Why Russian agents who seemingly defected insisted on spending winters somewhere as cold as the country they had defected _from_was beyond Jemima. Certainly it couldn’t be from homesickness, the entire reason MI6 had had its back up was because of the clandestine visit, the Russian Oligarch had made to St. Petersburg the previous week. Why couldn’t he have spent winter in the Bahamas? It was what Mischa tried to do at least twice a year. Jemima glanced at her phone and looked at the photograph her smug godfather/handler had sent her only a short time before of himself in Trinidad. Biting back a curse, and pulling her coat tighter around herself, Jemima leaned on the doorway of the closed bakery. The small step into the doorway gave an excellent view into “The Commissary” where on one of the back tables, oligarch was eating a late dinner. She had been playing the part of somebody either awaiting a lift, or waiting for somebody only for a brief time. She had switched surveillance with the bartender coming off duty. Apparently, from her observational notes, for a multi-millionaire  the guy was a bad tipper. Go figure. “Sorry I’m late, doll,” came a loud Boston voice, breaking through her idling thoughts.  She looked slightly down the street at where a tall man in a camel coat was climbing out of a car. “Car troubles.” “I believe you,” she said, dryly. “Not sure anyone else will but I do.” The bearded man gave her a rueful smile as he began walking towards her, a Styrofoam cup in his left gloved hand. “Cappuccino, extra hot and two sugars.” “From Loretta’s?” “Where else? Best Coffee in the whole city of Boston,” he stated as she took it from him and took a sip. “Forgiven?” She let out a hiss of sheer satisfaction. “Forgiven.” He leaned down to press a kiss to her cheek and followed by wrapping a black scarf around her neck. “Thanks. I thought you were in Istanbul?” “Would you believe I got called back?” she cocked an eyebrow at him and he chuckled. “No I wouldn’t either. Our plans were terminated early.” “Terminated?” A stiff nod . “Sorry Bishop. I knew how you wanted the Line to end, but not like this.” “Thanks.” Bishop turned and leaned on the doorway. “But it’s nice to be home too... talking of which – how come he hasn’t made you yet?” Jemima huffed and pulled the collar up of her coat again, attempting to hide herself from the cold and damp. “The man was in the business and still is. He knows somebody’s hunting him, and I have no doubt that your Langley boys are around the place too.” She shrugged. “He’s been in the game long before I was born and started around the time you were born.” “I’m only ten years older than you, Jem,” “According to Mischa he has socks as old as that,” Jemima said, raising her eyebrows. “Which raises the question how were you able to track me down?” “Somebody was honest on their ESTA... James Buchannan – with the espionage question.” He let out a chuckle at her groan. “You know us being senior agents in the crèche means very little to these agents.” “Apologise to the Langley boys for me and by the way tell them to split up when delivering Pizza? Most conspicuous,” she said, tossing the last bit of coffee back and handing him the empty Styrofoam. He huffed and threw it to one side. “Cheeky and I was right.” “I hate junior agents.” He said, deciding to put his arms around her and pull her closer. She raised an eyebrow. “What?” “You’re getting Spy-related dementia – forgetting the lessons that the crèche taught you?” she mocked. “Open spaces are the best places to meet, talking in the street is okay – and the only time you speak in a hotel room and a car and speak about a plan is for the benefit of the enemy,” he said, putting n an exaggerated accent before returning to his Bostonian. “Yes Mischa’s lesson stuck in. Hence why we are not in a nice bedroom now enjoying a glass of champagne.” “We can talk about your fantasies later,” Jemima said, firmly. “Made my other members?” “Couple kissing, the homeless man – and two old men.” “The guessing game is such fun, no wonder we keep it secret,” she said, smiling when he slid his hand around her back. “And none out eight.” “I made you?” He said, kissing her softly. “I let you.” She spotted movement and realised that the oligarch was going for the back door. “Find me later. Ciao.” He didn’t have time to speak, nor did she give him the chance to as she walked off into the drifting snow, her once British accent now turned into a pale Bostonian. It wasn’t a strange relationship, not to them at least. With Bishops secondment to CIA for training the CIA version of Crèche, the training for future MI5 & MI6 agents, this had provided an ample time to test her own junior agents on one of Mischa’s enemies. She had hoped to bump into him, purposefully doctoring her least favourite students marks jut because the man was so arrogant he deserved to be taken down a peg or two. She had the strangest feeling even without that mistake, he would’ve tracked her down. She expected him to find her soon enough, make love and then in the early morning light make plans. They never talked of the work they did in the shadows. Not the bloody assassinations or the all too brief moments – they spoke of wedding rings they couldn’t wear and what would happen when they finally got out of the game. They never talked of the work they did in the shadows, because it was all too easy in this game, for that brief candle of hope to be snuffed out and for the shadows to consume them.

