Then they told him Roman wanted him to go to Manchester, that Helen had arranged for Zain to be accepted into a medical school in a couple of weeks’ time, that his accommodation had been arranged and his grants organised. Zain refused to believe Roman wanted him to go. He continued to fight, to rail at them.
Roman lay on his back in his spartan cell wondering what they were doing to Zain. He’d sometimes heard him shouting as they’d taken him past the door, not with pain, but asking about Roman, insisting they let him see him. His heart had swelled with love but he was terrified Zain would get hurt. When Zain had fought so hard in the museum, Roman had done the only thing he could think of to stop everything. He’d fallen to his knees, then the floor. Only for Zain, because he knew, deep in his heart that he’d lost him, but that Zain could still have a future.
He understood Zain’s need to struggle but when a situation looked hopeless, you had to play the game carefully, and really, what choice did he have? They’d wanted him to believe Zain was dead. They’d tried to take away the reason Roman no longer wanted to work for them. Now all they had to do was threaten Zain to get what they wanted. They would never be allowed to be together, to even see each other again. The weight of that had pressed on his shoulders and taken him to his knees.
What would they do with Zain? Let him go? Put him in prison? Threaten to kill him if Roman didn’t cooperate? Prevent him training as a doctor? Send him back to Syria? Would Roman ever be able to believe what they told him? Zain was their leverage against him, but Zain was Roman’s ace. Unless they looked after Zain, he’d do nothing to help them.
Since they’d brought him to Thames House, he’d drunk water but eaten virtually nothing. Just enough to keep him functioning. When he was in his cell, he sat on the bed with his back to the wall and disappeared into his head, going over and over everything that had happened from the moment that needle had gone into his neck, looking for a way he could have changed the outcome.
After he’d escaped from the hospital, for one terrible hour, he’d reverted to believing what he’d been told, that he’d lost Zain. He’d been so sure he was alive and yet his heart still took him to a dark place. He’d sat on a seat in Hyde Park and cried. Roman rarely cried. But he had that day. The salt tears had stung his cheeks and he’d pressed his face into his hands and allowed himself to sob until his chest hurt and his throat was sore. Then he talked himself back. Zain wasn’t dead.
Not dead. But he was haunted by thoughts of what might have been, memories of his lost father, the horror of what Dima had done, that final countdown in the warehouse, the way Zain had saved his life. He had no idea if Arkady or Qash had survived.
Every day, guards brought clean clothes and a breakfast he hardly touched. He showered in the corner of the room, knowing they were watching, shaved and the moment he’d dressed, the razor was checked and removed. Did they think he’d kill himself? Kill someone else?
They took him to an interrogation room, fastened him to a chair six feet from a desk in a square grey room where everything was secured to the floor. Different people came to ask him questions using various techniques. Chatty-and-understanding offered refreshments he didn’t touch, Harsh Voice offered increasingly unpalatable threats. He was told that the wallet and cash had been returned to the man he’d stolen from. The nurse he’d used had been given a warning. They’d covered his tracks.
They already knew almost everything. They asked questions to which Roman was aware they already had the answers. They asked other questions that he could have answered but chose not to. He would not give them access to Arkady’s phone but the questions about that stopped. He guessed they’d figured out a way to decrypt the information. But questions about individuals that Roman had dealings with didn’t stop. Roman kept his mouth shut.
He suspected Arkady must be dead. He doubted he could have withstood the barrage of questions. Or he was alive and had told them everything he knew. But not what only Roman knew. Those questioning him seemed so sure he was withholding information, and yet that could have been an act.
Roman treated threats to Zain with the same blank expression he’d clung to since he’d arrived. Threats to himself, the same way. He didn’t believe they’d do anything to hurt Zain. Zain was their way to persuade Roman to do whatever it was they wanted.
Nothing would work until Roman decided to talk. The only thing that would work was if they threatened Zain in front of him.
He knew what they wanted.
And he’d do it. He’d give them his life insurance. But he wanted them to fight for it. He wanted them to trade for it. His terms not theirs.
Helen was talking to him today and it was clear she was losing patience.
“We’ve been kind, Roman,” she said. “Do you want us to be unkind?”
Roman stared at the one-way glass that almost covered one wall. He imagined her boss standing behind it watching her, watching him. They could break him. But for what reason? They needed his cooperation. They needed him to work for them. They needed to be sure he wouldn’t turn on them once they’d set him free. Was this the way to do it?
No. He had conditions. He continued to stare at the glass, hoping he was looking straight into the eyes of a man who had the power to make decisions.
But as the days wore on, Roman stopped feeling so confident that he could make this turn out the way he wanted. They were breaking him in their way despite his refusal to cooperate. He’d done his best to protect Zain but he’d reached the point where he was the one who needed protection.
I want Zain. I need to see him.
The words hung on his lips because the moment he let himself say them, he’d feel their knives in his heart.
Sleep became impossible. Stress took its toll. He shook all the time, felt clammy, and dizzy when he stood up. Maybe they were drugging him but he had to drink. The feeling of failure was so overwhelming, he was unable to get to his feet when they came for him and they half dragged, half carried him to that grey room.
