The three were joking about the size of some woman’s breasts. Eva hoped it wasn’t hers. Not that it should matter. They sounded like twats. All three loitered by the desk, far too close. One sneeze and she’d be discovered and likely killed.
Cowering as much as she could into the corner of the cavity all she could see was the lower half of the men. A real, ‘Hey, check out our crotches’ moment. Not an enticing prospect for several reasons.
She could imagine the expression of glee on Van Buren’s face as he gutted her like a pig. That was the best-case scenario. There were no rules on the island, they could do anything to her before slashing her throat. The thoughts circling in her mind were terrifying.
Eventually their conversation wound down and Eva did her best to remain motionless. If any one of them decided to sit at the desk she’d be done for.
Thankfully none did. They all wandered off with promises to catch up for coffee later. She stayed under the table for what seemed like decades. Eventually she was confident there were no human beings nearby. Tentatively she poked her head out from under the desk. No guns were pointed at her. A good start.
Crouching, she made her way as fast as possible to the station. On her way, she noticed a wall-mounted computer display she hadn’t seen before. The display showed only one thing, Current Server Numbers 27,457.
What the hell was going on?
The sun soothed her skin, but nothing soothed her mind. Lying on a towel on the beach Eva had all the outward appearance of calm. Inward, the story was different.
This spy stuff wasn’t like it was in the movies. She wished there was a plan to follow, but in reality she was winging it.
If she had been able to contact MI6 she might have been able to ask for guidance, but even that wasn’t inside the realm of possibility. She’d found a warehouse full of computers, great, now what was she meant to do?
If this was a movie she’d slap her hands together and type away. If Jeff Goldblum could hack into an alien spacecraft with a nineties laptop, surely she could get a message to the outside world. But life wasn’t that simple. She’d found computers, but her mission had become extraordinarily more complicated, not simpler.
What was the island really? It was obviously more than a getaway to escape the pressures of being a wanted man. The island had purpose. And she had no idea what it was.
Why was Harry being cagey about it? It was plain to see the island was a long-term project, so why had he mentioned nothing about it? He’d promised there would be no more secrets, the main reason they’d broken up. Yet, there it was, possibly the biggest secret in the world and he’d not even hinted at it.
Eva dug her hand into the sand and let it run through her fingers. She had the beach to herself, well, except for the ibis who seemed under the impression she was in possession of chips.
The tide was coming in and waves crashed nearby. She’d have to move eventually, but not yet. First she had to figure out how to find out what all the computers were for, how to get a message to MI6, find out what Harry was really up to, stay alive and keep away from Van Buren while she did it. Simple. I’m going to drown.
The ibis fluttered away, startled. Eva rose from her towel and shielded her eyes from the sun. Something emerged from the water. The sun was too bright for her to focus on exactly what it was.
The figure was human and waded through the surf towards her. Slowly she was able to make out details. Male. He wore nothing but blue swimming trunks. His frame was more muscular than Harry’s.
Distant shouts turned her head and she saw heavily-armed guards sprinting up the beach. They were trying to run on the sand, aim weapons, gesture and shout at the same time.
The figure emerged from the waves and towered above her. Not until she fell in his shadow did she know who it was. She was too gobsmacked to speak.
“I was wondering if you could return a favour and lend me a towel?”
Eva gaped at the man open-mouthed as Bishop dripped on the sand.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Eva did her best impersonation of a sideshow laughing clown. Her head swivelled from side to side, mouth open wide. Not believing him to be real she proceeded to blink blankly at Bishop. Eventually she moved onto squeaking incomprehensively.
The secret agent appeared remarkably unharmed from Prague. Either he’d been seen to by some exceptional doctors or his injuries were less severe than she’d imagined. Bishop raised a roguish eyebrow and seemed to revel in her disbelief. He looked suspiciously as though he’d walked off the set of a Diet Coke ad. Hair tussled just so, two-day growth, chiselled body, wry grin. He looked perfect. Right up to the moment an armed guard brutally rugby tackled him to the sand.
