by Kate Johnson
Chapter Nine
Next morning I was woken again by the combined forces of Tammy and Norma Jean. I got up, got dressed and went back to my flat to take a shower and sort out my Ace uniform. I always hated going back to work after my days off. Hated it. I seemed to spend the whole time going, “Only two days ’til I have to go back. Only one day. Only twelve hours.” It was like the end of a very short, unfulfilling holiday.
Still. There were no more bloody envelopes on the doormat and no one had disturbed the tapes I put on the door (roll over James Bond), so I figured the day was starting reasonably well. Now for a little bit of slight illegality.
I dressed in my most scary outfit of leather jeans, heeled boots and ripped punk T-shirt, added a biker jacket and lots of eyeliner, and dragged Ted up to Smith’s Guns.
“I need a hand gun,” I said to Joe, who looked me up and down twice. “Something small and discreet. A silencer, too.”
I was pleased with myself for adding this. It made me sound like I knew what I was talking about.
“Sure,” he said. “Where’s your licence?”
“I don’t need a licence,” I flashed my warrant card, “I have this.”
He took it, looked it over and sniggered at the photo, which Alexa had screen-captured when I signed all my confidentiality things.
“This is a warrant card,” he said. “It’s not a right to bear arms.”
“It says I am a government agent,” I said. “I can carry whatever I like and use it in whatever means I see fit to halt the, erm, disruption of, uh, evil.” Eh?
Joe looked me over again. “No,” he said.
Oh, for fuck’s sake. “Look,” I said. “I’m a spy. People shoot at me. Someone I worked with was found in a baggage belt the day before yesterday. I’m getting dead fingers in the post. Give me a fucking gun.”
But Joe said he couldn’t, not without the proper paperwork and authorisation, and I snarled at him and swung back to Ted, who growled sympathetically when I started him up.
“Bloody men,” I said. Joe stood in the doorway, shaking his head at me. I thought about running him over, but decided against it. Too much paperwork.
My phone bleeped with a text message, and I picked it up to find a booking number and flight details for David Wright. I’m on check-in, Luke had added, go straight to gate 13. DON’T let him on flight.
I stuck my tongue out at the phone. If Luke was in check-in then probably this Mr. Wright wouldn’t even get past security. Ha, as long as he didn’t go down the baggage belt.
Still, it was nice to see Luke could spell properly. Since the advent of predictive type, I’ve started to get really annoyed at txtspk.
I went home to get changed and eat something before I started my shift. I passed the postman on my way up the drive, and he scowled at me. Hey, it’s not my fault someone sent a bloody envelope to me yesterday. If the Royal Mail had handled it more delicately then it wouldn’t have burst and gone all bloody.
Still, I opened the door with some trepidation. The post lay there, looking innocent. A bank statement. A pre-approved credit card offer (this from the people who turned down my first credit card because I didn’t have a rating). A special order code from La Redoute offering me free post and packaging if I placed an order within forty-eight hours. A free pen from a children’s charity (surely they have better things to spend their money on?).
No finger.
I dropped the lot, unopened, on the kitchen counter and started looking for something to eat. Bread, but no butter. Cheese, but no Ryvita. Pasta, but no sauce.
Damn it, it’d have to be crisps again. This time it was clearly not my fault.
I checked the answer phone. Depressingly blank. I charged up both my phones and the stun gun, changed into my uniform and checked my watch. Luke had said I only needed to be there for the Rome flight, which was due to depart at 1410. This meant I had to be at the gate by 1310. This meant I had to leave the house at 1250 if I had a chance in hell of parking anywhere within ten miles of the terminal.
It was 1245. Already? I got my keys and Ted and I rolled off to the car park.
It’s a depressing truth that the ratio between how far you have to park from your destination and the number of minutes you have to get there, is inverse. If I have fifteen minutes to walk up to the terminal, I can park in the first row, so close to Enterprise House I can wave at the office workers. If, on the other hand, I should have been there two minutes ago, I’ll be parking within ogling distance of the control tower, and have to leg it the entire length of the car park.
