Licensed to Spy

by Barbara Davies

  A period of silence followed. Ash must be contemplating the obstacle between her and her quarry. I have to stop her, thought Jemma. But how? Jeff couldn’t stop Corky. And as for Louise … She saw again the figure in the red dress plummeting into the murky waters of the Thames and pushed the image away.

  My death, or Ash’s sanity. She chewed the inside of her lip. Some choice.

  Maybe there was a third option. If her suspicions were correct, Aston could have deprogrammed Corky but had chosen not to. Another psychologist might be successful. Getting her to him for treatment while in this state wouldn’t be easy, though. Jemma was lucky to have survived this long—if Ash’s pistol hadn’t been lying at the bottom of the Thames, she would have been dead within seconds of the front door opening.

  A door panel splintered and Ash’s fist exploded through it. Shocked, Jemma watched the hand dislodge the chair, turn the key, and open the door. Ash’s gaze made her blood run cold, and it occurred to Jemma that the pupils of sleepwalkers looked similar. Was Ash in some kind of waking dream … or nightmare? And if so, who did she think Jemma was? A hostile?

  “Ash, wake up,” she shouted. No reaction.

  Under other circumstances, Jemma might have paused to admire the deadly grace with which Ash was stalking her. Like a panther. But right now … She dived under the bed, but it was a tight squeeze and—What kind of hiding place is a single bed, stupid? A fist gripped Jemma’s right ankle and dragged her out into the open, the bed’s leg giving her temple a resounding crack on the way. Dazed, she blinked up into angry eyes.

  “Please stop, Ash. It’s me.”

  Silently, Ash squatted and grasped Jemma’s chin with one hand and the back of her head with the other. Jemma knew that move, and her heart almost stopped. One twist and I’m dead. There was no time for thought or subtlety. The chair was just within reach, so she grabbed it and lashed out, desperation lending her strength. By chance, one of its legs caught the still healing knife wound in Ash’s shoulder a hammer blow. She grimaced and loosened her grip—enough for Jemma to break free, scramble to her feet, and race back into the living room.

  Jemma was halfway to the front door when she sensed Ash leaping after her. Turning and ducking, she raised her arms and used Ash’s momentum to boost her body up and over. She turned just in time to see Ash crash headfirst into the wall and lie motionless.

  “Ash!” Horrified she might have broken Ash’s neck, Jemma rushed to her side. With a trembling hand she felt for a pulse. It was faint and thready, but after a moment it steadied. With a sob of relief, Jemma sat back on her heels. Only unconscious.

  She considered her options. Tie Ash up and get HQ to send an ambulance and a straitjacket? But she had no idea how long Ash would be out. What’s more, when she came to, she would still be under the influence of that bastard Aston’s conditioning. There must be a way to snap her out of it. But how, other than to allow her to complete the act she had been programmed to perform? Jeff Morand tried that with Corky and look where it got him.

  Then the glimmer of an idea surfaced, and she grasped it with both hands. It’s risky but it might just work.

  Groaning as fresh bruises made themselves known, Jemma staggered over to the sideboard. The cardboard box she sought was in its bottom right hand corner, at the back. She tore open the flap and sorted through its contents: a knuckle-duster, garrotte, phone tap, several rounds of Uzi ammunition, a telescopic sight for a rifle, a silencer that wouldn’t fit her current pistol … She hadn’t got around to turning in these unofficial “souvenirs” of her time at training school—now she was grateful for the oversight.

  Ah. Heart thumping, Jemma opened a small box. Inside it nestled five bullets. She examined the numbers etched into their metal casings—it would be the greatest of ironies if she got it wrong—then with a satisfied grunt stood up and fetched her holster. Now to substitute these for the bullets in her Browning’s spring-loaded magazine.

  As she worked, she gave the clock an anxious glance. The lapse of concentration made her fumble, and with a curse, she retrieved the bullet she’d dropped from the living room carpet. At last, though, the box was empty. She slotted the magazine back into place. Now for part two.

