Eva tucked her forehead into the crook of her elbow and placed her palms on the back of her head. The head had to be protected, she’d read somewhere. She leapt up as the car tore towards her. As it hit, she rolled, keeping her back to the glass and her head tucked between her elbows.
Tumbling end over end, gravity lost all meaning. Every part of her was pummelled, the wind knocked out of her and pain smashed into her. She bounced over the roof of the car, then she was in mid-air. Eva didn’t know if she was up or down. She hung there for what seemed like eons, then gravity decided to show her precisely which way was down. She landed on her back with a thud, knocking any remaining air from her lungs.
The car screeched down the road. Pistol still clenched in her grip, Eva groaned and raised her arm. Blood dripped into her left eye, but she was alive. That meant she could fight. She blasted the rear window of the Peugeot, letting them know they’d failed, and that Eva Destruction would make them pay.
Eva loosed two more shots, but it was too late, they had escaped.
Eva spat blood and struggled to her feet. Hands moved over her body, checking for broken bones. Everything appeared in place. Except maybe her pride.
But Eva knew how to find the driver.
It had only been a glimpse, that was all she needed. Right before she’d tumbled over the roof of the car, the light had fallen on the driver’s face.
She knew who had killed the sniper. That meant she knew who’d hired him. She knew who’d had Volmer killed.
Eva had seen her face.
Isabella.
Chapter Eight
“I bloody well knew it, Paul!”
Eva held the phone to her ear and paced the hotel room like a caged panther. A particularly angry and rabid caged panther. And an armed one at that.
She should have followed her instincts. Isabella couldn’t be trusted. The whole flirting thing was a distraction. The woman had a plan all along.
When Eva had contacted Paul in a rage after being struck by the car, he’d insisted she go to hospital. They’d patched her up and confirmed nothing was broken, though the bruises were coming thick and fast. She was turning so purple people would soon confuse her for Grimace.
After returning to her hotel, Eva wanted to call Paul back immediately but there was one thing she had to do first. She’d shut the blinds, turned off her phone and put a “Do Not Disturb” sign on her door. Eva remembered Ludger Volmer. The funny, charming man. His words may have veered into chauvinism occasionally, but he’d seemed to be coming from a good place. And then he was assassinated, right beside to her. Eva squatted with her back to the wall and let the regret wash over her. She hadn’t known him long enough for tears, but she owed him that and more. She owed him revenge.
When she’d called Paul he’d told her what she already knew. The Vienna police had confirmed that the prints on the sniper rifle matched the kid Eva had pursued and seen murdered. At least the authorities believed that much. The other part of the story was more difficult for them to accept as true.
After lengthy questioning by the local police and the BVT, Eva had been released. After the story she’d told, she would have thought Isabella would be the most wanted woman in Austria, but that wasn’t the case. The police and BVT didn’t believe Eva could have identified Isabella while flying over the windscreen. They took her statement with a huge serving of scepticism.
All borders were on alert, but Eva didn’t think that would be much use. Isabella was far too clever to be caught that way. The DGSE had been informed, but Paul had said they were yet to respond to Eva’s accusations.
Eva knew what she’d seen. It was Isabella. She’d killed Justin at the Ferris wheel. She’d hired a killer to murder Volmer, and probably Eva too. When that was botched, she’d executed the sniper.
It was no longer a collection of vague suspicions, Eva had seen Isabella killing in cold blood. She was meant to be in France. Isabella had shot straight to number one on MI6’s “If-you-wouldn’t-mind-could-we-possibly-have-a-chat?” list.
Now the obvious question: why?
That was exactly what Paul and Eva were currently trying to work out, but they were coming up empty.
“Oh, and another thing,” Paul said, interrupting Eva’s thoughts. “When I contacted the DGSE, they claimed to have no record of your interrogation with Isabella.”
“What? Does that mean she was operating independently?”
“Possibly, or it could mean they’re covering their arses because the faeces has just hit the electric cooling apparatus.”
