[fic] Clandestine Affairs (5/?)
Sooooo! Here is some more of this fic. Like five months later... yeah. Half of that delay was expected and due to RL changes; half of it was, um, not. That second half would still be going on if it weren't for the UNENDING patience of nahco3 in listening to a pretty constant stream of moping, complaints, and pleas for help, so (as if this needs to be said), a million thanks and a polar bear. ♥
In this part: backstory, brooding, more Germans (remember them?), some actual plot developments!
Clandestine Affairs (5/?)
Word Count: (part) 12,600
Characters/Pairings: (part) Cesc Fàbregas, David Silva, David Villa, Luís Figo, Raul González, Fernando Morientes, Gonzalo Higuaín, Juan Mata, Jérôme Boateng, Michael Ballack, Philipp Lahm, Lukas Podolski (David Silva/David Villa)
Rating: R
Summary/Notes: Essentially here though I should probably write some new ones by now.
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
"Here you go," Marko said, slapping the cash into Mario Gomez's outstretched hand as he slid into the passenger seat, and Jérôme pumped the clutch until the engine finally caught and they pulled away from the curb.
"Everything went okay?" he asked, eyes on the rain-slicked road.
Marko kicked his feet up on the dashboard and crossed his ankles. "Totally smooth. I think the counter guy's got a crush on me."
Gomez, in the backseat, made a derogatory noise. "You wish."
"You wish."
"That doesn't even make sense, Marin."
"Hey," Jérôme said, cutting into their snorts of laughter. "I'm serious. Did it go all right?"
Marko tsked. "Come on, Boateng, it's not exactly rocket science, is it?"
"Marko," Jérôme said. Marko rolled his eyes.
"Yes, yes, they took the cards, they gave me money, no one was there, everyone's happy, even Signor Broody."
He meant Toni. The description wasn't inaccurate. Jérôme wasn't sure how much had to do with natural demeanor and how much had to do with the fact that he didn't seem to speak any German.
It had been several days and still no one was very comfortable with Toni: it hadn't taken Jérôme long to notice that even Ballack wasn't entirely sure what to do with him. He didn't know who else could tell. Ballack put up a good front of total control-but there wasn't much that escaped Lahm for long.
"Oh, yeah," Marko said, wriggling around and digging in the pocket of his jeans. "I got this, too." He tossed something on the dashboard.
It was a packet of white powder.
Jérôme nearly swerved off the road. "What's that?"
"What do you think it is?" Marko said. He shrugged. "Said Toni'd know."
There was nowhere to pull over so Jérôme ran the car up on the curb and jerked to stop. "Ow," Gomez complained in the backseat. "Jeez, Boateng, what's the deal?"
Jérôme didn't move. "I don't do drugs," he said.
Marko gave him a blank look. "Neither do I," he said. "So?"
"I mean I don't move them. Ever. Ballack knows that."
Marko snorted. "Who says Ballack knows about this?"
Gomez spoke up. "No one says you have to stay involved, Jérôme. Whatever's going on. We'll talk to Ballack and see what happens."
"Prudes," Marko said. "The money all comes from the same place."
"I don't care," Jérôme snapped. "I want to hear about it straight from Ballack. As soon as we get back."
But when they got the crumbling apartment block, Ballack wasn't there. At first, Jérôme thought the place was empty. Then he heard a pair of low voices coming from the back room. He followed the sound.
It was Lahm-Lahm and Özil.
Lahm was talking, low and urgent; Özil gave every appearance of listening intently. Before Jérôme could decide what to do, Özil looked up, straight at Jérôme. Lahm followed his gaze and his mouth shut.
"Hello," Jérôme said bluntly.
Özil looked at him with that unnerving opaque gaze Jérôme could never interpret. "Boateng," Lahm said. Lahm was the only one who never called him by his first name. "You're early."
"What's going on?" Jérôme asked. Then he wanted to kick himself, because even he knew he wouldn't win any favors going on the offensive. "Early for what?"
Özil spoke up in a quiet voice. "We're all supposed to meet here. Ballack must have something else to tell us."
On cue came the sound of the door opening and closing.
Slowly the others trickled in in their usual configurations. Khedira joined Özil. Schweinsteiger came in with Neuer and joined Gomez; Podolski slouched in alone. Marko appeared to have forgotten completely about their earlier conversation and perched on a table next to Jérôme.
When everyone was present but Ballack, Jérôme muttered some excuse to Marko and slipped out of the room, stationing himself by the front door. He was just in time: moments later Ballack came through the door. He was alone.
Jérôme was split between thanking his luck and wondering where Toni was. He pushed it aside and said, "I need to talk to you."
Ballack raised his eyebrows curiously and gave Jérôme the nod to go ahead. Jérôme spoke quickly. "At our drop off today they gave Marko something for Toni-drugs, I don't know what." He paused, scanning Ballack's face. "We're not… are we?"
"Of course not," Ballack said dismissively.
"Then what was that about? What's he doing?" Jérôme couldn't quite bring himself to ask what they were doing with him. "Micha, what's going on?"
At the sound of the nickname no one had used in weeks, Ballack stiffened. After a second he said, "It must be for his personal use. It has nothing to do with us."
