License to Kill

"I was told it was not something we were to follow up, and I was warned off, to the point they threatened a reprimand in my file. I wasn't allowed near the place, so I got someone else to do it for me. It took forever to find the right disaffected group, to drop enough hints, to get them angry enough to actually attack the place. I may have helped them out a bit... guided them by remote, sort of thing. Had some friends in with the mob, specifically there to take out their shooters. The Saudis are very hot on personal protection, and they would easily have taken out protesters invading their turf, if their heavies had still been able to."

She put the empty bottle on the floor, and leaned forward, elbows on her knees, hands clasped in front of her, looking at me earnestly.

"When they found you, well, I couldn't believe it. I was the one who called the ambulance. I watched over you for days. I caught hell from the bosses. They knew who'd been behind it, even if they couldn't prove it. But it was worth it. You saved my life, when you knew I'd betrayed you, and that idiot I was with tried to make it worse, just so you'd give him a reason to put you down, so we could escape."

Her voice started to shake.

"I couldn't come to you before now. I couldn't face you. The only man I've ever loved, and I left you to die. The mission always comes first!" she uttered the last sentence in that tone people use to express anger at what they were saying. At themselves. "Look what they did to you! Because of me. Because of the damn fool job I was so dedicated to. You didn't ask for any of this. You just wanted a wife and a marriage, and instead, you got me, and all the crap that comes with it. You paid the price for my mistakes. Two years of your life. Torture. And God knows how you got through it. I've read the reports, but I know for a fact they don't carry the full story. Of what it's like to go through that. To completely lose hope. You said as much when they debriefed you."

She finally broke down in tears, railing at herself.

"Well, I'm grateful for you getting me out," I said, spreading my hands open. "But I would point out that the only reason I was there in the first place was because you were so intent on playing Mrs. Bond, and lying through your teeth about it."

She looked lost and even though sobbing, I heard her say, "Yeah..." quietly.

Beyond saying that, I honestly didn't know how to react. Here she was, saying herself all the things I'd saved up to yell at her, if and when this current confrontation ever came to pass. Now she was doing a better job of summing it up than I ever could. This was the despair and remorse I wanted. The pain on her side. The realization of who she is. What she'd done. The price I'd paid.

And yet. It didn't fulfill me. It didn't suddenly make it better or worth it. There was literally nothing I could do or say to her to either make it worse, OR make it better. I could forgive her, say the words, but we both knew it would be an empty gesture. She wouldn't accept it any more than I'd have meant it. And even if I had meant it, so what? What did that do for her?

Or me, for that matter.

She sat and sobbed for a few minutes, chest heaving and taking great lungsful of air, face in hands. I let her. I didn't know what else to do. I wasn't about to take her in my arms and claim all was forgiven, or it didn't mean anything, because it fucking did. From her deception to the continual lies, to the betrayal of her vows, to me losing two years and being tortured. None of that was okay or forgivable. Not in my eyes. The fire of anger had dimmed, but the memories hadn't. I still woke up one night in three with the nightmares and the screams. In a moment of clarity, I realized this was one reason I'd kept Susan at arm's length. I would never have been able to explain it to her.

Eventually, she started to subside, and she looked up at me, water rimmed eyes red, and bursting with pleading.

"Say something, Rich. Please. I am on the edge of my sanity here. Tell me you hate me. Tell me you want me to die. Just, please... say something."

"Clarissa, I loved you. And I thought you loved me. Those years we were married were the best of my life. Even though it was all a lie, I still don't regret being married to you. Even if I wasn't everything in your life, you were in mine. So, I will never hate you. I hate what you did, but not you. I understand why you did what you did, but... I'm not going to give you absolution for those acts. That's between you and your maker."

I took a deep breath.

"If you want forgiveness, then sure, have it. I don't think you'll know what to do with it, but consider the entire episode closed, okay? I've made another life, and it's not so bad. I have money, the freedom to do what I want, I date a bit. While I won't say I'm gloriously happy, I am content. I think that's as much as I can expect, at this point. And it's better than I thought I was going to get, when I was sitting in that cell. I got myself into that, as you pointed out, and you got me out, so... while we aren't even, we aren't entirely lopsided either, right? Take that to mean something."

