“Drones, sir. Sixteen of the best consumer-grade quadcopters money can buy.” Steve closed the door behind him, attempting to mentally draft his request to MI5 in a way that wouldn’t make him a paranoid laughing stock.
33
Fréderic was up a ladder, hammering away at the main building’s gutters, when Bridge pulled up in the Fiat. La Ferme Baudin was an old, squat, stone building of modest size, but surrounded by a large yard for vehicles, and beyond that were acres of land that, after centuries of crop tilling, now grew wild. An old wood lined one edge of the property, away from the road by which Bridge had approached.
Now Fred paused mid-swing and peered down at the car, to see who was inside. Bridge took her time, hoping that Izzy would come out to greet her instead, but she could only sit here for so long before it became weird. Fred climbed down the ladder, hammer still in hand, and walked towards the car. Then a door banged open, as Stéphanie ran out to see who had come to visit them, zooming past her father. Fred called to her, but she ignored him, and made a beeline for the car.
Bridge opened the door and stepped out, waving and smiling. “Salut, Steph.”
Steph gasped and cried, “Auntie Bridge!” Then the girl crashed into Bridge’s legs and wrapped her arms around them.
She staggered back, laughing. “Calm down, Steph, it’s only been a couple of weeks.”
“Stéphanie, behave yourself,” said Fred. Steph immediately let go of Bridge and stepped back, looking contrite. “What are you doing here, Brigitte? Has something happened?”
Bridge shook her head. “I’m on a work trip up north, and I have the weekend free. I thought I’d pop in and say hello.” She reached inside the car and retrieved a small paper bag, holding it up for Steph to see. “I brought macarons.”
“Isabelle is out shopping,” Fred scowled. “You should have called ahead.”
Lying to Voclaine, Montgomery, and everyone else at Agenbeux was something Bridge had worried about constantly before she arrived. She’d expected to be a ball of nerves, to hesitate and stammer over aspects of her cover bio. And while the legend OpPrep had put together helped, being so close to her real background, she’d nevertheless surprised herself at the ease with which she’d spun her tale to the Exphoria staff.
But lying to her family sadly came more easily; she’d been doing it her entire working life. The truth was that she daren’t call ahead in case she was being watched or monitored. A call from the guest house would leave a record, using her cover mobile would immediately blow her cover, and using her real mobile would raise questions about mission security. After all, she hadn’t told anyone in Vauxhall she was coming here, or that Izzy’s place was so relatively close.
So instead, she continued lying. “I wanted it to be a surprise. The work trip was kind of last-minute, so Izzy doesn’t know I’m here.”
Fred grunted, and took Steph’s hand. “I suppose you’d better come in, then. I’ll make coffee while you wait.”
Bridge followed them inside, ducking her head under the low overhead beams, and rested her bag against the kitchen table. She had always been terrible at small talk, but refused to sit in hostile silence, for Steph’s sake more than Fred’s. So while he prepared the coffee, she asked, “Fixing the roof?”
“Every year. Old houses need care and attention.”
“This is your family’s place, isn’t it? How far back?”
“Four generations of my fathers. And I’ll pass it on to Hugo.”
“Stéphanie’s older,” said Bridge, noting the absence of women in this pattern of inheritance.
“Hugo is my son.”
“Hugo will let me stay here as long as I want,” said Steph. “He does whatever I tell him to.”
Bridge smiled at her. “Oh, I bet he does.”
“Can I have a coffee too, Papa?”
“No,” Fred grunted. “Not until after lunch.”
“But Auntie Bridge is having one.”
“Brigitte is our guest,” Fred said, passing her the coffee. At least he had the grace not to say, “your mother’s guest”.
Steph watched Bridge intently while she sipped the coffee, as if she could somehow drink it vicariously. Then she said, “Is it true you’re a corporate lapdog?” Bridge almost spat coffee over the kitchen table. She didn’t need to ask where the girl had heard that phrase.
Fred shrugged. “It’s a fair question. What’s the British government doing in France, anyway?”
