QUIS CUSTODIET…?

By Valerie

They won't break me. I can see through their tricks. It's all part of a cunning plan to make me believe I'm having a nervous breakdown and give away SpecSec's secrets to that oh, so sympathetic psychologist of theirs. But I'm onto them. I know what they are doing. I've seen the chair and the straps and the people behind the console. I know they're playing with my mind. And it won't work! And I shall resist!

Must order my thoughts. Upstairs will want a full report when I get out - no flannel, just the facts. How did I get here? What have they done to me? How did they trick me? Me?! One of SpecSec's top agents! Upstairs will want me to be logical. When did it all start? Think carefully.

Well, I suppose it all began when I touched Base. My next assignment was waiting for me in my Inbox. I entered my password and the curt message came up.

"Escort duty. Ferry."

Oh great! I thought. A Styx trip. Just the thing to make my day!

Let me explain. Escort duty means tracking someone down. Ferry means killing him. Hence the name "Styx trip." The classical references in the jargon keep Upstairs happy. They like to think SpecSec is still Old School. (Actually, strictly speaking, we're more correctly known as Triple S following The Reorganisation, when Special Section was hived off from MI5, together with our sister section in MI6. No one's quite sure what the third S stands for. Personally I think it stands for Stupidity…) Anyway, as I was saying, sometimes I wonder whether to submit a Bulletin saying Mafeking has been relieved, or Sind has been taken, or Kennedy has been assassinated, to see if they're awake. Or even alive. But I don't. I just get on with the job in hand.

So I thumbed Accept and an encrypted folder landed in my Inbox. I exited Base and stared at the folder. I really hate Styx trips. Especially when the passenger is another spy. After all, he's only doing his job. Just like me.

I clicked Decryption and the folder opened its contents to me: basic biographical details, photographs and sound files. I printed off the CV and clicked on the first of the photographs. And found myself staring into a pair of mesmerising, beautiful, golden-brown eyes. The gentle humour and kindness in those eyes gripped me. I wanted to lose myself in them. I wrenched my attention away and made myself study the rest of the face. Not that that was hard. He was gorgeous! His dark brown hair was slicked back from his tanned face and his pencil moustache gave him an air of sophistication reminiscent of Clark Gable as Rhett Butler in Gone With The Wind. But his smile was one of wry amusement. It seemed a tragedy to have to kill one so beautiful.

I set the sound file to play while I clicked on another picture. He looked a little older; his hair though still swept back, was longer and slightly curly, giving him a tousled look. And the moustache had gone. But he was still gorgeous.

The husky voice had a sensuousness to it that matched his looks. I could imagine him charming any and every female that came his way. But what really captured my attention was his accent. Where was he from? Spain? Portugal? South America? Wherever he was from, his pronunciation gave his wondrous voice a certain extra sexiness. I was seriously smitten.

I shook myself. This would not do. My brief was to kill this man, not seduce him. I must not let my feelings get in the way of the job in hand. That would be unprofessional. And I am always professional.

The printer stopped. I picked up the sheets and studied them. The subject's name was Gregorio Cortez, he was a Spanish national and - my heart sank when I read this - he was a spy. With the OSS - supposedly our friends! The letters rtd, short for retired, in brackets after his name were irrelevant. They merely indicated he was not presently on active service. It did not mean he had given up completely. The fact that Spain is in the EU and therefore nominally an ally, would not protect him either. If SpecSec said he was a danger, he was a danger, and I had to take him to the ferry.

I scanned further down the page. Now that was interesting! An agent from Another Organisation had been sent to eliminate him some years back. It wasn't immediately clear to me what had happened to him. Or her. I read further and my enthusiasm waned even more as I found out exactly what had happened to that unlucky agent.

Did I say unlucky? That's not really the right word. She wasn't at all unlucky. She was the luckiest woman in the world. She didn't kill him because he married her. And they now had two children. This was getting ugly. According to the report, the two children were already OSS operatives, with the spark, confidence and bravado that come with extreme youth and the knowledge that you are invulnerable and immortal. And with the determination to go after anyone who messed with their parents, which they had proved at least once already. Why couldn't I kill the wife and kids instead?

I flicked through the rest of the folder. No, my passenger was Gregorio Cortez. Gregorio Cortez (rtd), I corrected myself. I was explicitly instructed to leave the rest of his family alone. This did not look like a good idea. I could not kill him and hope to die peacefully of old age. Not with his family's profile.

