Howard Moon: Secret Agent

This is on a need-to-know basis.
Move over, Bond. The name’s Moon, Howard Moon.
And that is all you need to know…

Category:

Characters: ,

Pairing:

Genre: , ,

Rating:

Warning: ,

Status:

Length: words

Chapter Twelve: Epilogue

Chapter Twelve: Epilogue

Moon got his leave. Three months without the option, Douglas said. It had been the ideal opportunity to make that expedition to Armenia to photograph snow leopards that he’d always promised himself, and so he had left, merely days later, with the intention of sorting out his mind and his emotions.

Not that it helped, of course. It had been a cold autumn in the Caucasus and snow leopards had been hard to come by, although his photographic collection of bryophytes had grown exponentially. So there had been little to distract him from sombre thoughts. Now, as he stood in front of his own apartment door, ready to turn the lock, he knew with a heavy heart that he was only acclimatised to his loss, not recovered. And probably never would be. That was how it went. He was destined to live a solitary life as a secret agent, duty covering over heartbreak. He just had to get on with it.

In his pocket his hand once more found a small glass jar—the jam-pot. Its contents finally eaten one cold, lonely, desolate night on an Armenian mountainside, he could not bring himself to throw away the empty jar, and now he turned it over and over in his fingers, like a talisman, contemplating.

The world had moved on; a quick sortie into HQ on the way home from the airport had revealed no new developments. Big was already in the High Court, facing charges of tax evasion, the only thing in the end that, in the absence of witnesses, could be pinned on him (Bollo’s sterling assistance to Moon had earned him more lenient treatment by the authorities). Most of the blame seemed to be falling on Sable, who had disappeared without a trace. As far as the Service was concerned, the memory of ‘B’ had been expunged from the records. And it was as if Agent Noir had never existed, just as Douglas had said it would.

Yes, the world had moved on and Howard Moon needed to move with it. But the little jam-jar was still in his hand as he took a deep breath and opened the door.

Moon was an agent to his very nerve-endings, his brain subconsciously processing information that would have stumped an ordinary person. In opening his door, his eyes had automatically flown to the lock. When he had left three months before, he had twisted a hair from his head across the mechanism. It was an old agent’s trick, and one that was easy for an intruder to overlook.

No-one should have been in Moon’s apartment during his absence, yet the strand of hair had been snapped.

Moon felt his pulse quicken. He pushed the door open gingerly, dropping his rucksack quietly at his feet. A wiser course might have been to call for back-up. Three months ago, in the days before he had known such a thing as Vince Noir existed, it would have been his first consideration. Now, not only had Noir’s thrill of the moment rubbed off on him, he felt strangely reckless as well, as if he had little to lose. Finally there was a welcome distraction from the pattern of his thoughts for so long now. He relished whatever confrontation lay ahead.

Officially still on leave, Moon was carrying no gun. This was a time when, unusually, he inwardly cursed his adherence to Service discipline. The jam-jar was no real substitute. But there was a small pistol in his bedside table. If he could get to that….

The air in his flat felt heavy with its own silence. Moon could hear nothing but the sound of his own heartbeat—even his clocks had stopped ticking. Only a vague glow of light penetrated thought the drawn blinds.

He moved silently down the corridor, skirting the other doors of the flat, and slipped into his bedroom. Moving swiftly to the bed he was just leaning over to open the bedside drawer when he was conscious of movement in the far corner of the room. A figure stood by the window, silhouetted in the half-light. Slim, angular, long hair, heeled boots….

Neither moved for a long moment. Moon forgot about his gun. He stared at the shadowy figure, letting the delightful reality sink in. So, it could really be like this, after all…. like the best Hollywood thrillers; the mawkish misunderstanding, the joyful reconciliation, the new life that he thought was lost. The whys and the wherefores he couldn’t give a stuff about. For once, Agent Moon was going to get a happy ending.

But he wasn’t half going to give the little titbox a piece of his mind first.

He saw the other stretch out a hand. The breath that Moon had been holding escaped from his lips as a triumphant, joyous, disbelieving shout. He knew it was far from professional behaviour, but he didn’t care. He half leapt, half stumbled, across the edge of the bed, his arms reaching out….