For a moment Jérôme was too incredulous to speak. Ballack couldn't be serious. Of course it mattered, it mattered if Toni was cutting deals on the side, or if he was too fucked up to operate. But Ballack was already moving past him into the room. Jérôme had no choice but to follow him.
Conversation stopped. All eyes turned toward them. Jérôme slipped back to his seat next to Marko. He looked up just in time to see Lahm's gaze move away from him.
"Good news," Ballack said. "We've got another job. Luca's employer was very impressed with how well we've handled this one so far."
Jérôme wanted to ask what there was to be impressed about. Marko was right: it wasn't exactly rocket science. Marko elbowed him in the side, apparently thinking the same thing. Then Jérôme noticed that the no one else seemed as gratified as they had the first time, either. Gomez looked moderately pleased, but Podolski looked bad-tempered again and Jérôme intercepted a lightning-fast glance from Schweinsteiger at Lahm. Özil was as inscrutable as ever. To Jérôme's surprise, Lahm said nothing.
Jérôme glanced at Ballack again. Either he was undisturbed by the lack of enthusiasm, or refusing to notice it. "The initial job was something of a test, if you will. This will be-"
"Just as pointless?"
Utter silence. Slowly, Ballack's head turned, to where Podolski already looked like he regretted speaking up. But if anyone was Ballack's match for stubbornness, it was Podolski, so he crossed his arms over his chest and set his jaw, a slow flush creeping up his neck.
Ballack said, "Problems, Lukas?"
Podolski looked both angry and embarrassed. "This isn't working. There's too many of us and nothing to do. A lot of us are wasting our time when we could be out doing, doing something else."
"We have a job," Ballack said. A dark flush was starting to rise in his face, too. "I apologize if it's not flashy enough for you."
It was already clear Podolski was going to fold, but he made one more effort. "I know it's a job," he muttered. "But I'm sick of doing stupid favors for your friends."
For a second Jérôme thought Podolski had gone too far. Ballack's jaw locked tight and he made an abortive movement forward. Podolski dropped his eyes and glared at the floor. No one moved.
Finally Ballack spoke.
"It's very simple," he said. His eyes swept the room, including them all in his next words. "You can help, or you can leave. Is that clear enough?"
In the end, no one left.
* * *
The sound of voices, muffled and remote, wormed into Cesc's half-awake state until he finally came all the way to consciousness. He lay still for a minute, letting the murmur melt into ambient noise.
It had been a long time before Silva had returned for Cesc. When he did, it was without Villa. Silva didn't offer Cesc an explanation; he just led him down another two floors to the most gleaming, high-tech gym facilities Cesc had ever seen. He was so awed that it took him a minute to notice the figure in the corner, head down and shoulders braced, doing his best to demolish a punching bag.
When Villa turned, shoulders heaving, sweat darkening the front of his shirt, for a minute he didn't seem to recognize them.
"David," Silva said, just the name. Then, as Villa's breathing slowly calmed and his expression cleared, Silva went on: "We can wait. If you want."
"No," Villa said, dropping his gloves. Something about his voice scared Cesc. "Let's go."
They went.
One of the voices rose, suddenly, and fell again, bringing. Cesc back to the present. Moving as silently as he could, he got up and slipped out into the hall.
He stopped where they became clear, just out of sight of the kitchen. "-think about it?"
"No." Villa. "We'll keep it."
Silva, hesitant. "David… are you-"
"No. Let them think we're busy. Then they'll stay off my back. If he won't listen to me they can take what they get."
A fraught silence before Silva spoke again, softer. "You should rest today."
"No," Villa said. "I can't. It's fine. I have to get started on this."
"No, listen to me, David," Silva said, still soft but urgent. "We-if that's what you want, we'll keep the case. But when I-you wouldn't let me-"
Villa didn't let him finish. "It's different. I had a day already. I don't have time. I have to-" He broke off suddenly.
Silva raised his voice. "Cesc?"
Cesc shuffled forward, into the kitchen proper. "Hi."
Silva was seated at the table. Villa, arms crossed and shoulders set rigid, stood in the middle of the room. His hair lay flat and his face was drawn; his eyes stood out above the dark circles under them. It looked as though he'd barely slept.
"Sleep all right?" Silva asked.
Cesc shrugged. "Okay." He paused. "Are we, um, going back to…"
Villa's eyes met Silva's. The silence was taut.
Silva was the one who, finally, dipped his head a fraction and looked away.
"Yes," he said to Cesc. "We're going back."
It couldn't have been more than thirty-six hours since they'd last been at the site; it felt like days. With fresh eyes, Cesc realized how the debris of surveillance had slowly built up over the days: the table looked like a filing cabinet had exploded all over it. How long had it been, anyway? Cesc tried to count backward and couldn't.
No one had arrived at the office yet. Villa took up a spot at the table, laptop at hand. Silva took a seat across from him, making some kind of minute adjustment to the wiretap equipment. Cesc, cross-legged on the floor with a newspaper, couldn't help glancing at Villa every couple minutes. Then he noticed Silva, too, was watching Villa from under his eyelids.
Villa felt it. His head came up, as he looked from Silva to Cesc, and he snapped, "I'm not a fucking time bomb."
Cesc flicked his eyes away guiltily. Silva didn't react.
A few minutes later, Cesc slid another glance at Villa. Villa's jaw was clenched as his gaze flicked quickly back and forth across the screen. Cesc looked away. The silence bore down on him uncomfortably.
