No Tomorrow

by Tom Wood

  “But what? When?”

  He shook his head. “We need to work it out,” he said again.

  “Then it must be a detail that out of context is completely insignificant to me.”

  “But everything to her.”

  Her shoulders sagged and she looked down at her hands. “I just don’t know what it could be.”

  He studied her and realized that the lack of understanding created hopelessness and that what she required at this moment was simple assurance. “You’ll work it out,” he said. “I believe in you.”

  She looked up and her eyes met with his. She gave a half smile and he knew he had held off her despair, if only for a short time.

  He said, “I’m going to fetch some supplies. I won’t be long.”

  Her face dropped. “On your own? I don’t want to be by myself.”

  “I won’t be long,” he said for a second time.

  “Can’t I come with you?”

  He shook his head. “On my own I can avoid them.”

  She frowned. “And I’ll give us away—is that what you’re saying?”

  She’d replaced the fear with anger. That was good. It was a coping mechanism.

  “Yes,” he said. “I can’t trust you to stay hidden so you’ll have to stay here.”

  “Thanks for that. You’re such a bastard sometimes.”

  He turned from her, content that she would spend the time while he was away cursing him instead of crying and jumping at every noise outside.

  Chapter 61

  He found shops nearby that were open. There was a row of cafés next to a corner pub and a small convenience store. He bought a sandwich and croissant in the first café and a filled bagel and piece of carrot cake in another. In the convenience store he purchased some drinks and toiletries, including hair dye and scissors. After a short walk he found a phone shop and bought two prepaid mobile phones. He was back at the house within eighteen minutes. She was sleeping in the lounge, huddled in a corner with her coat over her like a blanket. He watched her for a minute to determine if she was really asleep or just pretending to be. When he decided she was sleeping he placed all of the food down nearby because he didn’t know what she would prefer, and took a bottle of water upstairs.

  He gave her half an hour to sleep and returned to the room. She was awake.

  He handed her a pair of scissors and a box of hair dye. She studied them in her hands, as if she had never seen such things before.

  “I thought you were joking before. I didn’t realize you were being serious. You honestly want me to cut my hair?”

  “And color it too. It’s too attention-grabbing as it is.”

  “Is that a compliment?”

  “If you like.”

  She took the box from him and eyed the smiling brunette on the cover. “Can’t I go blond instead? It’ll suit my skin tone better.”

  “The store didn’t have a lot of choice, I’m afraid. The main thing is for you to blend in as much as possible. We don’t want you attracting attention.”

  “Half the women in this town dye their hair blond.”

  “Please just do it.”

  Gisele sighed and looked at the scissors again. “Do you know how to cut hair?”

  He shook his head.

  She fed her fingers into the scissors and snipped the air a few times. “Okay. Fine. I’ll dye and I’ll cut it so it’s just below my ears.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You don’t have to thank me,” she said, sighing. “I should be thanking you, shouldn’t I? You want me to cut my hair in an effort to help me. I wouldn’t have even thought about doing it.”

  He considered this, and nodded.

  • • •

  When she had finished he stood examining the results for a long time. Gisele didn’t like such scrutiny from anyone, least of all him. The dye had colored her hair to a mid-brown and she had managed to cut a few inches from the length so the ends brushed against her jaw.

  “Looks good,” he said.

  “Thanks.” She wasn’t sure she believed him. “I was right, though; it doesn’t suit my skin tone.”

  “That helps us. The less you look like you, the better.”

  “I’ll have to take your word for that.” She paused, then added, “What about clothes? We should get some different ones, don’t you think? Maybe some new glasses too.”

  “That’s smart. That’s a good idea.”

  She smiled for a second, buoyed by the praise. She studied him. “You were already planning that, weren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  She hesitated, then said, “You’re not a bodyguard, are you?”

  “I said at the start I’m not.”

  “You’re not a gangster either.”

  “I never claimed to be.”

  “So,” she said, “what are you?”

  “If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.”

  “Why don’t you try me?”

  His black eyes locked onto hers, studying her gaze, reading her thoughts. He gave a little nod of understanding and said, “Why are you asking when you already know?”

  “I should have known I wouldn’t be able to hide it from you.”

  “You should have,” he said, eyes unblinking. “That kind of knowledge is very dangerous.”

  “Not to me,” Gisele was quick to reply. “Not when you swore to protect me.”

  “From the people hunting you. I never said anything about myself.”

  “You can’t fool me any more than I can fool you. If I had a gun to your head and my finger on the trigger you still wouldn’t harm me. I don’t understand why that is. It makes no sense at all to me. You say it’s because you knew my mother, but that’s not enough. It doesn’t matter if it makes sense to me, though, does it? All that matters is it makes sense to you.”

  He stood still for a moment and doubt crept up Gisele’s spine as she feared she had misjudged how deep his loyalty ran. But he blinked and turned away.

  “How did you know?” he asked.

