Moscow Honey: A dark suspenseful spy thriller (Clarke and Fairchild Book 2)

by T. M. Parris

  Roman chuckled. He laughed. He threw back his head and roared. His chair rocked under him. Fairchild lay and listened. Then he started laughing as well.

  It was pretty fucking funny, after all.

  28

  Rose was out running again. She needed to think. The office was silent and oppressive, the flat unsettling. It was well beyond midnight, but so what? Chest heaving, arms pumping, she ran flat out for as long as she could along the eight-lane highway, only stopping for a red light at a crossroads where she bent, hands on knees, wheezing to get her breath back. It wasn’t ideal running alongside all the taxis and limos and beat-up vans and trucks, but the pavements were clear of ice and it saved thinking about where she was going.

  Who was Kamila? What game was she playing? One thing was certain; she was putting on some kind of an act. Before Rose left the office she’d called Peter and alerted him to the report findings and her own observations reviewing the video. He would notch up the ‘health warning’ they had already passed to London about the contents of the zip drive. They were still in the process of trying to verify the intel. The Americans were doing the same. No reason had yet come to light to suggest that the information was bad, but they needed to understand why Kamila had been so keen to pass it to them.

  A simple act of sabotage? She’d seen an opportunity in Rose’s approach to work against her husband? Damage his relations with his new government friends and cut off his new income? That would be Kamila the scorned wife, abandoned night after night while Alexei went out to be entertained with his oligarch friends. Maybe: but in that scenario, she would have been unaware of the trap they were laying for her in St Petersburg. And why did she marry Alexei in the first place? The money, Peter would say, but would money really persuade you to marry someone you hated so intensely? Would it be enough to persuade a Chechen war survivor to marry a Russian ex-conscript? It happened. People were extraordinarily good sometimes at separating out politics from individuals.

  Rose recalled Kamila’s calculated stare out of the window in St Petersburg. If Rose was right, if Kamila had really been that far ahead of them, then she already knew what was going on, why Alexei left so early and in such a state, and what was likely to happen later. Two possibilities there: one, Moscow Station had a mole. The idea that their tight-knit little team harboured a traitor, or even a reluctant victim of coercion, seemed inconceivable. But then it probably always did. And it happened. Two, Kamila was conspiring with someone very clever, with substantial knowledge of how a covert sting operation might work, and who had managed to turn the whole thing around on its head for their own benefit. A terrifying prospect. And what was the benefit? Who would benefit? They needed to know a lot more to untangle this mess.

  Was Kamila’s lover in on it? Fairchild certainly had the knowledge and skills, the instinctive ability to anticipate. He’d need to be a pretty good actor, too. It was much easier for a woman to fake a good time than a man. Maybe they were both faking. But it looked more to Rose like neither of them were. They’d have no sure-fire way of knowing exactly where the cameras were. And what was it all for? She had the uneasy feeling that they were all walking into a trap, but had no idea yet what it was.

  She drew up at another red light. She crouched to stretch. Her heart was pumping steadily, fingers tingling, blood flowing to all limbs. Heat radiating from her body competed with the cold air on her skin. The sweat on her neck was already starting to cool.

  She needed to find Kamila.

  29

  Roman was laughing again. It was unacceptable, uncouth, unbearable! The carpet was fuzzy against Fairchild’s mouth. The room throbbed when he lifted his head. And still the Russian was sitting there, sniggering, mocking, humiliating.

  He’d been tricked. This was all a trap and he’d been too stupid to see it, as usual. The gangster had poisoned him! Disabled him to strip him of his secrets. What secrets? He couldn’t even remember. But he was laughing about it now, the bastard! Enough of this! He had to get out.

  Fairchild focused on his hands, pushing down on them to lift up his body. Never mind the throbbing, this is important. Get away from here, before it’s too late! He was on hands and knees. Sick rose in his throat. He was going to spew. He breathed fast through his mouth. Okay. He wasn’t going to spew. He climbed to his feet and the room lurched. He tottered. His shoulder hit the wall.