It was broken abruptly a few minutes later by the sound of a laptop slamming shut. Cesc jumped. He looked up to see Villa on his feet. "Screw the records," Villa said. "I'm going back to the office. I need the whole story."
Silva's eyes were on his face. "Will they tell-" he started, and Villa bit out, "I'll go all the way to fucking Barcelona if I have to."
There was a long, long silence.
Villa said, finally, in a low voice, "He'll tell me. He owes me that much."
It was a second before Silva nodded. "Okay," he said.
Villa's voice dropped even further. "I'm fine. I'll be back."
His hand was on the doorknob when Silva spoke. "David."
Villa turned.
"The less you let on, the more they'll tell you."
Villa's mouth twisted. "Yeah," he said. "Thanks."
The door closed.
Silva let out a deep breath and slumped in his chair. The heels of his hands came up to dig into his closed eyes, then he tipped forward to rest his elbows against the table.
Cesc watched, ill at ease; as the moment wore on and Silva still didn't move, he tried to pretend he wasn't there. He couldn't keep from shifting, though, and suddenly a floorboard creaked.
It was enough to catch Silva's attention. His head lifted. He rubbed his hands over his face, once, then straightened up.
Cesc coughed. "Can I, um, help with something? With anything?"
For a minute Silva didn't seem to have heard him; his eyes seemed to be fixed on some distant point on the opposite wall. Then, as Cesc was wondering if he should repeat himself, Silva turned to him and said, "You probably want to know what's going on, don't you."
Cesc was caught with his mouth half open, looking at Silva blankly. He did, of course, but-
Silva gave him a half-smile. "It's not a secret. Much."
Cesc got up and took Villa's chair, not quite hesitantly. He cleared his throat. "I guess that… Villa knows the guy? Who leaked all this information?"
Something passed across Silva's face. "Yes. It seems like."
"So…" Cesc fiddled with a pen. "His name's Reina."
"Yes. Jose-Pepe Reina." Silva began straightening the mess of papers on the table. "He was one of David's first friends, here at the bureau-he was here on rotation from Barcelona for a couple months and they really hit it off. Later he got transferred to London, but they stayed in touch. He's the one who-We saw him while we were in London."
It took a minute for Cesc to put that together, and then he blanched. "What? Did he-did you-"
Silva knew exactly what he was asking. "Raúl says they're not connected. Probably." His mouth curved down. "We'll find out."
"But Villa doesn't think he did anything," Cesc said.
Silva pressed his lips together. "No. David's-He trusts Pepe."
Cesc persisted. "What do you think?"
Silva hesitated, a little too long.
"I don't know," he said finally. "I don't… I hope he didn't."
That didn't really sound convincing to Cesc. He decided not to push his luck. "And Villa doesn't think so because… they're friends?"
Some of his skepticism must have come through his voice, because Silva sighed again, and raked a hand through his hair. "It's not that simple. It's… Pepe did a lot for David when-he was new. He was the first friend David made in Madrid, I think. Almost the first person he met, after Raúl."
Cesc opened his mouth to ask about where Villa had come from in the first place.
What came out was, "What's the deal with Raúl, anyway?"
For a minute Silva looked like that was the last thing he expected to hear. Then he looked straight at Cesc and his eyes made Cesc backpedal furiously. "I mean. You don't, um. Have to tell me. Obviously. Since you're in charge. I'll shut up now."
The frightening look went away. Silva's lips twisted upwards as he dropped his head, then raised it again. "No, it's fine, it's… It's nothing bad." He took a breath and said, "They-actually, they used to be partners."
Cesc's jaw dropped. "No way," he said.
Silva gave him a little smile. "Yeah." He looked back down to where his hands were smoothing over the papers in front of him and made to resume his sorting.
"But-" Somehow, it hadn't ever occurred to Cesc that Villa or Silva might ever have worked with anyone but each other. "But how… what…" He was gabbling. "When? For how long?
Silva didn't answer Cesc for a minute, and when he did, it wasn't directly. "It was David's first assignment after he joined the bureau. He was a cop before, up north, so he was field ready. One of the best."
Cesc could just see Villa the cop busting some perp in a gritty back alley. "Oh yeah?"
"Raúl had been working alone for years, so they thought they'd pair them up into some kind of elite strike force. It was… definitely something." A real smile lit up Silva's face for a minute, directed at the table. "I was still in training, but we heard all the stories. It was kind of, um… volatile. But they did things no one else could. They were good. The best."
Cesc sat back and locked his arms around his knees. "So you'd heard of Villa before you were partners, at least."
"Of course I knew who he was," Silva said. He was still looking down. "Everyone did."
Cesc asked, "If he was a cop, what made him come down here?"
Silva went still.
The question hung in the air for one, two, three seconds. Cesc swallowed. He opened his mouth, unsure how to back out of that one, when Silva spoke up.
"He… It's not my-my right, to tell you. What happened." He exhaled. Cesc wondered if he knew what his face looked like. "Just that I think, afterwards... I think having Raúl around was the best thing that could have happened to David. He had something else to think about, all the time." He took a deep breath and then said, more briskly, "And then he made friends with Pepe, too. Reina, I mean. So."
Cesc didn't need that spelled out for him. He said instead, "So what happened? With Raúl, I mean."
