I Am India Fox

by Virginia Nosky

  “That works pretty well.” The girl poured into a plastic cup. “Cream? Sugar?”

  “No thanks. Oh. Could I have that in a china cup? It stays warm longer.”

  “Sure. Watch it…it’s very hot.”

  India strolled down the aisle. The nondescript man dozed over a magazine. India slipped her toe around a luggage strap just visible under the seat in front of the man, then carefully judging, stumbled against the seat, dumping the entire cup of burning coffee into the man’s crotch.

  He let a strangled scream in Russian as he struggled to disengage from his seatbelt. “Kak korova na idu!” he yelled. Clumsy as a cow on ice!

  “Oh, my God, I’m so very sorry, oh, I do apologize.” India. She whipped off her wrap and vigorously patted the man chest and lap, keening oh, oh, her apologies and begging forgiveness.

  Still he fumed. “Tvoy mat! Blyadischa! Neu hyuzhy amerikanskiy!” Fuck your mother! Whore! American bitch!

  The flight attendant rushed out with towels, and leaving the cursing man, India bowed her “sorries” and slunk back to her seat under the uneasy eyes of the sleepy passengers.

  Marcus stared at her. After a decent interval to allow her to regain her composure and let the plane settle down, he leaned over her seat and whispered, “Uh, well done. I think.”

  “You’re mystery guy is Russian. Could you hear? And I’d guess our Iranian’s daddy has asked for Russian intelligence help to waylay his son, so we wouldn’t notice an Iranian spook.” India fumbled under her wrap. “Here. You might find something interesting.” She slipped the Russian’s cellphone into Marcus’s hand.

  Marcus didn’t move, his face stayed expressionless, but for the slight amazement India detected in his eyes.

  Kazen stirred, but didn’t awaken.

  India swallowed her smile. “When I was in Lebanon at the embassy, my nanny’s son and I would sneak out to the bazaars. He taught me the finer arts of pick pocketing. I got quite good at it. Had forgotten how good.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Heathrow Airport, London

  MARCUS WAS ON his phone as the plane bumped down. He signed off and leaned over to India. “Hang back. I’ll be boosting our Russian friend up there out the exit door. You and Kazen will pick up an escort from MI6 as soon as you leave the jetway. Don’t look around. Just keep walking and don’t stop for anything. You don’t have to go through Customs. Your luggage has been taken care of. I might not see you again. May take some time to neutralize the Russian tail. Been nice to see you again. Good luck.” He stood and moved before the pilot sent the okay-to-disembark chime.

  Passengers began gathering their belongings. India watched Marcus close in behind the Russian, crowding him. He whispered something in the man’s ear. The stiffened back of the bull neck spoke volumes. What did Marcus say?

  India and Kazen fussed and stalled with their take-ons until the last passengers had cleared out.

  “Okay, Kazen. Let’s go. Marcus said don’t stop for anything. We’ll have people taking care of us as soon as we go out the plane’s door.”

  The young man looked sleepy, balky. “I have to take a piss.”

  “It’s too late now. We’ll see, when we find out how this is all going to work.” She patted his arm. “Cheer up. I have to go, too.”

  As they entered into the crowded exit of the gate into the main concourse, India glanced around quickly. She saw nothing that looked like an escort, but she had to trust what Marcus had told her. She took Kazen’s arm. “Walk quickly. We’ll find out what’s going on pretty quickly, I’m sure.”

  “How…how do we act?”

  “Normal. As normal as you can. Don’t look for anything obvious. I guess. Hey, I’ve never done any of this either.”

  She nearly stumbled on a tattooed, nose-ringed, long-haired musician, judging by his huge guitar case. He mumbled a “s’cuse me.”

  Another scruffy Afro-haired kid trundled along with what looked like a keyboard that bumped India’s leg.

  “For God’s sake be careful with that thing,” she hissed.

  She took Kazen’s arm to hurry him along. It wasn’t that he pulled back, but there was a notable lack of enthusiasm. India was tired, anxious, and very, very nervous. “C’mon, Kazen. Don’t get cold feet now. We’re almost home free.”

  Another musician walked in front of her. Damned rude kids. She dodged around him.