  She headed for the kitchen and ransacked its cupboards, checking items off her mental checklist as she found them. Two pieces of kitchen towel should be enough. Now, where was the bottle without which her entire plan would fail? Oh, God! Her growing panic subsided as she located it at last and saw that it was half full. Ingredients assembled, Jemma set to work. The results were messy—she just hoped they would be convincing enough for her purpose.

  She returned to the living room and saw at once that Ash had changed position. Her eyelashes were fluttering. It wouldn’t be long n—

  Ash’s eyelids opened. Eyes that were dazed at first and groggy from the blow cleared and filled with hatred, the intensity of which made Jemma flinch. Ash sat up.

  It’s now or never. Jemmapointed her pistol at her. “Hold it right there.”

  Ash got to one knee.

  “I said hold it, or I’ll shoot.”

  Ash ignored her commands.

  It took all of Jemma’s self-control to allow Ash to overpower her and twist the pistol from her fingers. Landing on her back with a thud, shealmost lost her grip on the soggy piece of kitchen towel, and she clutched at it in panic. Then she found herself staring into the muzzle of her own gun. Sudden doubt turned her sweat clammy. In this state, would she be able to invoke the required trance?

  Merciless blue eyes glared down at her, and the woman Jemma loved said, “This is for Jemma.” Then Ash pulled the trigger.

  Chapter 11

  ASH WRAPPED HER arms around herself and tried to breathe past the agonising knot in her chest. Hearts really can ache. The pain would ease eventually, wouldn’t it? If she could just ride it out? The pounding in her head would lessen and her shoulder would stop burning, but those were physical wounds. Their emotional equivalents were a different matter.

  The limp form lying next to her drew her gaze once more. The front of Jemma’s blouse was bloody. One hand had tried to stop the flow from the bullet holes, but it hadn’t done much good—blood had squeezed between the fingers. Ash wrenched her gaze away from the horrific sight, but it crept back.

  Someone was whimpering—the low, inarticulate sound of an animal in distress. Ash realised it was her. She should call someone, she supposed. The police, ambulance, HQ … But it was too late. Besides, her thought processes were as slow as treacle, and as for getting to her feet while the world was spinning …

  Part of this was shock, she knew, caused by the abrupt transition from violent waking dream to appalling reality. One minute she had been trying to take out a hostile, the next she was here in Jemma’s living room, a pistol in hand, its magazine empty, the spent cartridges surrounding her. As for Jemma …

  The mere thought of what she’d done made her chest tighten further. She had been convinced that Patrick Byrne, the Irishman who had led a vicious terror campaign on the UK mainland, had murdered Jemma, and that she’d at last run him to ground. But Byrne had been dead for years—Ash had killed him herself—and in reality …

  Jemma wasn’t dead until I shot her. I killed her. I killed my own partner … And not just my partner, she amended, the depth of her anguish revealing a truth she had kept hidden from herself until now. I think I loved her. When did that happen? How? She gave her head an angry shake. It doesn’t matter now, fool. It’s too late. You killed her.

  A wave of nausea made Ash retch. She hadn’t eaten for a while, so she was reduced to painful dry-heaving. Mid-heave, a gentle touch on the back of her neck startled her, and she twisted round, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand.

  A familiar face regarded her, its expression concerned. “Ash?” A hand pushed the hair back from her sweaty brow. “Are you all right? Your pupils are back to normal, thank God.”

  “Jemma?”

  Ash’s surroundings blurre
d, and her limbs went weak. She stretched out a hand to the wall for support and tried to catch her breath, to make sense of this latest turn of events. It’s impossible. I emptied the magazine into her. I’m hallucinating.

  Fearful, she raised her eyes. The ghost, if ghost it was, was still there and now it was holding out a soggy red mess of paper.

  “It isn’t blood.”

  “What?” Before Ash could jerk back, a forefinger smeared something on her lips.

  “Taste it,” ordered the ghost.

  Ash’s stomach threatened to revolt again. I’m supposed to taste Jemma’s blood? But she licked her lips then blinked at the unexpected taste. Tomato ketchup?

  “They were blanks,” continued the ghost, eyes intent. “You didn’t hurt me, Ash. Look.” She unbuttoned her blouse to reveal a white cotton bra streaked with blood (With ketchup, amended a shaky Ash)and smooth skin, bruised but remarkably whole considering five bullets had been fired into it.

