‘Well, I mean, she asks me what happened that led to being here. That’s it. Oh, and she asked my codename. Why haven’t you asked my name? My real name, I mean.’
‘Miri said not to. So . . . is this not normal then?’
‘Pardon?’
‘What we’re doing with you. Is it not normal?’
Tango Two hesitates and suppresses the urge to be honest and say, no, it’s not bloody normal; it’s not anywhere near normal. ‘I guess so,’ she says instead.
‘Has she asked why your side tried killing you?’
‘No. Nothing. Why? Do you know something?’ Tango Two asks, then instantly berates herself again for forgetting to keep her guard up.
‘Me? I don’t know anything,’ Safa admits. ‘I keep asking Miri, but she just says she is working on it.’
Honesty. Raw honesty. There is no doubt in Tango Two’s mind that Safa is being brutally open. She sighs and shakes her head. ‘I don’t know, Safa. Really, I’ve got no clue.’
‘Did you do something then? Or maybe something you didn’t do? Like shoot Bertie? Maybe they told you to shoot Bertie, and you didn’t. Was that it?’
‘No. We just had to secure him. I mean, they did say we could kill if it prevented escape, but I had him. I had him right there with me.’
Stop it. Stop opening up. Be reticent and passive. Be ignorant.
‘Got to be a reason.’
‘I . . . Safa, has Miri asked you to ask me all this?’
Safa looks at her in earnest, a slight twitch at the corners of her mouth. ‘I’d tell her to fuck off if she did. I don’t play games like that. Never have and never will.’
Tango Two searches for a sign of deceit, but again feels only pure honesty. She can’t help but like Safa too. There is something about her. Her humour. Her direct way of speaking.
‘I don’t lie. I hate lying. If I knew why they tried to kill you, I’d tell you, and if Miri told me not to tell you, I’d just tell you to fuck off. So you’re an agent?’
‘In the British Secret Service.’
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s, er, well, it was formed after you actually.’
‘Me?’ Safa asks, pushing some of the clothes aside to sit on the bed.
‘After the attack on Downing Street . . .’
‘My attack?’
‘Yes, it was, er . . . So you don’t know any of this?’
‘Not a clue.’
‘Right. Did you know it was the same group that attacked Ben at Holborn station?’
‘Fuck, no way. Was it really?’
‘You really don’t know this?’
‘No! Hang on, come for a coffee and tell Ben at the same time.’
‘Er,’ Tango Two says, looking down at the clothes she has been wearing for several days.
‘Oh, yeah, get changed,’ Safa says, standing up. ‘You don’t have to come for coffee.’
‘No, I would like to.’
‘Okay, shithead. I’ll wait out here.’
Think. Stay clear. They are pumping you for information. These are the entry topics to get you talking. Be smart. Be earnest. Stay passive. I am not a threat.
‘That feels better,’ she says, walking out to the middle room.
‘Yeah?’ Safa asks, taking in the new clothes. ‘Fit alright?’
‘Perfect, thank you,’ Tango Two says, smiling at her. She feels different now too. Less jarred and more human from the boost of being comfortable in the clothes she wears.
She follows Safa down to the main room, blinking at the big table stacked high with food. Bowls of fresh fruit and vegetables. Tins, packets, bottles, jars. Trays of eggs. Loaves of bread. Jars of coffee. Boxes of teabags and tubs of powdered chocolate to make hot drinks with. Books too. Stacked on one of the other tables. Loads of paperbacks in all manner of colours. Ben and Harry walk in from the other set of doors, both carrying more supplies that are set down by the food table.
‘You look better,’ Ben calls over. ‘Everything fit okay?’
‘Fine, thank you,’ Tango Two says, strolling to the table piled with books.
‘Reader?’ Harry asks, walking over.
‘Love reading,’ she replies. ‘Do you?’
‘Oh, aye,’ he says in that rumbling, deep voice. ‘It’s all so different now.’
‘Oh, of course. So . . . what did you read, er . . . well, before?’
‘Anything really. Was hard to get books in the war. Read the same things all the time. Lot of westerns and romance.’
‘Romance?’ she asks, smiling up at him.
‘Ach,’ he says easily, ‘what’s this one?’
‘Oh, er . . . maybe not a good choice.’
‘Fifty Shades of . . .’
‘What about this one?’ Tango Two says quickly. ‘Harry Potter.’
‘Harry Potter? Western, is it?’
‘Er, no, more, er . . . well, fantasy. Wizards . . . It’s about a boy who goes to wizard school. I mean, it was written decades before I was born, but it’s a classic.’
‘What’s a classic?’ Ben asks, walking over.
‘Harry Potter,’ Tango Two says.
‘Oh, you’ll love it,’ Ben tells Harry. He smiles at Tango Two, then regards Harry with a mock-studious look. ‘Hagrid?’
‘He does, yes,’ she says as Harry looks slightly bemused.
‘Coffee,’ Safa says.
‘Thank you,’ Tango Two says, taking the mug. ‘Do you read?’
‘God, no, bores the shit out of me,’ Safa says. ‘Ben, Tango says the same people that attacked you at Holborn did my one at Downing Street.’
Tango. Safa shortened her codename. Tango Two notes it silently. ‘Environmental activists,’ she says. ‘That’s why my service was formed.’
‘Your service?’ Ben asks.
‘British Secret Service. After Holborn, they armed all the British police, and then a few years after Holborn, they attacked Downing Street. The government realised just how organised the terrorists were becoming . . . I mean, that attack nearly killed the Prime Minister . . . Safa, did you know you were credited for saving his life?’
‘Was I?’ Safa mutters. ‘Shame. Fucking prick.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Nothing. So what happened?’
‘They formed our service. British Secret Service. Modelled in some ways on the CIA, but they amalgamated all the previous intelligence services. MI5. MI6. Special Branch. Counter Terrorism.’
‘And you’re an agent with them?’ Ben asks.
‘I am, yes.’
Miri walks in, silent and seemingly absorbed in her own thoughts. Tango Two notices the other three glance over at her, then carry on as normal. Who runs this whole thing? She still doesn’t know the reason for it. The purpose. Who is in charge of Miri?
‘Clothes fit?’
Tango Two blinks up at Miri. She zoned out again. Lost focus. Switch on and do your job.
‘Yes. Yes, they do. Thank you, that was very kind.’
‘Not kind,’ Miri says. ‘Necessary.’
It is not necessary. It is the opposite of necessary. Necessary would be denying food, water, sleep and clothing in exchange for a flow of information.
‘What’s happening now then?’ Safa asks brightly.
Miri stays quiet for a second and sips at a can of Pepsi. Her eyes look more blue than grey in this light. ‘Tango Two will come with me,’ she says. ‘Safa, you will get your team ready for deployment . . .’
‘On it. Armed?’ Safa says, rising from her chair with a sudden switch to business mode.
‘Affirmative,’ Miri replies. ‘Tango Two, with me, please.’
‘She’s just got new clothes, so don’t shoot her.’