Amanda: Tales of an international female spy Read online

  ‘I-I don’t understand why anyone would want to try and kill me,’ Amanda stammered.

  ‘We believe that whoever it is knows that we have invited you to work for us,’ Xavier told her. ‘There are many people who have an interest in disrupting the work of SVHQ, in particular concerning an important assignment that we are currently working on. That was the reason for your recruitment, in fact. Once we had chosen you for the job someone tried to target you before you could even begin. It was a message for SVHQ to back off. You are just an innocent bystander.’

  ‘What kind of assignment is it?’

  ‘We will update you on that in due course,’ said Xavier, smiling. ‘The first thing to find out is, do you still want to work for SVHQ after what has happened?’

  Amanda considered it for a moment, then swallowed.

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘Great! As it happens, even though that letter you received wasn’t genuine, we had intended to contact you and invite you to be interviewed.’

  Xavier went on to explain how Amanda had actually been handpicked for the position they had available, and that it was not a coincidence that an e-mail had arrived in her inbox catering to her particular interests and exploiting her dissatisfaction with her current job.

  There was little time or purpose in wondering how an international intelligence organisation had come to discover such personal details about her. However, Amanda was curious to find out why she had been singled out for a position for which she had little or no experience or relevant skills. The chairman explained to her that SVHQ preferred headhunting to advertising for its employees, selecting only the best talent from across business and industry. Lateral thinking, IQ and physical fitness were all factors that came into play when researching candidates.

  ‘So the HR department at SVHQ is actually made up of professional spies!’ Amanda observed, laughing.

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Xavier with a surprised expression that suggested the notion hadn’t occurred to him previously.

  Although she had been chosen for the position, Xavier went on to explain, Amanda would not to be given a contract straightaway. First she would have to undergo a rigorous vetting process. This began as soon as she had finished her coffee. First there was an aptitude test, which she underwent at a desk in a bare, windowless room entirely on her own. There, she was required to input answers on a compact touchscreen tablet computer, with sections of the test divided into numerical, verbal and non-verbal reasoning; spatial ability; creative thinking; and a logic test. A short psychometric personality assessment came next. Once she had completed it she was left wondering if she would be told her results. It would be very interesting to find out what the test gauged about her personality.

  After these tests Amanda was taken to another area of the building by a small introverted girl wearing large spectacles and the seemingly obligatory white coat. Expecting some further form of intellectual examination she was surprised to find herself in a large room full of fitness equipment. The girl instructed her to don sports kit that consisted of figure-hugging lycra shorts and vest and a pair of light-weight sports shoes. She then strapped Amanda up with wires and pads and adjusted the running machine she was invited to mount until it was at such a steep gradient that it felt like she was negotiating Kilimanjaro. The girl was of few words but smiled at Amanda from behind a glass partition as she struggled onwards, her calves burning as if on fire. From where she stood, Amanda soon discovered, the girl was able to control the speed and variables of all the machines in the room. After she had been running uphill for nearly half an hour Amanda found herself strangely short of breath. She had always considered herself in relatively good shape and wondered why she now found herself panting like a canine in a heat waive She continued to endure the suffocation for a further five minutes until it finally dawned on her that it wasn’t just the effort she was expending that was the cause – the temperature within the room had been adjusted! Drenched with sweat and thoroughly exhausted, she glared at the girl behind her glass who was putting her through this hell. She looked less likely to manage a brisk run than her grandmother. Amanda cursed under her breath, but refused to admit defeat as she toiled away on the moving platform beneath her.

  After forty-five minutes of agony on the running machine she was finally allowed to take a short break to catch her breath and have a much needed glass of water, chilled to almost freezing point. Then she was required to undergo several similar periods of exertion on a rowing machine, a cycling machine and a cross-trainer. Once she had finally completed all four stages and she was standing under a refreshing high-pressure shower she wondered once again if she would ever be privy to the information which was being recorded.

