Separation (6 page)

“Far out,” Jason murmured. “First you had
pigs and now you got moles.”

Harry figured it was best to leave out the
matter of the super-powered warthog. Good thing, too, as Leonardo
broke off his scenic tour and muttered something in Italian. It
sounded like a curse, and Farrell must have picked up on it for he
snapped, “He’s our guest. Treat him as such.”

“Sorry, sir,” Jason said and let out a yelp
when Maze smacked him on the shoulder. “Hey, I got the message!” He
directed his attention to Leonardo. “Sorry, uh...”

“My name is Leonardo,” the mole-man said.
“You call me Leo, if you want.”

Jason nodded his head in an approving manner.
“Leo sounds cool.”

“Let’s take this downstairs,” Farrell
suggested, and they took the elevator to the basement, where Maze
got to work on her computer. Farrell asked her for a map of the
Vatican. “Leo,” he added, “we’ll need your eyes for this. We want
to make sure where we’re going.”

Obediently, Leo scurried over the computer.
Maze seated herself and started typing. Jason stood at her side,
chocolate supply bag in hand, and she ceased typing only long
enough to snatch a treat from the bag. “Here’s where we were
yesterday,” she said as the map of Rome appeared onscreen. She
glanced over her shoulder at Leo. “Does this look familiar to
you?”

He squinted at the map and slowly nodded.
“Si... yes, this is place.”

“I’ll enhance it.”

She clicked on a few more buttons and a
detailed map of the Roman sewer system appeared. It was vast, old,
and had a number of modern waterways working in tandem with the
ancient aqueducts. Leo poked his finger at a spot on the map. “The
sewer... it go under the Vatican. There is room we have there. We
have a good place to stay... friends. It is good place.”

A sly smile crept across his face. “I will
like to go home.”

Farrell had been watching all this time
without saying a word. He suddenly began to cough, though, and
hastily excused himself. Anastasia glanced at Harry and motioned
with her head at the door. He got the message.

Inside the men’s washroom, Farrell was bent
over a sink, spitting out blood. The spatter of the other man’s
life fluids on the porcelain sent a streak of foreboding through
Harry’s mind. Ulcers did this in some cases.

However, his father had also spit up blood
before the doctor confirmed the C-word, and he had an awful and
very immediate flashback to the day his father received his death
sentence. “How long have you got?” he asked.

Farrell picked his head up in a slow, weary
gesture and ran the water. He washed his mouth out and spat out
some blood before taking a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping
his mouth. Sweat sparkled on his forehead. “I was diagnosed four
months ago. It’s inoperable. That’s all you have to know.”

His reply, so quietly and unemotionally
given, caused Harry’s heart to jump. So final... he’d initially
cried when his father had contracted cancer, but hadn’t done so
again until after he died. He thought it would be unmanly if he did
in his father’s presence. At the funeral, though, he did. Shortly
thereafter, his mother had followed her husband into death and he
remembered sobbing uncontrollably.

Now, a person he thought of as a friend was
about to end up the same way and he didn’t know how to take it.

Farrell answered for him. “You don’t have to
worry about me. I’ve got this planned. I can’t go with you this
time, for obvious reasons, but you’ll meet my replacement
downstairs. His name is Overton. You’ll leave tomorrow afternoon.
I’ve already made the arrangements.”

With an effort, he turned around. “I need to
take a taxi to the hospital. Overton will drive you and Anastasia
home, along with our mole friend.”

He said nothing more and made his way over to
the door. There, he leaned against it for a moment after opening
up. “Do a good job. My replacement will have everything ready for
you.”

Orders given, he exited the room. Harry
waited, struggling to keep his emotions in check. It wouldn’t do to
break down at a moment like this. Weakness wasn’t an option.
Staying strong and in the moment—he had to do it, man up and take
responsibility. No one else could, save his wife.

After getting himself ready mentally, he
stepped outside. Farrell had already gone, but Anastasia was
leaning against the door of Farrell’s office, with Leonardo tagging
after her like a puppy after its mother. “How is he?” she
asked.

“Not good.”

