by L. A. Larkin
‘I understand.’
‘You must not speak of this to anyone. If Casburn or MI5 find out, I will be sent back to Russia with the certainty I will be executed.’
‘I won’t tell anyone, unless you give me permission. You have my word.’
‘My life depends on your silence.’
She nods. He looks down again.
‘I am sent to assassinate a Taliban leader. No firearms, no noise. I am to strangle him in his sleep.’ He watches her reaction. She gives him none. ‘This leader is well protected. Gerasimov, he has sent me to my death.’
‘I’m assuming the Afghani Government had no idea?’
‘None. Russia cannot attack the Taliban inside Afghanistan. Instead, it supplies arms to anti-Taliban forces. But Russia conducts secret airstrikes on Taliban positions. Of course, they deny it. But then the new President, Putin, decides he must do more to control the threat of the Taliban on his border. He is angry the Taliban helps train the Chechens to fight Russia. Did you know about this?’
‘I’d heard rumours.’
‘So we are sent to assassinate a Taliban commander named Fazi. He is outspoken about his support for the Chechens. He supplies them with weapons to kill us. We have information Fazi hides in a mountain village with twenty men. The intelligence is wrong and we are led into a trap. Our guide takes us into a minefield and abandons us. We are fired on. We run. I watch men blown to pieces. Andrei steps on an IED. He dies, I live.’
He is still, lost in his memories.
‘Did you kill Fazi?’ she asks.
Yushkov shakes his head. ‘Only three of us reach the village, including my captain, Razin. Our target is not there. He has been tipped off. Captain Razin, he orders us to round up the villagers. They are forced to their knees in the street.’ Yushkov’s voice cracks. ‘Razin demands of each person: where is Fazi? An old woman is first. She weeps and says she does not know. He shoots the old woman in the head. Then he kills a teenage boy. Then a young girl, no more than nine or ten ...’ Yushkov is barely audible. ‘It was murder. Stupid and pointless. These villagers, they know nothing or they are too afraid to tell us. I could not be a coward again, so I shout at my commander to stop. I say they are civilians and we must not kill civilians. He shoots me.’
Yushkov touches his right collarbone and moves his shoulder stiffly. ‘I was lucky. But the villagers were not. He shoots them, one by one. Only a boy escapes.’ Yushkov shakes his head. ‘Just one. It is then that I know I cannot stay in the Army. But I am bound by a contract - I will never be free. So I turn my gun on my commander and kill him. I have been running ever since.’ Yushkov leans back in his chair and exhales loudly, relieved he’s come to the end of his confession. ‘My country wants me dead. Why, Olivia, would I do Russia’s bidding?’
‘Forgiveness?’
‘Ha!’ he laughs bitterly. ‘The Army never forgives.’
‘A chance to return to your homeland?’
Yushkov shakes his head.
‘I tell you, I step foot in Russia and I am dead.’
Wolfe pauses. ‘To see your sister again?’
His head snaps up. ‘How do you . . . ? Ah, you hear Grankin.’ He smiles. ‘I must watch you very carefully.’
‘How does Grankin know your sister?’
‘You are a smart woman. You tell me.’
‘You like your games, don’t you?’ she says. ‘Okay then, Grankin is blackmailing you?’
‘Very good.’
‘He promises safe passage for your sister if you give him the bacteria.’
‘Also correct.’
‘And? There is something else,’ Yushkov says.
‘And, the man we met, claiming to be Sergey Grankin, isn’t the real Grankin?’
Yushkov nods.
‘Are you working for the SVR?’ Wolfe asks.
‘I am not. Will you trust me now?’
35
Yushkov’s stare never wavers as he waits for an answer. There are too many questions pinging around Wolfe’s head like a pinball machine. Should she believe him?
Wolfe’s phone rings. The caller ID says it’s Cohen.
She ducks into the bathroom and answers. Yushkov watches her, his wide shoulders slouched, as if his confession has drained him.
‘What the fuck is going on?’ Cohen yells down the phone.
His voice booms out. Even Yushkov hears him and frowns the question: who is that?
‘Moz, hold your horses! What do you mean?’
