“Rodriguez,” supplied the woman, sitting sullenly on the edge of the bed. “Adriana Rodriguez.”
Jemma nodded her thanks. “—some questions?”
Carlos’s grin vanished. “But we’ve already searched—”
“Not thoroughly,” said Jemma. “And will you take Pablo with you?”
He frowned at her, then shrugged. “Of course.” He left the bedroom, and heated whispering ensued from just outside the door. It ended with the sound of two pairs of police boots clumping off along the landing and down the stairs.
Satisfied the two men were out of earshot, Jemma turned back to Adriana. “Didn’t Blade come home last night?”
“No.” Adriana looked longingly at the clothes piled on a chair and gave Jemma an enquiring look.
“Go ahead.” While Adriana dressed, Jemma pondered what questions to ask. She needed to know as much about what Blade was working on as possible. “When did you last see her?”
Adriana fastened her bra and reached for her dress. “Breakfast yesterday. Is English … Blade, I mean … is she in trouble?” The fabric muffled her voice as she pulled the garment over her head.
“She could be.” Jemma folded her arms and leaned against the wall. “They think she did something bad. But I don’t believe them. I’d like to help her if I can.”
Adriana’s head emerged from the dress, her gaze keen. “Okay. But you haven’t told me your name.”
“Sorry. It’s Jemma. Jemma Jacobs.”
“Well, Jemma. I know that to Blade I was probably just—¿Cómo se dice?—a casual fling.” Adriana’s expression was wistful, and Jemma got the impression that she had taken their relationship more seriously. “Even so,” she shrugged, “I would not want harm to come to her. How may I help?”
“Do you know what Blade has been up to these last few days? The people she’s seen, the places she’s been?”
Adriana shook her head. “I have been at the café. And in the evenings she has been here with me. Except for one night when she said she was working.” Her expression was sceptical. “And last night. Last night she did not return.”
“Working?” prompted Jemma.
“She has been driving all over the island. Here, there, everywhere, in that little Fiat of hers.” Adriana gave a wry grin. “Taking the ‘bloody scenic route,’ she said. For some reason, that annoyed her.”
Not very informative. Jemma sighed. It had been too much to hope for, she supposed, but worth a try. Movement in the doorway attracted her attention, and she straightened as Pablo and Carlos reappeared. Their curious gazes tracked between her and Adriana.
“Yes?” said Jemma.
“We searched the house thoroughly as you requested.” Pablo scratched his chin stubble. “Nothing.”
Jemma nodded. She hadn’t really expected there to be anything. Blade was too careful for that.
“Perhaps she has left the country,” suggested Adriana.
“More than likely,” said Carlos. “Her hire car has been found at Los Rodeos Airport.” He turned to Jemma. “Señor Remington wants you to meet him there.”
Jemma unfolded her arms. “When did you talk to Remington?”
“Five minutes ago.” Carlos looked sheepish. “I did not like to interrupt. You were busy.”
You were busy, you mean! Probably snatching a quick cigarette. She gave him a look and turned back to Adriana, who had finished dressing and was putting on her high heels.
“Thank you, Señorita Rodriguez. You have been very helpful.”
Adriana looked up, her face relieved. “I may go?”
“Yes. I’m sorry I startled you … with my gun.”
Adriana shrugged. “And I’m sorry I hit you.”
Jemma ignored the exchange of intrigued glances between Carlos and Pablo. “That’s okay.” She turned to leave, then stopped and turned back. “I don’t think there’s much point you waiting. If Blade hasn’t left the country, she’ll be lying low. Staying out of sight,” she clarified, seeing Adriana’s incomprehension,
“Our time together was nearly over anyway, I think.” Adriana sighed. “Yesterday, we had an argument. Already she was tired of me.”
Jemma didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry.”
The Canarian woman’s expression was momentarily bleak. “I also.”
BLADE’S HIRE CAR was parked in the airport’s long stay zone. That it was a Cinquecento made Jemma smile—Blade’s preferences were on file, and she had been expecting something sleek and sporty.
