by L. A. Larkin
‘Would you have heard it in a blizzard?’
‘Maybe not.’
‘That doesn’t narrow it down much. What about motivation? It’s a big deal to betray your country. Huge, if you have to kill. Why would someone do it?’
‘Perhaps they have a secret. Maybe criminal record? And SVR blackmail this person?’
‘As Grankin tried to do with you?’
‘As Grankin tried to do with me.’
Wolfe glances at Yushkov’s side profile. Has he told her the truth? If Yushkov is SVR or has been recruited recently by Grankin, she is playing a very dangerous game.
‘Everyone has secrets but few will actually kill to avoid exposure,’ she says. ‘Anyone spring to mind?’
‘Kev was my friend. I did not get close to the others.’
‘Gossip?’
‘I not like gossip.’
‘Yes, but there’s often a grain of truth behind it.’
He stares out of the window into the night. ‘Before we arrive in Antarctica, there was talk about Michael.’
‘What about him?’
‘People say he was having an affair and she wanted him to leave his wife. Gary saw this woman at BAS reception, demanding to see him.’ He shrugs. ‘That is all I know.’
‘I can’t see Heatherton sabotaging his own project, can you?’
‘Nyet. He is obsessed. I think he would prefer to lose his wife than this project.’
‘Okay, what if somebody on the team needed money badly. Does anyone have a gambling or drug addiction?’
‘Bruce, he likes to go to the casino. Plays blackjack. And Trent talks a lot about gambling, but it is small bets on horses.’
‘Have you heard Trent’s injured?’
‘No, what happened?’
‘All I know is the tractor blades came loose and crushed one of his legs. He’s in hospital.’
‘How did they come loose? This is not possible.’
‘I don’t know, I’m sorry.’
‘I do not think it is an accident.’
‘Nor do I.’ She glances at Yushkov. His features are hard set in anger.
‘What about financial difficulties, medical bills, anything like that?’
‘Stacy has two sons at university. Both at Cambridge. She complains about the fees, but I think she is paid well and so is her husband.’
Wolfe picks up a can of V energy drink and takes a swig. ‘All right, then what about somebody with a grudge? Hates this country for some reason?’
‘Bruce talked about growing up black in London. But he said he was determined not to let other people’s prejudices spoil his life.’
‘Was he bitter about it?’
‘No, I did not see this. I think he is proud he has a good career and a beautiful girlfriend.’
Wolfe catches his eye.
‘Are you angry at the way your new country is treating you?’
‘I am not angry. I am afraid.’
37
Yushkov rests his calloused hands on the armrest of an opulent, purple velvet wingchair and rests his boots up on a matching velvet footstool. The ex-soldier looks as out of place as a fish and chip shop on an iceberg.
‘This is nicest hotel I ever see,’ he says, stroking the velvet as if it were a cat.
Theirs is one of the spacious rooftop rooms with views through recessed windows along Great Russell Street and over the twinkling lights of the city. It’s one in the morning and Wolfe is curled up on a matching velvet armchair, her head resting on its wing, barely able to keep her eyes open. She can see into the marble bathroom. The claw-footed bath with gold taps looks inviting.
‘Why you choose this place?’
‘Because they know me. I bring whistle-blowers here. Sources who want their identities kept secret. The staff are discreet and they let me book by the hour, no questions asked.’
‘So they think you are prostitute?’
‘I don’t care what they think.’ She flushes pink and looks away. ‘I pay in cash, no questions asked.’
‘But we have this room for the night, yes?’
‘Yes. Except we have a sleeping issue,’ she says, nodding at the king-size bed. There had been no twins available.
Yushkov smiles. ‘There is no problem, Olivia. I take the bed and you sleep on the nice soft carpet. I give you a blanket.’ He watches her face darken and then bursts out laughing. ‘It is a joke. I will sleep on the floor.’
‘Yeah, very funny.’ She gets up, weary. ‘I’m taking a bath. I need to be up early.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘To find Nails. Then tee up an interview with the Russian ambassador. I want answers.’
‘He will deny everything.’
‘Of course, but, sometimes, provoking the beast can be revealing.’