“Vince!”

The other man brought his raised hand down on Moon’s forearm before the agent could reach him. The blow, delivered as it was by hard metal, was enough knock Moon off-balance and he stumbled to the ground. The gun crashed against his skull once again before he’d had a chance to recover. He rolled back on the carpet, dazed.

“Vince….?”

“Move, and I shoot you here and now.”

He voice was deep, harsh and monotonous. Surely…

The man reached out a hand and twisted the blind open. Light streamed in, making Moon blink. There was no mistaking the face, though the long, dark wig, which was now summarily removed, was quite a distraction.

“Sable!”

The man’s handsome, dusky features were twisted into an evil sneer.

“Yes, it is I, Agent Moon. Savouring the chance to get my revenge on you.”

Sable waved his familiar Heckler and Koch.

“Get on your knees. Hands behind your head.”

Moon stared at Sable, weighing up possibilities, and then followed his instructions. A sudden attack was futile, he judged. Playing along might produce an opportunity for resistance. He folded his hands behind his head, the little jam-jar still in his palm.

“You didn’t honestly think you’d seen the last of me, did you?” intoned the grating voice. “Though god knows, the sheer boredom of being holed up in Bolivia might well have done for me. But I had my hate to keep me warm…”

He smiled nastily.

“Got over your little bereavement, have you? Let’s face it, not much loss there, was it? Perfect little tart, that Noir. Anybody’s for the asking, and a right pain in the arse, if you’ll forgive the expression.”

He knew he was being goaded but it took all of Moon’s self-control not to throw himself at the man to tear his heart out.

Sable circled behind the kneeling agent. Moon felt the barrel of the gun slide over his ear and across the base of his skull.

“I would have enjoyed topping him, but your twat of a boss beat me to it. How does that feel, eh?” He rapped the gun sharply on Moon’s head. “Still, the amount of trouble the two of you caused, the plans you ruined…. I’m going to enjoy this next bit.”

Moon felt the gun slide down.

“Question is, which bit do I shoot first? I want to get enough bangs for my buck, so to speak…”

Moon swallowed hard. This might not be pretty. He needed a distraction.

“You’re kidding yourself if you think the Service won’t get you, Sable,” he began.

“Oh, please. As if I care about that. They don’t stand a chance of catching me. I ambled right up to your front door and no-one from your precious Service noticed I was back in London….”

Fair point, thought Moon.

“And I won’t stay long—just long enough to make you pay.”

Moon heard the gun cock.

“Don’t kill me, I’ve got…. neighbours who’ll hear,” he improvised wildly. “You’ll never get out of this building!”

“Trust me, the other residents of this block won’t even be distracted from ‘Countdown’. This gun does have a silencer, you know.”

Moon’s ears perked up.

“The GadgetsWorld deal? I read about that. You don’t trust that silencer, do you? It’s a very unreliable model…”

The oldest ruse in the book, but Moon had learned from a master. He could feel Sable’s hesitation.

“Hmmm…. perhaps another method.” He rapped Moon’s skull again with the gun barrel. “Get up! Keep your hands there! Now walk backwards towards me, into your kitchen.”

Moon shuffled backwards, head turned. From the corner of his eye he saw Sable slip ahead of him, gun still trained on his stomach, and throw open the tall kitchen window. Gentle traffic noise and the sound of cooing pigeons drifted in.

“Okay, move to the window. You’re four floors up. You might not appreciate the mess you’ll make, but it’ll make me laugh.”

And he did laugh, mirthlessly.

Moon stared him down.

“And what if I refuse?”

“I shoot you anyway and take my chances,” sneered Sable. “Whichever way, I have the upper hand, I think you’ll agree. You’ve no little tart to watch your back now.”

Ah, Noir the miracle-worker, Noir the cocky bastard, Noir the unpredictable. Hit or miss, it didn’t matter; what mattered was having a go….

If Noir were still around, Moon thought wryly, he could have relied on him to do something daft and inspired, like swinging in through the window on his fly-by-wire, wielding a trombone as a weapon. The thought made him smile.