Her breath was still ragged and she just stared at me, those big wild eyes. I had no idea what she was thinking.

Then she asked, politely, if I had a tissue. I got up and grabbed one from the side table, handed it to her, where she then proceeded to blow her nose in a most un-ladylike fashion. I smiled. She always sneezed and blew her nose like a bomb was going off. Just one of her idiosyncrasies. I remembered it well, making jokes about it when we were married.

"Sorry," she murmured apologetically, more under control now.

"Clarissa. Donna. Whatever your name is. Move on. I have. While I'm sure this has been cathartic, it's time to stop living in the past and regretting what is in that past. Go be the best spy you can be, untethered to me or what happened. Don't forget, and don't make the same mistake again, okay? But... I'm fine. Go on with your life."

She stared at me a bit more, and then a tiny smile tugged at her lips.

"Seriously? You're okay?"

"Well, I wouldn't say okay, no. I still have nightmares but... I'm past it. It's in my past. I have a future now. Or at least a semblance of one."

"Oh, that Susan woman you've been dating?" Clarissa demanded, a little flash in her eyes. Some feeling was evidently still there for her.

"Clarissa, you don't have a leg to stand on, being jealous of me having a life. God knows how many times you slept with someone while married to me."

"Those were jobs!" she protested. "It's not like I wanted to!"

"Whatever," I replied. "This is me moving on and having a life, so deal with it."

Another impasse.

"Okay, okay," she muttered, eventually. Then she brightened. "I did also come to give you something."

"I did wonder why now?" I asked. "Why did you show up now, after so many years? If you couldn't see me, why is it that you can now?"

She scrabbled around in her pocket, pulled out a small USB stick and reached out to give it to me.

"Because of this. It's... insurance. For you. It's a password protected directory, and you won't have the password. Please don't try and guess. Three tries and it'll wipe itself. No one knows about this, since it was generated on a laptop that had no internet connection, and is now destroyed. No one is going to come looking for it. But, that said, I'd put it somewhere that's not here. You'll know the password when you get it. It will come to you when it's appropriate. That's already in hand. Just... something to have in your pocket. That's why I came now. To give you this. I needed to see you for my own reasons but this gave me the push."

She had her hand outstretched and I looked at it, wondering if I wanted to do this. Get into her world again. Because clearly, it was something to do with her world.

In the end, the pleading in her eyes got to me and I walked over and took it from her, putting it in my pocket. I didn't even look at it. And I didn't actually touch her. For some reason that was important.

She sat back, satisfied and more under control, nodding at me.

"You'll know what to do with it if and when the time comes," she repeated. "I really wish there was more I could do, you know? Just, an apology doesn't cut it."

I thought for a moment, and then said suddenly, "Well, there is one thing. And I don't want to hear you can't do it. I want you to make it happen. Whatever you need to do."

"Of course," she said seriously. "Whatever it is, consider it done."

I explained what I wanted and she nodded, completely understanding my request. She smiled at me and said, "I'll take care of it myself. My personal guarantee."

"One last question?" I asked.

"Sure," she replied.

"What's your real name?" I wanted to know. "Are you Clarissa from birth?"

She smirked at me, and then instead of answering me, said in a low tone. "Rich, I just wish you knew how much you don't want to know."

Then she looked at her watch. "I have to go. There's a flight tonight I am booked on. To Jamaica."

"Well, have fun," I said, sardonically.

She stood and paused next to the table I'd brought from our home in the UK, with all the plants on it. To be honest, I'd gone a little overboard; there were at least two times as many plants in pots on it than it was really designed to handle. She stroked her hand along the front of it and smiled at me, wistfully. "I always loved this piece. Such great memories of when we found it. I'm really glad you kept it."

Then, she walked over to me and stood directly in front of me. Her hand came up and caressed my cheek, and then she leaned forward and kissed me, gently, full on the lips. I thought I'd cringe at the touch but surprisingly, I was okay with it. It was the ending of something, something that needed to end.

