Kill a Spy: The House of Killers

by Samantha Lee Howe

  Though Elsa doesn’t know she’s doing this, at the same time, Beth is watching Elsa’s movements on the system: tracking her all the way through the camera footage. It’s a test to see what she does and how she does it. And if she admits seeing Michael too.

  ‘I found him,’ Elsa says after ten minutes or so. ‘He’s not alone.’

  Beth drops her computer into standby mode and goes over to Elsa’s desk to pretend she’s seeing the footage for the first time. Michael is talking to someone. He’s facing the camera, but the person with him is deliberately keeping their face hidden.

  ‘It’s a woman,’ Beth says. ‘But I can’t tell who she is.’

  ‘I can,’ says Elsa. ‘It’s Neva.’

  Beth looks at Elsa. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I met her. That day at the Tower Bridge Hotel. She talked to me for a while – right before Granger accused her of being Angie. I noticed we were the same height. I’m tall for a girl so I don’t meet many women my size.’

  ‘Oh yes!’ says Beth. ‘I hadn’t thought of it. And I didn’t realize you were there as well.’

  ‘She’s back in London…’ Elsa says.

  ‘Yes. And she came for Michael. I have to wonder if they’ve continued to stay in touch, even though he’d said they hadn’t,’ Beth says, then she bites her lip.

  ‘Maybe he’s our spy?’ Elsa says.

  Beth stares at the screen but doesn’t answer. Could Michael be the one who’d been spying on them, then ‘miraculously’ found the bugs? It certainly removed all suspicion from him and cast doubt on everyone else when he did.

  Beth feels the weight of the phone and cloning device in her pocket. It’s never been easy working for MI5.

  She returns to her desk and puts her screen back on.

  Elsa is zooming in on Neva and taking screen shots of her at different angles. She doesn’t take any of Michael except for a distance shot of him with Neva. Beth glances at her and she sees the intensity with which Elsa watches the woman.

  ‘They are into each other,’ Elsa mouths.

  Her expression changes but it’s brief because she looks up and sees Beth watching her. Afterwards, Beth is sure she imagined the whole thing. But she does think, just for a second, Elsa looked as though she wanted to kill. Maybe she resents traitors just as much as Beth does?

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Michael

  When we get back to Neva’s hotel, I feel awkward. I haven’t forgiven her, but I believe she might not know what she’s done. I know how that feels better than anyone. But now we are alone it doesn’t seem like such a great idea that we are together. There’s a dynamic tension in the air. I smell the subtle perfume of her skin and the aroma makes me feel crazy again. I’m fighting the urge to touch her, for if I do, I know I’ll be lost.

  ‘Perhaps we should go out to eat?’ I say. ‘Lunch somewhere.’

  ‘We’d have to keep avoiding cameras every time we step out. So, it’s not a good idea. But if you’re hungry I’ll order room service,’ she says.

  She’s right of course, and my suggestion was stupid, but I’m struggling to be alone with her like this. I’m hyper-aware of her as she switches on the television, sits down on the bed, kicks off her shoes and stretches out to watch the news. Her long legs are enticing. I remember them bare. I think of her under me, but my memories of her are more than just the casual lust we sometimes shared. There was a comfort in being in the same room, and now I’m fighting against slipping back into that same sense of ease. She makes me feel safe. Insane as that is.

  I sit down in the chair by the dressing table and try to distract myself by watching the television as well.

  On the TV, the camera switches from the studio to a location and I sit upright, recognizing Cassandra’s house behind the reporter.

  ‘Primary school teacher, Cassandra Clementine, is the latest victim of what the press are calling the Redhead Murders…’ the reporter says.

  I glance at Neva as pictures of the victims come up on the screen. Her likeness to them is more obvious now I’m in her company. She pays careful attention to the report and listens to the sparse information that we’ve released to the press. They don’t know about the staging of the bodies, just the similarity between the victims.

