Girl Who Fell 1: Behind Blue Eyes. Offbeat Brit spy series-cum-lesbian love triangle. Killing Eve meets female James Bond meets Helen of Troy returns (HAIL THE QUEEN series)

by Raechel Sands

  ‘Animal sanctuary,’ Blanka corrected, with a slight bite of her lip. Devices acknowledged the correction with a nod.

  ‘On one of your lovely islands, I so enjoyed visiting–’

  ‘Gentlemen,’ shouted Probe trying to restore order.

  ‘And ladies,’ shouted Devices and Bio in time.

  Bio calmly raised her arm, and turned to Blanka.

  ‘ Colleague,’ she said. ‘Please will you kindly clarify your statement. You can’t or you won’t get Grinin to make Novichok Metapox for us?’

  ‘I won’t.’

  Blanka put her short-sword on the table, and placed her hand firmly on top of it.

  ‘If I could get into Facility N and Porton Down, I’d eliminate Britain’s entire stock of chemical and germ warfare weapons.’

  Bio shook her head, and most of the other directors muttered their disagreement.

  Seeing his opportunity, C pulled a mugshot from a manila square cut folder (color: buff) and strode towards the front of the room. He held aloft the laminated photograph.

  ‘Gentlemen, let me announce a fourth option.’ Turning to Probe he added, ‘It’s in the addendum to the agenda.’

  Probe yawned, and turned to the additional page, which no one else had.

  ‘Our latest fast-track candidate, Felicity Robinson…’

  A few directors laughed out loud. But C continued as if he hadn’t heard them, holding Felicity’s portrait higher.

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  ‘…Has just graduated from the OhZone Academy. She is primed and ready to bring her skil s to bear on Major Grinin.’

  Blanka could barely contain her anger. Her AI’s targeting system locked-on to Felicity’s head and—almost of its own accord—the short-sword in her hand flew the length of the table, passed above Probe’s head, plucked the laminated photograph from C’s hands, and pinned it to the blackboard.

  In the silence that fol owed, the impact of the sword rever-berated around the stone banquet hal .

  Probe jumped up, drew his sword from his sword-stick and waved it in the air. C was too shocked to speak.

  Bio and Miss Banks laughed so much their eyes teared up.

  Devices exclaimed, ‘Good shot,’ and whispered to Bio, ‘That’s one in the eye for your La Bombe. Pinned her squarely in the eye.’

  Inside her head, Blanka’s Hebe admonished her:

  Nancy recommends that you remain calm, and speak in cold level tones.

  So she does, replied Blanka silently.

  She checked her notes, and did her deep breathing exercises as, one by one, the nine directors grew quiet and looked at her.

  Blanka spoke very quietly. ‘I also have a further option.

  There is another, less bloody way.’

  ‘It is just this kind of irrational and reckless act,’ C fumed, pointing at the sword piercing the photo of Felicity, ‘That brings home to us the importance of taking control of OhZone away from the Americans. If that is not a bloody act, I don’t know what is.’

  ‘I don’t see any blood,’ Blanka replied slyly.

  ‘You have not fol owed the required procedure!’ C shot back.

  ‘There is no fifth option on the agenda. Is there, Probe?’

  ‘Wel …’ hesitated Probe. He looked to Miss Banks, who

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  raised her eyebrows to the heavens.

  For the very first time, Russia rose from his seat. He raised his hand dramatical y, gestured to the short-sword, and in a deep, mock-Shakespearean voice intoned:

  ‘Is this a dagger which I see before me?’

  Miss Banks and most of the directors joined in a round of laughter, breaking the tension. C sucked his teeth, and made a point of not sitting down when everyone else did.

  ‘I wil not stand for this!’ he yel ed.

  ‘But you are standing, old boy. Sit down, sit down,’ Bantu declared.

  ‘Fel ow directors,’ Russia continued, returning to his normal voice. ‘We can debate and vote to overrule required procedures, or we can just hear Miss Maguire out. I invited her here today.

  Major Grinin and Novichok Metapox are surely in the province of the Russia Desk. The leader of OhZone has, in my opinion, a new and powerful alternative, and I ask you to consider what she says.’

  Having finished, he ushered Blanka forward and sat down.