"I did love you. That was not a game or in any way not real, Rich. Leaving you in that room was the hardest thing I ever did, and I will blame myself forever for that. I'm so sorry for what was done to you, and what I did. Be well, my love. Have a life. Have the life I can never have, and we can't have together, much as I wish we could."

And then she was gone, and I never saw her again.

Life went on for me after the bomb of her reappearance in my life. True to her word, she took care of my request. Susan was summoned to the bar by her partner who then, both unwillingly but also apprehensively, signed over their fifty-one percent to her for the princely sum of one dollar. They also passed her a check to cover all the outstanding loans the bar had and told her it was all hers again. They 'gotten what they wanted out of it', eyes wide at her and being extremely polite about it while they said it. She could see that they clearly believed she had powerful friends, and they even apologized to her for taking as long as they did, trying to recoup her ex's debts. They also explained she'd never be bothered again, for the rest of her life, and indeed, if she had any issues with anyone else, come to them and they'd take care of it for her, free and gratis. As a Thank You and an apology.

She left the bar bewildered, confused and extremely happy. And when she was happy, I was happy. She had no idea what had happened, but wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

For my part, I just carried on living, although I made overtures to Susan to take it to the next level, talking about moving in together, or possibly more. The answers and catharsis I needed had been mostly provided. Once she moved in, even the nightmares stopped.

The USB key I stashed at the bottom of a tree on one of the very small islands dotting the bay behind my house. I wrapped it in plastic and rode my little sculler out to one of the islands on a sunny day, had a small picnic, buried the remains of the food, the USB key with it, and went home. No one ever came looking but it was the smart thing to do, I figured.

Epilog.

Two and half years later, Susan and I were discussing wedding plans, when I got sent a small newspaper clipping, with a note. It was in the mailbox for the house, but no stamp on it, so evidently it was hand delivered.

The note read

Hey Lucas.

Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but she died a couple of weeks ago, in a shoot-out in Lebanon. She just couldn't stay away from this life. I kept telling her it would kill her eventually, but all she said was, 'perhaps it's time for that.' I don't think she ever quite got over what happened to you, and how much her fault she felt it all was.

Her office sendoff was huge. So many people owed their lives to her, or the operations she was involved in. She was extremely popular in the office, so there's that, I guess. Enclosed is the official newspaper report. All the details are extremely fictitious, but... the name on this is her real name. She always told me that I had to do this, let you know this way, if her end came. She said you'd know why.

Sorry, buddy.

Darrell.

The clipping was the death notice for one Miriam Finchley. That's who my Clarissa really was, - or had been. Miriam Finchley. And she wanted me to know that.

And I knew why.

That next day, I took Susan for a picnic to that island where I'd buried the USB key, dug it up, and then sat Susan down and told her it all. Every detail. My marriage to Clarissa, my incarceration, the torture, being freed, the ultimatum from the British Government. Even the visit from The Major, and the visit from Clarissa.

She sat, open mouthed, during the whole thing. At the end of it, she first examined my ear closely, sat back with her hand over her mouth in shock, and then, overcoming the shock, she grabbed me with both arms around me and kissed me, hard.

We took the USB key home, and on a PC that had been hobbled so the ethernet port didn't work and the WIFI card removed, I checked out the password protected directory.

As I suspected, the password was her real name, upper-case M and upper-case F, no space.

Inside the directory, there were two files which I copied immediately, just in case there was any issue with the key itself. I had been warned it could clear itself.

One was a small text file, named "read_me_first.txt" and the other was an MS word doc file, called, "Memoirs of a misspent life, by Miriam Finchley."

I opened the first, and there was a small text file, with a message addressed to me.

Hey Rich. If you are reading this, then I'm dead, or at the least, declared dead. Sorry about that. So, this is a book I wrote. My memoirs. Specially selected stories of operations I was part of that really expose the politics of what we were doing. Not every story; I've specially selected ones that don't talk about other agents or sleepers or anything like that. The only people named are people who are In The business, so to speak, and who deserve a little light shone on what they do and why they do it.

