Killing It

by Asia Mackay

  ‘Don’t worry, by the time she turns one you might actually feel like you know what you’re doing.’

  I felt mildly indignant. I had years of expert training at covert operations and had succeeded in many an undercover mission. Yet a civilian had just seen straight through my normal-mother front.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

  She leaned forward. ‘You have that look in your eye I recognise from my early days. The look that says, “Why did nobody tell me how bloody difficult this is?” ’

  Perhaps the struggles I had were not down to that part of my psyche which meant I was okay with killing people. Perhaps it was normal to have feelings of inadequacy, moments of panic and even flashes of misery.

  I should get an official statement from her and take it to Doc.

  ‘As you’re new to all this and Dasha has deigned to indoctrinate you into this god-awful committee you’re going to need a little help navigating your way through this bloody mosh pit.’ Frankie was offering to be my informant, my guide to the piranha tank of West London parenting.

  ‘We’re all just mothers,’ I offered. ‘It can’t be that difficult?’

  ‘Darling, you have no idea. Thanks to the dawn of baby classes and exclusive kids’ clubs it’s a high-pressure cooker of expectation and competition, all broadcast on Instagram. Here child neglect is considered failing to get out of your PJs and take your newborn to the Baby Spa.’

  ‘Very funny.’ I laughed to myself at the idea of Gigi having a massage followed by a mani-pedi.

  Frankie looked sorry for me. ‘You think I’m joking? This is going to be tougher for you than I thought.’

  ‘I never took any of mine to the Baby Spa and they turned out fine,’ said Shona through a mouthful of croissant. We looked down at her twins who were now both licking pastry crumbs off the floor.

  ‘Shona, this poor lass has to suck up to all the Super Mamas to try to get her kid a place at school. She needs to know what she’s up against.’ Frankie looked up as a woman with expensively tousled caramel-coloured hair approached Tamara. ‘Perfect timing.’

  ‘Tamara, darling, how are you?’ called the woman.

  Tamara jumped and rapidly ended her phone call with whatever workman/husband/nanny had upset her. ‘Oh, Flossie, hi. What are you doing here?’

  Frankie nudged me. ‘Just listen. I’ll translate.’

  ‘Well I had a little time after Pilates so thought I’d grab a sparkling water before heading back to the office. Things are just so full-on right now. How about you? Having a lovely coffee morning with friends?’

  Frankie whispered, ‘I’m working hard; you’re just pissing around drinking coffee, you stay-at-home loser.’

  ‘Oh you’re still working at that magazine? How wonderful James was able to find a place for you there. How are the kids? I hear poor Seb was having trouble at nursery?’

  Frankie continued, ‘You only got the job through contacts, you dumb cow. And your son is suffering thanks to you abandoning him all day to go play office.’

  ‘Seb is doing fine. He just found it tough adjusting to being with children all day. He has this wonderful Norland nanny and she believes he’s so advanced he finds his contemporaries boring. We do wish he was as down-to-earth as your girls who play so well with other children; it would make everything so much easier.’

  ‘Your kids are shit.’

  Flossie continued, ‘Don’t you have some very sweet Eastern European nanny? How wonderful to have help round the house as well. The problem with Norlands is that thanks to their degrees in childcare and expertise in child development they just won’t even turn the dishwasher on.’

  ‘Your nanny is shit.’

  Tamara shook her hair back.

  ‘Olga is an absolute star and she’s a brilliant cook; she even does dinner for us. Not that you need to worry about that; it sounds like Tom is getting very well fed eating out at Scott’s so often. Ed says he always sees him there as he’s rushing home. He’s so jealous that you let him eat out so much and with such glamorous companions. It’s so heartening to know that banking is no longer a man’s world.’

  ‘Your husband is fucking other women.’

  ‘Although Ed did say he just couldn’t miss getting back for bath time and tucking the girls in.’

  ‘And he’s a crap dad.’

  Flossie retaliated through gritted teeth. ‘That is sweet. How great Ed doesn’t have to work long hours. I do wish Tom also worked for a smaller firm. Although we would then have to give up our place in the South of France.’ She let out a high-pitched giggle.

