Licensed to Spy

by Barbara Davies

  Thinking of her former instructor gave Jemma an idea. She checked the alarm clock again. England was in the same time zone as the Canaries, and he wouldn’t thank her for disturbing him at this hour. Still … The mobile phone was lying on her bedside table. She reached for it and called up a number from its memory.

  After a couple of rings, the receiver was picked up. “Yes?” croaked a man’s voice.

  “Mac?”

  “Who is this? How did you get this number?”

  “It’s Jemma Jacobs. I don’t know if you rememb—”

  “Of course I remember you. I remember all of my students.” He paused. “Should we scramble this, Jemma?”

  “Oh … yes.” Sheepishly, she keyed in the new code. A few seconds later, the white noise cleared, indicating Mac had done the same.

  “You still there?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Tenerife.”

  “All right for some. Are you in trouble?”

  “No. But Blade is.”

  “Blade?” He let out a gravelly chuckle. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “I’m serious,” said Jemma. “They think she’s gone over.”

  A long silence met that. “What do you think?”

  “That she’s been set up.”

  She could picture Mac’s craggy brows drawing together. “I see.” There was another long silence. “My influence is limited, Jemma. You should be speaking to your Section Head.”

  “I know, but it’s difficult. Mr. Remington—”

  “Remington? Ah.” His tone contained a wealth of meaning. “I thought you applied for Counter Intelligence.”

  “I did.” Jemma sighed. “So did everyone else. They were oversubscribed.”

  “I see.” There was another pause, and she could almost hear Mac thinking. “I’ll start putting out some feelers this end, but I don’t think much will come of it. To be honest, you’re in a much better position to help Blade than I am, Jemma.”

  “But—”

  “No, hear me out. Don’t underestimate yourself. You may not have much experience yet but you have good instincts and a good heart.”

  Jemma’s cheeks heated. “Thank you.”

  “Trust your instincts, Jemma. And trust Blade.”

  She waited for Mac to continue but he didn’t. “That’s all?”

  “Yes.” He was smiling; she could hear it in his voice.

  “Oh. Okay.” Surprisingly, his words had helped. Just knowing someone else shared her opinion of Blade made her feel much better, she realised. “Thanks, Mac,” she said, meaning it.

  “My pleasure.” Then came a loud yawn. “Now for Pete’s sake, let me get some sleep, will you? It’s two in the bloody morning!”

  WHEN JEMMA WOKE again, it was seven a.m, and the sun was shining in her eyes. Over a bowl of cornflakes (she couldn’t face the full English breakfast her boss was having) she listened as Remington outlined his plans for the day.

  Blade might not have left Tenerife by plane, but there were other forms of transport. Santa Cruz was a major port, with frequent ferries and hydrofoils to La Gomera and the other islands, and, more importantly, weekly sailings to the Spanish mainland. A ship had sailed for Cadiz only yesterday, in fact, and if Blade was on board, they would need to arrange a reception committee for her. While he looked into the matter, Jemma must do the same for Los Cristianos, he informed her.

  Jemma thought their chances of finding Blade were slim. She would have disguised herself or chartered a private boat well away from the busy tourist routes, or both. But what did Jemma know? With a shrug, she acquiesced.

  Remington finished his coffee and headed off with his police escort. Jemma’s own escort would be a few minutes late, he had informed her, so she grabbed her sunglasses and went outside to soak up some sunshine while she waited.

  A big man with a walrus moustache was walking along the pavement towards her. She stood to one side so he could pass. Even so, he managed to bump into her, his hand brushing over her backside as he did so.

  “Hey!” She jumped back. “Watch it.”

  “Perdóneme.” An unrepentant grin curled the corners of his mouth, and he continued on his way whistling.

  “Pervert,” she muttered, glaring after him. He was just disappearing around a corner when with a screech of brakes a police car drew up alongside her, its rear door popping open.

