Licensed to Spy

by Barbara Davies

  The pod’s open doors drew level, and Jemma scurried across the gap, refusing to think about the Thames lapping below. Natalie and Gary hurried after her, and soon everyone in their batch had boarded. Then the tour guide—a tanned young man with an Australian accent—hopped inside, and the doors closed behind him.

  The only part of the pod that wasn’t made of see-through toughened glass was the floor. Jemma found the illusion that little stood between her and a long drop unsettling. She glanced at the oval, slatted wooden bench in the centre, where a seated Geri was clutching her brandy miniature, but decided against joining her and grabbed the handrail instead.

  I can do this, she told herself.

  And as the ascent was smooth and almost imperceptible, and the pod felt rock solid, kept upright by some ingenious mechanism, her nerves settled quickly. Soon even Geri was walking from one side of the pod to the other, checking the compass points stencilled on the glass and comparing the view with that shown in their guide books, pointing out landmarks or asking the tour guide questions.

  London was amazing from this angle, decided Jemma. Talk about picture postcard views. There were the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben; Buckingham Palace and St. Paul’s; The Post Office Tower, Canary Wharf, the Millennium Dome … After quarter of an hour, their pod reached the top of the wheel.

  From up here, even the dirty streets looked clean, with their dinky toy cars and red London buses. Jemma watched fascinated as toy trains wove in and out of Waterloo, and clockwork boats and barges negotiated the bridges that crossed this stretch of the Thames. She wished Ash were here to share this with her, as they had shared the view of Rio from the Sugar Loaf cable car.

  “Wow,” breathed Natalie in her ear. Gary was talking with Tim and Jamie on the other side of the pod … about cars or real ale, presumably. “Isn’t this something? They say you can see for twenty-five miles in all directions.”

  “Just as well we didn’t come up in thick fog,” said Jemma.

  A mobile phone rang, its theme The William Tell Overture. Jemma saw Louise hold the latest model to her ear and exchanged a glance with Natalie.

  “I know. She has friends,” murmured Natalie. “Unbelievable, isn’t it?”

  With a chuckle, Jemma turned back to the view.

  “You can’t—” protested a man’s voice.

  “Hey!” exclaimed a woman.

  Jemma turned to see what the commotion was about, just as a gunshot rang out. Something whizzed past her ear and ploughed into the toughened glass of the door next to her. She gaped at the neatly drilled bullet hole, then instinct took over, and she dropped to hands and knees. Another bullet zipped through the space she had occupied microseconds earlier, and the smell of gunpowder was suddenly strong in the confined space. Two loud clinks followed by a clatter were spent cartridges rolling across the pod floor.

  “What the fuck?” asked Natalie, who was crouching not far from Jemma.

  In her peripheral vision, Jemma saw the tour guide pressing the panic button, then something much more important claimed her attention, and her heart pounded so hard it threatened to come out of her chest. Walking towards her, her expression stony, her pupils the size of pinpricks, was Louise. In her hands was a Browning automatic pistol, and it was pointing straight at Jemma.

  She’s using the recommended two-handed grip, a frozen Jemma found herself noting clinically. Then the knuckle of Louise’s trigger finger whitened, and she had time only to think, Oh God! This is it.

  There was a flurry of movement to her right then Rashid’s rugby tackle took Louise’s legs out from under her. Her arms jerked up, and the pistol went off, the bullet scarring the ceiling of the pod. Dull thuds and grunts of anger and pain filled the capsule as Rashid wrestled with Louise, and everyone else beat a hasty retreat to the perimeter, out of the way of flailing arms and legs, elbows and knees.

  Both agents had learned the same methods of hand-to-hand combat, but Rashid was the slighter of the two. He was also hampered by the fact he was trying not to injure Louise, while she had no such qualms, in fact her ferocity startled Jemma.

  “Come on, Rashid,” yelled someone—it sounded like Tim. “You can take her.”

  Seconds later, Louise’s pistol skidded across the floor and thunked to a halt against the bench. Jemma’s relief was short lived, however, as she saw that the pair were rolling straight towards her. Just in time she got out of the way, and they thumped into the pod door. To her shock it sprang open. A bullet must have taken out the safety mechanism.

