I, Spy? (Sophie Green Mysteries, No. 1) (Sophie Green Mystery)

took some pictures but there was nothing interesting in his briefcase.”
    “No, well, there probably wouldn’t be. I think he’s more of a puppet. This is bigger than just Wright.” He was silent again. “So who did you go to dinner with?”
    Hah! He was jealous! I did a little dance, sitting there on the bed.
    “Just someone I met on the flight,” I said.
    “And what were you doing in his room?”
    Oh, God, this is fantastic. “Investigating.”
    “Investigating what?”
    “Whether he’s a better kisser than you. And you know what, he is.”
    “Sophie, that’s not funny.”
    “Yes, it is, it’s funny because it’s true.” I stuck my tongue out at the phone.
    “Are you drunk?”
    “I have to be drunk to want to kiss someone else? Can’t I pursue casual sex if I’m sober?”
    Christ, I was drunk.
    “Look,” Luke said tightly, “just don’t do anything stupid, all right? And set your damn alarm for tomorrow. I’ve got you booked on the 0625 flight out of Ciampino. Make sure you have enough cash for the taxi. Do you still have your passport on you?”
    “Yes.”
    “Good. That makes it a lot easier. It’s hard enough trying to explain special operations to someone who speaks your own language. I’ll see you when the plane gets in, should be around seven.”
    And with that he clicked off, sounding pissed off.
    Score!
     
    The Nokia woke me up at five a.m. I pulled on my new civvies—the white shirt over the Gucci dress, which might have looked stylish on someone less hungover—found some ancient shades in the bottomless pit of my Ace bag to cover up my shadowed, bloodshot eyes and staggered down to reception.
    “I need a taxi,” I whispered to the perfect woman behind the desk. “To Ciampino airport.”
    She nodded, made a call, and five minutes later there was a car waiting for me.
    I sat with my head back against the seat as we swung around Rome in the early morning and tried not to heave. I get carsick even when I’m dead sober. Seriously, it was like hitching a lift with Michael Schumacher.
    Or Ayrton Senna.
    I felt like month-old milk by the time we arrived at the airport. I checked in—having remembered to put my stun gun and things in my hold luggage—and stumbled through to the tiny airside bar.
    At Stansted it’s like a little shopping mall. There are clothes shops and shoe shops and TV shops and bars and restaurants and coffee stands and all sorts. You could live there. Some people practically do.
    Ciampino airport’s airside facilities consisted of a bar, which was closed, and a tiny tabaccheria. I bought a large bottle of water and some Soft Fruits and put my head on the table until it was time to board.
    I slept my way through the flight, the last few days’ sleeplessness having caught up with me, not to mention last night’s wine, and dreamed of Harvey and Luke both turning me down. Bastards.
    The plane was pretty much empty when I was woken by a (thankfully unfamiliar) stewardess. I grabbed my bag, trying to hide the Ace logo, and tripped off into the very cold, windy British spring.
    We were off-jetbridge (stupid cheapo airline), so I had to walk across the freezing tarmac, keeping my head down so no one recognised me, and up the steps into the terminal.
    Luke was waiting at the top, looking pissed off.
    “Jesus,” I said, “when you said you’d see me there I thought I’d at least get to Baggage on my own.”
    “You look like hell,” Luke said, and swiped his pass to get us back into the terminal.
    “Thanks,” I mumbled. “Where are we going?”
    “Back to the office. Quicker this way.”
    “I need to pick up my bag.”
    He stopped and closed his eyes and looked like he was counting. “What bag?”
    “I had to buy some stuff! I couldn’t walk around Rome in my uniform.”
    He ran his eyes over me. “So I see.” He sighed. “Okay, let’s go.”
    We went back through the normal route to the transit and baggage reclaim. I showed my passport, like a good traveller, and Luke flashed his pass. It was quite normal for staff to return from the gate through customs. It was great, like you’re somewhere you shouldn’t be, although it’s perfectly legal.
    Sometimes the whole airport thing just totally overwhelms me. I mean, there are all these rules about where people can and cannot go, and all these hidden tunnels and doors that are only used by staff, and if you open the wrong one and let a passenger in then it’s unbelievably illegal. But if you