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It’s too late.
That was Caroline Mulgrave’s first thought every morning. As she woke up and saw the time on her alarm clock – the same time every morning. As she sat on the same bus and saw the same people. As she walked into the same office and made the same joke to the same receptionist (not really, they changed receptionists every month, but it was always the same joke.)
It's too late.
This is not the life I wanted, but it’s too late to change.
When she had been a child, her favourite film was Carve Her Name With Pride. (She told everyone her favourite film now was Truly Madly Deeply, but in truth it was whatever was the last spy movie she had seen. It was currently The Train).
She had read every book she could find on the women who had been dropped into occupied Europe as spies. The SOE and their codes and their daring escapes and their deaths and their exploits. That was what she wanted to be when she was a girl. A spy.
But that’s not really an option offered to nice middle class girls from Rickmansworth. Besides – she had also read all the fictional books about spies she could – James Bond and George Smiley and all the others, and realised she had two options – femme fatale, invariably dead by the end of the story, or some sort of secretary.
Neither appealed.
She wanted – she wanted to be out there, in the field, being clever and cunning and fast. Slipping past the guards. Thinking on her feet. Lying her way out of dangerous situations. She didn’t want to be Miss Moneypenny or Vesper whatever her name was. She wanted to be Bond! Or Smiley.
But she could find no way in. MI5 and 6 didn’t openly recruit then, and as far as she knew, they definitely didn’t recruit women, so Caroline took a nice secretarial course and became a secretary. Not as a spy, but to a trucking company and then a banking company and then another company.
She was always so bored. She looked so perfect, quiet and plain and a bit boring. Everyone tended to overlook her. Everyone ignored her. She was as dull as she looked.
I’m not made for this. I’m not made for what I look like.
By the time MI5 and MI6 started to recruit openly, she was too old.
Too late.
So she trudged her way to work every day and went home and watched spies on TV and read spies in books and watched spies in the cinema.
None of them look like me.
Thankfully, she lived alone – she had managed to escape marriage, even as she watched her friends give up every hope and dream they’d had to spend their days on the school run, or washing socks, or having endless barbeques. But Caroline was free to dream her dream and watch what she wanted and choose how to live her life.
If only she could work out how to change it.
Caroline knew she wanted her life to be different. She burned with it. She was restless, day and night. She ached for something – else.
But she was so old.
It’s too late.
Until the day he came running through the office. He was shouting something about ‘Right? Now?’
He was startlingly handsome, but that wasn’t what drew her attention. He had – a presence. Like a man on a mission, but not sure what that mission was or if he would succeed – but he was going to try.
The others were staring at him like he was mad – but Caroline knew what was going on. She’d seen this – in movies, sure, but now she was seeing it in real life.
He’s got someone on comms!
‘Left,’ he murmured, staring at the window. Angela had stood up in amazement, and he said thank you, grabbed her chair, and threw it at the window, smashing it. Caroline ran up to get a closer look. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing.
He’s a spy, he’s a spy, there’s a spy right there in front of us.
He paused on the windowsill and Caroline realised he was nervous. He was strong and fast and clearly a spy – but he was nervous. She’d never thought about that before. She’d watched all these spies on screen be cool and calm and collected. She’d never imagined they’d be scared doing all these wild things, that they were constantly battling an urge to stop, step away, be safe.
Why would someone do these things?
‘I’m jumping out a window!’ he shouted. He looked around, as if unsure what to do – and his eyes met Caroline’s. For a moment, there was a connection. She nodded once.
You can do it. I have faith in you.
He nodded back. Somehow that seemed to have given him the impetus to go on. He jumped.
Caroline ran to the window. He’d landed badly, stumbling, and she could tell he was in pain, but he got up and run anyway.
Oh.
Oh, that changed everything. Spies weren’t perfect untouchable beings. They were human, with doubts and questions and fears and yet they jumped anyway. They fell and got hurt and still they ran on.
I can do that.
She walked to her boss’s office, then walked faster, and then ran. Now, she had to do it now, before she changed her mind, before she talked herself out of it. At top speed she charged into her boss’ office. Startled, he stood up. Before he could say anything, before she could change her mind, Caroline blurted out;
‘I resign!’
