Going Grey (35 page)

After being lied to for an entire marriage, including the lies she realised she'd told herself, Dru actually craved some truth. She went back to the computer to start a fresh search for names, not confined to Washington. A lot of Ian Dunlops were thrown up;  none of them had any relevance to the area, though. For a mad moment, she considered dialling Kinnery's landline just to see how he reacted.

Idiot.

She could have kicked herself. Instead of trying the Seattle number first, she should have dialled the number it was calling –Kinnery's dedicated line. But he'd be on his guard now if her wrong-number English guy had any connection.

Maybe, if she'd called his landline and said nothing, Kinnery would eventually have asked: "Maggie? Is that you?"

But she hadn't. She had to work it out the hard way now.

CHALTON FARM, WESTERHAM FALLS.

"You look like a man in need of a Scotch," Mike said.

Dad walked into the hall and put his bag down to give him a hug. "I'm sorry that I landed you with this, Micko. How's it going?"

"Well, Livvie's using a beanbag launcher to fire steak across the lawn. For the dog, not for Rob. Everything's peachy."

"You sound like you're enjoying this."

"Yes, I suppose I am." Mike led him into the sitting room and fixed a drink. "Ian's pretty normal considering his background. A little withdrawn and awkward. But he's catching up fast."

Dad frowned as if he still didn't believe sanity was possible. "Any more wrong numbers?"

"No. I disabled the phone and got him another prepaid one. There's nothing to locate him now without the sort of spook tech that KWA won't have." Mike rattled ice in the tumbler and poured, waiting for Dad to indicate a suitable dose had been reached. "Are you sure this is shut down at the DoD end?"

"As sure as I can be. If you get a visit from the proverbial black helicopter, then I'll know they were lying. But they're rushing to cover their asses, which is usually a sign of enthusiasm for avoiding an investigation."

"You said they didn't believe it."

"They don't. But you know how I work, Micko. First strike. If you ask who couldn't keep their department watertight and if they've managed to miss a shape-shifter on the loose for two decades despite their very lavish budgets, they'll opt for the crazy rumour and hope they don't have to investigate. Ringer's old. Nobody's got a career resting on it. So they hope I'll shut up and go away. And I will."

"So it's just KWA we have worry about."

"Kinnery's going back to work for them."

"Seriously?"

"Weaver wants him, allegedly to make the company look prettier in merger talks. Kinnery's not keen."

"So why is he doing it?"

"Because I twisted his arm."

Dad could twist very efficiently. Mike was appalled. "Forgive a political amateur, Dad, but that's asking for trouble. He'll blurt something out."

"On the contrary. The guy's a world-class con artist. He's managed to hide Ian for eighteen years, even from his wife. She left him because she thought all that secrecy was about a mistress, and he never once tried to defend himself. Now
that's
tight-lipped. He ought to be in intelligence."

"I still think it's risky. Weaver must suspect him of something."

"If I were Weaver, I'd keep him inside the tent and make sure he didn't piss in the wrong direction. But once he's in, he's mine. He'll watch, and he'll report, and if Weaver ever finds out about Ian and doesn't behave like a Christian gentleman, then he'll regret it."

There'd been times when Mike hadn't been sure if his father ever strayed across legal lines, and he hadn't wanted to find out. Dad didn't operate in a world where nice guys won on points by the righteousness of their cause. But he did have moral lines, very clear ones, and creating transgenic humans seemed to be one of his many no-go areas. Mike was heartened. He suspected that his great-grandfather, the man who boosted the family from rich to super-rich, would have sold Ian to the highest bidder.

"Okay," Mike said. "I trust your judgement."

"I'll deal with this now. You and Rob have done your bit. Thanks. I won't put you in that position again."

"And what does
deal
with
mean?"

"You can't look after Ian forever. He probably needs specialist care."

"But who's going to give it to him? There isn't an expert on what Ian is. Not even Kinnery. And he's not a psychiatric case."

"Micko, I know what you're like. You feel the world's your responsibility."

"I gave him my word that I'd protect him. I can't delegate that."

Dad swirled his Scotch around the glass, staring into it. "You don't know what that might entail." Mike waited for him to launch a counter-argument, but he just shrugged as if he'd  decided to fight another day. "You know, Kinnery tried the cancer cure argument on me. Ian's worth the moral cost because of the medical benefit for others."

"This
is
the pharmaceutical industry we're talking about, yes?"

"The irony wasn't lost on me."

"Well, Ian doesn't owe the world anything." Mike's indignation tumbled out. He was getting his case straight for his own position rather than drawing a line for his father. "And the world doesn't need to know about him, any more than it needs to know if someone has epilepsy controlled by drugs. There's no practical military use for morphing. It's all about medical applications, and if we really want to relieve human suffering, giving the Third World clean water and drainage would achieve a lot more."

Dad swirled his glass again and shrugged. "You don't have to persuade me."

"Sorry. I'm in my pulpit again."

"I'll go wash up. Then we can crack a few beers." Dad made an emphatic gesture with his glass in the direction of the doors. "Is Rob okay?"

"Having a ball. He's turning Ian into a Marine."

"You pick sterling friends, Micko. I can't fault your judgement."

"Quality over quantity, Dad."

Mike wandered down the hall to look across the lawn from the back doors while he waited for Dad. Livvie was playing with Oatie and his new toy, a beanbag launcher that sent the greyhound tearing across the grass in pursuit of flying titbits. Rob and Ian were tending the barbecue. Smoke and luscious smells wafted across the garden. All was right with the world and the house was the way it always should have been, busy with family and friends enjoying a summer day.

