“Look for her? For Anna?”
His face was grim. “I want the truth. Maybe when I see her, I’ll feel the same happiness I felt that moment I bumped into you and thought it was her. Maybe I’ll realize it ended at the right time.” He shrugged. “At least I’ll find out why she did what she did, what she was hiding from me.”
For the first time since she’d reencountered David, she was annoyed. “Do you seriously have no idea? A woman was so unhappy she just disappeared, and you haven’t a clue? If she was hiding something, what about you? Were you so open with her?”
Caught off base, he looked defiant. “Well, I wasn’t, was I? I mean, no one’s open and honest all the time. I was juggling a lot of things, a lot of commitments.” He sighed. “I did have someone else here in London, which is why the only times we met outside New York were in Paris. You know that trip when I returned to New York and got the letter from Anna saying she didn’t want to see me again? The joke was on me because I had finally broken off with the woman here. What messes we humans make of our lives, eh?”
“Was that the one you ended up marrying? The one you broke up with?”
“No. That one ended up marrying a French journalist. I guess what I’m saying is maybe Anna and I can meet up and find the truth. Or at least compare lies.”
After a pause, he asked, “And you, Tanya? How’s life treating you?”
She shrugged. “It’s okay. My work here might be finished before I’d expected.”
“Then back to New York?”
“Yeah, I guess.” She took a deep breath. “Listen, would you promise me something? If I ever contact you and ask you to call me from a pay phone or to be at one at a certain time, will you do everything in your power to do that?”
“What? Why?”
She took out a card on which she’d written just an email address, [email protected], and the password “2Gud24Get” and handed it to him. “Keep this in a safe place. It’s important. In case of an emergency—only in case we absolutely can’t get in touch with each other—log into this account and look in the Drafts folder. And if you need to communicate with me, do the same thing: write an email from that account, not to me, to any fake name, and put it in that folder. Do not send it. Do not email me. We can both read the drafts without sending emails. And don’t use your own computer. Go to an Internet café, all right? I’m sure this is all for nothing, but it could happen. I could decide to leave London in a hurry, and if I do—”
“Whoa! Hang on a minute. Are you in trouble?”
“It’s nothing like that.”
“Nothing like that? You’re talking about calls to pay phones, not using my own computer, strange email accounts, and it’s ‘nothing like that’? What’s wrong, Tanya? Tell me?”
The look of concern on his face made her want to confess everything. Only the knowledge that he’d hate her if she did made her say evenly, “Really, it’s no big deal. It’s just that I think there might be something funny going on, like maybe some industrial espionage or whatever. Seriously, no biggie.” She paused. “So I might have to leave suddenly, and I want you to know I’d never leave again without saying good-bye.”
“Again?”
The blood rushed to her cheeks. “No, I didn’t say ‘again,’” she lied. “I said ‘London.’ I’d never leave London without saying good-bye. That’s all. I don’t mean to be a drama queen.”
“So you’re not serious about the pay phone?”
“No, I am serious.” She waved to the waitress to bring a check. “Listen, it’s complicated. It probably won’t happen. But if it does, I’ll explain it all, I promise.”
Outside, she told him she’d walk to Shaftesbury Avenue and grab a taxi.
“You’re sure you aren’t in trouble? Okay, we’ll talk soon then,” he said. “Thank you for dinner and for listening to me natter on about a bygone romance.”
“I like listening to you natter, David. Honest.” She kissed him lightly on the cheek, but her lips lingered because it was just so damned hard to turn away, and then, before she could, he did what she’d been longing for all along—pulled her abruptly into his arms and kissed her. Deeply, passionately kissed her. She didn’t even try to stop him. She responded, melting against him, the contours of his body fitting familiarly into hers, his taste on her tongue, her lips. Then, just as abruptly, he pulled away.
“I must be mad.” He stared at her, then reached out and touched her cheek. “We’ll talk.” Then he turned and walked away.
She walked past Shaftesbury Avenue and on to Piccadilly, needing fresh air and a few minutes to sort out her thoughts. One more glass of wine and she might have begged David to come home with her. And then what? She couldn’t go to bed with him. How could she even see him again?
