by Tim Waggoner
But Merlin knew that personal feelings—no matter how strong—were unimportant when stacked against the fate of the world. Kingsman was gone, save for Harry, Eggsy, and him. Yes, there were their new allies, the agents of Statesman, but the world was always hovering on the brink of disaster, and it needed all the help it could get. Besides, the Harry Hart who’d been Agent Galahad would never want anyone to give up on him, not as long as there was the merest chance of helping him return.
Merlin put his hand on Harry’s shoulder. “I’m doing this because I am your friend, Harry. And because Kingsman needs its greatest spy back. Don’t you want to be yourself again?”
Harry looked at him for a moment, and when he replied, his tone was bitter.
“I’d rather smash this cup, and slash my wrists. If you’re a true friend, listen very carefully: I am myself. This is me.” A pause, and then more gently, “You have to let me go.”
Merlin couldn’t think of anything else to say. He took a deep breath and held out his hand for Harry to shake. It was over.
Harry took Merlin’s hand and shook it with enthusiasm, his relief palpable.
Harry beamed with joy. “You’re a good man, Merlin. If I discover a new species of butterfly, I’ll name it after you.”
Chapter Seven
Clara ushered Eggsy into her personal safari tent. The outside had large peace signs emblazoned on it, and the inside smelled like incense and was decorated with Indian rugs, Chinese lanterns, strings of fairy lights, and—smack dab in the center—a king-sized bed with tie-dyed sheets. It looked to Eggsy like a hippie’s idea of the afterlife.
“Sorry we never found your friends,” Clara said.
Of course, he’d had no friends at the festival to find. The ruse had served two purposes: one, it made it seem like he hadn’t come to the festival alone in search of someone to shag, and two, it gave them time to talk and get to know one another. He was glad the faux friend quest was finished, though. He was tired of the crowds and the noise—although he had gotten to hear some decent live music while they’d walked—and he was especially tired of coming up with bullshit New Age dialogue that “River” would speak. Unfortunately, it looked like he was going to have to keep up the patter for a bit longer.
“We all go on our separate journeys,” he said, “but we will all arrive at the same destination—”
Before he could finish, Clara grabbed him, pushed him onto the bed, and flopped down next to him. She put her arms around his neck and moved in for a kiss. Eggsy pushed her arms off him, sat up, and scooted several inches away from her.
“Know what?” he said. “I’m busting for a pee.”
She giggled. “You can do it on me if you want.”
Eggsy fought to keep his smile from looking too strained. “Maybe in a bit.”
“Okay, but hurry up, River! I’ve been waiting all night for you to at least kiss me.” She giggled again and gestured to the back of the tent. “The loo’s that way.”
Eggsy had intended to leave the tent—he had a very important call he needed to make before this went any further—but Clara had indicated an arched doorway in the back of the tent, leading to a tented tunnel. Naturally, she has her own bathroom, he thought. No woman with the title “Countess” in front of her name would ever use a smelly public toilet to relieve herself. His excuse for leaving gone, Eggsy had no choice but to walk through the doorway, down the tunnel, and into another tent. He was expecting something the size of a phone booth with a small chemical toilet inside. But this was another full-size safari tent, done up as a luxury ensuite bathroom with a porcelain toilet, glass-enclosed shower stall, claw-foot bathtub—the works. If they ever managed to put Kingsman back together, he’d have to talk to Merlin about getting some of these fancy shitters. It would make field work a hell of a lot more comfortable.
There was no flap to zip closed on this tent’s entrance, just a cloth curtain—tie-dyed, of course—that could be drawn over the entrance for privacy. The curtain wouldn’t provide much sound insulation, but he was far enough away from Clara that she probably wouldn’t hear him if he spoke quietly. Plus, the noise outside the tents would help drown out his voice. He removed his phone from his pocket and face-timed Tilde. She answered right away. He could tell from the background that she was still in the hotel room where they’d met earlier. God, it was so good to see her. He wanted to ask her how she was, what she’d been up to since they’d parted, if she’d had dinner, and if so, what was it and had it been any good? But he didn’t have time for that, so he got right to the point.
