by L. A. Larkin
‘Let me go, Vitaly.’
‘I got your message. I tried to run but Grankin was waiting. He takes me out the back, shows me a video of my sister, Renata. Grankin promises he will get her to England. I have not seen her for sixteen years.’
‘Go tell your sob story to someone who cares. I’m done. Now let me go.’
His arms tighten like a straitjacket.
‘Nyet. You must listen. Grankin, he says I must steal the bacteria.’
‘And me?’
‘I must kill you. You know too much.’
‘And?’
‘And I will not kill you.’
A black Porsche Cayenne with dark tinted windows crawls along Elmbourne Road. It is moving too slowly. Yushkov lies flat on the ground, Wolfe held to his chest, the shadows their only protection. The car crawls up the road and away from them. Yushkov waits until it has turned a corner, lets go of her and sits up.
‘You must decide, Olivia,’ he says, wiping his nose with a sleeve. ‘I walk away now, you never see me again.’
Wolfe clambers up on unsteady legs and brushes herself down. Dirt clings to her damp jeans. He remains on the gravel, looking up at her. ‘You tremble. ’
‘I’m cold, Vitaly. Cold and wet. And I’ve had enough of your lies.’ She picks up her helmet. ‘I’m going to get on my bike and I don’t want to see you again. Do you understand?’
Yushkov nods.
The Harley-Davidson starts first time and she pulls on the helmet and gloves. Yushkov watches in silence. Revving the engine, Wolfe accelerates away, racing down Elmbourne Road, past the park on her left, towards the junction with the A214. As she waits for a gap in the heavy traffic, the same Porsche she’d seen earlier turns into Elmbourne Road. The passenger stares at a smartphone, his face illuminated: Sergey Grankin. In less than a minute, they will drive past Yushkov.
That’s his problem.
But Wolfe doesn’t make the turn. Why didn’t he kill her? Why not hand her over to Grankin?
If Yushkov is telling the truth, he’s a dead man.
Wolfe does a three-sixty and guns the bike. She overtakes the four-wheel drive and skids to a halt outside the first garage. No Yushkov. Where is he? She hears the huge V8 accelerate. She spies Yushkov walking down Manville Road. She shoots over the crossroads and screeches to a halt alongside him.
‘Get on,’ she shouts. ‘Grankin’s coming!’
Her backpack is in the way so she rips it off her shoulders.
‘Put this on,’ she says.
He’s ready in seconds and slides on to the seat behind her.
‘Hang on tight,’ she says, burning rubber.
45
The house in Berrymede Road, Chiswick, is not only architect designed, it is architect owned. The owner clearly likes his privacy because the three-level house is tucked away down a narrow path, hidden from the street by another - less avant-garde - house directly in front. The land was subdivided so the architect could build two houses and live in the one at the back. Wolfe pushes her bike down a path of square limestone pavers, the gaps between each stone slab filled by polished white marble pebbles. Yushkov is close behind. A motion-detecting exterior light switches on, illuminating a small courtyard and a façade entirely in glass. It’s like looking into a doll’s house with the front open. The house is open-plan and looks to have nothing to soften the sharp angles and hard surfaces - all beech, stainless steel and yet more polished limestone. There is a void from the ground floor right up to the mezzanine master bedroom on level three. There are no curtains or blinds, which might be a problem for two fugitives if the wall of glass didn’t face the rear of the other house. Three metre-tall bamboo grows in a semi-circle around an earthenware pot - a water feature that’s switched off. To be sure nobody is home, Wolfe rings the doorbell. No response, so she heaves her Harley-Davidson up on to its kickstand.
Wolfe taps in one of three possible entry codes. The second attempt unlocks the door and she switches off the security alarm in the cloakroom, just as O’Leary told her to do. Exhausted and chilled to the bone, she leans against the hand basin. Spying the switch for the underfloor heating, she clicks it on.
Yushkov is in the open-plan stainless steel kitchen, head under a swivel tap, washing the blood off his face. He reaches for a tea towel and wipes his face.
‘Did I break anything?’ she asks.
‘Maybe my nose, but it will mend.’ He smiles at her. ‘You fight well.’
‘Next time, I’ll hit harder.’
He laughs.
