Читать книгу From Paris, With Love - Samantha Tonge - Страница 12

Chapter 3

‘You’re telling me that “taking care of” Edward meant texting him, to say I was going for a walk, to look around? Liar! You haven’t even got his number.’ My eyes narrowed, although it was hard to concentrate on mystery man’s face, due to the distraction of… *sigh*… a mega romantic view in front of me. We sat on the steps of the Sacre-Coeur. I’d been driven there, handed a bottle of water and a yummy bar of English chocolate – ridiculous, or what? One of mystery man’s colleagues – also in a black suit and smelling strongly of a pungent musky aftershave – sat behind us, on the next step up.

My abductor shrugged. ‘We know a lot of things.’

‘Like this?’ I ran a finger over the chocolate bar’s purple wrapper. ‘How did you know it was my favourite?’ Perhaps, after all, he wasn’t an axe murderer or dangerous criminal with a ransom plan… Although, eek! I hadn’t thought of that – now that the Croxley family had won a million dollars, perhaps he thought they’d pay up for my release.

‘Look, what’s your name?’ I said, trying to act all huffy, which was impossible as I gazed back down at the City of Light. When we’d first arrived, I’d just about been able to make out the details of roofs, chimneys and aerials. Now, however,everywhere was liquorice black, as if the starry sky had fallen to earth, just like that children’s story where Brer Rabbit thinks the moon has dropped into a pond. Lights twinkled and towards the right stood the sparkly Eiffel Tower.

I turned around, and gazed up at the awesome Sacre-Coeur church, illuminated by an amber glow. A Native American band played nearby, with their drums, flutes and pipes. Chat, laughter and ciggie smoke filled the air. Necking wine out of a bottle, a tramp sat next to us and directly in front was a group of camera-clicking Japanese girls.

I unwrapped the chocolate. With his black suit, perhaps I’d been accosted by the Man from Milk Tray.

‘Hmm. Yumski…’ I said, after swallowing the first creamy mouthful.

‘Yumski – have you distant Russian ancestors?’ His brow furrowed.

‘I’m not answering any questions until you tell me your name.’

He stared at me for a moment. ‘Bloggs. The name is Joe Bloggs.’

‘I see, and…’ Huh? I put the rest of the bar on my lap. ‘Really? You expect me to fall for that?’

He raised one eyebrow, which looked kinda hot– but nowhere near as sexy as Lord Edward, of course.

‘Your help is needed,’ he continued. ‘As part of the ongoing 2014-2018 events to commemorate the centenary of the First World War, four weeks tomorrow, on the first Saturday in March, the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge are visiting Paris. They’ll attend a charity football match. It will star legends of the game from around the world.’

‘Yeah, I’ve heard – it’s supposed to represent the famous Christmas Eve truce in the trenches, isn’t it, when the two sides came together to play football?’ See, I did pay attention during my history classes at school… (okay, you’ve got me – I really knew because of Paul McCartney’s video to his famous Christmas song “Pipes of Peace”.)

‘Indeed. And…’ Joe cleared his throat. ‘I have reason to believe that the royal couple’s safety is compromised.’ He stared intently at me. ‘That’s where you come in.’

I snorted. ‘Huh? Who do you work for? The M5?’

His top lip twitched. ‘That’s a motorway. Try MI5 – the Security Service, who keep an eye on domestic affairs in Britain, but no, I’m not…’

‘Duh, of course you aren’t…’ I snorted. ‘That organisation only really exists in movies.’

‘I’m actually from MI6,’ he continued, ‘also known as the SIS – the Secret Intelligence Service who focus on foreign affairs.’

I almost spat out a mouthful of water. ‘You mean…’ I wiped my lips. ‘Like James Bond? You’re an international spy?’

‘If you like.’

A mega bubble of laughter rose within my chest. My eyes watered. It was no good, and like an over-microwaved stuffed tomato I suddenly burst. Tears trickled down my cheeks and a convoluted (one of Edward’s words) giggle escaped my lips.

