Girl Who Fell 1: Behind Blue Eyes. Offbeat Brit spy series-cum-lesbian love triangle. Killing Eve meets female James Bond meets Helen of Troy returns (HAIL THE QUEEN series)
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It contained these words in Russian.
Samyy dorogoy Diana,
I am doing what seems best. I am going to Ireland, and I am going alone. I cannot fight MI6 any longer and continue to endanger your life and the lives of our children. If I survive, I will have an Irish agent contact you. Never give up hope, my darling!
Six years ago, you found a broken and damaged
man drinking himself to death in a Moscow bar…
You transformed this Rasputin—you made me
anew! Everything that means anything to me now
has been made possible through your love. I don’t believe, in this care-torn world, that any two people have ever been happier.
Take care of Emma and Olga (as I know you will) and tell them what I have done when the time is right.
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The Nanny stepped out of the private key elevator into the long hall of the penthouse; loud Russian music came from the far end. In the playroom, just beside her, she glanced in to see Emma and Olga the twins noisily raced the four-car Scalectric set their parents had bought them for their birthday.
Without the twins noticing, the Nanny closed the playroom door. She was about to lock it when Mick the Mick, in his chef ’s apron, approached her.
‘You’re back. Are you feeling better?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ the Nanny answered.
She hung her jacket in its usual place—and her iPhone tumbled out of a pocket onto the carpet.
As Mick bent to pick it up, the Nanny covered his mouth with a chloroform-soaked cloth, and injected his neck with a syringe of dimethohexital.
As he went limp, she dragged him into the hal closet. She then picked up her bag, took out two more tranquilizer syringes, and hid them on the hal table behind the Toby jug of the Queen.
Relaxing to his Russian music, Grinin felt something over his left shoulder, and turned his head.
As he gazed across the lounge, the Nanny walked in. Grinin patted his pockets, searching for his glasses.
‘I thought you’d gone home?’ he said in Russian.
The Nanny replied in Russian, but he couldn’t make it out.
He stood up, and cut the music to background.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Do you like my dress?’ the woman said, in English.
Immediately, Grinin knew who she was—the end game had come early.
He stared at the spinning record label.
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Al the records made since Deutsche Grammophon started in 1894; al the lives begun and lived out on this smal spinning fragment of solar driftwood.
The fish seemed to sense his mood. Several orange and red ones spun around and swam closer. He spoke to them in Russian, ignoring the woman in the little-black-dress.
‘ Tak zdes. So here it is, dear ones, it has come to this. Death at tea time. And sadly you must watch.’
Thank God I talked to Diana last night. She’l know what to do about the Fatima Secret.
The woman coughed politely.
‘I said, do you like my dress, Major? I bought it especial y for the occasion.’
Casual y, she locked the door and placed the key in her purse.
‘And who might you be? C’s latest protégé? Am I right?’
Grinin said, a tight, mocking smile on his lips.
Felicity scowled and stepped closer. She lifted her eau de cologne from the purse, and sprayed her neck and wrists.
‘My name is La Bombe,’ she said, in crisp boarding school English. ‘After my perfume, actual y. But you may know of me as the latest OhZone, OhZone 7.
‘Ah yes, I see.’
He stal ed for time, weighing his defence strategy.
‘Wel , I was expecting you tomorrow. Could we reschedule?’
Felicity laughed.
Funny man, she said to Hebe.
Yes. Funny man, indeed, replied Hebe. I have scanned the room. There are no firearms.
Felicity felt her nipples unbelievably erect.
This is Rasputin as I’d hoped for.
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‘I’m sorry, I don’t reschedule appointments,’ she said.
Grinin rubbed his beard and seemed to calmly study her.
‘I take it you are something of a rogue, OhZone 7? I have three OhZones protecting me, and now one trying to kil me. It’s a curious world.’
‘Not a rogue, old man. I’m the future of OhZone.’
She smiled at him.
‘I’m not trying to kil you. I wil kil you.’
