A license to kill and a taste for Victoire de Castellane
Chapter Two of The Bjorn Identity
If you missed the first chapter, you can read it here. Justine Dupleix, newly cleared as a full operative of The Agency, arrived for her first day at Paris Station, only to have her small triumph soured when she was assigned to work with her long-time rival, Ash Durham. Posing as newlyweds, they were ordered aboard the Orient Express to locate a target known only as Bjorn.
If you’re trying to write you’re own romance novel, and you’d like a quick rundown on what’s happening in these two chapters, there is a brief craft essay explaining it here.
Justine kept her composure until the elevator doors slid open on the ground floor. Durham moved to follow her.
“Take the next one,” she said, her voice cold.
He raised his hands in mock surrender, stepping back as the doors closed between them. Alone at last, Justine shut her eyes and breathed as she rode down.
Newlyweds.
The very thought of the word stuck in her throat like a fishbone. Of all the agents in Paris – no… in Europe! They had paired her with Durham.
Ugh.
She stepped out of the elevator, but something about the rhythm of her stride betrayed her. She moved too quickly. She was trying to outrun a gross tangle of feelings she couldn’t separate, let alone name.
This had to be a mistake. There had to be a good reason. A bureaucratic error. An algorithm with a grudge. Or hazing. But, of course! This was her first day as a field agent. They were messing with her.
The memory of McAvoy’s stare flickered behind her eyelids.
No. No, it wasn’t a mistake or a joke.
Justine reached the outer doors to the Field Services and hesitated a moment too long. Hesitation implied she could be shaken. But it was already inside her, this terrible, buzzing disquiet. Not just about the mission, but about Durham.
He was the only reason she had not graduated at the very top of her intake, all on her own.
Ash Durham. As infuriating as he was, she could not shake off the fact that he alone had matched her in every challenge the Agency training cadre had thrown at them the last five years. Justine exhaled sharply as if that could purge him from her thoughts. As though he were some foul humour that had crept inside of her.
She looked around. No sign of Durham following her.
She was finally, blessedly alone, and she permitted herself a single curse.
“Putain.”
The profanity hung in the empty concrete antechamber, echoing slightly.
Five years. Five years since the first day of intake, when Durham had bounced in like some ridiculous kangaroo puppy, assuming everyone would be charmed. Five years of watching him coast through assessments for which she had studied all hours. Five years of his infuriating ability to improvise solutions to everything, while she plotted contingencies for contingencies.
And now they were…
Newlyweds.
Merde!
###
The temperature was several degrees lower on Sub Level 7, where Field Services claimed the entire floor. It was a highly classified warren of machine shops, vaults, and climate-controlled labs, each tailored to address the most likely threats in the five domains: land, sea, air, space, and cyber.
Justine waved her security pass over a black box embedded in the bare concrete wall. For the first time, it chimed for her alone—no handler, no supervisor—and the reinforced blast doors hissed open at her approach. Cold, sterile air spilled out.
The room beyond was a cavernous vault of brushed steel and black glass, divided by transparent partitions and retractable security shutters. Workbenches bristled with half-assembled devices, weapons mid-modification, and tactical drones in carbon-fibre shells. A target dummy slumped in one corner, riddled with rounds that had clearly passed through things they shouldn’t have.
In the centre, at a station lined with holo-screens and magnetic weapon cradles, Technical Overseer Madame Marie Beauchamp glanced up from her terminal. Her tight silver curls framed a face careworn by decades of outfitting agents for whatever was worse than the worst-case scenarios.
Her gaze flicked up and down Justine as though she were inspecting a new prototype, most assuredly for flaws, quite possibly for resale value.
“Agent Dupleix.” Marie’s eyes flickered with something unreadable. “I believe congratulations are in order.”
Justine blinked. Then straightened, just a touch. “Merci,” she said, tone crisp but sincere. “It is an honour to join the ranks.”
Marie tilted her head and cocked one eyebrow.
“I meant on your nuptials.”
Justine’s stomach dropped. “Oh.”
Marie’s smile was slow, dry, and utterly devoid of mercy. “But it is nice that you graduated, too.”
Then, she heard his voice right behind her. “Hey, what about me, MB?”
Justine flinched. A sharp jolt, like static snapping against her spine. She hadn’t heard him approach, and her pulse spiked as she masked it with a tight nod, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of her startle.
“Oh, Ashley,” Marie waved him away with a smile that might have kept growing forever had it not been finally constrained by all the reinforced concrete surrounding them. “I did not doubt that you would make it through.”
Durham winked at her. “That’s why you’re my favourite.”
Marie clapped her hands together and turned back to her terminal.
“So! I received the full brief. Nine days on the new Orient Express, three of them with city stops. As newlyweds, too. Do you know what we say in France of such things, Ashley?”
“I believe the appropriate expression is ohh-la-la, MB.”
