The Amnesiac's Guide to Espionage, page 3
Freddie shook Eva’s hand. “I’m glad you’re alright. Please let me know if there is anything I can do.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it, Rear Admiral F… Rear, uh, Freddie, ah, Foreign Minister.”
With a curt bob of the head, she was gone. Paul said he was late for a meeting dashed off, suggesting Eva could come by his office after lunch to see ‘the gentleman we spoke of earlier’. Eva assumed he meant the physician.
Bishop had a ‘thing’ and disappeared just as quickly, leaving Eva alone in the room with Davenport. He sat, arms folded, on the edge of the conference table, a sly grin playing on his lips.
He pushed himself up and shut one door before crossing the room and closing the other. Then, with the prowl of a particularly self-assured leopard, he approached Eva, stopping mere centimetres from her face. Eva could feel his sweet breath.
“You’re awfully close, Mr Davenport.”
“I suppose I am. Do you know what else I am, Agent Destruction?”
“No, what?”
“Ravenous.”
One hand slid slowly around her waist while the other glided gently along her face. In an instant, his lips were on hers. She should have punched him. That, after all, would be her first reaction to an uninitiated advance. But for all Eva knew, she had initiated this advance. He kissed her with all the passion of a lover. Eva pushed him away slowly, almost reluctantly.
He seemed not to notice the rebuff, and gazed into her eyes. “I’ve missed you, Chérie.”
“What now?”
She was Chérie? Why Chérie? So many questions. Mainly to do with what salacious acts had performed with this stunning American man. And whether there were pictures of those encounters that she could peruse at her leisure.
She had to commend Past Eva’s taste. He was bloody gorgeous, and willing to stand up for feminist ideals in a public forum, too. That was a lethal combination for her. Eva eyed the boardroom table. It certainly appeared sturdy. She wondered how long the meeting room was booked for.
But wiser heads prevailed. She didn’t have the foggiest idea who he was. Which was a shame. After that kiss, she’d really like to find out. When she’d agreed to keep her memory loss a secret she hadn’t realised that meant potential lovers.
“Sorry, I just had to kiss you,” he said. “All I could think about during that meeting was holding you in my arms. Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine, thank you… Loch.”
“Jesus, I don’t think you’ve ever called me that. Do you need a lie down?”
“Me? Ah, no. All good.” Eva played with her hair. “I’m just, tired, you know? Punching blokes is harder than it looks on the telly.”
“Hmmm, about that…”
“Yes?”
“Just between you and me, that briefing wasn’t one hundred per cent accurate.”
“The bit about Burlington being a jizz-trumpet totally was.”
“Oh, completely. No, I mean the part about not knowing the identities of your attackers.”
“What?”
“Eva, you need to be careful. Those men in your apartment today weren’t random thugs or extremists or anything they’re likely to throw your way. They were all ex-British Special Forces.”
“How do you know that?”
He held up his security pass and pointed to the part that said CIA.
“What do British ex-special forces have against one little Australian? I mean, sure, we gave them Jason Donovan and Rolf Harris, but come on. AC/DC and Hugh Jackman more than made up for it.”
“That’s not all.”
“It’s not enough?”
“Scotland Yard no longer have them. Actually, as far as we can ascertain, no arm of the British government has them. They’ve all disappeared.”
“Even Lefty?”
“Lefty?”
Eva made a sword cutting move to her wrist.
“Even Lefty, I believe.”
“Bloody hell. Wait, you knew who they were, but still asked in the briefing?”
“In my line of work it’s always advisable to know more than everyone else in the room.”
“Including me?”
“Oh darlin’, every time we get together I learn something new.”
This time she didn’t resist the kiss.
Chapter
Three
“Nothing?”
“Nothing.”
Eva leaned back and folded her arms. “Can I just say how offensive it is that the two of you keep saying you detected nothing in a scan of my brain?”
