The Amnesiac's Guide to Espionage, page 2
Paul put his hand on her shoulder. “If you’re up to it, we can go to headquarters. You were due to give us the briefing anyway, so we may as well keep that appointment, and you can give the department a rundown of this instead.”
“What briefing?”
“Are you sure you didn’t take a blow to the head?”
“Pretty sure.” Eva rummaged around in her floordrobe for her thickest coat and put it on. “I’m fine, really. Just a bit of a sore head. Woke up with a cracker of a headache. I’ll be fine.”
She wrapped a scarf around her neck. Finding one glove but not the other, she tossed the lone glove on the floor.
Bishop frowned. “Why are you dressed like that?”
“Oi, that’s quite enough,” she said heading out in to the hall. “Not all of us can dress like we just walked off a catwalk in Milan. Some of us have mortgages.”
“No, I mean—”
“Let’s get on with it,” Eva interrupted, and headed for the front door.
She glanced behind her. Paul and Bishop had followed her into the hall and were staring at her, their faces etched with concern.
“I’m fine, guys, really.”
She yanked open the door. Instead of the icy blast she had expected, she was hit by what seemed like a wave of mid-summer heat. Across the street, children ran around the park in t-shirts. A woman wearing a sundress strolled along, holding hands with a man dressed in shorts.
Eva felt nauseous. She grabbed the door handle to steady herself. This wasn’t December weather. Well, it would be, back home in Melbourne, but definitely not in London. What is going on?
“Evie, are you alright?”
She shook her head, dread seeping into her skin. “I was… it’s not winter, is it?”
Paul shook his head. “What’s the last thing you remember?”
“Um, last night, you, me and Nancy coming home from that shitty little club in Soho. Your wife needs to accept she doesn’t have the metabolism for hard liquor anymore. No matter how hard she tries, she’s not Patti LaBelle.”
Paul stared at her with concern.
Eva didn’t like that look. At all. “What?”
“That wasn’t last night.”
“It wasn’t? It bloody well seems like it.”
“Evie,” Paul took a deep breath, “that was six months ago.”
Chapter
Two
Eva stared out the window of the chauffer-driven government car, but couldn’t tell what suburb she was in. Everything was a blur.
How could she have lost months of memories? Was it somehow tied to the goons breaking into her bedroom? What couldn’t she remember?
One thing was for sure, she wanted those memories back.
“Anything?” Paul asked hopefully.
“Still donuts.” Eva gave him a sad smile. “Which is quite apt, seeing as I appear to have a big hole in the middle of my mind.”
Paul and Bishop had tried to jog her memory about briefings, missions, training, personal memories. As far as she could tell, she had all her memories up until mid-December. Eva never really liked Christmas.
“You can’t just slice out six months from someone’s head, surely? The human brain is far more complex than that.”
“It’s not really,” Bishop mumbled to himself.
Eva poked him with her foot. “What was that?”
“Oh, ah, nothing. I mean, well, it is something, obviously.”
“You’re babbling. That means you’re hiding something, Bishop.”
“Marvellous observation, Ms Destruction. You really should look into espionage.”
“And there goes the evasion. Alright, Pretty Boy, spill.”
“Alright, fine. It’s something the boffins on the fifth floor have been toying with for some time. Based on a study at Johns Hopkins, I believe. By removing a particular protein in a specific part of the brain, they think they can remove memories at a molecular level.” When Paul and Eva gawked at him blankly, he added, “Apparently. Not sure they’ve actually tested it in the field.”
“So it’s possible people have been fiddling with my brain?”
“Either that or someone hit you with a frying pan,” Bishop deadpanned. “But if they did interfere, it was done quite recently.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Roll up your sleeve.”
Eva did. On the inside of her elbow was a slight yellow mark, and a small scab where a needle had punctured her skin.
“Unless you’ve given blood recently, I’d say someone’s cracked open your skull—metaphorically—and done some messing about.”
