Licensed to Spy Page 2

  She was hiding in the large plane tree that overlooked the school entrance, hoping to catch any “prey” who tried to sneak in and thinking longingly of a hot shower and some fish-and-chips, when the crunch of booted feet on gravel snagged her attention. It was getting dark, and hard to see, but from the silhouette someone tall and in civilian dress—could it be Gary?—was heading up the gravel path towards the entrance. Gotcha!

  Jemma leaped from her hiding place, booted feet first. The impact jarred her and sent her target reeling. She rolled, came to her feet, and gripped him in the unbreakable Blade neck lock. But to her complete shock, a flurry of movement broke her grip, and she found herself flying.

  The ground came up and drove the air from her lungs, and for a while everything went hazy. When Jemma came to her senses, a knee was pressed hard on her windpipe and a lack of oxygen was making itself felt. The iciest blue eyes she had ever seen gazed down at her. It wasn’t Gary but a complete stranger. A woman too. Then the crushing pressure was gone, and she could breathe again. Air had never tasted so wonderful. Grateful, she sucked in huge gulps of it.

  “You going to stay down there all day?” asked an amused voice.

  A hand entered Jemma’s field of vision. She took it, startled at the strength of its grip and the ease with which it pulled her to her feet.

  “So-sorry,” she stammered, raising her head. “I thought you were one of my classmates.” She was glad boot polish hid her blush.

  “And you always attack your classmates?” The woman grinned at her. “You’re one of Mac’s, aren’t you? Playing cowboys and indians, huh?”

  “Jacobs.” Her instructor’s voice carried to them on the night air. Jemma froze, then came miserably to attention and waited for the dressing down of her life.

  “What on earth do you think you’re playing—Ash!” Mac’s words ended on a squeak of surprise.

  “Hello, you old rogue,” said the woman.” Still terrorising your students?”

  Ash? Of course. Who else but Ashley Blade could counter the Blade neck lock? Jemma was sure her eyes must be bulging.

  “What are you doing here?” Incredibly, the dour Mac was smiling. “I thought you were in Paris.”

  “I was,” said Blade. It was no wonder Jemma had mistaken her for a man. She must be nearly six-foot tall. “Got a few days leave before Sam and I head out to Copenhagen though. I was in the neighbourhood; thought I’d pop in and see my old teacher.”

  “Not so much of the old. And I never terrorise my students.” Mac adopted a wounded air.

  “Ha!” Blade nodded in Jemma’s direction, and he looked round and saw her rigid posture.

  “At ease, Jacobs.”

  With a sigh of relief, Jemma assumed a more relaxed stance.

  “Apart from attacking the wrong target,” (Jemma suppressed a groan), “she did pretty well. Used my own neck lock on me.” Blade arched an eyebrow. “You haven’t taught her the counter move yet?”

  “That comes later.” He became thoughtful. “Since you’re here, why don’t you take a class? These young pups could do with advice from a seasoned veteran.”

  Yes, please, thought Jemma.

  “Getting even for the ‘old’ crack, I see.” Ash chewed her lip. “I dunno, Mac. Teaching isn’t really my style.”

  “Well, a question and answer session then.”

  It was too much for Jemma’s self control. “Oh yes please. You don’t know how much that would mean to us. Mac—er, I mean Mr. Macdonald—is always telling us about your missions …” She trailed off, once more grateful for the boot polish.

  Mac and Blade exchanged amused glances. “Couldn’t have put it better myself,” said Mac. He looked at Blade. “Well?”

  “Oh, all right then.” She groaned. “Question and answer session it is.”

  “Any questions?”

  Jemma started. Her Section Head had come to the end of his monologue and was looking expectantly at her.

  “Er, no, Mr. Remington.” She tapped the pile of documents with a finger. “I’ll get stuck in right away.”

  Chapter 3

  IT LOOKED LIKE Ash’s instincts had been right—the docks at Los Cristianos were hardly one of Tenerife’s top ten tourist attractions.

