The kitten, disturbed by the light, shook its head and opened its eyes, the jet-black pupils shrinking to small dots within the luminescent blue globes surrounding them. It stretched out its claws and arched its back, then regarded her with an inquisitive gaze that Amanda found utterly adorable. Then it turned its head away and began licking itself indifferently.
‘Her name is Isabelle,’ said James, laughing. We like to give all new members of the field team a companion to keep their homes occupied whilst they are away.
The chairman was too busy to see Amanda again personally before she left, so SVHQ arranged a taxi to take her and her luggage back to Westminster. Once home Amanda, although thoroughly exhausted, managed to pack her suitcase with her new equipment and a respectable ensemble of clothes. The last thing she wanted was to turn up for the assignment poorly dressed.
Isabelle made herself at home almost immediately, giving the apartment a thorough sniff round in order to gain orientation and happily scratching at any fabric within reach. Amanda half expected to return home to find Isabelle purring with satisfaction next to a giant ball of thread comprising the remains of her sofas, curtains, carpets and bedding.
The plane touched down with a bump, awakening Amanda from a gloriously indulgent dream about delicious handmade French patisseries. When she disembarked from the plane the warm air embraced her unabashed, reminding her that she had returned to the Mediterranean. A short and slightly plump balding man holding a placard with the name Miss de Frey written in black marker pen was waiting for her once she had cleared French customs. It had taken Amanda some time to retrieve her luggage and the man glanced at his watch as she came through the gate with an expression that was both genial and irritated at the same time, a look that typified French southerners.
Once inside the taxi, which frankly had seen better days, Amanda attempted to strike up a conversation.
‘Have you been busy this season, monsieur?’
‘Désolé, mademoiselle, je ne parle pas anglais,’ the man replied with a shrug of his shoulders.
Luckily Amanda’s ready command of the French language allowed them to engage in a long animated discussion that covered a broad range of subjects, from the recent poor performance of the French national football team to the exorbitant price of paté following recent fluctuations in the euro.
The Hotel Negresco in Nice, where Amanda would be residing during her stay, was a beautifully appointed hotel on the Promenade des Anglais overlooking the ocean. Amanda nodded appreciatively at the traditionally attired porters in red-plumed postillion hats and tight bell-bottoms as they carried her luggage across the threshold. The building itself was half museum and half hotel and had originally been built in 1912 by Henri Negresco, the son of a Romanian innkeeper. It was now owned and run by Madame Jeanne Augier, who could often be found eating in Le Chantecler, the hotel’s Michelin-starred restaurant.
The richly decorated lobby was full to the brim with exotic ornaments and curios and the walls were adorned with a startling mix of French art. At the foot of the lobby the hotel’s 16,309-piece Baccarat crystal chandelier sparkled in the sunlight. The ground floor bathrooms were another feature of note, comprising miniature caverns with wooden carvings, abundant foliage and hand-painted walls. Walking in to them was like being transported momentarily into another age.
Amanda found her room to be elegantly furnished, with luxurious light blue fabrics on the walls and bed and a large antique dresser dominating the room, lending it the feel of an ornate lady’s boudoir in a nineteenth-century palace. She threw open the window and was instantly greeted by a delightful view of the promenade, which was bustling with activity, and the lapping waves of the Mediterranean licking the pebble beach beyond. She ordered some breakfast and a Ricard Pastis from room service; it was never too early to drink in France. The pastis arrived first and Amanda sipped it slowly, savouring the experience of the heady aniseed coursing through her veins. She sunk into the soft embrace of the enormous bed and felt the coolness of the air from the air conditioning mixing deliciously with the warm salt-tinged breeze coming through the window.
A few moments later, however, she was disturbed by a knock at the door.
‘Excuse us – room service, mademoiselle.’
Breakfast was wheeled into the room – a veritable feast consisting of a basket of Viennoiseries, breads, generous cuts of cold meat and a steaming pot of dark black coffee flanked by a small jug of cream. She bit into a croissant which broke crunchily, sending a shower of crisp, buttery flakiness towards the white porcelain below. This sumptuous crescent-shaped morsel billowing with exquisite flavour cast shame on the cheap bread-like breakfast companions that were served in Britain whose only true resemblance to their French compatriots was the name.
A strong cafe crème sent caffeine circulating through her body and this, combined with an invigorating shower, lent her the energy to face the day ahead. Luckily she remembered the complex sixteen-digit passwords which, when used in conjunction with her biometrics, gave her access to the brief on the flashy PDA with which she had been presented by Charlotte the day before. SVHQ seemed more like a distant fantasy when faced with the touristic seascape around her.
Solutions d’energie’s head office was a modern warehouse in the Sophia Antipolis region of the village of Valbonne. It had no windows and attempted to blend in with its green surroundings through the use of natural yellow sandstone. The other buildings around it stood out proudly, with swathes of gleaming glass and large lettering announcing the companies’ identities to all. In contrast, the anonymous structure in front of Amanda that morning could have gone almost unnoticed if not for the quartet of guards in dark grey military attire who patrolled the building. Amanda approached the closest of them with a degree of trepidation, suddenly doubting herself for embarking upon this alone. She was surprised, as she drew closer, that the guard was a woman. On closer inspection it appeared that all four guards were female, appearing androgynous to the casual bystander by nature of their uniforms.
