Licensed to Spy Page 4

  “No,” said Jemma.

  “What about the emeralds?”

  “Her prints aren’t on those either,” she admitted.

  “Well, then.” He sat back and folded his arms.

  Jemma advanced the next slide. This time it was a list of financial transactions. “Blade’s bank account. Note this deposit here.” She pointed. “And here.” She pointed again. “In the past few days, deposits totalling one-hundred-thousand pounds have been made into Blade’s personal account from the same Swiss bank account. We’re ninety-nine percent certain it’s a front for al-Akhdar’s terrorist group.”

  Thompson shook his head, his expression stubborn. “There must be some other explanation.”

  If only there were. Jemma pressed a key, and up came a grainy photo, taken using a telephoto lens. At a Canary Island teraza table sat a tanned and relaxed-looking Blade, drinking coffee with a curvaceous blonde. The photographer had caught her in mid-conversation, head turned to address a plump, olive-skinned man with an aquiline nose standing next to her.

  “This came in half an hour ago,” said Jemma. “The man she is talking to is Minyar al-Akhdar.”

  There was a stunned silence.

  “It could be a chance encounter,” said Thompson at last. “As far as I know, Blade has never had dealings with al-Akhdar. Why should she recognise him?”

  “As far as you know,” mimicked Remington.

  Weatherby quelled him with a frown. “Go on, Miss Jacobs.”

  With an inward sigh, Jemma obeyed.“Now look at this.” The list of financial transactions reappeared. She pointed to one—this time the money was flowing out of Blade’s account. “That is the payment Blade made for her casa in Santa Cruz de Tenerife. She started off renting it, but three days ago she bought it outright.” Jemma pressed the key, and up flashed a slide of the casa’s title deeds. There for all to see was the flamboyant scrawl that passed for Blade’s signature.

  At that, Weatherby grunted and stood up. “I’ve seen enough. Thank you, Miss Jacobs. You’ve been very thorough.” He raised an eyebrow at Thompson.

  Blade’s Section Head gave him a reluctant nod. “It’s circumstantial, but enough to raise a question mark about her loyalty,” he admitted. “Especially given her state of mind.”

  Everyone present knew Blade’s partner and close friend Sam Carney had been killed on her last mission. And that she had taken it hard. Carney, Jemma had been unsurprised to learn, was the smiling man in the photos in Blade’s flat.

  “Clearly, she’s reverted to type,” said Remington, too eagerly for Jemma’s taste. “Once a thief, always a thief. And if she blames us for Carney’s death, selling us out to the Libyans is a distinct possibility.”

  “But she doesn’t blame us,” objected Thompson. “Herself maybe,” he added in an undertone.

  “Nevertheless.” Weatherby’s lips thinned. “Bring her in for questioning. Let’s get to the bottom of this business, for once and for all. It’s affecting morale.”

  “Already in hand, Chief,” said Remington. “I’ve chartered a plane. Miss Jacobs and I are flying to the Canary Islands tonight.”

  Surprise made Jemma’s stomach turn over. Are we? I’d better go home and pack.

  Weatherby paused by the briefing room exit. “If Blade’s clean, we need to establish it and get her back out in the field pronto. If she isn’t …” He glanced from Jemma to Remington and back again, his expression grave. “Try not to damage her until you’re sure.”

  Chapter 5

  KHALEB ABDUSAMAD HAD disappeared. Just like that.

  Ash ground her teeth in frustration. Yesterday he had toured the whole island, visiting all the beauty spots listed in the Tenerife guidebook and more, until she began to wonder if he really was just sightseeing. She had dogged him like his own shadow and seen him safely back to his pension for the night. And now he was gone, had checked out early, leaving no forwarding address according to his landlady.

  She returned to the casa, feeling out of sorts. He had spotted her, she was sure of it. But when? Before he led her to the warehouse in Los Cristianos? She didn’t think so. Her search of it had revealed nothing earth shattering—just an empty cargo bay assigned to him, according to the documents in the warehouse manager’s messy office. He was awaiting a shipment of some kind, she’d stake her reputation on it. But she was no further forward in knowing what it was.

