Licensed to Spy

by Barbara Davies

  “Got it. Go on.”

  “I need an address.”

  “Home or work?”

  “Both.”

  “I’ll put someone on it and get back to you.”

  “Can you make it quick, boss?”

  “Of course.” He paused. “How’s J—your partner?”

  “Unknown,” growled Ash, hating having to make the admission. “But I’m taking care of it.”

  He was silent for so long she thought he had hung up. “If there’s anything—”

  “Thanks. But the address is all I need for now.”

  “Okay. I’ll get back to you.” With that, Thompson hung up.

  As Ash pocketed the phone, she realised she was standing opposite a clothes shop. Its window was full of mannequins wearing jeans and Tshirts. She glanced at her too tight jacket and too short trousers, then at the mannequins again, then trotted across the road.

  It took her longer than it would have if she’d had her lock picks with her, but she soon disabled the alarm, opened the back door, and let herself inside. Coat hangers slid and clacked against one another as she riffled through a clothes rack until she had found a shirt and jacket in her size. She threw them into the middle of the floor and went in search of a pair of jeans. Finding trousers that fit her long legs was always a problem, but at last she came across a pair that would do.

  Ash changed into the shirt and jacket, and had one leg in and one leg out of the jeans when the mobile phone rang. She shuffled across the floor and grabbed it, checking before answering that it wasn’t Abdusamad keeping tabs on his men.

  “Yes?”

  “Got something to jot this down on?” came Thompson’s voice.

  “Hang on.” She hopped over to the sales counter where a pencil and notepad lay next to the till. “Go ahead.”

  He dictated two São Paulo addresses, one residential, one an office in a skyscraper downtown. “Our industrious friend also has a chemical manufacturing plant, but we don’t know where it is yet.”

  “Never mind. I can convince him to tell me that himself.” She finished writing and tucked the piece of paper in her pocket.

  “Blade?”

  Something in his voice made her pause. “Yes?”

  “Good luck.”

  “Thanks.”

  She finished dressing, and as a final fashion touch added a leather belt and tucked the two stolen pistols into it. Then she folded the brown Crime Guard uniform and left it by the till.

  PIMENTEL’S SECRETARY TRIED to keep Ash out, but Ash brushed past the woman, opened the office door, and strode through.

  “Desculpe, Senhor Pimentel.” At his secretary’s wail, the man with the bouffant silver hair turned round in astonishment.

  Ash grabbed him by the arm and steered him away from the window with its bird’s eye view of the morning rush hour. He didn’t resist—her painful nerve pinch saw to that. She pushed him into the plush upholstered chair and perched on the edge of his desk in front of him. She let her jacket hang open so he could see the guns tucked in her belt. He went pale and licked his lips, then rubbed his sore arm.

  Ash glanced at the secretary, who was now brandishing a nail file of all things, and raised a meaningful eyebrow. Pimentel took the hint.

  “Tudo bem, Maria. Tudo bem.” A reluctant Maria backed out of the office and closed the door behind her.

  “Good boy,” said Ash.

  “Who are you?” His voice was hoarse, and he cleared his throat.

  “I’ll ask the questions. Where is Jemma Jacobs?”

  “Who?” But the comprehension in his eyes had already given him away.

  She pulled out one of the guns and aimed it at his groin. “Don’t play games,” she growled. “The English woman. Short, blonde. Ring any bells yet?”

  Reflexively, he crossed his legs.

  “Your Libyan friends kidnapped her,” she prompted. “She’s a British agent. Like me.”

  “B … British agent?” With a finger he eased his starched collar.

  “Didn’t mention that, huh?”

  He shook his head.

  “Then I’ll ask you again.” She tightened her finger on the trigger, the knuckle whitening. “Where is she?”

  “Please.” His eyes were very wide, and sweat beaded his upper lip. “Taking the woman was their idea. She’s at the complex.” He pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and mopped his face. “Or she was last time I saw her.”

  “When was that?”

  “Last night.”

  Ash eased her finger off the trigger. “This complex, where is it?”

  “Paraná.”

  “That’s a big state. Be more specific.”

