Amie- Savage Safari Read online

  She stared at the space on the table where her laptop had rested, then shuffled into the bedroom. Nothing looked different. The clothes she’d worn last night were still flung over the chair in the corner; the odd bumps in the duvet where she hadn’t made the bed properly this morning; her slippers resting by the chest of drawers where she had left them, all told her that life was normal – they lied.

  Everything in her wardrobe and in all the drawers looked the same, yet there was something not quite right. She couldn’t put her finger on it. She checked out the bathroom, flipping the lid closed on the toothpaste tube as she looked around, even lifting the top of the toilet cistern to see if there were foreign objects lurking in the water. There was nothing out of place, but she felt uneasy. Her training had taught her to follow her instinct. So, what was it?

  She examined the lounge from all angles. There was nothing hidden behind the pale green, floral print cotton curtains that blew slightly in the breeze from the open windows. They had told her again and again during her training to look up.

  At first, she couldn’t see anything, but then she noticed that one of the inset ceiling lights didn’t match the rest. The silver ring around the edge was a fraction wider and a little shinier. Dragging a dining room chair over, she climbed up and stared at the light. There were several holes in the steel ring. A microphone? Camera? Or both?

  Amie jumped down and raced back into the bedroom, but here the light fittings all looked the same, and to her relief the bathroom lights had not been tampered with either. She went back into the bedroom and flung herself on the bed. She needed to slow down, think, work this out, and make a plan. What were her options?

  There were only two possibilities, go along with what they wanted or run away. Running away wasn’t feasible. She had very little money to hand, and she’d need her passport … her passport! It wasn’t in her bedside cabinet nor in her spare handbags. Somehow, she knew she wouldn’t find it.

  She sank down onto the bed. If she was going to make a run for it, she needed to pack, then get out of the apartment – but with limited funds and no transport where could she go? She couldn’t ask anybody at work for help. She couldn’t allow them to put their own jobs – or lives – at risk and after today, she wasn’t sure who she could trust.

  Her flat was on the third floor with a three-storey drop straight down to the concrete pavement below, with no balcony or a drainpipe to hang on to. There were pipes outside the bathroom window, but there was no exit from the inner well formed by the adjoining apartments.

  Just in case her ears had deceived her, she tried the front door but it was locked, and impossible to open without the key. Her beloved flat had become a prison. There was no concierge to call, and Amie had no idea who the building administrators were. Besides, how would she explain she had locked herself inside her flat? There was no way out and even if she could escape, she had a feeling that she would not survive for long. Besides, Ian took her phone.

  Ian’s change in attitude had shocked her more than she’d realized. When they had met in the Embassy in Apatu, he was warm and friendly, joking, and sympathetic to her tale. Not for one moment during her debriefing had he given any hint that she had performed badly or made mistakes.

  If escape wasn’t possible, she had no option but to obey. Perhaps she could pretend to go along with whatever wild scheme they had in mind, then make a run for it later. At some point, they were bound to return her cell phone and laptop as she would have to keep in touch with the guys in London. Would they assign her to Maddy again? The faceless, sexless ‘friend’ who sent her coded emails pretending to be backpacking around the world while he or she was most likely bunkered down in a basement cubbyhole in Whitehall. Maddy would blithely send Amie into danger and grumble when things went wrong, while the most dangerous situation the handler encountered was getting stuck in the tube doors as the train left the station.

  Amie sighed, stood up and went to her closet to get a rucksack. She dropped it on the bed and stared at it. Ian Fleming had not given her any idea where she would be sent, or what they wanted her to do. Did she need to pack summer or winter clothes? How typical of a man. If she was going to make a run for it, she needed to travel light. She flung in two pairs of cargo pants, six t-shirts, a thick jersey, basic underwear, and toiletries. She packed her Kindle, too, after unsuccessfully attempting to download a pile of new books. Ian’s lot had disconnected or jammed her internet access. They’d thought of everything.

