Eve and Niko doze through most of the TV show they’re watching in bed. Opening her eyes to discover the end-titles rolling, Eve reaches for the remote control. For several minutes she lies there in near-darkness, her thoughts vague, as Niko shifts beside her. Every time he moves he’s twitched into wakefulness by his fractured ankle, but eventually fatigue and codeine prevail, and he sleeps.
Claudio. Suppose she’d let him kiss her. How would it have gone from there?
The kiss itself would have been brief and efficient. A formal statement of his intention and of her acquiescence. He would have taken her somewhere in the palazzo, into some suggestively appointed chamber for which he always carried the key. There would be few words and no wasted time. He would be a serial womaniser with a well-worn routine, refined by scores or perhaps hundreds of such encounters. The choreography would be fluent and the narrative arc conventional, proceeding to a showy money-shot for which she would be expected to display gasping and incredulous gratitude. He would be back in his clothes within minutes, his handmade loafers barely cooler than when he kicked them off. She would be left with a crumpled dress, the musky taint of his cologne, and sticky breasts.
Nevertheless, as Niko’s breathing slows to an even rise and fall, her hand steals down her belly, and she finds herself shockingly ready. But it’s not Claudio, or indeed Niko, who’s waiting behind her closed eyes, but a much more imprecise figure, all contradictions. Soft skin over coiled muscle, a killer’s fingers, a rasping tongue, eyes of twilit grey.
I climbed in one night to watch you sleep.
Eve rolls onto her hand, her fingers wet. Fear and desire fold into each other in successive waves until her shoulders and neck rise, her forehead presses the sheet, and the breath leaves her body in a long, ebbing sigh.
After a while she turns onto her side. Niko is watching her, his gaze unblinking.
Chapter 6
Eve slips from the bed before Niko wakes. When she emerges from Goodge Street Underground station the pavement is still shining from the night’s rain, but the sky is washed with a thin sunlight. The office door, to her surprise, is unlocked; she enters hesitantly.
‘Billy, hi. It’s not even eight yet. How long have you been here?’
‘Er, all night.’
‘Shit, Billy. That’s way beyond the call of duty.’
He blinks and runs a hand through his black-dyed hair. ‘Yeah, well. Kicked off the search into that guy Yevtukh, and one thing led to another.’
‘Anything we can use?’
‘Yeah, I’d say so.’
‘Good. Hold that thought. I’m going down to the café.’
‘We’ve got instant. And tea bags.’
‘That kettle’s gross. What do you want?’
‘Well, if you’re buying, an almond croissant and a latte. And perhaps a shortbread finger.’
She’s back five minutes later. It’s clear that Billy’s fading. His eyes gleam with exhaustion. Even his lip-ring looks dull. ‘Eat,’ she says, placing his order in front of him.
Billy takes a large bite of the croissant, showering his keyboard with crumbs, then washes it down with a gulp of coffee. ‘OK, Yevtukh. Basically the guy’s your typical Sov-bloc gang boss. Or was. Headed up an outfit called the Golden Brotherhood, based in Odessa. Usual stuff. Sex trafficking, people-smuggling and drugs. The Ukrainian police also have him down for at least a dozen murders, but have never been able to get anyone to testify against him.’
‘We know all this.’
‘OK, but you probably don’t know what happened earlier this year. According to a file sent to the Europol database, there was a major shoot-out at a luxury property Yevtukh owned in a place called Fontanka, about fifteen kilometres outside Odessa. By the time the local cops got there the house was pretty much wrecked, and half a dozen people were dead. It was obviously gang-related, so at that point the investigation was handed over to the Ukrainian Criminal Police, who handle serious and violent crime.’
‘Was Yevtukh implicated?’
‘Not directly. He was in Kiev at the time, seeing his family, but it was his foot-soldiers who died at Fontanka.’
‘So do we know who carried out the attack?’
‘This is where it gets weird. One of the people found dead at the house was nothing to do with Yevtukh. He was somebody his men had been holding prisoner. He’d been badly beaten up and then shot, and the police couldn’t immediately identify him. So a photograph, fingerprints and a DNA sample were sent to the interior security service in Kiev, and they knew who he was straight away. His name was Konstantin Orlov, and he was an ex-head of operations at Directorate S in Moscow.’
