Licensed to Spy

by Barbara Davies

  “What is she doing here?” he asked, his voice rising to a panicky squeak.

  “Insurance.” Al-Akhdar spoke thickly around a fat cigar, and it dawned on Jemma that both men were speaking English.

  “I told you, I want nothing to do—”

  “You’re not calling the shots anymore, Pimentel.” Al-Akhdar’s gaze hardened. “Get used to it.”

  Hands balled into fists, Pimentel went to the picture window. For a long moment he stared out of it, gaze abstracted, then he turned to regard Jemma once more. “Who is she?”

  She opened her mouth to reply but at a look from al-Akhdar closed it again.

  “Do not concern yourself,” he said. “All I require from you is somewhere secure to keep her for a day, maybe two.”

  “There’s probably a storeroom free,” said Pimentel. “Would that do?”

  “Perfect.”

  He stalked towards his desk, picked up the phone, and spoke into it, but his Portuguese was so fast all Jemma could make out was the word seguro. While he waited for a reply, the muscles in his jaw worked, then he spoke a few words more and hung up.

  “There is such a room,” he said.

  “Good,” said al-Akhdar.

  “One of my men will be along in a minute to guide her there.”

  “See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” He smiled.

  With a grunt, Pimentel resumed his position by the window. Jemma wondered what he manufactured, and why it should be of interest to terrorists. Then a knock at the door made them all turn.

  A man in janitor’s overalls stood in the doorway, looking expectant. Curly and Baldy grabbed Jemma by one arm each and propelled her towards him.

  Here we go again. She sighed.

  THEY RETRACED THEIR steps to the lobby, and headed across the carpark to a warehouse. Inside, the hangar-like space was partitioned into smaller units. The janitor hurried along the central corridor, never glancing back, as though to disassociate himself from Jemma and her muscle-bound escorts. They came to an intersection with another corridor but continued on. She guessed that the windowless rooms on the left were for storage. On the right, door signs featured the word Laboratório, and double-glazed windows, doors, and high-quality seals indicated self-contained environments.

  Slowing, she peered through a window. Litmus and filter papers were stacked against the glass, obscuring the centre of the large laboratory. To the left, workers in white coats and face masks were pouring different-coloured chemicals into giant flasks, heating them, and stirring the result with glass rods. She couldn’t see what happened next, but the process seemed to reach its conclusion on the right hand side of the room, where workers were scraping white crystals off filter papers into plastic pouches and weighing them.

  Drugs.

  With a curse, Baldy yanked Jemma into motion.

  The next few windows she passed provided glimpses of yet more workers, flasks, and crystals. She was beginning to think the warehouse was dedicated to making synthetic cocaine (Or whatever it is.) when she passed a door sporting the words Proibido para pessoas não autorizadas below the symbol of a raised hand inside a barred red circle. In that particular lab, workers were wearing full protective suits and breathing apparatus. What the hell are they making in there? But her escorts wouldn’t let her dawdle, so she could only chew her lip, none the wiser.

  The janitor turned left and led them to the end of another corridor. “Aqui,” he announced. He swung open a heavy metal door, reached through, and flicked a switch. Dim light lit the interior.

  “Inside,” said Curly, thrusting Jemma forward. She turned to request that her hands be untied, but the door was already slamming shut.

  “Hey! What if I need to go to the—” A solid clunk was followed by the sound of bolts sliding home. “Guess I’ll just have to pee in a corner,” she muttered and took in her surroundings.

  The room was empty, but a crushed cardboard box in one corner and an empty drum lying on its side against a wall showed it had once been a storeroom. There were no windows, and the only door was the one she had come in by. The single dusty light bulb looked like it might expire at any minute, but she thanked God her captors hadn’t left her in the dark.

  Jemma upended the battered drum and sat on it—hard on the buttocks, but it would do. Her wrists stung—the rope had rubbed them raw—and she was getting cramp in her shoulders. If she could just get her hands in front of her rather than behind … For the next ten minutes she struggled to tuck up her legs and ease her feet over her bound hands. Her wrists lost yet more skin, she bruised her knuckles, and she was full of admiration for Harry Houdini when she managed it at last.