  “When I was younger I overheard Alek on the phone, threatening someone with a ubiytsa who would do anything for him. I didn’t know what it meant at the time as my Russian wasn’t that good then. I haven’t thought about it since. I’ve remembered it only now. It means ‘assassin,’ doesn’t it?”

  He didn’t try to pretend otherwise. “What he said was untrue. I wouldn’t do anything for him.”

  “I know. I can tell. But he wanted whoever was on the phone to think that.”

  He turned back. “Don’t be under any false impressions about who I am, Gisele. I said before that I deserve your sympathy even less than your father’s men. I meant it.”

  She didn’t respond for a moment. When she spoke, there was a bitterness in her voice. “Don’t worry, I know exactly what kind of a man you are. You’re helping me now, but you could just as easily be one of the men hunting me, couldn’t you?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Only you’re not. You’re protecting me, and for that reason I can fool myself enough to believe that you’re not entirely awful, even if you don’t believe it yourself.”

  He didn’t respond to that either.

  “Have you been through this before?”

  “Through what?”

  “Protecting someone. You seem to know a lot about it.”

  “I told you that I know about personal security. It comes with the job.”

  “That’s not answering my question.”

  He looked at her with his standard stone-faced expression, but she thought she detected something in his eyes—like he was fighting to maintain the facade.

  Gisele said, “She . . . she didn’t make it, did she?”

  He swallowed and exhaled and she saw that for the briefest moment he considered
lying. But he told her the truth. “No, she didn’t.”

  “What happened?”

  “It’s complicated. We were helping each other. We were under threat. People wanted us both dead. It was my fault. I left her alone when it wasn’t safe. I shouldn’t have.” He paused and rested a hand on her shoulder. “But I’m not going to let the same happen to you, Gisele. I promise.”

  She looked away and nodded. “I believe you.”

  Chapter 62

  The head of the department worked from a corner office of HQ’s fifth floor. It was a spacious, modern room that he had personally decorated with cricket and golf memorabilia. He’d been a rower in his university days, but that was more than forty years ago and the sagging shoulders and protruding belly told of an indulgent, sedentary lifestyle. Anderton had met him perhaps thirty times and he seemed like an affable chap. He never tried to flirt with her and she knew better than to initiate such activities, even if she needed to. Which she didn’t. She had the sharpest mind in the building. It was the reason everyone hated her, though they did everything in their power to hide that fact.

  “What can I do you for, Nieve?” the director asked.

  “I have a problem only you are in a position to help me with.”

  He looked at her over the rim of his reading glasses. “That sounds decidedly troublesome.”

  “Quite. I’m sure you’re busy with all the drama here in the city last night.”

  “I am,” he agreed, looking at her closely. “Downing Street is kicking my arse over this. Gunfights in the middle of London. Incredible.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’re not working on it?” the director asked, a certain tone to his voice. “It’s not a narcotics situation?”

  “It’s not narcotics, but I do have some insight into the matter. Thought you might be interested in a few details about the chap running around shooting up half the city.”

  “Go on,” he said. The director smiled at her, as though she were a child withholding a truth already known. “Don’t keep me waiting; there’s a good girl.”

  “He’s a professional killer. A freelancer, as far as I’m aware. To begin with he worked primarily in Russia and Eastern Europe. His handler was a former FSB officer who’s since switched to organized crime. The CIA believes this assassin killed some of their people in the aftermath of a hit gone wrong in Paris two years ago. The SVR wants him for kills in Russia and East Africa. And that’s without all the rumor swimming around the water cooler about incidents in Minsk and Rome. Shall I go on?”

  The director shook his head. “Then how is it he’s still walking around?”

  “Because the various parties haven’t worked out that he’s the same man.”

  “But you did?”

  “I’m the best at what I do.”

  “Are you telling me you know why he’s in London?”

  Anderton nodded. “That would be my fault.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The shooters who’ve been engaging with him are a private security team consisting primarily of former members of our armed forces. They’re following my orders.”

  The director sat as far back as the chair would let him. He stared.

  Anderton continued. “They’re hunting the stepdaughter of this assassin’s former handler: Aleksandr Norimov. I don’t want to bore you with the specifics but she’s in a position to make my life very difficult. Alas, she’s being protected by this assassin. He’s making things . . . awkward.”

  “You can’t be serious. Is this some kind of sick joke?”

  “I assure you, it’s no joke. I have a list of things you can help me with. Some are perfectly legal. Others are a little grayer, to put it politely. But the sooner we put our heads together to get this sorted, the sooner you can pop back to Downing Street to get some well-deserved pats on the back. And then, naturally, I’m going to require that you forget all about this conversation. Clear enough so far?”

  “I suggest you listen to me very carefully, Ms. Anderton. You need to turn around and walk out of this office and start penning a suitably humble resignation letter. Obviously I don’t yet understand all the details—and, by God, I don’t want to—but I can confidently say there is nothing I can do to help you. You are, as they say, fucked.”

