Licensed to Spy

by Barbara Davies

  Jemma’s arms came up to break the lock. Uh oh!

  Ash jabbed the pressure point behind Jemma’s right ear and caught her as she fell. Then she checked for a pulse point and was rewarded with a strong, steady beat. “See,” she whispered into Jemma’s ear. “Nothing to it.”

  Ash lifted Jemma onto the interrogation table, straightened her limbs so she looked comfortable, and pulled down the rucked-up T-shirt. But as she buckled the restraints, leaving the straps slightly looser than Remington had, she realised that the strap she had snapped earlier would pose a problem. If she couldn’t secure Jemma’s right wrist … Cursing under her breath, Ash looked around for something to use.

  It didn’t look promising until she came upon the cleaning supplies stowed in the bottom drawer of a filing cabinet. Among them lay a can of oil, some scissors, and ball of twine. Hm. Tripling the twine, she threaded a length of it through the broken strap’s eyelet and looped it twice around Jemma’s wrist. With pursed lips she studied the result. Enough to convince Remington? It’ll have to do.

  That little matter taken care of, another pressing concern made itself known. Nature was calling, with increasing urgency. Remembering how the door had squeaked, Ash squirted oil into its hinges then eased it open a crack. She listened for a full minute to make sure the coast was clear, and was about to go in search of a bathroom when a thought struck her. Two birds with one stone. She tiptoed out into the corridor, carrying the incriminating tray and crockery with her.

  The bathroom was at the end of the corridor, and fortunately for Ash, no one was using it. After she relieved herself, she hid the tray and plate behind the huge old-fashioned cistern and placed the glass and cup inside it. Then, satisfied with the hiding place, and after checking the coast was still clear, she retraced her steps.

  Jemma was snoring quietly on the interrogation table. Ash gave her arm a comforting pat as she passed her on her way to the window. The internal shutters opened to reveal a set of double glass doors, alarmed, and a set of external shutters, likewise. With a grunt of annoyance, Ash reached for her picklocks. Moments later, she had disabled the alarm system and opened both the doors and the shutters beyond.

  She found herself on a tiny balcony, staring down at a thirty-foot drop. Pivoting, she looked up. The external shutters at every window would provide her with a makeshift ladder to the roof. Tsk! Didn’t take into account that people might want to break out of here, did you?

  Even though the climb was relatively easy for someone with Ash’s skills, it took its toll on her. Though some aches and pains had eased now she was up and about, she wasn’t her usual limber self. With a gasp of relief she at last pulled herself up onto the roof. It took her several minutes to recover her breath and for her hands to stop shaking.

  Now for the next bit.

  Arms spread like a tightrope walker, she hurried along the roof’s apex to the end of the building. It was a full moon, and Santa Cruz was spread out before her. Faint sounds of laughter and salsa music wafted to her on the warm night air. Of course, the carnival. It seemed like another world.

  Squatting, she surveyed her surroundings. Whoever had chosen to site the Field Office in the middle of a terraced block should be shot. The buildings at this end didn’t belong to the Organisation and lacked surveillance equipment. She remained motionless until she was satisfied that she was beyond range of the cameras patiently panning to and fro further along the street. Then she slithered down shutters and jumped from balconies, careful this time not to send any flowerpots flying, and landed with a jolt on the deserted pavement below.

  It took her only a moment to get her bearings, then she headed towards the side street where she had parked the Fiat. Her footsteps, though quiet, set off a muffled barking in a house nearby, but as she moved away and proved no threat, the dog quieted. She broke into a jog, her thoughts racing. She needed to go to ground for a while. But she also needed to get to the bottom of this attempted frame-up.

  Al-Akhdar and Abdusamad must be in this together—it was the only explanation that made any sense. They could have killed her, but they hadn’t. Couldn’t risk drawing attention to their activities in the Canaries, presumably. Setting her up, on the other hand, had at a stroke neutralised her attempts to investigate Abdusamad and undermined her credibility within the Organisation. Clever.

  What exactly was it that the terrorists had mistakenly thought Ash had stumbled upon? As she ran into the night, she resolved to find out.

