Licensed to Spy

by Barbara Davies

  She needn’t have worried. Batteries recharged from a good night’s sleep, she was more than ready to celebrate life. With Blade keeping an eye out for pinching fingers (a growl and a glare deterred most would-be perverts), they ambled along Santa Cruz’s decorated streets, stopping to watch exhibitions of folk dancing and wrestling or to listen to the bands playing traditional Canarian instruments (something of an acquired taste).

  As evening drew in, and even Jemma was forced to concede she couldn’t eat one more churro, they joined the onlookers to cheer eight men bearing a ten-metre long cardboard sardine on its way to the waterfront. The fish went to its glorious end on a funeral pyre, mourned by “widows” who, oddly, were men in black hats, veils, and high heels, and a firework display began. As she and Blade gaped up at the gaudy pyrotechnics unfolding high above, Jemma let out a contented sigh and counted it a day well spent. Later, on the plane, contemplating an uncertain future, she had taken consolation from that fact.

  Wonder if Blade and Adriana are back together, or if she found herself another blonde.

  Gary’s eyes lit up, and he waved at someone behind her. “Over here, Nat.”

  A small redhead in a black leather jacket was making her way between the crowded tables towards them.

  “Hi, Nat,” called Jemma. “Glad you could make it.”

  “Hi, yourself.” Natalie plonked herself onto the uncomfortable wooden chair with a grunt of relief. “Traffic’s murder. Whose idea was this anyway?”

  Jemma shrugged. “It was the only time you were both free. Me, I can make it anytime.” She had all the time in the world to do anything except leave the country. If she’d still been in the Canary Islands, it would have been wonderful. But in a cold and rainy English March …

  “I heard about your suspension.” Natalie patted her arm. “Doesn’t seem fair.”

  “Yeah, well. At least it’s with pay. They have to go by the book, you know.” A memory of Remington droning on about following procedure made her wince. “I disobeyed orders, didn’t I.”

  Gary kicked back his chair and stood up. “What are you having, Nat?”

  “Have they got Old Peculiar?”

  “They’ve got everything,” said Jemma. She had chosen the crowded little London pub precisely because it stocked the real ale her friends were partial to and was near her flat.

  “Great. I’ll have a pint of that, please.”

  Gary nodded and wandered over to the bar.

  “So.” Natalie returned her attention to Jemma. “When will you know?”

  “The results of the enquiry? Day after tomorrow.”

  “If it’s any consolation, I hear Mac put in a good word for you.”

  “Good old Mac.”

  “And Counter Intelligence. Thompson spoke personally to Weatherby on your behalf.”

  Jemma smiled. “That’ll be Blade’s doing.”

  “You lucky dog,” said Natalie. “Be ages before I get to go on a mission with someone like her. What’s she like?”

  Here we go again. “Well—”

  “There were Gary and me thinking you’d drawn the short straw,” continued Nat, not waiting for an answer. “We thought you were doing some dull old desk job in Security. At least we were doing missions—boring ones, true—surveillance of drop points and that kind of thing—but the real thing, you know?”

  Jemma nodded.

  “And all that time you were swanning around the Canary Islands with Ashley Blade.” Natalie’s expression was a mix of envy and rueful congratulations.

  “It wasn’t quite like that—” Jemma broke off as Gary returned. He threw a bag of salted peanuts onto the middle of the table and sat down.

  “No, I don’t suppose it was. Cheers.” Natalie gulped her beer.

  “I happened to run into Blade by accident really.”

  Gary let out a loud snort. He saw Jemma’s puzzlement. “You did that before, JJ. Literally fell right out of your tree.”

  Jemma felt her cheeks warm at the memory of that first meeting with Blade. “Some friends you are,” she protested, reaching for her wine. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

  “We are. Though sometimes we may not act like it.” Natalie flashed a cheeky grin at Gary who mouthed, “Moi?” and assumed an injured expression. Then he became serious.

  “It’ll turn out all right in the end, JJ. I’d bet on it.”

  Jemma grabbed the bag of peanuts and opened it. “I hope so. Because if it doesn’t, I’m out of a job.”

