Licensed to Spy

by Barbara Davies

  The receptionist checked her computer screen. “Ah, yes. Standard room, double occupancy—is that correct?” She glanced up.

  Jemma gave Ash a quizzical look. “We’re sharing a room?”

  Ash sighed. “Evidently.”

  “Sign here, please.” The receptionist slid the register across the counter, and they filled in their details, Jemma hesitating just a fraction before signing her alias.

  “Breakfast is included at no extra charge. Your room key.” The receptionist held out a tiny key attached to a bulky key ring. Ash took it and memorised their room number.

  “Your room is on the second floor. The stairs are over there.” The receptionist gestured and smiled, then grabbed her rubber gloves and disappeared back to where she had come from.

  Jemma picked up her suitcase. “No porter?” she asked, dismayed, and with good reason—her idea of packing light had turned out to be different from Ash’s.

  “Doesn’t look like it.”

  Ash headed towards the stairs.

  The receptionist reappeared looking even more harried. “Excuse me. I forgot. There is a letter for you, Senhorita Kenyon.”

  Ash retraced her steps and accepted the anonymous-looking white envelope. “Thank you.”

  “Enjoy your stay at the Hotel Almirante.” With a distracted smile, the receptionist disappeared into the depths once more.

  BY THE TIME they had reached the second floor, Jemma was swapping her case from hand to hand every five seconds.

  “Nearly there,” encouraged Ash, spotting room 203.

  She slipped the key into the lock. The door opened onto a clean room, but that was all that could be said in its favour. The twin beds were lumpy, and the furniture worn. The refrigerator was empty and the air conditioning noisy. Sweat or sleep. Wonderful.

  “Hey, there’s a bidet,” called Jemma, who had disappeared into the bathroom. Minutes later came the sound of a toilet flushing, and she reappeared. She flopped onto the twin bed nearest the window and looked out at what should have been a spectacular view of the Baía de Guanabara but was instead another hotel. “Who’s the letter from?”

  Ash pulled the envelope from her jean pocket and inspected it. “Delivered by hand.” She ripped it open and studied the letter and small passport photo it contained. “It’s from Celio Pacheco.”

  “What?”

  “Not what,” corrected Ash. “Who. He’s our man in Rio. He’ll meet us at five, at the restaurant on the Morro da Urca.” She showed Jemma the photo. The handsome young man was wearing the smug expression of one who believes he’s God’s gift to women. He would almost certainly attempt to chat up Jemma.

  “The restaurant on the what?” Jemma interrupted Ash’s reverie.

  “The Morro da Urca. It’s the first cable car stop on the way to the Pão de Açúcar.”

  Jemma grimaced. “And where’s that?”

  Ash had been obscure on purpose, drawing out the suspense, because she suspected Jemma would like her eventual answer. “The Sugar Loaf.”

  Jemma punched the air. “Yes. I’ve always wanted to go there.” She paused. “As long as no seven-foot-tall man with lethal steel teeth follows us onto the cable car.”

  Ash laughed. “That only happens to James Bond. Anyway, as far as anyone knows, we’re just two businesswomen on the loose in Rio. What could be more natural than that we visit one of the most famous landmarks in the world?”

  Chapter 2

  JEMMA SURVEYED THEIR surroundings and tried not to wince. She hoped the chef had better taste than the restaurant’s decorator. The fact that the little Churrascaria was just over the road from their hotel had swayed her decision. Now she was regretting it.

  “It’s called gaúcho kitsch.” Ash’s eyes twinkled.

  So much for hiding my opinion of the decor. Her stomach gave a loud rumble and she flushed.

  “I’m hungry too,” said Ash. “We’ve been up three hours longer than everyone else, remember?”

  “Yeah.” Jemma fiddled with her cutlery. “But I’m still not sure about eating Brazilian food on my first day. Maybe we should have gone to that Italian place after all.”

  “Don’t be silly. You won’t catch a stomach bug here.”

  Ash caught sight of something over Jemma’s shoulder, and her face lit up. Curious, Jemma twisted in her seat, and was met by a waitress carrying a tray. An appetising aroma brought saliva flooding to her mouth.

  “Ooh!”

  The smiling woman set a huge plate in front of her, then moved round to Ash’s side of the table.

