by Eva Hudson
“Whaddya ride?”
“Triumph Thunderbird.”
“Ooh, sweet. I got me a Hog.”
“Oh yeah? What model?” Ingrid wasn’t surprised Demir had a Harley. Ever since she’d got rid of hers, she’d changed her opinion about them. She used to think they were sexy, but now she thought there was something sleazy about them. Like the teacher you thought was cool, but looking back you realize was a pervert to have craved the company of teenage girls so badly.
“Softail.”
“Nice,” she lied. “What do you reckon? Can you help me sell it?”
She pictured Demir stroking his mustache. “Well, I’d sure like to. It’s a chance to see who’s out there and in the market for a hot piece, so it’s a nice bit of background for my department. And there’s always a chance it’s gonna help Operation Dovetail.”
“I think it would help if interested parties learn about it from two sources. It also means I’m not the only broker who’s been contacted. Stops Natalya’s reputation plummeting too far.” The lights changed to amber and she roared out in front of the cars. She was cutting it fine to do a full warm-up before the match. “So you’ll say the same thing, that you’ve heard it’s available?”
He inhaled, as if puffing on a cigar. If anyone in the entire FBI was going to smoke at their desk, it would be Demir. “For you, sweetheart, of course I can.”
Yeuch. Gross. “Please tell me you didn’t just call me ‘sweetheart,’ Aslan.” The Bluetooth kept cutting out, making it stressful to listen.
“Hey, you can call me baby.”
Transatlantic static filled her headphones.
“Let me know if you get any interest.” She tapped the side of her helmet to end the call, then pulled into the parking lot outside the Westway Sports Center. Two of her teammates emerged from their car and waved to her. One of them, Catharine, pointed to the bike and gave her the thumbs-up. Everyone loves a Thunderbird. Ingrid grabbed her kit from the top box and dashed inside to get out of the cold.
The Old Fallopians were playing their first competitive match with Ingrid on the team. She was more nervous than she’d expected to be. She didn’t want to let anyone down. Cath was already in the changing room.
“Yay, our star striker’s here!”
They embraced.
“Cutting it a bit fine.”
“I’m here now,” Ingrid said. “And I’m only about thirty seconds behind Catharine and Baby Katie.”
Baby Katie had been the youngest player until Ingrid had joined, but the name had stuck.
Jenny, the team captain, already dressed in the team’s blue and white strip over thermal base layers, stood on a bench. Ingrid listened to the team talk as she got ready. As usual, Ingrid would play down the wing, and Cath ‘the Dink’ Murray was going to play in front of goal. The opposition were older and less fit, so Jenny had agreed the match would be forty minutes long, twenty minutes each way.
Ingrid leaned into Cath. “They don’t sound so tough.”
“Saw them arrive. I think we can take them.”
“Crush them.”
“Destroy them.”
“Not that I’m competitive.”
“No, me either.”
Ingrid looked round the dressing room at the women who had become her friends. Three months ago, the only one she’d known was Cath, and she had never socialized with her outside of work. Somehow it had come up in conversation that Ingrid had just turned thirty-five, and that meant she was eligible to play for Cath’s ‘veterans’ team.
“But I haven’t played soccer since school.”
“Then you’ve got an advantage over most of us because we never learned when we were kids. Come on, it’ll be fun.”
And it had been. These women, ranging from Baby Katie to the Professor, who was fifty-one, had become some of the most important people Ingrid knew in London. One was a senior gynecologist, another a social worker, there was a teacher, a security guard, an animator, a woman who worked in ‘communications’—whatever that meant—and several who worked for the charitable sector. But absolutely no one was employed by the embassy or the Bureau. Cath was the only other player in law enforcement, and it had been a very long time since Ingrid had kept such diverse company. Becoming the youngest Old Fallopian was the best thing she’d done in years.
“So,” Cath said as they walked down the corridor toward the pitch, “I got some news for you.”
“Go ahead.”
“Igor Rybkin’s yacht has been spotted near Tunis. According to our friends who monitor these things, they’ve asked for permission to dock.”
