Licensed to Spy

by Barbara Davies

  “No.” The confinement was beginning to get to Ash. “Can’t you let me up? I’m getting cramp in my leg.”

  “I’m sorry.” Jemma’s gaze was sympathetic but unyielding.

  “Whatever.” Ash sucked in a breath and exhaled, repeating the exercise until she was calm.

  “Okay?” asked Jemma.

  She gave a weary nod.

  “Are you aware that one-hundred-thousand pounds was paid into your current account a few days ago?”

  Ash blinked. “No!” Her mind reeled at the implications.

  “It came from a Swiss Bank Account.” Jemma showed her a photocopy of a bank statement and pointed. “Do you know whose account that is?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever received money from a Libyan terrorist organisation?”

  “No.” The situation unfolding before Ash was making her nauseous, or maybe it was an after-effect of the drugs. “Look, I don’t know what the hell’s going on, but clearly someone’s out to undermine my credibility. I must have stumbled onto something. We have to—”

  “We have to do nothing, Blade,” interrupted Remington. “You have to answer our questions.”

  “But—”

  “So please do so, or I’ll get the answers out of you another way.” He gave Jemma an impatient nod.

  “Right.” Jemma looked at her clipboard again.

  Piece by piece, Jemma laid out the evidence against Ash for her inspection, stoking the anger growing in her gut. Ash strove for detachment. The frame was overly elaborate, in her opinion, but the implication that Sam’s death had driven her back to her cat burgling ways was a nice touch. After all, a thief would think nothing of taking money from terrorists, right?

  While Jemma asked her questions, and Remington annotated the charts spooling out of the polygraph, Ash’s mind ranged back over the places she had been and the people she had met since her arrival in the Canary Islands. She had got too close to something or someone. But what or who?

  “Are you working for the Libyans?” asked Jemma.

  “No.”

  “Are you thinking of leaving the Organisation?”

  Ash hesitated. This unjustified interrogation had soured her against Security, but as for the rest … “No,” she said at last.

  Jemma put down her clipboard and stretched, the gesture eliciting a pang of envy from Ash. She leaned back in her chair. “That was my final question, Mr. Remington.”

  “Well done, Miss Jacobs.” He switched off the polygraph and stood up.

  “Thank God that’s over,” said Ash, as Jemma detached the tubes and plates from her and unwrapped the blood pressure cuff. “Now can you release me?”

  Remington gathered up the charts. “We have to analyse the results.”

  With a ripping noise, the cuff came free. Jemma placed it with the rest of the equipment and wheeled the trolley back to its position by the wall.

  “But—” Ash struggled against her bonds. “This is ridiculous!”

  Remington gave her a hard glance. “No more ridiculous than the blind faith certain people have placed in you for far too long, Blade. Come with me, Miss Jacobs.” He moved out of Ash’s sightline, and with an apologetic glance Jemma followed him. Seconds later, the door creaked open.

  “The sooner we analyse the results,” Ash heard Remington tell Jemma, before the door swung close again, “the sooner we can get Blade back where she belongs … behind bars.”

  Chapter 6

  “BUT ACCORDING TO the algorithm, she’s telling the truth.”

  Jemma had just spent the past hour slogging through the polygraph charts and the rules for interpreting them, and she was exhausted. That Remington disagreed with her interpretation was beyond frustrating.

  “That means nothing, Miss Jacobs.” His look of saintly patience made her want to scream. “For Blade it would be child’s play to subvert the test.”

  Child’s play? Jemma frowned. Mac had covered polygraphs on the training course and told them just how difficult that was. Oh, it could be done—pain could alter physiological responses, and on one occasion, a well-placed drawing pin in an agent’s sock had allowed him to mislead the calibration questions—but she was sure Blade had played fair.

  How to convince her boss he was wrong, though? He claimed Thompson was prejudiced in Blade’s favour, yet couldn’t see that he himself was just as prejudiced against her. She bit her lip. What on earth had Blade done to antagonise him so severely?

  Remington drummed his fingers on the desk and looked thoughtful. “Nothing for it. We’ll just have to try the new truth drug. I’ll contact the Lab, get the research boys to fly out a batch of Project X.”

