South China Sea
SOMETHING HAD CHANGED. Hannah noticed it the moment they came into her cabin. It was the second visit from the two men who seemed to know so much about her and this time their demeanour was quite different. She was still bound when they came in, strapped to a bunk bed with the deck head just centimetres above her face. But now they were smiling, chatting to each other, as if a weight had been lifted from their shoulders. Something had made them relax. The man in the bomber jacket with the shaved head walked casually over to her, a cigarette clamped between his lips, and without explanation he undid the straps that bound her hands. As she felt the blood flowing freely through her wrists Hannah saw him wink at her. She wished she hadn’t. It was a hideous sight.
There was not enough space for her to sit up but now, at least, she could roll onto her side. Bomber Jacket held out his hand, offering her a cigarette – she noted the brand on the packet: Lucky Strike – and he looked almost disappointed when she declined. Already the tiny cabin was filling with blue smoke that rolled along the low metal ceiling and stung her eyes and lungs. Bomber Jacket said something to his friend and they laughed. A joke at her expense, she had no doubt.
Hannah didn’t care. She had one thought and one thought only. The miniature flash drive. The tiny metal chip concealed inside a wad of chewing gum that was still wedged in the top of her mouth, just behind her third upper molar. She could feel it in place now with the tip of her tongue. Once again, she reminded herself that the whole purpose of this assignment, with everything she had already endured and maybe what she still had to go through, lay in the secret data contained within the flash drive. What would it reveal? She had no idea and probably she would never know. It had been in her possession only seconds before they had chloroformed her in that café in Kowloon. But back in London, during the final briefing in Kensington Gardens, her handler had left her in no doubt about how urgently they wanted it. So every physical inconvenience, and God knew there were plenty, was eclipsed by the absolute burning necessity of safeguarding that chip and somehow getting it to Vauxhall Cross.
And what were the chances of that happening now? she wondered. Slim, at best. She was on a ship, evidently some kind of merchant rust-bucket from the foul smell of diesel oil that leaked into the cabin from the passageway. And she was being taken across an ocean to some unknown destination by unidentified people. Did the Service even know what had happened to her? Who was holding her? Where she was headed? Would they be mounting a rescue operation to come and get her? Or would some high-up in Vauxhall Cross whom she had never met simply draw a line under the whole operation and say, ‘Shame about Hannah. It just didn’t work out.’
Those were the thoughts that were running through her head as her tongue suddenly registered something at the top of her mouth. The wad of gum was coming loose.