Olivia Joules and the Overactive Imagination

  “And jewelry and accessories,” added Olivia anxiously.

  “Quite so, quite so. Now,” he said, striding to the other side of the room and clicking on a light, “we have prepared a pretty extensive armory based on these items. Actually quite interesting preparing a kit for a female.”

  “You must have done that before.”

  “Not in quite these circumstances.”

  The total inventory was scary. She was really going to have to concentrate not to get things mixed up. Most of her existing stuff had been converted into weapons of . . . if not mass destruction, then short-range, specific destruction. Her ring had been fitted with an evil-looking curved blade which would flick out the second she pressed her thumbnail against one of the diamonds. Her Chloé shades had a spiral saw in one arm and a slim-line dagger tipped with a nerve agent in the other. The buttons on her Dolce shirt had been replaced by miniature circular saws. She had a lip salve which was actually a temporarily blinding flash, and a tiny blusher ball, which, when the fuse was lit, emitted gas which could knock a roomful of men out for five minutes.

  “Good. Will I get my old things back afterwards?”

  “If this goes as they hope it will,” said Scott, “you’ll get a supermarket sweep in Gucci, Tiffany and Dolce and Gabbana at the expense of Her Majesty’s Government.”

  She beamed.

  One of her Tiffany starfish earrings now contained a tiny GPS locating beacon, which would track her movements throughout the expedition.

  “Brand new, top of the range, this,” said Widgett. “Smallest ever produced. Even works underwater to around ten or fifteen feet.”

  “What about underground?”

  “Unlikely,” said Widgett, not meeting her eye.

  The other starfish earring contained a cyanide pill.

  * * *

  “And now the gun,” said Scott Rich. She stared at them aghast. They had gone over the daggers in the stilettos, the Dolce seventies retro belt made of real gold coins for buying her way out of a mess, the slim dagger and tranquilizer syringe made into bra underwirings. She’d rejected the brooch with the hand-ejected tranquilizer dart on the grounds that anyone under sixty wearing a brooch would immediately look suspicious.

  “I’m not going to carry a gun.”

  They stared at her blankly.

  “It will get me into far more trouble than it will save me from. Why would I be carrying a gun if I’m a travel journalist? And, anyway, Feramo knows I don’t believe in killing.”

  Scott Rich and Widgett exchanged glances.

  “Let me explain something,” said Scott. “This isn’t a romantic tryst. It’s a highly dangerous, intentionally deadly and extremely expensive military operation.”

  “No, let me explain something,” she said, quivering. “I know how dangerous this is and I’m still doing it. If one of your specially trained expert operatives could do what you’re sending me to do, you’d be sending them. You need me, like I am. That’s how I’ve got this far with it, by being like I am. So either shut up and let me do it my way, or go and seduce Pierre Feramo yourself in the Sudanese desert.”

  There was silence. Widgett began to hum a little song. “Pom, pom, pom,” he went. “Pom, pom, pom. Any more questions, Rich? Any more penetrating insights? Any more helpful comments? Or shall we get on? Good. Now let’s look at how you fire a gun, Olivia, and we’ll make a decision about whether to give you one later.”

  47

  Scott Rich stood behind Olivia, his hands over hers around the gun, easing her body into the right position.

  “You’re going to absorb the recoil through your arms without flinching. And then, veery smoothly”—he put her finger on the trigger—“without jerking”—he placed his finger gently on top of hers—“you’re going to pull the trigger. Ready?”

  The door burst open. It was Dodd.

  “Sorry to interrupt, sir.” He always looked as if he wanted to kiss Scott Rich’s feet.

  “That’s fine. What’s the problem?”

  “We’ve had a repeated caller on Ms. Joules’s mobile number, and Professor Widgett thinks she should call back straight away. He doesn’t want her reported missing.”

  Scott gestured at Olivia to take the phone.

  “I’ll play you the last message. Have to put it on speaker, I’m afraid, Ms. Joules. That okay?”

  Olivia nodded. Scott leaned back against the wall, arms folded.