  Jemma gaped at him. “Isn’t that still in its experimental stages?”

  He flapped a hand in dismissal. “Technically. But I saw a report last week, and they’ve ironed out the last of the glitches. Certification’s just a formality.”

  “There’s a neutralising agent?”

  “Yes, yes.” His faraway gaze refocused on her. “Don’t worry. It’ll be perfectly safe.” His thin smile changed to one of satisfaction. “And even Blade shouldn’t be able to outwit that.”

  He was actually whistling when he went through to the other office to ask Ramirez to send a coded transmission to London. For a moment, Jemma stood undecided, then an impulse propelled her upstairs.

  As she pushed open the door of the room they were using for Blade’s interrogation, the figure strapped to the table tried to twist round, then gave up with a curse. “It’s me.” Jemma walked into Blade’s field of vision.

  Blade regarded her coolly and raised an eyebrow. “From your expression, I take it the news isn’t good?”

  “Well, you passed the polygraph test.”

  “But?”

  “But Remington refuses to believe it. He thinks you rigged it somehow.”

  “What an arsehole! What am I, superwoman?”

  Jemma stifled a grin, then sobered. “He’s going to try the Lab’s new truth drug on you.”

  Blade blinked at her. “Project X? It’s finished, then?”

  “Technically.”

  “Ah.” Blade laughed but there was no humour in it. Abruptly, she struggled to free herself, whipping around so violently in the leather straps that Jemma thought for a moment she was actually going to break them. But the skin of her wrists broke first under the punishment, and blood seeped from the graze.

  “Please don’t,” said Jemma, wincing. “You’re hurting yourself.”

  But Blade had already subsided. “There’s something going on. Something involving the Libyans.” She turned pleading eyes on Jemma. “I don’t know what it is yet but it’s important enough for them to frame me.”

  Jemma felt torn. “I’d like to believe you. Really I would, but—”

  “An agent must trust her instincts. What are yours telling you?”

  The door’s creak interrupted them, and Jemma turned. Remington was standing in the doorway, regarding the pair of them with a faint smile.

  “Ah, there you are, Miss Jacobs. Telling Blade what she has to look forward to? Good, good. The mindset of a subject plays an important part in an interrogation. Perhaps by the time the truth drug gets here she will be more amenable. In the meantime, Ramirez tells me dinner is ready.” He beckoned. “Let’s leave Blade to contemplate her fate, shall we? Ramirez is an excellent cook, and it’s not often we get the chance to enjoy some genuine Canarian cooking.”

  Jemma turned to whisper a final encouraging word, but Blade had turned her face away. With a sigh and a final reluctant glance, Jemma let Remington lead her away.

  “I BET YOU have great tits.” Blade’s voice was slurred and her pupils had shrunk to pinpoints.

  Jemma blushed and glanced at Remington. He shrugged.

  “Take your top off,” urged Blade with a leer. “Come on. Don’t be shy.”

  They had given her the truth drug ten minutes ago, and she was now doing a convincing impression of being s
toned. The regular beepof the heart monitor, which for her own peace of mind Jemma had hired from a local clinic, added to the interrogation room’s surreal atmosphere.

  “As I was saying,” said Jemma. “Do you know Minyar al-Akhdar?”

  Blade’s brow creased then smoothed. “Oh, that guy in the café? Well, you said I did, didn’t you, sweetie, so I guess I must.” She gazed hazily at Jemma’s breasts again. “Can I put my face in your cleavage?”

  Jemma turned towards Remington. “This isn’t working.”

  “I disagree. She’s just admitted she knows al-Akhdar.”

  “That’s not the way I heard it.”

  He frowned. “Miss Jacobs. I think you are beginning to lose your objectivity.” She gaped at him. She was losing her objectivity? “Please, continue the questioning.”

  Blade was singing something under her breath that included the line “we’d all support a hooker together.” Jemma touched her arm to regain her attention.

  “Hi, gorgeous.” Blade flashed her a dazzling smile. “Wanna fuck?”

  Jemma sighed. “Have you ever received any money from the Libyans?”

