Licensed to Spy Page 3

  “To return that,” she indicated the box, “to its rightful owner. You don’t have to give it to her in person, just leave it somewhere she’ll find it.”

  The suggestion outraged him. “Why should I?”

  She shrugged. “Because that’s my price for saving your hide.”

  “You didn’t save …” At her glare his voice trailed off. “Okay, you did, but …”

  “Or I could return it for you.” She held out a hand.

  He clutched the box tighter. “But I need it more than she does.”

  “That’s not the point.” How could she put it in terms he’d understand? “Suppose those are all she has to remind her of someone she loved?” Just as I have those hideous earrings Sam gave me for my birthday.

  “That fat old cow never loved anyone except herself.”

  “Believe me, even fat old cows can love people.” Ash cocked her head and studied him. “Has anyone ever told you that your grasp of English is amazing?” At her compliment, the tips of his ears reddened. She smiled. “So. Will you promise me you’ll return what you stole?” A thought struck her. “If it’s about the money … Here.”

  She pulled a wad of pesetas from her pocket and tossed it at him. He snatched them from the air, then stooped to retrieve an errant note.

  “Why are you doing this, señorita?” He stuffed them in his jean pocket.

  Ash shrugged. “Because ten years ago, someone gave me the chance to go straight. And I took it and never looked back.” She paused. “Now I’m giving you that chance.”

  Suddenly he looked like the twelve-year-old boy he was. His mouth twisted and he muttered, then he gave a loud sigh. “Okay. I promise.”

  “Thank you.”

  He peered at her from under long lashes. “That’s it?”

  Ash nodded. He must think she was either naïve or crazy. And tomorrow he would probably go back to his thieving ways. But it was a start. And just maybe it would make him rethink, and one day …

  “I can go?”

  She nodded again.

  He smiled then, and it was like the sun coming out from behind rain clouds. “My name is Vito.”

  “Pleased to meet you. My name is Blade. Ashley Blade.” She returned his smile.

  He batted long eyelashes at her, and she caught a glimpse of the heartbreaker he would be when he grew up. “I like older women.”

  She laughed. “Sorry, Vito. You’re too young for me. And anyway, I prefer girls.” He hadn’t expected that, she could tell, but he hid his disappointment well.

  “I have never met anyone like you before, Ashley Blade. It has been,” he gave her a dignified little bow, “an experience.”

  “Likewise.”

  For a long moment he regarded her, then he seemed to come to a decision. “I have many contacts in the islands. If you should need help while you are here, you have only to ask.”

  His offer touched her. “Thank you, Vito. I’ll remember that.”

  His gaze went over her shoulder and his eyes widened. “Look out!”

  Shit! Ash glanced round, but, of course, no one was there. When she turned back, she was just in time to see Vito’s backside disappearing round the end of the alleyway. Why, you little …

  His laughter floated back to her on the afternoon breeze.

  Chapter 4

  LOUD VOICES JARRED Jemma back to her surroundings. She had been daydreaming, she realised guiltily. Again. But after a week of tedium, it was understandable. The voices were coming from the corridor outside the poky little office she shared with another agent.

  She pushed aside the Procedures manual she had been reading, and stuck her head out the door. Two men were having a slanging match—Remington and someone she didn’t recognise, a stocky man with a bushy moustache.

  “That’s Thompson,” came a voice in her ear. Jonathan Byatt, the junior Security agent who shared her office, had returned from his jaunt to the coffee machine. “Counter Intelligence.”

  Blade’s boss.

  Thompson stabbed an angry forefinger at Remington. “I know her. She wouldn’t do this. Your informant must be wrong.”

  “There’s always that possibility.” For some reason, Jemma’s boss was relishing this confrontation with his fellow Section Head. “But until we know for certain, I’m taking no chances.”

  Jemma turned to Jonathan. “Who are they talking about?”

  “Ashley Blade, of course.”

  “Blade? But—”

  “They think she’s been turned. Tip-off came in early this morning. From someone in Tenerife.”

  Impossible!

  Thompson’s face reddened. “If we pulled in every agent because of an anonymous tip-off, we’d have no one left in the field. You need more evidence.”