  Chapter 19

  ASH GAZED OUT of the restaurant’s picture window at the bay one kilometre below, then for the third time in as many minutes glanced at her watch.

  Jemma’s plane should have landed at El Hierro’s airport three quarters of an hour ago. If she’d taken the taxi Ash had arranged to have waiting on the tarmac …

  The Mirador’s front door opened, and in walked a familiar figure carrying a suitcase. The short skirt revealed shapely ankles, noted Ash with appreciation. Her gaze travelled upwards. Uh oh!

  Jemma looked hot and sticky, and her expression was a study in confusion and irritation. She hadn’t seen Ash yet, so, as the maître d hurried over to greet her, Ash took another sip of wine and regarded the spectacular view again.

  She became aware of someone standing next to her.

  “What the hell is going on?” came a testy voice.

  Ash suppressed a smile and looked round. “Hello, Jemma. What does it look like? I’m buying you dinner.”

  She gestured at the empty seat opposite, and after a startled pause, Jemma slid into it.

  “I’ve just got off the plane,” she muttered. “Couldn’t you have at least have let me get washed and brushed up first?”

  “No problem.” Ash beckoned the waiter over, and moments later he was leading the still flustered Jemma towards the washroom.

  When she returned five minutes later, her hair was brushed, and she looked a lot less frazzled. She grabbed the glass of wine Ash had ordered for her and downed it in one. The waiter happened to be passing, and refilled it. When he had gone, she looked at Ash and said simply, “So?”

  Ash handed her the menu, which was rebuffed.

  “I didn’t mean that, and you know it.” Jemma sighed. “You love this cloak and dagger stuff, don’t you?”

  Ash nodded. “So I guess you want to know why you’re here.”

  “All they told me was I’m back on active service. Meanwhile Remington is taking early retirement.”

  “More time to prune his roses,” agreed Ash. “Couldn’t happen to a nicer bloke.”

  Jemma ignored the interruption. “Then I was told I was being transferred to Counter Intelligence and to report to you here for further instructions.” She gave her surroundings a curious glance. “Where is here anyway? No, forget I asked. Knowing you, it’s probably the restaurant at the end of the universe, and a nearby galaxy is about to explode.”

  Ash pretended to be hurt by the accusation, but Jemma ignored that too.

  “ ‘She’ll give you the details of your next mission,’ said my new Section Head. I’d already learned my lesson about not obeying orders, thank you very much, so I said, ‘Yes, Mr. Thompson. Three bags full, Mr. Thompson. No, no need at all to tell me insignificant little details like why I’m returning to the Canaries.’ ”

  Jemma’s voice had risen in volume. “So, I packed my bag,” she continued, unaware that the waiter and several diners were throwing her covert glances, perhaps hoping for a brawl, “and caught the next flight to El Hierro, and here I am. Completely in the dark. As usual.” Breathless from her outburst, she settled for glaring.

  “Have you finished?” asked Ash.

  Jemma had the grace to blush. “Sorry. I get crabby when I’m tired and hungry. Did someone mention dinner?”

  Ash grinned and offered her the menu again. This time Jemma snatched it from her, and the disappointed spectators returned to their own concerns. Ash suggested some main courses, helpfully translating t
he Spanish, and when they had both ordered, put Jemma out of her misery.

  “Okay. First, don’t blame Thompson for keeping you in the dark. I wanted to tell you the news myself. He agreed, but it put him in an awkward position.”

  Jemma selected a bread roll and buttered it. “What news?”

  “That our next mission will be in Rio.”

  Jemma blinked at her. “Our mission?”

  “That’s right. Our as in you and me.”

  Jemma picked up her wine and took a gulp. “Was that Thompson’s idea?”

  “No. Mine.” Ash took advantage of Jemma’s speechlessness to continue. “And since there didn’t seem much point my coming back to England, I thought you should join me here, and we’d fly on to Rio together tomorrow.”

  Jemma’s glass was empty again.

  Ash signalled the waiter to top it up then had second thoughts. Hangovers weren’t a good idea when flying the next day. “Mineral water,” she said instead.

  He brought a tall glass filled to the brim, and Jemma drank it. “But that means I’m your new partner?”

