by L. A. Larkin
When he sees her, he stands stock-still, one foot on the bottom stair, the other in the living room.
‘I can’t let you go to Porton Down. Give me your phone,’ says Wolfe.
Yushkov’s face is devoid of any emotional response. It frightens her. He is scrutinising her face, then her hands, as if he’s assessing her capability to fire. He flicks a look at the exit, gauging the distance. Calculating and controlled.
‘You won’t use it,’ Yushkov says.
He takes a step towards her. She looks down the pistol’s sight at him, forcing her hands to hold the weapon steady.
‘So after all we’ve been through,’ she says, ‘you think I’m some kind of pathetic female who won’t shoot? You patronising sod! Now give me your phone!’
‘I don’t think you are pathetic. I think you are brave, Olivia. But . . . ’ Yushkov takes another step. ‘You are not a killer.’
One more step and she fires, aiming wide. The report is astonishingly loud, amplified by the room’s hard, bare surfaces. The bullet passes his left elbow and slams into the wall with an explosive thud. She expects him to back away. But he doesn’t. Rushing her, he seizes her hands and forces the gun down. Unable to stop him, Yushkov peels Wolfe’s finger off the trigger.
‘Drop it,’ he shouts. ‘Don’t make me do this.’
Wolfe brings her knee up sharply to his groin, but he blocks the move. Yushkov slams her hand into the wall. She shrieks and drops the weapon to the floor. He lets her go and leans down to pick it up. She tries to knee him in the throat but he’s too quick again. He yanks her leg to one side, toppling her, and she lands heavily on the hard stone.
‘Stop this, Olivia!’
‘No, you stop!’ she yells, flat on her back.
The pistol is almost within reach. She rolls to one side and lunges for it. Yushkov gets there first and tosses it under the stairs. He straddles her, pinning her arms to the ground.
‘What are you going to do?’ she screams, ‘Kill me?’
Yushkov freezes. He stares down at her, the muscles of his jaw bulging with the force exerted to keep his mouth clenched. His lips are pressed together so tightly, they almost disappear. Wolfe turns her head away, squeezing her eyes shut. She doesn’t want to see the blow coming.
‘I can’t believe you accuse me of such a thing,’ he says.
Wolfe opens her eyes. Yushkov lets go and gets up, grabs the pistol, puts on his coat and walks over to where his boots lie on the floor. He releases the magazine and pockets the pistol and bullets, his movements unhurried. Without the gun, she is no longer a threat. Wolfe scrambles up, her hand throbbing from the blow. All she has left is the power of reason. She sits on the coffee table as he kneels and laces up his boots.
‘I was wrong to say that. I’m sorry.’
Yushkov doesn’t look at her. ‘War is brutal. It dehumanises. I obeyed orders and killed my enemy. This doesn’t make me a murderer. I tell you I am an outcast, my life is always threatened because I try to stop the slaughter of innocent people. And yet you think so little of me.’ He stands. ‘Get out of my way.’
Wolfe feels a stab of shame. She stands too and places a hand against his chest.
‘Whatever your reasons for going to Porton Down, please don’t do it. Too many people have died already. Leave the gun and walk away.’
‘I go to stop Grankin, not to help him.’ He looks down at her hand. ‘Get out of my way!’ he says, louder.
‘To stop him?’ she repeats, stunned. Her hand falls to her side. His stare doesn’t flicker. A bubble of truth bursts from her mouth. ‘I believe you.’
‘Is this a trick?’
‘No trick.’
Wolfe stretches up on her toes and places both hands behind his neck, pulling him down to her. Her lips touch his and she tastes coffee, cigarettes and toothpaste. Yushkov pulls back, frowning.
‘What is this?’ he asks.
‘You are either the best liar I have ever met or one of few truly honourable men in this world. Almost every man I’ve ever known has betrayed me, but I’m staking my life that you’re not like them.’
He studies her face. She holds his gaze.
‘It is only men who have betrayed you? You are lucky,’ Yushkov says, with a hint of a smile.
