‘You’re a scary woman, Eve. I haven’t even kissed you yet.’
Desire ripples through her with unexpected force. ‘That sounds lovely, but it’s not going to happen.’
‘Seriously?’
She shakes her head.
‘That’s a pity, Eve. For you and for me.’
‘I expect we’ll both survive, one way and another. And now I have to find my friend.’
Looking into the interior, she sees Giovanna moving towards them. ‘And here she is. Claudio, this is—’
‘I know who it is. Buona sera, Giovanna.’
‘Buona sera, Claudio.’ There’s a moment’s silence.
‘I should go,’ Claudio says. He bows, with just detectable irony, to both of them. ‘Arrivederci.’
‘Well,’ says Giovanna, watching him disappear into the crowd. ‘You don’t waste any time. And as it happens, neither do I. I have some news for you.’
‘Tell me.’
‘I was talking to the Contessa di Faenza, a big customer of mine. And I realised that the woman standing next to her was wearing the scent I told you about. The one the Russian who bought your bracelet . . .’
‘Oh my God. Go on.’
‘Well, the contessa is talking to me about some prêt-à-porter show she’s been to in Milan, and I see the other woman walk away. Obviously I can’t just follow her, but I watch her, and remember what she’s wearing, and five minutes later, when the contessa finally lets me go, I set off in search of her.’
‘And?’
‘I can’t find her. I look everywhere, on both floors, but she’s disappeared. And then I go into the Ladies’, and there she is, standing in front of the mirror, actually putting on the scent. So I walk behind her, and check that it’s the one I remembered, and it is.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Absolutely sure. Freesia, amber, white cedar . . . So I tell her how much I like it, we get talking – her name’s Signora Valli, it turns out – and I ask her what her scent is called.’ She hands Eve a folded slip of paper. ‘I wrote the name down this time, to make sure.’
Eve opens the paper and stares at the single word written there. There’s a moment of ferocious clarity, as if ice-water is racing through her veins. ‘Thank you, Giovanna,’ she whispers. ‘Thank you so, so much.’
Oxana is lying on a steel bunk in a Russian stolypin prison train surrounded by grey, indistinct figures. There are no windows; she has no idea of the terrain through which the train is moving, nor does she know how long she has been on the train. Days, certainly, perhaps weeks. The steel-panelled stolypin compartment is her whole world. It smells of shit and piss and rancid bodies, but the cold is worse. The cold is like death, and its icy hand is closed around her heart.
A figure stirs on the bunk opposite her. ‘You’re wearing my bracelet, Villanelle.’
She tries to explain, to show Eve her bare, shackle-bruised wrists. ‘My name is Oxana Vorontsova,’ she says.
‘Where’s Villanelle?’
‘Dead. Like the others.’
Jolting awake, her heart pounding, Villanelle gradually identifies the outlines of her room at the Gasthof Lili. It’s just gone 3 a.m. The room is cold, she’s naked, and the duvet has slipped from the narrow bed onto the floor. ‘Fuck you, Polastri,’ she mutters, pulling on her tracksuit and wrapping herself in the duvet. ‘Get out of my head.’
Four hundred miles away, Eve is also awake, sitting on the side of her hotel bed in her bunny-print pyjamas. Her feet are on the terrazzo-tiled floor and her head is in her hands. She’s pretty sure she’s going to be sick. She closes her eyes. Immediately, her equilibrium goes into free-fall, and she staggers towards the window, bile rising in her throat. A desperate fumble with the shutters, a glimpse of the canal rocking dark and greasy below, and she’s clutching the rail of the balcony, and vomiting, far from silently, into a moored gondola.
Chapter 5
It’s late afternoon, and an animated buzz and the clink of glassware rises from the departure lounge at Flugrettungs zentrum, Innsbruck’s heliport, as Max Linder’s invited guests talk, laugh and sip Pol Roger champagne. Those present are not the entire contingent of guests; some were flown up to the Felsnadel earlier in the day, others will follow tomorrow, and the atmosphere is one of high anticipation. In far-right circles Linder is known as a witty, generous and imaginative host. To be invited to one of his mountain retreats is not only to be identified as one of the elite, it is to be guaranteed a spectacularly good time. Max, everyone agrees, is fun.