Ingrid’s eyes widened. “That is news.” She wondered if David Rennie had heard. “You got people there?”
“We’re sending out an officer to greet whoever disembarks. Already on his way to Heathrow.”
“What’s the situation with warrants over there?” Ingrid wanted to know if the Tunisian police had the authority to board.
“Really,” Cath said, pausing to adjust her socks, “not my area. But we’re on it.”
Ingrid would make sure the Bureau also had eyes and ears on the ground when the Good Ship Friday docked.
“And no, I don’t know if Rybkin is on board.” After a few paces, Cath placed a hand on Ingrid’s arm. “How are things at work? Guessing it’s all a bit shit at the mo.”
“You could say that.” The closer they got to the door, the colder it felt. Ingrid started her warm-up by walking on her heels to stretch her calves. “Morale is the lowest since I joined.”
“Do you expect he’ll get sacked, that Leery fella?”
Ingrid pulled a face. “I imagine a President Banner might have sacked Director Leery, but he seems to have done President-Elect Pryce a massive favor.”
They stepped out onto the Astroturf pitch, illuminated to a fierce green by the floodlights. Immediately someone called out to her.
“Ingrid! Over here!”
She turned to see someone waving at her from the other side of the perimeter barrier. Behind an advertising banner for a local optometrist was Carolyn. Ingrid ran over to her.
“Hey, gorgeous.” They hugged over the barrier. “Nice to see you. You must be freezing.”
Carolyn still only had her denim jacket. “Kinda.”
Ingrid scrunched up her features. “You spoke to Marshall?”
“He can stew a while.” Her Southern vowels made her sound like a flouncing Scarlett O’Hara.
Ingrid narrowed her eyes. “Call him, okay?” Ingrid turned to the woman standing next to Carolyn. She was olive-skinned with dark curly hair and a cheeky smile. “Hi, I’m Ingrid.”
“This is Lula,” Carolyn said.
“Your new flatmate?” Ingrid asked.
Carolyn looked surprised. “Um, yes. It’s all right for us to watch you play?”
“Of course it is.” Ingrid pointed out a group of supporters. “They’re our lot over there. Husbands and girlfriends and a couple of kids.” Someone had draped a banner that said ‘Come on you Tubes’ over the barrier.
“Are we okay to stay here?”
“Sure. It’s not exactly packed. You going to join us in the pub afterwards?”
Carolyn didn’t look as enthusiastic as Ingrid would have expected.
Ingrid suddenly saw her football gang as Carolyn did: a bunch of middle-aged, badly dressed women. “Only if you want to. I’d better go.” It was so nice to see her. “Give me another hug.”
“Play well,” Carolyn whispered in her ear.
“I’ll try. And keep warm. It’s got to be close to freezing.”
Ingrid ran off to do her warm-up.
“Nice to meet you,” Lula shouted after her, in a heavy Spanish accent.
Ten minutes into the first half, when the referee stopped play for an early substitution, Ingrid looked over to Carolyn. She wasn’t looking back. She was far too busy kissing Lula.
The referee blew the whistle and the match resumed. Someone passed Ingrid the ball and she
let it roll right past her out of play.
“Ingrid!”
“What?” She looked around. “Oh, God, sorry. Wasn’t concentrating.” She went to collect the ball and smiled to herself: the one thing Marshall really wouldn’t like about having a gay sister was that Ingrid had found out before he did. And anything that infuriated Marshall would always give Ingrid pleasure.
27
Ingrid stared down at the headline in her copy of Izvestia. Igor Rybkin’s Yacht Sinks. It wasn’t a big report and merely said the Patnitsa had got into difficulties off the coast of Tunisia. Three crew had died and seven more had been rescued. There was no mention of the yacht’s owner. It had to be linked to the murders in London, didn’t it? But why would Rybkin sink his own boat?