The home seems scoured of any extraneous matter, with only the essentials for living in evidence. Square orange leather armchairs and a white leather sofa and glass coffee table face a steel and glass TV unit upon which three soccer trophies and some architectural books are displayed. There are no cushions or rugs or shoes lying around or letters that need reading or perishable foods in the fridge. The kitchen bench tops are a mottled white Caesarstone and as bare as an ice sheet.
‘Soak that towel in cold water and bleach, will you? We have to leave everything exactly as we found it. The owner doesn’t know we’re here.’
Yushkov raises an eyebrow but sees the exhaustion in the tightness of her face and slouching shoulders.
‘I cook a meal,’ Yushkov says. ‘It will warm you.’
She watches him open the freezer door and shakes her head. ‘What in God’s name am I doing here with you?’
Wolfe wearily climbs the open wooden stairs up to the next level: a mezzanine office space with draughting table and framed awards on the pristine white wall.
‘I’m taking a shower,’ she calls down.
The spare bedroom, with white-painted wrought iron bedhead and mirrored wardrobes, floor to ceiling, is where she guesses O’Leary handcuffs herself to the bed and waits to be beaten. It distresses her to think about it and she keeps moving, heading up to the top floor. Wolfe has lost count of the times she has tried to persuade her friend to change her line of work.
The master bedroom has an en-suite bathroom with sliding doors opposite the king-size bed. A solitary plastic tree sits in a pot near the glass doors to the roof terrace.
In the bathroom, Wolfe turns on the shower and leans for a moment against the wall-hung heated towel rail, but she is so cold she can barely feel its heat. It’s painful to remove her damp biker jacket, which she hangs on the back of the door to dry. It smells of damp dog. She drops the rest of her clothes on the floor and steps unsteadily into the stinging spray.
The hot water pounds her body but she still shivers. She feels like a frozen slab of meat. A wave of dizziness hits her; she pushes her hands against opposite ends of the glass enclosure to steady herself. The bathroom seems to shift, tilting slightly, as though she’s had too much to drink. Head bowed, she tries to take a deep breath and doubles over in a coughing fit. The room stops spinning but, as she defrosts and sensation returns to her skin, it feels as though the water is gradually getting hotter and hotter, until it’s almost too uncomfortable to bear. She finds some shampoo in a steel basket and pours some into her trembling hand. She tries to massage it into her scalp, but the dizziness returns, together with nausea. There’s enough shampoo in her hair to remove most of the dirt, so she leans back and lets the stream of water wash the grime away. Suddenly the contents of her stomach forces its way into her mouth and she doubles over again, vomiting, one hand pressed against the glass, the only thing keeping her upright. She coughs and splutters, then spews again. Her stomach feels as if it’s turning inside out and she moans, watching the mess disappear down the drain. The room spins. She has to get out of the shower. Blindly, she fumbles for the mixer tap, knocking bottles to the floor. Her vision blurs and her knees buckle.
Wolfe feels someone’s arms under hers, pulling her up. She can’t hear the splash or feel the water’s heat. She is being lifted, her head flopping over his shoulder. It’s like being a little girl again, when her dad would carry her to bed and tuck her in. She loved resting h
er cheek on his shoulder, her young arms around his neck, breathing in his aftershave. Wolfe is gently seated on the granite tile surround of the bath, her back to the wall, but she flops forwards. She’s too weary to open her eyes. She has to sleep. A towel strokes her face, the touch very light, then dries her hair. He holds her close to him as he wraps a dry towel around her body and lifts her.
‘Olivia, did you hit your head?’ Yushkov asks.
She tries to open her eyes, but it’s as if her body is shutting down. Her head lolls back over his arm. He carries her to the bed and somehow manages to pull back the duvet and lower her on to the sheet, covering her quickly with the bedding. She rolls to one side and curls into a tight ball, the shivers coming in violent surges, her eyes clenched shut.
‘Cold,’ she says. ‘So cold.’
The light is switched off. She hugs the duvet tightly around her, desperate to stop the convulsions, frightened by the alternating waves of chills and overheating. She moans.
The duvet is moved and for a moment it seems as if it is floating above her. Yushkov cuddles up behind her, wrapping her in his arms, his legs mirroring the position of hers. Yushkov’s warm skin is both unbearable and comforting. Her mind tells her she should be afraid. He could hurt her, rape her. But Wolfe feels safe for the first time in as long as she can remember and relaxes in his embrace. He holds her close, his body still, as hers shivers. She feels his breath on the back of her head, calm and even.