She wished she’d been able to tell David, if not the whole truth, at least that a friend of hers had been killed. How crazy would that have been? But she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Jan. She kept seeing Pierre at The Ivy, folding the note from George and slipping it into his pocket. Why hadn’t he crumpled it up and tossed it on the table? Had Jan died because of knowing Tanya was Anna? Was Barton involved?
Kelm or no Kelm, she had to end her contract. Not just to get away from Barton Pharmaceuticals and whatever was going on there, but to escape from the mess she was making with David as well. Neither situation, she was sure, could end well for her.
It had been a busy week that had led up to this serious scheming and her instructions to David. Monday morning, she’d stopped by Barton’s office on the way to her own desk. “He’s decided to take a few days off again,” Eleanor told her, sounding exasperated. “He said he might not be back until next week.”
“Anything wrong?”
“Who knows?” Eleanor said testily. “I didn’t bother inquiring why he called at the last minute to tell me to cancel all his appointments, then snapped at me when I asked when he’ll be back.” She got control of herself. “Ignore me. I’m just busy enough without having to deal with making excuses when I cancel meetings for an entire week.”
“I don’t want to put you to any more trouble, so do you mind if I check his Rolodex or whatever for a phone number?” she’d asked.
Eleanor gave her a you-must-be-kidding smile. “Has anyone used a Rolodex since Margaret Thatcher was in office? Mr. Barton keeps his numbers on his BlackBerry, Tanya, and he keeps that with him.”
“There’s no place else he might store numbers? You must keep a list of calls you place for him, no?”
Peering up over her glasses, Eleanor looked doubtful. “If you give me the name, I can see if I have a number. But he places most calls himself, not through me.”
Anna took a deep breath, knowing that, morally, she was about to break confidentiality—but legally, it was a gray area of her restrictive agreement. “The name’s Martin Kelm. K-e-l-m.”
She watched as Eleanor’s fingers moved over her keyboard. “Nothing. And the name isn’t familiar. A supplier?”
“No. Just a contact. I’ll check my office again. Otherwise, it can wait.”
She waited for fifteen minutes before ringing Eleanor. “I found that number, thanks. Silly me, I’d stuck the paper under the telephone.” She hoped that was enough to make Barton’s efficient assistant forget she had asked.
Wednesday, she’d met Rob for curry, and, toting out her would-be stalker for what she hoped was the last time, picked his brain about the relative security of landlines, mobiles, text messages, and emails. He asked a lot of questions, and at first she wondered if he was one of “them,” someone in Kelm’s pocket, though that seemed far-fetched. Only at the end of the meal did he provide the reason for his anxiety. “So, this Romeo with his eye on you, you don’t think he’s going to come after me, do you?” His relief when she said that if the guy was going to follow anyone, it would be Neil, the nonexistent man she was d
ating, convinced her that if some vast conspiracy existed, Rob wasn’t part of it.
Over lunch, he’d supplied the helpful information she would give David about using the Drafts folder in Hotmail to communicate without sending emails that might be intercepted. Before they’d parted, Rob made her promise to call him if anything frightened her.
At lunchtime Thursday, Anna had stealthily made her way to the Tube and headed for Vauxhall Cross. Looking up while entering the forbidding-looking SIS building, she was surprised by the airiness of an atrium going up through all the floors, flooding it with light. But once fully inside, the security desk, metal detectors, and guards erased any resemblance to a Marriott.
The middle-aged man behind the desk looked up without expression.
She’d decided stupidity was her best approach. “I’m trying to contact someone who works here. Is there a house phone so I can be put through?”
Her silly question did manage to make the man look more human, though he didn’t hide a snicker. “This isn’t The Ritz, miss,” he said. “We don’t ring through. If you give me the name, I’ll check on the department and number for you, but you’ll have to go call on your mobile or from a pay phone. The name?”
“Kelm. Martin Kelm.”
He worked a minute on his computer, muttered something, then pulled out a big directory and flipped through pages. “No such person here.”
“Might he be in a different building?”
