The Barista’s Guide to Espionage

by Dave Sinclair

“This is good coffee,” Bishop said.

  Eva shook her head at him, as if he’d said breathing was nice.

  “So what happens now?” she asked.

  “You try and make contact with Lancing. We get you trained up as much as we can. You’re in for an intense few days. We’re going to try and make you a spy in record time. I hope you don’t like sleep and love pain.”

  “Sounds like my normal life so far.”

  “Don’t be so facetious. You are in for the hardest few days of your life. We have the world’s best trainers lined up to push you harder than you’ve ever been pushed in your life. You will bleed. You will beg for it to stop. You will be so rammed full of information you’ll want to gouge your brain out with a pitchfork. When that’s done, you’ll get up and start again. You will be tested like you never thought possible.”

  “Can’t we do a montage?”

  “A…what?”

  “Like in the movies. We could totally do a montage. You know, me flailing about trying to climb a rope, you shaking your head, then at the firing range, karate classes, all that shit. Over the space of a song I get better and by the end I climb that rope in record time, you click a stopwatch and give me an approving nod. It ends with us laughing and sipping cocktails at sunset.”

  “You know this is real life, don’t you?”

  Eva drank her horrific coffee. If she had been diabetic she’d have been in a coma. “It’s my turn to ask if you’re okay.”

  Bishop frowned. “Me? Why?”

  “You’ve been here for half an hour and you haven’t made one lewd remark or double entendre. I’m worried about you Bishop. Are you having some sort of stroke?”

  A wry grin. “We’re colleagues now. It may be hard for you to believe, but I can control myself around you.”

  She mulled it over. Eva wasn’t convinced. She knew she wasn’t completely irresistible, but Bishop with self-control was as believable as a ballet dancer’s codpiece.

  She squinted at him. Even though he was a spy, Eva didn’t seem to have trouble reading him. “What else is going on? Have I upset you in some way?”

  “No, it’s…,” he glanced at his coffee mug. “Today’s just a bad day.”

  “I apologised for the hair. Some mornings it sticks up like that.”

  “Amusing.” His eyes were bereft of humour. “No…it’s…well, today’s an anniversary, of sorts.”

  Oh god. Was he married? He didn’t have a wedding band, but in retrospect she doubted any secret agent would.

  Bishop must have picked up on her thoughts. “Not that kind of anniversary, no. A bad one. A mission. People died. It’s…today’s not a great day, okay?”

  So the walking innuendo had a heart after all. Eva didn’t ask. She assumed he wouldn’t tell her if she did. She also didn’t want to tell him she was sorry. It was a cliché and his response would be automatic.

  She still loathed him, but now he was a human she loathed, instead of a cartoon of a man. Eva pretended to drink her coffee and listened to the sound of morning traffic through the window.

  Eventually, she asked, “When do we get started?”

  Bishop downed his coffee. “Now.”

  Eva was incredulous. “Wait, not even one?”

  “No. Why is that so hard to believe?” Bishop pointed down the firing range. “Can you please just shoot, we need to determine how much time you’ll need on the range.”

  But she wasn’t looking at the range. “Like, not even one? How is that even possible?”

  Bishop crossed his arms in frustration. “I never got around to it, my utmost sincere apologies. Now, if you could just focus on…”

  “How can you never have seen a James Bond movie? You’re a goddamn spy!”

  “Well, yes, but those movies don’t exactly represent real spy craft…”

  They’d been at SIS headquarters for five hours and Eva was thankful for the distraction. “But that’s the starting off point, surely. It’s like someone watching Star Wars and getting inspired to become an astronaut. Or an archaeologist watching Indiana Jones. Not the same thing because you’re not going to be running away from rolling boulders every day, but, I mean, come on.”

  Bishop must have realised he wasn’t going to get Eva to fire a shot without finishing the discussion. He sighed. “I’ve never seen those movies, either. Now, if you could aim your gun we’ll teach you how to–”

  “Were you born in a lab?” She was aghast.

