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It needed to be a male, late twenties to mid-thirties. Unassumingly attractive, moderately charming, but most importantly, naive enough to be entirely harmless. A Golden Retriever moulded into human form. You see him, and the temptation to pet him is immediate. After he earns your trust, you will eventually fall in love with him – if only for a few hours. But that was all it was going to take.
'Don't overdo it with the puppy dog eyes.'
'I wasn't—'
Lamb crossed his legs, already comfortably perched on the desk in front of him. His desk, although it might easily have hosted half a dozen more regular occupants, eating there, and mindlessly allowing the debris of home life to accumulate. At this stage, it rather fit the name of table.
'You're supposed to be a honey trap, and you're not living up to your name, Cartwright. This—', he gestured towards his face, 'is pathetic enough to make any body of water dry up instantly.'
A cigarette appeared between his fingers and he twirled it, eyes fixed ahead.
'If that's bit hard to grasp – you're supposed to get her juices flowing. Really make her—'
'Lamb. I get it.' River squirmed, his palm brushing over his eyes as he repressed a sigh. 'You told me the details. Can I just go now? It'll be more than a fortnight, anyways.'
'So you think you're all set, little pup? Huh?' He plucked a plastic lighter from the heap of trash in front of him, clicked and took a deep drag.
'It's hardly what I was trained for.'
'Why so bitter?' With another drag, a mocking smile slid into place. 'I'd take it as a compliment. Get in deep. You just gotta…' his hand slipped between the buttons of his shirt, just above the belt, 'Rise to the task.'
An involuntary noise escaped from River's throat, and he was half-way across the room when—
'Did I tell you to fuck off? No? Then get your peaky little arse back here.' The swirls of smoke around Lamb's head made it impossible to read his expression.
River closed his eyes for a long second, apparently not finding the strength to repress a sigh as he returned to take position with his back to the window.
'What do you want? I have… stuff to do.'
'I very much doubt that. Remember, I'm reading all of your reports, kiddo. And you haven't had a big assignment in a long time. Your boss must be slacking.'
Lamb scratched his belly underneath his shirt. It made more noise that it should have.
'I don't think you've ever—' River tried.
'You understand she's German?'
'Yes, that's the whole point! Her mother's connection to the ambassador. The fact they both attended Taverner's dinner. Everything that happened in the kitchen. You just told me. I'm not retarded.'
'Tut-tut. We call that mentally challenged these days. And you're missing the essential part. The bit that should inform your approach.'
'What the hell are you getting at?'
'The kid's Berlin born and bred. Ho said she's a regular at KitKat. Spot of Ket for breakfast, probably. And she's just left a throuple, apparently because it wasn't living up to her expectations. So, you see, you'll have to pull out all the stops. And probably a couple nipple piercings, too.'
'Fuck, Lamb, I'm not in the mood to listen to your bullshit!' River seemed on the verge of stopping his ears.
'Do you know how to flirt with German girls?' Lamb squashed his cigarette and immediately lit up the next.
His question gave River pause.
'Should it… be different from the regular kind?'
'Oh, sweet summer child. But fear not. Uncle Jackson will teach you a lesson.'
'God! I beg you—'
There was a knock, and a soft muffled voice behind the door.
'Lamb? I need those signed today, can I come in?'
'Oh, please!' Lamb's lips curled with pleasure just like the smoke from his new fag.
River slumped deeper into the windowsill as Catherine entered the room, head bent to a stack of folders she was carefully setting down on Lamb's desk. Her eyes darted to River's, who was shaking his head. She scurried towards the door, when Lamb gave a sharp whistle.
'Standish. Get right back. You are gonna be… needed.'
River made the noise again. A little more desperate this time.
'What is it?' Catherine asked, her voice small but clearly exasperated.
Lamb leaned back in his chair, watching the cigarette between his fingers with interest as he spoke.
'I was just about to let River here in on a secret.'
Catherine stood in front of the desk, arms crossed, and remained silent.
'You know, we all agree he has a lot to catch up on. But I had no idea he'd be quite so hopeless when it came to this… particular spycrafting skill…'
'You want me to ask,' Catherine said. It wasn't a question.
Lamb simply smoked.
'Is this about the young woman? Agneta Kroll's daughter, from Berlin?'
'Hundert Gummipunkte to you, Standish!' Lamb grinned. 'Target of our sweet little honeypot over here.' He nodded towards the window, scratching his belly again. His hand remained within the constraints of his shirt.
'She's a toughie, apparently. Real hard to crack.' He took another drag.
Catherine's eyes dropped to the cigarette between his lips.
Lamb didn't seem to take any notice of her. He had his head cocked to look past her, his eyes finding River.
'What do they say, a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down?' He hummed a few notes with his eyes closed, then fixed them on River again.
Catherine shifted her weight a little, stepping into Lamb's view. It might have been accidental.
'He means tough characters tend to appreciate… a gentle approach,' she said simply. 'Toughness is usually the result of pain, and pain wants healing.'