‘For God’s sake!’ I said. ‘You’ve got a nerve – pretending to be from a supposed top-secret institution that would never pick up someone in broad daylight and talk of their secret plans. I’ve watched Austin Powers and Johnny English… You can’t fool me.’

Oh dear. Laughing fit again. Finally I recovered. ‘Sorry, mate, but in any case, I am the most unlikely potential female spy you could ever meet. I haven’t got a rude name, like Pussy Galore, and would look rubbish in her cat suit. Nor have I got awesome hair like Charlie’s Angels, and I don’t kick quite as high as that woman in The Avengers…’ I shook my head. ‘Whoever you are – TV company, newspaper – I’m not interested. Ring my agent if you must,’ (wicked isn’t it, I now “had people”, mainly to fob off nutters like this). ‘I could have you charged for kidnapping me…’ I stood up to leave but Joe pulled me back down.

A whiff of soap filled my nostrils. His nails were super-clean. His tie ruler-straight. Clearly he lived by rules and regulations and I had no doubt this meeting with me today had been well-planned.

Discreetly, he opened his jacket and black metal flashed under the Sacre-Coeur’s lights. Oh my God! He was also licensed to kill. What if he’d actually harmed Edward?

At that moment my phone bleeped and I took it out of my rucksack. My eyes tingled. Thank God. Mystery man had told the truth and texted Edward. It was him, saying to enjoy my tour of the area. He’d continue to unpack until I got back.

‘So, you’re armed…’ Annoyingly my voice sounded a titch impressed. ‘And I suppose he’s an agent as well?’

I turned around to the colleague, who had cold grey eyes and an expressionless mouth. He fiddled with gold cufflinks that looked out-of-place on the straightforward suit. There was something about him that was decidedly creepy. He had greased-back hair like some Fifties barber, and a smarmy smile.

‘That’s John. John Smith,’ said Joe Bloggs (I must be in some parallel universe where everyone’s name sounded stupid).

I palm-slapped my forehead. ‘Of course he’d be called that. Silly me.’

‘No need for sarcasm,’ said John,giving a smarmy grin as he joined us on the lower step.

‘Assuming I believe you are both spies – which I don’t – why do you need my help, exactly?’ I asked.

‘One of our agents is mad on reality shows and…’

I raised an eyebrow.

John was the sarcastic one, now. ‘Yes, Gemma, agent or no agent, we are still normal people with common interests, like everyone else.’

‘My colleague told me about you on Million Dollar Mansion,and mentioned she’d read you were coming to Paris for a month,’ continued Joe.

It still surprised me when newspapers reported stuff about me and Edward, months on from the end of the show.

‘I watched the series online.’ Joe sat more upright. ‘I was impressed, and hoped you’d be my eyes and ears at Chez Dubois.’

‘Your eyes and ears? So – pretending for one second that I believe this spy crap – is this official MI6 business, or not?’

His cheeks reddened. ‘No.’

‘And what exactly would this mission be, at some restaurant?’ But it was no good – uttering those words produced another bubble of laughter and I giggled, expecting to suddenly be accosted by Tom Cruise or Daniel Craig.

Joe Bloggs waited for me to control myself before leaning closer. ‘Something’s going down on the internet, about a “MiddleWin Mort” at the charity football game. “MiddleWin” could be a combination of the names Middleton and Windsor– and “Mort”, in French, means death.

I gasped. ‘You think someone is going to assassinate the royal couple?’

Joe shrugged. ‘There is no evidence whatsoever to support that… It was just a few comments, spotted in a couple of French forums in recent weeks, discussing the upcoming match. People got chatting about emails they’d received… Chez Dubois was mentioned as well as some cryptic dance terms.’ Joe shrugged. ‘I investigated but before I could take a screenshot, the comments were deleted along with the profiles of the people who’d made them. I’m wondering if the mastermind works at Chez Dubois.’

Blimey. Potentially, this was serious stuff. ‘It’s all a bit vague.’

