by Karen Guyler
“I wondered if you might have retired by now.”
“I thought about it, but what would I do? Bake cakes, there’s only so many of those I should eat. Coffee mornings? I’d go mad in five minutes. I’ve got a few years before they put me out to pasture.”
“They’d hate to lose you for sure.”
“There you go,” Nora rapped her knuckles on the first closed door on the top floor before presenting a swipe card to the panel beside it. When it beeped permission, she pushed the door open so Eva could step inside the office and seven years into the past.
“Eva, it’s good to see you. Would that it were in happier circumstances. We don’t lose one of our own often but when it happens, it hurts.” Gordon Stamford gestured at the chairs in front of his desk, shunting over to one side so he could see her around the enormous monitor that took up most of its surface area.
“I know.” Eva shook his hand. “Thanks for seeing me. There must be something in the water here, you and Nora look almost the same as you did the last time I saw you.”
“Though a few too many lunches, too much whisky,” he patted his rounded stomach. Still a full head of unruly hair, though it had worked its way from sandy brown to light grey and keen blue eyes behind his rimless glasses. Gordon didn’t miss much.
“How are you? How is everyone?”
“You know how it is. Right now we’re all shocked, then will come anger, the need to avenge him if foul play is suspected. That’ll be harder to manage. He stayed in Vauxhall Cross when we moved here, but he had strong ties to people in this unit.” He peered at Eva’s face. “You don’t look like you’re taking good care of yourself.”
She stopped herself from shrugging. “A disagreement with a cyclist. Congratulations on your unit chief position. It’s well deserved.”
Gordon laughed. “Sometimes I think they put me over here to get me out of the way. So why the visit now?”
“The police have questioned me twice about Eric, they just told me they think someone poisoned him. Do you know what it was?”
“I know nothing yet. So far it’s being treated as a civilian case.” He frowned, his face settling into well-practiced furrows. “Why are they interested in you?”
“Because Eric and I met the day he died. He told me he needed help on something but—”
“Official Secrets Act still covers you.”
“I know but I’m so far out of the loop, I’m barely in the same country, I have no clue what’s current, who the major players are, might be. Things have changed so much since I was here, they have agendas now I couldn’t have dreamt about then.”
Gordon’s desk phone rang. He held up one finger and hoiked the handset to his ear, listened.
It was like a time warp, his office. The cracked leather-bound books in the case behind him were probably still in the same order they’d been over in Vauxhall Cross, everything transported over here and reassembled exactly. She’d never seen him need to refer to them, his extraordinary memory was the stuff of legend. Apart from that one time.
He finished his call. “What is it?”
It was hard to smile there, then. “I was just remembering when you and Eric were testing each other, him on Google and you with your books.”
“And a lot of fine whisky.”
“He only just beat you.”
“Because I was topping everybody up.” Gordon smiled too. “It’s a good memory, Eva, thank you.” His voice changed, all business now. “I only have a few minutes, I’m needed.” He checked his watch, he still favoured expensive timepieces, this one showing the interior workings in gold.
“Yesterday’s incident?”
He nodded. “You’ll hear it on the news. The powder was inert, nothing dangerous, the ‘victims’ psychosomatic.”
“Who’s claimed it?”
“That’s the strange part, no one. We’re pooling resources, see if we can figure it out. Could be anything, could be nothing.” He sighed. “Terrorism has the easier hand, they can lock down any part of the country, terrify a population with a hoax phone call. We’re labelling this a win for the intelligence services and police. An extra drill, expertly carried out. Why did you come?”
“Because I know something I didn’t tell the police.” She forced the words out. “I might have been the target.”
8
Gordon didn’t miss a beat, apparently shelving his summons elsewhere. “A blow by blow account of your meeting with Eric then.”
Eva closed her eyes, shredding the unfamiliarity that had wrapped itself around what had been an integral part of her time in MI6. Pulling it together in her mind, she described a re-enactment of what happened through the enhanced memory of her senses.
“Eric asked if I had half an hour to meet, said he had something he needed my advice on. I suggested Coffee Espresso, it’s where I always go.”
Gordon nodded at the significance.
She could see the table by the window. “When I arrived, he already had his coffee, and he got me one from the barista at the counter. He told me he’d been Head of the Russian desk for five years, that he was investigating something he wanted my opinion on to see if I would reach the same conclusion as him. Because what he thought didn’t make any sense.”
Eva could hear the vanilla chill-out music being played over speakers in the corners at ceiling height. See the brown walls displaying paintings for sale, striped paper on the back wall.
“It was busy, noisy, so we weren’t in danger of being overheard, but we kept the conversation cryptic, obviously. After about ten minutes a barista, probably at uni, a tall thin girl with a long blonde plait and a blue starburst tattoo on the top of her right wrist came over with a slice of chocolate fudge cake. She said the man at the counter sent it over for me, but she couldn’t see him when I asked about him. A mother and daughter probably were waiting to be served, a young Indian guy, head down, scrolling his phone, behind them. Not him, the barista said, he was white, average everything. I thanked her, left the cake where she’d put it on the table.”
