The Rookie?s Guide to Espionage: An Eva Destruction Espresso Shot

by Dave Sinclair

  Eva had one last thought before she blacked out. She hadn’t called Nancy back.

  Everything went dark.

  Chapter Two

  Eva awoke with a scream.

  She fought to move her arms and legs. As Eva’s eyes adjusted to the light, she saw that she was tied to a wooden chair in the centre of a stark room. The only illumination was from a solitary bulb in the corner of what appeared to be a basement. This was no police cell.

  Eva smiled. Classic.

  It was such a textbook example of Interrogation 101, it was almost cute. If this was meant to intimidate her, they had thoroughly failed. This set-up might work on a petty criminal, but Eva was quite familiar with interrogations, and was made of far sterner stuff.

  The plastic ties were irritating, though. Handcuffs were easy to escape from. Lock-picking was one of her hobbies—she always carried a bobby pin, just in case. Once upon a time, before becoming a ‘respectable’ spy, Eva had led a less-than-illustrious life. Picking locks had been part of her regular routine. But the plastic ties were problematic. She had far more experience with handcuffs—and not exclusively in a professional sense.

  A slight cough caught her attention. Eva twisted her head to get a view of her captor. The lone woman was tall and slender, jet black hair cascading down her long, elegant neck. She held herself with confidence.

  “I am glad you are awake,” she said with a painted-on fake grin. “It is not much fun asking questions of someone who is unconscious, no?”

  The woman’s French accent was thick, but she took care to enunciate every syllable. Eva spoke fluent French, but would stick with English for now. You could learn much from someone who may struggle to choose the most appropriate word.

  The woman moved forward so Eva wouldn’t have to strain to see her. “I apologise for your current predicament. I’m afraid my employers insisted.”

  Eva tilted her head. “And who might your employers be?”

  The tiniest crease of amusement appeared for an instant in the corners of the woman’s mouth before disappearing just as quickly. “Let us just say they are interested in your involvement in the incident in the square…”

  Eva noted she didn’t use the words terrorist incident.

  “… but regardless, I do not agree with you being manacled.”

  With a shrug, Eva said, “If I had a dollar for every time I’d been strapped to a chair…”

  Her captor raised an eyebrow, as if waiting for her to complete the sentence.

  Eva thought. “I’d have, like, twelve dollars.”

  The woman frowned. “This does not seem like a lot of money.”

  “Do you think I should consider raising my prices?”

  “You ’ave a sense of ’umour.” The woman folded her arms. “You will need that in the ’ours to come.”

  It wasn’t a threat, more a statement of fact. Eva envisaged torture in her near future—unless she did something about it. She sized up her captor.

  “You’ve done military service, but that was some time ago. Am I right?”

  The woman tilted her head, but offered no verbal response.

  “It’s the way you stand, rigid, like you’re at attention. Your accent, your flattened consonants, means you’re from—”

  “I ’ave ’eard this about you,” the woman interrupted. “You like to analyse people, hmm? This is a good gift to ’ave, to read people, I think.”

  “You… you know who I am?”

  “Yes. You are Eva Destruction. My organisation ’as a file on you. Keeping an eye on spies is nothing new, of course. But we ’ave been monitoring you for quite some time, for different reasons, of course. Your entries before you joined MI6 were, shall we say, more colourful, yes?”

  This was a turn-up. Not only did they know she was a spy, they knew about her life before she’d become one. Her criminal exploits back in Australia were hardly worthy of international interest. That meant they had been tracking her ex.

  Was that why she was here? Enough of being on the back foot. Eva needed answers.

  “So where are you from?” Eva asked. “I’m going to take a wild stab and say DGSE?”

  The DGSE, or General Directorate for External Security, was the French equivalent of MI6. The more likely candidate to talk to Eva was the DGSI, the French domestic equivalent to MI5 or the FBI, given that the event had taken place on home soil. But that wasn’t Eva’s assumption.

  “Pardon?” The woman appeared genuinely surprised.

  Eva had her. “The fact that this isn’t a formal interrogation and there’s no one around to record it means this is either an officially unofficial DGSE interrogation or my library fines are way more out of control than I thought.”