‘And very risky.’
Wolfe picks up her backpack and takes it to the bathroom.
‘You still don’t trust me, do you, Olivia?’ he says, nodding at the bag.
‘I don’t trust anyone.’
She locks the bathroom door and leans against it, enjoying her solitude. She needs time to think and she thinks best when alone. Part of her knows that Yushkov may be lying, but to discover the truth, she must stick with him. Wolfe turns on the mixer tap, adds some bubble bath, and strips. As she waits for the bath to fill, she brushes her teeth. If Yushkov is the enemy, then why has he saved her life twice? Why would he even want her help? If he were a spy, wouldn’t he lie low and avoid contact? When the bath is full enough, she gets in, enjoying the relaxing warmth and the rose-scented bubble bath. She closes her eyes and runs through the day’s events: has she missed anything important? Her eyes suddenly open wide and she sits up sharply, splashing water on to the hexagonal mosaic tiles.
‘That’s it!’
She dries herself quickly with a white bath towel so huge it’s like a sail, and throws on her PJs: black with a tiny repeating pattern of white skulls. She opens the bathroom door, her face flushed from the heat.
‘Vitaly, I think I’ve got it.’
But Yushkov isn’t there.
Why would he leave? Her alarm dissipates when she notices that the silk purple paisley throw is missing from the bed, as are two of the four pillows. On the other side of the bed, Yushkov is asleep on the floor, curled up under the throw. She kneels down and gently touches his shoulder. A hand shoots out and grabs hers so tightly she squeals.
‘Let go! It’s me.’
Yushkov keeps his eyes shut but releases her hand. ‘You can’t have me. I’m too tired,’ he mumbles, his mouth twitching into a grin.
‘That’s never going to happen,’ she says. ‘Listen, I think I know how we can trap the killer.’
Yushkov rolls on to his back and opens his eyes, blinking away his tiredness. ‘What is this idea that can’t wait until morning?’
‘I interview you, the man questioned by SO15 about the stolen bacteria, the man accused of being a Russian asset.’
‘How does this help us?’
‘Because in it you’ll claim you know who really stole the canister and who murdered Kevin Knox. We’ll flush out the real traitor.’
Yushkov sits up. ‘But I do not know this. I tell Casburn I do not. I tell MI5 I do not. Now you want me to say I do? They will arrest me and, this time, they will not let me go.’
‘Not if we keep you hidden.’
Yushkov runs a hand over his head. ‘So you want me as bait?’
‘We will both be bait.’
‘You make an assumption that could get us killed. You presume the man who killed Kevin and stole the canister is also the sniper. Maybe not. If too many people come after us, we will end up dead.’
‘Think about it this way: this is your chance to tell your story, how your rights as a British citizen have been violated, and you’re in hiding from the very authorities who should be protecting you.’
‘Are you crazy?’
‘Probably.’
‘If we do this, our en
emies will try to hurt you. I do not know if I can protect you.’
‘Vitaly, I’ll be fine. I’m a born survivor.’
It’s seven in the morning. Lowe always starts his day with bacon - nice and crispy; two eggs - nice and runny; baked beans - cooked to mush, and two slices of white toast laced with oodles of margarine, washed down with a sweet cup of tea. The Greasy Spoon is a block away from the offices of UK Today, where he works. Lowe sits in a booth at the back on a red, sticky, plastic bench as he shovels his breakfast into his mouth with the gusto of a starving mutt, then uses his toast to mop up the oil. No pauses, no interruptions, until his plate is empty. Satisfied, he leans back, pulls his paper napkin out of his shirt collar and screws it up into a little ball, before tossing it on to the empty plate.
‘Bloody lovely, Barry! As always,’ Lowe shouts to the lard of a man who can be glimpsed in the kitchen through the serving hatch.
The cook salutes him, then wipes his runny nose with the back of his hand before he flips the bacon.