“Babe? Bit of a nightmare. I need to sleep with a target. But I won’t do it unless you agree it’s all right.”
She frowned. “The old guy you were with?”
“A girl,” he said.
Tilde’s face clouded with anger. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding. So what was I? Target practice?”
Eggsy hurried to explain. “Babe, surely it’s better that I’m honest with you? Than me just doing it and not telling you.”
She gave him a skeptical look. “I don’t get how screwing someone is gonna save the world.”
“It’s complicated. But please trust me. I wouldn’t if I didn’t have to.”
And it was true. The instant Clara had shoved him onto the bed and practically attacked him, he knew he couldn’t go through with the mission. Not without speaking to Tilde first. He loved her so much, and the idea of betraying her made him feel ill. But if she understood, if she gave him permission, then he thought he could do it.
Tilde considered for several moments before finally asking, “What does she look like?”
Eggsy was quick to answer. “Nowhere near as pretty as you.”
She gave him a look that said flattery wasn’t going to work, not in this situation.
“Send me a picture.”
He’d downloaded several photos of Clara onto his phone to show Jack so he could help spot her. He selected the worst of the lot—which wasn’t saying much because Clara took great photos—and texted it to Tilde. She received the text almost immediately, and examined it.
She shook her head. “No fucking way. What is it with the whole cliché of spies only sleeping with gorgeous women? Forget it. This is bullshit.” The angrier she got, the more pronounced her Swedish accent became.
Eggsy was beginning to fear that he’d made a serious mistake by calling Tilde, but he’d had no choice. He simply couldn’t complete the mission without her approval. He wished Jack hadn’t been so lousy at seduction. If the American agent had managed to entice Clara into bed, he and Tilde wouldn’t be having this conversation right now.
“It’s not like it’s for fun, Tilde,” he said, sounding desperate but unable to help it. “I love you. I only want you. You know that.”
Clara called out from the other tent. “Hurry up! If you make me wait any longer, I’m gonna get my vibrator!”
“What the fuck? Who even is this slut?” Tilde was practically shouting now, and Eggsy quickly lowered the volume on his phone.
He shouted back to Clara. “Yeah! Sorry! Nearly done!” Then he spoke quietly once more to Tilde. “Babe… Please. Believe me. I love you. You’re the person I want to spend the rest of my life with.”
Some of Tilde’s anger drained away, and a thoughtful look came into her eyes.
“Is that a proposal?”
Too late, Eggsy realized he’d managed to corner himself. It wasn’t that he was averse to the idea of marrying Tilde. Not at all. But marrying her would mean becoming part of her family—the royal family. More than that, Sweden was the only monarchy in the world where the firstborn, regardless of gender, inherited the throne. Tilde was her parents’ first child, which meant that someday she would be the ruler of her country. How could he—a kid who’d grown up rough on the dodgier streets of London—possibly be good enough to be the consort of a queen?
Eggsy struggled to find the right words to reply to Tilde and failed miserably. “Um… Well, I… not—�
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Tilde went on as if she hadn’t heard him. “Because I think… You know, I think I’d say yes. Having that security, knowing that we were… committed. I think in that context… Yeah. I’d feel different.”
Eggsy wanted to tell Tilde about his self-doubts, but he couldn’t bring himself to. He knew he shouldn’t be ashamed of his background—and he wasn’t. The lessons he’d learned on the streets had served him just as well in Kingsman as anything Harry had taught him. But there was no denying that the idea of becoming royalty made him feel extremely uncomfortable.
“Babe, I’m… I wanna be with you. But suddenly being a prince? A public figure? That’s a bit of a… factor. With my job. And…”
He trailed off when he saw Tilde’s face fall and her eyes brim with tears. He realized he would only make the situation worse by continuing this conversation.
