I prefer to be known as a writer of spy novels, but to be able to write about this secretive world I believe you have to live it. By this I mean to become an expert on the world of espionage and get into the skin of your hero/heroine, to know them, to feel them, become them.
And so it is!
January and the night air was fresh; a hard frost was beginning to settle on the grass verge beside her as she walked the concrete path that led to the tunnel which takes pedestrians under the road. Somewhere way off in the distance a dog barked, calling out to the nighttime howlers of the city.
She entered the tunnel the dank smell of dampness and urine permeated her nose, empty bottles and beer cans lay strewn everywhere. Thankfully there was no one around, all the homeless that slept in this small labyrinth of sadness and despair had been moved on. Day and night predators would wait down here for their next victim, but, not tonight. She had no fear of this; she was safe; they never failed in preparing a clear platform for her to work.
In the dark, she waited, the lights of the tunnel switched off; she had expected this, it had been arranged. She knew what had to done; this was it, she knew and understood. The long wait that was the worse part, always waiting.
She could hear the beat of her heart in the silence of the night. Not long now, he always took this route home from work; this is why she had selected it, the perfect place. In the distance, she could hear footsteps. She began to shiver, cold she thought, not long now. Would she be able to keep her hand still enough, she could feel the cold metal in her palm? Closer now, the sound of footsteps got louder. She could make out the outline it was him.
The adrenaline began to rise within her; she had to compose herself; she knew she only had one chance to get this right. She aimed the gun and pulled the trigger. She heard the fall as the bullet found its target. Walking up to him the weapon still in her hand she looked down at his lifeless body, she felt nothing, like all the other times she felt no emotion, it was work, to her just a job.
She moved his lifeless body with her foot, perfectly executed.
She walked away knowing that the firm would now step in and clean up. Back home in the peace of her safe house, she reflected on her short trip. She kicked off her shoes and poured a glass of ruby red wine. They would expect her to eliminate more before they say she is free once again to live her life. Her fault, she signed that piece of paper saying they, Mi6 owned her. She was in service to Her Majesty and her country. An assassin extraordinaire they called her.
She closed her eyes and another face a new one that of a traitor, appeared alongside the others in that dark place behind her eyelids.
Would it never end?
Written by Irene Allen-Block.
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