by L. A. Larkin
‘Jerry, the information I asked for is now more important than ever. Please hurry. I’ll call you. Soon.’
‘Where are—’
Wolfe replaces the receiver and leans her back against the misted glass. Her body aches. She tries recalling her attackers’ faces, but she is having trouble thinking straight. None was as tall as Grankin, she’s sure of that at least. Furious she didn’t see the trap Harvey set for her, Wolfe kicks out at the booth.
‘Think!’
She can’t go to her Balham flat. She can’t go to Jerry’s place. The hotel is only around the corner and Yushkov could be in danger. Perhaps there’s a back entrance? Dialling the hotel, Wolfe asks the receptionist to take a message and insists it’s written down and pushed under the door to their room. Yushkov is unlikely to check the hotel’s telephone messaging system. She stresses the urgency.
Leaving the comparative warmth of the phone box, Wolfe looks up and down the road, then heads for the hotel. Soon, she is near enough the elegant Georgian hotel to observe the comings and goings through the front door. Diagonally opposite, on the other side of the road, is a designer lighting shop. Wolfe feigns interest in the contents but uses the glass as a mirror. The hotel’s grand entrance has a huge stone portico with two sets of stone steps. Warm light spills from the windows into the street, and a dusting of snow gives the building a fairy-tale quality. Nobody else is crazy enough to dawdle outside, but is a reception committee waiting for her in the lobby? By now she is shaking uncontrollably. If she doesn’t warm up soon, she’ll get pneumonia.
A hotel of this size is bound to have a back entrance, for staff and deliveries. So she walks around the block and finds herself in a street running parallel to Great Portland. All she can see are row upon row of magnificent white Edwardian houses with white pillars and black balustrades. She almost gives up when she sees an archway, leading to yet another mews, similar to the one she hid in earlier. This lane is one-way and U-shaped, the back of the hotel at the end. It is mid-afternoon and the grey skies, laden with snow, have ushered in an early twilight. The street lighting has not yet switched on. Creeping into the mews, Wolfe peers into indistinct corners and down basement steps that disappear into gloom. Cars and a small van are parked on one side of the mews, providing her with cover. The hotel has a number of rear entrances, all down wrought iron steps and through basement doors. Polished brass signs direct staff and deliveries to the correct entrance. Steam and cooked food smells belch from a humming kitchen extractor fan.
Out of the corner of her eye, a figure moves, then another. She scrambles down steps to a private basement flat then, keeping low, pops her head up enough to see at ground level. Three men appear from the last of the hotel’s basement exits, used for refuse management. One person walks ahead, hands in jacket pockets. The two men lagging behind are silhouetted against the hotel’s harsh exterior lighting and, when the tall one turns, his profile shows a distinctive kink in his long nose. Sergey Grankin catches up with the first man and offers him a cigarette, which he takes and they light up. They talk in hushed Russian, too far away for her to hear more than the occasional word. The third man walks up and down, keeping watch.
Grankin and the other smoker walk along the cobbled street in her direction, heads close, deep in clandestine conversation. She ducks and holds her breath as they pass by her hiding place.
When she dares to look up, they have paused, a van’s length away. But it’s not until Grankin’s companion peers at an illuminated phone screen that Wolfe’s worst fears are confirmed.
The man on the receiving end of Grankin’s friendly embrace is Vitaly Yushkov.
42
I’ve always had an addictive personality. As a teenager it was alcohol, pot and a teacher I obsessed over. As an adult, I moved on to stronger substances. Anything to get that high. To feel invincible. You picked up on my habit, didn’t you, Olivia? Called me out on it. Begged me to stop. I lied, said I was clean, but you knew. The euphoria, the confidence, the bounce in my step.
What started with you as revenge has become my need. You are my drug of choice these days and I need a regular fix.
Not knowing what you were doing was driving me crazy. I screamed and railed against Jerry fucking Butcher and his Cyber Crime bitch. My only information came from news reports. When I heard about the shooting in Cambridge, I thought I’d lost you. The dickhead reporter said there had been a fatality. Later on, she changed her story. Moron. When I thought you gone, my world imploded. I couldn’t breathe. The walls closed in. I felt alone. Terrifyingly alone.