  As they toppled out into space, Jemma didn’t stop to think. She lunged, felt Rashid’s ankle under her palm, and grabbed hold. The jolt threatened to tug her arm from its socket, and she slid headfirst after him. For a horrific moment she found herself staring down at the Thames, then something heavy landed across her calves, pinning her in place half in and half out of the open pod door. The sudden halt almost broke her grip.

  Hands gripped Jemma’s legs and ankles as Rashid and Louise’s weight, combined with her own, compressed her midriff against the doorsill. She found it hard to breathe, but she couldn’t think about that. If her grip failed, the pair faced a four-hundred-and-fifty-foot drop. Bringing her other hand round, she reinforced her hold on Rashid’s ankle, aware that horrified spectators were crowding the windows of the adjacent pods, staring at her.

  Rashid had only a one-handed hold on Louise’s belt, and was struggling to reach it with his other hand. But every movement he made threatened to break Jemma’s grip. “Keep still,” she shouted down to him.

  “Can’t. I have to …” A gust of wind blew away the rest of his reply.

  The sill dug even deeper, and she closed her eyes and gritted her teeth against the pain. If I can just hold on …

  Just as Jemma felt she could bear no more, the pressure on her midriff eased. Startled, she opened her eyes. Rashid’s hand was still gripping Louise’s belt—a fashion item not built to withstand such punishment—but as for Louise herself …

  He twisted round to look up at Jemma, his expression a mixture of relief and shame, and she shook her head at him in numb commiseration. You have nothing to be ashamed of, my friend.

  Then someone said, “Up you come,” and eager hands hauled Jemma back into the safety of the capsule. A shaky Rashid followed soon after. They had to pry her hands loose from his ankle—she had forgotten how to loosen them herself.

  It was only later that Jemma registered the unnatural quiet of Louise’s last moments, which were playing in her mind like some macabre silent movie on loop. Louise hadn’t cried out once—not when her belt snapped, and not when she hit the observation pod lying directly in her path. The collision, violent enough to crack the pod’s toughened glass, had sent Louise spinning head over heels like some rag doll. And as the falling woman grew ever smaller, all the red seemed to leach from her dress, until she was just a grey smudge merging with the river.

  The collision probably killed Louise instantly, reflected Jemma, her thoughts sluggish. But if not, the murky waters of the Thames would have finished off the job

  POLICE CARS, AMBULANCEs, and the flashing cameras of the Press were waiting for Jemma and the others outside a cordon of fluttering “Police: do not cross” tape. A woman had died; shots had been fired in full view of civilians; and the bullet holes in one pod, plus the cracked glass of another, meant there was no way to hide what had happened. Fortunately Jamie had had the presence of mind to ring HQ and alert them, and he reassured them all that the Organisation’s spin-doctors were on the case.

  Jemma didn’t care about any of that. All she wanted to do was get home and be with Ash. But she was probably busy, Jemma chided herself. And beside she would have no idea what had happened.

  She was wrong. Parked amongst the emergency vehicles, its driver studying each passenger emerging from the pod, was a red Lotus Elise, and throughout the formalities that followed, Jemma glanced often at Ash’s impatiently pacing figure. The police took the details of everyone w
ho had been present in the pod, but the interviews were cursory—clearly strings had been pulled to keep the Organisation’s agents as little inconvenienced as possible. And after a quick once over by the medics—her midriff was only bruised—she was allowed to go. She hared straight to Ash and flung herself into strong arms that wrapped round her and held her close.

  “Didn’t I tell you to be careful?” Ash’s breath was warm against Jemma’s ear.

  “Hey, it wasn’t my fault.”

  Ash held Jemma at arm’s length and scrutinised her, before hugging her again. “I know. Thompson gave me the details. Sounds like a phone call triggered some kind of conditioning. But we can talk about that later. Right now I want to get you home.”

  “Me too.”

  “Hey, JJ. Aren’t you going to introduce us?” came Natalie’s voice.