They landed with a collective oof. Bishop spat out sand as the guard grappled to pin his arms behind his back. Bishop didn’t resist. He seemed to be expecting the reception.
A ball of wheezing sweat staggered towards Eva. Van Buren was so out of breath he could only rasp orders about hauling Bishop to the main house for interrogation.
Regaining his composure as best he could, he turned to her and said, “Stay out of it.”
Eva rose up. Placing her hand on her hip, she said, “I find that highly unlikely.”
As the guards shoved Bishop along the beach, she shouted to Bishop, “I have to know. Is Paul…?”
“He’s fine.”
The warm tropical sea water lapping her feet was nothing compared to the wave of relief that enveloped her. Paul was ‘fine’. As in, ‘not dead’. Eva allowed herself a brief moment to choke back the emotion of finding one of her best friends hadn’t died saving her life.
One less thing to worry about. But that wasn’t entirely true. With Bishop on the island things had become a shit-tonne more complicated.
“Why do you want to see him?”
Harry had asked an excellent question. It really was. Insightful and to the point. Eva didn’t care for it.
Standing on the veranda of the main house, she studied her shoes. She really should have thought this one through.
Asking to see Bishop was bound to raise further questions. Yet she asked anyway. Eva had always assumed Harry believed her interaction with Bishop had been limited. The warning on the London Eye and fraternising with her in his apartment bathroom. Which for a brief period of time had been the case. It’s everything past that moment she hoped he was unaware of.
In retrospect she should have wondered if Harry had known Bishop was with her in Prague. They had both gone over the bridge, but only one had climbed back. Did Harry know she hadn’t been alone? He hadn’t mentioned it. She didn’t want to ask.
Harry leaned against the doorjamb of the huge double doors. Dressed casually in white t-shirt, jeans and no shoes. He wasn’t confrontational in his question, but his crossed arms indicated he wouldn’t let her speak to Bishop without a good reason.
Unfortunately, she didn’t have a one. Before him, cogs turned in her head, but no ideas fell out. Something must have been jammed up there because the cogwheels weren’t spinning like they should.
Without speaking to Bishop, Eva had to assume he’d found her via the quantum positioning pen. It had worked after all. Having supplied her with the backpack she doubted Harry would like to know he was indirectly responsible for Bishop’s arrival.
“How does he know Paul?”
The question was practically nonchalant, but she detected an undercurrent. Was he beginning to distrust her?
“I’m sorry?”
“Van Buren said the spy mentioned something about Paul being fine to you. I assume that’s your mate Paul.”
If she could have, Eva would have smacked the side of her head to get those cogs spinning. Focus.
“Yes, my Paul. That was one of the ways he tried to make a connection at the London Eye. Said he went to school with Paul. Pretty sure it’s untrue. In fact, I never asked Paul about it because it sounded like utter bullshit. I was being sarcastic when I asked him. I guess Van Buren doesn�
��t get subtlety. Surprising. When Bishop confronted me on the beach we hardly spoke, but it was enough to remind me he’s still a twat.”
A lie with a pinch of truth and a smidgeon of desperation. Harry gave a slight tilt of his head. He seemed to buy it. She decided to push her luck.
“So that’s part of the reason I wanted to talk to him. Find out where he gets off accosting me when I was having a lovely day on the beach. He pissed me off. I wanted to see him because I wanted to vent, I guess. And remind him not to use my friends as some sort of letter of introduction. I’m certain Paul wouldn’t have the foggiest who he is.”
The last part had been true as far as she’d known until a few weeks before.
Harry nodded. “I was wondering what the link was. I thought perhaps Paul was connected in a more professional manner.”
Eva laughed and hoped it was convincing. “You’ve met Paul, does he look like a master spy? He buys wine from dodgy blokes in pubs, he doesn’t fly around with jetpacks, saving the world and snogging the damsel in distress. Nancy would kill him for one thing. He couldn’t get dressed in the morning without his wife laying his clothes out for him.”