Eva gave an approving frown. “Good observation, Bishop.”
“Why, thank you. I noticed it while you were changing.”
“See, now it’s good but also creepy.”
“That’s me all over.”
“If you two could stop flirting for a moment,” Paul interjected, “this is serious, Evie. The Foreign Secretary will need to know about this.”
“Freddie’s gonna fucking love this.”
Eva noticed Paul wince. Apparently it was disrespectful to refer to His Majesty’s Principal Secretary of State for Foreign and Commonwealth Affairs, responsible for matters pertaining to ministerial oversight for the intelligence arms of the United Kingdom government, as “Freddie”. Australians, never having had a class system, always had a hard time adhering to anyone else’s. Eva decided not to tell Paul she also occasionally referred to Lady Kensington, an ex-Royal Navy woman, as Rear Admiral Fuckchop—to her face.
The car slowed and the din of shouting pierced even the heavily fortified Range Rover. About 50 metres ahead, the tops of placards could be seen above the cars. A large number of people were clearly angry about something.
Paul shifted in his seat. “Damn, I was hoping we’d have missed this.”
“What is it?” Eva asked.
“They’re protesting China,” Paul said, squinting off into the distance.
“Why are they protesting China? They make all our stuff. It’s like protesting Tesco.”
“Where have you been?”
Eva issued an incredulous face.
“Sorry.” Paul’s features crumpled into a conciliatory arrangement. “They’re protesting the proposed amendment to include China in the G8. Mostly because of human rights abuses, the recent aggression in the South China Sea and, well, basically, their failure to accord with the democratic principles enshrined in the original statement at Rambouillet on the founding of the G6 in 1975.” Paul stopped when he saw Eva tilt her head with a smirk. “Sorry. I’ve prepared a few briefs.”
Paul went up front to confer with the driver. Eva’s phone vibrated, so she took it out of her pocket. Another message for “Chérie”.
“What’s that?” Bishop asked. “A secret admirer?”
“He’s an admirer, alright, just not mine. And he’s obviously an old-fashioned romantic, given his apparent yearning for the reverse cowgirl. And they say the young kids don’t know how to woo anymore.”
Bishop leaned over to examine her phone. “Are you sure it’s not for you, given…” he pointed to his head.
“Not unless I changed my name to Chérie recently. I’m guessing some chick gave this guy a dud number at a club.”
“The crowd’s thinning,” Paul advised, sitting back down. “We’ll be through in a few minutes.”
“As reluctant as I am to steer the conversation away from reverse cowgirls,” Bishop began.
“What now?” Paul asked.
“… there’s still the matter of your memory loss,” Bishop continued. “Is this something we wish to advise all and sundry of, or should we keep it under our bowlers until we know what caused it?”
“Good question.” Paul scratched his ever-increasing bald spot. “It might be worth keeping the memory loss to ourselves until we’ve had you assessed by our lead physician. We don’t know who or what we’re dealing with here; best to keep a few cards in reserve.” Paul checked his watch. “The briefing is set for ten. You ready, Evie?”
“Not even in the slightest.”
The room was packed. Every meeting room at MI6 had a small plaque advising the room’s capacity. This room’s maximum occupancy was twenty. Eva counted thirty-six people in there. Not including herself.
For the past hour she’d recounted the events of the morning. She’d stuck to the facts as she knew them. Furious notes were taken, but thankfully interruptions were kept to a minimum. Much to her horror, photos were shown of her apartment. She hoped most people assumed the mess was due to the scuffle, not her lack of aptitude for the domestic sciences.
After the third time she’d gone through her story, Paul thanked her and opened the room to questions. Eva slumped in a chair next to Bishop. He took a sip from his glass and gave her a reassuring nod.
A dark-haired man at the back of the room coughed to get Paul’s attention, then raised his hand. He wore a well-fitted suit, exuded confidence and reeked of bad decisions. Just Eva’s type.
