a cartel crime. Spanish lawyer and member of parliament Ines Villanueva; her lawyer son, Ramon Martinez; and a British prison chief, Balthus Ochoa, have all been implicated in what sources are saying is a decade-long fraud ring stretching into millions of dollars and which includes trafficking in illegal medical drugs. The bodies of the three were found at Villanueva’s central Madrid house this afternoon. Villanueva, who was a likely pick to become the next leader of the right wing, and prime minister …’
Tilting her head so I can see her eye-creased smile, Patricia nods to the television. ‘Same story they’re telling like before, same bullshit.’
‘It is all lies. The deaths did not happen in that way.’
She sighs as the television screen flashes across the faces of Ines, Balthus and Ramon.
We finish our coffees. I carry out a final check of my belongings, secure the photographs in an inside pocket near my notebook and, acknowledging the presence of my passport one more time, in my head I begin to carry out a run-through of the airport journey when Chris runs up to the table, breathless.
‘Jesus,’ Patricia says, ‘what’s with you?’
He swallows, pointing behind him. ‘People…’ He gulps air, slaps two palms to the table and hauls in some oxygen. ‘C-coming…’
‘What d’you mean?’ Patricia says, frowning. ‘You’re not making any sense and we’ve got to—’
‘Shush!’
Patricia opens her mouth on the verge of speaking when Chris raises a hand and finally spits out the words he wants to say.
‘The Project – they’ve found us!’
Madrid Barajas Airport, Spain.
Time remaining to Project re-initiation: 31 hours and 30 minutes
I turn, stand, focus. ‘Tell me.’
He swallows. ‘So, I was just walking back and looking in the duty-free bit, and they have the mirrors and stuff there and I’m sure there were two guys watching me.’
‘This is ridiculous,’ Patricia says.
‘What? No. I was followed.’ He looks straight to me. ‘I’m telling you – they were different, these guys.’
‘How?’
‘Just, well, I guess they were, like, rigid, you know. Kind of robotic and—’
‘Christ,’ Patricia says, ‘this is the last thing we need, you freaking out on us like this.’
‘I’m not freaking out.’
‘You are, and you’re going to upset—’
‘No!’ His voice is raised. I flinch. The people at the next table stop eating mid-sandwich bite and narrow their eyes.
Chris lowers his head. ‘No. Please,’ he whispers, ‘you have to listen to me. I know they have to be different because I recognise them, from when I was locked up for hacking, okay. One of the two guys who investigated me via the UK, well they were MI5. The other one, I’m not sure…’
‘You have to be sure,’ I say. ‘Now.’ My eyes scan ahead, quick fire.
‘I’m sorry. I recognise both of them, just can’t place the second one.’
‘One of them is definitely MI5?’
‘Yes.’
The cogs in my head, as if tripped by a switch, begin to turn at such a rate, for a second I feel dizzy.
‘Shit,’ Patricia says. ‘Doc, MI5 wanted you dead. If they’re here, this is not good.’
‘Oh fuck.’ Chris rubs his head. ‘Oh fuck, oh fuck.’
As my friends swear repeatedly, I scan the crowds.
‘Maria,’ Chris says now, ‘I’m sorry. I sent that email. MI5 must have tracked it.’
‘Why would you be sorry?’ I ask. ‘This is not your fault.’
‘It is,’ Patricia snaps.
I look between the two of them. ‘We cannot determine with any mathematical certainty why these men are here. We can only assume.’ I pause, my mind firing at such a rate now, the probabilities and conclusions whip out. ‘We can only assume a level of danger which requires some amount of action on our part.’
Patricia blows out a breath. ‘Shit a brick.’
Chris nods. ‘Too right.’
I scan the busy foyer, the noise so loud, my body wincing at the near physical hurt it causes me. Heads, hats, citrus perfume, detergent, the smell of ice cream and pancakes, a series of buckles and trailing laces.
‘I can see them,’ Chris says.
‘Where?’
He gestures to an area by a burger bar thirty metres away. ‘Right… there.’
I follow his line and spot two men, black jackets, casual clothing, no suitcases, no definable baggage, just coffee bean eyes and steady strides.
‘Doc,’ Patricia says, ‘is it them? Could MI5 be back working with the Project now, you know, running it or something?’
‘I do not know,’ I say, sight missile-locked on the two figures. Flickering fluorescent lights, the clatter of suitcase wheels, the hum of a fan somewhere in a nearby store, the oppressive stench of chip fat. It all collides in my head, making it harder to think straight, but even between the chaos, a cold calm descends and a phrase, one drummed into me by the Project, despite my resistance, enters my head as easy as walking through an open door. Prepare, wait, engage.
I turn to Chris. ‘You are certain it is them?’
He gulps. ‘Yes.’
‘Then we have to go.’
He rubs his face. ‘Oh man, oh man, oh man.’
Bags secured, Patricia moves backwards, her feet stumbling a little, Chris following as the three of us slip behind a large silver pillar that houses neat billboards for expensive Parisian perfumes.
‘Doc, what do we do now?’
I glance to the area ahead and watch the two men. They walk five steps then stop and, as they do, my brain carries out a full and rapid assessment of the immediate threat. Each man is approximately one hundred and sixty-six centimetres tall, the right man blonde, the left brown, no distinguishable facial features, no definable scars, and by quick track of their frames, each appears to be built to endure long distance runs over twenty kilometres, yet still bulked enough to carry the weight of a full army training kit on their backs.