“You still don’t like it, or you were being cautious?”
“Still don’t like it.”
The crucial part. Eva let the remembered sounds wash around her, holding that moment in her memory as vividly as she could. The dampness escaping from winter coats and soggy woollen scarves into the coffee tinged-warmth, the smell of hot chocolate, strongly sweet. “Eric joked it was probably from the barista, that we should meet more often, picked up the fork and demolished it. If it was poisoned, it wasn’t fast acting. We were in there probably another twenty minutes while we finished our drinks and he tried to persuade me to say yes.”
She should have. Things might have played out differently if she’d been there to help him when he felt ill.
“He said nothing about strange feelings in his stomach or throat. He didn’t complain about pain, feeling sick. Didn’t mention anything off about the taste.” She let the memory dissipate as the warmth from the coffee shop had when they stepped out into the cold early evening and opened her eyes. “We said goodbye outside, a quick hug,” she pushed through the memory, the sadness of his death catching at her throat. “I went back to the office. He didn’t say where he was going.”
“People around you?”
Eva focussed. “No one close, a couple behind me, Eric kept an eye but didn’t show any concern about them. Lone student working at the nearest table to us. Headphones on, head down, studying a laptop the whole time.”
She waited, Gordon’s silence reminding her how he worked.
“You need to keep a low profile.” he finally said.
She nodded. “I do, mostly.”
“Can you work from home?”
“I’m safe at Every Drop, we have building security.”
Gordon’s frown deepened, but he agreed. “Home and work only until we’re sure.”
“After tonight, absolutely.” She filled in her excuse at his questioning look. “I have a charity ball to
host.”
“You can’t go.”
“I can’t not.” Eva took a beat, Gordon didn’t respond to histrionics. “It’s the biggest event in Every Drop’s history, it’s the donations to fund our next programme. Our new installation depends on the ball being a success.”
“Look at the evidence, Eva.” He leant forward across his desk. “Someone gave you poisoned cake, that wasn’t an accident.”
“It hasn’t been substantiated that the cake was the culprit, and anyone who knows the first thing about me, knows I wouldn’t eat it.”
“Poisoning though, whose weapon of choice is that?”
“Exactly and Eric was Head of the Russian desk, they knew I’d give him the murder weapon.”
Gordon steepled his fingers, tapped them against his lips. “That presupposes a level of finesse that probably isn’t there, our friends the Russians have always been a blunt instrument. Eric kept an experimental antidote at home, something we’ve issued to everyone attached to that part of the world. We need to check, of course, but if he took it, it not working suggests they used something exotic.”
“Or that the police are wrong.”
“We both know that’s unlikely, they wouldn’t have mentioned it to you unless they were sure. You wouldn’t be here unless you thought it mattered.”
The nauseating unease that had been grating her insides stepped up. Eva took a deep breath. She was fine.
“Any idea who might want to harm you now?” Gordon voiced the question she’d been asking herself since DI Smith first mentioned poison.
She shook her head.
In her time at MI6, she rode a desk, anonymous to anyone outside the Russian unit. And all of that was eight years ago, distant past in the intelligence world. And now? She was a mum and ran a charity, why would anyone target her? There was nothing to gain, no message to send, no leverage to achieve by killing her. She clung to the logic.
“It makes little sense for me to have been the target, it must have been Eric.”
Gordon laughed, a short sharp bark at humour. “Since when does anything we deal with make sense? You shouldn’t put your head above the parapet, for now.”
“I have to go tonight.” She tried another tack, but wasn’t sure who she was reassuring. “I know everyone who’ll be there. I know enough to be careful.”
“If you’re the target, they won’t miss again. Being killed isn’t the part of his legacy your father would want you to repeat.”
“This mission is so important, it will save millions of lives.” And Every Drop being deemed worthy by Time Magazine would be the best salute to her father she could think of, a way to cement his legacy that would have mattered to him. She could imagine the Every Drop celebration cover framed next to his own on her office wall as clearly as if it already hung there.
“What about your family, Eva? You want your childhood for your daughter?” Gordon really knew where to hit.
“It’s not the same thing.”
“Isn’t it? You want her to be that angry with you?”
Anger was underrated. Eva used it to drive her and her vision for Every Drop. Anger at the injustice of a world where power and money meant more to those who chased it than the lives of others was a force for good. She tapped into it often.
And the other, the monstrous presence of her personal fury, she thought she kept that hidden. She knew she fed it too often, the rage at her father for leaving her, for taking away his haphazard constant in her life, for leaving her to scream and cry in her empty bedroom, in the silent tomb her childhood home became, for leaving her alone.
She sat straighter. “I can’t delegate my obligation, the donors will be more generous for me because I know how to press their buttons.”
“Hit that guilt trip, eh?”
“Always, but with a smile.”
He picked up a pen from his desk, held it between the fingertips of both hands, looking at it as though it was something priceless, dangerous.
His door burst open, and Nora was a whirlwind over to his desk. “Look at the news.”
