Page 120 of The Unlikely Spare
He falls silent, his gaze fixed on some invisible point beyond the windshield, his fingers tapping an irregular rhythm against his thigh.
I keep my eyes on the road, but can’t help stealing glances at him every few seconds, watching the subtle shifts in hisexpression. His brow furrows, then relaxes, then furrows again. Those elegant fingers are still drumming. Then they stop abruptly, and he sits up straighter.
“You said the nationalities are diverse. What exactly does that mean?”
“There was a Russian, an Egyptian, a Cypriot, and an Australian apprehended from the Matheson-Webley kidnapping, although we believe the Russian was just a hired mercenary. In the Darwin attempt, the nationalities were Malaysian, Canadian, Bangladeshi, and South African. All are former military or special forces. All clean records previously. We can’t work out any shared ideology or common cause.”
Nicholas’s reaction to my words is to slide his phone out of his pocket. But I reach over to grab his hand.
“Don’t go online. If the traitor isn’t exposed yet, they might have access to the authority’s data and will be able to immediately triangulate our position.”
Nicholas snatches his hand away from mine like I’ve scorched him.
My hand hovers stupidly in the air for a second before I force it back to the steering wheel.
He swallows, then straightens his shoulders.
“I need to research something. Can we get a burner phone in the next town?”
I hesitate. “It’s risky. It means potentially being captured on CCTV footage.”
“I think it’s a risk we need to take. If anything, it will give us another communication line if we get separated.”
My stomach lurches at the idea of being separated from Nicholas, leaving him all alone, exposed.
“Are you going to tell me what you want to research?”
“That’s for me to know and you to find out.”
“Nicholas,” I say in a warning voice.
“I know. I know. Imagine someone keeping secrets from you. It must be so frustrating.”
Our eyes meet for a second, and the intensity there reminds me of the way he looked at me last night.
I force my gaze back to the road.
My mind races through all the implications of stopping to get a burner phone. Now that we’ve put an hour and a half between us and Nicholas’s potential kidnappers, and have changed cars, I’m feeling slightly more secure.
I need to contact Scotland Yard again, hope that Thornton has an update about an extraction plan.
And Nicholas is right, burner phones would be useful. Just in case we are separated.
Luckily, we appear to be reaching the outskirts of another town.
Taupo.
Which turns out to be a town on an enormous lake that stretches far into the distance, three volcanoes looming at the other end like slumbering giants.
We park in a car park for the visitor center.
“‘We need to blend in,’ I say, popping the trunk to see what our involuntary donors have left us.
We find a collection of aggressively casual tourist wear that screams “middle-aged American on holiday.” I toss Nicholas a brand new cap withRotoruaemblazoned across the front, a violently yellow T-shirt featuring a cartoon kiwi bird, and cargo shorts that have seen better days.
“Your royal wardrobe,” I say while pulling out an oversized Hawaiian shirt with pineapples. The shirt stretches tight across my shoulders as I button it over my gun holster.
Nicholas holds the T-shirt I gave him between two fingers like it might bite him. “The monarchy has survived plagues,wars, and several constitutional crises, only for me to face its greatest threat yet—polyester blend leisurewear.”