Joe nodded. ‘Discreetly, MI6 agreed to check out Pierre Dubois who owns the restaurant. His records are clean. In fact, he does a lot of charity work locally. Seems like a decent bloke. Then there’s Cindy Cooper, she has joint French/American nationality and started working there as the sous chef almost one year ago. The head chef is called Jean-Claude Brun and was cautioned for shoplifting as a teenager, but that’s all. Then there’s Hugo Petit, the headwaiter, who’s been there years and has never received so much as a caution. The agency did basic background checks on the rest of the staff who’ve been there longer than six months. They were all clean too. Plus we’ve hacked the restaurant’s laptop and checked all the staff’s email accounts we could find. Nothing to report – just messages to suppliers and customers. Nothing about a MiddleWin Mort… So MI6 closed the file and won’t deploy any agent – not even a junior one – into Chez Dubois.’

‘You must be dedicated to pursue this investigation on your own,’ I said.

‘Or mad,’ muttered John and rolled his eyes. ‘If it were up to me, this thing would be dead and buried.’

Joe pursed his lips. ‘Protecting our country… It’s a commitment every day of the year; a vocation for some of us, I guess.’

‘But if you’re doing your official work and then this on the side… Don’t you get any free time?’

‘I bloody make sure I do,’ said John.

Joe shrugged. ‘It’s not like I’m married, with someone else to think of, dinners to prepare, outings to arrange… My time is my own.’

‘Sounds like you talk from experience and have been hitched in the past.’ I smiled.

For a second his maple-syrup eyes darkened. ‘I don’t discuss personal details.’

Ooh, I sensed a bit of emotional baggage.

‘Jet-setting Joe and I don’t have the time to follow up every lead,’ said John, his voice over-friendly. He stretched out his legs. ‘There are lots of rumours to follow up and hopefully rule out during the coming months. The commemorative events grow in number during the summer and we are here to eliminate all potential terrorist or criminal threats. At present, we’re focusing on the security of the world leaders visiting Paris the day after the football match, for a peace conference.’

My stomach tingled with excitement, now that I was reassured these two men honestly meant me no harm. Joe Bloggs, international spy, was actually asking for a favour. But why get little old me involved?

‘What good will I be?’ I shrugged.

‘Last year you carried yourself off perfectly as Abbey, fooling the public and the Croxleys,’ said Joe. ‘Gemma, you are loyal, determined and take initiative. Whatever the consequences, once your mind is made up, you see a mission through… And today has confirmed that you’ve got guts. I believe you are one tough woman.’

‘That’s what comes from growing up with two brothers who think hiding spiders in your knickers drawer is funny…’ I cleared my throat, still not quite believing what was happening.

‘But what makes you really special,’ continued Joe, ‘is that I can tell you’re a royalist. Kate Middleton is one of your heroes. Your heart will be in the job and that’s the most important thing of all.’

John muttered something snidey. But I got what Joe said. Guilty as charged. Like Abbey, I totally crushed on KMid, plus loved funny William and cute little George… Auntie Jan was royal mad. I’d been brought up drinking out of Prince Charles and Diana mugs. There’s no way I’d stand by and let them come to harm.

‘All in all, what more could I ask for in an undercover assistant?’ Joe half-smiled. ‘The dealmaker was that you’d be in Paris, just at the time I needed you.’

I stared at him for a moment and then my jaw dropped. ‘That mix-up over our jobs – you somehow changed them, right at the last minute so that I’d be working at Chez Dubois…’

Joe nodded. ‘I pretended to be a catering recruitment agency headhunter and persuaded a kitchenhand to leave Chez Dubois – not difficult, as he didn’t get on with chef Jean-Claude. I sent him to the restaurant you were supposed to be working at, as well as writing them a letter of apology from you, saying for personal reasons you could no longer accept their job. Then I emailed your details to Pierre, still in my fake role as a recruitment agent…’ A muscle in his cheek flinched. ‘Of course, I’ve mostly observed you on the television. I don’t know you well. It’s a risk, for me, getting a civilian secretly involved. And it’s a risk for you – whilst it’s unlikely this is a real terrorist threat, I won’t rest until every avenue has been thoroughly explored, and that could be dangerous.’

