I limped my way tenderly towards the door of the warehouse, taking my time. Thankfully, I hadn't taken any brutal kicks to the legs. Unfortunately, Catherine had, so our progress was slightly slower then I would have liked.
The man pointed towards the most anonymous black sedan I had seen at the corner. I was pretty sure it was a Chevy Caprice. I climbed into the back, along with Catherine. The man opened the door, and sat in the front. The engine turned over with a throaty snarl, and we drove away from the Meatpacking District
My mind focused on the situation at hand. Who was this guy? He was ringing a vague bell, but I couldn't remember exactly which super soldier this was. There were a LOT of super soldiers in 616. Deciding I wasn't going to solve that problem at this point, my mind moved to who on the street level would have access to super soldiers.
There was the Kingpin, who had access to Nuke at some point, although that was through a corrupt government official. From what I had heard, the Maggia families had some superpowered assets, but this seemed out of character for them.
I refocused on our journey and looked out the window, curious as to where the taciturn driver was taking us. We had been heading north for a while through Hell's Kitchen, but we'd recently borne east, and the neighborhood was shifting. The streets were getting quieter, the buildings better maintained. I caught a glimpse of the UN tower catching the late afternoon light a few blocks south.
This didn't seem like an organized crime type of neighborhood. I was very unfamiliar with the geographical zones of influence of the major families, let alone the various street gangs, but this seemed pretty upscale.
The car eased to the curb in front of a residential hotel. The driver killed the engine and got out first,unfolding to his full height and scanning the street. He nodded towards the car. Taking the cue for what it was, I pulled myself out, cracking my back as I stood.
Once Catherine tenderly pulled herself out of the car, the man fell in behind us.
"Head to the elevators."
Our awkward trio entered the front lobby of the building.
The lobby was quiet and tasteful in a deliberately anonymous way. The kind of place that catered to people who valued discretion over atmosphere. The desk clerk glanced up and returned to his paperwork without visible interest.
We rode the elevator up in silence. The supersoldier stood at the door. The doors opened on an upper floor and we followed him down a carpeted hallway to a corner suite.
He knocked twice.
"Come in." called a man's voice from inside.
The apartment inside was bland. Functional furniture, no personal effects. The one concession to comfort was the window. The window exposed a beautiful east-facing view over the city, the East River catching the light beyond.
A man sat at a desk in front of the window. Caucasian, mid-forties, dark hair going grey at the temples, a face you'd forget in a crowd thirty seconds after seeing it. He had the look of a man who'd spent a long time cultivating exactly that quality. The only thing that threw the image slightly was a long scar running along his left forearm, visible below his rolled sleeve.
He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"I'm John Donovan. And you've already met Mr. Cashman."
Cashman. The name rang a bell. Minor antagonist. One of the supersoldier types who showed up in the background of something.
"I heard your lunch was interrupted." He gestured to a side table where a tray sat. Sandwiches, coffee, nothing elaborate. "I took the liberty. You've both had a trying afternoon."
Neither of us moved toward the tray.
The smile didn't waver.
Donovan continued.
"To business then. It tends to be suspicious when a British organized crime associate starts asking around about a blue-skinned woman. Thankfully, I have sources in high and low places, so the appropriate parties were properly informed. An...acquaintance of mine had a plan for this contingency, and it was set into motion. The trap closed perfectly. The problem is, when you're working with." He paused. "Lesser... resources through a series of proxies, execution can ...vary."
Donovan had access to a better class of resources then Bullet Biker, as evidenced by Cashman's presence. Having to hire a relative nobody when he was trying to keep his prints off made sense.
Catherine's expression retained her air of studied disinterest. "You were behind the attempted bag job?"
A smirk flickered across his face. "You think those families could put something like that together by themselves? What an interesting point of view."
Catherine looked at him. "Who are you?"
"A member of the American intelligence community with certain vested interests in ex-STRIKE assets."
Well that was alarming. I'd have appreciated some elaboration on who exactly he was working for, but the resources he seemed to have access to made sense, and the presence of Buck Cashman slotted right into that. He was vaguely government-affiliated, if my memory was correct.
Catherine nodded. "I see. Interesting interpretation of your remit."
"Quite." He didn't elaborate. "Moving on. The Vixen situation was a mess for reasons besides the obvious. Less obviously because it gave a certain class of criminal the impression that they understand intelligence work. They don't. They have some applicable skills, but tradecraft isn't among them."
He picked up his pen.
"After you walked out of the bag job alive, I took a closer look at your cover. The organized crime construction is exactly as sloppy as I'd expect. What's interesting is that there are some details on the profile that look like they were tightened by someone with a better idea of what they were doing." He set the pen down. "That piqued my interest. A conversation seemed more productive than the alternative."