  “Can we,” Bishop ran his hand down his face, “shoot? Please?”

  Eva glared at the target Bishop had set for her. It was roughly three centimetres from the barrel of her gun. It was so close a blind grandmother could have hit it. She gave him an expression of contempt and hit the button to send the target further down the range.

  She rolled her neck, extended her arm and gave Bishop her sweetest fake smile. Hardly glancing at the target she fired six shots and managed four direct hits and two near misses. Not bad for being a bit rusty. And showing off.

  Who needed a montage?

  Bishop was dumbfounded. “How…how…?”

  “Long story. Anyway, I can shoot. Surprise! So, have you seen any movies? Like, ever?”

  Bishop ignored the question and made Eva shoot for another hour. Finally he was convinced that Eva wasn’t fluking it and had significant skill. He, of course, didn’t use those exact words. It was more of a grunt.

  She was more than happy to show Bishop up. There was something satisfying about a mere girl finishing with a qualifying score for a field operative. Although Eva had to admit the victory dance may have been too much.

  After passing her scores to a minion, Bishop said, “How about we take a break and grab a coffee?”

  “That stuff in the staff room is not coffee. It is an abhorrence masquerading as a beverage. No wonder you boys can’t keep up with Harry, you’re fuelled by an anaemic caffeine wannabe.”

  Bishop shook his head and handed his weapon and glasses to the armorer. Eva did the same. They headed towards the caféteria. At least he had learned not to engage in coffee arguments.

  The morning had been a series of introductions to her trainers. She was pleasantly surprised that they weren’t all male. It seemed MI6 wasn’t quite the boys’ club she imagined.

  They had no idea how long Eva had to train, or even if it would be needed. She had reached out to Harry but there was no guarantee he would respond. Even if he did get back to her, would he agree to meet?

  The more time wore on, the less likely she thought it was Harry would reply to her message. Surely he had more on his plate than to get in contact with his mouthy bothersome ex-girlfriend. The expression on his face the last time she’d seen him made her dubious he’d invite her over for beer, a grilled cheese sandwich and a laugh about old times.

  Regardless, the tiny kernel of hope she still carried in her gut convinced her to train for something her brain doubted would ever eventuate.

  The afternoon was designated to be surveillance and counter-surveillance. She was looking forward to it, but suspected she’d fail to impress like her marksmanship had. Or was it markswomanship?

  When they arrived at the caféteria, Bishop handed her a coffee without asking how she had it. They were seated in a virtually empty room. Eva wanted to grab something to eat, but everything available was exceedingly and annoyingly healthy. Fruit, vegetables and low carbs. The likelihood of finding a jam doughnut in the MI6 canteen was about the same as finding Mikhail Gorbachev behind the counter serving sandwiches in a panda suit. Sometimes Eva needed junk food. She’d kill for a chocolate sundae.

  Bishop sipped loudly, his mind apparently miles away.

  “Can I ask a question?” she said.

  “It’s never one question with you, but certainly.”

  “Do you have a licence to kill?”

  “There’s no such thing.”

  “Do you have a garrotte wire in your watch?”

  “No.”

  “What’s a g
nafu?”

  “A word you just made up.”

  “How many novels did Jane Austin complete?”

  “No idea.”

  “Six. How many have you read?”

  “None.”

  “I am surprised. What’s the…?”

  The phone rang in Eva’s pocket. The number was blocked but the sense of dread was enough to know who it was. She answered.

  “Hi Eva.” The sound of the sea in the background. “It’s Harry.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Eva pressed ‘End’ on her phone. She stared at it for the longest time and Bishop let her.

  She was numb. She was cold. More than anything, she felt incredibly alone. She’d give anything for an afternoon down the pub with Nancy. Her best friend would be able to sort it out over a few pints. Except that would be impossible.

  When she took the call, Bishop had ushered her into the nearest office. He’d ordered the occupants immediately out with a snap of his fingers. They scurried away without protest.