‘I’m not going to indulge in sophomore debates with you.’
‘That’s good,’ said Felicity. ‘Because I hate discussions.’
‘ Khorosho. Get it over with!’ he demanded. ‘Haven’t you got piano wire or a poisoned dart? Wonderland is especial y good with undetectable poisons.’
Felicity eyed him coldly.
‘I’ve got presents for Olga and Emma,’ she said.
A chil ran down Grinin’s spine.
She cocked her ear to the sound of the Scalextric.
‘Were the racing cars a present from you and Diana?’
The muscles in Grinin’s face tensed.
What does she want with the children? I must keep her talking. She’l make a mistake—make it her last.
‘For their birthdays,’ he replied absent-mindedly, as he inched towards the aquarium.
Felicity wasn’t paying attention. This was not her first wet job, but it was her first as an OhZone, and her first wearing a full prosthetic appliance on her head.
‘Do you mind if I slip it off?’ she said, gesturing to her face.
‘It’s not real y me.’
Grinin swept his arm courteously in her direction.
‘Be my guest.’
As Felicity peeled the prosthetic face off, and removed her
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mousy wig, Grinin reached the edge of his aquarium.
She is narcissistic, over confident, under trained, he thought.
She hasn’t even brought out her Sig. Instead, she poses for me like a model on a runway. It was real y true what they said, then… Wonderland had put a psychopath with the nickname La Bombe into OhZone.
Reaching down to the hem of her dress; hiking it up to show her bare thigh above the hold-up stocking, Felicity spoke softly.
‘What do you think?’
Felicity had what the Scots cal ed blue skin color, but Grinin raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips in an expression of lust.
Felicity twirled her wig in her hand, and threw it to him.
‘Would you like to die fucking me, old man?’ she asked. ‘I could strangle you as you cum—while you’re still hard inside me.’Grinin almost laughed at her. But, KGB trained himself, he thought quickly and strategical y.
No. Being a psychopath makes you hyper-sensitive to put-downs. Keep that as a surprise. Now, what do you want with the twins?
‘I would love to,’ he said.
Then he pointed at his fish.
‘Just let me feed my pretty ones, one last time. You wouldn’t deny an old man a small pleasure, before such a feast as you present.’
Felicity, now flushed, slipped off her shoes, lifted her left leg onto an antique chair, and started to unroll her stocking. She knew Grinin had refused the KGB’s weapons, and Hebe had
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confirmed he was unarmed. Mick the Mick was out for the count, and OhZone and MI5 were locked out of the elevator system.
Blanka is unaware of the plot, said Hebe. 26 minutes minimum before she can enter the penthouse.
Al the time in the world, replied Felicity, for riding his huge dick on this black leather sofa. It wil be fun making him do it at gunpoint. Maybe I can beat him and make him die of a heart attack as he ejaculates.
Hebe laughed her eerie laugh.
C for C
umming, she said, reminding Felicity of Codename C’s origin.
Felicity set her bare left leg on the carpet, and draped the hold-up over the chair. The escape plan was perfect and the children were in their playroom, ready for her. She was about to take off the other stocking when she remembered: bugger, the playroom door wasn’t locked.
Behind blue contacts, a giveaway silver tint washed over her brown eyes as she processed the new information.
As he fed his fish, Grinin sensed it, put the metal lid back on the fish-treats, and slid the tin closer.
My surprise is coming, little-black-dress.
Felicity had also missed the CIA-Blue on the island inside the aquarium.
Grinin pressed the ‘SOS’ button, sending its silent alarm to the water company truck, the Blue control in Blanka’s stable, the CIA bureau in Baker Street, and the KGB too.
My dear little-black-dress La Bombe, Grinin told himself, you might not have as long as you think.
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In the back of the truck, Crusoe’s cel phone read, Redialling…
as he got another engaged tone from Anthea Gabor at the front door. He threw down his cel phone and called Blanka on the OhZone Scanner, but there was just white noise.