  The woman frowned approvingly. “I see now why MI6 ’ired you.” She traced her finger slowly along Eva’s jawline. “You are more than just a very pretty face. My name is Isabella Beart.” She ran her thumb over Eva’s bottom lip. “And I do indeed work for DGSE.”

  Eva did her best to ignore the intimate caresses. “Then you know I’m your ally, your friend. And friends don’t usually tie each other up.”

  Isabella tilted her head and pouted. “Depends what type of friends you ’ave, is it not?”

  “Look… that’s a really good point, and one I’d usually be making, but…”

  The DGSE agent folded her arms. “Ms Eva Destruction, you were seen cavorting with a known terrorist, Mustafa Khoury, formerly of Lebanon, recent resident of the ’ousing estate Rose des Vents in Aulnay-Sous-Bois.”

  “Chasing a known terrorist. Slightly different to cavorting.”

  “We ’ave witnesses stating you were protecting the terrorist. You fired on gendarmes.”

  “Sure, if you want to talk facts.”

  “Friends do not shoot at friends usually, hmm?” As if to reinforce the point, she pulled a PAMAS pistol from her jacket. The message was clear. While admiring the pistol, she said casually, “So, my question to you is, why is MI6 assisting terrorists?”

  Isabella was an experienced interrogator. One second she was flirting, the next she pulled a gun. Keeping the subject off kilter would normally be an effective technique, but not on Eva. She knew all the tricks, and she was losing patience.

  Eva sighed. Her options were limited. The DGSE weren’t her enemy, so there was no point fighting her way out. She had nothing to hide. She gave Isabella a concise rundown of events. She retold the incident with the gendarmes repeatedly, until Isabella finally seemed satisfied that Eva had been protecting the police rather than aiding a terrorist. She made sure to include the part about the oncoming tempest.

  That caught Isabella’s attention. “So this was not isolated? There is more to come?”

  Eva nodded. “I got that impression. At least, that’s what he believed.”

  “Huh.” With that, Isabella left the room.

  And left Eva strapped to a chair, unable to move, without food or drink and, more importantly, without a toilet break.

  Forty bladder-crunching minutes later, Isabella returned. She didn’t appear happy.

  “I ’ave spoken to my superiors,” she said emotionlessly. “You are to be executed for treason the day after tomorrow.”

  “What?”

  Isabella frowned. She pulled a small, slender device from her pocket and pressed a button on the side. The flick knife sprung to attention. Isabella held the knife to Eva’s neck and ran the flat of the blade along her soft skin. “This is joke. You like jokes, do you not?” She brought her face close to Eva’s, inhaling her scent slowly. Isabella traced the blade along the length of Eva’s leg, then in one quick movement, cut away her leg bindings.

  With Eva’s hands still bound, Isabella sat astride her. “My superiors believe we should be partners. They ’ave contacted MI6 to request this.”

  Wriggling her arse into Eva’s lap, Isabella ran the knife along Eva’s cheek, slowly, lovingly. “You shall make an excellent partner, I think,” she said, her hand caressing Eva’
s neck. “Yes, an excellent partner indeed.”

  One moment Isabella was staring into Eva’s eyes, the next she’d leapt up and cut her wrist ties. Eva wasn’t sure if the semi-seduction was part of the act or the true Isabella. Time would tell.

  Eva hoisted herself up unsteadily and rubbed her wrists, then stretched and cracked her back. Being stationary for so long never agreed with her.

  Isabella stood back and admired her. “I am curious. What will the amazing Eva Destruction do next, I wonder?”

  “Pee,” Eva replied matter-of-factly. “Then get coffee. Then catch the bad guys.” She pondered for a moment. “Yeah, definitely in that order.”

  * * *

  The lavish surrounds of the Cour des Loges was a welcome change of scene. The warm, candlelit restaurant was far removed from the dingy basement where Eva had been interrogated. Having enjoyed a glorious five-course degustation, she wiped her mouth with a stiff white napkin and conceded defeat. The five-star hotel was a milieu Marie Antoinette would have felt right at home in. Despite being so full, Eva still wanted to order the cake.

