Licensed to Spy

by Barbara Davies

  HER WATCHERS WERE waiting for Ash outside the gallery, and they didn’t look happy. The one in charge had the gun, a US surplus .45-calibre automatic, and he pointed it at her. “What the fuck are you playing at? We agreed we’d all go inside.”

  “No worries. I got the emerald, and that’s all that matters. Here.” With a gloved hand she pulled the emerald from her pocket. “Want to see?” His eyes widened and his companion reached for it.

  “Nuh uh.” Ash held it out of reach. “My friend’s life depends on this. You tell Abdusamad I’ve got it, so he can keep his side of the bargain, and then I’ll hand it over.”

  The two men exchanged glances, then the one in charge shrugged. “Keep her covered. I’ll call him.” He handed his colleague the gun, pulled out a mobile phone, and punched in a number.

  While he spoke, Ash twirled the emerald between gloved fingers. Both men watched the gemstone in her left hand, not the other hand stealing beneath her jacket to the pistols tucked in her waistband. “Did your boss tell you it’s worth a million-and-a-half pounds?”

  The gun muzzle pointing at her chest wavered as the man holding it licked his lips.

  “Yes, senhor,” said his colleague into the phone. “No, no problems. Yes. I am looking at it. To Wai Ling Chen? Now?” His face fell. “But it is very early. No, of course I am not questioning your instruct—At once, senhor. The Embassy will be expecting us? Yes, senhor. What about—?” His gaze flicked to Ash then away again. “I understand. Yes. I’ll take care of it personally.”

  She guessed that her death sentence had just been pronounced.

  He pocketed the phone and gestured at his friend. “Give me the gun.” For a moment the eyes of both men were on the weapon rather than on her.

  “Since you asked so nicely,” murmured Ash. In one smooth movement she drew and fired.

  Chapter 10

  MAC HAD TAUGHT his students the importance of conserving energy and staying calm, so once Jemma’s captors had returned her to her cell, she invoked a meditative state. It should also help to keep hunger at bay—no one had bothered to bring her any food. Thankfully, it proved easier than she had anticipated—talking to Ash on the phone had put her in a much better frame of mind.

  Some time later the sound of bolts sliding open brought her out of her trance. Stiffly she got to her feet. The door swung open, and the two men who had escorted her from São Paulo entered.

  “Out,” said Curly, gesturing with his gun.

  “Manners,” she murmured, as she stepped past him.

  Though they must have noticed that her hands were now bound in front of her rather than behind, they made no attempt to remedy the situation. They grabbed her by the biceps, swung her round to face right, and gave her a shove between the shoulder blades to set her in motion.

  “Where are you taking me?” she asked, as they walked her back along the corridor. The two men were too busy talking and laughing to answer.

  She understood only the occasional word of their chatter. “Chefe” must be Pimentel or al-Akhdar. “Emeralda” was obvious. At Blade’s name, her pulse quickened. Had Ash succeeded in stealing the emerald? I hope she’s okay.

  Then Curly laughed and made an obscene gesture at Jemma, and she had a sinking feeling her usefulness was at an end. Ash was right. I have to make my own way out of here.

  Up ahead a door opened, and a bespectacled technician in a white lab coat stepped into the corridor. He walked towards them, then slowed, frowning at the sight of Jemma’s bound hands.

  “O que está acontecendo? Por que—”

  Fists bunching, a scowling Baldy stepped towards him, and Jemma saw her chance. She stamped on the arch of Curly’s foot then kicked the side of his knee. He let out a pained grunt but kept hold of his gun, so she brought down her bound fists on his forearm. The gun clattered to the floor and skidded up the corridor out of sight. Damn it. I needed that. Taking out her frustration on him, she swung her fists up beneath his chin. To her astonishment, he went down as if he’d been poleaxed.

  With a roar, Baldy turned and rushed her. Panicking, she went for the obvious and kicked him in the nuts. As he doubled over, screeching, the back of his head looked positively inviting. How can I refuse? She brought her hands down with a satisfying crump, and he collapsed on top of Curly and lay still.