  She raised her arms as high as they would go and stretched. “Ooh.” The relief was overwhelming, and for the first time she could examine the rope. It was twine. Maybe she could gnaw through the strands one by one? (Where’s a rat when you need one?) At present she didn’t feel up to the task, though, so she resumed her scrutiny of her surroundings instead.

  Weren’t secret agents supposed to be able to escape by unscrewing handy grilles and slipping into air conditioning ducts? Jemma wrinkled her nose. If so, someone wasn’t keeping their side of the bargain. There was an air vent in the ceiling, but the grille was so tiny only a cockroach could have got through it. The drain in the centre of the floor looked even less promising, though if nothing else, she could always pee into it—it would be marginally less disgusting than using a corner of the room.

  The cardboard box was dirty, but its label was still legible—it had once contained sodium fluoride. Storing the information away, she set the box aside and examined the steel drum. Grime and who knew what else obscured its label, so she pulled a tissue from her jean pocket, spat on it, and scrubbed. The improvement in legibility was marginal, but if she squinted … Phosphorus trichloride? Jemma sucked in her breath. No wonder those lab workers were wearing breathing apparatus.

  During her training course, Mac had told the class about the Aum sect’s attack on the Tokyo subway. They had used phosphorus trichloride and two other ingredients. Some kind of alcohol, wasn’t it? And ace … nitri … Jemma scowled in an effort to remember. Acetonitrile. What was the betting a room in this vast warehouse contained all three ingredients? She shivered, and it wasn’t from the cold. If her suspicions were right, this could explain al-Akhdar’s presence. Pimentel was not only allowing his manufacturing resources to be used to make drugs—bad enough—he was also making sarin.

  Nerve gas, in the hands of terrorists. Oh God! I hope I’m wrong.

  Chapter 9

  ASH STARED AT the blueprints of Blucas’s private gallery and resisted the urge to pull out her hair. Not only had the wealthy American installed cameras, motion detectors, microswitches, and infrared beams—all controlled and coordinated by an up-to-the-minute-computer system—two armed guards also patrolled at regular intervals.

  The level of security shouldn’t have surprised her. The emerald Abdusamad coveted had turned out to be worth one-and-a-half million pounds. She didn’t like to think what he’d do with that much money if he got hold of it. She also didn’t like to think what he would do to Jemma if he didn’t.

  She glowered at the guard barring the exit. She had been stuck in this tiny room ever since they let her dress, blindfolded her, and took her from the hotel in the back of a car. Abdusamad had asked her what she needed and after a moment’s thought, she told him. A doctor who wouldn’t meet her gaze had dressed and stitched her stab wound, and Abdusamad had returned with the rest of her requests within the hour. Efficient.

  Next to the blueprints on the table lay a recent issue of Hello! Ash had been startled when Abdusamad gave her the English version of the glossy magazine, which often featured the homes of the rich and famous, but it made sense. This particular issue contained a photo feature on Blucas. Safe in the misguided belief that his state-of-the-art security system was foolproof, he had been only too happy to show off the antiquities and rare gems in his collection,
especially his latest acquisition: the Moghal Emerald. Judging from the photo, the rectangular-cut stone was the size of a small tablet of soap, and intricate Indian carving covered every inch of its surface.

  Ash had been trying to formulate a plan for breaking into the São Paulo gallery for three hours solid now, and she needed a break. She yawned and stretched, careful of her shoulder. Abdusamad had been solicitous of her wound, but she was under no illusion. Once she handed over the emerald, he would crush her like a bug. Jemma too. She wondered where Jemma was and if she was all right. Ash had to believe she was.

  The door opened, and Abdusamad came in. He took a seat on the other side of the table and steepled his fingers. “Have you come up with a plan?”

  “Drive a battle tank through the gallery wall and pick the emerald out of the rubble,” she said caustically. “No. Not yet. I need the specs of—”

  But he was no longer listening. “Enough of your stalling.” His pockmarked cheeks darkened with anger and his eyes flashed. “Must I remind you what’s at stake?”