  The juxtaposition between interrogation and indulgence was as stark as it was swift. One moment Eva had been strapped to a chair, the next she was in a luxurious hotel suite taking a soothing bubble bath while drinking expensive champagne. She was surprised she didn’t have whiplash.

  Isabella leaned back in her chair, seeming to approve of her companion’s gratification. She refilled Eva’s glass without asking. “This Frascati is amazing. I buy it by the crate from Italy. It is extremely un-French of me, no?”

  Eva shrugged, unsure how to reply. Isabella pulled out a silver cigarette case and lit one with a match.

  Eva was aghast. “Can you do that here?”

  Isabella regarded her curiously and surveyed the empty restaurant. “I think you will find there are different rules for the DGSE.”

  “But you haven’t been able to smoke in a French restaurant for at least a decade.”

  Isabella frowned in acknowledgement and took another drag. “So this is not your first time in France?”

  Eva assumed Isabella knew that wasn’t the case, but decided to play along. For now.

  “No, not at all. I have a place here.”

  “A place?”

  Eva shrugged. “Well, more like a castle. In the Rhone Valley.”

  Isabella laughed, then saw Eva’s face. “You are serious?” It seemed she wasn’t as well-informed as she made out. “You ’ave a castle? Why on earth would you work at MI6 if you ’ave such a thing?”

  “It was a gift. I didn’t earn it. If you know anything about me then you’ll know I make my own way. I’m not one to sit back and just take things.”

  Her companion took a long, slow draw of her cigarette and let the smoke dance over her tongue. “But sitting back and taking things can also have its benefits.” She hefted a suggestive eyebrow. “It can be most pleasurable, no?”

  Her flirting was incessant. The fact that it had continued long after the interrogation told Eva it was no act.

  Eva toyed with the remains of her crème brûlée and tried for a casual tone. “You know I’m straight, right?”

  Isabella poked out her tongue and used her finger to delicately remove a speck of tobacco. She fluttered her eyelids seductively. “So is spaghetti until it is ’ot and wet, hmmm?”

  Eva rolled her eyes. “I’ve seen that meme too.”

  “I ’ave found that memes, like lies, work best when they ’ave an element of truth.”

  “And spies know all about lies.”

  “That is our business, no?”

  Here was Eva’s opportunity to bring the conversation back on track. “Speaking of business, what do you know about the attacks so far?”

  A small huff of disappointment told Eva that Isabella was reluctant to be brought back to work. Too bad. Lives were at risk, and Eva had nearly died. She wanted answers. She wanted revenge.

  “My people are examining CCTV footage from nearby businesses and train stations, as well as footage from personal recording devices. We ’ave profiles for three of the perpetrators and are working on background motivations.”

  “You’ve IDed them already? Any known links to terrorist organisations?” Eva asked.

  Isabella paused to ash her cigarette. “Not that we can find, but it is early days, yes?”

  Eva frowned, impressed. “I wouldn’t say that. You’ve identified them already. Your people work fast.”

  “My people are ’ighly motivated. The incidents today cost over one hundred lives. My country is sick of such acts of violence. We will stop at nothing until we know who did this. That is what we do.”

  Eva rubbed her wrists. She had no doubt about the lengths Isabella and her people would go to. “Pretty sure it’ll top the agenda at the NATO summit.”

  “This is a sensible assumption.”

  “May I use your phone? I need to check in with MI6.”

  “But of course.” Isabella retrieved a phone from her handbag and handed it to Eva. “They ’ave been informed of their operative’s good ’ealth.”

  Eva nodded. She didn’t ask if they had also been informed that said operative had been strapped to a chair and grilled like a criminal. She highly suspected they hadn’t.

  Eva excused herself and found a quiet little alcove in the majestic surrounds of the old hotel. After multiple transfers through untraceable connections she was finally put through to her handler.

  “Thank Christ, Evie. I’ve been worried sick.”

  Just hearing his voice made Eva feel safer. Paul Cavendish had been her handler, mentor and voice of reason since her first day at MI6. He was also one of her closest friends.

  He also happened to be Nancy’s husband.