  “Buenos dias, Señorita Jacobs,” came a familiar voice, and she turned to see Carlos and Pablo, resplendent in freshly pressed uniforms.

  “Buenos dias.” She climbed in and had barely fastened her seatbelt before they sped away.

  The route to Los Cristianos was simplicity itself—straight down the motorway. From a distance, it hadn’t looked promising—modern high-rise hotels set against a backdrop of barren, dust-dry mountain slopes—but as they sped through its city streets and past church squares towards the old harbour, Jemma was relieved to see that it acquired a more human face.

  They stopped by a promenade, the police car attracting nervous glances from tourists and locals alike. This seemed to be a favourite spot to watch harbour goings-on. There were certainly plenty of those, thought Jemma, watching a fishing boat unloading its catch, several pleasure craft buzzing to and fro, an ocean-going yacht preparing for departure, and a hydrofoil bringing tourists from one of the islands.

  For the next couple of hours, though, she had little time to enjoy the view. She was too busy showing harbour masters and boat captains the photo of Blade, with Carlos and Pablo taking turns to translate her questions into Spanish where necessary.

  Jemma had noticed a fat old woman in a flower print dress taking an interest, and when the woman interrupted to insist that she had seen the person in the photograph, her heart sank. The sighting must be authentic—how many other six-foot tall, dark-haired women could shin up balconies and over rooftops while helping a boy thief to escape—but the encounter had happened before Blade’s interrogation, and so was irrelevant. Carlos and Pablo didn’t bother to hide their disappointment but Jemma’s hammering pulse returned to normal.

  At midday they stopped for refreshments, and in a tapas café on the promenade they settled down to a snack of olives, herring fillets, smoked ham, and potato salad with herbs. The two policemen drank café solos, but Jemma opted for freshly squeezed orange juice. They had picked a window seat, so as she drank she gazed out at a glass-bottomed boat taking tourists to see the whales and dolphins. She wished she was here on holiday too, and her mood dipped. It rose again, though, when it occurred to her that at least she wasn’t back in the dingy London office with poor Jonathan, surrounded by manuals.

  Her bladder made its presence known, so she stood up and wiped hands made moist by the chilled glass on her jeans. She felt the outline of something in her back pocket and froze.

  “Everything all right, Señorita Jacobs?” asked Carlos.

  Jemma realised she was frowning and forced a smile. “Fine. I just have to go to the … you know.” She gestured to the door marked servicios, which was at the back of the café.

  He nodded and resumed his conversation with Pablo. They were discussing something called lucha Canaria. From their enthusiastic hand gestures and raised voices, she guessed it was a sport of some kind. Good. That ought to keep them occupied.

  As she walked towards the toilets, her mind raced. The big man with the walrus moustache hadn’t been copping a quick feel after all but had slipped something in her pocket. What? And why?

  She closed and bolted the door marked Señoras behind her, then pulled out what turned out to be a folded piece of paper with writing on it. As she smoothed out the creases, she recognised the bold, flowing script. Blade!

  If there were any other way, I wouldn’t involve you. But I need photos of Abdusamad and al-Akhdar by tonight. Hide them in a newspaper, and leave them in: the Bar el Aperitivo, rear corner table, nearest the toilets.

  The final sentence had been wr
itten in a different, much less flamboyant hand—Blade’s contact must have chosen the drop point himself. Jemma recognised the name of the bar. It was just down the road from the Field Office. By tonight. I need to get back to Santa Cruz now!

  She repocketed the note, used the toilet, and washed her hands, staring into the mirror above the basin while she did so. Her nose was peeling, she noted absently. Have to get a higher factor sunblock.

  The drop point was in Santa Cruz but that didn’t mean Blade was too, just that she had tried to make things easy for Jemma. Well, easier. If Remington caught her slipping information to a traitor … The word brought her up short. Suppose Blade was in league with the terrorists. No. Mac had told her to trust Blade, and she did. And what was more, from the note, it looked like Blade trusted her.