  “Hee hee hee!” That bastard Russian just wouldn’t shut the fuck up. It had to end. He would end it. Now! He needed a weapon. He lurched forward and grabbed the giant vase by the neck. It was heavier than he thought.

  The laughter stopped. “Fairchild! What are you doing?” Now he had the bastard’s attention. He swung the vase wide through the air. It carried him in a circle, like a shot-put. He staggered and rested the vase on the floor. “Fairchild! Stop that nonsense! Come, sit!” But Roman wasn’t at the table any more. He was standing, backed up against the wall.

  Coward! Fairchild swung again. Idiot, fool! Get yourself out of here! He hurled it into the door pane. The glass smashed with a noise like a hundred breaking bottles. The panel turned opaque with tiny crack marks. Shards pattered on the carpet and scattered across the balcony decking. The vase swung in his hand, still in one piece.

  “Fairchild! Who are you fighting, my friend? You’re with friends here!” Fairchild tensed, ready to punch and kick, but Roman’s voice was calm. He breathed in cold air, coming in through the broken pane. Why had he been so angry? The vase was an unbearable weight.

  Running footsteps. A dark suit and a thin pale face, coming towards him.

  “Vadim, stop.” The older man’s swift order halted the assault. Vadim, breathing heavily, stood staring at him. “It’s okay, Vadim, everything is under control. It’s no problem.”

  Fairchild forgot to keep holding the vase. It dropped on the floor and broke, two halves of a cracked egg.

  “Not now, Vadim. Leave it. Leave it!” Vadim was making for the vase, or maybe for him. But on Roman’s curt order he straightened and left the room, reeking of disapproval.

  “Come, my friend!” The Russian was approaching. “Come.” The inside of the vase was a dirty white. Dusty. It was something to focus on. “Never mind that thing. Some old antique. I hated it. Sit down.”

  A hand was on his back steering him towards the table. “You know, you cannot always be alone in life. You must know who to trust, my friend. Everyone must trust. None of us can survive without others.” The man turned to face him. His breathing was slow and heavy. “I am your friend, John Fairchild,” he said. “I trust you. You can trust me. Come now.”

  Roman’s arms were around him. He was buried in the Russian’s solid, sweaty embrace. Tears came to his eyes. It was all okay, after all. It was all okay.

  30

  As Rose had expected, a police car was parked opposite the front door of the Morozov Moscow office, its unlucky occupants well wrapped against the cold. There was no obvious way of getting in at the front anyway. Also as expected, no one was posted round the back. She tried each of the windows; one of them gave as soon as she pulled on it. The catch was broken. This was presumably how Fairchild had got in. She climbed up, paused on the sill, heard nothing and dropped quietly to the floor inside.

  She had no precise plan. She was after anything that might lead her to Kamila, progress having come to an abrupt halt with the Bear himself. Addresses, correspondence, names, whatever might get her a step closer to the woman. Peter didn’t know she was here. Having gone off-reservation once that evening, it didn’t seem a big deal to do it again. She was wired, as far from sleep as it was possible to be. The more she thought about it, the more urgent it seemed to get to the bottom of this. And it could only be done at night. Already, after getting the right gear together and double-backing on the way here, it was four in the morning. So it was now, or wait another fourteen hours at least, just to ask permission. And what if he said no? At times it was better just to get it done and explain yourself later.

&nbs
p; A furtive swing of the torch told her there was nothing much in this room. A desk with empty drawers, a chair, empty shelves. The torchlight fell on a hefty safe in the corner. The door was open and it was empty. In the corridor she went upstairs first. Same story there, empty offices. No computers, monitors, phones, just furniture. Back downstairs was another empty office, then a room at the front. The door was ajar. Rose poked her head inside. Out of the window, she could see the cop car across the street. She played the torch briefly along the floor. An ominous dark stain betrayed where Alexei had fallen. But that didn’t matter now. This was a meeting room, not an office: no files in here.

  Those poor souls outside. Cold, tired and bored, yet everything inside of any value or interest had already been cleaned out. It was just an empty shell.

  Rose left the way she came.

  31

  Fairchild woke. He was shivering. Where was his jacket? The carpet smelled of vomit. He rubbed his cheek and looked at his hand. There was blood on it.