  She smiled at him. “I’m going to tell you a story, Jim. You don’t mind if I call you Jim, do you, Jim?”

  The director’s eyes narrowed. He pushed an intercom button with a little finger. “Have security come to my office immediately.”

  “Back in 1948, a seven-pound baby boy was born in a sleepy village in rural Shropshire. He was—”

  “I have no idea what you think you’re doing, Ms. Anderton, but I suggest you keep your trap firmly shut and don’t give security any trouble when they get here.”

  “The boy was a bright student from average means but he went on to win a scholarship at Trinity College. Not only was he intelligent and a hard worker, but he was also gay. He kept it a secret as far as he could, but entered into a relationship with a fellow student. Things turned sour when this student decided he didn’t want to be gay and ended the relationship. There was an argument. The boy was later found dead.”

  The director’s face had gone white.

  Anderton perched on the director’s side of the desk and looked down at him. “The coroner ruled it a suicide but there was some doubt, wasn’t there?”

  “How do—?”

  “Because I do my homework. I know all your dirty little secrets, just like I know the secrets of every man and woman in this place. Don’t look so surprised. We’re in the secrets business.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I’ve told you. I want your assistance—phone-trace authorizations, restricted database access, that sort of thing. And, more important, I need a backdated authorization letter to absolve me of my actions up until now and for what will follow.”

  “What does that mean, what will follow?”

  “It means things are going to get very dirty, Jim. But I want to come out of this clean. And now you want me to come out clean, don’t you?” She smiled reassuringly.

  “You know that is beyond even my power. Whatever happens next, what’s already happened has to be explained. We can’t just pretend it never happened.”

  She brushed some lint from the shoulder pad of his suit jacket. “You can have everyone else involved, how does that sound? The mercenaries work for Marcus Lambert’s private security firm. He’s a big old fish to catch, isn’t he? Been involved in all sorts of questionable activities over the past few years, hasn’t he? When this is over I can give you the name of every shooter involved and evidence that Marcus had them brought to London. It’ll all be wrapped up nice and fast and tidy. And the right people will hang for it. Well, except me.”

  “You’re a monster.”

  “Oh, Jim.” Anderton held his face in her palms. “I do find it amusing you say that as if it’s a bad thing, when we both know that’s precisely why you hired me in the first place.”

  Chapter 63

  The winter sun was bright in a cloudless sky. Victor drove like the other city drivers—slow, within the speed limit, acting like everyone else and not someone hunted by enemies and on the run from the authorities. The car was stolen, but only recently. No one would be looking for it yet and it would be abandoned long before it became a risk.

  He parked the car and left the engine running to encourage someone to steal it. He led Gisele on foot down a busy street. Iron posts lined the pavement, designed to look like the deactivated cannons from the Crimean War that had once been used in their place. Permanent reminders of an imperial past, ignored by those who walked by them.

  Around him, people who had never jogged a day in their lives wore sportswear and trainers. Market traders shouted to advertise their wares and counted out change,
fingertips red in the cold air while the rest of their hands stayed warm under the protection of fingerless gloves. He stopped at a street stall selling souvenir clothing. There were lots of football shirts and T-shirts printed with ILONDON and faces of Royal Family members. He picked out a hooded sweatshirt that read OXFORD on the front and a cap with an image of the city skyline. He paid the vendor.

  “Very you,” Gisele said.

  He took her out of the flow of pedestrians and pushed the sweatshirt into her hands. “Put this on.”

  “You’re joking, surely? It’s about four sizes too big.”

  “It’s only one size too big. It’ll change your body shape.”

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  “So the people looking to kill you will have a harder time picking you out of a crowd. Hurry up.”

  She did as instructed, pulling a face the whole time. He adjusted the strap at the back of the cap and fitted it to her head.

  Gisele said, “I look ridiculous, don’t I?”

  “You look like a tourist.”

  “Like I said, ridiculous.”

  “We need to be as forgettable as possible. We have to be anonymous. If you look and act like everyone else, it will make it more difficult for them to spot us.”

  “What about you? You look the same as you did yesterday.”

  “I know how to make sure people don’t see me.”

  “Yeah . . .” she said. “Must be useful in your line of work. Maybe after this is over I’ll switch careers. Mine is dangerous enough as it is.”

  He didn’t respond to that.

  She stopped, thinking. “We agree that whoever this woman is, she’s after me because of my job.”

  “It appears that way. We can’t know for sure yet.”

  “Okay, Mr. Pedantic. We think that’s it. But as I said before, I’m not a barrister. Any work I do is for the qualified barristers. Maybe this woman is really after someone else. Maybe it really is a mistake, her wanting me dead.”

  Victor thought back to his visit to Gisele’s firm. He cycled through his conversation with the receptionist. It’s probably the office bug. An innocuous statement at the time, but no longer.