Work Text:
THE KEY by Natasha Barry
Posted to SQUIDGE 2007, edited 2023. THE STATE WITHIN, CHRISTOPHER/NICHOLAS, MARK & NICHOLAS. Nicholas tells Mark all about it.
The funeral wasn’t something he’d wanted to attend, but Mark Brydon knew it was incumbent upon him to do so. Not the funeral for Charles McIntire, of course, as no one of note or influence was expecting to attend that affair. Though he supposed for some people, attending the funeral of a deadly adversary was god’s gift.
So here he was, putting his best face on while sitting in a pew in Virginia attending the funeral of a man he detested, the former Undersecretary for Intelligence in the Defense Department. But if the man’s former boss, Lynne Warner, could do it, he could. Of course there was media coverage, the official PR having it the young Christopher Styles had died a hero, murdered by the man he was about to expose to the FBI. But that was bunk, though only a few of those present knew the real story. The man beside him, for one: British Intelligence Agent Nicholas Brocklehurst, who was the assassin of Charles McIntire, after McIntire terminated Styles. Beware the tangling of webs interwoven, as invariably you suffocated on them, Brydon thought, considering McIntire formerly took orders from the man he’d killed.
He had to admit to something intimidating about that dark wooden coffin with the large standing portrait of the handsome young man beside it. Christopher Styles was much too young to be dead nor having been old enough to have been that corrupt. At least the floral arrangement laying along the top was tasteful, as were the other bouquets of varying sizes crowding the altar. One, he knew, would be representing the British Embassy, with a card signed by him.
Beside him, it appeared Nicholas Brocklehurst was intent upon either the service or the same coffin which transfixed him. Not surprising, as he had the impression the two men – one now dead, one still alive – were of closer acquaintance than he had suspected. Had the men been, in fact, friends? There was clear reluctance, he remembered now, in how Nicholas first declared Christopher Styles’ name to him, as Brocklehurst finally ceded enough information to him he could be confident of the man’s loyalty. Also, later, after the car accident which put Jane Lavery in hospital, it was Nicholas who held him back from going after Styles. At the time it was explained how impolitic and useless an act of aggression on his part would be. Now he wasn’t so sure. It seemed Nicholas deliberately steered him away from all thoughts of Styles.
He and Nicholas had paired up together to attend this service only after he was ordered to attend, by Downing Street, and Nicholas quietly informed him he had scheduled the day for himself. Hence they were in attendance as a pair, decorously representing the British government.
Finally, the ceremony was over with and he, with Nicholas beside him, headed out of the church along with others, some of whom milled around as they took note of each other and shared comments.
A few attendees were granting short clipped statements to journalists and news crews, and even Mark offered a polite, “I didn’t know him personally, but he and my office worked closely together.” More than that, he wasn’t capable of.
Perhaps because of their recent heated clash, but also the respect they had for each other’s strength of convictions, Mark turned his head to find Lynne Warner coming up beside him. As usual, she had an entourage with her. Also, she was waving back the journalists who would have accosted her for a statement. Instead, one of her aides was doing the “The Secretary is extremely upset at the regrettable loss of a valued and trusted subordinate” shtick.
Mark realized this was one of the few occasions he’d met the lady when her omnipresent puppy, Christopher Styles, was nowhere in sight. It was unsettling. Like watching a movie for the hundredth time and suddenly noticing a scene was missing. A moment would have you questioning the lost scene one of imagination.
Something made Mark look to the man at his side, even as he greeted Warner with a polite, “Madame Secretary.”
“Hypocrisy is alive and well in Virginia. And American politics.”
It took Mark a moment to put the mouth movements and disgusted tone together and realize it was Nicholas Brocklehurst who’d spoken.
“What's that?” Warner managed to sound truly surprised as well as annoyed.
“You’re a venal bitch, and Christopher is dead because he worshipped you,” Nicholas slurred the last word, making his contempt for the woman more obvious than if he’d slashed her with a knife.
She did appear wounded, or at least struck hard. “I didn’t realize you knew each other that well.” She was perhaps conscious of the sets of eyes gathering their way. “But that’s neither here nor there. Sir Mark, I’ll be seeing you, no doubt.” And she pivoted and was gone, into the police escorted chauffeur-driven limousine.