  Jemma shook the stinging from her fingers, and turned her attention to the technician. He was gaping at her as though she had grown another head, and he raised his hands palm outwards and looked panicky.

  “Thanks,” she told him. “Have you got a sharp knife I can use?”

  Confused, he blinked at her. “You are English?” At her nod he lowered his hands. “No knife. Apologies.”

  “Pity.”

  Kneeling, Jemma went through her captors’ pockets and to her relief came across golddust in the shape of a Swiss army penknife. She sorted through the blades: corkscrew, bottle opener, wood saw … Ah. That might work. She stood up.

  “Hold this.” She pressed the penknife into the technician’s hands, and attempted to cut her wrist-bindings on the saw’s serrated edge. The penknife clattered to the floor, and with a sigh she stooped and picked it up.

  “No. Tighter.” She adjusted his shaking hands. “Like this.” This time the blade held steady, and at last the final strand of twine parted.

  Jemma massaged her wrists and took the penknife back. “Give me your coat.” He blinked at her, then unclipped the ID badge from his lapel and shrugged out of his lab coat. She put it on—it was too large but it would have to do. “The badge too.” She reclipped it onto the lapel. “Thanks. Now get lost. Shoo.”

  The wave of her hand broke him out of his paralysis, and with a last uncertain glance, he bolted down the corridor. Jemma watched him until he had turned the corner, then headed in the opposite direction.

  WHAT JEMMA NEEDED was a diversion. The warehouse was full of chemicals, for God’s sake, there must be something she could use. Explosives would have been nice, but she didn’t dare risk them—the last thing she wanted was to release sarin from a sealed lab. She opened the first door she came to and peered round it. Easy chairs lined the room’s perimeter, and on a dented table sat coffee-making equipment and dirty mugs. A break room. At the sight of the door labelled “Toilette,” her spirits rose, and she took full advantage of the facilities. She had just finished washing her hands when a distant alarm shrilled. Moments later came the sound of pounding feet. She waited until they had passed, then stuck her head out the break room door. The coast looked clear. Now to find those chemicals.

  She jogged along the corridor, opening each door and scanning the interior before moving on. The third room she came to looked promising. Its shelves yielded solvents, preservatives, and a canister of potassium permanganate. She levered off the canister’s lid and eyed the purple powder inside with interest. That might come in handy. The canister was too bulky to carry around with her though. Lips pursed, she considered her options, before scooping a couple of handfuls of powder into her lab coat pocket.

  A faint murmur of conversation impinged on her awareness. She eased the door open a crack and peered out. Not far down the corridor, a group of white-coated technicians had gathered. As she watched, more joined the milling throng, looking anxious. She couldn’t understand what they were saying but it was a good bet they were discussing the alarm. Torn between staying put and continuing her scavenger hunt, she thought for a moment, then turned up her collar and stepped out into the corridor. If she kept her head down and conveyed a sense of purpose, they ought to think she belonged here. Even so, her shoulders thrummed with tension, and it was a relief when a technician hurried past her without a second glance.

  She came abreast of another storage room and ducked inside. I need glycerol or glycerine. She was turning away from the shelves in disappointment when she spotted the plastic container labelled Glycerol. It was in a corner, half obscured by a sack of zinc powder. Jubilant, she dragged it from its hiding place.

/>   In the corridor, angry voices were coming closer. “Loira está na mira, atire,” yelled someone. Something about a blonde and “on sight”? Jemma didn’t like the sound of that. Aware time was running out, she dragged a sack of sulphur powder towards the door then did the same with the sack of zinc powder. She slit both sacks open with the Swiss army knife, spilled their contents onto the floor, and mixed some of the yellow and grey powders together with her foot.

  Before continuing with her plan, she risked another glance out into the corridor. Two familiar figures were standing with their backs to her, blocking her view of the technicians. Curly had found another gun from somewhere, she saw. Dismayed, she retreated. This had better work. She squatted, scooped out a hollow in the powder mix, filled it with some of the potassium permanganate from her pocket, and reached for the glycerol.

  “Procure em cada sala,” came a yell from directly outside.