  She picked up the small framed picture of Simon and her taken recently at a function at the City Hall in Durban and slipped that into a side pocket.

  Thoughts of leaving without being able to tell him where she was going, or even how long she was going to be away brought tears to her eyes, and this time she didn’t try to hold them back. There had to be a way of contacting him.

  Opening the lounge window wide, she peered out. She thought the walkway was empty, until she saw a man right below her window, tucked in close by the wall. It wasn’t anybody she’d seen before and he seemed out of place in the heat of a Durban summer, dressed in a suit and tie. He looked up at her and nodded, leaving her in no doubt that he was there to ensure she didn’t leave.

  She made herself another mug of coffee. Usually the caffeine calmed her nerves, but not today. Why hadn’t Ian briefed her in private, in the consulate, where they swept for listening devices? It was all a mystery.

  The only possible act of defiance was to tape over the light fitting to give her some privacy for the evening. She crisscrossed masking tape over the light and the metal rim. It was a fire risk, but if it set anything alight, at least the fire department would have to come to her rescue. Let the Service talk their way out of that one.

  The evening dragged on. Every time Amie checked her watch the hands had barely moved. By seven o’clock it was getting dark, and her guard was still there – she guessed there’d be a change of shift, but somebody would be out there all night.

  Supper was a frozen dinner for one and the whirring of the microwave echoed round the flat as it cooked. It felt inappropriate to put on the TV or the radio or to play music. She took her food into the bedroom where it felt more private. There may be more bugs, and if she found them she could bash them to little pieces with her rolling pin on the chopping board but then the Service would take the cost of them from her salary, for damage to Her Majesty’s property.

  After clearing away her dinner things and dusting around, as she didn’t want to leave the place dirty, she fell into bed. She slept fitfully. Her dreams were peppered with fight or flight situations. One minute she was racing to escape, the next she was battling hand-to-hand with a half-seen adversary who evaporated when she tried to get to grips with its wraith-like form.

  She woke bathed in sweat and exhausted. She staggered towards the bathroom and paused seeing herself in the mirror. Her shoulder-length fair hair framed a pretty oval face, but there were dark shadows under her grey eyes. At five-feet-five, she took an average size in clothes and was neither too thin nor too fat.

  Huh, some fighting machine, she thought to herself before turning on the shower.

  As she stood under the scalding water, her thoughts ran riot. She couldn’t make up her mind what to do, but, in the end she did nothing, because there was nothing she could do. She had to escape, but didn’t know how. There must be places where the tentacles of Her Majesty’s government didn’t reach. But even if she ran to a country with no extradition treaty, they wouldn’t be bothered about such minor details. The ‘system’ would send somebody to dispose of her. They would never take the risk of her turning up in Britain to a barrage of cameras and microphones to tell the world that she hadn’t been killed after all, and that SIS, MI5 or 6, or whatever numbered department it was, had coerced her into taking her husband’s place, and then forced her to kill and spy for them.

  Amie may be a very poor spy with only a basic training, but she had already seen first-hand how ruthless any country co
uld be when it came to protecting its secrets and its reputation.

  She stepped out of the shower and towelled herself dry. Even now, a little after dawn, she could feel the warm air wafting in through the windows. The temperature seldom went below nine degrees Celsius in Durban; she had never needed to buy a winter coat. She hoped they would not send her anywhere cold and wondered if it was true that years in a hot country thinned the blood, making it more difficult to withstand cold weather.

  Fleming rang the bell at precisely 6:00 am, before unlocking the door from the outside and walking right into the lounge. He gave her a sharp nod before striding over to stare out of the window.

  “I expect your pet Rottweiler is still out there on guard?” she sneered.

  “Are you ready? We need to leave.”

  “I’ve not finished my coffee.”

  “You have fifteen minutes; we’ve a plane to catch.” He walked out locking the door behind him.

  Amie fought back the tears, this may be the last time she saw these rooms; she felt so helpless. She had scribbled notes for Simon and secreted them away where she hoped he’d find them, but she wasn’t too sure he would ever get to see them. It was more than likely that Fleming’s minions would sweep through the apartment and destroy them before she even reached the airport.