Sable snarled.

“Why are you grinning, you fool? It’s all over for you!”

“Oh, I learned more from him than you’ll ever know.”

It was a long shot, he knew, but he had realised that Vince had already provided him with the distraction he needed. Noir’s influence would always be there…..

“He’ll always be watching my back, Sable. I can feel it…”

“You can keep your creepy fantasies to yourself…”

Moon smiled pleasantly at the killer in front of him. “Oh, it’s no fantasy. Here! Catch!”

“Huh?”

Moon hurled the little jam-jar straight at Sable, at the same time dropping to his knees. The missile caught Sable by surprise. In a reflex action his gun jerked up, fired, and the little jar shattered into a million pieces.

Moon powered from his position on the floor to make a break for it in the confusion, but saw he was already too late. The distance was too far and Sable’s aim had quickly recovered. Even as he leapt, Moon knew he was going to be in the direct line of Sable’s next shot. The world, as it so often did in such situations, seemed to be moving in slow motion. He saw himself flying helplessly towards Sable’s gun, but all at once there was a flurry of movement at the corner of his eye. Another man had appeared as if from nowhere, charging across the kitchen wielding what looked like a mediaeval lance—it was in fact a carpet sweeper from Moon’s own broom cupboard, so the man must have emerged from there—to strike Sable a hard blow on his side before he could fire again. The gun flew from his grasp.

Momentum carried Moon’s rescuer across the room. Moon could see only black overalls and a blond mop of hair as the man spun against the far wall, the carpet sweeper flying out of his hands on impact. The gas-man? Had the gas-man come to rescue him? Had the Service started outsourcing work again? Or had he in fact lost his mind with grief and was only just realising it? Because the lithe form in the overalls reminded him so powerfully of….

Sable scrabbled for his weapon and suddenly it was in his hand yet again, and the newcomer had barely regained his balance.

But years of training were now to pay off as Secret Agent Moon unleashed a personal orgy of aggressive improvisation. Sable was hit first by a heavy glass vase, thrown with all Moon’s weight behind it, then a toaster, then a chair. Sable reeled, the gun swinging in all directions around the room, another stray bullet hitting the wall. And before he could recover, the air was full of kitchen utensils whizzing past Moon’s ears; the newcomer was wrenching open cupboards and drawers and hurling their contents at Sable in a hailstorm of plates, spoons, forks and mugs. Sable now had his arms up around his face in defence. Backing away, he stumbled towards the window.

Moon looked wildly about him for something to deliver the coup de grace. With a great roar he launched himself across the kitchen and seized the microwave oven from its place on the counter. It was a brave choice; the weight of it made him stagger and the delay cost him his advantage. Sable was straightening up, gun in hand.

Then two hands grabbed at the other side of the microwave. He felt it lift easily. He looked up, and now he was sure he was hallucinating. There was the familiar flash of dark blue eyes and heavy lashes, and the crooked grin of delight. He was dreaming he was in his own kitchen, holding a microwave with a dead man……

Wordlessly, the two men swung their burden back and the momentum swung it forward again. The last of the breath from their lungs came out as a triumphant shout as they let the microwave go.

It hit Sable like an express train hitting a Victoria sponge. The force of the blow sent him reeling back against the window frame, and in a split second he had toppled backwards out of the window. His howl of terror was cut short by a crash in the yard below, followed by a muffled ‘ping’.

Moon rushed to the window. There was a shape on the concrete, topped by a microwave. There was no movement. As he gazed down he heard a click and then a soft voice. He turned abruptly. The gas-man had his back to him, one hand ruffling the mop of straw-white hair, the other holding a mobile phone to his ear.

“Yeah, Moon’s apartment. A mess in the yard. Send someone to scoop it up, all right?”

Again, a click as the phone was closed, and the gas-man turned with a hesitant smile. Moon didn’t move. His heart was pumping wildly, and not just from the exertion of the fight. He saw him for real this time; those dark eyes, that broad brow, now lost beneath the weird hairstyle, the ludicrous nose, the sweet mouth. Even from where he stood, he could feel the man’s warm presence, like a life-force.

The gas-man stepped to the window and peered out.