  During the day, Adriana waitressed in a teraza coffee shop, so Ash had had plenty of free time in which to track down Abdusamad. It hadn’t taken her long to find the Santa Cruz pension where he was staying under a pseudonym, and she had been on his tail ever since. At first he had explored the local docks, but then he headed south to Los Cristianos, forcing Ash to hire a car. Unfortunately, keeping a low profile meant foregoing the Ferrari 360 Spider she coveted for something more modest: a Fiat Cinquecento.

  This time it looked as if he had found whatever it was he was after. He was inside the ramshackle warehouse now, sealing the deal with the owner. Ash pursed her lips. Was he expecting a shipment of some kind? By boat or air, either was feasible from here; the airport at Reina Sofía was only fifteen km east. What was the betting it was armaments? A return visit to the warehouse tonight would definitely be in order.

  Keeping to the shadows, she slipped away. She could be back in Santa Cruz in an hour and a half, but it was easier to stay here, and there were worse places to spend the day. All of Tenerife’s coastal resorts resembled one another, with their harbours, artificial beaches, spacious plazas, and acres of dazzling glass and concrete. But Los Cristianos was one of the smaller and classier ones, and in parts had retained its fishing village atmosphere. Adriana wouldn’t be happy with her absence, of course. But it couldn’t be helped.

  Ash was heading to the market for something to eat, intending to do a spot of bikini-watching on the sandy playa afterwards, when she slowed. The scene ahead resembled a disturbed ant’s nest. Dogs were barking and straining at their leashes, shopkeepers cursed, and tourists yelled in alarm.

  Zigzagging between the market stalls and kiosks was a curly-haired boy of about twelve, wearing a tattered T-shirt and jeans and clutching something to his chest. Hard on his heels waddled an old woman, her expression furious, a massive bosom straining her flower-print dress. Then came an assortment of men, with something of the old woman’s beaky nose about them—her sons?

  As Ash watched, one man tried a flying tackle, but the boy leaped out of reach, and the man crashed instead into a stall, sending ripe red tomatoes everywhere. The boy thumbed his nose and kept on running. Roaring his outrage, the man struggled to his feet only to collide with a second pursuer, bringing them both to their knees.

  Ash stifled a laugh. The boy’s cockiness reminded her of herself. It had got her into deep trouble, of course.

  It was the London Evening News that had given Ash the idea—that grainy photo on the front page. The American heiress flaunting her diamond necklace obviously had far too much money; it was only fair to relieve her of some of it. That it was the Plutus was an additional, irresistible challenge. Ash had never tried to break into that particular hotel before. Brown’s, she’d done; the Ritz and Claridge’s too—those emeralds had been a real find. But not the Plutus.

  With her contacts it had been easy to get hold of the hotel’s blueprints and wiring diagrams. And so far, things had gone to plan. She’d shinned up the drainpipe of a nearby department store, made her way over the rooftops, swung hand over hand along the cables connecting one building to the next, then climbed catlike up to the spacious terrace that overlooked the London rooftops.

  The newspaper had helpfully mentioned that the wealthy Mr. and Mrs. Mitch Spradlin were staying in the Balmoral, the middle of the three Penthouse suites on the seventh floor. Each comprised two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a sitting room, the latter containing the wall safe. A glance through a gap in the curtains showed Ash the Balmoral’s sitting room was empty. With a satisfied nod, she pulled on her gloves.

  The security system turned out to be one she was familiar with, easily disabled if you knew how, which she did. She unscrewed the casing and re-routed a c
ouple of wires, then turned her attention to the door giving access from the terrace. Kneeling beside it, she set to work, using the picklocks that had cost her the proceeds of her first burglary four years ago. Seconds later, the lock clicked open.

  As she padded across the expensive rug, Ash became aware of a faint rhythmic sound. She paused and listened. Loud snoring was coming from the bedroom. Asleep. Hope they stay that way. She padded on.

  The piercing light from her penlight revealed hefty furniture lying in wait for the unwary shin, an original 1930s fireplace, and marble fixtures. She focussed her attention on the walls. Dozens of framed pictures of all sizes and shapes covered the sunflower-yellow wallpaper. Cursing under her breath, she considered each in turn.

