by Jagger, Kait
The three men continued to bicker around her. Mika reverted to Swedish and Luna understood enough to know that he was fighting her corner. Sören launched into a counter-argument and an exasperated Matthias began talking over them both, when they were abruptly interrupted by a horrible sound, of choking, retching. The four of them looked down to see Stefan, awake at last, clawing at his breathing tube, his bloodshot eyes locked on Luna.
All conversation stopped after that as medical staff were called to the room, the tube and life-support equipment removed. A consultant came and went, nodding her approval of Stefan’s vital signs, and someone pressed a cup of ice chips into Luna’s hand.
‘Hej,’ she said softly to Stefan, kissing his brow. ‘You gave us a scare, älskling.’ She fished a sliver of ice from the cup and fed it to him whilst Sören stroked his hair.
Mika attempted a jest, quipping, ‘Welcome back to Kansas, Dorothy,’ and they all laughed mutedly.
All except for Stefan. Who crunched the slice of ice, swallowed it, then commanded in a hoarse croak, ‘Get out.’ Sören opened his mouth, but Stefan promptly cut him off. ‘Everyone but Luna, get out.’
‘Älskling, please…’ Luna began when the others had exited the room.
‘I want your promise, Luna—’ Stefan’s throat caught and he coughed involuntarily, pressing a hand to his bandaged stomach, eyes watering with pain. ‘I want your promise that you will not go to the Russian. He is—’ He stopped, took a gasping breath. ‘—too dangerous.’
‘Stefan,’ she begged. ‘You’re hurting yourself. Please stop—’
‘Your word, Luna!’ he rasped fiercely.
‘I promise,’ she said swiftly. ‘I promise I won’t. Now, please, you must rest.’
She stayed with him as the nurse brought morphine, waiting anxiously for it to take effect, thanking God when at last he breathed out a sigh of relief. At his tired insistence, she climbed carefully into bed next to him, lacing her fingers through his and murmuring into his ear till he drifted off.
Then she rose and stood for a moment, looking down on his sleeping form.
The three men were waiting for her in the hallway when she exited his room. ‘When he wakes,’ she said to Sören, ‘tell him that I’ve been admitted for tests. Tell him the doctors have insisted on strict bed rest.’
She turned to Matthias and Mika, silently motioned with her head, and walked out of the unit’s double doors.
Chapter Eighteen
Luna accepted a hand from the driver of a private speedboat moored at the docks adjacent to Marco Polo Airport. Sliding into one of the leather seats, she looked out onto the lagoon, toward Murano and the Basilica di San Marco beyond, glowing warm and magnificent under a sunny March sky. On the dock, Matthias stood smoking a cigarette and talking quietly with Mika.
She had decided, in the end, to seek a home field advantage for her rendezvous with Putinov. Not Arborage, because she would never allow him to set foot there again, but the Wellstone family palazzo in Venice. Rather to her surprise, Matthias had agreed with her decision. He had friends in Venice, he said, and others he could call on for help.
Two of these others appeared now, walking down the wooden dock. Luna almost didn’t recognise Kimi and Kiki Salonen, dressed as they were in suits and sunglasses, unsmiling for the first time since she’d met them. They looked… different; alert and vaguely menacing, though when they stepped onto the boat they immediately moved to sit on either side of her, Kiki kissing her on the top of her head and Kimi throwing his arm protectively over the back of her seat. She threw a look at Matthias and he lifted an eyebrow. You asked for this.
They didn’t speak during the half-hour journey to Venice. Passing close to the Piazza San Marco, Luna saw workers busily clearing rubbish and swilling away mud. Recent storms in northern Italy had precipitated a week’s worth of flooding from which the city was only just recovering. The smell along the Grand Canal, the vague whiff of fetid dankness mixed with ever-present diesel fumes from the vaporetti, also spoke of floods, though when their boat pulled into a smaller canal, the waters were a calm, deep turquoise.
Their boat slowed to a puttering crawl. They passed under a bridge made of black wrought iron, with delicate curved scrollwork along its sides, upon which a small group of school children were running across, their feet chiming dully on the metal surface. A gondolier floated past dressed in a straw hat and red-and-white-striped shirt and their driver exchanged a few desultory words with him.
