by Eva Hudson
They turned to the sound of footsteps.
“Marshall!” Carolyn, her hands tied, ran to her brother and buried her face in his chest. His arms reached round her as his entire body heaved with a sob.
Ingrid kissed her head then turned to Shevchenko. “Shall we?”
“Now you tell the cops to go.”
“When we all leave safely.” She nodded at the balcony. “It is up there.”
He looked puzzled.
“Follow me.”
Without saying anything, she walked up the sweeping staircase, holding onto the banister, knowing her palm was leaving a trace. She was assuming the helicopter had brought the Met to the front door, but she had not heard sirens. She assumed witnesses would have told the cops which house her and Marshall had run into. Maybe Demir had told them, perhaps Agent Montgomery had shared the frequency, and they had come without the blue flashing lights because they knew it was a hostage situation. She could not be sure. But if Ingrid was walking to her place of execution, she would leave breadcrumbs with each handprint to help the forensics team recreate the scene of her murder. Shevchenko and two guards followed.
Ingrid stopped at the top of the staircase to catch her breath. She felt tears come again as Carolyn’s sobs drifted up from below.
“In here.”
She led them into the drawing room and then to one of the Maleviches. “There is your Picasso,” she said.
He stuck out his bottom lip. “I do not see it.”
She stepped toward it and lifted the heavy, deep oak frame off the wall.
Shevchenko gasped: the Picasso was behind it. It had never moved.
Ingrid had known she could never get the tracker out of the house. She also guessed it would give only an approximate location, and they would assume the tracker had been removed and discarded inside the property.
He reached out and touched it. “I do not understand.”
“The painting in your bedroom was the forgery. I switched it when we did the rehang.”
He shook his head. “It never left?”
“It was always here.”
He stared at the art. “I do not get it. Why would you steal what you know to be a forgery?”
Ingrid’s breathing softened. “Because I needed you to believe it had been stolen.”
He did not take his eyes off the painting. “I still do not understand.”
“I wanted to arrest Igor Rybkin, and I thought the Picasso would lure him out of hiding—”
Shevchenko snorted.
“I was worried,” Ingrid continued, “correctly as it turned out, there might still be an intermediary between you, and Rybkin would know it was a fake. For him to believe it was real, I also needed you to think it was real.”
The sounds of a commotion rumbled up the stairs from the entrance hall.
“And the Maleviches?”
“They are genuine.” She looked at him. “And they are stunning, regardless of what you now think of me.”
His face stiffened. “Rybkin? You found him?”
The yelling from downstairs grew louder. They were shouting in English. She heard Marshall’s voice.
“Yes,” she said. She couldn’t concentrate anymore. Carolyn was screaming. Ingrid ran out of the drawing room onto the balcony. She leaned over the balustrade to see Carolyn tugging on Marshall’s arm. He wrestled free and lunged at the security guard.
The air erupted with a flash of light and a deafening noise. A single gunshot. Marshall fell to the ground.
“No!” Carolyn called out. “No!”
54
Ingrid pulled off her stilettos and ran down the stairs. The security guard trained his aim on her.
Marshall was sprawled on the floor. Carolyn, arms still tied, kneeled over him, screaming at the man who’d fired the gun. Ingrid ran to them.
“Let me see,” she said to Carolyn, who twisted away.
Marshall was lying on his side. Breathing. He looked at her as a puddle of blood spread beneath him. “Hey.”
“Hey.” Ingrid crouched down.
“How bad is it?” His voice rasped.
“Is he going to die?” Carolyn asked, her panicked staccato slicing through the Russian Shevchenko and his army barked at each other.
Ingrid examined him. The entry wound was just below his scapula on his right side. The exit wound, also on the right side, was just above the nipple. The bullet had missed his heart but torn through his lung. If she could stem the bleeding, maintain blood pressure, she could keep him alive.
“Somebody call an ambulance,” Ingrid said. “Ambulance,” she repeated in Russian. She took off her scarf and held it against the exit wound. “Ambulance!”