“Which site?”
“Any of them.”
Something big. Gordon turned his giant monitor sideways so they could all see the footage. Sirens wailed through the speaker.
It was hard to tell where it was from the street scene of nondescript buildings. A woman in a fur-edged coat addressed the camera. “There is no official word of anyone claiming responsibility. Authorities will release a statement in due course, but this will have a far-reaching impact on diplomatic relations between the US and Russia.”
The feed returned to the studio where the presenter looked suitably serious. “We will bring you more on that story when we get it. To recap, the American Ambassador, Hunter Malone, and two aides have been killed in Moscow by a suspected car bomb. A statement from The White House has condemned the incident. The newly appointed ambassador was a friend of President Jed Carson.”
“We know anything else?” Gordon asked.
Nora shook her head. “Not beyond he got into his official car with his aides to attend a long-standing engagement set up for his predecessor when it blew.”
“What are the White House doing?”
“No red flags yet. We’ll keep on it.” Nora left them to it.
“Assassinating the Ambassador? What were they thinking? And a car bomb?” Eva asked. “That never used to be the Russians’ style. I’m out of touch, but I’d stake money it wouldn’t be now. Unless they’re dissembling, shifting the blame onto someone else. Would they want a war?”
Gordon muted the news feed, let the silence stretch around the room.
“You’re right. This is a deviation, not in line with current behaviours. I’d like for you to come back as a consultant on this. I can protect you then, if you are being targeted.”
“You’re into protection now?”
His hands on his desk switched position, right over left. “Let’s just say one of the biggest advantages of having my own unit is that I can deploy resources as I see fit. It’s in my interests to keep my people safe.”
The reminder on Eva’s phone silenced her maybe, her tell me more, the wondering how she could make that work with everything else.
“It’s impossible.”
“You underestimate what you’re capable of, but you have to do what you have to do.”
“I’ll be in public tonight, lots of witnesses.”
“As was the ambassador, as was Eric.”
She couldn’t argue with that. “Take care, Gordon. It’s nice to see you.”
“Good luck with tonight. Put me down for five hundred.”
“Thanks, I really appreciate that.”
He stopped her at the door. “Be cautious, not just tonight. If you think something’s suspect, it will be.”
9
Eva’s ringtone intruded into her checking the streets as the cab took her to the hotel hosting the charity ball. She grabbed it out of her clutch bag, but it wasn’t Charles calling her.
“How’s my god-daughter today?” Friendly, warm, the voice on the other end, just what she needed.
“Per, can’t you find the hotel?”
He sighed. “I’m still in Stockholm, marshalling a spat between two public figures who ought to know better, but the outcome matters. I’m sorry to let you down.”
Eva tempered her disappointment. After Charles’ behaviour that morning, Per’s absence would be better for him, but it had been too long since she’d last seen her god-father. “That’s a shame.”
“Listen, why don’t you come here for Christmas? I bet I can convince Lily Santa Claus is real.”
“That I’d love to see. Let me talk to Charles, see if we can co-ordinate some time off.”
“Tell him I’ll get a whisky in that’ll blow him away. How’s he doing?”
“Disappointed.” What else could she say? She hadn’t understood his reaction at all. Her logical, clear-thinking husband being almost superstitious in his e
xpectation and predictions of disaster.
“If his work had made it through the preliminary round, I’d have stepped aside to let the consideration be without bias, based on what he’s achieved.”
Oh, Charles, out in the first round, that would hurt.
“You shouldn’t tell him,” Per went on, “but it might help you guide him going forward with this work. It is cutting edge, it would have won, but we had intelligence that it wasn’t original.”
“Charles would never cheat.”
“The information’s source is impeccable.”
“A rival?”
“Not even in the same arena. Someone we couldn’t discount, I’m sorry.”
Eva sighed, she couldn’t tell Charles. “You have nothing to apologise for. When do you start the madness again? I’m not asking for Charles. I’m just checking you’re having enough of a break in between.”
“I’m not leading the selection process next time. I’ve done my share.”
“You’re retiring?”
“I’m effecting a gradual stepping away in the buzz speak. Then I’ll be free to see my god-daughter whenever I want. You’ll do Mathias proud tonight, Eva.”
She blinked hard; she hoped so.
“You getting out, love?” The cabbie’s question told Eva she was taking too long scoping out the front of the hotel. Poisonous cake, if that was what had killed Eric, was subtler than an assassin’s bullet. She was probably safe to march right up the middle of Kensington High Street, but getting out of the cab and inside the hotel foyer was hard enough.
“Eva, Eva Janssen!”
She looked for who shouted for her before she thought not to. The woman didn’t look like a threat, but the cake hadn’t either.
“Amelia Moore,” shorter even than Eva, young, a messenger bag slung across her body. She jabbed a phone between them, its red recording button a warning. “What’s going on at the Every Drop sites?” Sites? “What happened to you?”
The phone waved a circle in front of Eva’s face.
“What do you mean ‘what’s going on’?”
“People are falling sick. I thought your water was going to be their salvation.”