Licensed to Spy

by Barbara Davies

  Beside her, Ash stirred, and her eyelids fluttered open. “Where are we?” She rubbed her eyes.

  “You’re awake. Um … the last road sign was to São José dos Campos, I think.”

  “Never heard of it.” Ash yawned and started to stretch then thought better of it. “How much further to São Paulo?”

  “Fifty kilometres.”

  Ash checked her watch and whistled. “Good going.”

  The praise brought a warmth to Jemma’s cheeks. She cleared her throat. “How are you feeling?”

  “Like I’ve been knifed in the shoulder.” Ash’s stomach grumbled. “And I could eat a horse.”

  Jemma opened the glove compartment and pulled out the painkillers. While Ash swallowed two with a mouthful of Coke, Jemma retrieved a chocolate bar. “The heat’s made this a bit squidgy but—”

  “Gimme.” Ash snatched it from her and seconds later emitted a contented, muffled grunt.

  Jemma grinned. “I’m glad you’re awake. I was wondering … where exactly is the Esplêndido Hotel?”

  “The Avenida Ipiranga. Don’t worry. I’ll give you directions when we get there. Unless you want me to take over?”

  Jemma shook her head. “You need to rest that shoulder. Anyway, I’ve come this far …”

  “Okay. Thanks.” Ash shifted her gaze out of the window.

  Jemma hadn’t cancelled the hotel booking Celio had already made. As Ash had advised, she had simply booked a new room under different aliases—the opposition wouldn’t be expecting them to remain in the same hotel. She frowned. “Why do I have to be Amy Smith?”

  Ash chuckled. “Would you have preferred Elizabeth Dexter?”

  “Not really.”

  “Well, then.”

  They travelled a few more miles in silence, then Jemma noticed that the traffic was increasing. As the road became clogged, she was forced to reduce speed. In the distance skyscrapers came into view.

  “Keep your eyes peeled,” said Ash. “I think there’s a turn off to the right quite soon.”

  Jemma grunted and started looking for it. The idiot driver in front slowed without warning, and she braked and dropped down a gear. Then came a complicated road sign. She recognised the words—São Paulo. That’s what I want. Indicating right, she prepared to take the turnoff.

  For the next few minutes, Jemma was kept busy. Without Ash’s help, she would have lost her way for certain. All this right-right-left-right stuff. She felt like a rat in maze.

  Finally, she turned the Volkswagen into the Avenida Ipiranga.

  “Over there,” said Ash, pointing.

  Jemma sighed with relief. They had reached the Esplêndido Hotel.

  IT WAS A two-star hotel again, much to Ash’s disappointment.

  Jemma dumped their luggage on the worn carpet and sank onto the lumpy twin bed nearest the window. “Glad that’s over.” With a groan of relief she stretched out.

  “Yeah.” Ash gazed out at the cityscape, but Jemma sensed she couldn’t see it. Some internal dialogue had her attention and was making her frown.

  “What’s up?” she asked.

  Ash sighed. “Celio.”

  The first thing Ash had done when they reached their room was to dial his number, but once more she had reached his answering machine.

  Jemma clasped her hands behind her head. “He’ll probably be in touch first thing tomorrow.”

  “Probably.” But Ash didn’t sound too sure. She drummed her fingers on the window ledge. “I’m hungry. Sod London’s budget. Let’s get something from room service.” She went to the phone, picked it up, and rattled off several sentences in Portuguese. Jemma listened with half an ear.

  Ash replaced the receiver. “Five minutes they say.”

  “What did you order?” Jemma remembered the dishes she had seen on Rio restaurant menus. “Black beans, white rice, and mandioca?”

  A dark eyebrow rose. “Roast chicken sandwiches and coffee for two. But I can always change—”

  “That’s great.” Jemma laughed. “Thanks.” She unclasped her hands and sat up. “Now, let me look at your shoulder.” She met Ash’s pained look with a no nonsense stare, and, muttering under her breath, Ash sat on the bed next to her and unbuttoned her shirt.

  Jemma eased the material off Ash’s shoulder, and unwrapped the bandage. The knife wound didn’t look inflamed, thank heavens. She touched the surrounding skin with a knuckle. It didn’t feel hot. “I think we got lucky. There’s no sign of infection.”