“You know I’m not allowed to discuss it,” said Bridge, wiping her lips with a napkin. “It’s just a trade visit; the usual. And no,” she said to Steph, “I don’t work for corporations, I work for the government. Which means that, really, I work for ordinary people like you and me.”
Fred snorted, but before he could inevitably disagree, they heard the sound of a car pulling into the yard. Steph jumped down off her chair and ran to the door, calling out, “Maman! Maman!”
Bridge followed, waving at Izzy as she approached the car. “Anything I can carry?”
Izzy stopped mid-exit from the car, confused. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Lovely to see you, too, ma soeur. I’m on a work trip up north; thought I’d drive down and surprise you.”
“Maman, Maman,” Steph tugged at her mother’s leg. “Auntie Bridge brought macarons.”
Bridge shrugged, and Izzy rolled her eyes. “Well, maybe you can have one — one — after your lunch. Now help take the shopping in while I get your brother.” Hugo was fast asleep in the back. As Izzy removed him from the child seat, Bridge opened the boot and picked out a small bag for Steph to carry into the house, taking a larger one herself. Her niece walked side by side with her, carrying the bag with a pride normally reserved for diplomatic gifts at state functions.
Lunch was a simple affair of bread, cheese, and a light wine. Bridge didn’t allow herself to drink too much despite her sister’s protestations, and was momentarily horrified when Izzy poured a small glass for Stéphanie. But it was relaxed and cheery, and as the tension in her shoulders eased, Bridge realised how rigid she’d been for the past few days without noticing. Even Fréderic begrudged her a smile or two.
After lunch, Steph took Bridge by the hand and marched her out through the yard, collecting a football along the way. Bridge was somewhat surprised that the miniature lady she’d had dinner with less than a fortnight ago now wanted to kick a ball around a field, but didn’t argue, and Steph ran rings around her. Bridge was working out a little in the guest house room, and taking an occasional run around the streets of Agenbeux, so keeping up with her niece wasn’t a problem. But her ball skills were non-existent, much to Steph’s delight. After five minutes she accused Bridge of letting her win, and a laugh from the direction of the house revealed that Izzy was watching them from the yard, with Hugo sleeping on her shoulder.
Over the years Bridge had often been envious of Izzy, for various reasons. Her beauty, her sophistication, the ease with which she moved through life. But now there was something different, a longing for a way of life she knew, deep down, she would never have. Calm, content, bucolic; these were not words Bridge ever expected to feature in her story. She walked a very different path to her sister, one Izzy didn’t even know existed. It was undeniably stressful, and the sudden temptation to surrender and move to a farm in the middle of nowhere, popping out children while cooking for a gruff French husband, was strong. But it also struck Bridge as an undeniably English fantasy, and that part of her — the aspects of her father’s character she’d so easily inherited — was the very same part that ensured it remained a fantasy. Six months living like this and she’d be bored shitless.
After the football they returned inside to nap, read, and prepare for dinner. Bridge put all thoughts of work out of her mind, until later that evening after Fréderic had taken Hugo to bed. She’d found a battered old copy of Moebius�
� Le Garage Hermétique, in the original black and white, which she’d only previously read in translation. Engrossed in Major Grubert’s travails, she lost track of time and only realised it was dark when a cough from the doorway made her look up. Steph was standing there, with Fred behind her, looking stern.
Izzy, who’d been reading a magazine on the couch, looked over at them. “What’s up?”
“Auntie, why does your computer say ‘Bridget Short’? That’s not your name.”
Bridge inwardly cursed her niece’s insatiable curiosity. She’d brought the Dell laptop with her as a matter of habitual security. Leaving it behind in the Agenbeux guest house was out of the question. If anything happened to it, Giles would roast her alive. She didn’t intend to actually use it here, especially with the lack of internet access at the farm. But Steph must have opened the lid, and been confronted with the login screen for Bridge’s cover identity.
“Stéphanie, those are Auntie Bridge’s private things,” said Izzy. “You mustn’t touch them unless invited to.”
“I wanted to play a game,” said Steph, downcast.