A week later, she stood in front of the rather shabby office she had rented in Ealing. Her brother-in-law was hanging the plastic sign she had ordered over the old chicken shop sign. Her sister stood beside her, jiggling her toddler on her hip.
‘Vivienne Investigations,’ Daphne said. ‘Who’s Vivienne?’
Me. A more glamorous and confident me.
‘Just a cover name. Just so people think it’s not just me.’
‘It is just you, though,’ Daphne said, sniffing. ‘And what will you be investigating?’
‘Whatever people ask me to.’
Daphne wiped the nose of the toddler a tad roughly.
‘It’ll all be divorce cases and grubby things like that,’ Daphne said.
‘I don’t mind. I’ll be happy to help a few women divorce their husbands,’ Caroline said, happily. She hoped it wouldn’t be all divorce cases, but everyone had to start somewhere.
‘Hmm. I suppose you’ve sunk all your savings into this?’ Daphne asked disapprovingly. Daphne disapproved of almost everything Caroline did.
Caroline nodded, happily.
‘Every penny.’
She’d spent a fortune at the spy equipment shops (it is remarkably easy to buy all kinds of spy equipment in central London) and it was the happiest two hours of her life. She was fully equipped, she had her office, and she had her hopes.
‘You ought to be saving that money for your old age,’ Daphne said. “Make sure you live out your old age in a nice private care home.’
‘I’d rather spend it now and live my life and die in a council run care home,’ Caroline said, and she finally snapped. ‘Quite frankly, Daphne, I’d sooner die in the street than spend my whole life scrimping and saving and never doing anything I wanted to do, ever. What happens if I get hit by a car tomorrow? And there I am, dead, with a huge pile of savings and nothing I’ve ever done with all that money? This is my last chance to live the kind of life I’ve always wanted to live, and I’m doing it, Daphne, no matter how much it costs.’
‘What if it all goes wrong, and you fail?’
‘What if I win?’
Caroline felt her eyes shining. She felt good. All the aches and pains that had come with being older seemed to have slipped away. That little voice that had constantly told her it was too late was happily giggling with delight now.
‘You always were an odd one,’ Daphne said, frowning. She glanced at her husband, coming down the ladder, and lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘Don’t tell Dave, but I kind of envy you,’ she admitted.
Oh. Oh, now Caroline saw. Daphne had wanted to be a dancer. She had trained every day of school. She had danced in the street and in the living room and in her bedroom and even on stage a few times. She had wanted to go professional. But when she reached 18, their parents had told her it was time to be sensible now. Girls like her didn’t become professional dancers, that was a silly dream for children. They had a job arranged for her in a shoe shop, and she started the next day.
Daphne had never danced again. The light had gone out of her eyes that day. She’d obeyed, and got a nice steady job, and a husband and children, and her parents had been proud of her. But something had died inside Daphne that day. No wonder she didn’t approve of Caroline. Even in her own quiet way, Caroline had defied the choices made for her, and now she was breaking all the rules. She was closer to living the kind of life Daphne wanted then Daphne had ever been. Caroline grasped her hand.
‘It’s never too late,’ she whispered. But Daphne jiggled her child on her hip. Caroline could see tears in her eyes.
‘It is for me,’ she said. ‘But you go out there and do it, Caroline. You bloody well win, no matter what.’
Caroline thought about the man standing on the edge of the window, so unsure, looking for the strength he needed to keep running. She thought about the way he had looked at her, and she had looked back. How she had given him the strength he needed in that moment and how, in return, he’d given hope. What a rare and precious gift. She hoped she could thank him one day.
‘I’ll win,’ she promised her sister.
She stood in the office, wondering what to do next. She’d placed discreet adverts in various papers and online forums. Now all she needed was clients. She sat down cross-legged on the carpet and made a list on her phone.
He’d been very strong and fast, that man. She could never aspire to the same levels but – she could be fitter. She would join a gym. And get some self-defence classes. And some computer classes and make sure she made contacts in every one of those places. There were so many people out there who needed help, she was sure, and they didn’t know who to ask. Well, they could ask her, a nice middle-aged woman. Caroline lay back on the hard carpeted floor and stared at the ceiling, watching the lights of the passing traffic.