  ‘Have you been working on this?’ she asks.

  I meet her gaze. ‘Yes.’

  She turns the television down and asks me to tell her the details of the case and I weigh up how much I want to tell her. I’m worried that this will distract her from our current mission. Plus, I don’t feel comfortable with sharing what I know from a case I’ve been working on. I admit this to her.

  ‘Just tell me what you told the reporters then,’ she says.

  As this seems like an okay compromise I fill her in.

  ‘They don’t have red hair,’ she says. ‘It’s strawberry blonde.’

  ‘The Strawberry-Blonde Murders doesn’t quite have the same ring as Redhead Murders…’ I comment. ‘It’s the way the media thinks: it’s all about selling the story to those vultures.’

  I glance at the screen and see that they have different reporters at each of the locations. I feel sick again. These deaths will stay with me a long time. I look at Neva again, hyper aware that this case is connected to her, but unwilling to admit it.

  ‘You think it’s linked to me, don’t you?’ she asks then as though reading my mind, and I catch myself wondering if she actually can.

  ‘Do you?’ I say.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘They look like me.’

  I nod.

  ‘But I don’t see the point in killing someone who looks like me, if they want to kill me. Why not just come after me and kill me?’

  ‘Maybe it’s because you’re so hard to find,’ I say. ‘Or maybe they are doing it to draw you out.’

  She looks down at the hand holding the TV remote. She turns the TV off. She stands up, wanders around the room. Her movements are languid. I find it provocative. She sits back on the bed and moves her long legs again, deliberately drawing my eye to them. I feel her eyes on me and raise them to her face. She smiles and it’s subtle and seductive.

  What is she playing at?

  ‘Come and make love to me,’ she says.

  I gape at her.

  ‘Seriously? You think we are just picking right up where we left off?’ I’m so shocked by her suggestion that I can’t stop myself from shaking my head at her. ‘Really Neva. You’ve got some nerve.’

  ‘You are tense,’ she says. ‘And so am I. It makes sense we relieve each other.’

  And now I have no need to distract my raging libido because her cold and calculated summation of our physical attraction to each other is enough to make me aware that it means nothing to her other than fulfilling a need. Can she be as frozen inside as she appears? We are complete opposites. Yin and Yang. I feel a jolt as I find that name sitting there in my head in reference to us two. On that dating site, we’d probably be a perfect match.

  ‘Have you heard of Yin and Yang?’ I ask her now.

  ‘Yes, it means—’

  ‘No, not the definition. The dating site,’ I say.

  Neva shakes her head.

  ‘You’ve never heard of it?’ I ask again.

  ‘No. Why would I? I’m hardly the sort to look for long-term romance,’ she says.

  I weigh up what to tell her without betraying my colleagues. I decide I need to come clean with my suspicions at least.

  ‘I think whoever this person is, they know you. Or did know you.’

  ‘What else do you think?’ she asks.

  ‘How about you tell me what you know?’

  ‘I don’t know anything. This has only come to my attention since I returned to London.’

  I look down at my hands, thinking through my next question. I want to ask her about the things I suspect about the killer, without giving away information that’s confidential.

  ‘Do you know anyone who is fanatical about old films.
Horror ones especially. Like Psycho for example?’

  Neva meets my eyes, she frowns slightly as she explores my question.

  ‘Not obsessed, no. But we were subjected to films that showed death all the time in the house. It was part of the conditioning, a way of making us disassociate from the ones we caused. Our life was like a film unfolding around us, and sometimes we took the role of the killer,’ she says.

  ‘Did any of your former associates have a grudge against you?’ I ask.

  Neva shrugs. ‘We were encouraged to be competitive. That doesn’t inspire friendship. But resentment… grudges. Not really,’ she answers.

  I know what she says is true, even though my own recollection of the house is shady. I think for a moment. ‘No enemies among them then?’