  “Olivia, it’s Kate again. Where the fuck are you? If you’ve gone haring off to Honduras after your ‘little fling’ with that ridiculous Dodi al-Fayed–style playboy, I’m going to have your guts for garters. I’ve called you four hundred times. If you don’t ring me back by the end of today, I’m going to report you missing.”

  “I’ll call the number for you,” said the tech.

  “Er . . . okay,” said Olivia. “Could you not put it on speaker-phone, please?”

  “Sure.”

  “Kate, hi,” she said sheepishly. “It’s Olivia.”

  A barrage of indignation erupted from the earpiece.

  “So anyway,” said Kate excitedly, when she’d finished venting, “did you shag him?”

  “No,” said Olivia, glancing at the two men.

  “Did you snog?”

  Olivia cast her mind back. Did she snog in Honduras? “Yes!” she said. “It was great, only it, er, wasn’t him . . .” She tailed off, glancing embarrassedly at Scott.

  “What? You followed him all the way to Honduras and then you snogged someone else? You are literally unbelievable.”

  “Shhh,” hissed Olivia. “Look, I really can’t talk right now.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I can’t . . .”

  “Olivia, are you all right? If not, just say ‘no,’ and I’ll contact the police.”

  “No! I mean, yes, I’m fine.”

  Scott leaned over and handed her a note.

  “Hang on a minute.”

  The note said:

  Tell her you’re having an erotic tryst—you’re perfectly all right but you’re in the middle of things and you’ll call her tomorrow. We will pay her a visit to explain.

  She looked up at Scott, who raised his eyebrows sexily and nodded encouragement.

  “The thing is, I’m having an erotic tryst. I’m perfectly all right but I’m in the middle of things. I’ll call you tomorrow and tell all.”

  “You are the worst. What about Osama bin Feramo?”

  “I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

  “Okay. Just as long as you’re all right.” It seemed to have done the trick. “Sure now?”

  “Yes. Love you.” Olivia’s voice wobbled slightly. At that moment she’d have given a lot to sit down with Kate over a couple of margaritas.

  “Love you too, you incorrigible slapper.”

  Olivia looked down at the note and laughed. Scott had signed it:

  Uniquely yours—S. R.

  48

  Olivia sat by the fire in the snug, looking at a plate of plump truffles dusted with grated chocolate. She knew it was polite to wait, but the pressure was starting to get to her. She reached out and shoved one in her mouth. The daily recorded conversations with Feramo were making her feel like a creep. She had to concentrate on OceansApart flashbacks to keep her resolve. She had just stuffed another truffle into her mouth when the door opened and Widgett strode in, followed by Scott Rich.

  “Something in your mouth, Agent Joules?” said Scott dryly, sitting down on the sofa and spreading maps out by the tea tray.

  “Right,” said Widgett. “So we’re looking at the Red Sea hills here. Now the area is predominantly Arab, but with six percent of the population Beja. Kipling’s ‘Fuzzy-Wuzzies.’ Wily bunch of nomads, amazing vertical hair. Tremendously fierce and resilient. If you can get them on your side, you’ll be all right in a crisis. The ones to watch out for are the Rashaida Bedouin nomads with satellite dishes on their tents and giant SUVs herding the camels. They’re smugglers. No one can catch
up with them. Hilarious bunch. I always had rather a soft spot for them.”

  “This is where I think the caves might be,” said Olivia, nodding and pointing to the map.

  “Ah, Suakin, the ruined coral port. Wonderful place.”

  “Feramo told me all about it,” said Olivia. “I think the al-Qaeda people are hiding there. I think they get into the caves underwater, like in Honduras.”

  “We’re looking into it,” said Scott Rich. “Bin Laden was pretty cozy with the Sudanese regime in the mid-nineties.”

  “I know,” said Olivia quietly.

  “When the Sudanese finally kicked bin Laden out in ’ninety-six, in theory the camps and cells were kicked out, but the more likely scenario is that they moved underground.”

  “Or underwater,” said Olivia.

  “Exactly,” said Widgett excitedly. “So your primary goal is to find out specifically what the threat is facing southern California. The secondary goal is to find who Feramo is hiding or visiting.”

