The Spy I Loved

by Dusty Miller

  He went up to the cabin on silent feet, went inside, and closed the back door. It was nothing but stillness out there. It was a chilly night but crystal clear and moonless.

  Such a night should be appreciated. The mental picture of Lindsey, no doubt sitting quietly at home with her uncle, briefly occupied his mind. The thoughts of her in town, perhaps on a date with some lucky young bugger, or better yet, parked at the local Lover’s Lane, (and all towns had their parking spots), were tackily disturbing. He batted away a mental picture of Lindsey mostly naked, clad in red stockings, rubbing herself all over some greaser with a twelve-pack, a gram of coke and a lot of attitude.

  These are bad thoughts, my boy.

  Very bad indeed.

  This sort of thing wasn’t helping at all.

  The sortie wouldn’t take long and he was pretty sure it would work.

  As for the danger, that was why they were there.

  Better me than somebody else. It’s what they were trained for.

  ***

  The water was dead calm, showing a light swell. They paddled through bits and streamers of foam from all of the soap and phosphates in the lake. It had been a fairly breezy day, with long ridges of soap suds surging against the stony beaches on the downwind shore.

  It was very quiet. The sounds of the camp and its small traffic quickly dropped away.

  The only sound was from the dripping of their ultra-stealthy paddles. It took a couple of minutes and then they were well away from land. They went up the inlet and then there was the channel proper, widening into the reservoir above Espanola.

  In the bow, Jenkins stopped paddling and set her paddle carefully down across the thwarts, just air and rubber, heaving slightly under their body movements.

  Picking up the device, she extended and locked the telescopic carbon-fibre legs. It was easy enough to operate. She’d practiced it fifteen times in the bathroom with the lights off before she was satisfied.

  Hitting the little thumb button, it began emitting its rays. She set the thing down on the plywood, keeping her hands near in case it toppled. It had three gyros, down low on each leg. They seemed to be working, and she noted the ball-joint mounted head making small adjustments as the boat rocked.

  There was a viewfinder for field use, looking for snipers and such, but even from where she was sitting she caught the distinct flash of a hit. She touched another button and the thing began another three hundred and sixty degree sweep.

  Both of them laid flat backwards, keeping the heat of faces and hands from flaring all over some invisible sensors, not seen but distinctly felt. Sliding down as far as they could get, their necks were on the stiffly resistant back cushions of the canoe seats. The boat itself was sitting down so low in the water that the odds of an enemy attack were hopefully pretty small.

  Jenkins hissed.

  “What?” They would let the machine go around a few times, record the results, and paddle back.

  Ian Spencer was philosophical enough.

  With GPS, a map of the river and their data, they could cut down the search time for police and military considerably. They could send a message to the opposition, and hopefully, recover a few more of the boat-launchers.

  There must have been a million stars out there.

  If the enemy launched a drone boat, they would surely hear it.

  As for what they might do about it, well. That was a very good question.

  “I have to pee.”

  Ian snorted softly.

  “So—what’s stopping you?”

  “I have shy kidneys. Besides, this is a new suit.”

  “I promise not to peek.”

  Jenkins snorted.

  A few more minutes and they could go back in.

  Chapter Sixteen

  They had dragged the dripping boat back up the bank, with Liam taking the front end and Jenkins bringing her precious scanner and the plywood. She was in the door first. She put the equipment on the kitchen table and began stripping off as the men brought the boat in.

  The set it down on the dining room floor. Their mission complete, the thing to do was to change into street clothes, open the windows, open the deflation valve, and then go outside. They could start a fire, have a couple of drinks, put on a show, and then go back in when the CO2 had properly cleared.

  The snap of the door latch and the unmistakable sound of the bedroom door opening came and all heads twisted to confront the threat. Jenkins, on her way to the bathroom, stopped dead in her tracks.

  Lindsey stood in the doorway, dangling a master key on its leash.

  She stared into the gun barrels and then her face, cold and furious, came around to Mister Kimball.

  She said three words.

  “I knew it.”

  Liam put his gun up, and after a moment’s hesitation, so did the others.

  “Mister Kimball. What in the hell—” She eyed the black boat and the scanner on the table. “As you may recall from the fine print in the rental contract, criminal activity is grounds for ejection from The Pines.”

  The look on Kimball’s face was priceless, but she must be very careful not to laugh, for the kid’s sake as much as Liam’s.

  Jenkins spoke first.

  “Perhaps you two would like a moment alone.” Jenkins was desperately trying not to laugh.

  Ian grimaced. Their number one priority was to upload their data, and then to clear all evidence. It was a moot point now, admittedly.

  Liam nodded.

  “Come on, Lindsey. You and I need to have a little talk.” He glanced at Ian, who hustled over to the kitchen table as if he had never paused in the first place.

  Ears burning, Ian Spencer wondered what the girl must be thinking.

  “Yes, Mister Kimball. I should say we do.”

  For a moment nobody else moved, and then Liam put the gun away in its shoulder holster under the bush shirt.

