Licensed to Spy

by Barbara Davies

  “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, you know.”

  One incident in particular kept recurring in her dreams: that moment in the São Paulo hotel room, when Ash, in pain and bleeding profusely from her reopened knife wound, had allowed herself to be captured for Jemma’s sake. The terror of that moment was still with her.

  “You’re thinking of something right now, aren’t you?”

  Her vision had gone blurry, and she knuckled her eyes and tried to regain her composure. Look at me. Even my hands are shaking. “Yes.”

  “Tell me about it,” he urged, his soft voice encouraging.

  So she did. And this time the tears fell in earnest. “Sorry,” she managed, when she had finished.

  “No need to apologise, Jemma.” Aston’s eyes were sympathetic. He pushed a box of tissues towards her, and she took one and blew her nose. “You were terrified. The stakes were very high, not just for you but for those depending on you. Emotion was a natural response, but the situation meant you had to keep a tight rein on it. It’s over now, though, and this is a safe place in which to release that pent up emotion.” He studied her. “How are you feeling now?”

  She did feel much calmer, more in control. “Better.” Embarrassed but better.

  “Good.” He looked at his watch, and flipped his notepad closed. “Our time is up, but I think this is as good a place to stop as any.” He smiled. “Adjusting to field work can be hard for some operatives, Jemma. The dangers of a mission, the dynamics of a new partnership, they all add to the stresses and strains. But you seem to be coping admirably, I’m happy to say.”

  She let out her breath in relief.

  Aston stood up and held out his hand. “Can you find your own way out?”

  It must be because they talked about Remington, decided Jemma. When she’d woken that morning, she’d had no intention of going to see him.

  She paused and checked a road sign against her street plan. Ah. I must be here. Which means I need to take the first left, then the second right.

  Resuming her progress along the crowded pavement, she stepped over a pile of fresh dog turds, was banged on the shin by a heavy shopping bag, and narrowly avoided being run down by a screaming toddler’s pushchair. The pleasures of suburbia—it’s less dangerous fighting terrorists. It was a relief when Dudley Road hove into view.

  Wonder how Remington’s coping? Is he married? Is his wife feeling suicidal with him under her feet all day? With a slight shock, Jemma realised she knew nothing about his private life. Maybe he’s single. Maybe he’s gay and living with a toy boy. The image made her snort.

  Half way along Dudley Road, a thought struck her. Forty-eight was young to be retired. Remington might have already got himself another job—something involving paperwork and manuals, no doubt. What if I’ve come all this way, and he’s out? Yet more evidence of lack of planning on her part.

  Ah. There was the house number she was looking for. She turned in at the gate and walked up the short path towards the bright yellow front door with the ornate brass knocker. Why do houses still have knockers? No one ever uses them.

  Jemma squared her shoulders and rang the doorbell. Moments later, her ex boss was standing in the doorway.

  “Miss Jacobs.” He gaped at her.

  It was odd seeing Remington in something other than his grey-pinstriped suit, but interesting to note that his casual clothes—a grey Oxford shirt, and black corduroy trousers—were just as neatly pressed and just as drab. Maybe he’s allergic to colour?

  “I was just passing,” she gave an internal wince at the patent lie, “and thought I’d pop in, see how you’re getting on.”

  “That was kind of you.”

  “Who is it, Ian?” came a woman’s voice from the interior.

  “Someone who used to work for me,” he called, before returning his attention to Jemma. “My wife, Pauline. Come in.”

  He led her through to the back of the house, where a large, high-ceilinged lounge overlooked a small garden laid down to flowerbeds and paving. Later in the year, it would be a riot of colour, but now the lilacs and roses were just beginning to bud. I’d forgotten about his passion for roses.

  “This is Jemma Jacobs,” he announced. “She was with me in the Canaries.”

  A round-faced woman with a snub nose and curly brown hair looked up from her paperback—a fat historical romance. “Hello, Jemma.” She smiled. “How nice of you to call. We don’t get many visitors these days.” She gestured at the occasional table, on which lay a tray containing a brown china teapot, two barely touched cups of tea, and a packet of Rich Tea biscuits. “There’s still tea in the pot. Would you like some?”