That same empty smile returned briefly. "Besides. I wanted to meet your associate." He looked directly at me for the first time. "We'll get to him."
That didn't bode well for my future health.
Catherine briefly glanced at Cashman. "Why go to all this trouble for a conversation?"
"Because I suspect you're a British intelligence officer." He leaned back. "The cover that was touched up by a professional. The fact that you walked out of a situation I wouldn't expect a mobster to walk out of. And the way you're conducting yourself in this meeting." He paused. "You could be an upper-class British criminal, but you're far too controlled for that. I've dealt with enough crime types to know how they behave in a room like this. They bluster. They front. They're angry or they're scared and either way it shows." He looked at her steadily. "You're not doing any of that."
Catherine held his gaze for a moment.
"Well I'm obviously British. A child could have guessed that. As for the rest, I'm afraid you're mistaken."
Donovan opened his desk drawer and slid several photographs across the desk.
I recognized the building immediately. Atlas Maritime Services. Catherine and I exiting through the front door. Different angles. Telephoto lens.
Catherine's eyes flicked to the photos. Just for a moment.
You could have cut the tension with a knife.
"Fine, we'll play it that way." Donovan shrugged . "I know who you're looking for, and why they didn't report to the UK government after STRIKE went under."
Catherine arched a eyebrow. "Inform me."
"Vixen had been inside the apparatus long enough that nobody knew how deep the rot went. Walking back in through the front door and announcing themselves would have been..." He paused. "Inadvisable. Given what happened to the other sections."
A beat. Catherine's expression didn't change, but something behind it did.
"What do you know about the other sections?"
"What I know is third hand. Fragmented." He turned the pen over. "One of them was brought in for a briefing. The briefing room had some sort of energy-based explosive in it. Absolutely vapourised them. The other one -" He paused. "Something radiological, from what I understand." He set the pen down. "Vixen's people were sloppy about a lot of things. They weren't sloppy about that."
Catherine shrugged.
"What do you know about CRÉCY's current disposition?"
She'd stopped the denial. I wasn't sure why. Everything Donovan had was damning but not definitive. She could have kept deflecting. But she'd clearly decided it wasn't worth it. She'd shifted from deflecting to fishing for info.
CRÉCY. Odd codeword choice. Clearly a human asset of some kind, from what Catherine had told me before but beyond that I had nothing.
Donovan nodded slowly, as if confirming something he'd already filed away.
A beat passed.
Donovan picked up his pen. "So. CRÉCY."
Catherine's eyes moved briefly to Cashman, then to me, then back to Donovan. "This isn't a conversation for the room."
"No?" Donovan leaned back. "S.T.R.I.K.E. is defunct. Of the four special operations sections — two are confirmed dead, one's in the wind, and the fourth I happen to have a fairly detailed working knowledge of." A slight pause. "Given the circumstances, the classification question is all a bit moot, isn't it."
Catherine looked at him for a moment. "Is your man reliable?"
"He's cleared. TS/SCI with SAP access." Donovan said it offhandedly. "As for your hired help — I think he's interesting. Most of what we're discussing isn't actionable intelligence, and I don't think he's spying for anyone."
Catherine accepted that without comment.
"I have information on their whereabouts," Donovan said. "And broadly speaking, what they've been doing since STRIKE went under."
Catherine received that without expression. "They're a critical asset. The intelligence community wants them back."
Donovan smirked slightly. "Not all of them, I'm sure."
The corner of Catherine's mouth moved. "They'll get over themselves."
"I'd be perfectly happy to point them toward home," Donovan continued. "I need them for one minor issue first."
Catherine looked at him flatly. "What sort of issue? They're a specialized instrument."
"I'm aware of their capabilities. This requires a specialized instrument." He spread his hands slightly. "One operation. After that, I'll let them know someone from home is looking for them and point the CO your way. What happens next is up to them."
Out of all the verbal fencing, that answer was doing a lot of careful work. He was eliding something. Catherine didn't push on it, which was interesting in itself.
Catherine arched an eyebrow. "They're not yours to offer."
"No," Donovan agreed. "But I know where they are and you don't. Which makes this a practical conversation rather than a theoretical one."
A beat.
"One operation," Catherine said. "I'll need to clear it with my handler."
Donovan gestured toward the phone on the desk. "You're welcome to use the line."
The corner of Catherine's mouth moved again. Not quite a smile.
Donovan shrugged.
"If you'll excuse me, gentlemen." She nodded at the room and left, pulling the door closed behind her.