The more Eva learned about this case, the less it made sense. Why would a DGSE agent be involved in terrorist acts? Why would Isabella deliberately take down a suspect, then target agents from other agencies? Eva needed more pieces of the puzzle.
She sighed. “So we don’t know if she was acting under orders or had gone rogue.”
“Not definitively, but we do know she wasn’t acting alone. The phone you sent to Trev? He cracked it.”
“Finally, some good news. What did he find?”
A small chuckle from Paul. “Exactly what you thought he would. Isabella messaged at four fifty-four in the afternoon, right about the time you said you were on the tram. She sent a message asking if she should take out the ‘final obstacle’.”
Eva clenched her fist. “And she received a reply?”
“Yes, four minutes later, a one-word reply: ‘proceed’.”
That must have been when Eva was at the base of the Ferris wheel, about to jump on. Well, that confirmed Isabella had at least one accomplice. She’d been given the go-ahead to shoot Justin when she had the chance.
“We traced the number but unfortunately that’s where our luck runs out. It was a disposable phone, paid for in cash at a convenience store in Slovakia. I doubt we’re going to find much there. It’s since been deactivated.” Paul sipped something, most likely tea. Sometimes the Englishman could be such a cliché. “Trev mentioned you also asked him to look into how the terrorists were recruited on the dark web? Any videos mentioning tempest and the like?”
Eva had nearly forgotten about that. Luckily her crew hadn’t.
Paul went on. “He found a few. We traced them back to IPs in Austria and France. There is mention of an oncoming tempest, as well as a war in Europe. The organisation behind it also calls themselves The Tempest. Pretty damn ominous stuff. We have the IT boffins working to see if they can narrow in on who The Tempest actually are or at least where exactly they’re posting these videos from.”
“Hmm,” Eva was only half listening. “Paul, I need you to do me a favour.”
“No, Evie, I can’t do it.”
“I haven’t even asked.”
“You don’t need to. I can read you like a neon billboard, woman.”
Eva pursed her lips. “I need you to get me on the first flight to Paris.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that Evie.”
Her fist clenched the phone so hard she was afraid it would break. “Why?”
“The hammer is down, I’m afraid. Top brass has made the call. You’re being recalled immediately. You instigated an unauthorised pursuit in which you failed to apprehend the suspect and he ended up dead, again. And then you failed to detain his killer, I hate to sound glib, but that’s the way they’re reading it upstairs.”
Eva knew Paul was in a tough position. On one hand, he was one of her very best friends in the world. On the other, he was a professional. He had to follow the correct protocols. But at that precise moment, Eva didn’t give a flying fig.
Paul went on. “I warned you, didn’t I? This had all eyes on it, on you. I know that isn’t how it all went down, mind, but that’s how it’s being spun. The upshot is, my love, you’re being benched until an internal inquiry has been conducted. And based on who is pushing this through, I think you’re in trouble. I don’t to sound alarmist, Evie, but to be perfectly frank, you’ll be damn lucky to have a job at the end of all this.”
That wa
s it then? Eva had worked barista jobs that lasted longer than her career with MI6.
“Then you’re saying I have nothing to lose?”
A pause. One of Paul’s famous pauses. “No, I’m not saying that at all.” His words tumbled out fast. “Evie, I know what you’re implying here. If you are facing disciplinary action and likely dismissal from MI6, then what’s the point in playing by the rules? That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”
Eva shrugged. “Not at all,” she lied. “Anyway, on an unrelated topic, I think I need some time off, Paul.”
“Okay.” His voice was wary. “When you come back, I’ll make sure you get some paid leave after we—”
“Now. I need some time off now. For personal reasons.”
“Evie, we both know what you’re planning, and it is my duty to inform you that you’re swinging awfully close to a word that starts with t and ends in reason. Don’t follow her back to France.”
“Paul, she killed Volmer.” Eva hoped he didn’t hear her growl. “And she hit me with a car.”