I touched Base and the screen lit up. I typed a message.

"Query: ferry passenger. Travelling alone?"

The answer came back immediately.

"Confirm ferry passenger travelling alone."

I typed another message.

"Query: rest of his party. Arrangements?"

Again the cryptic response was almost immediate.

"No party. The passenger is travelling alone."

I tried once more.

"Query: partner."

"Already sorted," came the reply.

So Upstairs wouldn't tell me what they were planning for the rest of the Cortez family. And neither would they tell me why SpecSec was going up against our friends, the OSS. I was reminded of that ancient Chinese curse: May you live in interesting times.

"I have a prior appointment," I typed.

"Cancelled," came the reply. "Your travel documents will arrive shortly."

There was no escape. My assignment was to kill Gregorio Cortez, in the sure knowledge that his annoyingly able children, not to mention his super spy wife, would be after my blood. And I still didn't know why SpecSec wanted him dead. I tried one last time.

"Query: Why?"

"Need to know," Was the answer.

I hate that expression! And Upstairs have adopted it wholesale. They'll be sending things to me 'momentarily' next!

The terminal chimed as another folder landed in my Inbox. I opened it. An e-ticket to San Diablo (San Diablo? Where the Hell is San Diablo?!) and a hotel reservation for when I got there. I exited Base and keyed in a search for San Diablo. I soon found more information than I really wanted, including the fact that it boasted an Academy of Fine Arts and a Psychiatric Hospital. But I found what I really needed to know, that the town was in Texas and the weather there was currently very hot indeed.

I checked the e-ticket and hotel reservation again. They were both in the name of Claudia Jennings-Clyde. So that was my cover this time, the art consultant. So I probably would be visiting that Academy of Fine Arts. I extracted the file and reminded myself of the minutiae of Ms Jennings-Clyde's persona. I checked the time of the flight. Three p.m. That did not give me much time, as current security measures insist that one checks in hours before departure. And the airport is on the other side of the city. Fortunately I keep my various personas' wardrobes cleaned, pressed and aired, ready to use at a moment's notice. Unfortunately I would be almost completely unprotected from the time I walked out through my front door until I met my contact on the other side, as those same security measures meant I could not take most of my equipment onto the plane, without drawing attention to myself. But that could not be helped. I shut down the terminal and switched it off, stood up and stretched, and then left the room to find Claudia Jennings-Clyde's discreetly monogrammed matching luggage.

***

By one p.m. I had checked my luggage in at the airport, eaten a snack that tasted of cardboard and was facing the prospect of twiddling my thumbs for the next two hours, until the gate number for my flight was called. I wandered over to the bookstand and looked for something to read. A title on the spine of a paperback among the biographies suddenly caught my eye. A life of Che Guevara. That was just the sort of book that Claudia Jennings-Clyde would buy. I pulled it out and turned it over. The photograph on the front cover stopped me in my tracks. Instead of the usual brooding, iconic image, black beret, longish, dark hair, beard and thick, droopy moustache, the face that looked back at me was clean-shaven, the hair cut short and combed back off the face. And his eyes! They were a dark and mesmerising golden brown. I could lose myself in those eyes. He looked a dead ringer for Gregorio Cortez.

I stared unbelievingly at the picture. This couldn't be! I mean! Everyone but everyone knows what Che Guevara looks like! Why put this photo on the front of the book? It looked nothing like him. I shook myself and put the book back on the shelf.

Perhaps I should try something a little lighter, I thought, turning to the showbiz biography shelves. I scanned the spines, looking for something interesting. I spurned one on John Lennon, likewise Marilyn Monroe and Geri Halliwell. Suddenly I noticed The Mambo Kings Sing Songs of Love. Intrigued I picked it up off the shelf and turned it over.

Oh, no! Not again!

The picture on the cover was of a clean-shaven young man wearing the sort of formal, white silk suit that night club entertainers used to wear in the early nineteen fifties. His short, brown hair was slicked back off the face, his eyes were a gentle, dark, golden brown and his smile was half shy and half knowing. In his hands he cradled a trumpet. I turned the book over. The small print said the cover photograph was of Nestor Castillo, taken in nineteen fifty-one, shortly before his death. Why did the dead Nestor Castillo look like a young Gregorio Cortez? This was getting creepy.