  Then it hit her. The rock group threesome was their “escort.” The ever-polite English departing passengers eyed the musicians curiously. Maybe they think this is another Beatles? And here I was looking for some bland nerdy type…and we have this colorful trio. She felt a laugh bubble up, and then thought about why they needed the escort. “It’s all right, Kazen. Keep going.”

  The musicians didn’t slow them down through the Customs exit. At an empty corridor they veered off. The first “guitar”made a gesture to follow. At a door almost at the end, marked NO ADMITTANCE PLEASE, India and Kazen were hurried through, onto a metal mesh landing that seemed to be some sort of vehicle storage for luggage carts, snow plows, golf carts, and the like. The area smelled of diesel fuel, motor oil and gasoline, with deafening echoes of the din of the screaming aviation engines landing and taking off.

  The lead musician grinned and shouted. “This is where we leave you ma’am. You too, mate. We saw nothing untoward on our trip through the building. Your transport to your destination is down this ramp. You’re to go straightaway. Your luggage has been placed in the car. Not to worry.”

  Down by a large hangar-like door there was a gray van, its running motor leaving a thin stream of exhaust.

  India slowly relaxed. They’d been so exposed in the main airport building. “Is there, maybe, a…uh…loo in here? We’re both…um…kind of in extremis.”

  Another of the musicians spoke up. “Righto. There’s got to be a place for the mechanics. I’ll take a poke around.”

  He came back in moments and led them to a cramped cubicle with a sink and toilet, none too clean. India looked in the cracked splotchy mirror, her tired face stared back. I look dreadful. Spying takes its toll. She brushed back a lock of limp blonde hair that immediately flopped down over her forehead. Well, I won’t be seeing anyone I know.

  India waited by the loo door for Kazen. She noted when he came out that he’d washed his face and looked a trifle more upbeat. A trifle. She hoped he was. They’d gone to an awful lot of trouble to get him to the UK to have him decide he didn’t want to be here.

  The three musicians shook their hands, pointed down the ramp to the waiting van. Lugging their bulky instruments, they disappeared through the heavy hangar doors.

  India worried at Kazen’s glum demeanor and gave the Iranian an encouraging glance. “I’m not sure where we’ll be going, but you mustn’t worry. This is what you’ve chosen. Please be optimistic. It wouldn’t be good to turn back now. Actually, I wouldn’t know how you’d go about that.”

  He sighed. “I know. I will think of Racquel.”

  “Yes. I will, too.

  Their steps echoed down the metal ramp. The exhaust on the waiting vehicle increased. So, they’d be whisked away immediately. India felt a surge of excitement. She’d gotten Kazen to England. Her assignment had been a success. As soon as she turned over her charge at the safe house, she’d leave. Go to Paris. Walk along the Champs and sprinkle buttery croissant flakes on her clothes. It sounded like heaven. If Jack could make it, it would be heaven.

  She looped her arm through Kazen’s and smiled encouragingly.

  The driver of the gray van jumped out and stood holding the door open. “Ma’am, if you’ll wait a moment, you’re to sit in the first row seat.” He indicated Kazen. “The gentleman is to sit in the backmost seat. Sir, if you please.” He tipped the middle seat forward and Kazen climbed in. “There you go, mate.”

  India stepped up to the car. There was a man sitting in the shadows on the far window. Of course there would be an MI6 officer to take them to the safe house.
r />   The shadow man held out his hand to help her in, “Hello, India. Fancy meeting you here.”

  India froze. “Jack? I mean…Jack?”

  He pulled her in. “Righto. Jack. And who would have thought I’d be meeting India Fox, CIA operative, bringing my Iranian fugitive to Britain.”

  India collapsed into the car beside him and stared. “Am I to assume you are Kazen’s, what? MI6 handler?”

  He tapped the back of the driver’s seat. “Let’s go, Tony.” He turned to India. “That would be a safe assumption. And was it a surprise to find you here? Somehow not. I suspected some funny business in Vienna. Brava. As I recall, you made a charming move to dodge my inquiries.”

  “Why do you sound mad? You loved it.”

