by WOOD TOM
He stayed on stag until finally Gisele stood and began walking away. Victor caught up with her.
‘You can give that a rest, you know,’ she said.
‘Not until it’s over.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘It will be. I’ve got her by the balls over this business in Afghanistan. If she has any sense she’ll make a run for it. The rest of my firm knows all about the case now. Lester, bless him, was doing it pro bono without their knowledge. Aziz is going to have his conviction quashed and then she’s screwed. It’s only a matter of time before she goes down.’
‘When she does, I’ll give it a rest.’
They walked some more. She said, ‘How’s the ankle?’
‘Getting better. Slowly.’
‘I’m glad. What are you going to do when Anderton is out of the picture?’
‘What I always do: disappear.’
‘What… for good?’
He nodded.
‘But you don’t have to. The police aren’t after you. They’re after her.’
‘It’s not as simple as that. It’s better for everyone that I go.’
‘But you saved my life. Several times. And I still don’t know you. I want to rectify that. I figure you’re a little more personable when we’re not being chased.’
‘No good will come of it, Gisele.’
She said, ‘Why don’t you let me decide if that’s true? My mother liked you, after all.’
‘Because she didn’t know me. You know more about the real me than she ever did.’
‘And I want to know more. You’ve done so much for me. At least let me buy you a coffee, or something.’
‘No,’ Victor said. ‘If you’re in my life then you’ll never be safe. I won’t do that to you.’
‘So that’s it? Once Anderton is behind bars, I’m never going to see you again?’
‘That’s the way it has to be.’
‘I don’t believe that’s true. I think what you’re really trying to say is that you don’t want to see me.’
He didn’t respond.
‘That’s it, isn’t it? You’ve never given a shit about me, have you? You did this for my mother, not for me. And now you’re going to go because you’ve done your job and that’s it for you. All done and dusted. Over. The End. Yes?’
He nodded. ‘That’s right.’
She exhaled through her nostrils, lips locked, jaw flexed. ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Fuck off then.’ When he didn’t immediately move, she said, ‘What the fuck are you waiting for? Go. Go.’
He turned around and walked away.
Anger instead of pain. The better way.
EIGHTY-ONE
Marcus Lambert sat in one of the luxurious leather seats in the passenger compartment of his Gulfstream jet. Opposite him sat Anderton. He regarded her with an even expression while she said her piece.
‘In a way I admire him,’ she was saying. ‘Whatever his name is. He found the girl under our noses and kept her alive despite our best efforts. That kind of guile is rare. God, I wish we’d had him on our team back in Helmand. Can you imagine it?’
‘Admire,’ he repeated.
‘Yes, admire. But he still needs to be taken care of. As does the girl. Marcus, I need another team. I need a larger team this time. I need more resources. Boots on the ground and guns aren’t enough. It’s not too late to fix this.’
Marcus poured himself a neat Belvedere on the rocks.
‘Well?’ Anderton said.
He sipped the vodka. It tasted no different to any other kind of vodka, but appearances mattered more to him than enjoyment. He’d worked too hard not to sample the best. He’d worked too hard to throw it all away.
‘No,’ he answered. ‘The answer is no. No more men. No resources. It’s time to abort and bow out.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘It’s over, Nieve. Even if you kill them both, that’s yet another crime to keep buried. You can’t have shootouts in the middle of London and expect to stay hidden. That’s tantamount to lunacy. You said you would take care of this. Instead, you’ve quadrupled our exposure.’
‘I’m taking care of it.’
‘Like we took care of it in Helmand? And now look where we are. We couldn’t keep the murder of one British intelligence officer suitably quiet. It still came back to haunt us. I think your unnamed assassin has proved he will not go down without a fight. That’s even more exposure. It’s time to cut our losses and take a trip to a non-extradition country.’
Anderton laughed. She actually laughed. That’s how delusional she had become, Marcus thought. She said, ‘Don’t be so cowardly, Marcus. This is far from a lost cause. It’s out in the open, yes, I admit that. But proof is such an abstract concept and I refuse to accept defeat until I’m in chains. By the time this is over I’ll have them branded as terrorists. And when terrorists are shot, there will of course be media attention and so on, but ultimately it will come out that Gisele is the daughter of a Russian mobster and the mystery man… well, we can create whatever narrative we like for him. Throw in a bit of the Official Secrets Act, and there’ll be no loose threads to pick. Trust me.’
