Puzzle by Nora Phoenix
5
Branson loved his job, but one downside of working for the CIA was that hanging out with friends and family was complicated. Talking about one’s job was such a normal thing for most people, yet most CIA employees weren’t allowed to reveal much about what they did. His parents knew where he worked, but not what his area of expertise was.
As an ambassador, his father even had clearance for some details. He didn’t have the need to know, however, and after everything that had happened with Mrs. Markinson and now Mrs. Shafer, Branson’s team leader had made it crystal clear that they couldn’t talk with anyone about anything related to their investigation into Hamza Bashir and Al Saalihin. Branson had never shared much about his job in the first place, but he was even more careful now.
That sense of social isolation was one reason why he liked the company’s socials the agency organized every once in a blue moon. In the summer, they’d always have a family day where spouses and kids could come and hang out, the sight of colorful inflatable bouncing castles a welcome change of scenery on the otherwise austere CIA grounds.
In the wintertime, they’d have a few socials on a Friday afternoon in the atrium, where coworkers could chat in a more relaxed setting while enjoying soft drinks and snacks. Nothing fancy, but still, Branson never missed one, eager to talk to people without having to watch his every word.
That day, Director Heeder attended as well, his six-foot-five frame easy to spot among the sea of people. Initially, Branson hadn’t known what to make of him, a career man from within the intelligence community who had worked for the Military Intelligence Corps and the NSA before making the switch to the CIA. Heeder was an introvert, a quiet man who listened more than he spoke, and Branson had wondered if his personality would be strong enough to counter the considerable pressure someone in his position would be under.
But within weeks, the man had proven himself when he’d taken a stand and had refused to fire an analyst who had come under attack for a wrong report. That had instantly gotten him respect from the workforce, as they all knew they could easily be in that position at some point, and knowing they had the director’s backing was a big plus.
Branson’s eye fell on Ryder, who was standing to the side, clutching a glass with what looked like Coke. The discomfort was rolling off him in waves, and Branson had no trouble figuring out that a social setting like this was way outside Ryder’s comfort zone.
Damn, he looked so stinking cute. Today he was wearing his blue-and-white-striped dress shirt, which was Branson’s favorite because it highlighted his slender figure. He had a bit of stubble, not uncommon, though Branson suspected it was more because Ryder had been too rushed to shave than deliberate. His hair was neatly styled, and he’d apparently gotten a haircut the day before, which brought out the slight auburn undertones even more.
Branson had never been attracted to men who were as slim—and dare he say fragile?—as Ryder, since he liked to fuck hard and rough. Most of the guys built like that couldn’t take it. But Ryder made him reconsider. Maybe it would be worth holding back for? Not with Ryder himself, obviously, but maybe with someone like him?
For now, he’d settle for helping him feel a tad less uncomfortable. He made his way over, stopping a few times when people talked to him. By the time he’d reached him, Ryder was still in the same spot, sipping his Coke.
“Want me to introduce you to some folks?” he offered.
“I’m good, thank you.”
Always so polite. Someone had instilled manners in him, which Branson could appreciate. Call him old-fashioned, but he felt people underrated the importance of being polite and knowing how to behave in every circumstance so as not to draw negative attention to themselves or, even better, make a good impression. One never knew how paths might cross again and how a random person one had been rude to would turn out to be someone important. A crucial lesson his father had taught Branson.
“That’s Laura Tresor, team leader for the Al Qaeda team. She’s a former paratrooper, and she and I went skydiving once.” Branson pointed out the laughing redhead standing right in front of them, talking to Director Heeder.
“Skydiving? Are you into that?”
“No, but she was, and I was curious what the fuss was about.”
“Did you like it?”
“I didn’t hate it, but I won’t do it again in all likelihood. It gave me a thrill for sure, but it was too risky for me.”
“My father always said he couldn’t fathom why people would voluntarily jump out of a perfectly good airplane.”
Branson smiled. That sounded like something Ryder would say himself, so maybe he took after his dad? “What does your father do for work?”
“He’s retired, but he’s a mechanical engineer. He worked at NIST his whole life.”
“Ah, so you grew up around here.”
“Frederick, Maryland. My parents still live there.”
For a second, it seemed like he wanted to add something, but then he closed his mouth again. Maybe Branson had imagined it? He let it go. “See that short guy there?” He subtly pointed to his left. “That’s Steve Koniewski. He worked undercover in more countries than you can count after 9/11. Speaks ten languages fluently and can kill you with his bare hands without blinking an eye.”
“That’s quite the résumé.”
“His biggest hobby is fly-fishing. He’s from Montana originally, and it’s something he’s done since he was little. A year or two ago, he took me out to Big Gunpowder Falls River, just north of Baltimore, to go fly-fishing for trout, and man, that was cool to see. He gets into this zone where he’s one with his rod, his line. I sucked at it, but I loved watching him.”
“I admire people who have the patience for fishing.”
Branson studied Ryder for a moment. “I had you pegged as someone with a lot of patience.”
“Oh, I have plenty, but not when my brain has nothing to latch on to. I gotta keep my mind busy with something, and then I have all the patience in the world.”
“Hmm, that makes sense.”
“I’m also not an outdoors person, and that’s putting it mildly. Bugs love me, mosquitoes especially, and my natural clumsiness doesn’t jell with adventurous activities. I once broke my arm while stepping off a sidewalk, just saying.”
