The Barista’s Guide to Espionage

by Dave Sinclair

  And they fell.

  And fell.

  And fell.

  She desperately tried to clutch empty air. The spy’s grip was a vice on her wrist.

  She was going to die. Like this. Because of Harry. Eva always suspected she’d die because of him.

  Being well read, she knew the whole unconscious-before-you-hit-the-ground thing was bullshit. People died horribly, fully cognisant. Eva awaited her death. She waited for the impact.

  It came sooner than she thought.

  The landing was hard and unexpected. They hit the hard glass curvature of Lancing Tower’s forty-eighth floor. She had always derided the rounded upper portion of his tower as being far too phallic. No longer. The two of them spun out of control. The spy’s grip never faltered, it was as if he were part of her.

  Their speed increased and soon they’d run out of the tower and careened over the edge into the abyss and certain death.

  Eva wouldn’t allow that.

  She kicked. Frantic, desperate kicks. The accumulated effect gave her some semblance of direction over their unrestrained slide. The spy didn’t know what she was doing, but joined in when he realised their skid was less out of control. They both kicked. They increased speed, but in one direction.

  She was aiming for something.

  The world shook around them. Explosions shook the floors above. Fingers of fire ignited the air.

  This was it. Their one shot.

  It wouldn’t be pretty and it would hurt. A lot. Even if it did work, and it most likely wouldn’t, the impact would probably kill them. But it was all they had.

  Realisation flashed across the spy’s face and he doubled his efforts. The window-washing rig. When it wasn’t in use it was hidden on the edge between the curvature of the top of the tower and the rest of the building. It was the only non-smooth surface of the entire structure, and they were hurtling towards it.

  They were going to overshoot it.

  Eva dug her heels in and skidded. The spy spun around and slingshotted over her. But it was enough. They were back on target. Probably. With their feet, they slowed their descent as much as they could, which wasn’t a lot. All they had to do was hope their momentum didn’t fling them too far. Then they really would be done for.

  The crash was painful and ugly. They both hurtled into the thin window-washing scaffold with a bone-crunching thud. Limbs flailed and cries of pain were issued. The scaffold bounced off the building and creaked. It crashed back into the edifice before leaning to one side. The winch groaned. Then…nothing. The scaffold stayed fast.

  For the first time in forever, Eva breathed.

  What was once Harry’s penthouse rocked with blasts above them.

  They collectively sucked in half of London’s available air.

  After what seemed like hours, Eva finally gathered her wits and asked, “That was your grand plan? Jump out of a building?”

  “The fact we’re discussing it seems that the plan was not without merit.”

  “Thanks to me.”

  “Thanks to you, yes.” He touched his rib and winced. “You handled yourself gracefully and with more guts than I’ve seen highly trained specialists muster in far less harrowing circumstances. In short, you done good.”

  “Living is good.”

  “It is indeed.”

  A wall of flame blew out a window above them, showering them in glass. The spy slid towards the control panel for the washing scaffold. The controls were hidden behind a sheet of plain metal locked in place. He rattled it once, shrugged and left it.

  “What, that’s it? Give it a wiggle and then give up?” Eva asked.

  “Do you have a better idea?”

  “It seems like I always do.” She leaned over and assessed the lock. “Five pin Yale. Piece of piss.”

  “What, you’re going to…”

  The spy didn’t finish his sentence once he saw Eva pull out her small leather lock pick case from her jeans pocket. It was a habit she’d never been able to give up. Her chequered past had given her the skill, and her adventurous spirit meant she’d continued to carry it with her in the present. That, and she hadn’t been one hundred percent sure Harry would let her in.

  “A half diamond and a flat tension wrench should do the job,” she said more to herself.

  She plunged the pick in and within a minute the lock clicked open to reveal the panel. Eva didn’t even attempt to hide the smugness. With a theatrical flourish she pressed the down button for the scaffold. Nothing happened.