This was it. Time for her to jump.
Her first client was a woman she’d met at the gym. One of the old receptionists, as it turned out, and it also turned out there was a reason why they had such a high turnover. One of the security guards was also a serial harasser, cornering the women in stationery cupboards and following them home. And of course, no-one believed their word – he was, after all, a security guard. A trusted employee.
‘His wife is rich,’ she said, as they lifted weights side by side. ‘And if she thought he was trying to flirt with other women, she’d divorce him, absolutely take him to the cleaners. But she never believes us, and we’ve got no proof.’
‘I’ll get proof,’ Caroline promised.
He turned out to be remarkably easy to follow. As a plain older woman, she was totally beneath his notice. She followed him all over London. She managed to get several shots of him flirting – no, not flirting – harassing other women. Putting a hand up their skirt on the tube. Brushing too close past them in a crowded shop. ‘Accidentally’ falling against them on the bus. He protested innocence every single time.
Caroline took the pictures and emailed them directly to his wife throughout the day. He deserved worse, but she knew this was, at least, a good start.
It all went wrong near Waterloo, in one of the narrow little alleyways around the station. He suddenly turned and saw her.
‘You! Did you just take a photo of me in that club?’
Damn
Caroline knew she shouldn’t have lingered. She’d had plenty of proof already, and his wife had already emailed her a heavy retainer to work for her during the divorce. There had been no need for further shots. But she couldn’t resist the temptation to get a few more. Unfortunately, she really did not fit into the club. She was aware that she had stood out, and it was a mistake. Apparently, he had finally spotted her.
This was an awkward situation. He was large and strong, and she was not. He was also holding a knife now, she noticed, with an odd sort of fatalistic calm. This was dangerous. She thought of the man on the windowsill again. He was no doubt good in a fight and while she could do pretty well after all her training, she wouldn’t last long against a large angry man in an alleyway.
But that man on the windowsill – he hadn’t seemed aggressive. Even while obviously on a chase, he had been polite. Perhaps – perhaps aggression wasn’t always the answer. Perhaps – perhaps words were.
‘How dare you talk to me like that!’ she snapped suddenly, in her severest school teacher voice. ‘Do I look like the kind of woman who takes photos of strange men in clubs?’
‘Well – no,’ he admitted, wavering. ‘But you did!’ he insisted, thrusting the knife towards her. ‘I just got a phone call from my wife! You’ve been taking photos of me all day!’
‘You drop that thing right now!’ she told him, and the five year old boy in that man’s head instantly obeyed the school teacher and dropped the knife. ‘Is that any way to behave? I don’t know who you think I am, but I am obviously not the kind of person who goes round photographing people! Am I?
‘Well – no…’he agreed, uncertainly, looking at this sensible woman in her headscarf and comfortable shoes.
‘You’re lucky I don’t call the police. But I don’t have time for that kind of shenanigans, so I am walking away right now and we’ll say no more about it.’
She walked past him, her knees trembling but her head held high. To her surprise, he let her go.
She got all the way back to the office before she finally allowed herself to collapse. She couldn’t believe she’d got away with it. But that was her gift. That man -he had looked like a spy. But Caroline Mulgrave – she looked like a quiet middle-aged woman – but was in fact, a spy.
Well. How very very useful….
After that, the cases come thick and fast. Mostly divorces, as Daphne had said, but a few other odd cases. A well-known thief to be tracked down and given a message from someone calling herself The White Widow. Any sightings of an oddly shaped key in two halves to be reported. A shadow of a man, glimpsed at a distance in several violent crimes, accompanied by a slender blonde woman, giggling in delight as she killed. There’s something going on, Caroline could tell. Another story beneath the everyday woes. A hint of something big and dark and terrifying.