  Feeling somewhat fresher and re-invigorated, she was greeted once again by Xavier. He apologised to her in advance but explained that she would now have to complete the final section of the test, which involved a lie detector. There followed a short interview conducted by a slim, bespectacled man with mousy, shoulder-length hair and the ubiquitous white lab coat. All the questions required simple yes or no responses. The first few simply asked her to confirm simple facts such as her name, age and address but soon they progressed to more personal information. There was an emphasis on whether she was a member of any terrorist group that was known to the organisation. Afterwards an exhaustive list of people’s names was read out to her and she was asked if she had any association with them. To each of them she answered no.

  Thankfully the tests then ended and Amanda was allowed to leave. As soon as she arrived home she pulled off her clothes and fell fast asleep on her Egyptian cotton sheets, utterly exhausted.

  The sound of her alarm jerked Amanda awake at four a.m., dragging her from a beautiful dream in which she was riding blissfully on clouds that had the consistency of soft fluffy eiderdown, apparently on her way to Normandy to get some cheese. A couple of jet planes had passed by her in the dream, but nobody on board had seemed in the least bit surprised to see her bikini-clad figure stretched out on a towel aboard a cumulus nimbus, sunbathing luxuriantly.

  Early morning starts were standard in the banking world and they were something she would not miss. On the other hand, when she thought about it, she realised she had no idea what hours she would be expected to work for SVHQ. Or, indeed, even what the job she was in line for would entail.

  The Canary Wharf office of Rosenberg & Jackson was a large monolith to capitalism; a giant New Yorkesque skyscraper that stood tall in the sky, keeping a three-hundred-and-sixty degree eye on the entire city in order to spot money-making opportunities. Amanda stood bleary-eyed in the lift as it took her up to the thirty-seventh floor. Her in-tray and her diary were terribly full and she spent a less than enthralling day ironing out the details for the forthcoming acquisition of a smaller private bank, a deal the whole department had been working on for several months. The highlight of her day was an encrypted e-mail from SVHQ that informed her when her new job would start, if she proved to be the chosen candidate.

  That Friday evening she had arranged to meet her best friend Gabriela, whom she had met while studying at Oxford. Gabriela was a glamorous, beautiful Brazilian with mean salsa skills and a razor-sharp wit. Amanda arrived at Soho House early but was soon chatting to the attractive barman, who did his best to impress her with his superior kills as a mixologist. Some thirty minutes later Gabriela came gliding into the bar. She was blessed with the ability to transform even the simplest actions such as walking or conversing, during which she would wave her hands expressively in the air to punctuate her points, into a kind of sensual rhythmic dance. She was immaculately dressed, as always. That evening she wore a short black Gucci skirt, a white ruffled Dolce & Gabbana blouse and black Laboutin heels with a playful shock of red on the underside that matched the red of her full lips.

  Heads turned as Gabriela came over to the bar to greet Amanda with open arms and kisses on both cheeks. Once the barman had eagerly presented her with a dark rum and
a few pleasantries had been exchanged Gabriela asked for an update on the job situation. Amanda, feeling that it would be sensible to find somewhere discreet where they could not be overheard, found a small table in the corner that was obscured from view by the rest of the bar. In hushed tones Amanda recounted what had occurred so far, omitting the fact that SVHQ had already carried out a personal investigation on her as she realised this may have involved some examination of Gabriela as well. As she trusted Gabriela completely, she also chose to ignore the fact that she was supposed to keep everything she had experienced at SVHQ strictly to herself.

  ‘Well, I think it’s all terribly exciting!’ Gabriela exclaimed after she had listened wide-eyed to everything Amanda told her.

  ‘Exciting and dangerous. There was an attempt on my life, remember.’

  ‘Which just makes the job all the more interesting. Personally I believe you should seize this opportunity with both hands. It’s absolutely what you’ve been waiting for – stuff those arrogant bankers!’

  They discussed the situation animatedly for a little while longer. Gabriela, direct as ever, made her views very clear; that in spite of the risk involved, Amanda should take up the position as soon as possible and leave the male-dominated world of banking behind her. They had each consumed a couple of cocktails by that point so decided to move on to one of their favourite haunts, the impossibly cool Lounge Lover bar in Shoreditch. Soon they were enjoying themselves flirting with a gaggle of polite admirers, all desperate for their attention.

