by Kate Johnson
‘I am,’ I said. ‘It’s hardly hot enough to display them.’
‘That depends which ones you mean,’ Docherty said. ‘I’ll call you back with an address soon.’
‘An address?’
‘To get your passport from. Speak to you later,’ and he was gone.
Great. I could see myself having to knock on the door of a seedy little back street in Paris, asking for Monsieur Manky and handing over all my Euros for a bad forgery.
I got dressed and ran errands, fetching food and a newspaper – thankfully the camp shop catered for British tourists – and scuttled back to my tent. Every man I saw looked like last night’s gunman; that is, since I had no idea what the bastard looked like at all, he could be anyone. He had dark hair and an English accent. It wasn’t much to go on. The only people I knew for sure were English were the campsite couriers, whom I regarded with deep suspicion. The guy who’d checked me in had dark hair and he had been eyeing me with interest. As far as I knew a gun wasn’t standard issue for a holiday rep, but then times were a-changin’.
Nobody knew that better than me.
‘She’s not happy,’ said Evelyn, the moment Luke stepped into the office.
‘No shit. Are 5 talking yet?’
‘Not a word. Haven’t even requested a liaison, which means –’
‘– they’re watching our every move on the sly.’ He slugged the rest of his coffee. Black, with an extra shot, the way Sophie took it.
‘They’re watching your every move,’ Evelyn corrected. She frowned, her perfect pale brow creasing. ‘Luke, they’re probably at your place right now, bugging everything in sight.’
He drained the last caffeine-saturated drop and threw the cardboard cup at the bin. ‘I know.’
‘You’re being remarkably sanguine about it.’
‘Sanguine,’ Luke said, leaving her behind as he strode to Sheila’s door. ‘Also means bloody.’
He knocked and entered. Sheila sat at her desk, immaculate in Armani, ice-blue eyes on the huge iMac screen on her antique desk. Her hair was peppered with grey, her make- up soft and subtle, and her posture would make a sergeant major weep with delight.
‘Look what the cat dragged in,’ she said crisply.
‘You look wonderful, too,’ Luke said, dropping into a chair.
Her cold blue gaze snapped to him. ‘Heard anything yet?’
Luke was an Eton boy. He’d joined the RAF straight out of school, been recruited by the SAS and then the security services had come calling. He’d never willingly displayed any emotion in his life and he’d been lying since the day he opened his eyes.
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Wherever she is, she’s gone to ground. Have 5 got anything?’
‘Nothing they’ll share,’ Sheila said.
‘Which means they have something?’
‘I expect so. Any fool can trace her whereabouts. If the damn French would let us use their surveillance we could track the car easy as anything. Why she thought taking your car would slow us down I don’t know.’
‘Because a silver Vectra is a lot more invisible than a bile-green Defender,’ Luke said.
He didn’t bother to ask whether they’d searched Sophie’s car. He’d had a cursory glance around inside it, but there was a conspicuous lack of confessional notes or handy bullet casings. In fact, there was a conspicuous lack of anything. The CDs were all neatly stacked in the door bucket, the hairs from her parents’ dog had been brushed from the back seat – probably taken in evidence, hah! He hoped they enjoyed trying to incriminate a daft canine in a murder enquiry.
Even her flat looked suspiciously clean. He supposed it was possible her mother had been round to tidy up – a habit which Sophie had complained about at length – but he had a pretty strong idea that the only dusting going on in that place had been for fingerprints.
Sheila drummed her fingers on the desk.
‘This isn’t our jurisdiction, Sharpe. It’s 5’s case. She killed their man, she’s a threat to their security. They’re not co-operating with us on this, they don’t want us on it.’
‘Do we answer to 5 now?’
‘No. But you answer to me. I’m going to give you a clear instruction, Luke, and it is not one of those instructions you can feel free to creatively interpret. Is that clear?’ He nodded. ‘You do not investigate this case. You do not use our resources or contacts to discover the whereabouts or motivations of your girlfriend. Do not let your personal life interfere with your professional life. Understood?’