Caroline wondered if the man was somehow involved. Once in a while she caught a whisper on the air of someone – someone on the right side, someone fighting – something. No names, and yet somehow she knew it was him, that man perching on the edge, ready to jump into the unknown, glancing to her for reassurance. She kept an eye on those odd cases. She let it be known, in the networks she was part of (not the usual networks, but a network of secretaries and receptionists and librarians – the kind of people everyone ignores and yet know everything) that she wanted to know stories like these.
She found Vicki at King’s Cross. She watched this tall, thin, elderly woman – at least 70 – pick her way slowly across the concourse, leaning on her stick. She watched as she peered at her phone and then asked a nice young man to help her navigate the ticket app on it. And then Caroline watched as, with an RFID reader behind her back, she quickly scanned the young man’s wallet and cloned his cards.
Caroline followed her home, noticing how her gait became more sprightly the further she went, how the stick was thrown away, how she skilfully navigated her phone when she used it. At her front door, she confronted the woman with her evidence, including several photos.
‘I didn’t see you,’ the woman said, peeved.
‘That’s my gift,’ Caroline replied.
‘I suppose I can expect a call from the police now?’
‘In fact, I’d like to offer you a job.’
Vicki was installed in one corner of the office with six monitors, some very high tech equipment, and a complete box set of Led Zepplin on vinyl. With Vicki comes a whole new set of contacts, a whole new network, and new cases.
One evening, they’re sitting in the office, discussing what they have seen in the recent days.
‘It’s odd,’ Caroline said. ‘I swear some of these people are professional spies, and yet they’re coming to me.’
‘They don’t trust their bosses,’ Vicki said, pouring some more bourbon. Caroline can’t abide the stuff. She drinks her rose wine. ‘Lots of mistrust going around. One hand can’t trust what the other hand is saying, so to speak.’
‘Something’s happening,’ Caroline said softly. ‘Lies. Misinformation. No one is even sure what truth is any more. And it’s getting worse…’
‘They trust us,’ Vicki says. ‘I like that. We’re getting a reputation as someone the spies can trust even when they don’t trust each other.’
‘I got a call from MI5,’ Caroline said slowly, barely believing it herself. ‘They want me to come work for them.’
‘What did you tell them?’
‘Well, my exact words were ‘fuck off’’ Caroline said, laughing at her own daring. ‘I’d always wanted to be one of them and then when I got offered – I…’
‘Tell them to fuck off. Well done,’ Vicki said, raising her glass in a salute. ‘But – the more we get involved in this world of spies, the more we need help. I may know someone…’
‘Do you? Who?’
‘She’s a former undercover agent. Got burned by CIA, MI5, MI6, IMF – god knows who else. I think she’d be happy to work with us.’
Vicki handed over the file she had carefully prepared. Caroline looked at the picture of the woman. She looked determined. She read the name.
Ilsa Faust.
Ilsa comes in a few days later – through the window, at night. Caroline stood up, surprised, but not afraid. She watched Ilsa roam the office, looking for bugs and weapons. She studied Vicki’s setup for a while, and then stood in front of Caroline, looking her up and down. She must have been satisfied with what she saw, because she finally sat down on one of the office chairs.
Now she looked tired. The light from the passing cars highlighted lines on her face and shadows under her eyes.
It also highlighted a golden pendant, intricate and cross shaped, hanging around her neck.
Without a word, Caroline turned to the coffee machine. Her first thought was to make it black, but then she turned back to Ilsa.
She looked like a woman who takes comfort where she can. Caroline added cream and syrup and handed the cup to Ilsa. She took it and sipped and then smiled.
‘Just the way I like it,’ she said. Her voice is upper class English, but with the slightest trace of an accent. ‘I understand you’re looking for a spy.’
‘Vicki said you might be up for some work,’ Caroline said. ‘Do you know Vicki?’
‘I’ve used her once or twice,’ Ilsa admitted. ‘Fantastic computer skills. Almost as good as…’ her voice trailed off, and she looked away. A name she did not want to spill, Caroline surmised.
‘We seem to have a lot of spies coming to see us,’ Caroline said. ‘Men and women who do not trust the people around them, for some reason. More than they used to, I mean.’
Ilsa frowned.
‘There’s something going on,’ she said. ‘Something big – no-one trusts anyone right now.’
