A brief introduction. This was inspired by two excellent Bleighton fics I read : this AND this. And if you want to read more Bleighton stuff, there's an excellent community over at Livejournal called Bleighton-Squee.
For those of you who have no idea what Bleighton is, it is basically the pairing of Blake Lively and Leighton Meester from Gossip Girl. That's right. Gossip Girl. And yes, I watch Gossip Girl. And no, there is nothing wrong with me.
A quick summary then : Blake's a CIA agent tasked to capture Leighton who is obviously the bad guy here. This is the first part of what will hopefully be a three part story. Hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!
And comment if you like!
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I'll Not Say It, Ever
The picture on the screen was that of a woman in her early twenties, with a pair of brown eyes over subtly slanted cheekbones in a face framed by shoulder length blonde hair. Blake Lively’s first thought could be summed up into one word.
“Pretty.”
She looked up, startled, and the man in front of her nodded knowingly. “She is, isn’t she? Quite the looker.” He glanced at her expression and shrugged, suddenly all business. “Her name is Leighton Meester – and she is your assignment.” He cleared his throat and glanced at the smaller screen on the computer in front of him.
“Freelancer – believed to have trained with Mossad when they had their little outsourcing program a few years ago. She’s worked with the Israelis and the French, and twice – as far as we can tell – with the GRU. Six months ago she went fully private, and now contracts on a regular basis with several international criminal organizations.”
“Terrorist ties?”
“None. She seems to have her own little code of honor. For instance, she’s not one for wanton murder, nor does she consort with terrorist groups in the Middle East, even though they’re the ones with big bucks. Quite the oddity, our Miss Meester.”
“Why do we want her?”
The man looked at her, and shrugged again. “It’s classified. Your mission is to capture her, not to interrogate her.” He licks his lips and smiles – not a particularly happy smile. “She’s good.”
“She must be,” Blake observed laconically, “Or you wouldn’t get me to do this.” She grins at the man. “I’m always ready to clean up your messes, Matthew.”
“Just get the girl, Lively.”
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Blake Lively is a spy, and a particularly good one at that. She is what the Agency classifies as wetwork assets – the sort of agent that Hollywood often glamorizes in movies; the one that goes in with guns blazing to take out the bad guys and save the world. Blake isn’t too sure about the saving the world part, but she has been in her fair share of firefights, and she does carry two guns.
Intelligence reports places Leighton Meester in Madrid, and that is where Blake flies to, on commercial, because the CIA is not, contrary to popular belief, immune to budget cuts. She does however rate a seat in first class, and spends the flight reviewing the file on her target – a file that is admittedly rather lacking in information about the woman herself.
She sighs, and slips the folder back into the carry on bag on her lap, and pulls out another one. This one has her cover – carefully constructed to ensure that it passes the scrutiny of the Spanish Centro Nacional de Inteligencia. The Spanish were informed that the Agency intended to carry out an active operation in their country, of course – professional courtesy demanded no less – and their agreement was obtained beforehand. But intelligence agencies being what they are, the Americans jealously withheld any information of said operation, and the Spanish were determined to find out, lest things spiral out of control, as this sort of thing was wont to do.
The fact that both countries were supposed to be allies, at least nominally, is really just political fiction.
Blake sighs, glancing at her cover. It’s the usual for her…American student entering the country for a holiday, or to do some research or another…the Agency has never been creative when it came to forging identities, but then again, it made more sense to create a legend that was completely boring and thus forgettable, rather than one that would no doubt attract more than casual attention.
She has, however, another cover – and this one is in place for the benefit of the shadowy underworld of Europe’s organized crime. This one, at least, is much more interesting – she’s posing as a representative of a Medellin drug cartel. It is, in a way, completely true – the CIA was in fact the de facto drug cartel, and for various reasons – the most obvious one being that the drug business was a very profitable business, thus allowing for additional funds to assist in the defense of the United States, while at the same time corrupting the country – opium for the masses and all that.
The CIA, an agency familiar with black operations and other off the book activities, is not averse to dealing with the dark side in service of freedom.
She glances at the seats beside her, occupied by a young couple on holiday, or, judging from the incessant kissing and hand-holding, on their honeymoon. She smiles – a wistful smile – and forces herself to look away after a few seconds. It’s a lonely life being a spy – James Bond movies notwithstanding. An intelligence operative who flits through assignments in different continents never has time.
But then again, she thinks, who really does? There are agents who have successfully led a double life – Matthew Settle, her controller, has a wife and two children, and has, to her knowledge, never missed a baseball game in his life, and in addition to that, has helped his daughter achieve the highest cookie sale record in her school’s history…there was something oddly endearing about a grown man peddling pink plastic wrapped confectionaries around the offices in Langley, and anyone who was fool enough to remark otherwise was subjected to the patented Settle stare and guilted by his colleagues into purchasing more than a week’s supply of cookies. Or, in her case, subjected to a thinly veiled reminder that she could easily be shipped off on assignment in one of those countries where a manicure was considered a luxury, and what a shame it would be to see the glow in her hair fade, and wouldn’t it be nice to work in Paris sometime in the future…maybe on a permanent basis? And of course, when all else fails, there was always the “Buy, or you’ll find yourself working so far underground that you’ll find yourself popping up on the other side of the world.”
It’s been what…two years? She sighs again, and glances out the window, ignoring the girlish giggle coming from the opposing seat. Her last attempt at a relationship had not gone particularly well – the man had tried his best, but a girlfriend who disappeared for weeks on end, even with a plausible explanation – as prepared by Langley – is not the type of girlfriend that lasts. The breakup had been awkward – she had briefly flirted with the idea of utilizing her many skills to make the man’s life a living hell, but had backed down at the thought of a prolonged Matthew Settle lecture on responsibility and whatnot. And workplace relationships? She rolled her eyes – that was a line that no one wanted to cross.
Still, it’s her life now – and one that she chose willingly – but still…it would be nice to have someone to come home to.
Almost unconsciously, her eyes linger on the newlyweds again.
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The plane lands in Madrid-Barajas Airport, and Blake slips through customs with a breezy smile and a flutter of blue eyes. She is supposed to make contact with the CIA substation in the area – but that can wait. She heads over to the duty free section of the terminal, glancing at the array of perfumes, and wonders how she can sneak this particular expense past the accounts department – probably the most hardworking department in the entire Agency.
On the other side of the terminal, Leighton Meester steps through customs without a second glance. She pulls a trolley bag behind her and walks straight out – there’s a car waiting for her, and she believes in punctuality.
The drive is a quick one – the traffic in Madrid is not really as bad as it is in New York – and the driver deposits her at the address she gives him; the Melia Castilla, a five star hotel located at the heart of the city.
She checks in at the hotel reception, and tips a bellboy to bring her luggage up to the room, save for a small black case that she carries in her right hand. She glances at her watch and nods in satisfaction – she is perfectly on schedule – and makes her way to L’Albufera.
Q is already there, and he stands up as she makes her way to his table. He makes for an imposing sight – a huge black man in an ill-fitting suit who looks like he should be more at ease in a boxing ring than at one of the more famous restaurants in the city. It is deception in the highest order – his muscular bouncer frame conceals a mind sharper than a knife.
“I’m hungry,” she announces as she sits down.
“I’ve ordered,” he replies, and leans back in his seat. “How was the flight?”
“Tense,” she admits. “Anything new?”
He shrugs. He’s her information broker – the buffer between her and her clientele. He arranges for the meetings and provides her with any other information she should know. He is quite good at his job, and that means that he is quite expensive, and yet somehow she always ends up paying the bill at the end of their sessions.
A testament to his skill, she supposes.
“A little bird tells me that the Americans aren’t happy,” he says, reaching for his wine glass.
“They can join the line of people already unhappy with me,” she remarks sourly, making a face. “So now the CIA is on my tail. As is the Armenian mob. And that French billionaire, Boris Becker or whatever his name is.”
“It’s Hugo. Hugo Becker. And someone talked,” he says bluntly. “They know that you are here. They’ve sent an agent to apprehend you.”
Damn it. “Do you know who?” she asks, but it’s a vain hope. Q, despite his resources and skill, is only one man – one man against the machine that is the Central Intelligence Agency. The look on his face confirms this for her.
“My source in Langley isn’t that high up,” he says, almost apologetically. He pauses, and toys with the stem of his glass. “We could abort this…”
“No,” she says firmly. “There’s too much riding on this. Are you any closer to finding out who talked?”
“I’ve eliminated half of the suspects on my staff,” he admits with astounding honesty, although when you are in the business of brokering illegal deals, a reputation for honesty goes a long way. The leak must have come from his organization, and he is honest enough to admit the mistake when it is his. “I’ll find out, I promise. And when I do…” The words linger in the air, hinting of unpleasant things that best remained unspoken.
She nods, and reaches for her own glass. “At least we’ve managed to keep things quiet so far,” she observes, like a person struggling to see the light at the end of the tunnel. The look on his face makes her heart sink even lower than it already is.
“I got a call half an hour earlier. The buyer wants out. Says that it’s too risky.”