  Gabriela had caught the attention of a muscled blond, who was two-thirds of her five-feet-nine-inch height. That left Amanda to her own devices. Both girls possessed the social confidence to accompany one other on a night out without feeling the need to cling to each other’s side. They preferred to let the night take whatever course it may, allowing themselves to take advantage of any opportunities that might reveal themselves with new acquaintances individual, if only for a few hours. As she ordered a whisky sours she to relieve her parched throat she spotted a young, preppy-looking guy slouched against the far side of the bar. He was dressed in a white shirt with horizontal blue stripes and a dark blue tie with light trousers, and had just the look of self-assured confidence and slight humility she liked. After giving her the eye for a couple of minutes, he offered to buy her a drink. She turned the offer down for two reasons – firstly, she had just ordered one, and it was always prudent to pace oneself on a long night out, and, secondly, she hated to feel indebted to a man just because he had bought her a drink.

  Patrick was the man’s name and he originated from New Jersey. Having graduated magna cum laude from Harvard he was currently working for Deutsche Bank and enjoying a business trip to London, which explained his solitary presence in a London cocktail bar. While they were chatting Amanda received a text from Gabriela informing her that she had left the bar with her blond friend and they intended to get a bite to eat. Although the message invited Amanda to join them she had a feeling that they would prefer to be alone. Besides which, she had more than food on her mind. Patrick’s twinkling brown eyes and bright American smile, coupled with some vintage champagne, was beginning to win her over. They became so engrossed in conversation that it was a surprise when she looked up much later and found that the bar was all but deserted, save one small group of friends sitting around an eccentrically shaped designer glass table, perched on stools shaped like stiletto heels.

  When they left the bar together they were fortunate enough to flag down one of London’s black cabs, which could prove surprisingly elusive at that time of night.

  ‘Where to?’ the cabbie enquired jovially.

  ‘Would you like to grab a coffee somewhere?’ Patrick asked.

  ‘No, thanks, I feel very tired and would rather get to bed.’

  ‘I could offer you tea. I’m staying in a great serviced apartment block in Farringdon and have already loaded up on tea after the obligatory trip to Fortnums. It’s the expected souvenir for American parents.’

  ‘It’s nice of you to offer, but I prefer not to drink tea before bed. It gives me the most terrible dreams.’

  Patrick looked downcast, like a puppy dog wallowing in the tragedy of a lost ball. Amanda had enjoyed his company thus far and, slightly against her better judgement, decided that she would invite him back to her apartment for the aforementioned coffee.

  ‘Driver, please take us to Great Peter Street.’

  Patrick’s eyes brightened with a look of surprised gratitude and elation.

  ‘What a great place,’ he commented as they stumbled inelegantly past the porter who, as misfortune would have it, happened to be Amanda’s favourite again.

  Once inside the apartment Amanda sank into the plush cream Natuzzi leather sofa. Patrick sat down beside her, the boldness customary of the New World dictating that he should not waste time with typical British reserve.

  ‘Shall I get us a drink?’ he enquired.

  ‘A Martini would be great, thanks. The cocktail cabinet is over there. I prefer straight up, stirred not shaken.’

  Amanda favoured stirring of her Martinis, finding it produced a more pure and potent taste. Shaking it over ice only served to dilute the alcohol. Patrick obviously knew what he was doing when it came to assembling alcoholic beverages and he quickly mixed a cool, clear, shimmering Martini with three parts gin to one part Vermouth, garnished with a green olive. She noted appreciatively that he did not attempt to incorporate vodka, a mistake made by many Americans.

  The conversation was soon in full flow once more, as were the Martinis. Amanda was feeling more than a little intoxicated and Patrick’s smile was becoming increasingly alluring.

  ‘Is it good genes or good cosmetic dentists that make American’s teeth superior to their British counterparts?’ she wondered aloud.

  ‘Both!’ Patrick answered with a laugh.