‘Do you trust anyone?’
Ilsa smiled, a soft secret smile.
‘There are three men I trust,’ she said softly. ‘And only them.’
‘No women?’ Caroline asked. Ilsa studied her. Caroline felt revealed under that gaze, as if Ilsa could see every secret need and shame and joy Caroline had ever had. It was disturbing, and she had to resist the urge to turn away and hide in the dark. Instead she faced Ilsa, allowing herself to be open and easy to read. Eventually Ilsa sighed and sat back.
‘Not yet,’ she said, amused. ‘I don’t want to work for you all the time – but you can hire me on a freelance basis.’
‘I understand,’ Caroline said, delighted at the idea of working so close with a real life spy, of a living example of what she had always wanted to be so close. ‘You prefer to be as free as possible and choose your work. That makes sense.’
Ilsa looked at her, amused, and relaxed.
‘Did you always want to be a detective?’ she asked.
‘A spy,’ Caroline said. ‘I wanted to be like you.’
‘Oh, I’d say you are like me,’ Ilsa said, looking around the office.
‘And you, did you always want to be a spy?’ Caroline asked.
‘I wanted to be a hero,’ Ilsa said softly. ‘It didn’t really work out that way. They don’t want heroes. They want cannon fodder.’
It’s a busy week and Ilsa is there for all of it. The trickle of spies needing help become a rush, and all of them needing something. An escape route, a proof of innocence, a way to contact someone else. They were desperate, and Ilsa, Vicki and Caroline help them all. It’s exhausting and worrying and scary and Caroline loved every minute of it.
This is it. This is what I’m made for. This is what I’m supposed to be doing.
At the end of the week there is finally a moment of rest, and the three women sit down and talk about old times. Of course they all have different old times, and Vicki and Ilsa have some outrageous stories. It made Caroline feel quite boring, but as they pointed out, she was making up for it now. She had spent three hours that day leading what Ilsa was sure was a Russian assassin a merry chase on the Tube as Ilsa had guided the actual target out of London.
A name keeps popping up in Ilsa’s stories – but she always stops before she says it. Someone she cares for, deeply. One of the three men she trusts – but she would never tell Caroline who is.
Eventually, at three am, as Vicki snored in her chair, Ilsa asked Caroline how she had got into all this, waving a hand around at Vivienne Investigations, and Caroline told her the story of the man on the windowsill.
Ilsa looked at her, and Caroline saw a dawning recognition on her face.
‘When exactly was this?’ Ilsa asked. Caroline told her the date and Ilsa’s face lit up.
‘Ethan…’ she breathed. Caroline realised that was the name Ilsa had been avoiding saying all evening, the name that was woven around her stories.
‘Ethan?’ Caroline asked. Ilsa fiddled with her phone a moment and then handed it to Caroline. There was a picture, caught in a moment of relaxation. The man on the windowsill, with a toothy grin, looking embarrassed to have been caught on camera. Beside him a bearded man raised a pint towards the camera. Beside him, a large man in a jaunty hat saluted her.
‘Ethan Hunt, Benji Dunn, Luther Stickell,’ Ilsa said, pointing towards each man in turn. ‘It was Benji Ethan was talking to that day, me and Luther were in the van.’
‘The three men you trust,’ Caroline whispered. That was them, real spies. She studied them. They didn’t look dangerous. They looked – nice.
‘The three men I trust,’ Ilsa confirmed. ‘With my life. I’d give anything for them. And if they call me, I will come running.’
‘Are they likely to call you?’
Ilsa shrugged, and unconsciously touched the pendant around her neck.
‘This – whatever this is – they’re bound to be involved somehow. Trying to fix it and save the world,’ she said. ‘Ethan – he really is a hero, but don’t let him hear you call him that. He’d be very embarrassed. Luther – that’s one of his tech guys, and Ethan’s oldest friend. He’s so kind. He looks after Ethan, and everyone Ethan loves. And that – that is Benji. Ethan’s other tech guy and –‘
She hesitated for a moment, her face in shadow, though Caroline could see her smile gently. ‘Benji and Ethan…’ she said, in a soft voice. ‘Those two – totally devoted to each other. I’ve seen – I saw Ethan sit down and prepare to die with his friend when he could have escaped. I’ve seen – I’ve seen Ethan almost broken over Benji’s pain, although he’s the strongest man I know. And Benji – he’s completely dedicated to Ethan. Would, can and does follow him anywhere. He’s – he’s – if I had family, it would be Benji…’
Caroline watched as a single tear slipped down Ilsa’s face, glittering in the moonlight.