  The skewers on Jemma’s plate were packed with barbecued beef and pork, onions, and something pale yellow called mandioca, which tasted a little like potato. She needed no encouragement to dig in. When she was stuffed to the gills, she leaned back and saw that Ash was regarding her with amusement.

  “I may never move again.”

  “Oh yes you will.” Ash laughed. “We’ve got several hours to fill before we meet Celio, so we might as well walk to the Sugar Loaf.”

  “Walk?” Jemma groaned.

  “The best way to see the sights is on foot,” said Ash, unyielding.

  They paid for lunch, then Jemma let herself be led out into the brilliant sunshine. As she put on her sunglasses, she was glad she had plastered herself with sunblock back at the hotel.

  “First things first.” Ash headed for a shop that sold cheap clothes, hats, and other goods. A few minutes later, they were both kitted out in broad brimmed sunhats, and Ash had also bought herself a cheap plastic watch that wouldn’t break her heart if it were stolen. (They had left their expensive watches back at the hotel.)

  They set off towards the bay, and were soon strolling through a huge park. Sculpted bushes, flowering trees, and groups of mature, towering palms dotted the landscaped lawns and grassy mounds.

  “Would you believe this is reclaimed land?” asked Ash.

  Jemma glanced around in surprise. “Really?”

  “It was once part of the bay.”

  She could see the Baía de Guanabara itself now, its blue water dazzling in the sunshine. And on the other side of it, to the southeast, was the distinctive dome of the Sugar Loaf. “Wow!” was all she could manage.

  “Shall we get out of the sun for a bit?” asked Ash.

  She led Jemma towards a museum-like building. It would at least be cool in there, thought Jemma. Inside, she stared at her surroundings in disbelief, amazed that someone had devoted a whole museum to Carmen Miranda.

  Ash returned with their entrance tickets.

  Jemma pasted on a mock scowl, put her hands on her hips, and tapped her foot. “So you think I’d look good wearing a fruit basket on my head?”

  Ash grinned. “Wouldn’t everybody?”

  Jemma rolled her eyes and snatched one of the tickets. “Give me that.”

  There were over three-thousand pieces in the museum’s collection, apparently. Performance and dress clothes, accessories, shoes, photos, advertising material, caricatures, videos, contracts, scripts, and records … It was too much, and by unspoken agreement, they skimmed round the exhibits at breakneck speed, bought a couple of postcards, and exited into the sunshine again.

  “After that, I need a sit down,” said Jemma.

  “Me too.” Ash led her to a stall selling iced drinks and fruit juices. They bought Cokes and sprawled on the grass, sipping in silence and fanning their faces with their hats.

  “So, how much time have we got left to kill?” asked Jemma after a while.

  Ash glanced at the cheap watch. “Two hours. Enjoy it while it lasts. Once we know what Abdusamad and al-Akhdar are up to, it could get hectic.”

  Jemma sighed. Why couldn’t she and Ash just be here on holiday together?

  Two women joggers were approaching along the trail, and Ash appraised the blonde one, took off her sunglasses, and flashed her a charming smile. Both joggers threw her an interested glance, then giggled at each other, and ran on.

  Oh please! Ash was
much easier on the eye than those bronzed bimbos. Jemma leaned back against a tree, pulled the brim of her sunhat over her eyes, and let her eyelids flutter closed. “Wake me when you’re ready to move.”

  “Sure,” came Ash’s lazy drawl.

  “WHAT THE—? GET off me, you little—” Crunch.

  Ash’s exclamation didn’t faze Jemma one bit. After all, Ash was present in her dream—a very nice dream, in which they were about to share their first kiss. Damn! She could feel herself surfacing and willed herself back under.

  “Oof!” That didn’t sound like Ash. Thud. If only the scuffling wasn’t quite so loud. How was a girl supposed to sleep?

  Scuffling?

  Jemma pushed back the brim of her sunhat and sat up. A youth in blue jeans and a red T-shirt was limping away across the park, one hand pressed to his bloody nose, the other clutching his groin. Ash stood watching him, her hands on her hips.

  “Tried to steal my passport.” She turned to Jemma and held out a hand. “Come on. It’s time to go.”