‘What I mean is, I tell you to email me your story and you send me fuck-all while your mate Nails beats you to it. Go to UK Today’s site. I’m sure you’ll get a kick out of reading his so-called first-hand account, “Police Guard Alien Bacteria”.’
‘What?’
It’s her headline. Exactly.
Yushkov stands, worried by the alarm in her voice. ‘What is happening?’ he mouths.
Wolfe mutes her phone. ‘It’s my editor.’
‘Who’s there with you?’ says Cohen.
She takes it off mute. ‘Nobody,’ she lies. ‘Sounds like Nails stole my story.’
‘And how the fuck did he do that?’ Cohen sneers. ‘Telepathy?’
‘Give me a chance, will you? Let me read it.’
‘I’ll tell you what it bloody well says,’ Cohen snaps. ‘Unnamed sources at the Laboratory of Molecular Biology have confirmed that the Lake Ellsworth bacteria is a deadly pathogen. So deadly that the lab and the scientists are under twenty-four-hour police guard.’ Cohen pauses for breath, ‘You’re in fucking Cambridge, you’re the only reporter to get inside the lab, you’ve even talked to the scientists. So tell me how that fuckwit writes the story you promised me!’
‘I’ll call you back.’
‘Oh no, you don’t!’
She cuts him off and uses her phone’s internet. On UK Today’s site there is a photo of the Cambridge lab, an exterior building shot, and a pretty scary-looking photo of tuberculosis bacteria in close-up, subtitled, ‘Tuberculosis was the most deadly bacteria on Earth. Until Antarctic scientists brought something more sinister to our shores’.
She skim-reads the article and calls Cohen back.
‘My words, verbatim. Except he’s made up the TB stuff.’
‘Magnificent!’ says Cohen. ‘So what am I going to print?’
‘Moz, listen to me. I’m telling you this is exactly what I have written. Look, I’ll email it now.’ A few seconds later it’s sent. ‘See what I mean.’
Cohen is silent for a minute as he reads. ‘If you wrote this, how come I’m reading it under Nails’s by-line?’
‘My computer’s been hacked, so this phone could’ve been too,’ she says. ‘Nails may well be behind the weird shit going on at my flat. The prick!’
Yushkov moves to the open window and lights another cigarette.
‘Moz, I’m not using this phone again. I’ll send you a story tonight with a better angle.’
‘How?’
‘I’ll get a new phone.’
She ends the call, switches it off, removes the SIM and pockets it. She doesn’t want to lose her day-to-day contacts. When this is over, perhaps she can retrieve them. She glances at the chunky ring on her finger: at least she still has her sources’ details stored safely.
‘My phone’s been hacked,’ she says to Yushkov. ‘Probably a rival reporter.’
Yushkov frowns. ‘Is there anything about me on there?’
‘Yes, I made notes in Antarctica. You were in them.’
‘Including my argument with Sergey?’
‘Yes, it was easier to use—’
Suddenly, he is in her face. ‘Did you say Sergey is Russian agent?’
‘It is one of my theories, yes.’
‘What if this Nails prints this theory? Says I talk in secret with SVR? Casburn does not know these things. If Nails makes it public, I will have SVR hunting me, and Casburn.’
It seems to happen in slow motion. One moment she is looking up at Yushkov’s anxious
face, the next there is a faint pop, his head twitches sideways and he throws her to the floor. Glass shatters. The bullet hits the wall. She screams. He lands partly on her, partly next to her and covers her mouth with his hand.
‘Quiet!’ he whispers.
She nods her understanding. The window has a jagged hole. One shot. The sniper is waiting to take another. Yushkov crawls on his elbows across the glass-strewn carpet and stretches a hand up to the light switch, killing the lights. Another bullet zips past Yushkov’s head. Shattered wall plaster falls on his head.
The laptop still illuminates the bed. And them.
‘Shut the laptop. Keep low.’
Wolfe nods, rolling on to her belly, and crawls closer. Tiny shards of glass crunch beneath her. Head down, she runs her hand blindly across the bedspread, finds the laptop, closes the lid and drags it to the floor. The room is plunged into darkness, except for a jaundice yellow glow from the car park lights.
‘The fire escape,’ Wolfe whispers, ‘outside the window. He could use it.’
‘Then we go now.’