  When Ian returned fifteen minutes later, she picked up her rucksack and reluctantly followed him out into the corridor. He took hold of her arm, keeping a firm grip on her all the way down in the lift and onto the pavement before ushering her into the back of a black luxury car waiting at the kerb.

  A man Amie had never seen before left the plush leather passenger seat and threw her rucksack into the boot. Ian slithered in next to her, nodding at the driver to pull away. She hadn’t expected he’d be travelling with her.

  Amie wondered if they would go to the new King Shaka airport on the north side of town, or make for the small airfield at Virginia. Looking out of the heavily tinted windows, she marvelled at the normal life going on around her. Minibus taxis wove in and out of the traffic on the highway, screeching to a halt to pick up passengers standing on the verge or the central reservation. A coach, filled with school children bouncing up and down on their seats pulling faces through the windows, was left behind as Amie’s sedan threaded through the dozens of commuters making for the businesses and offices in and around Durban and the industrial area to the south of the city.

  They drove into the short-term parking area at the main airport. The driver manoeuvred into a bay before he and the man in the passenger seat got out and walked away. She tried to open her door, but nothing happened.

  “Childproof locks are so useful,” Ian said.

  She wanted to slap the self-satisfied smirk off his face.

  “Now, admit it, you must be curious about your destination?” he continued.

  Amie didn’t reply but her stony face had no effect on him.

  “You and I are bound for Togodo – Apatu to be precise, your old stomping ground, so it will all be familiar.”

  “You’re coming too?” His words jolted Amie into replying.

  He leaned back against the black leather seat and smirked. “Now you see why we have to use you. You’re the only one who can get close to our target – you already have an ‘in’, as they say.”

  “But I don’t know anyone there anymore.” Well, that was true if you didn’t count Mrs Motswezi who ran the orphanage or Ouma Adede, her witch doctor friend – but she wasn’t going to remind Ian about them.

  “Oh, but you do. An old friend of yours Ben Mtumba?”

  “Ben,” gasped Amie. “But it’s been ages.”

  “Yes, but we’ll arrange for you to connect up again. You’ll be working in the Embassy; there’ll be plenty of occasions when you’re likely to meet. You know of course he’s now president of Togodo?”

  “Yes, I’ve heard.” Amie wasn’t feeling comfortable about this, something wasn’t right.

  “We need information and, depending on what you learn, we’ll tell you what action to take.”

  2 SIMON LANDS IN LONDON

  As soon as Simon stepped off the plane an official had appeared on the tarmac to welcome him and usher him into the baggage claim from a separate door off the airside apron. He’d relieved him of his mobile phone the moment he sent his arrival message to Amie.

  Simon made to take it back but the young man, who looked barely old enough to be let out of kindergarten on his own, merely smiled, and whipped out a small black box from his pocket. “Just need to scan it, Sir.” He swiped the phone on both sides before handing it back and then took Simon’s laptop and passport on the pretext of lightening the load and being helpful. Simon felt more harassed than welcome but was not surprised after he claimed his suitcase, to be ushered through another service door, avoiding customs and immigration. He was taken out the side of the building and into a waiting car with the engine already purring.

  The rain poured relentlessly from the grey clouds that hung low over London and Simon swore when he was evicted from the car and escorted along the Embankment, then down a side street and through a small door leading to a single flight of steps. It was dark and dingy inside and he assumed that spending money to tart up government offices wasn’t high on the priority list these days, but even a coat of paint wouldn’t have gone amiss. At the top of the uncarpeted wooden stairs a door led into a small reception area. His guide motioned to him to sit on the cracked leather couch. The young man – who had not thought to introduce himself – disappeared through a door behind the counter, wheeling Simon’s case behind him. Simon had no option but to sit and wait.

