The Spy I Loved (28 page)

They
watched, her almost breathlessly, the male finally skipping past
the boring bits and cutting right to the object under lift. This
was a dim shape, lit from below in a soft green glow.

“
We’d better get the supervisor in here.” The lady lifted a
phone and spoke briefly into it.

He hit Point
A
again, studying the video.

At a
metre and a half in length, with a cruising duration un-recharged
of twenty-four hours, packed with sensors and a small explosive
charge, Achmed enjoyed operating the machine. He would have laughed
at anyone who accused him of playing with toys. It was anything but
a toy. Meant for stealthy approach, the machine would lay on the
bottom, automatically maintaining its assigned position against
current and waves until it was activated. It could operate in
hunter-killer mode. It could be used as a simple magnetic or
acoustic mine, for remotely-piloted reconnaissance, or attacking
enemy personnel. That’s what it was right doing now.

Hugging the bottom, weaving back and forth through weeds,
skimming past rocks and boulders,
Barracuda One
followed the little
flotilla. They needed to be patient. The three boats cruised
upriver for half an hour and then entered the cove. They tied up at
the docks. The men all got out. They had a lot of gear with them,
and finally they unloaded their precious little package.

Occupied with themselves, not a one looked out to the water.
Carrying bags, swim fins, diving tanks and other ancillary
equipment,
Barracuda
followed their progress with its periscope fully extended.
The technicians zoomed in, carefully noting the one known as
Spencer. He was hefting a large heavy mass that didn’t correspond
to anything loaded prior to going out. Through the machine’s eyes,
they were trying to get a good look into the back door of Cabin
Seven as the men trooped in, clearly tired but bearing glad
tidings. They saw other people, other faces in there and then the
door slammed shut.

Hmn.

There
were squeaking, sliding footsteps in the hall as the supervisor was
right there, hand on the knob. He’d come running.

***

“
Goodnight, Uncle Dale. I’m coming home late tonight, so don’t
wait up.” Feeling slightly guilty about taking a night off when the
camp was full to capacity, Lindsey had set out cheese puffs, a box
of butter tarts taken from the store and a bowl of
pretzels.

Theoretically it was his camp and his house—theoretically, he
should be able to look after himself.

He could
find other stuff to eat if he put his mind to it.

She
leaned in over his armchair and gave him a dry peck on the cheek,
trying not to leave too much lip-gloss behind.

Dale
grinned.

“
Hey! Who’s the lucky guy? You smell fantastic,
honey.”

Trust
Dale to call a spade a spade. Lindsey, in a kind of defiance, was
dressed to the nines. Her legs were polished and teeth whitened and
hair curled, and combed, and all puffed out like the picture in the
high school yearbook.

She was
wearing the same slinky black dress that she had worn to the prom.
She went with a guy named Alan. Why, she would never know. Alan had
asked in a kind of obvious hopelessness and then just seemed
bewildered by his success. At the time, he was kind of cute. Once
it became known that they would be going together, he became ever
more wooden and ever more sophomorically tongue-tied. It got worse
and worse, the closer the great day came. He must have had a
horrible crush. He must have thought he was getting laid or
something.

That was the
hope,
anyways.

The funny (perhaps terrible was a better word)
thing
was that she had
barely thought of him since.

Poor guy.

Her heels
were high, a circlet of smoky black faux pearls around her neck
drew attention and suggested submission, which was what she was
pretty sure she wanted.

One or the other.

Someone
had to submit or nothing
much was ever going to happen.

She and
Amy, a friend she hadn’t seen in ages, were going to the pub. Amy
had called up out of the blue, as desperate as Lindsey and seeking
to rekindle old times or something. As impulses went, this one came
at a good time. Or a bad time, or maybe just at the right time.
That was how Amy put it after hearing Lindsey’s little tale of woe.
They would see if they could spark someone to a little dancing.
Maybe even provoke them if that proved necessary.

She had
on a short grey coat, knitted wool, with wide shoulders, narrow in
the waist. Lindsey had a suede purse in the same colour, matching
the stitch pattern quite well. She’d bought that on Yonge Street.
Under Dale’s scrutiny, eyebrows a little raised, she slowly rotated
in place by the front door.

It didn’t
do to dwell on such things, but his niece had some of the finest
legs he’d ever seen.

That was
one short and clingy skirt. He clamped his mouth firmly shut. She
blew him a kiss, which he acknowledged with a wave, face already
back to the TV.

Turning,
she opened the door and went out.

Chapter Nineteen

“
Damn.” Lindsey turned the key again on the six year-old white
Ford club-cab pickup truck, with its sunroof, heavy stereo and
cold, slippery maroon leather seats.

The sun
had gone down and night was falling.

The
engine was turning over but it wasn’t firing.

Shit.

It was a
warm evening. It was almost airless, the hallmark of a bad mosquito
night. She had the driver’s window down. There was the crunch of
gravel as she stopped cranking for a moment. She might borrow
Mark’s little Subaru, but it was a gear-cruncher, and she probably
couldn’t do it in the shoes. These were her special shoes. Lindsey
was beginning to get a little cross. God, how good that first drink
was going to taste. If only she could get there.

“
Excuse me, Lindsey. Hello. Are you having engine
troubles?”

It was
Anton and Beryl, the Bernsteins. Their little grey-green vehicle
was there in front of the store. Beryl was eating a strawberry ice
cream cone.

“
Ah. Shit. Yes. I don’t know what’s wrong.” Always parked in
the far left spot, with a
Reserved
sign prominently displayed, Lindsey thought Dale
had been driving it just that morning, the other day for
sure.

“
You look lovely, dear.” Those blue eyes barely wavered as
Beryl carefully and thoroughly licked her ice cream cone. “Got a
hot date, I’ll bet.”