  “Uh huh. Better get used to calling me Ash.”

  “Ash. Um. That sounds strange, but I expect I’ll get used to it. Hang on a minute. Did you say Rio? As in de Janeiro? As in Brazil?”

  Ash hid a grin. “Got it in one.”

  “I’m going to Rio? Really? Wow.” The smile Jemma gave her was positively beatific. And when the waiter appeared with their food, her smile stretched even wider, if possible.

  “Eat up,” ordered Ash. But Jemma’s cutlery was already moving at the speed of light.

  At last, the knife and fork slowed. “So … Ash … why are we going to Rio?”

  “Because all the women are tanned and lovely?”

  Jemma rolled her eyes. “Besides that.”

  Ash smiled then became serious. “Because, according to the latest intelligence, Khaleb Abdusamad is there. But more importantly, Minyar al-Akhdar is there too. I don’t know about you, but I have a score to settle with the people who framed me as a traitor.”

  Jemma fingered the flesh-coloured plaster on her throat. “Me too.”

  “Not to mention what they nearly did to the USA. See that?” Ash gestured at the view of the bay.

  Jemma gave it a puzzled glance. “Very nice. But what does it have—”

  Seeing their interest, the waiter hurried across. “Would you like to hear how the bay was formed, señoritas?” he asked eagerly.

  “No,” said Ash. “Thank you.”

  Crestfallen, he retreated.

  “That was mean. Besides I want to know.” Jemma gave Ash an astute look. “But you’re going to tell me anyway, aren’t you?”

  Ash gave her a shit-eating grin. “Thousands of years ago, Señorita Jacobs, thees volcano,” she adopted an execrable Spanish accent that made Jemma’s eyes bulge, “erupted and a section of the island collapsed … the result,” she gave an exaggerated gesture, “El Golfo.”

  “How much have you had to drink?” asked Jemma.

  Ash ignored her.

  “Eet was a catasssstrophe. All that earth, sliiiiiding into the sea. Eet set off—¿Cómo se dice?—a tidal wave.” She gave Jemma a tragic look. “The wave, it not stop until it reach the Bahamas, until it reach the USA itself!”

  At that, Jemma’s chuckling died, and she gave the bay below them a longer, more searching look. “Wow,” she said at last. “That nearly happened again, didn’t it?”

  Ash nodded. “But with your help it didn’t.” She raised her wine glass in a toast. “To partners.”

  Jemma imitated the gesture with her mineral water. “Partners,” she said, her expression as solemn as Ash’s. Then she grinned. “Whee! Look out, Rio. Here we come.”

  Ash laughed. Jemma was going to be a handful, she suspected. There was also an additional dimension to this partnership that was going to take some thinking about. After all, she had never been sexually attracted to Sam.

  “Look out, Rio,” she agreed.

  They clinked their glasses and drained the contents dry.

  Part 2

  A View To A Kiss

  Chapter 1

  “GUARD THE LUGGAGE for a minute, will you, Jemma?” said Ash. “I need to get some local currency.”

  She strolled across to the Casa de Câmbio, glad to stretch her legs after the long flight. The woman behind the counter looked up and smiled; her face was tanned, her smile brilliant.

  “Sim?”

  After several months of speaking Canarian Spanish, Portuguese came awkwardly to Ash. She thought for a moment. “Eu gostaria de trocar meus travellers checks?”

  The woman nodded. Relieved, Ash slid a traveller’s cheque across the counter, and moments later found herself the owner of a pile of real notes of different colours and denominations. “Muito obrigada.”

  Cramming the notes into a zipped compartment of her money belt, she hurried back to the carousel where Jemma was waiting.

  “Everything okay?” asked Jemma.

  Ash nodded and grabbed her bag. “Let’s go.”

  Jemma picked up her own suitcase and followed her.

  As they walked towards the Aeroporto Galeão’s exit, Ash scanned for signs of danger. Jemma’s head, she couldn’t help noticing, was swivelling for different reasons. Eyes wide, she was taking in all the sights, smells, and sounds, among them the sensual female voice announcing plane arrivals. Ash suppressed a smile. She had done the same when she first came to Rio de Janeiro.

