Roman’s heart thumped. “Then cut the strings and run.”
“The puppet master wouldn’t put up with that.” Arkady stared at him. “Beware strangers bearing gifts. Particularly perfume.”
“Shit.” Roman exhaled the word.
Arkady sighed. “But if I were your age… If I was choosing the life I’d like for Dima… Maybe things would be different. Make your plans. Think about what you want to do then talk to me again.”
Roman nodded.
Arkady held out his hand. “Keys to Yengalychev’s house.”
Roman dropped them into Arkady’s palm.
He left the house with a dry mouth and a pounding heart. Wasn’t hard to work out who the puppet master was, or rather who ultimately controlled the puppet master. A guy who was probably the wealthiest person in the world but whose reported annual salary was around nine million roubles or a hundred and nine thousand pounds. The British government would be unable to reach any higher than Arkady. Anyone in Russia was untouchable. All the British would do was rail and moan but nothing would change. The most corrupt person in Russia was impossible to bring down. How long would Arkady stay alive once he stopped swimming? How long will I? Fuck. He took out his phone.
“Zain,” Roman said.
“How did you get on?”
“Listen. I’ve had to give the keys to the house to Arkady and to Helen. I warned Helen not to come until after six. I can’t think of a reason Arkady would turn up but just in case, hide. Pack up all your stuff and mine, make sure the place looks immaculate, then hide in that closet. Wait for me to call you when I’m parked nearby, then come down and let me in. If there’s any issue, say red or text it.”
“Okay.”
There was no sign of anyone having been in Roman’s flat. No more cameras. Those he’d destroyed still lay where he’d left them. Roman scooped them into a plastic bag, washed out the bath, and put them by the door, ready to dump. He retrieved a further wad of cash from the safe because he didn’t want to use his credit card for anything until this was finished one way or another. Nor did he want to use the car. The insurance company might have provided it but the NCA or SIS would be able to trace it to him far too easily, then track it. He and Zain needed an alternative method of transport.
He went online and booked a parking space in Mayfair. Extortionately expensive for the week but he didn’t want the car ticketed and towed. Once he’d packed spare clothes into a bag, he locked up, threw the rubbish down the chute and made his way back to the basement parking area.
As he drove through London, Roman thought he’d feel more nervous than he was. Part of him was finding it hard to accept he’d finally said he’d had enough. But what he didn’t yet feel was relief because this was nowhere near over.
It was one thirty by the time he parked in the space he’d reserved in Mayfair. He was anxious about Zain but when he called him, everything was green for go.
“I’ll be outside in three minutes. I want to make it look as though I’m unlocking the door, but I don’t have a key so be ready to pull the door open. Don’t let yourself be seen.”
Nothing went wrong. Roman had no sense of being under surveillance but that didn’t mean he wasn’t. He stepped inside, pushed the door closed and put his bag on the floor.
Zain threw himself into Roman’s arms. “How did it go, ex-007?”
“Both Helen and Arkady were understanding. They offered me a glowing reference and a leaving bonus.”
“And in this world?”
“Helen appears to know I’m involved with you.”
Zain’s eyes widened. “How?”
“I have no idea. She threatened me. Then told me to give her a couple of weeks. I said no. But it won’t be the last I hear from her.”
“Delete her number then it will be.”
“If it were that simple… Though I am going to switch off my phone. They’re too easy to track.” He powered his phone down. “But if Helen can’t contact me, she’ll just send someone.”
“So they put a tracker up your arse.”
Roman smiled. “Not that I noticed. But it’s hard to disappear. There are so many cameras around. Still, I know a few tricks.”
“What did Arkady say?”
“I guess he was disappointed. He said he didn’t think he could do what he does without me. Which was both good to hear and bad. In a roundabout way I tried to suggest he could quit too, but he’s of the opinion that he can’t, that if he tries, he might meet the same fate as the Skripals.”
“Oh God. Really?”
“Some of the Russians he works for are important guys. If they’re crossed, they don’t forgive and forget. So we’re leaving now. Walk around with me while I check everything looks right.”
“Okay.”
“We’ll start at the top and work down, pick up our stuff on the way.”
“I washed the sheets and put them back on the bed. Did the towels too and the pool towels.”
“Pool heat off?”
“Yes.”
The only thing Roman found he needed to do was empty the fridge and the waste bin. Finally, they were back at the door, coats and ski hats on. Roman tucked Zain’s hair under the edge of the hat, pulled it down further on his face and took the eyeliner pencil from his pocket. His cock thickened as he lined Zain’s eyes. Shit. Maybe doing that hadn’t been a good idea.
“Brilliant disguise,” Zain said. “Everyone will think I’m a panda.”
Roman huffed. He stuffed one of his bags into the other and zipped it up. “We might have to run. Do everything I tell you to without hesitation.”
“You’re frightening me.”
Roman kissed him. “I’m frightened too.”
“Well that’s reassuring. Why did you tell me that?”
Roman chuckled. He turned on the alarm, grabbed the bag of rubbish and they slipped outside. The door locked behind them. Roman hurried down the street and dumped the bag of food into the first bin they passed.