  “No,” she said, inwardly kicking herself. She was learning that al-Akhdar’s second-in-command was a powder keg, liable to explode at the slightest setback.

  “Oh, I think I must.”

  He beckoned to the guard, who approached, bent his head, and listened as Abdusamad whispered something in his ear. With a nod the man departed and returned moments later with a phone. He plugged it in, placed it on the table, and murmured, not quite sotto voce, “It will take a few minutes, senhor. They have to fetch her.”

  Ash tried not to get her hopes up. But if Abdusamad had just done what she thought he had, this disagreement might work to her advantage.

  They sat in silence, the terrorist biting his nails, until the phone rang. He picked up the receiver and listened, then switched on the speakerphone. “Miss Jacobs, do you have something to say to your friend?” His voice was amiable, but his expression was far from friendly.

  “Ash? Is that you?”

  At the sound of Jemma’s voice, Ash’s spirits soared. She glanced at Abdusamad in query and received a nod. “Yes. It’s me. You’re on speaker phone. Have they hurt you?”

  “Not so far,” said Jemma. “What about you? What about your shoulder?”

  “I’ll live. Listen—”

  “No, Ash. You listen. Do what they want you to.” At Jemma’s words, Abdusamad grinned. “If you don’t, I’m afraid I’ll lose my nerve.”

  Lose my nerve? The expression struck Ash as odd, but she kept her expression neutral. “I understand,” she said, though as yet she didn’t. “Please, look after yourself.” She hoped Jemma would pick up her own unspoken message. She must engineer her own escape and not wait for Ash to get her out. If she delayed, it could be too late.

  “I will,” said Jemma. “You too.”

  “Enough.” Abdusamad slammed down the receiver. “For the moment your friend is safe. That can change.” He pushed back his chair and stood up. “You will steal the emerald. Am I clear?”

  “Very.” Ash held his gaze. “You asked if I have a plan. I do, or the beginnings of one, at least. But I need more information.”

  He inclined his head and waited.

  “I need detailed specs of all the alarm systems in the gallery’s guardroom. And everything you have about the security company that maintains them.”

  Abdusamad pursed his lips then nodded. “See to it she gets what she needs,” he told the guard. The man hurried out, and seconds later, a replacement took up position by the door.

  “No more delays, Blade,” he went on. “You have twenty-four hours, or your friend will die. After that,” he flashed her a mirthless smile, “maybe we’ll try picking the emerald out of the rubble as you suggested.”

  ASH PUSHED UP the peak of her hat and gazed into the camera lens. She hoped the two men Abdusamad had assigned to watch her stayed out of sight as agreed. They weren’t very bright, and it would be just like them to blow the operation before it had even got started. Thirty minutes, she had told them. Not before.

  “What do you want?” came a man’s voice over the intercom. She had started thinking in Portuguese ten minutes ago, so conversation would flow more easily.

  “Crime Guard Systems.” She held her fake ID close to the lens. “I’m here to fix the fault.”

  There was a puzzled silence. “What fault?”

  Ash rolled her eyes. “Don’t tell me HQ has cocked it up again.” She checked her clipboard. “According to this, there’s an intermittent fault on the line connecting your system to HQ. They’re not sure whether the problem’s at our end or yours. Senhor Blucas’s gallery could be robbed, and we wouldn’t know anything about it.” She clucked. “No reinforcements. You wouldn’t want that, would you?” She could almost hear the man at the other end thinking.

  “Come in.” With a soft buzz the door catch released.

  “Thanks.” Gripping the heavy case in her right hand, she pushed open the door with her left.

  Waiting for her on the other side was a crew-cut young man in a short-sleeved white shirt. His hand rested on the gun at his belt, a Ballester Molina M1916. He glanced at his watch and frowned. It was almost three a.m.

  “You’re working late,” he said, his tone suspicious.

  “Overtime, thank God.” Ash smiled. “I can really use the money.”

  He held out his hand for her clipboard, ran his gaze over it, and handed it back. “Open the case.”