No one pays much attention to the slight figure with the scrappy ponytail standing by the plate-glass exit door. Her passive demeanour and her cheap clothes and luggage clearly identify her as a person of no consequence, and she speaks to no one. When she arrived at the heliport an hour ago she identified herself to the Felsnadel Hotel representative as Violette Duroc, a temporary room attendant sent by a local personnel agency. The hotel representative glanced at a clipboard, crossed her name off a list, and made it clear to her that although she was to be flown up to the Felsnadel with the hotel guests, fraternising with them was strictly verboten.
If Villanelle is invisible to her fellow travellers, they are not invisible to her. Over the course of the last fortnight, she has researched most of them in considerable depth. The highest-status person in the room is probably Magali Le Meur. As the recently elected leader of France’s Nouvelle Droite party, and an advocate of pan-European nationalism, Le Meur is regarded as the future of the country’s far-right tendency. In the flesh, her broad, raw-boned features look older than on the posters slapped en bloc onto every derelict wall and motorway bridge in France. She probably wouldn’t wear that thousand-euro Moncler coat to address her party’s rank and file, Villanelle reflects. Or that Cartier diamond watch. Would she be amusing in bed? Unlikely. Nice eyes, but that thin, intolerant mouth told another story.
Le Meur touches her glass to that of Todd Stanton, formerly a CIA psy-ops officer, more recently an expert in the harvesting and manipulation of online personal data. Often described as the dark cardinal of the American far right, Stanton is widely believed to be the architect of the Republican Party’s recent electoral victories. Today, he’s wearing a wolfskin coat, which does little to flatter his corpulent frame or to distract from his florid complexion.
Beyond them, by the bar, three men and a woman circle each other warily. Leonardo Venturi, a tiny, wild-haired figure sporting a monocle, is an Italian political theorist and the founder of Lapsit Exillis, described on its website as ‘an initiatory guild for aristocrats of the spirit’. Venturi is explaining the guild’s mission in exhaustive detail to Inka Järvi, the statuesque leader of Finland’s Daughters of Odin. Adjacent to them, not quite part of their conversation, are two Britons. Richard Baggot, a paunchy figure with a crocodile grin, is the leader of the UK Patriots Party, while pencil-thin Silas Orr-Hadow is an upper-caste Tory whose family have furnished England with several generations of fascist sympathisers.
The other three figures Villanelle doesn’t recognise. They weren’t on her list of probable Felsnadel guests or she would certainly have remembered them. There’s an imperious, pantherine woman with a severe bob of dark hair, who flicks a briefly curious glance at Villanelle, and two sharply handsome men. All are probably in their late twenties, and are outfitted in black uniforms with a distinctly military edge.
‘Are you Violette?’ a voice asks at her side.
‘Yes.’
‘Hi, I’m Johanna. I’m from the agency too.’ She has close-set eyes, freckles and a substantial bust zipped into a pink quilted jacket. She looks like Khriusha the Pig, a puppet character from a TV series Villanelle watched as a child in Perm. ‘Have you ever worked at the hotel before?’
‘No,’ says Villanelle. ‘What’s it like?’
‘Amazing place, but the money’s shit, as you’ve probably found out. And the manageress, Birgit, is a real arschfotze. You have to work like a slave or she’s on your tits the
whole time.’
‘What about the guests?’
‘Really fun. And some quite . . .’ She giggles. ‘I worked here last year when Max’s party came. There was a fancy dress party on the last night and it was like, crazy.’
‘So how long are you going to be working up there this time?’
‘Just a couple of weeks. I’m temporarily replacing an African girl. Obviously they couldn’t have an immigrant up there with these guests, so they laid her off.’
‘Without pay?’
‘Natürlich. Why would they pay her if she isn’t working?’
‘Right.’
‘See, Violette, the thing about Max Linder’s guests is that they like traditionally minded staff. Girls they can relate to. Some of the men can get quite frisky.’ She glances downwards at her chest with a complacent smile. ‘But maybe they’ll leave you alone.’
‘So who are those three? They look younger than most of the people here.’
