by Asia Mackay
I couldn’t have imagined doing this with anyone but him. He had bounded into my life like an overenthusiastic puppy, filling a part of my life I didn’t realise was missing. Making me see a bigger picture than just living day to day, fling to fling. He had been my anchor. Holding me down, stopping me getting swept away in a flurry of big guns, bloodshed and baddies. And look at us now. We were a family.
I reached across the table and held his hand. ‘I do love you, you know.’
‘I love you too, sweetheart.’ He creased his brow and tilted his head. ‘You’re not just trying to get my sundae, are you?’
‘If I was I’d just fight you for it. I’d clearly win.’ I took a spoonful of mine followed by a spoonful of his.
‘You absolutely bloody would. I’m still sore. Sometimes I worry who exactly I’ve married.’ He grinned. I stared at him as he tucked his napkin into the top of his shirt. I needed to be more careful.
Our spoons clashed as we attacked each other’s sundae, seeing who could get the most the fastest. He looked over at Gigi. ‘So when does she get to eat fun stuff like this? Surely there’s only so much mashed-up banana a girl can take?’
‘Not until she turns one. If you give them anything like this’ – I motioned towards my double choc chip brownie with caramel ice cream and chocolate sauce – ‘you can apparently risk ruining their tastebuds by getting them hooked on sugar. Which, of course, can lead to childhood obesity, hyperactivity, all kinds of problems.’ I parroted back the highlights of a lecture Tamara had given us last week on the perils of sweet treats.
‘Really? From one mouthful?’
I nodded solemnly. ‘Oh yes, definitely.’ Gigi wriggled in her pram and held her arms out to me. ‘You want Mama? Come here, then, baby girl.’ I plucked her out the pram and sat back down. I gave her a clean teaspoon to bang on the table as I continued to watch Dasha and the mystery man. Dasha seemed calmer now, the man was leaning towards her, talking fast. Whatever he was saying was comforting her. I looked down at my phone. Still nothing from Geraint. I needed that ID.
‘Do you need to get back now? I’ve got enough time for a nice walk round the park.’
‘That sounds good.’ I glanced again over his shoulder. The man was gathering together the papers on the table. He was getting ready to leave. I couldn’t let him out of my sight until I knew who he was.
‘Gigi just ate some of your sundae.’ Will interrupted my thoughts about how I was going to rush after the man without arousing anyone’s suspicions.
‘No she didn’t.’
‘Look at her.’
Her face had chocolate smeared round it. The clean teaspoon was no longer clean.
‘I’m guessing this is something we aren’t going to be adding to the First Tastes section of her baby book?’ Will was laughing as he leaned forward and wiped Gigi’s face. She bounced on my lap, eyes wide, arms flapping, clearing loving her new flavour sensation.
Ping. The email from Geraint came in. He had found him. I scanned over the man’s name and biography.
Shit. I had just potentially ruined my daughter’s tastebuds, and put her at risk of a myriad of future health problems, because I was distracted watching Dasha have a strategy meeting with Andrew Nunneley – a tutor from Elite Educators who specialised in seven-plus entrance exams. Dasha’s distress was clearly down to her son scoring an unpleasing grade in a mock exam. I shook my head as I threw my spoon into the empty sundae glass. I should have known that in Dasha’s world a threat to her social status was every bit as terrifying as a threat to her life.
*
‘The Nyan are confirmed,’ Sandy announced.
After a quick walk round the park with Will and Gigi, I had returned to the Platform in time for Sandy’s update briefing in the meeting room. ‘The Nyan are fierce opponents of The President, and have agreed to discreetly assist us in exchange for a place each on the Rok-Tech board along with a small percentage of company stock.’
‘A small percentage that translates to tens of millions,’ added Jake, shaking his head.
‘The Pigeons agree to the deal?’ I asked.
‘I met with Dugdale yesterday and he confirms we have the unofficial support of Five and Six.’
Good old Duggers. I didn’t like how someone from my past, my above-ground life, tied to all my old university friends, knew the truth about what I did for a living. At least our paths had never crossed socially over the years, and I suppose if I ever did spot him at a university reunion, my friends would just assume I was avoiding him because I had once slept with him. And not because he knew I was a killer.