  ‘We have more money than you.’

  Flossie did a big show of looking at her watch. ‘But, look, I must dash. Lovely seeing you, darling, and I’ll be in touch for dates for dinner.’

  ‘That would be great. We could all go to Scott’s. See why Tom loves it so much.’

  Flossie grimaced. Even as she tried to sashay out with her head held high I could see her heart really wasn’t in it. Game, set and match to Tamara. She looked round to see us all staring at her. ‘That’s Flossie. She’s one of my best friends,’ she offered as way of explanation and went back to stirring her tea.

  ‘They truly are terrifying,’ I breathed to Frankie. I looked around at the women dotted all over the Brasserie. Their body armour may have been designer and their quick-firing weapons simply well-thought-out words, but this was social warfare. And I was now in the front line.

  *

  Back at Unicorn’s office, Jake was waiting. ‘Why don’t I get to join you as a hands-on dad looking to pick up parenting tips?’

  ‘Jake, there are many things you can fake, but being a parent would not be one of them.’ I didn’t add that I actually was one and could barely manage it. ‘And, besides, a pretty boy like you sniffing around Dasha would make the bodyguards triple.’

  ‘You think I’m pretty? 8.4 pretty?’ Jake fluttered his eyelashes at me. 8.4 was Jake’s Hot or Not rating. The fact it was higher than mine was something he often liked to remind me of. He also claimed puffing his cheeks out in his assessment photos was the only reason he rated under an 8.7 and therefore within the threshold for being active for all missions.

  ‘The only thing you are 8.4 in is being bloody annoying. How have you been getting on with the embassy data?’

  ‘G-Man and Nicola have been working on it. I was going over surveillance on Dimitri with Robin, but I got pulled off it to help with Eight’s interview backlog. We’re fucked without the suitcases.’

  Suitcases were vital kit in acquiring individuals for interrogation at the Platform. A Rat would break into the target’s home, subdue them with an injection, lock them into a suitcase and wheel them over to the nearest underground station. The tube was faster and more anonymous than driving. I remembered how kind strangers would always help the poor girl with the heavy suitcase up and down the stairs.

  Not long ago things had gone bad when one Rat, having got his subject all packed up, heard the unexpected sound of a maintenance man entering, and made a fast exit out of the window only to get hit by a car in a freak hit and run. He woke up in hospital a week later with a bad concussion and headlines about the mystery of a dead man found at home in a padlocked suitcase. The heat that came with that discovery meant suitcases were not authorised until further notice. This had been a logistical nightmare as our new procurement method, the Uber, was not as effective. Precious time was wasted following targets around waiting for them to book a car that, unbeknownst to them, would be driven by a Rat wielding a syringe full of a fast-acting sedative.

  The lights flickered. Jake looked up. ‘Rude fuckers have started without me.’

  I took him by the arm. ‘You can play later. It’s time for our update briefing.’

  *

  Once all of Unicorn were gathered in the meeting room, I took centre stage and announced the development: we now only had just over six weeks until Dimitri flew back to Moscow for the incompe
tency hearing.

  ‘Jesus,’ said Sandy. ‘We were tight for time as it was. We need to pop Dimitri before he flies back. As soon as his old man is found incompetent, Dimitri will start the takeover of the company. Geraint and Nicola – you found anything useful in your online sweep?’

  Geraint looked up from his laptop. ‘Dimitri has many enemies but there’s definitely one that stands out from the rest. I hacked a secure chat from last year between a couple of Dimitri’s business associates. There’s repeated reference to “the Dragon”.’

  Like all of us, the Russians clearly preferred sticking to a loose code even when supposedly talking privately.

  ‘They seemed scared of him. Talked of how the Dragon wanted Dimitri dead and was looking for someone to do it. They wanted no part in it but were very nervous about displeasing the Dragon.’

  ‘Is the Dragon mentioned anywhere else?’ asked Sandy.

