Licensed to Spy

by Barbara Davies

  Ash had wanted to fly back to the Canary Islands, but Thompson overruled her—their mission in Brazil had been so potentially catastrophic, he wanted to debrief them personally. Besides, he had reminded a grumpy Ash, her casa wasn’t going anywhere. There’d be plenty of time for sand and sea later.

  “Thanks, Antonio.” Ash pocketed her passport and ticket. “And thanks for picking up our things from São Paulo.” She gestured at the bags. “We thought they were gone for good.”

  “No problem, senhoritas. The hotel had put them in storage. I also took care of your bill—including the surcharge for damage to the room.” He checked to see if they were being overheard before leaning towards Jemma. “Your pistola is travelling to London by diplomatic bag, Senhorita Jacobs.”

  “Thanks.” She smiled at him. “You’ve done a great job.” He flushed with pleasure.

  Squatting on her heels, Ash unzipped her bag and rooted through it. She held something aloft and Jemma saw it was her lockpicks. “Thought I’d seen the last of these,” she said, grinning.

  Jemma looked at her own bags. “Have we got time to change?” She indicated the navy sweatshirt and tan shorts the policewoman had supplied. “If I’m going to be stuck on a plane for seven hours, I’d rather wear my own clothes.”

  Ash straightened and glanced at the airport clock. “Good idea. There’s still time.” She pointed. “The toilets are over there.”

  They said their goodbyes to the genial Antonio, picked up their luggage, and headed for the toilets. Ten minutes later, clad in their own clothes once more, they headed for the Departure lounge.

  There were empty seats in front of the information boards, so they sat down to wait for their flight to be called.

  Ash suppressed a yawn. “So. What did you think of your holiday in Brazil?”

  “Different.” Jemma thought for a moment. “A bit more exciting than I was expecting.”

  Ash snorted. “You got that right.” She paused. “Think you’ll want to come back some day?”

  “Probably.” Jemma glanced at her. “After all, it will always hold happy memories.”

  Ash arched a sceptical eyebrow. “Happy? We almost got killed.”

  “True. But we also shared our first kiss.”

  “You’re such a romantic.”

  “Something wrong with that?”

  “Nothing at all.” Ash laughed.

  “What?”

  “I just remembered something. When I chose you as my new partner, I told myself you were going to be a handful. It turns out I was the handful. And yours was the hand.”

  Jemma blushed. Fortunately an announcement forestalled any need for a reply.

  “This is the first call for British Airways Flight 324 to London. Would all passengers please proceed to Gate 10?”

  “That’s us.” She stood up and held out her hand. “Let’s go home, partner.”

  Ash took it and stood up too. “Let’s.”

  Part 3

  The Spy Who Killed Me

  Chapter 1

  IT WAS DARK, cold, and wet outside Lambeth North tube station.

  “Typical,” muttered Ash.

  If she’d had her way, they’d have taken a taxi from Victoria (Sod expenses—I’d pay for it myself.), but it was raining hard, and there wasn’t one to be had for love or money. She peered at her surroundings and sighed. “Never an umbrella-seller around when you need one. Still,” she glanced at Jemma, “it isn’t far.”

  Jemma turned up her collar against the rain and tried to stop her teeth from chattering. “A plastic mac would come in handy.”

  “Mm,” agreed Ash. The sooner they could get home and change into clothes more suited to April in London the better.

  Hunching her shoulders, she stepped out into the downpour. A trickle of rain went down her neck just as a passing motorist drove through a huge puddle and sprayed muddy water all over her. She gazed down at her soaked jeans in disbelief then gave him the V-sign. Unaware, the driver sped on into the night.

  Jemma joined her, trying not to laugh. “Look at it this way. Now you can’t get any wetter.”

  In other circumstances, the conversation might have taken a saucy turn, but at the moment Ash’s ardour was feeling distinctly dampened. She shifted her travel bag to her other hand. “Come on. The sooner we get this debriefing over with, the sooner we can get home and dry off. That’s if my central heating system hasn’t conked out while I’ve been away.”