She drained her coffee cup and checked the clock on the wall again. She had been waiting half an hour, and the coffee in the Regency Café wasn’t good enough to hang around any longer. If her contact from the Tate gallery had been held up, she would have rung. It was more likely she had changed her mind. Which wasn’t a surprise: endorsing a stolen Picasso was a move that could end a glittering art world career. Natalya would have to tempt Rybkin from his hiding place without the imprimatur of a Picasso expert.
Aslan Demir had set off the rumor hare in New York, and now Natalya was in bloodhound mode, chasing every little sniff of interest in the black-market painting. She made it clear that she wasn’t the one selling it, only that she had been asked to discreetly find a buyer by an anonymous third party. Even if the Rybkin sting didn’t work out, Natalya was gleaning useful information about who was willing to deal in black market masterpieces.
So far, Vitali Shevchenko had not made contact. If—when—he did, Natalya would tell him she was only making enquiries in the hope of helping him retrieve his stolen property.
Natalya would not be drawn on the price, but everyone knew she was offering them a chance to buy a painting that had sold at auction for $210 million for a miniscule fraction of that figure. A stolen painting isn’t something you can show or brag about, and you can’t sell it easily. Some people would say a stolen painting is worthless, but to Igor Rybkin—the only buyer that mattered—it was priceless. He didn’t care about resale: he simply needed to possess it.
When pressed, Natalya—naturally—couldn’t reveal the name of the person selling the masterpiece. She explained she had been contacted by someone she trusted who said it was available: she was merely a go-between setting up a meeting. Between Demir in New York and Natalya in London, a coordinated transatlantic pincer movement was working to squeeze Rybkin out of whatever hole he was in.
She glanced down at an image of the president-elect on the front page of her newspaper and felt a surge of determination. If he had won the White House through foreign interference, she was going to bring his puppet masters to justice. She didn’t care if a Republican or a Democrat won the election, only that it had been won fairly. Democracy was more important than any individual’s political beliefs.
The Regency Café—an old-fashioned 1940s diner near the Houses of Parliament—was popular with politicians and local construction workers. A line of customers formed at the counter, the beginning of the lunch rush.
Ingrid was hungry, but Natalya would never be seen eating a bacon sandwich or a jam pudding, so she decided to call time on her rendezvous and head back to Mayfair. She stood up, feeling the strain in her quad from the match two days beforehand. Her left foot wobbled on her four-inch heel as she bent to pick up her Stella McCartney handbag.
“A double espresso, I believe.”
It was a voice Ingrid hadn’t heard for over a year. No, closer to two years. She froze. It couldn’t be him, could it?
Nick Angelis. The head of Fortnum Security, a private spy agency, and one of the many men Ingrid wished she hadn’t slept with. Nick looked like he’d aged a decade. He was thinner, wrinklier, and his luxuriant quiff had been felled by a buzz cut. He stood sheepishly before her, unsure if he should smile. It was two years since he’d sent her on an undercover assignment to Stockholm that had gone spectacularly wrong, and he had never made contact to apologize or explain. Until now.
“What the hell are you doing here, Nick?” How dare he ambush her after all this time?
“Buying you a coffee?”
“Go to hell.” She pushed past him and moved toward the door.
“Actually, I just came from there.” He reached out and grabbed her arm. “Please, let me buy you a coffee.”
Ingrid immediately regretted her snippy tone: Nick didn’t look older, he looked ill. He was imploring her, his features full of sincerity, to stay and talk. But all she could think about was the risks he had taken with her life when he sent her to Sweden, the interrogations from her superiors that had followed, and the disciplinary review that nearly cost her career. Not to mention the shoulder injury that meant she could no longer do parkour.
There was no need to ask how Nick had tracked her down: it was what he did for a living. The question was: why now? She stared at his hand on her forearm then back up to his newly lined face. He looked like he should be in a hospital bed. A memory of his tattooed torso and taut biceps flashed through her thoughts: what had ravaged such a strong, physical man?
“Not here,” she said.