  He lifted his head. A blackness descended with an edge of pain. The blackness cleared; the pain didn’t. His mouth was sticky. It was getting light outside. Light and cold. He looked round. A body was lying on the floor, on the other side of the room. Someone he recognised. A big guy. The Russian. Roman, his Russian friend. He was slumped awkwardly, unnaturally, an arm outstretched, facing away.

  His friend! The only one he trusted. Everyone else lied, or used him, or wanted him dead. And now Roman was gone too. The blood on his hand: what did it mean? What had he done? Concentrate, man! But no memories came. No, wait! He remembered a long embrace. You can trust me. Nothing since.

  You can trust me. But Fairchild trusted nobody. That was why he was alone. No friends, no woman, no love. So alone, so cold. He curled up, wrapped his face in his arms and sobbed.

  32

  Getting through the wire fence into the compound wasn’t difficult. Rose had spotted it looking out from the Morozov balcony the previous evening. She’d seen the whole route laid out in front of her: a corner where the land rose up against the external wall, masked from the road by trees; a shallow area of ditch; a gap between two internal fences. Still once fence to cross, into the Morozov complex itself, but that wasn’t hard with the right equipment and an idea of what was coming.

  The climb onto the balcony was more tricky. She had to throw a rope awkwardly above her head to loop it through one of the struts. She tried it again and again. She was starting to wonder if she needed a new plan when finally she managed it. Once up the rope, she grabbed onto the strut and worked her way monkey-style out to the railings one hand at a time. They’d done this kind of thing during training but that was a long time ago and Rose felt it.

  She transferred her weight to her arms, gripping the railings, and lifted herself up, straining, until she could see onto the balcony. Nobody there, but it was strewn with broken glass. No sound or movement outside. It was eight in the morning, light but not yet sunrise. She climbed over the railings and crept up to the balcony door, her feet crunching on broken glass. The door pane had a massive hole in it. Something large had smashed the glass. She peered inside. A body was lying on the floor. She tried the balcony door. It was locked. Gently she snapped off the biggest shards round the hole, and climbed through. Sharp edges tugged her clothes and nicked the skin on her back and stomach. Pieces of broken glass littered the carpet inside. She eased through slowly, but straightened too soon and knocked her foot on a shard. She stumbled and her foot banged into the door pane. She froze. She could hear nothing. But there was another body, lying on the other side of the room. The first one she’d recognised from outside: John Fairchild. And the other, judging from its solid form, was Roman Morozov.

  She reached her hand out to Fairchild’s neck to check for a pulse, but a sound made her stop. It was a snore. The man was snoring. Rose withdrew her hand and looked around. Vodka bottles, some on the table, some on the floor. An aroma in the air, fumes of alcohol, sweat, possibly vomit. She checked up on Roman; his chest was moving steadily up and down. A large vase was in pieces in the middle of the floor. Both chairs lay on their side. The room was freezing cold. Fairchild snored again. A very Russian evening, clearly.

  Rose remembered from her visit earlier that this room had no desk, files, devices. She padded softly towards the door. Fairchild’s jacket was on the floor, fallen off the back of a chair. Rose picked it up and went through the pockets. Wallet, phone, another phone. Nothing unusual. But her hand felt something in an inside pocket: a piece of paper. She drew it out. It had been torn from a notepad and was very creased, as if it had been scrunched up and straightened out again. The writing on it was in Russian. On one side were the words: Manifest to Grom. On the other, in a different hand, was a Russian name: Mikhail Lebedev Khovansky.

  Grom. The name Zack had been asking Peter about, in his oh-so-casual way. Peter said there was no such person, but whoever wrote this seemed to think there was, unless she was mistaking the meaning. The other name she’d never heard before. She put the paper in her own pocket.

  Something moved. She looked up. Standing in the doorway was Vadim, Roman’s dour-faced minder. She hadn’t heard him approach.

  “What are you doing here?” His voice was grainy. She backed into the centre of the room. She really didn’t want a confrontation now.

  “Just came back to pick something up. I’ll be leaving now.”

