‘Good,’ Miri says, picking the newspaper back up. ‘Be yourself with her. It is the right strategy at this time. Take her drinks. Take her food. Put her at ease and comfort. Chat with her.’
‘I’m not the chatty type, and isn’t that a bit weird for a prisoner? And why did her side try and kill her? And why did she help us? And where’s Roland? And . . .’
‘I am working on it.’ Miri unfolds the paper and starts leafing through the pages, as though to find the section she was previously reading.
‘The answer in that newspaper then, is it?’
‘That is all for now. Thank you.’
‘So what’s happening now?’
‘I said that is all, Miss Patel,’ Miri says, lifting her eyes back to Safa.
‘Where’s Roland?’
‘Somewhere else.’
‘Why?’
‘Sterility to prevent risk of cross-contamination of knowledge.’
‘I don’t know what that means.’
‘Ask Mr Ryder.’
‘Patronising. Is that the same as Bertie and Ria?’
‘Yes.’
‘Right,’ Safa says, rising from the chair. ‘Thanks for the chat.’
‘Welcome.’
‘Door always open, is it?’
Miri reads the newspaper. Safa tuts and walks off.
Eleven
Footsteps. She turns from the window to face the main door. The footsteps stop. The door swings inwards. She waits, passive and calm, as Safa Patel walks in carrying a tray. Tango Two looks to the door left open and then to the tray and the bowls of fruit, eggs and a steaming mug of coffee. She spots the cutlery too. A stainless steel knife, fork and spoon.
Hot coffee in the face. Throw the mug. Grab the fork. Stab for the eyes. Go for the door.
Safa puts the tray on the seat of the chair and steps away to look down at the same things then back up at Tango Two. A second’s worth of silence. Safa’s eyes hard, but the challenge is clear.
‘I’d win,’ Safa says. ‘Even with hot coffee in the face.’
A flash of memory at seeing Safa holding them off on the landing single-handed.
‘Thank you,’ Tango Two says, remaining by the window.
‘Anytime you fancy attacking me, just have a go and see what happens.’
‘Thank you,’ Tango Two says, still remaining by the window.
Silence. Neither move. Neither speak.
‘Eat then.’
‘Now?’
‘Yes, now. I can’t leave you with a knife and a fork. You might shove them up your arse.’
‘Right,’ Tango Two says carefully, walking gingerly towards the chairs.
‘Pack in the acting. You aren’t that hurt.’
‘Thank you,’ Tango Two says, offering a submissive look at Safa. She sits down on the middle chair.
‘That fruit is nice,’ Safa says. ‘We haven’t got much left now though, because you killed Malc and Kon, so we can’t get any more . . .’
‘Wasn’t me,’ Tango Two cuts in quietly, politely. ‘I believe that was in Berlin? I didn’t come into the operation until Hampshire.’
‘Still your lot,’ Safa says.
‘Of course,’ Tango Two says, reaching for the bowl. She looks at the chopped-up chunks, instantly recognising them from the smell and appearance, then wondering why Safa mentioned the fruit. When did Safa die? It was 2020. The attack on Downing Street. This fruit was developed years after her death. She looks up and smiles politely, stealing another studied glance at Safa.
‘Stop gawping at me,’ Safa says, then narrows her eyes. ‘Are you honey-trapping me?’
‘No,’ Tango Two says quickly, still averting her gaze.
‘Try the lemon-lime thing, that’s my favourite. Ben likes it too. Harry likes the cheesy-feet marrow thing, but that is gross.’
‘Melemime,’ Tango Two says, stabbing a chunk of the lemon-lime fruit to hold up.
‘What?’ Safa asks.
‘Hybrid cross-pollinated from a melon, a lemon and a lime. Melemime.’
Safa steps forward to look closer. ‘Ben will love that. What’s that plum thing called?’
‘This one?’ Tango Two asks, using the fork to push a chunk of fruit in the bowl. ‘That is actually a combination of vegetables and fruit. Potato, sweet potato, plums obviously, nectarine and kiwi.’
‘What’s it called?’
‘Plumtato.’
‘Are you taking the piss?’
‘Not at all. That is the name. In English anyway. They call it something else in Germany, where it was developed. Are you Safa Patel?’
‘Yeah. So did they make loads of different ones? The fruits, I mean. And are they nutritionally good? I figured they were, but . . .’
‘Er, yes. Yes, several were developed, and yes, very nutritionally good. They were designed to get children back to eating fruit after the obesity epidemic. The cheesy marrow thing you mentioned is a very acquired taste. Marrow, yams, fermented beans and . . .’
‘What’s it called?’
‘Marrowyam.’
‘Marrowyam? I’ll tell Harry,’ Safa says, stepping back as Tango Two chews thoughtfully on the chunk of melemime.
Questions whirl and spin through Tango Two’s head. She needs to know what happened, but is experienced enough to go patiently and slowly. Build a bond. Stay passive and non-threatening. She clears her throat, as though worried. ‘May I ask, was that Ben Ryder?’ She speaks as lightly as she dares, even focussing on choosing another chunk of fruit to make the opening test question seem innocuous.
‘Yeah, Miri said you’d do this.’
‘Pardon?’ Tango Two says, blinking in confusion.
‘Cultivate. We got trained in it in the force. Because we guarded politicians, we had people trying to get close to us. Cultivate us. Like, make friends and find things out.’
‘Right,’ Tango Two says, still polite as before. She blinks again and forks another chunk of fruit. ‘I apologise. I was just surprised. I mean . . . Safa Patel and Ben Ryder . . .’
‘And Harry Madden,’ Safa says with a slight grin at seeing the woman freeze as she lifts her fork.
Harry Madden. Mad Harry Madden. The Second World War in the mid-twentieth century. She looks up at Safa and allows the surprise to show. ‘Mad Harry Madden?’
‘Yep,’ Safa says. ‘Reason I’m telling you that is so you know who you have to get through, if by some divine miracle you get through me. Ben Ryder and Harry Madden.’
‘I see,’ Tango Two says, lifting the fork to her mouth.
Safa sits down on one of the other chairs. Making small talk is not her area of expertise, so instead she just watches Tango Two eat.
Tango Two takes the positioning in, but shows no reaction. She was expecting instant interrogation. Sleep deprivation, and for food and water to be rationed. That another strategy is being used is jarring and confusing. There should be two guards. One to come forward. One to stay back. She senses something like awkwardness hanging in the air. Like Safa wants to say something, but doesn’t know what to say.
‘You train a lot then?’ Safa asks. Looking at her athletic build and the muscle definition in her shoulders and arms. Not bulky, but toned.
‘Pardon?’
‘Exercise.’
‘Oh. Er, yes. Yes, I do.’
‘Me too. Go nuts if I can’t train.’
‘Same,’ Tango Two says, slowing down in her eating to give time for the conversation to grow. ‘You exercise here?’
‘Running outside, circuits . . . Got some combat training equipment in the main room. Basic stuff, but you can train anywhere really.’
‘Motivation is a state of mind.’
‘Bloody right,’ Safa says in agreement.