  Jemma made spaniel eyes at her. “Are you sure we can’t just turn around and fly back to Rio? Or Tenerife, come to that? Some place where it’s warm, and the sun is shining.”

  “If only.” Ash hooked her arm through Jemma’s and slowed to accommodate her shorter stride. Her shoes were making disgusting squelching noises. “Still. You’ll be glad to see your family, won’t you?”

  “True. Can’t wait to tell them all about Brazil.”

  Ash gave her a curious glance. “You won’t tell them everything, surely?”

  “Of course not. Official Secrets Act, and all that. But they know I was with you. And that we went to Rio and the Iguaçu Falls.” Jemma’s eyes sparkled. “I can’t wait to introduce you. You will come and visit them with me, won’t you?”

  “Um. We’ll see,” temporised Ash. “Did you mention your bruises?” Jemma’s midriff had been a glorious kaleidoscope of purple, green, and yellow last time Ash looked.

  “No. Nor the knife wound in your shoulder. They’d only worry.”

  “Probably wise.” They headed north along Pearman Street in thoughtful silence, then Ash ventured, “Are you still sore?”

  “A bit.” Jemma yawned. “What about you?”

  She wondered whether to downplay her aches and pains, then realised Jemma would soon winkle the truth out of her, anyway. “Ankle’s a lot better, but my shoulder aches. And I could sleep for a week.”

  “We’re a right pair, aren’t we?”

  Ash shot Jemma a shit-eating grin. “Should have seen the other fellow. Besides, it’s nothing that a spot of leave won’t fix.” She gave the arm crooked through hers a squeeze.

  The entrance to the underground carpark came into view and they hurried down the ramp. Once under cover, Ash put down her bag and tried to brush off the worst of the rain with her hands. Jemma did the same.

  “Do I look awful?” Jemma’s hair was plastered to her head, her shirt so soaked it was almost transparent. Ash took a moment to admire her breasts.

  “You look fine.”

  The corner of Jemma’s mouth rose. “Sweet talker.”

  “That’s me.”

  They grabbed their bags and cut across the vast, almost deserted carpark towards the lift that was one of several entrances to London HQ. A CCTV camera whirred, focussed, and tracked their progress, and Ash waggled her fingers at the lens.

  “Boring old lifts in carparks,” grumbled Jemma, pressing the lift call button. “Why is it never a phone box with a false back to it, or an ‘agents only’ double-decker bus?” She saw Ash’s puzzlement. “Sorry. I’ve been watching too many Avengers DVDs. Mum bought them for Dad. He’s a fan of Tara King.”

  “Ah. I prefer Mrs. Peel myself. “

  A loud ping announced the arrival of the lift, and the door slid open. Ash’s mock bow elicited an exaggerated curtsey from Jemma, who entered first. Ash joined her, placed her bag on the floor, and pressed 3.

  “I expect being a jewel thief was more glamorous,” said Jemma.

  Ash grinned. “It had its moments.”

  “Do you ever miss it?”

  “I’m happy doing what I do now.” She glanced at Jemma. “I thought we cleared that up during that polygraph test.”

  “We did,” agreed Jemma. It was her turn to grin. “You also asked if you could put your face in my cleavage.”

  Ash snorted. “That’s what happens when my inhibitions are unleashed. Sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I was flattered, and tempted, even back then.” Jemma pulled a face. “But Remington wa
s watching.”

  “That would certainly have put a damper on things.” If there hadn’t been a camera recording their every movement, Ash would have leaned over and kissed Jemma. She contented herself with a warm smile instead.

  The lift stopped, and the doors opened onto a shabby lobby that wouldn’t have been out of place in an insurance company, except that arrows pointed the way to Intelligence, Counter Intelligence, Armoury, etc. With a nod to the receptionist, who had been monitoring them on her screens since they entered the carpark, they headed along the appropriate corridor.

  “What do you think he’ll ask us?” asked Jemma.

  “Why we ordered room service? Nah. Just joking. Thompson already knows the gist, so it won’t be a full debriefing. He’ll just want to tie up loose ends.”

  “Are there any?”

  “A few. Such as the fact Khaleb Abdusamad got away.”

