by Graham Potts
Anna was gone.
Maxim burst through Nikolay Korolev’s door, a file folder tucked under his arm. “Stepan Volkov was in Australia. The bastard went off the reservation.”
Korolev ignored him and continued typing on his laptop. His reading glasses reflected the iridescent glow of the screen, hiding his eyes behind two discs of white light.
Maxim’s arms fell and he cleared his throat. “Nikolay?”
“I’m very busy, Maxim,” he said, without looking up.
“But I have the information you wanted,” Maxim said, holding his folder in the air.
Korolev grunted. “Bring it here, then.”
“The news reports were right and Grigoriy told the truth,” Maxim said, placing the folder on the desk. “Volkov was in Australia. Something must be done.”
Korolev shut his laptop and picked up the folder, reclining in his chair. He placed the folder on his lap and adjusted his spectacles before opening the cover.
“He has gone too far, Nikolay,” Maxim insisted.
Korolev licked the tip of his middle finger and turned the pages, skimming the articles.
“You can’t let him make up his own rules,” Maxim said.
“Is this all you could get?” Korolev didn’t wait for an answer. “These are just news articles and blog posts.”
“I’m still waiting to hear back from our sources in the region,” Maxim said, flexing his fingers.
Korolev grunted again.
“There are images, too. They’re from an online newspaper.”
“Indeed,” Korolev mumbled, flicking through the photographs. He stopped suddenly, running his finger down the length of a photograph. He snatched it out of the folder and held it up for Maxim to see. “Who is this?”
Maxim squinted. “That’s Leanne Waters, a local police constable. She’s a witness. The Australians are taking her back to their headquarters.”
“She’s bait.” Korolev examined the photograph. “Waters, you said.”
“That’s right.” Maxim ran his hand across his bald head.
“What do you know about her?” Korolev asked.
“This isn’t about her,” Maxim said. “This is about—”
“Maxim!” Korolev barked, pounding the desk. “I asked you a question.”
Maxim’s face flushed. “She’s been in the police force for three years but her history is a bit thin. She’s a nobody.”
Korolev reached for his silver letter opener and smoothed the photograph out on his blotter. He pointed the tip of the blade at the throat of the constable. “This woman is no constable. This is Simone Elliot,” Korolev said. “Do you know who that is?”
Maxim shook his head. “Should I?”
“Before your time, perhaps,” Korolev said. “She is a thief, Maxim, and a very good one, too. Her peers call her the Serpent. She creates identities, slipping in and out of worlds, jobs, and friendships. She deceives, she manipulates, and she steals.”
“Why does this matter?”
“She stole from me,” Korolev said darkly.
Maxim snapped his fingers. “And Volkov betrayed you to her, right?”
“Enough,” Korolev hissed. He took his glasses off and glared at Maxim. “I will deal with Volkov. Your problem is Elliot.” He pushed back from his desk and stood up, twirling the letter opener around his fingers. “I want her dead.”
“But the Australians have hidden her.”
“Then you better find her,” Korolev said impatiently.
“Just get Volkov to do it,” Maxim snorted. “He—”
Korolev seized Maxim’s arm and twisted it, locking his wrist. Maxim cried out as his face was slammed down on to the desk. He squirmed until Korolev placed the cold blade of the letter opener against his neck.
“Have Elliot killed,” Korolev said. “Volkov is not to know about it.”
Maxim closed his eyes. “I don’t understand,” he stammered.
“I don’t expect you to understand,” Korolev growled. “Do as you are told.”
Maxim licked his lips and nodded slightly. “Yes, Nikolay.” He held his breath. “But how will we fill the contract?”
Korolev released Maxim and stood up straight, retreating behind his desk. “I want eight men with no discernible connection to Volkov.”
“Eight!”
“Don’t interrupt.” Korolev tapped the flat of the blade against his chin. “Each one will receive an equal share of a million-dollar bounty, so they are to work together. And I want capture protocols in place.”
