by L. A. Larkin
‘I hope. I go first. Then I can catch you.’
The sun hasn’t risen yet, but the dangling sheet will soon alert their pursuers. Yushkov is out of the window and disappears into the darkness, their bag with him. It’s her turn. She clambers down the rope easily, then lets go; Yushkov breaks her fall, catching her around her waist.
‘The fields,’ he says.
Avoiding the car park’s pools of sodium lighting, they scramble over a wire fence into a muddy field and crouch low as they follow the bramble bushes running parallel to the main road. The field is sodden, the mud sucking at their boots. Their stolen Fiesta is half a mile away, hidden from view by a clump of beech trees. Each time a vehicle goes by, they duck, their progress sporadic. Finally, they reach their car.
‘We need somewhere to lay low until Toby gets back to the hotel.’
‘How about our friend at the Porton Arms?’ Wolfe suggests.
Yushkov nods.
Five minutes later, the bleary-eyed publican is welcoming them, even if he has only just opened for business. With no overnight guests, he’s had a lie-in. They tell him they’d like a room and order the same coffees and breakfasts as yesterday. He’s delighted when they hand over cash.
‘Here, compliments of the house,’ the publican says, handing Wolfe the latest UK Today, rolled tight in an elastic band, only just delivered by the newsagent.
Wolfe is tempted to throw it away, but curiosity gets the better of her. Once seated, she unrolls the paper and instantly wishes she hadn’t.
‘How the hell did he get that photo?’
‘Show me.’
‘“The Black Widow claims her next victim”,’ Yushkov reads the front-page headline aloud.
There’s a photo of her and Charles Harvey on York Bridge in close conversation. Her hat hides her hair and her scarf, most of her face.
‘Could you recognise me from this?’
‘Nyet. Even I couldn’t be sure.’
Nails claims a witness took the picture shortly before Olivia Wolfe ‘stabbed Harvey to death’.
‘This reporter has got it in for you,’ says Yushkov.
The anonymous witness also claims he overheard Harvey tell Wolfe that Yushkov, who is described as her ‘lover’, killed Kevin Knox.
‘This witness gives you motive to kill Harvey,’ says Yushkov. ‘To protect me. They are framing you.’
‘Who? Who knows we are lovers?’
‘Whoever you saw running from the house in Chiswick.’
Wolfe feels sick. She can’t remember any bystanders near the park bridge, let alone anyone near enough to take photos. And someone must have followed them to Chiswick. The same person? How could she have failed to notice?
The article continues over the page. Wolfe knows it’s not going to be nice. But she is stunned by what she finds.
All the colour drains from her face. ‘Oh no!’
Across the double-page spread are photos of Wolfe and Yushkov having sex. Graphic photos, in chronological order, at the most intimate moments, shot through the glass windows at the front of the house. She tries to swallow, but the lump in her throat is as hard as an ice cube. Even though some parts are pixelated, there is no mistaking who they are; from height, build and hair colour down to the minutest and most private details, like her bellybutton piercing and Yushkov’s scarred shoulder.
‘You were right,’ says Yushkov, shaking his head. ‘We were being watched.’ He nudges her playfully, then notices how upset she is. ‘You look very beautiful. There is nothing to be ashamed of.’
Wolfe stares fixedly at the table.
‘Olivia, in a few weeks, nobody will remember this,’ he says, flicking the page derisively with his fingers.
‘I’m a private person, Vitaly . . . ’ she begins, then fades away. ‘I have never been so humiliated.’
‘We should focus on who took this and why.’
‘You don’t get it, do you? What we did was private. It was beautiful and Nails has made it filthy, making me out to be a cheap slut.’
‘Don’t let this scumbag get to you.’
‘I’m being accused of murder!’
‘I think SVR does this to deflect attention, so police focus on you.’
‘Perhaps I should turn myself in? Tell them what really happened in the park,’ she says. ‘There has to be a trail linking Harvey to the SVR somewhere - payments, emails, that sort of thing.’
Yushkov shakes his head vehemently. ‘That’s how you go to prison for something you didn’t do.’
She gets up. ‘I need to clear my head.’
