The first thing Hannah saw when she stepped into the corridor was the young man sitting at the far end reading the Daily Mail. With luck, he wouldn’t even give her a second thought. She had reached the bottom of the stairs when he glanced up. Rather good-looking, she thought, staring back at him for a second too long. She turned and began to climb the staircase. She was away, she’d made it.
“Excuse me, miss,” said a voice from behind her. Don’t panic, don’t run, act normally she thought. She turned and smiled. He smiled back, almost flirting with her, and then blushed.
“Did you by any chance see an Arab lady when you were in the rest room?”
“Yes, I did,” replied Hannah. “But why do you ask?” she demanded. Always put the enemy on the defensive whenever possible was the standard rule.
“Oh, it’s not important. Sorry to have bothered you,” he said, and disappeared back around the corner.
Hannah climbed the stairs, returned to the lobby and headed straight for the revolving doors.
Pity, she thought once she was back on the sidewalk. He looked rather sexy. She wondered how long he would sit there, who he was working for and to whom he would eventually be reporting.
Hannah began to retrace her steps home, regretting that she couldn’t drop into Dino’s for a quick spaghetti bolognese and then take in Frank Marshall’s latest film, which was showing at the Cannon. There were still times when she yearned to be just a young woman in London. And then she thought of her mother, her brother, her sister, and once again told herself all of that would have to wait.
She sat alone for the first part of the train journey, and was beginning to believe that if they sent her to Baghdad — as long as no one wanted to go to bed with her — she could surely pass herself off as an Iraqi.
When the train pulled into Green Park two youths hopped on. Hannah ignored them. But as the doors clamped shut she became aware that there was no one else in the car.
After a few moments one of them sauntered over towards her and grinned vacantly. He was dressed in a black bomber jacket with the collar covered in studs, and his jeans were so tight they made him look like a ballet dancer. His spiky black hair stood up so straight that it looked as if he had just received electric shock therapy. Hannah thought he was probably in his early twenties. She glanced down at his feet to see that he was wearing heavy-duty army boots. Although he was a little overweight, she suspected from his movements that he was quite fit. His friend stood a few paces away, leaning against the railing by the door.
“So what do you say to my mate’s suggestion of a quick strip?” he asked, removing a flick-knife from his pocket.
“Get lost,” Hannah replied evenly.
“Oh, a member of the upper classes, eh?” he said, offering the same vacant grin. “Fancy a gang bang, do we?”
“Fancy a thick lip, do you?” she countered.
“Don’t get clever with me, lady,” he said as the train pulled into Piccadilly Circus.
His friend stood in the doorway so that anyone who might have considered entering the end car thought better of it.
Never seek attention, never cause a scene: the accepted rule if you work for any branch of the secret service, especially when you’re stationed abroad. Only break the rules in extreme circumstances.
“My friend Marv fancies you. Did you know that?”
Hannah smiled at him as she began planning the route she would have to take out of the car once the train pulled into the next station.
“Quite like you myself,” he said. “But I prefer black birds. It’s their big bums, you know. They turn me on.”
“Then you’ll like your friend,” said Hannah, regretting her words the moment she had said them. Never provoke.
She heard the click as a long thin blade shot out and flashed in the brightly lit carriage.
“Now there are two ways we can go about this — quietly or noisily. It’s your choice. But if you don’t feel like cooperating, I might have to make a few etchings in that pretty face of yours.” The youth by the door began laughing. Hannah rose and faced her tormentor. She paused before slowly undoing the top button of her jeans.
“She’s all yours, Marv,” said the young man as he turned to face his friend. He never saw the foot fly through the air as Hannah swiveled 180 degrees. The knife went flying out of his hand and shot across the floor to the far end of the car. A flat arm came down across his neck and he slumped to the ground in a heap, looking like a sack of potatoes. She stepped over his body and headed towards Marv.
“No, no, miss. Not me. Owen’s always been the troublemaker. I wouldn’t have done nothin’, not me, nothin’.”
“Take off your jeans, Marvin.”
“What?”
She straightened the fingers of her right hand.
“Anything you say, miss.” Marvin quickly undid his zipper and pulled off his jeans to reveal a grubby pair of navy jockey shorts and a tattoo on his thigh that read “Mum.”
“I do hope your mother doesn’t have to see you like that too often, Marvin,” Hannah said as she picked up his jeans. “Now the pants.”
“What?”
“You heard me, Marvin.”
Marvin slowly pulled off his underwear.
“How disappointing,” said Hannah as the train pulled into Leicester Square.
As the doors squelched closed behind her Hannah thought she heard, “You filthy bitch, I’ll...”
As she walked down the passage to the Northern line, Hannah couldn’t find a trash can in which to dispose of Marvin’s grubby clothing. They had all been removed some time before after a sudden outbreak of IRA bombs in the London Underground. She had to carry the jeans and pants all the way to Chalk Farm, where she finally deposited them in a dumpster on the corner of Adelaide Road, then strolled quietly back home.
As she opened the front door, a cheery voice called from the kitchen, “Lunch is on the table, my dear.” Mrs. Rubin walked through carrying a bowl of potatoes and declared, “I’ve had the most fascinating morning. You wouldn’t believe what happened to me at Sainsbury’s.”
“What will it be, honey?” asked a waitress who wore a red uniform and a black apron and held a pad in her hand.
“Just black coffee, please,” said T. Hamilton McKenzie.
“Coming right up,” she said cheerfully.
He was about to check the time when he was reminded once again that his watch was on the wrist of a young man who was now probably miles away. McKenzie looked up at the clock above the counter: 8:56. He began to check everyone as they came through the door.
A tall, well-dressed man was the first to walk in, and as he scanned the room McKenzie became quite hopeful and willed him to look in his direction. But the man walked towards the counter and took a seat on a stool, with his back to the restaurant. The waitress returned and poured the nervous doctor a steaming black coffee.
Next to enter the room was a young woman, carrying a shopping bag with a long rope handle. She was followed a moment later by another smartly dressed man who also searched the room with his eyes. Once again, T. Hamilton McKenzie’s hopes were raised, only to be dashed when a smile of recognition flickered across the man’s face. He too headed for the counter and took the stool next to the man who had come in a few minutes earlier.