The Wellstone family’s palazzo was located in the Cannaregio district, on the very verge of the former Jewish Quarter, the Ghetto Vecchio. Not the most fashionable area of the city, and Luna could remember Stefan’s predecessor, John Wellstone, who lived there in aristocratic dissipation for over thirteen years, jokingly referring to the palazzo as ‘my humble waterside bolthole’. In reality, the Ca’ delle Ali Angeli was one of the jewels in Venice’s diadem, a three-storey, fifteenth-century building in Venetian Gothic style, graced by twin statues of angels on its terrace, photos of which featured in almost every one of the city’s tourist websites.
Still, no photos, nothing she’d heard about it could prepare Luna for her first, dreamlike approach to the palazzo’s exquisite white marble façade. Its ornate web of arches and quatrefoils appeared to float directly on the canal, which lightened to a whitish blue-green where it eddied against steps leading up into a colonnaded loggia. Cutting the engine, the driver pulled up alongside the steps, where a woman stood waiting for them dressed in black, her silver bob glinting in the water’s reflected light.
‘My dear,’ the Marchioness of Lionsbridge murmured after Luna disembarked from the boat, kissing her first on one cheek, then the other. Lady Wellstone’s eyes strayed to the bandages visible under Luna’s V-neck jumper and softened in concern, but Luna turned away, making brief introductions to the four Salonens. ‘Your brother is waiting for you upstairs,’ Lady Wellstone said, gesturing toward the high, heavily beamed ceiling above them.
Mika and Matthias promptly headed off into the interior of the loggia, but the twins stayed put, studying the buildings on the opposite side of the canal, watching passing traffic on the water. Kimi said something in Finnish to his brother and Kiki turned to the Marchioness. ‘Can we see your security system, please?’
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I’ll send my housekeeper to show you.’
She took Luna’s arm, leading her across an intricate mosaic floor punctuated by Corinthian columns that opened onto a sunlit internal courtyard. A lemon tree in full flower stood in the middle of the yard, its scent following the two women up the marble staircase that hugged the palazzo’s internal walls.
Luna wished she was there under different circumstances, that she had the energy and time to appreciate the enormous Murano glass chandeliers and frescos that adorned the palazzo’s main gallery, the aura of drama and history that imbued its state rooms, the dappled light from the canal that danced across the wooden ceilings. As it was, she was entirely focused on conserving herself for what lay ahead.
It had been laughably easy to arrange the meeting with Putinov. Luna simply reverted to PA mode, phoned his ‘office’ in London, which sounded like it was in an empty storage facility, and spoke to some Russian bitch who wasn’t initially inclined to be helpful. ‘He is very bee-zay mahn,’ she announced in a bored voice. Luna pictured her studying pink acrylic nails, twisting a strand of blonde hair extensions around her finger.
‘Tell him I’m phoning on behalf of Stefan Lundgren,’ she replied icily. ‘He’ll make time for it.’
Putinov’s flight was due in just after 8pm and there were still preparations to be made for Luna’s summit with him, coaching and drilling that Matthias insisted were necessary. He was waiting for her in a small salon overlooking the courtyard, a laptop and tablet at the ready on the table before him. As Augusta ushered Luna into the room and took her leave, Timo Salo
nen stood from a chair in the corner, briefly clasping Luna’s arm.
‘I will be watching tonight,’ he said simply, and walked out, shutting the engraved walnut double doors behind him.
Luna took his place in the chair. ‘Timo isn’t an accountant, is he?’
‘He is,’ Matthias attested. ‘But he is other things too.’ He rotated his laptop toward her. ‘Let’s begin.’
*
‘I never thought I would end up here, of all places. This was always John’s home, not mine. But after I finished travelling last year, somehow England had lost its appeal…’
The Marchioness and Luna sat on a bed in a darkened room at the top of the palazzo, with walls covered in rose-coloured silk and windows overlooking the courtyard. Lady Wellstone’s beloved King Charles Spaniel, Regina, was curled up against Luna’s thigh as her owner methodically brushed Luna’s hair, twisting and pinning it.