  “That would be very nice. Thank you.”

  While his wife busied herself fetching another cup and pouring Jemma her tea, Remington made inconsequential remarks about the weather and gave the half-completed Telegraph crossword longing glances.

  If I were married to him I’d die of boredom.

  From photograph frames on every available surface stared smug-looking children of varying ages. Noticing the direction of Jemma’s gaze, Mrs. Remington embarked on a wearying catalogue of the circumstances in which each photo had been taken—she was as fond of excessive detail as her husband. Jemma sipped her tea and tried to look interested. Fortunately, a phone call soon took Mrs. Remington into the front room.

  Jemma took a breath and launched into the speech she had formulated on the train. “The reason I came to see you today is to say I’m sorry.”

  Remington’s eyebrows rose.

  “For what happened in the Canaries. If it hadn’t been for my going over your head to Weatherby, well …” She blushed. “Maybe you’d still be with the Organisation.”

  “I confess, I was disappointed in you, Miss Jacobs.” He pursed his lips. “I had expected more loyalty.”

  She examined her fingers.

  “But Blade leads a charmed existence. I’ve lost count of the number of people taken in by her who should know better. It’s hardly surprising she should be able to pull the wool over the eyes of a junior agent.”

  Jemma opened her mouth then closed it again, too dumbfounded to speak.

  He shook his head, his grey eyes regretful. “Once a criminal … But there. My superiors disagreed with me, so there we must leave it. Water under the bridge.” The bitter twist to his mouth belied his words.

  His gaze flicked to her then away again. “I don’t blame you, Miss Jacobs, but I do think you were assigned to the wrong department. Some people just aren’t cut out for Security. It requires a cautious, thorough, measured approach. The fact that you broke procedure …” He shrugged. “Well. The fault lies with those who assigned you, and who failed to back me up.”

  She clamped down on the surge of anger. “But surely you can see, if it hadn’t been for Blade, Mr. Remington, the terrorists would have triggered a tidal wave. She had to do what she did. And so did I.”

  He gave her an indulgent smile. “I very much doubt it would have come to that. The tidal wave theory always seemed to me to be in the realms of science fiction. No, if you’d followed procedure, done your job, and allowed me to do mine …”

  She realised she was gaping and closed her mouth with a snap. It had been foolish to come. Even now, he had learned nothing. What had she been thinking? On the other hand, her journey wasn’t a total waste. His words had reinforced her gut feeling that she had been right all along—something her session with Aston had raised doubts about.

  Jemma stood up and straightened her jacket, just as the lounge door opened. “I’m afraid I must be going,” she told Mrs. Remington.

  “Already?”

  “I have another appointment.” Jemma checked her watch and found to her relief that she wasn’t lying. Ash had said she’d be here in an hour and a quarter, and it was almost that time now. It would also be best if Remington didn’t encounter the agent he detested. “Thank you for the tea and biscuits.” She glanced out of the back window. “And good luck wit
h your roses.”

  A pleased smiled replaced his peevish look. “Thank you. I plan to start showing them this year. Now I have more time on my hands.”

  She let him usher her out.

  JEMMA WAS JUST closing the gate behind her, when a throaty roar, faint at first, but growing louder, made her look up. A low-slung red sports car with the top down was cruising along Dudley Road, its driver peering at the house numbers on either side of the road.

  Ash. That must be her new Lotus. A feeling of gladness swept over her, and she jogged along the pavement towards the car, halting with a wide grin as it pulled up beside her. “Kerb crawling again?”

  Ash pulled off her sunglasses and gave her a wink and a dazzling smile. “How much do you charge for a quickie, Miss?”

  “I’m too pricey for the likes of you. But if you’re nice to me, I may give you a freebie.”

  “Promises, promises.” Ash leaned over and opened the passenger door. “Get in.”

  Jemma gave the bucket seat a dubious glance. “Easier said than done. Have you got a shoe horn?”