‘Good old strait-laced Joe becoming a rogue agent, going behind his bosses’ backs… who’d have thought?’ said John, in a smarmy voice and shook his head.

‘I’m trusting your absolute discretion,’ said Joe, staring me bolt in the face. ‘Relying on you not to let me down. Counting on your judgement. And most importantly, I need you to understand that things could get unpleasant.’

‘Why aren’t MI6 backing you, about carrying on the investigation, if I’m free and willing to help? Even if they think the risk is minimal, what have they got to lose?’

‘Sometimes, agents’ hunches are wrong and lead to trouble for the organisation, girlie,’ said John. ‘To be honest, I’m not convinced about this threat either, but seeing as I’m deployed here with Joe and in a position to help him…’ He shrugged. ‘Joe will owe me a favour. And if he’s wrong and the investigation goes pear-shaped, it’ll be him taking the rap. Tell her about the 2012 Olympic fiasco, Joe.’

‘An investigation was started into some coded emails with the subject title BlowUpOlympia,’ said Joe. ‘The agent who’d stumbled across them discovered a group of around fifty suspicious people who regularly met up, with their laptops. Some belonged to gun clubs. Others followed fighting sports, such as the martial arts. My colleague became convinced they were plotting to set off bombs in the Olympic stadium.’

Wow.

‘It turned out they were simply war game fanatics and Olympia was the name of a town in their favourite game. Everything was coded because they knew of another group on the internet, determined to defend this virtual town. It’s was an interactive game where you worked in teams.’

‘Did MI6 find out in time?’ I said.

Joe shook his head. ‘No, and agents manhandled several members of the group who turned up at the Olympic venues – they were simply genuine sports fans. Embarrassingly, one of them was related to a tabloid newspaper’s editor. MI6 had to call in a lot of favours to keep that story out of the press. We were overstretched in 2012, trying to deflect potential terrorist attacks. C was furious and swore she’d never let anything like that happen again.’

‘C?’

‘Our Chief. She keeps an extra close eye on every investigation now.’

‘Oh. I thought she’d be called M – you know, like in James Bond.’

John rolled his eyes. ‘No – she’s named after the very first Chief of MI6, Mansfield Cumming, who used to sign himself as C.’

I nodded and stared from one agent to another.

‘So? Are you in?’ asked Joe and shifted uncomfortably. ‘I know it’s a big ask. On paper there’s no evidence, the risks are minimal… But I’d be lying if I guaranteed that you were going to be one hundred percent safe, one hundred percent of the time.’

Of course I was in! If the safety of the royal family was potentially under threat, I had no choice. My chest glowed warm. Imagine, someone like Joe cherry-picking me to protect the royals. And what a guy – putting his reputation on the line, out of a sense of duty… What a contrast he was to that creepy John.

‘I don’t know,’ I said airily, not wanting to look keen. Well, there were conditions, of course! ‘For starters, I um, would need a cool codename.’

‘Yeah? Erm… What about Margherita?’ Joe gave a half-smile.

‘Margherita!’ I spluttered. ‘After the name of a pizza?’

‘Exactly.’ He shrugged those broad shoulders. ‘Didn’t you used to work in an Italian restaurant?’

‘Yes but…’

‘Okay, what about…Cullen?’ he continued. ‘Isn’t Twilight one of your favourite films?’

Jeez, how did he know that? At this rate, he’d be able to tell me the size of my bra.

‘How would you know?’ I asked.

‘Read my file on you.’

John smirked. ‘Official mission or not, Joe is always thorough.’

Wow, clearly. I had a file? Then, I was mega important. ‘I want a letter,’ I said, admittedly like a petulant toddler. ‘Like this C or Judi Dench, playing M in the James Bond films.’