‘Why aren’t you with them?’ she asked. Ilsa’s love for them shines. They’re her hope, Caroline realised, her guiding light, her one bright spark in the darkness.
‘Not safe,’ Ilsa said, putting the phone away. ‘For them or me. People might be looking for me, and they’ll expect me to be with them.’
‘Because of the half of the key you carry?’ Caroline said, nodding towards the pendant. Ilsa looked surprised and Caroline felt very proud of herself for impressing Ilsa. ‘People talk in front of me,’ Caroline said. ‘And for the past week we’ve had nothing but spies in and out of here and they’re all talking about the same thing. Just bits and pieces, but I’ve put it all together.’
Ilsa stared in admiration at Caroline.
‘Oh, you’re very good,’ she said. ‘Much better than I realised.’
‘And you’re leaving, aren’t you?’ Caroline said, standing. ‘I saw your bags in the car. And I heard you ask Vicki to lay you a false trail.’
‘I have to,’ Ilsa said. ‘It’s obvious they’re coming after me. I have to hide,’
‘Where will you go?’
‘Best you don’t know where,’ Ilsa said. For a moment she hesitated, and then, awkwardly as if it she weren’t sure how, she threw her arms around Caroline. ‘I’ll try to come back,’ she whispered. ‘I want to. I want to come back here. I like it here. I like the work we’re doing.’
‘Make sure you do,’ Caroline insisted, hugging her back fiercely. ‘Promise me.’
‘No promises in this game, Caro,’ Ilsa said, pulling and back and smiling. ‘But I will try my very best.’
And then she was gone. Ilsa always had that gift, Caroline realised, of being there one minute, and gone the next.
It was Benji who told them. Vicki had been seeing traces of something monitoring digital communications and had invested in an old-fashioned radio before Ilsa left. Now a message came through that radio.
‘My name is Benji – I don’t know if Ilsa mentioned me,’ the British man said. His voice crackled through the line, but Caroline could hear the sob in it, and she knew what had happened. She wanted to run and hide, deny, turn away from it. She was terrified of what she was about to face. Still, she had to see this moment through. This was her team, small as it was, and she was team leader. Whatever happened, she had to take the lead, and she had to bear it. She took the microphone from Vicki.
‘She did. She said you were one of the three people she trusted,’ Caroline said. From the line, she heard a great sigh. She could hear the grief in his voice, and she loved him for it. Too many of the people she had met lately kept their emotions firmly tamped down, never revealed their sorrow, or their happiness. They moved as automatons through the world, and Caroline hated it. This man on the other end of the line – he cared, and he didn’t care who knew it.
‘She – she gave me instructions,’ Benji said, his voice even more choked. ‘People to call in case…’
‘She’s dead, isn’t she?’
For a moment there was silence.
Maybe she isn’t dead. Maybe she’s lost or scared or alone and I can go and get her. I can save her.
‘Yes,’ Benji said. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’
Ilsa’s gone? Our Ilsa? My Ilsa?
‘How?’
‘Saving someone else’s life. She is – she was very brave. She was greatly honoured by us, greatly loved.’
‘By us too,’ Caroline whispered. ‘Thank you for letting me know.’
She handed the microphone back to Vicki to end the call properly, and walked, in a daze, into the inner office.
No one was supposed to die. It’s not supposed to be like this. I’m not supposed to lose anyone!
Caroline wasn’t a fool. In all those books and movies, spies died. She had even cried over them. She just never thought it would happen to her. She had never…
This is my life now. For all the good, there is so much pain. Is it worth it? Can I take it?
Caroline fell to her knees and buried her face in her hands.