‘I come with you.’
‘No, please. I need some space to think.’
‘Keep out of sight,’ Yushkov says, rolling up the paper, then stuffing it inside his jacket. The publican must not see it.
Through the back door, Wolfe finds several picnic benches on a patch of muddy lawn. Rabbits hop away as she sits, the bench damp with dew. She takes some deep breaths.
‘Well, Mum,’ she says aloud. ‘Thank God you never saw this.’
There’s a rustling in a rhododendron bush and she finds she’s being watched by a rabbit. A momentary distraction before her mind returns to the explicit photos, imagining fellow journalists snickering, Cohen scowling - furious at what he will see as her stupidity - and, worst of all, Jerry Butcher’s profound disappointment. After all he has done to steer her along the straight and narrow, will the man she loves as a father lose faith in her? Butcher has never once reminded her of how he almost wrecked his career to give her a second chance. Her one and only true friend.
Wolfe tries to think logically. What would Butcher do, the man who is always calm in a crisis? He’d break things down into manageable tasks. She and Yushkov have a deadline: hand the bacteria to the SVR and save Renata. It’s now up to Sinclair to deliver. Her next task is to find who stole the canister from the camp. Since the Russians don’t have it, then who does? Wolfe needs the intel Butcher promised her. But, after seeing the paper today, will he still help her?
55
In the ancient city of Salisbury, Wolfe and Yushkov are outside an internet café. Her hair is tucked under a woolly hat so not a strand can be seen. Yushkov’s height and bulk is more difficult to hide, but they have both purchased entry-level, off-the-shelf reading glasses, which Wolfe might find comical if their situation wasn’t so desperate. The pedestrian-only street is narrow and the original Tudor buildings lean into the walkway, their small lead-light windows bowed with old age. Nearby, a magnificent Norway spruce twinkles with Christmas lights and red and white baubles.
‘His phone will be bugged,’ says Yushkov, hands deep in his coat pockets.
‘That’s why I’m not using mine.’ Wolfe purchased a new burner phone a few minutes ago.
They head for a public phone box outside a chemist.
Yushkov persists. ‘The more contact you make, the more likely we will be found.’
‘We need the information.’
Yushkov sits on a nearby bench to keep watch and lights a cigarette, looking perfectly relaxed, but his eyes are alert, watching, assessing. Wolfe dials Butcher’s mobile. She will keep the call to less than thirty seconds, making it harder to trace. Butcher answers after just one ring, as if he is waiting for her call.
‘Have you seen today’s paper?’ Wolfe asks, her voice strained.
‘I have. How are you bearing up?’
‘Embarrassed. Angry. I feel I’ve . . . ’ She struggles to find the right words. ‘ . . . let you down.’
‘Never.’
‘I don’t know who to trust.’
‘Trust me.’
‘Is your mobile tapped?’
‘I honestly don’t know.’
‘Then this must be quick. I did not kill Harvey.’
‘I know you didn’t.’
‘Have you got the background checks I asked for?’
‘I have.’
‘Then put everything in Dropbox. Can you write this down?’
<
br /> ‘Yes, fire away.’
Wolfe spells out the account name. ‘Got that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can you do it now?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thank you, Jerry.’
‘Liv?’
She ends the call after twenty-six seconds and joins Yushkov.
They walk to a tiny internet café that’s an odd marriage of twenty-first-century technology and sixteenth-century architecture, tucked down a narrow lane. A Japanese girl in pink woolly dress and UGG boots continues playing a violent video game as she takes their money and nods at a vacant computer.
‘What is this Dropbox?’ Yushkov asks.
‘It’s a way of receiving large documents and images. I have several accounts. The one I gave Jerry hasn’t been used before, so hopefully the spooks won’t know about it.’ She taps in her password. There’s nothing in her account. Her stomach twists. She peers anxiously through the lead-light windows at all the shoppers streaming past, like debris caught in a flood. To kill time she asks for a mug of tea and a chocolate muffin but, as the girl doesn’t budge, Wolfe suspects they will be gone before it arrives.