‘Sleep,’ he says. ‘I will keep you warm.’
She drifts into unconsciousness.
46
Catherine Wolfe has hardly moved or eaten for three days. She’s sobbing into another soggy tissue and hasn’t changed her clothes since Dad called Mum a stupid bitch and boasted he’d found someone else. The curtains have remained drawn and windows shut, despite the June hot weather, and the room smells stale and sweet. Fruit flies hover over the rotten apples in the fruit bowl. The phone rings and Catherine doesn’t answer it. Doesn’t even seem to hear it. Olivia guesses it’s her school, wondering where she is. Again. She tiptoes into the room, clutching a plate of Marmite on toast.
‘Here, Mum, I made this for you.’
Wolfe stares at her tissue, picking holes in it, ignoring her daughter and the toast. Fourteen-year-old Olivia sits next to her mother, who no longer smells like talcum powder and peaches but of sweat and sour breath. She tries to hug her but is shoved away.
‘Leave me alone,’ her mother yells. ‘It’s all your fault!’
Catherine jumps up, tears threatening. She doesn’t know what to do. She wants to get help but her mother guards the phone, waiting for her dad to ring and apologise and say he’s coming home. But even Olivia knows, this time, Dad isn’t going to call. The front door opens and for a second her heart lifts; maybe he has come back after all? Her mother jumps up, blotchy face now beaming with hope. Her brother, Davy, walks in. Eighteen years old and always the joker, always with a girlfriend or two in tow, he is five foot seven and seventy kilograms of muscle, has the same large round dark eyes as Olivia, his coal-black hair cut short. She rushes to him and throws herself into his arms.
‘How you going, tiger?’ he asks, grinning at her.
But he knows the answer. He lives with them. Olivia’s grip tightens around his waist, desperate for reassurance.
He looks at his mother. ‘I can’t do this any more, Mum. All this misery. The bastard’s gone! Get used to it and move on.’
‘No,’ Catherine says. ‘He’ll come back. I know he will.’
‘Mum, you’ve got be strong for Olivia.’
Her mother snorts derisively and turns her back on them.
‘For fuck’s sake, Mum, look at you! You’re disgusting. Liv should be at school.’
‘No!’ her mother screams.
Davy sighs in exasperation. ‘Fuck this, I’m outa here!’
He pulls away from his sister’s embrace and stomps upstairs to his bedroom. Olivia races after him.
‘Where are you going?’ she asks, as he pulls a dusty olive-green canvas holdall out from under his unmade bed.
‘Joined the Army, Liv.’ He stops what he’s doing and looks into her sad eyes. ‘I’m sorry, mate, but I can’t stick this.’
Olivia grabs his back and squeezes tight. ‘Don’t leave me. Please. Not you too.’
She is bawling her eyes out when she wakes up and looks out through glass sliding doors on to a terrace she doesn’t recognise and a view across London’s rooftops she’s never seen before. Where is she?
She sits bolt upright. The uncertain sun infuses the bedroom with an insipid, grey light. She looks down; she’s naked. Beneath her is a scrunched towel. On the other side of the bed, the thick duvet is folded back and the bottom sheet is rucked. Someone has slept there. She rubs her forehead, trying to remember, and then catches sight of her image in the mirrored wall above a bathroom vanity. She blinks at her dark bob sticking out at odd angles, like a fledgling blackbird’s feathers. On the floor, next to the shower cubicle, her muddy boots. Then she remembers: jumping into the lake, seeing Yushkov with Grankin, her battle with him as she tried to collect her Harley-Davidson and their arrival here. After that, her mind is fuzzy. Why is she naked and where is Yushkov? She was shivering and dizzy. Yes, that’s it. The hot shower was supposed to warm her. She collapsed. She stares at the used pillow next to hers. He wouldn’t, surely?
‘Oh no!’
Wolfe leaps out of bed and dives for the bathroom, to find her freshly laundered clothes drying on the hot towel rail along with Yushkov’s. But she doesn’t recall putting them there. Covering her nakedness with an oversized man’s white towelling robe, she listens for Yushkov and hears pots clanking. Leaving the bathroom, Wolfe peers over the glass balustrade and down into the void. Two floors below, Yushkov is making coffee. He’s bare chested and bare footed, wearing nothing but boxers. As he locks the portafilter into the espresso machine’s group head, his back muscles tighten. He put her to bed. She was shivering with cold and burning with heat. He got in with her, using his body to help her through the hypothermia.
