by Graham Potts
“I told you to go.”
“The agents insist I stay.”
“Do they?”
“They’ve finally connected some dots. I was in the pub when Volkov killed Sorokin,” Robinson said. “I also happen to be a little bit Russian. Therefore, the agency believes that I know something and have given me a room upstairs. Isn’t that why you’re here?”
Elliot pushed her chair away from the table and stood up. “I’m not, I’m leaving.” The spoon clattered on the tabletop.
“You’re a coward, Simone.”
Elliot paused and turned, her nostrils flaring. “You want to shout my name a little louder?”
“I just wanted to make a point.” Robinson picked up the straw and reached across the table, dragging the lime spider towards her. “Grigoriy fell asleep on the sofa one night and left his laptop unlocked. I know who you are. I know all about you.” She stabbed the straw into the drink and sipped. “Wow. That’s really good.”
Elliot returned to her seat. She picked up the spoon and tapped it on the table. “Help yourself,” she mumbled.
Robinson poked at the ice-cream with her straw. “Did Stepan give you that necklace?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“It seems like the kind of gift he’d give.”
“How would you know?”
“I lived with him for nearly two years,” Robinson said. “I know him very well, perhaps better than you.”
Elliot’s grip tightened around the handle of her spoon, her knuckles turning white.
“And you.” Robinson took another sip through her straw. “I know that you’re an orphan and spent your childhood in and out of foster homes, neglected, beaten, and probably worse.”
Elliot lowered her head and screwed her eyes shut.
“I know that you stole to survive, to eat, and eventually ended up a thief.”
She opened her eyes. “I never had the chance to be anything else.”
“Until you found a family,” Robinson said.
Elliot looked away.
“You had a brother.”
Darren Harper had tracked her down. Not even the police could find her but he did. Elliot remembered that first meeting, standing awkwardly in a train station waiting for him. She still remembered that his train had been due at 12:15 in the afternoon. She had been so nervous she had checked her watch every thirty seconds. Three times, she had walked out of the train station but she had always turned around again.
What if he doesn’t like me? What if he doesn’t like who I am? What if it’s all a mistake?
But it wasn’t a mistake, and she knew the minute he stepped off the train that Harper was her brother. He looked right at her, in the middle of all those people crowding the platform, and he smiled at her. He knew that she was his sister.
Elliot moved in with Harper near the army base. She found steady work—legitimate work—and lived a “normal” life for a little while. He introduced her to his friends, beaming proudly as he showed off his newly discovered family. She enjoyed meeting the other soldiers in his platoon, including his best friend.
Stephen.
“Stepan was your lover, wasn’t he?” Robinson asked quietly.
Elliot absently rubbed her arm.
“You knew him before he was the Wolf, but something happened, something that drove a wedge between you.”
“What makes you think I’d tell you anything?”
“You don’t have to,” Robinson said. “I know there was a war, a promise, and a funeral.” She shrugged. “You probably overreacted.”
“He killed my brother,” she seethed. “They went to war and Stephen promised to bring Darren home alive.” Her chest started to ache. “Instead, my brother was carried home in a coffin.”
“But that’s not the whole story,” Robinson observed. “Tell me the rest.”
Elliot stared at her.
“You don’t know?” Robinson asked in exasperation.
“I don’t need to know anything else. He went to prison and then he disappeared.”
“You don’t want to know.” Robinson pointed an accusing finger at Elliot. “It’s much easier to just blame him. It must be someone’s fault so it may as well be his.”
“You don’t know me,” Elliot snapped.
“Yes, of course, you’re special,” she said. “I was fifteen when they kidnapped me while I was walking to school. My family was murdered so they’d never come looking for me.” She took a deep breath and started stabbing the table with her finger. “I was bought by Nikolay Korolev and served as a slave in his club.” Robinson pushed the lime spider away. “Stepan saved me. He gave me a second chance. And you judge him, the man who loved you, for something you never witnessed?”
“I never said—”
“Fuck you, Simone.” Hot tears flowed down Robinson’s cheeks. “He was the only one who treated me like a human being. He paid for my education, kept me fed and kept me safe and he never asked anything of me. Not once.”
“Natalie, I—”
“He got me to this paradise,” Robinson said, waving her arm. “He got me a passport, a driver’s licence, full citizenship in Australia and fully paid tuition so I could finish a university degree. He also made sure I had plenty of money to make a start.” She glared at Elliot. “He saved me.”
Elliot slouched, running her hands down her face. “He’s still a killer,” she said coldly.
“You know he’s more than that. You know he cares.”
“Do I?”
“He was broken out of prison by the Organizatsiya,” Robinson said. “I’d say Nikolay arranged it. If it’s true, Nikolay will enslave Stepan until he feels he has worked off his debt.”
“What’s your point?”
“Stepan wasn’t a killer until he was brought to Moscow.”
“You didn’t know him before he went to Moscow,” she said through clenched teeth.
“I was raped at gunpoint to make money for Nikolay. Do you think that’s my fault for being beautiful?”
“No!”
“Do you think that I’m just a prostitute?”
“Of course not.”