They were closer to her. They knew her better. They were her family. They’ll be hurting too.
Caroline started to sob, the pain tearing out of her in gasping cries, the tears burning down her face.
If they can take it, I can. If they can carry on, I can. I can do it. I can do it, if they can do it I’ll do it, and if they can’t do it, then I will carry on still, for Ilsa, for them, for all the ones I can help.
Vicki was there suddenly and she wrapped her arms around Caroline, and rocked her gently, soothing her softly, letting her sob her heart out.
When it was all over, and she had cried herself dry, Caroline, still in Vicki’s arms, looked up at her.
‘We don’t give up,’ she said, fiercely. ‘Not now. Not ever.’
‘Then we’d better get some guns and learn to shoot,’ Vicki said. ‘Because something bad is coming and I’d quite like to shoot the bastard.’
Two months passed and the outside world got worse and Caroline and Vicki started to understand. All those spies that passed through Vivienne Investigations, desperately searching for someone they could trust, someone who could help them when their own agencies had let them down, told all they knew. They seemed eager to pour out the story to Caroline and Vicki. Someone had to know what was happening, someone outside of their world, someone who could be trusted. Their little office became a hub of information, where people left old-fashioned paper letters for each other, where they could plan a way to escape, where tapes could be left to be sent on. Vicki, having grown up in a pre-digital age, was very skilled at handling the analogue equipment. And Caroline herself, an invisible middle-aged woman, found herself sneaking into all sorts of places and slipping letters into pockets and passing on cryptic messages. They were outside all the agencies and so they were the only ones the agents trusted.
It was late one evening, and Caroline and Vicki were preparing to lock up for the evening. The door opened, and Caroline turned to see who needed help now.
She recognised them straight away.
Ethan Hunt and Benji Dunn.
‘We’ve heard you may be able to help us,’ Ethan Hunt said, and then he peered closer at Caroline. He looked so tired and yet – there was a spark in his eyes. Still a glimmer of hope in his eyes.
Benji walked over to Vicki and looked appreciatively at her set up. Caroline noted the way Ethan’s eyes followed Benji’s movements briefly, and then back to her. His gaze was intense.
‘Have we met?’ Ethan asked her.
‘We have,’ she said, trying to remain calm. ‘You were jumping out of a window.’
‘That doesn’t narrow it down,’ Benji grumbled from across the room.
‘An office near St Paul’s…’
‘I remember,’ Ethan said, smiling. ‘You were very encouraging. I needed that, thank you.’
‘My pleasure,’ she said. ‘I know who you are, by the way and I wanted to thank you. You’re responsible for this, really,’ she said, waving her hand around. ‘You inspired me.’
‘Yes, he does that,’ Benji said, and she saw Ethan flush briefly as he hid his smile.
Ah, I see what Ilsa meant now, about you two.
‘Ilsa told us about you,’ Benji said suddenly. ‘She said we should come to you if we ever had nowhere else to turn. You were….’
‘Friends of Ilsa,’ Vicki said. ‘Thank you for letting us know. We’re sorry for your loss.’
Ethan and Benji exchanged a glance. Pain there, so much pain, pain that cut deep and left a scar and never really healed.
‘Why are you here?’ Caroline asked. ‘I don’t mean to be rude but – you’re the professionals. What do need us for?’
‘We can’t really trust our own agency,’ Ethan said. ‘We’re looking for various things. People, equipment, tools…we’ve heard you’re good at that, and can be trusted, completely.’
‘Who told you that? Ilsa, yes but – how do you know she was right? Who else has told you about us?’
‘Everyone,’ Benji said, stepping forward. ‘Everyone I trust has heard about you. People talk about you. They say you’re the only people who can help, now. All the agencies are compromised. You are the last bastion of truth.’
‘Seems a bit of a heavy responsibility,’ Vicki said. But Caroline felt something click into place.
This is what I was made for. I was never too late. It all happened exactly at the time it was supposed to happen.
Caroline straightened her back and stood tall. She faced Ethan Hunt and Benji Dunn, her inspiration, her hope.
And she was their hope now.
‘Tell me what I can do for you.’