  C glared furiously at him, and then reluctantly returned to his seat. ‘Article I of the Biological Weapons Convention,’ began Blanka, ‘sponsored in 1972 by Britain, bans all germ warfare weapons.’

  ‘Get real,’ heckled C, ‘the Russians and Kazaks have it, and we don’t.’

  ‘Grigori Grinin is a haunted man,’ Blanka continued. ‘He’s haunted by the shadow of his creation. The shadow of a genetical y modified Frankenstein –’

  ‘It’s already cost him his right arm,’ echoed Devices.

  Now it was Probe’s turn to glare.

  ‘You of all people, Octavia,’ he snapped at Devices, before

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  turning back to the room. ‘He lost his arm in a robbery. I wil not al ow malicious rumours to go unchal enged!’

  Ignoring Probe, Asia added, ‘Corduroy has gone on record to rule out possession of biological weapons.’

  ‘On this subject, at least,’ C grunted, ‘the P.M. says what we tel him to.’

  ‘Metapox is a monster Major Grinin created,’ Blanka persisted. ‘A monster he now wants desperately to destroy.’

  C roared with laughter. ‘Destroy! He’s filibustering so the Russians can destroy us when they please.’

  He stood up between the table and Blanka, and whispered menacingly at her.

  ‘You’ve got two hopes. No hope and Bob Hope.’

  A couple of the die-hards heard, and groaned at C’s old joke.

  Devices solemnly shook her silver-haired head and stood up, scraping her chair on the stone floor. She faced C.

  ‘C,’ she said.

  Slowly, he turned about.

  ‘Stop your bul ying.’

  Russia turned to Miss Banks, who’d ceased writing, ‘We need this in the minutes, with a copy to Dr Fox. We’ve got

  required procedures now to deal with bullying and intimidation.’

  Probe pul ed a sour face at C, and then gestured to Blanka to continue.

  ‘Go on when you’re ready, OhZone 4.’

  ‘Thank you. My option is simply this. Major Grinin will make a vaccine against the Metapox weapon.’

  A hush came over the room and every set of eyes fell upon Blanka.

  ‘A simple vaccine, and the world will be safe from these meta-weapons forever.’

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  C, lost for counter-argument, puffed out his cheeks, stuck his hands in his pockets and sat down.

  ‘Is it feasible?’ queried Asia.

  ‘I’ve discussed it with Major Grinin, and I quote,’ Blanka answered, pausing a moment to savour the look on C’s face. ‘ A trans-genera vaccine can be devised to render all current and future Metapox generation weapons quite useless. And it can be made at Biology Farm.’

  She turned to the rest of the directors.

  ‘That’s the fifth option. You must decide if it’s acceptable.’

  Russia walked toward the blackboard.

  ‘Wel held,’ he whispered to Blanka as he passed. Reaching the board, he pulled the short-sword from the mugshot of Felicity, and raised both objects into the air.

  ‘Gentlemen, and ladies,’ he said, ‘we have two new options.’

  He waved Blanka’s sword. ‘The Iceni approach—a vaccine.’

  He raised Felicity’s photograph over his head. ‘Or C’s new fast-track OhZone recruit—Mrs Robinson.’

  He handed Blanka back the short-sword and, with a wink, gave Bio Felicity’s photo, to pass to C. He then turned to Probe.

  ‘Let’s put it to a vote shal we, Chairman?’

  Bl
anka slipped her sword into its scabbard, and whispered,

  ‘I trust I’m no longer needed?’

  ‘You made your point,’ Russia replied. ‘The way your sword acts on its own, I’m glad I kept my cricket box on.’

  When Blanka left the table, Miss Banks hurried to open the oak door. As she and Blanka stepped out into the castle corridor, Blanka reached for her cel phone and battery from a basket divided into sections. The other segments contained 10 Google, LG, Samsung, Sony and Lumia phones, and their batteries.

  ‘Battery out until you reach your yard,’ Miss Banks reminded her. ‘I’l walk you down.’

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  The women crossed the medieval courtyard where the last snow flakes fell on Andre Petrov as he rubbed down Blanka’s horse.

  ‘He’s a giant of a man,’ whispered Miss Banks.

  ‘Yes he is,’ agreed Blanka. Then she pointed up at the constel-lation Ursa Major, as it appeared from behind the clouds.