“But, Nikolay.” Maxim took a step back, rubbing his arm. “Those protocols are rarely implemented. It’ll be hard to get volunteers.”
“Then it will be a good challenge for you.”
Maxim opened his mouth, quickly closing it again and nodding in surrender.
“Make the preparations immediately.”
“This could take up to seven days to arrange.”
“You have three days.”
Maxim nodded again.
“Once she’s found, assign some men in Australia to watch her until the professionals arrive.” Korolev paused. “Tell them not to approach her.”
“She’s just one girl.”
“Maxim!”
“Yes, Nikolay. I’ll start now,” Maxim said, stepping back towards the door.
“Wait.”
Maxim turned. “Tell the men not to kill any cops during the job,” Korolev said. “We don’t need any Russian businesses raided by over-zealous police officers.”
“Yes, Nikolay.”
The door slammed closed and Korolev stared down at the photograph on his blotter.
Is Stepan looking for you? Or are you looking for him?
Korolev grunted. It didn’t matter, anymore. He tossed his letter opener in the air and watched the blade plunge into the photograph, pinning Simone Elliot to the desk.
CANBERRA, AUSTRALIA TUESDAY 13 SEPTEMBER 4:30 PM AEST
Simone Elliot’s face wrinkled as she felt a dull ache pound through her chest. She held her hand over her heart, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath.
Heartburn? Stress?
She was in pretty deep trouble and it was only a matter of time before somebody figured out who she really was. After that, Volkov would only be the start of her problems. Two days, tops, she thought, and then she could slip away, but first she had to give him a chance to find her again. She’d missed an opportunity and wasn’t going to waste another one. All she had to do was answer to the name “Leanne Waters” for two more days and try to stay out of trouble.
Elliot glanced at Emily Hartigan, who was muttering while fiddling with the radio dial. Agent Hartigan frowned at the console and jabbed at the buttons in frustration.
“Brake, Emily. Brake!” Elliot cried, holding her hands up.
Hartigan stomped on the brake and the car shuddered, lurching to a halt behind a silver sedan idling at the traffic lights. “Sorry about that,” Hartigan said sheepishly.
“Why don’t you tell me what to look for on the radio so you can concentrate on the road?” Elliot asked, massaging her forehead with her fingertips.
“I’m looking for the news.”
Elliot nodded and twiddled the knob. The radio hissed static and spat garbled conversations as radio stations faded in and out. “I’m not really getting anything here.”
“Never mind,” Hartigan said. “I need a new radio.”
She needed a new car, Elliot thought. It looked like the car of a high school student. Its exterior was one tone of rust and two tones of faded paint, the chrome tarnished and the side panels dented and scratched. The upholstery was torn and bleeding blue foam while the carpet was fraying and breathing strange odours. The accessories only worked intermittently, and, even then, only when encouraged by an impatient fist pounding the dashboard.
Elliot noticed that the car was littered with traces of Hartigan’s personality, too. The back seat was stacked with books, including a tome on body language that
was bookmarked with a leaflet from a dating agency. There were three novels by Jane Austen that appeared well read, as well as a Russian–English dictionary. Folded newspapers lay scattered on the seat, their puzzle pages exposed, the cryptic crosswords all solved. Academic papers about Soviet trade policies and Siberian mineral deposits poked out from under magazines with investigative pieces on organised crime. There were takeaway containers, empty coffee cups stained with lipstick, a faded can of body spray, and a pair of muddy running shoes.
“What were you hoping to hear on the radio?” Elliot asked. She saw a manuscript at her feet, the wrinkled pages wrapped in a rubber band, and she picked it up.
“Nothing specific.” The light turned green and Hartigan shifted out of neutral. The clutch caught and jolted the car, the engine whining and the bearings squealing. The car started to shake when Hartigan put it into third and a tin of breath mints rattled in the ashtray.
“The media can’t tell you much more about Volkov than we already know,” Elliot said, ripping the rubber band from the manuscript and thumbing through the pages. “They usually get their information from you guys, anyway.”