  Ash put it on a table and popped the catches, revealing a computer technician’s toolkit and a jumble of computer discs and spare parts. The guard poked through them with one forefinger, then nodded and let her close it.

  “I’ll have to frisk you.” His gaze went to her cleavage.

  She held out her arms and resigned herself to being groped. Sure enough, he patted her breasts and buttocks longer than was strictly necessary. She was glad she’d insisted on trousers and flat shoes rather than the short skirt and high heels Crime Guard’s female employees usually wore. It was bad enough having to wear a dark brown uniform.

  “Looks okay,” said the guard at last, straightening with a smirk. “Follow me.”

  He led her upstairs to an office crammed with monitors and computers, where a man with a greying moustache was supposedly keeping an eye on the monitor screens. Moustache looked at Ash, grunted something unintelligible, and returned his attention to his newspaper.

  Ash located the master computer console and placed her case on the floor next to it. “So,” she said, crouching to open the case and pulling out a disc. “Noticed anything odd about the system in the last couple of days? Any unexplained errors, freezes?”

  Crew-cut shrugged. “All that hi-tech stuff’s beyond me. If I see someone unauthorised on the premises, I shoot.” He grinned. “Simple.”

  Ash held up her hands in mock fear. “Hey, I’m on your side.”

  She drew up a chair in front of the console and for the next twenty minutes pretended to run software checks. At first, Crew-cut peered over her shoulder, but he soon grew bored and wandered away. She heard the beeps of a Gameboy and suppressed a smile.

  “System checks out okay,” she said loudly. “Maybe it’s the wiring.” She got up and moved round to the back of the computer where wires trailed in a spaghetti-like tangle. Crew-cut looked up from his Gameboy but after a cursory glance looked down again. With a loud rustle of newspaper, Moustache turned a page.

  It’s now or never. With the aid of wire cutters and a screwdriver Ash piggybacked the compact device she had made earlier onto the line connecting the master computer to the servers at Crime Guard’s HQ. Whatever happened, it would transmit a “status OK” signal—if the alarms went off, no one outside the gallery would know.

  Belatedly she registered that the electronic beeps had stopped and looked up to see Crew-cut looming over her, the beginnings of a frown on his face.

  “What’s that?” He pointed at the device parasitising the HQ link.

  “That
?” Ash straightened up. “Oh, it’s,” she jabbed a nerve in his neck, “nothing to worry about.”

  He was still falling, when she started towards his colleague. Moustache swore, dropped his paper, and reached for his gun, but he was much too slow. Two second later he joined Crew-cut in the Land of Nod.

  Okay. Ash sucked in a calming breath, then dragged the unconscious guards into a corner and made them comfortable. They should be out for a couple of hours, no longer. She checked their pistols were loaded and shoved them in the waistband of her trousers. Then, as an afterthought, she checked their pockets for extra clips, and took those too.

  A buzzer sounded, and she glanced at the bank of monitors. The camera above the gallery entrance was active and showed her two watchers, looking surly and impatient.

  She flipped the intercom switch on. “Yes?”

  “Time’s up. Let us in.”

  “Slight change of plan.”

  “But—”

  “It’s nothing to worry about,” said Ash. “Tell your boss everything’s on track. I should have the emerald in,” she checked her watch, “eight minutes.”

  She switched off the intercom, then all the mikes and cameras in the gallery, and erased the last thirty minutes of footage they’d recorded. Then she took the white gloves from her case and pulled them on.

  Ignoring the distant banging of the thugs at the front door and leaving the guards snoozing, she headed downstairs and into the exhibit room. It was the easiest burglary Ash had ever committed. Heedless of infrared beams and motion sensors, she sauntered past valuable paintings and curios. She stopped at the cabinet containing the Moghal Emerald, tried its door, and chuckled. It wasn’t even locked. As she extracted the large green gem from its cushion, there came the faint snick of a microswitch. But what was one additional alarm among so many? Up in the guardroom, there was no one awake to hear them.

  Ash weighed her prize, assessing. Must be over two-hundred carats. Nice. Then, pocketing the jewel, she strolled towards the exit.