Page 108 of The Big Fix

“He’d been injured so often. He was in constant pain.”

It was the same for many operatives I knew.

“The agency, as you know, doesn’t allow prolonged narcotic use. It’s considered a weakness. One can be dismissed for that.”

“Yes,” I agreed.

“He had no alternative but to turn to the next thing that would help.”

Lots of people moved from oxycodone to heroin. I wasn’t naive.

“When Ronan tumbled into my trap, my husband and I couldn’t believe our luck. A well-connected CIA agent who wanted to fuck and get high,” she explained without a trace of emotion. “It was too good to be true. I funneled information to my husband that kept our Irish deal in play. We brokered that together. We were moving up, both of us Blue Lanterns with the 14K at the time.”

Blue Lanterns were the uninitiated members of the triad, equivalent to mafia associates. She and her husband had wanted more, and from what she was saying, had been close to getting there.

“But then,” she said, and finally, I could hear some real emotion, real pain, “my husband, the fool, grew jealous. It was ridiculous, but still, he wanted me to stop. And Ronan”—she scoffed—“suddenly he had a crisis of conscience. Not about his wife. Never about her, never about us screwing, but about his government. He was worried about betraying his oath,” she said, the disgust clear in her voice. “I saw you that night. I was watching when you entered his home, and later, when I called, he said he couldn’t see me ever again. He was turning himself in, confessing all he knew, including everything about me and my husband and the dead policeman in Ireland.”

Ronan had believed he was talking to someone just as compromised as he was. He never saw her as his enemy but as an addiction he couldn’t quit.

“Ronan forced our hand.”

I nodded.

“We were in jeopardy. Everything could have been lost, including our lives. He would be killed, so would I, but for me it would’ve been the brothel first.”

“So you killed Ronan.” It was all such a waste.

“I did. I was furious. I tried to take his head off but couldn’t quite manage it. I left my knife so the triad would know it was me.”

“And Sara, his wife?”

“My husband…he couldn’t cut her throat. He watched her all day. Couldn’t put a bullet in her, couldn’t take her head. She was a woman, after all, a mother. He found a better way, he said, quicker. She’d never know what happened.”

The pieces of the puzzle all of a sudden fit together.

“The bomb.”

She nodded.

“That was messy. Lots of casualties.”

“Yes. He’d never used C-4 before and had no idea how much to use.”

“There were bodies everywhere.”

“Too many,” she whispered. “It was too noisy, too big, too noticeable. The police were all over us, all of us, the entire organization. She was the wife of a spy, so your agency cleaned it up and the embassy ran point. But still, an American woman died, so the police were told, heads would roll. There was so much pressure to put 14K in the ground, and the higher-ups had no issue feeding the authorities all the small fish.”

“Your husband, but not you.”

She nodded. “Not me.”

“Because you did your part.”

“Yes. I killed the agent, only him, and left my mark.”

“But your husband fucked up.”

“He did.”