‘That’s more than weird. You know what Directorate S is?’
‘I do now. It’s the espionage and agent-running wing of the SVR.’
‘Exactly. And its Operations Department is like our E Squadron. A special forces team responsible for executing deniable and deep-cover operations overseas.’
‘Assassinations, for example.’
‘For example.’
Billy stares into the middle distance, almond filling oozing from his croissant.
‘Anything else in that Europol report?’
Billy shakes his head. ‘’Fraid not. No one seems to be able to work out what an ex-Russian spymaster was doing locked in a Ukrainian gangster’s house in Odessa. It doesn’t make any sense. Or none that I can see. We should ask Richard. Bet he knew this Orlov bloke.’
The door opens and they both look round. It’s Lance, an unlit roll-up between his lips.
‘Morning, Eve, Billy. Looking a bit rough round the edges, squire, if you don’t mind my saying so.’
Taking a deep swig of coffee, Billy makes an up-your-arse gesture with the shortbread finger.
‘He’s been up all night,’ Eve says. ‘And he’s discovered something a bit bloody brilliant. Listen to this.’ Briefly, she puts Lance in the picture.
‘So if Orlov was SVR, why would a scumbag like Yevtukh want to go anywhere near him, let alone lock him up and torture him? I’d have thought the last thing someone like that would want to do is to make enemies of the Russian secret service.’
‘Orlov was ex-SVR,’ Billy says. ‘He’d been out for a decade.’
‘Doing what, do we know?’ asks Lance.
‘Stop,’ says Eve. ‘Both of you. Sorry, but I think we’re coming at this from the wrong end.’
‘As the actress, etcetera . . .’
‘Lance, shut the fuck up. Billy, my coffee. Both of you just . . . shush a minute.’ She stands there, motionless. ‘OK. Let’s ignore for a moment what Orlov was doing, or not doing, in Yevtukh’s house in Odessa. Let’s think about our assassin, and quite possibly her girlfriend, making Yevtukh disappear in Venice. Why is she, or why are they, doing that?’
‘Contract hit?’ Lance suggests.
‘Almost certainly. But why? What’s the motive?’
Lance and Billy shake their heads.
‘Suppose it was revenge.’
‘Revenge for what?’ Billy asks.
‘For the killing of Orlov.’
Silence for a heartbeat. ‘Bloody hell,’ Lance murmurs. ‘I see where you’re going with this.’
‘You’re going to have to take it slowly,’ says Billy, rubbing his eyes. ‘Because I don’t.’
‘Let’s take it from the top,’ says Eve. ‘Orlov heads up the Operations Department of Directorate S, a bureau whose existence is denied by the authorities, but which is, nevertheless, a reality. He runs a worldwide network of operatives, drawn from secret units in the Russian military and trained as deep-cover spies and assassins. Imagine what kind of man Orlov must have been, to have reached a position like that. Imagine what kind of experience he must have had. And then imagine what happens when he leaves the SVR, as he did ten years ago, armed with all that knowledge and experience.’
‘He goes into the private sector,’ says Lance.
‘That would be my guess. He’s recruited by an
organisation that needs his particular, perhaps unique, skill-set.’
‘The Twelve, for instance?’
Eve shrugs. ‘It explains the link between him and our female assassin.’
‘You’re sure we’re not making false connections?’ Lance says. ‘Joining imaginary dots to convince ourselves we’re moving forward?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Eve says. ‘But I need to talk to Richard. If anyone can shine any light on a figure like Orlov, he can. And one thing’s becoming increasingly clear: everything points to Russia. Sooner or later we’re actually going to have to go there.’
Lance grins. ‘Now you’re talking. Proper old-school intelligence work.’
‘Cold at this time of year, though,’ Billy says. ‘Snow makes my asthma flare up.’
‘You’d love Moscow, mate. Fit right in.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘It’s wall-to-wall geeks and metalheads.’
‘I’ve never actually been abroad. Mum doesn’t like it.’
‘Never?’ Eve asks.