While Carlos and Pablo chatted to the three Canarian policemen posted to keep people away from the scene, Jemma peered in the open window, careful not to touch anything—the fingerprint boys hadn’t been over it yet. Loose wires jutted from under the dashboard.
“Hot wired.” Remington had come up beside her. “It’s been here a couple of hours, they reckon. No longer.”
“Do you think she’s flown out?”
“No.”
Silently Jemma agreed. Her Section Head might be obsessed with and prejudiced against Blade, but he wasn’t stupid. The very fact Blade’s car was at the airport, meant she hadn’t caught a flight out. Unless it was a double bluff.
“I heard there was a woman at Blade’s house?” said Remington.
Jemma nodded. “Adriana Rodriguez. Blade’s latest holiday romance.” Memory made her raise a hand to her cheek. “She thought I was a rival.”
Remington gave an absent snort.
“Innocent bystander, that’s all,” she continued. “No idea where Blade is.”
“She’s gone to ground. The Libyans must be helping her.”
Jemma bit her lip. “Mr. Remington, are you sure—”
The gaze he turned on her was fierce. “Yes, I’m sure.” His expression softened, and he gestured towards the departure terminal. “But we can’t assume she hasn’t flown out. Procedure, Miss Jacobs. Always follow procedure. You have staff to interview and passenger lists to check before we can be certain she didn’t leave by plane.”
Gee, thanks.
“You’ll need this.” Remington pulled a small photo from the inner pocket of his jacket and handed it to her.
It had been taken on a fishing trip, by the look of it. Blade’s T-shirt was stained and her frayed denim shorts revealed long, tanned legs and dirty feet. If the brilliant smile aimed at the camera lens was any indication, she had caught the gigantic fish dangling from one raised hand herself.
With an inward sigh, Jemma pocketed the photo. “I’ll get right on it, Mr. Remington.”
Chapter 9
VITO TOOK HIS seat beside Ash. “That’s where they will wrestle,” he said, pointing.
Ash nodded, and surveyed the rows of benches, filled with chattering spectators, that surrounded the nine-metre wide circle of sand. The villagers had converted a rocky field on the volcanic mountainside into their own arena. They must really love their wrestling.
That morning Vito’s Uncle Ignacio had driven them into the Mount Teide National Park, negotiating the dusty roads that wound through the dramatic landscape with the sureness of a mountain goat. His home village would be much safer than Los Cristianos, he had told her. And Ash could understand, could she not, his wish to keep the Policia away from his family, his repair shop? Besides, his cousin, the village mayor, owed him a favour. She hadn’t much choice if she wanted the big man’s help, so reluctantly she had agreed.
When the villagers had poured out to greet the dust-covered truck, it was easy to identify the mayor—the resemblance between the two men was obvious. Ignacio bounded down from his truck, and they greeted each other like … well, like cousins. After laughter, hearty handshakes, and much backslapping, they went into a huddle, their voices growing louder and more heated as time passed. The local accent was strong, and they spoke so fast Ash had trouble making out what they were saying. The word Policia seemed to feature a lot, though.
“They always argue,” Vito told her. “But in the end he will agree. He always does.
” His eyes sparkled. “And do not worry, Blade. My uncle says I am to stay and look after you.”
“Thanks. For a moment I was scared.”
He shot her a mock scowl.
At last, the mayor nodded, and both men spat on their hands and shook to seal the deal.
“They will hide you from the police, señorita,” said Ignacio, joining Ash. “And now I must get back. I have that errand to run for you.”
He had agreed to take a message to Jemma. With Ash’s picture all over the news (to add insult to injury, the Canarian police were calling her a terrorist), contacting Jemma herself was out of the question. Ash would have left her out of it—Jemma had already gone out on enough of a limb—but she needed information. Now the passwords had been changed, she could no longer access the Organisation’s computers. But Jemma could, and she could also supply the photographs of Khaleb Abdusamad and Minyar al-Akhdar Ash needed if she was to get the hunt for them underway. Not that Ash held out much hope of apprehending the latter—in al-Akhdar’s shoes, she would have left the islands and handed over control to someone else. Someone like Abdusamad.
“I appreciate this, Ignacio.”