“Stepan kills to make money for Nikolay. It’s what he knows, what he’s good at, but it’s not all he is.”
“He could’ve stayed in prison.”
“And you didn’t have to steal things.”
“I was trying to survive,” Elliot shouted.
“And now it’s all you know. It’s what you became.”
She looked up at the bar in time to see the waiter turn away and clear his throat. “I want you to stop talking now.”
“None of us had a choice, Simone,” Robinson said. “Choices are for people with options.”
Elliot’s hands were trembling. “Enough, Natalie. Stop it.”
Robinson shook her head, her chair squeaking across the floor as she stood. She leaned towards Elliot, her hands flat on the table. “I don’t pity you, I hate you. Not for what you stole, but for what you threw away.”
Elliot looked down to see that her hands were balled fists. She unrolled her fingers and saw a bent spoon in her palm.
“I hate you, Simone,” Robinson spat. “And I wish he did too.”
Elliot raised her head, her eyes wide, and watched Robinson leave the bar. She lowered her gaze and stared at the lime spider, the icecream melting over the edge of the glass.
He still cares for me?
The elevator doors opened on the third floor and Lee Singh groaned. Emily Hartigan was waiting for him in the hallway. “What are you doing here?” he asked, brushing past her.
“Your DNA test results came back,” she said, catching up to him. “She’s definitely Simone Elliot.”
“So?”
“I want to be there when you arrest her.”
“I told you. I’m not going to arrest Elliot.”
“But she’s—”
“Not my problem,” Singh finished. “Murphy is the man we want. Elliot
is the bait.”
“What if she escapes?”
“She had her chance. She’s not going to run.”
“What if we miss our chance?”
Singh stopped and turned around. “You know, you insisted I call Waters a witness but don’t blink when I call Elliot bait. What’s the difference?”
“I, uh.” She cleared her throat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Is it because one was a constable and the other is a thief?”
“No!”
“Does it have anything to do with all the cops you called today?”
Hartigan laughed nervously. “You’re—”
“The Angela James case, Emily.” Singh rolled his eyes.
“Have you been tracking my calls?”
“Your dad was the detective in charge of the case, right?”
She pressed her lips together, her eyes darting around. “Elliot knows stuff about the case, stuff that was never made public. She must’ve been involved somehow.”
“Maybe she stole the information.”
“My dad never mentioned her involvement,” Hartigan said. “It doesn’t add up.”
“Leave it alone, Agent Hartigan. Murphy is our target.”
“Target?” Hartigan crossed her arms. “Do you want to pick another word?”
“Do you?” Singh opened the door to an office suite.
The room was supposed to be an executive’s office but the desks had been pushed up against the windows and groaned under the weight of surveillance equipment. There were binoculars, a directional microphone, and a radio receiver and headset for the bugs in Elliot’s room. Two laptop computers were humming on one of the desks, a printer and fax had been installed and the telephone lines had been activated. The suite had panoramic views of Elliot’s hotel and had been manned since her arrival.
Hartigan wrinkled her nose and raised the back of her hand to her mouth. The smell of sweat and processed meat was so thick she thought she could taste it. Discarded takeaway containers and greasestained pizza boxes were scattered around the equipment, while empty cans of energy drink had been stacked in a pyramid on the floor next to an overflowing rubbish bin. Two suitcases bursting with clothes were stashed in the corner and a cot had been set up at the rear of the room, the sheets tousled and the pillow stained with coffee.
An agent sat in the middle of it all and blinked slowly as he turned to face the new arrivals.
“I thought I told you pigs to clean this mess up,” Singh said.
The agent immediately sprang to his feet, his back straight as if standing to attention. “Agent Singh, we weren’t expecting you this early.”
“Well, surprise,” Singh said wryly. “Where’s the other one?”
“Over at the hotel.” The agent stared at Hartigan, his eyes clearing.
“Why?” Singh asked, squinting through the window.
“We watched her all afternoon, even while she napped.” He coughed. “She ‘napped’ for six hours.”
“You moron,” Singh said, his hands on his hips.
“Sir, wait,” he pleaded. “She left her room unnoticed but not the hotel. I went over there at about six o’clock and found her in the bar.” The agent’s eyes wandered, surveying Hartigan’s body from head to toe. She pulled her coat tighter around her waist.
“And?” Singh asked.
“I stayed over there and read the newspaper cover to cover but she still didn’t go to her room,” the agent continued, smiling crookedly at Hartigan. “I had to leave before I got made so I checked that Natalie Robinson was settled and then I came back here and swapped out.” He winked.
Hartigan realised the agent was undressing her in his mind. She averted her eyes.
The radio crackled on the desk. “She’s on the move,” a voice said.
“Is that him?” Singh asked.
The agent nodded. “He’s been there for about ten minutes.”
“She’s talking to the concierge,” the radio hissed. “She’s picking up a package.”
Hartigan frowned at the radio.
“Okay, she’s in the elevator, going up.”
“She’s playing it cool,” Hartigan said, eyeing off the cot.
“So far,” Singh said. He turned to the agent and jabbed his thumb towards the door. “Get your friend and fuck off.”