Now some Russian thugs will take you from me if they see you. Always poking your nose into a hornet’s nest, aren’t you, Olivia? Although, I suppose I am partly to blame. I sent that email to Yushkov in Antarctica warning him about you. I’d forgotten I’d done it until I combed through my diary. I’ve provoked the Russian bear and I have to set things right.
I am tucked into a recessed doorway, five parked cars away from where you hunker down on the basement steps, behind the hotel. I’ve been following you since the British Museum. I just knew you’d contact Butcher. He’s the one person you still trust. So all I had to do was watch him and wait and let him lead me to the British Museum, where you were staring at a repulsive mummy. What’s so fascinating about preserved bones and flesh? Were you considering your own mortality? Only I decide when it is time for you to die. Not the Russians. Me.
The three men move perilously close to you. Do you recognise Yushkov? Do you see him for the liar he is? A spy? One of them. The lookout has a gun and a knife. He killed that journalist on York Bridge and would have killed you if the park ranger hadn’t turned up when he did. I wish now I hadn’t texted a photo of you with Harvey to that trashy tabloid claiming I saw you stab him. I’ve gone too far. What was I thinking?
I start to panic. I don’t know what to do. I can’t lose you. If you’re spotted, they’ll kill you. No ranger to save you this time. Do I call the police? No, no. They’ll take too long. I start gulping like an idiot. My chest feels crushed. The ground seems to shift. Am I going to black out? Think of happy moments, my psych used to say. I think about the laughing kids I saw earlier, playing with snowballs. My lungs fill again, my head clears. The wooziness passes. I know exactly what I must do.
I raise my coat hood and step out from my hiding place and walk nonchalantly towards the hotel kitchen entrance, just some kitchen hand or cleaner about to clock on. I walk right past you, but all you will see is a hoodie. Being this close to you thrills me. Your stalker is now your saviour. Who’d have thought? I feel strong. Empowered. Taller. I hold my head high. No more confusion. For the first time since I left hospital, I don’t have a mind-fuck.
I catch a glimmer of you retreating further down the steps, sinking into the shadows. All three men tense. The two in conversation are immediately silent. The tallest one - I’m betting he’s Sergey Grankin - takes his arm off Yushkov’s shoulders and places his hand inside his open coat. Yushkov freezes. Behind them, leaning against the railings, the lookout moves in my direction, as if to stop me entering the hotel. I walk straight up to the tall one and ask for a cigarette.
‘Sure,’ he replies, and offers me one from his pack.
The lookout has come up behind me.
‘Thanks, mate,’ I say, and shuffle off towards the goods delivery entrance trying not to choke. It’s been a long time since I had a fag.
All three watch me go, their backs to you, their focus on the immediate threat. The lookout follows me, ensuring I don’t loiter. So I enter the hotel kitchens. The prep chefs are busy. One looks up, but none challenges me. I disappear down a corridor before anyone has the chance to accost me.
But have I done enough to save my little robin?
43
Wolfe waits in darkness, her back pressed against a basement door. Nobody’s home. She shivers uncontrollably - never has she been this cold. The creak of boots on snow recedes, as does the soft drone of voices. They have gone,
but she doesn’t move. Salty tears threaten; she clenches her fists, refusing to succumb. She struggles to fathom why she feels so betrayed. It’s not because Yushkov has revealed himself a traitor. It’s not because she’s been made a fool of and feels used. It’s because she believed in him. She believed he tried to protect the innocent in Chechnya and Afghanistan and that he deserved someone to champion him. How could she have let her guard slip like that? She has foolishly tarnished her professional reputation and placed herself in mortal danger. Cohen was right: never get involved.
Her back slides down the door and she hugs her knees to her chest. What to do? Wolfe can’t go into the hotel. She probably wouldn’t leave it alive. Pride prevents her from calling Butcher - he was right about Yushkov. Does she contact Casburn? Informing feels dirty and she’ll be interrogated for hours. Days. No, Yushkov has played her. She’s going to return the favour.