  Jemma let herself be pulled to her feet and tried to meet Ash’s gaze as if nothing had happened. The dream kiss had seemed inevitable, natural, but now she felt less sure. Guess that answers Gary’s question. I do fancy her. She bought herself time by brushing grass and bark off her clothes and pushing her sunglasses higher up her nose.

  “Come on. We’re late.” Ash set off towards the strip of beach, and Jemma hurried after her, wishing her legs were as long.

  It was odd how that youth had got close enough to Ash to even make the attempt on her passport, given Ash’s lethal and well-honed reflexes. He was lucky to have escaped far worse injury. Belatedly Ash’s words registered.

  “Late?” said Jemma. “But—”

  “I dozed off, okay?” Ash’s already tanned cheeks flushed a darker shade. “Must be jet lag.”

  “Oh.” Jemma hid a smile.

  They hurried along Botafogo beach, past workout stations where muscular men and women were sculpting their bodies into works of art.

  “Makes me tired just looking at them,” said Jemma.

  Ash scanned the main road that ran alongside, and her expression brightened. “That bus is going to the Sugar Loaf. Come on. We can catch it if we hurry.” She broke into a jog and a reluctant Jemma did likewise.

  They reached the stop with seconds to spare, boarded, and then hung on tight as the bus lurched into motion and picked up speed. Ash paid the collector sitting beside the turnstile enough for both their fares, and with shared glances of relief, they took their seats.

  A CABLE CAR was waiting at the station when they reached the Praça General Tibúrcio. Ash bought their tickets, and they boarded, then the doors slid closed with a clunk, and they began to ascend.

  Jemma scrutinised their six fellow passengers. Tourists, just like us, she decided. Well, perhaps not quite like us. After all, how many of them were dashing secret agents travelling incognito?

  Ash noticed her smile and raised an eyebrow. “What?”

  “I think I’m jetlagged too. My thoughts are all over the place.”

  “Hardly surprising. London, Santa Cruz, Rio, in just three days. You’ve been overdoing it a bit, you know.”

  “I know.” Jemma would have liked to spend longer than one night in Ash’s comfortable casa. Maybe when they had more time, when this assignment was over …

  Ash pressed her mouth to Jemma’s ear. “No sign of Jaws yet.” The touch of her breath sent a tingle down Jemma’s spine.

  “No, thank God.” She remembered she was supposed to be admiring the view. The bay was an intense blue, and Rio … Wow! The taxi driver had been right. From the cable car, the city looked beautiful.

  “It’s even better at night,” said Ash. “When the lights start to come on.”

  The car gave a violent jolt, and for an all too brief moment, Ash put her arm around Jemma, steadying her. Then the cable car trundled into the Morro da Urca stop, and with a loud clang, the securing arms dropped into place.

  As the doors slid open, Ash released her hold. “We’re here. Let’s see what Celio has got for us.”

  With a sigh Jemma followed Ash out onto the hill.

  THE ORGANISATION’S MAN in Rio was sitting in the restaurant, checking his watch. He looked younger and sulkier than in his photo, and the wind had tousled his hair. Ash and Jemma exchanged a glance then walked towards him.

  Celio’s eyes lit up when he saw them. “Oi, Senhoritas Kenyon and Blythe.”

  He gave them the traditional Brazilian greeting, and Ash returned his kisses to each cheek. Jemma was surprised when he bestowed an extra, rather bristly kiss on her. Three kisses were reserved for close friends. She narrowed her eyes at him but he merely returned her a bland smile.

  “Please.” He gestured, and they sat down.

  A waitress hurried to their table.

  Ash looked at Jemma. “Coffee okay?” She nodded. “Dois cafés,” said Ash, and the waitress trotted off to get them. Ash placed her hat on the table and ran a hand through her hair.

  Celio fixed his limpid brown gaze on Jemma. “Do you know how we Cariocas like our coffee? Strong as the devil, hot as hell, and sweet as love.”

  Ash snorted, and Jemma tried not to laugh. He must have realised they were both immune to his chat up routine, because he sighed and sat back. Their coffees arrived soon after. Jemma took a sip and grimaced, and without comment Ash handed her the sugar. She shovelled in enough until the coffee was drinkable.

  “Right,” said Ash, when the waitress had gone. “Enough chit-chat, Celio. Have you brought the parcel I asked for?”