  “Near Cascavel.”

  She chewed her lip. “You have a plane?”

  He gave her an eager nod. “If you wish, I will instruct my own pilot to fly you there—”

  She stood up. “You’ll do more than that, sunshine. You’re coming with me.”

  THE EMB-110 BANDEIRANTE turboprop had been airborne for almost an hour. Ash stretched her legs out into the gangway—one of the advantages of having an aisle seat—and twiddled her thumbs. The view had long since palled. Mixed tropical forest stretched as far as the eye could see, leavened only by the straight highways that the authorities had bulldozed across Paraná.

  Though she was champing at the bit to get to Jemma, she had spent her time profitably, grilling the man sitting next to her. At first Pimentel had been reluctant to part with details of his operation. A gun muzzle in his ribs had loosened his tongue.

  Pimentel Industries had started out as a legitimate enterprise, manufacturing solvents, fertilisers, and selected medicines. Then greed had got the better of him, and when the chance came to develop a nice little side line in cocaine manufacturing, he had grabbed it with both hands. A few years ago, the Libyans had offered to become silent partners, and he had welcomed their cash and connections. That had changed. When they decided to turn their knowledge of his criminal activities against him, he had been a sitting duck.

  Ash glanced at Pimentel. He might bluster and act the part of the powerful industrialist, but it was clear that al-Akhdar held the whip hand. One thing puzzled her. When she had broached the subject of nerve gas, his bewilderment seemed genuine. She wondered if she had misunderstood Jemma’s cryptic message, or if the terrorists had kept that part of the operation from him.

  “Nossa!” The pilot’s exclamation snapped her gaze forward. Up ahead, a black plume of smoke was rising into the sky. Ash’s heart sank.

  “Merda!” Pimentel half rose from his seat. She pulled him back down.

  “Let me guess. That’s your complex, right?”

  “Those sons of bitches. What have they done?”

  The pilot jabbered into his radio, trying to find out what was going on. After a few minutes, he looked round. “There is a serious fire, Senhor Pimentel. The emergency services have been notified and are on the way.”

  “How long until we get there?” asked Ash.

  “Ten minutes, senhorita.” He faced front again.

  As they drew nearer, the black plume took up more and more of the sky. An occasional flash made the rising smoke eddy and billow. Explosions. Jemma would be fine, wouldn’t she? She’s got to be. Then the pilot called out, and, simultaneously, the huge clearing that housed the industrial complex came into view. Two warehouses were on fire, and fire appliances and ambulances crowded the carparks, with more emergency vehicles heading along the highway to join them.

  The pilot steered towards a small airstrip, well away from the fire, fortunately. It was a bumpy landing, and they had barely slowed before Ash unbuckled her seat belt, headed along the aisle, and opened the door. Without waiting for the steps to be extended, she leaped out onto the concrete. Then she rolled, came smoothly to her feet, and set off at a run towards the carpark.

  Ignoring those receiving treatment for burns or smoke inhalation, she approached a dazed-looking man in a soot-stained white coat.
“Have you seen a blonde woman? Small. About so high?” With a hand she indicated Jemma’s height. “She would have been wearing a white T-shirt and blue jeans.”

  He gave her a blank look then shook his head. With a murmur of thanks, Ash moved on. Everyone she asked denied all knowledge of Jemma, and she was beginning to lose hope when she approached a bespectacled man in his shirtsleeves.

  At her question, his expression became shuttered. “Are you her friend?” His tone was suspicious.

  “Yes,” said Ash, hope flaring at his reaction. “Have you seen her or not?”

  He searched her face then, apparently satisfied by what he saw, nodded. “She made me help her cut her ropes, then she took my coat and ID. That was after she had knocked out the two men, of course.”

  Of course. Ash stared at him. “What two men?”

  “Her escorts.” He frowned. “They had tied her hands.” An explosion made him jump and turn to regard the newest plume of smoke billowing skywards.

  Ash regained his attention. “How long ago was this?” He gave her a blank look. “When she took your coat.”

  He glanced at his watch. “An hour?”

  So Jemma had been okay up until an hour ago. “Thanks.”

