Licensed to Spy

by Barbara Davies

“Am I?” asked Jemma.

  Ash nodded and opened the door.

  “Is that good or bad?”

  “I’ll let you know.”

  They headed downstairs to reception, where the item left for her proved to be a bulky envelope. Inside it was a set of car keys. While Ash read the accompanying note, Jemma examined them.

  “Volkswagen,” said Jemma.

  Hoping it was one of the sleeker, sportier models, Ash took the keys back.

  Outside, the cool night air was pleasant after the heat of the day. Ash reread the note. “It’s green and parked down the road a bit, according to this. I’ve got the registration number.” She scanned the number plates of the vehicles across the road, and her heart sank. “That one.” She pointed and walked towards it.

  Jemma followed her. She was trying not to laugh. “How come James Bond gets Aston Martins, and you get two-door Volkswagen Gols?”

  “Yeah,” grumbled Ash, sliding the key into the lock and opening the driver’s door. “How come?” She reached inside the glove compartment and found the papers Celio had said would be there. “Still, spares should be a doddle, and that’s the important thing. Right?”

  “Right.” Jemma didn’t sound convinced.

  Ash slid into the driver’s seat and looked up at her. “Want to come for a test drive?”

  Jemma shook her head. “I’m tired. If it’s all right with you, I think I’ll go to bed.”

  “Good idea.” To be truthful, she was a little relieved. Being in Jemma’s company was straining her self-control. Ash found herself wanting to touch her, to stroke the fine fair hairs on her forearms … It hadn’t been this bad in Tenerife, she mused. Something had changed. Or maybe she was just still jetlagged.

  She checked her watch. Nine-thirty. “I’ll be back before midnight.”

  “Okay. See you then.”

  Ash watched Jemma walk back towards the hotel, found herself admiring the way she moved, and gave herself a mental slap. She shoved the car seat back as far as it would go (that was the trouble with being tall) and experimented with the various switches. Satisfied she knew all she needed to, she put on her seat belt and turned on the ignition. The engine sounded a bit rough, but at least it went. She pulled out into the traffic.

  Out of habit, she headed for the parts of Rio that were familiar—Copacabana and Ipanema. A spot of girl-watching, maybe even girl-catching would be a pleasant diversion. As she drove along the Avenida Atlantica, she surveyed the laughing Cariocas and tourists intent on enjoying the nightlife. This scene needs music. She tuned the radio to a station playing bossa novas. Perfect.

  At the end of the Copacabana beach, she bore right, then right again, ending up on the Avenida Viera Souto, which ran alongside Ipanema’s beach. Tonight, there were plenty of leggy Ipanema women to be had (Ash was an expert at judging availability), but her heart wasn’t in it. Sex with a beautiful stranger had lost its allure. Perhaps I am tired after all.

  Intending to call it a night and head back to the hotel, she took the next right. Half way along the road, her surroundings began to seem familiar. Puzzled, she slowed the Volkswagen to a crawl while she got her bearings. Ah. Wasn’t this the Rua Teixeira de Melo? Which meant the Alegria Café should be just about … here.

  Ash pulled up outside the brightly lit bar cum café, smiling at the memories it evoked, in particular those concerning a certain voluptuous Carioca woman. Four years ago, she and Sam had come to Rio to recover from a strenuous assignment. While he found his own amusement, she checked out Rio’s gay scene and came upon the little women-friendly bar.

  Giseli hadn’t been Ash’s usual type. She was ten years older, her hair and eyes were both brown, and her figure might politely be called generous. But there was a vivacity to her, a frank carnality Ash found irresistible. Giseli had spotted Ash standing by the bar and made a play for her. By the end of the evening, she had won her too.

  Ash smiled, remembering their brief time together, much of it spent inside a motel room. It had been very pleasurable, and she had learned a few new techniques. Then her holiday drew to a close, and, as they had known it must, their relationship ended. There had been no recriminations though. They had parted as friends.

  She realised she would like to see Giseli again. Perhaps it was coincidence, or perhaps her subconscious had brought her to Giseli’s favourite watering hole. Whatever the reason, Ash parked the car under a streetlight, locked it, and headed for the Alegria.

