‘It’s just weird,’ Emily says earnestly.
‘I told Greta to tell him to go. She should not be treated like that. Honestly, but she never listens. Just never listens to anyone. Such a stubborn woman.’ Miri comes to life. Her voice animated with pitch, lilt and tone. Her face active to convey the words in fluent German as Safa glances over to a couple walking past on the other side of the road.
‘Christ, Miri,’ Safa whispers once the people are gone. ‘Was that German?’
Emily concedes the expertise shown. The accent was very good, and the delivery and tone were perfect. She spots a man walking towards them. His eyes flicking left to right in that zoned-out way of walking when someone is familiar with the world around them.
‘Of course, Greta was the one who had the affair though,’ Emily says in fluent German. ‘I mean, she was treated badly, but she was the cheater, so maybe he should be leaving her, or they could just, you know, work it out and move on . . .’
‘Very good,’ Miri says once the man has gone past.
‘Look at you two,’ Safa says, nudging Emily with her elbow. ‘Wish I could do that.’
‘What other languages can you speak?’ Miri asks Emily.
‘French, Spanish, some Arabic dialects, although not well. My Mandarin is good. Cantonese is okay.’
‘Russian?’ Miri asks, in Russian.
‘Da,’ Emily says. ‘I forgot Russian,’ she adds, in Russian.
‘Beautiful language,’ Miri says, in Russian.
‘Not as beautiful as English,’ Emily says, in English.
‘Clever bastards,’ Safa mutters, wondering if Ben can speak any languages.
‘Did you have to learn them?’ Miri asks.
‘A second language is essential,’ Emily explains. ‘But I’m lucky. I can take new languages easily . . . Been doing it since I was a child, and of course the intracranial information dumps help enormously.’
‘What the hell is that?’ Safa asks.
‘Only works for children. Like a skull cap they wear at night that sends information into the brain. My family had an early version. I could speak French by the time I was five, but neither of my parents could speak it.’
‘Does it work with everything?’ Miri asks.
‘No. Languages are the main thing. Everything else needs context. Maths, sciences . . . core subjects – they all need contextual understanding relative to the world and experiences. Like I said, children work well, but as the body develops, so the thing within the brain ceases to receive the intracranial flow.’
‘Fuck,’ Safa mumbles.
‘Seventh building on this street,’ Miri says as they turn the corner. Five men ahead walking towards them. Three white. One black. One Arabic.
‘Agents,’ Emily whispers, adding a broad grin to Safa, as though in response to something said. She reaches out while chuckling and laughs as she tugs Safa’s T-shirt down at the back, covering the pistol.
‘Brits?’ Miri asks, leaning forward to laugh at the joke Safa said that made Emily pull her top down.
‘No,’ Emily says, still grinning. ‘Yours. Yanks.’
‘Know you?’ Miri chuckles, pointing at Safa’s top.
‘No,’ Emily says, pushing her arm round Safa’s shoulders, as though to soften the joke they just made. ‘I am sorry!’ Emily says in German, loud and laughing as she hugs Safa and laughs. ‘It was funny though.’
‘Very funny,’ Miri grins, speaking out in fluent German as she looks across at her two friends.
‘Don’t speak,’ Emily whispers to Safa. ‘Haha! Your face when I said it. You were, like . . . Did she just say that?’
Safa does nothing. She doesn’t have to. Emily and Miri take over, both laughing and gabbling in German. She glances ahead to the five men. All hard-looking, but trying to appear normal. To the last, they glance at Safa and smile, but that’s nothing new to Safa. Normally, she would scowl or even tell them to piss off.
‘Guten abend,’ Miri says politely as they pass.
‘Guten abend,’ Emily calls out, still chuckling from the joke with Safa.
‘Gootten aband,’ one of them says in what he thinks is a fluent German accent, but sounds like an American trying to speak German.
‘That was an awful accent,’ Emily says quietly.
‘Go slower,’ Miri says, risking a glance round.
‘How did you know they were Yanks?’ Safa asks.
‘Just one of those things. Way they dress and look.’
‘Low end,’ Miri states. ‘Berlin must be full of them.’
‘We were told it was a new weapon of mass destruction,’ Emily says. ‘Everyone knew something was going on.’
Why is she saying that? Why is she doing this? They were American agents. She could have shouted for help. They would have responded. Done something. This is not her mission. This is not her job. She has to snap out of this.
‘That’s it,’ Miri says, nodding ahead to the seventh building. Lights on inside behind window coverings.
‘Take the door,’ Miri says to Emily. ‘Your German is better than mine.’
Emily falters for a second, trapped between being drawn into this game and desperately trying to remind herself she is not one of them.
‘Problem?’ Miri asks.
‘No,’ Emily says. It does make sense. Miri’s accent is good, but it carries a trace of American. Emily’s German is perfect, even capturing the imperfections of speech that native Berliners use. She starts forward, staring up at the door.
‘Safa is right behind you,’ Miri says with a warning edge to her voice.
‘You asked me,’ Emily says, pausing halfway up the set of steps to the front door. ‘I have given you my word . . . and we just walked past five American agents.’
Emily knocks, and that in itself shows training. The knock is polite and friendly. Three taps. Not too hard. Not spaced apart. The science of showing no threat. She adopts a friendly countenance in case she is being watched through a peephole or camera. Footsteps inside.
‘Movement,’ she whispers, turning her head towards Safa. Neither of them notice Miri drawing her pistol to hold low at her side as she watches the front door.
The hairs on the back of Safa’s neck prickle. She heard the heavy footsteps too: a solid body wearing big boots on wooden floorboards. Her senses come alive. Her eyes hardening. A very faint metallic click. Safa can’t speak languages. She isn’t good with clothes and hair, but she can bloody tell when a man with a gun is about to open a door.
‘Move back!’
Her hand whips out to wrench Emily away as the door cracks open. Safa hits it hard, ramming it into the face of the man, sending him staggering back as she slips through, weaves to the side and snatches the pistol from his grip while slamming the heel of her right hand into his nose already broken from the impact of the door. She turns as she moves, snatching a view of four men in the front room pointing guns at each other over the head of a woman kneeling in the middle of the floor. Two Asian males. Two Slavic. The woman’s face a mask of mascara, blood and tears. Her clothing torn, livid welts on her face, neck and exposed breasts.