From Paris, With Love. Samantha TongeЧитать онлайн книгу.
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.
How was I to know that ‘Magic Baguette’ was a French nickname for a man’s best friend (and I don’t mean his dog)? That tramp was no terrorist but a right old pervert, just about to flash. By the time Joe Bloggs legged it back to help me, the old man’s trouser zip