They seemed on equal terms. Both winded, both standing, with only the coffee table between them. But Bridge knew she had the advantage, and not only because of her height. Nevertheless, she had to finish this as fast as she could. The less damage she did to Montgomery, the easier it would be to persuade him she’d only used minimal, necessary force, and to confess his crimes. He swung his arm back, confirming in her mind that he lacked CQC training; to an experienced fighter, any backswing was a telegram to your opponent, telling them what you were about to do. She waited for Montgomery to commit to his forward swing, then immediately took a step forwards to bring herself inside the length of his arm. She half-turned, pivoting to face the swinging arm, and raised a forearm to block the overswing as the attack missed its target. Meanwhile, Bridge’s free arm swung up and back, elbow first, travelling with the full momentum of her turning body. Montgomery’s nose broke on impact.
He staggered back, moaning, and dropped the fruit bowl so he could nurse his useless, bleeding nose. The bowl clattered harmlessly to the floor, but Montgomery stepped blindly onto one of the fallen apples and twisted his ankle. He lost his balance as his leg buckled under him. He fell backwards, cracking his head on the corner of the occasional table with a hard, sickening crunch.
Bridge stood over him, ready for his counterattack. He stared up at her in silence. She stared back, and finally realised no counterattack was coming — not now, and not ever again.
James Montgomery was dead.
In the Good column: she could now take as long as she wanted to search his apartment, and find more evidence to incriminate him. In the Bad column: MI6 could no longer interrogate him to find out who he was delivering information to.
Good: if Montgomery really was the mole, his spying days were over.
Bad: if he wasn’t the mole, Bridge’s spying days were over. Possibly also her days as a free woman.
Good: …she was struggling to think of any other silver linings, if she was honest.
Bad: plenty more in that column, though. Where to start?
First, she wondered if she should hide the body. But Montgomery’s sudden disappearance would raise as many questions as the discovery of his corpse. Plus — and here was one for the Good column — she’d worn gloves the whole time. Her prints weren’t on the Grach pistol. There was nothing to directly tie her to the scene during the inevitable police investigation.
Next, she considered using his landline to call Giles. She’d left her phone at the guest house, and while Mourad was closer, the only number she knew by heart was Vauxhall. But that would absolutely tie her to the scene, and not through fingerprints but simple deduction. Nobody would believe that Montgomery, if he was a spy, had made a sudden phone call to the very people he was betraying, at the exact same time he was apparently fighting for his life. Whitehall was pretty good at spin, but even the powers that be would struggle to explain that away. No, phone calls would have to wait. The most important thing Bridge could do right now was gather more evidence.
As she chased down these cascading, branching possibilities of action, her unconscious mind replayed the fight on a constant loop, a natural side effect of the residual adrenaline still pumping through her body. Every moment, every detail, held in a moment of clarity. The sensation and surprise when the cup hit her, the impact of her boot on Montgomery’s shin vibrating through her body, her world turning upside-down as she fell back over the couch, the sensation of Montgomery’s briefcase on her already-bruising face, the apples and oranges falling from the bowl…
Other things had fallen, too. She walked to the entrance hallway, where Montgomery had hit her with the briefcase, spilling its contents on the floor. There was one item in there, something odd, that she’d glimpsed during that moment of pain.
A mini-tablet.
Its screen had cracked when it hit the wooden floor, but when she thumbed the power button the device lit up, still working. And it was another ‘second device’, the very thing for which she’d called out Voclaine, that Montgomery had neglected to mention. More worrying was the unmistakeable small glass dot on the rear. It had a camera.
She slid the tablet inside her hoodie, and wondered again about Voclaine. Every revelation made him look more innocent. But if so, where was he? Why escape from police custody? Why break his own second device, the presumably incriminating iPhone, rather than let security inspect it?
Lost in thought, Bridge almost missed the sound of footsteps outside the front door. Two sets, at least. There was mumbling in French, then a key in the lock —
She backed towards the lounge, too slowly. The door opened to reveal an elderly landlord, keyring in hand, staring at her in confusion. Behind him stood a curiously familiar gendarme. It took Bridge a moment to recognise him from the passport photo Giles had sent her.
Marko Novak.
52
Henri Mourad eventually admitted to ‘GL’ that he wasn’t Tunisian, hoping it would stop her making half-drunken passes at him whenever they met. Instead she seemed to find the idea of sleeping with an Algerian très exotique, and persisted in her efforts. On the bright side, she didn’t withdraw the discount, and Henri suspected he might need it as she led him through a noisy, crowded sailors’ bar. At the back of the room an older man with a pale, rough face sipped a glass of