  “And we’ll get it. Don’t worry on that score. My staff follow procedures to the letter.”

  “I’m going to see Weatherby. He’ll scotch this nonsense—”

  “He’s already approved my decision.”

  “What?” Thompson looked thunderstruck.

  “Unlike you,” said Remington, his expression smug, “the Chief doesn’t let his fondness for Blade blind him. And if there’s even the slightest chance security has been compromised …” He shrugged.

  Face suddenly pale, Thompson stepped back. “In that case, just remember I’ll be watching you like a hawk. And if you’re wrong about her …” Leaving the unspoken threat hanging in mid-air, he walked away.

  Remington watched him go, then turned and spotted the two eavesdroppers. He beckoned. “Come with me.”

  “Uh oh,” said Jonathan.

  They followed their boss along the corridor to his office and waited while he rooted around in a filing cabinet and found the folder he was looking for. He sat down, leaned his elbows on the desk, and fixed them with a keen gaze.

  “Counter Intelligence agent Ashley Blade is now a security risk,” he said. “All our codes and passwords must be changed.”

  He looked at Jonathan. “Pargeter’s expecting you, Mr. Byatt. Getting the new codes to all our field operatives is a massive undertaking. I told him you’ll help.”

  Jonathan groaned under his breath but forced a smile. “I’m on it, Mr. Remington.”

  “As for you, Miss Jacobs.” Remington handed her the folder. “You’ll need this.”

  Jemma read its label: Blade, Ashley.

  “Get over to Blade’s flat and search it from top to bottom. There’s a duplicate set of her keys in there.”

  Her heart sank. Was she to be the one charged with locating her idol’s feet of clay? “Yes, Mr. Remington.”

  “If you find anything even remotely not squeaky clean, I want to know about it. Is that clear?”

  “Very.”

  “Then do the same for Blade’s finances,” he continued. “If the bank managers need authorisation, refer them to me.”

  She nodded.

  “And remember—you report directly to me and no one else. If Blade’s Section Head approaches you, refer him to me. Got it?”

  “Got it.” And I really wish I hadn’t.

  CARPARKING SPACE WAS at a premium all around Regent’s Park, so Jemma found a vacant meter as close to Albert Terrace as she could get, then jogged the rest of the way. The fingerprint boys, when they arrived, were going to have problems parking too.

  She located the right house number and started up the steps to its front door. Three formidable double locks secured Blade’s first floor flat against the world. It would have taken Jemma half an hour to pick them at least, but with the keys Remington had provided, she was inside in moments.

  Surprisingly, no post had piled up behind the door in Blade’s absence, though a stack of circulars and unopened letters and bills lay on the hall table. Jemma gathered them up, then took in her surroundings. Her first impression was one of spaciousness and light. From the outside, the terrace buildings were Georgian, but Blade had gutted and remodelled the interior so that it was bang up to date. She’s clearly no
t short of a bob or two.

  Jemma carried the letters into the sitting room and placed them on a coffee table. Though the three-piece suite looked inviting, she didn’t sit—the fingerprint boys must check everything first. Curious about Blade’s tastes, she scanned the room slowly, swivelling on one heel. The state-of-the-art entertainment centre, which boasted the largest TV screen and speakers she had seen outside a cinema, provoked a pang of envy. As did the well-stocked drinks cabinet, containing some liqueurs Jemma had never even heard of. But this room wasn’t only about comfort and relaxation, she noted. In a keep fit area at its far end was a worn exercise mat, a set of dumbbells, and a battered punchbag hanging from a wall bracket.

  The doorbell chimed, and Jemma retraced her steps. Two men in identical trench coats stood on the doormat, one tall and thin and carrying a small suitcase, the other short and sandy-haired.

  “Miss Jacobs?” said the man with the suitcase. She nodded. “Sorry we’re late,” Couldn’t find anywhere to park.”

  He flashed her his ID card, and she saw the Organisation’s familiar logo. His colleague did the same.

  “Come in.”

  Mentally dubbing them the Thin Man and Sandy, Jemma watched them deposit the case on the wine-coloured hall carpet, open it, and take out the tools of their trade.