This time there was a new man sitting behind the table with Helen.
This time Roman wasn’t fastened to the chair.
This time was different.
“Good morning, Roman Nikítich Sorokin. I’m George Mason.”
Mason was in his late forties, going bald and wore a pale suit and wire-rimmed glasses. He looked harmless, like a benevolent childless uncle, and Roman knew he was anything but. He guessed this man was Helen’s boss.
“You’ve made this far more difficult than it needs to be,” Mason said. “Tell us what you’re holding back from us. Talk to us about Andreyev, Gribanov, Zhoruv.”
Had they got into his phone? Roman had a safer place for his insurance policy than that but he was surprised they’d bypassed his duress code.
“I want Zain.”
Helen’s eyes widened and Roman registered that the words had come from his mouth. He was so unused to hearing his voice, he hadn’t been sure.
“I want thirty minutes alone with him,” Roman said. “Not in here. Then I’ll tell you how to get into my phone.”
“You know we want more than that,” Mason said.
So maybe they hadn’t cracked his code. “As do I. Let’s start with this.”
“Will you begin eating properly?” Mason asked.
Roman nodded and wondered what he’d gained from hanging out so long. Something? Nothing? Maybe he’d shown them he was no pushover.
Mason tapped his fingers on the table. “We’ve offered him the chance to study medicine at Manchester University this year. Starting in a week’s time. Accommodation arranged. Finances sorted. He said no. He needs to say yes. Understand?”
Roman didn’t answer.
He was taken to a small sitting room with a couch and four chairs, landscape paintings on the wall. And somewhere microphones and cameras. He was glad they couldn’t see his heart pounding or see the smile waiting. They couldn’t catch every whisper and the chance to hold Zain again was an opportunity he
couldn’t let pass.
When the door opened, Zain took a step inside, saw him and rushed over. Roman only had enough time to get to his feet before Zain knocked him backwards onto the couch. Zain was crying, jabbering at him in Arabic, and Roman pulled him into his arms.
“Roman Roman Roman Roman,” Zain repeated his name over and over.
“Hey, I’m right here. How are you?”
“I’m okay.” Zain groaned. “No, I’m not fucking okay. I’m tired. I ache. I’ve been so worried about you. I was really careful not be followed but I must have some done something wrong.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“They said the bullet went through your arm and into your side.” Zain gnawed his bottom lip. “I should have—”
“It didn’t.”
Zain sighed. “The lying bastards.”
“What about your chest?”
“I’m fine.” Zain clutched harder at him. “Just a few stitches. How many did you have?”
“Thirteen. Six one side of my arm, seven the other.”
“I had a hundred and forty-six.”
Roman gaped at him.
“Not really.” Zain smiled and Roman’s heart did a little flip to see the Zain he knew. “It was more like a long scratch. Steri-strips were enough to deal with it, though Faddei did bruise my spleen.”
“How did the UCAT go?”
“I did better than last time. When I couldn’t see you outside, I called Helen.”
“Which was very smart.”
“Except I wasn’t smart enough to give Qashim and his van a wide berth. Though if I hadn’t…”
“What have you told them?”
“Everything I know because I don’t know anything. I even told them how I make your toes curl when I lick your—”
Roman pressed his hand over Zain’s mouth. “They’re listening.”
Zain pulled his hand away. “I was going to say fingers. What did you think I was going to say?”
“I know what you were going to say.”
Zain wriggled on his lap and Roman winced.
“Sorry.”
“I was shot—remember?”
“Oh God. How could I ever forget?”
“You threw yourself at me.”
“I got you shot.”
“In the arm instead of the chest. You saved my life.”
Roman kept staring at Zain’s face. He already had it memorised, but this might be the last time he saw him.
“Do you know what happened to everyone else?” Zain asked.
“They told me everyone was dead.”
“You believe them?”
“I don’t know.” He held Zain’s hand and drew comfort from the press of his fingers.
“Dima’s definitely dead,” Zain said, “going by the fact that the paramedics weren’t doing anything to him. The knife probably hit his aorta. No coming back from that.”
“I wish I’d killed him.”
“Only in self-defence, right?” Zain gave him a frantic look.
“If I’d discovered he was responsible for killing my father…” Roman’s throat clogged up. Don’t go there now. “I thanked Qash for saving you.”
Zain looked up. “What did he say? You’re welcome?”
Roman chuckled. “He said he did it for himself and not for me. I don’t know what he thought was going to happen.”
“He was probably torn between loyalty to Dima and wanting me back under his thrall. I don’t think he realised Dima intended to kill me and then probably him.”
“If Dima had had his way, he’d have been the only person walking out of that room.”
“What’s going to happen now?” Zain asked.
“We have what remains of thirty minutes to say goodbye. I need to persuade you to go to study medicine in Manchester and forget you ever met me.”
“No. If they want to bargain, they bargain with us both, together. I’m not giving you up.”