‘Something’s very wrong,’ he shouted at Farringdon, tossing it to him.
Farringdon checked the Scanner on various frequencies and replied.
‘It’s being jammed! G.C.H.Q. are jamming secure frequencies and our cel phones.’
Crusoe’s Hebe zoomed in and replayed the image of the Nanny returning to River Heights—rotating her in three dimensions, and measuring her height.
The Nanny is incorrect! said his Hebe.
‘The bloody Sheila’s tal er! Mayday to Blanka,’ he shouted.
Farringdon pressed a crimson button label ed:
Public waveband S.O.S.
The button flashed red as it transmitted S.O.S. as a text from several unassigned numbers in the system.
The CIA radio is missing, thought Crusoe.
‘Find the Blue, where the hel ’s the Blue?’
Farringdon swept coffee cups onto the floor, turned paper work upside down.
‘It was right here.’
‘Did anyone relieve you when you were sick? Was Krishna alone?’
‘Prosthetics John stepped in to lend a hand—shit!’
Crusoe pulled open a closet, removed his non-Newtonian fluid body armor and zipped it around himself. It covered him as far as his knees.
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‘The elevator wil be disabled,’ he said.
Farringdon leapt out of the truck, pulled open a service hatch and pulled out a coil of hi-tech zip line, a carbon fibre cross bow with an ℧UVX sight on it, and a pneumatic bolt gun.
A burner phone rang on the monitor desk. Crusoe answered it as he secured his armor.
Over the noise of Blanka’s Mini Cooper engine and siren, Crusoe could hear Nearby speak into a burner at the other end:
‘Status?’ she said.
‘Fuck!’ Blanka’s voice shouted—as she drove through the park. ‘We go under the barrier— duck!’
There was a crash as the Mini’s suspension hit ground.
Crusoe was as clear as could be.
‘The wet boy’s in, dressed as the Nanny. Prosthetics John took our Blue. G.C.H.Q.’s jamming us.’
‘Copy that,’ said Nearby, ‘Sokol five minutes in chopper.
We’re –’
There was another crash.
‘– through St James’s Park, two minutes!’
‘I’m going up the side of the building. Blanka, take the elevator shaft,’ Crusoe shouted, as he dropped the burner.
He jumped out of the truck, and ran with Farringdon and their gear to the foot of River Heights.
By the fountains of Trafalgar Square, the American Ambassador was being driven in his limo back to the Embassy.
London traffic sucked big time.
After he received the cal from Ma Baker, he screamed to his driver over the intercom, ‘Go back down Whitehal , get to Downing Street!’
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At the CIA London station, Ma Baker cursed the fact his helicopter was picking up the CIA Director at Heathrow. Admiral De Leon could not have come at a worse time. 12 agents with siege kits scrambled into three vans; two tried the Park Lane route, one headed for Regent’s Street, Trafalgar Square and then River Heights. Ma Baker made one call to the Embassy.
Another two cars and six agents started on the shorter 15
minute drive to River Heights: less than 10 minutes if they ran red lights and one-way streets as Ma Baker had ordered.
Grinin looked at Felicity’s legs (one with a black hold-up, one bare), then at the other stocking draped over his 18th century chair.
Now is the time for the secret magic, he said to himself.
‘My Nanny wears proper stockings, with garters. Not those cheap things from Ann Summers!’ he said.
Felicity couldn’t believe her ears.
They are from Ann Summers but that’s not the point, she fumed. Is this 75-year-old dick putting down my—totty on tour—who wants to fuck him?
‘ What did you say?’ she spat out.
‘You heard me,’ replied Grinin.
Felicity, furious, picked up her stocking from the chair.
‘Now I won’t fuck you, I’l just kil you,’ she said.
But she was in for another nasty surprise. Not only had she missed the CIA-Blue in the aquarium, she’d missed Grinin slipping his hidden World War II revolver* from the tin of fish-treats.