She sighs, because it turns out that the end of the tunnel is on fire. “So what now?”
The look he gives her is…hesitant. “The buyer says…” he trails off uncertainly, and picks up again at the look on her face, or perhaps it is the way she shifts her body, which implies in strong terms that a booted heel is about to descend like the wrath of God upon a leather shoe. “The buyer says that if we can remove the Americans out of the game long enough to make the sale, they are back in. But as long as the CIA is maintaining an active presence in the country, they won’t touch this with a ten foot long stick.”
“Remove the Americans…temporarily…” she muses, and then the waiter arrives, trays in hand.
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Wallace Shawn, her Agency contact in Madrid, was not naturally equipped for clandestine meetings conducted in shadowy alleys. Small, podgy and at best middle-aged, he was by appearance one of the meek who does not inherit the earth. His legs were short, his gait anything but agile, and his posture reminded Blake, rather unkindly, of an extremely nervous ferret.
Make that a ferret in a badly tailored suit, she thinks. Either the sleeves were too long or his arms too short, for, with his coat on, the cuffs concealed all but the tips of his fingers.
“There’s been a change in orders,” he tells her, as he squints up in a particularly ferret like manner that forces the taller blonde to banish the images her mind conjures in comparison. Blake leans down, her hands hanging uselessly by her sides – she had considered placing her palms on her knees, but that might seem too condescending. “Langley wants you to hold back for a while – find out who the buyer is, and then apprehend the target.”
“All right,” she says, although privately, Blake is a little dismayed at this. She is not, for all her other skills, the best actress in the world – the original plan was to make contact with the target, get her alone and then capture her. The new orders would require a little more…fraternization on Blake’s part, and that would require some play acting that would challenge her admittedly limited ability in the area. “So what’s the plan now?”
“Your original cover is still up – but when you make the initial contact, I’ll be escorting you.” He pauses, and a part of her dreads what he is about to say next. “I can be your husband.”
She keeps her face impassive.
“Boyfriend?”
She walks away.
“What about Father?”
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The plan for first contact was simple enough, and it reeked of a certain elegant style that she suspects is Matthew Settle’s handiwork. Madrid is known for many things, and in the criminal world, it is known for being something of a meeting place. There’s an unspoken treaty with the Spanish police and, to some extent, the CNI – so long as the meetings do not entail another terrorist attack, either on Spanish soil or anywhere else in the world, they can go on unhindered. This is a treaty strictly adhered to by the various factions that represent a significant portion of the world’s less than savory inhabitants, which is why alcohol is served freely with no fear of offending anyone’s religious sensibilities.
Besides, alcohol is the fuel of commerce.
The setting is a little soiree located in one of the grander ballrooms in the city. In deference to local custom, several politicians are also invited, some for innocent reasons, others for reasons less than worthy. It is, ostensibly, a fundraiser for a certain charitable cause, and the irony is that it is a real charity, and actual funds…significant funds…will be channeled towards that cause, because all criminals feel the need to atone for their ill-gotten gains. Being surrounded by visual reminders of God in all His majesty around the city might have helped this along somewhat. But while the air is one of goodwill towards mankind, not many in the room forget that business was still being conducted.
And business was being conducted – all kinds of business. Everyone there knew it, and everyone there was, in some way or another, a part of it. The participants were aware of this dualism, but to them, it was as much a part of life as breathing.
The room could be segregated into groups. First, there was the big timers – the crooks and politicians (for the government is the biggest thief of them all – what is taxation, if not legalized theft willingly embraced by the masses?) with significant clout and influence. One could discern these easily enough from their better-than-average clothing and erect posture, the ready, robotic smiles, and careful diction that endured even after the many alcoholic toasts. They were the masters, knew it, and their demeanor proclaimed it.
And then there were the soldiers and various hanger ons. One could not be taken seriously in the world of high crime if one did not have sycophants to constantly remind you of your lofty perch above. These were the lieutenants and glorified thugs, and could be distinguished by their constant drinking and roving eyes, as well as behavior some would deem inappropriate for high society.
The brokers moved in between, flitting like hummingbirds from one crime boss to another. They could be discerned usually from their clothing as well – rumpled suits from hurried packing and unpacking – although some, such as Q, made an effort to fit in with well pressed Armani suits and polished shoes. They had inquisitive looks on their faces, always ready to make a quick offer and counteroffer with a speed that would put any Wall Street trader to shame.
And finally came the invisible group – the spies and assassins and various other independant contractors, of which both Blake and Leighton belonged to, although at opposing ends of the spectrum. They melted into the crowd, standing out yet not standing out, circulating with their fine crystal glasses in hand and making contact with their employers and targets, exchanging hushed words and clinking glasses in agreement.
It was a game – and everyone in this room was a player, although some fancied themselves gamemasters. It is business masquerading as a ball, with the guests masquerading as benevolent rich.
Blake Lively glances at the glistening liquid in her glass, and raises it to her lips, her eyes already roving the room. Thankfully, a twenty minute long conversation with Matthew (at her own expense, at the insistence of the Accounts department, because encrypted calls made internationally are not cheap at all) meant that Wallace Shawn will not be attending by her side. It’s something of a relief, although it does mean that she will have to go at this alone.
She smiles a lot, weaving through the variety of conversation flung her way, and is in the middle of a conversation with a priest (the Roman Catholic Church, after all, operates one of the largest intelligence services in the world – a network of religious in plain sight, all reporting obediently to Rome) when she freezes, and covers that little slip with a cough.
Leighton Meester has entered the room.
It was her – Blake was certain of it. The hair was different – blonde locks turned amber, but the face remained unchanged, and for a moment, Blake wondered just how old the photograph in the CIA archive was.
A pair of brown eyes swept the room, brushing past Blake with a soft kiss that was so hard that it nearly threw Blake off balance. Leighton must have noticed, because her gaze lingered, sweeping up and down the full length of the blonde’s body with all the subtlety of a painter’s brush. Her clothes made no attempt at concealment; the shimmering dark dress fitted over her like skin. And for some people, skin was skin – but on Leighton Meester, it was an invitation to wine and dine and pillage afterwards. A smile flitted across her lips, and it told Blake things that most girls since Eve had tried and failed to put into words without seeming too obvious or too eager.
She was beautiful.
Blake watched as the woman gave her one last lingering glance, and then moved on. She returned to her conversation, shifting her body slightly to continue watching Leighton out of the corner of her eye. She saw the brunette approach a man and greet him with a familiar touch on the hand. The buyer, perhaps? She had to get closer – but that would be too obvious. So she waited, and slowly allowed the crowd to nudge her closer, drifting with the tide of humanity gathered round.
“Excuse me…Miss Lively?”
She turned, and the man was there by her side, his broad frame dwarfing even her. He offered a smile, and she noted the muscular body that made her think of a bouncer or bodyguard, and revised her opinion the moment their eyes met. The man had intelligent eyes – disconcertingly intelligent. You looked into them and several layers of person looked back at you.
“Yes?” she asked.
“I was told by a mutual friend that you had a proposition for a client of mine.”
Not the buyer then, Blake thinks to herself. “I may have,” she allowed, slipping into the veiled speech with ease. “Does our mutual friend come from Bogota?”
“Oh, he’s been there a couple of times. Maybe you two have more friends in common?”
“Perhaps,” she says carefully, and gives him another smile. “I have many friends in Colombia. But what about your client? I wouldn’t want to impose unless she…” The emphasis on the word was subtle, but Blake was aware of the man picking it up instantly. “…is similarly interested in the line of work we have in mind.”
“Oh,” the man said with a broad smile. “I have no doubt that my client would be amenable to any proposition of work you might have for her.”
“Then perhaps you could make an introduction for me?”
“I think that would be possible,” the man said. “But forgive me – I forget my manners…call me Q.”
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She had not really wanted to attend, but there were some receptions that even she could not avoid. This was one of those “power” parties, as she had taken to calling these impromptu meetings of the who’s who of the criminal elite. As with most "power" parties, it was really for the elite to see and be seen by one another, confirming their importance to themselves and their cronies. As was true in most parts of the world, the elite felt the need to pay for the privilege, although the cause was admittedly good. Leighton understood the phenomenon, but felt that it made little sense.
Or maybe she was just being cynical.
She never usually drank, but she indulged herself tonight, allowing for a couple of glasses thus far. Perhaps it was the sense of impending doom rushing down upon her, or just plain stress, but she felt the need to let loose a little, despite the warning glares that Q was shooting at her before business talk distracted him. And now she was basking in the warm, philosophical glow that made her cheeks flush and her eyes sparkle just a little brighter than usual.
“May I speak to you for a moment?” Q was by her side, and she smiled pleasantly at him. “Of course,” she replied, and allowed the man to steer her into one of the smaller rooms, especially reserved for those touchy conversations and negotiations that could not be done in plain sight.
“A little bird tells me that we have a potential new client,” he starts, and the words are a harsh reminder that counteracts the pleasant alcoholic sensation she had been relaxing in.