Yushkov hums as the espresso machine splutters and the thick coffee drips into a small cup. He drinks the short black as if it were a vodka shot, head thrown back, not a care in the world. Wolfe studies him, still unable to decide if he’s a well-trained spy or a victim.
There’s a beeping sound, but not from the coffee maker. Yushkov picks up his phone from the island bench: the same cheap brand of pay-as-you-go phone they both bought in Cambridge. Hers is waterlogged. Only Wolfe has his number, so who is texting him?
Wolfe jogs down the stairs and finds Yushkov with his back to her, leaning against the island bench.
‘Who’s the text from?’
His shoulders tense and she notices for the first time the exit wound left from his commander’s bullet, the skin raised, the scar shaped like an exploding star. He doesn’t turn around or reply. Instead, he moves to where his coat hangs on a hook by the front door and drops the phone into a pocket.
He pauses, his back still to her.
‘You will doubt me again if I tell you.’
Wolfe moves closer and smells eucalyptus and citrus shower gel on his skin. His hair is still damp and a trickle of water runs down the back of his broad neck.
‘I will doubt you more if you don’t.’
He exhales loudly, then takes the phone from the coat and faces her. The entry wound on his chest has left a pale, ridged scar.
‘Here.’ Yushkov hands her the mobile and she reads the message.
‘Samples moved to Porton Down. You know what to do.’
Protected by the military, Porton Down’s Defence Science and Technology Laboratory in Wiltshire is a Level Four facility, famed for its biological warfare research, including experiments with anthrax and smallpox.
‘You know how to find this place?’ Yushkov asks.
‘What I know doesn’t matter. Is this from Grankin?’
He nods.
He hesitates. ‘Yes.’
‘No,’ she exhales. Placing the phone on the workbench, she tries to gather her thoughts. ‘Last night, in the park, you said you wouldn’t—’
‘Kill you.’
She takes a step back. ‘And the bacteria?’
He tilts his head to one side. ‘You will never trust me. It is best I leave.’
Wolfe shakes her head. ‘I don’t know what to believe.’
Yushkov picks up his phone.
‘Why?’ Wolfe asks. ‘Why did you . . . take care of me last night?’
He moves close and reaches out his hand, as if to stroke her cheek. She grabs his wrist and holds it there, barely a few centimetres from her face.
‘Don’t,’ she says.
Yushkov doesn’t resist her grip.
‘I like your company,’ he says.
There’s a momentary shock, when her chest feels too small for her heart. But her emotional defences go up. He’s messing with her head. She flushes, embarrassed she is so easily swayed.
‘Stop your mind games. I’m useful, that’s all.’
Instantly his stare is hard. He yanks his wrist free, reminding her she only held it because he let her. He takes the stairs two at a time and is in the bathroom by the time Wolfe catches up. He steps into his jeans and does them up.
‘Tell Grankin you won’t do it. Walk away.’
He pulls on a T-shirt in silence.
‘Do you have any idea how well protected Porton Down is?’ she asks.
‘Yes.’
Wolfe blanches. ‘How do you know?’
This doesn’t make sense. Earlier he asked how to find the place. Yushkov glances at her in the mirror and gives her a knowing smile. She sees a man she hasn’t known before and the blood drains from her face.
47
‘I’ll leave you to get your gear together,’ Wolfe says, stepping away from Yushkov. His back to her, he watches her in the bathroom mirror as he buttons up his shirt.
When he can no longer see her, Wolfe dashes down the stairs, through the kitchen, scanning surfaces. Where is his gun? It won’t be long before he is dressed and ready to leave. She can’t let that happen. She rummages through his jacket, hung on a hook near the front door. She finds a Glock 19, Gen 4, semiautomatic pistol in an inner pocket. In the same pocket is a full magazine. Glancing up, she sees Yushkov is dressed, but preoccupied with his phone. She loads the magazine and hears it click, then releases the slide to chamber a round. One of the first things she learnt reporting in war zones was how to load and fire a gun. He is coming down the stairs. She needs a phone to call for help. Yushkov has the mobile. Where is the landline? Desperately scanning the open-plan space, she realises, with a sickening feeling, she is too late. Wolfe grips the pistol in both hands, her arms straight out in front of her. She aims at Yushkov’s chest, the largest target.