[* an Enfield number 2, made in 1940: the same year as Grinin]
‘Not what you expected, is it?’ he snapped. ‘Maybe you’re the
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one who’l get fucked.’
He whipped the Enfield from the pocket of his house coat, his finger already on the trigger, and fired.
He shot at Felicity’s face because, without his distance glasses, he couldn’t see that she wasn’t wearing body armor. In fact, she hadn’t even worn a holster for her Sig (for the same reason: it spoilt her figure. The armor matched her dress, but she’d’ve had to wear a three-sizes-bigger-black-dress, and that would never do.)
In the KGB, Grinin had been marksman first class. He’d lost his right arm, but he was left-handed, so he’d’ve made short work of Felicity, putting rounds through her brain and her heart. If only he’d been wearing his spectacles.
As it was, while Felicity was pulling her Sig 321 from her bag, Grinin fired the Enfield twice from 12 feet.
OhZones are fast and Felicity dodged the first bullet. It missed her neck by an inch and exploded a glass lamp behind her. As she jumped, the second .38/200 slug whistled past her cheek and clipped her ear—taking the tip off.
Blood ran down her cheek and neck, and onto the little-black-dress. Yowling, and clutching the ear, Felicity slipped on the Turkish rug—her 270lbs crashing to the floor while her Sig hurtled across the room.
(Mrs Sparrow, in the apartment below, heard the impact and called the emergency services. The neighbours in River Heights were used to Grinin playing the 1812 Overture.
‘But what I heard,’ Mrs Sparrow insisted to the police, ‘was definitely revolver shots, not musical canon fire.’) Felicity got straight back on her feet.
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Grinin marched toward her, and fired a third time at the flash of white flesh above her right knee. Then a fourth shot, at her right foot in front of him.
Round-nosed slugs keyholed make surprisingly large wounds for a small calibre, and Felicity gasped as she looked down at the blood pouring from her.
Grinin seized the moment, stepped forward, and pul ed the trigger 18 inches from her head.
The Enfield jammed.
In a stunt no one would have thought a one-armed 75-year-old capable of, Grinin hurled the revolve
r at Felicity’s face, just as he dropped and rol ed over the carpet to seize her Sig.
Felicity avoided the Enfield, but her bloody leg gave way as she too went for her Sig. She fel to both knees, howled in pain, and dove towards Grinin.
In a flash, he undid the safety and pul ed the trigger.
But al it did was click and beep.
He pul ed again, again, and the same thing happened.
No longer in a hurry, Felicity got to her feet and held out her hand for the gun.
I’m a dead man, he thought to himself.
‘I believe you have my pistol,’ she said.
Grinin stood before her, bewildered, holding the useless gun.‘You know, for the first time in my life,’ Felicity said, ‘I’m grateful to Blanka. She designed these for OhZones. Hand-print activated. They won’t fire for anyone else. Isn’t that a bitch?’
You have little time to enjoy the situation, said Hebe, in her head.
Through the panoramic window behind Grinin, Felicity saw a distress rocket burst into a shower of red over the Thames. For
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the first time that afternoon she felt real fear, and it give her an adrenalin rush.
In a last act of defiance, Grinin threw the chunky Sig at her head but, lightning-quick, she caught it.
With two strides she reached him. Knocking him to the ground with one slap of her hand, she kicked his face with her uninjured leg, breaking his jaw.
Then she kicked him in the bal s, with al her OhZone might, sending him crashing into the wall where he writhed in pain.
Standing over him, she imitated his gruff voice:
‘My Nanny wears proper stockings, with garters.’
Then she scolded him.
‘You could have had a nice last fuck in Westminster.
Shame…’
She addressed Hebe.
It’s over, Hebe.
You have yet to successful y terminate him, Hebe replied.
‘I know!’ growled Felicity, kicking Grinin’s legs apart, and pinning them.
She aimed her Sig at his groin. With her other hand, she yanked up the hem of her little-black-dress to reveal her naked pussy, and stood over Grinin’s face.
In her head, Hebe cackled.