She looked up at the men encircling her like sacred standing stones. None of them were going to call for help.
“Carolyn,” she said, trying to sound calm, “reach into my coat pocket and dial nine nine nine.”
Marshall’s blood seeped over the checkerboard floor. The smell of it, so oddly familiar, pricked Ingrid’s nostrils.
“Do it now, Carolyn.”
The girl snapped herself out of her shock and fumbled in Ingrid’s pocket.
“No,” Shevchenko said. “No ambulance.”
“It’s not here,” Carolyn said.
They’d taken it from her, thrown it across the floor. She turned her attention to Marshall. “You know the drill. I’m going to roll you over to the other side. It’s going to hurt like hell, but it’s the best way to stop your lung collapsing.”
His eyes had started to swim.
“Come on,” she shouted. “He will die if we don’t get help.”
The doorbell rang.
“Do not answer,” Shevchenko said.
Someone banged on the door. Muffled voices. “It’s probably the ambulance already,” Ingrid said. “The microphone, remember?”
Shevchenko slapped his forehead and swore at the bodyguard who had pulled the trigger.
“One of you must have had field medicine training,” Ingrid said. They were all ex-military. “I need a chest seal.” She searched each of their faces, tears falling over her cheeks. No response. “Then I need a plastic bag, I need scissors and I need duct tape. Now.”
The doorbell rang again.
“It’s okay,” Ingrid said to Marshall. “Help’s not far away. Here, Carolyn, come here.”
All the color had drained from Carolyn’s face. Together they rolled Marshall onto his right side and he let out a roar of pain. Carolyn’s long hair draped through the blood.
“Keep screaming, buddy, that way we know you’re alive. Carolyn, go answer the door.”
She hesitated, then got to her knees.
“No.” Shevchenko placed a firm hand on Carolyn’s chest. “No ambulance.”
Carolyn whimpered. “But he’s been shot.” Her voice was tiny. “He needs help.”
A guard rushed over. He had what Ingrid had asked for. She hadn’t even noticed him leave. “You know how to do this?” she asked him.
“Da.”
He cut two squares of plastic out of the bag. Ingrid tore off strips of duct tape.
“How you doing, Marsh? You’re getting real quiet. Make some noise for me.”
He coughed, spewing blood. His crisp white shirt was maroon.
“Let’s do the back first.”
She grabbed the scissors and cut through Marshall’s jacket then his shirt. The guard held the plastic over the wound, and Ingrid taped it down on three sides, doing her best to create a valve that wouldn’t let air in, but would let it out. She moved to his front. The material was so wet with blood the scissors didn’t grip easily. She tore it, exposing a large exit wound. She suppressed a gasp. This was bad. He was losing blood fast.
“He needs that ambulance,” Ingrid shouted. “And if you won’t let paramedics in, you need to take him to the ER. Now.”
They taped the exit wound and Ingrid kept applying pressure. Shevchenko’s army maneuvered around them. They were up t
o something, but she needed to focus on Marshall.
“Come on, Marsh, stay with me, buddy.” She looked up at Shevchenko. “You either open that door or there will be an international arrest warrant issued for your name within the hour. You will not be allowed to leave this country; you won’t be able to land in most others.”
“There are ways round that,” he said.
Marshall flexed his hand.
“Carolyn, come here, sweetheart. Hold his hand.”
The girl crouched down. Tears streamed over her face.
“Keep your hand here, okay?”
Ingrid rose and turned swiftly. She was toe to toe with Shevchenko. “I am opening that door.” He grabbed her arm, but she broke free and ran, her stockinged feet sliding in the blood. There were two locks. She tried one. It didn’t work.
“Hold on,” she shouted to whoever was on the other side.
There were sirens outside now. Blue lights pulsed through the window. She tried the other lock, but the door did not open. She tried both together. Still no movement.
“Tell me how to open this door!” There was a keypad to her left. “Is there a code? Please!”