  Too small. Too near the ceiling or the floor. Hmmm. Perhaps that one …

  Unlike the others, the third painting was permanently attached. At Ash’s touch, it swung open to reveal a small, recessed wall-safe. A Jenson. Ash knew its secrets too.

  She positioned the penlight on a bookcase to illuminate her work area, then pressed her ear to the safe and turned the dial. The clicks of the tumblers were very faint, so she pulled the stethoscope from her pocket, tucked the earpieces in her ears, and tried again. Better.

  It took her three minutes to find the correct combination. When the last tumbler clicked into place, releasing the lock, she turned the handle and swung open the heavy door. Nestling on the second shelf was a black velvet jewellery case. Ash grabbed it and flipped open the lid. Diamonds sparkled in the torchlight—the necklace from the newspaper photograph.

  “I’ll take those,” came a man’s voice, and the sitting room lights came on.

  Shocked, Ash spun around and found herself facing a burly man in a trench coat. Where the hell had he come from?

  For a moment she considered making a break for it, but the two men standing behind him changed her mind. They were pointing automatic pistols at her. Ash knew when she was beaten.

  Trenchcoat held out his hand. Reluctantly, she let him take the black velvet case from her.

  “They’re only paste, anyway.” He deposited it in one of his capacious pockets.

  Paste? A trap! And she had walked right into it.

  He gestured, and one of his colleagues stepped forward. She flinched as he began to frisk her, but relaxed as he kept it professional. Most men would have groped her. Were they police? Not with those pistols.

  When he’d finished, and her picklocks had joined the pile of her possessions on the floor, he stepped back. “She’s clean.”

  “Good,” said Trenchcoat.

  “Who are you?” She was pleased her voice didn’t tremble.

  “You won’t have heard of us, Miss Blade.”

  So they knew her name too.

  “We’ve been watching you since Claridge’s. Only twenty, aren’t you? You show a remarkable talent … for burglary.”

  “Not enough, apparently.” Why hadn’t they arrested her?

  “I see you got her,” came a woman’s voice.

  Ash whipped her head around. The overweight heiress from the newspaper was standing in a bedroom doorway, wearing a hideous pink housecoat and slippers. What happened to her American accent?

  “Went like clockwork, Julia. Thank you for your assistance. We shan’t need you or Martin any more.”

  “Splendid. I’ll wake him, and we’ll be on our way back to Wapping then. Good night, Mr. Weatherby.”

  “Good night.

  So they weren’t even real Americans? Wonderful. The woman vacated the doorway, to rejoin the snoring Martin, presumably, and Ash became the centre of attention once more.

  “We could use someone like you,” resumed Weatherby, as though there had been no interruption.

  She didn’t like the sound of that. “We?”

  “The Organisation I work for.”

  “Organised crime? No thanks.” But his wolfish grin told her he held all the cards, and her heart sank.

  “We’re the good guys,” he said. “And I’m afraid you don’t have a choice. It’s either work for us, Miss Blade, or spend the next few years behind bars.”

  She opened her mouth and closed it again.

  Weatherby went to the massive Chesterfield and sat down. It dawned on Ash that the three men must have been hiding behind it. She could have kicked herself for her carelessness.

  “Please. Join me.” He patted the seat next to him.

  Ash walked over to the leather sofa and plopped down on it.

  At her heavy sigh, he threw her an amused glance. “Look at it this way. If you’d gone on the way you were, you’d have ended up in prison for certain. This way, you get to travel the world, experience all the excitement you could possibly want, and do things that in other circumstances would be totally illegal. Now, does that sound so bad?”

  In spite of herself Ash was interested. “Tell me more.”

  And he had. That had been ten years ago, and Weatherby had since become the Organisation’s Chief. Had she really been that green? Travel, excitement, illegal activities—right on all counts. He had skipped over the high death toll though and played her like the master manipulator he was.

  Weatherby had been right on one other point, she conceded. The direction she had been heading back then would have led her to prison or an early grave. A similar fate awaited the boy running towards her. His pursuers were gaining on him. In a few minutes, they would have him.