“Darling, we need to talk. Properly. Y’know? I’ll come to the hotel. Call you back in five minutes, okay?”
Tears began to flow down Tilde’s cheeks, and her tone became hard and bitter.
“Don’t put yourself down, Eggsy. I’m sure you can last longer than that.”
The screen went dark and the words call ended appeared. Eggsy stared at the words, feeling as if he’d been punched in the gut. No, no, no! He started to call her back, but then he thought better of it. The way he was going tonight, he’d only hurt her worse.
He slipped the phone into his pocket and made his way back to Clara’s main tent. He found her waiting for him on the bed, wearing a red silk robe.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
He was sad, confused, and angry—mostly at himself—and he wasn’t up to pretending otherwise.
“Nothing, I just feel… our spirit animals need more time to get in synch. Find a… harmonious bond on the… spiritual plane and—”
“Totally,” she said. “Or… we could just fuck.”
She smiled as she rose from the bed and allowed her robe to slide off her. Underneath, she wore only a crimson bra and panties. She had an absolutely stunning body, and the Eggsy he’d been before meeting Tilde would’ve shucked off his own clothes quick as lightning and hopped into bed with her. But the man he was now only admired her body in the abstract. He felt no desire stir within him.
“Clara, I… don’t think I can.”
She looked at him for a long moment, as if gauging his sincerity. Then, looking disappointed and more than a little embarrassed, she turned around to pick up her robe, revealing a golden circle at the base of her spine.
Eggsy swallowed. He had no choice now. He had to go through with it.
“Maybe I could stay for a bit,” he said.
Clara turned, grinning, and came toward him, arms outstretched. Eggsy smiled as he reached into his pocket and slipped Statesman’s tracking deployment device—aka the micro-condom—onto his index finger.
* * *
Jack sat alone in the VIP bar, drinking the watered-down piss that passed for whiskey in this country and brooding over Clara’s rejection of him. He knew it was unprofessional—not to mention childish—but he couldn’t help it. But that’s the way it went when you were an agent. A lot of times you were forced to sit around and wait until it was time to act. All that sitting led to thinking, thinking led to brooding, and brooding could lead you down some truly dark paths if you weren’t careful.
Lela…
One of the things he hated about sitting here was watching so many rich brats having something a little extra along with their drinks. No one smoked pot in here. That would be way too obvious, even for an outdoor music festival. But he saw plenty of pills being passed from one person to another, pills that were quickly swallowed before anyone could notice. Anyone but him, that is. He saw small packets of powder being passed around as well. Not everyone in the tent was selling, buying, or doing drugs, of course. Less than a quarter, Jack guessed. But as far as he was concerned, that was a quarter too many. Nothing he could do about it right now, though. He was on a different mission tonight.
He wore a small earpiece, and up to this point it had remained silent. Now it came alive, and he heard the rapid breathing of a woman on the verge of reaching orgasm. He grinned and raised his glass in a toast to Eggsy.
He tapped the earpiece to turn it off. He’d turn it back on when Eggsy was done plowing Countess Clara’s field. He downed the rest of his whiskey and then, to give his British cousin some time to finish his work properly, he stood and ambled over to the bar to order another.
* * *
Merlin and Ginger sat next to each other at a workstation, monitoring Eggsy’s progress from the lab at Statesman headquarters. Merlin was doing his best to remain clinical and detached, but he couldn’t help feeling uncomfortable around Ginger given the particular, ah, parameters of Eggsy’s mission. She was an extremely attractive woman, both mentally and physically, and although it was sometimes a necessity for agents to engage in close contact with a surveillance target—sometimes extremely close—he was all too aware of the amazing woman sitting at his side, and he found himself feeling more than a bit embarrassed. Not so much by what Eggsy was doing but because it was making him have thoughts about Ginger that were less than professional.
When the GPS came online, Merlin told Eggsy that he’d succeeded. He glanced at Ginger and was surprised to find her looking at him and smiling.