I moved over to the fiction section. There had to be something I could read that would not remind me of my unpleasant assignment. I pulled out an historical murder mystery. The cover design was drawn in the style of a mediaeval tapestry, and none of the figures looked lifelike, let alone familiar. I heaved a sigh of relief and looked for another book. Another quirky title leapt out at me: Eaters of the Dead by Michael Crichton. I picked it up and almost dropped it again when I saw the picture on the front cover: a clean-shaven man, with curling hair and gentle, golden-brown eyes, holding a sword and wearing a distinctly bemused expression, as if he did not believe what was happening either, stared past me. This assignment was affecting me badly if I saw Gregorio Cortez in the cover art of a modern fantasy novel! I put the book back on the shelf and picked the latest Harry Potter adventure instead. No one at Hogwarts speaks with a Spanish accent. Do they?

I paid for my purchases and went back into the departure lounge. I found a seat against a wall that gave me a good view of the lounge and shopping areas, sat down, opened the murder mystery and began to read.

My attention was suddenly wrenched from the daily goings on in thirteenth century Dorset back to the present. Nearby stood a group of swarthy, young men arguing heatedly in Farsi. I don't speak the language but I know enough to recognise it. And these lads definitely looked Middle Eastern. I wished I understood what they were saying as I did not like their tone of voice or their body language. I looked around, trying to keep my manner casual and unconcerned. Eventually I located airport security and noted with satisfaction that they too were watching these fellows. I let my gaze wander back to the argument.

Suddenly one of the lads pulled away from the group and began to wander round the lounge, sniffing at people. As his head, with its curly brown hair, bobbed up and down, men shrank away from him. He didn't sniff me, but as he passed by, I looked up into his face, met his golden-brown eyes and realised with a start that he looked just like Gregorio Cortez might have looked at the age of nineteen. This was scary.

A young man with closely cropped hair suddenly sprang to his feet.

"'Ere! Wotcha fink y'doin'?" he demanded.

The Sniffer held up his hands in apology and mumbled something unintelligible in a sensuous, husky voice.

But Cropped Hair had grabbed Sniffer's shirtfront and now demanded to know if he was some sort of pervert.

Sniffer mumbled some more as his friends jumped on Cropped Hair.

Then suddenly the lounge was full of airport security and Cropped Hair and some other blokes and Sniffer and his friends were led away. I heaved a silent sigh of relief. Uniformed officials carrying clipboards came round collecting statements from witnesses to the incident. I disappeared into the Ladies.

Some time later my flight was called, and I waited in line at the gate with business people and families on holiday while we were processed. Eventually I was able to board. I found my seat, stowed my hand luggage in the overhead locker and settled down with my books.

I'd like to say the flight was uneventful. But it wasn't. Not completely. The cabin crew looked like ordinary people. The passengers were normal people with normal problems. The meal was standard airline catering - Claudia Jennings-Clyde's budget unfortunately does not run to Concorde. So I was lulled into a false sense of security as I settled down to watch the first in-flight film on the small screen in the back of the seat in front of me.

I had chosen a biopic about a Mexican painter about whose work I was less familiar with than Claudia Jennings-Clyde ought to be. However Frida Kahlo was a formidable woman and the leading actress played her well. But I was totally unprepared when Gregorio Cortez appeared in a cameo role as a fellow artist. His hair was longer than in his photographs, but those were his mesmerising golden brown eyes and that was his sensuous, husky voice and Spanish accent. It was all I could do to stop myself from screaming.

I don't remember the rest of the film. I don't know whether the ending was happy or sad. I stopped paying attention after Cortez appeared.

I took the in-flight magazine out of the pocket in the back of the seat in front of me, and I flicked through the pages searching for the film guide again. Eventually I found it. Ah ha! There was a nominally British film featuring no one with a Spanish accent. I turned to that channel and watched the hackneyed drivel for as long as I could stand it and then started flicking through the other channels. I caught "Frida" again just before Cortez appeared. I clicked to move to the next channel. This was showing a film I had tried to avoid: a shoot 'em up style action movie set in Mexico, guaranteed to be full of gorgeous young men with Spanish accents. At this point a smooth, smart, tanned, good-looking man with short black hair, a beard that was barely more than designer stubble and a gruff voice with a distinctive accent that didn't quite sound Spanish, was walking around, stepping over bodies, in a dark bar that looked like a battlefield. His men, none of whom resembled Gregorio Cortez, huddled in the doorway. My hopes rose. Mr Smooth screwed up a piece of paper and dropped it into a dead man's gaping mouth. Next moment the camera focussed on a dazed-looking young man with long brown hair falling back off his face and beautiful, golden-brown eyes. He looked around.

