Catwalk Criminal (2 page)

She slipped down the rope as he jabbed again, one hand hanging on while he attacked with the other. This time, the blade struck one of the planets on her Tatty Devine Saturn charm bracelet that had been adapted by MI6. That was it! She had a matter of seconds for this to work or it'd be all over. Her bracelet was decorated with five multicoloured Perspex planets, containing hidden devices including mini grapnels.

She let go, plunging three metres to the deck. She braced herself and rolled on to her back. Tugging at a pink planet, she aimed at the rope above the man's head. A mini grapnel fired out and missed.

Dammit.

Trying again, she yanked the red planet. This time the grapnel hit home. She jumped up as the embedded laser seared through the fibres and the rope snapped. The man fell to the deck, landing awkwardly on his ankle. He stared in disbelief at the severed end of the rope in his hands. Stumbling to his feet, he lunged at her with the knife again.

She sidestepped to the left, tripping him up as she twisted a green planet hanging from her wrist. The force of the hidden magnet ripped the flash drive from her attacker's pocket and attached it to her bracelet without him noticing. He cursed as he landed on his bad ankle.

“Reviens!”
He waved his arms frantically, but the helicopter swung away.

Jessica slipped the flash drive into her pocket as he watched the chopper head towards the London Eye. She noticed panic in his eyes for the first time as he spun around and frantically weighed up possible escape routes.

“Armed officers are on their way up. You can't get away.”

“You think,
petite fille
?” he snarled. His eyes fixed on a mechanical arm. He sprinted towards it. “Don't try to stop me. You'll only get hurt. Go home to mama before you catch a chill.”

Her eyes narrowed. She had no intention of stopping him. He hadn't realized it yet, but she had what she wanted: the flash drive. Hopkins wasn't going anywhere either. He was still unconscious. Her side of the operation was over, as far as she was concerned. She watched as the man secured himself into a harness and climbed over the side, holding on to a rope that clipped on to an outside steel pole. Was he going to jump? She felt she should at least warn him.

“Didn't you read the guidebook? The Shard is almost three hundred and ten metres high. Do you really think you'll survive the fall?”

The man laughed. “I've no intention of falling. How do you think they clean the windows around here?
Au revoir
.”

He winked, exhaled deeply and jumped. She ran over and stared as he abseiled gracefully down the glass building. That had to be
the
most hair-raising way to make an exit. She'd settle for using the lifts any day. She felt in her pocket, her fingers curling round the USB drive. Thank God that was safe.

“I've got the blueprint,” she said, touching her earpiece. “You can pick up the target any minute now. He's on his way down.”

“Roger that. Good work.”

Suddenly, the rope ground to a halt and the man dangled helplessly about halfway down the building. Jessica waved at him. Ha ha. She knew more about window cleaning than he did after chatting to one of the Shard's employees earlier. The windows were cleaned in two separate sections, which meant the rope didn't stretch to the very bottom of the building. Another rope had to be attached at right about the point he was stuck now. He was trapped with nowhere to go – a sitting duck ready to be picked up by MI6 officers.

Phew. Tonight had almost been a total disaster, but she'd managed to pull it off without help. Where was everyone? Of course! The lifts would be out of action due to the blackout. The team would have to climb all the way to the top, carrying equipment, which would take time.

A soft humming noise made her spin around. A mini black helicopter landed nearby, its rotors whirring. She stepped closer. This wasn't a child's toy that had landed here by accident. It was some sort of drone.

“We've got another visitor. An unidentified flying object.”

Silence.

“Hello? Is anyone there?”

Great. The comms were down. It could be a technical glitch, but it coincided with the arrival of the drone. She didn't believe in coincidences. The helicopter could contain some kind of jamming device. She crouched down, examining the object. GPS coordinates flashed up on a small black box. That's how it'd been programmed to land here! Someone had deliberately sent it. If she could hack into its computer system, she'd be able to trace back the coordinates to where it had come from. She fiddled with the box. This wasn't going to be easy. She wasn't a superhacker, but someone back at MI6 could break the code. Could this be the buyer's method of getting the USB drive off the building? Maybe it had already set off before the meet went wrong and couldn't be stopped.