‘Understood,’ Luke said, standing.
‘I need you on the Kyrgyzstan case. Evelyn has a potential new agent I need you to vet.’
Luke nodded crisply. ‘Understood,’ he repeated.
Which wasn’t the same as agreeing.
I passed the rest of the day reading, listening to music, taking walks into the town for bits of food and essential things I might need, kidding myself that everything was okay. But it wasn’t okay. I was wanted for murder. MI5 had me on their shit list. My parents would be going insane. Poor Tammy would be orphaned. My car, my lovely strong Ted, would be left to rust because Luke hated driving him.
Luke would go off shagging other women who weren’t wanted criminals. Not my lovely Luke!
At this point, let me gift you with a word or two about the man I love.
Whereas I consider myself to be reasonably attractive, probably the phrase that describes me best is ‘scrubs up well’. Good enough for men who fancied Jessica Rabbit when they were teenagers. But I’m not an absolute stunner, and I don’t delude myself that I can stop traffic. Whereas Luke can, and often does.
He can’t help it. He just sort of glows. Golden blond, cheekbones like the Matterhorn, blue eyes you could drown in. Broad of shoulder, slim of hip. Pointlessly good-looking. If you siphoned off a tenth of his sex appeal, it could power a dozen other men.
He’s what you’d picture as a secret agent. Smooth, smart, at home in any situation. He looks just as fantastic in sweatpants as he does in a suit. He can shoot a moving target from what appears to be any distance. He speaks several languages. He was expensively educated. He can fly any plane or helicopter you care to name.
He likes Saturday morning cartoons and Buffy re-runs. He bought Tammy a wind-up mouse for Christmas. He gets on with my parents. He laughs at silly place names. He’s arrogant and charming, emotionally illiterate and burning with passion. When he missed my birthday because he was on assignment in Saudi Arabia, he presented me with an antique emerald-and-diamond ring on his return.
‘If you mention the M word,’ he said as I slipped it onto my right hand, ‘I will never have sex with you again.’
I didn’t mention the M word. Luke’s not the marrying kind.
And needless to say, sex with him is not to be missed.
I closed my eyes, and tried not to think of him.
I failed.
As the sky started to darken I got up to switch on the electric light (all mod cons in these tents, look you) and then decided I might as well go to bed. Who knew what tomorrow might bring? I needed to get as much sleep as I could, especially since Docherty had woken me up so early. I locked my valuables in the boot of the car, out of sight, and zipped myself in for the night.
Although in view of last night, I took my back-up pistol out of the car and brought it into the bedroom with me.
My sleeping bag looked inviting, although I found a couple of dark hairs on it that disconcerted me. Who was that guy? Why had he come to my tent in the middle of the night? And why were the gendarmes after an English guy – one with a gun? No petty thief, him.
I made sure the safety catches were firmly on and tucked my guns into thigh holsters. So what if it was slightly uncomfortable? This time, I’d be ready.
And ready I was, when I heard someone unzipping the tent flap about an hour after I’d gone to bed. I lay still for a while, eyes closed, wishing it was a figment of my imagination because I was so damn tired. But then I heard the
crackle of the groundsheet as someone walked over it, and I pushed back the sleeping bag and rolled off the bed as silently as I could.
This was not very silent.
‘Alice?’ came a whisper from outside the bedroom compartment. That was the name I’d checked in under. I ripped open the zip with one hand, the other on my SIG-Sauer.
The dark-haired campsite courier stood frozen in the middle of the canvas room. I knew it!
‘What are you doing in my tent?’
He ran his eyes over me. I think it was too dark for him to have seen the guns. I hoped it was too dark for him to have seen the guns.
‘Came to see if you wanted a drink.’
‘No. Thank you.’
‘But …’ his eyes darted nervously, ‘you weren’t answering so I thought I’d come and check you were okay …’
‘I’m fine,’ I said, and I thought I saw his eyes lingering around my thighs. I really hoped he was just perving. Not looking at the guns. Damn.
