Izzy snorted, and put the car into gear. “Computer nerds don’t get into fights and go on the run,” she said as she pulled back onto the road. “But don’t worry, ma soeur, your secret’s safe with me.” Bridge wondered about that. Besides, the way this mission had gone, she was far from confident she had a job to return to in London anyway. Maybe that was for the best. “Oh, shit,” said Izzy, “do you know how to fire a gun? Have you got one?”
A horrible image flashed into Bridge’s mind, of Stéphanie finding the SIG Sauer SP2022 in her car back at the farm. But the car was locked, and the gun was hidden in the glove compartment. Nobody would stumble across it. There was no need to worry.
Worrying about Novak, though, was a different matter. Bridge declined to talk about guns, and Izzy appeared satisfied with the rest of Bridge’s explanation, so that was that. They went around the town, stopping off at patisseries to deliver a box here, a bag there. But Bridge, though she smiled and gave pleasantries, was preoccupied the whole time. She peered round every corner, looked down every narrow street, watched every passing car, alert for signs of danger. Izzy either didn’t notice, or was polite enough not to comment out loud, and Bridge was grateful for that. She didn’t relish the prospect of telling her sister about the big Russian spy who tried to kill her yesterday, and would certainly finish the job given the chance.
But anonymity was her best advantage. True, she’d given the gendarme her sister’s married name, but ‘Baudin’ was hardly rare. She’d also lied and told him she lived north of Agenbeux. Finally, the gendarme hadn’t recognised her, or questioned her as if she was a suspect. The chances were slim that he’d remember her, let alone mention her to Novak. And yet… Much as she tried to convince herself nobody would find her here, the possibility nagged at her, floating at the back of her mind, refusing to sink below the surface.
They reached the final patisserie a little before eight. As usual, Bridge hung behind Izzy, casually glancing around, checking they weren’t being watched or followed. She smiled and said ‘bonjour’ to the owner, who asked where petite Stéphanie was. Izzy said she was under the weather, but had still helped make the cakes that morning, and pointed out one particular batch with iced topping that Steph baked all by herself. The owner hoped the girl would feel better soon, cooed appreciatively at the cakes, and asked for a stash of Izzy’s printed paper bags. She only had a couple in hand, so she turned back to Bridge and said, “Can you get me a half dozen more bags from the car? They’re on the back seat.”
“Sure,” said Bridge, taking the keys and stepping out onto the street. She quickly scanned the area, a habit she’d internalised over the course of the morning, but saw nothing. The bags were where Izzy had said, in the car. Bridge removed a stack, locked the car, and returned to the shop. She’d brought too many, so Izzy counted off six, then handed the rest back to Bridge while the owner paid her.
As they drove away, Bridge said, “It can’t earn you much, doing this. After what you must spend on ingredients and fuel, are you even turning a profit?”
Izzy shrugged. “A bit, but that’s not the point. Steph loves doing it, and I think it’s good for her to understand how the world works. That’s why she normally comes with me to the shops, to see the money changing hands; a bit of haggling, you know.”
“Izz, she’s four years old.”
“Exactly. What were we doing at four? Climbing trees, poking worms with sticks and getting bloody knees.”
Bridge frowned. “What’s wrong with that?”
“Look, I know you think I spoil her, and I’m not stupid. She can be a right little madame at times. But I just want better for her. I want her to be smarter than us, to learn her way around the world a bit faster.” Bridge didn’t reply. Izzy glanced over, to see Bridge staring at the spare paper bags in her lap. “Bridge, are you listening?”
Bridge exhaled through her nose in frustration, then whispered, “For fuck’s sake.”
“Excuse me?”
“Not you. Me, my life, my fuck-ups.” Bridge spoke slowly, carefully. “Izz, I think it would be a good idea for the four of you to go on a family road trip. Maybe drive down to see Mum.” Bridge spoke slowly, carefully, not taking her eyes from the paper bags in her lap.
“What are you talking about? Bridge, what’s wrong?”
Bridge realised that what she’d been feeling all morning wasn’t just anxiety that Novak might track her down and try to kill her. It was that he’d come, and she wouldn’t be ready. That she would freeze up, instinctively try to escape, try to run away and hide all over again. It had never been much of a workable option, but now it was impossible. Now she’d put her sister’s family in danger, just by coming here. Délices de la Ferme Baudin, Côte-d’Or, the printed label on every bag. Just like the one she’d brought back from her first visit. The one she’d left in the guest house.
A wave of emotion passed over Bridge, exhaustion mixed with the terror of knowing her family was in danger. And not only was it her fault, but only she could put it right. She was sick and tired of running away.
She turned to Izzy. “When we get back, I need you to get everyone together and pack the car while I scout your land.”
“Scout? What does that mean? Scouting for what?”
“Vantage points.”
61
The good thing