“Seems a little too convenient, don’t you think?” she asks, voicing his very thoughts. “Here I am being hunted by the CIA, and suddenly a new client appears out of the blue.”
“It might be real, or it might be the Agency attempting contact. It seems a little clumsy, but then again…” he grins, and it’s the sort of grin that brings to mind a fin cutting through water at high speed. “They don’t know that we know. Either way – it’s an opportunity.”
“True,” she sniffs, and reaches for her purse. “Male or female?”
The look on his face tells her precisely what she needs to know, and she winks at him. “Send her in, then.”
He looks like he wants to scowl again, but realizes that it’s a complete waste of time, and so he walks out, and returns moments later with a blonde in tow.
Leighton watches, her eyes carefully assessing the newcomer. Tall, slim, her skin the gentle sheen of tanned skin that was only just sun-kissed, and a face that was oddly angular, crowned with bright blue eyes – the same blonde she had noticed earlier that evening. And there was something more about her face and the expression on it – there was a breezy openness there, and her eyes told a story of adventure and a taste of excitement, and there was just a hint of something…else.
The blonde smiled, and the effect of it was like throwing a handful of beauty on her face. Leighton feels an answering smile curving her lips.
Q made the introductions, and discreetly left.
“So you have a job for me,” Leighton says. “A personal job, or…?”
“I represent certain parties in Colombia,” Blake replies. “Who are interested in retaining your services.”
“Please,” Leighton says with a smile, waving her hand in a flapping motion. “It’s a little too late in the day to discuss business. Or…” She steps closer to Blake, moving slowly. No – not slowly, Blake thinks. It’s more like a low-pressure spring unwinding, the movement delicate and graceful, and yet very much like a concert of savage beauty. “Maybe it’s too early in the night to be discussing business when there are so many other things we could do.“
“In any case…” Leighton continues, now facing Blake, the close proximity allowing the blonde to catch a whiff of the other woman’s perfume, like a scent of summer still lingering in winter’s cold.
“Perhaps I could offer you a drink?” she asks, her eyes twinkling.
Is she flirting with me? Blake allows herself to smile, and takes a step forward, feeling the rustle of silk against her skin, and closing the distance between them, her eyes watching and judging the brunette’s reactions. She is flirting with me.
“Perhaps you could,” she replied.
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The party winds down, and the various guests drift away into the night. Leighton slips into the chartered limousine – which will be charged to her account, she is sure, because Q is notoriously tight fisted when it comes to money, except when such money being spent is not his own – and the man himself follows behind her.
“Anything?” she asks, reclining in the seat. At least it’s comfortable.
“Her cover checks out,” he replies, glancing at the screen on his Ipad. He brushes a finger over, and frowns. “Everything looks to be fine. I’ll have to check it out further, but I think it’s pretty much confirmed.”
“She’s not CIA then,” Leighton says with certainty. That was said with a certain amount of relief, because she had been planning certain things for the agent sent after her, and the thought of such things being put to good use with Blake Lively as the subject did not sit too comfortably with her. “That’s good.”
“Like I said, I’ll have to confirm it with my contact in the Agency,” Q looks up from the screen. “So what are you going to do?”
“I…” Leighton pauses, and the look on her face tells him that he isn’t going to like her answer at all. “…am going to meet her for breakfast tomorrow.”
“Is that entirely smart?” Q asked, with that special inflection that means, “That is definitely not the smart thing to do.”
“Of course it’s not smart,” she snaps. “If we were smart, we wouldn’t be in this business, would we?”
She had him there, but he feels compelled to try again. He has other clients, of course, but she is one of his favorites. “Are you sure,” he tries again, attempting to keep his face blank of all emotion, “that this has nothing to do with the fact that she is blonde and beautiful?”
She keeps her face straight. “It’s just the job, I assure you.” A pause. “You worry too much.”
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Seduction was possibly the most difficult part of the job. With this, as with all parts of her profession, Blake had been told to be objective and businesslike, to always keep the ultimate goal in mind. But there really was no way to be objectively intimate – at least not if you wanted to accomplish anything – a certain warmth and emotional attachment must be made. There had been hours and hours of lectures on the pitfalls of getting too wrapped up in a romantic entanglement, and Blake Lively, try as she might, could not remember a single one of them.
You had to adapt your approach to the individual peculiarities of your target, and in this case, her target subject was a young woman who was wanted by several international intelligence agencies, including her own, who was working in a business that was every bit as dangerous as her own, who was familiar with danger and approached each day with a certain fatalistic certainty that it may very well be her last. Someone who, despite the circumstances, could be quirky and funny and laugh at jokes.
Breakfast had started with a perfunctory discussion of the so called ‘job’, but a chance encounter with a group of young men fresh after a night of success with Spanish women and eager to try their hand at foreign ladies had distracted both of them from talk of work and had led the discussion to other things. A chance remark from Leighton… “So, are you seeing anyone?” had led to an unexpected twinge in her chest as she looked at an old couple sitting by the balcony of the restaurant, holding hands, the man reaching forward with the other to stroke his wife’s cheek, the gesture soft and gentle and oddly stirring.
“No,” she had replied, and the tangible regret in her voice surprised even her. She had not meant for it to come out – had meant for this to be a strictly professional meeting with perhaps a small amount of flirtatious banter, because she did have to gain the other woman’s trust for long enough to find out the identity of the buyer, after all – but that little misstep might have cost her.
Leighton’s reply had surprised her. “Yeah,” she had said, and there was a wistful tone in her voice as her eyes brushed over the couple on the balcony. “I know how it is.” And Blake had looked up to see in those dark eyes the same thoughts she had asked herself on those nights when sleep was impossible and the bed a little too big for just one person.
The discussion had returned to the possibility of the job at hand, and Leighton had informed her that unfortunately, she was currently in the employ of another party – Blake had to resist the sudden mad urge to ask her who exactly this other party was – but she was expecting to wrap things up within two weeks, and would thus be free to take on another contract. And that would have been the end of it, if Blake had not summoned up the sudden courage to take things a step further, and it was only partly because of her duty to her country that she asked.
“Would you like to have dinner with me?”
She saw Leighton pause, watched as her eyes widened, and she could see the glimmer of uncertainty on her face. She watched her lips press together, and Blake was completely expecting her gambit to fall apart and fail miserably, when Leighton’s reply came.
“You know – I think I would.”
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Dinner was three days later.
It was almost comical, Blake thought, the way she was preparing for it like a teenage girl on a date. Various dresses were strewn over the bed, and she had resisted the impulse to purchase a couple more, because that would have aroused some suspicion in Langley and she certainly did not want Matthew Settle on the phone asking her questions.
They met at one of the more private restaurants in Madrid, arriving at the same time, although Blake had intended to arrive earlier – rush hour traffic was the same all over the world, wherever you were; designed especially to ensure that you are late for whatever engagement you were heading out to. She had barely walked past the glass doors when she heard her name called out, and had found Leighton stepping briskly behind her, a small smile on her face.
“Shall we go in?” she had asked, and Blake had grinned slightly, pausing in front of the door and tilting her arm as if to invite Leighton to walk in first. “Such a gentleman,” she had murmured, and Blake felt a toothy grin rise unbidden to her lips.
It was a heady, dangerous feeling.
“So…” Leighton asked, when the waiter had left after pouring their wine, her fingers toying at the stem of her glass. “Why did you ask me out?”
“Why did you accept?” Blake countered, and grinned at the briefly startled look that flashed over the other woman’s face. Leighton recovered admirably well, and the topic of conversation had drifted to other less intimate topics, but inevitably, the candles and the music coming from the quartet of strings in the corner, to which no one actually listened to but was a fixed feature of such establishments, intimate topics were unavoidable.
“Quite a life, isn’t it?” Leighton asked.
“What is?”
“This…” she gestured aimlessly at the air. “This entire business – it does take a lot out of life.”
“It pays the bills,” Blake shrugged, aware of how materialistic that sounded. “And…I guess I don’t know what else I could do with my life.” And that was truthfully spoken.
“’What else’?” Leighton echoed skeptically. “You could be a model, or an actress…a lot of things.”
“That’s true…” Blake glanced at her plate, trying to form the words in her head. “I guess…it just happened for me. But what about you?” she asked, tilting her head up to look the other woman full in the face. “You could easily have done other things as well, instead of doing…you know…” her voice trailed off uncertainly… “Doing what you do,” she finished lamely.
“I wanted to...” The words came out after a short pause, during which Blake had flirted with the idea of steering the conversation somewhere else. Seduction tradecraft – never keep the subject uncomfortable. But the way Leighton had ended the sentence, and the look on her face, as if she was resisting the sudden urge to share, had piqued Blake’s interest. She had to ask.
“You wanted to…what?”
“It’s stupid.”
“Tell me.”
“Sing.” The word was said simply, but the look on her face told Blake that this was an admission that was profoundly private – a gift that was rarely given; a glimpse into the private world of Leighton Meester.
“Can you?”
“Can I what…sing?”
“Yeah.”
