“Two bottles of Chablis.”
The barman shook his head. “Try me with something else, son. I just sold the last one.”
Back in their little corner, Witch and the Dutchman were talking. Witch had chosen a spot close to one of the wall speakers. The bar’s music was not loud, but it would mask their conversation should anyone happen to be listening.
She paused to savor the wine. “Nice,” she said. “So, is my little package safe?”
“The one my men picked up from the house? Oh yes, it’s safe all right. Safe and well. I’ve stored it in a garage.”
“I don’t want to know. I just want to know it’s safe.”
“Rest assured.”
Witch nodded. She remembered the iron, hot in Christine Jones’s hand. The first mistake.
“Do you need anything else?” asked the Dutchman.
Witch shook her head. “I’m ready.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“So when will you...?” He raised a hand, apologizing. “Sorry, I don’t need to know that, do I?”
“No, you don’t.”
“And you’re clear in your mind? I can’t be of any more assistance?”
“No.”
“Well, I’ll be at my telephone number until... well, until the job’s done.”
She nodded, drank more wine. Her glass was nearly empty. The Dutchman filled it again. Then he lifted his own glass.
“Here’s to the free world,” he said.
She smiled. “Here’s to love.” And she took a sip of her wine.
“I’ll drink to that,” said the Dutchman. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her. She was incredible. The first time they’d met — the only other time they’d met — had been in Paris. The initial briefing. He’d suggested working closely, but she’d turned him down. She preferred working alone. When he learned a little more about her — most of it hearsay, but accurate — he knew this for the truth. She was a loner, a mystery. She almost didn’t exist at all, but then, once a year or so, would come some atrocity, some murder or bombing, a disappearance or a jailbreak, and “she” would be mentioned. That was all anyone called her: she. “She’s been active again.” “Who did it?” “We think probably she did.” Stories were whispered, the myth grew.
And now here he was with her for their second and final meeting. And she’d changed so much since Paris. He hadn’t recognized her at the tube station. She’d been standing against a wall, fretting, checking her watch. He hadn’t seen through her disguise, until, after five minutes, he too checked his watch. Then saw her grinning in his direction. He looked to left and right, but she was grinning at him. And walking towards him. Christ, even her walk was different; every single thing about her was different. And yet it was her. It was her. He shivered at the thought.
“What about your exit?” he asked her now, trying to show that he cared.
“It’ll happen.”
“I can help if you need any —”
“You’ve done your work.” She paused. “And done it well. Now it’s my turn. Okay?”
“Yes, yes, fine.”
“Tell me, why did we need to meet?”
“What?”
“Today, why did you need to see me?”
He was flustered. “Well... for the... for your final briefing.”
She smiled. “Unnecessary.”
“And to wish you luck,” he blurted out.
“Also unnecessary.”
“And because... well, I’m interested.”
“Don’t be.” She finished her second glass of Chablis and rose to her feet, picking up her shoulder bag and satchel. “Enjoy the rest of the bottle,” she said. “Stay here at least five minutes after I’ve gone. Good-bye.”
“See you,” he said, knowing even as he said it that it wasn’t true. He would almost certainly never see her again. He looked at the bottle, then at his glass. Well, if his work really was over, why not? He poured a generous measure, and toasted the wall in front of him.
Witch walked on. The Dutchman was like all the others: weak. All the men she’d met in her life, all the ones she’d worked with. The left-wing terrorists who agreed with radical feminism then got drunk or stoned and tried to sleep with her. The leaders of the various groups who used too many words, filling a huge void with them, but had no conception of anything beyond the “word” and the “idea.” The anarchists: political shoplifters. She’d seen them all, spent time with them. In the early days, maybe she’d even believed in them for a time. It was easy to believe when you were sitting in a stinking garret passing round a joint of middling-quality Moroccan.
Why had she drunk that wine? The Dutchman would worry about her now. He’d think maybe she wasn’t as coldly perfect as people said. Was that why she’d done it? No, she’d done it because she felt like it. She felt like a drink. Chablis and Meursault were her father’s favorite wines. It said so in the book she’d read about him...
She felt queasy suddenly. There were too many people around her. She ducked into an alley and felt better. The air was cooler in the alley. She began to walk along it. It was a narrow street, the backs of tall brick buildings backing onto it. Emergency exits, steel-barred and openable only from within. There was litter in the gutter. Dirty city. Cramped, crammed city. She despised it. She despised them all.
Shuffling footsteps behind her. She half-turned. Two youths, shambling along. One black, one white. The black massive for his age, bare arms taut and bulging. The white youth pale and wiry. They wore ludicrously large sneakers, and metal medallions jangled round their necks. They weren’t talking. And they were looking at her. The wine dissipated through her; she was ready for them. They still didn’t say anything as they snatched her shoulder bag. She held it beneath her elbow and struck out. Her right hand went for the black youth first. He represented the real physical danger. She chopped at his windpipe, and jerked a knee up into his groin. The white youth half-turned to look at his friend, and she caught him with the side of her forehead on his nose. Blood burst across his face. One hand went to cover his nose, the other scrabbled for the pocket of his denims. No, she couldn’t allow that, no knives. She caught the hand and twisted it, all the way around and up his back, breaking the wrist for good measure.
The black youth, who had fallen on all fours, caught an ankle in his vicelike grip and tugged, trying to pull her down. She kicked him in the ribs, then in the temple. The white youth was howling now, and running for the end of the street. She looked past him, at the busy thoroughfare, but no one was paying any attention. That was the city for you. She could be mugged, assaulted, and no one would dare help. She looked down on the black youth. She had backed four feet from him, and he was pushing himself to his feet. She allowed him to stand up. He presented no threat anymore.
“Go find your friend,” she said.
But he had other ideas. There was a loud k-schick as the blade sprung open. She raised her eyebrows. Couldn’t he see? Where was the intelligence? Where was the basic survival instinct? She hadn’t broken sweat yet. She hadn’t even warmed up. There was a shout from the far end of the street.
“Oi! What’s going on?” The youth turned. Two police constables stood in the mouth of the alley. He looked at Witch, brandishing the knife.