Work Text:
Feedback address: gem225@hotmail.com
Prequel to Tinnean's Mind Fuck series.
Disclaimer: Matt Robinson is my character. The others belong to Belisarius Productions and CBS.
Warnings: no sex. I'm ashamed of myself. *g*
For Tinnean, who started this series with a story for *my* birthday (2/25/02). Wow. That's a friend for sure.
*****
Porter Webb and her son, Clayton, swung down from their respective horses and handed them to the waiting grooms, then walked into the country club.
"Drink, mother?" He gestured with his hat to the bar.
"Some juice, please. You'll join me, of course?"
The same answer she always gave, with the same warm and loving smile. Some people wondered why he did his damnedest to reserve time every Sunday to keep his riding date with his mother, but it was none of their business. He knew why he was there, and part of that reason was that it was their time.
"Of course."
They found a table and ordered, Porter getting a grapefruit juice on the rocks while Clayton chose Perrier.
"How was your week?" They didn't have much chance to talk during the week, if any, another reason Clayton made sure to keep their riding dates. "Anything exciting?"
"I suppose if I asked you the same question, you'd tell me that it was a state secret," she teased, and Clayton smiled. "But I know better than to ask about that."
"I had a very boring week," he admitted.
"Just what a mother wants to hear," she said cheerfully and smiled. "I had some good meetings and lunches, and a lovely talk with that reporter. I hope he does a good article on you."
The waiter placed the drinks in front of them as Clayton stared at his mother. "What are you talking about? You talked to a reporter? I should have heard about this before now." His voice was sharp. "Why didn't you or Markov call me to get this reporter checked on?"
Porter took a sip of the grapefruit juice, then lowered the glass onto the napkin. "Markov ran the usual checks before he showed the man in, and I looked over the results before I went down to talk with him. And Clayton, I'm not going to ask your permission before I have a conversation. Is that clear?"
Clayton forced himself to breathe. "Yes, of course. But a reporter?"
"From the Exeter alumnus organization," she said patiently. "They do an article every issue about an alumnus, and this time, it's you. Clayton, Mr. Robinson said he'd already cleared it with you. Did someone in your department approve this without talking to you?"
"I don't think anyone in my department would be foolish enough to do that, and I know I never approved an article. It's possible someone above me decided this would be a good idea and didn't remember to tell me."
"But not likely."
"No. Mother, this may be nothing, but I need to check on this, and I want to start with Markov."
"Certainly. I hoped you'd come back with me and have some lunch."
"I'd be delighted." He took a drink of his water, then leaned forward. "Could you describe him?"
"Yes, of course. He was a little over six feet tall, thin, very intense. I'm sure you can get what more you need from the surveillance tape."
"All right." He'd forgotten about that for a moment. His mother didn't like having her guests taped, but after he'd promised her the tapes would not leave her home and would be destroyed as soon as possible, she'd agreed. "What did he want to know? And please, I know I can get this from the tape, but I want to hear it from you."
"Small things. Stories about you as a boy. Nothing current. He said he'd get that from other sources, that what I could give him was a sense of you when you were young. He even told me some stories about you at Exeter." There was a faint smile on her face. "I didn't realize you'd gone skinny-dipping with some of your friends the night before graduation, Clayton."
"I didn't," he snapped, then flushed. "Oh."
Porter smiled, but said nothing more about that. "He said he knew you. Matt Robinson, Matthew, in your class. He showed me pictures of the two of you together."
"I remember Matt. I'm surprised he didn't call me. It's been too long. I really was around, mother," he added as she gave him a quizzical look.
"Of course, dear."
"What did you tell him? Nothing much, right?"
"I showed him some pictures," Clayton groaned, "and he wanted to see your report cards." Clayton groaned again. "Would you please stop that? I may have embarrassed you, but I didn't tell him anything that would endanger you."
"I know. I'm sorry. What else?"
"He had a camera, which Markov checked thoroughly, and he took some pictures of a few pictures of you. He took one of me, as well."
Clayton looked at his mother's glass and saw that it was empty. "Mother, I don't mean to rush you, but I really want to get going on this."
"I'll see you back at the house, dear."
They both stood, and she kissed his cheek. Clayton left a twenty for the drinks, knowing it was too much and not caring. He walked his mother out to her car, then got into his and started the engine. He was going to follow his mother home. Something about this felt wrong.
*****
Markov opened the door for him, a frown on his face. "I did all the checks, Mr. Webb. Everything was in order. I wouldn't have allowed him in if not."
Clayton nodded. "Please tell my mother I'll be down for lunch soon. She can go ahead without me if she likes."
"Of course, Mr. Webb."
Clayton took the stairs two at a time and went into the room with the computer and the link to the CIA's database. He looked over the information Markov had flagged, nodding to himself. Fine so far. Then he picked up the phone and dialed.
"I'd like to speak to Matthew Robinson, please. It's Clayton Webb."
"Clay! Has Exeter got you trolling for money?"
Clayton Webb smiled. "No, Matt, but I see you're writing for the Exeter alumnus newsletter."
"Sure am." The pride was apparent in his voice.
"I've enjoyed your articles. Any chance of an article on the glamorous life of a special assistant to the Undersecretary of State?"
"I'd have to talk to my editor, but I don't see why not. Let me clear it with him and get back to you."
"Thank you. Now, what would that involve? An interview with me? Would you come here?"
"I'd love to, but I've got my day job. We'd do it over the phone, unless you wanted to do it as a computer chat."
"Would you talk to anyone else?"
"Sure, if I could reach them. Your wife, if you've got one."
"Not yet." Clayton put a note of regret in his voice. "I wouldn't get married without you, Matt."
"Good. I want to see the woman who gets you to settle down."
"You will." Of course, Clayton thought, it was damned unlikely he'd ever have anyone to consider marrying, considering his career, but Matt didn't need to know that. He was sure now that Matthew Robinson had not talked to his mother. Someone posing as Matt had, however. Why the hell would anyone want to know about his childhood? It made no sense.
He ended the call and put the tape of the interview into the machine, then frowned. What the hell? It was snow, nothing there. His eyes narrowed as he shut it off. This was serious. Whoever this person was, they'd managed to disable the surveillance system.
He took a few deep breaths, then headed down to brunch and his mother. He was not looking forward to telling her she'd been duped by an imposter, but not telling her would be idiotic. He would find this person, though, and when he did, he would make sure they never did anything to interfere with his mother again.
He smiled grimly and hoped this person was ready for him.
The End