“So this sexy French girl from the Consulate. Audrey. You insist she’s not your girlfriend?”
“I insist, yes. And you’re flirting with me again, aren’t you?”
“Yep. Do you mind?”
“Not in the slightest. Although Peter did warn me about honey traps.”
“He’s probably just jealous. Besides, most MI6 types get jaded by the time they hit their forties. They end up having to create enemies just to justify their own existence.”
They were sitting at a café overlooking the Seine. A waiter brought a tray with two large measures of pastis and a carafe of water. Katrina gazed on happily as Tom poured the water, watching the viscous amber turn a pale green. She took a sip and savoured the strong alcohol.
But this was not the kind of place where, in centuries past, artists and intellectuals would sit together and talk, and drink, and laugh. And no one would see them, because no one was watching.
But it was like that for Tom and Katrina. They shared a comfortable silence, and Tom suddenly realised that the right girl was just that, someone with whom you could share a comfortable silence.
It was he who broke it first.
“So what will you do, when you’re back home in blighty? Not spy for the Russians, I hope.”
She smiled. “Absolutely not. I already did that, and it’s not a life I care to repeat. I don’t mean to be patronising, but I’m guessing you haven’t really had any field experience?”
He shook his head. “Nothing exciting and dangerous, put it that way.”
“Well, the life of a real spy behind enemy lines is not glamorous. It’s stressful. You live every moment of every day acutely aware of the danger. Sure, if you stick with the security protocols they teach you in TC101 you won’t get caught, but you are constantly mindful of being just a single defector away from being done for. Captured, interrogated, possibly tortured, then incarcerated for the best years of your life in some hellhole that probably isn’t even acknowledged on any map. So no, I can assure you I have no intention of doing that kind of thing again.”
“I’m extremely relieved to hear that.”
Katrina laughed. Tom took a sip of his drink, then said, “So what are you going to do?”
She smiled and said, exuberantly, “I’m going to go to the Games and win loads of medals and win the crowd and become a famous actress and win loads of Oscars and everyone will adore me, darling!”
And they both laughed together.
Then Katrina said, “You must think I’m some kind of Mary Sue type character, eh?”
“What’s a Mary Sue type character?”
“It’s a female character in science fiction who is unrealistically and impossibly talented. Everyone loves her then she dies a tragic death and everyone mourns her.”
Tom laughed. “I do hope you’re not planning on dying a tragic death?”
“I’d rather not. Anyway, calling people Mary Sues is just another example of the patriarchal system trying to suppress women. I mean they never apply it to men, do they? I mean who’s the ultimate Mary Sue, if not Superman?”
Tom burst out laughing. But deep down he liked her feminism. It meant he had to be honest. It was refreshing.
“Other people try and associate it with teenage fan fiction. They say the teenage girl feels worthless and unloved and so Mary Sue is just the sad fantasy expression of the person she wants to be, and be seen to be. I find that view equally distasteful, patronising and repressive. It’s yet another dismissal of young people’s feelings. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with fan fiction. You could see mine and Joss Whedon’s WW trilogy as just glorified fan fiction. Albeit with a $500 million budget.”
“Whew. That’s a lot of money. How much did it make?”
“About 2 billion.”
“Woah!”
“Well, that was 2006 and people knew I’d been discussing a Wonder Woman movie with Warner for over ten years by then, so everyone was desperate to finally see it.”
“You said people called you Wonder Woman as an insult?”
“Yeah. They were basically trying to associate me with that naff ‘70s TV show with Linda Carter, especially given my anti-Americanism. I did think it was an insult myself at first until Neil Gaiman told me about the original Wonder Woman. The real her is emotionally mature, so she’d be a socialist and never support the bloody yanks. Plus she’d be angry with Superman preventing humans from evolving through learning to solve their own problems, acting like some dumbass patriarchal capitalist messiah they can abdicate responsibility to. Like woo-hoo screw occupational health and safety regulations ‘cos we’ve got Superman to save the workers!”
“Lol. Our version was ok, but I presume you’d tell me that’s not the real Wonder Woman?”
“From what I hear about it, absolutely not. I don’t think I could bear to watch your version to be honest. And your Disney Star Wars. I mean what was George thinking? Anyway, the real Wonder Woman is a feminist, a lesbian and a diplomat and a deliberate antidote to Superman. And a manifestation of the Goddess. She was created by a psychologist who also happened to be a bit of a swinger and – you’ll like this – was also the guy who invented the lie detector.”
“Wow. I didn’t know that. Oh, that explains her lasso of truth thing, right?”
“Precisely. And the bondage thing. But keep that to yourself. Still, I got the last laugh because if they hadn’t been teasing me with Wonder Woman jibes I’d never have made the trilogy, so there.”
“I would love to see those movies. You kicking Supe’s arse!”
“Twice! And Zod!”
“Plus all your other films.”
“Hmm. Well, maybe if I get famous enough and rich enough to have my own production company again then I could remake them, couldn’t I? What do you think?”
