Licensed to Spy

by Barbara Davies

  Books by Barbara Davies

  Christie and the Hellcat

  Into the Yellow and Other Stories

  Rebeccah and the Highwayman

  Frederica and the Viscountess

  Bourn’s Edge

  Licensed to

  Spy

  The Adventures of Ash and Jemma

  Barbara Davies

  Bedazzled Ink Publishing Company • Fairfield, California

  © 2013 Barbara Davies

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be

  reproduced or transmitted in any means,

  electronic or mechanical, without permission in

  writing from the publisher.

  978-1-934452-97-4 paperback

  978-1-934452-93-6 ebook

  Cover Design

  by

  TreeHouse Studio

  Nuance Books

  a division of

  Bedazzled Ink Publishing Company

  Fairfield, California

  http:/nuancebooks.bedazzledink.com

  While the rest of the Canary Islands celebrates Carnaval, British secret agents Ashley Blade and Jemma Jacobs try to unravel a Libyan terrorist plot against the United States. If they don’t succeed, it’s goodbye to Boston and the U.S. eastern seaboard. Then the Libyan terrorists launch a new nefarious plot in Brazil, and Ash and Jemma scramble to save the world from a deadly sarin attack. Ash and Jemma finally return home to London for some much needed rest and relaxation. Unfortunately, where Ash and Jemma go, trouble is not far behind.

  With grateful thanks for the inspiration to Tara King, Emma Peel, Illya Kuryakin, James Bond, and (most importantly of all) their creators.

  Part 1

  Say Goodbye To Boston

  Chapter 1

  “YOU ARE ENGLISH, señorita?”

  Ash dragged her attention from the cliff top view. “Is it that obvious?” She arched an eyebrow at the waiter who had asked her the question.

  “No, no,” he said hastily.

  He had topped up her wine glass while she was daydreaming. She took an appreciative sip. Mmmm. The local sweet wine was growing on her.

  “It is your accent,” he went on, his brown eyes intent. “Your Spanish is good, but—please forgive me—your accent, it is a leetle …” He waggled his hand in the gesture that meant so-so.

  “Rusty,” she completed. “I know.” And it didn’t help that Canarians put their own spin on it. The last time she had spoken Spanish for any length of time must have been a year ago. Longer. That assignment in Cadiz, with Sam.

  She turned back to the picture window. Sam would have loved this view of the Atlantic. She’d read somewhere that sea-faring explorers referred to El Hierro as “the Edge of the World,” and she could see why. It had been worth the arduous hike up the island’s kilometre-high cliff. The Mirador’s food wasn’t bad either. The rabbit in the conejo con salmorejo had melted in her mouth.

  “You know how the bay was formed?” persisted the waiter, following the direction of her gaze.

  Ash sighed. It was because she was eating alone, she supposed. “No, but I bet you’re going to tell me.” She gave the other diners an envious glance and caught a smirk aimed in her direction.

  “Thousands of years ago, this volcano we are sitting on,” he gestured at their surroundings, “erupted, and a section of the island collapsed. The result,” a larger gesture, “El Golfo. It was a catastrophe. All that earth, sliding into the sea. It set off—¿Cómo se dice?—a tidal wave. The wave, it not stop until it reach the Bahamas, until it reach the USA itself!” He beamed at her, as though taking personal credit for the event.

  The urge to take him down a peg was irresistible. Ash widened her eyes and injected a tremble into her voice. “What? We’re on top of a volcano? It’s not going to erupt again, is it?”

  He blinked at her. “No, no, señorita. All this was—¿Cómo se dice?—millennia ago.” He looked around uneasily, as though realising that the Mirador’s management might frown on scaring customers. “These days the volcano is perfectly safe. Please do not worry.”

  She smiled at him then, a knowing smile with a slight curl to the lip that said, “Gotcha!” His face flushed a shade darker, and he straightened a napkin that didn’t need straightening.

  “If there is nothing else, señorita?” His voice and manner were stiff, his spaniel eyes wounded.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Then please excuse me, I have much to do.” With a small bow, he headed for the kitchen, and Ash resumed her contemplation of the view, feeling only slightly guilty.