“I don’t think the media’s interested in Volkov anymore,” Hartigan said. “The news is full of stories about our oil discovery.”
“A press conference might stimulate some curiosity,” Elliot said.
“Lee Singh is the agent in charge,” Hartigan said. “He seems to believe that the public doesn’t always have a right to know what’s happening.”
“Who wants to see how sausages are made, right?”
Hartigan glanced at Elliot. “That’s very cynical for a police constable.”
Elliot tapped a finger on the manuscript in her lap. “No free man shall be seized or imprisoned, or stripped of his rights or possessions,” she quoted, reading from the page.
“The Magna Carta,” Hartigan said, nodding.
“You wrote about due process in your thesis.”
“It’s important to remember, even when dealing with criminals outside our borders.”
“Do you really believe that?” Elliot asked, turning the page.
“Yes, I do.” A Mercedes sped past and zipped into their lane, cutting them off. Hartigan sighed and slowed the car. “Look, we all have rights, even the worst of us, even if we’re not citizens of a democracy when we commit a crime against one.”
“So Volkov deserves due process?”
“Of course.”
Elliot clicked her tongue and closed the manuscript. “Do yourself a favour and don’t mention this to your Agent Singh.”
“I’m sure he agrees with the sentiment,” Hartigan said.
“Is there anything I should know before I meet him?” Elliot asked, tossing the manuscript on the floor.
“He’s a bit of a mystery, actually,” Hartigan said, checking her mirror and merging into the next lane. “Apparently, he served in the military during the war but nobody seems to know what he did there. Some people think he’s a burnout and others think he’s the agency’s best man.”
“What do you think?”
“Well, he’s not very popular and he’s definitely not a team player,” Hartigan said. “Everybody has been warning me to stay away from him.” She shrugged.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
Hartigan pressed her lips together briefly, changing gears. “He’s the new kind of agent, the one the media warned us about during the war. Our agents have new powers, carrying pistols whenever they feel like it, and they use dehumanising words like ‘kinetic targeting’. Singh is one of those agents. His job is to kick down doors.”
“You don’t approve?”
“It’s hard to explain.”
“Try me.”
Hartigan rolled her hands over the steering wheel and wriggled in her seat. “He’s nothing like my dad.”
Elliot clicked her fingers. “Hartigan. Of course.”
“You worked with my dad?”
“I met him before he retired, and before I was a cop,” Elliot said. “He was a good detective.”
“He was.” Hartigan nodded slowly. “I guess I can’t help comparing every cop to him. He’s a hero, after all.”
Elliot shook her head. “There’s no such thing, Emily.”
“I honestly hope you’re wrong about that.” The car drifted to a stop outside a hotel. She dipped her head towards the building. “This is where you’ll be staying. The booking is under my name and we’ve taken care of the bill for the next week.”
Elliot peered through the window. Smooth white pebbles shimmered in a driveway that swept across the broad façade of the hotel, inviting guests to climb the stone stairs to the glassed entrance. The valets wore tailored suits and stood at the top of the stairs, flanked by neo-classical columns that held up a solid slab of stone carved with friezes. The palatial building climbed to a modest five storeys, though it was high enough to cast long shadows that stretched over the gardens. “Are you serious?” Elliot asked, looking back at Hartigan.
“Just don’t touch the minibar.”
“Why, what’s in it, Belgian chocolates and cocaine?”
“European beer. It tastes terrible,” Hartigan added, wrinkling her nose. “The food is pricey, but there’s a good Thai restaurant around the corner.”
“Right.” Elliot opened the door.
“We have a team watching you from across the street in case anything goes wrong or Volkov reappears. They’ll be there until nine in the morning. I’ll pick you up at about eight-thirty.”
“I’ll keep an eye out for a gilded horse-drawn carriage,” Elliot said dryly, stepping out of the car.