  The sounds of Acid House grew louder as Ash pushed open the outer door. It could have been worse, she saw from a poster—it could have been Disco night. Opening the inner door released a blast of warm air smelling of perfume, alcohol, smoke, and sweat. The place smells just the same. Interested looks followed her as she made her way through the heaving female throng, but she ignored them. What were the odds Giseli would be in tonight? And what were the odds she would still be the person Ash remembered? They were both four years older. A lot could have happened …

  She scanned the drinks list until the busy bartender noticed her and raised an eyebrow. “Um Camouflage,” she said, deciding to try something she hadn’t had before. Then a tap on her shoulder startled her, and she turned and found herself looking down into familiar, warm brown eyes.

  “Blade. I thought it was you.”

  Ash returned the delighted smile. “Giseli. How are you?” There were a few more fine lines around Giseli’s eyes and mouth, but other than that she hadn’t changed at all.

  “Well, very well. And you?”

  Some throat-clearing from behind proved to be the crop-haired bartender. Ash apologised for keeping her waiting, paid, and carried her drink to an empty table. After making her excuses to her friends, Giseli joined her. They sat on hard chairs and regarded each other.

  “How long are you in Rio this time?”

  “Just tonight.” Ash tasted her drink and decided adulterating whiskey with coconut water was not the greatest idea anyone had ever had.

  “One night?” Giseli looked outraged.

  Ash felt embarrassed. “It was going to be longer but—”

  “I see. Still, one night is better than none.” Giseli sipped her beer and thought for a moment. “Your friend. What was his name? Ah, yes. Sam. He is with you?”

  “Sam’s dead,” said Ash quietly. “He was killed last year.”

  Giseli laid a tanned hand on her arm. “Sinto muito.” Her sadness was genuine. “Such a pleasant young man. You must miss him.”

  Ash regarded her hands. “I do.”

  They were silent for a moment then … “So.” Giseli’s change of tone indicated a change of topic, and Ash looked up. “You are here alone?”

  “Er, no. I have a new partner. Her name is Jemma. She’s at the hotel. We only arrived today so she was tired.” Ash shifted in her seat.

  Giseli gave her a penetrating look. “Is she pretty, this Jemma of yours?”

  Of mine? “Yes, she is.”

  “Nice figure?” Giseli made an hourglass shape with her hands. “Ripe, luscious?”

  Thinking of Jemma in those terms brought a rush of heat to Ash’s cheeks. She took another gulp of her drink then wished she hadn’t. “Well, yes. But …” She frowned. “Giseli, what’s all this got to do with anyth—”

  Giseli’s full-throated laughter interrupted her, and from all around the bar heads turned towards them. “Everything, my friend. Oh, everything. A pretty woman is in your hotel room, yet you are here with me.” She squeezed Ash’s arm. “You are on edge, all wound up, yes?”

  Ash regarded her ruefully. She had forgotten how perceptive Giseli could be. “Yes.”

  Giseli finished her beer and stood up. “Drink up.”

  Ash blinked at her. “But—”

  Giseli put her hands on her hips. “We have only one night, Blade. Are you going to sit here, wasting precious time?”

  Throat suddenly dry, Ash gulped down what remained of her Camouflage. Then she stood up and followed Giseli.

 
; GISELI BLEW ASH a kiss, gave her a little wave, and disappeared inside the apartment block. For a long moment, Ash regarded the space she had occupied, then she checked her watch. Just after midnight. Shit! If Jemma was awake, she’d be worried.

  Ash put the Gol in gear and headed back towards the Flamengo district and the Hotel Almirante. She hadn’t meant to stay out this long, but time had got away from her. Giseli had taken her to a motel room, removed Ash’s clothes, and pushed her down onto the circular vibra-bed. She had started with a light massage then moved on to more carnal activities that left them both feeling boneless and pleased with themselves. Ash yawned and thought longingly of her bed.

  The same parking spot outside the Hotel Almirante was still vacant. She parked, turned off the ignition, and got out. Just as another, larger yawn overtook her, something struck her left shoulder hard from behind. Numbness was followed by stabbing pain.