  The spy crossed his arms and nodded below. “No power.” Not a single light shone anywhere on the building. “But an impressive show of nefarious skill there. You very nearly showed me up. It could have been uncomfortable for both of us.”

  “What, you couldn’t handle being saved by a woman? Twice.”

  “Oh, you’re one of those?”

  “What, a woman? What gave it away? Was it the boobs? It was the boobs wasn’t it?”

  “No, one of those feminist types. I can do anything better than a man, and so forth.”

  “Have an issue with feminists there, bub?”

  “I have no issue with equality. But feminists take it too far. We’re all equal these days, you might have heard you even have the vote. It’s not a competition.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. We should probably let that whole feminist thing slide as there’s nothing left to do. That wage gap is sorted, there’s no such thing as rape culture and domestic violence is just something from those picture shows. All us feminists can do now is sit around and bitch about our periods.”

  Eva wasn’t sure what part of the statement made him most uncomfortable. Actually, she did. For a man like him, all women existed just like they did in porn movies. They were always up for it, travelled commando, and periods didn’t exist.

  He stared at her mutely. Eva sighed. In order to change the subject, she said, “I guess we’re stuck. Don’t you have a mobile or a homing signal or something?”

  “No, dropped it, but this turns into an inflatable raft.” He shook his bulky black diver’s watch. “Probably not useful now, I suppose.” He issued a shrug and one of his charismatic smiles.

  “Shame. You don’t have a jetpack stuffed in your shorts, do you?”

  “You’re very flattering, but no.”

  Eva asked, “Can you shoot through the window? We could get out via the stairs.”

  “Unfortunately my pistol probably landed somewhere in Piccadilly.”

  “So, we’re stuck.”

  “Stuck, but luckily with such scintillating company. I wonder what two attractive people could do with so much time to kill, isolated and all alone in the middle of the night. The options are endless.”

  In response she crossed her arms over her chest. Then crossed her legs for effect. He seemed to get the gist of her less-than-subtle rebuff.

  The spy pulled out a silver lighter and a metal cigarette case. He offered the contents to Eva. Ignoring several smoke-free years, she took one and he lit it. Taking a long drag, it settled her nerves. That’s the stuff. Oh how she missed it. Unsurprisingly, a near death experience made her completely unconcerned with the health implications.

  The spy slumped to the floor. “I could go for a kip up here. Wake me up if something interesting happens.”

  Eva nudged him, which resulted in a stabbing pain in her own ribs. “No sleeping on the job.” She picked tobacco from her tongue. “No lock picks, no radio, no gun, no grappling hook, but you’re packing ciggies. Good to see you’ve got your priorities straight…flaming cock-monkeys, I…I don’t even know your name. I’ve been calling you ‘The Spy’ in my head all this time.”

  “Not, Devastating Cheekbones?”

  “No, but Arrogant Arse-Donkey might also suit.”

  “It may, but I go by Charles Bishop normally.”

  Distant sirens seemed to come from all directions. Crowds gathering below despite the pre-dawn hour. They were too distant to hear their cries even if they
tried.

  Picking glass from her hair, Eva asked, “So Mr Bishop, who shot the missiles if it wasn’t you guys?”

  “I believe the official story will be that a rogue Russian pilot had a technical malfunction and accidently sent two AA-10 Alamo missiles into a civilian target, which it chose as being the tallest structure, not due to the current political machinations. Officially.”

  “Unofficially?”

  “American.”

  “American? Why the hell are they shooting missiles in the centre of London? I’m pretty sure that’s still an act of war.”

  “Not if they told us first. It will be spun endlessly as a regrettable technical error. Since the civil war started, Russian preventative maintenance has been lax etcetera, etcetera.”

  “Even so, an airstrike? Surely a strongly-worded letter would have sufficed. You’re English after all.”