The old woman burst out laughing.
Justine said nothing. Her brain had tripped some kind of emergency breaker, and everything inside her was going dim, like a server pushed past thermal capacity. Deep beneath that stunned quiet, a scream started to unfurl: long, flat, and soundless. Nine days. As newlyweds. With this fool. His nonsense echoed inside her skull like hostile sonar hammering against a submarine. She clenched her teeth. She wasn’t unravelling. She was imploding, collapsing inward, tight and dense, drawing toward a singularity made of humiliation, compromise, and the sick certainty that whatever fresh hell came next would involve Durham grinning like an idiot, probably in a bathrobe that he had not done up properly.
She blinked hard and gave her head a quick shake. Marie was already on her feet, gesturing for them to move forward, her heels tapping a brisk rhythm as she disappeared into the maze of Field Services. Justine forced her legs to move.
“I have prepared complete wardrobes for both of you,” she said. “Your cover identities describe a couple with substantial means. Ashley, you’re a technology entrepreneur who recently sold his startup—“
“How much?” he asked.
“Seven million euros. Enough to be comfortable, not enough to be notable.”
He whistled, clearly pleased. “Sweet. Don’t suppose I can take the seven big ones in cash right now.”
“Unfortunately, no. Agent Dupleix, you will be a gallery curator specialising in contemporary art. You met at a charity auction in London eighteen months ago. Married six weeks ago in a small ceremony in Provence.”
“Yeah, that sounds like me. I’m so hot for art,” Durham said in French, his accent now flawless despite Justine’s fervent wish that it wasn’t.
Marie led them into The Boutique, a vast chamber nestled deep beneath the hum of Parisian street life. Justine stepped into a scene that could’ve been a secret floor of Galeries Lafayette if Lafayette catered exclusively to Tier 1 operatives with a license to kill and a taste for Victoire de Castellane. Soft, indirect lighting created no shadows, causing every fabric to shimmer. Rows of evening wear, cocktail dresses, suits, and bespoke outerwear lined the edges, interspersed with mannequins styled to lethal perfection. The far wall showcased display cases of accessories: cufflinks that doubled as tracking beacons, heels with hollow compartments, and scarves threaded with monofilament. The scent of cedarwood and high-end wool lingered in the air.
Two clothing racks had been wheeled to the centre of the space. On one hung a wardrobe in muted jewel tones; draped silks and tailored blazers, and below them, a row of French leather heels gleamed on a low shelf. On the other, an elegant array of casual suits, crisp shirts, designer denim, and a formal tuxedo so sharply cut it would need a weapons permit all of its own.
“Your luggage has been prepared according to your cover identities,” Marie explained. “Every item is consistent with your backgrounds, spending patterns, and the duration of your journey.”
“Rings?” Justine asked, the word feeling alien in her mouth.
Marie produced a small velvet box. Inside, two platinum bands and a modest but elegant engagement ring with a pear-shaped diamond were nestled.
“GPS locators?” Durham asked. “Or fitness trackers?”
“Both. Naturally,” Marie confirmed. “Datacast range of two hundred metres in urban environments, and a kilometre in open terrain. Water-resistant to fifty meters.”
“Pity I’m only good to about ten,” Durham grinned.
Justine ignored him and slipped the rings onto her finger, surprised by their perfect fit. The weight felt strange, intrusive. She could already anticipate the phantom sensation that would linger when the mission concluded.
“They suit you,” Durham said, and she couldn’t tell if he was mocking her or not. His ring slid into place with ease.
“The rings do contain super miniature microphones for connection over a point-to-point network,” Marie continued. “Twist the band twice to activate. Battery life of six hours of use per charge. Seventy-two hours standby.”
“How do we charge them?” Justine asked.
“Your vanity case contains a wireless charging pad disguised as a jewellery box.”
“Nice,” Durham said, twisting his band experimentally.
Marie handed them each a tablet. “Complete inventory of your luggage contents. You should know your wardrobes and belongings as intimately as you know each other.”
Justine felt heat creep up her neck at the implication.
“There is of course a selection of small arms and other defensive equipment,” Marie added. “Nothing elaborate, but you won’t be naked.” She smirked. “Unless you choose.”
The double doors at the far end of the Boutique swung open.
The man striding toward them—tablet in one hand, tea in the other—was unmistakable. Dr. Finn Colpher, the new head of Research & Development. And of course, it was tea. He was English; that was a blood type for them, Justine thought. He looked exactly as he had during her final week of lectures: late twenties, maybe, tall and lean with those absurd rower’s shoulders threatening to pop the seams on his dress shirt. His dark hair still refused to pick a lane. It was both unruly and inexplicably charming. And that expression. Vaguely distracted, faintly put-upon, like his brain had already arrived and was growing impatient for the rest of him to catch up.
Dreamy, really.
