The Monastery of Debre Damo receded into the distance, its secrets stolen at last. Jake leaned his temple against the window as the vehicle hurtled along the track. During the conflagration all he could think of was staying alive, but now he returned to what he had learned. The world was made anew: a dark and unsettling place. Could it be that his escape from the monastery was written? The arrival of this woman with seconds to spare pre-ordained? And if so by what? Or by whom? Jake wrapped his arms around his chest. He needed to be somewhere safe, somewhere he could make sense of it all. Without meaning to, he let out a groan. Jenny hit the brakes and the car skidded to a halt in a graceful slalom of dust.
“You ok?”
He sat up straight. “Yep. No problem.”
“You sure?” Jenny looked him up and down. She needed this man.
“I’m trying to be stoic about all this,” said Jake. “You know, all the people shooting each other and stuff. But it is rather a lot to take in, if I’m honest.”
His voice sounded nicer in person, Jenny thought. Deeper. Posh, certainly, but not unacceptably so. She hit the accelerator.
Jake stole another look at her as they drove. Right away he had known she was the type who made him unsure whether to hold eye contact. He was grateful for the road ahead, demanding her attention. Jenny’s brow was furrowed in concentration, her hair tied in a ponytail; she drove like a hurricane and at that instant a more impressive figure could not be imagined. She ordered a pint, Jake reckoned. That was a good thing, obviously. But Jesus, she was way out of his league.
“I’ve got a confession,” said Jenny, catching him looking and pursing her lips in what might have been a smile.
“Go on.”
“I know quite a lot about you.”
“Really? Why?”
“I’ve been following you for three weeks now.”
Jake’s fingers went to the door-handle. “You’re MI6?”
“Ex-MI6. I saved your life just now, remember? We’re on the same side. And I wouldn’t do that if I were you, we’re doing fifty. It would flay the skin from your body.”
“I don’t know who to believe any more. How do I know this isn’t a trick? For all I know you’re trying to, you know …” A soft laugh. “Bring me in quietly and all that.”
“There are some ruthless people in the Security Services. Bad people, I know this now. But not even MI6 would run over its own agents to soften up a mark.”
Jake relinquished the door handle.
“I’m trying to help you,” she said. “I’m hoping you’ll help me too. I just – I just need you to trust me, ok?”
“Never trust anyone who says trust me,” he muttered, although strangely enough he did.
“I’ll prove it to you.”
There was a village approaching, a dozen mud-brick huts gathered around the single shop. A Maersk cargo container had been abandoned by the roadside long ago, and it gave Jake an inexplicable shiver to see that symbol of western commerce in such a setting, cast up by the tide of modern trade. He heard the clank of steel at some Baltic port, pictured huddled troubadours smoking away the night.
Jenny stopped at the shop – a tanker was parked up and the driver was decanting petrol into cartons while several men looked on. The store was an Aladdin’s Cave of washing powder, asymmetric vegetables and tins of processed meat. There was Coca Cola too: they were back in civilization. Jenny leapt from the car and began conversing with the shopkeeper in Amharic.
The key was in the ignition. The engine was running.
Jake considered his options. A trust-building exercise? Or part of the ruse? Jake’s thoughts circled as Jenny finished her transaction. Money was being handed over; he had five seconds to decide. But what if she was being straight with him?
Four seconds. Stealing her car? Three seconds. Marooning her here?
Two seconds.
He couldn’t do it.
One.
The car door opened.
“Thanks for not driving off,” she said.
Jake looked at his knees. “Don’t be silly.”
After a mile Jenny veered off the track without warning and killed the engine. The sun seared through the windscreen and with no air conditioning the temperature rose by the second.
“I need you to get into the back of the car with me,” she said.
Ribbons of fear and desire twisted inside him. A single word came to mind: honeytrap.
With perfect synchronicity Jenny produced a bottle of tej.
“What is all this?” Jake looked bewildered.
“I need to do an operation on you. It may hurt. I thought you could use some anaesthetic – this is honey wine, their strongest brew.”
“I told you, I’m fine. Not a scratch on me.”
“No, you don’t understand.” A diamond-shaped blade was in her hand. “We put a bug in you. I need to get it out.”