  “But it’s still not too late to pull out,” said Scott Rich. “It’s important you know what you’re getting into. We still don’t know who Feramo is. But we know what sort of gracious hosts you’ll be looking at in general. Port Sudan”—he pointed at the map—“is directly opposite Mecca. Iran has leases on bases in Port Sudan and Suakin. So you’ve got thousands of Iranian soldiers in training, rebel NDA camps and a tinderbox of hydroelectrics to the north, a separate lot of interests coming in from Eritrea to the south, a bunch of crazy nomads in the mountains, and al-Qaeda, if you will, under the water. Still fancying a romantic mini-break?”

  “Well, I thought it was very nice there last time!” said Olivia brightly, to annoy him. “I’m looking forward to it. Especially with all my new accessories.”

  “Excellent. Have another chocolate,” said Widgett.

  “Olivia, it’s not safe out there,” said Scott Rich.

  “Safe?” she said, eyes flashing. “When is anything ever safe? Come on, you know how it is. It’s like diving off that wall under the ocean.”

  “Yeah,” he said softly, sexily, “I know. Sometimes you just have to throw yourself over the edge, baby, and roll.”

  49 CAIRO, EGYPT

  As the plane approached Cairo, Olivia experienced a bout of euphoria: I wish I could freeze this moment in time and remember it forever. I’m a spy. I’m Agent Joules. I’m on a mission for the British government. I’m in Club Class, drinking champagne with microwaved nuts.

  She had to stop herself grinning uncoolly as she strode through passport control. It was great to be on the road again. Away from the school-like atmosphere of the manor, she felt capable and as free as a bird of the nonfalcon variety. The connecting flight to Port Sudan was delayed by six hours. Hell, she thought. I’ve never seen the pyramids. “Just jump over the edge, baby, and roll.” The GPS wouldn’t pick up her earring signal until she reached the Sudan. She cleared Customs and hopped in a cab.

  * * *

  Back at the safe house in the Cotswolds, Scott Rich was about to leave for RAF Brize Norton. He would be taking an RAF flight to the aircraft carrier USS Condor anchored in the Red Sea between Port Sudan and Mecca. He was packed and ready and he had an hour. He was alone in the Tech Op Room, working on the computer by a single light.

  He leaned back from the search, screwing up his eyes and stretching, then leaned forward again and blinked rapidly at the result. As photographs and information began to appear on-screen, he fumbled for the phone in his jacket and dialed Widgett.

  “Yes, what is it, man? I’m in the middle of dinner.”

  Scott Rich’s voice was shaky. “Widgett. Feramo is Zaccharias Attaf.”

  There was a second’s pause.

  “Oh, God in heaven. Are you sure?”

  “Yes. We need to get Olivia back from Africa. Now.”

  “I’ll be with you in forty seconds.”

  * * *

  Olivia’s taxi was on a dual carriageway, weaving alarmingly between the lanes. There was a Christmas decoration hanging from the rearview mirror and a pale blue nylon garland of some kind arranged across the dashboard. The driver turned to look at her, flashing a smile and one gold tooth.

  “You hwan carrpeet?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Carrpeet. I geeve you verry good price. My brother have carrrpeet shop. Very close by. No go marrkeeet. In marrrkeet very bad man. My brother carrpeeet verry, verry beautifful.”

  “No. No carpet. I want to go to the pyramids, like I said. Watch out!” she shouted, as cars started to swerve, horns blaring.

  The driver turned back to the road with a curse, making a rude gesture out of the window.

  “Pyramids. Giza,” said Olivia. “We go to the pyramids, then come back to the airport.”

  “Pyramid verrry farr. Is no good. Is dark. No see. Better buy carpet.”

  “What about the Sphinx?”

  “Sphinx is okay.”

  “So we’ll go to the Sphinx, yes? And back to the airport?”

  “Sphinx is okay. Very old.”

  “Yes,” she said in Arabic. “Old. Good.”

  He roared off the dual carriageway at a crazy speed, plunging into a darkened residential area of dusty streets and mud houses. She wound down her windows, excitedly breathing in the smells of Africa: rotting rubbish, burnt meat, spices, dung. Eventually, the taxi ground to a halt beyond a labyrinth of unlit streets. The driver cut the engine.