"Where am I?" his sensuous, husky voice asked in a decidedly Spanish accent.

"The bookstore," the girl answered with smile. "Bookstore-café."

I turned the film off, before I heard what Gregorio Cortez asked her next and took a deep breath. I needed to be calm and collected when we landed in San Diablo. And just then I felt anything but calm. What was happening? Perhaps reading one of my books might help. I tossed whether to return to thirteenth century Dorset or to try Hogwarts. Magic beat murder and soon I was lost in the cloisters of a traditional, English boarding school with Harry, Ron and Hermione, a world away from my worrying assignment.

The plane landed in San Diablo, we disembarked, collected our luggage and waited in line at Immigration. I mentally rehearsed my story as I waited. But when my turn came, I was let through pretty much on the nod. I assume a smart young woman with a posh English accent and a return ticket, working as a consultant for a major British art auction house, is unlikely to be a would-be illegal immigrant.

My contact, who was plain with red hair, blue eyes and a fair skin that tended to freckles, was waiting for me in the main arrivals area, holding a card saying "Jennings-Clyde". He took my suitcase and led me out to his car. He stowed my luggage in the boot, or trunk as it is known in the US, and I got in the passenger seat. As we drove into town, he instructed me to remove the package from the glove compartment. I did as I was told. The strong manila envelope contained duplicates of all the miniaturised equipment I had had to leave behind, some cash and a gun.

"What's the latest on my passenger?" I asked.

"His itinerary's changed," my contact replied in what is now known as an Estuary accent. "You'll be getting the revised schedule the day after tomorrow."

Ah, yes. The obligatory day establishing my cover.

"Your portfolio's behind," he indicated the black case on the back seat. "There's a special exhibition by a Latino artist, Miguel Alvarez," he continued, pulling another envelope out of his inside jacket pocket and passing it over to me. "I think you'll find it of interest."

"He's the one who was involved in that court case, wasn't he?" I asked, quite unnecessarily, as I opened the envelope. Of course Claudia was familiar with Señor Alvarez' history and work. Without seeming to capitalise on his notoriety, that bright, young man had used his fifteen minutes of fame to promote his paintings, with the result that he was a minor name in the international art market. His work fetched good prices. It must have been quite a coup getting enough of his pictures all the way to Texas to mount a full-scale exhibition.

I sifted through the contents of the envelope. A couple of business meetings had been set up and my briefing notes were included. And there was an invitation to a reception tomorrow evening for the artist Miguel Alvarez, when he would be presented with some sort of award. So that's how they got him here from wherever it was that he was based. Ah, yes, Philadelphia. I just hoped he was as ugly as sin.

I put the gun in my handbag, the cash in my purse and everything else in my shoulder bag.

"Anything else I should know?" I asked.

By this time we were driving through busy city streets.

"The hotel's hosting some sort of convention, fans of LARPs and RPGs, and the place will be full of weirdoes in odd costumes. So don't be alarmed if you see some strangely dressed people around."

"LARPs? RPGs? What are those when they're at home?"

"RPG means Role Playing Game, and LARP is Live Action Role Playing. Apparently these people are particularly into vampires and stuff. We've searched all the attendees. They're clean."

"Good."

"Oh, and the new code is 'Valencia'." He used Castilian pronunciation, lisping the c. "You've got the handset."

"Voice?"

"Exactly."

He turned into the entrance of the hotel, and flunkies rushed to open the car door, help with my luggage and park the car.

"I'm not stayin', mate," my contact told the doorman, slipping into the sort of Mockney that Americans love. "I'll jus' see tha' the lady's settled."

My luggage including the portfolio case was brought inside, my contact tipped the flunky while I registered. When the receptionist offered to have the porter take my baggage up to my room, my contact stepped up and assured her that he would see to it. So we collected my key, found the lifts - I reminded myself I would have to start calling them elevators, now - and went up to the seventh floor to find my room.

It was one of those modern hotels, the sort that nightmares are made of, where all the corridors look the same and you find yourself forever turning corners and never arriving at your room. We almost walked past mine...

I stuck the card key in the slot, a green light came on, and I turned the handle and pushed the door open. My contact meanwhile put my cases down, dipped into his jacket pocket and pulled out a metallic tube.