  “Peseta for your thoughts, English.” Adriana was regarding her curiously.

  “A headache,” Ash temporised. It was not strictly speaking a lie. If Abdusamad was up to something and had gone to ground, it could turn into a major headache. Perhaps Ramirez would know something she didn’t.

  “Poor baby.” Adriana tried to ruffle Ash’s hair, and she ducked the reaching hand. The tlc, a welcome novelty at first, was beginning to get on her nerves. Sam had always accused her of having a short attention span. Perhaps he was right.

  “Shouldn’t you be at work?”

  Adriana frowned. “A few more minutes.”

  “Only, I have something I need to do.”

  “Very well,” said Adriana curtly. “If you wish me to go, then I will go.” She flounced towards the door.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean …” The front door slammed. Oh, yes I did, thought Ash ruefully. As the clipclop of high heels faded, she reached for her mobile phone and dialled.

  Someone picked up the receiver. “Si?” She recognised Ramirez’s voice.

  “This is Blade. Scramble.” She activated the scrambler and waited for the white noise to disappear. It didn’t. She cancelled the call and redialled.

  “Si?”

  “Blade again—”

  “Señorita,” interrupted Ramirez, his voice urgent. “There is a fault with your phone.”

  “Fault?” The code word for a security breach. Was that why her scrambler wasn’t working? They’d changed all the codes? “I see.” She paused, working out the ramifications. She couldn’t ask him about Abdusamad over an unsecured line. “Then how do I go about getting my phone repaired?”

  “Bring it in,” came the reply. “You know the address?”

  Tenerife’s Field Office was on the west side of Santa Cruz, on the Calle Salamanca, if she remembered rightly. “Sure. No problem. I’ll come in right away.” And while Ramirez was giving her the new codes she could ask in person about the missing Libyan.

  “We’ll be expecting you.”

  THE FIELD OFFICE was, on the face of it, indistinguishable from its neighbours—that the building’s front door and windows were bomb-and bullet-proof wasn’t obvious. Ash tried not to blink as she gazed up into the security camera, then spoke her name into the intercom. It took several seconds for the automated security system to retrieve her voiceprint and retinal scan, then the lock clicked open.

  She pushed open the heavy door and stepped into the hall. In the room on the left a keyboard clattered. She headed towards it.

  A Canarian woman in a blue cotton dress looked up from her computer, removed her earphones, and smiled. “Go on in, señorita.” She gestured towards another door. “Señor Ramirez is expecting you.” She placed her headset on the desk and stood up. “I will make you some coffee.”

  “No need.” Ash headed towards the door.

  “It’s no trouble.”

  On the other side of the door she halted in surprise. She had been expecting to find Ramirez, but the office contained three people, one of whom she recognised at once. “Remington.” She viewed the Security Section Head with distaste. “Bit out of your way, aren’t you? What are you doing in Tenerife?”

  He gestured at the attractive young blonde woman in the jeans and T-shirt, who seemed familiar. “Delivering the new codes and passwords in person. And in the process, showing my new operative, Miss Jacobs, the ropes.”

  “I’m Ramirez,” said the other man, whose lightweight shirt and trousers were more suited to the climate than Remington’s ubiquitous pinstripes. “We spoke on the phone.”
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br />   Ramirez gestured Ash towards a vacant chair, and she took it. A phrase Remington had used struck her as odd. “In person. Is that usual?”

  Remington shrugged. “This isn’t a very usual situation.”

  “I suppose not.”

  The woman in the blue dress brought in Ash’s coffee. Ash smiled at her as she placed it on the desk next to her, then looked at Ramirez. “Care to fill me in on what’s happened?” With a shrug, he indicated Remington, so she turned back to him for news.

  “As you’ve no doubt guessed,” said Remington, donning a look of self-importance, “there’s been a major security breach.”

  “Anyone I know?” She sipped her coffee and grimaced—the milk must have turned.

  “In a manner of speaking.” His eyes glittered.

  She refused to rise to his cryptic comment. He would tell her in the end—he wouldn’t be able to resist showing off. Instead, she eyed Miss Jacobs (why did Remington never use Christian names?), whose green eyes had remained fixed on Ash since she had entered.