  ‘There are several references to the Dragon in other emails and conversations among businessmen in Dimitri’s circle – all express fear of him and what he could do. But there’s only one other mention of the Dragon specifically targeting Dimitri – this was in a secure phone call we hacked.’ Geraint squinted at his screen as he read from the translated transcript. ‘ “Does Dimitri know the Dragon wants him dead?” “Dimitri knows the Dragon is angry but he thinks the power of the three will keep him safe.” Then there’s laughter. “The Dragon doesn’t care about the three –” more laughter – “he doesn’t realise how much trouble he’s in.” ’

  ‘ “The three”?’ Sandy frowned. ‘That has to be a reference to Dimitri’s three supporters on the Rok-Tech board. They’re his closest allies.’

  ‘The Dragon could be the perfect scapegoat to blame Dimitri’s death on,’ said Jake. ‘Do we have any leads on who he is?’

  ‘None,’ said Nicola. ‘From the way everyone talks about him he sounds like a pretty well-connected bigwig with wide-reaching influence.’

  ‘Do we know why the Dragon wants Dimitri dead?’ I asked.

  Nicola shook her head. ‘The men just make mention of it being for protection, implying the Dragon has some big investments or business deals that are being threatened by Dimitri. I’ve run reports on all our intelligence databases but no one on file uses “the Dragon” as a pseudonym.’

  ‘Didn’t Dimitri screw over a big Chinese company last year?’ Sandy tapped his pen against the table. ‘I’m sure it was called something like Black Dragon. One of their head honchos could’ve tried to order a hit on Dimitri as payback. The timing fits.’

  ‘I’ll look into it,’ said Nicola without looking up from her screen.

  ‘And I’ll set up an alert for any other mentions,’ added Geraint.

  Sandy turned to Jake. ‘What have you and Robin learnt about Dimitri?’

  ‘That we need more day-to-day intel on him. Right now he’s in the middle of a big property deal in Mayfair. He’s trying to buy out half of St. James’s as far as we can tell. But he has meetings and appointments all over London and half the time we have no idea where he actually is. He’s in and out of cars with darkened windows and going into buildings with numerous exits. Surveillance have been following him for months and we still don’t know that much about him – his daily habits, what he likes to eat. We don’t even have much on who he likes to fuck. We need his calendar and we need to take our surveillance to the next level. Or we won’t be able to work out how best to give him a little “accident”.’

  ‘I’ll text Dasha to download Dimitri’s diary and stick it in the scooter horse head.’ I brought out my phone.

  Thanks for today. We must compare diaries to plan a play date before Bonfire Night. See you at school pick-up. Alexis.

  After witnessing how good these women were at subliminal messages I knew she would have no problem getting what I was trying to say.

  *

  The next morning, outside Dasha’s daughter’s school, I found a USB stick inside the scooter head. I reached down to Gigi and gently squidged her cheek while slipping the stick into the pram’s lining. She grinned up at me, showing off the one solitary tooth on her bottom gum. I watched her looking round, taking in the cars driving by, the trees and their leaves moving in the wind. Life felt better when I saw the world through her eyes, where everything was bright and new and exciting. She jigged up and down in her seat and gurgled, brandishing her monkey at passers-by.

  I felt lucky. Not many mothers returning from maternity leave would get to spend this much time with their baby in working hours. Playtime on the Platform’s dime. With just a small risk of her potentially getting caught in the middle of a violent firefight. I checked down in the pram base to make sure the reinforced blackout cover was still there. Beata had asked about it the other day, enquiring as to why it was so heavy and made of such strange material. I had replied using words like ‘organic’, ‘breathable’, ‘gluten-free’, ‘imported fabric’ and she had just nodded. There was definitely a benefit to being written off as a paranoid first-time West London mama.

  From: 8SEXYMAMA@stillgotit.com

  To: lex.tyler@platform-eight.co.uk

  Subject: $$$HotMamasGetHorny

  MISSION: #80436

  UNIT: UNICORN

  WEASEL: DIMITRI TUPOLEV

  ALERT: 6 WEEKS TO POP DAY

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘PERSEPHONE! GET YOUR FINGER out of your nose right now!’ A uniformed nanny was admonishing a three-year-old at the top of a bright red slide that was the crowning glory at the end of an assault course of climbing walls, mini trampolines and large ball pits.