Branson snorted. “How the hell did you manage that?”
Ryder shrugged. “Didn’t watch where I was going, so I stumbled when the step was bigger than I’d anticipated, then tripped over my own feet and, of course, tried to catch myself with my left hand. My wrist didn’t appreciate that.”
Branson tried hard not to laugh too much, but he could picture the whole scene so easily it was a struggle. “How old were you?”
“Thirteen. In my defense, I had just picked up a new book from the library, so I was a bit preoccupied.”
“You were reading while walking.”
Ryder made a face. “Duh. I’d discovered Umberto Eco’s books and had managed to get a copy of Foucault’s Pendulum. I literally started reading as I walked out the door.”
“You read that at thirteen?”
“I was precocious.”
Yeah, no kidding. Branson had tried reading The Name of the Rose once, Eco’s most famous book, but he’d given up after a few chapters. Way too philosophical for him—and he’d been in his twenties at the time. “Good on ya. Do you still read a lot?”
Ryder nodded. “Mostly nonfiction, but yes. I have a sizable collection of books by now. And puzzles.”
“Puzzles? Like jigsaw puzzles?”
“No, though I like those as well. No, I mean the brain teaser puzzles, the physical ones where you have to get a key out of an iron cage or finagle until you can free the rope or something.”
“Oh my god, those things drive me bonkers. I may or may not have thrown one against the wall in a fit of rage when I couldn’t solve it.”
Ryder laughed. “I own close to a hundred of them by now. They’re my favorite pastime.”
“And you solved them all?”
Ryder looked at him as if he’d just asked the stupidest question. “Of course.”
“Considering I couldn’t even crack the one I tried, it’s not quite so obvious, but okay. Again, good on ya.”
A slight frown marred Ryder’s forehead. “What does that mean, good on ya?”
“Oh, it’s something I picked up from spending a few months in Australia for an internship. It’s their version of ‘well done’ or ‘good for you.’ The guy I worked with said it at least a few times per day, and I loved it, so ever since, I’ve been saying it.”
“How many countries have you visited?”
Branson blew out a breath. “God, I don’t even know. A lot. Pretty much all of Western Europe plus a few countries in Eastern Europe. The Middle East, parts of South America, Australia and New Zealand…Africa, especially Northern Africa, but I’ve also been to South Africa and Uganda. Asia not as much, but I did visit Japan, Singapore, and Thailand. Oh, and Vietnam and Cambodia. My father attended a memorial ceremony for the Vietnam War, and I got to go with him.”
Ryder’s mouth had dropped open a little. “Damn. That’s…a lot.”
“It really helps if your father is an ambassador who also loves to travel.”
“Yeah, true. My parents aren’t travelers. My dad has been to some places because of conferences for work, but my mom doesn’t like to travel, so I haven’t seen more than Canada, Mexico, and a glimpse of the Bahamas, the Dominican Republic, and Puerto Rico on a Caribbean cruise with my ex.”
Judging by his tone and the tension that had crept into his face, Ryder didn’t hold particularly pleasant memories of that trip, so Branson didn’t ask more. “Maybe you’ll get to travel more in the future. What’s a country you’d love to visit?”
“Italy,” Ryder answered. “I’d love to see Rome. Greece too. Spain, especially the Sagrada Familia in Barcelona. And Madrid, to visit the Museo Reina Sofiaand see Guernica in person.”
Branson hadn’t expected Ryder to like art. Guernica, Picasso’s famous surrealist depiction of the bombing of the Basque town of Guernica in 1937, wasn’t easy, accessible art either, like a Van Gogh or a Monet. Appreciating a complicated piece like Guernica meant studying it, allowing all the elements to sink into you and, in this case, to convey the horrors of that bombing.
“I’ve seen it in person,” he said softly. “I couldn’t look away. It’s every bit as magnificent as you imagine it to be.”
Ryder let out a wistful sigh. “One day, I hope.” He cleared his throat. “What about you? Any places you would like to visit?”
Branson didn’t have to think. “Peru. I had a friend who wanted to see Machu Picchu, and he never got the chance. I’d like to do it for him if that makes sense.”
“He died?” Ryder’s voice was soft.
“Yeah. Motorcycle accident. A truck changed lanes and never saw him. He didn’t stand a chance.”
“How old was he?”
Branson swallowed. He hadn’t thought of Lucien in years, and yet when Ryder had asked that question, the tall, lean boy with the messy curls had immediately popped into his head. “Nineteen. He was French. We met at school in Paris.”
They’d met and fallen in love in that wild, overwhelming way only teenagers could. The kisses had been frantic and had quickly led to equally passionate sex. Lucien had been uninhibited and unashamed of his sexuality in classic French nonchalance, simply not caring what others thought. He’d once given Branson the blow job of his life…in their school’s chapel. They had fucked like rabbits and had loved with abandon, and with one accident, it had all been over.
“You loved him,” Ryder said with a hint of surprise.
“I did. It probably wouldn’t have lasted, since we were so young, but we never had the chance to find out. But I have beautiful memories of him, and one day, I’ll visit Machu Picchu and think of him.”
They were quiet for a bit, but the silence felt comfortable to Branson. Then Ryder said, “Maybe one day, you can also visit a place for yourself rather than for someone else.”
Branson had no idea how to respond to that.