  ‘There’s another giant—but this one’s a she-bear.’

  ‘Ah, the Big Dipper.’ Miss Banks clasped Blanka’s hand in hers. ‘But in England we cal it by a different name. Rebels al the way back to Magna Carta and King John—perhaps even Robin Hood—cal ed it the Starry Plough.’

  Nervously, she glanced up at the conference room of the castle, and put her lips to Blanka’s ear.

  ‘C thinks he’s a giant,’ she said. ‘But real y he’s a stooge.’

  She paused, and Blanka blinked rapidly.

  ‘Things are changing in the world, for the worse,’ Miss Banks continued. ‘We have to—Boudica, you have to—be very careful.

  I don’t want you to end up like your mother.’

  Startled by what she was hearing, Blanka’s AI eyes changed color as she looked at Miss Bank’s smal , bland face.

  Before Blanka could think of anything to reply, a helicopter swept into view, descending landing lights flashing, and the two women hurried over to Blanka’s horse.

  Blanka took Caesar’s bridle and kissed his head, calming him against the turbulence, as the Sergeant Major marched up on the double. He indicated the helicopter, and shouted over the noise, in a Scottish accent.

  ‘U.S. Embassy dispatch arriving for you, OhZone 4, Ma’am.’

  Blanka reached into the saddle bag, took out a couple of extra long carrots, and fed them to Caesar, who chomped

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  happily—al the while watching the Sergeant Major. When he produced a packet of Fox’s Glacier Mints from his pocket, he shook his head at the horse, and Caesar gave a short snort.

  ‘You’ve had the directors’ mints, my man, no hard candy for you.’

  Then he offered the packet to the women. ‘One of Dr Fox’s strong mints, ladies?’

  In a secure room downstairs (the former castle dungeon), with the Scottish Sergeant Major on guard outside the door, the two passengers from the American helicopter—Adele Wasson and an older man in the uniform of a high ranking Naval officer—sat down with Blanka.

  Adele was a CIA W.M.D. expert; the officer carried a smal metal case handcuffed to his left arm.

  ‘This is Commander Gray, U.S. Navy,’ Adele hurriedly explained as the officer shook hands with Blanka. ‘He’s currently deployed at our Embassy. He carries a Defcon 9 message from Langley.’

  When Gray set the shiny aluminum case on the smal table between them, Adele unlocked the handcuffs, punched a ten digit code into the case, and stepped aside to let Gray open the lid to reveal a state-of-the-art mobile Defcon Comms platform.

  When Gray powered it up using a key and another code, the Central Intel igence Agency emblem appeared together with a short message.

  CIA maximum security transmission

  — protocol Defcon 9 —

  for the eyes of Bronwyn Mary Brown only.

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  ‘Bronwyn Brown?’ Gray looked uneasy.

  ‘In The Company* we’re given multiple identities,’ Blanka said. [* The C.I.A.]

  Adele went on to explain. ‘Her grandfather was a four-star Admiral. Under her real name, Maguire, she was an immediate target.’

  ‘They gave me my first fictitious identity when I joined in the ‘90s,’ Blanka added as she signed onto the screen using the stylus attached to the case. A hand-print outline appeared, and Blanka set her right hand in it. After a couple of seconds, another message displayed.

  Bronwyn Mary Brown

  — CIA Executive Field Chief,

  NATO agent ℧ 4 —

  verified.

  Realizing that Blanka needed to be alone, Adele and Commander Gray withdrew to the door.

  Once there the commander whispered to Adele, ‘And Blanka?’

  ‘Her stepfather, Professor Hart, along with Dr Oxberry—the geniuses behind the OhZone program—they came up with her nickname,’ Adele whispered.

  Waiting only to take a deep breath, Blanka pressed a button marked proceed.

  The short letter appeared on Central Intelligence Agency letterhead. Signed by her mentor, CIA Director (DCIA), Admiral Keith De Leon, it read:

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  Re. Vaccine for Novichok Metapox

  Dear Executive Field Chief Brown,

  I briefed President Obama an hour ago in the presence of the Secretary of Defense.

  Your OhZone initiative to create a vaccine is approved.

  Budget details and restrictions, if any, will follow.