Shevchenko walked over to her. “I told you, no ambulance.”
A guard ran over. “Sir? We are ready.”
Shevchenko curled his lip. Ingrid thought he was going to spit at her.
“Now!” the guard said.
Something moved behind Shevchenko’s head. There was a thunder of footsteps. Voices. Shevchenko turned. Taking up position on the balcony overlooking the entrance hall were five Metropolitan Police marksmen. Two paramedics in green uniforms appeared behind them.
Shevchenko ran, covered by his men. The elevator door opened and he stepped in with one of the guards. The others took up positions as the door closed and Shevchenko descended.
“Drop your weapons.” The Met marksman repeated his command. The security guards didn’t understand English, but they knew MP5Ks could fire thirty-three rounds per second. With their paymaster out of danger, they lowered their muzzles.
Ingrid could barely breathe. “Down here!” she shouted. The paramedics ran down with a stretcher, followed by armed officers. Every step took too long. They needed to hurry. She joined them at Marshall’s side. “Single gunshot. Nine-millimeter bullet. Entered below right clavicle, two inch exit wound to the chest. Suspected collapsing lung.”
“You did this?” The paramedic inspected the improvised chest seal.
“Yes.” She looked at the security guard who had helped. “We both did.”
“Okay, we’ve got it from here.”
Ingrid felt herself weaken. She thought she might fall into the expanding pool of blood. Her gray dress was streaked with it, the hem soaked. Carolyn stepped toward her, falling against her bloodied chest. Somehow Ingrid held her upright. She craned her neck as the door was opened and the entrance hall filled with uniformed personnel and the whooping of sirens. Ingrid’s ears tuned out the shouts and the footfalls and the sirens outside. All she could hear was Carolyn’s sobs.
Someone placed a hand on Ingrid’s shoulder. She turned.
“Cath?”
Aslan Demir strode in behind her.
“I, I don’t understand,” she said. She held Carolyn tighter. “How did you get in?”
“Your colleague here,” Cath said, gesturing to Demir, “knows a burglar who knows a weak spot. Broken extraction system means the kitchen window is left open.”
Demir added, “Once you’re in the kitchen, you can use the dumbwaiter to travel up to the bedrooms. If you’re small enough to fit in, which Barry Jones is.”
Ingrid’s gaze was drawn back to Marshall. He had an oxygen mask over his face, a cannula in his hand, a fluid bag draining into him.
“Blood pressure eighty over fifty,” one of the paramedics said. “Heart rate one fifty.”
“That’s not good, is it?” Carolyn said. She pulled away. She stepped toward Marshall, but was too scared to get close. He was turning gray, like wet porcelain.
A paramedic shouted into her radio, “Adult male, single gunshot wound to the chest, heavy blood loss with a decreased level of consciousness. ETA ten minutes.”
“Let’s get him in the ambulance.”
“BP dropping.”
“On my count. One. Two. Three.”
They stretchered him out the door, two holding him, two treating him as they moved. Ingrid wiped away a tear. Carolyn followed them to the threshold, then looked back at Ingrid, who pushed past the officers reading the guards their rights and frisking for weapons. She grabbed Carolyn, and together they strode down the steps, following the stretcher.
A crowd had gathered, the blue flashing lights bullying the twinkling Christmas decorations. Barefoot, Ingrid walked through the paper snow. They held onto each other as Marshall was carried on board.
“You want to ride with us?” a paramedic asked, extending a hand. Carolyn, shaking, splattered with blood, stepped up, offering her tied hands to him.
“Please,” Carolyn said, “I can’t do this alone.”
Ingrid glanced back at the house. Shevchenko had escaped. She wanted to go after him, but Carolyn needed her. Her terrified eyes implored her to follow. She held out her hand and the paramedic helped Ingrid inside.