When the situation was dire, what else was
there to say? The thought of a friend’s demise was demoralizing, to
say the least, and Harry didn’t want to think of anything else save
going to do his job and coming home again. It was a certainty this
would weigh heavily on him, but Farrell wouldn’t have approved.

“Let’s go downstairs,” he said and pointed to
the stairwell. “We’re supposed to meet someone.”

On the first floor, a few agents walked
around, giving them suspicious looks at first, and then moving off.
One man, short and stout, mid-thirties perhaps, with a round, bland
face and a head of dull brown hair, remained, his eyes, small and
close-set, focused on them. Leonardo’s reaction was the same as his
initial meeting with Farrell. He shied back, but Harry strode
ahead. “Are you the replacement?”

The man nodded. “Parker Overton, FBI,” he
stated in a flat, by-the-book voice. “What is that thing?” He
pointed at Leonardo and did not offer to shake hands.

Great, another stiff-ass they’d have to break
in, Harry thought. “I’m Harry, this is my wife, Anastasia, and
this,” he pointed to Leonardo, “is our guide when we go to Italy.
His name is Leonardo. Call him Leo.”

“I’m aware of that,” the reply came in the
same non-emotional voice.

Well, if he was aware of it, then why did he
have to ask? His face never changed expression. It retained its
bland, tofu look, mixing boredom with the faintest trace of
disdain. If this guy was trying to look and sound officious, he was
doing a very good job of it—and it wasn’t impressive at all.

“Agent Farrell gave me the details,”
continued Overton in an officious manner, ticking off the points of
their itinerary on his fingers. “I’m to take you home and pick you
up tomorrow afternoon at six. We’ll leave for the airport at seven,
and—”

“First thing in the morning,” Harry
interrupted, “we’re going to see Agent Farrell at whichever
hospital he’s staying at. I need to talk to him.”

The ticking off gesture stopped, replaced by
a look on Overton’s face that resembled a constipated water
buffalo. “This isn’t proper protocol—”

“It’s our call,” Anastasia cut in with a
defiant note in her voice, a note that said
argue with me and
you get slashed.
“We know Farrell, he’s our friend, and we need
to see him. You’re FBI, but we’re private citizens.” The anger in
her voice grew. “So if you want our cooperation, you’ll give us
this. It isn’t too much to ask.”

After what seemed like an eternity, Overton
finally nodded. “Let’s get going.”

He guided them downstairs to the garage and
over to a small Honda. They squeezed inside and he took off,
driving steadily through the traffic and dropping them off at their
cabin. “I’ll see you tomorrow at six,” he said in a frosty
voice.

Leonardo immediately made for the couch and
passed out. Harry took up a position on a nearby chair, and
Anastasia came over to sit on his lap, winding her arms around his
neck. “I know you’re worried about Farrell. I am, too. But we have
to do this. You and me... and him,” she gestured to Leonardo. “This
is for us and for Istvan.”

“I got it.”

She kissed him hard and got off his lap. “I’m
going to get some rest. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

Anastasia walked inside the bedroom, and the
door closed behind her. Harry sat in his chair, brooding over the
unfairness of life, and stayed in the same position until his wife
came out six hours later to replace him in his guard duties.

Overton appeared promptly at four the next
day. The sun was out, but Harry took no joy in it. He’d been
thinking about illness and death, and while grateful for his own
enhanced immune system, he knew everyone else wasn’t nearly as
lucky. “I know I’m early, but let’s go, anyway,” the agent said
once Harry opened the front door. “We’ve got a schedule to keep,
and I’m not going to get stuck in traffic with...”

His voice trailed away, but Harry had a
feeling he would have said “stuck in traffic with a bunch of
freaks.” It was only a feeling, though.

Shepherding them out to his car, Overton said
not a word as he drove downtown to St. Hilda’s, a small hospital at
the edge of the city. Naturally, Anastasia got carsick—she always
had in the past—and fortunately, the agent had a few extra plastic
bags on hand. “Are you going to make it?” he asked her after she’d
puked for the third time.

“Shut up and drive.”

After parking in an underground garage for
reasons of privacy, Harry took the elevator up to the main floor
alone, dreading what he had to see. “I’m here to see Miles
Farrell,” he said to a middle-aged nurse at the counter.