"Excuse me," he said, pushing past me and went into the room. He pointed the detector all round the room, up at the ceiling, down at the floor, making quite sure that every inch of the room was checked at least twice. Finally he seemed satisfied. He put the detector back in his inside pocket, came back out and picked up my cases.

"You can go in," he said in his normal accent. "It's clean."

I walked into the room, which was dominated by an enormous bed. There was also a wardrobe, a television in a unit, a desk cum dressing table with coffee making equipment, a large wall mirror above it, and a couple of chairs. My contact opened the luggage stand and put one of my suitcases on it.

"OK," he said. "I'll let Base know I've settled you here, and you'll be in touch."

"Thanks," I said.

"No problem. The hotel restaurant's adequate. There're some good restaurants in Chinatown, just down the road, and for lunch, the deli on the corner does some excellent sandwiches and other snacks. I suggest you check them out. Well, enjoy the rest of the day," and with that he let himself out.

By this time, I was feeling tired and hungry. My body was telling me that dinner was late, while outside it was afternoon and far too early to even start thinking about dinner. I unpacked, got undressed, showered, pampered myself a bit, and when I had dried off, I put on some clean clothes. Feeling much better I ordered a club sandwich and diet soda from room service. It arrived quite quickly.

I settled down to review the briefings and portfolio for my meetings tomorrow, while I munched. They seemed quite straightforward. But I was tired, my mind kept wandering, and I didn't think I had absorbed that much.

The envelope containing my equipment lay on the bed. I picked it up and took out the handset, switched it on and waited for it to boot. When the admission screen appeared, I touched Base and, at the prompt, spoke the word "Valencia", lisping the "c".

"Welcome," boomed the handset back at me. I frantically searched for the volume control. They must be able to hear that in the deli, let alone in the room next door. Then words appeared on the screen.

"Contact tomorrow."

That was a change of plan already. My Mockney friend had told me the day after tomorrow.

"Understood," I keyed in. "Query: appointments?"

"Keep them as planned."

"Query: contact code?" I asked.

"'Did you miss me?'"

"Query: response?"

"'This may take some time.'"

"That doesn't make sense!" I entered.

"It will," came the reply. "The next response is 'We have all the time in the world.'"

Who thought up these code phrases?

"Understood," I entered.

"Good luck, Claudia."

I exited Base. My half-eaten sandwich was on the plate. I picked it up and took bite. As I chewed I switched on television and searched for a suitably mindless film to keep me entertained while I filed and painted my fingernails, until I could go to bed. This was not difficult.

That night I had a nightmare. I woke up suddenly in a cold sweat, breathing fast and shallowly and desperately needing to escape. I scrambled out of bed, rubbed my wrists and ankles, ran into the bathroom, switching on the light as I passed, and vomited into the toilet. When I'd finished retching, I filled a glass with water, and sat on the side of the bath, sipping my drink and chasing fragmentary images.

What had I seen? My memories seemed like something out of a risibly bad B-movie. Trailing leads, some indistinct figures behind a white console, other shadowy figures (in white coats? Was that a genuine memory? Or was my imagination imposing the traditional cliché?), someone I couldn't see asking questions. Much stronger were my memories of what I had felt: restrained as if my wrists and ankles had been strapped down; and there had been some pressure on my head, as though someone had put a helmet or similar headpiece on me.

I went back into the bedroom, switched on the light and looked around. My, or rather Claudia's monogrammed suitcase lay on the luggage stand. My handbag, shoulder bag and the clothes I had worn yesterday were still where I had left them. All seemed normal. I twitched the curtains and looked through the window into the street below. The uninspiring view was as I remembered it from yesterday.

I shivered, put the glass of water on the bedside table and climbed back into bed. I turned out the light and lay there in darkness waiting for sleep. But I could not sleep. Instead I worried over my nightmare. Who were those people behind the console? Why couldn't I see their faces? Who had been asking me questions? Why couldn't I see his face? (I was quite sure it was a 'he'.) What had he sounded like?

Somehow I must have dozed off, because I next awoke when my alarm sounded. This was unusual, as I tend to adjust slowly to time changes. So I should have lain awake for four or five hours, waiting for the alarm. Instead I had slept. I got up, showered and put on one of Claudia's ultra smart casual outfits. Next I put on Claudia's face, the eye makeup just so, the blusher and the vibrant lipstick that matched her nails.

I looked at myself. Not bad, I thought.

Finally I put on Claudia's wig. The black hair completed the effect.

"You look great," I told myself.