“If you’re looking for the Intelligence Service, this is the one. What department would Mr. Kelm be in?”
She frowned, aiming for awkward, embarrassed, and lovesick. “I don’t know. He never said.”
“Well, if his name’s Martin Kelm, you won’t find him here.” At her stricken expression, he leaned forward and said softly, “It’s not all that unusual, you see, blokes telling the ladies they’re MI6. All very dashing and James Bond, I suppose. But if he worked here, his name would be on the lists.” He nodded. “Sorry I can’t help.”
“But—” His pitying yet cool stare said louder than words, Don’t waste my time, girly. “Thank you.” That was that.
Outside, she walked to Vauxhall station, then retraced her steps to the pub she’d been to with Barton. Taking a stool at the bar, she ordered a half of cider from the barmaid, a stout older woman with badly dyed copper hair. “Quiet today,” she noted as the woman set her glass down on the bar.
“Because we don’t do set lunch during the week, luv. So we don’t get the crowds in until later, just the punters who place bets at the bookie’s down the street. You from the States, then?” She set down the cider, and Anna spied a roadmap of broken capillaries under her veneer of powder.
“Something for yourself as well?” she invited.
“Ta, I’ll take a Bell’s.” She poured herself a measure of whiskey, toasting in a ladylike way before saying, “Down the ’atch then,” and knocking it back.
Anna put a ten-pound note on the bar. “I’m from New York. Just here for a few weeks. Friend of mine brought me here and I liked it. Comfy but nicely maintained.”
“Yeah, it changed owners last year, and the new fella put a bit of dosh into fixin’ it up.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “You know, the secret service people are right up the road, posher types, and ’e went after their custom. Smart man. Come the rush hour, this place is filled with three-piece suits and brollies.”
“Suit and umbrella sounds like my friend. He comes in often, I think. And that’s where he works, too.”
“Yeah? What’s ’is name then?”
“Martin,” she said. “Martin Kelm.” And when the woman shook her head, Anna added, in what she hoped sounded like adoration, “Older than me, not too tall, blond hair, kind of pointed nose. I guess he’s not handsome to everyone, but . . .”
“What counts is that ’e lights your fire, eh? Nah, don’t know ’im. But then, we get a lot of that type in ’ere.”
By the time Anna had finished her cider and a bag of potato chips, some of what the barmaid called the “lunchtime non-eating regulars”—a few badly shaven old men in worn clothing—had arrived and taken up posts at various tables with racing forms and Daily Mails. She shouldn’t have had that drink; she felt a headache coming on.
When she was walking up the street across from the office with yet another Pret A Manger sandwich for a hurried desk lunch, she saw Barton’s Bentley at the curb, Aleksei at the wheel. She tapped at the window, and it slid slowly down two inches.
“Is Mr. Barton in the office?”
“No, Mr. Barton is in the countryside. I came to give you this.” He slid the window down the rest of the way and reached over; his hand emerged, holding a small tote bag. “He says these are products for you. No nurse visit tomorrow.” As soon as she took the bag, the window slid back up. She started to cross the street, then turned back so she was facing the driver’s side of the car, then turned around and tapped on Aleksei’s window. With a venomous look, he slid it halfway down. “Da?”
“Your fender. What happened?”
“Hit-and-run.” He shrugged. “Someone hit the car in a parking garage. I park, come back, and it’s like this. Nothing you should worry about.”
“But—” The window slid up, cutting off her words, as Aleksei turned the key in the ignition. Without another glance at her, he drove away, leaving her staring after the car, a knot in her stomach.
Aside from her dinner with David, Anna spent most of the weekend at the gym trying to work off her anxiety or curled up with the books she bought for cash on Saturday morning: Time Out’s latest guides to Prague, Berlin, Rome, and Amsterdam.
Of course, Aleksei hadn’t killed Jan, Olga had tripped, there was no plot, and MI6 agents couldn’t be expected to go around using their real names all the time. She’d probably have a good laugh at herself when this was all over. She would tell Pierre she wanted out and hope that would be that. In the meantime, she needed to make that plan and be prepared to put it into practice.