“Not that well.” Her eyes lowered, and she blinked, and Blake swore that the brunette had just flushed slightly.
“Sing for me,” she said impulsively.
The look of uncertainty was back in her eyes, but Blake was past caring. Instead she leaned forward, bringing her face closer to Leighton’s.
“Come on,” she said again, her voice lowered even more. “Sing.”
“Not here,” Leighton replied with a tight little grin, and the flush on her face deepened. “What about you?” she asked suddenly.
“What about me?”
“What did you want to do? And don’t tell me you wanted to work for a bunch of drug runners all your life.”
“I…never actually did have a thing,” Blake confessed. “What I do…” she could not, for some reason, give voice to the lie that was her cover, “…it just happened for me. One of those things that life threw my way, and I ended up doing.” More truth, yet again.
“Hmmm…” Leighton leaned back in her seat, the wine glass pressed at her lips. Swallowed by shadows, with the flickering candlelight casting teasing flashes of light on her face, she looked even more beautiful than she already was. “Still…you never wanted to do something different now? Something a little more…stable?”
“I don’t do stable very well,” Blake laughed. “I’m more of a move around sort of girl. But…” her eyes trailed off to look at the other dining guests. “I guess I do want something different, sometimes.” She managed to control her voice this time, betraying little of the emotion stirring within her.
“Yeah…” Leighton replied. “It does get lonely sometimes,” she said, echoing Blake’s thoughts perfectly.
Her hand moved without her even realizing it, sliding across the table to clasp Leighton’s. The sudden contact of skin on skin surprised her, and she felt her hand pull away uncertainly, felt her eyes turn elsewhere. It was sloppy, amateurish, but this did not feel like a game of seduction any longer.
But when Leighton’s hand had reached back for hers, when her fingers had slowly entwined herself with the blonde’s, a part of Blake knew that the seduction had been accomplished. There had been a flush of warmth from the touch, the feeling of simple humanity. It was a touch that spoke of things that could not ever be put to words, as intimate as any kiss could be.
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Neither could be sure how exactly it had come to this – the short ride to Leighton’s hotel, the silent elevator ride upwards, and the three glasses of wine each to get over the nerves that were very real for the both of them, even Blake. There had been a part of her that said that this was all part of the plan, but the thing was…it did not feel like part of it. And worrying as that was, it was a thought that could wait until later.
And now they lay side by side, Leighton’s head on Blake’s shoulder, the sheets a tangled mess around their limbs. The room was silent, save for the sound of their breathing.
There were times when silence could be the greatest passion of all.
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Blake watched the clock on the side table, the seconds ticking by as she kept her mind carefully blank of all thoughts. Something was wrong here, and she knew what it was, even if she could not bring herself to admit it. It had been a little over a week now, and it had been just that one…two…okay…four times…but something had gone wrong.
She had gotten…involved.
She had heard of whirlwind romances and had never believed it, but this was something else…something entirely different. It had seemed entire casual at first…but it had evolved at an alarming rate into something more. Somewhere down the line of the few days, the objective had begun to matter less and less until it was no longer a consideration to be factored in.
She had not thought about it at all tonight.
The air suddenly seemed a lot chillier, and she pushed herself up and reached for her bag, dropped carelessly by the foot of the side table, long fingers deftly fishing out a pack of cigarettes.
“You shouldn’t smoke,” Leighton told her.
Blake smiled, and she was glad of the darkness now hiding her face. She turned away, cupping the lighter to her face and puffing up. “I know.” She turned to Leighton, tucked under a layer of rumpled sheets. “But after that…I need to recover.”
Silence.
“What’s wrong?”
Blake hesitates before turning around. It’s deception, plain and simple, and she wonders when this has started to feel dirty to her. She’s a crook – a target, she reminds herself. Just another target…a fucking criminal, for God’s sake.
That doesn’t help as much as she imagined it would.
“Nothing,” she replied, the sheets sliding under her bare bottom, putting the cigarette out and then sliding her body back to Leighton’s. There’s a contented murmur from the other woman, a soft yet throaty sound that stirs something inside Blake.
The woman’s strength surprised her – she was barely able to take her next breath, so powerful was Leighton’s embrace. Her conscience told her that she should be ashamed, but there was another part – the lingering part of her that still remained solely objective, that told her that she had done her job well. It was a thought that should have been reassuring, and brought only more shame, and guilt, to Blake.
“You haven’t told me whether you’ve finished that job for the other party yet,” Blake says, ignoring how wrong it feels to discuss that right here, right now, wrapped up as she is in Leighton’s arms.
“Back to business already?” Leighton asks, and there’s a tone of amusement in her voice. “You must be getting bored with me.”
“Leight…” She leans forward, nuzzling the smaller woman’s neck, and nipping at that one spot that she knows Leighton cannot resist.
“Fine…” In the darkness, she can just barely see the petulant look on her face, but there’s the twinkle in Leighton’s eye that brims of wicked pleasure. “It’s…going slow. Give it another week.”
That much is true. Q’s attempts at finding out more from his contact at Langley had stalled – the Agency was doing some house cleaning again, and the contact needed some distance. Oddly enough, the CIA had yet to make a move on her, and Leighton sometimes wondered why. Perhaps it was because they had not actually found her yet. Which was very good – despite the burning need to get rid of that damned thing now lying in her special safe, and that required her to get rid of whatever CIA hound now dogging her heels.
Still, she hasn’t had the opportunity to wonder too much lately – she’s been distracted.
It is, she reflects, a lonely life. Being in her line of work…well, there was only so many people you could trust, and she never did get to meet anyone who interested her that way…at least not until she had met Blake Lively. And she was interested, make no mistake about it – there was something here, although it was, Leighton thought, too early to put a name on anything just yet. There was a void in life – the sort of void that could not be filled with work, but now it was being filled. With something.
Give it time – and see how things go.
“One week, huh?” Blake says, and Leighton turns to see a sly smile coming across the blonde’s face. “I’ll need to find a way to occupy myself in the meantime.”
“Oh really?” Leighton grins, and reaches for Blake’s cheek, her finger tracing the curve of the blonde’s jaw. “Maybe I could help?”
Blake pretends to consider it, ignoring the playful pout on Leighton’s face. She turns, and gently nips at Leighton’s ear.
“Maybe you could.”
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“Anything?” The question is asked without preamble. Q stifled a yawn. He had drunk two cups of coffee already, but he was tired, and ready for sleep, but the call had come, and far be it for him to refuse to talk to a potential buyer.
“Nothing specific as of yet,” he replied, blinking as he stared at the clock. Inconsiderate bastard.
“And the Americans have yet to make contact with her?”
“No. Not a damn thing.” Q’s puzzled, and if there is one thing that he does not like – it is being puzzled. “Not a hint of anything at all.”
“The clock is ticking,” the caller pointed out. “If there is a deal to be made, it has to be made soon.”
“Any reason for the rush?”
“Circumstances change,” came the cryptic reply. “We are willing to pay for any extra expenses incurred…but so long as the risk of discovery by the CIA remains a very real possibility…you understand my position.”
“Completely,” Q settled into his chair, wishing for another cup of coffee. “Perhaps…you could utilize your own resources – harness things in your end, so to speak. It’s a little drastic, I know…” he continued hurriedly, “But your involvement will be minimal at best – and certainly no connection whatsoever will be made between your…organization…and my client.”
There’s silence for a moment, and then the reply came, curiosity lingering in the words. “What are you suggesting?”
Q took a deep breath before replying. “I have been thinking…”
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“I don’t like it when you start thinking.”
“Someone has to,” he replies, and smirks a little at the look she throws at him. He glances at her, all frivolity forgotten. He had known, of course. These last few days – he had seen her grow a little less unburdened by things, a little less tense and a little freer. There was a sparkle in her eye that could not be hidden.
He had not said anything, and not because he did not relish a heel being driven into his foot. She was good at what she did, but she was also young, and she wanted companionship. He understood – she deserved her own chance at a life other than this. And the blonde…Blake Lively…Leighton had not had much by way of romantic relationships before – unsurprising, considering what she did for a living – and so he understood how this must feel to her; new, exciting.
He was, in a way, happy for her.
“You’re forcing their hand.”
“I know.”
“There are so many ways that this could go so very wrong.”
“I am aware of that.” He glances at her, and the look on her face reminds him that she isn’t a hardened criminal – not yet, anyway – and he suddenly wishes that things had turned out differently for her.
She’s so young.
We were all young. Once.
“I don’t like it,” she says again.
He gives her a grin, and then reaches for her hand. “Trust me,” he says, and winks.
What she says in reply does not bear repeating.
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It’s the call Blake Lively has been dreading. CIA protocol dictates that an undercover agent must make contact with their handler at least once a week, unless the circumstances dictate otherwise. Anything more would possibly compromise their cover, and anything less…that was cause for alarm.
Blake does not want to cause any alarm.
“I’ve gotten close enough,” she says, praying that Matthew Settle does not ask precisely how close she had gotten. Fortunately he doesn’t – he’s expecting to read it in her report when this is done, and right now, he doesn’t care. He has other things on his mind. “I’ll probably get something next week.”