She tries to kiss him again but he jerks his head away.
‘You want me to fuck you?’ he asks.
‘No,’ she says, ‘I want you to make love to me.’
He shuts his eyes and takes in a deep breath, as if preparing for a difficult conversation. Wolfe thinks he doesn’t want her. Then his mouth is on hers, his tongue parting her lips, tilting her head back, pressing her close to his body. His stubble scratches her face but his rough lips are surprisingly gentle. He kisses her cheeks and chin, her nose, her temples, then finds the tender nape of her neck. She wants more, but is suddenly released from his embrace.
Wolfe opens her eyes. Yushkov holds the tie of her robe, his eyes asking permission. She gently pushes his hands away, undoes the tie, takes his hands again and places them on her hips. Yushkov parts the robe, finding her breasts, his touch feather-light. He pulls her to him, inhaling her scent for a moment, then tugs the gown down her arms and on to the floor. Stepping back, he gazes at her, taking his time, his eyes savouring her body. She flushes, unused to such scrutiny, aware of the harsh daylight exposing every flaw. He runs the tips of his fingers over each nipple, sending pulses through her. His tongue plays with the silver ring through each dark areola, then he takes one swollen nipple after the other in his mouth and pinches it between his lips. She moans. Kneeling, he kisses her firm stomach, pausing at the pearl on her belly button ring.
‘Why a pearl?’ he asks.
‘It fits nicely.’
‘It does,’ he says. ‘You are very beautiful.’ He looks up and grins. ‘But I already know this. I have slept with you. Remember?’
Yushkov’s kisses continue down to her mound, running his tongue along the smooth skin either side of her dark strip.
‘Sit here,’ he says, leading her to the sofa.
He removes his jacket, throwing it behind the sofa.
‘Let me,’ she says, pulling his T-shirt over his head and dropping it.
Wolfe’s tongue traces the contours of his neck and his chest muscles, then the skin round his scar. He sighs.
‘I like the feel of your tongue piercing,’ he says, cupping the back of her head with one hand and pulling her hips into him, momentarily lifting her off the floor. His hard-on presses against her and she wants him badly, but she won’t rush.
‘Put me down,’ she says softly.
Yushkov releases his hold. She kneels and runs her tongue along the exposed skin just above his belt. His abdomen muscles contract with every lick. Slowly she undoes the belt buckle and his zipper, aware he is watching her, then pulls his jeans and boxers to the floor so he can step out of them. She takes his swollen cock in her hand and gently massages it. Eyes closed, Yushkov clenches his fists, his breathing heavy. She sucks the very tip, then tenderly runs her tongue in circles around the shaft. He gasps, and lays his hands on her head, but doesn’t force her closer. As she traces the underside with her tongue, he gently pushes her away.
‘It is too much,’ Yushkov says.
‘Let’s see how you cope with this.’
Wolfe takes as much of him in her mouth as she can, moving slowly. The urgency of her movements grows. His grip on her head strengthens.
‘Stop, not like this,’ he says.
She pulls away from him and he opens his eyes.
‘Lie down,’ Yushkov says.
‘No, I want to see you enter me.’
She sits at the sofa’s edge, a pile of cushions at her back. Yushkov kneels and parts her legs, kissing her inner thighs. She melts into the cushions. He finds her clitoris with his tongue, his touch as light as a feather, her arousal intense. Head thrown back, Wolfe luxuriates in the ripples moving up her body, the heat building. She arches her back and, n
earing orgasm, he stops.
‘I was about to come, you bastard!’ she says, giving him a playful slap on the arm.
‘Not until I am inside you. I want to feel you come.’
Yushkov stands and lays her lengthways on the sofa, his powerful thighs forcing her legs wide. He parts her softly with his engorged cock, then plunges into her, his restraint lost. She cries out, clinging to him, digging her fingers into his back. He pushes deeper into her, then holds still, his breathing rapid.
‘You feel so good,’ Yushkov whispers in her ear.
