Page 31 of The Spy Who Loved Tea

Julian had turned toward the commotion, his hand moving instinctively toward his jacket. But he stopped himself. A burning bin was a distraction, not a threat. And drawing a weapon in front of witnesses would be catastrophic.

Instead, he stepped further away from the chaos, moving toward the far end of the platform where the shadows were deepest. Away from the fire. Away from the witnesses.

Exactly as Vera had intended.

The commuters were focused entirely on the flames, their backs to the rest of the platform. The young woman was filming the fire on her phone. The businessman was patting his coffee-stained trousers. The older gentleman was on his mobile, presumably calling emergency services.

No one was watching Julian.

No one was watching Vera.

She circled behind the shelter, moving silently on the grass that bordered the platform, using the smoke and the dancing shadows to mask her approach. The train whistle sounded in the distance—three minutes out, perhaps less.

Julian had his back to her now, his attention split between the burning bin and the approaching headlamp of the train. His briefcase sat on the ground beside him.

Vera raised the cane.

She didn’t announce herself. She didn’t deliver a witty one-liner. She simply closed the distance in three quick strides and swung.

The silver lion’s head connected with Julian’s right wrist—his gun hand—with a sound like a cricket bat striking a ball.

Crack.

Julian screamed.

The sound cut through the chaos at the other end of the platform. The commuters turned, startled, trying to make sense of what they were seeing: a man staggering, clutching his wrist, and an elderly woman with a walking stick.

Julian’s pistol had clattered from his grip when she struck him. It skittered across the platform, spinning to a stop in the pool of light near the shelter—in full view of every witness.

“Gun!” the young woman shrieked. “He’s got a gun!”

The older gentleman grabbed her arm again and pulled her toward the car park. “Get back! Everyone get back!”

The businessman was already running.

Julian lunged at Vera with his uninjured hand, but she was ready. She drove the point of the cane into his solar plexus, doubling him over, then brought the heavy handle down on the back of his neck.

He dropped to his knees.

“That woman—” the older gentleman started, half-turned toward the exit, uncertain whether to flee or intervene.

“He tried to shoot me!” Vera cried, her voice pitching upward into terrified-old-lady register. “He pulled a gun! I had to defend myself!”

The witnesses looked at the gun on the ground. They looked at Julian, groaning on his knees. They looked at Vera, a slight, grey-haired woman in singed clothing, clutching a walking stick like a lifeline.

The narrative was clear. The gun told the story.

“Someone call the police!” the older gentleman shouted. “And keep away from him!”

The young woman was already dialing, her phone pressed to her ear, her other hand still recording video of the scene. The businessman had stopped at the edge of the car park, watching from what he clearly considered a safe distance.

Julian tried to rise. Vera brought the cane down on his shoulder.

He collapsed onto the platform, groaning.

“Stay down,” Vera said quietly, her voice dropping the theatrical quaver. “The next one goes across your throat.”

Julian stayed down.