Donovan turned to me. "Now for you."
My stomach dropped.
"I didn't think you were interesting at first," Donovan said. "Thought you were doing scut work for one of the local families."
"Then I ran your name. Quince Davis doesn't exist. Not the tri-state area, not anywhere I looked."
He tilted his head. "So I reconsidered. Not HYDRA — wrong ethnic background. Thought you might be Afro-Cuban working for the Soviet bloc for about thirty seconds, but your Americanisms are too deeply ingrained" He paused. "Spymaster runs errand boys. But what sinks all three is the same thing. None of them put someone in the field with nothing. No cover, no legend, no documentation. That's not tradecraft, that's just a man walking around."
"If I thought you were someone's asset, we wouldn't be having this conversation. Your employer is no fool. She'd have made you before I did."
He looked at me with the mild attention of a lepidopterist examining an unusual butterfly.
"You have no trade background. I can see you processing on your face. Career criminals and intelligence types learn not to do that."
I had no idea what to say to that. Donovan knew more about me than I knew about him and could read me well enough. Keeping my mouth shut seemed like the right call. He wanted something. I'd wait for him to get around to it.
Donovan leaned back. "Oh, relax. Arresting people is for J. Edgar's boys."
He picked up his pen again, tapping it against the desk. "What I'm interested in is people who operate in interesting spaces. Someone with no paper trail whatsoever, who moves in criminal circles, who clearly isn't criminal by background." He turned the pen over. "That's either a very interesting problem or a very interesting resource, depending on how you look at it."
He let that sit for a moment. I kept my mouth shut.
"I'm not asking you to explain yourself," he said. "However, I'd be remiss not to mention that I like to collect interesting people. It pays to know a few in my line of work." He opened his desk drawer and produced a card. No name, just a number.
I screwed up what little remained of my courage. "Is being collected optional?"
Donovan leaned back in his chair. "It's open to interpretation. Personally, I consider it more of a professional courtesy."
I took the card.
Donovan leaned back. "I had an interesting experience in seventy-four," he said, in the tone of a man who has just thought of something tangentially related. "Europe. We were after a HYDRA cell and ran across a sleeper. Legend was extraordinary. Memory implants, the whole architecture. Birth records, school records, military service, tax history."
He touched the scar on his forearm briefly, without looking at it.
"Impressive stuff."
"Since I assume you're going to correct the deficiency in your identity, you're obviously not going to have a legend like that," he said. "Realistically you're looking at a dead infant's social security number. I'm sure you'll handle that in due course."
He slid the card the rest of the way across the desk.
"Documentation acquired through unofficial channels tends to be less untraceable then you'd think. The people who provide such services have their own professional relationships."
He picked up his pen, tapping it against his desk.
Wherever I went for fake papers, he'd already know the forger. I struggled to keep my reaction off my face. I suspected I failed, as Donovan gave me a very thin smirk.
Mercifully, the door opened. Catherine stepped back in.
"We have a deal."
Donovan nodded. "Excellent." He pasted on another smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I'll be in touch about the timeline." He was already reaching for the phone on his desk. "I have a flight to catch. Mr. Cashman will see you out."
Cashman moved to the door without a word.
The three of us rode the elevator down in the same silence we'd ridden up in. The lobby returned us to the world of desk clerks and carpeted anonymity. Somewhere between the elevator and the front door, my brain started working again. I rolled my shoulders, trying to shed the tension that had settled in somewhere around the second floor.
Outside, the afternoon light hit the street at a low angle. Catherine and I walked half a block before either of us said anything.
"About that favor," I said. "Since you're heading back to the UK soon, I need it sooner rather than later."
Catherine nodded. "Fair enough." She considered for a moment. "I have two people I can put you in touch with. The first is...somewhat odd. Effective, but odd. You'll know what I mean when you meet her." A slight pause. "The second person is more conventional."
"Two is enough," I said.
Catherine nodded. "Good. Because that's what's available to me stateside. If you need more than two reliable people, you're out of luck."
"Two is enough," I said again.
Catherine nodded. "The phone numbers are-" She said them once, at normal speed, without repeating herself.
I committed them to memory.
We'd reached the point on the pavement where our directions diverged. This was probably the last time I'd see her. I couldn't think of any words that would suffice. She'd gotten me into the situation where I'd killed a man, but she'd also kept me alive. That complicated things.
I rolled my neck until it cracked. The Catherine Mills chapter of my life, such as it was, was closed. I was quietly thankful for that.
The card sat in my pocket like a weight. I had no intention of calling Donovan. Ever.
As I had learned, espionage was far too exciting.