The Tail
AN: Thanks to the artist (not myself) for this cover image. Many thanks to Nightshade2412 for pointing it out when I posted this story filled with editing errors!
Alex Rider had thought he was done with spying by the time he passed his sixteenth birthday without fanfare. He could have continued life as a normal student had not two events occurred. The first of these was in a city where Edward Pleasure had covered a story about secret trade deals among the upper echelons. Alex surely couldn't be blamed for flipping idly through his notes in the shared hotel room.
The second was a rather less casual affair.
The orange afternoon sun sent long shadows that shielded the woman's face and her weighty canvas shopping bag from curious onlookers. If anyone had looked more intently, they would have noticed wide cheekbones framing a retroussé nose and a small, thin mouth. Her only extravagance were her Louboutin pumps, which emphasised her height and punctuated her steady, tidy stride with crimson.
Slouched against the dusty brick wall of a nearby alley, Alex watched her pass in his peripheral vision and listened as her clipped footsteps slowed to a measured pivot.
A faded sign hung over the door of the shop she entered. The setting sun didn't help the dim lights inside, barely illuminating the chaotic jumble of knick-knacks from empires and regimes past. She set her bag down on the counter and began wandering the shop. It was an old place, and its stock was even more so, marked with aged scars and bloodstains from the furies of the past. Unhurriedly, her leather-gloved hands selected a small, pewter statuette of a cat and delivered it to the counter as the owner of the shop finally arrived.
"Lots of customers, I see."
The owner's eyes flicked warily to her bag.
She set the cat down next to it with a little more force than was necessary.
The owner flinched. "I told you –"
"Just get on with it," she said.
"I, please –"
Not more than a few minutes later, the sun's evening rays highlighted the blood spatter decorating the shop's windows and the similarly scarlet soles of the Louboutins sauntering leisurely away. Alex followed.
It had been an unusually hot day for late August, a fact that had dominated the morning news. By six o'clock in the morning it was already starting to scald and by seven o'clock, the unairconditioned streets were almost empty. Empty, save for a running Alex Rider. He had worked up a light sheen of sweat, and was panting as his shoes beat a tattoo on the ground. After months of sitting around after Jack's funeral, and with the Pleasures keeping a close eye on him, he enjoyed the mindless exercise that allowed him reprieve from their house and his memories.
He was thinking about nothing in particular when a fellow jogger had him swerving to avoid her. The familiar face stopped him just before she passed. With light brown hair and humour in her lips to offset her fighter's chin, he wouldn't have recognised her, except that she had stopped. "Alex," she said. "I thought you were in San Francisco!"
"Tamara," he couldn't stop himself from smiling. "How have you been?"
She frowned, and he wondered if he had said something wrong. "Not too good, actually – but don't let me talk to you about that. What's been going on with you? Enjoying America?"
Alex shrugged. "Almost like home, but hotter and more coffee."
Tamara laughed, but she couldn't quite erase the worry around her eyes. "Better than the excuse of a beverage you call tea. Whoever thought to put leaves in hot water?"
"Whoever thought to put burnt beans in?" Alex re-joined.
"You just haven't found the right sort of coffee yet," she said. "Here, why don't I take you somewhere cooler, and maybe even help you like coffee."
It was the summer holidays - he had the whole day to himself. Coffee wasn't unwelcome.
"This is what you call proper coffee?" Alex choked on the sweet concoction.
Tamara took a sip through her own straw and sighed happily. It was nice to see her when she wasn't in disguise or trying to save them both from being killed. "Pah. With Freedom Coffee you have a choice of either piping hot black diner sludge, or fairy drinks full of sugar for energy. None of that authentic Italian crap."
"And French press?"
"French press is okay. They were our allies once."
They looked at each other for a second and then both burst out laughing.
"I figured sugary and artificial was the best way to start your journey into caffeine addiction," Tamara said. "I'm not really a coffee connoisseur – I normally just have whatever's in the pot at work." She looked at him with something undefined in her eyes.
The reminder of her position as a fellow spy, from the CIA, had Alex tilting his head. "Speaking of work...?" he prompted.
"Well, since you brought it up." She grinned. "How do you feel about being a tail?"
Alex rolled his eyes. "You're not normally a runner, are you?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
The woman Tamara Knight described would not have attracted suspicion. Her french twist and blank eyes gave her an air of skyscraper offices and passive income. She belonged in the hotel as much as Alex, in shorts and t-shirt, did not. The lobby was almost always empty; clients paid four-figure sums a night to avoid seeing another face except on demand. In a rare moment, with the arrival of a distracted mother and her noisy child clad head-to-toe in Ralph Lauren, Alex swiped an access card. A demand for privacy carried an intrinsic flaw - no further contact with staff was required, except for accessing her room. That necessitated further thought.
Outside the hotel, the woman's purposeful steps were at odds with her seemingly aimless wandering. Alex followed her across the city back and forth to different points like a many-pointed star until the sun went down. She never seemed to be heading in any particular direction and he was regretting not wearing sunscreen by the end of it. He wondered how the woman's feet could bear the pointed toes of her shoes as his own trainers started to pinch.
Just as the air was starting to cool, she stopped by a taxi rank where a man stood paying for his fare. Alex leant against its neighbouring bus stop, watching from its angled mirror.
"Sir," he heard the woman say.
The man jumped in response and he whirled to face her, credit card still clutched in his hand. "You!"
Alex couldn't see her expression in the mirror as she responded. "Yes."
"You – No!"
She took a single step towards the man, who cowered unsuccessfully back into the passenger seat. Alex saw that his face was now coated in sweat. The credit card fell to the tarmac, forgotten.