Back at the computer, a zip file appears, titled simply ‘LE’. She opens it. Inside is a file on each member of the Ellsworth team, including the now deceased Harvey. She downloads everything on to her USB stick, but as she doesn’t have a computer any more, she prints too. Wolfe hovers over the printer so that neither the girl nor other users can see the contents. To her surprise, she’s handed a mug of weak tea and a muffin. The printing complete and the muffin eaten, Wolfe logs off and they leave.
‘I’ve one more call to make,’ Wolfe says.
‘We should keep moving. We stay in one place, we get noticed.’
‘Okay. I’ll make it quick.’
It’s market day and stalls are piled high with Christmas fare: cards and wrapping paper; dog beds and dog chews in red Christmassy bows; free range turkeys and beef joints; locally made chocolates and cheeses; sheepskin coats and woolly jumpers. The market is buzzing with happy chatter and smiling faces as the Salvation Army band plays carols. For the first time since she read Nails’s article, Wolfe feels hopeful. Surely her ball-breaking editor will think she is worth fighting for? Inside the phone box, she dials Cohen’s mobile.
‘Yup,’ he snaps, clearly not recognising the Salisbury phone number.
‘Moz, it’s Olivia.’
Silence.
‘Somebody with you?’ she asks.
‘Well, you can be sure somebody, a.k.a. those fucking eavesdropping spooks, is listening, even though, of course, wiretapping like this is illegal, since I’m not a fucking terrorist!’ he yells down the phone, as if trying to deafen the said spooks. ‘You sure you should be calling me?’
If Cohen is right, she has to talk fast and get off the line.
‘Moz, I’m not a killer. I’m being framed.’
‘And the photos?’
‘Somebody’s out to destroy me.’
‘Sheesh!’ The silence makes her nervous. No cutting remark. No yelling or swearing. All of which are bad signs. ‘You’re too hot to handle, my love. I can’t help you. You’re wanted for murder, for Christ’s sake!’
‘Except I didn’t do it. And Vitaly did not steal the bacteria; nor, it seems, did the SVR.’
‘Got any proof?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Seriously, you need to hand yourself in. Or talk to Casburn. You’ll get yourself killed and drag this paper down with you.’
‘Not until I’ve cleared my name.’
Another silence. When he speaks, it is quiet and controlled. ‘Olivia, the MD summoned me this morning. There have been meetings. About you. I don’t have a choice.’
‘A choice about what?’
‘I’m making you redundant. It’s the best I can do, considering.’
‘No bloody way, Moz! You can’t. You know Nails makes up shit.’
‘I’m sorry, Olivia. Controversial is one thing. Hated by the British public is another. I warned you not to get involved.’ He lets the last comment hang in the air. ‘It’s my duty to protect the Post and a killer on the payroll isn’t good for business. I’m sorry.’
Cohen puts the phone down on her. Wolfe stares at the receiver. She guessed this might happen, but knowing doesn’t make it any easier.
Furious, Wolfe dials Nails’s mobile number. Yushkov shakes his head at her. ‘No more calls,’ he says.
She’s beyond reason. Nails answers.
‘Who took those photos?’
‘Olivia Wolfe, how the devil are you? Out of a job yet?’
‘You’ve trashed my life. The least you can do is tell me who.’
‘No, love, you trashed your own life. Maybe you can take up a new career as a porn star, ’cause you ain’t getting no reporter’s job.’
She can hear him snickering. ‘Tell me, Olivia, what attracts you to the scum of the earth?’
She looks at Yushkov, tears stinging her eyes.
‘People are trying to kill me, Eric. Just give me something.’
‘Go fuck yourself!’
56
Commodore Stirling is on the bridge, but not of the Queen Elizabeth.
The last to abandon ship, Stirling has been fast-tracked through decontamination and, declared clear of Psychosillius, now stands next to Captain Steven Cooper of HMS Dauntless, wearing borrowed civvies. His uniform has been incinerated. Through binoculars, he stares out at his ship some three nautical miles away, half submerged, her runway pointing skyward, the bridge protruding above the waves by only a few feet. Smoke still pours from her funnel, as if she’s exhaling her last dying breath. News media choppers circle outside the exclusion zone, reminding Stirling of vultures circling a carcass. The lines around Stirling’s eyes and mouth appear deeper and his stiff posture is a little stooped. He can’t remember ever feeling so bereft. As Commodore he is responsible for ship and crew. He has failed in both. For evermore he will be known as the man who lost the biggest Royal Navy warship ever built. And not even in combat. His career is finished.