Luna had been forced to ask for help. The wound in her shoulder hampered her movements to the extent that even applying makeup had been a challenge; a French twist had proven beyond her.
‘I’ve even struck up a friendship with two of John’s former mistresses,’ Lady Wellstone was saying. ‘We take tea together and reminisce. They are lovely, actually.’
Luna half-turned her head and smiled. ‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ she said sincerely. ‘The Marquess had excellent taste in women.’ Lady Wellstone made a modest mew and inserted a final pin in Luna’s hair. ‘There,’ she said.
Then she helped Luna into a black brocade cheongsam-style dress purchased at great expense from a local stilista, fastening the silk frog closures that ran up the left side of Luna’s ribcage to her neck, concealing her bandage. Her wound hurt like hell, but Luna welcomed the pain; it was keeping her sharp. The Marchioness adjusted the dress’s high collar and stood back, looking Luna up and down, then drew a deep breath.
‘I should be the one facing this man,’ she said. ‘This entire dirty business with him never would have come about if I hadn’t been so intent on giving Florian the rope to hang himself with. I am so sorry, my dear.’
Luna looked down at the older woman, an unwonted glacier of ice-cold fury looming up within her, cracking and straining to be released. Tell that to the man lying in a hospital room in Stockholm. Tell him how very sorry you are, you and Sören, for this unholy mess.
The Marchioness kept on at her. ‘Why won’t you at least let me come with you when you meet him?’
‘Because you will make me weak!’ Luna tore out. ‘And I need to be strong.’ It had come out more harshly than she intended, but she didn’t apologise. Turning away from Lady Wellstone, inserting her feet into a pair of black satin slippers, she added pragmatically, ‘The fewer people here in the house, the easier it will be for the Salonens to do their job.’
‘Yes,’ the Marchioness said quietly behind her. ‘I see that. I understand.’
*
The boat Putinov arrived in was vulgarly proportioned, almost too big for this small stretch of canal. Luna watched from the upstairs balcony as his crew struggled to negotiate it close enough to the palazzo for him to disembark. He refused the offer of help, cocksure and ungainly as he dropped heavily onto the loggia steps. Acne Scarred and Diamond Ear were there too, Luna saw, the second sporting a bandaged eye. Good, she thought. Clearly Stefan had inflicted some lasting damage during their skirmish. She heard Matthias speak in Russian, informing Putinov that none of his men would be allowed to accompany him into the house.
A brief, tense exchange ensued, but Luna wasn’t unduly concerned. She knew Kimi and Kiki were at Matthias’s side and would remain downstairs for the rest of the evening, facing down the enemy at the gate. Turning her back to the canal, Luna walked across the terrace to a brazier heaped high with red-hot coals. The March nights were still cold here in Venice, and she stretched her hands toward the fire, warming her fingers. ‘So,’ she said eventually. ‘No place for little Mika in the Salonen family business?’
She cocked her head at him, sitting at the patio’s wrought-iron table in his battered leather jacket and black jeans. ‘Black sheep,’ Mika suggested, lifting a silvery eyebrow and smiling at her. A smile of encouragement, of faith. You will do this thing.
The terrace was wide, spanning the entire front of the house, but Putinov still filled it when he emerged from the interior a few minutes later. Had he gained weight since last she saw him, or was her mind playing tricks, inflating his body to match the outsized importance he had taken on in her life, this bully, this thug. He wore a shiny, doubtless very expensive suit. Everything about him shone, from his suit to his shaven scalp to his eyes, glancing about the terrace with avid interest.
‘Bienvenue à Palais des Ailes d’Anges, Monsieur Putinov,’ she said gravely, gesturing toward the table and chairs. ‘Asseyez-vous s’il vous plait.’ Oh, he liked it, this speaking in his mother tongues. A mark of respect, she could see him thinking, of deference. Very well, she thought, French it would be.
Putinov seated himself and Luna indicated the decanter and glasses at the centre of the table. ‘May I offer you a glass of Amarone?’