“I think you should go for it. Definitely.”
Katrina leaned back and smiled at him again. And Tom, suddenly, finally accepted the fact that he’d never been happier.
#
He woke up first.
He lay on his side and just watched her, slowly emerging from REM sleep. Finally she opened her girlish eyes, and they just smiled gently at each other.
They shared an intimate shower, then breakfast. The doorbell rang just as they were finishing. Tom answered it. He returned with a fat-looking envelope.
“What’s that?”
Tom placed it on the table in front of her. “Have a look.”
She sliced it open and pulled out its contents. The first thing was obvious. Passport.
“Katrina Anna Meyer,” she read, “born 10 December 2003.”
“Happy eighteenth birthday.” Katrina could detect a faint touch of sadness, or resignation, in Tom’s voice.
“There’s also a birth certificate, Malcolm’s report, bank account details, ticket to England. And a few other things as well I think.”
Katrina checked the bank account. “Twenty thousand? Wow.”
“First class ticket too, apparently.”
Katrina checked it, then put it back down on the table. “It’s for tomorrow morning,” she said.
Tom could detect a little sadness, and resignation, in her voice too.
She got up, walked over to the window, drew the curtains to one side and gazed out. “Well, that’s it then,” she said harshly.
Tom looked alarmed. “Erm, what?”
“The weather’s horrendous. You’re not going to work today, and we’re staying in. Unless you have a better idea?”
And as usual, Katrina’s beautiful smile made Tom smile too.
#
Neither of them said much during the metro ride to the airport the next morning. There was probably a lot they wanted to say, stuff he would regret not saying later. But none of the right words ever came.
British Airways flight 93 to London Stansted now boarding gate 94. All passengers please proceed gate 94.
He stayed with her while she got her boarding pass then escorted her through security, flashing his ID to make the whole thing seem easier.
They didn’t even have time for a drink.
Last call for British Airways flight 93 to London Stansted. All passengers please proceed gate 94.
“Time for me to go.”
But she didn’t. Not immediately. They both hesitated, looking at each other.
Then he said, “Why are you here, really?”
“I’m not here to make your world a better place, if that’s what you mean. That’s not possible because you’re too far gone for that now. Your world is beyond redemption. I’ll try, of course, because I can’t help it. It’s a pathology. I simply can’t pass by on the side. But I’ll fail.” Then she sighed and looked seriously at him. “I’m only here to do my penance.”
“Penance?”
“For all the questionable things I did. I lied, to the people who loved me. It’s all in the debrief. Ask Peter.”
“But that was another world, not this one. You can have a new life here, a new start.”
“A second chance?” she smiled. “That would be nice. But I don’t expect to survive very long, you know?”
Tom looked alarmed. “What do you mean?”
“When I become famous, I will be an inspiration. Just like I was in the other world. It’s who I am and I can’t escape my purpose, however hard I try. It’s a compulsion. And there are some very evil people out there who will want me dead because of it. And remember in your world I don’t have special powers. I can’t fly, I’m not impervious to bullets, I don’t have a lasso of truth and I can’t do that –” she bumped her forearms together a few times, “you know, the clashy thing.”
“Just as well. It’s a bit loud.”
But neither of them felt like laughing.
“I can speak to the security section. We can look after you.”
Katrina shook her head. “I appreciate the sentiment, but it won’t matter. Aside from the infiltration of the service, which I’m sure still exists in your world because I wasn’t there to stop it, you have to understand that these people have more than enough power to do whatever they want. And get away with it. People will grieve for me, of course. That’s what happens to Mary Sue, remember. But then they’ll be distracted by some other crisis or conflict or anything else those dystopians want to inflict on them. It’ll only be a few months, maybe, then I will be safely forgotten. The inspiration gone. In the end, I’ll be little more than a curiosity on your Wikipedia.”
“I don’t want that to happen.”
He said it longingly. She could tell.
“I know you don’t. And to be honest, unless it’s quick and painless, I don’t want it to happen either. I think I’d like to stick around here for a while, actually, see what your world has to offer. If only out of curiosity. Just to see what happens next.”
She smiled faintly at him as he looked down sadly. Nikita Voronin raised his chin up lightly with her hand, then suddenly leaned forward and kissed him softly on the cheek, with genuine affection.
“So long, Tom from MI5.”
And with that, she brushed gently past him and made her way fatefully to the departure gate, without looking back.
And of course he watched her.
Tom from MI5 stood for over an hour in the observation chamber. He watched the plane taxi in the hard rain to the runway, watched it take off and rise, bank sharply and fade away into the northern sky. He watched until she was nothing but a little black speck swallowed by clouds.
And then was gone.
He put his hands in his pockets, glanced down and scuffed his shoe idly against the ground, and couldn’t help a little sad but ironic laugh.
Then he turned, finally, and walked away.
And wondered if he would ever see her again.
That perfect, beautiful shooting star…
###