‘Well, I was going to go to prison in America at one point, but that fell through.’
‘What actually happened with all that?’ Eve asks. ‘I’ve read the file, but . . .’
In answer Billy pulls up his T-shirt sleeve. There’s a tattoo on his doughy upper arm. Five black dots arranged in a grid.
‘Fuck’s that?’ Lance asks.
‘Glider pattern from the Game of Life.’
Eve peers at it. ‘I literally have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘It’s a hacker emblem. When I was seventeen, I was in this collective. We never met face to face, but we’d communicate online. We had some pretty advanced tools and basically we’d hack anything we could, especially US corporate and government sites. We didn’t do it because we were like, anarchists or anything, but just for the arse of it. Anyway, there was a sort of unofficial leader of the group, called La-Z-boi, who used to direct us to sites, especially foreign government sites. And I will honestly never know how we didn’t figure this one out, it’s so obvious, but La-Z-boi worked for the FBI, and took us down. Everyone went to prison except me.’
‘How come you didn’t?’ Lance asks.
‘Under age.’
‘So what happened?’
‘Released on bail. Had to live at home with my mum, which is where I lived anyway, but under curfew, and with no access to the internet.’
‘And that’s when MI6 came knocking?’ Eve asks.
‘Basically, yeah.’
She nods. ‘Get onto Richard. Set up a secure meeting. We need to know more about Orlov.’
Even if it’s only a means to an end, Villanelle takes little pleasure in her work at the hotel. She and the other room attendants are required to rise at six thirty, eat a hurried breakfast of cheese, bread and coffee in the kitchen, and then start vacuuming the public spaces of the hotel. When this is complete the morning room-cleaning shift begins.
There are twenty-four guest bedrooms at Felsnadel, and Villanelle is responsible for eight of them. She is expected to start cleaning each room at the end furthest from the door, so that no detail is missed. Every surface – dressing tables, desks, televisions, headboards, wardrobe doors – is to be dusted or wiped down. Wastepaper baskets are emptied, and anything on the desks or bedside table tidied. Beds are then stripped and neatly remade with fresh sheets and pillowcases. In the bathrooms, where room staff are required to wear rubber gloves at all times, cleaning is carried out from top to bottom, starting with mirrors. Baths, shower-stalls and toilets are cleaned and sanitised, towels and toiletries replaced. The suite and its carpets are then vacuumed.
Some rooms require more work than others, and all are revealing of their occupants. Magali Le Meur’s room is chaotic, with towels, bedclothes and used underwear strewn over every surface. Her dressing table holds a carton of menthol cigarettes and a half-empty bottle of Peach Amore Schnapps. The bathroom floor is sodden, the toilet unflushed.
Silas Orr-Hadow’s room, by contrast, looks barely touched. He’s made his own bed, folded and put away all his clothes, and left the bathroom exactly as he has found it. On the desk, every book, paper and pencil is aligned and squared off. On his bedside table is a photograph of an anxious-looking bespectacled boy, recognisably Orr-Hadow himself, holding the hand of a uniformed nanny. Beside it are two well-thumbed hardback books: Winnie the Pooh and Mein Kampf.
By the time Villanelle reaches Roger Baggot’s room, her eighth and last, she’s in a vengeful mood. The place reeks of cologne, and when Villanelle strips the bed she discovers a woman’s crumpled thong, which she guesses to be Johanna’s, and a used and knotted condom. When the room is finally presentable, Villanelle allows herself to sink into one of the calfskin-upholstered chairs. If the work is unpleasant, and at times revolting, Villanelle is conscious that her room-attendant duties afford her some badly needed privacy. Maria is a friendly enough room-mate, but her depressive character irritates Villanelle, as does her snoring.
The morning briefing with Birgit has also yielded a single, salient fact: the whereabouts of Linder’s room. He’s on the first floor, in a spacious suite overlooking the front of the hotel. None of the rooms that Villanelle services is on the first floor. Killing her target is going to require careful timing.
