by Tom Wood
“If you feel that’s necessary. But we’re both professionals. I’m sure we can behave with some civility.” She paused. “Unless you’re scared of little old me.”
He smiled because it was a good taunt. To insist their hands remained on the table was to admit fear, but to remove them let her win this first contest of wills.
“Thank you for meeting me,” Victor said, taking his hands from the tablecloth.
She said, “I did wonder why Yigor insisted on a face-to-face. I should have trusted my instincts.”
“I’m glad you didn’t.”
“You do a flawless impersonation of the man.”
“That sounded like a genuine compliment.”
“It was. You can thank me by explaining why we’re here.”
He didn’t answer because a waiter approached to take their order.
“Can you give us another five minutes?”
They sat without speaking for a moment until the waiter had gone. Victor used the time to separate out and analyze the conversations taking place all around him—a young couple eager to finish their meal and find somewhere private; a business dinner more about egos and posturing than commerce; a group of workmates discussing their day and how they were unappreciated and underpaid.
“What do you want?” she asked again.
“I’m here to talk. To see if we can resolve this with some, as you put it, civility.”
“Well, I wasn’t exactly expecting you to ask me to accompany you to Paris for the weekend.”
“Perish the thought.”
She said, “And how exactly do you propose we resolve this?”
“Simple. We go our separate ways.”
“Just like that?”
He nodded.
“You’re right, that does sound simple. But I’m afraid it isn’t going to be possible. You have nothing to offer me.”
“I don’t? I’ve been in London just over forty-eight hours and I’m already sitting across from you. Where do you think I’ll be in a week’s time?”
Her expression remained neutral, but a little too neutral. She had to be concerned, but he couldn’t shake her resolve.
She nodded by way of response, then said, “And I’ve known about you for half that time. Would you like to know what I’ve discovered already?”
“First rule of intelligence: it never tells the whole story.”
“A sentiment I’ve spent my career living by. I’m sure you’ve done the same. And quite a career you’ve had too. Professional assassin. Freelance. Aleksandr Norimov used to be your broker, first for the Russian intelligence services, then when he went into business for himself. I’ve read all sorts of unverified reports about incidents in Paris, Minsk, even as far afield as Tanzania. Quite the well-traveled curriculum vitae you have.”
Victor waited.
“Don’t worry,” she continued. “I don’t expect you to confirm anything. You don’t need to. What I find particularly interesting is that you haven’t worked for Norimov for at least half a decade. I know he sold you out to an SVR colonel a couple of years ago. Funnily enough, I’ve met this particular officer at a cocktail party in the Russian embassy here in London. This was before you two crossed paths and I only spoke to him for a few minutes, but I remember he was the most arrogant man I’ve ever met. Men who are that arrogant are usually sociopathic.”
“Not only men,” Victor said.
She cocked her head slightly and continued. “So, if Norimov sold you out to a man like that—and I admit I don’t know why—I can’t believe you found it in your heart to forgive him. Let alone put your life at risk for his daughter. A stepdaughter, at that.”
“You want to know why—is that it?”
“Partly,” she said. “Though in truth it doesn’t matter why you’re doing what you’re doing. But whatever it is, it must be a fucking good reason.” Victor’s jaw tightened at the obscenity. She saw it. “Too unladylike for you?”
“There’s enough ugliness in the world without adding to it, regardless of gender.”
“I didn’t take you for a hippie.”
“Do you want to see my Greenpeace card?”
She smiled a little. She struck him as the kind of person who never allowed herself to laugh. To laugh meant to lose control. He could relate.
She said, “We’ve strayed off point. But I rather like that we can. Even though we’re enemies it doesn’t mean we can’t be friends.”
“I might go ahead and disagree with you on that.”
The smile lingered. “‘You shall judge a man by his foes as well as by his friends.’”
Joseph Conrad, Victor thought, lips closed.
“Shall we cut to the chase?” she asked.
“Be my guest.”
“I’m an officer of the British SIS and I’m fucking good. I have close ties with Russian and American intelligence. I have contacts in every police force in Europe. Interpol practically falls over itself to help me out when I make a call. What do you think will happen if I put all my efforts into finding out exactly who you are?”
“You’ll find nothing.”
She sat back and stared at his face. He knew she was searching for any of the various visual tells that would reveal he was lying. He also knew that she found none. “Okay,” she said. “You’ve got a good poker face, I’ll give you that. But we both know that the thing you hold dearest is your anonymity. Without it you’re nothing.”
“Do you have a point?”
She began to sit forward but stopped, knowing it showed her eagerness. Victor pretended not to notice. “My point, as you well know, is that whatever happens in this city is not the last of it. You’ve managed to stay alive and out of prison so far, so all credit to you, but I’m no arrogant SVR colonel or technology-reliant CIA officer. I’ve been doing this a long time, and the Office has been in the game longer than anyone else.”