When they reached the end of the road, he turned and looked back. He couldn’t see anyone following but he felt that someone was. He led Zain to Bond Street tube station but not down to the platform. They emerged from a different exit.
Roman backtracked, abruptly changed direction, pulled Zain into doorways, slipped down side streets and Zain stuck to his side and didn’t say a word. Once Roman was as sure as he could be that they weren’t being followed, he headed for an internet café close to Oxford Circus. Two pounds bought them an hour of computer time and Zain settled beside him as he searched.
“Let me have your phone,” Roman asked.
Zain handed it over and Roman tapped in a number.
“Hi, is your car still for sale?… Satnav?…” Roman laughed. “That will do. Can we come and look at it?… Now would be good. An hour or so depending on traffic?… Fine. What’s your address?… Got it. We’re on our way. My name’s Mike Jones.”
Roman switched off Zain’s phone and handed it back to him.
“What if the car’s crap?” Zain asked.
“For a hundred and fifty quid, it will be crap but as long as it runs, we’re taking it.”
He deleted his browsing history, then checked out a few B&Bs in Cambridge and didn’t delete that. Probably unnecessary but… They headed out and continued along the street. Roman was still alert for watchers but gave up countersurveillance moves in favour of speed. After they’d changed train carriages on the way to Richmond and Roman had seen no sign of frantic scrambling to follow them, he was certain no one was watching and if they had been, he’d lost them.
Zain sat beside him on the train, his knee pressed against Roman’s.
“Okay?” Roman asked.
“Bit freaked out. How did you learn to do all that stuff?”
“Spy school.”
Zain gasped and Roman raised his eyebrows. “Not really.”
“Are we safe now?”
Roman exhaled. “That’s the problem. You can never be sure.
I have an app on my phone that checks for bugs but what if there’s a type that it can’t detect? What if there’s something hidden on an item of clothing, a shoe? And now I don’t want to use my phone unless it’s an emergency.”
“Will you spend your entire life looking over your shoulder?”
Roman grimaced. “I hope not.”
“I could look too.”
The offer warmed Roman’s heart. “I should be telling you to run away from me and all I want to do is pull you closer.”
“If there’s a bullet coming, push me away.” Zain grinned at him.
Roman made himself smile but the thought also made him catch his breath. He started when he felt Zain’s hand slip inside his, but he gripped it tightly.
They caught a cab outside Richmond station. The guy selling the car lived a couple of miles away towards Kingston.
By four fifteen, Roman had paid in cash, given a fake address and the silver Peugeot was theirs. It sounded fine, no odd rattles, was MOT’d for another six months, had half a tank of fuel and the interior didn’t smell as if something had died. There was no satnav but the guy had left an atlas tucked down the side of the passenger seat.
Roman handed it to Zain. “Brighton. I’ll drive. You navigate.”
When he became aware that Zain was still flicking through the pages, and there was big junction ahead, Roman glanced at him. “Which way?”
“I can’t find the page with Brighton.”
Roman took a risk and went straight on.
“I found it,” Zain said just after Roman had crossed the junction. “Shit, we should have turned left back there.”
It took longer than it should have done to get to the M25, which they finally reached after going twice around a one-way system and in and out of a trading estate. The ceaseless stream of misinformation from Zain made Roman chuckle when he knew, had it come from anyone else, it would have been a source of irritation. It was strange but the more distant they were from London, the better he felt. It was only a temporary escape but still…
They reached Brighton just after six. Roman pulled up on double yellow lines near the seafront.
“I’m going to see if any of these hotels have a room. Move the car if it looks as though we’re about to get a ticket.”
“I can’t drive.”
“Then be inventive.”
“Take my clothes off?”
“Maybe not that.”
Roman was counting on this being off-season but the first three places he tried were full. Finally, he returned to Zain and held up a key card.
“You’ve got a room?”
“Yep and a place to park.”
Roman drove the hundred yards or so and pulled into an underground car park. They picked up their bags from the boot and went into the hotel. Roman nodded to the guy on reception and led Zain to the stairs. The hotel was small, only twenty rooms, and it wasn’t cheap but he could afford a night or two of luxury before they returned to London. Roman was trying not to think about—and then what? But it was hard not to.
He and Zain needed to talk.
Chapter Eighteen
Zain followed Roman up two flights of stairs to their room.
“Let’s dump the bags and go and get something to eat.” Roman slipped the key card into the slot.
“Okay.”
Zain’s eyes widened when he saw the room, his gaze immediately drawn to the copper-clad, free-standing bath that was right in front of floor-to-ceiling windows. No curtains? Ah shutters. Zain walked over and peered through the window. Dark grey clouds scudded across the sky. The wind had buffeted the car on the journey.
“Quite a view,” Roman said at his shoulder.
“The seagulls might agree if we don’t close the shutters. Or if there’s anyone out there on a boat with a telescope pointed at the bath.”
The view was fantastic. A boisterous sea with large rolling waves just across the road, and in the distance, the dark bones of an abandoned pier jutting out of the water looked like the bones of a prehistoric sea creature.