They stepped out onto the sidewalk, where the November air made Ingrid pull her pashmina tight around her neck. She took a cloche hat—another designer accessory purchased on behalf of the American taxpayer—out of her bag and pulled it on.
“It suits you,” Nick said. “The hair. And the hat.”
A taxi with its light on turned into the street, and Ingrid raised her hand. “It was as short as yours when I came back from Stockholm. Taxi!”
“I heard,” he said, unusually softly.
If he’d known she’d been forced to shave her head, he must also have known how much trouble she’d been in. So why hadn’t he been in touch? Ingrid looked at him as the taxi slowed. His frailty forced a smile of sympathy from her lips. The driver’s window whirred open. “Connaught Hotel, please.” She opened the door before she realized that Nick hadn’t: he really was sick. “I take it you’ll ride with me?”
“It would be my pleasure.”
Ingrid helped him into the back of the taxi then climbed in, pulling the drifting hem of her pashmina clear of the door. She sat as far back in the seat as possible, putting the maximum distance between them.
“You look, as ever, amazing.” He was gripping the door handle. “You can still make me catch my breath.” He wheezed just to prove his point. His trousers were now so big they bunched at the waist under a belt, but she was still so damn cross with him she didn’t want to ask him what was wrong.
“Obviously none of these clothes are my choice.”
“If it helps, I would buy art from you.”
He knew about her undercover work? An alarm bell started to ring.
“How many millions have you got? I can put you in contact with a Rothko I think you’d like.”
He smiled at her. “You know it would be wasted on me.”
It occurred to Ingrid she had never seen inside Nick’s home. She didn’t know what his taste was like beyond tailored shirts and alligator shoes. But something in the way he spoke suggested a clash of artistic tastes wasn’t why a Rothko would be wasted on him. She couldn’t ignore his appearance anymore. She had to say something.
“So…”
“So. Indeed. You may be wondering why—”
The taxi turned sharply left, beating the lights just as they changed to red.
“I am,” she said. “I am definitely wondering.”
“Well.” Nick reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a USB thumb drive. “I thought you would want to see this.” He placed it on the seat between them, and Ingrid eyed it with suspicion. “Please. There’s no need to pull that face. It’s not a Trojan horse. It’s not infected with a virus that will bring the embassy’s computer system crashing down.�
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Ingrid stretched out a hand and picked it up. She looked at it closely. “Are you sure I want whatever is on it?”
Nick Angelis pursed his lips. “Yes, I rather think you do. And, besides, it’s the least I owe you.”
She dropped it into her bag as the cab took a side road, rattling down a cobbled mews. “Are you going to tell me what’s on it?”
“It’s from Stockholm. From the enquiry into what happened. They’re not due to publish for another couple of months, but I thought you’d want to know you’re in the clear.”
In other circumstances, this information would have brought relief—the fear of sanction for her Swedish escapade had never gone away—but Ingrid’s mind was still on the Rybkin sting. Overwhelmed by his appearance, she couldn’t take on board what he was telling her.
“There’s also something else on there you should look at.”
The cab huffed and puffed its way slowly through the streets, and the words felt as stuck inside Ingrid’s throat as the taxi did in the traffic.
Come on, ask him.
“Nick, I—” It shouldn’t be this hard to show some compassion. “Nick, I don’t know how to say this, but—”
“Probably for the best.” He leaned forward and tapped on the glass behind the driver’s head. “Drop me here, please.”
The driver indicated and pulled over toward the curb.
“Because there are some things,” Nick said, “that are better left unsaid.”
And, with that, Nick Angelis opened the door and climbed slowly out of the cab. Ingrid couldn’t stop staring at him as the driver pulled away. He kept both hands defiantly in his pockets, and tears unexpectedly pricked her eyes: Nick was stopping himself from waving goodbye.
Ingrid breathed rapidly. She raised a finger to her eye and wiped along her lash line. She looked out the rear window, but he had already faded from sight.
Was she ever going to see him again?
And then it hit her. Hard. The alarm bell was ringing loudly now.
“Oh, shit.”
She thumped the seat.
“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!”