  Eventually she placed the phone on the table. “So…that was fun.”

  “Are you alright, Eva? Do you need a moment?”

  A moment? She needed a lifetime.

  Eva shook her head. “You got the gist of it?”

  Bishop nodded.

  “Do you need me to write everything down?”

  “No need, we’ll have a transcript.”

  She tilted her head. “A transcript? Wait, you have my phone bugged? Don’t you need a warrant or something?”

  Bishop chuckled and shook his head. He patted her arm condescendingly and walked off to make some calls of his own. Prat.

  Two weeks. Eva had two weeks to become a spy. She had two weeks to wrestle with her conscience before being confronted the biggest moral dilemma she’d ever faced. Sure, she was still angry at Harry. Sure, he’d left her to die while he escaped. Sure, he’d been tracking her every move since they’d broken up. Sure, he’d deliberately sent armed guards into her bedroom while she was screwing. But still…

  Harry had seemed sincerely concerned for her safety. The relief was palpable in his voice. Eva knew him well enough to know he was being genuine. He was thankful she was safe and wanted to see her. She didn’t even have to ask.

  She asked tentatively if he was going to unleash the secrets. He said he no longer had a copy but had other information, equally as destructive. The British government had seen the original data he was going to release. There was a slight strain in his voice when he’d said it and they both knew why. Harry said he was waiting to see if the governments of the world would do the right thing now that they were aware of what he was capable of.

  The right thing.

  Right.

  Harry had been vague about why he needed two weeks before meeting her. ‘I need to get settled’, he’d said. Whatever that meant. Settled where? Eva hoped it wasn’t Iceland. She’d seen enough of that place.

  He’d said he’d be in contact soon to provide her with the location of their rendezvous point. When he’d rung off, she wasn’t entirely sure what she should feel.

  With Bishop gone, Eva took advantage of the rare moment of solitude to stare out the window. It was a horrid London day. A typical one, then. The dull grey skies had opened up and bombarded the city with icy winds and incessant drizzle. Great coffee weather.

  She hoped Anchor was taking care of her coffee shop in her absence. The profit share she’d given him would hopefully be sufficient motivation. She missed him. She missed that life. Eva wondered if she’d ever return.

  Bishop strode into the office. “Alright, everything’s falling into place. Your next session is soon, we better get cracking.”

  “What is it?”

  “Chemistry.”

  “How to make a better cocktail? That sounds like something I can get behind.”

  “Almost like that, but more about making explodey cocktails that go bang.”

  “Did you just say explodey? I am rubbing off on you? … I said ‘off on you’, don’t get any ideas.”

  “Perish the thought. We commence in five minutes.”

  “No rest for the wicked, then?”

  “As well you know, the wicked get exceedingly little rest.” He gave her a wink. And just like that the innuendo was back. “We’ve put you on a strict regime and I’ve scheduled you in for as much Krav Maga as we can.”

  “The Israeli fighting thingie?”

  “That’s exactly how they refer to it, yes. It’s all about practical fighting, how to finish a fight as efficiently as possible. You’re super-intelligent Eva, you read something once and you have it. That’s a gift. But learning martial arts is different. You need muscle memory. You need to do it several hundred times over for your body to do it mechanically, without thought. You’ll do these things so many times you’ll want to crawl into a foetal position and cry. And then you’ll do it again, and again. Its real-world fighting, like stripping a gun from an assailant’s grasp.”

  “Like I’ll ever need that. I’m meeting Harry, not storming Normandy.”

  “You never know. Our job is to prepare you for anything.”

  “Can you teach me to juggle? I’ve always wanted to do that. I should totally learn how to juggle. You never know, I might have to join a circus.”

  “Three thirty, Captain Bozo.” He smiled and his baby blues lit up in cruel anticipation. “Come on, there’s a world of hurt ahead.”

  “Stop sugar-coating it.”

  “Evie, a moment.”