Silva shrugged. "It went on like that for about six months, then Raúl was promoted to deputy chief. I think, um, the damages were getting pretty severe."
"So what's the big deal now?" Cesc asked, frowning.
"They were always-like I said. It was volatile. But David…" Silva was looking past Cesc. "He's very competitive. But I think… It's not just about competition. He doesn't like getting left behind."
Cesc didn't know what to say to that. Silva mustered another smile and said, "He'd kill me if he knew I was telling you this."
"I bet," Cesc muttered, which at least coaxed a little bit more substance into Silva's smile. "So then how did you guys end up, you know?"
Silva looked kind of horrified for a minute, but before Cesc could figure that one out, his face cleared and he said, "Oh. Right. Well. David had… a few partners. After Raúl. None of them really stuck. It's a hard act to follow." His mouth twisted a little self-deprecatingly. "Anyway, I finished training and was supposed to go out to another office on rotation and instead they said, congratulations, here's your new partner, did we mention it's David Villa."
"Damn," Cesc said with feeling, and Silva startled him by laughing aloud.
"Yeah. Like that. I didn't think I'd last more than a couple weeks, I thought… actually-" Silva's mouth turned up, guiltily, "-I thought it was a test, or maybe I hadn't done well enough in training. They wanted to toughen me up or something. But then it started to work out okay, and I never did get reassigned and…" His hand, which had wound itself into his hair, tugged hard and he gave a helpless little shrug. "Here we are."
Cesc frowned. Somehow he got the feeling Silva wasn't telling him everything. He doubted Silva would be any more forthcoming if pressed, either. So instead he asked, "Okay, so what about you? How did you get into this whole-" he waved a hand, "thing?"
"Oh," Silva said. A week ago Cesc might not have recognized that he was relaxing; now he did, and filed it away to remember. "I joined right out of school. I guess it's sort of the family line of work?"
Cesc stared at him.
"Not the bureau specifically, it's too new, but, um, covert law enforcement." Silva shrugged."My grandmother suggested it."
"Your grandmother," Cesc repeated faintly.
"She knew the first bureau chief here in Madrid from when they were in the resistance together." Silva gave him another smile, one with actual feeling behind it, and held out one of the folders he'd been shuffling around. "Want to go over Rubén's notes from yesterday with me?"
That wasn't very subtle, for a secret agent, but Cesc let it go. "Sure," he said. "What's up?"
García showed up not long after, followed by Reyes. Cesc left the monitor to Silva and got up to stretch, taking de la Red's notes over to the couch and flopping down on his stomach. He was getting good at reading quickly, automatically filtering out the bullshit and absorbing the real information, what there was of it.
It was maybe an hour later when the door opened. Silva's head snapped up.
Villa's face was enough to keep Cesc from saying a word. Silva didn't say anything, either, but his eyes didn't leave Villa for second. Villa didn't look at either of them; he went straight to the table and bent over his laptop, plugging a flash drive into one of the ports. He said, without looking up, "He told me."
He keyed something in, head down, eyes fixed on the screen. After a minute, he sat down.
It was another few minutes of silence before he finally looked up. "What've you got?" he said. "Anything?"
"No," Silva said. "Just the usual."
Villa didn't even roll his eyes. He just nodded shortly and said, "Okay." Then he went back to the computer.
At first Silva kept shooting Villa covert glances every few minutes, like he couldn't help it. Villa remained stubbornly focused on whatever he was doing, though, and eventually Silva slid back into his normal routine, rotating his attention between laptop, papers, and surveillance feeds.
Suddenly Villa shoved away from table and to his feet, launching in an angry circuit of the room. Silva's eyes tracked every movement. Villa stopped in the far corner. He took a deep breath, pushing his hand through his hair, then another. Then he returned to the table, sat back down, and went back to reading as if none of the rest of them were there.
It was another minute before Silva went back to his own work. Cesc returned to his notes, unsettled. Somehow he doubted any of them would get much done for the rest of the day.
* *
David waited until late that night, after they'd returned home, after Cesc had gone to sleep. In the kitchen, the soft but incessant click of a mouse was all that broke the silence.
David sat down at the table.
The clicking stopped. Villa didn't look up; he kept his eyes fixed on the screen. David waited.
Eventually Villa said, "He gave me a list. Of everything leaked."
David let out a breath.
"A list doesn't prove fucking anything," Villa said. He still didn't look up from the screen; his voice was tight and controlled. "I'm going to check every one of these cases. Since apparently no one else will. If I have to talk to every single fucking agent in this bureau I will. I don't care. I'll do whatever it takes."
He looked up, then, and met David's eyes. "I'll find something," Villa said, low and certain. This wasn't the ragged desperation of the day before : it was conviction, determination. It made David's chest ache. "Tomorrow. I need to talk to someone. Just for an hour or two."
"It's fine," David said, almost before he finished speaking. "Whenever you need to."
"I'll make it quick," Villa said, still low. And then, "Thanks."
He returned to reading. David watched him in silence for a moment, one hand curled around the edge of his chair. He wondered what would happen if he got up and crossed the room.
At that moment, Villa looked up again."You should sleep," he said.
David's fingers tightened. After a second he made himself relax. He stood up, then stopped with one hand on the doorframe. "So should you," he said softly.