  Neva looks away as she thinks about this. ‘The Network are hunting me. Any one of their assassins could be responsible for this mess. But if one of them is breaking like this, and has turned sociopathic, then their handler would usually take them out of the field and have them reconditioned at the very least.’

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ I say. ‘So, it might just be that this one is a rogue and has ditched both handler and the Network as they pursue their path for revenge.’

  Neva pulls her knees up to her chest on the bed. She drops her head down on them and closes her eyes. She looks vulnerable and confused. I want to go to her. Hold her. But I don’t move.

  Is she scared by the prospect of a possible stalker? Is she even capable of fear?

  As always, her change of mood surprises me. She goes from cold-hearted seductress to vulnerable child in a matter of seconds.

  I’m drawn to her again, and this time I don’t resist. I get up off my chair and join her on the bed. Even as I sit beside her, I wonder, is this some ruse to misdirect and reel me in again? I don’t know. And part of me doesn’t care.

  I run my hand over her back as a way to offer comfort. She doesn’t move or object. She remains still and allows me to touch her. And all the time my mind is screaming, You idiot Michael! She knows exactly how to manipulate you!

  But I can’t help it: I’m an addict and she’s my drug. I try to force back the memory of my anger against her, but it doesn’t come. It’s gone: washed away on the wave of my susceptibility. I forget all about going cold turkey. All it’s taken her is to crook her finger my way and I’m running back to her. It’s as if she has some kind of invisible cord looped around my heart: one tug and I’m under her spell. Only this rope is more like razor wire and it cuts into me until I think my heart will split in two.

  She raises her head and looks into my eyes.

  I’m a spy and you’d think I would be able to tell when I’m being used, but I see no guile in Neva’s eyes. What is there, is a reflection of my own raw emotion. Does this mean she feels it too? Can she feel anything at all? If not, then why did she risk capture to come and warn me of the danger?

  And that’s when I understand: I love her.

  This is a trap, I tell myself, but I know it isn’t.

  She takes my hand in hers and I’m plummeted back to the house, where two once-innocent children held hands and found a kinship. We’ve shared these secrets so long – some I still can’t hold in my mind – that maybe, just maybe this is all meant to be.

  I feel her hesitate. There’s nothing clumsy now about the way I move closer: something I wanted to do the moment I saw her again. She lets me place kisses over her face and neck. Her eyes are wide and full of emotion. It’s a wonder to see it there mixed in with our mutual lust. Then she’s in my arms and we are wrapped in each other. I kiss her mouth, pushing my tongue possessively between her lips. She gives herself over to the kiss.

  I make love to her. It’s not just a mutual relieving of tension as she’d suggested we might give each other. It is intense. Beautiful. A joining that any poet might write better words about than I can.

  I bite back the words that threaten to tumble from my lips as I enter her. But my eyes are still on hers and I try to convey it anyway. She rolls back her head, eyes hooded as though she can’t bear to see my defenceless expression. I should be put off by this, but it makes me love her more. When I know she loves me back it will be the biggest victory.

  I almost lose my stride as she lets go, crying out. She’s always been controlled before. Then, I’m lost too, grunting and heaving and exploding into her as though it’s been months and not weeks since we were last together.

  Neither of us speaks as I roll away from her. Then Neva straightens her clothes, reaches for the hotel phone, and orders room service.

  By the time the food and drink arrive, she’s acting like nothing has happened between us. I follow her with my eyes, but now she won’t meet mine. Have I given away too much? Can’t she bear the knowledge that I love her and I’m completely hers? Oh god. I am such a fool to be this much in love.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Mia

  Confusing images float behind her eyes. She sees herself boarding a private jet. On board the plane, there are offers of drinks and refreshments which she takes as she sits down in a plush armchair and fastens her seat belt. This is how the other half live, Mia thinks. A part of her delights in and recognizes the luxury, as though she’s always known she deserves it too. She is relaxed and unafraid throughout the trip. Wasn’t she once promised glory? Perhaps this is her time?