  Before she quite knew what was happening, Amanda had consented to let him give her a massage. He told her he could see how stressed she was and that a good massage would release some of the tension. She soon discovered that mixing drinks wasn’t Patrick’s only skill. He manipulated her body with strong, confident hands. His physique was muscular and defined, though not overdeveloped, and his accomplished application of pressure evoked pleasure rather than pain from her knotted and fatigued muscles. Amanda was dimly aware that it was uncharacteristic of her to let down her guard like this to a man she had only just met, but the mounting attraction between them was palpable in the air and she felt her heartbeats coming quicker.

  Patrick’s hands carried on kneading her upper and lower back firmly and shaping her flesh like dough. Then his fingertips ventured lightly up to the nape of her neck, brushing aside the soft strands of her hair. Amanda felt strangely powerless to resist as desire coursed through her veins, coursing through her body from her heels to her lips. She kept her eyelids firmly shut as Patrick’s right hand reached her chin and cradled it softly. Then she felt his mouth on hers and, like they were dancers tapping out the same intimate beat, their lips followed each other’s movements, parting and pressing.

  Patrick’s breath was warm on Amanda’s skin. His palm continued to cross her back with gentle tenderness, tracing intricate patterns. After a time, his fingertips moved slowly up her back, over her shoulders and down onto her breastbone. Amanda felt like liquid molten lava, but it was a rule of hers never to give herself completely to a man on their first date. Patrick seemed to sense that he had reached the point beyond which she would not go and, respectfully, his hand travelled no further.

  Together they moved to Amanda’s eminently more comfortable king-sized divan with its spun cotton and feathery cushions and there followed a myriad of kisses passed in passionate exchange. Then they slipped into sleep, holding one another in contented entanglement.

  Morning dawned and Amanda awoke with a smile, Patrick had not disappointed, and the night had been blissful. She turned over and was startled to find the bed empty. After a quick cir
culation of the flat it became apparent it was also empty. As she sat to wonder what on earth was going on she spied a small leaf of folded notepaper on the dresser table.

  ‘Thanks for a great night. Hope to see you again soon.’

  That was it. Nothing more than that simple message, scrawled in black ink.

  Amanda got up and made herself a strong filter coffee to clear her head. She had certainly liked Patrick and they had seemed to have an almost instant connection, but she didn’t understand – how were they supposed to see one another again when they hadn’t even swapped phone numbers?

  Chapter 4

  The man who climbed into the back of a large black Bentley Brooklands was lightly tanned and had short, dark hair. He tapped on the glass with the spherical head of a silver-topped ebony walking cane, waking the chauffeur abruptly. The driver immediately turned the ignition and the car emitted a deep, anticipative roar. The man motioned for the journey to commence with a flippant wave of his gloved right hand and the Bentley set off, purring.

  The man in the back of the car had an Egyptian look about him. He was not handsome but had strong features, with close-set eyes, thin lips and a prominent roman nose. He was dressed immaculately in a black tailored suit, crisp white shirt, with the top button open, and had a black silk scarf tied around his neck. On the third finger of his right hand he wore a large mother-of-pearl ring. His cane was just one of many he possessed, all of which appeared identical. He sat motionless and straight-backed in the seat, looking forward with a steely glare. He had the air of a man who lived a self-styled, refined existence, a man who admired class and good breeding, a man who, from the outside, might be assumed to live the charmed life of a modern English gentleman. But behind the façade lay a secret that was darker and deeper than any casual observer would ever have imagined...

  All men have follies and weaknesses. He knew that. But he was driven by an all-consuming passion that had taken such a consumptive hold on him that it was driving him into obsession. He acknowledged that his passion was not like those that affected the common man. Some men were led by the mind-altering vice of intoxication to expending all their time and energy upon drugs or alcohol, seeking escape from the drudgery of an unfulfilling life. Some men were led by lust to seek out bodily pleasures wherever and whenever they became available in a bid for easy intimacy without responsibility. Others were led by the thrill of the gamble and were ensnared into spending hours at gaming houses or casinos, waiting for the next momentary gratification provided by short-lived success. But his passion was different. He wanted power. Supreme power.