"Yeah," Villa said, without taking his eyes from the screen.
David watched him for a moment longer: his hunched shoulders, the tension coiled in his body, the lines in his face. Villa began typing again.
David left the room.
continued
In this part: backstory, brooding, more Germans (remember them?), some actual plot developments!
Clandestine Affairs (5/?)
Word Count: (part) 12,600
Characters/Pairings: (part) Cesc Fàbregas, David Silva, David Villa, Luís Figo, Raul González, Fernando Morientes, Gonzalo Higuaín, Juan Mata, Jérôme Boateng, Michael Ballack, Philipp Lahm, Lukas Podolski (David Silva/David Villa)
Rating: R
Summary/Notes: Essentially here though I should probably write some new ones by now.
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
"Here you go," Marko said, slapping the cash into Mario Gomez's outstretched hand as he slid into the passenger seat, and Jérôme pumped the clutch until the engine finally caught and they pulled away from the curb.
"Everything went okay?" he asked, eyes on the rain-slicked road.
Marko kicked his feet up on the dashboard and crossed his ankles. "Totally smooth. I think the counter guy's got a crush on me."
Gomez, in the backseat, made a derogatory noise. "You wish."
"You wish."
"That doesn't even make sense, Marin."
"Hey," Jérôme said, cutting into their snorts of laughter. "I'm serious. Did it go all right?"
Marko tsked. "Come on, Boateng, it's not exactly rocket science, is it?"
"Marko," Jérôme said. Marko rolled his eyes.
"Yes, yes, they took the cards, they gave me money, no one was there, everyone's happy, even Signor Broody."
He meant Toni. The description wasn't inaccurate. Jérôme wasn't sure how much had to do with natural demeanor and how much had to do with the fact that he didn't seem to speak any German.
It had been several days and still no one was very comfortable with Toni: it hadn't taken Jérôme long to notice that even Ballack wasn't entirely sure what to do with him. He didn't know who else could tell. Ballack put up a good front of total control-but there wasn't much that escaped Lahm for long.
"Oh, yeah," Marko said, wriggling around and digging in the pocket of his jeans. "I got this, too." He tossed something on the dashboard.
It was a packet of white powder.
Jérôme nearly swerved off the road. "What's that?"
"What do you think it is?" Marko said. He shrugged. "Said Toni'd know."
There was nowhere to pull over so Jérôme ran the car up on the curb and jerked to stop. "Ow," Gomez complained in the backseat. "Jeez, Boateng, what's the deal?"
Jérôme didn't move. "I don't do drugs," he said.
Marko gave him a blank look. "Neither do I," he said. "So?"
"I mean I don't move them. Ever. Ballack knows that."
Marko snorted. "Who says Ballack knows about this?"
Gomez spoke up. "No one says you have to stay involved, Jérôme. Whatever's going on. We'll talk to Ballack and see what happens."
"Prudes," Marko said. "The money all comes from the same place."
"I don't care," Jérôme snapped. "I want to hear about it straight from Ballack. As soon as we get back."
But when they got the crumbling apartment block, Ballack wasn't there. At first, Jérôme thought the place was empty. Then he heard a pair of low voices coming from the back room. He followed the sound.
It was Lahm-Lahm and Özil.
Lahm was talking, low and urgent; Özil gave every appearance of listening intently. Before Jérôme could decide what to do, Özil looked up, straight at Jérôme. Lahm followed his gaze and his mouth shut.
"Hello," Jérôme said bluntly.
Özil looked at him with that unnerving opaque gaze Jérôme could never interpret. "Boateng," Lahm said. Lahm was the only one who never called him by his first name. "You're early."
"What's going on?" Jérôme asked. Then he wanted to kick himself, because even he knew he wouldn't win any favors going on the offensive. "Early for what?"
Özil spoke up in a quiet voice. "We're all supposed to meet here. Ballack must have something else to tell us."
On cue came the sound of the door opening and closing.
Slowly the others trickled in in their usual configurations. Khedira joined Özil. Schweinsteiger came in with Neuer and joined Gomez; Podolski slouched in alone. Marko appeared to have forgotten completely about their earlier conversation and perched on a table next to Jérôme.
When everyone was present but Ballack, Jérôme muttered some excuse to Marko and slipped out of the room, stationing himself by the front door. He was just in time: moments later Ballack came through the door. He was alone.
Jérôme was split between thanking his luck and wondering where Toni was. He pushed it aside and said, "I need to talk to you."
Ballack raised his eyebrows curiously and gave Jérôme the nod to go ahead. Jérôme spoke quickly. "At our drop off today they gave Marko something for Toni-drugs, I don't know what." He paused, scanning Ballack's face. "We're not… are we?"
"Of course not," Ballack said dismissively.
"Then what was that about? What's he doing?" Jérôme couldn't quite bring himself to ask what they were doing with him. "Micha, what's going on?"
At the sound of the nickname no one had used in weeks, Ballack stiffened. After a second he said, "It must be for his personal use. It has nothing to do with us."
For a moment Jérôme was too incredulous to speak. Ballack couldn't be serious. Of course it mattered, it mattered if Toni was cutting deals on the side, or if he was too fucked up to operate. But Ballack was already moving past him into the room. Jérôme had no choice but to follow him.