  Mental fingers crossed, Jemma dribbled glycerol onto the purple powder. Nothing happened. Shit!

  The door crashed open. From Curly’s expression, he hadn’t expected to find anyone in the storage room, and he blinked at her for a moment before raising his gun. Then a fizzing noise drew Jemma’s attention, and she glanced down just as a purple flame sprang up. Time to get the hell out of here. Like a sprinter coming off her blocks, she threw herself straight at him.

  With an “Oof” he took a step back, then she was past him and hurtling towards the white-coated technicians. She had hoped the presence of other people might deter Curly from shooting, but a bullet ploughed into the wall beside her. So much for that theory. Then a second bullet ricocheted down the corridor and a woman gaped at her bloody forearm and screamed. It was a signal for mass panic.

  As Jemma elbowed her way through the ensuing melee, another bullet whizzed past her, so close she could feel the wind of it on her cheek. It smashed a laboratory window, and seconds later came a noise like fire crackers going off. But she had no time to wonder what was causing it, because just then there was a huge whoosh from back up the corridor, and thick black smoke billowed from the storage room she had just left.

  Visibility dwindled fast until people were coughing and spluttering and banging into one another, and no more bullets headed her way. Grinning to herself, Jemma turned the corner. Not a bad diversion if I say so myself.

  JEMMA STOOD UNOBSERVED beside a wall and watched a fire engine roar into the carpark and screech to a halt. White-coated workers drew back to give the appliance room, and out of it spilled a fire crew. As they put on breathing apparatus and readied their equipment, she saw with relief that it was foam-based. As far as the sarin went, fire wasn’t a problem—it destroyed it—but water could have spread it.

  What were the symptoms of this particular nerve gas? Headache and anxiety? Runny nose and tightness in the chest? She had all those, but that was just smoke inhalation, wasn’t it? Anything else was too scary to contemplate, so she pushed such thoughts away.

  For the past ten minutes, detonations had been ripping through the warehouse, increasing in volume and severity. At first, she’d wondered if the explosions were her fault. It was a while since Mac’s lesson. She’d been aiming for thick smoke, but perhaps she had got the ingredients or proportions wrong. Then she remembered the sound of firecrackers inside the lab and realised it was far more likely that a spark from a ricocheting bullet had caused the blaze.

  Shooting when all those chemicals were lying around. Cretins!

  As the fire-fighters disappeared into the warehouse, Jemma turned her attention to locating a suitable escape vehicle. She was deep in the Brazilian countryside, so it would need to be sturdy. Of course, she could always just wait. The smoke billowing up from the burning warehouse must be visible for miles, and there was no way such a blaze could be tackled by in-house fire-fighters alone. The authorities would arrive and she could throw herself on their mercy …

  And find out the hard way that Pimentel has the local police chief in his pocket? No thanks.

  Movement made her turn. A familiar figure was hurrying across the carpark, heading towards what looked like the entrance to an underground garage. Al-Akhdar leaving his sinking ship? Jemma slunk along the wall after him and down the ramp. It was cool in the underground garage and badly lit. She paused while her pupils adjusted, and for a moment thought she had lost her quarry. Then she heard men’s voices and swung round.

  He was standing on the far side of the hangar-like underground chamber, talking to a man in blue overalls, who was wiping his hands on a rag. Using trucks and supporting pillars as cover, she made her way towards them. She was half way there when the voices became shouts, and al-Akhdar pulled out a gun and shot the unarmed mechanic in the head.

  Shocked, Jemma watched him stride towards the vehicle the mechanic had been working on. A murky green transporter of some kind, it was massive with eight axles, shoulder-high wheels, and a double-doored cab. As he swung himself up into the cab, she turned and ran for the underground garage’s exit. Behind her, the transporter’s engine coughed into life.