Everything in this is verifiable, which is why I selected the stories I did. Mostly though, it's to get back at the people who thought that manipulating and destroying innocent people's lives was acceptable and just collateral damage.

I've read that agreement they made you sign and while it covers you writing things down, it doesn't say anything about me doing it. And since I'm dead, well, I don't care that much about my reputation. Let me take a few of these bastards down with me, right?

It's up to you what you do with this. If you do choose to put it out there, my advice is to do it in a deniable way, so it's not linked to you. There are powerful people I name in here, and some of them are not from countries that will censor or deal with them. Better safe than sorry.

I really did love you. I'm so sorry for what I did.

Miriam.

The second file was the memoirs she'd written. Now I understood why she didn't want me to actually have this till she had passed. And why she'd been insistent that no one would know about it. It was explosive stuff. I read it in two days, - it had stories of her burglarizing, assaulting, manipulating, outright beating people, the whole deal. And what's more, it had the complete circumstances of why she was ordered on these missions, why they'd come up, who's feathers had been ruffled, and how petty and how ego driven most of it was.

Two things came out of this. The first was that while Clarissa had said that I knew all of her, it was clear that I didn't know her at all. Or at least that the parts of her I didn't know about far outstripped the parts I did. She did things I would never have believed her capable of. And she said this was only ten percent of the things she did, the things she could talk about because it didn't reveal anyone but the culpable, then it was clear I was a small part of her life.

And the second was that the intelligence business is a dirty business indeed, and that while it is well-intentioned and good things are achieved and people protected, at least fifty percent of it was personal egos being attacked and assuaged. Right down to the individual operators, most of whom had completely forgotten the reasons they were doing things for in the first place. Personal pride was rampant and sacrifice of those who had the most to lose was considered required and necessary to satisfy these slights.

And among those stories was the tale of me. What she'd been ordered to do, how she'd done it, the lies and manipulation, and what had finally ended up happening to me. Her feelings on what she'd been ordered to and the results she achieved. How she regretted it to the soul of her being, for what it did to me. There were some things in there I didn't know, but on the whole, it matched what she'd told me.

It was just horrible reading, all the worse for knowing it was true.

Susan and I talked about what to do with this explosive material and in the end, we decided to take a trip. Susan gave me a ride into Salisbury, I went to a car hire place at random, hired a car, and then the pair of us, complete with luggage, drove the car into Washington DC, where, again at random, we went to a dealership and bought an RV. Quite a nice one at that. Diesel, three slide outs, two air conditioners, built-in TV, nice shower, storage, the whole deal. I shifted money from one of the accounts I'd moved the money from the UK government to pay for it, and then withdrew forty thousand in cash, to use as spending money. No tracking that.

And then we drove across the country for the next six months, checking out cities. We even went to Canada. In New York, I stopped off at a Walmart and for cash bought forty USB sticks, forty padded mail bags and a tablet, and from then on, anytime we hit a McDonald's, I would spend an hour on the tablet, investigating publishing houses throughout the world. In each city I visited, I would send out one of the padded envelopes with a USB stick inside and a note attached, stating "Do whatever you think is correct with the contents of this USB stick."

We sent them to two publishing houses in Australia, three in Germany, two in France, one in Russia, two in Spain, three in Canada, one in New Zealand, etc. You get the picture. All from random cities in the US. It was the best I could do to ensure I wasn't traced.

The book was published in fifteen different countries in the end, after each had done as much as they could to validate the claims in the book. Right at the end of our tour, I pushed it onto the internet using that tablet, to as many places I could think of, anonymously. Good luck in repressing that, UK Security Services. The tablet went into the ocean off Galveston, Texas, after that.

It was the talk of the world for months. There was a reshuffle at the top of the UK government over it. Other top posts had to resign, including the head of the CIA and MI6. It was quite the scandal for almost six months and then, as things are wont to do, something else came along and replaced it.