"I'm not–"
"No," she said, and seemed to lean over him for a moment, obscuring Alex's view. She pushed the taxi door closed as she moved away and its tinted windows hid whatever had occurred. Alex listened to the soft purr of the taxi as it rolled away, eclipsing the sound of her Louboutins pacing in the opposite direction.
When Alex produced the credit card at their next meeting, Tamara frowned. "Spit."
He paused.
"Spill, I mean."
The time it took to convey the incident seemed almost disrespectfully brief. When he had finished, Tamara's lack of surprise again reminded him forcefully of her employer. She had graduated the Farm at nineteen, he remembered.
She wanted him to continue. "I hope you don't feel like I've just been using you."
"Haven't you?"
"No." She took a sip of her drink and waited.
"What do you know about her?"
That earnt him a smile. "It's more what we don't know. We don't know who she works for or what she's doing."
"She's killed a man. So quickly I couldn't do more than take a breath."
"Certainly. But why? And who's next?"
Alex's eyes felt glued to the credit card lying on the table in front of them like a question. "It's not my problem."
"No, it isn't."
"She's dangerous."
"She is."
He shifted in the wooden chair.
"Look–"
He snatched the card off the table and stood.
"Thank you," said Tamara.
After the second death, Alex was growing sick of the sight and sound of the Louboutins and so he was almost relieved to follow the woman to the pool of her hotel. The clouds overhead seemed a clichéd threat that her presence at the pool was not, in fact, to enjoy the water.
Lying on his back floating in the water, he felt the gentle waves she made as she entered the lap pool. There was nobody besides them in this section and his eyes flickered warily to count the other occupants. The spa bath held a dozing man, his thinning black hair plastered to his scalp with sweat or water, and his – lover? wife? escort? – plastered to his expansive abdomen.
They were otherwise alone.
Images of the man in the taxi and the shopkeeper drifted through his mind and he swam languidly to the deep end of the pool, putting himself between the woman and the couple. She was fast in the water, too, with efficient, easy strokes. He watched her dark shape play across the reflection of the waves she made.
It was getting dark when the couple in the spa bath made motions to leave. The man whispered something in his partner's ear and she giggled her response, clambering off his stomach and climbing sensually out of the spa. He clapped a meaty hand to her thigh as he followed.
Soon enough, Alex and the woman were completely alone. He imagined he could sense her disappointment and frustration as she swam laps, and a grin worked its way onto his face.
The grin froze as she swam up to him directly.
"Don't worry," she said, as though that made any difference.
"Wasn't planning on it."
"I've seen you."
Alex waited. She could have killed him a thousand times over if she had wanted to.
"I want to tell you to stay away."
"Stay away from what?"
Her eyes narrowed. "Nothing."
"I see." Alex nodded thoughtfully. "Well, golly, thanks for the advice! I'll be sure to keep it in mind!"
He fought the urge to kick backwards as she swam even closer, only to pass him by with the barest ripple. Water poured off her as she rose from the pool and sauntered towards the exit. At the last moment she turned back as a smirk spread across her face.
"I'll see you soon, Alex."
Foreboding in the pit of his stomach, he raced after her, his hair still wet. He caught sight of her again on the street, having donned a wig and a business suit. The clouds shifted and bright sunlight filtered through to illuminate the reflection of her Louboutins in the puddles on the footpath. Barefoot, he followed the flashes of red as they paused, turned, and entered a shop.
The writing above the shop window had almost rubbed off, but Alex made out the faint remnants of Cyrillic. With déjà vu, he entered.
There was no one in the shop, save for the woman and a young couple. The inside smelt of caraway and dust, with the tannic undertones of silver polish. Behind shelves stacked with old wind-up telephones and typewriters, the young couple was discussing something in muted tones, while the woman inspected a mug of souvenir spoons. She smiled at him as he entered.
Alex placed his back towards the room, facing a giant mirror with a gilt frame, place incongruously next to a collection of wooden and intricately-carved fishing rods.
A beaded curtain tinkled behind the counter, though no one came through. After a few seconds, Alex saw in the mirror's reflection as a cat rounded the corner of the counter. It sat by the woman, licking its white paws. They were tinged pink and with burgeoning horror, Alex noticed a horribly familiar tang of salt and iron underneath the other smells of the shop. A sour taste crept into his mouth. She had already acted, despite his watching the entire time.
Quietly, the couple left the shop, leaving Alex one more alone with the woman. He watched her in the reflection of the mirror. He watched her turn and look at him through the mirror. He watched as she smirked.
He was utterly unprepared when she drew a gun and shot.
Alex ducked, twisting to the side as the mirror glass shattered over his back. Blindly, he reached out, finding purchase on a fishing rod. As he stood, he swung the rod overhead towards the woman, who was aiming to take another shot.
The hook caught the back of her hand, forcing her to lose her grip on the gun. She tried to tug her hand away, but the barb kept the hook in place, and the fishing line was too strong to snap.
Snarling, she took a step towards Alex, swinging her other leg around towards his head. The red flash of the Louboutin anticipated the matching blood it could draw from him.
He ducked, and the Louboutin flew off. She quickly divested herself of the other with another savage kick aimed at his temple. Rolling sideways, Alex pulled the fishing rod behind him, yanking the fishing line taut. Her skin and tendons tore, freeing the hook and spattering blood across the cat. The woman howled and threw herself towards him again, her right arm pulled back for a punch.
Alex only just managed to slide out of the way. As she was twisting back towards him, he grabbed one of the Louboutins and threw it at her head.
She dropped immediately from the impact, leaving Alex, hands on his knees, panting hard.
As the cat miaowed and licked the woman's limp and bloody hand, Alex wondered just what he was going to tell Tamara.