  It’s a short journey, a couple of hours, and then she exits into brilliant sunshine and a dry heat.

  In this dream she is someone else, travelling to see an important person.

  She’s waved through passport control on a French passport. She glances at it, seeing her face but not her name there. But she knows her name is Florence Bisset. There are others with her. The bodyguards: three men in black suits. The guards are there for her protection, not to imprison her. It is an important distinction that ensures her cooperation. They escort her from the airport to a long sleek black limousine.

  She gets inside with the men, and one of them opens a bottle of Champagne.

  ‘To the return of your memory,’ he says in French, and Mia understands him perfectly though she’s never studied any languages.

  She sips the Champagne and, after one glass, she knows who she is.

  She is the daughter of the Network’s former CEO, Andrew Beech, and a German assassin known as Kritta. She was raised by the Kensingtons to keep her hidden. And at weekends she went to the house with her brother Michael and they trained together so that one day, one or both of them would take over their father’s empire. All of this comes to her with alarming clarity as they drive through a stunning landscape towards a beautiful château that lies in the middle of a vineyard.

  The limo passes through a gateway that is monitored by an armed guard. Then it approaches the château via a mile-long driveway. Mia looks out at the imposing house as they draw nearer. She feels as though she knows this place: she hasn’t been here but someone once told her about it. The car pulls up at the impressive double doors. One of the guards opens the door: he holds out his hand to help Mia step out onto the driveway.

  She looks up at the front steps and sees the door open ahead. Several uniformed staff pour out and line the steps as though they are there just to greet her. Mia realizes that this is exactly what they are there for. It’s a mark of respect for her status.

  As she ascends the steps the maidservants and butler and footmen all applaud.

  She takes their applause with a modest smile. It feels as though she is coming home after a long absence.

  Mia reaches the top of the steps, still flanked by the three guards. There she sees a beautiful white-haired woman waiting for her in the doorway.

  ‘Welcome,’ she says.

  ‘Thank you, Annalise,’ Mia says, knowing instantly who this is. ‘How can I assist you?’

  Annalise smiles. ‘I want to help you to secure your birthright.’

  Mia nods. ‘I’m listening.’

  Mia feels as though she
is fully in control and this is merely a meeting for business that had to happen sooner rather than later.

  ‘Come inside. Let my people make you comfortable. Then, when we dine, we can discuss my plans.’

  Now Mia is lying in a comfortable four-poster bed. She turns over, reluctant to let this empowering dream fade. She sees herself being escorted upstairs and led to a beautiful chamber. The room is full of preserved antique French furniture and it adds to the fairytale that Mia is imagining.

  She’s given a bath, helped by two of the maidservants. They bow and scrape to her as though she is from royalty. And perhaps to these people her heritage makes her so.

  Mia wakes now, and opening her eyes she realizes that she has not been dreaming after all. She is indeed in a château in the South of France and she is the daughter of someone important. But she’s also Mia, wife to Ben and mother of Freya.

  She sits up so fast that she feels dizzy.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she says.

  Her mind is assaulted by memories. Her head hurts so much she feels it is going to explode. A rush of recollections, dreamlike at first, and then swarming and attacking like flying ants. She feels nauseous and she gets up from the bed and runs into the ensuite bathroom. Dropping to her knees by the toilet she throws up the entire contents of her stomach.

  When the sickness subsides, Mia gets up off the floor and washes her face in the sink. The bathroom is black and white and elegant, but she feels woozy and can barely focus on her surroundings. She stares at herself in the mirror, seeing the bags under her eyes and the bloodshot whites that suggest she was drinking heavily the night before, something she is unused to doing.

  Feeling a fraction steadier, she staggers back into the bedroom. She can’t shape her thoughts into total coherence, there are too many details and images that loop around like an annoying stress dream. Everything has changed. Her life is no longer simple, and with the return of so much that has been suppressed, Mia isn’t sure she wants it to be anymore.