  Ash squinted but couldn’t see the wound and gave up. “Will I ever play the violin again?”

  “Could you before?” Jemma grabbed the first aid kit and took out a fresh bandage.

  “No.”

  “Then there’s your answer.” She re-bandaged Ash’s shoulder and eased the shirt back up over it. “All done.”

  “Thanks.”

  A huge yawn took Jemma unawares. “Oh God. All that driving is catching up with me.”

  “Hardly surprising,” said Ash. “I slept through it, and I’m still pretty tired.”

  A knock on the door proved to be room service with their food. Ash took delivery and sent the uniformed young man away with a tip. For the next few minutes they worked their way through the sandwiches and coffee. When they’d finished, Jemma stacked the empty plates and cups on the tray, and picked up her bag.

  Aware Ash was watching her, she pulled out her toothbrush and nighty. “I know it’s early, but—”

  “So what? You’re tired, you should sleep,” said Ash. “I think I’ll get some shuteye too.” From her bag she retrieved an extra large T-shirt that she was evidently going to sleep in. Jemma watched open mouthed as, there and then, Ash stood up and stripped off her clothes.

  “Er …” Swallowing, Jemma turned away. “I need to use the bathroom,” she said, and headed for its shelter. “Won’t be long.”

  “Take your time,” came Ash’s voice. “We’re not in any hurry.”

  Chapter 7

  KNOCKING AT THE door woke Ash from an interesting dream involving her, Jemma, and a room in a sex motel.

  “Room service,” repeated a man’s muffled voice.

  She sat up, then sucked in a breath as the movement set her shoulder throbbing.

  “Stay put,” came Jemma’s voice. “I’ll get it.”

  “Thanks.” She propped herself up on her right elbow and watched Jemma slip into a pale blue robe. Had she asked for breakfast to be sent to their hotel room? She didn’t think so, but her brain wasn’t exactly firing on all cylinders. Perhaps Jemma had.

  As Jemma undid the catch, the door burst open and five men surged in. Four were Brazilians, who looked as if they’d injected too many steroids. The fifth was of a different stamp—Ash recognised the lean figure with the pockmarked, olive skin instantly. Khaleb Abdusamad.

  She dived for the clothes piled on the floor next to the bed and searched for her gun, then tossed the empty holster aside in disgust. You lost it. Remember? By now two of the men had grabbed a struggling Jemma and two more were heading Ash’s way. She grasped a hotel chair by one leg and brought it down on the nearer one’s head. His eyes rolled up, and he crumpled without a sound, but the cheap chair was now a useless mess of splintered wood. Cursing, she looked for something else to use.

  Jemma’s shoulder holster was hanging over the remaining chair, so Ash dived for it. But before her fingers could touch it, a meaty hand took her wrist in a vicelike grip. A karate-chop made the owner of the hand yelp and let go. She pulled the Browning free of its holster, twisted, took aim … and froze.

  Two men were holding Jemma against the wall, and a wicked-looking knife was pressed against her throat. The memory of a similar moment on the Cumbre Vieja surfaced. Not again.

  “Stalemate,” said Abdusamad, who had been watching events unfold with a hooded gaze and folded arms.

  Jemma’s eye widened. “Look out!”

  A fist thudded into Ash’s wound, and she thought she was going to throw up or pass o
ut. A buzzing filled her ears as she sagged to her knees, and she felt rather than saw the gun being twisted from her grasp. Pain came in intense waves, and her vision dimmed.

  “Fool,” shouted the Libyan. “The Commander wants her alive and in good health. If you’ve crippled her …”

  Sweat beaded Ash’s face as she tried to ride out the agony and move beyond it. At last the pain receded to a manageable level, and her surroundings swam back into focus. Jemma was regarding her anxiously. Don’t freak out on me, Jemma. I know it looks bad but … She forced a smile.

  “Are you with us again, Blade?” asked Abdusamad, his tone solicitous.

  She explored her bandaged shoulder with her right hand and regarded the blood-smeared fingers with annoyance. “No thanks to you.” In Rio his men were trying to kill me. Now he wants me in one piece? “What do you want?”

  “Me? Nothing.”