John sneered. ‘Only the uppermost echelons of the organisation are given that honour.’

‘Whatever you want,’ said Joe, in a measured voice. ‘Seeing as MI6 aren’t involved – how about “Agent G”?’

Yay! I clapped my hands, now that did have… What was that word Edward used? Gravitas… ‘And of course, I’ll need gadgets,’ I said, enjoying calling the shots – well, it was payback, for Joe having scared me earlier. Amazingly he nodded.

‘In fact, you must come with me tonight, in preparation for working at Chez Dubois on Monday,’ said Joe. ‘This weekend will be spent at MI6’s secret bunker. I’ll teach you basic self-defence and arm you with the necessary tools. I’ll make out you’re a suspect being taken in for interrogation. That way our time there will be undisturbed.’

Secret bunker? I took a swig of water to calm me down, otherwise I might spontaneously combust! Living in Paris for a month was exciting enough, without all these spy shenanigans. Also, visiting their French headquarters would confirm Joe’s identity. Except, I’d so looked forward to settling into the flat with Edward and spending the next two days getting to visit the awesome landmarks and cafés, with a snog or two between croissants and espresso shots.

‘I don’t think that’s possible, you see…’

‘This part of the deal is non-negotiable,’ said Joe, in his clipped tone. ‘An intensive weekend in self-defence is a must. I’d be failing you if I didn’t teach you to the basics of looking after yourself.’

‘But…’

Joe’s bottom lip twitched as he fiddled with his cuffs. ‘It’s not too late to pull out, Gemma. I’d understand if you want to walk away.’

‘Okay, okay, I agree to this intensive training weekend – but can’t I tell Edward the truth? He wouldn’t breathe a word to anyone.’

Joe shook his head. ‘No – for his sake, the less he knows the better. Don’t tell anyone, including friends or family back home.’

Shame. This would be the first big secret I’d ever kept from best mate Abbey. I scratched my head. Was this really happening? Agents? Death threats? Secret bunkers? It seemed bonkers, yet there was something in the eyes of this sincere Joe bloke that made me take him seriously.

‘At least let me return to the flat each night, to sleep. He’ll get suspicious if I’m suddenly away all weekend… I could say–’

‘Perhaps…’ said Joe. ‘Okay. That’s acceptable…’ He thought for a few seconds. ‘John will go back with you tonight, just to introduce himself to Edward. He’ll pretend to be a caterer you got talking to, hosting two big wedding events this weekend, who offered to teach you invaluable cookery skills in return for your help Saturday and Sunday as he needs more cheap pairs of hands… You say it’s too good an opportunity to turn down.’

‘You think of everything, don’t you?’ I said.

Joe shrugged as if that was nothing out of the ordinary. Then with John, he headed off to make some private phone calls. Dear Edward, he wouldn’t complain. Sometimes he was almost too faultless… Well, apart from when he tried to get me interested in opera and contemporary paintings. That was one of the things that surprised me about Edward – stuffy and traditional as he was, he loved modern art. Many an argument we’d had over the value of paintings which consisted of just a few dots or lines. Me, I couldn’t wait to visit Monet’s waterlily paintings, here in Paris and also…Ow! These highfalutin thoughts came to a swift halt when the tramp next to me, with a vice-like grip, grabbed my arm.

‘Loose talk costs lives,’ he hissed, ‘as your countrymen said during ze war. Let me introduce myself. Many ‘ave ‘eard of me in ze criminal underworld. I am ze notorious “Man with ze Magic Baguette”…’

He let go and reached towards his pocket. My adrenalin pumped. Sh… Sugar! This must have been a terrorist tracking us. Perhaps baguette was slang for a pistol.

Losing my new, mature self-control for one second, and after a deep breath, I chucked my water in his face. Good diversion. Now, mustn’t panic. I – G – was an important government agent now.

In my head, I repeated this mantra as a shocked Monsieur Magic Baguette roared. He grabbed my ankle as I stood to get up, whilst the Japanese tourists below turned around to take photos.