Wolfe watches Lowe unobserved through the grimy, steamed-up windows. She knows there is a rear exit through the kitchen that leads to an alley. It’s where Barry goes for his smoke breaks behind two overflowing, industrial bins. Yushkov has used one of these giant bins to jam the back door shut, and now waits at a safe distance, standing at a bus stop. They’ve agreed Yushkov cannot be seen by Lowe, who may recognise him. Wolfe opens the café’s front door, enters and heads along the line of booths. Lowe notices her instantly. He slides out of his seat and dives through the double swing doors into the kitchen, almost slipping on the greasy floor tiles. Wolfe is right behind him. Lowe twists the door handle to the alley but the door doesn’t budge.
‘Hello, Nails,’ Wolfe says. ‘Thought we might have a little chat.’
Barry watches the two of them as he flips a burger. ‘You all right there, mate?’
‘Yeah, he’s just fine, aren’t you?’
Lowe’s worried face breaks out into a toothy grin. He has egg stuck in his teeth. ‘Sure. Always happy to talk to me fellow journalists.’
‘Let’s sit, shall we? Two more teas, Melissa,’ she calls to Barry’s long-suffering wife and the café’s only waitress, who is as thin as Barry is fat. They sit in the same booth Lowe has just bolted from, but she makes sure she is nearest the door so she can stop him if he makes another dash.
‘You’re looking tired, Nails,’ Wolfe says. ‘The weight of all those lies wearing you down?’
She hasn’t seen him in a while and, even though he’s late thirties, he looks twenty years older. His thick mop of dark hair is receding fast and has turned pepper and salt. His yellowing teeth are too large for his mouth and seem out of place on his gaunt face. Lowe’s hand slowly creeps down to his trench-coat pocket.
‘No, you don’t,’ Wolfe says. ‘You’re not recording this.’
Lowe brings both hands up to the table. In his coat’s deep pockets he keeps an old-fashioned voice recorder, spiral-bound notebook and pen, and his tablet. His wallet, crammed with bribery money, is in his inside pocket, kept close to his heart.
‘You’re not looking too hot yourself,’ says Lowe. ‘Heard you pissed off somebody who used you as a punch bag. Nasty! Can happen when you stick your nose in where it’s not wanted.’
‘Well, you’d know all about that.’
Melissa shuffles over in UGG boots and slams two mugs of tea on to the table and shuffles back to the counter, without even looking at them.
Wolfe leans forward. ‘Let’s cut the friendly chat, shall we, and get to the point. Who gave you my story?’
Lowe folds his arms. ‘Funny that. There’s me thinking it was in yesterday’s paper and has my name all over it. Still, I must be seeing things.’
‘Cut the crap, Nails! Somebody gave you my copy. I bet you didn’t even bother to verify it.’
‘Bollocks, I have me own sources.’
‘Like who?’
‘Like I’m going to tell you! Get real.’
‘You didn’t even bother to change the copy. You’re getting lazy in your old age.’
‘Look, Liv. It’s my story, aw right. I wrote it, it was printed. The end. Now stop your whining and let me get to work.’
Lowe starts to shuffle along the sticky seat.
‘I haven’t finished.’
‘Tough!’
Lowe stands. She gets up and blocks his path.
‘The cops are all over my laptop and phone. Once they find it’s you, I’m going to make damn sure you go down. You’re not getting away with it this time.’
Lowe screws up his face as if he smells something rotten. ‘What you talkin’ about? I ain’t done no hacking.’
‘Then how did you get my copy? Cyber Crime will prove you did it, so you might as well spit it out.’
Lowe chews the inside of his cheek as he weighs up his options. The sucking noises make her feel sick. He sits.
‘Look, Liv. It was emailed to me, aw right. That’s all I know.’
‘Who sent it?’
‘Anonymous. Email address that’ll probably lead to some web server in the middle of bloody China somewhere.’
‘So you paid a hacker to get into my files?’
‘No way,’ says Lowe, holding his hand across his heart. ‘I don’t have no clue who your hacker is. And, quite honestly, Liv, I have better ways to spend me money than getting someone to hack your stuff.’
‘Like hacking a murdered child’s mobile? Or the PM’s phone?’
‘Ouch! That’s below the belt and has never been proved. All conjecture.’
Wolfe shakes her head. ‘Not good enough, Nails. I need to know who hacked me. Show me the email.’