  She stopped walking down the light-filled corridor. MI6 was far more modern than she’d thought. In her mind Eva had imagined an old school boys’ club look, all mahogany and leather. In reality, it was merely another office building, although one with bulletproof everything, armed guards and unbelievable security at every level.

  She had come from her lock picking lesson. It was meant to be two hours but was only ten minutes. The instructor had attempted to walk her through the basics, but she’d laid down a challenge. When she’d broken the lock faster than the instructor he’d advised she could skip the class.

  Eva thought Paul might be after her to tell her off. She was still unclear on exactly what the handler’s role was. He took her by the arm and led her to an unoccupied meeting room and shut the door.

  “How’s it all going? You keeping up?”

  If she were talking to Bishop, she could have made something out of that, but this was Paul. He wouldn’t know an innuendo if you wrapped it around a dildo and slapped him in the face with it.

  “Good. So far. Bishop’s keeping me busy.”

  “I bet he is.”

  Eva didn’t know how to take that.

  “Can I ask you a question, Evie?”

  “Sure, you know that. You can ask me anything. You have asked me anything.”

  “Do you miss him?”

  “Who Bishop? I saw him, like, fifteen minutes ago.”

  “No, Lancing. Do you miss him?”

  “Miss him how? Like with a sniper rifle or like a saxophonist misses the eighties?”

  “The second one. I think.”

  There was no use lying. Paul had seen the ugly aftermath of her relationship with Harry. Nancy had spent months putting her back together. It hadn’t been pretty and it hadn’t been high on dignity.

  “I’ll admit I occasionally miss the idea of him. Who I thought he was instead of what he actually ended up being. But do I miss the man? I don’t think so, no.”

  “But he did buy you a castle.”

  “That’s okay I can build my own castle out of the fucks I no longer give.”

  Eva held her face as neutral as she could muster. She’d been confident Old Paul couldn’t read her. With New Paul, she had no idea.

  Paul nodded, seemingly unconvinced. “But you’ve tried before, haven’t you? To be free of him, and that didn’t exactly work out now did it?”

  So that’s what the conversation was about. Paul was having second thoughts. He’d see
n her as a strategic asset to capture to Horatio Lancing, but once he’d thought about it he’d remembered the frail flawed woman she really was.

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “A year.”

  Eva shrugged. “Sometimes you have to fail before you succeed. Sometimes you have to release Their Satanic Majesties Request before unleashing four of the greatest rock albums in history.”

  Paul stared blankly at her as if he had no idea what she was on about. It felt like home.

  She hadn’t thought about the castle in a long time. It was probably still in her name. For a time she’d toyed with the idea of giving it over to an asylum seeker organisation just to piss off the current French administration. It was worth looking into when her life returned to normal. That is, if her life ever returned to normal.

  Getting back to the topic at hand, she said, “I’ll be fine Paul, really.” She rubbed his arm reassuringly. Eva wanted to change the subject as soon as possible. “Any news on that front? Has anyone located him?”

  He shook his head. “Not a peep. He’s disappeared off the planet. No agency has the foggiest where he is or knows of anyone that has drawn a bead on him. Only you as far as we can tell. Which, to be honest,” Paul scratched the back of his neck, “makes me even more nervous. He has to make his move soon, surely. We still don’t have a clue what his end goal is. So far it’s been threatening politicians to bump up their green credentials and care for the poor–”

  “And start the occasional revolution…”

  “What?”

  “Uh, he did claim to have started the latest Russian revolution.”

  Paul’s jaw tightened. “What! When was this?”

  “When I saw him at the penthouse. Before the missile suppository.”

  “Why haven’t you mentioned this before? It’s kinda important, Evie.”

  “I thought he was joking, or at least exaggerating.”

  “Has nothing he’s done in his life led you to believe Horatio Lancing is capable of anything?”

  Eva ground her shoe into the carpet. “There’s more.” She glanced up. “He made some crack about creating a new European currency and calling it ducats. He was definitely joking about that.”