‘The Nyan have stipulated that they need to meet you, Lex. You’re the one pushing the button on Dimitri. They want to be reassured you’re up to the job and are flying over from Moscow especially. The meeting is set for tomorrow morning.’
I understood why the success of the hit was of the utmost importance to these men. If Dimitri was able to walk away unscathed but with suspicions that an attempt had been made there would be frenzied investigations from his highly trained security team into exactly who was involved. The Nyan were on Dimitri’s list of enemies – they would immediately be suspects. Considering Dimitri’s violent reputation it was very much their lives that would be on the line if we failed.
‘Don’t worry, Sandy. I’ve got this.’
‘You better have. If you leave that meeting without convincing them, the whole hit is off. There is no point Popping the Weasel if we don’t have an ironclad takeover plan to set in motion. And without the Nyan there’s no way that halfwit playboy Sergei can take control of the company and set up the black market sale of the VirtuWorld software. So, Lex, no fuck-ups. Everything we’ve all been working towards comes down to you proving yourself to these men.’
No change there, then.
*
I ran home.
Gangsta rap on full blast on my iPod as I went over everything I needed to say to the Nyan as I raced across London. There was a tube strike. Traffic was gridlocked. And I wanted to see my baby before she fell asleep.
Beata stood up as I collapsed through the door.
‘Sorry. I just couldn’t keep her awake.’
‘S’okay.’ I went to the kitchen and drank a long glass of water. And poured myself a large glass of wine.
‘I go now,’ called Beata from the hallway. She popped her head round the door, her coat already on. ‘You know, Gigi nearly crawled today.’
‘Great!’
I didn’t mean it.
I wanted to be there when she crawled for the first time. To will her on and clap excitedly at her triumph. Then get to show off like that smug-but-pretending-not-to-be-smug mother I overheard at Gymboree: ‘It’s so exhausting now Isabella can move. I just can’t take my eyes off her for a second. You’re so lucky Wilfie still just sits there. Doing nothing.’ Okay, well, maybe I wouldn’t be totally like her.
I could get Bryan in R & D to work on adding a crawl-notification alert to my phone. We would probably need to update the camera systems to a more sophisticated motion sensor, and add a zoom and record function but it was definitely possible. At least then I could witness the big moment. Even if it was only on a screen.
Perhaps I could talk to Beata and Gillian. Tell them to keep Gigi strapped into a buggy during the week. To make sure the big event happened on my watch.
Or maybe I just had to accept that there were going to be some things I was going to miss. That by making the decision to work I wouldn’t always be there for every milestone.
That I couldn’t have it all.
I sat still for a minute and finished my glass of wine.
Bugger that.
I would get Bryan on the case tomorrow.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Congrats! You’re a £££winner!
MISSION: #80436
UNIT: UNICORN
WEASEL: DIMITRI TUPOLEV
ALERT: 3 DAYS TO POP DAY
Chapter Twenty
I STOOD ALONE IN the bathroom staring at myself in the mirror.
‘I can bloody do this, I can do this.’ I kept chanting it over and over again.
This morning’s meeting was everything. Failure was not an option. I tried out differing serious-yet-intense faces. I needed to come across as professional, ruthless, organised, poised and remarkably astute.
All on three hours’ sleep.
It was quite amazing how on the nights when I needed my sleep the most, Gigi would choose to play up. All night she had screamed and screamed. Teething, reflux, growth spurt, satanic possession, who knew? I would half fall asleep in the nursing chair by her cot, one hand touching her leg, and wait until her breathing became heavier. Then I would dare to move. Every creak of the chair, of a floorboard, made me wince as I slowly crawled across the nursery on my hands and knees. And just when I thought I had made it, was in touching distance of the doorknob to freedom and my warm, comfortable bed she would wake, notice I wasn’t there and start screaming again. I would rush back to her and repeat the whole cycle another hour later, the whole time cursing Will for being in Singapore when he should be here doing a shift with the demon baby.