“Don’t worry,” she said, as if sensing how he felt. “I’ve been through this with Whiskey before.” She paused, and then added, “Nice to be working with an agent who knows what he’s doing.”
Merlin’s throat was suddenly dry. “Indeed,” he said.
* * *
Eggsy and Clara lay on her bed. She was still in her bra and panties, and Eggsy was fully clothed. Eggsy withdrew his hand from her panties, and Clara shuddered one last time then drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly.
He heard Merlin’s voice in his ear. Device delivered, he said.
No shit, Eggsy thought.
A light sheen of sweat covered Clara’s body, and she gave Eggsy a very relaxed smile.
“Wow.” Her smile turned naughty. “My turn, Mr Crow…”
She reached down and began undoing his belt. Eggsy, nearly panicking, pulled away from her.
“I’m sorry, but… I should go. I’m in a relationship.”
“That’s adorable. Listen, so am I. Don’t worry about it. What happens at Glasto stays in Glasto.”
Eggsy took hold of her wrists and moved her hands away from his belt. His index finger was now bare. Statesman’s mini-condom was designed to dissolve after it had done its work, so a target would have no idea it had been used.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I just… can’t.”
Then he turned away from her, got off the bed, and practically fled the tent.
* * *
He knew he should go find Jack, but he was too upset. It was dark outside now, but he made sure to move a good distance away from Clara’s tent anyway. He didn’t want her coming after him, angry because he’d left so abruptly. When he thought he’d gone far enough, he took out his phone and called Tilde. She didn’t answer, so he called again, with the same result. This is Princess T. Please leave a message. He tried the hotel’s front desk, and this time someone picked up. He started speaking before the clerk could say hello.
“Hi, could you get a message to room seventeen, please? My girlfriend’s not picking up, and…” Eggsy paused as the desk clerk spoke. “Checked out? When? Maybe she’s still outside; can you go and look?” Another pause as he listened. “Yeah. I understand… Okay.”
He ended the call. He stared at his phone for a moment, not knowing what to do, desperate to speak with Tilde. If he could get to the rental car fast enough… No, she’d hired a driver to take her from Heathrow to the hotel, and by now, she was no doubt making the return trip. It was possible that he could catch up to them—Christ, was he tempted to try—but if she wouldn’t take his calls, why would she speak to h
im in person? Especially if he came racing up on her car like some kind of crazed stalker.
Without any other course of action open to him, he headed for the VIP bar, the sounds of music and partying, of people laughing and enjoying themselves, seeming to mock him as he walked. He figured the bar was the most likely place he’d find Jack, and after he’d rejoined the American agent… well, he supposed he’d do his best to continue trying to discover what the Golden Circle was up to. It was, after all, his duty. But he knew his heart wouldn’t be in it.
* * *
A dozen men and women in business attire sat at tables in Poppy’s diner, eating pancakes. Despite their food—which Poppy knew was absolutely yummy since she’d made it herself—her guests looked unhappy, if not downright miserable. She told herself their sour mood had nothing to do with the food or this meeting—at least, not directly. Reaching her compound was not easy, which was exactly the way it was designed to be. It wouldn’t be much of a hidden compound otherwise, would it? So the trip through the jungle had been long, hot, and uncomfortable for her guests, and although they’d been given time to freshen up after they’d arrived, they still tugged at their collars or fanned themselves with their hands. The diner’s air conditioning was going full blast, but there was only so much it could do to counteract the jungle’s humid air. She didn’t take her guests’ grumpiness personally. She’d lived in Poppyland for close to ten years, and she still hadn’t fully acclimated to the surrounding environment—and she was a natural redhead with fair skin. She was lucky she didn’t burst into flame every time she stepped out into the jungle sunshine. She could’ve conducted this meeting virtually, she supposed, but she preferred face-to-face contact when it came to working out delicate business matters. It made everything so much more… intimate.