In the confines of the small doctor’s office, nobody smiled. Not Paul, and not the mysterious Dr Geiger, who had conducted three hours of tests on Eva. She didn’t consider herself all that funny, but had at least expected a sympathetic smile.
When Paul introduced her, Dr Geiger was referred to simply as a “doctor”. When she’d asked what kind of doctor, he had simply said, “One with several qualifications.” What had followed were hours of cognitive tests, scans, blood tests, probing and prodding and a general sense that Eva was more medical cadaver than human being.
Apparently the MRI scan had proven “inconclusive”. As had the physical examinations, bar the marks on her arm. According to the doctor, there had been several clumsy attempts to find a vein, indicating a general lack of clinical experience. That still didn’t bring them any closer to why Eva had a hole in her mind.
“If this memory loss actually occurred as stated—” the doctor started.
Screw you, Eva thought.
“— then it was not an invasive procedure. There are no incisions near the cranium, nor anywhere else.” He paused and directed a rare glance in Eva’s direction. “Although the patient’s, er, decorations, made the examination somewhat more laborious.”
Poor widdle doctor had to work slightly harder to get past her countless tattoos to look for cuts or needle marks. Diddums. Dr Geiger was not going on her Christmas card list. Not that Eva had one. Although she might create one now, purely for the express purpose of not including the snooty doctor.
The doctor moved on to the blood tests. He held up a colourful chart with a myriad of chemical names that meant nothing to Eva. Paul let out a low whistle and wheeled his chair closer to examine it.
Doctor Geiger went on. “However, as you can see, Decamethonium was detected in your blood, indicating you were anaesthetised. And the fact that we were able to detect it within your bloodstream means it was administered recently—within the last forty-eight hours. The toxicity results also showed smaller traces of drugs consistent with anaesthesiology, as well as a myriad of others that, well, to be frank, reads like the floor of a chemistry lab after an earthquake.”
Eva wasn’t sure the analogy worked, but she got the gist. She had more drugs in her than the second night of Glastonbury. No wonder she woke up with the headache from hell.
The doctor continued. “Besides the chemical cocktail there are also extremely elevated levels of GluA1 protein, as well as calcium-permeable AMPAR proteins.”
“Which means?” Eva asked.
“Someone’s been tinkering with your noggin, Evie,” Paul said with the sympathetic smile she’d been looking for.
Eva groaned. “Next time maybe you guys could lead with the bit where you say I’m not crazy.”
Eva munched on her salad but was so distracted she didn’t even know what kind it was. It probably had kale and quinoa and god knows what other crap. The MI6 cafeteria was big on healthy living. All Eva wanted was a greasy hamburger and chips. She munched away, feeling more cow than human, while she tried to remember anything from the last six months. Unfortunately, her mind kept returning to the near present—specifically, to that kiss. Despite her best efforts, her thoughts kept circling back to Loch Davenport. She absentmindedly ran her thumb over her lips.
What the hell was Past Eva thinking, getting involved with someone from the CIA? Well, Eva didn’t know for sure, but she could make a reasonable guess. It most likely involved weekends away. And wine. Definitely wine. And most probably restraints of some sort.
Loch Davenport was unknown to her, but Eva was good at reading people and she could read him like metre-high brail. She couldn’t believe she’d done it again: fallen for another mysterious, self-centred man. After her last disaster she'd promised herself she’d do better next time. There had even been a ritual involving letters, a fire and two bottles of vodka. The fire department wasn’t officially part of the ceremony, but did lend a sense of drama to the event.
Apparently it had not been enough. So what made Loch Davenport so special? It wasn’t like she’d been short on options. Eva was constantly being asked on dates by all sorts of men, from band members to button-up types wanting to unleash their inner bad boy. She could have fallen for Bishop's charms, and almost had, once—the two of them standing before each other, completely starkers, was indelibly etched in her memory. But she hadn’t. So why Davenport? Hadn’t she learned she deserved better?
