Eva gave a slight shake of her head. “For once I’m agreeing with your general lack of perceptiveness.”
Bishop blinked a few times. “Thank you?”
“We’ve got a van waiting,” Sophia stated cooly. “You three follow Baptiste here and I’ll follow you. Remember, we’re the ones with guns, so do exactly as we ask. Is that clear?”
Baptiste was the not-waiter who now sported a black eye and a self-satisfied air.
Holding up a finger, Bishop said, “I’ve always made it a lifelong rule to never follow anyone called Baptiste.”
A poke in the back with Sophia’s gun put paid to Bishop’s half-hearted protest. The group reluctantly headed back the way they’d come. Sophia’s team were adept at concealing their weapons while ensuring they were at the ready. They were fortunate that the grey day was keeping the crowds away from the riverside cafes and restaurants.
Nash was too stunned to offer up much in the way of protest. How long had it been since he’d seen Sophia in the flesh? Ten years? More? Her hair was shorter than he remembered, a chocolate brown bob. It suited her. She still looked amazing. Damn those French genes.
“All these black-coats DGSE?” he asked, more to fill the awkward silence than anything.
Sophia shook her head and gave him the slightest of grins. “After all this time, that’s the first thing you ask me?”
“It was either that or ask where my black Rolling Stones t-shirt went.”
Sophia sniggered. “It fit me better.”
Choosing not to respond, primarily because he knew she was right, Nash changed the topic. “If you don’t mind me asking a second question, what was the slap for?”
“I promised my past self if I ever saw you again I’d slap you across the face for dumping me. And one should always be true to oneself, wouldn’t you agree?”
“I didn’t dump you. We mutually agreed to—”
Sophia stopped walking. “You never returned my last few messages, in which I left the door open for us to get back together. Therefore, you dumped me.”
“That’s a biased view of things. I was simply—”
“Dude,” Eva interjected, “she’s armed. You’re not. Let her have this one.”
Nash thrust his hands into his pockets and ascended the stairs without further comment. A light drizzle sprinkled the city, and the scant Melbournians outside darted for cover or produced umbrellas, seemingly from out of nowhere. At the top of the stairs a white commercial van awaited them with another black-coat who slid the door open, a gesture less friendly than it sounded. The grey-haired man opened his coat to reveal a holster and gun, emphasising their lack of options. All three piled into the empty van without protest. Sophia and not-waiter Baptiste with the odd haircut followed them in, guns at the ready in case they had any ideas; luckily for them, Nash didn’t. Baptiste reserved a particularly severe sneer for him.
The van took off with a jolt. Eva, Bishop and Nash sprawled backwards on the metal floor, sliding into the rear of the van. They were flung against the side wall when the driver did a sharp U-turn.
Nash’s wits were slowly returning as the shock wore off. “How did you find me?”
Given their history, he asked in the singular rather than the plural.
Uncharacteristically, Sophia screwed her face up in hesitancy. “That’s not necessarily an easy one to answer.”
Nash waited. When nothing further was forthcoming, he pressed, “But there is an answer?”
“Oh, yes. Most assuredly.”
The lack of resolution to his simple query dangled between them. Whatever Sophia knew, she was keeping it close to her chest for her own reasons. Assuming further questions on the same subject would receive a similar response, Nash asked a different question.
“Where are we headed, Sophia?”
“Well, there are a couple of ways I could answer that.” She slipped her Glock into a shoulder holster. “Nietzsche believed in one simple philosophy: that our destination, our life’s raison d’être as it were, is to ultimately become who we really are. That is the destination of one’s true self.”
Nash’s shoulders slumped. “And the other way you could answer?”
Sophia leaned her head to one side. “Are you familiar with Daft Punk’s song, ‘Around the World’?”
Eva crossed her arms. “Oh, I like her.”
Nash squinted. “I’m so glad.” He turned back to Sophia. “We’re not responsible for the things we’ve been framed for. They’re all Tartarus. We’re the ones trying to take them down.”
The word Tartarus certainly garnered a reaction. Sophia’s eye twitched when he said it. It was a tiny, almost imperceptible movement but Nash noticed. He wasn’t sure if it was a grimace or a flinch. Perhaps both—a flimace? Telling her the truth wasn’t much of a gamble, he figured. If she worked for Tartarus—something Nash would find hard to believe of Sophia, at least the Sophia he once knew—then she’d already know. If not, he could start to persuade her of the truth. His old self used to be quite good at persuading Sophia Ocon.
“We believe Tartarus are going to stage a terrorist attack and present evidence to suggest they uncovered it alone while every other spy agency was completely unaware. They’ll frame it as Tartarus being superior and more agile than the old guard of intelligence organisations. They are going to stage a bloody and public terrorist attack in a self-aggrandising gesture for legitimacy. This is their big play, and they’ll kill thousands to do it.”
Sophia tapped her knee rhythmically. “The very kinds of acts you and your cohorts here are accused of?”
Nash found it hard to get a read on her. He wanted to believe the woman he once loved would be impervious to the lure of Tartarus, but ten years was a long time. People could change in far less. Hell, Nash was hardly the man Sophia would remember. Did he trust her? Did she trust him? Whose side was she on?
“We didn’t do those things, Sophia. Tartarus did. They murdered hundreds in a fishing village and then a mosque, assassinated a CIA data analyst and a member of the British government. They stole from drug cartels with the intention of selling the cocaine on the open market. They’re the malevolent ones here, not us. We’ve just been framed for it.”
“It seems to me,” she replied evenly, “a guilty man would claim his innocence as vigorously as an innocent one.”
Nash exhaled slowly. “Then logic would dictate that evidence to determine one’s guilt or innocence should be judged by a wise and impartial party.” Nash waited a beat. “Such as yourself.”
“You trying to butter me up, Mason Nash?” A wicked grin grossed Sophia’s red lips. “Because you’ve done that to me before.”
Eva nudged Nash in the ribs. “Oh, I really like her.”