  Where do I know you from? This time a memory surfaced. Aha. “Mac’s training school last November. Jemma, isn’t it?”

  Jemma blushed. “That’s right.”

  She seemed unable to hold Ash’s gaze without discomfort. Ash wondered what that was about. But her thought processes felt uncharacteristically sluggish. With a mental shrug, she turned her attention to Ramirez. He had come to stand beside her and was holding out his hand.

  “The phone,” he prompted. “If I’m to get the new codes put in it?”

  It was a moment before his meaning penetrated. Ash took a breath. “Oh, yes.” She unzipped her bumbag, pulled out her mobile phone … and dropped it. Puzzled, she blinked down at it. Something’s not right!

  “What—” The word came out slurred, setting her internal alarm bells clanging. Instinct took over, and she lurched to her feet. “What have you done to me?”

  Ash reached inside her jacket, but it took her two attempts to pluck the Browning from its holster, and the slackness of her grip meant Ramirez disarmed her easily. She punched him in the solar plexus—a weak and clumsy attempt not up to her usual standard, but enough to give him something to think about.

  Must get out of here.

  She was staggering towards the door, when a hand on her elbow spun her around. Off balance, she crashed into a chair, then slammed into the wall.

  “I’m sorry. But we had no choice.” It was Jemma who had grabbed Ash. Her face was anguished, but behind her, her boss wore a triumphant smile.

  Darkness crept round the edges of Ash’s vision as she slid down the wall. They thought she was the one who had breached security, she realised. “No!” Her protest emerged as a mere whisper. “You’re wrong.” Her lips felt puffy, her tongue numb. Whatever they had put in her coffee, it was powerful and worked damned fast.

  Then Jemma was kneeling next to her. She straightened Ash’s boneless limbs to make her more comfortable, and brushed a strand of hair out of Ash’s eyes. She leaned closer and said something, but the roaring in Ash’s ears made the words inaudible.

  “Not m—” croaked Ash. Then blackness overtook her.

  ASH WOKE TO the headache from hell and a mouth like the Gobi desert.

  I must have really tied one on last night! She tried to rub the grit from bleary eyes and found she couldn’t move her hands. What the—?

  Her wrists were strapped down. Her ankles too. She twisted awkwardly—something round her neck was restricting her movements—and tested her bonds, but found no give in them at all.

  Ash’s surroundings were unfamiliar. The shuttered windows didn’t belong to her casa’s bedroom, and that trolley full of wires and gauges and other equipment certainly wasn’t hers. As for the unyielding surface beneath her … Definitely not my bed, she thought with trepidation. More like an operating table.

  Memory returned. Remington.

  A door creaked open, and the light footsteps that followed made her tense up.

  Jemma Jacobs walked into view. She was carrying a tray on which sat a single plastic cup, a clipboard, and a folder. She placed the tray on the table and brought the cup over to Ash.

  “Here.” A straw poked out of the cup, and she held it to Ash’s mouth. Ash had the devil’s own thirst, but she pressed her lips together. “It’s just water.”

  They had drugged Ash once already, and she was damned if they were going to do it to her again. As though divining her thoughts, Jemma put the straw to her own lips, and sucked. Her Adam’s apple bobbed. If she was pretending to swallow, she was a good actress.

  This time, when the straw was offered, Ash sucked it greedily. Cool water slid down her gullet, revitalising as it went, and almost at once her headache eased. When rude sucking noises signalled the cup was empty, she released the straw. “Thanks.”

  With a nod, Jemma retrieved the empty cup. While she returned it to the tray, Ash took the opportunity to observe her. Her hair was cut a little shorter than she remembered. Aware of her scrutiny, Jemma’s cheeks reddened.

  “You always seem to be ambushing me. Why is that?” Ash flexed her arms and legs, and winced—the bonds were tight enough to cut.

  “Don’t,” said Jemma, noticing. “They’ve got a two-hundred pound breaking strain. You’ll only hurt yourself.”

  “Remington’s taking no chances, I see. Didn’t know the bastard had it in him. Was drugging me his idea too?”