“Stop staring out of the window and check this out,” Roman said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a bed this big before. It looks at least seven-foot square.”
Zain turned. “Wow. I was so taken with the view, I missed that. It’s enormous. Perfect for a gorgeous Russian and a gangly Syrian. You’ll have to put an ad in the paper.”
“Funny. Except a bit of a waste when your favourite sleeping position is on top of me.”
“Ha ha.” Zain pushed open the bathroom door. “Oooh.”
Roman came up at his shoulder. “A wet room.”
“This place must have cost you a fortune.”
“It didn’t.”
Zain bet that it did. There were pale-grey towelling robes hanging on the bathroom door and matching slippers in little cloth bags on a small table.
“It’s going to be hard to resist the temptation of those little packs of toiletries.” Zain sighed. “They’re so cute.”
“You can take them.”
“You won’t laugh?”
“Only hysterically.”
Zain glared. “This room has everything you could want. Lovely bath and bathroom, huge bed, huge TV, tea, coffee and biscuits.” Zain picked up a magazine from a neatly fanned pile on a desk. “When you get annoyed with the person you’re here with you can lie on the bed and read about…Sussex Interiors or Bondage for Beginners.”
Roman chuckled.
They made their way out of the hotel and headed toward the town. Their fingers brushed and Zain wanted to hold Roman’s hand.
“Are we okay to hold hands? Do you want to? We’re not going to get beaten up in Brighton, are we? Only I worry I might get lost if you don’t hang onto me.”
Roman wrapped Zain’s hand in his. “I think of all cities in the UK, this would be the one where no one raised an eyebrow at two guys or two women holding hands.”
“Is that why we came here? To hold hands?”
Roman squeezed his fingers. “Yes, and for fish and chips.”
“Is it too windy to sit and eat them while we look at the sea?”
“If you’d like to do that, then that’s what we’ll do.”
They hadn’t walked far before they found a fish and chip shop. The smell made Zain’s mouth water as they stood in the queue.
“Just fish and chips?” Roman asked. “Do you want peas or anything else?”
“Just fish and chips.”
“Would you get a bottle of water for me from the fridge,” Roman told him. “And whatever you want.”
Zain put two bottles of water on the counter.
“Help yourself to salt and vinegar,” Roman said.
Zain smothered his food.
Roman raised his eyebrows. “Sure that’s enough?”
“No.” Zain added more and Roman chuckled.
The guy serving folded the paper over the top of the trays of food and put them in a bag. Zain paid before Roman could, glad when Roman didn’t protest. He might not have much money but he didn’t want Roman to pay for everything. They put the bottles of water in their pockets and crossed the road to a covered seating area that looked out onto the shingle beach. Zain handed one of the parcels of food to Roman, then settled next to him. Zain unwrapped his food, put one hot, delicious chip in his mouth and choked up. He gave a heavy sigh.
“Are you okay?” Roman asked.
“Happy.” It was the only word Zain could get out.
He risked looking at Roman.
Roman stared back at him. “The chips make you happy?”
“Being here with you… Not hiding. Watching the waves. Eating fish and chips. Being exhausted from everything we did yesterday. All that makes me happy.”
“Good.”
“Is this a date?” Zain asked.
“You want it to be a date?”
“We’re outside and we’re eating. I guess that’s a date but I didn’t shower.” He whined.
“You ca
n shower later.”
“I want a bath later. I’m going to strip for the seagulls.”
“Not for me?”
“I want you to strip for the seagulls too. They can mark us out of ten.”
Roman chuckled. “If we’d been here later in the year, we could have watched the starlings. They appear just before sunset and roost over there on the ruins of West Pier. They’re incredibly beautiful, swirling in the sky like strings of musical notes.”
“I used to think I was part of a human murmuration, little groups of refugees flocking out of Syria. Cohorts of desperate people who constantly divided then joined back together. We grew or shrank as we made our way to what we imagined was safety. Yet even when we were as one, we were all on our own.”
“It must have been very hard.”
“Harder than I’d thought it would be. I was always hungry.” Zain forked a morsel of battered fish into his mouth. “Everyone was hungry for something. Not just food. For comfort. For courage. For hope most of all.”
“If things were different, would you go back to Syria?”
“Different how?” If you weren’t with me?
“If the conflict was finally over?”
“When people first left Aleppo, they told their friends they’d be back soon. By the time I quit the city, that had changed to them saying we’ll be home in six months. Once I was walking, the thought had changed to home in a year, then two. Now maybe it’s never, even though the conflict is supposed to be over, it really isn’t. What is there to go back to? I have no family. No home. I love my country. I’m proud of the Syria of my childhood but I don’t know if things will ever be right again no matter who is in charge. So the answer is no, I don’t want to return.” I want to stay with you. “Do you want to go back to Russia?”
“No.” Roman took a drink of water.
“What do you want to do?”
Roman smiled. “Arkady asked me that. I should have thought of something before I told him I wanted out. Instead, I said I needed time to think.”
“Do you? Isn’t there something you’ve always had a burning ambition to do? Work for the UN? Start your own bank? Professional saxophone player? Model? Stripper? Sex slave?”
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