Licensed to Spy

by Barbara Davies

  She struggled to her feet. Waiting until there was enough room to squeeze beneath a canister would lose her precious minutes, so she straddled one (reminding herself of that iconic scene in Dr Strangelove), then scrambled over it to the edge of the roof and jumped.

  The churned-up forest floor cushioned the landing but smeared Jemma with soil, mashed bark, and pine needles, and as she squeezed her way round to the TEL’s rear, sharp branches ripped her lab coat and scratched her cheek. She had more on her mind than the state of her clothes, though. With a frown, she studied the scaffolding-like structure slowly raising the launch canisters to a vertical position. The mechanism must be hydraulic, mustn’t it? If she could somehow drain the fluid …

  That hose looks promising. She checked she still had her penknife—I’ll have to write the Swiss Army a thank you letter!—and clambered up onto the scaffolding. Holding the hose in one hand, she sawed at it with the other. An insect whizzed past, and she swatted at it absently. With a thunk it hit a nearby tree trunk, and she looked up, startled. That’s no gnat.

  On the TEL cab’s roof stood al-Akhdar. He was glaring at her, his face suffused with anger, his gun pointing right at her. The knuckle of his trigger finger whitened. Without conscious thought, she threw herself backwards.

  This time the landing wasn’t as soft, and the sound of the gunshot was still ringing in her ears as she struggled to her feet and retrieved the penknife from the leaf mould. For a moment she hesitated, then, jaw clenched, she started up the scaffolding structure once more.

  Like a tortoise poking its head out of it shell, Jemma peeked over the top of the roof. A bullet whizzed past her head and she ducked back. Damn him. She was wondering what to do next when she heard a cry of pain. Curious, she risked another peek above the top. Blood now marred al-Akhdar’s shirtsleeve and he was clutching his right biceps. There was no sign of the gun. Not questioning what had happened, just grateful that it had, Jemma resumed her place on the scaffolding, and, keeping a wary eye on him, resumed her sawing.

  The branches of a huge pine tree overhanging the TEL rustled, and a familiar dark-haired figure dropped from them onto the cab roof. That explains his bloody sleeve! Mouth open, Jemma watched Ash and al-Akhdar come to blows, but the cab roof wasn’t built for fighting, and they had soon toppled off it. Torn between checking Ash was all right and continuing sawing, Jemma continued. Who knows how many civilian lives are depending on me? But the hydraulic line was tough and she was making little headway.

  Come on, damn you. Come on. As if in response to her desperate plea, a drop of murky yellow fluid dribbled out of the tiny cut she had made in the hose. Hopes rising, she redoubled her efforts and soon the cut widened to a slit, then to a hole, and the dribble became a flood, staining her already disreputable lab coat.

  As the hydraulic fluid poured out, the launch canisters slowed, and Jemma allowed herself to relax. But something clanged, and with a judder and a whine they resumed their upward motion. Now what do I do?

  The pitch of the motor whine rose, crescendoing to a tremendous screech that made her clap her hands over her ears, and, abruptly, the launch canisters froze. Breath held, Jemma waited for them to start up again. They didn’t. She removed her hands, and a wonderful silence greeted her, broken only by the sounds of something crashing through the trees in the distance—a forest animal startled by the disturbance, perhaps.

  Breathing in the clean, sharp scent of pine, she rolled the stress from her shoulders, then, with a last look at the half-erect canisters—They need Viagra—clambered down. It didn’t take her long to find Ash. She was sitting by one of the TEL’s massive tyres, looking rueful and rubbing her ankle. There was no sign of al-Akhdar.

  Jemma crouched beside her and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Are you all right?”

  “Twisted my ankle,” said Ash, as a pinecone plopped to earth nearby. “Remind me not to play Tarzan again.”

  Jemma leaned in and hugged her. She had never been so glad to see anyone. To her delight, Ash hugged her back with one arm.

  “What about you?” asked Ash.

  “Bit bruised, but I’ll live.” Something hard was digging into Jemma’s hip. “Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?”

  Ash flashed her a suggestive smile. “Well, I did fly halfway across Brazil to find you.” Her expression changed. “But actually—” She pulled something from her pocket.

  Jemma gasped at the soap tablet-sized, green gemstone. It couldn’t be real, could it? “Is that … ?”