  “Where’s the Sphinx?” said Olivia, feeling a twinge of alarm, flicking out her hook ring.

  The driver grinned. “No farrr,” he said, gassing her with his stinking breath. Suddenly, the total idiocy of her behavior hit her. What was she doing deciding to sightsee on a mission like this? She took out her mobile phone. It said NONETWORK.

  “Sphinx very beautiful,” said the driver. “You come with me. I show.”

  She looked at him carefully, decided he was telling the truth and climbed out of the taxi. He took out a long object, which seemed to be a cosh. She followed him along the darkened road, feeling extremely dubious. There was sand underneath their feet. She loved the dry scent of the desert air. As they rounded a corner, the driver put a match to the cosh, turning it into a blazing torch. He held it aloft and pointed through the darkness.

  Olivia gasped. She was looking at a pair of giant, dust-covered stone paws. It was the Sphinx—no barriers, no ticket counters, just there, in the middle of a dusty square, surrounded by low ruined buildings. As her eyes grew accustomed to the dark, the whole familiar shape began to reveal itself, smaller than she had imagined. The driver, raising the blazing torch, encouraged her to climb up onto the paws. She shook her head, thinking that if not actually illegal, it was certainly not right, and settled instead for following him around the perimeter, trying to get a sense of century upon century of oldness.

  “Okay,” she said, beaming. “Thank you so much. Better get back to the airport now.”

  It might not have been the most responsible decision, but she was awfully glad she’d come.

  “You hwant carrpeet now?”

  “No. No carpet. Airport.”

  They turned the corner to head back to the car, and the driver cursed loudly. Another car was parked beside their taxi, headlights full on. Figures emerged from the darkness, coming towards them. Olivia shrank into the shadows, remembering her kidnapping training: the first moments of the kidnap attempt are key, on your territory, not theirs, when you have the best chance of escape. The men were focusing on the driver. There were raised voices. He appeared to be trying to placate them with an oily smile, talking very fast, heading towards his taxi. Olivia tried to melt away into the shadows. She was a hundred yards from the Sphinx, for God’s sake. There had to be some other people somewhere. One of the shadowy figures saw her and grabbed her arm. At the same moment her driver got into his taxi and started the engine.

  “Hey, wait!” yelled Olivia, starting to run towards him. Now, make a noise, make a fuss, raise the ale
rt while you’re still in a public space.

  * * *

  “Help,” she started to yell. “Heeelp!”

  “No, no,” said her driver. “You go with him. Verry good man.”

  “Nooooo!” she yelled, as he slammed the car in gear and moved off. A rough arm restrained her as she tried to run after the car, its taillights disappearing into the labyrinth of streets.

  Olivia looked round at her captors. There were three of them, young men in Western clothes. “Please,” said one of them, opening the car door. “Farouk must leave for other customer. You come with us. We take you to airport.”

  As the man took hold of her, she jabbed him with the hook ring, breaking free as he yelled in pain, starting to run, yelling, as she’d been taught, in a way that left no doubt to anyone listening that she was under attack. “Help me, oh God, please help me. Heeeeeeelp!”

  * * *

  It was a wet, windy night in the Cotswolds. On the tarmac at RAF Brize Norton, Scott Rich was yelling into the phone, trying to make himself heard above the roar of the jet engine. “Where the hell is she? I said, where is she?”

  “No bloody idea. Flight was delayed by six hours. Suraya’s set up Fletcher in Cairo to watch for her: messages at the desk, et cetera, et cetera.”

  “Suraya?”

  “Yes. Anything wrong with that?”

  Scott Rich hesitated. An aide approached, trying to rush him onto the plane. Scott waved him aside and headed into the shelter of the hangar. “I want you to give me your word that you’ll order Olivia back.”

  Widgett gave a strange laugh. “You’re asking a spook to give you his word?”

  “Zaccharias Attaf is a psychopath. He has killed eight women in exactly these circumstances. He becomes obsessed—as he is with Olivia—and when they fail to live up to whatever his insane fantasy happens to be, he kills them. You’ve seen the pictures.”

  “Yes. He has a tendency to suck bits of them off, it would seem. Are you sure it’s him? How did you get there?”