And engaged, so it was rumoured, to Samantha McAvoy.
So Justine buried the thought. Deep.
“Dr. Colpher,” she acknowledged with a small nod, unconsciously straightening her already painfully upright posture. If there were anyone at the Agency who could put in a good word with McAvoy, it would be him.
“Hey Finny,” Durham grinned. “You catch the rugby last night, bro?”
“Luckily, no,” Dr Colpher replied.
“That’s alright, I can recall every humiliating moment for you if you want.”
Justine resisted the urge to drive a heel into his shin. Seriously? This was her shot, her chance to make an impression on McAvoy, even if indirectly through her fiancé, and Durham was torching it with his shameful disregard for professional boundaries. The only upside was Colpher’s expression. He was tight-lipped and visibly suffering.
Unless... he was just upset about England losing the rugby.
That would be worse. That would mean he and Durham were connected by this unbearable nonsense.
Colpher gestured them toward a small conference room adjoining the Boutique. “I have some new intelligence on your target and potential opposition.”
The glass walls frosted opaque as they entered, a feature that never failed to impress Justine, though she would never admit it.
“We think Bjorn might have proprietary technology or data,” Dr Colpher began, “And we flagged operators from at least six rival agencies boarding the train at various points. CIA, MI6 and some BND chaps chaps in Paris. However, you can also expect the Deuxieme Bureau to have a sticky beak. There are some MSS roughnecks booked in Munich...”
“Sounds like a busy commute,” Durham remarked.
“That won’t be a problem,” Justine said automatically,
“We also believe Bjorn is travelling alone,” Colpher continued. “Your first task is simply to ID him.”
“Easy as, then,” Durham said. “He’ll be the bloke wearing a t-shirt that says, ‘My name’s Bjorn,’ ask me about my proprietary technology.”
Colpher huffed a little laugh and Justine bristled.
Was that some sort of Anglo joke? Were they talking to each other and not to her? Because it wasn’t funny.
“I’ve sent you what we have on your competitors. Full jackets on the cousins. Pretty good coverage on the Russians who are coming. Not much on the Chinese. And that’s it, I’m afraid.”
“Okay, can I have a moment with my wife?” Durham asked suddenly.
Colpher raised an eyebrow but shrugged. “Sure. Marie will want you back for the final equipment checks. Sorry, I don’t have more for you, but this whole thing’s a bit of a mystery box and it’s all come up at the very last moment.”
He gestured helplessly before giving them the room. The door whispered shut behind him.
“What?” Justine demanded once they were alone.
Durham leaned against the table, arms folded. “Look, I know this isn’t ideal.”
“It is intolerable,” she said.
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far, but how about we establish some ground rules?”
Justine blinked. That… wasn’t what she’d expected. No smirk, no jab. Just a calm, measured assumption of control. The shift wrong-footed her.
“Ground rules,” she echoed.
“Yeah. If we’re doing this, and clearly we are, because they’ve been caught shorthanded with no warning, we need to sort out our boundaries.”
“For?”
He met her gaze, expression sober, deliberate. “Physical contact. Pet names. Sleeping arrangements. You know, all the stuff that people who love each other for real don’t ever think about.”
Heat crawled up her neck again, betraying her.
“That won’t be necessary. We’re professionals.”
“It’s necessary because we’re professionals.” Durham straightened, hands sliding back into his pockets. “I reckon we need a plan for keeping our cover without... you know, making things awkward.”
Something in his voice stopped her. He wasn’t mocking her. He seemed… level. Intentional and even… considerate.
And that didn’t fit at all.
“Fine,” she conceded. “In public, we are newlyweds. We both know what that means. We both passed Persona Maintenance and Blending.”
He smiled.
“Mate, we didn’t just pass. We smashed it.”
“Agreed,” she nodded. “We will keep the pet names simple. Darling, sweetheart. Nothing too... personal. And sleeping arrangements?”
“We’re in the honeymoon suite. I reckon the bed will be pretty big. But if not, or if it bothers you, I can make do on a couch, no worries.”
Justine stared at him.
The answer was so... reasonable. She detected no sarcasm. No joking. Just an offer to make her comfortable. Her mouth opened, then shut again. She’d braced for teasing, or worse for a dominance play disguised as charm. Not this… generosity and understanding. And certainly not from him. She wasn’t sure what to do with it.
“Right,” she said finally, her voice a little thinner than intended. “That’s... appreciated.”
Silence settled between them, not at all comfortable, but no longer strained as before. For the first time in five years, they’d managed an exchange that wasn’t adversarial.
“We should return to Marie,” she said finally.
Durham nodded, moving toward the door. He paused with his hand on the handle.
“For what it’s worth,” he said, looking back at her, “We’re gonna smash this, too.”
Justine said nothing, but as they stepped back into the Boutique, she found herself hoping—for the sake of the mission, of course—that he was right.