Sarah wouldn’t feel right leaving without word, so she’d informed her editor in chief about her brief absence. A journalistic coup, at the last minute, an exclusive worth investigating, would justify her trip.

“In that case, take Simon with you,” the editor ordered her, and she hadn’t been able to argue against it. Perhaps another time, more calmly, she could have persuaded him not to send Simon, without questioning his competence, but her mind was occupied with more urgent problems.

“What are we going to do in your house?” Simon was curious and impressed by the speed the taxi was making through the streets of London, despite the late afternoon hour.

“I’m going to look for some investigative files,” Sarah explained. “And afterwards you’re free to go,” she concluded.

It was worth trying, but she was certain Simon was not going to follow such a suggestion.

“My orders are to go with you. Don’t think you can get rid of me so easily,” Simon replied like a man. Bravo, young man.

“I give you your orders. Have you forgotten?” she returned.

“With all due respect, I always follow your orders, but these have been given to me personally by the editor in chief,” he argued, pointing up as if he were speaking about God Himself. “What do I tell him if I show up for work and he asks about you?” Simon scored a point. “ ‘Ah, sir, she excused me.’ Do I tell him that?”

“Okay, okay.” Sarah gave up. Better to go along for the moment and see about later. She would never forgive herself if something happened to him because of her. “Pay attention to what I’m going to tell you. Do whatever I tell you to do. Do you understand?”

Simon looked at her, his feelings hurt. “That’s a little insulting, but you can count on me. I won’t make problems. We’re a team.” He smiled.

A little flash of temper, there, Sarah thought with irritation.

“And now, can you tell me where we’re going?” Simon asked curiously.

“We’re going to my house, as you know,” she replied dryly.

“Yes, and after that?”

Sarah still hadn’t planned that part. The phrase Leave London pounded in her mind like a pneumatic drill, but leave for where? Where could she go? There were a lot of choices. London was connected to the world by land, water, and air. That was not the problem. But where? An international flight to the States, for example. Would that be a safe place temporarily? Or should she stay in Europe close to her father with more flexibility and independence to move? She hadn’t been given any other instruction than to get away as fast as possible without looking back. They were following her. Don’t let yourself be caught. And later? It would be best to stay close, she decided. Besides, her last experience on the other side of the Atlantic was so traumatic, it seemed better to face the dangers of this side.

“After that, the train to Paris,” she announced.

“Paris?” Simon repeated with his face glowing. “I’ve never been to Paris. That’s fabulous.”

“Simon, this is work, not vacation,” she warned. “What are you doing?” Sarah asked as she saw him frantically dialing his cell phone.

“I’m sending a message to my sweetheart. You know how it is. Do you have a boyfriend?” Maybe now he would find out something about his boss. Unexpectedly. He was curious how everything changed in seconds; perhaps this business trip would end up bringing them together and change the conventional work relationship into a nice friendship.

“We’ve arrived,” Sarah informed him, ignoring his question. Her house was situated at the end of the street, and she wouldn’t give any more information about it to protect her privacy. It was important that episodes like that on Belgrave Road were not repeated, for her own mental health. She needed room to breathe.

After they paid off the taxi, Simon and Sarah crossed the street, and she opened her purse, looking for the key to the solid white door. She thought of a trip to Paris in the Eurostar, the high-velocity train that crossed the Channel tunnel and arrived in two hours and thirty-seven minutes. The last time she made this trip she went with him, her savior, with an immense weight on her conscience, forced by destiny, like now. They’d left behind a scene of destruction, it was true, a sea of tears, of broken homes, projects canceled or postponed, separated lives, on the last trip on Eurostar to the City of Lights. No, this time was very different. There were no deaths or wounds, at least that she knew about, only a warning and an order to get out of there. She’d see what happened next.

Sarah found the toy donkey on her key ring and fit the key in the lock just as a shadow darkened the whiteness of the solid wooden door. She looked behind her and saw a London bus stopped in front, letting passengers with normal lives get off and on. If only she could be the same. Instead she had to remember things like the place she put the dossier that JC, or someone working for him, more probably, had left in her room on the seventh floor of the Grand Hotel Palatino in Rome.

“Sarah Monteiro?” she heard a voice say in her ear. It wasn’t Simon. She looked at a man dressed in a black suit with a scar on his face from his right eye to his upper lip. He looked like a typical bad guy from pulp fiction. She felt panic, among her other feelings, but to her surprise, she managed to control it enough not to let it show.

“Who wants to know?” she asked, showing no nervous trembling in her vocal cords.

“My name’s Simon Templar,” he replied succinctly. “I need you to come with me.” One more thing to deal with. He gripped her arm as he showed his identification, a card inside the wallet with his photograph, a few years younger, with his affiliation printed underneath. SIS. Secret Intelligence Services.

“Why?” Sarah asked, flushing. Her nervousness gave her chills. Was this really happening?

“Affairs of state. I can’t tell you more,” he concluded, showing some irritation. The State with a capital S is above everything. Faith, race, profession, personal life, nothing matters when it concerns the State. You can’t question it. You just comply.

The agent, Simon Templar, whose name seemed to have come out of some 1960s television series, took Sarah’s arm, like a prison guard, alert for any unforeseen or illicit action.

“I don’t need a guide. I know how to walk, thank you,” Sarah told him, freeing her arm and looking confidently at the agent.

They walked to a black car with official markings, somewhat reassuring for Sarah.

“Sarah,” the other Simon called, running to join her. Her assistant had been in shock, not reacting, but soon had recovered his quick thinking. “What do you need me to do?”

“Ah… I don’t know how long this is going to delay us, so…” She thought hard. “Go in my house and in the bookcase in the hall look for a wooden box with a bottle of vintage wine, Oporto 1976. Behind it is a dossier. Take it with you and wait for me to contact you,” Sarah concluded, getting into the backseat of the vehicle.

“Will do, Sarah,” he calmed her. “Anything you need… anything.”

The government car took off fast, its interior hidden by tinted glass. Simon, a well-trained employee, approached the solid white door. The key was still in the lock. In the unexpected confusion, Sarah had forgotten to take it out. The refrain of Michael Jackson’s “Bad” began to sound on Simon’s phone. He didn’t let it reach the third verse.

“Hello, my love,” he greeted his lover. “You’ll never believe what just happened. I’m right in the middle of things… I’ll tell you later.” He listened to the voice of love on the other end of the imaginary line. “We’re going, I mean, we were going… we still have to go, as soon as she’s free.” More conversation. “Free is just a figure of speech. As soon as she’s ready… I’ll tell you more… Now? Now I am going in her house.”