Conversation stopped. All eyes turned toward them. Jérôme slipped back to his seat next to Marko. He looked up just in time to see Lahm's gaze move away from him.
"Good news," Ballack said. "We've got another job. Luca's employer was very impressed with how well we've handled this one so far."
Jérôme wanted to ask what there was to be impressed about. Marko was right: it wasn't exactly rocket science. Marko elbowed him in the side, apparently thinking the same thing. Then Jérôme noticed that the no one else seemed as gratified as they had the first time, either. Gomez looked moderately pleased, but Podolski looked bad-tempered again and Jérôme intercepted a lightning-fast glance from Schweinsteiger at Lahm. Özil was as inscrutable as ever. To Jérôme's surprise, Lahm said nothing.
Jérôme glanced at Ballack again. Either he was undisturbed by the lack of enthusiasm, or refusing to notice it. "The initial job was something of a test, if you will. This will be-"
"Just as pointless?"
Utter silence. Slowly, Ballack's head turned, to where Podolski already looked like he regretted speaking up. But if anyone was Ballack's match for stubbornness, it was Podolski, so he crossed his arms over his chest and set his jaw, a slow flush creeping up his neck.
Ballack said, "Problems, Lukas?"
Podolski looked both angry and embarrassed. "This isn't working. There's too many of us and nothing to do. A lot of us are wasting our time when we could be out doing, doing something else."
"We have a job," Ballack said. A dark flush was starting to rise in his face, too. "I apologize if it's not flashy enough for you."
It was already clear Podolski was going to fold, but he made one more effort. "I know it's a job," he muttered. "But I'm sick of doing stupid favors for your friends."
For a second Jérôme thought Podolski had gone too far. Ballack's jaw locked tight and he made an abortive movement forward. Podolski dropped his eyes and glared at the floor. No one moved.
Finally Ballack spoke.
"It's very simple," he said. His eyes swept the room, including them all in his next words. "You can help, or you can leave. Is that clear enough?"
In the end, no one left.
* * *
The sound of voices, muffled and remote, wormed into Cesc's half-awake state until he finally came all the way to consciousness. He lay still for a minute, letting the murmur melt into ambient noise.
It had been a long time before Silva had returned for Cesc. When he did, it was without Villa. Silva didn't offer Cesc an explanation; he just led him down another two floors to the most gleaming, high-tech gym facilities Cesc had ever seen. He was so awed that it took him a minute to notice the figure in the corner, head down and shoulders braced, doing his best to demolish a punching bag.
When Villa turned, shoulders heaving, sweat darkening the front of his shirt, for a minute he didn't seem to recognize them.
"David," Silva said, just the name. Then, as Villa's breathing slowly calmed and his expression cleared, Silva went on: "We can wait. If you want."
"No," Villa said, dropping his gloves. Something about his voice scared Cesc. "Let's go."
They went.
One of the voices rose, suddenly, and fell again, bringing. Cesc back to the present. Moving as silently as he could, he got up and slipped out into the hall.
He stopped where they became clear, just out of sight of the kitchen. "-think about it?"
"No." Villa. "We'll keep it."
Silva, hesitant. "David… are you-"
"No. Let them think we're busy. Then they'll stay off my back. If he won't listen to me they can take what they get."
A fraught silence before Silva spoke again, softer. "You should rest today."
"No," Villa said. "I can't. It's fine. I have to get started on this."
"No, listen to me, David," Silva said, still soft but urgent. "We-if that's what you want, we'll keep the case. But when I-you wouldn't let me-"
Villa didn't let him finish. "It's different. I had a day already. I don't have time. I have to-" He broke off suddenly.
Silva raised his voice. "Cesc?"
Cesc shuffled forward, into the kitchen proper. "Hi."
Silva was seated at the table. Villa, arms crossed and shoulders set rigid, stood in the middle of the room. His hair lay flat and his face was drawn; his eyes stood out above the dark circles under them. It looked as though he'd barely slept.
"Sleep all right?" Silva asked.
Cesc shrugged. "Okay." He paused. "Are we, um, going back to…"
Villa's eyes met Silva's. The silence was taut.
Silva was the one who, finally, dipped his head a fraction and looked away.
"Yes," he said to Cesc. "We're going back."
It couldn't have been more than thirty-six hours since they'd last been at the site; it felt like days. With fresh eyes, Cesc realized how the debris of surveillance had slowly built up over the days: the table looked like a filing cabinet had exploded all over it. How long had it been, anyway? Cesc tried to count backward and couldn't.
No one had arrived at the office yet. Villa took up a spot at the table, laptop at hand. Silva took a seat across from him, making some kind of minute adjustment to the wiretap equipment. Cesc, cross-legged on the floor with a newspaper, couldn't help glancing at Villa every couple minutes. Then he noticed Silva, too, was watching Villa from under his eyelids.
Villa felt it. His head came up, as he looked from Silva to Cesc, and he snapped, "I'm not a fucking time bomb."
Cesc flicked his eyes away guiltily. Silva didn't react.
A few minutes later, Cesc slid another glance at Villa. Villa's jaw was clenched as his gaze flicked quickly back and forth across the screen. Cesc looked away. The silence bore down on him uncomfortably.
It was broken abruptly a few minutes later by the sound of a laptop slamming shut. Cesc jumped. He looked up to see Villa on his feet. "Screw the records," Villa said. "I'm going back to the office. I need the whole story."