Today was the other hand. It’s a really big car park.
I didn’t even go to the office to sign in and flirt with Tem, but rushed straight through to the transit train and tried to stop my face from looking like a beetroot that was about to explode. Not a sexy look.
I got out my Nokia again and checked the photo Luke had sent me of David Wright. Mid-forties, brown hair, slightly large build. Exactly like every other businessman who travels with Ace on an hourly basis.
To my surprise and delight, Sven was partnering me at the gate. I hadn’t even glanced at my roster to see if he was in or not. I’d hardly thought of him at all. Which showed what an empty life I had before, spending precious wake-up minutes checking to see which cute blokes were on shift with me.
“Sophie! Are you all right?”
I grinned and nodded. “I’m fine. Sven, you never go to the gate.”
He shrugged. “You always said the gate was better. I think you’re right.”
I preened slightly at that. Hey, I was right!
Something chirruped in my bag. I searched through it, careful not to let Sven see what was inside. Stun gun, cuffs—oh Christ, imagine if I have to cuff Wright at the gate!—defence spray, Siemens phone (silent), Nokia…flashing and bleeping. The screen said Three. Luke.
“Just five seconds,” I said to Sven, who nodded.
“Are you there?” Luke asked.
“Yes. Completely dead.”
“Well, the flight’s full. Booked at 148.”
“Shit!” That was maximum capacity. “Have you seen him yet?”
“No. Only half checked in. We’ve got a school party.”
“Fantastic.”
“And they’re Italian. All those big, heavy suitcases.” He sounded really pissed off, and I had not a shred of sympathy for him. He’d tried to sleep with me yesterday, tried to add me to his list of emotionless conquests. Well, ha! He wasn’t getting me.
“Give me a ring if he turns up, okay?” I glanced at Sven who was listening casually. Well, he probably wouldn’t understand what I was saying anyway. I looked over at the gate phone. “I’m on 3223.”
“Speak to you later.”
I turned round to Sven as I switched my mobile off. We’re not really supposed to use them in public. In fact we’re not supposed to use them at all.
“That was my brother,” I improvised. “We’re having some furniture delivered.”
Sven nodded. “I put the flight on Open,” he said, gesturing to the computer.
Great. Even Sven wasn’t flirting with me. Did I put eye shadow on my cheeks or something?
People started turning up and asking us questions. A lot of them didn’t speak English. Quite a few weren’t even travelling on our flight. I kept having to remind myself that I was working for the government now, doing something very important and exciting, although it would have been nice if I could have known what it was.
All the time I kept scanning the crowd for Wright, turning my head left and right. Sven must have thought I had a neck problem. The phone rang and I pounced on it, but it was just Lissy, the dispatcher, telling me we could send them down now.
I looked over at Sven. “Can I just check the loads first?”
He shrugged and opened up the flight for me, but with him looking over my shoulder I couldn’t start searching for Wright. I made do with checking the manifests, but I didn’t get as far as the Ws before an
other person asked me if we were going to be boarding soon, and Sven said yes and picked up the microphone.
So I pulled boarding cards and kept my eyes peeled for a middle-aged businessman with brown hair.
I must have sent thirty of them through, still scanning Sven’s queue for Wright, when I came to the large group of Italian kids, all passing through in three and fours, giggling over each others’ identity cards and passports.
I didn’t see Wright at all. The phone hadn’t rung. My Nokia, safe in my bag beside me, kept silent.
So I pulled the last boarding card wrong, waited until the passenger had disappeared, then said to Sven, “I got the wrong half of the card. I’ll just go down and give her her luggage receipts.” Then I grabbed my bag and legged it before he could ask me anything.
I pulled out my phone as I ran and tried to call Luke, but got nothing. Damn! I got all the way to the plane, waved the ticket stub at Lissa and ran up into the aircraft. The card belonged to a woman taking her seat halfway down the plane and I sauntered down there, keeping an eye out for Wright.