Wolfe and Yushkov creep towards the strip of light under the door. They listen out for an accomplice on the other side of the door, but hear nothing.
‘I open it. You crawl through first. Okay?’
‘Yes.’
Yushkov reaches up to the door handle. More glass explodes, he collapses, and her heart almost stops.
36
Yushkov is motionless. The slit of light seeping under the door is enough to see a dark wet patch on his ear. Wolfe reaches out and touches warm blood.
‘Vitaly?’
Yushkov slowly shifts his hand to his bloody ear. ‘Grazed me.’
Tufts of carpet jump before her eyes as another bullet shreds it.
‘He’s up high. We stay here, he will kill us,’ Yushkov whispers. ‘We must run for it. You ready?’
She nods. Yushkov takes a deep breath, jumps up, throws open the door and dives for the corridor floor. Bullets smash into the corridor wall, sending plaster and wallpaper flying. Wolfe darts through the opening.
‘Run!’ Yushkov yells.
They charge down the corridor. The top of Yushkov’s ear has been cut and blood drips down his neck. There’s a tray of half-eaten room-service food outside a guest’s door. Wolfe seizes the cotton serviette.
‘Here.’ She flicks it to him. ‘You’re bleeding.’
They hurtle down the red-carpeted stairs.
‘Can’t use my hire car,’ Wolfe pants, working hard to keep up with him. ‘In my name.’
‘Use mine.’
They burst through a fire door into the reception area and get a stunned gasp from the receptionist and disapproving stares from a man checking in.
‘Sir? Madam?’ calls the receptionist. ‘Wait a moment, please, we’ve had complaints . . . ’
Ignoring her, Yushkov takes Wolfe’s hand and they run from the hotel and down Trumpington Street. Except for a few passing cars, the street is almost empty. It’s bitterly cold and their heavy breathing creates a fleeting mist around their faces.
‘There!’
He points to a Seat Ibiza: his neighbour’s car. Yushkov pulls the key from his pocket and remotely unlocks it. He is about to open the driver’s door when Wolfe sees a shadow shift behind the car. Yushkov doesn’t see the man steal closer, knife in hand. Wolfe charges him and swings her backpack at his hand, knocking the knife into the gutter. But their assailant reaches inside his jacket. Yushkov recovers himself in time to punch the man in the stomach, then slams his attacker’s hand into the car door, forcing him to drop the gun he’s pulled. Wolfe grabs it and points it at the killer as Yushkov throws him on to the car bonnet and pins him down.
‘Who are you? Who do you work for?’ he demands.
Before the man can answer, he convulses and blood spatters over Yushkov’s face. The sniper has followed them, ensuring their captive doesn’t talk. Immediately, Yushkov ducks low, dragging Wolfe between two parked cars.
‘Over the road!’ Wolfe says, and takes off.
They dodge a bus heading for the city centre, sprint down Lensfield Road and take an immediate right into Brookside. It’s a narrow, poorly lit residential street. Beech-tree branches obscure the cars parked beneath. The newly built terraced houses opposite are shut up for the night, curtains drawn, lights mostly out. She slows.
‘We need a car,’ Wolfe says. ‘An old model. Watch my back.’
They race past Audis, Fords, Volkswagens, Fiats and the occasional Volvo.
‘This one,’ says Wolfe, stopping at a twelve-year-old Vauxhall Astra.
She drops her backpack on the ground and pulls out her wallet, removing her lock-picking kit. She finds the pick she wants, inserts it in the driver’s door lock, jiggles it around until it clicks. She lifts the handle and the door opens.
‘Get in,’ Wolfe says.
Chucking her pack into the back, she leans across and unlocks the passenger door from the inside. Yushkov fills the space, his head brushing the car roof. Wolfe crouches over the steering wheel, yanks off the cover, pulls down the ignition wires, strips the ends and gets them to touch. The engine comes to life.
‘So, we have something in common,’ Yushkov says, grinning.
‘How do you mean?’ she asks, as she drives off down the street, taking a sharp left down Pemberton Terrace.
‘A misspent youth.’
Wolfe glances at him. ‘My brother taught me.’ She looks around, trying to get her bearings. ‘I’ve no idea where we are. How do I get to London?’