Eva’s thoughts were interrupted as a tailored silhouette crossed her field of vision and took a seat before her.
“You okay, Eva?” Bishop asked. “You look a million miles away.”
“Me? No, all good.” She sat straighter in her chair and pulled at her hair.
Her thoughts weren’t a million miles away. More like three floors up.
Bishop smirked, making it clear he didn’t believe a word of it but was willing to let it slide. He really was a handsome bastard. Trouble was, he knew it.
“Paul briefed me on the results. Seems you’ve had an interesting twenty-four hours.”
“Or six months, for all I know.”
“True. I can’t believe you don’t remember us sleeping together.”
“We haven’t slept together, Bishop.”
“How do you know?” he asked, one eyebrow cocked.
“You’re still talking to me.”
Bishop grunted. “You do know Pepé Le Pew is a cartoon character, and not someone I’ve modelled my life on?”
She shovelled a forkful of green into her mouth. “You’re like the gritty 21st century reboot. All attitude, action with a new origin story, but at your heart, you’re still a womanising little skunk.”
“If I’m Pepé Le Pew, can you be Jessica Rabbit?” Bishop tilted his head sideways and rolled his gaze over her body lasciviously.
With a click of Eva’s fingers Bishop snapped out of it, and took a bite out of his salad wrap. It was quite decadent by Bishop’s standards—he usually kept his carb intake to a minimum. The man treated his body like a temple. As did his many admirers.
“Do you need somewhere to stay?” he asked the table.
“Why would I?”
“Well, for one thing, a lot of your possessions are coated in blood. And for another, the whole place looks like a bomb site—”
Eva pursed her lips.
“— and finally, there’s the possibility that visit wasn’t the last.”
The thought hadn’t even occurred to her. She loved her apartment, it was part of her identity. The idea that it could be violated again, that it was no longer her sanctuary, made her feel ill. Although that might have been the quinoa.
“I’ll just stay at Nancy and Paul’s,” she decided.
Nancy had been her best friend for years. They had gone through so much. While Eva had bounced from one terrible relationship to the next, Nancy had been her rock. Most people have one or two 3 am friends—those people you can call at any hour who won’t think twice about picking up the phone and helping. Nancy was the kind who would jump in the car and pick up three bottles of wine on the way.
Bishop stared at her for the longest time. “I don’t think… I don’t think that’s possible.”
“Why not?”
He hesitated. “She’s been busy. Ah, with work.”
“It doesn’t matter. That woman would give up her own bed for me, but the couch is just as comfy.”
“Paul will be working late on the looming G8 summit, so…”
“That doesn’t matter. I’ll be fine at Nancy’s.” She eyed him with a smirk. “I have to say, that was a lot less subtle than your usual seduction techniques. You’ll do anything to get me into your bed, won’t you?”
Bishop’s pretty face moulded into mock umbrage and he held up his hands like a preacher. Not an innocent one—more like a televangelist from the Deep South who embezzles funds and has five illegitimate children.
“Yes, I will. Although this time, it was never going to be my bed. I have a spare. On another floor. With a lock. You can use the leopard as protection.”
“With you, leopard could mean an actual leopard or some kind of condom.”
“Or both.” His eyes twinkled. He glanced at his watch. “But in all seriousness, we better head up to Paul’s office.”
Eva happily tossed the rest of her salad in the rubbish and they headed for the lifts.
Also waiting for the lift was a young office worker who appeared too young for high school, but was apparently old enough for MI6. He beamed at Eva in a familiar way. She vaguely remembered him helping her to manipulate the computer system so she could submit timesheets after the deadline, among other computer issues. For the life of her, she couldn’t remember his name.
He seemed constructed from parts of other, unrelated, human beings. Unwanted parts. His ears were too big, his arms too long for his slight fame, and his head seemed to have had an unfortunate run-in with a tribe of headshrinkers. She politely returned his smile, wondering if her confusion was due to her memory loss or the prevalence of pimply office workers.