Standing next to him a moment later, filling his glass, she said, ‘This is from a vineyard near here owned by the Lionsbridge estate. 1997, an outstanding year. I hope you enjoy it.’ She poured herself a glass and carried it to the other side of the table, sitting opposite him.
Putinov sipped his wine, rolling it around in his mouth, swallowing. He surveyed the terrace. ‘This is a very beautiful home,’ he said appreciatively. ‘Perhaps I should expand my offer to include it as well. I currently own no property in Italy, but…’ He smiled a thick, malignant smile, pleased with his little jest.
In response, Luna silently tilted her head at him, running her finger along the stem of her glass as Matthias approached carrying his laptop. He placed it in front of her and sat down at the table between Mika and Putinov, eyes trained on the Russian.
Putinov took another sip of his wine, looked around the table, then back into the palazzo.
‘Where is your master?’ he asked.
Luna stared blankly at him, struggling to comprehend his question. Her mind whirred; one second… two… And then the truth dawned: he didn’t know that Stefan was in hospital. His henchmen hadn’t informed him. She resisted the overpowering temptation to look to Matthias for guidance. But there was no time, no time to reflect on what this revelation meant, how to capitalise on it.
No, she could only play the cards she’d already been dealt. She cleared her throat, raising her eyebrows. ‘He is… unavailable.’
Putinov’s lashless eyes narrowed and he set down his glass, hard. ‘You are wasting my time,’ he rumbled. ‘I’ve told you before, I don’t negotiate with the master’s bitch.’
He made to rise and Luna swiftly leant forward, placing both hands on the table. ‘This is not a negotiation, Monsieur Putinov. And I speak with my master’s voice. If you choose not to listen, you will have only yourself to blame for what comes.’
He hesitated, and she saw the cogs in his mind turning – now he was the one calculating how to exploit this situation. He could choose to take offence at Stefan’s absence, or… Decision made, he resettled himself in his chair, rolling his hand at her in the semi-darkness as if to say get on with it.
A wind stirred along the canal and the flames in the brazier went flut flut flut. Luna steepled her fingers together.
‘Your mother was Parisian,’ she commenced. ‘I confess, I had wondered at your fluency, but that explains it. A girl from the sixteenth arrondissement, swept off her feet by a visiting Russian diplomat.’ She waved a hand. ‘I use that term loosely, of course. One can only imagine her distress when he took her back to Moscow and she learned what a brutal man she had married. A career KGB operative, Khrushchev’s “iron boot heel”. Your mother was a very beautiful woman when they wed, but life with
him took a toll on her, didn’t it?’
Putinov stared at her for a moment, then laughed an ugly, derisive laugh. ‘What is this? An attempt to psychoanalyse me?’
Luna blinked. ‘No. Not at all. My master has shown you the great respect of studying your past. How else would he understand the man Alexander and Yvette Putinov’s only son became? Like your father in looks and… temperament, shall we say, and yet unlike him. Your father was a simple man, at the end of the day, content with holidays by the Black Sea, the occasional jaunt to Siberia to torture political prisoners. Whereas you,’ she said, gesturing toward him with an eloquent flourish, ‘you are the product of glasnost, a man who looks beyond the borders of Russia to the great world beyond. An acquisitive man, some might say avaricious. Properties in the Virgin Islands, Switzerland…’ She angled her head toward Matthias as if seeking confirmation. ‘…the Caymans, France, of course. And now England.’
Luna stood and picked up the laptop. ‘But enough history.’ Walking back to Putinov’s side of the table, she positioned it in front of him and clicked an icon in the corner of the screen. A video image of the front entrance to a stucco-fronted Belgravia townhouse appeared. ‘This was taken just over two hours ago,’ she murmured. On screen, the front door of the property opened and a woman accompanied by a man, two boys and a younger girl exited. ‘There they are, your children, their nanny, and their security guard, off to see Cirque du Soleil at the Albert Hall. I hear it’s a wonderful performance. They should enjoy it.’
Putinov’s hands tightened on the arms of his chair. ‘Are you threatening my children?’ he asked, waves of aggression pouring from his body.