How Spy I Am by Diane Henders

of my
body.
    I sat in a queen-sized
bed with soft pillows and a fluffy duvet. Definitely not
prison-issue. The walls were a warm taupe colour, and there was a
dresser in the corner. No camera. No seatless toilet. The bedside
table held a glass of water.
    Following my gaze,
Richardson picked up the glass and offered it to me. “You should
drink something. They gave you IV fluids while you were
unconscious, but you’re probably still dehydrated. And you must be
starving.” He eyed my tremors as I fought to remain sitting up.
“Lie back for a bit. I’ll get you some orange juice.”
    He vanished down the
hall to return moments later with a small carton of orange juice. I
sucked in a mouthful, and the acidic sweetness brought a choking
rush of saliva. I sputtered and gulped, and Richardson leaned
forward, his brow furrowed.
    “Take it slow,” he
advised. “You have to work up gradually after a three-day
fast.”
    I swallowed hard a
couple of times and stared suspiciously at him. “Three days?”
    “Nearly four,
actually.”
    I sipped some more,
mind racing. “Why did he let me go?”
    Richardson shifted
uncomfortably, his gaze darting to the corner of the room. “You
weren’t eating…”
    “And…” I prompted. No
way Stemp would let me go out of tender regard for my health.
    “Well…” He hesitated.
“I guess you should be flattered. He thought you’d find a way to
escape unless you were drugged and restrained. And he wanted to
make sure your funeral went off without a hitch.”
    “My… funeral…” I gaped
at him for a second before fury ignited my blood. I lunged off the
bed. “I’ll kill him! I’ll kill the fucker …”
    The room cartwheeled
wildly before blackness claimed me.

    I lurched upright,
fists clenched.
    Richardson jerked
back, his hands flying up defensively. “Aydan, it’s okay, you
fainted. You’re in bed in the safe house. It’s okay.”
    I fell back onto the
pillows and lay panting, my heart hammering. The room turned lazily
around me.
    Richardson’s worried
face hovered above me. “Are you okay?”
    “Fine,” I mumbled.
    He eyed me doubtfully
before handing me the orange juice again. “Try some more orange
juice. I’ll bring you something to eat.”
    He left and I dragged
myself semi-upright to slump against the pillows, sipping juice and
pondering. If he was telling the truth, I’d been effortlessly
outmanoeuvred. Everyone thought I was dead.
    But Stemp still
couldn’t force me to decrypt any messages. And he was bound to be
getting antsy if four days had passed while files piled up in the
system. God, four days. If an agent really had been captured…
    I gulped hard. Please
let him be lying about that. My stomach knotted and I curled around
it with a groan just as Richardson returned bearing a plate.
    He quickly jettisoned
the plate on the bedside table and knelt beside the bed. “Aydan?
Are you okay? Did you drink the juice too fast?”
    I uncurled. “No, I’m
fine. Have you heard anything about an agent being captured in the
last few days?”
    He rose, frowning.
“No. I don’t hear about all our ops, but word usually gets around
when something like that happens.”
    “Thank God.” I sucked
in a deep breath of relief. “So Stemp was lying. Thank God.”
    His frown deepened.
“He told you an agent had been captured?”
    “He said the agent was
being tortured and the only way to save him was if I decrypted some
files.”
    “Oh.” He eyed me for a
moment, his expression unreadable. “I made you some scrambled eggs
and toast,” he said at last. He passed me the plate and utensils.
“Just take it slow.”
    My stomach lurched in
desperate hunger, and I used all my willpower to take a small bite
and swallow it slowly instead of bolting the entire plateful in
frenzied gulps.
    “Tell me everything,”
I demanded.
    Richardson sank into
the chair and sat rigidly, hands braced on his knees, staring
straight ahead. “Stemp sent out a memo saying you’d been killed