  The blue expanse of ocean stretched northwest as far as the eye could see, but Ash no longer saw it—her mind was elsewhere. She had needed a break, needed time to heal both mentally and physically—her hip still ached when the weather was cold. Walking the winding donkey-and goat-tracks of La Gomera and hiking through El Hierro’s pine forests and along its misty cliff tops had given her time to think, to come to terms with (as much as she ever would) the disastrous outcome of her recent mission.

  Sam. She squashed the inevitable surge of grief. It was still hard, but she refused to go to that black place any more. Instead, she drained the last drop of wine.

  The solitude had helped to settle her mind and the walking to get her back in shape. Now it was time to pick up the threads, to get on with her life; Sam would have wanted her to. What she needed was a mindless good time. And in the Canary Islands in February, one event was guaranteed to provide such a thing. Carnaval.

  Tenerife’s major festival was due to start tomorrow and would last for twelve days. The mere thought of it lifted her spirits. It was time she used the casa in Santa Cruz that she had rented two weeks ago, time she tried out that bed. There were bound to be lots of pretty women at the carnival—small, buxom, and blonde, for preference—and all just waiting for her attentions.

  Suddenly eager to get back to “civilisation,” Ash checked her wristwatch. If she hurried she could make the flight to Tenerife. She twisted round in her seat in search of the waiter, but there was no sign of him.

  A heavy-browed woman was cleaning glasses behind the bar. Ash got up and approached her. “Por favor, yo quiero pagar.” She pulled out a wad of pesetas from her jean pocket.

  “Si, señorita.” The woman put down her cloth and hurried to accept her payment.

  AFTER THE REMOTENESS and coolness of El Hierro, which had reminded Ash of the Highlands, the bustle and heat of Santa Cruz de Tenerife was a shock. She was getting used to it, however.

  She had slept deeply, and alone—though she had plans to change that—in the casa’s comfortable bed. After a breakfast of bread, fruit, and coffee, she explored the casbah-like Our Lady of Africa market in the old quarter and managed to resist most of the goods on sale before succumbing to a cheap music cassette recorded by a local orquesta. Lunch in a café’s shady garden gave her tired feet respite, then she spent the afternoon looking at Guanche artefacts in the welcome cool of the Museum of Nature and Mankind.

  Now it was time to party. Sunglasses donned, she tied a sweatshirt around her waist for when the temperature dropped and threaded her way between honking cars to join the hundreds of tourists heading towards the Plaza de España.

  Unattractive concrete high-rises flanked the massive square, but an effort had been made to brighten it up for the Carnival—from every lamppost and litterbin dangled red-and-yellow flags and streamers. The excitement of the crowd was infectious, and Ash found herself grinning. A tantalising aroma of hot chocolate and doughnuts set her stomach rumbling so she elbowed her way towards its source—a small stall selling churro. Havingsatisfied her hunger, she took a position as far from the bandstand and its deafening salsa music as she could get.

&n
bsp; They were electing the Carnival Queen. With a practiced eye, Ash appraised the tanned beauties wiggling provocatively at all and sundry. Their OTT outfits, created from gaudy satin, dyed feathers, and sequins too numerous to count, would not have been out of place in Rio. Ditto the procession that followed. As rank after rank of pirates (this year’s theme), dancers, marching bands, and majorettes marched past, the shrilling of whistles, pounding of drums, and hypnotic samba rhythms made her feet itch to join in.

  The view was better on the far side of the square, so after a while she headed there, brushing aside lascivious invitations and evading groping hands she could have broken with a single twist. She leaned against the wall and turned her attention to the crowd. It was some minutes before she settled on a possible bed mate.

  An attractive blonde was standing on the steps in front of the Monumento de los Caídos, eating a toffee apple. The way she licked her fingers made Ash suck in her breath. Ash gave her an intentionally obvious once-over before flashing her a brilliant smile. The woman flushed and dropped her gaze, but almost at once glanced back at Ash.

  Bait taken. Now let’s see what she does with it.

