk.
“Any last requests? Blindfold?”
“No. Just do it.” I breathe.
Closing my eyes, I hear the click of Jones cocking the gun. I concentrate on the image of Michael in my mind, knowing each intimate detail. Every fine line and curve. I choose to die holding him in my heart, as I wait for Jones to pull the trigger.
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