“Perhaps not something to brag about, given the state of the British Empire.”
“Are you referring to an empire carved out by a tiny island barely visible from space that achieved what continents could not before or since? A little over a century ago that empire controlled a quarter of the world’s land mass and a quarter of its population. Not a bad effort for the last empire the world will ever know.”
“The Soviets might have something to say about that.”
“An empire that falls apart within a lifetime is no empire.”
“Alexander the Great begs to differ.”
She smiled. “Look at us, discussing history and politics like we’ve known each other forever.”
“I thought you were threatening me.”
“Poppycock. I was merely helping you to understand the nature of your predicament.”
“A while ago,” Victor said, “you talked about cutting to the chase.”
“It’s good that you can maintain your sense of humor, considering the severity of your situation. I’m not sure I could in your place. Or maybe you’re delusional. Perhaps that’s why you’re not as terrified as you should be.”
“I’m not scared.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Yet you felt the compulsion to state that fact?”
Her eyes were green fire that burned with the intensity of the sun. He fought not to look away.
“But I’m offering you an out,” she said. “I’m offering you a deal. Call it mercy. Call it pity.”
“I hand over Gisele and you let me walk away?”
“Nothing so unchivalrous, I assure you. You don’t need to give Gisele to me. You don’t have to give her to anyone. All you have to do is walk away.”
“You make it sound so easy.”
“Isn’t it? What’s so difficult? Don’t tell me you’re in love with her already.”
Victor smiled to acknowledge the taunt. “No deal.”
“I’m disappointed. For you.”
Victor shook his head. “No, you’re not. You’re scared.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
“You’re terrified of being exposed. That’s why you’re risking everything to tear up London in the hope of killing Gisele. Hardly the actions of someone calm and relaxed.”
“And why are you meeting me? You’re here to negotiate a cease-fire. A side only does that when they are uncertain of victory.”
“No,” he said. “I’m not here to negotiate.”
Her eyebrows rose. She sat forward sharply, eager to know, no longer concerned about showing emotion or maybe too intrigued to think to hide it. “No?” she echoed. “Then pray explain.”
“I’m here for two things. The first is to tell you to leave Gisele alone. I’m not asking; I’m telling. I’m offering nothing in return. And if you’re as clever as I think you are then you’ll realize that whatever else you fear, you should fear me more.”
She did well to hold his gaze without blinking because she had to recognize there was no bluff, no exaggeration. He meant every word.
“The second?”
He stood. Her eyes remained locked to his as he circled the table. “For this.”
She said, “We’re being watched. Right now.”
“No, we’re not.”
“I’ll fight,” she said.
“It wouldn’t make a difference.”
The green eyes blazed. “Only one way to find out.”
He stopped when he stood next to where she sat. She stared up at him. He was pleased to see fear at last in her gaze.
She said, “And if you do kill me, you’re in a crowded London restaurant and you’ll never—”
“Shh,” he said. “I’m not that stupid. I’m not going to kill you here like this with all these witnesses. Not my style. Besides . . .” He lifted up her bag and drew out a wallet. He looked at the credit cards inside, her laminated ID, and then at her. “There’s no rush, is there, Ms. Nieve J. Anderton?”
“You’re making a very big mistake.”
“I’ve heard that one before.”
“You’re a dead man.”
“I’ve heard that one before too. Several times, in fact. Can you guess what all those who’ve said that to me have in common?” he whispered over her shoulder.
She stared at him, eyes narrowing in undisguised anger. “You think it makes a difference that you know my name? Do you think that scares me? A name is the easiest thing to find out about a person and the least important.”
He dropped the wallet back into the bag and passed it to her.
He said, “What’s mine again?”
They held each other’s gaze for a long time until he was aware of a waiter at his side, who said, “Can I get you anything, sir?”
Victor would have said no but the waiter was not the one who had come over before. This one spoke with a South African accent.
The man added, “Don’t even think about it, sport,” before Victor could make a move. He heard the soft click of a hammer cocking. “Unless you want me to shoot you in front of all these nice people.”
Anderton was shaking her head, the faux fear and anger replaced by genuine mirth. “You really thought you could trick me, didn’t you? For shame.”
Chapter 70
As Gisele stood outside Lester’s office, frantically thinking about how to get through the locked door, the door of a nearby office swung open, startling her. A man exited, carrying a basket of cleaning products—sprays, brushes, cloths, and such. He was short and thin, wearing the uniform of the cleaning company that serviced the offices.
Gisele controlled her initial surprise and fear and smiled at him. He smiled back.
“Hey,” she said, “don’t suppose you have a key to this office?” She pointed at Lester’s door.
The man continued to smile and nodded, clearly not understanding English, then went on his way.
Another door opened farther along the corridor and she heard the voice of one of the senior barristers talking on a mobile phone. Desperate to make herself scarce before he appeared, she hurried to the end of the corridor, where there were two doors, one marked HOMMES in gold paint, the other FEMMES.