Silva's eyes were on his face. "Will they tell-" he started, and Villa bit out, "I'll go all the way to fucking Barcelona if I have to."
There was a long, long silence.
Villa said, finally, in a low voice, "He'll tell me. He owes me that much."
It was a second before Silva nodded. "Okay," he said.
Villa's voice dropped even further. "I'm fine. I'll be back."
His hand was on the doorknob when Silva spoke. "David."
Villa turned.
"The less you let on, the more they'll tell you."
Villa's mouth twisted. "Yeah," he said. "Thanks."
The door closed.
Silva let out a deep breath and slumped in his chair. The heels of his hands came up to dig into his closed eyes, then he tipped forward to rest his elbows against the table.
Cesc watched, ill at ease; as the moment wore on and Silva still didn't move, he tried to pretend he wasn't there. He couldn't keep from shifting, though, and suddenly a floorboard creaked.
It was enough to catch Silva's attention. His head lifted. He rubbed his hands over his face, once, then straightened up.
Cesc coughed. "Can I, um, help with something? With anything?"
For a minute Silva didn't seem to have heard him; his eyes seemed to be fixed on some distant point on the opposite wall. Then, as Cesc was wondering if he should repeat himself, Silva turned to him and said, "You probably want to know what's going on, don't you."
Cesc was caught with his mouth half open, looking at Silva blankly. He did, of course, but-
Silva gave him a half-smile. "It's not a secret. Much."
Cesc got up and took Villa's chair, not quite hesitantly. He cleared his throat. "I guess that… Villa knows the guy? Who leaked all this information?"
Something passed across Silva's face. "Yes. It seems like."
"So…" Cesc fiddled with a pen. "His name's Reina."
"Yes. Jose-Pepe Reina." Silva began straightening the mess of papers on the table. "He was one of David's first friends, here at the bureau-he was here on rotation from Barcelona for a couple months and they really hit it off. Later he got transferred to London, but they stayed in touch. He's the one who-We saw him while we were in London."
It took a minute for Cesc to put that together, and then he blanched. "What? Did he-did you-"
Silva knew exactly what he was asking. "Raúl says they're not connected. Probably." His mouth curved down. "We'll find out."
"But Villa doesn't think he did anything," Cesc said.
Silva pressed his lips together. "No. David's-He trusts Pepe."
Cesc persisted. "What do you think?"
Silva hesitated, a little too long.
"I don't know," he said finally. "I don't… I hope he didn't."
That didn't really sound convincing to Cesc. He decided not to push his luck. "And Villa doesn't think so because… they're friends?"
Some of his skepticism must have come through his voice, because Silva sighed again, and raked a hand through his hair. "It's not that simple. It's… Pepe did a lot for David when-he was new. He was the first friend David made in Madrid, I think. Almost the first person he met, after Raúl."
Cesc opened his mouth to ask about where Villa had come from in the first place.
What came out was, "What's the deal with Raúl, anyway?"
For a minute Silva looked like that was the last thing he expected to hear. Then he looked straight at Cesc and his eyes made Cesc backpedal furiously. "I mean. You don't, um. Have to tell me. Obviously. Since you're in charge. I'll shut up now."
The frightening look went away. Silva's lips twisted upwards as he dropped his head, then raised it again. "No, it's fine, it's… It's nothing bad." He took a breath and said, "They-actually, they used to be partners."
Cesc's jaw dropped. "No way," he said.
Silva gave him a little smile. "Yeah." He looked back down to where his hands were smoothing over the papers in front of him and made to resume his sorting.
"But-" Somehow, it hadn't ever occurred to Cesc that Villa or Silva might ever have worked with anyone but each other. "But how… what…" He was gabbling. "When? For how long?
Silva didn't answer Cesc for a minute, and when he did, it wasn't directly. "It was David's first assignment after he joined the bureau. He was a cop before, up north, so he was field ready. One of the best."
Cesc could just see Villa the cop busting some perp in a gritty back alley. "Oh yeah?"
"Raúl had been working alone for years, so they thought they'd pair them up into some kind of elite strike force. It was… definitely something." A real smile lit up Silva's face for a minute, directed at the table. "I was still in training, but we heard all the stories. It was kind of, um… volatile. But they did things no one else could. They were good. The best."
Cesc sat back and locked his arms around his knees. "So you'd heard of Villa before you were partners, at least."
"Of course I knew who he was," Silva said. He was still looking down. "Everyone did."
Cesc asked, "If he was a cop, what made him come down here?"
Silva went still.
The question hung in the air for one, two, three seconds. Cesc swallowed. He opened his mouth, unsure how to back out of that one, when Silva spoke up.
"He… It's not my-my right, to tell you. What happened." He exhaled. Cesc wondered if he knew what his face looked like. "Just that I think, afterwards... I think having Raúl around was the best thing that could have happened to David. He had something else to think about, all the time." He took a deep breath and then said, more briskly, "And then he made friends with Pepe, too. Reina, I mean. So."
Cesc didn't need that spelled out for him. He said instead, "So what happened? With Raúl, I mean."
Silva shrugged. "It went on like that for about six months, then Raúl was promoted to deputy chief. I think, um, the damages were getting pretty severe."
"So what's the big deal now?" Cesc asked, frowning.