  Blade shook her head slackly. “Not a bean.” She paused. “Oh, hang on. Didn’t you tell me they paid me one-hundred-thousand pounds? Guess I must have then.” She resumed her singing.

  Jemma turned to Remington again. “Her answers are tainted by the information I gave her during the polygraph test. This is useless.”

  “Useless,” echoed Blade, stirring in her bonds before subsiding. “That’s me.” She gave a heavy sigh.

  Curious, Jemma turned her attention back to Blade. “Why are you useless?”

  “Couldn’t save him,” said Blade. “Made the wrong choice. Wrong fucking choice.” A tear trickled down one cheek.

  “Save who?” she asked, startled by Blade’s mood change.

  “Sam, of course. Good old Sam, my good buddy, my friend.” Blade snorted. “Ha, that’s a good one. Can’t have been my friend, can he?” Her face scrunched up. “Friends don’t kill friends.”

  “You killed Sam Carney?” Remington’s tone made Jemma look up. He was regarding Blade intently.

  “Already told you,” muttered Blade. “Made the wrong choice. Good old Sam. Pushing up the daisies now. And all because …”

  Her voice trailed off, and Jemma became aware that a sheen of sweat coated Blade’s forehead and that the skin beneath her tan had gone ashen. Then Blade’s eyes rolled up in her head until the whites showed, and her head lolled.

  “Oh, no! I think she’s—”

  The heart monitor alarm shrilled.

  Jemma grabbed the attaché case propped against the wall and fumbled its catch open—the sudden turn of events had stunned Remington into immobility. But her first attempt to fill the syringe from the tiny phial nestling next to it failed—her hands were shaking too much. Clamping down on her rising panic, she took several calming breaths and tried again. This time, to her relief, she managed it, though not without spilling a few precious drops. She rushed to Blade’s side and searched for a suitable vein in her arm. It took longer than she would’ve have liked, but eventually she found one and slid the needle home.

  She stood back, anxious. Her memory of the neutralising agent’s effects was sketchy at best. How long did it take to work? Should she also do cardiac compressions? She turned to ask Remington but realised he was next to useless. Better to err on the side of caution. She set aside the needle and clambered up onto the interrogation table. Kneeling astride Blade’s hips, she positioned the heel of her hand on Blade’s breastbone and began.

  Jemma had completed five cardiac compressions without result and was leaning forward to give Blade mouth-to-mouth when Blade sucked in a shuddering breath. Simultaneously, the shrilling heart monitor resumed its normal beeping. She sat back on her heels and bowed her head in relief. Thank God!

  When her trembling was under control once more, she climbed down and stood beside the table. Already Blade’s colour was improving, and her breathing was settling into a natural rhythm that indicated sleep. Jemma brushed a strand of dark hair from the clammy forehead, then remembered Remington and turned to look at him.

  “That was close,” he said quietly. “Thank you, Miss Jacobs.”

  She nodded and reached for the straps binding Blade’s ankles.

  “What are you doing?” His voice was like a whip crack, and Jemma froze and turned to find him glaring at her.

  “I thought we had finished,” she explained. “Another dose of that drug would kill her.”

  “Yes, yes,” he said testily. “It looks like the Lab boys have a few more kinks to iron out, and I will tell them that in no uncertain terms, you can be sure. But just because the interrogation is finished doesn’t mean that we should release Blade.”

  Jemma stared at him. “But she’s innocent.”

  “Innocent?” He snorted. “Weren’t you paying attention? Not only did Blade admit she knows al-Akhdar and has received money from the Libyans, she also revealed she killed a fellow agent.”

  Jemma couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “But—”

  “No, Miss Jacobs. No buts.” Remington rubbed his hands together. “Just wait until London hears about this.”

  Chapter 7

  ASH WOKE TO the headache from hell and a mouth like the Gobi Desert. Not again! This time, in addition, every muscle group ached and her breastbone felt bruised. Side effects of the truth drug? Memory of the interrogation was hazy at best—she had a feeling she’d made a fool of herself over Jemma, but that couldn’t be helped.

  How much time had passed while she was under the drug’s influence? Was it even the same day? Hard to tell with the shutters closed and the light on.