emima was always lucky, Philly mused as she watches her coffee being made like some sort of tribal offering of peace. The waitress raised her brow at seeing her alone and she nodded, feeling like a Queen giving orders all with a wink and a nod. That’s what she says that’s what the world is built upon. Or people like Jemima, fantastic anecdotes for every occasion yet where she is known as a clown but strangely enough the joke killer. Philly’s head jerks up as she thinks of this and as she hears a flurry of Welsh curses as Jemima burst through the door with all the dynamism of a pigeon slamming into a . She looks around the room with that usual calm effacing look that is always at odds at her physical presence, nodding approvingly as she walks over and sees the coffee being placed into the space in front of her. “Thanks,” she says, casually throwing herself into the seat opposite and purposely bumping her short legs against Philly’s long ones. She tilts her head to one side. “No offence, and don’t take this the wrong way but that outfit makes you look like a fish.” Philly doesn’t comment, just give her a flash of a glare that she knows is worthy of her grandmother, if her grandmother really exists. She calmly assesses her. You’d never say Jemima ever had two pennies rubbing together let alone the three hundred she keeps in the heel of her normal cowboy boot. Today it’s her ‘fuck off’ boots, so there’s at least five hundred crisp notes underneath her socks and on the sole. “Still got those boots?” Philly asks, smiling at Jemima’s incredulous but offended cough before she takes a sip. “Told you before, they’re my end of the world shoes. I’m Armageddon ready,” she looks around the cafe with an affected calmness. Philly know she’s building up for her next question and knows its coming fast. “Are you-” “Going to the States?” Philly finishes, and smile at her guilty if nervous smile. “Yes. At least when the investigation is over.” “Until then you don’t move.” Jemima stood abruptly and clickedher fingers at the woman. “Two coffees to go.” When Philly cocked an eyebrow at the rudeness, Jemima returned the lookbefore addressing the waitress. “Please.” The waitress carefully placed the polythene cup down for Philly and then slams the cup down for Jemima who flashed a condescending and ingratiating grin. The two walked together out into the cold, sipping their coffee and not speaking until they are in a particularly loud area that their voices become meshed.   “Bishop is pissed.” Jemima never minces her words and isn’t likely to now. “You got too close, didn’t report in time and you are very luck that Special Branch still needs your assets or I think we’d have a bag assassination again.” “I thought our business was MI5?” Philly says attempting humour and despite the wry smile shot in her direction she knows that there is very little to laugh at. “Bollocks to the name, Philly,” says Jemima, her cold efficiency shining through as she lightly dodges a young man with a polite nod. “If you thought we were in this job for Queen and country, let alone patriotism and loyalty, then you’re not only naive but incredibly stupid. We’re all different factions of a Civil Servant Assassination Squad.” “When should I come in?” “Once the enquiry is done with and when I need you,” she says with a finality and coldness. “But I’ll be vilified for the press.” “I told you once when I hired you; it’s not a James Bond movie. You get fucked. Fucked by me, fucked by Bishop, fucked by the government and Queen you serve.” The woman continues to walk this time the wry smile, positively primal and predatory. “Bet your arse hurts tight now... oh and Bishop told me that you’re not to kill yourself. We need you so we can fuck you over again.” “Sure thing, Duck...” Philly closes her eyes as they step into a quieter area, now the code name is used and the mission over. “You fucking bitch.” “Now you get the idea... but you can make a suicide attempt in a few months... pass it on.”