I picked up my briefing notes and read through them again. I had been more alert than I had realised, the previous evening. I remembered almost everything. I looked at the pictures. Yes, I could do this.

After breakfast I took a taxi to my first appointment, a local art dealer. The meeting was a success; I bought the piece I had been tasked to purchase for a price well within the target range. I gave his assistant all the relevant details for exporting the painting. There was still plenty of morning left, so I thought I would have a look at an art gallery. There was one not too far away, that specialised in American art, so I hopped on a trolley, which took me all the way there. The gallery's Latino section was very much to Claudia's taste.

I took a taxi back to my hotel, but instead of going in, I sought out the deli. I ordered a club sandwich, which looked wonderful when it arrived and a diet soda. I sat at a table and ate my snack. It tasted as good as it promised. When I had finished, I left and walked back to the hotel.

Fly posters had been out in the streets of San Diablo pasting up notices for some boxing tournament. Most of the flyers had been ripped off the walls again, but enough had been left for the name Cesar Dominguez to register. Then I saw a handbill with a photograph of this Dominguez chap and my heart missed a beat.

Oh, no! I thought. Not again! That was yesterday!

Staring down at me from the poster advertising the boxing match, was a very battered and puffy-faced Gregorio Cortez. Now I was seeing him in sports flyers! What was going on?

I went up to my room, collected my portfolio, stared at myself in the mirror while I caught my breath, went back down to reception and asked the porter to call a cab to take me to my next appointment. The taxi driver tried to chat, but I was too disturbed to respond in anything more than monosyllables. But his vain attempts to start a conversation lifted me out of the dark mood, and meant I went into my meeting in a more positive frame of mind.

Unfortunately, it was not positive enough. I didn't cut the deal I was supposed to, even though I had the pictures with me. The woman I met was very, very sharp and saw right through me.

"I used to work for the great Arturo Dodge," she told me, "Not to mention his brother... And it comes down to this, honey. I can spot a scam from the other side of Texas."

Maybe I should look up this Arturo Dodge, I thought, if that was his real name, which I didn't believe for one moment, and get some lessons in how it's done. But it was a useful meeting, and I had some pointers to pass back to Base.

It was still early, so I took a taxi back to the hotel, locked my business notes and portfolio in my suitcase and wandered back out into the streets of San Diablo, to see what the shops had to offer. I strolled along until I found a large second hand books emporium and went inside. A huge grey cat lay on the checkout desk by the till. He watched as I handed in my shoulder bag, and then yawned. I set off to look round the shelves. Half an hour later I paid for a paperback, a whodunnit with a Cuban lawyer as the sleuth, collected my shoulder bag and walked out, just as Gregorio Cortez, his long hair pulled back in a ponytail, walked past with his Japanese American wife and their two children. The little girl, I noticed, had her mother's oriental looks, while the little boy took after his father.

I shook myself. That could not have been the Cortez family. According to the file, Ingrid Cortez was definitely not Japanese, and the two Cortez kids looked like ordinary Hispanic children. Whatever it was, that was making me see my passenger wherever I went, was getting worse.

I found a coffee shop and bought myself a coffee. I sat down at a table to drink it and steady my nerves. By now it was time to think about going back to my hotel to shower and change for the reception. I left the cafe and cut through the side streets. Just then it started to rain. I didn't stop to wonder why it was suddenly raining in Texas. Instead I looked around and saw a church. A house of God was as good a place as any to shelter, I thought, so I ran.

I hadn't noticed what sort of church it was, but from the decor and the flowers and the smell of incense, not to mention the votive lights in front of the statue of the Virgin, I guessed it was Roman Catholic. I shook the rain off me and sat down in a pew, gazing around. The paintings and the statuary and the stained glass were all quite magnificent.

"Did you want confession?" a quiet, husky voice asked gently in a pronounced Spanish accent.

"What?" I started, looking round in alarm, then gaping in horror into the clear, golden brown eyes of the priest.

"Did you want confession?" he repeated patiently, indicating the nearby confessional.

"Oh, er, no, er, thank you, er, Father, er, um..."

"Gutierrez," he supplied. "Matt Gutierrez."

"Er, No, thank you, Father Gutierrez," I managed to recover some of my composure. "I really only came in to shelter from the rain. And anyway, I'm not Roman Catholic." I looked around. "But it's a lovely church."

He smiled.

"Thank you," he said. "Take as much time as you need."

He nodded and left.