“Cunt,” the British intelligence officer muttered, as if he couldn’t help himself.
Mark grasped his arm, content to lead his combustible companion from the fray and into the safety of their limo.
More calmly, Nicholas noted, “I guess you’re wondering about that.”
As the vehicle pulled away, Mark considered it a moment, then leaned over and activated the privacy screen separating them from the driver. “You can say that,” he replied with grim satisfaction. After all, it was like he once warned the FBI agent who succeeded in extricating his man here, Nicholas Brocklehurst, from a sticky-wicket situation, there were times it was best not knowing. Obviously Nicholas needed to unload. The tension emanating from the man was ominous. Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen the man in days. He’d thought because Nicholas would have been wrapping things up with the FBI and otherwise indisposed. Now he’d come to rely upon the man, his presence was deeply felt and therefore missed. “Is it something you can tell me now?”
“I’m going to the graveside.”
“What?” That, truly, was something he hadn’t anticipated. Their official part in this was over. It was time to cross the Potomac and head back to the Embassy. “But that’s for family and close friends.”
“Yes. Or you can drop me there and I’ll get a ride back.”
Activating the screen again, Mark lowered it enough to tell the driver to pull over and then join the procession of cars to the cemetery. Then he reactivated their privacy.
He began with looking out the side window at the rather uninteresting landscape. “Anything you want to explain to me now, or would you prefer later?”
“Did you wonder how I got into Christopher’s flat that night, when I thought McIntire would go after him?”
“I hadn’t thought about it at all.”
Nicholas chuckled. “You wouldn’t make an intelligence agent.”
Mark turned away from the view and back to the rear seat’s other occupant. “Being a diplomat is bad enough.”
“I didn’t break in and Christopher didn’t let me in. I never even considered that. I’m still not sure how he beat me home, as I sped there fast enough. I guess Warner didn’t take him back to the Pentagon. But I could see he was inside, too long on his own, it turned out.”
“I thought you beat McIntire there.”
“I did. But what I haven’t told anyone except George –“ the FBI agent who’d assisted him in the cover-up of the true circumstances of the younger man’s death “ – is Christopher had taken pills. Maybe if McIntire hadn’t shown up, maybe I could have saved him. I’d just figured out which pills he’d taken, was about to call for instructions…”
It all seemed to be tumbling out now, Mark thought, as he only half-listened to the full-tale springing from the obviously tense man beside him.
“…all because of that bitch. It wasn’t just a little boy playing games, you see, he was totally besotted with her. He wanted to be everything to her. So I never understood him at all.”
“And?” Mark was now more than a little intrigued by the tale spilling forth.
“He had nothing left. No career; not her; and not me. I had a key.”
Now, Mark thought on that. So his liaison with Jane Lavery wasn’t the only clandestine affair going on, there was something far more dangerous underfoot. Ordinarily not such a dangerous game, Mark conceded, but two intelligence officers representing different countries, and loyalties, that would have been controversial in the extreme. “Why?” He wasn't able to help himself, and watched as Nicholas smiled involuntarily. Perhaps it was gallows humor.
He idly noted the vehicle they were in was pulling out from its parked position. He was of two minds whether to hope the cemetery was nearby or not.
“Besides the obvious?”
“Well, that.” He wasn’t that way inclined, but he knew the young man was strikingly good-looking and could be charming as well. And that job he had wasn’t a payback of sorts; he was obviously qualified, which made him highly intelligent.
“At first it was happenstance. Maybe a bit of getting to know him, in better to understanding Warner. Intelligence has been nervy about Warner for years. And I wasn’t expecting pillow-talk. I mean, you don’t, not when the guy isn’t a field agent. One where you have to touch base. He never let anything slip, did Christopher. But I was assigned to Washington, and arranged to be a member of the same athletic club as Undersecretary Styles. Simple. It was advantageous, but not politically useful, and never hinted at the conflict it would become, what with recent events.”
“So it began as something more personal.”