“Firstly, I want to thank Agent Destruction for her time today. I know the events of this morning could not have been easy, and I think her stoicism and fortitude deserve to be recognised before we move on.”
He was American, too.
“And you are?” Eva asked, cringing inwardly as she did so. For all she knew they’d worked together for months.
“Hopeless at croquet,” he said. “Loch Davenport, CIA liaison.”
“Thank you, Mr Loch Davenport CIA. And what is your question?”
“Has Scotland Yard identified the perpetrators yet?”
Paul fielded that one. “We’ll circulate an updated briefing pack, but the latest from the Yard as of an hour ago was that the assailants have not been forthcoming with their names, nor was there anything identifying on their person. The investigation is obviously continuing.”
Eva still had a hard time getting used to her goofy friend being all official. This Paul was a million miles away from the vague, lovable oaf who’d married her friend Nancy years before. It was only recently that she found out he worked for MI6, and not the Treasury as he’d always claimed. She trusted Paul with her life—literally—and had done so several times over.
“If I may, a question,” came a posh voice from the back of the room. The man sounded less like he had a plum in his mouth and more like he’d swallowed the whole orchard.
“Yes, Burlington?” Paul said, his tone indicating that Burlington wasn’t one of his favourite people.
Eva thought Burlington seemed like the poster boy for private school twats. MI6 had once been the playground of the privileged few, but after some astute observers pointed out that inbreeding was perhaps not the most effective way to propagate success, the organisation had opened its hiring practices. Regardless, some traditions still prevailed, as evidenced by Mr Foppish Hair.
“Thank you. If I may, Miss Destruction, can you take us back to your methodology for taking down the armed intruders?”
Paul sighed heavily. “She has already covered that in detail, Nigel.”
“Yes, but I’d like her to repeat it. I have some doubts.”
“Doubts?” Eva asked, not trying to hide her resentment. “What doubts?”
“Well, look at you. You’re a mere slip of a girl...”
“She is a highly trained operative of His Majesty’s Secret Service, Mr Burlington,” Paul said, again making little effort to hide his disdain. “Agent Destruction has shown her aptitude multiple times in the field, unlike some others in this room, which prompts me to ask if you actually have a point?”
Burlington wasn’t thrown by the challenge. In fact, it appeared to have buoyed him. “Thank you, Mr Cavendish, but what I want to know is—and I mean this with the utmost respect to Miss Destruction—is it possible the kung-fu fest we’ve just been regaled with, which would have been a hard ask for an experienced SAS soldier, let alone some Johnny-come-lately girl, was somewhat misrepresented? I mean to say, this isn’t a movie, and women spies have their place, but we’re not running a honey pot here.” There was silence. “Oh come on, it was a joke. Just some banter.”
Instead of launching into a full-scale counter-attack, Eva took a moment to process what had just happened. This was MI6, not a pub meeting for some men’s rights movement. That sort of attitude should have been flushed out long ago. Bishop’s constant comments, while thoroughly sexist, came from a good place and was more smartarse than outright chauvinism. Eva and Bishop were friends, had been in harrowing situations together, and he respected her. In short, he was all talk and they both knew it.
Burlington’s comments were nothing of the sort. He’d essentially accused her of being a prostitute.
“Banter, yes. It’s a good word, isn’t it, ‘banter’? Or to put it another way, ‘I’m gender-based bullying you, but don’t you dare call me on it because we’re only having fun, right?’”
Eva thought it was a well-made point. Only, she hadn't made it. She gawped at the beardy Loch Davenport, who wasn’t quite finished.
“It’s basically code for ‘I’m a man and obviously more important than you, so I’m entitled to make you feel uncomfortable, being a man and all. And as a man, I make the rules about language and your place, and don’t you dare question it. I determine what’s funny because that’s what us chaps do. So I’m going to call it banter and you’ll live with it, because I’m a man and I hold the power.’”
