Page 1 of Gates of Tartarus

Like a Monkey on a Stick

Thursday, 1 November – Maela

Mr. Millefeuille, little black button eyes peering at me: “So, Maela, how are you feeling today?”

Me: “Kind of freaked out, to be honest. Or maybe, shell-shocked. Yes, shell-shocked.”

Mr. Millefeuille: “Really? Why?”

Me, lying on my back in bed, legs akimbo, examining a hole in my sock: “Well, I’m now living with three extremely hot men. And I’m not quite sure how it happened.”

Mr. Millefeuille, fleecy ears cocked: “Aren’t you? Why don’t you tell me about it?”

Me, nibbling on a nail: “You should know. You were there when Emlyn, Kavi, and Jorge discussed it. Remember? Right after the chocolate incident? And what wasthatabout?”

Mr. Millefeuille: “Remind me.”

Me, biting my lip: “It was probably my imagination.”

Mr. Millefeuille, mouth smiling in cross-stitch: “Youdohave quite an active one.”

Me: “Humph. Well, anyway, what am I going todo?”

Mr. Millefeuille: “About?”

Me, rolling my eyes at the plush, little bear: “Sheesh! Keep up already! I am sharing a house, in Chelsea of all places, with three indescribably sexy men. How am I going to avoid making a prat out of myself? How? Emlyn’s an MI5 agent, you know, like James Bond? Although, JB’s really MI6, Emlyn says, but same difference. He’sliterallybeen trained how to interrogate people. That’s hisjob. And Kavi’s so attuned to psychic energy and chakras. He can probably read my aura or something. Oh, and Jorge can sense my emotions. Like,for real. Have you thought of that? Huh? And since I can’t look at any of them without salivating, I’ll be exposed! I give it a day.”

Mr Millefeuille: “Thatisa predicament.”

Me: “Yup. Got it in one. And I’m not going to be able to wander around in my jammies anymore or leave the room without make-up! No coffee! No coffee until I’ve had a shower and got dressed and everything!”

Mr Millefeuille, looking grave: “All salient points.”

Going down to the kitchen that first morning felt downright weird, as if I were in a posh hotel instead of a house. Everything was so quiet and clean! I was convinced I’d break something and didn’t dare take a look around the place, not even the long, gold-leafed salon I glimpsed as I tiptoed down the staircase. I hesitated at the kitchen door, hovering anxiously, until the smell of freshly brewed coffee and buttered toast urged my feet forward. Inside, I found all of the guys sitting around the table and chatting as if they’d been house-mates for years instead of only a day, which kind of wigged me out. Was I really the only one who thought it odd that we were now all living together and working for a multi-national agency on a top-secret project?

After the guys left, I spent most of the day arranging my stuff in my new bedroom and having a mild panic attack. It was preferable to thinking about Ratko and what had happened last week. But I managed to pull myself together enough to cook dinner for the guys. As it was Halloween, I wanted to go full American, with fried chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans, and brownie sundaes for dessert, but, as I’d given my word not to leave the house, I made spaghetti Bolognese. Out of a jar I found in the cupboard. It was the closest I could get to something orange. After dinner, we went up to the lounge to watch TV. The lounge is the one place in the house that’s modern: just a comfy, U-shaped sofa set before a wide-screen television, bookcases filled with paperbacks, and a stereo system. Thankfully for my nerves, we watched an action-adventure, no romance in sight.

All composure vanishes this morning, though, when I walk into the kitchen. Emlyn I’m used to seeing in a suit, but I’ve never seen Jorge or Kavi in one, and, oh my, oh my, they wear it well. Jorge’s looking sharply elegant in a well-cut suit that exactly matches the color of his hair;paired with a crisp white shirt and dark suede boots, it shows off his long, lean build. He’s shaved today, and it’s all I can do not to reach up to run my fingers across the smooth bronze of his cheeks and chin. Kavi’s in a soft-charcoal suit with a green tie the color of his eyes. Somehow, the effect is to make him look even taller and broader. Emlyn’s in his customary navy, which, now that I think about it, really works with his hair and eyes. And all three together? It’s like I’ve entered a GQ convention. I actually sway slightly on my heels and can only be thankful that I’m running late and there’s no time to gawp. I fretted about what to wear for a meeting at MI6 and finally ended up pairing a forest-green, cashmere top with dark-grey slacks and my gold, flower-shaped earrings. I’m still stiff, but, thankfully, Bojan didn’t slap me hard enough across the face to leave a mark. I shudder; it’s only been a week since my kidnapping, and the knowledge that he, Vlado, and Ratko are dead hasn’t sunk in yet.

The SIS building is only a short distance away, diagonally across the river from Thames House. Thames House is just two stops away on the Tube, but the guys want to chaperone me, so we all change at Victoria and get off at Vauxhall station. Naturally, the train’s delayed – works on the line – so they don’t have time to come in with me. But one of them will pick me up after my meeting. I gulp when I see the building: it’s a new, modernist construction, all hard angles and small, green-glassed, square windows, granite walls towering above me. Inside, it’s like a flashback to my first day at Thames House, only this time the receptionist walks me to the office. I’m expecting to go up, but we take an elevator down three floors, exiting onto a long corridor. The doors don’t have numbers, just indecipherable acronyms, and we stop in front of one marked “GBSA”, where she leaves me. Once again, I knock, and once again a voice calls out, “Come in.” Only this time, the voice is rough, like thunder rolling across the savannah.

My first thought, when I step into the room, is that I am in the presence of a predator. I can tell he’s heavily muscled under the dark-grey suit, that thin veneer of civilization somehow making him appear even more dangerous. He strikes me as a little older than Emlyn, maybe thirty. His head is shaved, but he’s got a short, dark-blond mustache and beard beneath an aquiline nose and glittering blue eyes set in an oval face. There’s a jagged scar on his left cheek, and his left arm is missing below the elbow. He gives the impression of a contained wildness, and his eyes fix unblinkingly on me like a lion stalking its prey. An odd expression, bordering on distaste, flashes across his face, so quickly that I almost don’t see it.

“Ms. Driscoll?”

I nod, heart thumping hard in my chest, and he jerks his head towards a chair in front of his desk. I sit down, taking in the room around me. It’s almost Spartan. The walls aren’t clinically white, more of an ivory, but there are no prints or pictures on them. The desk is utilitarian: a long, grey slab on a steel frame. There are no plants – not that they could survive without a window – and just a single filing cabinet, beside the desk. I think the chair I’m sitting in must be the most comfortable piece of furniture in the room. It’s a deep-blue armchair, and I wonder if it’s been brought in specially. I straighten my back, fighting not to hook my ankle round the chair leg.

“I’m Seef Arend. I’ll be your handler at MI6.” His voice makes shivers run up and down my spine: his accent is South African,Sith Ifrican, and all of a sudden, I want to growl.

“I assume Emlyn’s told you why you’re here?”

I nod again, and he stares at me: “Cat got your tongue?”

I color: “N–no. Uh, yes, Emlyn’s filled me in on the basics.”

“Good. Before we go any further, the Americans sent through a photo yesterday.” He turns his monitor, and I lean forward to take a closer look. On the screen is a man’s back, partially screened by foliage, and in the center of his shoulder blades is a tattoo of a snake eating its own tail, encircling an hourglass. “So, is that the tattoo you saw on Magda?”

“Mmmm…” I bite my bottom lip, seeking to cast my mind back to the slip of Magda’s shirt and the sudden flash of skin as she orgasmed.

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