  THE HIRED CAR was where Ash had left it, and, miracle of miracles, hadn’t attracted the attention of thieves. She walked round to the driver’s door, reached for her keys, and froze. They were in her jacket pocket, and the jacket was back at the Field Office, along with her bumbag, mobile phone, and gun. Muttering a curse, she reached for the picklocks Jemma had returned to her. Seconds later, the door opened, and she slid behind the wheel.

  She reached under the dashboard, yanked the wires free, and hotwired the car—the hire company wouldn’t like it, but needs must. The engine purred into life. At this time of night, putting her foot down would only attract unwelcome attention, so she eased out of the side street and onto the Avenida General Mola, heading southwest and merging with the stream of post-Carnaval revellers heading home.

  A laughing couple, the man’s arms draped round the woman for balance, staggered drunkenly into the road ahead of her. She braked, drummed her fingers on the steering wheel as they weaved their way to safety, and checked her watch. One a.m. By now, Ramirez would have discovered the unconscious Jemma and might already have alerted Interpol and the Canarian police. As for the Cinquecento, its number plates would be on record at the car hire company. She would have to dump it.

  She couldn’t go back to the casa—that was the first place they would look for her, and besides, she didn’t have the energy to deal with Adriana right now. She needed a gun, and somewhere to hide, and … lots of things. But she was out in the cold. Who could she turn to?

  A blast on his car horn from the driver behind her brought Ash back to her surroundings. The road ahead was clear. “Yeah, yeah,” she muttered, and set the car in motion, not sure where she was heading but needing to keep on the move.

  Just after the roundabout, a road sign announcing the turnoff to the Autopista del Sur gave her an idea. At the other end of the motorway lay Los Cristianos. Abdusamad’s warehouse was there. An image of a curly-haired boy clutching a shabby jewel case popped into her head. Vito too.

  Without hesitation, Ash took the turnoff, and drove away from the lights of Santa Cruz.

  ASH TORE OFF a chunk of croissant and popped it in her mouth. Where are you, Vito?

  It was all very well the boy offering her his help, but he hadn’t given her his surname, telephone number, or address. Still, most criminal communities, no matter how small, had efficient information networks. Los Cristianos should be no different—she would get a message to him somehow.

  She had dumped the hired Fiat and napped for a couple of hours on the beach. Then, yawning, and with sand in places she’d rather it wasn’t, she had headed for the market where she had first met the young thief. A shabby but evidently popular café overlooked the empty stalls awaiting the arrival of produce and people. Ash decided to kill two birds with one stone: pacify her grumbling stomach and ask the café proprietor if he could get a message to Vito.

  When it came to ordering café con leche con bollería, the fat man in the grease-spattered apron had been helpfulness itself. He was more circumspect about admitting he had unsavoury contacts though. It took her ten minutes to convince him that she wasn’t police, and another five (plus a ten thousand-peseta banknote) to persuade him to make sure her scribbled note reached Vito.

  Since then she had passed the time eating pastries and drinking coffee, and watching the market come to life. The corner table offered an unobstructed view through the café’s front window and door, which was why she had chosen it. There was also a back way out should she need it.

/>   The proprietor caught her eye and gestured at the simmering pot on the counter. At her nod, he bustled over with a refill of the sludge he claimed was coffee. In her present state, she would have drunk sump oil if it had caffeine in it—the interrogations followed by the ninety-minute drive from Santa Cruz had taken their toll.

  “No news?” She stifled a yawn.

  “No, señorita. Be patient.” He refilled her cup and returned to his counter.

  Ash returned her attention to the doorway. If Vito didn’t get here soon—

  “¡Hola!” came a familiar voice, and a slim shape slid into the seat opposite her. Long-lashed, brown eyes regarded Ash with curiosity.

  “Vito!” Her failure to spot the boy coming in the back way shocked her—her alertness was way below par.

  He smiled at her and cocked his head. “Got your message. You need my help?”

  She nodded. “The police are after me. I need to go into hiding.”

