Jenny’s eyes were downcast.
“How?”
She shrugged. “It’s in a capsule.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“There isn’t time to argue about this, Jake. As long as it’s inside you they know where we are.”
Jake opened the car door. “If you think I’m going to let a complete stranger cut me up on blind faith you’re mad. Raving mad.”
She showed him the scanner. A blue dot pulsed on a topographic image of their surroundings; he could even make out the Maersk container.
“The bug might be in your pocket for all I know,” he said.
“Well it isn’t.”
Jake allowed himself proper eye contact for the first time. The desert light had turned her eyes cerulean, like those of a snow leopard.
“Think back to the Agya Sophia,” she said. “Do you remember a feeling sharp pain in your …” a smudge of rose touched each cheekbone. “In your backside?”
He frowned. “Actually, now you mention it I do remember that. It was really painful. How do you …”
“Know about it? Because we did it. We fired a pellet containing a tracking device into your …” she blushed again. “Into your arse.”
Despite himself Jake laughed. “Good grief. You did, didn’t you?”
Jenny laughed too. “Yeah, I’m afraid we did. Sorry about that. But we do need to get it out.” She was serious again. “Otherwise I leave you here. I can’t have you drawing them to me.”
“Ok then.” He swallowed. “Let’s get it over with.”
The tej was unadulterated fire. Jake’s eyes watered as he knocked it back and he gasped for breath. God, it felt good though. He hadn’t touched a drop for days, and the booze always hit him with fresh loveliness after a hiatus. He took another swig, the alcohol high eddying through him, his mind foggy yet clear. It was only after the third swig that he remembered he shouldn’t trust this woman. MI6 had to know his foibles. And here he was, getting smashed at her suggestion. Just one more gulp, he decided. God knows, his liver could handle it. Jake raised the bottle again – but before he could drink Jenny placed one hand on his wrist.
“Hey. Not too much.” Her touch was cool on the skin. “You might need your wits about you later.”
The journalist stumbled as he clambered onto the back seat. Wow – that stuff was seriously powerful. Had to be fifty-five per cent at least.
Nice.
Jenny was cleaning the knife with antiseptic. Jake was not a fan of operations and once this scenario would have been the cue for panic. But strangely, not now. The booze helped; yet perhaps there was more to it than that.
Without warning she jabbed the knife into his buttock. Jake yelled with fury and punched the door. The blade was a red hot poker, a centipede boring deep inside him with slashing mandibles.
“Hold still,” she implored. “We’re almost there.”
Blood poured down the back of Jake’s leg; his teeth were bared and he was close to passing out. “Get on with it!” he yelled.
Still Jenny probed and twisted, cut and pulled, until –
With a plop it was over. A pellet landed on the chair and Jenny began damming the wound with tissues which turned warm on her fingers before disintegrating.
“You don’t think you’ve nicked an artery?” Jake gasped.
“Not a chance. There are no major arteries in that part of the body. In London the street kids slash each other’s backsides when they want to send a warning. They know it can’t end in a fatality.”
“How reassuring.”
After a few minutes the bleeding was staunched and Jenny bandaged him up.
“Well done,” she said. “I realize that can’t have been much fun.”
Jake retrieved the pellet, his revulsion turning to astonishment. “Well, blow me down. Will you take a look at that?”
They returned to the village. Jenny got out of the car, and when she returned it was without the bug. “See that tanker over there? Sudanese licence plate. With any luck they’ll be chasing shadows in an entirely different country by tomorrow.”
“Very conniving.”
“How are you doing? You look pale.”
Jake pulled himself up, doing his best to look rugged. “Absolutely fine. Barely felt it.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Oh really?”
He was about to respond when his work phone began bleeping. It was the first signal he’d had for days, and the emails came galloping in. Jake fished out the device, skimming through his inbox – Heston might have been in touch and he was down to the last bar of battery.
Subject: Roger Britton.
“What is it?” said Jenny. “You jumped.”
“Hold on,” said Jake. He didn’t recognize the sender.
Dear Mr Wolsey,
My name is Dr Giuseppe Nesta. I am a scientist. I was in communication with Roger Britton before he was killed. There are some things I must tell you about his death. Can we meet?
Regards,
Dr G. Nesta.
When he saw the signature he jumped again.
Senior researcher, CERN
Large Hadron Collider, Geneva, Switzerland
Britton had been in touch with a theoretical physicist. Slowly the implications sank in.
“What is it?” said Jenny. “What’s going on?”
“I’ll tell you in a sec, just let me reply to this.”
Jake fired an email back. When and where should they meet? Dr Nesta replied within seconds.
Don’t come to LHC. We could meet in Rome in two days? I have friends there I can stay with.
It had been years since Jake had been to the city, so he suggested meeting at the first landmark that came into his head. Nesta agreed to be at the Spanish Steps by noon, wearing a red baseball cap for identification.
Rome: how apt it was. They were going back to where it all began.