'Spare us the therapy session, Dr Standish. What River-Boy wants is practical advice.' He killed his smoke, then got up from his chair, leaning heavily onto the desk before circling it to stand in front, half-sitting down on the top, while Catherine retreated.
'Uh-uh, not so fast,' Lamb grinned, beckoning her back. She didn't move.
'And you, young Padawan, drop the bloody phone and keep your eyes up here!'
'Lamb, whatever—' River tried and failed. He slid his phone into his pocket, fingers brushing over his eyes again. They lingered there for too long.
'German men are dull as fuck. You've gotta show her there's another way.'
Lamb was settling in on the edge of his desk now, spreading his arms wide to prop himself up.
'Don't stare, that's just the shit she's used to.'
River sighed. 'I know this.'
'You sure? Doesn't look like you've had much success lately. The last one was shot in the head before you even connected the dots, if I remember correctly.'
'Lamb, I swear—'
Catherine stepped between them as River was about to make a move.
'Don't you think that's enough, Jackson?'
'Oh, I'm just warming up.' He looked at her, for not much longer than a blink, still leaning into his desk, and then dropped his gaze, a strange smile playing around his lips.
River was back at the window. His face had lost all expression, and he was fixing a spot of mould on the edge of the ceiling.
'Now you've missed it, Cartwright. And I'm not gonna do it again. Your loss.'
Lamb turned around to reach for a well-seasoned cup of what might have been tea. He took a sip and savoured it. Whisky, then.
'You drink, steal a glance, flash a smile. Approachable. Nice. Charming, even, you might say. And then…'
Cup in hand, Lamb detached from his desk. He began to aimlessly amble around the room, with little, careless steps, eyes searching for something he apparently couldn't find, but always returning to his glass with mindful sips.
Finally, his stride gained purpose. He stood for a split second, adjusting the rolled-up sleeve of his shirt, before he looked up.
'So, what's been going through your head today?'
He was close, close enough to reach out and effortlessly touch her hand. Catherine held his gaze for as long as it took, and her deep breaths seemed to echo through the sudden silence of the room. She didn't reply. Simply remained in the same place, no shuffling of her feet, no movement. As if she was counting down in her head.
Lamb took a single sharp breath and a step back, focussing on River again, a deep grin apparently unwilling to leave his face.
'After that, you chat. Listen to whatever the fuck she tells you. Keep her talking. Go for an ADHD diagnosis as a kid, she's gonna lap that up and pour out her little heart all over you. And once you've been able to drop you speak her language, she's gonna be putty in your hands. Especially when you mention the PhD and your visit to that underground gallery in Kreuzberg. And get those stupid glasses back. You could use the Jude Law effect from The Holiday.'
Lamb hadn't moved far. He took another sip, his eyes wandering again.
'But then, right before she leaves, you deliver the final blow.'
It never seemed as if his hand had shifted. Neither of them noticed it. Yet, when he said, 'Darf ich dich wiedersehen?', in a low, empathetic voice, his fingers rustled against the fabric of Catherine's sleeve.
She stood unchanged, no shift in her quiet breaths.
'Right, I've gotta get back.'
Catherine hardly noticed River rushing past.
Nor did she listen to Lamb, who hollered behind him: 'Just remember Berlin rules, Cartwright. Don't get fucked in the arse.'
Catherine's bag was on its usual hanger, all zipped-up and ready to go. It seemed the easy thing to walk past, take it, and her coat, leave this room, hurry down the stairs, and slip away into the night. Considering her routine, the relief of escaping this place to go home and find peace, eventually, she hesitated to feel the strap of her bag, taut on the hanger. Her lifeline. She could go now, and not look back. Not before tomorrow, anyway.
The inevitable tomorrow. One after the other, and there was always this moment when she woke at night, usually around three, when her eyes would stare into the void and her mind would go there, tomorrow, today, actually, another dawn that lay before her. Another circuit. And no changes, except for the ones that made you mourn the monotony of what was before. If the thought hadn't been so deeply embedded into her routine, she feared she'd never sleep again.
He made it harder for her to return. Little pushes, she was used to them. Daily nudges. And she'd long given up on asking herself if he wanted to see her collapse or break her fall. Stop her from falling in the first place, even. Today, however, the answer stared her in the face. Push her with vicious words, she was trained to withstand them, and wouldn't falter. He knew this. But put a hand on her, push through the fabric right into her skin, exposed to another's eyes, watching, waiting for a response that he knew wouldn't be found on her lips—
She felt the chill of the room creep beneath her dress. It might have covered her entirely, but no amount of fabric, not even two layers of lace at the cuffs had stopped the cold from finding its way in. Goosebumps like steely icicles. Steely-eyed beauty, she'd been called once. By the same one who said she was an ice queen, roused by nothing but the burn of liquor in her throat. She hadn't forgotten the sensation. Tingling, in her fingertips at first, but soon flooding out, reaching into her, and wasn't she feeling it now? The memory of fervour, returning where it had been sorely missed, but not lost, not quite, not entirely.