“Zain, listen. I want you safe. I want you to live your dream. You have to go to Manchester and forget—”
Zain slammed his hand over Roman’s mouth. “Never.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
A day later, the questioning finally stopped. Roman had laid out his demands and when he had their agreement, he’d given them access to his phone, and the information they sought. Now he waited. When Roman was taken from his cell to see Helen and her boss, and found Zain with them, Roman knew their future had been decided. He just hoped it was one they both wanted.
“Sit down.” Mason nodded to the unoccupied chair one side of Helen.
Roman picked it up and moved it so he could sit next to Zain.
Mason tsked. “You’ve made it perfectly clear you want Zain.”
Roman heard Zain suck in a breath.
“Then this is the deal,” Mason said.
Roman clenched his fists. They’d had a deal.
“You continue to work for us. We want you to spend the next six months in Russia, consolidating your position, staking your claim, as it were. You’ll take over Arkady’s business. Not all of it. Parts of it. He’s left you his house in his will. Obviously, Dima won’t be getting his assets. You’ll be given whatever you need to do your job. You’ll be discharged from hospital tomorrow. Though your injury wasn’t severe, you developed complications. Arkady’s funeral has been arranged for the day after tomorrow. You’ll attend. The funeral was delayed because of police investigations into a family argument that turned violent.”
Really?
Mason must have taken in Roman’s scepticism because he sighed. “We’re working on the details. Dima has been blamed for all leaks. There’s no suggestion that anyone thinks you’re responsible. They know Dima shot you and shot his father. They don’t know it was just a bullet in the arm.”
“Just?” Zain blurted.
Oh fuck. I love you.
“Our sources tell us you’re well thought of in Moscow. You can travel between here and there without problem. There are plenty more greedy fish in the sea and you’re a particularly talented predator.” Mason stared at him. “Perhaps the Russian security services might find a use for you.”
“Like a double agent?” Zain sounded horrified.
Roman schooled his features. “And if I say no?”
He did not like the way Mason’s gaze settled on Zain.
“There are various options,” Mason said. “Zain could study medicine at a London university of his choice. We’d arranged Manchester but we can sort out London.”
Which was what Roman had demanded. He knew Mason was playing this out in front of Zain for a reason. His heart beat faster. Maybe he’d been naïve to think he could outsmart MI5. But it wasn’t a matter of outsmarting, more of getting what he wanted.
“Zain’s position as a refugee is due to be reconsidered in a couple of years,” Mason said. “I can’t see there’d be any objection to him being granted indefinite leave to remain, which would enable him to stay in the UK, finish his training and work here as a doctor providing there—”
“No,” Zain snapped. “You are not using me to blackmail Roman. He’s not going to work for you any longer. He’s done enough. He nearly died. He was shot. Twice. It’s over.”
Mason’s expression didn’t change. Roman wanted to hug Zain, particularly for the he was shot.
“It would take so little to make either of your situations untenable,” Mason said. “Shall I count the ways?”
Zain turned to Roman. “We’ll go to another country.”
Mason leaned forward. “You think another country would have you?”
“George…” Helen started to speak but one look from her boss silenced her.
“That’s enough,” Zain said. “Stop this now. I thought this was a decent country. A fair country. A safe one. Unlike the one I left. I understand that you want to stop money laundering. I know the sort of places the money comes from and what it funds but Roman has done enough. Let him go.”
“Even if that means you’ll never see him again?” Mason asked.
Zain tensed. “You can’t tell him on the one hand that he’s not suspected of anything and then say you’d need to put him in witness protection.”
“Explain it to him,” Mason said to Roman.
“If I’m still doing the sort of work that Arkady did, I’m not under suspicion. If I disappear, I’ll be presumed guilty of either betraying him or cooperating with the authorities.”
Mason could make it work either way.
“There’s your choice,” Mason said. “Roman goes into witness protection and you never see him again. Or he works for us for another few years and if you’re careful, you could be together.”
“Why can’t we both go into witness protection?” Zain asked.
“We have no duty of care to you. Even if we did send you somewhere with Roman, there would be no medical school in your future. Take some time to think about it.” Mason stood up.
“I don’t need time,” Zain said. “I choose Roman.”
When Zain stood, so did Roman and caught hold of his hand. “Let us talk and we’ll let you know.”
“Stay in here. You have fifteen minutes.” Mason beckoned Helen out.
Zain sagged as the door closed. Roman pulled him into his arms but Zain pushed at him.
“You’re not fighting,” Zain said. “I’m fighting for you but you’re not fighting for me.”
“Don’t think I’m unaware of the sacrifice you’re offering to make. But a couple of years isn’t forever.”
“No, I don’t want you to do it,” Zain whispered. “I don’t want to be sitting at home hoping you come back, hoping no one has tricked you, hurt you, killed you, worrying that someone has found out you’re gay and have a boyfriend. And at the end of two years when it should be done, if they threaten to deport me because Syria is a safe place, what are they going to ask of you to keep me here?”
“I’ll marry you.” Roman couldn’t believe he said that.
Whatever It Takes Page 36