Part of her…a part that she is successfully trying to keep under wraps…does not want to think about next week.
“You’ll have to pull out temporarily,” he says, and she bites her lip, thankful that he is a thousand miles away, unable to see her.
“Why?” It takes quite an effort to keep her voice under control.
“We received word from MI6 of a possible situation in London – something that requires your expertise.” That means it’s a mission – and one of those ‘go in guns blazing’ missions.
“You’re pulling me out in the middle of an operation.” She manages to twist the last word to make it sound like a question.
“It’s important – and I don’t have the time to call in anyone else. Can you do it?”
“So I’m cleaning up your messes as usual, right?” She tries to keep her tone light, lest it betrays her. Because for the first time in her career with the Agency, Blake Lively does not want to go on a mission.
“Just get it done, Lively,” he growls, and she cannot even bring herself to smile at that.
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Politics is a murky world that unfortunately is intrinsically tied with espionage. And it was politics that had forced her to come here – this miserable corner of London, where it rained almost constantly and even when it did not, the sun never seemed to penetrate the grey gloom of the clouds above. And the clouds hung heavy with the promise of more rain.
Her mission was simple – move in, bag the target, and remove any collaterals if necessary.
The British Special Air Service (SAS) was well equipped to handle something like this, and certainly could have handled it quicker and faster. But the fact that there was an American in the building – albeit an American who was on the CIA’s watch list, had meant that the British felt obliged to inform their American counterparts, and Matthew Settle, or someone in the Deputy Director of Operations Office, had decided that it would look better on paper if the CIA went in and captured the target on its own instead of chalking up another favor to their British allies.
Politics had led her here. And by here…she meant far from Leighton.
It was, in a way, a bit of a relief. It was something different to concentrate on, something to take her mind away from the growing problem that was Leighton Meester. It was turning out to be an excellent mess – she had expected a wicked criminal that she would derive some satisfaction from putting away, not a young woman who was proving thus far to be someone very…no, concentrate on the job, Lively.
She had paused by the sidewalk, pretending to be drawn by an attraction in a wood and canvas stand, turning her gaze surreptitiously to the building in the corner. On the far side, the south stand of a modern nine-story building curved upwards out of her sight, hidden by the fringe of the stand’s roof. Her target was in the topmost floor, and all she had to do was get to him.
A cakewalk, compared to what she would have to do with Leighton.
She glanced at her phone, the picture of the target appearing on her screen. It was a face she had already memorized – a solidly built man, with a full head of hair and a lantern jaw that hinted at an ancestry that was a mix of Slavic and everything else until the end result could only be called American. Penn Badgley – small time assassin for hire, and wanted by the CIA for certain…reasons.
The intelligence was sketchy at best – MI6 had evidently spotted him by chance, and had grown a little nervous at having a known assassin so close to Whitehall, and so the decision had been taken to take him into custody, and that was when the bureaucracy had come into play – he was, after all, American…and as such an American problem, and the British would certainly score points if they allowed the Americans to bag him on English soil, an allowance that would certainly have to be reciprocated by the Americans soon enough.
Politics.
And in a gesture of good faith, MI6 and MI5 had agreed to allow the CIA free rein of the area, on one condition – it was done quickly, and quietly. And quickly and quietly generally meant poor planning in advance.
Blake was used to poor planning. And she could be quiet.
She reached into the pockets of her jacket, feeling the reassuring handles of the twin Sig-Sauer handguns she carried strapped on either side of her thighs. She was not really a good shot with her left hand, but she could manage, under pressure.
Time to go in.
She entered the building, unbuttoning the long jacket to allow easy access to her guns, hiding in the shadows of the doorway. She slipped a gun out, running an eye on the silencer – this was supposed to be quiet, after all.
No information about how many people might be with Badgley, a brief reassurance that the other tenants of the building had nothing to do with anything…there were so many ways that this could go so very wrong. She runs through the possible scenarios in her mind, and most of them end with her with a lot of blood in her hands – with the distinct possibility that the blood might be her own.
And so she is very surprised when she bursts into the apartment and the one scenario that she does not even think of is actually the one playing out in front of her eyes.
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“We have it.”
Q glances at the pictures, and resists the urge to curse.
“The American agent – they seconded her from an operation in Madrid. We made sure to insist that this had to be done quickly, and so they had to send someone in the region.” The man shrugged.
“Chances are, she’s the one currently on your client’s tail. They don’t have many agents operating in Europe. It’s our turf.”
“I see,” he allows, and is quite surprised at how calm he feels. The anger, he’s sure, will come later.
“You are completely sure?” It comes out a little too fast. He needs confirmation before he acted on this, but damn…that was careless of me.
“You’ve seen her before?” The words are said with a studied casualness that is entirely too natural to be completely real. Edward Westwick, MI6, is an excellent spy, but he’s young, and Q has had years of experience in reading people. Not that it helped you very much with her, did it?
“No,” he says, lying with rattlesnake speed and wondering idly if the man knew. Probably. Ed Westwick was a cunning little bastard. “But we’ll deal with it.” He places a slight emphasis on “we”, and the man nods.
“As you wish. We’re tired of waiting – the Americans think that we’re bloody idiots as it is, and this little exercise in misinformation is not likely to increase their opinion of us.” And oddly enough, he looks happy about it, but that was to be expected, wasn’t it? Intelligent agencies thrive on making themselves appear less capable than they really are.
“Settle this,” Edward Westwick adds, “So that we can continue with the deal.”
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Blake frowns at her phone. It’s been six hours, and Leighton hasn’t replied to a single text, or a single call. She’s been gone two days – had told Leighton that she would be switching cellphones for security, which was not exactly a lie, and when she had returned, the first number she had dialed was that of Leighton Meester.
And the phone had ringed…once, twice…before she heard the refrain “The number you have dialed is currently unavailable.” She had thought of it as an isolated incident, but after an hour or two without Leighton calling back, she had tried again. And again. And texted.
Nothing.
She tried to rationalize it – maybe Leighton was busy; she could have been on a job or something. She would try again later. But the thing about being apart for some time, with no contact whatsoever – there were a lot of things that could go wrong. Maybe she had pushed too hard. This entire thing – it had gone on too easily, and too quickly, but that wasn’t entirely her, was it? She had wanted it, certainly, but Leighton had wanted it – whatever it was – just as badly.
What’s wrong? That was a question that figured prominently in her mind, and distracted her from thinking about other things, such as the wasted trip to England.
“The Brits are calling it a false alarm. Badgley was spotted in Beirut three hours ago – we did not get the intel until just now. Another screw up from our friends across the pond.” Matthew Settle did not sound apologetic, just irritated. “Just get back to Madrid and work on your target – we need results, and fast.”
Blake did not complain. It had given her some space – space from Leighton, and she certainly needed space, even if she did not particularly want it. Space meant that she could think, although she had spent a lot of time not thinking of the potential problem that was Leighton Meester.
She was going to have to make her move sometime soon. Leighton would make the sale, and Blake would discover who the buyer was, and she would have to bring Leighton Meester into custody. And that was an eventuality that she did not really want to think about.
But she had to. Leighton was obviously occupied, and that meant that she had some more space…some more time. And she had to think things through.
But every thought ended with her taking Leighton down – and that seemed wrong. Blake had to confront it…this thing…sometime, and admit the truth to herself.
She liked Leighton Meester. Very much.
She was sent to capture Leighton. And she would have to do it. There was no way out of this – she had to. It was her job. It was her duty. And Matthew Settle would pat her on the back and congratulate her before sending her out on another mission, and Leighton Meester would be sent to a CIA detention facility somewhere, probably never to be seen again. And no matter how much she liked Leighton…she had to do it. But somewhere, floating in the chaos of thoughts was the stark realization that ‘never to be seen again’ meant that she would never see Leighton, talk to Leighton, be with Leighton…ever again.
Could she live with that? She did not know.
And then the phone rings.
“Leighton?”
There’s silence on the other side, and then…the sound of someone breathing. It’s Leighton – Blake can tell immediately. She has this way of breathing – exhaling through the nose, and then releasing what little air was left out of her mouth. Why isn’t she talking?
“Leighton?” she asked again, her mind spinning with the possibilities.
Two words. That is all it takes for Blake Lively to freeze up, for her mouth to run dry, for her heart to suddenly stop in her chest and for something inside her to clench up. Two words, for her worst fears to be confirmed.
“I know.”
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He is quiet, uncharacteristically so, but then again, so is she. Her face is devoid of expression, and her eyes are as blank as an unmarked slate. Q glances at her one more time, and then looks down at the information on his GPS screen. He tries to read the words, but gives up when he realizes that he has read and reread the same letters for the fifth time in a row. He looks up at her, and finds her staring out the tinted window, unseeing eyes gazing out at the distance.
They were entering the city of Paris through the Porte de Gentilly, in a tangle of cars and bicycle traffic. She had barely spoken throughout the flight, and had kept her silence ever since they left the airport.