  “Here.” The Thin Man handed her a pair of latex gloves, and she put them on. “Where would you like us to start?”

  Jemma thought for a moment. “The sitting room, please.”

  While they dusted fine powder over every surface and inspected it for prints, she kept out of their way and filled her time exploring the rest of the flat. Blade’s toothbrush and deodorant were missing from the bathroom, and a travel bag was absent from the matching set of luggage in the bedroom.

  A built-in wardrobe revealed Tshirts and sweatshirts, ripped blue jeans and chinos. There were also a couple of smart skirt suits, for more formal occasions, and a low-backed red dress that must look stunning. For shoes, Blade appeared to favour sneakers and boots, but there were high heels too.

  A huge bed dominated the bedroom. Jemma regarded it with raised eyebrows then sat on its edge and gave an experimental bounce.

  “Miss Jacobs?” Sandy was peering round the door.

  Cheeks flushing, she shot to her feet. “Yes?”

  “We’ve finished in the sitting room if you want to get started.”

  “That was quick. Thanks.” She followed him back.

  The phone now sported a fine residue of powder. “Did you find any prints?” asked Jemma, dialling 1471 and noting down the number of the last caller.

  “Some good ones on the door, the light switch, a bottle of Rum … oh, and one of the dumbbells,” said Sandy. “We should have eliminated Blade’s and tried for a match on the others by the time you get back to HQ.”

  “Great.”

  While the fingerprinters turned their attention to the other rooms, Jemma pressed Redial and noted who Blade had last telephoned, then bagged the answerphone tape which contained a single, rather cryptic message.

  A search of the bookcase revealed a taste for travel guides and thrillers. Jemma riffled the pages of each, but nothing had been slipped between them except a couple of amusing bookmarks. The CD collection was mostly World music—African and Brazilian in particular. Again, nothing hidden. She turned to the stack of DVDs and videos, and was scanning the blurb on the back of an erotic lesbian video when the Thin Man reappeared. Hurriedly she put it down.

  “All done?” she asked him.

  He nodded. “My colleague’s tidying up.” He paused. “Blade keeps some interesting items in her bedside cabinet.”

  “Does she?”

  “Including this.” He held out a jewel case, and Jemma took it. “Of course there might be a legitimate explanation, but …” He peeled off his latex gloves and put them in his pocket.

  Jemma opened the box and gasped. On a cushion of pale blue silk nestled a necklace, its gemstones sparkling a brilliant green in the morning sunlight. Uh oh!

  “Thanks,” she said, keeping her voice neutral. She pulled an evidence bag from her pocket, popped the jewel case in it, and sealed it.

  “You’re welcome.” Sandy appeared in the doorway. “All set?” Sandy nodded. “Good.” The Thin Man turned back to Jemma. “We’ll be out of your hair, then.”

  “Thank you.”

  When the front door had clicked shut and silence had descended once more, Jemma began a methodical, inch-by-inch search of Blade’s flat and possessions.

  The envelopes that she had placed on the sitting room coffee table contained some useful stuff—a credit card bill, a bank statement, and a new chequebook—but Jemma struck gold in the study when she came across a concertina file in which Blade kept all her financial and insurance information. A quick call to the managers of the relevant companies and institutions set in motion procedures that would give Jemma access to their records. Soon, all Blade’s recent monetary transactions would be available for scrutiny. In the meantime …

  She returned to the bedroom and opened the top drawer of the bedside cabinet. Her cheeks flamed as she saw what the Thin Man had been referring to—the two sex toys it contained now bore faint traces of fingerprint powder. Why on earth had Blade kept the emerald necklace in there? A gift from one of her lovers? (According to Blade’s file, she had an active sex life.) With a grimace, she shoved the drawer closed.

  It struck Jemma that there were few things of a personal nature throughout the flat—none of the family photographs that littered her own flat’s tables and shelves, for example. But then, from what Jemma knew of Blade, her upbringing had hardly been conventional.