Jessica paused. What if this were another, separate plan to steal the blueprint? The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. She glanced over her shoulder. A dark figure wearing a ski mask loomed above her. Before she could react, something was blown into her face. Eyes burning, she lurched forward blindly, trying to stand up. Gloved hands pushed her back. Her knees crumpled beneath her and her head cracked on the floor. Hard. She lay helplessly, unable to move, as someone reached into her pocket and retrieved the USB.

Her mind screamed “No!” but the word didn't come out. Her tongue was paralysed, along with the rest of her body. She couldn't open her eyelids, but sensed her attacker was nearby. She could hear him messing with the drone. He was typing in fresh coordinates. A few seconds later the helicopter took off, vibrating quietly. Her attacker hadn't taken any chances; he knew he couldn't get past the squad heading up the stairs. But the drone could.

She had to stop him. She had to warn her handler that the USB device was being spirited away by air. He could order the drone to be shot down. Her body refused to respond. Her mind was locked in a useless shell; her mouth wouldn't open. She heard the clatter of feet and someone shouting her name. Then everything went black.

“Are you sure I can't get you girls any more chocolate chip cookies?” Mattie dusted an imaginary crumb from her pink Chanel suit. “They're Jessica's favourite recipe and still warm from the oven. Perfect for girls' night.”

Jessica was dressed in her favourite Topshop pyjamas, curled up on the sofa next to her best friend, Becky. They'd paused the
Pitch Perfect
DVD after her head started to throb again. Instead they were quietly gossiping and looking at glossy magazines and newspapers.

“Your cookies are delicious but I couldn't eat another thing, thanks.” Becky tugged at the waistband of her black skinny jeans. “I think I ate every last one. I'm fit to explode.”

Mattie's blue eyes narrowed and frown marks furrowed her powdered forehead as she glanced down at Jessica. “Still no appetite?”

She shook her head, fiddling with the bandage on her hand. Sickness, uncontrollable shaking and vertigo were some of the delightful side effects of the paralysing poison she'd ingested on Sunday night. She hadn't been able to keep anything down for the last forty-eight hours apart from peppermint tea.

“Maybe toast would be better.” Her grandma's diamond rings glittered as she placed her hands on her hips.

Jessica's stomach lurched. “No, I'm good.”

“You need to try and eat something. You didn't have any lunch. I thought chocolate chip cookies might help get your appetite back, but they're probably too rich for your stomach. Toast will be nice and light. I'll make some in case you change your mind.”

“I don't—”

“It's no trouble.”

Mattie scooped up the empty plate from the table and headed out of the sitting room, her Jimmy Choos tap-tapping on the polished wooden floorboards.

“AAAAAGGGGHHH!” Jessica hurled a cushion at the closing door. “She's driving me absolutely nuts, fussing over me every second. I swear, I haven't been left alone all day. She's been checking up on me on the hour, every hour. It makes me want to scream.”

Jessica shivered as she pulled the blue silk Ossa Cosway dressing gown around her shoulders. Suddenly, her pyjamas felt terribly thin. She was freezing. Had the central heating been turned off or was this a new symptom of the poison?

“Hey!” She flinched as Becky tapped her gently on the head with a rolled-up copy of the
London Evening Standard
. “What was that for exactly? I'm an invalid with a head injury, remember?”

“For being mean about your sweet, lovely grandma.” Becky's long, dangly earrings shook as she ran a hand through her dark bob. “Who just so happens to make the best chocolate chip cookies I've ever tasted. Plus, she manages to bake without getting a single mark on her Chanel suit. I think she must be a superwoman or something.”

“That's pushing it,” Jessica said, hugging her knees tightly. “And I don't think anyone's ever called her sweet and lovely before unless it was because she was…” She managed to stop herself in time before she blurted out “undercover”. No one could know about Mattie's past as a former spy. Even she sometimes found it hard to believe that her immaculate grandma had worked for Westwood when she modelled as a teenager, like Jessica's mum – a weird family tradition.