  “The Moghal Emerald? Yes.”

  Jemma’s eyebrows rose. “You kept it?”

  “Borrowed it. For a little while.” Ash gave Jemma a sidelong glance. “Me and emeralds. You know how it is.”

  Jemma laughed and gave her another hug. “I know.”

  “Guy named Wai Ling Chen is expecting it.” Ash sounded smug. “I’d love to see his face when he realises he’s out of pocket for this.” She thumped the TEL’s tyre with a fist.

  “It’s Chinese then?” asked Jemma.

  Ash nodded. “Ex military, I’d say. A rogue officer saw a way to make some quick cash and took it.”

  Jemma sat next to her, keeping in bodily contact—after all they had been through, she needed the physical closeness, and Ash didn’t seem to mind. “Where’s al-Akhdar?”

  “Ran for it.”

  She remembered the sound of the animal crashing through the forest. “Shouldn’t we go after him?”

  “In a bit,” said Ash. “And not on foot. I know where he’s heading, and we can get there before him by plane.”

  “Where?”

  “Foz do Iguaçu.”

  Jemma frowned. “Why does that ring a bell?”

  “The Iguaçu Falls are a huge tourist attraction.” Ash switched hands and resumed her rubbing. “They’re also right on the border with Paraguay and Argentina.”

  “Ah. So you think he’ll try to cross there?”

  “Yes. And hopefully, having to make his way on foot through the rainforest will wear him down for us.” Ash bared her teeth. “He’s got my bullet in his arm too.”

  “Good,” muttered Jemma. “I hope it hurts.”

  “Me too.”

  Which reminded Jemma … “How’s your shoulder?”

  Ash gave her a wry smile. “The pain in my ankle’s taken my mind off it.”

  There was nothing Jemma would have rather done that sit here with Ash, recovering, but they still had urgent matters to take care of, so she stood up and held out her hand. Ash used it to haul herself upright and gingerly placed her weight on her ankle. Seeing her wince, Jemma insisted that Ash put an arm round her shoulder.

  “It’s only a twisted ankle,” groused Ash. “I’m not an invalid.” Even so, she let Jemma help her back along the trail of devastation left by the careering TEL. The plane was parked slap bang in the middle of the highway, Jemma saw with amusement when they emerged from the trees.

  A thought struck her. “What are we going to do about the missile?”

  “The Cessna’s got a radio,” said Ash. “I’ll notify the Brazilian authorities anonymously. I’m sure they’ll be delighted to know what they’ve got sitting in their back yard.”

  They walked, or in Ash’s case limped, towards the plane. Then Jemma boosted Ash into the cockpit and climbed in after her. Ash reached for the control panel, and green lights blinked on.

  “Will you tell them about the sarin?” asked Jemma.

  Ash glanced at her. “They need to know. There may be a nerve gas payload in that missile, there may not, but there’s almost certainly more sarin back at Pimentel’s complex.”

  “Good point.” She closed the door and settled herself in the snug seat. Ash flicked another switch, and the engine coughed and the propeller began to turn.

  Jemma buckled herself and realised Ash was frowning at her. “What?”

  “Talking of the sarin, wasn’t it a bit risky setting the complex alight?”

  “Th
at wasn’t me,” said Jemma, indignant. “A spark from a bullet started that little lot. I only created smoke not fire.”

  “Ah.” Ash’s forehead smoothed. “You remembered Mac’s lessons.”

  Jemma nodded. “Thank God I paid attention in class that day.”

  With a smile, Ash did something to the controls. The plane eased forward, and they bowled along the highway, picking up speed. A truck was heading straight for them, but Ash looked unconcerned. As it drew closer, Jemma could see its driver through the windscreen; he was waving his fists and shouting. She closed her eyes and balled her hands. Please, God.

  “You’ll like the Iguaçu Falls,” shouted Ash above the engine roar. “They’re wider than Victoria, and higher than Niagara.”

  With a lurch they were airborne, and Jemma opened her eyes and saw the truck disappearing beneath them with inches to spare. I’ll get you for that, Ash. With a sigh of profound relief, shesettled back to enjoy the ride.