When she walked out of her office, Catherine wore neither her coat nor her bag. Instead of the stairs, she took a peek into the room adjacent to hers, head carefully crossing the threshold before she could. He was asleep on his chair for anyone else, feet familiarly up on his desk.
'Cats must be starving for their dinner,' he mumbled, eyes closed.
'I wanted a talk,' she said with a level voice.
'Is that right?'
'If you could take the time.'
As he failed to object, she entered his room, but lingered by the door she had closed behind herself.
He opened one eye that trailed from her feet to her face before it was joined by the other.
'I'm all yours, Standish.'
She felt herself reaching for the door with the palm of her hand, but simply took another breath.
'What you did today, with River… It really wasn't necessary.'
'Jesus wept. The kid's clueless. I wonder who ever decided he was fully trained. Not even the fucking bases covered… But why am I even surprised.' He started searching the desk for a lighter.
'You know that's not what I mean,' she said. She disliked the flavour of weakness those words left on her tongue.
'Oh?' He had magicked a cigarette into being, and clicked the newly-found lighter.
'You shouldn't,' she said quietly.
He smoked, leaning back even further. The chair made a desperate sound.
'—And still you know I'm used to it.'
'What, me smoking when you tell me not to?' he asked around his fag.
'The drinks you offer me. Talking about… the person I used to be.'
Whatever had spurred her on before was fading fast. She had to make use of those remnants of steel.
Taking a breath, she said, 'If that's how you decide to talk to me, and I take it, it's between the two of us. But today, you crossed a line. And you won't ridicule me like this again, especially in front of them.'
A sudden cough escaped him, followed by another, and, inevitably, a whole blessed fit. She offered no assistance, but simply stayed where she was, her back straight against the door.
As the hacking and wheezing went, Lamb reappeared. He looked more pleased with himself than he had any reason to be, especially considering the wet tissue clenched in his fist. He even had had to remove his feet from the desk in order not to pull a muscle in regions that would most definitely have required medical attendance. The prickling of her skin alone, the little reminder of what had swept her up before, it kept her from asking if he was alright. And she knew the answer, either way. So she waited.
Lamb took his time, filling a glass and downing it like water. A small, final cough announced that he was back on.
'Don't you agree that—,' he cleared his throat, 'Ridicule is a pretty big word for a harmless bit of fun?'
He smiled in a way that might have seemed benevolent on another man's face.
'As a matter of fact, I don't,' she said, and held his gaze.
'Ohh, Standish, sei keine beleidigte Leberwurst. Clever girl like you should be able to take a joke. Don't pretend you don't know me. After all those years,' he added confidingly.
'I'm not a girl,' she replied, her palms pressed into the door, 'And when I tell you my limits have been overstretched, you should at least have the decency to acknowledge it.'
'Oh, colour me surprised,' he said, getting up with a heavy groan, eyes never meeting hers, and for a moment it seemed like he was about to grab the jacket from the back of his chair. Meaning to leave. And leave it at that. She might have been relieved.
But he paused, hands propped on the back of his chair, when he suddenly looked straight at her.
'You believe there's some decency left in me?'
As he moved across the room, effortlessly as before, her hands reminded her of the door behind her, the door she had opened and closed too many times, her own intentions unwilling to reveal themselves. It was her business, opening doors to close them again, for herself as readily as she had done it for others, but she usually lingered with her fingers around the handle. Only, she couldn't reach it now.
'If that's true, you gotta get it, Standish.'
This, and the warmth of him told her, before she even registered his presence. Another door closed by closeness. She sighed, involuntarily, and felt the blood rise to her cheeks, hoping it wouldn't show.
'What?' she managed, and succumbed to his unyielding gaze. Eyes of steel, truly, unreadable unless they chose otherwise. A decision seemed to be pending within them just now.
He took another step, fingertips against her sleeve, which she managed to comprehend as it happened, but his other hand, lifted, palm set down against the door, above her head, and him leaning in, this, a part of her saw, another felt, but none understood.
He bent down, and said quietly into her ear, 'Maybe I just enjoyed it.'
Letting go of her sleeve, nothing but a fleeting graze anyways, he brushed her hair back from her shoulder and her neck, exposing skin before his lips returned, whispering, 'Wer könnte da widerstehen, mh?'
Listening to themselves, his lips returned, the third time, with a kiss just beneath her ear. The goosebumps weren't icicles this time.
She tried for his eyes, surprising herself. Not quite a smile reaching them yet, nothing clear enough to decipher, but she couldn't deny the change within. He traced the curve of her neck, her collarbone, but his eyes never strayed from hers. So his lips happened like a surprise, a little dry but warm as a fever on hers, then less of a surprise as his tongue searched for hers, and he kissed her so deeply, wasn't it only natural she followed, rhythms so ingrained they could be awakened far too easily?
Time was lost. He broke away and looked down at her, his arm still propped up on the door, above her head.
She swallowed, once, and took a long breath.
'I need to go.'
Just as he stepped back, she opened the door and closed it behind her, wiping a little moisture from her lips.