  “And yet?” She gestured at Jemma, who was now standing on tiptoe to ease the pressure against her neck.

  Abdusamad pulled out a penknife and used it to clean bitten fingernails. “I’d like nothing better than to kill you, but the Commander thinks you could prove useful. If you do a job for us, I will spare you and your companion. If not—” He gestured, and Jemma gasped as the knife dug deeper.

  This Commander you keep referring to is al-Akhdar, presumably. “What kind of job?”

  At Abdusamad’s gesture, the pressure on Jemma’s throat eased, and both she and Ash breathed easier. He pocketed his penknife and trained his black gaze on Ash. “Interesting. Pacheco said you would co-operate if we threatened your partner. I did not believe him.”

  Ash’s heart sank. No wonder I couldn’t get hold of Celio. They must have tortured him, poor bastard. And killed him once they had the information they needed. Another thought struck her, and she wanted to kick herself. That message I left on Celio’s answering machine led them straight to us.

  “I won’t blow up innocent civilians,” she said.

  “We do not require that. Your dossier said you were a cat burglar. Is that correct?”

  Ash regarded him coolly. “What do you want me to steal?”

  Her acquiescence angered Abdusamad. “You westerners.” His eyes glittered. “No commitment to anything but your own skins, your own self-indulg—”

  “Are you going to lecture me or tell me what you want?”

  For a moment Ash thought he was going to hit her. Then his raised hand became an admonitory finger, which he wagged.

  “Very well.” His tone was once more calm. “There is an American businessman here in São Paulo who owns a private gallery. In it is a very valuable emerald.” He smiled. “You will appreciate the irony. An American funding our struggle.” When she remained silent, he shrugged. “You will steal that emerald for us.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Will I?”

  Abdusamad nodded. “Or your friend will die.”

  Chapter 8

  JEMMA’S CAPTORS HADN’T bothered to blindfold her, for which she was grateful. The car was heading south, she saw, along the busy main road that led out of São Paulo.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  The curly-haired driver ignored her.

  “I asked—”

  “Shut up,” said the shaven-headed man sitting next to her, without looking up. He turned his copy of Playboy sideways to get a better view of the centrefold.

  At Ash’s insistence, Jemma had been allowed to change into a T-shirt and jeans. Then Curly and Baldy had tied her hands behind her back and bundled her down the hotel’s stairs into the back seat of a waiting BMW. Unfortunately, they had made sure the doors were locked.

  She checked she was unobserved and tested her bonds. Too tight. At least she no longer had a knife to her throat. Maybe I could head butt Baldy, kick out the window, and wriggle through it … And knock myself out and get run over by all this traffic? Maybe not.

  She wondered what Ash was doing. When she had last seen her, Ash had been kneeling on the hotel carpet, clad only in the T-shirt she had slept in, her face the colour of whey. Even then her concern had been for Jemma. Her eyes had signalled as clearly as if she’d spoken aloud, “Go with them. Trust me.”

  Ash was right to play for time, Jemma supposed. “Where there’s life there’s hope.” But Jemma didn’t have to like it. Anger smouldered as she remembered that brutal punch to Ash’s shoulder. If she ever encountered the man who had done that again …

  I’ll find a way out of this for both of us, Ash. Somehow.

  She had to. Abdusamad had promised to release them if Ash did what he asked, but words were cheap. He probably thought he could use them as bargaining chips, but the Organisation never negotiated with terrorists. His boss al-Akhdar was smarter than he was, however, and the bodies of two British secret agents, judiciously placed, could provoke an international incident …

  Over my dead body, thought Jemma, conscious of the irony.

  A road sign featuring the silhouette of an aeroplane flashed by. So that’s where we’re going. A few miles later, her suspicions were confirmed as they approached Congonhas Airport.

  The BMW turned off the main route, leaving the airport buses and tourist traffic behind, and following an access road that snaked round to workshops and hangars at the rear. At the first hangar they came to, Curly frowned and looked around as though searching for something or someone. Then he slowed and wound down the car window.

  A man in grubby white overalls left the single-engine plane he was working on and came towards them, wiping his hands on a rag.

  “Oi! Onde está o avião do Pimentel?” asked Curly.