  Chapter 13

  ASH LOWERED THE heavy binoculars she’d bought in the tourist shop and knuckled her eyes. She hated surveillance. An elbow in the ribs made her unloop the glasses from around her neck and hand them over. But it’s certainly more interesting with Jemma for company.

  Jemma scanned the tourists queuing by the boat ramp below them. “What if al-Akhdar doesn’t show?”

  Ash yawned. “He will.” She ticked off the reasons on her fingers, raising her voice above the roar of the waterfalls, audible even at this distance. “One: there’s one bridge to Paraguay and one to Argentina, but thanks to my anonymous tip, the guards are on the lookout for him on both. Two: the Airport is on full alert—”

  “Which leaves boat travel,” interrupted Jemma. “I know.” She lowered the binoculars and shot Ash an impatient glance.

  Ash sighed. She welcomed Jemma’s increasing confidence, but missed the deferential hero worship. (Was Sam ever like that? She couldn’t remember.)

  A motorboat chugged up to the ramp, disgorged its passengers—drenched but happy after their close-up look at the Iguaçu Falls—and began to take on new ones.

  “He could have decided not to cross the border after all,” continued Jemma, raising the binoculars once more. “Doubled back, stayed in Brazil.”

  “He could have. But the Brazilians now know he was trying to fire a missile at the USA from here, which would have left them open to some very heavy-duty retaliation. They’ll take a dim view of that; his photo will be everywhere.” She remembered her recent experience in Tenerife. And that’s no picnic.

  “Good point.” Jemma panned along the riverbank, and Ash took the opportunity to admire her profile, the cuteness of her nose, the snug fit of her scoop-necked T-shirt.

  The binoculars jerked to a halt. “It’s him.”

  “What? Where?” Ash grabbed the glasses, and Jemma let out a squawk of protest as the strap almost throttled her. Ash peered through them. “It’s him.”

  Al-Akhdar had changed clothes. His cream linen suit (Stolen, I bet.) was crumpled, and there were damp stains under his armpits. As he hurried along the bank of the Rio Iguaçu, heading towards the boat ramp, he turned his head constantly. His gaze kept flicking from side to side, and there were bags under his eyes. He looked … hunted.

  He’s right.

  She jumped down from their tree branch perch, wincing as her ankle protested, then helped Jemma down. They set off down the slope towards the ramp, but Ash’s legs were longer than Jemma’s, and she had soon outdistanced her. She looked round, and saw Jemma waving her on. With a nod, she set off once more and broke into a jog.

  She didn’t want to spook al-Akhdar, so at the river she hugged the bank, keeping the queue of gaily-clad tourists between her and her quarry. Before she could reach the ramp, however, the last of the sightseers stepped into the boat, leaving him with a clear view of her. He froze in his tracks as they locked gazes.

  Ash missed the comforting bulk of her Browning against her shoulder—she’d had to discard the stolen pistols, due to lack of ammo—but al-Akhdar made no move to draw a gun. Maybe he’s unarmed too. Instead he gave the loaded boat a thoughtful glance. Was he planning to take a passenger hostage and force the captain to ferry him across the river? Fortunately, the captain chose that moment to yell something rude about time-wasters and cast off the mooring rope. And moments later, to Ash’s relief, his boat was chugging out into the Rio Iguaçu.

  Panting and the sound of pounding feet signalled that Jemma was coming up fast behind her. The sight of reinforcements broke al-Akhdar out of his indecisiveness. He turned and bolted, angling up to join the footpath leading towards the Falls. She set off after him.

  “Where’s he going?” gasped Jemma, joining her.

  “The Falls.”

  “Why? He can’t cross there, can he?”

  “No.” Ash frowned. No. So why …? They were attracting curious looks. Probably think it’s a race sponsored for charity.

  “He’s fitter than he looks,” huffed Jemma.

  “Mm.” Ash’s shoulder throbbed and her ankle complained. Whereas I’m a wreck.

  The encroaching rainforest made it seem as though they were pounding along a green tunnel. Down stone staircases they ran, over mossy bridges, and along narrow walkways. Then the sound of the waterfalls grew suddenly louder, and, rounding a corner, they found them spread out before them.

  Jemma slowed, her eyes widening at the panoramic view. She had seen the Iguaçu Falls from the air when Ash brought the Cessna in to land at the nearby airport, but it wasn’t the same.