‘My name is Miss de Frey,’ she announced. ‘I am here to see Monsieur Chaumert.’
‘Of course, Meez de Frey,’ the officer replied in clipped tones. She clearly expected Amanda’s arrival.
The girl turned brusquely on her heel and disappeared into the building. The other guards continued their patrolling duties, seemingly unconcerned by Amanda’s presence. After waiting for what seemed an hour in the dry Mediterranean heat Amanda was glad to see the young soldier returning to usher her into the building.
‘I am so sorry for the delay, Meez de Frey. Monsieur Chaumert is extremely busy at the moment.’
Inside, the building was far larger than Amanda would have imagined it to be, with ceilings towering above her and wooden beams that looked as if they belonged to a Swiss ski lodge rather than the modern headquarters of an international company. This was, perhaps, the least of the surprises awaiting her as, at the end of the corridor in front of her, she was faced by a circular metal door of astounding proportions. It had a large rotating handle at its centre, just as you would expect to see at the entrance to an old bank vault. Her blonde companion began to turn the handle, first in one direction then the other, causing the mechanism to clunk into action. Finally the door swung open to reveal a cylindrical tunnel fashioned entirely of metal, with several other metal doors leading off it. Without giving Amanda a second look her guide marched up to the fourth of the doors on the right-hand side, punched some numbers into a digital keypad and led her inside.
Monsieur Chaumert was seated facing her behind a large mahogany desk. He fixed Amanda with a steely glare.
‘Welcome, Miss de Frey,’ he growled.
Amanda found the tone of his voice severe and unsettling. She had expected a soft French accent like that of the diplomats who could be found populating the bistros in the 7eme of Paris. Chaumert’s voice, however, was cold and thoroughly British.
He was dressed almost exactly as Amanda had first see
n him on the video screen at SVHQ, in his signature slate-grey suit with crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the neck. Under a crown of snowy white hair, he had a lined face and distinguished features. He surveyed Amanda coolly from behind a pair of circular horn-rimmed spectacles.
Amanda hastened to explain the reason she had been sent from London, telling him that she had been tasked with catching the criminals and retrieving the property that had been stolen from the company. She had a distinct feeling that her speech was unnecessary and that he already knew all about her mission, yet he allowed her to continue uninterrupted.
When she had finished he paused for a moment as if to take in what he had heard.
‘My name is Jean-Paul Chaumert,’ he replied at last, ‘and I am Chief Executive of Solutions d’energie. We have been working with the French government for over twenty years to facilitate new forms of energy production. There has been a continual shift away from fossil fuels to more sustainable energy sources, the most viable of which, at the moment at least, is nuclear power. France has believed in nuclear power for a long time. Upwards of eighty percent of our energy is derived from this source. Now we are taking our expertise worldwide to enable other nations to safely and effectively implement nuclear power.
‘Yesterday morning, around three a.m., someone broke into our headquarters and stole several highly sensitive documents from the safe behind me. Thirteen detailed blueprints of nuclear power stations currently under construction were taken. Three of these were just preliminary designs for plants that have not yet been built, but for which we are hoping to be awarded the contracts. The alarms had been disabled by the intruders beforehand and thus the theft was not discovered until six-thirty a.m. when the cleaning team arrived.’
‘Why didn’t you call the police?’
‘We cannot risk a scandal of such magnitude. In this business reputation is everything – and we must do everything we can to keep it unscathed! I think you may also want to see this.’
He handed her an A4 Polaroid that showed the grotesque image of a dead man lying in a pool of blood on the floor, with heavy wounds to the neck. Amanda put her hand to her mouth in horror then handed the photograph back to Chaumert.
‘Was anyone else harmed?’
‘No one else was hurt. What is stranger still is that the perpetrators were not seen entering or leaving the building, even though the perimeter is patrolled by four armed guards Additionally there were two security personnel within the building. One of them suffered an untimely demise, as you have seen. The other was responsible for monitoring the CCTV and thermal imaging cameras but insists that he did not see or hear anything the entire time. Stranger still, on examination of the video and thermal imaging clips for that night, there is almost no footage of the intruders. We have no clue as to how they managed to get into the building or escape unnoticed.’
‘What would you like SVHQ to do?’
‘I want you to find out how it was possible for two people to get into the building and escape with our documents in spite of the supposedly impenetrable security systems we have in place. I also want you to find out who removed the documents, where they are now, and retrieve them. Most importantly I want to know why a group of criminals would want to steal a very specialised series of blueprints.’
He said this in a matter-of-fact manner, as if it was the simplest of requests.
‘Do you have any idea who could have taken them, or their motivation?’
‘Do you think I would have called you here in the first place if I did?’ he snapped. Then he appeared to regret the outburst and sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Miss de Frey, but this is a situation of the utmost severity and everything I have worked for is at stake.’
‘Of course.’
‘I would appreciate it if you could keep this matter strictly private.’
He unlocked a drawer on the right-hand underside of the desk and removed a small memory stick.