  “Quite so. But when I found out who I was meeting, I fell to wondering if your spy agency had gone bereft of its senses. India Fox is a walking calamity. A veritable trip-wire to World War Three.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake.” India settled into the seat and suppressed a yawn. Her eyes felt like a sandbox. “Could we put off the war until I get some sleep.” She glanced back at the sleeping Iranian, as she lowered her voice. “I stayed awake most of the flight to keep an eye on Kazen for you. I think you’ll find him receptive to working with you. Be grateful.”

  Uneasy that the Irani had heard her, she turned to the back row seat. Kazen was curled up around his carry-on, his hoodie askew, sound asleep. She felt a tug on her shoulders.

  Jack pulled her over against him. “Snuggle up, Walking Calamity. It’s a hundred kilometers to Bourton.” He called up to the driver. “It’s all right, Tony. She’s an old friend. Let’s get out on the road.”

  The van pulled out of the gate of the restricted area and slid into the mad maze of traffic around the airport.

  M5 Motorway to Bourton-on-the-Water, UK, one hour later

  ABRUPTLY, INDIA WAS spun out of sleep, thrown down and into the back of the front seat. “What the hell?” she mumbled through her fog. The van zig-zagged, tossing her back and forth. Their wheels whined on the roadway, going fast. She struggled into consciousness. A blast of cold air hit her face as the window hummed down. An ear-splitting crack, a gunshot. Jack was crouched down in the seat, his gun cradled in his hands. He shouted for Kazen to get on the floor. There sounded a ping as something hit the car. The driver cursed and swerved the vehicle onto the gravel berm, then straightened onto the road as stones hit the windshield.

  Jack slung her handbag down on her. “India, I hope you have a weapon in there. Get it.” He fired another shot as a second ping sounded against the door.

  India tore into the bag, her fingers closing around the Glock she’d been given to carry with her on this mission, aware that now she could hear a second car’s motor roaring beside them.

  Jack fired a quick volley. A return shot hit and the driver’s window shattered. There was a screaming of tires and a thump as their car skidded and slid into a ditch. Jack slumped down beside her. “I think we’ve stopped the pursuit…I got their bonnet, engine and a tyre, maybe two, but we’re in a shallow ditch and don’t have much time to right up the car. And I’m hit. Can’t get my arm to work right.” He spoke quickly, his voice getting hoarser. “There are two of them and they’ll be coming at us.” His voice faded. “Shoot to kill them.”

  India scrambled up to fold herself against the side of the car, under the window. The gun felt cool in her gummy hand. She raised her head. A man crossed the road toward them, stealthy, a weapon pointing. India steadied her shaking fingers, aimed and fired, watched the man slide to the ground, firing as he rolled onto his stomach. India fired again. He made a spasmodic jerk and lay still. Another man appeared from around the pursuers’ disabled vehicle. India felt a surge of adrenalin, didn’t aim, kept pulling the trigger, the reports deafening in her ear. The approaching man spun and fell, but got up again, staggered and disappeared behind his car.

  “Jack, I hit one and I think I wounded the other man, but he’s hidden. I can’t see him. Jack?”

  “My head keeps going blurry, India. I think our driver’s dead. Here, take my weapon, reload it. Give me yours. I’m not sure I can drive. Can you get into the front seat and take the wheel? You’ll have to get us out of the ditch. I’ll cover you as best I can. Maybe I’ll get lucky and hit the bastard.”

  “Yes. I can do that. But I don’t know where I’m going.”

  “We’re only about five K’s from Bourton. Stay on this road into town. We’re going to number thirty-eight.” He raised up to the window and pulled off three shots. “Get ready, get out the other side. I’ll try to give you time to get ‘round and jump in. You can drive, right?”

  “Oh, fuck you.” India slid over the seat and cracked open the door. “Kazen. Stay down. We’ll get you there. Okay Jack. I’m leaving. Now!”

  In the barrage that Jack laid down India got to the front of the car, jerking the door open. Their driver was jammed against the steering wheel. Using all her strength, India pushed the dead weight to the other seat and jumped behind the wheel. She heard a small hiss, but the engine responded at the same time another ping hit the car. India threw the car into a low gear. The car shuddered, then crawled up the low embankment. “Jack…keep it going. I’ll get us there. Please.” But there was no sound from the back seat.