  A warm glow resulted from that idea, and she gave her reflection a wry smile. When it came to Blade, she had always had a bad case of hero worship. It had been the source of much good-natured ribbing at training school.

  But she couldn’t stay locked in the toilet all day, mooning over Blade. Carlos and Pablo would be wondering where she had got to. It was time to rejoin them. Time also to somehow convince them that she had done all she could in Los Cristianos and that Remington needed her help back in Santa Cruz.

  With a last glance at the mirror, she turned and unlocked the door.

  Chapter 11

  ASH TRIED TO concentrate on the book Vito had lent her. She had read You Only Live Twice before, of course, but never in a foreign language. It was slow going but it kept her mind off things, and was helping her to brush up her Spanish.

  The photos Jemma had provided had been copied and distributed and dozens of pairs of keen eyes were now keeping watch for the suspects throughout Los Cristianos. Vito’s uncle had also set up round-the-clock surveillance on the waterfront warehouse. If the Libyans showed, they would know it, he assured her. But the waiting was driving her nuts.

  Bond would never have stayed put like this. He would have disguised himself as a peasant and headed for where the action was. Now there’s an idea.

  The door opened, and Vito popped his head round. “Uncle just telephoned.” There was no mobile phone signal in the mountains, so Ignacio had arranged to use the mayor’s landline.

  Ash got to her feet at once. “At last. Let me talk to h—”

  “He rang off. But I have a message for you.” Brow creased, the boy recited from memory. “A delivery truck has drawn up outside the warehouse. Three men are unloading crates labelled ‘machine parts’ and carrying them inside. The man in charge is Khaleb Abdusamad.”

  Yes! “Did Ignacio get a look inside the crates?”

  Vito grinned. “He said you would ask that. No. He will look later, when all is quiet.”

  “I need to be there,” muttered Ash. She was pacing up and down, she realised, and halted. “Is there some way I can get back to Los Cristianos?”

  “Is that wise? Your picture—”

  She waved aside his objection. “I’ll change my appearance.”

  His face lit up. “Will you wear a wig and make your eyes look Oriental?”

  She folded her arms and looked at him. He grinned, unrepentant. “Nothing so elaborate. Most people don’t scrutinise strangers thoroughly. They’re looking for a woman, so I shall dress like a man, and walk like one too.”

  She considered each of the male villagers in turn, looking for one whose build resembled hers. Old Bartolo might do. He was a bit stooped, but he had once been about her height. She could do with those brown contact lenses but they were back in her flat in Albert Terrace.

  She became aware that Vito was watching her. “Are you still here?” He blinked at her, confused. “I need transport out of here. Think you can sweet talk the Mayor into providing it?” She raised an eyebrow.

  “Now?” he asked.

  “No time like the present.”

  “Okay. But can I come with you?”

  “No.”

  “I can help—”

  “I said no, Vito. It’s too dangerous. Besides, you might blow my cover.”

  He scowled at her and looked mutinous, but in the end gave in. While he was sorting out transport, Ash went in search of Bartolo. As she had hoped, the old man had a suit he no longer wore stored away in a chest, and for three ten-thousand-peseta notes, he was willing to let her have it.

  THE BANANA LORRY dropped Ash in the red-light district and disappeared into the dusk. As she strode towards Los Cristianos’ waterfront, she shoved her hands in her pockets, put her shoulders back, and tried to walk like a man. She was glad that twilight would make it harder for people to penetrate her disguise. Glad also that she’d be rid of it soon—Bartolo’s suit was itchy and reeked of mothballs and, with her hair tucked up inside it, his cap was too tight.

  “¿Quieres un casquete?” came a woman’s voice from a doorway across the street.

  “Estoy ocupado,” called Ash, lowering her voice’s register and making it as gruff as possible.

  The scantily clad woman who had issued the lewd invitation shrugged and turned away. So far, so good. Keeping her pace steady and declining invitations from three more prostitutes, Ash strode on.