“Because what?”

“I can't remember.” Jessica touched the bruise on her forehead. It totally sucked that she'd never be able to tell Becky the truth – that she'd joined the top-secret wing of MI6 to discover who'd murdered her mum when she was four. Her helicopter crash and the death of a former KGB agent were connected to something called Sargasso, according to a vital scrap of info she'd gleaned from Katyenka Ingorokva, the brattish supermodel daughter of a dodgy Russian oligarch. “Kat the Brat” had enjoyed torturing her by staying mute on the subject during their Westwood training over the last six months.

She hadn't seen her since the weekend and after-school MI6 sessions at secret venues across London had finished and was no closer to finding out more. Her most promising lead – several anonymous text messages telling her to go to the Harry Potter landmark, platform nine and three-quarters at King's Cross station, to learn about Sargasso – had produced nothing. No one had ever turned up and after a few months the texts, from a disposable and untraceable mobile, stopped. She was desperate to learn the truth about Sargasso and becoming a member of Westwood was her only way in.

“Are you OK, Jessica? You've gone really pale.”

“Yeah, I guess. My head's still muzzy, but any memory loss will be temporary, so I
will
remember you whacked me with a newspaper after eating every single one of my favourite biscuits.”

“Touché.” Becky sat up, causing an avalanche of magazines to fall on to the floor. “Seriously, though, Mattie's worried about you. So am I. Jamie too.”

“I know, but you needn't be. I'm feeling a lot better now and the doctor said I'm going to be fine. I just need to rest for a couple of days.”

Well,
a lot
better was stretching it. The doctor had warned her that she'd probably experience similar after-effects to running a marathon. What did he know? Being hit by a car felt like a more accurate comparison. She'd regained feeling in her legs in the last twenty-four hours, but they still ached like mad and she fell over if she got up too quickly. Mattie had tried to keep Becky and other visitors away, and wanted her to stay in bed. But she couldn't stand another day stuck upstairs and had insisted that an evening with her best friend would help her recover much quicker.

It had taken quite a while to get down the stairs. She'd had to stop a couple of times as the carpet seemed to leap up towards her, throwing her off balance, but she'd finally made it with Mattie hovering in the background. She knew her grandma meant well, but it sucked feeling like a tiny little kid again. She had to get her muscles working properly and the only way to do that was to be up and about, even if it hurt. A lot. Her dad was the only one who understood what she was going through. He was ex-MI6 and didn't let his MS stop him from working as a private investigator, even if it meant using a walking stick on bad days.

Jessica flicked through the newspaper. She shuddered as her eyes rested on the page twenty-six lead.

 

SHARD BOMB HOAX LATEST

 

The Shard has reopened after a bomb hoax on Sunday night disrupted a high-profile fashion evening hosted by the prime minister's wife.

Designers Victoria Beckham, Stella McCartney and Ossa Cosway were evacuated along with foreign dignitaries, including the US ambassador's wife, as armed police stormed the landmark building in London.

London Metropolitan Police received a 999 call reporting a bomb on the top level of the Shard and dispatched a helicopter as well as an armed response team. The building was searched, but no suspicious packages were found.

A man was arrested abseiling down the side of the building in what was believed to be a publicity stunt for the launch of a new website. Police said he remains in custody and is being questioned about the hoax.

The evacuation of the building was hampered by a temporary blackout, which has been blamed on the short-circuiting of the main power transformer. Police said an unidentified assailant used the blackout to rob several guests, including top teenage model Jessica Cole. She sustained minor injuries and her condition was described as “comfortable” last night.

Police stressed they are not connecting the muggings to the bomb hoax and are looking for an opportunistic thief.