  What might have been disappointment shadowed Vito’s gaze. “I thought you weren’t a thief anymore.”

  “It’s a long story, but I’ll be happy to tell it to you somewhere more,” she gestured at their surroundings, “private.”

  For a moment longer he studied her, then he stood up. “Come.” Without a backward glance, he headed out the way he had come. Ash rose and hurried after him, pausing at the back door to nod her thanks to the proprietor, who shrugged and resumed wiping his counter.

  Vito was waiting for her by the café’s waste bins. “We must go to the north side of town. This way.” He broke into a jog and headed away from the sea front past a glitzy-looking British Pub advertising “Full English Breakfast.” With a sigh she jogged after him.

  They turned right into a paved street whose shop awnings threatened to meet in the middle, then continued on through a shopping mall decorated with baskets of fragrant purple bougainvillaea and orange nasturtiums.

  She could have sworn they were heading south. “I thought you said the north side of town,” she complained, after he had slowed to allow her to catch up with him.

  He smiled. “Uncle Ignacio would not be happy if I led the police to our door.”

  The route he took her seemed endless, and twisted and turned like an eel—at one point Ash was sure they had been along a particular stretch of road before. Even her usually good sense of direction began to fail until she was hopelessly lost. So, presumably, were any pursuers.

  The pace Vito had set was killing, though, and eventually she was forced to halt. She bent over and braced her arms against her thighs, lungs heaving, wishing she didn’t ache all over.

  “Are you ill?” He had returned to her side and was regarding her with a worried expression.

  “I’ve had a tough couple of days.” Ash grimaced. “Is it much further?”

  “Not far now.”

  “Good.” She straightened. “Lead on.”

  Their destination turned out to be a vehicle repair shop that looked as battered as the mangled cars parked outside. As they walked towards it, a tow truck bearing the legend “Ignacio’s” reversed past them and headed out of town, yellow light flashing.

  “Do you live with your uncle?”

  “Yes,” said Vito. She wondered what had happened to his parents.

  He led her round to the back entrance, through the hanging bead curtains, and into a massive kitchen. A wide-hipped woman in an apron and a big man in oil-stained, white overalls turned to stare at the new arrivals.

  “Vito!” The woman put down her dishcloth and clasped the boy to her in a hug. Then she released him and cuffed him round the ear. “Who is this you bring unannounced while your uncle is eating his breakfast?” The gaze she turned on Ash was far from friendly.

  “Aunt Nina!” protested Vito. “It is a matter of honour.” The man sitting at the table snorted in amusement, and Vito glared at him. “This is my friend Blade, Ashley Blade. She is wanted by the police. She needs our help.”

  His aunt’s eyes widened. “Madre del Dios! And you bring her here?”

  “We weren’t followed. I made sure. I promised we will hide her.” Vito turned to his uncle, his expression pleading. “You won’t make me break my promise, Uncle Ignacio?”

  By way of answer, Ignacio kicked back his chair and stood up. He planted himself in front of Ash and folded his arms, doing a good impersonation of a man mountain with a walrus moustache. She hoped, given her present condition, that things weren’t going to turn ugly.

  “My nephew is young and impulsive,” he said, his impeccable English startling her. He must be the one who taught Vito to speak it so fluently. “Any promise given must be weighed according to the facts.” His gaze was hard. “What crime have you committed?”

  “None,” said Ash.

  He gave her an ironic smile. “What do the police think you’ve done?”

  “Betrayed my country.”

  He blinked. “You are a spy?”

  She hesitated, then decided what the hell. “Yes.” A wave of tiredness washed over her, and she swayed. Vito’s aunt pulled out a chair and gestured. Ash threw her a grateful glance and sat down. “Thanks.”

  “You’re a secret agent?” asked Vito, eyes wide. “Like James Bond?”

  Ash gave him a wry smile. “Not so secret now, it seems.”

  His uncle’s brows were drawn together. “Why should I risk bringing danger to my family for a foreign spy?”

  Ash met his gaze. “Because Vito offered me his help, and I need it. And because what I’m working on may affect the Canary Islands too.”