  He smiled at the middle-aged woman behind the counter. She only gave him a brief nod in reply and turned back to her computer, her fingers flying over the keyboard like lemmings dropping off a cliff. The walls were devoid of pictures, the coffee table in front of him held no newspapers or magazines, and the moment Simon got to his feet the receptionist, if that’s what she was, shook her head and indicated he was to remain seated. She was quite immune to his well-built six-foot frame and his friendly blue eyes under the blonde hair that fell boyishly over his forehead.

  Simon sat back down and sighed. He had no idea why they’d summoned him to headquarters in such a hurry, barely giving him time to drag out his warm clothing. If it was so urgent, why had they left him sitting here, watching a typist pounding computer keys and answering the telephone?

  The airport welcoming committee reappeared and made some vapid excuse about the party Simon was supposed to meet having been called away; but that was hours ago. Although a few people had come out of the door behind the counter and nodded to him briefly before disappearing down the stairs, nobody talked to him or asked if they could help.

  It was all cloak and dagger and he could see no reason for it. He had travelled on a passport in a different name, not for the first time, but they were keeping close tabs on him. Why? He took his phone out intending to send Amie another message, but the screen was blank; the kindergarten kid had disabled it and now he couldn’t contact friends or family in Durban, or in England. There was nothing he could do to alert anyone that he was in Britain and not thousands of miles away in South Africa.

  After hours of kicking his heels in the drab reception area, he was escorted through the door behind the counter, where they pointed to a desk and gave him a battery of forms to fill in. ‘Updating’ they called it, but from the basic questions on the papers in front of him Simon was convinced that all the answers were already securely lodged in his personal files. There was nothing new to add. He was up to date on the routine reports from Durban – there was precious little to account for anyway – life had been quiet lately.

  At lunchtime they gave him a mug of disgusting coffee in a paper cup the size of a small bathtub – and a plate of wilting sandwiches.

  In the middle of the afternoon a door at the far end of the large office opened and an elderly man approached him.

  “Simon Peter
son?” he asked, although Simon was pretty sure there weren’t any other visitors in the office. He nodded.

  “Martin McClusky, Deputy Chief.” He extended his hand. “Sorry to keep you waiting. It’s all go, go, go here. There’s never a moment to spare. Come on through.”

  Simon was about to make a sarcastic comment about them having wasted almost a whole day of his life, but decided against it. As they walked into McClusky’s office, Simon noted the greying hair and large paunch that suggested the Deputy Chief was going to seed from sitting behind a desk all day. Simon couldn’t imagine him out in the field grappling with bad guys or running for cover with bullets flying all around him.

  The first things he saw as he entered the office were his suitcase and laptop standing next to the wall and it crossed his mind they had probably been through both with a fine-tooth comb while they kept him waiting. How paranoid were these people?

  McClusky’s office was no brighter than the rest of the building, and to Simon, after the bright African sun, it was dark and dingy. Thin net curtains hung over the tall windows on one side of the room, while floor to ceiling bookcases stuffed full of dusty books and box files took up two more walls. A solid government-issue desk occupied most of the space in the room. It was piled high with mounds of papers and dog-eared files some of which were covered in dust.

  Walking behind the desk to sink into the overstuffed leather swivel chair on the far side, Martin waved Simon into the visitor’s chair facing him.

  “Tea, coffee?”

  “No thanks,” Simon said, remembering the earlier cup they’d served him.

  Martin pushed piles of papers to one side and opened a file.

  Simon caught a brief glimpse of his photo attached to the front, and watched Martin quickly flick through the pages.

  “I see you’ve been asking to go out in the field for some time now?”

  “Yes. Yes, that was my plan.” Simon needed to put this delicately. While Amie was an active operative, he’d wanted to be out there with her, but now that she was pregnant it wasn’t a good idea. A secure job in a British Consulate, moving every few years, should provide enough excitement for them along with the two children they planned. It would be a good life, but he wasn’t about to tell McClusky that. Fraternisation between employees was frowned upon if either was in the field and Amie wanted off the active list too.