  Pimentel? Why is that name familiar?

  Replying in rapid Portuguese, the mechanic gestured towards the taxiway, where several small aircraft were parked, their pilots standing in a huddle, smoking and talking.

  “Chocante.” Curly waved his thanks, and the BMW picked up speed and headed for the taxiway.

  As they drew closer to the parked planes, Jemma saw the logo emblazoned on the side of one of them: Pimentel Industrias, and the penny dropped. He must be that industrialist Celio told us about. A memory of the handsome young Brazilian waving at her from the descending cable car surfaced, and she wondered sadly what had happened to him.

  The BMW pulled up alongside the jabbering pilots, and a man in a navy, peaked pilot’s hat and short-sleeved, pale blue shirt separated from the huddle.

  “Oi.” He gave Curly a familiar nod and grinned at Jemma.

  Her captors unlocked the doors and helped her out. Seeing her bound hands, the pilot’s smile disappeared, and he looked round, his expression anxious, and said something sotto voce. With a shrug, Baldy removed his jacket and draped it round Jemma’s shoulders, hiding the evidence of her captivity.

  It was now or never. She opened her mouth to call for help … then doubled up as Baldy elbowed her in the midriff.

  “Tudo bem?” called one of the other pilots. He sounded concerned.

  “Tudo bom,” replied Baldy. “Obrigado.” His reassurances must have worked, because no one came to investigate. Instead, under the guise of helping Jemma, rough hands propelled her across the taxiway towards the Pimentel aircraft and up its steps.

  While the pilot made his way forward to the cockpit and busied himself with pre-flight checks, Curly and Baldy bundled her into one of the twelve passenger seats and strapped her in. The pain in her midriff had eased enough that she could breathe again without too much discomfort. She gave Baldy a baleful look, but he ignored her, settled in his own seat, and pulled out his copy of Playboy.

  Moments later came the whine of the engine, and the propellers began to turn. The pilot spoke with the control tower, then called something back to them. Her escorts grunted and made themselves comfortable. Then the plane taxied towards the runway.

  JEMMA WAS GLAD they’d given her a window seat—watching the scenery whizzing past helped to take her mind off her predicament. They’d left the city high rises behind a while ago
and were now flying over pine-forested hills, rivers, and lakes. It reminded her more of Southern Germany than South America, until coffee plantations replaced the pine forests, only to be replaced in their turn by treeless acres of waving crops and vast expanses of tall grass ideal for grazing. A herd of cattle gave the droning intruder a resentful glare, and Jemma wished she was down there with them. Then the scenery changed once more, becoming green swathes of tropical forest broken by crumbling highways.

  One hour after it had left São Paulo, the plane began to descend, and Jemma saw a clearing in the forest up ahead. A sprawling complex of warehouses, office blocks, and carparks, accessible from the highway, came into view. Moments later, she was jolted against her seat belt as the plane bounced and juddered, and they came in for a very bumpy landing on the small airstrip.

  “Opa,” cried the pilot, giving his glowering passengers an unapologetic grin. He taxied to a halt and switched off the engine. The sudden silence was startling.

  Curly and Baldy stretched and yawned, then unbuckled Jemma’s belt and hauled her upright. Urged on by pushes and shoves, she limped towards the exit and down the steps. While men in grubby overalls helped the pilot to push the plane towards a hangar, Jemma’s escorts hustled her across the concrete towards a four-storey office block. It was several hundred yards away, but after sitting for so long, she was glad of the chance to stretch her legs. Then Curly pushed open the office block’s double doors, and they went inside.

  An unnecessary shove sent Jemma stumbling past the startled receptionist. Flushing, the woman turned away. Must be scared to say something in case she gets the sack, or worse. They took the lift to the top floor, and entered a huge office. Executives the world over would covet that massive, leather-topped, mahogany desk, thought Jemma, not to mention the large picture window with its view out over the complex. Moments later, the door opened, and her escorts straightened as two men came in.

  Jemma recognised the shorter of the pair—a plump man with olive skin and an aquiline nose. Minyar al-Akhdar. His companion, a tall, distinguished-looking man with an unnaturally unlined face and abundant silver hair, took one look at Jemma and her bound hands and halted.