  Ash assessed her surroundings. Behind her was a narrow archway; she peered through it. At first sight the alleyway was a dead end, blocked by an old-fashioned four-storey townhouse. She checked for drainpipes and gutters, then realised there weren’t any and gave herself a mental kick—Canarians had hardly any rain. Each window, however, had its own sturdy railed balcony brimming with pots of scarlet geraniums. Promising.

  When the boy drew level with her, she was standing in the archway. “This way,” she shouted. Startled brown eyes glanced in her direction. She beckoned. “Come on. They’re gaining on you.” Without waiting for his reaction, she turned and ran.

  As she pounded along the alleyway towards the townhouse, she heard his footsteps following her. Good boy. The recklessness of the enterprise set her pulse racing and put a smile on her face.

  “Señorita,” he panted from just behind her. “There is no way out.”

  Ash didn’t slacken her pace. “There is, if you aren’t afraid of heights,” she called over her shoulder.

  She took the steps up to the townhouse’s front door, but ignored it and leaped for the nearest balcony instead. The boy watched her, his eyes widening.

  “Come on.” She clambered up onto the narrow railing’s rim and put out a hand to steady herself. After a moment, he tucked the small box he’d been carrying into the waistband of his jeans and joined her on the balcony.

  If Ash stretched to her full height, she could almost touch the balcony above them. Good. She leaped, one outstretched hand grabbing for its bars. As her fingers touched metal, her left foot brushed against something, and a flowerpot toppled and shattered. Oops!

  She made sure her grip was firm before looking back down. The boy was staring up at her, mouth open.

  “Grab hold.” She stretched out her free hand.

  He blinked at her but obeyed. Fortunately for her aching arms, he didn’t weigh very much, and she was able to heave him up and almost throw him the last foot. He landed on his stomach over the balcony railing, with an exclamation he quickly suppressed. They’d both have bruises tomorrow, thought Ash, gathering her strength before heaving herself up after him.

  “Okay?” She settled in next to him, and he gave her an owlish blink. “I’ll take that as a yes.” She glanced up at the next balcony. “Right. Onwards and upwards.”

  There were two more tiers to go, and by the time they reached the roof Ash had got the rhythm down pat. With one final burst of effort, she heaved herself onto the tiled roof next to the boy, then, like him, took a moment to catch her breath.


  “All right?” she asked.

  “Si.” His cheeks were pale but his eyes gleamed.

  Angry shouts were coming from the alleyway below them now and someone banged on the townhouse’s front door, demanding entry. The boy’s pursuers must be intending to take the stairs and find a way out onto the roof—a trapdoor or window, perhaps. Ash grabbed his arm and urged him up the gently sloping tiles.

  At the roof’s apex they paused, then slid down the other side. His sharp intake of breath told her he had seen the thirty-foot drop but she didn’t give him time to think. With the sureness of a cat she leaped across the gap to the next roof, and three seconds later, a thud told her the boy had done the same.

  “Well done.” She held out a hand. He took it gratefully. “Come on.”

  She lost track of how many roofs they traversed, how many gaps they leaped, or how much distance they covered. Eventually, though, she judged they had put enough distance between themselves and their pursuers and looked for a way down.

  Safely at street level once more, they rested for a few minutes, then the boy straightened, turned on his heel, and darted off. The flicker in his eyes had given away his intentions, though. Ash flipped over his head and landed in the alley in front of him. Gaping, he turned and ran back the other way. Once more she landed ahead of him.

  “Is this why you helped me, señorita?” He faced her, panting. “To take this for yourself?” He pulled the box from his waistband and held it out.

  If the shabby exterior was anything to go by, the jewellery inside was cheap.

  “No,” said Ash.

  “Then what?”

  “The only thing I want from you is a promise.”

  “A promise?” Calculation entered his eyes. “What makes you think I’d keep it?”

  “Honour between thieves.”

  He snorted. “You aren’t a thief.”

  “I was when I was your age.”

  Interest flickered across his features. “What promise?”