Yes! There he was! Sitting near the back in the middle of the group of school kids, looking pissed off. I wondered what he’d done at check-in to deserve that.
Then I wondered why Luke hadn’t stopped him.
Then I wondered why everything suddenly got more closed in and quiet, and I looked around and realised in amazement that they’d shut the doors. Why hadn’t they told me to get off?
Because I was in Ace uniform, I’d over-sprayed my hair that morning so it was in a hostess-style helmet, I wasn’t wearing my hi-vis (which I should have, but it was still in my bag), and I was just about to say something to a passenger.
They thought I was cabin crew. I was on my way to Rome.
The flight to Rome is two and a half hours long, the longest two and a half hours of my life, excepting my Philosophy exam, which I snuck out of early because my head was going to explode from boredom. I convinced the crew that I was a newbie, not hard since they were—miraculously—expecting one. I also, and totally without effort, convinced the passengers that, as it was my first day, I’d fuck-all idea of what I was doing.
I dropped things. I spilled things. I forgot things. I was a bloody wreck. I was insanely grateful that I still had my passport in my bag from when I took it in for One to see, so I wouldn’t get chucked out of the country before I could follow David Wright and…
And what? What the hell was I supposed to do? Tail him to his hotel? Disguise myself as room service and spy on him from there? Why was SO17 even interested in him anyway?
“Are you okay?” asked a pleasant American voice as I prepared to spill tea down my tenth victim. They make it look so damn easy when you’re flying. Being cabin crew is really hard!
“Yeah, I’m sorry.” I looked up from the tray into lovely hazel eyes and a perfect, all-American smile. “It’s my first day.”
He grinned. “Gotta start somewhere. Well—” he peered at my chest, and I realised he was looking at my name-badge (hell cannot know how much I hate that badge and the trouble it gets me into), “—Sophie, I think you’re doing just fine.”
I gave him a tense smile. “Thanks.”
He offered me his hand. “I’m Harvey.”
Like the cocktail? “Nice to meet you.” I handed him his tea, dripping slightly, and moved away. But every time I passed him, he smiled at me, and I started smiling back, feeling like I had a friend on board.
Which was more than I could say for the crew. Ace hired the biggest bitches—male and female—there ever were, and locked you in a tin can with them. Cruelty! They never said anything nice to me, never helped me out at all, just told me to do stuff and laughed at me when I said I couldn’t.
“Didn’t you have any training?” one of them asked. He had peroxide hair and could not have looked gayer if he’d been wearing pink and flopping his wrist. He gave me an up-and-down that took in my frazzled hair (no amount of hairspray will hold it), melted make-up, sweat-patches under my arms, and tea stains on my trousers. He sneered, and I snapped.
I reached past him for my bag and withdrew my wallet with my red pass and warrant card.
“No,” I said, flashing the card at him, “no training. I’m undercover. I have had a long day, people have been sending me fingers through the post and I found a dead body the day before yesterday. Be nice to me or I’ll show you what kind of weaponry a government agent carries.”
God, I wished I’d had a camera.
In fact, I did, and I took out my Nokia and snapped a picture of his face.
“For my files,” I said, and after that, they couldn’t have been nicer.
We landed at Ciampino airport and I abandoned the crew, rushing away after Wright. He had no luggage to collect and strode ahead out of the little terminal to the taxi rank, where he stood talking to the driver in rapid Italian.
Shit. There were a lot of other taxis around but I didn’t know the Italian for “follow that car”!
I stood staring at him as he got in. “Double shit!” I hissed, stamping my foot.
“Are you okay?”
It was Harvey, the all-American boy. Out in the sunlight he was tall and sparkling, looking perfectly refreshed after the flight, jacket slung over his arm, tie perfectly in place.
I let out a sigh. “Do you know the Italian for ‘follow that car’?”
He grinned, shading his eyes and looking after Wright’s taxi, now waiting to turn off the concourse. “That car?”