The agent nodded and grabbed his coat, winking at Hartigan again before leaving the room. She shuddered, kicking off her shoes and tossing her coat over the back of a chair.
Singh sat down on an office chair and looked through the window. A loud pop burst out of the headphones on the desk. “She’s in her room.”
Hartigan sat on the cot and massaged her calves, cringing each time her fingertips found a knot. She peered up at Singh, who sat as still as a statue, staring through the window. “You need to have a word to your agents. Did you see the way that guy was looking at me?”
“Makes you wonder if those sheets are clean, doesn’t it?”
She screwed up her nose and stood, wiping her hands on her skirt. “Men are disgusting.”
“And women are beacons of good behaviour,” he said.
She sat on the chair and dragged her coat over her shoulder, spreading it over her chest like a blanket. “Are you talking about Elliot?”
He reached out, snatching the binoculars from the desk.
“Because I don’t think she’s representative of my gender,” Hartigan continued. “I mean, have you read her file?”
The headset let out a muffled shriek.
“What was that?”
“She’s destroying the listening devices,” Singh said, putting his feet up on the desk. The headset shrieked again.
“How many are there?”
Another squeal. “Four.”
“She knew about them when I asked her about Angela,” Hartigan said. “Why wait until now to destroy them?” She reclined in the chair and closed her eyes.
“Exactly.” The headset let out its last shriek. “Damn,” Singh mumbled. “The fourth one was the tricky one.” He nodded slowly. “She knows what she’s doing.”
“That’s what I was saying,” Hartigan said. “Did you know she stole about $30 million worth of stuff before she was twenty-five? Art was stolen from European galleries, jewellery was reported missing by fashion designers, and cash disappeared from the safes of bankers and media owners.” She knitted her fingers together, placing them behind her head. “Documents disappeared from corporate offices and law firms. Diamonds and wine vanished from Sotheby’s auctions.”
Singh looked through the binoculars, cursing under his breath. “These are useless. We should have night-vision equipment.” He tossed the binoculars away and reached under the desk, dragging a locked case towards him.
“And then she did that job on the Melbourne Cup,” Hartigan continued. “She made off with about $2.5 million in a day. She did another job on a horse race in the UAE that netted her twice as much.” She let out a low whistle. “Any wonder they call her the Serpent. Slippery and manipulative, that’s her.”
“When was the last time you fired a gun?” Singh asked. He kicked open the case and reached inside.
“Basic training.”
“I heard you scored highly.”
“Yes, but…”
Singh hefted a pistol and rammed a magazine into the weapon.
Hartigan sat up and placed her feet on the floor.
He handed her the pistol. “Safety is on,” he said. “There’s no round in the chamber.”
She took the pistol with a trembling hand. “Do you know something that I don’t?”
“Like I said, she’s waiting. She’s not scared of us but she wants us to stay out of it. She knows something’s coming for her.”
“Something or someone?”
He tapped his finger against his nose and pointed at Hartigan.
MOSCOW, RUSSIA THURSDAY 15 SEPTEMBER 3:36 PM MSK
“Still nothing?” Anna asked, stirring her tea
.
Grigoriy shook his head and sat down, placing his mobile phone beside his coffee cup. “I left another message,” he mumbled. “I don’t know where he could be. Did he try calling you?”
“I already checked twice,” she said. “Nothing.”
“And you saw him leave your place yesterday?”
“I already told you,” she said. “I saw him at four in the morning and he told me to get some sleep. Then he left. I haven’t seen him since.”
“I’m sorry. I’m just worried.”
“It’s not the first time he’s disappeared on you.”
“No, but thirty-six hours without contact is rare.”
“I think he went to see her,” she said, placing her teaspoon on her saucer.
“Her?” he asked.
She raised an eyebrow. “You know who I’m talking about.”
He cleared his throat. “I don’t, no.”
“He has some photographs of her. He took them with him.” Anna peered at him over the top of her cup. “He’s in love with her.”
“I thought you said he wasn’t capable of love.”
“I didn’t say that,” she said defensively. “I was just wondering if she could love him, even if she knew what he was.” Anna glanced around the room curiously.
It was one of the fashionable cafés that catered to Russia’s swelling upper class. Many of the people sitting at the tables were the children of wealthy media owners or bankers. Others were young lobbyists or politicians who worked at the Kremlin. All of them were desperate for places to spend their money, places where people would adore them for being wealthy and influential. Places where they could also forget about “everyone else”. It seemed ambitious but they managed ignorance particularly well, even though the number of poor people in Moscow was growing faster than most of their share portfolios.
It was strange today, however, Anna thought. There was a quiet desperation, a restless insistence that was hidden between words and thinly veiled by the fragile hum of the café. People hunched over their plates and whispered, their faces stern, their gaze heavy. It was the bombings; life was no longer a promise others had an obligation to keep. At any moment, their bodies could burst in a cough of crimson ash and swirl away in the dust of a destroyed building. Their lives would be digits on a news bulletin and they would be forgotten by the time the commercials came on. Living was now more urgent, crying out for attention over the sounds of rattling cash registers and ringing mobile phones.