Ha ha. Very funny, Nathan. No doubt her godfather had written the statement released to the press. She was anything but comfortable. And what website was her attacker supposed to be advertising exactly – www.trytokillyou.com? He'd been nifty with a knife and she had the stitches to prove it. Still, she had to hand it to Nathan; he'd created a plausible enough cover story for Sunday night's dramatic events. He always said you had to keep it close enough to the truth to be believed; the helicopter, blackout, armed police and a model being stretchered off the Shard could hardly be denied. Her godfather had to mould details into a story that sounded credible without confirming details that would damage Westwood's undercover operation.

“Show me.” Becky craned to see the story.

Jessica silently passed the paper.

“It was such bad luck you got caught up in all that.” Becky threw the paper on top of the pile of magazines after reading the article. “Have the police got any idea yet who attacked you?”

“Dad said they're still checking CCTV footage in the surrounding area for clues.”

She had her own theory, though – she'd given it a lot of thought while she was stuck in bed. Their mission must have failed because it was an inside job. She couldn't come up with a more logical reason for why it had gone so drastically wrong. The attacker had used Jessica's Westwood compact to overpower her. It contained paralysing powder, something only a fellow spy would realize. Plus, a Westwood agent wouldn't have alerted the suspicions of the armed unit arriving at the Shard. Whoever it was would have had time to attack her and get down the stairs again, walking right past the armed response unit after flashing her Westwood credentials. The armed officers
must
have seen the person who'd knocked her out as they scaled the Shard. They didn't realize they had, because she was one of them – an MI6 operative, working for Westwood.

So which girl was it – Bree, Natalia or Sasha?

Bree had jeopardized the mission by being a rubbish team leader, but was her indecisiveness an act? Had she sabotaged Sunday night, deliberately delaying their ascent up the Shard to allow time for the mini helicopter to arrive? Natalia had tried to talk Bree out of acting by saying they should wait for backup and Sasha had faded into the background. She'd left Bree to dither instead of taking charge. Who had really wanted the deal to be stopped?

They both jumped as the doorbell rang. Jessica tried to stand but her legs had gone to sleep. They crumpled beneath her. Was it Nathan? She hoped so. She hadn't been formally interviewed by MI6 yet and needed to tell her godfather that a Westwood girl could have been involved at the Shard. She'd started to discuss her hunch with her dad when Becky arrived and they'd had to break off. Steadying herself against the sofa, she finally managed to get up.

“Don't go mad,” Becky said, “but I think it could be Jamie.”

“What? Why?”

“I mentioned to him at school that I was coming round tonight. I told him it was a girls' night only, but he said he might pop by to see how you are. He's been worrying like mad.”

“No way! I'm a total wreck. I told him I'll see him in a few days' time when my face has healed up a bit more.”

“Your face isn't
that
bad,” Becky said. “Admittedly, you look like you've had a fight with a brick wall and come off worse, but Jamie won't mind. He can see past that into your beautiful soul.”

“Very funny.”

Jessica stumbled to the mirror above the fireplace and scraped her hair into a ponytail. Yikes. The bruise on her forehead was purplish and green, making her skin look even paler than usual. She looked terrible, like some kind of zombie straight from the set of
The Walking Dead
. No way could Jamie see her like this. She'd have to pile on a ton of concealer first. Where was her make-up bag?

“If it's Jamie, don't let him in. Tell him I'm too ill to see him. Please.”

“You want me to barricade the door?” Becky snorted. “With cushions?”

Footsteps clattered in the hall and the door opened.

“You've got
another v
isitor, Jessica.” Mattie held the door open and beckoned.

It was too late to find a hiding place. Anyway, how lame would it look if her boyfriend found her crouching beneath the table? Her heart beat rapidly as a tall figure strode into the room, clad in jeans and a long black coat. He clutched the most enormous bouquet of flowers she'd ever seen – lilies, roses and sweet peas – tied with a silver ribbon. Her jaw dropped as the bouquet lowered. Her visitor had curly dark hair, not blond; green eyes and a thin, chiselled face.

“Zak!”

He looked her up and down. “Geez, you're a mess.”