  She was relieved to reach her destination: the building opposite the warehouse. She mounted the stairs to the second floor flat where Ignacio had set up his observation post and frowned when she saw no guard. She was about to knock, when she heard raised voices. One was Ignacio’s; the others she didn’t recognise.

  She pushed open the door, stepped into a blue cigarette haze, and froze. Two pistols were aimed at her heart and one wicked-looking knife was poised for throwing.

  “Nice to see you too,” she said dryly.

  “Blade?” Ignacio’s scowl changed to a smile.

  She took off her cap and ran a hand through her hair.

  “I thought you were a man.” He put away his Super Star automatic and gestured to the others to put their weapons away too.

  “That was the intention.” Ash discarded the cap on the table, next to the empty plastic cups and doughnut cartons. She took a seat and looked at Ignacio. “What were you arguing about?” His expression changed, and her heart sank. “The consignment’s gone, hasn’t it?”

  He nodded. “I’m sorry, señorita.” He pulled out a packet of cigarettes and offered her one. She shook her head. “The crates were empty. The Libyans must have transferred the contents elsewhere.” He sucked in a lungful of smoke. “But it wasn’t a complete waste of time.” He let the smoke out. “Guido, show Blade what you found.”

  Guido was the skinny man who looked like a ferret. The object he handed Ash looked like a small lump of Plasticine, but greasy to the touch. She held it to her nose. Barely any odour.

  “Semtex,” she murmured.

  Guido nodded. “It was in the corner of a crate.”

  “Presumably they have detonators and timers too.”

  “That would be logical,” said Ignacio.

  Ash chewed her lower lip. “So where is the Semtex now?”

  “That is what we were … discussing when you came in.” Ignacio gestured at the man he had yet to introduce. He was dark and stocky, and a crescent-shaped scar marred one cheek. “Conrado thinks it was aboard a boat that left here an hour ago.”

  Ash frowned. It was or it wasn’t, surely? “Is there some doubt?”

  “No,” said Conrado, giving Ignacio a hard glance. “No doubt.”

  “Any idea where the boat was heading?”

  “One of the islands.” Ignacio grimaced. “Unfortunately, we do not know which one.”

  “Do not worry, señorita,” said Conrado. “I recognised the captain. When he returns,” his smile became menacing, “I will ask Captain Aznar where he took his cargo.”

  “Oh no you won’t,” said Ash, giving Conrado a menacing smile of her own. “I will.”

  IT WAS LUCKY they’d known the captain’s identity, reflected Ash, eyeing the sweating man standing in front of her. If they had
n’t, Aznar would be dead.

  Following her instructions, Ignacio and his men had focused on the roads near the waterfront. It didn’t take them long to locate Aznar’s car. Safely removing the Semtex hidden inside the engine took Ash a little longer. When Aznar stepped ashore, Ignacio’s men grabbed him and brought him to the flat opposite the warehouse.

  What the greedy fool had failed to take into account was that dealing with terrorists was like dealing with the Devil. Ash took grim pleasure in telling him of his narrow escape and showing him the plastic explosive that had been primed to detonate when he keyed the ignition. The peaked cap crushed between his shaking hands would never be the same again.

  Her strategy had been to terrify him, and it worked. Offered Ignacio’s protection, he was only too eager to spill the beans. “La Palma,” he stammered. “I took them to Santa Cruz de la Palma.”

  Ash studied him. “You’re certain you saw them unload the cargo there?”

  “Si, señorita. On the waterfront. There was a truck waiting.”

  She leaned forward. “Did you get a look inside the boxes?”

  “No.” He gave her a fearful glance.

  “Pity.” She drummed her fingers on the table. “Did you listen to their conversation, overhear any names?”

  Aznar shook his head. “They were not speaking Spanish—I could not understand. And no, señorita, there were no names.”

  Damn. “Did you see either of these men?” She pushed aside a coffee cup and slid the photos of Abdusamad and al-Akhdar across the table. Aznar regarded them with a frown.