“Eeew, naaaasty. Still, I told you, Howard. Microwaves are on our side.”


Sable dealt with, Moon and Noir faced each other. The proximity was suddenly too much for Moon. He backed off, staring at his rescuer, feeling unaccountably angry. Neither spoke for a long moment. Noir’s initial smile faded. His eyes got harder and he leant back against the window frame and inspected his fingernails casually. Moon was still finding breathing difficult.

Noir gave him an up-from-under look.

“All right, Howard?”

Moon pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes, no mean feat.

“Notice anything different about me?” offered Noir.

Moon could no longer contain himself.

Apart from you not being dead, you mean?”

“Dead? No, I ain’t dead! I’ve had my hair done! Don’t you like it? Look, I can do this with it!” He ran his fingers through locks that were somewhat shorter than when Moon had last seen him and were now dyed an interesting shade of…white?… ; his hair remained standing upright. “Genius, yeah?” He grinned encouragingly.

“Which is why,” he continued, “you should’ve realised straight off Sable wasn’t me. That wig was all the wrong…”

Finally, Moon exploded.

“How could I have known“ he bellowed, exasperation completely obliterating disbelieving joy, “that you’d had your hair done? Until this moment, I thought you’d died three months ago!”

Noir gaped.

“What? No way! Didn’t Douglas tell you?”

“Tell me what? Douglas told me there had been ‘complications’. You’d ‘moved on’, ‘gone to another place’, ‘I could never know what happened to you, it’s the Service code.‘ All that bollocks! Bloody hell, there was only one conclusion!”

He cast around him for something to throw at a wall. However, most of the room seemed to have been thrown already, so he kicked an upturned chair instead.

Noir’s grin turned a bit rueful.

“Sorry, Howard. Douglas ain’t the brightest letter in the alphabet. He probably forgot. But you know, it really was touch and go to start with. The doctors weren’t sure if I’d make it. But at the last minute BUPA gave in and said I could go into the Wellington.”

Moon pulled at his own hair and glared at the ceiling.

“The food’s much better there, you know? Better class of hospital, and you get HD TV in your room” added Noir helpfully.

Then a shadow crossed his face.

“But would you wait to be told? No, upped and went to Algeria…”

“Armenia, actually.”

“…before I was barely out of anaesthetic. Photographing sea lions…”

“Snow leopards.”

“Oh, really? Find any?”

“Actually, sir, I was able to build up a sizeable portfolio relating to mosses and liverworts…”

“That’s a ‘no’, then, is it?”

Silence.

“How did you…?”

“Followed you home from the airport, of course, you lump! I thought there was a good chance Sable would come out of hiding when you reappeared. I didn’t realise you were going to make it so easy for him, though. You even left your door open when you came in!”

Moon lowered his gaze.

“Sorry, Vince. I had… things on my mind.”

“Huh.”

A pause.

“Thanks. For watching my back.”

“Not a problem, Howard. Any time.”

Moon raised his eyes. Noir was leaning with his head back against the wall, staring at him steadily, as if considering. His mouth was set but his eyes were shining. Moon felt his anger dissolve. He allowed himself a step closer. Noir pushed himself off the wall and matched the step, and took another. They were standing close enough to feel each other’s breath.

“Double-act?” asked Moon, casually.

“Like there’s an option,” answered Noir, deadpan.

Moon reached out, his hand shaking slightly, and touched the unfamiliar blond hair with his fingertips. It felt odd; less sleek than he remembered, but somehow youthful. He paused, still trembling, and then let his fingers brush against a cheek. The other shivered at the touch and lowered his lashes like a girl.

Moon stroked down his cheek and back again, and Noir let his mouth softened into the ghost of a smile. He took the fingers in his own and, eyes still shut, pressed them to his mouth, not moving. And as Moon felt the warmth of his breath and his lips, something like new life unfurled within him.

Suddenly, those blue eyes snapped open, and the glint in them was wicked.

“Here, Howard, I got a genius scar! Wanna see it?”


Fin


End Notes: Howard Moon: Secret Agent will return shortly* in:

“The Moon Identity”

*well, he might……

+ posts