‘Piss off.’
‘I told Ben he’s not allowed near attractive, diseased whores,’ Safa says quietly in her room to Emily while pulling the white T-shirt on. ‘He blushing now?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Emily says, leaning out the door to spot Ben’s rosy cheeks.
‘That better?’ Safa asks, presenting herself to Emily.
‘Fine,’ Emily says. Even in just a baggy white T-shirt and jeans, Safa looks stunning. ‘Leave your hair down,’ she adds quickly as Safa goes to tie it back. ‘Looks more natural.’
‘Yeah?’ Safa asks.
‘Looks fine,’ Emily says. ‘Your hair is lovely.’
‘Needs cutting. Haven’t touched it in, like, six months.’
‘I can trim a bit for you later.’
‘Yeah? Cheers. Think I’ve got split ends. Is that a split end?’
‘Show me . . . Yep, it’s fine though. We’ll just take a bit off. So where are you putting the pistol?’
‘On my belt at the back.’
‘Turn round,’ Emily says, looking down at the hem of the T-shirt in relation to the waistline of the jeans. ‘Should be okay.’
‘We’re off,’ Safa says, coming out of her room.
‘Safa, you sure about this?’ Ben asks, lifting his head from his hands.
‘Be fine. Miri’s coming with us too.’
‘Is Emily going to be armed?’ Ben asks.
‘No, I won’t be,’ Emily says before Safa can answer. ‘I gave my word.’
‘Maybe me and Harry should come. Like, just be near or something.’
‘We’ll be fine,’ Safa says. ‘Come on then, spy lady with the fake name Emily.’
‘Emily?’ Ben says as the two women move towards the door. She looks back at him to see his expression has hardened. His gaze on her and her alone. The man who took on five gang members when he was seventeen. The man who attacked the terrorists at Holborn and took the battering from Echo on the landing. She looks to Harry to see the same thing and a hint of the man that lifted Alpha off his feet and brought a German base to its knees.
‘I promise,’ she says softly, the words catching in her throat at the subtle, yet staggering sense of threat suddenly conveyed.
‘Christ,’ Safa says, looking from Ben to Harry. ‘Silly twats. You’d make me cry if I knew how.’
‘Ach,’ Harry says, genial and smiling. ‘My Ben.’
‘Fuck’s sake,’ Ben groans.
‘My Ben,’ Safa laughs, heading out the door.
Twenty-Two
‘So is there anything going on between you?’ Emily asks while they wait in the portal room. Hardly believing she is even asking, or even interested to ask. She is about to go back through the time machine to her own time, after being asked to do so by the woman holding her captive. She should be planning to run or secure the device. She should be doing many things, but right now she is actually really quite interested if Safa and Ben are a couple, and even thinking ahead to later and cutting Safa’s hair.
‘Who? Me and Ben?’ Safa asks. ‘Nope. I think we kissed, but . . .’
‘You think you kissed?’
‘In the ocean. When Ben came back . . . We were sharing an oxygen bottle, and I was breathing for us . . . so I think we kissed . . .’
‘Oh,’ Emily says, as though that was the most natural story she has ever heard.
‘And, er, this one night . . .’ Safa stops herself. ‘Tell you another time.’
‘Ready?’ Miri walks into the room and hands Safa a pistol and spare magazines.
‘Ta,’ Safa says. She loads a magazine, checks the safety, then holsters the weapon before presenting her back to Emily. ‘See it?’
‘Only just,’ Emily says.
Miri holsters her own pistol, hidden by the tails of her checked shirt. ‘Get shirts. Easier to conceal a weapon. We’re going in blind. I know the subject’s home address, but not who she lives with. Subject’s name is Clara Jacobsen. We arrive two minutes away in an alleyway during the hours of darkness, but there will be ambient street lighting. We go out the alley. Turn right. Walk down to the junction. Turn left. Walk down to the junction. Turn left. Seventh building. Entrance on the ground floor, white side front. Terraced property. Area looks semi-affluent. That means access to whatever devices are used to summon emergency services. Most urban cities in the western world have a police response time of under four minutes. Is that still the case, Tango Two?’
‘Less,’ Emily says. ‘Drones are dispatched with pre-set coordinates. They move fast on a flight plane reserved for their sole use. If anyone calls the police, we can expect eyes on us within two minutes or less.’
‘Subject has a phone. She works in a private hospital. Injured persons from the bunker were taken there. Your agents took those males from the clinic. After they left, the female subject used what appears to be a phone to send a message. I want to know who she is communicating with, and what is in that phone.’
‘Got it,’ Safa says.
‘Understood,’ Emily says, feeling strangely in work mode, except for the fact she doesn’t work for these people. She works for the British Secret Service.
The blue light comes on. Mesmerising and shimmering. Emily has seen it before, but still she stares, captivated. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she says quietly.
‘Safa, on point. I’ll take rear. Tango Two middle.’
‘Emily,’ Safa says. ‘She gave us her name, so . . .’
‘Take point, Miss Patel.’
Safa takes point, pulling a told-off face at Emily before walking through the light. Emily blinks at the sight of a person disappearing in increments, then bursts out laughing when Safa’s hand comes back through with the middle finger sticking up.
‘Go through,’ Miri says.
‘Sorry.’ Emily winces at laughing, at looking unprofessional, then worries why she is even concerned at looking unprofessional. A rise in her heart rate as she steps through into an alleyway. Time travel. Instant and without sensation. She spots Safa grinning. This would never happen in the British Secret Service. A joke would never be played, not in training, and certainly never in a live mission. No flippancy. No banter. Just work.
‘Ready?’ Miri says, coming out behind her. ‘Move normally. We’re three women walking.’
The three women walk from the alley into a standard residential, inner-city Berlin street. High buildings. Ornate windows. A transition to dirty, polluted air and the smells of traffic, people, cooking, living. The sounds of a city. Harsh lights overhead.
Emily feels the jolt of moving from somewhere so pure to a hundred million years in the future. Her head wants to spin, but her mind is set for work. She could run right now and chance it. She could ram an elbow into Safa’s head and just sprint. If she screamed rape or fire, she’d draw attention. She stands a chance at least. Why isn’t she doing it? This is her time. Her world. Do something.
‘You okay?’ Safa asks, her eyes narrowing slightly.