  Vision wasn’t enough. Only touch would convince Ash this was real. With a trembling hand, she reached out and touched Jemma’s abdomen. Warm skin moved under her hand as Jemma sucked in a breath. Of its own accord, Ash’s hand moved upwards, and she stroked a cotton-clad nipple with her thumb.

  “Tsk,” said Jemma. “Any excuse to cop a feel.” But she pressed Ash’s hand closer to her breast.

  The living room slowed its spinning from a foxtrot to a slow waltz, and the ache in her chest eased. Then she remembered something and felt a moment of fear. What if I’m dreaming? “You didn’t have a pulse.”

  “I do now. Feel it.”

  Ash did. A steady rhythm pounded against her fingertips. “How?”

  “It was too slow for you to detect, that’s all.”

  She grasped for an explanation. “A biofeedback trance?”

  Jemma nodded. “I was worried I wouldn’t be able to trigger it fast enough, but I managed. I hoped the deception would be enough to break the conditioning. Looks like I was right.”

  Relief flooded through Ash, and the room stopped spinning. For the first time in what seemed like forever, she was able to breathe freely. Unbidden, tears filled her eyes, and a sob emerged, followed by another. Much to her embarrassment, she was crying and she couldn’t stop.

  “Oh, love,” said Jemma, wrapping her arms around Ash and pulling her close.

  The thought of being covered with ketchup made Ash hesitate for only a moment, then she leaned in, tears streaming down her face, muscles limp from the release of dread and tension. This is real. She soaked up Jemma’s presence, the hand stroking her hair, the gibberish Jemma was crooning, and revelled in it. She’s alive.

  “I thought you were dead,” she sniffled.

  “I’m not.”

  The urge to cry faded, but Ash remained where she was, content to accept the comfort offered. “I thought I’d killed you.”

  “I know.”

  “I was rushing back home to protect you, and all the time I was the greatest threat.”

  “It wasn’t you. Aston triggered your conditioning somehow.”

  Ash cast her mind back. “Last thing I remember, I was at the flat checking my answerphone messages. Guess it was one of those.” She frowned. “Did you say Aston?”

  “Yes. His Christian name is Keith.”

  Her heart thumped as she untangled Jemma’s meaning. “KA? You mean all this time … ?” Jemma nodded. “Shit!”

  Ash remembered her session with the psychologist; how he had probed her most intimate thoughts with his inscrutable gaze. And in his office, in the background throughout, had been the sound of running water and birdsong. With a clang the penny dropped. “A subliminal audio tape.”

  “My thoughts exactly.” Jemma brushed a strand of hair out of Ash’s eyes. “He’s Remington’s nephew. Guess he didn’t like my part in his uncle’s retirement.” She sniffed. “Seems a little extreme.”

  Somehow, Aston had managed to pinpoint Ash’s weak spot and use it against her, she realised. Jemma had been both her motive for action and her target. Clever of him. A sense of urgency swept over her. “If he’s been brainwashing others … We must go after him.” She started to get up, but Jemma wouldn’t let her.

  “We’re not going anywhere,” she said, her tone serene. “I’ve told Thompson, and he’s promised to take care of it.”

  “Ah.” Ash’s heart rate slowed, and she relaxed against Jemma once more. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” Jemma resumed her stroking of Ash’s hair.

  “So you worked this out all on your own?” said Ash, impressed.

  “Not bad, eh?” Jemma tried not to look smug but didn’t quite manage it. “Told you I could look after myself, didn’t I?”

  “Thank God you were right.” Ash leaned in for a kiss. She had meant it to be light and friendly, but it soon changed into something more intense, and much more urgent.

  Maybe it was her recent brush with death, but Ash’s libido would not be denied, and Jemma seemed to have no intention of trying. Aches and pains vanished as a higher imperative took over. Soon they were both gasping, and Ash had ripped off what remained of Jemma’s clothes.

  “Yes, please,” panted Jemma. “But not here.”

  For the first time Ash saw the ketchup-stained carpet clearly, and she grimaced. “I see what you mean.” She surged to her feet, swept the naked Jemma up in her arms and carried her towards the bedroom.

