Short Story Sunday: E is for Explosive

For Ursula and her adventures with the ex-MI5 agent

The last time Harvey spoke to me, he warned me about the innocuous.

“Beware civilians, Cynthia,” he said. “It’s easy to overlook danger that’s right under your nose. Not all baddies come with Enid Blyton descriptors.”

Harvey was my mentor and superior. Everything I know about this game I learnt from watching him. Most of the time he didn’t speak to me at all, so it was a case of learning to read the signs: the tension in his breathing, the excitement in his cheek spasms, the fear in the sweat along his temple. Harvey taught me to read people, to notice them. I found reading him the most difficult because he had trained himself to render his features almost immobile. Those were the days before Botox, mind, so it took incredible control on his part to sustain that level of seeming indifference.

I spent so much time studying his face that I could see it behind my eyelids at night: his hair was wavy in the morning but straight in the evening owing to the number of times he ran his fingers through it. He told me once it had started in prep school when the school master asked him to solve a tricky bit of long division. His eyes were blue and flecked with brown near the iris. Our colleagues always teased him about his jowls, which he claimed he’d inherited from his father, together with a beak of a nose. He didn’t have lips as much as a gash for a mouth, which made him look amused rather than happy when he smiled. Harvey never went anywhere without a tweed jacket, a pocket watch and a penknife. When he was very drunk at the Christmas party of 1968, he claimed this combination had saved his bacon on many occasions. That was the same night he told me he loved me.

I never married, of course. Not in this business. It’s no good allowing sentiment to distract you from the fact that one of your slip-ups could cost lives. Harvey, on the other hand, had many affairs. He saw pleasure as a diversion and I think he rather enjoyed playing at James Bond. He thought he was discreet but after our trip to Montreal he got into the habit of sending his conquests to call on my hotel room the next day and, since I was good at getting rid of them for him, I suppose you could say we had a sort of gentleman’s agreement. I miss Harvey every day.

Back to the present: I am undercover and working on my next case.

“Where did you say you were from, dear?”

She is soaping my legs and feet. I decide to butter her up with my defenceless old lady routine. Her face is open and unlined with a high forehead and the hair tucked behind her ears is light brown.

“I’m from London at the moment.”

Somehow, I have misplaced the papers for my assignment. I have looked all over the study but they are gone. This new woman who calls herself Ursula Kuba is the target. I suspect ties with Moscow; her surname was my first clue. I cannot believe how sloppy the Reds have become. She is all over the house, with her loud voice and an accent I cannot place. She claims she is here to care for me, but I am having none of it. I wish Harvey were around. A quick phone call to him from the red box at the bottom of the road would straighten me out. Ursula is insisting I have a bath. I must play along for the sake of remembering my mission.

“And before that?”

“I have travelled all over, Cynthia. I have lived in South Africa, Australia and New Zealand and even in the United States for a while. For now I call London home.”

“What about your parents?”

“My father is German.”

I have never interrogated such a forthcoming target before. She might be lying.

“Really? Which part of Germany is he from?”

“His family is from Bavaria, I think. But now he’s moved north-east.”

“To Berlin?”

“Yes.”

“East Berlin?”

“I think so, yes. Why? Have you been there?” Her face beams innocence.

“I have, actually. Ghastly place. Full of communism and poverty.”

Ursula laughed. “I’m sure things have changed a bit since your last visit.”

“What do you mean?”

“Communism has been over for a while now, Cynthia. Ever since the Gorbachev years.”

“Gorbachev? Who is Gorbachev?” I begin to shout. “Who sent you?”

“Mikhail Gorbachev was the president of Russia during the late 1980s. And Brenda from ‘Helping Hands’ sent me.” She looks tired. I don’t believe her. She’s been wiping my left foot for an age. I decide to change tack and kick her across the face. Her eyes cloud with anger as a mark appears on her cheek.

“Cynthia, why did you do that?”

“I know who you’re working for, Miss Kuba. What did they send you to find? I won’t talk. You’ll get nothing out of me.”

She withdraws the bucket and washcloth. “I’m going to make us some tea, Cynthia. Would you like some? With a chocolate biscuit?”

The old distraction routine. “Fine. But when you get back, we’re going to have a serious talk, young lady.”

Her nod is resigned.

I think I may have bought myself at least seven minutes to look for my instruction papers. I feel down the side of armchair. The book! I had forgotten. I open it and scan my last entry. I know I would have put the coded instructions here to jog my memory. Oh no. There’s a bomb on a railway track. We don’t know which and she’s the link to the Reds. I need to call her back, but I have forgotten the target’s name.

“Young lady! Get back here!”

She is impassive and wiping her hands on a tea towel when she appears at the door.

“I’m not playing games. Where is the bomb?”

“What bomb, Cynthia? I’ve just gone to make tea.”

“The bomb you and the Reds have planted. Our intelligence tells me that it’s on a railway track and, mark my words, our intelligence is far superior to yours.”

To my horror, she starts laughing. “If that is the case, Cynthia, why don’t you know where the bomb is?”

I didn’t expect her to be this clever. “Oh, I know where it is. I just need you to confirm what I know. I’m not going to overplay my hand at this stage, young lady. Now tell me. Where is the bomb?”

A whistle from the kitchen distracts her. “I’ll be right back with the tea.”

I calculate that I have around three minutes before her return. Not much time to think of a new modus operandi. I decide to hide behind the door and grab her in a headlock. My feet slip on the floor as I try to stand. Saboteur! Suddenly she is back, carrying a tray. I’m sure the tea is poisoned; I’m not falling for that trick. I decide to stay still and wait for her to come to me. She places the tray on the table. I see she has done a good job of covering the milk with a doily and arranging the biscuits in a geometric pattern on the plate. She takes a blanket from the sofa and comes towards me.

“You must be quite chilly after your wash, Cynthia. Here, let me tuck you in.” As she leans down, I grab the scruff of her neck with one hand and clasp her jaw with the other.

“Where is the bomb, girl?”

“I don’t know what you are talking about, Cynthia.” She is trembling. I have finally got to her.

“Tell me right now where the explosives are secured or I will kick you out of my house and across the railway line.” The colour drains from her face and pools around the grip of my fingers.

“They’re on the express train. It’s due at ten.”

I release her. The confession was too easy. I am as exhausted as she.

“Can I pour your tea now, Cynthia?”

Tea seems ludicrous. I have to tell Harvey. I have to warn him about the express.

“I’ve given you two chocolate biscuits. I know it’s your favourite.”

I don’t have the energy to respond.

“I’ll just leave it here, on the side table. Ring the bell if you need me, ok?”

Must get word. Must tell Harvey. Express. At ten.

“Cynthia? Are you all right?” I hear footsteps down the hall. “A&E? Yes, I need an ambulance. The woman in my care is unconscious. Her pulse is weak. Yes. Fifty-eight Tottenham Court Road. Thank you. And hurry.”

Must tell Harvey. Harvey. Harvey.