Damn it all. The silence continued as the car drove through the Boulevard St.-Michel, past the Luxembourg Gardens. Only then did she speak, her voice subdued, asking about the rendezvous point, and the arrangements he had made after the exchange had been completed. The conversation died almost instantly after that.
He watched her peer with no curiosity in her eyes at the nineteenth century building fronts, and averted his gaze as he steered the car into a right turn onto the Boulevard St.-Germain, passing the open air market at the Place Maubert, already crowded in the bright morning sunlight. He had thought, with little hope of its success, to cheer her up forcibly by the plain fact of being in Paris.
It wasn’t working, as far as he could tell.
“She played you. She played me. It happens,” he tried suddenly, growing irrationally tired of the unfamiliar silence. “We’ll take care of it.” He swung the car left, taking it across the bridge over the Seine. “These things happen,” he said again, not knowing what else to say.
“It’s not your fault.”
The silence was growing more uncomfortable by the minute. In desperation, he reached for the radio and switched it on. And tried to switch it off the moment he realized what song was about to play on the air.
Her hand reached out and grabbed his wrist, and he turned to see the bright sheen of unshed tears in her eyes.
“Leave it,” she said, her voice soft. “I feel like singing a little.” And so he did, looking ahead at the road and trying to block out the sound of her voice singing along to Jimmy Ruffin as the man sang of heartbreak and sadness and confusion.
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She knows.
That is the single thread underlying the stream of thoughts now making their way through her mind, even as she concentrates on packing her bags at the same time, tossing clothes in unfolded heaps into the solid suitcase without bothering to even look at them.
“You know?” The words had come out soft and uncomprehending.
Silence greeted the question, and then things just clicked for Blake. She knows about…about…Even in the privacy of her mind; she could not complete the sentence. “Leighton…?” She trailed off, not knowing what to say, or even how to say it.
“How could you?” Perhaps it was just static, but Blake knew better; she could tell that the sudden tremor in the other woman’s voice was that of emotion barely repressed. Leighton was on the verge of tears.
“I…I’m sorry.” Even to her, the words lacked sincerity, and certainly lacked any semblance of an explanation. “I’m so sorry.”
“I thought that we…that you…” Leighton had sneaked away from Q, reaching for her cellphone and using her old number. It was foolish, risky, but she had to know. “How could you?”
That was, Blake would reflect later, how a broken heart sounded like.
“You’re gone. You’ve left.” It was a statement, made with complete certainty. Blake realized that she was sitting down, and realized further, with a sudden shock, that her eyes were wet. A finger rose, brushing away a tear that threatened to spill down.
There was a choked laugh on the other end. “And you’re coming after me,” Leighton said, and Blake could imagine the sad smile on her face as she said those words.
“I have to. It…it’s my job.” There it was, the admission that she was dreading to make – the admission that would resound in regretful truth to her, and would sound like a sword thrust through the heart for Leighton. “I have to.”
“Are you tracing this?” And Blake missed the sudden hopefulness in the question, hearing only the cold calculation behind it. But right now, at that very moment, Blake Lively was past any attempt at deception.
“No,” she said, with complete honesty.
“But you’ll try.”
“Yes.”
The line went dead, but Blake did not pull the phone away from her ear just yet. She did so only when the sting of tears in her eyes grew too much to bear.
Her phone rang again, and she picked it up immediately.
“She’s heading to France – in fact, she’s probably already there.” Matthew Settle did not sound angry right now, because he did not need to aggravate her further. He had, however, been furious earlier, when Blake had called him with the news that Leighton had slipped out of the country while she was away. It was a brief fury that burned away as quickly as it came, because this could still be salvaged, no matter how badly it had gone wrong. “There’s something else.”
Blake pauses, holding a pair of jeans in her hands.
“The original plan is back on. Bag and tag – take her into custody as soon as possible. She’s meeting with the buyer in two hours, so you’ll have no chance of finding their identity. We’ll take care of that. All you have to do now is find her and bring her in. No screw ups this time.”
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The street was the Rue le Regrattier, and Q is leading her into an apartment with a couple of high ceilinged rooms on the second floor of a well restored seventeenth century town house. “We’ll have to make the exchange as quickly as possible, and then get out of the country as fast as we can. The CIA knows both our faces now – I’ll need time to work on this.” He doesn’t actually blame her, but he cannot really be sure what is showing on his face now, and so he tries to avoid looking at hers. In any case, he cannot bear to look into her eyes.
Out of the corner of his eye, he watches her nod.
The door is unguarded, and Q fumbles with the key to the lock – it is tiny in his hands – and pushes it open, holding it ajar for her to walk in. She carries the case in her left hand, and strides inside, catching sight of the slender, straight built man in his early thirties or so advance towards her through the sunbeams blazing through the opened windows; first the trimmed silhouette, and then the smoothly handsome healthy features, and then the handshake, discreet but as smart as a naval salute.
“Mr. Westwick,” she says, and manages a smile.
“Miss Meester,” he replies, and carefully keeps his eyes averted from the suitcase. “Welcome to France.”
The exchange is made quickly. It has to be done in person – the suitcase and the thing it contains have been designed as such. The suitcase itself can only be opened by a biometric identification process – print, voice and eye identification all of which had been keyed to her unique signature, followed by a six digit code. Any discrepancy in any of the security tests will trigger a pulse trigger lining the suitcase that will destroy its fragile content, and that would mean that this entire fiasco was a complete and utter waste of time.
He cannot hide the sudden gleam in his eyes as he handles the device in his hands, carefully placing it in a suitcase of his own, his fingers steady but his arms trembling.
“You’ve done us a great service. Thank you.”
She nods, and he stands up and moves to shake her hand, before pausing and glancing at Q. “Forgive me, but I must ask, for the sake of security and all…the American agent; has she been dealt with?”
“We evaded her – she can’t have made it to this meeting that quickly.”
That’s a no, Ed Westwick thinks to himself, keeping his face carefully blank. “I understand the difficulty you face – killing a CIA agent would leave an indelible mark on you both in the eyes of the agency. As long as our involvement in this remains out of the CIA’s knowledge, and continues to remain unknown, I believe our business is concluded.” Which was obvious – MI6 could not possibly be seen working against the CIA. Any hint of that would lead to another Cold War, with more sides this time.
“They won’t find out,” Leighton says, and the coldness in her voice surprises him. “I did not mean to offend,” he said faintly, misunderstanding completely, and with typical British grace, he bowed and took his leave.
They waited, and Q watched the man leave in an indistinguishable car, before turning to face Leighton, cocking his head to the door and waiting for her to leave. She nodded. It was not that he did not trust Edward Westwick…no, it was exactly that. He did not trust Edward Westwick. At all. The room was probably unbugged, but Q had learned a long time ago to be very careful when you could.
“What now?” she asks, when they are back in the car. He’s told her already, but she just wants to hear it again, probably to keep herself distracted.
“We’ll split up now, until I can get a handle on how things stand for us.” He’s not worried about himself as much as he is about her – the CIA will not be concerned about him as much as they would be with her. He was a broker, nothing more, and there were thousands of other brokers the world over.
“Lay low,” he says, unnecessarily.
“I will.”
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They generally met for an early twilight dinner before adjourning, inevitably, to one or the other’s hotel room. Their favored spot was a quaint little restaurant in a secluded corner of the city, located near the myriad of back alleys that had remained unchanged since the days of King Alfonso and the revolt that had seen blood running through the streets of Madrid. It faced the El Retiro Park, and it was there that they now walked, under the shadows cast by the trees, with only the faint glimmer of moonlight for company. That, and each other.
It surprised Blake how easily they had fallen into routine, walking close together on the cobblestones, fingers tightly locked with one another, arms dangling, side by side and occasionally brushing shoulders.
“Work, huh?”
“Just for a few days,” Blake had replied. “They want me to tie something up for them over somewhere else.” She had kept the facts purposely vague, and Leighton, understanding completely, did not pry. They never spoke of their own work, comfortable and secure in the knowledge that the other did not want to know, and did not actually care.
A ray of moonlight had broken through the branches and leaves that hung overhead, and Leighton turned to glance at Blake, watching the cold ray of light caress phantom fingers on her skin. She was pretty, Leighton thought. The only lines on her face was a crease underlining each lower eyelid, implying habitual humor and skepticism, and there was a scatter of freckles on her cheeks that made her look so much more adorable. It was not a face that could be reconciled with that of someone in the drug trade, but Leighton knew that in the business of shadowy crime, faces never were what they seemed in the first place.
She slowed, allowing Blake to walk ahead of her slightly, watching the slow and easy gait of her walk; the careless balance of her hips and shoulders, her eyes drawn lower and lower over the curve of the blonde’s back down to the legs that seemed to go on forever.
Blake had realized that Leighton was lagging behind slightly, even though they were still holding hands, and had turned with that look on her face that Leighton found absolutely adorable. “What?” she had asked, a wispy smile of curiosity playing on her lips.
“Nothing.” She grinned, and then reached out with her other hand to trace a finger up Blake’s back.