‘I do trust you,’ Marcus said, thinking I don’t. ‘But there comes a time when the cost of victory is too great. This is a battle that cannot be won cleanly. Better to fight it another day. In court, if necessary. But not on the street. Not with bullets. We must be reasonable. We must not let our emotions rule us.’
Anderton was shaking when she said, ‘No, Marcus. It’s far too late to keep this clean. But we have to finish it. There’s no other option.’
Marcus sighed, then nodded. There was no arguing with the woman. All he could do now was go along with Anderton and cover his own ass as much as possible. There were few things he’d like better than to put a bullet in the stupid girl who had created this shitstorm, but he wasn’t going to do anything that might get himself killed in the process. The job was compromised. The truth would come out. It was only a matter of time.
He wasn’t about to give up all he had achieved. He refused to spend the rest of his life behind bars. Not for a spoilt woman overcome by ego.
He looked at his watch. ‘Last chance, Nieve. Come with me to South America and leave all this behind. What do you say? We can be in the air in twenty minutes.’
Her green eyes blazed. ‘I don’t run away. I fight until the end. You know me. But send me a postcard.’
‘I had a feeling that would be your response.’
He pushed a button on the chair’s console. A man entered from the cockpit. He had a silenced pistol in one hand and a hypodermic syringe in the other.
‘What is this?’ Anderton said, rising from her seat.
‘It’s for the best,’ Marcus replied as the man stepped closer.
EIGHTY-TWO
Andrei Linnekin sat in the uncomfortable office chair of his spartanly furnished office. The chair was deliberately uncomfortable. It was an ugly hunk of plastic and thin padding that made his back sore and his ass numb. The Russian crime boss had personally fished it out of a junk yard. He couldn’t sit still on the chair. He couldn’t relax in it. It reminded him he had to stay sharp. He couldn’t become comfortable. When he did, his reign at the top would be over.
He said, ‘Before we continue, there is something you must understand. This is a matter of principle. I’m a man of honour before I’m a man of power. I keep my word, first and foremost. That is important to me. If I say I’ll do something, I’ll do it or die trying. I have no ego. I know I’ve been lucky to get where I am today. I have no more intelligence than any man. I have no more strength or courage. But I am where I am nevertheless. I have been attacked, although I am unharmed. All my men know this. They are upset because they failed me and scared of the repercussions that may follow. There will be none. It is I who failed them.
‘I believe in integrity and I believe in justice. I believe a man is only as good as his word and I believe that we are only treated as we allow ourselves t
o be treated. Forgiveness is against human nature. To forgive a wrong is to invite another. I believe in justice. No wrong should go unpunished.’
‘I understand,’ the visitor said.
‘You do? Good. Because I cannot continue with this unless you do. Because you are to deliver justice. I appreciate your involvement. You come highly recommended. Is it true you killed Yuri Ibramovich?’
The oligarch, once a member of the Moscow mafia, had formed a breakaway outfit and used his criminal organisation to force his way into legitimate businesses. He had been found dead in his fortified dacha, his throat slit from ear to ear, his murder having gone unnoticed by the army of mercenaries who patrolled his home.
‘I never discuss my previous work.’
‘I’ll take that as a yes. But I have lots of killers working for me. If it were merely a matter of having a man killed, I would have had no need to ask the bosses back home for help. Before this nameless f —’ Linnekin stopped himself cursing, then punched his desk because the man who terrorised him still held power over his actions. He took a composing breath and began again. ‘Before this nameless fuck can be killed, he must be found. He could be anywhere by now. My men wouldn’t know where to start. I don’t know who he is. I want you to hunt him down.’
‘I assure you that my associates and I are well versed in locating the invisible. You’ll only hear from me again when it’s done.’
‘The money will wait for you in escrow. I don’t want to give that man another thought until his blood runs cold. Make sure he knows who sent you before he dies.’
The visitor nodded and stood and left without a word. Linnekin watched the woman walk away. She was slim with good bones. Reputedly, an expert shot. A redhead.
To himself, Linnekin said, ‘Let’s see if the price of crossing me is worth it.’
This team had never failed. They were efficient and ruthless.
Four Scandinavians: a Finn, a Swede and two Danes.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
As always, thank you to those who work the magic behind the scenes and help this wordsmith along the many highs and lows.
At my publishers: Hollie Smyth, Jo Wickham, Tom Webster, the Sales team, Sean Garrehy, Anne O’Brien, and Thalia Proctor. Special thanks to my editors: Danielle Perez and Ed Wood.
My agents: Scott Miller and Philip Patterson. Thanks also to Isabella Floris and Luke Speed.
And finally, a big thank you to my friends and family.