He tilts his head as if he is about to refuse, and then pulls out his Note Pro and opens his emails. ‘There,’ he says, pointing at an email from someone calling themselves MysteryMan334.
‘“Come on Eric,” it says, “you’re missing the story of the century. Keep up, will you? Olivia Wolfe is about to publish this article, and I thought you might enjoy pipping her to the post. She has no idea you have it and she’ll never know how you got it.”’
‘Forward it to me.’ Wolfe writes down a new email address on a napkin and hands it to him.
‘And what do I get in return?’
‘Oh, let me see. You avoid a police investigation and lots of unwanted publicity for your paper.’
‘You drive a hard bargain,’ he says, tapping his long fingernails on the Formica table top. ‘That’s what I like about you, Liv. My life would be so dull without your condescending moral superiority.’
She watches him forward the email.
‘So I done you a favour. Now you do me one. I bet you know where that Russian spy is holed up, hey?’
‘I have no idea, Nails. And if I did, you’d be the last person I’d tell.’
She gets up.
‘Come on, Olivia. The fucker’s trading in germ warfare.’
‘You should write a novel, Nails. You’ve got a vivid imagination.’
‘I’ll be watching you,’ he says, tapping his nose. ‘That Russian bastard killed one of our own. The British public want justice.’
‘Funny that. There was me thinking in this country you’re innocent until proven guilty.’
38
Wolfe peers through the glass case at Gebelein Man, a 5,500-year-old mummy on display at the British Museum. Ginger, as he is known because of his red hair, is not wrapped in cloth and lying regally on his back, as are many of the other mummies at the museum. He is curled up into a tight foetal position, his skin shrunken and leathery, surrounded by earthenware pots once filled with food for his journey to the afterlife.
‘Turns out the poor guy was killed,’ says Butcher, his croaky voice only just audible above the loud chatter of museum visitors. ‘Stabbed in the back.’
Some Chinese tourists play with the touch screen, exploring the inside of Ginger’s body in 3D, to discover more about how he died.
‘One of my forensics team worked on Ginger. The scans confirmed it was murder.’
Butcher is wearing a blue striped scarf and navy blue blazer, and carries a satchel-style briefcase. He looks more like the detective he used to be.
‘That must be your oldest cold case,’ Wolfe says, smiling.
He smiles. ‘Let’s walk.’
They move away from Ginger and meander at a leisurely pace through the Egyptian mummies. Wolfe tells him about Yushkov asking for her help and the sniper attack. She doesn’t tell him Yushkov is with her in London.
‘I’ve had a little chat with Eric Lowe. I now know MysteryMan334 hacked my phone and sent him my article. Why, I have no idea. I’m getting the feeling my stalker is MysteryMan, and the sniper who tried to kill us in Cambridge is SVR. Different people with different motives. I’ve tried the Russian ambassador but his PR people are stonewalling me.’
The many lines of Butcher’s face deepen as he frowns. ‘This might explain why the Russians aren’t talking to you.’
Butcher hands her a rolled-up copy of UK Today. Two head-and-shoulders shots sit side by side on the page: Yushkov and Wolfe. Fortunately, because she hates her photo being taken - one reason why she never ventured into TV reporting - it’s a stock shot from years ago when she had long hair and was into red lipstick. She looks nothing like that photo now.
‘“British journalist protects traitor”,’ Butcher reads aloud. ‘Lowe claims you know where Yushkov is and you’re protecting him. Apparently SO15’s confirmed Yushkov has gone missing.’
He scrutinises her face. She doesn’t look up.
‘Liv, I’m not going to ask you directly if you know where he is, but, if you do, I urge you to tell Casburn. If you’re harbouring him, you’re guilty of assisting an offender.’
‘I never betray my sources.’
‘What if you’re wrong about him? What if he is a Russian asset? Have you considered that?’
‘Don’t believe that crap,’ she replies, handing back the newspaper. ‘Vitaly has saved my life twice. Why would he do that if he’s working for the Russians? Why would he ask me to help prove his innocence?’
‘Because he’s clever? Because through your articles he can persuade the public he’s innocent. You buy him time.’
