Driving back from the Dutch coast, Suzy glanced in the mirror.  The kids were both sound asleep, Judy’s hair wind-tangled and salty, Ricky’s jeans covered in sand; both little faces flushed and rosy from a day at the beach.

      In the fading light she glanced at Lyndon in the passenger seat beside her and was surprised to see that he too was fast asleep.  Most unusual for him.  He normally stayed wide awake trying not to stamp on the floor at every corner.  Still, he looked tired she thought, and she didn’t mind them all sleeping.

      In fact she rather liked it.  It was peaceful - alone with her thoughts in the warm, comfortable car - the engine whirring cosily, the headlights picking out the road signs.  She watched for signs showing that they were crossing the border into Belgium.  It wasn’t always easy to spot, now that there were no barriers, no customs, no frontier posts. 

      She glanced at her hands on the steering wheel, the long sensitive fingers relishing the texture of the plastic casing, scarlet nails glinting in the dark, the palms flexing gently, alert and ready for any emergency...

      Suzy’s imagination was working over-time.  Blanche Dubois, international spy and woman of mystery had taken her place.  She was sitting almost upright in the driver’s seat, chin down, shoulders back, her eyes flicking rapidly from the road to the mirror, the long sweep of her lashes casting a perfect shadow on her smooth cheek, her small pink tongue just caressing the edge of her beautifully painted mouth. 

      Blanche knew that in spite of the colossal risks they were all running, she had to look relaxed, had to convince her passengers that the danger was past, had to persuade any watchers that she was just another driver, just another tourist... and she did it beautifully.  Driving with ease and skill, one arm resting on the edge of the closed window, the other lightly caressing the top of the gear stick, she flicked her hair off her face and yawned elaborately.  Yet despite the relaxed exterior, she was tensed and alert, ready for action. 

      Each time the car slid under the dark shadow of a motorway bridge, she braced herself for the flash of gun or camera.  The muscles at the corners of her eyes twitched; she scanned the silent, empty fields, and kept an eye on the road peeling away behind the car.  There was no-one in sight.

      Reaching for a box of cough sweets, Suzy held them up to her ear.  She flicked a glance at her passengers but they were all still fast asleep. 

      “Calling HQ,” she said in a low urgent voice.  “Calling HQ!  Yes, Agent Dubois here, Sir.  A-OK.  Proceeding as planned.  Code B.  Guns are loaded.  Yes, Sir!  Wilko, over and out.” 

      Replacing the cough sweets, she did a double-take.  Was Lyndon awake after all?  Oops, how embarrassing!  But no, his head lolled peacefully against the window.  He was fast asleep.  Suzy smiled and retreated once more into her own imaginary world.

      Blanche nodded and checked the dashboard.  Everything normal, all gauges and dials green.  The digital clock showed that she was on schedule.  Her attention shifted back to the road ahead, her eyes still constantly searching for every possible shred of cover, she kept the car speeding steadily towards the frontier.

      Blanche had been working this run for years; driving agents through enemy territory, watching for machine guns mounted on pick up trucks, taking the quickest route across the border.  She was used to being the last resort, of being the only way through, of being a woman talking, preening her hair, acting naturally. 

      Oh yes, Blanche Dubois was a driver for the government.  Mostly night work, ferrying anonymous men through the small hours from interrogation centres or discrete night-clubs to safe houses or disused airfields.  That sort of thing, thought Suzy vaguely. 

      Sometimes clients sat in the passenger seat and Blanche pretended to be their secretary, mistress or gaoler.  Other times they sat in the back and she was just the chauffeur, acting deaf, blind and dumb, although she had long ago discovered how to memorize conversations that officially didn’t even exist. 

      Blanche, thought Suzy with satisfaction, is an expert driver.  She can carve her way through the Brussels traffic without anyone even noticing her presence, let alone hooting aggressively or following her along the Avenue Tervuren at 8am, flashing their lights and shouting when she’s only trying to get the kids to school on time.

      Not that she has any kids at all.  Not even one.  She doesn’t even want any.  That whole hormone trap just doesn’t attract her at all.  Oh no.  Years ago, faced with the spectre of pregnancy and childbirth, she ran hotfoot into the comforting arms of her career.  That’s how she kept her flat stomach and her sanity.  And passed her advanced driving test, of course.  Suzy narrowed her eyes, keeping them peeled for enemy agents in the Belgian countryside.  

      Blanche knows how to do a handbrake turn, she told herself.  Blanche says it’s easy once you know how. 

      I’d love to be in the car when she does one... you know, spins the power steering into full lock while simultaneously hauling on the handbrake in order to avoid being followed by sinister agents or watchers - while she’s on the way to junior ballet.

      I mean, when Blanche is working under cover or er, body-guarding an Arabian oil princess whose daughter just happens to be taking junior tap lessons at the BSB in Tervuren.  Or when she’s just pretending to take someone to junior ballet - because Blanche doesn’t actually have to taxi kids around to dance lessons, private coaching, tea-parties, sleep-over, pony-clubs, football matches or school play rehearsals.  Oh no, not Blanche.

      Suzy licked her lips slowly. 

      Blanche was a woman of steel nerves and extraordinary driving skills, a woman with reactions so fast that she could swerve to avoid a bullet.  If she had to.

      But nothing troubled her that Sunday.  Her hands, like lilies waving their heads on her delicate wrists, moved lightly over the controls, just as her narrow, finely arched feet stepped lightly over the pedals.  She steadied the suspension round sharp corners, kept the tyres intact over the hostile nails at the Dutch-Belgian border, steered the vehicle safely through the enemy lines and right onto the Ring before she truly relaxed.  All was secure, all threats left behind, no danger lurked under the orange street lights of Brussels.

      In the passenger seat, Lyndon yawned in the sudden light and blinked out of the window.

      “Sorry,” he said.  “I didn’t mean to go to sleep.”

      “I’ll hand this over to you now,” whispered Blanche urgently, and when Suzy looked down at her hands on the steering wheel, they were her own again.  Her own short fingers, neatly clipped nails, slightly wrinkled skin, plain wedding band.  She was just ordinary Suzy Lysle, driving her sleeping family home after a day out at the coast.

      “Don’t worry,” she said chirpily.  “Nearly home.” 

Chapter 1