Her muscles complain as she stands and moves stiffly up the steps to street level. The lane is empty, save for footprints left by Yushkov and his comrades in the snow. Leaving the mews, she heads back to the phone box, but she’s low on change, so she ducks into a coffee shop and buys a hot chocolate, getting change from a fiver. The woman behind the counter hands her a raspberry muffin.
‘On the house,’ she says, looking Wolfe up and down with pity in her eyes. She thinks she’s homeless.
Wolfe smiles and takes the muffin, but the kindness reminds her how far she has fallen from grace. Accused of being a traitor and harbouring a criminal; her face plastered all over the media; hunted by Casburn, the police and security services; unable to go to her flat or even hear Cohen growl, I told you so.
It’s barely above freezing inside the phone box as she gulps down the hot chocolate and shovels large chunks of muffin into her mouth. The hot liquid burns her tongue and thaws her stomach. Wolfe dials Daisy O’Leary’s personal mobile number, which her friend guards like a jealous lover. If Casburn’s had her phone tapped, it’s more likely to be her business line.
‘Dais, it’s Olivia. I need your help.’ Her teeth chatter as she tries and fails to speak clearly.
‘Liv? Is that you?’
‘Yes, sorry, I’m cold.’
‘Oh my God, I’ve been so worried! What in God’s name is going on? The cops’ve been all over your flat - that Casburn creep too. And UK Today’s calling you a traitor. The bloody hide!’
‘Dais, this has to be quick. I’m in a phone box. Can’t use my mobile. Have the cops searched your flat?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Have you left home since they went through mine?’
‘No, why?’
It’s unlikely, then, O’Leary’s flat is bugged.
‘Will you do something for me?’
‘Of course.’
‘Can you leave my bike outside the garages at the junction of Dr Johnson Avenue and Elmbourne Road? The spare key and helmet are in the hall cupboard. You okay so far?’
‘Shit, Liv, are you running from the cops?’
‘The less you know the better. Can you then tape the bike keys under the park bench at the junction of Dr Johnson and Hillbury Road and put my helmet inside a bag and leave it under the bench too? Can you do that for me?’
‘Sure. When do you need it?’
‘Now?’
‘Right, okay.’
‘If you think you’re being followed, ride around for a bit, then go home. If I don’t find the bike, I’ll know you’re being watched.’
‘Jesus!’
‘You still with me?’
‘Yes.’
‘I need somewhere to lie low. Do you know anywhere?’
‘Um, well, one of my clients is on holiday until the New Year. I know his house is empty.’
‘He gave you a key?’
‘No, but he’s a regular. Sometimes he phones me from work and tells me to go round there and chain myself to his bed and wait. So he gives me the security code. He changes the code weekly, but he only ever uses three. I can get you in there, for sure.’
‘Where is it, Daisy?’
‘In Chiswick.’
‘Any cameras?’
‘Don’t think so. Just an alarm system.’
‘No family staying?’
‘Never! His wife doesn’t even know about it.’
‘I’ll write down the codes. Wait a tick.’ Wolfe pulls a notebook and a pen from her bag. The pen still works but the notebook is soaked and useless. She uses an escort’s business card stuck to the phone box window. ‘Fire away.’
‘Why don’t I meet you there? Sounds like you need a friend.’
‘No, Daisy, this is risky enough. I’ve already seen one person murdered today. Just the access codes, please.’
O’Leary hesitates but gives them to Wolfe. ‘You gotta make sure when you leave he’s got no idea you’ve been there. Everything washed, clean and tidy. You hear?’
‘Thanks, mate. I owe you.’
‘You owe me nothing. That’s what mates are for.’
‘Promise me you’ll stay away. You won’t try to see me.’
O’Leary sighs. ‘I promise.’
Wolfe walks down Balham High Street. Home turf, but she can’t go home. It’s rush hour and the Tube was so packed nobody paid any attention to a slightly bedraggled fellow passenger. The overheated carriage helped her warm up, but as soon as she is outside her damp clothes bring on a fit of shivering.