‘This contains a summary of what I have just told you and various other details relevant to the case. Maxine will be at hand to help you if you need further assistance.’
The young female soldier who had escorted Amanda into the building stepped forward, silently nodding at Amanda in acknowledgement.
‘I myself am compelled to travel to Strasbourg tomorrow and will remain there for three weeks as there are several forthcoming sustainable energy debates that require my presence.’
As if this was a cue, Maxine escorted Amanda out of the building and back into the glorious sunshine. Amanda was eager to return to the hotel and review the details of the case in private. She jumped into the driving seat of her hired sports car, a beautiful sky-blue convertible Alfa Romeo with cream-coloured leather interior. Armed with Dior driving gloves and large Chanel sunglasses she sped back towards central Nice.
The handsome doormen at the hotel smiled as they held the doors open for Amanda. Strolling through the lobby, she inhaled the thick, sweet scent of fresh jasmine that called to mind the fresh perfumes of a spring garden, bursting with life. She realised she was hungry and, as it was by now way past lunch time, She walked over to the desk and ordered a club sandwich with fries to be sent to her room.
Her room had been serviced while she was away. The bathroom, with its lavish golden fittings, sparkled in the sunlight that flooded through the windows and she found that her belongings had been carefully tidied just where she had left them, rather than moved somewhere else so she couldn’t find them. She was mulling over the idea of taking a shower when there was a knock at the door.
Two men stood before her with a large food trolley and a plate with a shiny silver cover on top of it.
‘Mademoiselle de Frey? Room service.’
The man speaking had black curly hair and close-set eyes.
‘Oui, entrez.’
The men wheeled the trolley, complete with white tablecloth, into the centre of the room. Amanda noticed that the second man, whose back was to her, looked like he was over seven feet tall.
‘Merci.’
She turned towards the dresser to get some coins as a tip. It was then that one of the men hit over the head. She stumbled backwards, clutching her head in her hands. Strong arms grasped her around the waist and arms, restraining her. She opened her mouth to scream but it was quickly stuffed with one of the fabric napkins from the tray.
Amanda realised it was the black-haired man who had her in his grip as the menacing seven-footer was directly in front of her. Amanda registered the long scar running diagonally across his face from temple to jaw. His staring eyes were a cold, piercing blue as he stepped towards her.
It was only then that Amanda noticed the man was missing his right hand. The large left hand was gloved in shiny black leather, but the right hand, which he was now raising towards her, had been replaced with what looked like a metal blow torch. A large yellow and blue flame shot out towards her and she could feel the fierce heat inches from her face. She knew escape was impossible.
Amanda’s head began to spin as the flame came closer and closer. Random memories flashed rapidly through her head. She thought of her mother cooking her cassoulet, the comforting smell filling the kitchen of the Chelsea home where she grew up with the comforting smells of the Occitane;. She thought of her father, smartly suited, stooping to kiss her as he hurried out for work. She thought of Gabriela upstaging everyone with her salsa dancing in a Latin music club. She thought of SVHQ and the crazy events that had led to her being here.
SVHQ – that was it! The Mont Blanc pen she had been given by Jamie was in the side pocket of the jacket she was wearing, its tip facing towards the man who restrained her. Her hands were just millimetres from the pen, just as the hot flame was just millimetres from her face. Forcing her hand upwards she was able to activate the spring-lock button. The dart shot out, hitting her captor on his right shoulder. He stumbled backwards, swearing. She aimed a kick at his shin with her stiletto heel for good measure.
Now free, she ducked under the flame
and ran into the bathroom, locking the door behind her. A moment later she heard the hiss of the flame as her assailant applied it to the door and the air began to fill with the smell of burning paint and wood. Even as she watched, a small black circle appeared on her side of the door, quickly enlarging and becoming a hole. The bathroom was full of smoke, making her eyes sting. She coughed violently as the fumes got into her lungs.
As the hole grew bigger, Amanda’s attacker began trying to enlarge it by tearing at the edges with his gloved left hand. Through the smoke Amanda suddenly spotted a fire alarm – the type that consists of a button protected by a fine layer of glass. She didn’t hesitate. She hit it as hard as she could, shattering the glass.
The shrill noise of the alarm rang out at once, piercing the air with its insistent clamour. Amanda sank to the floor, gripping her throat, and was vaguely aware of activity at the door coming to an abrupt halt. Everything went quiet and she assumed the aggressors had departed. Then she heard footsteps on the far side of the door.
‘Miss de Frey, are you all right?’
Amanda nervously opened the door just a crack. Two pompiers stood in front of her, accompanied by the girl from reception and one of the waiters. The waiter was rubbing the back of his head.
‘Two men attacked me and knocked me unconscious as I was on my way to your room!’ he told her, looking aggrieved.
‘Where are they now?’ Amanda asked, though she already knew the answer.
‘They’ve escaped,’ The girl from reception replied.
Chapter 6
The two men stood in front of their master. The taller of the two remained impassive, staring resolutely into the distance. The blow torch mechanism had now been replaced by an artificial right hand, hidden in a black leather glove. The other man, however, was visibly trembling.
Amanda: Tales of an international female spy Page 4