  “Admire it later,” called Ash, her pace unchecked. “I’ve worked out where he’s going.”

  Jemma sped up again. “Where?”

  “The Hotel das Cataratas. It’s up this way. They do helicopter flights from their grounds, over the Falls.”

  “Helicopter?”

  “Yeah.”

  Ash wiped the back of her hand across her forehead, and it came away damp; the air was saturated with water vapour. Then she caught a flash of cream up ahead. Al-Akhdar. If only I had a rifle and a telescopic sight …

  Jemma was gamely keeping pace alongside her, but her cheeks were rosy and her breath was coming in gasps—her energy was clearly flagging. Making a snap decision and ignoring the pain in her ankle, Ash put on a sharp burst of speed. “Catch up when you can,” she shouted over her shoulder. “Okay?”

  “What are you talking ab—”

  But Ash had already left her partner behind.

  ASH CAUGHT UP with her quarry at the most spectacular part of the Falls: La Garganta del Diablo. Al-Akhdar darted out onto the walkway that led out over the cascade itself. A mother and daughter were standing by the low railing at the end, and Ash could tell from his manner that he intended taking one of them hostage. He might have no gun, but he could still throttle them with his bare hands. She couldn’t let that happen. Digging deep, she found a burst of speed from somewhere, and ran out onto the walkway after him. Throwing herself the final few yards, she grabbed for his fat calves and brought him crashing down.

  The two tourists turned and gaped at the pair of strangers now brawling on the spray-drenched boards, then hurriedly got out of the way. Ash’s back slammed into something hard—the walkway’s railing. If she wasn’t careful, she’d be over the side. She hung on to him grimly, but spray was making everything slippery, and he wriggled free, giving her wounded shoulder a vicious kick in the process. Pain shot down her arm, and the waterfall drowned out her cry. As she fought the urge to curl into a ball, instinct made her lift her head. He was standing over her, looking down that aquiline nose of his, lips curled in a cruel smile. He raised his leg to stamp on her shoulder again.

  Oh no you don’t. With a scything kick, she took al-Akhdar’s legs out from under him and almost sent him over the side. Nothing could have been more appropriate than for the Devil’s Throat to swallow him, thought Ash, but it wasn’t to be. He slid down the railing, struck his head hard on the way down, and landed on the
boards with a jarring thud. For a moment he sat, looking dazed, then awareness returned.

  Time to finish this. With a pained grunt, she rolled over and got to her knees. Had she shot him in the right or left biceps? She flipped a mental coin, chose right, and punched it … hard. The tendons in his neck stood out, and once more, the waterfall’s roar drowned out a cry.

  Ash let al-Akhdar writhe for a moment—after that kick, he deserved it—then put him out of his misery with a punch to a nerve point. Impervious to the spray drenching her hair and clothing, she knelt, holding her shoulder and waiting for the pain to ease. Then a thought struck her and, trying not to panic, she patted her jacket pocket. Through the fabric she felt the lump that was the emerald, and her tension eased. If I’d dropped it in the Falls my name would have been mud.

  When she felt able to, she dragged herself to her feet, rolled al-Akhdar over onto his plump belly, and used her belt to secure his hands. As she straightened, she saw that the mother and daughter she had saved were now standing at the entrance to the walkway, gawking at her, and had been joined by four more tourists. With a touch of hysteria, she wondered if she shouldn’t charge them extra for the sideshow. I must look quite a sight. Then a bobbing blonde head came into view. She had never seen a more welcome sight.

  Jemma eased her way past the chattering onlookers, a concerned look on her face. “What happened?”

  Wearily, Ash indicated the unconscious al-Akhdar. “We had a disagreement about the best place for viewing the Falls.” She rested her arm on Jemma’s shoulder and regarded the water thundering down the gorge. “What’s your opinion?”

  Jemma rolled her eyes. “You’re nuts.” But she looped a companionable arm round Ash’s waist, and they stood for a while, getting their breath back and admiring the view. Eventually, a couple of the braver tourists joined them, stepping over the prone terrorist, as though it was an everyday occurrence.

  “What now?” asked Jemma.

  Ash looked at her and smiled. “We deliver this package,” she nudged al-Akhdar with one foot, “to the authorities. Then it’s time for some R and R.”