“I guess you’re right.” Harry seemed to accept it, but there was something in his manner Eva couldn’t place. Was it nervousness about Bishop being on the island or something more? “Come back in a couple of hours, dressed for dinner. I’ve invited him to dine with us. We’ll get the bottom of this. I’ve sent an entire wardrobe over to your villa. Wear something nice, a dress. A slinky one would be good.”
He leaned over and kissed her lips. The door closed and Eva was alone on the vast terrace.
She pushed down the distaste of Harry telling her what to wear, again. What would Bishop say? Did Harry know more than he was letting on? Was he playing her? Was she being paranoid? If she was safe, what did Harry intend on doing with Bishop? She doubted Harry would hand him a packed lunch and send him on his way. Dinner with the two men was fraught with countless potential chasms to fall into.
Muttering, she said, “The spy who came to dinner.”
Heading back to the guest house the image of Bette Davis flashed before her. Fasten your seat belts, it’s going to be a bumpy night.
“No, I won’t be doing that.”
“Oh come on. It’ll be fun.” Harry’s mischievous eyes twinkled.
Eva wasn’t buying it. “This has to be some hitherto unknown definition of fun with which I am unfamiliar.”
He sat cross-armed on the edge of his huge mahogany desk. As with all things Harry, the room was opulent, yet tasteful. It was decked out with Edwardian scientific instruments; barometers, microscopes and the like. A large stylised wood carving of a monkey dominated the room.
Harry was resplendent in his white tuxedo, if a little overdressed. Not that Eva could talk. Her elegant black lace and satin Givenchy gown was low-cut and figure-hugging. The bare arms showed off her tattoos, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. Her feminist sensibilities riled at being told what to wear by a man, but damn if she didn’t feel confident and masterful. And sexy as hell.
Where she did draw the line, however, was being told where to stand. “I’m not going to pose like a damn Barbie Doll. I’m not a prop, Harry.”
“It’s not that at all. I want to see his face when you’re standing behind me like a goddess and I do the swivel around on the chair thing. It’ll be fun. Just messing with him a little. You of all people should know about messing with people’s heads.”
“What the hell is that meant to mean?”
A knock at the door interrupted them. The butler advised he was about to bring Bishop in. Harry leapt into the chair and spun it so the back of the chair would face the spy as he entered.
Eva rolled her eyes. “Do you need a cat to stroke?”
“Shhh, you’ll ruin it.”
“You’re kind of being a dick right now.”
“Eva,” Harry scowled with a hint of humour, “not in front of the monkey.”
The door opened and Bishop strutted in as if it were a cocktail party and he was the guest of honour. He knew how to own a room, that’s for sure. Eva wondered how much was put on bravado and how much was natural Bishop swagger. His black tuxedo was so well-fitted she had to squint to check it wasn’t painted on. Did Harry have a tailor on the island? Bishop strode towards the desk as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
Harry’s chair swivelled around. “Mr Bishop, welcome to my island.”
My island? Eva had thought it was hers. At least in name.
There was no reaction to the chair turn, which must have annoyed Harry. Bishop gave a slight bow and said, “Harry Balafonte I presume?”
She snorted and Bishop turned his attention to her. While his face remained impassive, his pupils dilated at the sight of her. Eva would have blushed if she was into that sort of thing. Which she totally wasn’t.
“I do believe we’ve met, but we haven’t been properly introduced. Miss…?”
“Oh come now Mr Bishop, please drop the pretence. I am fully aware of your history with Eva here.”
“Fully?” Bishop smirked.
Behind Harry, she gave a slight shake of her head. Don’t.
“Yes, she’s told me about your aborted attempt to talk her out of our fledgling romance and, well, we all recall the minor altercation in my apartment. Incidentally, I’ll be sending your government a bill for the tidy-up on that one.”
“And I’m sure they will enjoy ripping it up.” Bishop slid his hands in his pockets. “So, if I may be ill-mannered, why am I here?”