  “Normally, yes. His majesty was even willing to go as far as issuing a stern look, but circumstances halted that kind of ugly confrontation. Mr Lancing has in his possession certain files that, shall we say, are of a sensitive nature. The leaks so far have already led to cabinet resignations. Possibly a suicide. He publicly threatened to release files if certain demands were not met. If the information were to be made public, certain members of the US and UK political systems would be compromised and highly embarrassed.”

  “Bugger that. Harry’s going to ramp up his plans as a giant screw you and now he knows the US and British, and most likely every other Western government, is out to put a bullet in his head. All because the Yanks missed their shot.”

  “I will concede circumstances are somewhat worse, yes.”

  “You bloody well think?”

  The eruptions seemed to have died down and were replaced by the cacophony of fire engulfing the building. It was several floors up, but by no means were they safe.

  Eva shivered. The spy slid his arm of steel around her.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll be out of here in a few minutes. Trust me.”

  “We were rescued by helicopter seven hours later.” Eva stared at the naval grey wall. “I was suffering hypothermia, countless lacerations, and needed seven stitches.”

  Why had she decided to tell the truth to the sailor rather than fabricate a detailed tall tale? It was a good question. For one thing, she had to tell some sort of story to keep Cole in the room. Telling him what she knew took less brain power than inventing a coherent story, so she could use the remainder for planning her escape.

  The other reason was that if she did somehow get back to the island, she wanted some chronicle of her story. It would probably be her last chance because there was every reason to believe she’d never get out alive.

  “Miss…Miss…” Lieutenant Commander Cole shook his hand from writing copious notes freehand. “This is fascinating and all, but none of it is answering my question. How did you come to the island?”

  “Context.” Eva rocked her neck from side to side. “I’m putting things in context.”

  “Are you?” Cole seemed flustered. “Let’s see, so far you’ve told me about a date, that you knew Mr Lancing and there was a British Secret Service agent. But none of it tells me why you were on the island. So far this tale seems to be a waste of time.”

  Speak for yourself, Eva thought. She aimed the bobby pin’s end towards the locking arm of one of the handcuffs. Not long now…

  The ex-boyfriend who had once left her handcuffed to the bed would never know how he had inspired her expertise at the life skill of handcuff picking. She might even forgive him for stealing her possessions as she’d screamed bloody murder. Who was she kidding? If she ever caught sight of that weasel again she’d knock him the hell out.

  Every second she grew closer to escaping and getting back to the man she’d left behind on the island. She had to save him. She owed him that much. It was her fault he was there and probably dying if he wasn’t already dead. It was her mistake and she was the only one who could fix it. First step was getting through the damn cuffs.

  Eva nearly dropped the bobby pin when the bulkhead door was wrenched open. The crisp white uniform of an officer entered. He nodded curtly to Cole. Everything about him seemed officious and managed to an inch of its life. Unlike his comrade, his body was chiselled and toned. As if he lived for exercise, carrot juice and cleansing enemas. This one was a Commander. At this rate she’d be speaking to a Fleet Admiral by supper.

  “Good afternoon Ms Destruction, my name is Commander Decker and I will be taking over the investigation from here on in.”

  This was news to Eva. And, by the expression on his face, Cole too.

  Decker placed a thick manila folder in front of him. He interlaced his well-manicured hands on top of it. “I looked you up with the details you gave Cole here. It seems you’ve led a colourful life Ms Destruction.”

  “I believe it’s important for one to live life with a rich palette.”

  “I have been supplied this dossier via Interpol–”

  “Is that volume one?” she asked looking at the folder.

  “–and it makes for interesting reading.”

  “I will admit I’ve burnt a few bridges,” Eva said as Decker thumbed through the file. When he paused on one page, she added, “And a car.”

  Cole raised an eyebrow. He leaned over to have a read, but Decker angled the file so he couldn’t spy its content.

  “Cars seem to be a reoccurring theme.” Decker tutted. “It says you stole four of them.”

  “That’s wildly inaccurate.”