  Back in the days of the Cold War, the dead-letter drop was the preferred way to exchange information. Microfilm and documents would be taped to the bottom of benches in grand and commandeering locations like churches and abbeys. Our twenty-first-century update involved USB sticks and the bright, wipe-clean plastic matting of soft play.

  Gigi and I were at an exclusive kids’ club that Dasha often frequented, admiring its huge-open plan ‘Exploration Zone’, an enormous labyrinth of toddler-friendly fun. It didn’t look too unlike one of our training courses. Except everything was squashy rather than spiked; the cacophony of ‘I can’t do this’ cries a little more high-pitched.

  Adjoining this padded play area were a series of tables designed like spaceships, where parents or carers could eat from an Ottolenghi chef’s extensive organic menu while admiring their charges’ attempts to launch, climb or crawl over various cushioned obstacles. Adorning the walls were murals of rockets, aliens and faraway solar systems. Hanging from the ceiling above the play area was a shimmering silver curtain decorated with cut-out moons and stars. It was very appropriate décor for somewhere that felt like another planet compared to the more low-key activities Gigi and I were used to.

  ‘No, Digby, you cannot have another Babycino. You already had one with your chia porridge.’ A mother was rolling her eyes at a five-year-old wearing a check shirt with Burberry written in large black letters on its back – just in case the trademark print was too subtle a nod to its provenance.

  Dasha had been at the club an hour before us and left a message through the chatroom that blueprints and a USB stick had been taped underneath one of the trampolines. I could see how she had managed to do so without her bodyguards noticing – the trampolines were in long rows and despite the instruction of close surveillance they clearly drew the line at having to bounce alongside her and Irina. I looked around the club and continued to marvel at its understated space-age luxury. My only previous encounter with soft play had been Gymboree in the town hall; the session had started with us sat in a circle singing the Gymboree song to the tune of Queen’s ‘We Will Rock You’. The sound of manicured hands slapping down on to thick soft playmats in time to the rhythm of this bastardised version of a classic song still haunts my dreams. Despite years of training to be a highly skilled assassin, being privy to highly classified security information, there I was wearing a name badge with a picture
of a clown on it and forcing my three-month-old to clap her hands like she was my very own living breathing puppet. Having a baby levels the playing field. It didn’t matter what your previous life was, what you have achieved, what you haven’t achieved, as a parent you were and always would be a slave to your little people.

  ‘Shall we start with the ball pit, Gigi?’ She looked up at me, her blue eyes wide at the sensory overload surrounding her. She was wearing a bright purple cardigan, rainbow leggings and a black AC/DC T-shirt Will had got for her in America on his last business trip. I thought she looked adorable but looking around at the little girls here, all dressed in the muted neutral colours of Bonpoint, Gigi stuck out like the class rebel. I wanted to give her a high five. My baby from the wrong side of the tracks.

  I took off our shoes and socks and clambered into the moat of multicoloured plastic balls that encircled the rows of trampolines. I gently dropped Gigi in. She wrinkled her brow as she picked up a ball and looked at it, before looking at me. I held my breath and waited for her to decide if this was heaven or hell. Another frown. And then she moved both hands through the balls and giggled. Great. She was happy. Now I could get to work.

  I checked the first two trampolines. Nothing. Tucked under the springs of the third was a slightly sodden envelope. I quickly pulled it out – there was no tell-tale USB-stick shape inside. Just a small hole in the corner. I peered between the trampoline’s springs but couldn’t see anything on the ground below. If it had fallen out any one of the kids here could have got their hands on it. I looked around the multicoloured tableau of well-dressed children and plastic matting, searching for a sign of the USB stick. Five trampolines over and right at the back of the room I saw a one-year-old sitting with it. Putting it in her mouth. There were several large signs along the walls: ‘Trampolines are strictly for children only’. Being escorted out of here by security would be both embarrassing and draw unnecessary attention.

  The Burberry-clad boy jumped into the ball pit beside us.