‘Captain?’
Instinctively, Stirling turns round, but it is Captain Cooper who receives the report.
‘How many?’ Stirling asks.
‘One hundred and forty-two dead.’
Stirling looks away. Men and women trapped in flooding decks. A horrible death. Their families must be told. He will do it personally. It’s the least he can do.
Stirling lifts the binoculars again and looks to port where the last of his crew leaves an orange lifeboat and climbs the gangplank of a United Nations quarantine ship, her yellow and black Lima flag flying high, warning of contagion. To starboard, the USS Theodore Roosevelt awaits. He knows Captain Ron Hart well and has huge respect for the tough Texan. They served together during the invasion of Iraq in 2003.
‘Commodore? Captain Hart is on the line.’
Stirling takes the phone. ‘Ron?’
‘James, I won’t ask how you’re doing, under the circumstances. We’ve fought side by side many times, but I have my orders. Your government has asked mine to assist. You understand?’
‘I do. Yours is the nearest carrier?’
‘She is.’
‘I never thought I’d see my ship sunk by an ally.’
‘God be with you, James.’
The call over, Stirling knows what is coming, even before he hears the roar of the FA-18 Super Hornets of the Thunderbolts - a Marine Strike Fighter Attack Squadron. This is not about sinking her: she’s doing that all by herself. No, this is about obliterating her contagion. The Mark-77 incendiary bombs turn the sky livid orange, then thick black smoke shrouds the remains of the aircraft carrier. More ordnance hits the target, the shock waves rolling across the water until it seems the very horizon is on fire and the sky has turned black.
‘God save us if that plague is ever let loose.’
57
Their room at the Porton Arms is at the front of the
pub. Yushkov leans against the curtain and keeps watch through a grimy window. They wait for Sinclair’s call, fearful of showing their faces.
Wolfe is cross-legged on the bed with documents laid out in neat piles on the chintz bedspread. Somehow Butcher has accessed the Police National Computer, as well as bank statements and medical records. Documents on Dr Stacy Price, Professor Gary Matthews and George Beer are in a separate pile: read, considered, and crossed off her suspects list. The lunchtime crowd arrives downstairs, their greetings and conversations, the clank of glasses and the clatter of plates, filtering up through the floorboards.
Yushkov abruptly pulls back from the window.
‘What is it?’ she asks.
‘Plumber’s van. Could be surveillance. Back windows are tinted.’
Wolfe gathers up her papers, ready to flee. Yushkov’s body relaxes.
‘It’s okay. He is alone.’
‘How do you know?’
‘He opened the rear doors. Just his equipment.’
Wolfe breathes a sigh of relief.
Yushkov nods at the printouts on the bed. ‘You read my file?’
‘I have. There’s very little in it.’ Wolfe pauses. ‘You and Renata were adopted?’
Yushkov shifts his feet and nods once, clearly uncomfortable.
‘To the same family?’
‘Yes.’
‘Copies of your birth certificate, adoption papers, your army enrolment papers, then nothing until you pop up in Antarctica as ship’s engineer on the Professor Basov. No asylum application. Just your British citizenship certificate. The rest of it is boring bank statements and employment records at British Antarctic Survey. There are more holes in your life than a shower head.’
Yushkov shrugs.
‘Don’t you think it’s weird? For most of your adult life you don’t exist.’
‘It is not easy to get information on foreign nationals.’
‘A source told me the Foreign Office fast-tracked your citizenship and quashed everything about your life in Russia. Is that true?’
‘Then your source knows more than me.’
‘Come on, Vitaly! You must have some idea who’s suppressed this information.’
Yushkov stares out of the window. ‘I do not know. I sought asylum. I got it. I am good engineer, so I get a job quickly.’
