Page 26 of The Spy Who Loved Tea

The door slammed shut.

Clunk. A bolt sliding home.

Vera was alone.

The fire crackled, spreading up the wall, casting dancing shadows across the blur of the room. The air was already growing warm, tinged with smoke.

She was blind. She was bound. And she had approximately four minutes before the building exploded.

“Right,” Vera said to the empty room. “This is a problem.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Panic was a luxury Vera could not afford.

She forced herself to breathe slowly, evenly, despite the smoke that was already thickening the air. Panic clouded judgment. Panic made you stupid. And stupid, in her current situation, meant dead.

She took stock.

She was bound to a heavy wooden chair—oak, by the feel of it, old and solid. Her wrists were secured behind her with zip ties, the plastic biting into her skin. Her ankles were free, which was something. Her knitting bag had been knocked to the floor when Julian shoved her into the chair, but she had no idea where it had landed.

Without her glasses, the room was a blur of orange and grey. The fire was a bright, spreading smear against the far wall, throwing dancing shadows that she could perceive but not interpret. The smoke was rising, pooling against the ceiling, slowly descending.

Four minutes, Julian had said. Four minutes until the grain dust in the upper hoppers ignited and turned the mill into a fireball.

She had perhaps three minutes left. Maybe less.

Think, Vera. What do you have?

She had her body. Her mind. Her training.

And she had fire.

The zip ties were industrial plastic—strong, but not invincible. Plastic melted. It also became brittle when heated, losing tensile strength before it actually liquefied.

The question was whether she could heat the ties enough to weaken them without setting herself on fire in the process.

Vera rocked the chair experimentally. It was heavy, but not bolted down. She could move it—awkwardly, painfully, but she could move it.

She began to shuffle the chair backward, toward the heat.

The fire had spread from the hessian sacks to the wall, climbing the old timber framework with hungry enthusiasm. She couldn’t see the flames clearly, but she could feel them—a wall of heat that intensified with every inch she moved closer.

Her coat would protect her back. The Kevlar lining was designed to stop a bullet; it would certainly resist flame as well. But her wrists were exposed, bound behind the chair, and her cardigan sleeves were just wool.

Wool is naturally flame-resistant, she reminded herself. It chars rather than burns. Small comfort, but comfort nonetheless.

She shuffled closer. The heat was becoming uncomfortable now, pressing against her face like an open oven door. Sweat prickled along her hairline. Her eyes watered from the smoke.

She couldn’t see how close she was to the flames. She had to judge by feel alone—the temperature against her skin, the intensity of the radiant heat on her bound hands.

Closer. A little closer.

The plastic ties were warming now. She could feel them softening slightly against her wrists, becoming more pliable.

Not enough. Closer.

The heat on her hands crossed the threshold from uncomfortable to painful. She gritted her teeth and held position, willing the plastic to weaken.