“A question I very much want answered as well. But first,” Harry stood and motioned to the far doors, “dinner.”
Unimpressed, Eva said, “Oh goody, dinner and a show.”
Chen cleared the plates silently. Eva began to feel sorry for the chef. He possessed amazing skills yet was also tasked with serving and clearing the table. Given the amount of human resources required to build Harry’s buildings, underground high-tech rail system and huge data centre, surely he could have forked out for at least one lousy waiter. The secret infrastructure was something she was eager to speak to Bishop about, but Harry seemed determined to give them no time alone together.
So far they had talked generalities. Weather: tropical, not much to expand on there. Sport: the upcoming World Cup held England’s greatest chance of winning the title in quite some time, as in, little possibility at all. Food: Chen was remarkable and Michelin stars were overrated.
Eva was on edge. The conversation was far too polite and the false civility only made the situation worse. It was as if someone had thrown a hand grenade into the middle of the table and she didn’t know how long the fuse was. All she could do was sit there and wait for the inevitable explosion.
“I must say,” Bishop said, “I have to commend your wine collection. This DRC La Tàche is sublime. Seventy-four?”
Harry nodded, with an impressed expression.
Bishop took another sip, savouring it. “Although the seventy-eight is when they reached the zenith. This is good too.”
A smirk crossed Harry’s lips. “Unfortunately the seventy-eight is hard to come by. Even for me.”
“Oh, I know a gentleman who has some in his collection. I’d be happy to supply his details.”
“That would be marvellous, thank you.”
Eva was ready to scream. “Would you lot stop being so bloody civilised? It’s doing my head in.”
“I believe Werner Herzog said civilisation is like a thin layer of ice upon a deep ocean of chaos and darkness.”
The quote was a good one. The fact that it came from Bishop made the situation more confounding.
“What would you have us do, Eva? Pistols at ten paces?” She hated it when Harry took on a haughty tone.
“What I want is for everyone to drop the pretence and deal with the situation.” She pointed at Bishop. “He swam to shore and interrupted my sunbaking. Aren’t you the slightest bit interested in how he got
here?”
Harry sighed. “Alright, Eva. If it makes you happy.” He took a sip of water biding his time. “So, Mr Bishop how did you come to be on our little island?”
“Would you believe I swam?”
“I would not, no. The nearest land is three thousand kilometres away.” Harry glanced up. His thinking face. “At best that would take you over forty days without breaks. If you could maintain Olympic speeds.”
“You calculated that in your head?”
“I looked it up recently.” Harry paused. “Not a lot to do on this island.”
Bishop turned to Eva. “Nothing to do on the island?” His demeanour flirtatious. “Such a shame for a man to have such little imagination.” His voice dripped innuendo. This was more like the Bishop she knew.
She shook her head. “Stop it.”
“One day.” He grinned. “Not today.”
Harry tapped his knife on the table to get Bishop’s attention. “How exactly did you find my island?”
“It’s rather amazing actually,” Bishop said threading his hands behind his head. “I was in the office and every Tom, Dick and Harriet was asking where’s Horatio Lancing? Where’s Horatio Lancing? So there I was in front of a globe of the world with a dart in my hand. So I gave it a spin, threw the dart and here I am. I mean, what are the odds?” He waited a moment and added, “That was rhetorical. I don’t actually need to know the actual probability.”
Harry’s lips appeared to have been run over by a truck. “Is this the kind of childish answering I can expect?”
“I guess it all depends on the questions.” He turned to Eva. “And who asks them.”
Chen interrupted with a tray of soup. He ladled it in silence. Everyone at the table eyed the others. When Chen wordlessly escaped to the kitchen, Harry recommenced his line of questioning.
“Am I to understand you’re here in an official capacity, Mr Bishop?”
“Let’s just say I am not on vacation.”
“And am I to assume you have a submarine or commandos at your beck and call and other such threats?”
The Barista’s Guide to Espionage Page 25