  “Oh.” Jemma sighed.

  They reached their destination, and Ash opened the door. Thompson’s secretary had gone home for the day—her computer was switched off, her desk the picture of tidiness—but just then the door to the inner office opened, and the Section Head of Counter Intelligence emerged.

  He did a double take at the sight of them. “About bloody time!”

  “Nice to see you too, boss,” said Ash. “And it’s your fault we’re late. Since when have you been too damned stingy to spring for a taxi from Gatwick?”

  Thompson flushed. “Since the new budget restrictions came in. Sorry.” Then his eyes twinkled. “You look like a pair of drowned rats.”

  “You don’t look too hot yourself,” said Ash. Jemma sniggered.

  “Well, now you’re here, I suppose you’d better come in.” He placed the file he was holding in his secretary’s in tray. “Did you have a good flight?”

  “Our seats weren’t together, and a loud and very fat insurance salesman sat next to me.” Ash pushed past him into his office. “Draw your own conclusions.”

  She dumped her bag and sank into one of the two easy chairs on this side of the walnut-veneered desk. Jemma took the other.

  Thompson rummaged in a cupboard and produced two towels. “Knew these would come in handy one day. Here.” He flung the towels at them.

  “Thanks.” Jemma mopped the rain from her face and started on her hair. Ash did likewise.

  He spooned ground coffee into the cafetière sitting on top of his filing cabinet and added boiling water from the electric kettle. Unlike some, Thompson never insisted his secretary work overtime and was happy to make his own hot drinks. “I take it you could both use a cup?”

  “Please,” said Ash. Jemma gave an eager nod.

  He threw an unopened packet of digestives at Ash. She snatched it out of the air, took one, and passed it to Jemma. “The President sends his thanks, by the way. Good work, both of you.”

  Ash grunted.

  “President?” The crunching noises coming from Jemma stopped. “Of Brazil?”

  Thompson folded his arms and regarded her. “Of America.”

  Jemma’s eyebrows shot up, and Ash gave an amused snort.

  “I think he’s getting tired of having to thank you two for saving his country from disaster,” he continued.

  “And we’re getting tired of having to do it,” murmured Ash. Jemma kicked her ankle—the good one, fortunately—and Ash raised an eyebrow, only to receive that “behave” look. She sighed.

  “It was close,” said Thompson, pouring out the coffee and adding milk from a carton kept in the tiny fridge.

  “The mission?” said Ash. “Yeah. Closer than I’d have liked.” She brushed a stray crumb off her jeans. “Did they dismantle the ICBM?”

  He nodded. “The Brazilians are following up on how a Chinese TEL got into terrorist hands.”

  “Good.”

  “But the trail of destruction you left will take longer to sort out,” he added.

  “Destruction?” Jemma looked indignant.

  Beneath his moustache, Thompson’s lips twitched. “Blade’s missions often leave chaos in their wake. You get used to it.”

  “Hey,” said Ash, for appearances’ sake. “No civilians died. We got the job done. What more do you want?”

  “What more indeed? Anyway, it’s nothing a little time, soft soap, and compensation won’t sort out.” He handed them a mug each, then took his seat. “How’s the shoulder?” He steepled his fingers.

  Ash took a gulp of her coffee. “How do you think?” A foot kicked her ankle again, and she gave Jemma a reproachful look. “Sore,” she amended.

  “And you, Jemma. I hear you took quite a battering.”

  “It’s mostly bruises. I’m feeling a lot better already, Mr. Thompson. I could sleep for a week though.”

  “Well, both of you are due some leave, so that shouldn’t be a problem. Now. Let’s get down to business.” He pulled out a file and spread its contents on the desk. “There are still one or two loose ends we need to tie up.” He removed the cellophane wrapper from a fresh audiocassette, popped it into the tape recorder, moved the microphone closer to them, and switched it on. “First, Celio Pacheco. His body hasn’t been recovered yet. Any ideas?”

  Ash felt a pang at the thought of the handsome young Brazilian with the corny chat up lines. Losing one of the good guys never got any easier.