  She managed to refocus her gaze on the straps restraining her. Her tiny but persistent efforts to weaken the one around her right wrist were paying off. The badly tanned leather wasn’t as supple as it should be, and putting it under repeated stress had cracked it. A little more work—

  The door creaked open, and she froze but relaxed again when Jemma walked into view. She was carrying a tray containing a glass of water, a cup of something that Ash’s nose told her was coffee, and a plate of sandwiches. Ash’s stomach grumbled, and her mouth watered.

  Jemma put the tray on a table and came to stand beside Ash. For a moment she hesitated, then she unbuckled the straps closest to her.

  “I passed the test?” asked Ash, flexing her limbs with a groan of relief as Jemma freed them.

  “Not according to Remington.” Jemma moved round the table and set to work on the remaining straps.

  Ash sat up, waited for a wave of dizziness to pass, then eased herself down off the table. The movement aggravated the throbbing in her head, and her legs seemed to have turned to jelly. She staggered and put out a hand, which Jemma took in a surprisingly firm grip. “What did you do to me?” Ash steadied herself. “Stuff me inside a barrel and roll me down a hill?”

  Jemma’s colour heightened. “We had a little trouble with the truth drug.” She avoided Ash’s gaze.

  “I see.” When no more information was forthcoming, Ash shrugged. “Or rather I don’t. If I didn’t pass the test, why have you released me?”

  “Remington thinks you failed. I disagree.” Supporting Ash with an arm round her back, Jemma helped her towards the tray. “I thought about what you said, and I’m following my instincts.”

  Ash accepted the glass of water and drained it dry. Then Jemma handed her the coffee, each sip of which made her feel more human.

  “Your boss isn’t going to like this.”

  “I know.” Jemma grimaced. “I’ll either be shot or demoted to filing clerk.”

  The sandwiches, Ash was pleased to find, were tuna. She chewed and swallowed. “Not necessarily.”

  Jemma looked at her. “Office cleaner, then?”

  She was able to joke about it. Ash eyed her with approval. “You didn’t help me escape.”

  Jemma looked confused.
“No?”

  “I overpowered you,” she mumbled around another mouthful of sandwich.

  “I don’t think that’ll work.” Jemma indicated the interrogation table. “You couldn’t get out of that unless you had outside help.”

  “No?” Ash pointed to the strap she had been working on when Jemma entered.

  Giving her an enquiring look, Jemma went to examine it. She straightened, her expression amazed.

  “You were almost through!”

  Already Ash was feeling strong enough to walk unaided. She took the strap in both hands and gave it a mighty tug. The leather snapped. “Completely through.” She returned to her sandwiches and coffee.

  Jemma studied her. “So you would have got free tonight without my help?”

  “Eventually. What time is it?” They had taken Ash’s watch along with everything else.

  “Just after midnight. Here.” Jemma felt in her pocket and pulled out Ash’s watch. “You might need these too.” She produced Ash’s picklocks.

  Ash took them. “Thanks. I don’t suppose—”

  “Sorry. Ramirez has your mobile phone and gun.”

  Ash shrugged and took another bite of sandwich. When she had finished everything on the tray, she wiped her greasy fingers on her jeans and advanced on Jemma.

  Eyes widening, Jemma backed away.

  “Don’t worry,” said Ash. “I’ll make it look good.”

  “It?”

  She stopped and raised an eyebrow. “Do you want me to overpower you or not?”

  Jemma looked undecided. “What exactly are you going to do?”

  “Well, there won’t be any real overpowering.” Ash grinned. “Because you’re not going to resist me, are you?”

  “Uh … I don’t—”

  “Look, I’m just going to put you out for a bit.”

  “Oh.” Jemma frowned. “Will it hurt?”

  “Only for a moment. Turn around.”

  Reluctantly, Jemma did as she was told.

  As Ash held her close—a rather pleasurable sensation, she had to admit—and got her in a neck lock, she could feel Jemma’s instinct for self-preservation warring with her decision to submit. “Easy,” she soothed. “I’m not going to hurt you. Okay?” Taking the unintelligible squawk as agreement, she tightened her grip.