  She edged towards the balcony door. Vadim watched, hostile. As she started to turn away he stepped up and grabbed her arm.

  “How did you get in?” He had a thin build but his grip was solid. Rose twisted her arm up and aimed a kick at his stomach. His grasp slipped but the kick barely registered. His fist came out and almost got her face but she ducked. She lashed out again at his body and hit something soft. He grunted, but recovered. In a split second he had her arm again, but up behind her back this time. He jerked it, sending a spasm of pain through her shoulder.

  “You’re not going anywhere.” He dragged her backwards towards the door. He stepped back and looked down to avoid tripping on the prostrate body of his boss. Rose seized her chance. She lunged backwards and aimed an elbow at his face. He let go and in that second she grabbed an empty bottle from the table and swung. Vadim ducked but she caught him on the top of the head, a glancing blow. He staggered. She raised the bottle and brought it down sharply on the edge of the table. It smashed, giving her jagged edges. She advanced, swiping aggressively. Vadim jumped back, just avoiding the glass slicing his stomach. He held his hands up. She launched the entire bottle right at him and made for the balcony. She had a couple of seconds on him, no more.

  Her clothes ripped on the glass as she scrambled through the hole. She reached the balcony railing but Vadim was already half way through the hole, slower because he was bigger. She climbed over and lowered herself down. A final glance told her that neither of the bodies in the room had moved. Hand over hand she traversed the strut to get to the rope which she’d left there from earlier. Vadim was directly above her now. She dropped to the ground and ran, adrenaline powering her over the first fence, down into the ditch, then up the other side.

  The crack of a gunshot stopped her. She rolled back into the ditch. Vadim had got his hands on a gun, or it was one of the other security guards. If she tried to scale the fence where she came in, they would have a clear shot. She was lying flat in the bottom of the ditch. She rose to her hands and knees to crawl along. A barrage of bullets pinged on the metal enclosure above her. She dropped again. Vadim wasn’t alone in the house; she had to get off this compound before they came in to get her. No time to wriggle along. She braced, then got to her feet and ran flat out along the bottom of the ditch. Shots rebounded above her. Five seconds and she was out of range from the Morozov balcony, behind another fence.

  Lungs heaving, she threw herself onto the wire fence and climbed up. It was a long way down on the other side now, and she was in full view of the road and the traffic. No time to waste:
she prepared to roll onto her side as soon as she dropped, but her ankle jarred and she gasped from the pain. A second or two lying, clenching her teeth, then she got to her feet, brushed the snow off and started to jog, expecting any moment the sound of screeching tyres as they came to find her.

  The road bent round and the compound fencing gave way to blocks of flats. A crowd of commuters waited for a bus. Rose slowed to join them, getting a black fleece hat out of her bag and shoving it on her head. She faced away from the road, shielded by the other passengers, expecting to hear car doors slam, shouted warnings, bracing herself to run again. Her ankle throbbed. She started to feel stinging pains on her front, back and legs from the glass cuts. She didn’t meet anyone’s eye; she must look a sight but no one would say anything. This was Russia.

  Eventually a bus pulled up and they all filed on. Rose’s heart was still thumping as the bus pulled away. Her phone vibrated in her bag. She pulled it out.

  After all that, Kamila was calling her.

  33

  She got there as soon as she could. The address Kamila gave her was on the outskirts of the city within an industrial zone. An open yard sat in the middle of a ragbag of small warehouses, some with doors yawning open, others shuttered. Pallets were piled up by the gate. No one was about, no obvious security cameras. Rose approached the largest building, which had an ordinary door next to a goods entrance. The door was ajar. Someone was inside, back turned, wearing a headscarf. Rose pushed the door open and waited at the threshold. The person was standing, thumbing through a pile of dockets. As the door swung open, the room brightened and the figure turned.

  It was Kamila, but a different kind of Kamila. In ordinary working clothes and no make-up, she looked closer to her real age. There was no coy innocence about her. She seemed sharp, business-like, pre-occupied, maybe a little tired. Seeing Rose, she nodded a greeting, the papers still in her hand.