  India spun the wheels in gravel before the tires bit into the road and they lurched forward. She gunned the motor and they fishtailed a moment then jerked forward as the car gained momentum. She heard the back window shatter. “Kazen! Are you all right?”

  His voice seemed faint. “Yeah. This guy on the floor doesn’t look too good.”

  Oh dear God, let me do this right. After she felt sure she’d left the shooter behind and got the car under control she shouted, “Kazen, can you drive?”

  “No! I’m sorry.”

  Shit. Not helpful. “Crawl over the seat. My wrap, shawl, whatever you call it, is on the seat. It’s black and very soft. Like a blanket. The man, Jack, is hurt. I want you to fold the wrap. Find where the man is wounded and press the shawl against it very hard. That will help slow his bleeding. I think he was sort of awake a minute ago. Ask him.”

  She heard a shuffling as Kazen maneuvered from the back of the car. Over the noise of the engine she heard some murmuring, so Jack was semi-conscious at least. Hurry, hurry. Boulton, Boulton…where are you?

  The landscape had turned hilly as they picked up speed. She called back to Jack. After a moment he answered weakly. “I’m good. Kazen has helped. Just get us to number thirty-eight. I can get fixed up there.”

  India stared through the cracked windshield out into the darkening countryside. Shit, shit, shit. Here I am tearing down a road in a shot-up car, on the flaky side of an English road, where I have no idea where I am and very little idea of where I’m supposed to go. Jack’s bleeding in the back seat, I have a despondent Iranian who doesn’t know if he wants to be here or not, a dead driver next to me. And I just killed a guy, I think. Maybe two. Fuck.

  A quaint little gilt-edged sign loomed, indicating the city limits of Bourton-on-the-Water, Venice of the Cotswolds. A row of honey-colored limestone peak-roofed houses crowded against the street. Close on the other side a small river coursed through the town. It was about nine o’clock at night, so there were still a few pedestrians in the streets. India picked an elderly man wheeling a bicycle and rolled to a stop. She heard the engine hiss again. Oh, car, don’t crap out on me now. C’mon, baby. She arranged her face into a smile. “Excuse me, I’m looking for number thirty-eight. Do you know where that is?” India prayed he wouldn’t look too closely inside.

  The man eyed the car, but was English-unflappable. “Oh, quite. Just go straight ahead along the river and turn right at Hampstead Street. Cross the stone bridge. Thirty-eight should be one or two houses on your right. Big gabled house. Mullioned windows. There’ll be a sign on the house.”

  Her headlights picked up a pretty, picturesque English village, the main street running alo
ng the small river. She found Hampstead Street and turned over the arched stone bridge. Three houses down the number 38 shone in her headlights on a stone pillar. Not really sure how to proceed, she pulled to a stop. Almost at once three men and a woman were out in front of the wrought iron gate to the house. They rushed to the car and opened the door.

  “Be careful,” India yelled. “I’ve got a wounded man in here.”

  “Righto. Jack called. Not to worry.”

  Jack groaned as they struggled to get him out of the car, helping him stagger into the house.

  India tried to follow, but found her legs rubbery, and getting out from under the steering wheel was all-of-a-sudden a shaky proposition. “Where are you taking him?”

  The woman, fortyish, heavy set, swung her door wide. “Let’s get you out. Where is the Iranian boy?”

  India pointed to the back, where Kazen’s head slowly showed, his eyes wide and anxious. “It’s all right now, Kazen. We’re safe. This lady will tell us where we’re supposed to go.”

  Kazen climbed out, holding her black cashmere wrap away from his body with distaste, his hands covered with blood.

  “We’ll tend to your luggage. Come through. We’ll get you both settled. Jack will be looked after. Someone has gone to fetch the doctor. You can see him after the doctor has looked at him. I’m Miranda, by the way.”

  “Our driver was killed back on the road.” India gestured to the front seat.

  “We’ll take care of it.”

  India glared at the woman. Him. It’s a him. His name was Tony. And he was nice.

  India swallowed a lump in her throat.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Later, Bourton-on-the-Water

  INDIA WATCHED THE bustling Miranda plow around the spotless old kitchen, setting cups and saucers in front of her and Kazen, pouring scalding tea, the English remedy for any of life’s mishaps.