  “So you didn’t steal them?”

  “No, it was way more than that.” The two men stared at her. Her joke falling flat, Eva changed tack. “I will admit that I do have a fairly chequered past. But that was done away with long ago. What’s the last entry there? What, ten years ago, more? I hardly see how it’s relevant to–”

  “It is all relevant Ms Destruction,” Decker said authoritatively. “Now, could you please state the nature of your relationship to Mr Horatio Lancing?”

  “If you want that, I’ll have to go way back.” Her mind raced to see how the change of circumstance could be used to her advantage.

  Cole shook his head. “Here we go.”

  Chapter Five

  EIGHTEEN MONTHS BEFORE THE ISLAND

  Jimmy the Bastard had lived up to his name. For the third day in a row he hadn’t shown up for a shift even after teary protestations over the phone that he would ‘definitely’ be there the next day. “Totally, no question, I wouldn’t let you down, Babe!” He let her down, Babe. He was done. Life at the Kanga Brew café was definitely more lax than the Saville Row-clad clientele’s workplaces, but you didn’t abandon your mates. It was simple as that.

  There must have been something about the uncustomary clear spring day had that brought Londoners out. Eva’s café was understaffed and she was over-tired. Last night she’d watched a succession of progressively shoddier bands at an all-nighter gig at some seedy East London club.

  Eva was in no mood to play nice with customers. Working the coffee machine so hard she was sure its manufacturer in Italy would have conniptions, she plastered on her best fake grin and forged on. Surely there had to be a lull soon? She glanced up and wiped her brow with her forearm. The line was longer. It snaked out the door and past the window down the street.

  Holy mother-tugging shit-kittens.

  She was going to die at the coffee machine. She only hoped they’d wipe the coffee grounds off her body before rolling it into the back alley to be eaten by wild dogs. She’d read somewhere caffeine was bad for dogs.

  Each member endured the queue irritated, but stoically. They were English after all. Every person in the line possessed a sort of grim determination. No one had elected to leave. It was as if the English had been genetically bred to queue. They didn’t like it, but endured it. A mini-Blitz every day.

  One member of the queue stood out from the others. Unlike everyone else he seemed to be enjoying himself, as if
the ridiculously long line was a big adventure. Eva had no time to ponder his pale, but kind of pretty face. She had exactly eleventy billion coffees to make before she was allowed to die.

  “I take break now yes.”

  “Now, Anchor?” Eva asked the big lumbering Swede.

  “I have work for seven hours no break. I break now yes.”

  How could she say no to those big puppy eyes?

  “Alright, make it quick, this lot are likely to get right snippy if we slow down any more.”

  Anchor made a cutting motion. “Snippy?”

  She punched him in the arm. “Go, ya lovable yob. Have a ciggie for me.”

  Anchor issued a, “Yar yar” over his shoulder as he left.

  Eva headed to the counter and first in line was the grinning pretty idiot.

  “Hello,” he said pleasantly.

  “Enjoy lines do you?”

  “I don’t get many, to be honest, it’s a novelty. It’s like old time Soviet Russia or something.” A wide grin crossed his lips. What kind of bloke found a queue novel?

  In spite of his foppish hair and three day growth the queue-liker with the vivid childlike green eyes intrigued her. It could have been the lack of sleep, stupid hours or excessive caffeine intake talking. But he was too much of a pretty boy for her tastes.

  He rocked on his heels. “I’ve been a bit out of the loop. It’s a bit sad when a line is a luxury, isn’t it? I seem to have lost my common touch.”

  “You been in jail or something?”

  Why did she ask that? She knew why. Of course she did. She’d much prefer her daydreams to have a bad-boy edge.

  “No, why?” he asked.

  Today was not the time for chit-chat. Eva pulled out her notepad, and asked, “What can I get you?”

  “One coffee please.”

  She stared blankly at him. Between clenched teeth, Eva asked, “What type of coffee?”