“Yes, I understand, but you need to realise—”
“Paul,” Eva strained to keep her voice under control. “She. Hit. Me. With. A. Fucking. Car. I want blood.”
“You need to keep that anger in check, Evie.”
“With a car, Paul!”
“Calm down.”
“I will,” she sighed. “I will.” Eva took a deep breath. “After I punch her in the crotch. Like, a lot.”
“Evie…”
“And really hard, too. I’ll take a run-up and everything.”
“I’m going to be explicitly clear here, so there’s no chance of miscommunication. Do not, under any circumstances, go to France. Do you hear me? Evie? Don’t go to France.”
* * *
The “fasten your seatbelts” sign pinged off and passengers unbuckled their straps. Overhead bins were flung open and people scrambled for position, eager to be first off the plane.
Eva unclipped her belt and gazed out the window. Her brief tenure at MI6 was probably over. She was going to miss it.
She’d been hired over the cries of older, more dignified white men who claimed she’d be a disruptive influence. That, argued Paul and Bishop, was precisely why she should be hired. Eva thought differently to other spies, had different life experiences, and attacked problems in unique ways. She had game, too. She’d brought down a megalomaniac hell-bent on manipulating the world to his own ends. She’d been damn good at it, too. Now, after a year of training, it seemed it had all been for nothing. Eva hadn’t saved the world this time. She couldn’t even save an abhorrent sniper. Maybe she wasn’t cut out for this gig. Maybe those old stuffed shirts at MI6 had been right all along. Tattoos and attitude meant little in the face of real-world espionage. She’d go back to where she did her best work: making coffee.
But there was one thing she needed to do before ending her career as a spy.
Catch another spy.
Over the loudspeaker, the pilot said, “Bonjour ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Paris.”
She retrieved her bag from the overhead bin and shuffled towards the exit. With her castle in the Rhone Valley, she was practically a local. French immigration should probably know her on sight by now. That was part of the problem. She was travelling under a burn identity, one she’d use once and dispense with. She couldn’t risk Isabella knowing she was coming.
That is, if she was even in the country. Would Isabella be stupid enough to return to the DGSE? Paul mentioned they were noncommittal regarding their agent’s alleged actions. Perhaps they were waiting to talk to her themselves. Or maybe she’d been acting under orders. Either way, Eva would meet Isabella again.
Eva proceeded to the airport exit. Austria and France being part of the Schengen Area meant Eva didn’t have to worry about customs, but she was flying under the name of Lea Ackland anyway, just to be safe. Not as inventive as Chlamydia Phlegm, but it would do the job.
Theoretically, Isabella could be anywhere on the continent—or in the world for that matter. But Eva didn’t think so.
She got into a taxi and gave the driver an address.
She knew where to start.
* * *
Eva recalled the conversation she’d had with Isabella. “A little café, overlooking a park near my parents’ ’ome in Créteil. It always made me feel protected, like a womb, yes?”
Except that was a lie too. She didn’t grow up in Créteil. She grew up in Saint-Blaise. Eva had her file. There was one park near her parents’ old home, and there was an old café there still operating. It made sense for Eva to camp out there. Well, it made only a little sense, but it was all Eva had.
If it was any more of a long shot Eva would have been on Mars. Eva had staked out the café for two days, living off eclairs, tarts and brioche. She was certain she was turning into a pastry. But this was where her gut told her to be. Eva had no other choice, unless you counted a full-frontal assault on DGSE headquarters, and that probably wouldn’t end well.
The café was small and cosy, and the elderly proprietors were warm and welcoming. If these were the people Isabella had sought sanctuary with as a child, Eva could understand why. They knew everyone by name, asked about their families and shared jokes like old friends. The worn wood of the tables, the smells of home cooking, the warm family atmosphere was intoxicating. Eva wanted to stay here herself. Although after two days, the owners were giving the odd tattooed foreigner suspicious glances.