“My pleasure.” He grinned. “Besides,” he tousled his nephew’s hair, and a scowling Vito ducked out of reach, “chaperoning you will keep this one out of trouble for a while.”
Ignacio got into his truck, paused to light the ubiquitous cigarette, then roared off.
So here she was, stranded with Vito’s cheerful chattering presence and a group of villagers who regarded her with, at best, an awkward wariness. She couldn’t blame them. For all they knew she was a dangerous terrorist. But if she was going to stay here rather than give into the growing urge to simply set off walking down the mountainside, she had to change their attitude towards her.
“Here they come.” Vito’s voice was excited. Wrestling was big in Tenerife, he’d told her, and most villages held their own contests.
Two teams of twelve men took their places at the side of the circle. The watching villagers cheered, and the combatants smiled and waved in acknowledgement. Then the first pair of wrestlers stepped forward and bowed before approaching each other warily. Soon the air was thick with grunts and the thud of bare feet on sand as each man sought handholds on shirts and trousers and tried to throw his opponent to the ground.
“If they touch down with any body part other than their feet,” whispered Vito, “they lose the point.”
Ash added that to her growing store of knowledge. This kind of fighting, lucha Canaria, had been handed down from the Guanches—the people who had inhabited the Canaries before the Spanish came—apparently, but as she watched, she discerned similarities to Greek wrestling and Sumo and could appreciate the power and dexterity on display.
The final pair of combatants had just started their bout when she had an idea. “Would they let me wrestle?” she asked Vito.
He looked doubtful. “It is rarely done by women. And you are a foreigner.”
A huge thud—she felt the vibration through the bench—followed by a cheer made her look up in time to see the victorious wrestler helping up his beaten opponent.
Heads turned to regard Ash as she stood up. “I challenge the best of your wrestlers to fight me,” she called out, her voice carrying on the still evening air.
Murmurs of enquiry turned to disbelief and laughter as those who could speak English translated for their neighbours. The men looked sceptical, the women shocked or disapproving.
“Señorita.” Two benches to her left, the mayor had stood up and was now regarding her severely. “We will make allowances for the fact you are a stranger here. But please, do not mock our traditions.”
“I’m serious. I can beat your best man.” At least I hope so.
The wrestlers muttered to one another, their expressions reflecting amusement and scorn.
“What are you afraid of?”
A murmur of annoyance greeted Ash’s question, and the mayor called for quiet. “Don’t be foolish, señorita. You could get hurt, break bones—”
“I’ll take my chances.”
“The Englishwoman shows courage. I say, let her fight,” called out one of the younger village women. Ash nodded her thanks.
“But if any harm comes to her,” objected another, “Ignacio will be angry with us.” All eyes turned to Vito, but the boy merely shrugged.
“All this talking is getting us nowhere,” shouted a wrestler wearing a blue belt (the highest grade, Vito whispered). “I’m willing to fight her. I won’t hurt her … much.”
Ash arched an eyebrow at him but said nothing.
An expectant silence fell, and the mayor regarded the other villagers helplessly. “We will put it to the vote,” he said at last. “All those who think we should let Señorita Blade fight Andres, raise your hands.” A forest of hands went up. “And all those who think we shouldn’t?”
This time, only a few hands rose. The outcome was clear.
“Very well.” He gestured Ash forward, then resumed his seat.
She made her way into the sand-strewn ring. Seconds later, Vito was hurrying after her.
“Are you sure you know what you are doing, Blade?” he called from the edge of the circle.
“No.” She grinned at him. “But when has that ever stopped me? Stay there.”
To a chorus of encouraging shouts, the wrestler with the blue belt swaggered forward and took up a position opposite Ash. Cracking his knuckles, Andres gave her a ferocious grin, which she returned in kind. He blinked at that, then bowed, and Ash bowed in her turn. She took a breath and exhaled, centring herself, then advanced.
Andres was shorter than her by a head, but made up for it in width. In spite of his bulk, he was surprisingly hard to grab hold of. She wished she could say the same of herself. But before she could get his measure, hands the size of hams grabbed her, eliciting a collective intake of breath from the spectators. If she hadn’t managed to twist free, using instincts honed by years as a cat burglar and secret agent, the match would have ended there and then.
