Baptiste tested the handle of the supply room door. He found it unlocked. ‘Italy,’ he said to himself with a smile, opening the door and feeling for the light switch. The ceiling light blinked and held. The room was stacked high with equipment and uniforms in plastic wrappers. He ran a finger down a tall stack, each one labelled with the size. Baptiste hesitated while he ran through his calculations. In France he was a regular. In the US and UK, a small. In China, a large. But this being Italy – he would need a medium with a long trouser.
Baptiste grabbed the appropriate sizes and laid them on a spare shelf. He picked out a small woman’s size and carried both uniforms under an arm, turning off the light on his way out. He pulled the door shut and tossed the female uniform to Rios, who was busy playing lookout in the corridor.
‘In here.’ Rios back-heeled her way into an empty staff room. ‘What’s Italian for emergency?’ she asked, kicking off her boots and pulling down her jeans.
‘Emergenza,’ Baptiste said, averting his eyes.
‘It’s okay, you can look.’
‘You don’t mind?’
‘I was in the Fuerzas Especiales with twenty guys,’ Rios replied, stepping into her dark-blue overalls. ‘And let’s face it, I’m not exactly your type.’
‘How would you know?’ Baptiste said.
‘Uh, I’m a woman?’
Baptiste paused, halfway through zipping himself up. ‘What… how?’
‘I’m a sniper,’ Rios said. ‘I notice things.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like in the nightclub. The women look at you and you don’t look at them.’
Baptiste snatched a black rucksack left on top of a locker. He’d kept his sexuality hidden all his life. In his line of work and the country of his birth, it was too risky to be anything other than straight. And in some cases, it could get you killed. He hadn’t told his family for fear of being disowned. Perhaps that’s why he had made such a natural spy. By the time he arrived at the Institute in Moscow, he’d already spent countless days and nights leading a double life, keeping secrets and hiding in plain sight, adopting all the talk, mannerisms and behaviours of the other young men of Kostroma.
Baptiste felt a sudden wave of relief now his secret was out. He felt a weight off his shoulders, and surprise that it wasn’t a bigger deal. Yet within seconds, his feelings swung back to those of his deep-seated fears. What if Rios shared his secret with the others? What if it led to him being kicked off the team? What if he was sent back to prison? What if a million other things? He knew it was irrational – he was no longer in the SVR, or an anxious teen imprisoned in the confines of his hometown. Yet the Russian felt a sickness in his stomach and a shortness in his breath.
As they stuffed their clothes inside the rucksack Baptiste looked Rios square in the eye. ‘You can’t breathe a word of this to anyone.’
Rios seemed offended. ‘I don’t rat.’
‘If Pope found out, I’d never hear the end of it,’ Baptiste said.
Rios ran thumb and forefinger across her lips like a zip.
Reassured, Baptiste hooked the rucksack over a shoulder and inched out of the door. He beckoned Rios out and they hurried along the corridor.
Two male paramedics walked towards them, both young and handsome. One of them enthused about the size of his new girlfriend’s breasts. And they barely noticed as Baptiste shouldered into one and said, ‘Scuzi.’
With the paramedics continuing on their way, he opened his hand to reveal a key fob.
‘Nice lift,’ Rios said, as they took a left out of the building and into a parking bay where an ambulance sat with a warm engine still ticking. It was the shape of a long, tall van – white with a shock of orange and yellow down the side.
Baptiste unlocked the ambulance doors with the stolen key. ‘I’ll drive,’ he said, handing Rios the rucksack and hopping behind the wheel.
Rios climbed up onto the passenger seat. ‘Why do you get to drive?’
‘You ever driven through Rome?’
‘No.’
Baptiste turned the ignition. ‘Then I’m driving.’
‘Fine.’ Rios slouched in her seat and slung a casual foot on the dash. ‘But I get to work the siren.’