‘The band, Panzerdämmerung. They played up there last year. Weird music, super-dark, super-loud, not really my thing. But the two brothers, Klaus and Peter Lorenz. Total geil.’
‘And the woman in the leather coat and the boots?’
‘Is the singer, Petra Voss. Apparently . . .’ – Johanna lowers her voice to a whisper – ‘she’s a lesbian.’
‘Never!’
Departure is announced, and the guests make their way through the glass doors to the helipad where the Airbus helicopter is waiting. Villanelle and Johanna leave last, and then have to edge past the other passengers to reach their seats at the back of the aircraft.
‘Don’t I remember you from last year?’ Richard Baggot asks Johanna as she passes, and when she smiles and nods, reaches across and pats her bottom. ‘Looks like I’ll be needing room service, then.’ He turns to Villanelle. ‘Sorry, love. Prefer a little more flesh on the bone, if you get my drift.’
Todd Stanton grins, Silas Orr-Hadow looks appalled, and the others ignore Baggot altogether. As she buckles herself into her seat, Villanelle entertains a brief fantasy of leaning forward and garrotting the Englishman with his golf club tie. One day, she promises herself, and glances at Johanna, on whose pink features a dimpled smirk has appeared.
The helicopter takes off with a roar and a shudder. Beyond the Plexiglas window the sky is steel grey. Soon they are above the snowline, and climbing. Gazing out at the face of the Teufelkamp, at the precipitous crags and blue-white icefields, Villanelle feels a prickling anticipation. To those present she is a menial, not worth a second glance, barely even fuckable. But inside herself she can feel the demon of her fury coil and uncoil. With the tip of her tongue, she touches the pale knot of scar tissue on her upper lip, feels its throb echoed in her chest, the pit of her stomach and her groin.
The helicopter swings upwards and rounds a vertical spur. And there, like a crystal set into the black rock face, is the hotel, and in front of it, a horizontal shelf marked out with lights as a landing area. The passengers applaud, gasp and crane towards the windows.
‘What do you think?’ asks Johanna. ‘Amazing, no?’
‘Yes.’
They touch down, the door opens, and frozen air blasts into the interior of the Airbus. Climbing out after Johanna, Villanelle steps into a flurry of wind-blown snow, and follows the other guests into the hotel, pulling her cabin bag behind her.
The entrance hall is spectacular, its plate-glass walls affording a breathtaking view of the darkening massif. A hundred feet below, clouds stream past, carried on the racing wind. Above are silhouetted peaks, and the glitter of the stars.
‘Johanna, come with me. And you must be Violette. Quickly now, both of you.’
The speaker is a severely dressed woman in her forties. Without introducing herself she leads them at a fast clip through a side door and into a service corridor leading to the staff quarters at the back of the hotel. She deals with Villanelle first, briskly pushing open a numbered door into a small, low-ceilinged room containing twin beds. A pale young woman in a tracksuit and woollen beanie is lying on one of these, asleep.
‘Get up, Maria.’
Blinking, the young woman jumps nervously to her feet, pulling off the beanie.
‘Violette, you’re in here with Maria. You’re both on duty for dinner tonight; Maria will tell you the house rules, and where to find your uniform. She’ll also explain your room-service duties for tomorrow. Understood, Maria?’
‘Yes, Birgit.’
‘Violette?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes, Birgit.’ She regards Villanelle intently. ‘You’re not going to be trouble, are you? Because I swear, try anything on with me – anything – and you’ll regret it. Won’t she, Maria?’
‘Yes, Birgit,’ Maria says. ‘She will.’
‘Good. I’ll see you both in an hour.’ She starts to leave and then switches back. ‘Violette, show me your fingernails.’
Villanelle holds out her hands. Birgit examines them frowningly.
‘Teeth.’
Villanelle complies.
‘How did you get that scar?’
‘A dog bit me. Birgit.’
Birgit stares at her suspiciously. ‘Wash your face before you appear in the restaurant.’ She leans towards Villanelle, her nose wrinkling. ‘And your hair. It smells.’
‘Yes, Birgit.’ Villanelle and Maria watch as the manageress leaves the room, followed by the still-smirking Johanna.
‘Welcome to the insane asylum.’ Maria smiles wearily.