  Ash wove her way between medics and their patients and stepped aside to let an ambulance through. Where would Jemma go?

  “Parece um ferimento a tiro,” called a woman. Gunshot wound? The phrase stopped Ash in her tracks. She turned and saw two medics wheeling a gurney across the carpark. On it lay something in a body bag. Heart in her mouth, she trotted towards them.

  “May I?” While they looked on, expressions of startlement changing to indignation, she unzipped the body bag to reveal a man in mechanic’s overalls. She had never seen him before in her life. Pulse steadying, she leaned over for a better look and saw he had been shot in the temple. “Where did you find him?” Her commanding tone forestalled any objections.

  The first medic pointed across the carpark. “The back of the underground garage.”

  Ash reclosed the zip and stood back. “Thanks.”

  She jogged towards the garage entrance and down the ramp. The cavern-like space that greeted her was gloomy, lit by dim bulbs in the high ceiling, and she let her eyesight adjust before heading towards the back. An abandoned toolkit caught her attention—no mechanic worth his salt would leave something so valuable just lying there. Near to it lay an oily rag. She prodded the rag with her foot then looked around. Others might have mistaken the dark pool for oil but Ash knew better. She squatted on her heels, dipped her forefinger into the viscous liquid, and rubbed it between finger and thumb. Blood. This is where he was shot.

  As she straightened up, a fresh oil stain on the concrete ten feet away caught her eye. Some kind of vehicle had stood there, and from the smudged tyre track it was big. Was it connected to the shooting in some way? And how did Jemma fit into all this?

  Only one way to find out. Ash started back towards the ramp.

  AT THE AIRSTRIP, Ash halted to catch her breath and looked around. The Bandeirante was parked in the hangar, and there was no sign of its pilot. No sign of Pimentel either—too busy salvaging what he could of his chemicals and machinery, probably. She went in search of something she could fly herself and found it just inside the open hangar door: a single-engine Cessna, keys dangling from its ignition.

  There was no sign of its owner, so she clambered aboard, settled herself in the snug pilot’s seat, and turned on the master switch. The controls sprang to life, and she checked the instrument panel readings, especially the fuel levels. Ready to go, thank God. She hit the primer to inject fuel and turned the ignition key. The engine coughed into life and the propeller began to turn.

  As Ash taxied out into the open, a man rushed out of the bushes next to the airstrip, his expression startled, fly undone. He started across the concrete towards her. Whoops! But there was no time to explain, so Ash opened up the throttle, and the Cessna started down the runway, picking up speed. The man’s face turned red with effort as he pelted after her. She trimmed the elevator, eased the control wheel forward, and moments later was airborne. The last she saw of the Cessna’s pilot, he was a forlorn figure standing in the middle of the airstrip, shaking his fist at her—the engine noise drowned out his colourful curses.

  “Sorry. But you’ll get it back,” she murmured. I hope.

  Keeping clear of the smoke, which on this calm day was travelling straight up, she circled the complex once to get her bearings. Which way would a vehicle have headed? The surrounding forest meant there was only one feasible answer—along the highway. So. Northeast or southwest? If she were a fugitive, she’d head for the border—it would be easy enough to cross at the Iguaçu Falls and vanish into Paraguay or Argentina.

  Okay, then. Ash banked the plane into a steep turn. Southwest it is.

  ASH HAD BEEN following the highway for ten minutes as it sped through increasingly dense tropical forest, and the cars and trucks she’d encountered had been too small to have left those tyre tracks. Then she saw the lumbering, murky green vehicle up ahead, and her mouth dropped open. A TEL. She had only ever seen transporter-erector-launchers on surveillance photos, but its shape was unmistakable, as were those sinister-looking launch canisters on its roof. Ex-Chinese military, she guessed. That explained the Wai Ling Chen connection.

  She put the Cessna into a dive, and was soon able to make out more details. Something was poking out of the tip of one of the launch canisters. At the sight, a vital piece of the jigsaw puzzle slipped into place. Jemma had tried to warn her about nerve gas. What better delivery system than an ICBM.