  Her instincts kicked in, and a surge of adrenaline banished her tiredness.Pivoting, she rammed the heel of her right hand into the bridge of the mugger’s nose. He toppled backwards, dead before he hit the ground. She frowned down at him and at the blood-stained knife lying next to his out-flung hand, and then, with a wince, explored the back of her shoulder. Her fingers came away sticky with something that looked black in the lamplight. Blood.

  The wound was bad, Ash realised, but not life threatening. The thick strap of her shoulder holster must have turned the blade so it sliced through muscle rather than nerves or an artery. She wiped her fingers on her jeans and stooped to remove the man’s ski mask. Two more men, also wearing masks and dressed in black, emerged from the alleyway alongside the hotel. They were carrying cudgels.

  This was no casual mugging.

  The men split up as they came towards her, and Ash delivered a series of kicks to the nearer man’s groin and chin. With a sharp crack his head snapped back, and he crumpled to the pavement. Now for the other one. But before she could deal with him, three more figures, clad in black and armed with cudgels, slunk out of the alleyway.

  She drew her automatic. No time for niceties. Two shots fired in quick succession made the same number of men drop their cudgels and clasp their kneecaps. One screamed like a stuck pig. If that racket doesn’t make someone call the police, nothing will. The remaining two men took up positions on opposite sides of her. One produced a switchblade.

  Then three more men in ski masks appeared. Are they breeding them in that alleyway?

  That moment of distraction was enough for a cudgel to find its target. Ash’s right forearm went numb, and she dropped the gun. Cursing, she dodged a slashing switchblade and then a blow, and tried to shake the feeling back into her nerveless fingers. One man stooped to pick up her gun. She kicked him in the groin and reached for the gun herself, left-handed. But just as her fingertips brushed it, a foot sent it clattering away.

  The men advanced on her again, forcing her backwards, away from the gun. And from the hotel. What had they been hired to do? Kill her or just keep her from reaching safety? With another flurry of kicks and punches, she left another one down and moaning. But there were still too many of them, and they were wearing her down.

  If her attackers didn’t already know of Jemma’s existence, the last thing Ash wanted to do was lead them to her. Best to decoy them away from here, take them out one by one, and double back. Okay. That’s the plan.

  An elbow to the solar plexus followed by a head butt created the opening she needed. Then she was through and running. I’ll try to get back to you, Jemma, I promise. And with a last yearning look at the hotel’s lights, Ash ran into the night.

  Chapter 4

  JEMMA HAD PUT on her nighty and brushed her teeth when her gaze fell on the postcards. Better write those before I forget. She carried the cards and ballpoint pen from the table over to the bed, switched on the bedside light, plumped up a pillow against the headboard, and made herself comfortable.

  The top postcard showed a tanned and smiling movie star, right arm elegantly raised, hand poised just so. Jemma wrinkled her nose at the fruit basket hat and the flamboyant purple, yellow, and pink dress. That Carmen Miranda had managed to look stunning in such an outfit was remarkable. Was that your idea or the studio’s, I wonder? She turned the postcard over and began to write.

  Dear Gary. I saw this and I thought of you.

  She pictured his expression and chuckled.

  As you can see, I’m in Rio. Did you know the Brazilian Bombshell has a museum all to herself? Me neither.

  She sucked the end of her pen and considered what else to say. Gary would have heard she was Ash’s official partner by now. He would also guess from the postmark that she was on a mission. So … What else would he want to know? She tapped the end of the pen against her teeth. Suppose she wrote “Newsflash: I’ve worked out I fancy Blade” … and suppose Ash read it. Perhaps not. The pen resumed its scribble.

  Went up Sugar Loaf Mountain today. No sign of Jaws.

  love,

  JJ

  There. That would have to do. She added Gary’s address to it then picked up the next postcard.

  This one showed the spectacular view from the top of the Sugar Loaf. Jemma had been able to see the entire city, Corcovado Mountain, Guanabara Bay, and part of Copacabana beach from there, and having Ash by her side had made it even more special. They’d stayed for an hour before descending by cable car. Then Ash had taken her to an exuberant samba club, and after that they had eaten a late dinner at the Café Lamas.

  Dear Mum, Dad, and Maggie.

  Having a wonderful time in Rio. The weather’s hot and the sea is blue.

