Well, thought Elliot, this is going swell so far.
Chapter Three
Anthony’s eyes snapped open somewhere over Morocco.
He hadn’t been sleeping. He did sleep on missions, of course; a good agent didn’t go without sleep, that way led to madness and mistakes and missed opportunities. Not to mention it drove the medical staff back at Headquarters crazy, and one learned very early in one’s career not to annoy Medical. They were entirely too likely to take away one’s medical clearance for minor infractions, like broken bones or pneumonia or sleep deprivation.
No, what Anthony had been doing was meditating, which was entirely different. He had plenty to meditate on, as well. Enrique’s death, Elliot’s presence, the top-secret assignment Bea had given him after Elliot had gone back to his desk...
No. He would not think about it. Thinking led to brooding led to doubting led to... well, nothing good. Instead, Anthony concentrated on his breathing, on the immediate task at hand—to infiltrate the Bulgarian base, find Cicero, and keep Elliot from accidentally killing himself. If he slipped into some kind of Zen sleep-state of calm—well. He was perfectly aware that Daria and Elliot chatted through the first few hours of the flight, that Elliot was awed by the selection of movies available, and that Daria served an extremely well-prepared lunch of salmon and green salad and what was clearly Anthony’s favorite cheesy potatoes, given the way Elliot had exclaimed over them and asked for seconds.
Anthony had almost woken up and demanded his share of the cheesy potatoes, because they were honestly the best thing about flying to a mission on Bea’s private plane.
Anthony would be on another flight someday. Elliot would probably definitely die before the mission was over. The man could have a second helping of cheesy potatoes.
Now Elliot watched a movie. Or maybe slept while watching a movie; he’d been quiet a while.
Anthony cracked one eye into the barest possibility of a slit, just enough to see a set of feet stretched out from Elliot’s seat. He couldn’t see Elliot himself, just the back of Elliot’s head as it lolled to the side. Of course he was asleep; no one in their right mind would choose that position voluntarily.
Then again, thought Anthony, no one would choose to sit behind a desk all day, when they could save the world from people like Cicero. Even Anthony’s first field partner, the great and notable Winston Eames, had gone out kicking. Anthony intended to do the same. Eventually.
Maybe when the game with Cicero was finally at an end...
Too close, thought Anthony, and skittered away from the memory of his private conversation with Bea.
At any rate, that was for later. This was now, and now, Elliot was asleep.
Anthony took the opportunity (not missed, as he had not been sleeping), unbuckled his seat belt, and went to the restroom in the back of the plane.
The movie was still playing on Elliot’s personal screen when he returned, and Elliot’s feet were still sticking out from his chair, crossed at the ankles, casual in the extreme. Anthony paused for a moment, briefly caught up in the action on the screen. A superhero movie, of course—and one of Anthony’s favorites. Figured that Elliot would sleep through it—but that meant Anthony could watch without having to explain himself.
Top agents weren’t supposed to like superhero movies, where the good guys won not because of perseverance and grit, but because of some magical power.
Anthony didn’t succeed because he was magical. And it wasn’t because he was more capable than anyone else either; Enrique had been capable, too, and he was still a photo on Bea’s wall. If Anthony succeeded where his partners had failed, it was sheer luck, and nothing less.
Anthony watched the movie until the scene changed. He glanced at Elliot, whose glasses were skewed on his face. A line of drool shone in the dim light. His blanket had slipped down, leaving his chest and shoulders exposed. He looked so relaxed and comfortable that Anthony considered fixing his blanket for him.
“That’s the mission?” Anthony couldn’t believe it. Bea had to repeat the order twice.
“You knew it might come to this,” said Bea grimly. “I admire him too. I admit it. He’s been a worthy adversary. But it’s time to end the game.”
“But the DVM doesn’t—”
“The rules have changed,” said Bea shortly.
“You have to send me alone,” said Anthony. “I can’t babysit an analyst and still... do this.”
Anthony hated doubting himself. But this assignment was different from any other he’d ever received.
I should have stood my ground with Bea. Elliot will be a distraction... and if I get distracted, Elliot gets killed.
I can’t lose another partner. Not again.
The plane bounced as it hit a pocket of turbulence. It was a reminder that there was work to be done. Anthony reached over and switched the movie off; Elliot blinked awake.
“What?” he mumbled, reaching up to fix his glasses. Anthony smiled, briefly amused when Elliot realized there was drool on his face, and barely fixed his lips into his customary frown before Elliot saw him.
“We’re about three hours out,” said Anthony briskly. “Time to prepare.”
“Prepare what?” asked Elliot, sitting up and slipping on his shoes. “Oh, you mean the files?”
“Not exactly.” Anthony led Elliot to the conference table, and with a few swipes of his fingers, activated the holographic screens. Anthony snuck a glance at Elliot’s face, pleased to see the awed expression. Even Anthony had to admit the tech was impressive: Cicero’s image floated above the table, rendered in 3-D, with several key points listed next to him, and a few links to other referenced files.
But Cicero wasn’t their current focus; Anthony quickly swiped him away and opened a link, which brought a new face onto the screen.
“Archibald O’Leary,” said Anthony.
“Oh, you know him,” said Elliot dryly.
Anthony resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “I know everyone associated with Cicero. I just don’t care about the ones who don’t matter.”
Elliot frowned. “They’re people. They all matter.”
Anthony sighed. “Yes, I know. But I very much doubt that the person who scrubs Cicero’s toilets can give me the coordinates to his latest launch.”
“You’d be surprised,” muttered Elliot, only to raise his hands in defeat when Anthony glared at him. “Fine, whatever. Carry on. O’Leary is now a person worthy of your interest, do tell me what changed your mind.”
Ignoring Elliot’s sarcasm was undoubtedly the better option. Anthony quickly began scrolling through the information, looking for the particular file he wanted to show. “I did some thinking while you were almost an hour late boarding the plane—”
“That wasn’t my fault,” muttered Elliot.
“O’Leary bankrolls Cicero, correct? Only, I can’t figure out why he would. O’Leary’s one of the richest men in the world. He’s almost universally well-liked, respected as both a humanitarian and entrepreneur, and as far as I can tell, hasn’t so much as jaywalked in his entire life. Why would he bankroll the most notorious villain in the last thirty years? Surely if O’Leary’s goal was world domination, he’d have long since moved on to another sponsoree.”