“I’ve been listening to Jebediah.”
Eva nodded, suspecting this was a continuation of a conversation she couldn’t remember. She didn’t know who Jebediah was. She vaguely recalled someone in Accounts with an old-school name.
“They’re good, I like them. Mind you, half the time I can’t understand a word the lead singer is saying.”
Oh, the band Jebediah, Eva realised. She must have put this kid onto the indie Aussie band.
“Yeah, me either, but it doesn’t matter. They’re great live.”
“We should go.”
Bless your little cotton socks. “Don’t think they tour much these days.” Using an old technique from parties, where she frequently forgot people’s names, she said, “This is Bishop.”
The lift pinged and the doors opened. All three got in and Bishop gave her an odd expression as he extended his hand. The kid took it.
“Trevor.” He dropped Bishop’s hand quickly and turned his attention back to Eva. “How was Japan?” he asked eagerly.
“Japan? I’ve never be—” She stopped. Maybe she had been to Japan. That would explain the sword in her apartment. Was that the mission she was on? Eva forged on, “—een happier than with that… thing… in Japan. So yes. Good. It was good.”
Trevor seemed happy with the response. He got out on the next floor, giving Eva a wave, like a lovesick schoolboy, as the doors closed.
Bishop leaned his head against the wall of the elevator and gazed up. “Smooth. You should be in MI6. Very surreptitious.”
“Shut it, you.”
The doors opened on Paul’s floor and they entered his office without ceremony. He gave them a cup of tea without asking and told them to sit.
The room was exactly like Eva had always expected MI6 to be. Wood panelling, wet bar, large mahogany desk. All that was missing was a few flags and a picture of the king.
They engaged in a quick round of small talk, which Eva suspected was for her benefit. It was almost sweet. But mostly patronising.
Bishop poured milk into his tea. “Well, on the plus side, at least she doesn’t remember Vienna.”
“The thing with the midget?” Paul asked.
“Wait, what?” Eva was confused. Again.
“Can you still say midget?” Bishop asked.
“What's Vienna?”
“I'm pretty sure you can.” Paul scratched his neck. “I think. Can’t you?”
“I don't think so,” Bishop replied.
“Guys, what happened in Vienna?”
Paul and Bishop replied in unison, “You don't want to know.”
“No, I do. See, whenever anyone says you don’t want to know, you definitely want to know. Guys, I want to know.”
Paul harrumphed and sat at the end of his desk. “Another time, Evie.” He stirred his tea. “We have our work cut out, people. We need to get to the bottom of this memory thing ASAP. The team is working on identifying the men who attacked you—”
“You mean finding them after they skipped out?” Eva interjected.
“How on God’s bright pink Earth did you know that?” Paul asked in astonishment. “I was only informed five minutes ago.”
Eva pointed to her face. “Spy.”
“Yes, well, be that as it may, I want to keep this memory loss between us for the time being. There are only a few organisations in the world who’ve been playing around with memory wiping, and that includes us, so I’m not willing to take any chances.” Paul took a sip of tea and went on. “We need to try and jog that memory of yours, see if there are any holes. We’ll start tomorrow by going through your mission dossiers, see if that shakes anything loose.”
“Like my mission to Japan?” Eva asked innocently.
“How do you know about that? Is your memory coming back?”
“No, but I work at MI6, I’m expected to find things out surreptitiously,” Eva said with a grin.
She proceeded to scratch the back of her head and simultaneously gave Bishop the finger. Smirking, Bishop took a sip of his drink and shook his head. She drank her tea in quiet repugnance. It was no coffee substitute.
Paul put his cup down and asked, “Is there anything you failed to mention in the briefing? Anything at all? Especially in light of the memory loss. It doesn’t matter how inconsequential you think it might be.”
In spite of the tea, this was the most relaxed Eva had been all day. With her eyes closed, she went through the attack step by step. Then it hit her.
“There was a word they used.”