As Ash danced out of reach and got her breath back, two things became clear. By tomorrow she would be covered in yet more bruises. And it would be much quicker and easier just to kill him—restraining her instincts and sticking to the rules was going to be hell.
“Had enough?” Andres grinned.
“No.”
This time Ash approached him with more caution, but his fancy footwork was still such that he almost had her over twice. With a stifled curse, she refocused her attention. In the end, it was sheer luck that gave her the bout. By now, Andres was sweating heavily, and a droplet of perspiration flew into his eye and made him blink to clear it. While he was distracted, she grabbed the coarse linen of his trousers, pivoted him over her hip, and downed him like a felled tree trunk. There was a brief stunned silence, then the audience clapped and whistled.
Ash held out her hand to help up her defeated opponent, but he ignored it. For a moment she thought he was snubbing her, then she registered his pained grimace, ashen face, and the odd position of his right arm, and put it together. He wasn’t just winded.
The spectators were just beginning to realise Andres was hurt when Ash rolled him groaning onto his back, and grabbed his right arm. She had an anxious moment, manoeuvring the shoulder joint back into its socket, but succeeded in the end. It clicked home and his grimace eased. He turned on her a gaze filled with gratitude. This time, when she held out a hand, he let her help him up.
“Keep that as immobile as you can for a couple of days,” she advised Andres, as his friends came to help him from the ring.
He massaged his shoulder, his expression rueful. “Gracias, Señor—”
The rest of his reply was lost as the other wrestlers lifted Ash onto their broad shoulders and carried her round the ringin a victory lap with a beaming Vito trotting after her.
Later, in the cosy inn, people crowded round Ash, eager to buy her mugs of cerveza and inform her
that Andres had never been beaten before, and certainly not by a woman. She smiled, sipped the light lager, and reflected on her day. She was battered and bruised and would probably feel like an old crock tomorrow, but the gamble had been worth it. The villagers’ wariness had disappeared as though it had never been.
Chapter 10
THE HEART MONITOR alarm had been shrilling for so long, Jemma no longer heard it. With disbelief and the beginnings of despair she regarded the motionless figure beneath her. Blade’s skin was waxy and abnormally pale, her striking blue eyes hidden beneath slack eyelids.
No point in continuing the cardiac compressions and mouth to mouth. She sat back on her heels and bowed her head. The moment I injected her with that drug, I signed her death warrant.
Legs stiff from kneeling for so long, Jemma climbed down from the interrogation table and stood beside it. She brushed a strand of dark hair from the cold forehead …
With a gasp Jemma awoke and sat up. For a moment she wondered where she was. Then her gaze alighted on the open suitcase from which spilled her clothes, the guidebook she had bought at the airport that afternoon, and the photo of Blade flaunting her fish.
She peered at the alarm clock: 1.56 a.m. Already the vivid dream was fading, the distress she had felt at Blade’s “death” receding. With a sigh of relief, she plumped up her pillows and lay back, her pulse returning to normal.
That’s what happens when you eat foreign food just before you go to bed.
Ramirez and his wife had insisted on cooking once more for Jemma and Remington. Sopa de pescado turned out to be a mixture of fish and seafood; then had come ice cream and bienmesabe, a confection of almonds, sugar, honey, eggs, lemon, and sponge cake. It had all been delicious … and much too rich for her blood.
A shaft of moonlight found its way between her shutters. She gazed at it, unseeing, wondering where Blade was and what she was doing. Sleeping soundly, she hoped.
The toughest thing about this assignment, she decided, wasn’t the running around that Remington made her do all day. It was that her instincts were so at odds with his, and there was no one else she could turn to. During training, she had frequently discussed problems with her classmates. They had bounced ideas for a mission off one another, talking utter rubbish a lot of the time, true, but there was safety in numbers, and if one student made a slip, another would catch it. And if they didn’t, well, there was always Mac on hand to tear them off a strip but also to show them how to get the job done. This mission was real, and if it went wrong people could get killed. She had never felt more alone. And Blade must feel even more so.
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