Nearing closing time on the second day, Eva conceded the folly of her choice. Surely Isabella would have a bolthole somewhere else in the world. Eva did. In a little town in Australia she had a house, fully paid up. Inside were currencies of all descriptions, hidden gold and silver bars, false identities and a weapons stash—her insurance policy. She was certain Isabella would have something similar. Most spies would, just in case their profession turned on them.
The bell above the door gave an anaemic tung, having lost its crisp ting long ago. A woman in large dark sunglasses strode in. She wore an equally large black hat, blonde hair poking out like albino spider legs. There was something familiar in her walk.
Behind the counter, the owner gave a half smile and a hesitant nod, as if she wasn’t sure if she recognised the woman or not. The woman briefly scanned the café and ordered half a dozen batards. The owner wrapped them in paper and seemed on the verge of asking something, but before she had the chance, the newcomer handed over some cash. With a curt, “Merci” she rushed out the door and onto the street.
Eva watched the woman leave. Her mannerisms had a familiarity to them. Sure, the hair was different, and the clothes gave the impression of a larger woman. Even her body movements had a stiffness to them, but there was no denying it. It was Isabella.
Eva flung a fistful of Euros on the table and she was off. She considered calling Paul, but what would she tell him? “Oh, hey, disobeyed your direct order, but I found her, send help!” Even if MI6 were on her side, the apprehension of a DGSE agent on French soil would be a diplomatic minefield. No, Eva was on her own. On Isabella’s home turf. With no backup. Or plan.
What the hell are you doing, Eva?
In a flash, the answer came to her: your job. It was a surprise, even to her. The answer was simple enough, but the implications were huge.
Eva wanted to be an MI6 agent. She enjoyed it. And she was damn good at it, despite her past mistakes, and the opinions of others. This was her life now, and she wanted to keep it that way.
Eva exited the café, her own disguise an exercise in minimalism. Baggy long-sleeved top, aviator glasses and hair tied up in in a ponytail, tucked under a baseball cap. It wasn’t what you would call a master disguise, but Eva had hoped it would have afforded her at least a moment of obscurity. But the way Isabella had shot out of the café, Eva knew she’d been made. Time for a new tactic.
Saint-Blaise must have been a quaint part of Paris once. Now decidedly rundown, this area appeared dominated by thos
e who cared little for the old ways. Older dusty cars, piles of litter and roaming wild dogs on the streets. The quaint little café seemed to be the last bastion of the old guard, slowly surrendering to a less caring world.
Isabella would know she’d been made, too. The DGSE agent would be well-versed in street counter-surveillance. Eva needed to act quickly. Right now Isabella was probably doubling back, performing blind turns, utilising her knowledge of the local streets. That was old-school espionage. Eva’s solution was anything but.
Remaining completely stationary, Eva activated an app on her phone. It only took a minute. The screen showed Isabella walking down a street, totally oblivious to the fact she was being watched. She was performing all the right moves: stopping randomly to apparently tie her shoe, utilising cross streets to innocuously peer behind her. The longer Eva watched, the more casual Isabella’s stride became.
She had no idea she was being followed. Fifty metres above the streets of Saint-Blaise a microdrone tailed Isabella. The unpiloted aerial vehicle, or UAV, kept pace with ease. The drone was equipped with high-definition cameras and infrared thermal imaging capabilities, and its intelligence software used facial recognition and clothing detection. Once Eva tapped on her, the drone locked onto Isabella and shadowed her every move.
It was the only bit of tech Eva actually liked using. Her instructor had called it Eva-proof equipment. Modern technology wasn’t her friend, but as this was almost completely hands-off, it was a pleasure to use. Once she’d identified Isabella, the drone did everything else.
As she walked towards Isabella’s location Eva felt no need to rush. The drone did the hard work; all she had to do was wait for Isabella to reach her destination. On screen, Isabella strode unhurriedly towards a block of flats. They appeared decidedly rundown and low-rent. The perfect hiding place. Unless you were being followed by a surveillance drone, that is.
The Rookie?s Guide to Espionage: An Eva Destruction Espresso Shot Page 9