  Ignacio turned round a kitchen chair and straddled it. “Go on.”

  “Not much to tell. Some Libyan terrorists have rented a warehouse here in Los Cristianos. I was trying to find out what they are up to when the shit hit the fan.” Vito’s aunt pulled a face at Ash’s turn of phrase, but said nothing.

  “Libyan terrorists? Here?” Ignacio looked affronted.

  Ash nodded and tried to suppress a yawn.

  “Ignacio,” hissed Nina. “Cannot you see she is weary? Let her sleep. You can talk later.”

  He flushed and ducked his head. “You are right, my dear. Will you show our guest where she can rest?” She nodded and gave his broad shoulder an approving pat.

  “Thank you,” said Ash, standing up.

  “In the meantime,” said Ignacio. “What about your car? I take it you have one and it is hot?”

  “I dumped it.” With his and Vito’s help, Ash managed to describe both the Fiat and the area where she had left it. Then she felt a hand under her elbow and turned to find Nina urging her towards a door leading into the interior. With a weary smile, she acquiesced.

  The last thing she saw and heard as she left the kitchen was Ignacio rubbing his big hands together and beckoning to his nephew. “Come, Vito. We have a car to collect. While your friend recovers her strength, we will lay a false trail for the police.”

  Chapter 8

  JEMMA REGARDED THE huge house with the flower-laden balconies with approval. So this is the casa that Ash bought.

  Negotiating the winding path with its tubs of geraniums, she approached the front door quietly. Her stealth was probably unnecessary—Blade would be crazy to come back here—but Jemma had to pretend to be searching for her if only because Remington had foisted two Canarian policemen on her. Carlos and Pablo’s version of stealth differed from her own, she noticed, as their boots crunched on gravel.

  She picked the lock and cracked open the door, then drew the Browning from her shoulder holster and eased herself inside. It was refreshingly cool in the fragrant-smelling hall—the island heat, while a nice change from the UK’s February chill, could get a bit much, she was finding.

  Jemma waited for her eyes to adjust and for Pablo and Carlos to join her, then gave the ground floor a quick once-over. No one home. She padded across the tiled floor to the bottom of the staircase and gazed up, listening. Her instincts told her someone was up there. Blade? Surely not.

 
Carlos sneezed, and Pablo elbowed him in the ribs. Jemma resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Wait here,” she whispered. Gripping the wooden banister with one hand, she loped up the wide steps.

  At the top was a landing, off which led several doors. The one at the end opened onto a spacious bathroom containing a shower and Jacuzzi. Nice. Next along was a smallish bedroom, which the lack of bed linen showed was not in use. She pushed open the third door and froze. Sprawled across the large bed was a shapely blonde.

  Jemma recognised Blade’s companion from the café photo, who even now was waking with fear in her eyes. She reholstered her gun. “¡Lo siento!” She was glad she had at least learned the Spanish for sorry. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “Who are you?” The woman sat up and pulled the sheets over her nakedness. “What are you doing in my bedroom?” Her Canarian accent was strong. “And why do you have a gun?”

  Jemma opened her mouth, then closed it again. It was too complicated to explain. “Have you seen Blade?” she asked instead.

  “She was with you last night?” Before Jemma could react, the woman wrapped the sheet about her, marched over, and slapped Jemma’s face.

  “With me?” Startled, Jemma raised a hand to her stinging cheek. “Well, yes, but not in the way you—”

  “Everything all right, Señorita Jacobs?” Carlos chose that moment to put his head around the door. He grinned, a gold front tooth flashing.

  “Er, fine.” Her cheeks warmed. “Just great.” Belatedly she realised why the woman had mistaken her for Blade’s girlfriend. They were both blondes, of similar height and body type.

  The woman’s eyes widened at the sight of his brown uniform, and she tugged the sheet higher. “You are with the Policia National?” she asked Jemma. “But surely you are English. Like Blade.” Looking nervous about the slap, she backed away. “I … I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right.” Jemma addressed the still grinning Carlos. “Can you search the rest of the house while I ask Señorita—” She paused.