  That Nancy didn’t know either of them worked for MI6 was something they weren’t comfortable with, but they were actively complicit in the deception. They were spies, after all. Eva was sure the truth would come out one day; she just hoped she wasn’t nearby when it did. Or that she at least had access to copious amounts of alcohol.

  She gave Paul a fast rundown of her experiences, and very scant details about her interrogation, which she referred to as ‘slightly aggressive questioning’ on the DGSE’s part. She’d delve into that particular protocol breach another time. Firstly, because there were more important things going on, and secondly, because she was speaking on Isabella’s phone. She didn’t know who was listening in.

  Paul listened intently, asking only the occasional question. When she finished, Paul gave her a rundown of MI6’s understanding of the events. This matched the DGSE’s in almost all aspects. Except for one.

  “We’ve had a breakthrough they haven’t,” Paul said with a detectable note of triumph. “The last bomber, your good friend Mustafa Khoury, is either a world-class idiot or we’ve been amazingly lucky—possibly both. We ran the photos of the perpetrators through our database and hit a match. Mustafa passed through Heathrow six months ago, under the alias of Akram Nazari. From there, we just traced the use of that identity and matched it with the known facial features and Bob, as they say, is your uncle.” There was a crunch, as if Paul was eating a biscuit. “Vienna.”

  “I’m sorry?” Eva asked.

  “Vienna, that’s where your mate Mustafa was two days ago—at a pretty fancy hotel, I might add. A simple credit-card trace. Like I said, world-class idiot. He used the same identity to book the hotel, and paid with the same card—three weeks in advance, by the way. The Viennese authorities jumped on it, and the hotel’s CCTV footage confirms it. It’s the same man.”

  “Boy,” Eva corrected him.

  Paul ignored the comment. “In light of your new partnership I thought you’d like to be the one to drop this piece of intelligence. It will be good to suck up to the cool kids at the new school with a sweet new pogs.”

  “Dude, how old are you?” Eva asked, laughing.

  “Old enough to know about pogs, apparently, and how you’re missing out if
you’re not part of the cool crew.”

  “Wow. I’m seeing a whole new side of you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “I didn’t say it was a good thing.” Eva was thankful for his efforts to cheer her up.

  Paul’s tone turned grave. “Evie, you need to be careful.” There was a pause, as if he was selecting his words carefully. “I want you to be wary of your new friends.”

  She let her silence ask the next question for her. Far across the restaurant, Isabella extinguished the last of her cigarette and perused the dessert menu. She seemed oblivious to the conversation, but Eva couldn’t rely on that assumption. That sort of thing got you killed.

  Thankfully, Paul continued without prompting. “It’s almost like someone knew what was going to happen. The DGSE had the profiles all lined up and ready to be released. Any faster and they’d have been circulated beforehand. It could be down to good police work…”

  The unfinished sentence said much.

  “But you don’t think so?” Eva asked, really hoping Isabella’s phone wasn’t bugged.

  There was a long pause. “No, I don’t. This thing smells fishier than Billingsgate Fish Market.”

  Eva was intrigued that Paul had reached the same conclusion she had, albeit for different reasons. She was a rookie, but an experienced agent like Paul sharing her doubts made her feel validated. Isabella should be eyed with caution. The interrogation and the incessant flirting, combined with Paul’s well-honed scepticism, put Eva on edge. She would have asked more questions, but it wasn’t a secure line.

  If Isabella, and possibly the DGSE, weren’t to be trusted, the next logical question was why? The DGSE was renowned for its professionalism and integrity. What reason would one of the top spy agencies in the world have to lie? It didn’t add up.

  Eva decided they were questions for another time. “Am I to assume I’m no longer looking for a dead MI6 spy?”

  “If you pass him on the street, give me a call, otherwise this is your primary, secondary and tertiary mission. Two cabinet ministers were among the dead. The Prime Minister is out for blood, and the king has issued a strongly worded statement. He even used the word ‘miffed’, so you know he’s pissed. The stock market has tanked and the Euro is worth less than my last bonus. The entire world is searching for answers, Evie, and right now you’re the prime candidate to bring home results. No pressure, but I’ve put my lily-white arse on the line to keep a neophyte on the case. We need results, and we need them fast.”