“I wasn’t laying back and thinking of England, if that’s what you mean.” Nicholas remained in a dark humor. Perhaps to hold back the tears. The fact that someone he really cared for, had perished, and on his watch. “If Christopher was torture, I’d pay for the privilege.” But he’d need to control his emotions. After all, they were part of an honor party leading his lover’s – former lover’s – casket to its final resting place. Such a stunning figure to be laying to rest, at the moment Nicholas was striving to remember the bad times as a way of keeping his rage in check. He didn’t want to raise another alarm as he probably had done in his confrontation with the Defense Secretary outside the church.
He remembered Christopher’s pathetic, “So that’s all I am to you now? Bait?” and how he should have responded, and if he had, if he’d confessed to Christopher something the younger man should have noticed. After all, why did he keep a key to the flat after breaking off their relationship, anyway? Would Christopher have told him the name of the medication? Something that could have kept him in the room with Christopher while negotiating a rescue remedy with emergency personnel instead of ransacking a bathroom for clues as he had been when the assassin arrived?
A bathroom which had many of his personal articles in it. How had George explained his presence in Styles’ home that night? Oh, that Styles had sought to clue the British in as well as the FBI about the Sinclair associated prostitute murder. Only like George, in this scenario, he’d arrived too late to save Styles from McIntire.
The last touch between them, his cupping the dead cheek, the flesh still warm. The last time Christopher touched him? So different, inviting him to bed after a gentle gesture at his chin to survey the cut lip Sir Mark inflicted. Given the nature of their jobs and the lack of trust between them, Christopher hadn’t asked how the injury occurred. Of course, Nicholas wouldn’t have told him anyway. But he’d noticed, and that was better than Nicholas, later, taking too damn long, trying to ignore the lazy figure at his side, trying to stave away any gesture of compassion or caring, as he waited with bated breath on an assassin’s arrival. So stupid he was, focused so clearly on his final objective – as usual – he let slip away what was most important, noting Christopher’s state of mind.
Damn, if he’d had more time. What delayed him, so he was later to the flat than Styles? Mere MI-6 reportage; a few quick words with Sir Mark. Nothing that couldn’t have waited. But he really thought he had more time. And he hadn’t wanted to explain himself or the situation. But it never occurred to him the greater danger to Christopher was Christopher himself.
Or the greatest danger to Christopher Styles was himself.
Now, he was staring at the family and faces whose association with Christopher he could only guess at as final words were spoken, roses strewn into the grave as the forbidding casket was lowered.
McIntire had never come for him, as a loose end, and he could have. Why hadn’t he? As Intelligence, he wasn’t as important a diplomatic presence as was Sir Mark. McIntire would have wiped him out without thinking, probably conflating his demise with a badge of honor. McIntire had reason to fear him, with what he knew of the operations. It must have been Christopher, trying in his own way to protect him just as he’d tried to steer responsibility away from Christopher every time his name was mentioned.
And no way did he want Christopher being the fall guy for Warner. That state of affairs galled him.
“Stupid bastard,” were the last words Christopher would have heard, addressed to him by his lover no less. He’d deserved better. The actions Christopher took were immoral and criminal, but he had his justifications.
About to turn away without a word spoken by either of them to anyone else - in spite of some curious glances cast their way - they’d delayed long enough a member of the family circle broke away to come up to them.
When the young woman got close, he recognized the strong resemblance to Christopher. The mother’s side was predominantly Louisiana French, Christopher once explained the dark coloring to him. This young woman’s eyes weren’t as large, smoky and devastating, but she had his pure skin and something of the mouth. The sclera of the eyes were reddened from an obvious spate of crying, and no makeup adorned the lids. No doubt the sensitivity extended there. Married, if he recalled what Christopher told him about his sister, Mariana.
“You’re Nicholas.”
“He told you about me?”
“He was OUT to his family. He wanted to bring you to us on a weekend.”
“He never mentioned it.”
“Those high pressure jobs of yours, you can never get away from them." Whether or not her brother was dead, she was a fatalist about his career. “One crisis after another.” Then her voice betrayed her as she choked up over the realization her brother had gotten away, but not in the way they intended. “He was sweet. Thank you so much for coming here. I would have hated it if I’d never met you.”