  What photos there were showed Blade with a handsome young man with a wide smile and floppy blond fringe. He seemed vaguely familiar, but Jemma couldn’t place him. Photo after photo featured the pair, arms round each other’s shoulders, wearing shit-eating grins and standing in front of the Eiffel Tower, the Coliseum, the Taj Mahal … She made a mental note to find out his identity.

  Half-an-hour’s scrutiny of the PC convinced her that Blade used it for little except playing shoot-’em-up video games. But then, she was seldom here, and when she was in residence—if those videos and the contents of that drawer were any indication—she had more pleasurable things to do.

  Jemma switched off the PC, massaged the bridge of her nose, and glanced at her watch. By now the bank records should have been authorised and transferred. It was time to return to HQ and see what she had got.

  “OVER TO YOU, Miss Jacobs.” Remington gestured at Jemma then sat down.

  Nervously, she took his place at the front of the briefing room. Her laptop was already open on the table in front of her, a cable connecting it to the wallscreen behind her. At a keystroke, the slideshow she had prepared would get underway.

  She straightened her jacket. It was one thing revealing her findings to her boss, another presenting them to the Section Head of Counter Intelligence. “To summarise,” she began.

  The door opened and the Chief came in. “Don’t mind me.” He took a chair at the back.

  Weatherby himself. It just gets better and better. Jemma cleared her throat. “This morning, I ran a security check on Ashley Blade’s flat. At my request, Fingerprint Section dusted the place for prints first.” She checked to see she had everyone’s attention. She did. “In the top drawer of Blade’s bedside cabinet,” she continued, refusing to blush at the memory of its contents, “we found a bracelet.”

  She pressed a key and the bracelet in question appeared on the wallscreen. “Emeralds. High quality stones. Reputedly worth ten-thousand pounds.” Someone inhaled sharply; she wasn’t sure who. “Four days ago,” she went on, “a Belgian couple staying at the Georges V Hotel in Paris reported this bracelet missing. An investigation revealed no trace, so Interpol posted it on their missing valuables website.”

  She glanced at her audience. Remington was relishing the presentation, but Thompson looked stricken. �
�It’s no secret,” she said with reluctance, “that before she joined the Organisation, Blade was a successful cat burglar. Or that her gemstones of choice were emeralds.”

  “You said Paris,” objected Thompson. “On that date she was in the Canary Islands, on leave.”

  Sorry. Jemmapressed the key, and the picture changed to one containing three lists of names and numbers. She pointed to the first list. “Passenger manifest, Flight 204, Tenerife to Paris, four days ago. Note the name of the passenger in seat 30A.” She moved on to the second list. “Paris to London, the next day.” And the final list. “London to Tenerife.”

  “For God’s sake!” said Thompson. “If she were going to commit a burglary, would she fly under her own name?”

  Jemma had made the same point to Remington earlier, but she restrained herself to a shrug. “I’m just presenting the facts, Mr. Thompson. They’re circumstantial, but taken as a whole …”

  She pressed another key, and a man’s voice filled the briefing room. “Garvey here. Good news. I’ve found a buyer for that item you mentioned. I’ll wait to hear from you.”

  “This message was left on Blade’s answering machine,” said Jemma, her tone neutral. “We traced the caller. Garvey is Mike Garvey, a well-known fence. He specialises in relocating stolen jewellery.”

  Thompson folded his arms. “Anyone could have left her a message saying anything at all.”

  Jemma risked a glance at Weatherby, but his expression was unreadable. “True. Moving on.”

  She pointed at the whorled pattern now showing on the wallscreen. “I had Blade’s flat dusted for fingerprints. We found these thumbprints on a bottle of seven-year-old Ron Miel Guanche in her drinks cabinet.” She saw their puzzlement. “Honey rum—a speciality of the Canary Islands.”

  “Sounds disgusting,” murmured Weatherby.

  “There was a gift card attached. It read: ‘A small token of my appreciation, M.’ ”

  “M?” said Thompson.

  Jemma nodded. “The prints belong to a Libyan terrorist named Minyar al-Akhdar.”

  For a moment no one spoke. Then Thompson said, “Are Blade’s fingerprints on the bottle of honey rum too?”