“You’re beautiful,” she said impulsively.
The flirting tone Blake had detected in their first conversation had disappeared after their breakfast meeting, and was completely nonexistent now. There was interest in Leighton’s eyes, and certainly the things they did together…to each other…meant that there was attraction, but what had well and truly surprised Blake Lively was how quickly things had become comfortable between them. Perhaps it was the recognition that here was someone who understood the difficulties of the life each of them led, and such mutual understanding had allowed them to slip into something that was…pleasant, to say the least.
They could not speak…did not want to speak, of their own work, because touching on such a subject would bring them back to reality, and neither really wanted to do so. For Blake, work was a reminder of the constant deception she was playing on Leighton, a deception that felt dirtier and dirtier each time she thought about it, and so she had taken the easy way out and not thought about it at all. For Leighton, work meant a reminder that the CIA was tracking her, and could find her, and this thing with Blake would have to be cut short when Q hustled her out of the country to another safe haven, away from the American agency and their faceless spy.
They spoke instead of movies and music, things that neither had actually talked about before, with anyone else. Everyone they knew was in the spy business (for Blake) or the crime business (for Leighton) and such trivial topics were generally considered wasteful banter, and regardless, there had never been time to talk. And so they did, discussing the merits of Hollywood movies over indie flicks, of commercialized pop stars and artists who played in music festivals and small clubs. Blake had discovered that Leighton had something of a passion for classical art, and listened as the woman spoke of Monet and Matisse and Picasso, and made droll comments about eyes being too big for a head and noses being misplaced that earned her a playful pinch for her efforts.
The mere thought of what she had to do was so very uncomfortable that she had pushed it out of her
mind completely, reasoning that she had to remain natural in order to gain Leighton’s trust, and therefore what she was doing, while against everything the Agency had taught her, was for the good of the job at hand.
“I was afraid you wouldn’t show up for dinner,” she had confessed to Leighton, after their first night together.
“Why wouldn’t I?” Leighton spoke without lifting her head up from Blake’s chest, and the soft touch of her warm breath on skin was like the soft touch of silk on her body.
“I don’t know,” Blake had replied, her earlier fears and insecurity now pale and faded in significance, seemingly stupid, foolish, and completely inconsequential. She felt herself blush, and then she had heard an answering snicker from Leighton .
“So that’s the way you want to play this, huh?”
“What?” Leighton replied, in that innocent tone that deceived no one.
“You know what,” Blake replied, giving her a mock glare.
“Made you squirm, didn’t I?” Leighton grinned. “What are you gonna do about it?”
“This,” Blake had replied, and reached for the woman beside her, ignoring her squeals of protest.
This time she was no longer patient or tentative. The initial shyness was gone, on both sides, for this was truly their first time being with another of the same sex; although they knew the mechanics of the situation, neither had actually possessed first-hand experience. There was familiarity now. Having established what Leighton liked, Blake’s ministrations had direction and purpose, and within minutes, Blake had forgotten everything else, her mind consumed with one thing and one thing only…Leighton Meester.
The sex, while certainly enjoyable, was not what played in her mind right now. She remembered the scent and feel of the other woman, the warmth of Leighton’s body pressed against her own as they lay on the bed, covered by the sheets, enjoying the close proximity of each other, and holding on to one another as they descended from the heights of pleasure, only to be caught by the other’s waiting arms. She remembered the easy conversation, the small touches, the intricate details that told her precisely what the other woman was thinking at that very moment, and the dazzling smile that seemed so precociously confident and yet hid something hopeful and uncertain inside.
The plane landed smoothly, but the slight bump when the wheels touched the tarmac was enough to jar her from her thoughts. She could hear the captain on speaker, welcoming them to Charles de Gaulle Airport. She stood with a sigh, her heart heavy in her chest, knowing why she had come here, and hating it. And so, as she had done before when confronted with a particularly unwanted thought, she had pushed it out of her mind.
And thus there was only one thing she was thinking of as she walked down the runway.
She missed Leighton. And a part of her wondered whether Leighton missed her, knowing what she knew right now.
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“We cannot afford another screw up.” The way he says it is reproachful, and if she was not so mired in her own little private world of misery, she might care. As it is, she finds it difficult to concentrate on what Matthew Settle is telling her, because she does not really care.
“So?” It’s bordering on insolent, but he’s been her handler for quite some time – he recruited her into the CIA, and therefore he lets it pass for now, filing it away to be analyzed later. He knows her, better than she realizes, and so he suspects that something is wrong.
“The decision has been made to bring in a full team on this.”
That gets her attention immediately. A full team? That’s extreme, which means that they…those faceless men who sit on top of the CIA chain of command and whose identities are known only to the President and select members of his staff…are taking this very seriously.
What the hell did Leighton steal?
“It’s classified.”
“Matthew…”
He sighs, and then relents. It’s difficult to handle an agent from a desk seat in Langley, and so there are times when he has to let on a little more than he is allowed to. “I don’t actually know, Lively. It’s classified, even for me. What I do know is that they really want whatever it is she has, and while secrecy was required at the beginning, hence just sending in one agent, the situation has changed drastically enough that they are willing to take the chance of this showing up on official records.”
“They should have taken better care of it then.”
He’s tired, and so this lapse in judgment may have been forgivable at any other time. “Apparently it wasn’t ours to take care off. Our Miss Meester grabbed it from some unknown location before our agents could get to it. To be honest, I’m beginning to wonder whether this has any serious national security ramifications at all. I’ve checked up on this,” he mutters, more to himself than for her benefit, because why should she care? “And it’s the same idiots who used to run the Stargate Project.” He grins. “They cut my budget to make room for crap like that.”
A full team. That’s bad, because the one thing about CIA strike teams is their propensity to shoot first and ask questions later. And while Blake Lively is proud of her own abilities, professionalism forces her to admit that a full strike team is better than her, hands down.
They’ll have to find her first though, she thinks to herself. Paris was a big city, and was not as cosmopolitan about its criminal denizens as Madrid was. It would be difficult to find someone here, especially if that someone did not want to be found.
I have to find her first, Blake thought with sudden certainty. She had to – if the strike team got to her first…well, there was no need to go there.
If I was Leighton, where would I be? She grinned suddenly, and shook her head. “Wrong question, Lively,” she growled to herself, and reaches for her bag.
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Blake would be here, Leighton mused. She’s out there, somewhere, probably trying to track me down.
And hopefully failing, she continues, in the privacy of her own mind, but even there she is not sure if she’s just trying to convince herself that she does not want to be found. She blinks, and glances to her side, looking at the people on the sidewalk, and wonders whether Blake Lively is out there among them.
She’s CIA. She was after you. Those thoughts intrude the calm peace she has imposed in her head, threatening to collapse her iron will and send her plummeting through another bout of tears. She blinks and glances back at her hands, sighing heavily. She turns again, her eyes catching her reflection in the mirror, looking at the woman who had allowed herself to be seduced and used like…like a fool.
No, worse than a fool. A stupid, vain woman looking for…what?
You’re a sad, sad girl who came distressingly close to a chance for a life of your own.
No, she told herself sternly. She promised herself that she would not think about it; would not dwell on it any more. Self-recrimination had no place now, not when the CIA was still on her tail – the CIA, not just Blake Lively, she reminded herself firmly.
The bus grinded to a halt, with the squeal of the brakes and the soft hissing pressure of the doors sliding open reaching her ears. She reached for her bag, and stepped out, nodding to the driver on her way past him. She stepped out on the pavement, feeling the air brush over her, the murmur of the city against the backdrop of the sound of the engine running giving her a feeling of anonymity. As she began walking, she felt as invisible as she ever did, and that brought a small smile to her lips.
Besides, she thought suddenly, there are plenty of other blondes in the world, conveniently ignoring the part of her that reminded her that while there were indeed other blondes in the world, there was only one Blake Lively.
She walked in past the doors, feeling the cool air conditioning envelop her as she walked into the Louvre.
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They made them patient in the government agencies. There was no telling how long she had been there, probably a few hours, making sure that she moved on occasion, so as to not attract any undue attention from the guards and the cameras. A careful examination of surveillance footage would definitely show that she had been here for a considerable amount of time, but hell – people spent hours in the Louvre, and if asked…well, she had picked up enough from Leighton to be able to say that she considered that painting had reached its zenith with Monet and had been rapidly deteriorating since; whatever that meant.
And waiting had paid off, because there she was.
Blake Lively was no fool. People often mistook her for one – an empty headed blonde bombshell with little else to offer but her looks. But the CIA had trained her well, had honed her investigative skills. And since a significant part of a successful investigation relied solely on gut instinct and sheer luck, she had made her way to the Louvre early in the morning, knowing…or rather hoping, that Leighton would one day find her way to the museum located at the right bank of the Seine.
Day one had been fruitless. Day two had not.
She had to remain out of sight – that was imperative. Leighton would run the moment she saw her, that Blake knew instantly. And so she watched and waited, until Leighton made her way to one of the enclosed galleries with only one entrance that served as the exit. Conveniently, there was no one else about.