  Jemma turned in the circle of Ash’s arms and saw her friends had surrounded them and were looking hopeful. Sure her cheeks must be red, she introduced everyone and told Ash of their role in recent events. Throughout, Ash was polite, though Jemma could tell their reverence for “the famous Blade” amused her. Those who had helped pull Jemma back into the pod received a smile of thanks and a warm handshake. But when it came to Rashid, Ash’s face changed.

  She clasped his hand and hung onto it, her expression serious. “Thank you for saving Jemma’s life, Rashid. And if you should ever need my help, just ask. Okay? Doesn’t matter what country you’re in, I’ll find a way to get to you fast. I owe you one.” She bent her head and placed a kiss on his cheek. “I mean it.”

  His complexion darkened, and he ducked his head in embarrassment. “JJ saved my life too.”

  But Jemma could tell he was pleased.

  At last, though, conversation faltered, and Ash made it clear she had other plans, so the others took their leave. Some intended to keep the booking at the Chinese Restaurant down the road. Yes, one of their number had died, but the rest had come through the ordeal intact—it would be a wake cum celebration.

  Right now, though, any food, no matter how delicious, would taste like sawdust to Jemma. After all, they hadn’t been Louise’s target; she had. If it hadn’t been for Rashid …

  “Another time, okay, guys?” she told them. “Raise a glass for me.”

  They waved and were walking away when Natalie darted back. “How about Gary and I come round tomorrow to see how you’re doing?” she asked Jemma. “We can bring a Chinese takeaway so you won’t have missed out.”

  “I’m fine, but …” Jemma shrugged. “Okay.” As Natalie rejoined the others, she turned back to Ash with a weary smile. “You said something about getting me home?”

  Ash opened the passenger door and inclined her head. “Your carriage awaits.”

  Chapter 9

  “THOUGHT YOU’D LIKE to know, your suggestions paid off. We’ve located Abdusamad.” Thompson’s voice sounded tinny in the phone’s earpiece.

  There go for my plans for a quiet morning with Jemma. “Where?” asked Ash.

  “Fenchurch Street Station. He bought a ticket to Southend.”

  “I don’t s’pose he’s planning on building sandcastles.”

  “No sign of a bucket and spade,” agreed her boss.

  “What’s to stop him changing stations en route and heading for Tilbury?”

  “Nothing. Which is why I’ve alerted the harbourmaster there and the coastguard. If our Libyan friend has plans to catch a boat, he can forget them.”

  Ash gave a satisfied grunt. “Okay. So where’s he now?”

  “Sitting on the train at Fenchurch Street. The signals are staying red until I tell the stationmaster otherwise.”

  That’ll please the other passengers. “You haven’t picked him up?”

  “Nolan’s waiting for backup. I want the odds in our favour before we try anything—too many bystanders.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  “No. Reinforcements are already en route, and you’re on leave. I’ll let you know when—”

  “Fuck that.” She cut off his protests by slamming down the receiver.

  “Who was that?” Jemma had come into the living room and was regarding her with wide eyes.

  “Thompson. Sorry. Change of plans. They’ve located Abdusamad.” Ash’s holster was hanging from the back of one of Jemma’s mismatched dining chairs. She pulled out the Browning and checked the magazine.

  Jemma’s eyes glinted. “Just let me get my gun—”

  “No.” Ash put on her shoulder holster and buckled it, then reached for her jacket.

  “What? You want me to go unarmed?”

  “You’re not going.” She settled the jacket so that the pistol didn’t bulge too much, borrowed two clips of ammo from Jemma’s stash, and put them in her pockets, and grabbed her car keys.

  Jemma’s cheeks flushed with annoyance. “We don’t know if it was Abdusamad who tried to kill me. But if it was, then I’ve got more right than anyone—”

  “I said you’re not going.” Ash folded her arms, uncomfortably aware that after what she’d said to Thompson she was being a hypocrite.

  “But …” Jemma trailed off, her expression wounded. “Look, I know what happened to me yesterday scared you—”

  You got that right. If Rashid hadn’t taken out Louise when he did …

  “—God knows, it scared me too. But I thought we were partners. Don’t you think I can handle myself?”

  “It’s not that.” Ash softened her glare and sighed. “I know I’m acting like a mother hen. But … Look. Why give him another chance to hurt you?”