  She lost herself in memory for a moment. “When I last saw Celio he was on the Sugar Loaf cable car going down …”

  “I THINK THAT’S it for now.” Thompson switched off the tape recorder, leaned back in his chair, and stretched. Ash resisted the urge to do the same—her shoulder wasn’t quite up to it yet. “I’ll have my secretary transcribe the tape. If I have any follow-up questions, I know where to find you.

  “In the meantime, consider yourselves on leave for the next two weeks.” He stood up, and came round his desk to join them. “When you come back, I want you both one-hundred-percent fit and raring to go.”

  “Will do.” Ash rose to her feet; so did Jemma.

  “Enjoy your break,” he went on. “You earned it. The bad guys lost again. Thanks to you.”

  Ash allowed herself a moment of satisfaction. “Thanks.”

  He was about to say something more when a knock at the door interrupted him. Frowning, he checked his watch. “Come in.”

  The door opened, and a bespectacled man in a white coat peered around it. Ash judged him to be in his early thirties. “Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Thompson,” said the new arrival, whose hair and beard were both red. “But you did say I could have a word before I left.”

  “Ah, Dr. Aston, I forgot you were working late,” said Thompson. “Good timing. I was just about to mention your role in the department.” He turned to Ash and Jemma. “This is our new psychologist. Dr. Aston, meet Ashley Blade and Jemma Jacobs, two of my top agents.”

  Jemma’s cheeks pinked at the compliment.

  “Pleased to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.” Aston held out his hand, and Jemma took it. Then he turned to Ash. His handshake was too limp, and she released herself from it quickly.

  “Psychologist?” She frowned at Thompson. “Why in God’s name do we need a shrink?”

  “If I may, Mr. Thompson?” Aston’s brown eyes were eager.

  “Be my guest.”

  “I’m here at Mr. Weatherby’s invitation.” Ash opened her mouth, but Aston raised a hand. “Hear me out, please … In our line of work, secrecy is mandatory. Which often adds stress to an already stressful job.”

  Jemma was nodding, but Ash kept her opinion to herself. The lenses in his tortoiseshell spectacles were plain glass, she noticed. Odd. Was he trying to look older, or just more intelligent?

  “Not being able to confide details of a mission to family or friends can be frustrating,” continued Aston, “even though it’s done out of concern for their safety as much as anything. Sometimes it’s not even their advice or help we’re after. We just want to share our worries and fears with someone who understands. Well, from now
on, that’s my job.” He beamed. “I’ll be helping all the Organisation’s operatives to unburden themselves of anything troubling them and providing them with new perspectives on old problems.”

  “Count me out,” said Ash.

  Aston looked stricken. “Miss Blade, think for a moment. When Sam Carney died, wouldn’t you have found it helpful to talk to someone who understood what you were going through?”

  The reference to Sam’s death robbed Ash of breath. It also angered her. Who did this jumped-up quack think he was? “I doubt someone like you would have understood.”

  Jemma shot her an anxious look, and she took a calming breath. Something about Aston was setting her on edge. It wasn’t only his handshake that was too soft for her liking, or that he wore spectacles when he didn’t need to. That ingratiating smile and manner, those fleshy jowls the trimmed beard was meant to disguise … She knew she wasn’t being fair, but—

  “That’s hardly fair, Miss Blade.” Aston wagged a finger at Ash, and she resisted the urge to bite it off. “Believe it or not, I’m a very good counsellor. It’s true I may not have ‘in the field’ experience, but I’ve been well trained. All I’m asking is that you give me a chance.”

  “These … consultations, or whatever it is you call them,” chimed in Jemma, trying to defuse the tension. “Will they go in our files?”

  He shook his head. “My notes, and the tapes of the sessions themselves, will be held for a limited period only. Under lock and key,” he added, forestalling Jemma’s next question. “It’s all strictly confidential, Miss Jacobs. Whatever is said between the patient and me remains private.”

  Ash had had enough. She headed for the door. “It’s immaterial. I have no intention of consulting you.”

  A loud throat-clearing stopped her in her tracks. She turned.

  “I’m afraid it’s not optional,” said Thompson.