  While she waited, Ash let her gaze drift over the sea of spectators. Something snagged her attention, and she rescanned the crowd, trying to see what it was. A moment later, she had it. One man’s profile was familiar.

  He turned full face towards her then, and she registered gaunt, high cheekbones, pockmarked olive skin, and hooded eyes so dark they were almost black. Frowning, she riffled through her mental card index of terrorists. He was Libyan, she was sure of it. A small fry rather than a big fish. But what was he doing in Santa Cruz?

  A soft touch brought her out of her musing, and she turned to find the woman from the war memorial steps standing next to her.

  “¿Est usted esperando para alguien?”

  Ash took off her sunglasses and smiled. “Not someone. I was waiting for you.”

  The woman blinked. “You are English?”

  “Si.”

  “Waiting for me, you say. We have we met before?”

  “No.”

  “Oh.” She gave Ash a coquettish glance. “Yet you were looking at me. Why?”

  “Because I like what I see.”

  Her frank reply made the woman blush. “I too like what I see,” she murmured.

  “Good.” Ash took her by the arm. “What’s your name?”

  “Adriana.”

  “Well, Adriana, my casa is not far from here. Later,” Ash stressed the word, “I will take you there. For now, would you like something to eat, a lot of wine, a little dancing?” She waited, expectant.

  Adriana laughed. “You are very sure of yourself.”

  “With good reason.” Ash smiled. “Or are you turning me down?”

  Adriana blushed. “No, English. That will be very nice.”

  THE PRESSURE ON Ash’s bladder forced her to make the trip to the bathroom at two a.m. Samba music, sporadic laughter, and the pop and fizz of fireworks wafted in from the street, where revellers were still celebrating the start of the carnival. She washed her hands, reflecting with a satisfied smile that her own more intimate celebration had resulted in its own version of fireworks, and returned to the casa’s bedroom.

  Adriana lay sprawled face down in the middle of the rumpled sheets, snoring. The urge to smack her buttocks was strong but Ash contented herself with a languid stretch. Her bumbag was draped over the chair where she had left it, so she unzipped it and extracted her mobile phone. Then, draped in a silk housecoat, she padded downstairs to the dining room and dialled the number of the Organisation’s local Field Office.

  “Si?” said a sleepy male voice.

  “This is Ashley Blade. Scramble.” With three key presses, Ash activated the scrambler circuit, and for a moment she could hear nothing above the white noise.

  The line cleared. “Ramirez here,” said the voice, now wide-awake. “What can I do for you, Señorita Blade?”

  “Abdusamad,” she said. “Khaleb Abdusamad.” The identity of the man in the Plaza de España had surfaced while she was recovering from her first climax. (Adriana would not be flattered to know Ash had been thinking about work.) She spelled out the name letter by letter.

  “I have it. What about him?”

  “He’s here. In Santa Cruz. Did you know? Did London? Any idea why?”

  “It will take a while to check, señorita.”

  “I’ll wait.” She padded over to a cane chair and sat down, tucking her bare feet under her and letting her mind wander.

  “Señorita. Señorita Blade. Are you still there?” said Ramirez.

  “Wha—?” Ash recovered her wits. “Yes, um, still here.” How much time had passed? She must have dozed off.

  “We were unaware of Abdusamad’s presence. Thank you for the tip-off.”

  She pursed her lips. “Will you be putting him under surveillance?”

  “Minimal only. The budget won’t stretch to full. Besides, London feels he’s probably just here for the carnival. Terrorists take holidays too.”

  Ash grunted. Do they?

  “Talking of which, I have a message for you, Señorita Blade. From your Section Head.”

  She blinked. “Thompson?”

  “Si. He says, ‘He’s sure he doesn’t have to remind you that you are on leave.’”

  Subtle as always, thought Ash. Thompson was one of the few who knew just how close to cracking up Sam’s death had brought her.

  “You need to relax, get completely away from it all for a few weeks,” he’d told her, his expression stern. “Come back when you’re rested and can think straight. Then you can decide who you want as your new partner.”