It amazed me that I had excelled in all the stealth training we had undergone at the Farm, exercises designed by experts in their field to test our ability to covertly enter and leave a room without setting off any alarm. But this little baby had a better sensor than the most high-tech of surveillance equipment. More than once in a sleep-deranged moment I imagined returning to the Farm to announce a new training exercise: filling the warehouse with babies and challenging anyone to leave the room without setting one of the fuckers off. I had smiled to myself as I dozed off imagining all the big hard men trying to daintily tiptoe round them.
Watching her now at breakfast I could see Gigi was still miserable. Even smearing her favourite yoghurt over her face couldn’t cheer her up. I tried to make her laugh, balancing a cup on my head – nothing but a stare; putting her disgusting bright pink pretty bow hairclips all over my hair – a slight smirk; stubbing my toe and swearing my head off as I got up to let Gillian in – hysterical laughter. As I rushed around the house locating shoes, coat, bag and motorbike helmet I wondered if this was a sign she had my propensity for violence or just that babies had very slapstick humour. The meeting was at Chelsea Harbour; the Nyan had decreed the safest place to meet was on a boat. Considering I was going to be battling rush hour I had settled on my bike as the best way to get there. I also hoped arriving on a 200 horsepower Ducati would add a certain edge to my appearance. Killer biker chick reporting for duty definitely felt better than killer-girl-just-got-the-tube-and-then-a-number-170-bus.
When I arrived at the harbour with five minutes to spare I identified the correct vessel by the burly Russian standing outside it. He motioned me and my bike on board the rundown container boat. I rode up on to the large loading bay and, as I got off the bike, the boat’s engine roared into life. I steadied myself as we lurched forward. The guard nodded his head towards the cabin. Inside, I found the three Nyan sitting round an immaculately laid table that looked as though it belonged in the dining room of a five-star hotel rather than on a dilapidated boat speeding down the Thames. There were scrambled eggs, a plate piled high with bacon, dozens of pancakes and a basket of enormous croissants. I could feel my stomach rumbling and my eyes were drawn to the tall pot of freshly brewed coffee.
‘Alexis, hello,’ said the largest of the men. He was busy helping himself to a bit of everything from the table.
The shock on their faces as I removed my helmet was painfully obvious. I think a couple of jaws may have even dropped.
‘I’m guessing Sandy neglected to mention I was a woman.’ I put my helmet and jacket down on the table next to me. ‘Well, let me assure you gentlemen my sex is irrelevant.’ I pulled a chair up to their table. I sensed they weren’t about to invite me to sit and it was important to let them know I had enough balls to both kill Dimitri and gatecrash their breakfast. It was a vital tactical move to assert myself as a level partner, an equal player.
Well, all that and I was bloody hungry.
They all continued to stare at me, seemingly unable to move past my gender. I reached for a croissant and started wolfing it down as I lounged back in my chair.
‘I have been in this game a long time, I have done things, I have seen things . . .’ I paused – ‘that would turn your stomachs. I’ve never failed in a mission. When I set my mind to do something I get it done.’ I stopped, aware that I was starting to sound like an interviewee trying to show they were management material.
The largest man clicked his fingers. ‘Vasily!’
Vasily, the brute from outside the door, entered. The largest man spoke to him briefly in Russian. Vasily turned to me, then stopped and stared, tilting his head. These Russians were clearly more used to women wearing tight dresses and purring about what big men they were, not arriving in biker gear to discuss an assassination. Irritated at the delay, the large man called his name again and Vasily snapped back into action, pulling my bag off my shoulder and emptying it on to the table. Motorcycle gloves, a gun, ammunition, and a small cloud of white powder landed in front of me. Shit. I had used this bag when rushing out the door with Gigi last week. That bloody formula container had obviously leaked again. I reached towards the powder, dabbed a finger in it and rubbed it into my gums.
‘Sometimes we need a little pick-me-up.’ I brushed the powder on to the floor just in case any of them wanted a taste. They might not be coke connoisseurs but anyone would be able to tell the milky foam now filling my mouth was not quite right. ‘But don’t worry, it only makes me shoot sharper.’ I tried what I hoped was a bit of a manic grin.