Burlington certainly got the point. His face had dropped down a few notches on the smug scale. Davenport sipped his coffee, evidently pleased at his eloquent take-down. Eva noted that the coffee was from Kanga Brew—her café.
Keen to move on, Paul asked, “Are there any intelligent questions?”
Nobody answered, and people began shutting folders and laptops. Chairs were pushed out, mild chatter started up.
From the back of the room, in a loud whisper, Burlington said, “He probably wants to wind it up so he can examine her in private.”
There were a few snickers. Eva had heard the rumours about her and Paul. She understood them; they were so close, and no one knew of their previous relationship. The talk had never bothered Eva, but she hated that a twat like Burlington would use it as some sort of snide weapon against her friend.
Paul was Head Spec Ops, a senior member of SIS, second-generation MI6. His father had put his life on the line, and was executed as a spy in Warsaw in 1982. Against all logic, Paul had followed in his footsteps and joined MI6, far exceeding the achievements of his father. A sexist jab at her was one thing, but for that snivelling toad to question Paul’s professionalism flicked Eva’s switch.
She stood, knocking over her chair in the process.
“Mr Burlington, I believe you made a remark?”
There was no missing the smug expression on his prattish face. “Who, me? Just a bit of banter.” He virtually spat the last word.
Both Bishop and Davenport rose from their chairs, but Eva didn’t need any white knights.
“That’s your game, isn’t it? If anyone disagrees with your lordship, you mock them or belittle them.”
“Seems like everyone wants to psychoanalyse me today. I must truly be fascinating.”
“Oh, you are fascinating alright—like a fungus or a poisonous spore—but don’t think for one second that makes you a valuable human being. And later, when you’re cry-wanking about how girls won’t talk to you, know that I’ll be here dismantling the patriarchy, you incomprehensible jizz-trumpet.”
The room was deathly silent. For a moment Eva thought they were staring at her, mouths open, mesmerised by her razor sharp verbal joust. But then she realised their gaze was directed slightly to her right. She glanced behind her to see an extremely well-dressed woman with a bouncy bob wearing a conservative pantsuit. Of course the appearance of the Foreign Secretary would have that effect on people.
Eva was sure nobody in the room was breathing. She certainly wasn’t.
“I was worried about you Eva, but it seems I needn’t have been. Same as always, then?”
Eva gave her a wink. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
“I’m assured that goes for most things.”
Eva and Lady Winifred Kensington, or Freddie, had a history. It dated back to when Eva first started at MI6. She’d been outside a meeting room, waiting to take another test on counter-terrorism theory, when a phalanx of blue-suited white men ambled past, the Foreign Secretary at its centre. Freddie had just made a wildly incorrect remark about Russian troop numbers in the Baltic. Completely against protocol, Eva had corrected her. Seeing the reactions of the men around her, Eva had half expected her fledgling spy career to end right then and there. Thankfully, Lady Winifred Kensington was not as stuffy as her name suggested. She stopped and asked Eva to clarify and she’d done just that, tactfully and articulately.
The answer had impressed Freddie so much she’d invited Eva to lunch, much to the horror of every man in the hallway. In her private dining room in the MI6 building, the minister and Eva had covered many topics, ranging from the current administration’s Asian diplomatic policy to 1980s Australian rock bands. Freddie had told Eva she reminded her of her late daughter, who had been killed in a terrorist attack while attending school in France. From then on, whenever possible, Freddie looked Eva up when she visited MI6, and followed her career with great interest. Perhaps Eva could ask her what she’d been up to lately, given that Eva herself had no idea.
Most attendees at the meeting quietly shuffled out, with only a handful remaining. Eva gave the minister a condensed version of the morning’s events, and she responded with a hearty laugh.
“They picked the wrong Australian this time, didn’t they?”
“Not really, you’d get the same response from most Aussies. That’s why we continually kick your arse at cricket.”
“Dream on, Eva, dream on. We’ll wipe the floor with you come the Ashes.”
“Wiping our floors, you mean.”