“
Yes. I should say so.” Mister Bernstein lifted his chin and
peered down, noting the tanned knees and the healthy young skin
revealed by cutaway shoulders and a plunging V-neck in
front.

Lindsey
tried to smile.

“
Well. No. Not a
date,
exactly…”

Beryl
gave Anton a hefty slap on the back of his shoulder.

It was a
strong hint from the little lady.

“
Oh. Ah, say, Lindsey. Maybe we can give you lift. We’re going
into town for lobster.”

Upset by
the truck not starting, not seeing Mark or his car anywhere about,
not quite knowing what to do, Lindsey couldn’t help but stare for a
second at Liam’s little red car. It was sitting out in front of
Cabin Seven. She immediately dismissed that impulse. It was a nice
thought though.

“
Sure. That would be wonderful.” Rolling up the window,
Lindsey locked the doors, put the keys in her purse, and followed
the Bernsteins to their vehicle, good old Beryl with her tow-head
and Dutch or Estonian accent licking ice cream all the
way.

Bernstein
hit the button on his key-fob and the doors squawked in the usual
fashion.

Beryl
took an appraising look at the outfit and the girl.

“
You’d better take the front seat, honey. I don’t mind sitting
in the back.”

Anton
held the door for her, indulging himself in another good ogle. The
doors were closed and he started the engine. The locks chunked
down. The radio was set fairly high in volume to some heavy hip-hop
beat. It might seem a little rude, but she was going to ask him to
turn it down in a minute. She’d wait until they got going and he
attempted to talk, which one of them would no doubt do…sure as
shooting.

The car
shifted as Beryl moved around in the back seat. There was something
odd in the air, a new car smell or something. Lindsey thought it
was a Lexus.

“
So, where are you-all headed?” Anton looked over from the
driver’s seat in friendly fashion, then his eyes dropped to her
cleavage or what there was of it.

“
Ah—” She was just opened her mouth to tell him the Goat’s
Head Pub on the corner of—

“
Honey, this is a lovely little scent. What do you think?”
Beryl was leaning up close in behind her, the car shifting under
them again.

Lindsey
turned her head, not quite understanding the question. Beryl’s
right hand came up and grabbed her by the back of her head, shoving
a frilly handkerchief, heavily laced with something sickly sweet
and strong right in her face. Lindsey kicked and her arms came up
as Anton fended her off and held her down with a strong right
arm.

After a
moment, she was gone. They gave each other a quick
high-five.

Anton
backed out, dropped it in gear and got the hell out of there before
anyone came out of the store. There were three people coming down
the road from the camp. The windows were heavily smoked, the music
was loud and they didn’t see a damned thing, in his humble
opinion.

***

Lindsey
woke up in the trunk of a car.

It had to
be.

It came
again, the red flare and the sudden lurch as someone braked hard
and turned the wheel. Her head was rubbing against a rib by the
wheel-well. She was jammed up in the fetal position.

She was
bound hand and foot, the darkness a terrifying thing.

Her heart
raced. There was tape over her eyes and mouth.

The sound
of air whistling out of her nostrils was what ultimately settled
her down. Cry and twist and try to scream as she might, she was
caught like a rat.

This was
no dream.

The stuff
over her eyes was thoroughly stuck to her eyebrows, but there was a
gap at the bottom, bigger on the right eye than the left. The tears
were just blinding her. That was no good.

The
growling of tires on gravel, the swaying, the fact that she was on
her left side, the red glare of the brake lights, these were the
only clues to her fate.

A mental
image of the Bernsteins, and their offer of a friendly ride came
flooding back. The truck wouldn’t start.

Fuck.
Their car, their grey-green
car, had been sitting right out in front of their cabin. Right
across the road from Liam’s…
this was a
different grey-green car.

She must
be going mad…but it was all too clear now. How had she missed
it—

Fuck!

It must
have been them.

It was
them.

That bitch.

Beryl. Anton.

But why?

Lindsey
was hyperventilating.

Something
rammed into her left hip, the pain enough to make her gasp. Snot
filled her left nostril. In a moment of panic, she took in a big
breath through the one remaining orifice and then tried to clear
her nose. For the most part it was successful, judging by the
sticky wetness on her cheek. If she wasn’t careful, she’d suffocate
herself. A hard object was poking into her lower back with every
pothole. They were on a gravel road. It had to be. They were
everywhere. At intersections and in the lower spots where braking,
accelerating or water on the road were heaviest, there was a
washboard effect that was unmistakeable. The car stopped, held for
a moment and then went on again.

The car
lumbered along at slow speed for a straight and steady run. Her
heart was pounding as she fought the panic. The car turned left,
the amber flashing coming from the area of her knees rather than by
her face. It had to be a left turn. The road from camp was eleven
kilometres to the paved highway…how long had she been out? She
needed to get a grip on herself. Her left hip hurt like hell. She
thought it might be the wheel-jack or something. She squirmed,
bringing her fingers to the carpet. Lindsey felt around behind her.
There was a jumble of items, hurriedly pushed out of the way when
they dumped her. Something shifted away from her
fingertips.

Something
small.

It had to
be a tire iron, perhaps a screwdriver. Her heart leapt when she
realized it was a putty knife. The cues were so subtle, but that
was what it was. There was a small toolbox and the lid must have
unlatched on the twisty, bumpy roads. There were all kinds of small
tools in behind her. She mustn’t tighten the bonds on her wrist
even more, so she shifted and tried again. Her hands were numb,
buzzing and tingling with the lack of circulation and pressure on
the nerve. Her neck was close to going into a spasm. The urge to
straighten out for a moment was overpowering.