“Yes. There’s a passenger in there who left his camera behind. I want to give it back to him.”
Harvey stared at me. “You’re a full service airline, aren’t you?”
“I surely am.” I looked up at him, pleadingly, and he shrugged. “Okay, hop in,” he said, opening the door for me. “I’ll come with you.”
I stared.
“We had a chat at the gate,” Harvey said easily. “We’re staying in the same hotel.” He said something to the driver, who nodded. Harvey gave me a little push towards the car.
I had no choice but to get in, one hand inside my bag, searching for my stun gun. Illegal, hell. Thank God for my red pass which had let me through security without being scanned.
Though fuck knew how I’d get back through Italian security.
“So,” Harvey turned to me, flashing his perfect white teeth again, “how are you finding the aviation industry?”
I hated it. I hated every part of it. People should go back to ships and trains.
“Oh, I’m loving it,” I said brightly. “Especially the people. They’re all so kind.”
He nodded. “I guess it takes a special kind of person to do that kind of job.”
Yes. A complete sociopath.
“Of course. It takes a lot of patience and understanding, and you have to love working with people.”
“Have you always wanted to do it?”
No. Even when I was a little girl and there was still some sort of glamour to flying, before the days of the low-cost airline, I always thought being an air hostess must be the worst job. Like being a waitress in a tin can.
“Always,” I said with as much sincerity as I could muster. “Ever since I was a little girl. It always looked so glamorous.”
“I guess it still does,” Harvey said. “So, do you get to fly long-haul? Weekends in Maui, that sort of thing?”
Oh, the bliss. But your average Ace crew went to Belfast and back five times a day and slept nowhere but at home. Alone.
“Well, not so far with Ace. But I have my sights set on BA and Malaysian. I just adore their uniforms.”
Harvey gave me a quizzical look. “Don’t you have to be, um, well, Asian to do that?”
Do you? I had no idea. “Well, this is the twenty-first century,” I beamed. “So tell me about you. What are you doing here in Rome?”
“Oh, business,” Harvey said with an easy smile.
“What kind of business?”
“I work for a cell p
hone company.”
“Oh, really? Which one?” That reminded me. I needed to get out my phone, start praying I got overseas coverage, call Luke, and give him hell.
“It’s a division of Eurotel. We’re setting up links with Europe, wider coverage, that sort of…”
I listened politely as the taxi sped at a truly alarming rate through the pretty Roman streets. I swear, they drove like lemmings. Put your foot down and aim for your destination. Ten points if you hit an old lady. It’s a good job this is the HQ of a world religion, so none of the prayers have to go too far. Our driver seemed to consider a red light to be an advisory signal. Shall I stop? Eh, no, don’t feel like it today.
We swung round the Coliseum like something out of The Italian Job and roared past some rearing ancient columns.
“Wow,” I said, like Pretty Woman in that hotel.
“It’s cool, huh?” Harvey said. “I think that was the Roman forum or something.”
“Where Caesar was killed?”
“I think so.”
“So where’s this hotel?” I asked as the driver took another bend at about a hundred and twenty miles an hour. My palms were nearly bleeding from digging my nails in.
“The Piazza Trinità di Monti. Just off the Via Tritone?”
I nodded like I understood.
“It’s not far from the Trevi Fountain.”
I nodded again.
“You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?” Harvey said, laughing, and I blushed and shrugged.
We pulled up and Harvey paid, which I was glad for, because I don’t understand Euros. I made a vague promise to pay him back and went rushing inside to the desk.
It was all very grand.
“Inglese?” I asked hopefully, and the immaculate woman at the desk nodded and smiled.
“How can I help you?”
“I’m looking for someone. A friend. He’s staying here… David Wright?”
She nodded. “Si. He has just checked in. Would you like to leave him a message?”
I shook my head. “No, I just…” Damn it, Harvey was watching me and he’d be expecting me to hand over a camera. “Could you tell me his room number?” Probably I’d get told no, for security reasons.