To her credit, she didn’t stare, simply
nodded and said, “It’s this way.”

As he entered the room, Farrell was sitting
up in bed, checking things on his cellphone. He had an IV in his
right arm. He turned his head, intoning in a dry voice, “I’m not
dead yet. It’s bad, but I can manage,” and then added, “I saw the
look on your face. Don’t wear that sad look for me.”

Harry hadn’t been aware of any such thing,
but duly nodded and took a seat by the side of the bed. Although he
couldn’t actually see it, he sensed it, the sense of loss that hung
in the air. He’d always had this man as his guide and his moral
compass, and now...

“I, uh, I don’t know what to do.”

“You deal with it.” Farrell’s voice came out
sharply, belying his condition. “You deal with it, as you always
have. Like I said yesterday, I can’t go with you, not this time,
but you’ll be in contact with Jason, Maze, and Overton. He’s not as
good as I am, but he won’t steer you wrong.”

Frustrated, Harry blew out a deep breath.
“We’ve already met. He’s like all the others. He doesn’t trust
us.”

“Admittedly, he comes off like a hard case,
just like I did.” Farrell’s voice turned reflective and he shifted
around in bed, grunting as he did so. “He doesn’t know you. He’ll
come around, but the thing is, you’ll have to trust him. He’ll be
with you in Italy, and he’ll also be on hand to guard Leonardo.
I’ll be here if you need to talk to me.”

He’ll be here... how long?
The
question of
how long
reverberated in Harry’s mind. How long
did anyone have? It was a great philosophical question, but now was
not the time to ask.

Instead, Farrell answered it for him. “You
know the details, and there’s no point in going over them again.
Don’t cry over me. I knew this before, but I,” his voice cut out,
and he coughed, “I wanted to go on as long as I could.”

With a sigh, he sank back. “I wish I had a
little more time, that’s all.”

A sob burst from Harry’s chest. This was one
of those moments where he was supposed to show a certain amount of
toughness. Like all the movies and books said, be a man. Take
control and act like an adult instead of a teen. He’d already taken
the step of getting married, so why couldn’t he show a little
maturity now?

Emotions ended up getting the better of him.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered as he put his head down in order to avoid
shedding tears.

A hand patted him on the shoulder. Picking
his head up, he found Farrell gazing at him steadily. “You can do
this,” he said in a surprisingly gentle voice. “You have to.
There’s no one else. Istvan is in trouble, and he needs two special
people to bring him home. One of those special people is you. The
other special person is your wife. I’ll be here when you get back,
and I’d better get a detailed report.” The iron then resurfaced.
“Now get going.”

Wordlessly, Harry arose, took in a deep
breath, and nodded. He walked to the door and opened it, but the
voice of his mentor stopped him. “I couldn’t be prouder of you than
if you were my own child. And the same goes for Anastasia. Now go
and do what you do best. Make the world safe.”

“I will.”

As he exited the hospital, Anastasia caught
up to him outside and escorted him over to the van. “How is
he?”

What could he say? “Bad.” Harry climbed in
and took a seat next to Leonardo. “But he’s still in charge. He
told me what to do.”

Overton nodded, and his jowls quivered.
Outside of his body parts shaking, he never seemed to change his
expression. “He told me the same thing as well. We’ve got a flight
to catch.”

After they’d piled into the car, Overton
handed over a piece of paper, saying “This is my cellphone number.
Call me if there’s an emergency.”

“Thanks,” Harry replied as he pocketed the
number, wondering if this signaled a thaw in relations or simply a
professional courtesy. Time would tell.

“I think it is nice to go home,” opined
Leonardo once more as they got underway. “But now I look so
different, I think everyone is maybe not so happy to see me again.
I do not think anyone who knows me will remember me.”

Harry said nothing. He was busy thinking
about Farrell, about possibly meeting up with Istvan, but more than
that, he was worried about the human side of things. Leo’s words
about everyone—meaning humans—not being happy to see him hit
home.

Like it or not, the battle lines had already
been drawn. There were people out there who wanted him out of the
way, him and others like him. Moreover, they would stop at nothing
in order to achieve their goals.