Turning left into Ritherdon Road and right into Manville, she sees the nine garages at the corner of Dr Johnson Avenue and Elmbourne Road belonging to the residents of an adjacent block of flats. Wolfe stops at the crossroads and looks around. There are people about, wrapped up in thick coats and scarves, heads down, heading home. None shows any interest in her. She pays special attention to parked cars. At either end of the row of garages are plane trees, and under one is her Harley-Davidson Sportster 883. She breathes a sigh of relief. Now to find the keys. Heading down Dr Johnson Avenue, Wolfe enters the park and makes a beeline for the bench.
‘You’re a godsend, Daisy,’ she mutters.
There is no lighting over the bench and a leafless horse-chestnut tree overhangs it, keeping her in shadow. Under the wooden slats Wolfe finds a small bulge stuck to the wood with masking tape. She rips off the tape, kisses the keys, and shoves them in the front pocket of her leather jacket. Next, she kneels and opens the plastic bag, checking its contents: her leather gloves and a black helmet with a white skull painted on it.
Wolfe is grabbed from behind and yanked up. A gloved hand covers her mouth; an arm grips her round her chest so tightly she can barely breathe. Wolfe writhes and struggles, elbowing her assailant in the ribs. He barely responds, so she uses the bench as leverage, pushing her feet hard against it. Her assailant staggers backwards but doesn’t loosen his grip.
‘Olivia,’ he whispers in her ear, ‘Vitaly.’
She swings her bike helmet up and over her head and smashes it into his forehead and nose. He roars with pain and releases her. His hands fly up to his face. Wolfe bolts down the road towards the garages, her fingers in her jacket pocket as she struggles to pull out her bike’s key. She is fast but her backpack and the helmet are cumbersome and heavy. She slips on an icy patch, but manages to right herself. Behind her, Yushkov’s heavy footsteps approach fast. She sees her Harley-Davidson. On gravel now, she only has a few more feet to go. A puddle’s icy surface shatters, just as Yushkov throws himself at her, grabbing her waist and pulling her down in a rugby tackle. She hits the ground hard, winded, pinned down by Yushkov’s dead weight.
She is done for.
44
Before Wolfe can muster enough breath to scream, a bloody hand covers her mouth and grips her chin. For one terrifying moment she thinks he is going to snap her neck.
‘Quiet!’ Yushkov hisses in her ear.
Wolfe’s crash helmet has rolled away and she can’t reach it. She lashes out with her fists, but Yushkov pins down her wrists.
‘They’re here.’
Who is here?
In the distance, Wolfe hears the tap of high heels on the pavement. She tries to scream but Yushkov ensures she makes no sound. Somewhere nearby a car is remotely unlocked. Wolfe forces her jaws apart and bites into Yushkov’s hand. He grunts but doesn’t release his grip. A door slams and the car engine growls into life.
‘Listen to me. SVR watch your flat. I’m here to help you.’
The driver revs the engine and takes off. Wolfe’s only hope now is to feign submission and then try to catch him off guard to attack or flee. She lets her body go limp.
‘Do you understand?’ he says.
She tries to nod.
‘Don’t scream. If you do, we both die.’
His fingers slowly release their grip on her mouth.
‘Grankin is here,’ Yushkov says. Blood trickles from his nose.
‘What is this crap, Vitaly? I’ve seen you! With Grankin. Arm in arm, the best of buddies. You make me sick!’
Yushkov shakes her like a rag doll.
‘Listen! Grankin find me at the hotel. I pretend to co-operate. I had no choice.’
‘Liar! You’re SVR! You always have been.’ Wolfe screams. ‘Help!’
Yushkov grabs her tight as if in a lover’s embrace and shoves her face into his coat to stifle her cries.
‘Olivia! Stop!’ he says, his breath warm on her damp hair. ‘We are going to die if you don’t shut up. Why would I try to save you if I am working for them? Please, listen. When you did not show at the hotel, they go to your flat. They leave one agent with me - he is now in the hotel garbage bin where he belongs. That is why I am here. It is lucky I found you first.’
He pulls her up to a sitting position and rocks her in his arms, his face pressed close to hers. He could have killed her; he hasn’t. He could have alerted Grankin; he hasn’t. His hold on her relaxes enough so she can lift her head and look at him.