Eventually Dad walked up behind him and gripped his shoulder.

"By the way," Dad said, "you need to get your ass home and see your mom. And Charlotte. Otherwise they'll both want to visit."

"What about Ian? I can't leave Rob to hold the fort."

"Ask him."

"I've already screwed his work plans."

"I sent him a payment for retrieving Ian, by the way."

"You know he'll try to give it back."

"The man's entitled to be paid for his professional services."

"Well, I've been thinking about that." Mike decided to blurt out his news while Dad was distracted by the extraordinary spectacle of the world's only shape-shifting human placing steak on the barbecue. He started with the down-page items. He'd ramp up to the adoption issue. "We're going to start our own security company."

"Excellent." Dad slapped him on the back. "You can't dodge RPGs forever. Some niche service, I hope."

"And Livvie and I are going to adopt if the next round of IVF fails. So I need to be home more."

Mike held his breath. He hoped that Rob's prediction was right. Dad paused for a moment before cracking a smile.

"You're too good a guy not be a dad," he said. "Your mom's going to be delighted."

"Are you?"

"Absolutely. How far are the plans advanced, then?"

"Early days." Mike didn't want to spend the day discussing babies in front of Ian. It seemed insensitive. "Come on, then. Come and meet Ian."

"Has he changed since he's been here?"

Mike wished he'd lied outright from the start and simply told Dad that Ian was an ordinary kid who didn't do tricks, whatever Kinnery claimed. It would have left Mike with a totally different set of problems, but at least it wouldn't have been this one. But lying to Dad didn't come naturally to him. No, he just couldn't do it.

"Here." Mike took out his phone and showed him the photos. "See for yourself. I took these a few hours apart."

The pictures didn't give a clinical comparison, but they were enough to make the point. That simple, reasonable decision felt like standing at the top of a ski-run. Now Mike was about to push himself over, and then he wouldn't be able to stop even if he wanted to.

Dad scrutinized the images, cocking his head slightly as he sipped his Scotch. His expression relaxed into unguarded wonder.

"I'll be damned," he said at last. "That's quite impressive. How long does it take?"

Mike was dismayed by the slight enthusiasm. He wanted it all to be dismissed as an anti-climax.

"It's fast – seconds, maybe minutes," he said. "But it's definitely not enough to be useful for covert ops."

"He can't turn from a small guy into a basketball player, then. This is tinkering around the edges."

"Exactly. And he can't control it. I know it's not easy to take Kinnery at his word, but he did warn us about that."

"So what makes him change?"

"Stress, I think. Sometimes embarrassment." This was the one area where Mike had much more life experience than his father – combat,
real
combat, where the next second could be one he never saw. He could tell Dad the truth and still do right by Ian. "Dad, the last thing you need is kit that fails specifically when your adrenaline's pumping. Imagine your cover disappearing in the middle of a mission. Suddenly you're the only Nordic blonde in a crowd debating the best way to behead a filthy infidel. Even the CIA piss their pants sometimes."

"I once saw something like that in a comedy," Dad said, opening the doors. "But context is everything." He strode across the patio with his hand held out to for a meet-and-greet. "Ian. It's good to meet you at last. How are you, my boy?"

Ian shook his hand, the perfect gentleman. "Hello, sir. I'm very well."

Mike wondered how much was Maggie's drill and how much had been gleaned from movies. "Call me Leo," Dad said, and walked Ian across the lawn to the circle of loungers under the trees.

Rob prodded the steaks and burgers, passing no comment while Mike filled him in on Kinnery's enforced return to KWA. Mike couldn't even read his expression. Rob just went on moving the meat around, listening patiently.

"Well?" Mike prodded him. "Say something."

"Trust your dad. He didn't get where he is today by giving people the benefit of the doubt. And find the buns. I'm ready to plate up."

"You don't think it's risky sticking Kinnery back in KWA?"

"Letting him carry on breathing's risky. But he does have a track record in keeping his mouth shut. Did your dad ask him what incriminating evidence he's holding in reserve?"

"Dad says he told him that he burned his notes."

"I bet he kept something. Unfortunately, the only way to guarantee that he keeps it zipped is something that involves a deserted building site and a lot of wet concrete. We just have to live with it." Rob gave Mike a pointed look and spread his arms. "Come on, where's my bloody buns?"

Rob was better at dealing with one problem at a time and making the others wait their turn. Mike ended up spinning plates trying to resolve everything at once. He had to see this for what it was; an impossible situation that his money could improve, but never fully resolve.

Like trying to have a baby. Some punches you have to ride.

Mike and Rob ferried the plates over to the table and topped up the drinks. Leo was getting on with Ian like a house on fire. They were talking about sheep and Livvie's meditation coaching. Livvie sat back in her lounger, drink in hand, and winked at Mike. She looked happier than he'd seen her in years.

"Where's the dog?" Mike asked. "I hoped he's left room for his burger."

Ian jumped up. "I better go find him. Excuse me."

Dad watched him go, eyes slightly narrowed in appraisal. "I wouldn't have known there was anything unusual about him at all," he said. "That's truly remarkable. A very pleasant young man."

"I'd like him to stay with us until he can cope for himself," Livvie said suddenly. "He's no trouble at all."

Leo held up his hands in mock submission. "I know when I've been out-voted."

"I mean it," she said. "I'm fond of him."

Mike had thought she was being the loyal, supportive wife, always tolerant of his behaviour no matter how hare-brained or selfish it was. But she was starting to drive this. He went with it.

"What if he can
never
cope?" Dad asked. "How does that fit in with your family plans?"

"He's coping now, actually."