"They were always-like I said. It was volatile. But David…" Silva was looking past Cesc. "He's very competitive. But I think… It's not just about competition. He doesn't like getting left behind."
Cesc didn't know what to say to that. Silva mustered another smile and said, "He'd kill me if he knew I was telling you this."
"I bet," Cesc muttered, which at least coaxed a little bit more substance into Silva's smile. "So then how did you guys end up, you know?"
Silva looked kind of horrified for a minute, but before Cesc could figure that one out, his face cleared and he said, "Oh. Right. Well. David had… a few partners. After Raúl. None of them really stuck. It's a hard act to follow." His mouth twisted a little self-deprecatingly. "Anyway, I finished training and was supposed to go out to another office on rotation and instead they said, congratulations, here's your new partner, did we mention it's David Villa."
"Damn," Cesc said with feeling, and Silva startled him by laughing aloud.
"Yeah. Like that. I didn't think I'd last more than a couple weeks, I thought… actually-" Silva's mouth turned up, guiltily, "-I thought it was a test, or maybe I hadn't done well enough in training. They wanted to toughen me up or something. But then it started to work out okay, and I never did get reassigned and…" His hand, which had wound itself into his hair, tugged hard and he gave a helpless little shrug. "Here we are."
Cesc frowned. Somehow he got the feeling Silva wasn't telling him everything. He doubted Silva would be any more forthcoming if pressed, either. So instead he asked, "Okay, so what about you? How did you get into this whole-" he waved a hand, "thing?"
"Oh," Silva said. A week ago Cesc might not have recognized that he was relaxing; now he did, and filed it away to remember. "I joined right out of school. I guess it's sort of the family line of work?"
Cesc stared at him.
"Not the bureau specifically, it's too new, but, um, covert law enforcement." Silva shrugged."My grandmother suggested it."
"Your grandmother," Cesc repeated faintly.
"She knew the first bureau chief here in Madrid from when they were in the resistance together." Silva gave him another smile, one with actual feeling behind it, and held out one of the folders he'd been shuffling around. "Want to go over Rubén's notes from yesterday with me?"
That wasn't very subtle, for a secret agent, but Cesc let it go. "Sure," he said. "What's up?"
García showed up not long after, followed by Reyes. Cesc left the monitor to Silva and got up to stretch, taking de la Red's notes over to the couch and flopping down on his stomach. He was getting good at reading quickly, automatically filtering out the bullshit and absorbing the real information, what there was of it.
It was maybe an hour later when the door opened. Silva's head snapped up.
Villa's face was enough to keep Cesc from saying a word. Silva didn't say anything, either, but his eyes didn't leave Villa for second. Villa didn't look at either of them; he went straight to the table and bent over his laptop, plugging a flash drive into one of the ports. He said, without looking up, "He told me."
He keyed something in, head down, eyes fixed on the screen. After a minute, he sat down.
It was another few minutes of silence before he finally looked up. "What've you got?" he said. "Anything?"
"No," Silva said. "Just the usual."
Villa didn't even roll his eyes. He just nodded shortly and said, "Okay." Then he went back to the computer.
At first Silva kept shooting Villa covert glances every few minutes, like he couldn't help it. Villa remained stubbornly focused on whatever he was doing, though, and eventually Silva slid back into his normal routine, rotating his attention between laptop, papers, and surveillance feeds.
Suddenly Villa shoved away from table and to his feet, launching in an angry circuit of the room. Silva's eyes tracked every movement. Villa stopped in the far corner. He took a deep breath, pushing his hand through his hair, then another. Then he returned to the table, sat back down, and went back to reading as if none of the rest of them were there.
It was another minute before Silva went back to his own work. Cesc returned to his notes, unsettled. Somehow he doubted any of them would get much done for the rest of the day.
* *
David waited until late that night, after they'd returned home, after Cesc had gone to sleep. In the kitchen, the soft but incessant click of a mouse was all that broke the silence.
David sat down at the table.
The clicking stopped. Villa didn't look up; he kept his eyes fixed on the screen. David waited.
Eventually Villa said, "He gave me a list. Of everything leaked."
David let out a breath.
"A list doesn't prove fucking anything," Villa said. He still didn't look up from the screen; his voice was tight and controlled. "I'm going to check every one of these cases. Since apparently no one else will. If I have to talk to every single fucking agent in this bureau I will. I don't care. I'll do whatever it takes."
He looked up, then, and met David's eyes. "I'll find something," Villa said, low and certain. This wasn't the ragged desperation of the day before : it was conviction, determination. It made David's chest ache. "Tomorrow. I need to talk to someone. Just for an hour or two."
"It's fine," David said, almost before he finished speaking. "Whenever you need to."
"I'll make it quick," Villa said, still low. And then, "Thanks."
He returned to reading. David watched him in silence for a moment, one hand curled around the edge of his chair. He wondered what would happen if he got up and crossed the room.
At that moment, Villa looked up again."You should sleep," he said.
David's fingers tightened. After a second he made himself relax. He stood up, then stopped with one hand on the doorframe. "So should you," he said softly.
"Yeah," Villa said, without taking his eyes from the screen.
David watched him for a moment longer: his hunched shoulders, the tension coiled in his body, the lines in his face. Villa began typing again.
David left the room.
continued