  Ate some Brazilian food today. No stomach upset yet (just kidding).

  She wondered what else to say. Rightly or wrongly, she had never hidden the nature of her job from her parents, though she had kept the details vague. Until she was home safe and sound, they would worry. That was just their way. She thought for a moment then wrote.

  Blade is here too.

  They would know who she meant. While Jemma was in training, her sister had pretended to puke whenever the subject of “the great Ashley Blade” came up. Jemma smiled. She had perhaps overdone the hero worship a tad.

  love,

  Jemma

  A yawn overtook her, and she put away the cards and pen and climbed into bed. It might only be ten p.m. by the travel alarm clock, but her body thought it was three hours later. Making a mental note to buy some more stamps tomorrow, Jemma stretched out her arm and turned off the light.

  THE SOUND OF a car backfiring woke Jemma. She glanced at the alarm clock’s illuminated dial and groaned—she’d been asleep barely two hours. She was plumping her pillow and preparing to close her eyes again, when something dawned on her. Shouldn’t Ash be back by now?

  She padded to the phone and peered at the instructions. What was Reception’s number? It seemed an eternity before someone answered.

  “Alô. Recepção.” The man’s voice was almost inaudible above the sound of a heated argument.

  “Isto parecem tiros. Chame a polícia,” said someone.

  “Você está maluco? Você sabe quais os problemas que eles sempre causam,” replied someone else.

  Jemma held the earpiece closer. “This is Senhorita Blythe, Room 203. Are there any messages for me? Did Senhorita Kenyon call?” She’s probably picked up some Ipanema babe and forgotten all about me. She tried not to feel hurt or jealous.

  “Um momento por favor. I will check.”

  While she waited, Jemma tried to understand the conversation going on in the background.

  “Há uma gang lá fora! Eles tem pedaços de pau. É perigoso. Chame a polícia.”

  “Palavrão!”

  If only her Portuguese were better. She was sure the first speaker had said something about a gang and calling the police.

  The receptionist came back on the line. “Senhorita Blythe?”

  “Yes.”

  “There are no messages for you.”

  “Oh,�
�� said Jemma, disappointed. “Thank you.”

  She replaced the receiver and frowned in thought. Ash had an English-Portuguese dictionary—her grasp of languages was good, but even she needed to remind herself of the occasional word. Jemma rummaged through Ash’s bag until she came across the little green book, then riffled the pages looking for—what was it?—perigoso.

  Dangerous.

  Jemma racked her memory, and another word came back: tiros. She turned the pages.

  Shots?

  By now her internal alarms were clanging. She threw the book aside and got dressed. She checked her gun was loaded, slotted it into her shoulder holster, and headed downstairs. Two men were standing at the reception desk in conversation with the night receptionist. They looked up as Jemma strode past them towards the exit.

  “Senhorita, não vá lá fora!” called one.

  She stopped and turned. “Excuse me?”

  Forehead wrinkling, the man said in halting English, “You must not … go out there, senhorita. It is … dangerous. We have called the police.” His voice sounded familiar. He had been one of those speaking in the background while she was on the phone, she realised.

  “There was a fight outside a little while ago,” said the receptionist. “A gang. They had guns, knives, and cudgels.” He looked shamefaced. “This kind of thing is not usual, senhorita. Please. Return to your room. All will be well by morning.”

  Jemma ignored his advice. She marched straight to the exit and pressed her nose against the glass. “There’s no one out there now.”

  “They might be in hiding,” said the receptionist. “Please, for your own safety, do not—”

  But Jemma had already slid back the bolt, pushed open the door, and walked outside.

  Hand poised over the butt of her pistol, she scanned the area. After a moment, sensing that no one was lurking in the shadows, she relaxed. Then her gaze fell on the green Volkswagen Gol parked a little way down the road, and her stomach clenched.

  Don’t panic, she ordered herself. So the car is back, and Ash isn’t. It doesn’t mean anything.

  Something glinting in the middle of the road caught her attention. She loped over to it, picked it up, and peered at it beneath a street lamp. A spent shell casing. Standard issue ammo for a Browning automatic. Most British agents, including Ash, used Brownings. The same make and model nestled in Jemma’s own holster.