call bullshit on Finn. To an average citizen, this might seem impossible. But I’m a reporter. Getting government officials, politicians, whomever to speak to me is what I do.
What I can’t do is give up hope.
I can’t believe Finn would delete my files without making a copy, knowing how important this story is to me.
Swallowing hard, I force myself into reporter mode. Bottling up my emotions for another day and distancing myself from the sharp sting of his betrayal, I turn my attention to fixing this situation.
Within an hour, I’ve checked out of the hospital, convinced the local guarda to call in a favor, and am seated across a table from a CIA agent.
He’s handsome, and well-dressed in a suit and tie, with short hair and not a trace of whiskers on his dark complexion.
“I’d like you to contact Agent Finn McDuff,” is how I begin.
“About?”
“We have a personal history. And he has something that belongs to me.”
The agent scribbles Finn’s name on a piece of paper. “You understand the CIA is prohibited from releasing contact information on its agents.”
I roll my eyes. “Code of silence. Yes, so I’ve heard.”
The agent frowns. “From Finn McDuff.”
I nod. “Please. Reach out to him. He has my passport. I can’t leave Ireland without it.”
Or his explanation.
“What’s your name?”
He holds his pen, ready to write. “Clarissa Steele. Last name has an “e” on the end.”
“Just a minute.” The handsome agent stands up then leaves the room.
I tap my foot on the floor and wait. Wondering how I got to this moment, heartbroken that it has to come to this.
The agent returns with an odd look on his face. “You worked in Aleppo?”
My eyes go wide. “Yes.”
“My friend was there as well. He recognized your name. Said you’re a decent journalist but an even better person . . . for what you did for that little girl.”
“I didn’t do enough. She died.”
He doesn’t react as expected. “The world would be a better place if people heard the truth of what happened in Syria. You should do a documentary about it. So we don’t forget that innocent people lost their lives due to foreign decision-making. ”
Oh my God. Sometimes in life when you’re brought to your knees and barely hanging on—like I am in this moment—you’re reminded of why you’ve arrived at this point, what motivated you to take the risk, to put yourself out there.
This is my moment.
“Her name was Christiana.” I lean in across the table. “And you will be hearing her story, that I promise you.”
“I’ll be watching.” He folds his arms across his chest and leans back in his seat. “Now about Mr. McDuff.”
My eyebrows pinch together. Mr.? That’s odd. “Can I speak to him?”
“That’s going to be a problem.”
I grind my teeth together. “Isn’t it always with him?”
“I wouldn’t know. In fact, no one at the CIA would.” He doesn’t have to say anything more. Not a single word more. Because the full extent of Finn’s betrayal hits me like a led pipe.
He lied about everything.
He played me.
“You need to be very careful when dealing with this man.”
“What?” I grasp hold of the table as the room spins wildly around me.
“Whoever this man is, he’s not CIA.”
37
Finn
“You Finn McDuff?” a voice asks from the darkness. I sway on me feet, three sheets to the wind but not pissed enough to miss the accent.
“Who wants to know?”
Gravel crunches as one of the South Africans approaches me from behind. I let him jump me, push me about, then pitch me into the back of a parked car. Another fella is in the backseat, waiting for me.
So, this is a quick courtesy call, is all.
I relax, having expected something like this. “Where are we going?”
A punch in the side is the only answer I get.
“Easy,” I hiss. “You hurt the merchandise, and I won’t be in any condition to toss a fight.”
“He knows?” the man hovering in the door and blocking my exit demands.
“Mrs. O. wants us to remind him of their agreement. You hear us, asshole. You go down and let Vidal win.”
“Now why would I be doing that?”
I cough after another punch hits my side. “Merchandise.”
He stuffs a thick envelope in the elastic waist of me joggers. “An advance to whet your appetite.”
“Take the money and do as she asks,” the other fella adds. “Because she’s not leaving this country without giving O’Brien the stiff middle finger. He deserves to lose money after stealing from her.”
“What did he take, her nail polish?”