  There was something odd about the canisters though. What was that blob lying between them? Ash frowned in puzzlement. Then the blob moved, and with a start she realised someone was on the TEL’s roof.

  Uh oh. An ambush. She readied herself for gunfire then blinked as the figure sat up, shaded its eyes against the sun, and waved at her. “What the—?” She registered the white coat and blonde hair. Jemma.

  Relief surged through her, and she rolled the Cessna from side to side in acknowledgement. Then she roared over the TEL and found herself looking down on her partner, who was so close she could almost see the whites of her eyes.

  “Hang on, Jemma,” she yelled, though she knew Jemma couldn’t hear her. “I’m coming.”

  Chapter 12

  JEMMA WATCHED THE plane fly over with a feeling of utter relief. Its pilot had to be Ash herself—who else would waggle the wings at her like that? She pulled herself into a kneeling position and craned her head round to follow the plane’s progress. It was climbing, going into a steep banking turn above the highway up ahead, before roaring back towards them. Surely Ash isn’t trying to play chicken with a TEL?

  She had worked out the purpose of the vehicle a short while ago, and also realised with a stab of alarm that there was an armed ICBM in one of its launch canisters. Whether al-Akhdar had had time to load a sarin payload Jemma had no way of knowing, but she certainly didn’t want Ash to help her find out the hard way. The TEL showed no sign of slowing, though, so she braced herself. Just before a head-on collision seemed inevitable, however, the plane climbed sharply, its landing wheels skimming the driver’s cab with inches to spare, and, heart in her mouth, Jemma watched it zoom overhead then dwindle into the distance before turning for another pass.

  The slipstream strengthened as the transporter picked up speed. Jemma spread her knees wide for balance and pressed her palms against the canisters to either side of her. The plane was diving towards them again, she saw, this time from the rear. Its angle of attack steepened, its engine roar becoming a descending whine that reminded Jemma of WW2 kamikaze footage. Then she heard a pop and something whizzed over her head. Startled, she twisted round.

  One of the transporter cab’s windows had slid open and a gun muzzle was poking from it. A muzzle flash dazzled her, then another … The engine noise was suddenly deafening, and Jemma flinched as the plane roared
overhead. She blinked away the afterimages left by the muzzle flashes from al-Akhdar’s gun and peered up at it. Much to her relief, it appeared unscathed.

  The plane climbed once more, this time circling to the north, and Jemma shaded her eyes. What the hell is Ash doing? Then it dawned on her. If Ash came in from the passenger side, al-Akhdar would be unable to shoot and drive at the same time. As it drew closer, Jemma saw a cockpit window slide open. Then sunlight reflected off blue steel, and two muzzle flashes in quick succession were followed by a sharp tearing sound much closer to home.

  The transporter lurched to one side, flinging Jemma against a canister, and she expected al-Akhdar to correct their course, but he didn’t. Perhaps he can’t. Ash must have hit something vital! They thundered towards the pine trees that lined the highway, and Jemma braced herself. Even so, the shock of the collision slid her two metres backwards and would have skinned her knees if she hadn’t been wearing jeans. It slowed the TEL’s progress only a little, though, and they ploughed on, leaving a pine-scented trail of splintered timber in their wake. At every impact a judder went through the transporter and through Jemma, and it slowed a little more. She was beginning to think that it would never come to a halt when at last it did.

  For a long moment there was silence. Then the world, and Jemma breathed once more. Around her, bird cries and animal calls resumed, and she became aware of the drone of the plane circling overhead, assessing the damage.

  The whirr of an electric motor startled her, and she jumped as something moved against her back. For a moment she thought she had imagined it, then, slowly at first, but with increasing speed, the launch canisters to either side of her began to rise. She stared at them, aghast. My God! He’s preparing to launch.

  Jemma couldn’t remember the exact range of an ICBM—it depended on the type, didn’t it?—but she had a horrible feeling both Washington and New York were within reach. Right now, thousands of Americans were going about their daily lives, unaware that a terrorist was planning to dump nerve gas into their midst. The last thing their tracking stations will be expecting is a missile from Brazil.