  They emerged into brilliant sunlight and sweltering heat. Pity they couldn’t have delayed this until it was cooler, thought Ash, but sightings of Libyan terrorists waited for no one. She put on her sunglasses. Jemma did the same and turned towards the taxi rank.

  Ash stopped her. “Those cost too much. This way.”

  “Oh. Okay.” Jemma shifted her heavy suitcase from her left hand to her right and trailed after Ash.

  Normally Ash wouldn’t have bothered trying to save a few reais, but after Thompson’s stern telephone call about the revised budget she supposed she’d better make the effort. The new finance director was slashing costs across the Organisation, and she hated to think what kind of hotel London had allocated them this time.

  A little way from the airport, around a corner, she found what she was looking for—several yellow cabs with blue stripes. Their drivers turned eager grins her way.

  Ash peered in the window of the first one, gave it a quick once-over, and declined. “Não. Desculpe.” She ignored the driver’s angry glare.

  The next cab proved more suitable. It wasn’t unknown for taxis to make off with the luggage, so Ash supervised its loading then opened the back door and waited for Jemma to climb in.

  While they settled, the driver switched on his meter and turned his head in enquiry.

  “Hotel Almirante, Flamengo, por favor,” called Ash. If she remembered rightly, the journey to that part of the city should take them about half an hour.

  “Okay.”

  The taxi headed out into the late morning traffic at a speed that would have done Ayrton Senna proud. Ash and Jemma exchanged rueful glances.

  “So, what was wrong with the first taxi?” enquired Jemma.

  “His meter was out of order, and his price list was photocopied.” Rio’s international airport receded into the distance behind them. “He’d have charged us through the roof.”

  “Ah.”

  The taxi turned onto the expressway and picked up yet more speed.

  “I wish I was driving,” muttered Ash.

  “I wish you were too.”

  They travelled in silence for a while, then Jemma pressed her nose to the glass. “Wow! Look at that.”

  On their left, the sparkling blue of the Baía de Guanabara had come into view. Ash smiled at her enthusiasm. “We should be able to do some sightseeing. It won’t be all business.”

  “You are here on business?” came the driver’s voice over the roar of the engine. Ash had been aware he
was watching them in his rear view mirror.

  “Yes.” She raised her voice so he could hear her and donned the false identity London had created. “We’re here to negotiate a textile contract.”

  “Textiles?” He gave a sage nod. “We have many such factories here in Brazil.”

  “That’s right,” Jemma chipped in. “The Brazilians visited us in Yorkshire last month. Now it’s our turn to return the favour.”

  He shook his head. “Rio is the most beautiful city in the world. You must make time to enjoy yourselves.” He took a corner at breakneck speed, throwing Jemma into Ash’s lap. She blushed, disentangled herself, and muttered an apology. Ash grinned. She hadn’t minded at all.

  “Two pretty ladies,” continued the cab driver, “will not lack companionship for long. We Cariocas have a lust for life, for romance.”

  “So I’ve been told,” said Ash. “I’m just disappointed we couldn’t be here last month for the carnival.”

  “Ah, Carnaval.”

  As Ash had intended, he took the bait and needed little input from his passengers for the rest of the fifteen-kilometre journey. She didn’t bother mentioning that she had already been to one carnival this year—in Tenerife—and that was quite enough.

  ASH REGARDED THE hotel’s exterior with a frown as the taxi driver honked and drove off. The paint wasn’t peeling … yet.

  “Is this where you usually stay?” asked Jemma.

  “No. Last time, I stayed in Ipanema. Still, this place can’t be too bad—it’s got two stars.” She picked up her bag, pushed open the front door, and headed for the lobby.

  No one was on the reception desk, so Ash thumped the bell hard. A harried, middle-aged woman appeared, removing a pair of washing-up gloves. “Sim?”

  She was about to answer in Portuguese when she remembered she was supposed to be a tourist. “Good morning.” She checked her watch. Yes, it was still morning. They had gained three hours on the flight. “I’m Georgia Kenyon, and this is my colleague Molly Blythe.” She caught Jemma’s almost imperceptible wince and hid a smile. Jemma hated the names London had chosen for them. “You have reservations for us?”