  She unfolded her arms and took Jemma’s hand, willing her to understand. Yesterday’s narrow escape had left her so off balance she had been able to sit through a Sandra Bullock movie without screaming, so thankful was she just to be able to drape her arm around her living, breathing albeit bruised partner. And later, when they were making love, emotion had almost got the better of her—she didn’t think Jemma had noticed though.

  Jemma’s eyes remained stormy.

  “Please? Pretty please with knobs on?” Ash batted her eyelashes.

  “This isn’t a joke.” Jemma snatched her hand away. “So what you’re saying is, it’s all right for you to put yourself in harm’s way but not for me?”

  “I suppose I am. But can’t you humour me just this once? I’ll make it up to you later.” Ash put on her most winning smile, then remembered something. “Besides, aren’t Natalie and Gary coming round for lunch? Be a shame to put them off.”

  Jemma made a sound of frustration deep in her throat. “Did anyone ever tell you you’re the most infuriating woman?”

  Sensing she had won, Ash relaxed. “Frequently.” She opened her arms, and Jemma stepped into them. After a long hug, Ash released her. In the doorway, she turned and looked back at her frowning partner.

  “If it helps, I promise I’ll be careful.”

  “You’d better,” said Jemma, “or I just might throttle you myself.”

  HEAVY LONDON TRAFFIC delayed Ash, and she couldn’t find a vacant parking meter close to Fenchurch Street Station. She left the Lotus parked half on the pavement and half in the road—it would get clamped and towed, but she had more important things on her mind.

  She was hurrying along Fenchurch Place, when it dawned on her that something was wrong. People were streaming out of the station concourse, their expressions panicky. Then came the sound of gunfire. Damn! Like a salmon fighting its way upstream, she made her way through the fleeing passengers and drew her pistol. The lower concourse was deserted. Deciding the escalators would take too long, she took the stairs to the upper concourse three at a time and headed for the platforms.

  Ash took in the situation at a glance. Chris Gowers was down and Barry Nolan and Jen Reed were crouched beside him, staunching a nasty wound in his thigh. But no bystanders had been hurt, thank God. Movement made her swing round and take aim. She lowered her pistol, and an ashen-faced newspaper-seller ducked back out of sight.

  S
he halted next to Nolan and Reed. “Where’s Abdusamad?”

  “Blade.” Nolan’s expression eased at the sight of her. “He went that way.” He pointed to the steps leading down to the Tower Hill exit.

  “How long ago?”

  He glanced at the station clock. “He’s two minutes ahead of you.”

  “Thanks.”

  Ash took the steps down so fast she almost fell. Downstairs, the entrance to Tower Hill tube station beckoned. If Abdusamad had disappeared into the Underground … She chewed her lip. The tube would only take him so far. And the main rail routes in and out of London would be monitored. If it were me, I’d hitch a ride on a boat heading down the Thames.

  Ashhad always gone with her gut; why should now be any different? Hoping she wasn’t on a wild goose chase, she holstered her gun and set off running once more.

  IF ABDUSAMAD HADN’T been shouldering aside tourists who’d come to see the squat white fortress that was the Tower of London, Ash might have missed him. But his rude behaviour attracted her gaze. She recognised the lean running figure instantly, even from behind, and increased her pace to match, her feet thudding on concrete, her breathing loud in her ears.

  She had thought he might head for one of the piers where Thames cruisers stopped to load and unload passengers, but he was heading towards St. Katharine Docks. There’d almost certainly be a high-powered boat moored there. He’s done his research. Damn him!

  She followed Abdusamad down the path that curled round the upmarket marina, past boutiques and restaurants where diners sat enjoying the view, and along the quay where sailboat masts soared skywards, their lines rattling in the breeze. Further along stood a pair of horse-faced young women in flimsy dresses more suited to the Ladies’ enclosure at Ascot than a jaunt on the river. Ash smiled when she saw the folded arms and rolled eyes conveying the contempt of girlfriends the world over for their drunk, boasting boyfriends. The men in question were standing in the respective cockpits of two speedboats moored below them. Faces flushed, they were yelling cheerful insults and spraying the contents of opened bottles of champagne at each other.