  By the time Jemma was ensconced in the passenger seat, she was thanking God she had worn trousers, or the whole street would have seen her knickers.

  “All set?” asked Ash. Jemma fastened her seat belt and nodded. “Good.” With a roar, the car pulled away and headed down the road.

  “Where are we going?”

  Ash arched an eyebrow at her. “You’ve forgotten we’re going to Chislehurst Caves again?”

  Jemma backhanded her on the arm. “No, silly. I meant which way are we going? I don’t know this area.”

  “Ah. Well, I do.” Ash stopped at the traffic lights. “I thought via Tooting would be the quickest.” The lights changed, and she put her foot down.

  Jemma wondered if Ash was aware of the looks they were attracting. Two women, one blonde, one brunette, zipping along in an open-top sports car, hair whipping about in the breeze—every red-blooded man’s dream. With a smile, she settled down to study the streets they were driving through.

  “So, how was Remington?” asked Ash.

  “The same. He still thinks he was right about the Canaries. Idiot.”

  “Prick.” Ash changed up a gear.

  “And how was your friend Corky?”

  “Not good.”

  “You saw him?”

  “No point. He’s catatonic except when Jeff’s around.” Ash overtook a BMW and gave its disgruntled driver a shit-eating grin.

  “How’s he taking it?”

  “Jeff? How do you think?”

  “Sorry.”

  Ash gave her a puzzled look. “What for? It’s not your fault.”

  “Still.” Jemma gave the hand grasping the gearshift a squeeze.

  “Thanks. How did your session with Aston go?”

  Change the subject? I can take a hint. “Okay. We talked about the Canaries and Brazil. And about last night. He says I’m doing well.”

  “You are.”

  “Thanks. That means a lot to me.”

  Ash looked at her, surprised. “Surely you don’t need me to tell you that?”

  “Maybe I do.” Jemma shrugged. “I try to look as confident as you are, but I don’t always feel it.”

  “You’re doing great. Take it easy on yourself, will you?”

  “Okay.” They travelled on for a while in easy silence. “By the way, thanks for coming to get me from Remington’s.”

  Ash grinned at her. “No problem.”

  She changed up another gear, and the Lotus roared east towards Chislehurst.

  Chapter 5

  ASH TURNED RIGHT off Old Hill, followed the signs to Caveside Close, and turned up the track towards the carpark. It was packed with visitors’ cars and coaches, but she managed to find a free space and parked. She turned to regard Jemma, who for the last five minutes had seemed preoccupied. Jemma had already undone her seatbelt and was getting out of the bucket seat, or rather trying to. Ash reached over and gave her backside a boost.

  “Thanks. Be back in two ticks.” Jemma hared towards the public conveniences.

  So that was why she had been so quiet. Ash grinned and drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, before deciding she might as well get moving. The torch was in the glove compartment. She put it in her jacket pocket, then got out, and pulled up the soft top. Leaning her hip against the car, she folded her arms and hummed under her breath.

  A group of schoolchildren had gathered in front of the chalet-type complex that housed the Chislehurst Caves ticket office, shop, and cafeteria. She checked her watch. Quarter to four. Good. They would tag onto the back of the next guided tour.

  Movement caught her eye, and she turned to watch Jemma strolling back towards her. “Better?”

  “Much,” said Jemma. “Must have been that cup of tea at Remington’s.”

  Ash chuckled. “Come on then.” The schoolchildren had begun filing into the ticket office, and she started across the carpark towards them.

  Five minutes later, a tall young man with a beaky nose and eyes set too close together led them from the entrance hall down a short passage into a dimly lit chamber with maps of the cave system on the wall. There, he dished out paraffin hurricane lamps, one between four.

  “Brrr.” Jemma accepted a lamp with a look of trepidation and nod of thanks. “At least this is warm,” she told Ash. “You could have warned me about the cold. I can see my breath.”

  “It’s underground. What did you expect?”

  “A warning to wear my long johns.” Jemma peered at one of the wall maps. “Druids, Saxons, and Romans? How old are these caves, anyway?”

  “They’re not really caves, they’re chalk mines.”