His mouth devours hers, demanding her acquiescence. His teeth hit hers, but he doesn’t stop and she doesn’t want him to. He slides in and out of her, slow and deep, and she responds, her muscles clenching his cock. She returns his violent passion, probing his mouth with her tongue. She bites his lower lip, drawing blood, tasting its metallic tang.
‘You bitch,’ he whispers, gripping her wrists above her head and driving into her faster.
Wolfe cries out and Yushkov lifts his mouth away from hers. ‘Do you want me to stop?’
‘No, I want to feel.’
She runs her fingers up and down his spine, relishing their connection. She knows he feels it too: the outsider, the man who belongs nowhere. He needs this intimacy as much as she does. Their hips move in sync and his urgency grows.
‘Not yet. I want to be on top,’ Wolfe says.
He slows, but she feels his reluctance to leave her.
‘Hold on to me,’ he says, letting go of her wrists.
She wraps her arms around his neck. His hands beneath her, Yushkov lifts her up and stands with her legs wrapped around his hips, then sits on the sofa, with Wolfe straddling him, his mouth a whisper away from hers.
‘You make me suffer,’ he says, smiling.
She runs her fingers through his short hair and kisses his eyelids, his lips, slowing the pace. Neither of them can hold out much longer and she wants to remember this moment before their world flies apart as it surely must. Wolfe has never let her guard down like this, never given herself so completely. He must never know.
Seeing her far-away look, Yushkov lifts her chin, kissing it.
‘Have I lost you?’ he asks.
Wolfe wants to say, Never.
‘Savouring the moment,’ she says.
Cupping a swollen breast, she offers it to him, and he takes her engorged nipple in his mouth and sucks so hard, it’s almost unbearable. She rides his cock slowly, clenching tight, pulling him into her, wanting to hang on to the memory long after he’s gone. Wolfe leans away from him, arching her back, her hands on his knees, his cock angled slightly forwards.
‘No further,’ he says.
She stays where she is, the tip of his erection just where she needs it: on her G-spot. Yushkov’s fingers softly massage her clit as she moves her pelvis back and forth in short, jerky motions. A wave of heat rushes up her body and she throws her head back, making deep, primordial cries, mouth wide, eyelids fluttering, a flush racing across her skin like wild fire. She squeezes down on his cock in rapid bursts, then her release is like a star exploding in her belly. Now, Yushkov rams into her, pumping faster and faster, jaw clenched, his eyes never leaving hers. He roars as he comes inside her, thrusting again and again until he is spent and so is she.
48
Wolfe is still holding Yushkov close. She focuses on the rhythm of his slowing breath, his powerful arms around her, his head buried in the nape of her neck. She is not thinking about the people chasing them. She is happy to imagine she is safe and they might become more than lovers, even though she knows they only have this moment. Their intimacy is shattered by Yushkov’s phone. He lifts his head and kisses her once more on the lips, then pulls away.
‘I must get that.’
Wolfe reluctantly rolls off him and goes upstairs to shower. When she returns in a bathrobe, he has his bare back to her and is leaning over the kitchen’s island bench, his focus on the mobile’s tiny screen, hands balled into fists. He suddenly slams them down on the bench surface. The fruit bowl jumps. So does she.
‘Vitaly?’
Still naked, Yushkov walks to the vast wall of glass and looks out at the bamboo and paved courtyard as if she isn’t there, running his hands over his scalp. Wolfe picks up his phone and sees a video clip. The final frame, frozen on the screen, makes her stomach churn. She hesitates, but she has to know and touches the play button.
The woman’s mouth is open, twisted downwards and bloody, one eye red and swollen, almost shut. Her beaten face is contorted in terror. Tears have left stains on her grimy cheeks. The camera angle is tight and the lighting bright, reflecting off the damp and shiny brick walls. The sound of water dripping echoes, as if she is in a cavernous space. The woman in her thirties is chained to a bed with nothing more than a stained mattress for comfort, her jumper dirty, her jeans soiled.