  The President has obtained—from President

  Higgins of Ireland—agreement to grant asylum to Major Grinin and his family in the Republic of Ireland, effective 72 hours from the time of this communiqué.

  OhZone will be responsible for their long-term C.C.S.P. and general well-being once they reach Dublin.

  If you cannot obtain MI6 / UK Government

  agreement to make the vaccine, Commander

  Gray—who accompanies this Defcon—will liaise with you over the other options available after the 72 hour time frame has elapsed.

  Set your operation in motion, and liaise with Ma Baker at CIA London station.

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  C’s double life.

  C’s Jaguar, though not up to James Bond standards—it had no reflective-sensor invisibility screen, twin machine guns or guided missile system—was nevertheless bullet-proofed and on the consul beside him was a black OhZone Scanner. He’d had it smuggled out of the OhZone Lab in Paris last year. As he sped his F-type east on the south coast motorway (the M27), the Scanner’s number plate recognition system displayed the reassuring message

  You are not being followed.

  The snow, stil pristine in the fields, was piled up in lumps of brown slush on the edge of the carriageway.

  The majority vote in favour of Blanka’s plan for a vaccine had caught him off guard. Russia had outmanoeuvred him and it rankled. The Russia Desk and OhZone, on Floor 12 of headquarters, were the twin banes of his life. The elevator stopped at Floor 12, and he had to face them every time he descended from his penthouse office suite and private dining room.

  He dial ed on the car’s mobile, and a woman’s voice answered.

  He pressed a sequence of scramble buttons.

  ‘Secure?’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ answered Felicity. ‘I’m watching Grinin eat his supper.’

  ‘Yes, Sir,’ snapped C.

  ‘Any problem with the mints today? Sir,’ she quipped.

  Felicity was in the blacked-out back of an unmarked Ford van parked on the River Thames embankment. The monitors in front of her showed Major Grinin, Diana and their two

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  daughters sitting at a table, while their Russian Nanny served dinner.

  C had caught Felicity chatting to a male techie while applying her new shade of pink-red gloss to her lips, which were ful but dry. Waiting for him to respond, she put the cap on the li
pstick, and set it down next to her make-up mirror and big Bulgari sunglasses.

  But C didn’t respond. Instead, he stared straight ahead at the outskirts of Southampton.

  How did Southampton get to be like this? he thought. One day soon there would be big changes in Britain.

  ‘You seem in a bad mood,’ Felicity said, trying to provoke him. ‘Rumour has it that Blanka got the better of you.’

  ‘Lose the battle, win the war,’ said C. ‘I want you to back off.

  Blanka’s moving in.’

  ‘Back off for Blanka?! I thought –’

  ‘Fol ow orders, La Bombe. I’l brief you at 14:00 Friday. Out.’

  Felicity pulled off her Comms headset in disgust, and slammed her fist on the consul.

  C was devious, amoral and opportunistic, but he possessed a philosophical attitude to setbacks that made him one of the world’s great survivors.

  When the Berlin wal had come down, when Vladimir Putin had been running the KGB in East Germany, C had been his opposite number, heading up MI6’s Russia Desk, out of Berlin.

  Both men had gone on to greatness. This instinct for self-pres-ervation, common to everyone, was the default setting for both Putin and C, and both had it in greater measure than most. In C’s case, perhaps it was because there was little in the world that he truly valued.

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  He drove past the warships anchored in the Solent estuary, a sight he always found comforting. The altered situation required a rapid readjustment to his plans. C’s spirits were considerably restored by the time he turned his Jaguar into Queens Road, and towards his private—and very secret—

  out-of-town office near Brighton train station.

  He looked at the South Downs behind the town, their tops lost in icy mist and the lights on the slopes below them shrouded in haze. The newsreader on BBC Sussex informed him that the Foreign Office had definite proof that Russian agents were behind the attempted murder, a month ago, of the Russian double agent, and Nobel Prize winner and chess grandmaster, Grigori Grinin.

  The elevator brought C to the ground level foyer of Universal House. From a curved teak reception desk, facing the glass frontage, a smartly uniformed female security guard greeted him.‘Good evening, Sir Jasper.’

  ‘Good evening, Gail. I’m going straight up.’