Bridge smiled sympathetically, grateful Izzy had unwittingly given her a few seconds to think. “It doesn’t have any games on it, I’m afraid. It’s a work computer. And that’s why it has that name, it’s a silly joke by the people I work with.”
Fred looked sceptical. “What kind of joke is that?”
“If you hadn’t noticed, Fred, I’m quite tall.”
Izzy snorted. “Not very funny, if you ask me.”
“Well, that’s the civil service IT department for you,” Bridge shrugged. “Stitch me back together again, know what I mean?” She took a swig of wine, hoping to put an end to the line of conversation, but she could see Fred didn’t believe a word of it.
He looked at Izzy and said, “Glaubst du wirklich diesen Mist?”
Izzy looked annoyed, though whether it was because of what Fred said, or because he’d lapsed into German, Bridge couldn’t tell. It was a favourite trick of his. Bridge’s German was poor, and Fred knew it, so he did this when he didn’t want her to understand his conversations with Izzy. Izzy shot back, “Nennen sie meine Schwester nicht eine Lügnerin. Und sprich gefälligst französisch.”
Bridge caught the gist of that, and realised she didn’t care if Fred believed her, so long as Izzy did. But there was now tension in the air, and Steph looked from one parent to the other, confused. “I know,” said Bridge, smiling at her niece, “how about we all play a game together? Do you have any cards in this big old house, maybe?”
Steph clapped her hands together. “No, les Petits Chevaux! Please can we, Papa?”
“You’re supposed to be getting ready for bed,” Fred grumbled.
“Oh, don’t be a grouch,” said Izzy, “let’s have one game. We’re on holiday, remember?”
Fred returned to the kitchen, saying nothing. Steph skipped to a cupboard, and flung open the door to reveal half a dozen battered and worn board games that looked as old as the farm itself. She reached in and carefully removed one from halfway down the pile, steadying the games above it with her other hand as she pulled it out.
It was a game of pure chance, a French version of Ludo, that Bridge had never seen before. She’d always been more of a strategy game player, from furrowing her brow at her father over a chess board as a child, to complex real-time computer wargames as a student. Since joining SIS she’d lost her taste for those and turned instead to European social board games, mostly German, that simulated things like 18th-century Caribbean trading or railway building in Central Europe. Not that she had much opportunity to play these days. So, despite the absurd simplicity of this game, Bridge found herself having fun just because Steph was, delighting in watching her niece go through the seven stages of grief in five seconds flat when one of her pieces was captured, or in celebrating like a lottery winner every time she rolled a six.
“One game” turned into two, because Izzy won and Steph looked like she was about to explode. Bridge won the second, quite by chance, so both she and Izzy breathed a sigh of relief when Steph won the third. While her niece was celebrating, Bridge gave Izzy a look and tipped her head toward the stairs. Izzy smiled, evidently thinking the same thing, and made a big show of looking at the clock. “All right, miss champion,” she said, “you beat us fair and square. Now let’s get you to bed.”
Steph protested, as expected, but Fred picked her up and carried her to her room. He might be an insufferable prick around the dinner table, but he loved his kids, and Bridge began to understand why her sister might be happy enough with him. Wondering if the subject might come up in conversation, she reached for her wine glass — and came face to face with Izzy, frowning at her.
“Why are you really here, Bridge?”
“I told you, I wanted to see you and the kids.”
“I just saw you two weeks ago, and now we’re in a different country, for heaven’s sake. When was the last time you came to France?”
Bridge puffed her cheeks, thinking back. “A while, I guess… oh, I visited Mum last year. Or was that the year before?”
“It was three years ago,” Izzy sighed. “You need to sort yourself out. I don’t know why you’re such a workaholic, you know? It’s not like you have a mega-exciting job, you shouldn’t give it the best years of your life.”
“Oh, come on, let’s not start this again.”
“Start what? I’m just saying you need to get out more. Put yourself out there, before you get left on the shelf.”
Bridge sighed. “That’s Mum talking, isn’t it? I’m not like you, Izz. I’m not looking for a husband.”