For Linder’s guests, the pace of life at Felsnadel is leisurely. There is an extended breakfast offered in the dining room until eleven o’clock. Following this drinks are available outside on the terrace, where reclining chairs, warmed by infrared heaters, are placed to take advantage of the view of the High Tyrol. The sky is a hard, pure blue, against which the snowy ridge-line of the Granatspitze massif shimmers like a blade.
Inside, a series of informal talks is under way. As Villanelle enters the reception area to report to Birgit that her rooms have all been cleaned, the tiny Italian fascist Leonardo Venturi is holding forth to half a dozen admirers.
‘Then, finally, the old order will fall,’ he declaims. ‘And a new golden age will come into being. But this will not be painless. For the new Imperium to be born, the roots of the old must be cut away without pity.’
‘Without what, old chap?’ asks Orr-Hadow.
‘Without pity. Without mercy.’
‘Sorry, thought for a moment you said without PT.’
‘What is PT?’
‘Physical training. At my prep school we had it every day. The instructor was an ex-military policeman, and if you didn’t do your press-ups properly you had to report for a cold shower. And he’d jolly well watch to make sure you stood there for a full five minutes, too. Marvellous old boy. Sorry, you were saying?’
But Venturi has lost his train of thought, and in the brief hiatus Villanelle makes her way across the reception area to the desk.
Birgit looks up, her expression frosty. ‘Room Seven. A complaint. You need to go straight away and deal with it.’
‘Yes, Birgit.’
Room Seven is Petra Voss’s. When Villanelle knocks on the door and opens it with her pass key, Petra is lying on the bed, smoking. She’s wearing jeans and an ironed white shirt.
‘Come over here, Violette. That is your name, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
Petra stares at her. ‘You’re quite a piece of work in that uniform, aren’t you? Quite the Aryan cutie-pie.’
‘If you say so.’
‘I do say so. Bring me something I can use as an ashtray.’
In response, Villanelle reaches forward, and takes the cigarette from Petra’s mouth. She walks over to the window, opens it, admitting a blast of cold air, and throws the cigarette out into the snow.
‘So. You don’t approve of me.’
‘You’re a guest. Obey the rules.’
Petra smiles. ‘Actually, I’m not a fucking guest. I’m paid to be here. A lot.’
‘Whatever.’
‘Such attitude from the maid.’ Languidly, Petra swings her legs from the bed, and stands so tha
t she is eye to eye with Villanelle. Very slowly and deliberately, she draws Villanelle’s black neckerchief through its woven leather knot. ‘But then I’m your type, aren’t I?’
Villanelle considers. According to the hotel schedule the afternoon’s guest entertainment is an hour-long helicopter flight through the high peaks of the Tyrol and Carinthia, hosted by Linder. It’s due to depart from the landing strip at 2 p.m. She’s got, perhaps, an hour.
‘You might be,’ she says.
‘Konstantin Orlov,’ says Richard. ‘How strange to hear his name after all these years.’
He and Eve are sitting at a window table in a department store café. The café is on the fourth floor, overlooking Oxford Street. Eve is drinking tea, and Richard is staring without enthusiasm at a plate of reheated shepherd’s pie.
Eve smiles. ‘You’re wishing you hadn’t ordered that now, aren’t you?’
‘I panicked. Embarras du choix. Orlov’s dead, you say.’
‘Apparently, yes. Killed in unexplained circumstances, near Odessa.’
‘Sadly appropriate. His life was a series of unexplained circumstances.’ He looks out over the rooftops for a moment, then takes up his fork and determinedly addresses his meal. ‘So what’s his death got to do with our enquiry?’
‘He was killed in the house of a Ukrainian gangster called Rinat Yevtukh. A nasty piece of work.’
‘As they so often are. Go on.’
‘Last month Yevtukh vanished off the face of the earth while on holiday in Venice, after taking off in a motor launch with an unknown, and reportedly glamorous, young woman. Now we know that our female assassin was in Venice at that time, and I’m wondering if she killed Yevtukh as some kind of punishment for Orlov’s death.’
‘That presupposes a connection between her and Orlov. Is there any reason to think that such a connection exists?’
No Tomorrow: The basis for Killing Eve, now a major BBC TV series (Killing Eve series Book 2) Page 13