  “Yes.”

  With his foot, he slid something towards them under the table. It brushed against Jemma’s leg and she looked down. A supermarket carrier bag. How classy. She reached in and felt the familiar outlines of the two Browning automatics London had sent them via diplomatic bag. Ash arched an eyebrow. Jemma nodded.

  “Ammo too?” asked Ash.

  “As requested,” said Celio.

  “Good.” Ash drummed her long fingers on the table top. “We’re going to need a car too. Something it’s easy to get spares for. Can you arrange that?”

  He gave her a thumbs-up. “Okay.”

  “Now. What news of Laurel and Hardy?” As Abdusamad was lean and al-Akhdar wasn’t, London’s choice of codenames had been obvious.

  “Mixed,” said Celio. “Yesterday they disappeared from Rio—”

  “What?” exclaimed Ash. “Both of them?”

  He raised a restraining hand. “—and reappeared in São Paulo.”

  Ash subsided, muttering, and Celio winked at Jemma. “Laurel has been mixing with petty criminals,” he continued. “Hardy has been spending time with a man named Mauro Pimentel.”

  He waited.

  Jemma took the bait. “Who is Pimentel?”

  “A Brazilian industrialist, very rich,” said Celio. “He manufactures chemicals.”

  Ash pursed her lips. “Now what would they want with chemicals?”

  Celio shrugged. “Unknown, but I am working on it. It could be they want Pimentel’s money. Lately, there has been a spate of robberies in Rio and São Paulo. Laurel and Hardy may have been doing some fundraising.”

  “For what?” asked Jemma.

  He flashed her an apologetic smile. “Again, unknown.”

  Ash looked out over the bay, her eyes distant.

  Jemma nudged her, and Ash blinked at her. “So what’s next? We go to São Paulo?”

  Ash nodded. “Can you book us into a hotel there, Celio?”

  “Tonight?” he asked.

  She thought for a moment then shook her head. “Tomorrow should be soon enough.” Her fingers resumed their drumming. “We’ll drive there.”

  A downward-bound cable car rumbled into the stop, and Celio glanced at it then back at them. “Is that all, senhoritas? If so, I’ll go and get started on the arrangements.”

  “That’s all,” said Ash. “Thanks, Celio.”

&nbs
p; With a respectful nod to Ash and a charming smile at Jemma, he stood up and headed towards the cable car. The last they saw of him, as it disappeared on its journey to the base station, he was waving goodbye.

  Jemma turned her attention to the Sugar Loaf. So near and yet so far. “Is that it, then?” She tried to hide her disappointment. “We go back to the hotel to pack?”

  Ash smiled. “Not likely. As we only have one night in Rio, we’re going to make the most of it.” She grabbed her sunhat and stood up. “Come on. I want to show you the most spectacular view in Rio.” As if on cue, an upward-bound cable car rumbled into the stop.

  Chapter 3

  JEMMA FLUNG HERSELF backwards onto the bed, covered her eyes with one forearm, and groaned, “I’m knackered.”

  Ash smiled. In spite of their hectic day, she felt restless rather than tired. Maybe it was anticipation about tomorrow’s drive to São Paulo. Which reminded her. Where the hell’s that car Celio was supposed to be getting us?

  The phone on the bedside table rang, startling Jemma, who lifted her arm and watched Ash pounce on the receiver. “Yes?”

  “Is that room 203?”

  Ash recognised the night receptionist’s voice. “Yes.”

  “A man has left something for you at the desk, senhorita. Will you collect it as soon as possible, please?”

  “I’ll be right down.” She slammed down the receiver and met Jemma’s interested gaze. “I think the car’s here.”

  “Oh, good. What sort is it?”

  “Don’t know. Want to come and find out?”

  “Okay.” With another groan, Jemma heaved herself up off the bed. “Why did you let me eat so much?”

  Ash shrugged. “I thought you were enjoying that filet mignon.”

  “Then I was.” Jemma held a hand to her stomach. “Now I’m not so sure.” She burped then blushed, the tips of her ears turning pink. “Sorry.”

  Ash laughed. “A walk will do you good.”

  “Bully.”

  She threw Jemma an indulgent glance. “You’re as lazy as Sam was.” Thinking about him was getting easier, she reflected.