After a restless weekend, she called the office Monday morning and asked Eleanor if Pierre was back. “Not coming in today,” Eleanor said succinctly. “Now he says he might not be back until Thursday or Friday, if then. Anything you need? I thought you found that number you’d lost.”
“Oh, that. Yes, I did. No, I was just checking ’cause I’m not feeling so hot, but I was going to drag myself in if Mr. Barton wanted me.”
“No. You may as well stay home. I’ll let Becca know. I’m thinking of bunking off early myself. Like a morgue here today.”
Bad choice of words, Eleanor, Anna thought as she hung up. She turned on her computer, stuck in one of the flash drives she’d bought, and carefully copied all her files. She’d opened a safe-deposit box at the bank the week before; she’d take this there now, first getting more money from a cash point or two. She’d been withdrawing her Tanya salary in bits and pieces on a regular basis, storing it up in the envelope, almost £2000 of it already converted to euros, that she’d left in the box with all her real ID. If she ever had to flee London, she couldn’t risk leaving a trail of bank card transactions.
She spent the next days moping around the flat, calling in sick and checking to see if Pierre had turned up, going out only to buy groceries. She was just killing time now, but she couldn’t leave without speaking to Barton. She owed him that, and she should try to salvage as much of that other £750,000 as she could. She went to the office Thursday in the hopes of finding out more, but it was pretty much a wasted day. Eleanor said she hadn’t heard anything, Chas was on vacation, and BarPharm was indeed like a morgue.
At the end of the day, she knocked on Becca’s door to tell her she was going to work from home the next few days and to say Becca could, too, if she liked. “I think I’d best be here in case any calls come in, Tanya,” she said. “Besides, my father’s taken this week and next off to refurbish the kitchen, so i
t’s pleasanter here.”
Anna couldn’t imagine finding BarPharm pleasant ever again.
Friday she woke feeling jumpy and unsettled and decided to treat herself to a comforting traditional breakfast at Bailey’s Hotel down the road. Outside the Gloucester Road Tube station, she picked up both the Guardian and the Mail, then she let a plate heaped with bacon, sausage, and eggs in quiet, dignified surroundings soothe her jangled nerves. When she’d eaten the last grilled mushroom on her plate, she ordered coffee and opened the papers. She expected the news would be the same as usual. Trouble or smooth sailing in the Eurozone, depending on which paper one read. Prime Minister applauded or heckled, ditto. Too much spending or too much taxation, ditto.
No sooner had she thought, Slow news day, than she saw a photograph of people who struck her as vaguely familiar. The headline made her sit up straight: “Russian Couple Found Dead in Luxury Hotel.” It was breaking news, and the story hadn’t really been fleshed out yet: a couple who had been staying at the five-star Park Lane Lodge for the past two months had died in a probable suicide pact or murder-suicide. Galina and Pavel Rusakov had registered as representatives of the Russia UK Business Association (RUKBA), but that organization said the Rusakovs were unaffiliated and unknown to them. The police were asking anyone with information to come forward.
Quickly, she paged through the more sensationalistic Daily Mail. Instead of just the passport photos released by the police, the Guardian’s only images, the Mail had others. Most could have been of any young Russians, but one caught Anna’s eye like a fishhook: the last known photo taken by Mr. Rusakov—of his wife in front of Harvey Nichols. Not only did Anna recognize the woman’s blue jacket with white piping, she also knew her own NYU T-shirt when she saw it. There, behind the corona of Galina’s wheat-blond hair, was the back of Ms. Tanya Avery, who was busy pretending to study the Vivienne Westwood outfit in the store window. She finished her coffee as if she didn’t have a care in the world, but her mind was running fast and furious. She needed to go to several cash points to make more withdrawals from her UK account and then visit her safe-deposit box—not to put anything in but to take everything out. In the nearby Earl’s Court area, she could go online in an anonymous Internet café instead of at the apartment. Her Virtual Private Network wasn’t enough to make her feel secure about her new computer today. Deep down inside, she’d known for some time that people were dying for a reason. She was determined to find out why.
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