  I’m getting there, boss. Slowly, it’s true, but I am getting there. Still no idea who can replace Sam though.

  “Señorita?”

  “Still here,” she muttered. “Okay. Got that. Thanks for your help, Ramirez.”

  “You’re welcome. Buenos noches.”

  “Buenos noches.” Feeling suddenly tired, Ash hung up and sat for a while in the dark, thinking about nothing in particular.

  The sound of bare feet slapping against floor tiles brought her out of her reverie. A fetchingly tousled and naked Adriana stood in the doorway.

  “I woke up, and you were gone.” Adriana yawned and scratched her head, then struck a provocative pose. “Come back to bed, English.”

  Moonlight highlighted luscious curves and deepened already intriguing shadows. Ash laughed and stood up. “All right.” Miraculously, her tiredness had disappeared.

  Chapter 2

  “HE’LL SEE YOU now, Miss Jacobs,” said the receptionist. “His secretary is away from her desk at the moment so I’ll show you the way. Come with me, please.”

  Jemma straightened her jacket and set off. Her palms were sweaty, she noticed with irritation. All I’m doing is meeting my new Section Head. What on earth will I be like on a mission? She wondered if her former classmates were feeling as nervous as she was.

  The receptionist led her down a dingy corridor. Much to her disappointment, the Organisation’s London centre of operations resembled an insurance company’s head office rather than the super secret HQ of her imagination. Where was the concealed entrance? At the very least there should have been a tailor’s shop façade and a changing cubicle whose coat hook, when turned, triggered a hidden door. And where were the virile secret agents, armed with special ID badges and improbable looking weaponry? Oh, hang on a minute. That would be me. She suppressed a hysterical giggle.

  They stopped in front of a door labelled “I. Remington,” and the receptionist knocked twice and popped her head round. “I have Miss Jacobs for you, Mr. Remington,” came her muffled voice. Her head reappeared, and she gestured. “Go on in.”

  “Thanks.” Jemma composed herself and entered.

  A man in a pinstriped grey suit was standing by the window, next to the metal filing cabinets. At her entrance, he turned from contemplation of a
rain-slicked courtyard.

  “Welcome to Security, Miss Jacobs.” He smiled and held out a hand. “I’m Ian Remington, Section Head. You’ll be reporting directly to me.”

  His handshake was disturbingly limp, but Jemma hid her distaste. “Mr. Remington.”

  “Please.” He indicated the red plastic chair on her side of the overcrowded desk. While she took it, he seated himself in an upholstered swivel chair.

  Jemma licked her lips. “Do you have a mission for me, Mr. Remington?”

  At her question he raised his eyebrows and steepled his fingers. “I’m afraid we have to get you used to the way we do things before we can send you on an actual mission.”

  She had hoped that, once she graduated, training would be a thing of the past or at least “on the job.” It looked like she was wrong. If only I’d got that posting to Counter Intelligence. I bet Nat and Gary are getting proper assignments, working alongside someone like Blade, whereas I—

  “Here’s some reading material to get you started.” He pushed a pile of manuals across the desk towards her.

  She scanned the labels. Overviews, Procedures, Protocols, Methods, Techniques … I knew it. Bloody paperwork.

  “There’s a lot to Security,” continued Remington, oblivious to her disappointment. “You’ll have covered the basics in training, but there’s more to it than that. We handle security for all branches and departments. You’ll need to familiarise yourself with …”

  Jemma tuned out his monotone and found her gaze turning to the rain outside. It wouldn’t always be like this, she consoled herself. One day she would be a proper secret agent, like Blade.

  It had been a cold day last November—so cold Jemma would not have been surprised to see flakes of snow in the air—and her class had spent the bulk of it on exercises in the training school’s capacious grounds.

  Their instructor divided them into two groups: hunters and prey. Prey were allowed to keep their civvies. As a hunter, Jemma was offered camouflage fatigues and unflattering thermal underwear, but she declined the latter. Bad move—fatigues might look good but they did little to keep out the chill. She kept warm by keeping moving, and had already “taken out” three of her classmates, incurring a bruised shin and pulled rib muscle in the process.