“I sent flowers." He wasn't sure whether she already knew that as she merely nodded as tears welled up in her eyes.
She struggled to get it out. “We have some of your things, from Christopher, you’d probably like back.” Abruptly she turned and walked to her parents, as an obvious ploy at regaining composure.
It was a murder scene, but he supposed the police tape was removed as the FBI cleared up that investigation unseasonably fast.
For some reason, he flashed on the Sunday he and Christopher stayed home, in Christopher’s home, of course, never his, as his was so bare it was embarrassing, and Christopher’s devoid of personal touches, but at least outfitted as well as any VIP suite. They’d given the day over to pleasure, with passionate, intense love-making and flirtatious chatter during meals. They put the news on hold and forgot the outside world. There was even a long languid bath, though both men routinely took showers. Slow-news day Sundays in America were put to good use by Washingtonians who otherwise never had a spare moment, and he and Christopher had taken full-advantage.
There was so much to remember and despair, but his favorite part was when Christopher fed him breakfast, at some ungodly and totally unsuitable hour of the day, of course, while sitting on his lap, facing him, as he sat at the table. Nicholas was spoon fed, and napkin cleansed, and softly kissed, whenever appropriate. It was one of those moments in life that are frozen forever, because once lost are never replicated.
Yes, maybe Mariana didn’t know all her brother was capable of, but she knew a great deal of his character. It was the rest of them that fell short.
He didn’t know if he wanted back any of the reminders of nights spent in Christopher’s bed. It was bad enough he had memory of those smooth limbs and smoldering eyes. Christopher had teased how it was opposites attracting, Mark unusually tall and blond and blue-eyed, while Christopher was average stature and olive-skinned while dark. For whatever reason, they fit beautifully together.
He shouldn’t have broken off the affair. He should have continued to protect Styles somehow. The whole affair was so damn complicated. But in the end, had they managed to save any lives, or merely cost more, with what he and Sir Mark had done? Sure, a war was abated, but that was a war both his government and the United States wanted, in order to bring down a tyrant and a threat. That’s why Lynne Warner still had her job, no matter what she’d condoned in pursuit of her goals. As he’d told Christopher, “Lieutenants are expendable.” Well, he’d called that one right.
INTELLIGENCE was a bitch.
There was no real reason for McIntire to kill Styles. It was bloodlust or the need for a fall guy on the part of a man who had no restraints put on him. It wasn’t as if Styles was going to testify, just disappear from public life. Adair and McIntire, they were the animals in this, and Christopher, so transparently rational, caught up in their midst. He wondered when Christopher realized it had gotten away from him. Not until that last night? Yes, that would be it. At the pre-invasion gathering he’d orchestrated, he’d stared hard into that beautiful yet serene face. He could see nothing of panic or hesitation on it.
As they were back in the car headed for D.C., Mark said, “It was obviously serious. I mean, meeting the parents and all.” It seemed a lame comment, but better than nothing. He’d had so many inappropriate relationships over the years, he could sympathize all too well. “If you’re wanting a lecture from me on being more careful who you sleep with, that would be calling the kettle black.”
Nicholas gave out with a resounding snort. Then, “We were exclusive,” he conceded. Why else would Christopher have given him a key? Though he hadn’t known about the proposed meeting with the family. Probably because there was no date set. That involved coordination of schedules, always schedules.
It was the day after the Condolence signing, when he’d made such a furious racket pounding on Christopher’s door. They’d spent the night together anyway, temperamentally most dangerously suited to each other: Christopher had once confessed, “Just your breathing turns me on.” Of course, that was nothing to what Christopher did to him. And how often had they been in a public place and forced to control their rising heat?
The next day he’d retrieved a call from Christopher, who was unusually terse. Upon the typical exchange of “Hello, honey,” which meant Christopher was nowhere he could be overheard, initiating his equally flirtatious comeback, “Hello, sweetheart,” meaning he also had privacy, Christopher said only, “Check your mail,” and hung up. It was provocative, and he’d set for home first thing, and found the small package with the key inside. From their meeting until their breakup, which he initiated, he’d barely spent a night alone. And still he had the key.
Even now he put his fist in his pocket and palmed it.
THE END