‘Is she always like that?’
‘Sometimes worse. I’m not kidding.’
‘Fuck.’
‘Tak. And you’re stuck here now. That’s your bed. And the bottom two drawers are yours.’
Maria is Polish, she tells Villanelle. There are men and women from at least a dozen countries employed at the Felsnagel, and although spoken German is a requirement, the staff usually speak English among themselves.
‘Watch out for Johanna. She pretends to be really friendly, and on your side, but anything you tell her goes straight back to Birgit. She’s a spy.’
‘OK, I’ll remember. So what are these house rules?’
Maria recites a litany of fetishistically precise regulations. ‘Hair always to be worn braided, with plain steel pins,’ she says in conclusion. ‘No make-up, ever. Max Linder hates make-up on women, so no foundation, lipstick, anything. And no perfume. The only thing you’re allowed to smell of is disinfectant soap, and you have to use that regularly. Birgit checks.’
‘She’s employed by the hotel?’
‘God, no. She’s employed by Linder, to make sure that everything runs the way he likes it. She’s a fucking Nazi, basically, like him.’
‘So what happens if you break the rules?’
‘First time, she cuts your pay. After that, I don’t know, and I don’t want to find out. There are stories that she whipped a girl once for wearing mascara.’
‘Wow. That’s quite sexy.’
Maria stares at her. ‘Are you serious?’
‘I’m joking. Where’s the bathroom?’
‘End of the corridor. There’s usually not much hot water, especially by this time. Your soap’s in the top drawer. I’ll fill you in about tonight when you get back. And Violette . . .’
‘What?’
‘Don’t make trouble. Please.’
It’s just after 6 p.m., London time, when Eve and Lance walk into the Goodge Street office, carrying their overnight bags. They’ve taken the Underground from Heathrow, which was slow, but not as slow as battling through the rush-hour traffic in a taxi.
Billy swivels his chair to face them. On the floor beside him is a small tower of foil takeaway cartons. He stretches lethargically and yawns, like an inadequately exercised cat. ‘Good flight?’
‘Had worse.’ Lance drops his bags and noses the air. ‘Did something die in here while we were away?’
‘How are you, Billy?’ Eve asks.
‘Not bad. Tea?’
‘God, yes please.’
‘Lance?’
‘Yeah, go on.’
Eve resists the urge to open the streaming window and let a little air into the curried fug of the office. She’s anxious for Billy to do two things. To find out everything possible about Rinat Yevtukh, the Ukrainian who went missing in Venice, and to launch a worldwide search of recent internet traffic for the name, or codename, Villanelle. Both undertakings are likely to be complex, and experience has taught Eve that to get the best out of Billy, you don’t rush him.
‘How’s it been?’ she asks him.
‘Same,’ Billy says, moving unhurriedly towards the sink and flipping a tea bag into each of the mugs on the draining board.
‘What the lady means is, did you miss us?’ says Lance.
‘Didn’t really notice you weren’t here, to be honest.’
Lance unzips his overnight bag and pulls out a package, which he throws to Billy.
‘What’s this?’
‘Souvenir of Venice, mate. Just to show we were thinking about you slaving away while we were living the dream.’
‘Nice one.’
It’s a gondolier’s red and white striped T-shirt. Eve darts a grateful look at Lance; never once did it occur to her to pick up anything for Billy.
‘So where are we?’ she asks Billy, when the tea has been circulated.
‘I’ve been chasing Tony Kent.’
‘Anything new?’
‘Bits and pieces.’
‘Spill.’
Billy swivels back towards his screens. ‘OK, background. Kent is an associate, friend, whatever, of Dennis Cradle, now dead. The money that the Twelve used to pay Cradle was routed via Kent, and the original source for this information is a document provided to Eve in Shanghai by Jin Qiang of the MSS, the Chinese Ministry of State Security. Agree so far?’
Eve nods.
‘Open source intelligence on Kent is hard to find. Basically, his online presence has been scrubbed. Not a whisper on social media, and highly selective bio-data. Enough detail not to look deliberately redacted, but nothing that leads anywhere.’
No Tomorrow: The basis for Killing Eve, now a major BBC TV series (Killing Eve series Book 2) Page 11