  “And?” prompted Jemma.

  “Huh?” Ash was busy scanning faces. Most of the visitors were teenagers, but one or two were adults, probably their schoolteachers. No sign of Janus. She checked her watch. He must already be at the rendezvous.

  “How old are the mines?”

  “Not as old as the owner would have you believe.” The guide overheard Ash’s comment and frowned at her. She pretended not to see.

  “Gather round, everyone,” he called, and waited for the hubbub to subside. “Thank you. Now, on the wall here as some of you have already noticed, is a map of the caves so far explored. Twenty-two miles of manmade passageway cut from the living chalk. As you can see, the caves are in three main parts …”

  Ash tuned out his voice—she had heard it all before. The conducted tour wound through the most recent, so-called Saxon part of the caves, then curved round to a “temple” where Druids were supposed to have sacrificed children on an altar, before returning to the entrance. It covered about a mile and would take forty-five minutes.

  The guide stopped talking and ushered his charges along the manmade passage, between flint-studded white walls, though in places seepage from minerals had stained the chalk brown or blue. The floor, rippled like the seashore, fascinated Jemma. Ash was more concerned with the ceiling. It cleared her head by about a foot here; even so, she found herself hunching her shoulders.

  “Ew!” A puddle had splashed chalky mud over Jemma’s shoes and the bottom of her jeans. “Glad I didn’t wear my best shoes.”

  “On the wall just here,” said the guide, halting and pointing, “are a number of carvings by an unknown sculptor, believed to date back to the early Elizabethan period …”

  When the party moved off again, Ash grabbed Jemma’s arm and made her hang back.

  “Where are we going?” hissed Jemma, as the last of the schoolchildren disappeared round the corner, their voices fading to nothing almost at once, such were the odd acoustics of the place.

  “The Roman part of the caves. The tour never goes there.”

  Ash urged her along an adjoining tunnel that snaked southeast, and soon sloped downhill. They passed beyond the limits of the electric lighting, and Ash got out her torch. Its beam was brilliant in the darkness, much brighter and steadier than the flick
ering light cast by Jemma’s hurricane lamp.

  “It’s spooky.” Jemma peered at her surroundings. “God, I hope this lamp has enough paraffin. I’d hate to be stuck down here in the pitch dark.”

  “Why are you whispering?”

  “It’s so … quiet.”

  Ash gave her a ghoulish grin. “As the grave, bwa ha ha.”

  Jemma shuddered. “Don’t.”

  “Sorry. Come on. It’s this way.”

  “Suppose we get lost?”

  “We won’t. I’ve been here lots of times, and I’ve memorised the landmarks, such as they are.” Ash pointed at a butterfly-shaped stain on the wall. “It’s first right after that. Then left.”

  “Humour me,” said Jemma. “Suppose for a minute we do get lost. How do we get out again?”

  “Just head northwest.”

  Jemma grimaced. “Which way is northwest?”

  Ash pointed back the way they had come.

  “How do you know?”

  “I just do. Don’t ask me how, but put me down in a strange place, and somehow I always know which way is north.”

  “Could you be using the sun?”

  “It works at night, and underground too.”

  “That must come in handy. Without a map, I can’t find my way out of a paper bag.” They walked on a few more steps in silence. “Birds can do that too, can’t they?”

  Ash arched an eyebrow. “Are you comparing me to a pigeon?”

  Jemma sniggered. “More like a hawk.”

  “Just as well. I’d have to smack you otherwise.”

  “Promises, promises. Could you be sensitive to magnetic lines of force?”

  “Oh yeah, Iron Filings Woman, that’s me.” The tunnel ceiling was much lower. Even though Ash knew this was as low as it got on this route she felt edgy. “Is it a bird, is it a plane? No it’s Iron Filings—”

  “You’re babbling.”

  “Just trying to keep my mind off the tons of rock hanging over our heads.”

  Jemma flinched. “Thanks.”

  They turned right, then left, passed through a cavern unremarkable except for the stalactites forming in one corner, and emerged into yet more tunnels.

  “How much farther?” asked Jemma.