‘Why London?’
‘We have to disappear and it’s easier in a city of nine million. And I’m paying Nails a visit.’
He shrugs. ‘My flat is being watched. So I guess I go with you. But I think this reporter is the least of your problems.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘You should be more worried about the men who just tried to kill us.’
‘SVR?’
‘I think so.’
‘We need burner phones. One each. What’ll be open at this time of night?’ She glances at the car clock. It’s just gone ten.
‘I know supermarket that opens late.’ He gives her the directions. She drives. ‘We need a gun. I have friends in London who can help.’
Wolfe’s head snaps round. ‘No way. No firearms.’
‘Have you forgotten what just happened? They are armed, so we must be armed.’
Wolfe doesn’t like where this is heading. ‘You know gun dealers?’
‘I would not call them dealers. They are men who need to defend themselves. With a past, like me.’
‘Who are these men?’
‘It is best you do not know their names. They are Chechen. Russian. Afghani.’
‘Jesus, Vitaly! Are you out of your mind? MI5 and SO15 think you’re a terrorist and you’re going to buy a gun from the Russian and Chechen mafia, or - even worse - an Afghani who’s probably on a terror watch list.’
‘I will be careful, Olivia.’
She slams the palm of her hand down on the steering wheel.
‘You do this, you’ll get picked up and you’ll never be heard of again.’
‘SVR will not stop hunting us. This is the only way.’
Wolfe shakes her head. ‘I don’t want to know who you call. I’m having nothing to do with it.’
Thirty minutes later they are on the motorway heading for London, with new pay-as-you-go phones in fake names, and woolly hats and scarves to keep their features hidden from prying eyes and CCTV cameras. Yushkov has a large plaster on his ear. They’ve filled the car with petrol, bought snacks and drinks, and paid for everything in cash. Yushkov has made several calls and left cryptic messages. The only man he’s succeeded in speaking to - a Russian - is unwilling to help.
‘Was the sniper after you or me?’ Wolfe asks, gunning it down the motorway.
‘I think both. We are lucky to be alive. The assassin was a professional.’
‘What ma
kes you so sure?’
‘A kill shot at night is very difficult.’
‘You heard him fire? How?’
‘I know the sound.’
They are silent for a while.
‘So, you decide to help me?’ Yushkov asks.
‘I guess I have.’
He stares at her profile as she drives. ‘I thank you.’
‘Don’t thank me yet.’
Yushkov throws a handful of crisps in his mouth.
Wolfe overtakes an Audi R8 that’s barely doing sixty m.p.h. ‘What a waste! Look at those sleek lines. Gorgeous car.’
‘You are not like other women I know.’
‘You can be sure of that.’ She flicks him a big smile.
‘Why you have metal in your tongue?’
‘Cause I want to,’ she replies, the smile gone. ‘Hey, do I get any of those? You ate my dinner, remember?’
He holds out the bag of salt and vinegar crisps and she takes a couple.
‘So let’s say Grankin tried to kill us tonight,’ she says. ‘Presumably because you know too much and he doesn’t want you blabbing to me or Casburn.’ Yushkov’s loud crunching makes it hard to think clearly. She takes a deep breath. ‘But Grankin wasn’t at Camp Ellsworth when Kevin was murdered, or when the accidents happened. So who on the team is working for Grankin?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Come on, Vitaly. You lived with these guys. You must have an inkling. Anyone do or say anything weird? Ask strange questions?’
Yushkov screws up the empty crisp bag and squeezes it into one of the cup holders recessed into the dashboard.
‘Hey,’ she says, ‘that’s got your DNA all over it. We’re taking it with us and wiping down the car when we get to London, okay?’
He nods and folds his arms. ‘Michael was with me when Kev left the mess tent. So was Harvey. No,’ Yushkov pauses. ‘Harvey left shortly after Kev. He was embarrassed at the way Michael spoke to me. He told me this later.’
‘Where was everyone else?’ Wolfe asks.
‘I can only guess. Engineers in the control centre. The others in the lab.’
‘So pretty well everyone at the camp had the opportunity to kill Kevin, except Michael.’
‘Michael would have had to walk past me and then take a snowmobile. I didn’t hear the engine start.’