I sat in the pew, my heart thumping. I had seen Gregorio Cortez on three book covers, in an annoying passenger at the airport, in two of the films on the plane, on a boxing poster, in a man on the street, and now in a Roman Catholic priest. What was happening to me? I found myself suddenly wishing I had had a religious upbringing as I felt a desperate need to pray. But I didn't know how to, not in a way that was appropriate to a Roman Catholic church. I seemed to recall rosary beads were involved. Well, I certainly didn't have any of those. I wondered whether the Roman Catholic God, whose worshippers used beads and incense and a lot of elaborate ceremony, would mind if I spoke to Him plainly, without all that flummery. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, I decided. And if I was respectful and polite, surely He would recognise that I was doing my best.

So I sat in the pew and silently asked for help. I explained that I seemed to be going mad, that I didn't want to go mad, that I just wanted to get on with my day job. It was at this point that I realised that my day job was to break the seventh commandment at frequent intervals, and there I was, asking for help from the God who had admonished us to keep that commandment along with the other nine.

"I'm damned," I thought.

I looked around. Father Gutierrez had disappeared. That was probably a good thing. I doubt if he would have understood. I stood up, walked to the main door and looked out. The rain had stopped. I left the church, hurried to the next corner and hailed a taxi. It took me back to my hotel.

Safe in my room I took off my wig, waited and caught my breath. Then I made myself some coffee and sipped it slowly and carefully. Should I tell Upstairs? I wondered. If I did, they would probably reallocate the assignment. I took out my handset, switched it on and waited for it to boot, said the password 'Valencia' at the prompt, touched Base and waited. Again a loud voice said:

"Welcome!"

The word 'Report' appeared on the screen.

"Report: effected purchase. No sale," I keyed.

"Contact?"

"Report: not yet," I replied.

"Report after contact," Base terminated the connection.

That felt rather abrupt. No details, no questions, no nothing. Which meant that I had had no opportunity to report these strange goings on. So it would not be my fault if it all came to grief.

I stood up, put the handset on the table, removed my makeup, undressed, went into the bathroom and showered. As I smoothed the lather over my body, it seemed as though I were washing away the trials and tribulations, the problems and uncertainties of the day just past, and as I towelled myself dry, I felt reinvigorated. I went back into the room and put on clean clothes and fresh makeup for the reception. Finally I put on the wig and surveyed the effect. I looked better than ever.

I checked my watch. I was early. I turned on television and watched the end of an inane quiz show. Next came the news, which seemed curiously irrelevant, and the baseball, which didn't interest me at all. So I channel hopped, looking for a film or something even vaguely entertaining. Finally I found something involving a monk travelling around in a camping wagon selling socks. This ridiculous character was played by a very familiar British actor, who for some reason had adopted quite the most outlandish American accent I have ever heard. This was mildly amusing in an inane way until his Mexican wetback sidekick appeared - dark hair, mesmerising, golden brown eyes, sensuous, husky voice, Spanish accent, the works! I turned the television off.

I checked the time again. It was still too early, to think about going to the reception. I toyed with the idea of reading. I could return to Hogwarts or thirteenth century Dorset, or I could try the book I had bought that day. I decided to try my new book. I knew the sleuth was Cuban, which meant he was Hispanic, and so I could be asking for trouble. I was. The author was in love with him and portrayed him as a drop dead gorgeous hunk, and I couldn't help but imagine him as Gregorio Cortez. The descriptions were too eerily accurate. In desperation I turned to Harry Potter and his chums. Half an hour later, I decided I could look for a taxi. I would still be early, but merely early enough to look at the pictures beforehand rather than far too early.

I collected my handbag, making sure everything I needed was in it, including the gun, locked my room and went down to reception. I boggled as a group of people in white face paint, with elongated incisors, and wearing mock eighteenth and nineteenth century clothes wandered past, until I remembered the hotel was hosting a weird convention. A small werewolf cub skittered in front of me, pursued by his fearsome-looking mama. I smiled and caught the eye of someone dressed completely in black, with black hat, cape and facemask. What on earth did the Lone Ranger, or was it Zorro, have to do with vampire role players? He looked around, flinging back his cape to reveal a sword (tied down) and a neatly curled whip hooked onto his belt, all of which answered the question. He was Zorro and not the Lone Ranger. Good grief! How long was it since I had seen either on television? Not since childhood, that's for sure. "Zorro" looked back at me and made a half bow. I smiled and walked to the reception desk.