  Jenkins could not help but open her mouth, but then caught an angry look. It faded quickly. Her bladder was demanding priority.

  Chin down, eyes glittering, Lindsey started walking.

  Liam opened the rear door and politely held it until she went past, head up and shoulders back.

  She was clearly steaming inside and Liam had no idea of how to handle this.

  Jenkins’ eyebrows rose, hand hovering over the bathroom doorknob. Ian bit his lip and kept his mouth shut.

  “Good luck, Liam.” Jenkins had a feeling Kimball was going to need it with this one.

  From one woman to another, she was everything they said she was, and more.

  Probably a lot more.

  They do make a cute couple, though.

  ***

  They walked, down the gravel road, past the store and the long, sloping parking lot lined with trucks and boat trailers, mostly empty. A vehicle was running and a man sat inside talking on the telephone. At one time, such a device would be high-tech and top secret. Now everyone had one and they were everywhere. What once might have been suspicious was no innocence personified…maybe.

  The totem poles by the gate loomed up in the overhead lights and then they walked out the gate. This was the best place for a personal conversation. She was on his right and they were on the left side of the road, when headlights appeared a half a mile up the road.

  Lindsey looked up, grabbed his hand, and tugged him off to the right. She carried a flashlight around at night as a professional habit, something Liam hadn’t actually thought of although his was top of the line and worth about two hundred dollars.

  She switched it on. Pointing it to the black line of bush ahead, an even blacker hole in the foliage was revealed.

  “Where are we going?”

  “It’s not like you have a clue, Mister English Gentleman.” She pulled harder and he stepped along, trying to keep up in spite of roots, rocks and declivities underfoot, all dancing in the beam of her torch.

  The branches high overhead seemed to reach down to take any warm, breathing thing into an embr
ace. The tunnel widened and the ground, the beaten path was a pale wavering line leading them onwards.

  There was the quick brush of colder air. Sand and gravel crunched underfoot. The shy was revealed in all of its glory. She clung to his hand and they looked out over the lake.

  “Lindsey.”

  “Shut up.”

  His mouth closed and she turned to him.

  She stepped in close, tilting her head back.

  “I don’t give a rat’s ass who you are, Mister Liam Kimball…not his real name.”

  “Lindsey. Please.”

  “No.”

  She closed her eyes.

  He guessed he knew better; better than to utter a deep sigh at a moment like this.

  Taking her in his arms, he brought her in close. He leaned down and kissed her lightly on the forehead. He gave her another peck on the bridge of the nose.

  “Grr.”

  He chuckled, pulling back. Her eyes opened.

  “You bastard.”

  He nodded.

  “Yes.”

  There were tears in her eyes, the stars overhead mocking her. She was blinking rapidly, trembling in his arms from the chill and a kind of spiritual and moral terror.

  “Please.”

  Liam Kimball stroked her hair.

  “No.” He pulled her in close and held her tightly. “Lindsey.”

  “Don’t say it.”

  But I must.

  “You’re a very beautiful young woman—”

  “And?” It was torn from her guts, leaving her empty and desolate inside…

  He pushed her back. She stood there, hugging herself and shivering, face wet with tears.

  Liam pulled out his wallet.

  He opened it up and took out a blue plastic identity card.

  It was real enough.

  “The light, Lindsey.”

  She sobbed. He reached out and gently lifted her hand, still holding the light. He held the card in front of her and illuminated it for her, although he doubted if she could see anything in that state.

  “What—what is it?” She stared at the insignia.

  “There is absolutely nothing that I can safely tell you, Lindsey. Not without endangering you, and others, and our work, and most likely myself.”

  Her mouth was open in a round gaping hole. She finally looked away from the card. Breath hissed as she took it in. She stared at him for a long moment, bringing up the light and studying his face as he winced and shielded his eyes.

  He put the card away, letting her arm drop. She switched off the light.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Oh, God, am I so sorry.

  He pulled her in close.

  “Don’t be sorry. It’s my fault. I’m sorry to…hurt you. Please. You have to promise me that you’ll just keep this to yourself, all right?”

  Lindsey nodded humbly, tears switched off. She was drained of all emotion at that point.

  “Lindsey.” He hugged her, and gave her another kiss on the forehead.

  He lifted her chin, gazing into her eyes.

  Bending, he gave her a dry kiss on the lips. One second—that was it, as she blinked furiously, trying to figure it out. What did it mean?

  He was giving her unnecessary hope. It was a feeling, cruel and manipulative, but what the hell was he supposed to do? She needed something, she was asking for something he couldn’t give, no matter how tempting that might be.

  He could get in a lot of hot water for that little kiss.

  Don’t get involved. Never get involved.

  He was sure as shooting involved now.

  “Come on. I’ll take you home.”

  There was nothing left to say. They held hands. Gravel crunched as they walked back, not speaking.

  She looked so beaten.

  When they got to the patio door, around the back where the girl and her uncle lived, she dropped his hand. Lindsey opened the door without looking at him and went in with a slump in her beautiful shoulders that it hurt to see.