  Jemma halted at the garage exit and surveyed the horizontal girder that was the top of its frame. Don’t think about it, just do it. She grabbed hold of a supporting strut, braced her feet against it, and climbed, the flakes of rust grinding into her palms making her long for a pair of gloves. From outside came a muffled boom—the fire was still not under control, by the sound of it. From inside came the crunch of massive wheels rolling towards her. Glancing round, she saw the transporter was only yards from her. Whoops! Thankful that the sunshine flooding in from outside would make it difficult for al-Akhdar to see her, and with a grunt of effort, she heaved herself up the final foot. Then, back pressed to the wall, she shuffled sideways along the girder as fast as she dared.

  She was only just in time. As the lumbering vehicle passed beneath her, its wash buffeting her, the stink of its exhaust choking her, it was slightly farther over than she had predicted. Too late to do anything about it now. She jumped and yelped as she banged her elbows and knees on the unforgiving metal. She grabbed for a handhold, but found only a featureless curve and felt herself sliding. Shit! Then something stood proud under her fingers, a ridge or a rim of some kind, and she hung on to it for dear life.

  Sunlight blinded her, and she waited for her pupils to adjust. Her arms felt as though they were being ripped from her sockets. If I let go, and one of those huge tyres runs over me … She tried not to think about that. They were heading round the carpark’s perimeter towards the complex’s exit, she saw. For a moment she feared that one of al-Akhdar’s men might see her and take a pot-shot, but the guard post was unmanned—the guards must be helping to put out the fire.

  As the transporter roared out onto the highway, it swerved left, pressing Jemma against its side. For a moment the pull of gravity lessened, and she seized her chance. A small window had been inset into the vehicle’s side a metre from her, and she stretched out a foot towards its narrow sill. Her foot slipped, and she almost lost her balance. Damn! Heart pounding, she tried again, and this time managed to gain purchase with her toes. Then the transporter straightened up again, and full gravity returned, but that moment had been enough.

  Huffing and puffing, gaining yet more bruises on her knees and ankles, Jemma managed to get both her feet onto the sill. It was a precarious and uncomfortable perch, but it meant she could ease the increasingly unbearable strain on her arms. She took a moment to catch her breath and gather her strength, then used the window’s upper sill as a toehold to power her way up and onto the roof. There, almost sobbing with relief, she lay prostrate until her trembling muscles recovered.

  At last, and warily because of the slipstream, Jemma raised her head and took in her surroundings. Lying parallel along almost the entire length of the transporter’s roof were two long horizontal tubes that reminded her of giant steel cigar holders. She frowned at them in puzzlement then shrugged. At least the space between them would provide some shelter from the slipstre
am. Grateful, she eased herself into the uncomfortable metal hollow.

  Now the immediate danger to her was over, she could afford to look back. Oily black smoke climbed into a clear blue sky, and at irregular intervals she heard the distant percussion of explosions. Hope there aren’t many casualties. Though I wouldn’t shed a tear if Curly or Baldy got hurt. With a sigh, she turned her attention forwards.

  Above the transporter’s cab, the road ahead stretched on for miles, bounded on either side by forest. Where was al-Akhdar going and why had he picked this means of transport to get there? Jemma pillowed her head on her hands. Wherever the destination, when they reached it she would need all her strength. For now, she might as well get some rest.

  Chapter 11

  WHEN SHE HAD put enough distance between herself and the gallery Ash stopped running. She had used the stolen mobile phone to alert the São Paulo police. Anonymously, of course—she had no wish to get caught up in their investigations. Now she needed to make another call. As she pulled it from her jacket pocket, her fingers encountered a cold, hard surface. Should have put the emerald back, I suppose. Maybe later. She punched in the number of the Organisation’s London HQ.

  “Yes?” came the female switchboard operator’s voice.

  “Blade. This line is unsecured, but I need to speak to my Section Head.”

  “Understood. Putting you through now.”

  The next voice she heard was Thompson’s. “I was wondering when you’d get in touch,” he said, his words sending relief flooding through her. “Something I can help you with?”

  “Our man here is down, and I need information, fast.”

  “Down?” He sounded shocked. “Okay. What do you need?”

  “You know Laurel and Hardy’s friend, the industrious one?”

  There was a long silence and she could almost hear his brain ticking over. Come on, Thompson. Mauro Pimentel.