There were five cubicles opposite a row of sinks. It was kept spotlessly clean and had all kinds of environmentally friendly hand soaps, sanitizers, and moisturizers lined up on the shelf behind the sinks. She went into a cubicle, dropped down the lid, locked the door, and sat down. What now?
She had failed at the first sign of difficulty. She needed his help, but wanted to do this on her own. She wanted to succeed. She had to do her part while he did his.
He hadn’t told her exactly what he was doing, offering only vague assurances. He had been trying to spare her the uncomfortable details, she knew. She would never approve of his methods, but she had survived this far when by all rights she should have died several times over. She had known him for little more than a day but he was the best friend she could ever hope to have because he was sacrificing everything for her. He judged her for nothing. Her faults mattered not to him. He didn’t care that she was self-centered and moody, and, yes, somewhat spoiled.
He was fearless and indomitable. She wanted to be like that. She couldn’t imagine him weak or hurt or not knowing exactly what to do in any situation. He wouldn’t feel defeated now. He would get the job done. He would act. When they had been trapped in the hotel room he had known straightaway what to do.
Her eyes widened. The idea came to her in a sudden, wonderful instant. Remembering what had happened at the hotel was the catalyst, but she thought of the fire-escape plan near the elevators and knew it would work.
She left the toilets. She didn’t know where to find what she was looking for, which embarrassed her a little—she vowed to be more responsible in the future—but she found one soon enough. She paused for a moment. The alarm switch was fixed to the wall of a long corridor lined with doors leading to the offices of the senior personnel. What if one of them was working?
Gisele backtracked and found another switch in the open-plan area. Perfect.
She took a deep breath, fed her fingers into the gap, gripped the lever, and pulled.
The blaring wail startled her. It was louder than she had imagined.
Knowing she couldn’t afford to hang around, she hurried over to her desk, lowered herself to her knees and crawled beneath it. She counted off the seconds in her head, having calculated that she needed to hide for at least a minute.
On sixty, she crawled out and rose to her knees first, so she could peer out over the top of her desk. No sign of anyone. The alarm made it impossible to hear even her own footsteps.
Walking fast, she made her way to the reception area. No receptionist. Caroline had followed procedure and headed down to the lobby. She would be waiting outside in the cold now. Gisele hoped she wasn’t too cold.
She had no idea where it would be, so began with the bottom drawers of the reception desk, knowing that was how burglars opened drawers—bottom to top. Frustratingly, she found it in the top drawer: a ring of spare keys.
There had to be twenty of them. It was impossible to know which would open Lester’s office, so she took the entire set. The weight surprised her. She rushed back the way she had come, the alarm blaring in her ears the whole time.
The thirteenth key Gisele tried turned out to be the right one.
He would be proud of her.
• • •
The Range Rover came to a stop. Victor heard the engine turn off and doors open and footsteps. The drive had been a short one and he had spent each and every second working through his options—planning and strategizing. So far, there was no workable course of action because Anderton had had one of the mercenaries handcuff him before bundling him into the trunk.
He’d traced every inch of the space around him for something to use as a pick or shim, but they were too thorough to have left anything he might be able to make use of.
The trunk opened and light spilled inside, making him wince. Anderton came into view a moment later, her green eyes regarding him with something between curiosity and contempt. Hands grabbed him and hauled him out.
His eyes moved, taking in the positions of the mercenaries—numbering five—Anderton, the two Range Rovers, and the vast empty space of the aircraft hangar around them. The fluorescent lights were bright and the air was cold.
“Where is she?” Anderton asked as she turned to face him.
The South African mercenary remained out of Victor’s line of sight, but he kept track of his position by listening to his footsteps. He was standing a couple of meters to his seven o’clock.
Victor didn’t answer the question. His gaze swept over the four mercenaries who stood before him. None had weapons drawn but he knew they were armed. Behind them, the second Range Rover was parked. Then, at the far side of forty meters of empty space, the exit. He pictured breaking Anderton’s neck, but with a gun drawn behind him he would be dead in seconds if he tried.
“I’m waiting,” she said.
“Get used to it.”
She smiled and her eyes diverted for a moment and she nodded.
Pain exploded through Victor’s brain as the South African struck him on the back of the skull with a handgun. His vision blackened and he dropped to his hands and knees, feeling the world beneath his palms rocking and shaking. He vomited.
“Careful,” Anderton said. “I don’t want him killed so soon.”
“Apologies,” the South African replied. “He’s weaker than I expected.”
The blackness slowly retreated from before Victor’s eyes and the ground came into focus. He gasped and used the back of his hand to wipe the ropes of vomit hanging from his mouth. He didn’t have the strength to stand.
Anderton stepped closer and her snakeskin boots entered his line of sight. “You know how this works, don’t you?” Her voice was soft, almost sympathetic. “You know you’ll tell me eventually, so why go through the pain first?”