‘Please don’t,’ she pleads in Russian.
Someone slaps her so hard across her face that her head almost hits the wall, and Wolfe thinks he’s killed her. But the poor woman whimpers.
‘Your sister is a whore!’ the man yells off-camera in Russian.
Yushkov’s sister, Renata.
A man in a balaclava waves a transparent plastic bag in front of the camera as if teasing a dog with a bone. He approaches the bed and tugs the bag down over Renata’s head. She screams, kicking and writhing against her chains, but cannot escape. He holds the bag tight around her neck. Wolfe watches in horror as the woman’s eyes bulge with panic and the bag steams up. As the oxygen disappears, the bag is sucked into her mouth. Just as her body goes limp and her eyelids flutter closed like dying moths, the bag is ripped away. Renata gasps, coughing and retching.
‘Yushkov, you lie to us. You run and hide. Always a coward!’ the masked man sneers, then points at the tortured woman. ‘You have done this. But you can save her. Get us the Ellsworth bacteria and we release her.’ He looks at his watch. ‘Eight sixteen, GMT. In forty-eight hours exactly you stand under the clock at Waterloo Station. We will contact you. If you are not there or fail to deliver, Renata dies.’
Wolfe’s empty stomach heaves at the brutality. She takes a couple of deep breaths, then moves close to Yushkov, peering up at his contorted face, the veins on his neck raised like cords.
‘What do you want to do?’ Wolfe asks.
‘I . . . will . . . kill . . . them.’
‘Are you sure she’s your sister? You haven’t seen her for years. This could be a trick.’
‘She is my sister.’
Wolfe touches his arm. He yanks it away.
‘It’s a suicide mission,’ she says. ‘Don’t throw your life away.’
Yushkov turns from her and picks up his clothes. She follows.
‘Wait! We need a plan, to think this through.’
‘I cannot let her die.’
‘I get that. But we need to be smarter than them if we’re going to save her life.’
He dresses in a hurry.
‘Any idea where they’re holding her? Here or Russia?’ she asks.
‘Russia. It is too much trouble to smuggle hostage into this country.’
‘Okay, how can we help the Russian police find her?’
Yushkov shakes his head. ‘You do not understand. These men are SVR, or maybe Federal Security. The police will not interfere. I have no choice. I must give them what they want.’
‘No!’ She doesn’t mean to shout. ‘The very fact it’s been moved to Porton Down tells us it’s a biological weapon. You cannot hand it to the Russians.’
‘I have no choice.’
‘You do. Just make them believe you have it.’
‘How?’
‘Give them another water-borne microbe. Nothing dangerous. We know plenty of scientists who can help. Scientists at Porton Down.’
He glances up at her as he pulls on a boot.
‘Too risky.’
‘It’ll work. We hand Grankin a canister. He won’t know if it’s t
he real thing or not. He’ll have to take it to a secure laboratory to find out. By then, Renata will be free.’
Yushkov grabs his coat. Wolfe cannot let him leave without her. He will do something reckless.
‘Give me five minutes. I’m coming with you.’
‘Earlier, you say to me I should walk away from this trouble.’ He touches her face and strokes it. ‘I now say to you the same. This is not your battle.’
‘I’m making it my battle.’
Wolfe turns, ashamed at her half-truth. She will do anything within reason to save the life of Yushkov’s sister, but she will not let him hand the Lake Ellsworth bacteria to the Russians.
All she has to work out now is how to stop him.
49
Whore!
I saved you in that freezing alley, ungrateful bitch. I risked my life for you. And how do you repay me? Yushkov will betray you. Can’t you see that? But you don’t run from him. Oh no, you fuck him! Christ!
I clutch a downpipe, shaking with fury. The blood in my ears is screaming, my heartbeat pounding like a home invasion battering down the door to my self-control. I bash my fists on the rendered bricks, trying to control my urge to destroy - anything, everything; you. I press my back against the architect’s front door, partially hidden by the tall bamboo, my breathing as ragged as a chainsaw.