She walked softly, treading on light feet, until she stood barely ten yards away from the shorter woman standing in front of the painting, lost in the beauty of the Madonna on the Rocks. And there she stood, as if rooted on the spot, suddenly unsure of what to do. She had planned on…what exactly?
It came as a sudden shock…the realization that she had made no plan whatsoever, so intent was she on the first objective – finding Leighton. And now she had, for standing with her hands in the pockets of her jeans, hair tied back in a ponytail and wearing glasses, there was Leighton Meester.
“I had a feeling you’d find me.” Leighton did not turn around, did not seem to tense in the slightest. Her voice was soft, almost resigned, and Blake could imagine the slight curve of a wry smile on her lips even with her back turned.
“And still you came,” she replied.
“Yeah…I did, didn’t I?” Leighton replied, just as soft as before.
“Will you come quietly?”
A little laugh, and Blake could hear the slight hint of hurt in her voice when she replied, and the bitterness that came with it. “What do you think?”
“Please, Leighton. You can’t live like this. You can’t run forever. Just…just come quietly, all right?”
Leighton turned, and Blake felt the funny sensation in her chest at the sight of her face. It was tight, and the dark color of her eyes had deepened so that they stood out in relief, etched into the hollows of her face.
“How could you?”
That hurt…far more than Blake had anticipated. The guilt and the shame she had been keeping contained now burst to the forefront of her mind, and she felt her mouth go dry. “It’s my job,” she replied, knowing how empty that sounded even as the words tumbled out of her mouth. “If…if things were different…”
“But they’re not, are they, Blake?” The sound of her name on Leighton’s lips, once spoken with obvious affection, now turned into a poisonous word, was like a fresh blow to her heart.
“No,” she said, lowering her gaze at the other woman’s shoes, and then lifting her head up again. “I’m sorry.”
“So am I.” Leighton shifted slightly. “I’m not going with you, Blake. I’m not going to be captured by the CIA. I know what happens to people like me. It’s your job to take me in? It’s my job to stay out, to make sure that the people I was working for are not compromised. It’s all part of the deal for me, Blake. That should make sense to you. And it should tell you something else. I’ll…” Those dark eyes dim for a moment, and Blake sees the faint glimmer of tears there, but whether they were tears of rage or tears of sadness, she could not tell.
“I’ve made promises of my own, Blake, and I don’t need to tell you what they are. I will not be taken in, not by you, not by anyone.” She paused, took her glasses off, wiped them, put them back on, and said, “You understand, don’t you?”
“I get the point,” Blake replied, taking another step closer. “But I’m taking you in, Leighton. Don’t…don’t make it hard on yourself. Please…” And now she is almost pleading, because she does not want to hurt Leighton, because the thought of striking the other woman; of pointing a gun at her…she does not want to.
“You get the point,” Leighton echoed softly. “Are you sure?” And now her tone had changed. Very subtly, but changed nonetheless. “Because I said that I will not be taken in.”
And as Blake watched, the studied casualness with which Leighton stood became the poised kill-crouch of a cat, all cleverly disguised by clothes and the innocent framed bifocals.
All too often, people have the preconceived notion that a deadly person is a big one, with wide shoulders and arms the size of tree trunks. They’re wrong, and quite often, they’re dead. A deadly person can come in many guises, and there was no mistaking the deadliness of the woman now standing in front of her. She was trained by Mossad, Blake remembered suddenly. And Mossad trained agents were amongst the best in the world.
And Blake Lively is hit with the sudden realization that any attempt to take Leighton in could…and probably would, result in one of them being dead. And that person…that person might even be me.
Could she hurt Leighton? Could she? She had been trained in several forms of unarmed combat, so even without her guns, she could still…could still…Blake looked up, the sudden hesitancy showing in her eyes, only to see that same hesitancy reflected in Leighton’s own face.
I can’t.
She does not realize that she had said that out loud until she hears Leighton’s reply.
“Neither can I.”
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The cold night air was sharp with the sea smell of the river, and the sky was dark and cloudy grey, with a few stars dotting the skies in the small intervals where clouds reached for one another. The city was asleep, its vibrant heartbeat stilled to a soft murmur, and the crescent moon hid behind a gauzy veil of smoke in the high heavens above.
Leighton stood by the embankment street below the Louvre, huddled in her jacket. Q stood some distance away, his face locked in a scowl that she feared would be a permanent fixture from now on.
He had not been happy when he had heard the news, and had insisted on accompanying her on what he called “this misbegotten venture of stupidity and utter foolishness”. She had to agree, and was admittedly a little touched at the concern he showed towards her.
Of course, considering how much this was costing her, he was probably tagging along to make sure that she made it out alive so that he got paid.
The sound of footsteps announced her arrival before the woman herself made her appearance, bundled in a light brown jacket, her blonde hair cascading freely over her shoulder. Leighton turned so that she could see her face – the whiteness of her skin and eyes that could taste and devour with one glance.
“Blake.”
“Leighton.”
They stood, facing each other wordlessly, until Q gave up and stomped angrily away.
“He still looks mad,” Blake said, a little grin on her face, watching the man’s silhouette disappear into the darkness. She took another step closer, and paused uncertainly, before taking yet another step.
“He’ll get over it,” Leighton replied, taking a step of her own and closing the distance between them.
Blake nodded, only half listening. “It’s done,” she says. She doesn’t know whether the story she fed Langley will hold up, but if Matthew is right and those faceless men who run the Agency don’t want this showing up on official records, she’s sure that they won’t pry too deep. Leighton will leave France tonight – the world’s a big place. She’ll keep running. They won’t find her. Don’t let them find her.
“Good,” is Leighton’s only reply.
The silence stretches between them, uncertain and growing wider and wider. Neither is really sure what to say in these circumstances. Both are afraid that they’ll say the wrong thing.
“Well…I guess this is goodbye,” Leighton says lightly, although the slight crack in her voice betrays her.
“I guess this is…” Blake tries to smile, and fails. She looks at Leighton, who smiles for her, and then leans down to place a soft kiss on the other woman’s forehead.
“Will I see you again?” she murmurs softly, suddenly wishing that they had just one more night. One more night.
“I…I don’t think we will.” It hurts, so very much, to make that admission, and she cannot bring herself to look Blake Lively in the eye.
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Rain trashed against the window, wave after wave of droplets weeping down from the angry sky above, but neither one of them was aware of it, lost in each other, blocking out the world, living in that small, private universe where only the other existed. But an hour before dawn the rain stopped, and a wind rattled the window frames, banging insistently as if begging for sanctuary within, and Blake had slipped out of bed to stand by the windowsill, watching the sky open up, parting the clouds so that moonlight silvered the old cobble street below.
Blake felt, rather than heard, Leighton slip in behind her.
“I’ll say it now, while it’s not too immediate; Goodbye.”
And she had turned, and had reached for Leighton’s hands, their fingers wrapping around each other, before pulling her hand up, leaning down to place a gentle kiss over her fingers.
“I will not say it…ever,” she replied, leading Leighton back away from the window.
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“Aren’t you gonna say goodbye?”
A dimpled smile, tinged with sadness.
“I’ll not say it…ever.”
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EPILOGUE
The owner of the house was away attending to matters of state, but he had been kind enough to give them free use of it. That included a small but discreet staff which served light snacks and drinks, then withdrew, leaving only the both of them alone – no cameras, no microphones, nothing to indicate that this meeting ever occurred.
Edward Westwick glanced at the man in front of him, being careful not to show any emotion whatsoever. He had to appear appropriately detached before his guest, but at the same time respectful as well, because he rather hoped for future endeavors together. It did not bother him in the slightest – dealing with such people like the man in front of him required a certain amount of tact, despite his personal feelings of the man’s motivations.
“Thank you for responding to my message,” Westwick said pleasantly. It was not the time for bluster or posturing, because he knew instinctively that the man in front of him would not be impressed. In any case, he had no need to impress the man at all – it was a strictly business arrangement, nothing more.
“The target?”
Straight to business then. Very well.
“Her name is Leighton Meester. She is…very good. Whatever details we have on her is on this.” Smoothly, he slides a piece of paper across the table, and notes the man’s reaction at the lack of electronic conveyance. “It makes it easier to ensure…plausible deniability,” he shrugs, with a hint of an apologetic grin.
Penn Badgley reaches for the paper, scans the neatly typed words on it. One word sticks out – Kidon. He blinks, and wills himself to show no reaction whatsoever. Only then does he look back at the man in front of him. “Why?” he asks, knowing full well that Ed Westwick will understand the question.
“She has become a liability. You understand.” And just like that, the message is conveyed – you are expendable to me, just like she is.
Penn Badgley nods, folding the paper and slipping it into his pocket. “When do you want…how do you people call it…ah yes, the truth of her to be known?” It’s a little salvo of his own, the dropping of the MI6 code for assassination. But he’s impressed – Westwick keeps his composure admirably well.
“You’ll have to find her first.” He pauses, and glances at the man in front of him, considering. “One month.”
Badgley nods. “Consider it done.”
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