“Good thing too, because you’re not going to find one if you still insist on hanging round the goth crowd.”
“Says the woman who introduced me to them. Just because you don’t go clubbing any more, doesn’t mean the rest of the world has to stop.”
“There you go. ‘Clubbing’, for heaven’s sake. You’re thirty years old.”
“Twenty-nine,” Bridge protested. “I can’t believe you forgot how old I am.”
“Whatever, the point is you’re too old for that shit. Don’t they have apps on your computer for finding men, these days? Get someone to do your make-up, put a nice photo online. You’re pretty fit, you just need to sort out your hair and wear something…” she flustered, reaching for a word, “something more attractive. Look at Karen, she was Miss Ubergoth. Then she grew up, and now she looks miles better.”
Izzy had met Karen on the London darkwave scene while at uni. Karen had graduated a few years before, but was still a stereotypical big hair/white face/big dress girl with a habit of getting completely shitfaced, dancing like a whirling dervish, then drunkenly swearing everyone to secrecy about her straight-laced City job. Every weekend, without fail, until one day she just wasn’t there. Izzy had told Bridge the story many times, how she eventually went round to Karen’s flat to find she’d given half her wardrobe to charity, destroyed the other half, and spent the previous two weeks getting through several crates of wine and as many boxes of tissues. A mohawked mutual friend called Big Darren was to blame, and while he soon found himself gotha non grata, the damage was done. Karen joined a gym, found a tailor, and let her roots grow out. After six months she could have walked straight past the old crowd without being recognised by all but her closest friends, and that was how she wanted it.
A year later Izzy had followed in Karen’s footsteps, but Bridge had no intention of suffering the same fate. She didn’t club or drink as often these days, and she certainly didn’t date like she used to, but she’d always had a sort of faith that the universe would figure something out. Staring into her wine now, she wondered if she’d subconsciously been waiting for Tenebrae_Z to make some kind of move, maybe ask to meet in person or simply find her and sweep her off her feet.
“Oh God, Bridge, I’m sorry,” s
aid Izzy.
Bridge was momentarily confused. Sorry for what? But when she looked up from her wine glass, she couldn’t seem to put her sister in focus, and realised she was crying.
Izzy put down her wine and wrapped her arms around Bridge, whispering soothing noises. She took her glass, set it down, and held her tight. Bridge was transported back to childhood, to her mother’s hugs after a grazed knee or climbing accident. All the tension washed out of her body, and without at all meaning to, she fell asleep.
34
“AuntieBridgeAuntieBridgeAuntieBridge!”
Just in case shouting at full volume down her ear didn’t work, Stéphanie also jumped on top of Bridge, squeezing the breath out of her and making her wince. But the girl got her wish, and Bridge was now awake. She mumbled an approximation of “Good morning,” wondering why Izzy had allowed Steph into her bedroom, then recognised the coffee table, wine glasses, and fireplace. She was still on the sofa, fully clothed, under a blanket presumably laid over her by her sister.
Bridge checked the time. Not yet 0800, but Steph was wide awake. Izzy shouted from the kitchen, “Leave your Auntie Bridge alone, Steph. She’s an ogre in the morning.”
Stéphanie fixed Bridge with a sceptical look. “You don’t look like an ogre.”
Bridge jerked upward and roared, looming over the girl with her hands. Steph shrieked, a mixture of shock and laughter, then leapt off the couch and skipped into the kitchen. “Maman’s making cakes,” she called back to Bridge. “I’m going to help.”
“You do that,” Bridge whispered, and swung her legs off the sofa. To her surprise, she felt better than she’d expected. The wine bottle on the table was empty, but she was pretty sure it had still been half-full last time she looked at it. Izzy must have finished the rest herself, which only made her early rising more annoying.
After a quick shower, Bridge followed the warm, sugary scent emanating from the kitchen to find Izzy and Steph taking cake-filled trays out of the oven. Hugo slept in a carry-cot on the counter.
The Exphoria Code Page 15