  ***

  Curtis Wu was Jenkins’ usual partner in crime as they often joked.

  Jenkins hung back. She and her inscrutable, slant-eyed side-kick (his own description), had parked their vehicle and infiltrated. They had covered a distance of six kilometres, across some of the hilliest, swampiest, rockiest terrain either person had ever seen. They had searched the hillside in a radius of fifty metres, finding none of the disposable camera units in the area. That didn’t mean they weren’t there, only that they hadn’t found any. It was decided to continue with the task.

  A total of three launchers had been located. This one was their own special little baby.

  The sniper’s ghillie suits were the best that money could buy. After Spencer’s ambush experience, Jenkins had insisted on heavier armament. She was carrying a Heckler and Koch UKP assault weapon. Since he was carrying the load and doing all the work, as he said, Curtis was content with his pistol and a half a dozen clips. Both operatives carried a couple of fragmentation grenades for extra defensive power. Smoke grenades and a knife rounded it off.

  Jenkins, listening devices spread in a fan upslope and fifty metres out along the shoreline, had their avenue of retreat and their flanks to watch. Her earpieces buzzed with a cicada, myriad insects, birds, and the sound of waves and wind. There didn’t seem to be anything big out there.

  Jenkins spoke softly into her microphone.

  “Go.”

  Curtis lifted from his prone position, never taking his eyes off the boat-launch device. At first glance, it was nothing more than a half-submerged log at the water’s edge. This was one of several that had been mapped by Jenkins and Spencer the night before. With their data, they had been able to walk right to it. Search parties had been tipped to destroy the rest in place but leave this one alone. This was relatively smart. The demolition people were waiting for word from here before proceeding.

  Unfortunately, someone had to be the guinea pig—

  Jenkins watched the log-like contraption bob gently in the swell. The device apparently found a suitable soft spot and rammed its pointed rear end ashore, coming in on an acute angle. That was probably due to the limits of camera panning. She turned her attention back to the forest.

  A pleasure boat pulling a pair of water-skiers had gone by a few minutes before, and the ripples were still coming and going.

  The camera, pointing out to sea so to speak, whirred in short little bursts as it compensated. Curtis froze in place, four metres from the water’s edge. Sweat trickled down his forehead.

  Flies buzzed in front of Jenkins’ nose, going about their business just above the forest floor. Her partner’s approach would be silent. Although there was no audio pickup on the device, the possibility of someone else being out there was reason for stealth.

  They were in luck. Like the first device they had located, this one was placed under overhanging branches, taking advantage of the shadows and ever-changing, dappled light to good effect. If they didn’t know it was there, they probably would have walked or boated right on past without a second thought. The camera steadied up, keeping its aim at a point on the other side of the lake. Downstream and around the corner, the Espanola River issued forth on its downstream run. The thing knew where the camp was.

  Curtis took a breath and slowly straightened. He opened up his soft bag, bulky but not all that heavy.

  Keeping an eye and an ear open, he slipped the tree-climbing apparatus onto his muddy green combat boots. The damned suit was hot and bulky. It would, no doubt, snag and tangle on every little branch. On that thought, he reached up and broke off a few dead sticks. They poked straight out at eye level and were sure to cause a problem as soon as he began. The sound was loud enough, but nothing else happened.

  The sensor he was deploying was light and simple. Hopefully it had enough power and sensitivity to intercept a signal. Hopefully it was undetectable to anything save physical, on the spot, eyeball-type detection. A thin fibreglass ring and a screen o
f the finest monofilament wires, thinner than spider-silk, all he had to do was to get it up the tree and above the device. By twisting the rim he had turned it into a figure-eight, and then bent that over to get a double loop with the net carefully wrapped around it. It all fit into a small day pack, with room left over for other items, like water, a bit of food, extra ammo.

  “Curtis.”

  He responded in a low but natural tone.

  “Yes?”

  “I have an idea.”

  “Uh, huh.”

  “Find four sticks with notches at the ends.”

  “What?” They had orders, and ignoring the technical people was done at one’s own peril.

  There was no doubt about getting up the tree. The question was how far he could get out on what looked like some slender branches. The limbs were also five or six metres up.

  “Stick them in the mud—if you can. Prop them up with rocks and stuff. It sure beats climbing around like a monkey, eight or ten metres up that tree.” Now that Jenkins saw the problem, it looked like putting their antenna in exactly the right place was going to be a real son of a bitch.

  Curtis looked up the trunk. His partner was right. There were any number of smaller branches. They weren’t quite strong enough for a foothold, but a pain in neck to climb through or around. There was just no way he was going out on them.

  “I’m listening.”

  “What you do is to set your ring in the forked sticks—that’s what I meant. Keep it a foot or so off the antenna. That’s all we have to do.”

  Curtis nodded.

  “What if somebody comes along to check on the thing?”

  “Not after we blow the other two.”

  Curtis thought about it. They probably wouldn’t come back. That would be real bad policy.