“Speaking of fancy,” Hartigan said, clearing her throat. “Do you have any other clothes you can wear?”
Elliot looked down at her jeans and knitted top.
“You’re at the dizzy end of policing, Leanne,” Hartigan said. “It will pay to look professional.”
“Good point,” Elliot said. “I mean, I’d hate to embarrass you in front of your boss.”
“Please, Leanne,” Hartigan begged. “If you want, I can even bring you something.”
“Don’t bother,” Elliot said, grabbing her duffel bag from the back seat. “I’ll take care of it and I’ll see you at eight-thirty.” She closed the door and waved Hartigan away.
The car jerked forward and stopped. Elliot heard Hartigan wrench on the handbrake and turned around.
“One last thing,” Hartigan called, emerging from the car. She popped the boot and plunged her arms inside. She rummaged through shoeboxes full of paper, eventually rescuing a thin folder from her mobile archive before slamming the boot shut. “I wanted to show you that even the best can lose when they play against the Organizatsiya.”
“You’ve already convinced me that I’m hip deep in shit, Emily.”
“Still, it makes for interesting reading.” Hartigan passed her the file. “And it’s more entertaining than television.”
“What is it?” Elliot asked, studying the cover.
“It’s everything we have on Simone Elliot.”
Simone Elliot plunged her hand into her duffel bag and pawed through her clothes. “Aha,” she cried triumphantly. It was the only collared shirt she owned. She dragged it out of the bag and flapped it against her legs, suddenly wishing she’d been more meticulous while packing. Elliot sighed and tossed the wrinkled shirt on the bed. The file was sitting on the bedside table. She wiped her palms on her jeans and sucked in her bottom lip before padding across the room. Her eyes closed, she used her thumb to lift the front cover. She took a deep breath and looked down, the tension bleeding from her shoulders when she saw that they still didn’t have a good photograph.
Of course they don’t.
Elliot shook her head and picked up the file, cradling it in her arm and scanning the pages. “Born in Australia,” the first page said. “Notorious thief”, “millions of dollars unaccounted for”, “celebrity mansions, horse races, banks, gold deposit
ories”. She turned the page. “Descriptions of Elliot vary and witnesses are considered unreliable,” she read. “Elliot alters hair colour, eye colour, make-up, language, and general appearance. However, witnesses all agree that she is attractive, athletic, and short.”
Short? Elliot shut the file and tossed it away in frustration. “Short!” she spat, running her hand through her hair and turning to the linen cupboard. “I am not short,” she muttered, opening the cupboard. “I’m…” Her voice trailed off. The iron was sitting on the top shelf. She stretched her arms into the air and stood on the tips of her toes but could barely get a finger to it.
Elliot groaned. You can’t change what you are, she thought. She used her foot to drag a chair towards her and climbed on top of it, reaching into the cupboard. The iron’s electric cord had been severed. Elliot wearily rested her forehead on the open cupboard door, taking a deep breath.
I’ve been playing by the rules for too long.
He’d handcuffed her to the bar. He never would have managed to cuff her three years ago. Three years in hiding, living under a false identity as a police constable, fading into the background, and she’d lost the edge.
Elliot flopped on to the chair and pulled her duffel bag towards her, rummaging through her clothes. She pulled her satchel from the bottom of the bag, tipping its contents into her lap. There were forged passports, fake business cards and identification cards, a small roll of cash, a pistol, and two magazines of ammunition. She set aside the pistol and magazines and shuffled through her alternate identities.
Circumstances almost always forced her to be someone else but usually only for a little while. This time, however, it had been too long since she’d been herself. There was no pretending now. He was coming for her. She wanted him to come for her, and she would wait, but she had to be ready. It was time to think, to plan, to learn. She needed new clothes and a ready supply of disposable cash, at least until she could access her offshore accounts. And she couldn’t waste any time.
She tossed her papers aside and heard the jingle of jewellery. Her forehead wrinkled, she rummaged through the pile, and her shoulders slumped when she found the necklace.