Hell. I’d have to leave. And I didn’t even have my passport yet. How far away could I get without using it?
‘Please don’t take this personally,’ I said, and he looked terrified as I reached for my SIG to smack the side of his head with it.
‘Indeed,’ came another, newly familiar voice, and before I’d had time to react, someone else’s shooter had bashed the courier unconscious.
I whirled around but he caught me from behind, a hand over my mouth. What the hell? Last night’s gunman. Complete with big nasty pistol, currently aimed at my temple.
‘Be quiet,’ he said, ‘or I’ll shoot you. Savvy?’
I fully believed him.
I’m not scared, I told myself as his hand left my mouth and trailed down my neck to my breast, then over my arm to the SIG still holstered under my hand. He took it from me, the barrel of his own gun still against my temple, and I said in a low voice, ‘I need that.’
‘Not any more,’ he replied, his breath hot against my neck, and I shivered as his hand moved across my waist, caressed my hip and my thigh, and then took the revolver from its holster.
I squeezed my eyes shut. Damn, fuck and bugger, in that order. I needed that, too.
‘Now what,’ he said in my ear, ‘is a nice girl like Alice M. Robinson doing on her own in a campsite in France with two guns?’
‘Can’t be too careful these days,’ I said, as he took my hands and held them behind my back.
‘You don’t need a SIG-Sauer to be careful.’
‘You know your guns.’
‘I know yours, too.’
‘I’m really going to need them back,’ I said.
‘Tough.’
‘Who are you?’
‘Right back at you.’
‘I’m Alice Robinson,’ I said. ‘You told me that.’
‘You’re registered as Alice. That doesn’t mean you’re her. Hello,’ he added, his fingers caressing mine. He’d found the ring. The ring a smarter person would have kept out of sight. ‘This looks nice.’
‘Don’t touch that,’ I said, panicking.
‘Why? Triggered to a grenade?’ He ran the gun barrel down my neck, my chest, right down my front. ‘Don’t think there’s anything hiding under there.’
‘Stop feeling me up,’ I said through gritted teeth. I may be stacked, but that’s not my fault.
‘Not enjoying it?’
‘Guns aren’t my thing.’
‘Could have fooled me.’ I heard a clinking sound and then something closed around my left wrist. A handcuff. No. I tugged my right wrist away, but he was ahead of me and clicked the bracelet home as he pressed the pistol into my belly.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘please don’t take this personally,’ and a second after he stepped away, there was a sharp pain in my head and everything went black.
Chapter Three
I had no idea how long I’d been out, but later I realised that it could only have been a few minutes. Any longer, and I was pretty sure the gunman would have returned. I was alone, no sight of either the courier or the gunman, and my hands had been cuffed behind my back to one of the upright poles of the tent. And I was bloody frozen.
It didn’t take me long to lift up the pole and slip the chain underneath. The tent wobbled alarmingly, but held, and I wriggled through that legs-through-arms-manoeuvre to get my arms in front of me. I quickly decided that the best course of action was to haul ass out of there and consequently threw all my belongings, bits of food, clothes, toiletries, the lot, into my sleeping bag, retrieved the keys from the zipped pocket under the bed, and locked myself in the car. I was missing both my guns and –
Oh bollocks. Oh no.
He’d taken my ring.
Right, now I was pissed off.
It was tough driving with handcuffed wrists – changing gear was certainly interesting – but I squealed out of the campsite, annoying several residents as I went, and was just on my way past the couriers’ tent when I saw the gunman dumping an unconscious courier outside. He turned and saw me, his mouth dropped open, and his gun came up.
I floored it, and missed being shot in the head by a good few feet. The bullet hit the back of the car somewhere and I winced. Luke was not going to be pleased.
I saw him running after me – why? I was hardly in an F1 car but seriously, running? and took every turning I came across to lose him, ending somehow up by the sea, then cutting back through the town, ricocheting around corners in the darkness, twisting out of the Vectra the sort of performance I never knew it was capable of. Eventually I found a road out of town and rammed pedal to metal. The roads were quiet, I found a motorway, and aimed the car towards Grenoble.