  “Very Rhett Butler.” Jemma giggled until Ash stopped her mouth with a kiss.

  If the door had still been whole, Ash might have kicked it in. But what was left of it was hanging from its hinges, so nothing hindered her progress. The bed squeaked as she deposited Jemma on it then again when she joined her there. Must oil that bedframe later.

  “Now about that slow pulse rate of yours.” She leered and tore off her own clothes. “Let’s see if we can speed it up.”

  If Ash had wanted proof that Jemma was alive and real, she could ask for no better evidence than this—Jemma’s smell, her touch, her taste, her gasps and groans, her trembling as Ash caressed her to ever higher levels of excitement, and finally her shudders and cries of release. Then it was Jemma’s turn to return the favour …

  Later, sated, limbs in a lazy tangle, they returned to the subject of the treacherous psychologist.

  “So, potentially,” said Ash, following the thread of her thought, “everyone who had a session with Aston could have been conditioned. And all it will take is a trigger?”

  Jemma nodded. “His replacement will have their work cut out defusing us all.”

  “Bloody shrinks.”

  “Tell me about it.” Jemma hummed off key to herself, then her brows drew together as she contemplated the wrecked door. “Look at the mess you’ve made. Broken door, ketchup everywhere. There goes my deposit.”

  “You can’t blame me for the ketchup,” protested Ash.

  “True.” Jemma sighed.

  “I’ll buy you a new door and a new carpet. Your landlady doesn’t need to know.”

  “That’s sweet of you, but it’s not necess—” Somewhere a phone rang, and Jemma gave Ash a rueful look. “I’d better get that.” She disentangled herself, got up, and disappeared in the direction of the living room. Moments later, she was back.

  “Hey, I’m up here,” complained Jemma.

  Ash returned her gaze to Jemma’s face, unrepentant. “Well if you will strut around dressed—or rather not dressed—like that.”

  “I was not strutting.” Jemma sat on the bed. “That was Thompson. They’ve picked up Aston. He hasn’t only confessed, they can’t shut him up.”

  Ash rolled her eyes.

  “The good news is he left records. He made a note of everyone he brainwashed and the suggestions he planted in their subconscious. I only had the one: to go and see Remington.”

  “That’s a relief.” Ash clasped her hands behind her head. “I was wondering if you might return from answering the phone with an overpowering urge to kill me.” />
  “That’s my normal state,” said Jemma, apparently transfixed by the prominence of Ash’s breasts. Realising she’d been caught ogling, she flushed and folded her arms.

  Ash chuckled, flattered. “If you want me to speed up your pulse rate again, you have only to ask.”

  Jemma pretended to consider, and with a snort, Ash unclasped her hands and held them out. “For God’s sake, come back to bed.”

  With a smile Jemma took them. “If you insist.”

  IT WAS SEVEN a.m. according to the alarm clock, and from the sound of it raining heavily. Ash stared up at the sloping ceiling while she got her bearings, then sat up, or rather tried to. Yesterday’s battering, followed by several life-affirming bouts of lovemaking, had caught up with her. With a groan, she tried again, and this time made it to a sitting position.

  She was tucking the folded pillow behind her back for support, when Jemma stirred. Bleary eyes regarded Ash, then widened.

  “You’ve got a black eye.”

  “Have I?” Ash felt the tender area around her right eye and sighed.

  “It’s a real shiner too.” Jemma ran a hand through tousled hair and sat up, frowning. “Did I give you that?”

  She thought for a moment. “Must have.”

  “Sorry. Hey, waitaminute.” Jemma had been looking at the clock and now turned an accusing glare on her. “Did you go to sleep?”

  “I think so. Why?”

  “You shouldn’t have, after that blow to the head. You were out for quite a while, you know.”

  Ash shrugged. “Well, it’s your fault. Sex always puts me out like a light.” She yawned and rubbed the sleep from her good eye. “Anyway it can’t have been too bad a knock. I’m still here, aren’t I?”

  Jemma’s gaze softened, and she leaned across and gave Ash a hug. “Yes you are, thank God.”