The three men began talking quietly among themselves in Russian. There was a lot of hand gesticulating before the largest asked, ‘Why should we trust you to get the job done?’
They took it in turn to fire questions at me. They asked me everything from my operational experience down to exactly what we thought we were doing meddling in the succession of a private Russian company. I was surprised they weren’t crass enough to ask my kill number. I always thought putting a number to how many people you’ve killed is just like a list of how many people you’ve slept with – you don’t really know the number off the top of your head and you adjust the figure to whoever is asking. It’s not like anyone will ever find out the truth.
Our little chat lasted nearly an hour. By the time the coffee had gone cold and all the platters of food in front of us were empty they seemed satisfied. They spoke quietly in Russian before the lead one spoke.
‘Tell Sandy we’re in. But we want no trail. We can’t be seen to have any part in this.’ He waved a dismissive hand towards me. ‘You British messing in our business.’
‘That is understood.’ I leaned forward. ‘But before I leave, you need to tell me what you know about the Dragon.’ Dasha was most likely right in that the Dragon would not be a problem until Moscow, but I wanted further reassurance he wasn’t an imminent threat.
‘The Dragon?’ The big man looked confused. They talked among themselves quickly and then all laughed.
‘We will not talk to you about the Dragon. Move on.’
‘You need to give us his name. We have to know he’s not going to interfere in our plan.’
He shook his head. ‘No one will ever give you the name of the Dragon. Remember that you’re still outsiders. We know who to betray and who not to.’ He stirred his coffee. ‘Rest assured, the Dragon will not be a problem.’
I got up to leave.
‘Alexis. That is a Russian name. Do you have any Russian blood?’
‘Only on my hands.’
I stared at him in what I hoped was a suitably sinister way as I exited the cabin.
I got home in record time. I had done it. I had convinced them I was up to the job. That I wasn’t someone to fuck with
. I glanced up at the mirror. And I did it all wearing my daughter’s pretty pink bow hairclips.
*
‘The Nyan are in.’ Sandy was sitting alone at Nicola’s desk in Unicorn’s office eating a bacon butty. I had been dreading coming into the Platform. I could only imagine the ribbing I was going to get for having turned up to such an important meeting looking like a deranged two-year-old girl. I braced myself for the onslaught.
Sandy shook his head and laughed. ‘I don’t know what you did, but their main worry is that you’re so unhinged you might flip out before it’s done. He kept saying –’ he put on a bad Russian accent – ‘ “How can you control someone so crazy?” He took a large bite and through his mouthful I made out, ‘What the hell did you do?’
I was thankful they had obviously not mentioned my questionable hair attire but just written me off as a bit of a cokehead nut job that enjoyed killing people while dressed like a pre-schooler. I was not about to let slip all this to Sandy.
‘I just told them what they needed to hear.’
‘Well congratulations, Tyler. We’re finally ready to Pop the Weasel.’ He took another bite of his sandwich. Ketchup squelched out of the middle and dripped on to his T-shirt. ‘With the Nyan happy we have the green light. That means the Ferrari seat needs to be swapped over in two days’ time – everything has to be in place before Bonfire Night. Brief the team. And you and Jake had better not screw up stealing Ray Ray’s car. We’re cutting it fine.’ He looked down at his stained top. ‘Oh, bloody hell.’
I reached into my bag. ‘Here you go.’ I handed him a baby wipe. ‘Jake and I will have the car by the end of the day.’
Cleaning him up and giving him reassurance. All men needed mothering.
*
An hour later I was pushing a pram past Ray Ray’s expansive garage. It had enough space to house five cars and took over most of the redbrick East London side street it was situated on. I walked round the block a few times, now and again adjusting the blanket on top of the pram. A very realistic plastic baby was trussed up inside an enormous sleepsuit with only a little of its sleeping face visible. A mechanism inside released breathing noises and the odd gurgled murmur. R & D had proudly informed me a foul stench could also be emitted at a press of a button if it looked like any admiring bystander was about to get too close.