The sky was light when I pulled in at a picnic stop to get something to eat and empty my bladder. It’s a sign of how desperate I was that I used the French toilet, as opposed to just peeing in a bush or in my seat. Either might be preferable. I grabbed a sweater from the back of the car and draped it loosely over my hands and wrists. This, I hasten to add, did not make it easy to use a toilet which is essentially a hole in the ground.
I got back in the car, still shuddering, and plugged my phone into the hands-free kit, then reached back to try and sort out the mess in my sleeping bag. I knew I had some food in there somewhere.
But as I turned around in my seat I caught sight of the word POLICE emblazoned across the side of a car nearby. In it were a couple of gendarmes eating croissants.
I was out of there in seconds.
Probably they’d just stopped off for breakfast. The French equivalent of coffee and doughnuts. But I wasn’t taking any chances. I accelerated back onto the A6, and headed towards Lyon.
Docherty called after an hour, while I was stuck in traffic and worrying about petrol consumption.
‘Please tell me you have a passport for me. I hate this country.’
He laughed. ‘Where are you?’
‘In the car. In a traffic jam. On the A6. I think,’ I added, peering around a lorry at a road sign ‘Maybe the E15. I’m not sure. Could be both.’
‘How far are you from Avallon?’
‘That would depend on where Avallon is.’
‘On the A6 between Dijon and Auxerre. Ish.’
‘Ish?’
‘I’m Irish. I don’t do directions.’
I scrutinised the map and eventually came up with the town. ‘Burgundy?’
‘Yes. Maria’s aunt has a vineyard. Call me when you get closer,’ and he was gone.
Great. I put Crowded House on the stereo for comfort and rode out – or rather, sat out – the traffic jam. At least the gendarmes weren’t following me, and unless someone walked by and peered at my hands in my lap, no one could see my handcuffs
At Lyon I followed signs for Dijon and then for Auxerre and when I saw a sign for Avallon, I pulled over. This road was smaller and quieter, winding through beautiful valleys. I always feel so much calmer when I’m in deep countryside.
I called Docherty for further directions. The way he r
ead them out to me, I was pretty sure they’d come direct from Maria.
‘Don’t tell Luke where I’m going,’ I said.
‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’
‘And don’t let Maria tell him either.’
He laughed, a deep dark sound. ‘I think she can probably be trusted to keep a secret.’
Maria is a former colleague of mine. Like Luke, she’s ex-military, and like Luke, she’s confident and beautiful and very good at what she does. When our little operation, SO17, was disbanded, she had no trouble finding another position in the secret service.
In fact, everyone but me found it easy to get another job.
I set off, and reached the vineyard just as it was getting dark. I was exhausted. Luke’s car was not the most comfortable of rides for a long journey and it was bloody hard driving with my wrists four inches apart. I’d tried to keep a finger on the wheel while I changed gear but that made the car swerve horribly as my wrists pulled each other around. Consequently I’d been thrashing the car in the wrong gear for most of the journey, until I could find a bit of road straight enough to take my hands off the wheel to change up or down.
The roads were degenerating into tracks that were less and less passable and by the time I got to the house I was pretty much driving over grass between neatly placed vines. I wondered what kind of wine Maria’s aunt made. And if I’d be allowed to drink any.
Or all of it.
The knock came as Luke was checking his kitchen for bugs. He’d already found two in the living room and one in the bedroom – in the bedside lamp, how stupid did they think he was? – and now he was considering the problem of whether he could get a new computer without anyone noticing. He was absolutely certain his existing machine would have been compromised.
He’d picked up a new mobile from the supermarket. Computers were less easy to come by.
He glanced at the door. Please God, it wasn’t Sophie’s parents come to commiserate or cry or rant or whatever it was emotional people did when their daughters got accused of murder.
A glance through the peephole revealed Docherty, standing there in the twilight looking like a vampire with a five-o’clock shadow.