  “That was my contribution,” said Jemma. “My instructions were to find a way to bring you in for questioning without hurting you.”

  Ash stared at her nemesis. “Might’ve guessed,” she muttered. “So, what am I supposed to have done this time?”

  Jemma regarded her gravely. “Gone over to the enemy.”

  Ash snorted. “What crap!” The door creaked open and heavy footsteps approached. Jemma’s reaction told her who it must be. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, Remington.”

  “We’ll see, won’t we?” His tone was smug, and as he moved into her field of vision she saw he was smirking. Damn him.

  “Miss Jacobs, will you do the honours, please?” He gestured at the trolley and its hi-tech cargo. Obligingly, Jemma wheeled it over to Ash then plugged in the machines and began to attach electrodes to her.

  “Let me guess,” Ash joked, though she had recognised the equipment. “Electric shock treatment?”

  “Polygraph test,” said Jemma.

  “Fucking waste of time.”

  Remington sucked in his breath. “Language!”

  Anal-retentive prick.

  She didn’t resist as Jemma attached metal plates to the index and ring fingers of her right hand. She’d thought about putting up a fight, but decided against it. A polygraph test wouldn’t hurt. More importantly, it would show she was innocent and then she could be on her way.

  Giving her a smile of thanks for her co-operation, Jemma threaded two rubber tubes around Ash’s chest and abdomen. Then she inflated a blood pressure cuff round Ash’s upper arm and stood back.

  Remington, meanwhile, had positioned himself by the polygraph. Already, the print head was moving up and down, inscribing a jagged line of black ink on the unscrolling paper.

  “All set,” he pronounced.

  “Finally,” muttered Ash, attracting an amused glance from Jemma.

  Jemma fetched the clipboard and folder she had brought in earlier and pulled up a chair. No doubt Remington had left her to come up with the questions too. She cleared her throat. “Is your name Ashley Blade?”

  As good a calibration question as any. “Yes.”

  The print head scribbled, and Remington annotated the entry.

  “Do you own a flat in Albert Terrace, London?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you a seventy-year-old, male American?”

  “No.”

  “Do you like Marmite?”

  Ash regarded Jemma with approval. You’ve done your homework. “No.”

  “Thank you.” Jem
ma looked at Remington. “Is everything working okay?”

  “Yes. Continue, please, Miss Jacobs.”

  She looked at her clipboard again. “Is the name Khaleb Abdusamad known to you?”

  So this is about the Libyan. “Yes.”

  “Have you ever met him?”

  “No,” said Ash.

  “Have you ever seen him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is the name Minyar al-Akhdar known to you?”

  Ash had to think about that one for a moment. She had a suspicion she’d heard the name before. “Yes.”

  “Have you ever met him?” asked Jemma.

  “No.”

  “Have you ever seen him?”

  “No.”

  The smile on Remington’s face gave Ash a nasty feeling. When Jemma extracted a photograph from the folder and showed it to her, her unease intensified.

  “Is that you sitting in the coffee shop?”

  “Yes.” The photo was quite a flattering one of Adriana, Ash noted.

  “Do you know that man?” Jemma pointed to the tourist who had interrupted their conversation to ask for directions.

  “No.”

  Remington snorted in disbelief.

  “I don’t,” protested Ash. “He just wanted to know the way to the museum.”

  “Please,” chided Jemma. “Stick to yes or no. That man is Minyar al-Akhdar.”

  “And who the hell is he when he’s at home?”

  “We’ll ask the questions,” said Remington.

  Ash tried not to grind her teeth.

  “Has Minyar al-Akhdar ever given you a bottle of honey rum?” asked Jemma.

  What is she talking about? “No.”

  “The casa you are staying in,” continued Jemma, her voice neutral. “Do you own it?”

  The apparent change of subject made Ash blink. “No.”

  Her answer prompted another opening of the folder, and she found herself staring at the title deeds to the casa, her signature prominent on the dotted line.

  “Is that your signature?” asked Jemma.

  “It looks like it but it isn’t.”

  “Yes or no.”

  “Look, I can’t … It’s not that simple.”

  Jemma’s brows knit then smoothed. “I’ll rephrase the question. Did you sign this title deed?”