55
Ingrid stayed at the hospital all day until Marshall was out of surgery. The doctors were amazed someone who had lost that much blood had survived, but somehow he was stable and recovering in a medically induced coma. They wouldn’t be able to make any predictions about a full recovery until they woke him up. The only thing they were sure of was that he would be spending the next few weeks in the hospital. Assured there was nothing they could do, Ingrid took Carolyn home for a change of clothes, and when Lula arrived, Carolyn let Ingrid go. She was still wearing the blood-soaked Donna Karan and needed fresh clothes herself. More importantly, her phone had been ringing all day, and there were calls she needed to return, crimes she needed to avenge.
“I’ll have my phone with me at all times,” Ingrid said. “I’ll make sure it’s always charged, and I can come back whenever you need me, okay?”
Carolyn nodded.
“I’ll come with you to the hospital in the morning. And we’ll make arrangements for your mom and dad to visit and help with the rehab.”
“I imagine Marshall will go home,” Carolyn said.
“Well, we’ll ask him what he wants to do tomorrow.”
Ingrid ordered a taxi and went to the Hilton. She showered and found the sportswear McKittrick had bought for her after the fire. She wasn’t sure what to do with the Donna Karan and Louboutins—she wasn’t exactly thinking straight—so put them in the closet to deal with another day. Rennie’s clothes were still there, neat, useless, achingly sad. She didn’t know what would happen to his belongings, but there was a rain jacket she could make good use of.
Ingrid studied herself in the mirror as she dried her hair. She didn’t look like herself, like a photo where she’d been caught at an odd angle in low light. She was haggard. Haunted. Pale. What had happened to Marshall, and to Carolyn, was her fault, and the guilt was visible in her features. She felt it pressing in on her like a wall in danger of collapse. If she hadn’t baited Marshall by calling him a pen pusher, he would probably be behind his desk right now. If she had noticed Shevchenko’s monkeys were tailing her, Carolyn would have been spared her kidnap ordeal.
Feeling weak, she ordered room service and flicked on CNN to stop her thoughts from spiraling further down. She checked her messages. Several from Jen making sure she was all right and asking after Marshall. Two from Cath confirming that Shevchenko was still at large. His elevator went all the way down to the sewer, and the Met were working on the assumption he had popped out of a nearby manhole cover into a waiting vehicle within minutes of fleeing the house. Ingrid pictured Blackbushe airfield: it would be so damn easy for a man of Shevchenko’s wealth to disappear. Hell, Rybkin had been missing for years.
/> Rybkin.
This had all been about him, but neither the man who had bought US democracy nor the hackers had been caught. Some heavies hired by Moldovan money launderers were in custody, and Shevchenko’s armed employees would be doing time, but the real crime seemed to have been forgotten.
Not by me.
Her food came and she accompanied it with a small bottle of wine from the minibar. She raised her glass to Marshall. The news bulletin led with a report on the count in California confirming Marilyn Banner had won the popular vote by almost three million. Yet Richard Pryce was the president-elect because elections were won in a few swing districts in a few swing states that could be targeted with Facebook ads before hacked voting machines manipulated the count. That wasn’t her definition of democracy.
Ingrid didn’t care that Pryce was a Democrat, she cared he was beholden to whoever had put him in the White House. Despairing, she put her half-finished plate of carbonara on the nightstand next to Rennie’s neat stack of books and noticed they were all about Russia. A biography of Putin, a report into the Litvinenko case, one simply called 1917. One of the books was in Cyrillic. It took a couple of heartbeats to recall Rennie didn’t speak Russian. She pulled it out. The Role of the Church.
On the cover was a photo of an orthodox priest conducting a service in St Basil’s Cathedral.
“Oh my God,” she said, almost dropping the book. “Oh my God,” she repeated. “That’s it.” The man with the Jihadi beard was an Orthodox priest. Was that what Rennie had figured out? Was that what he was about to say to her before the car hit?
How hard could it be to find an Orthodox priest in London? How many would there be within fifty miles of London? A handful. And if she could find the priest, she could find Rybkin, couldn’t she?
Ingrid’s exhaustion instantly evaporated to expose a hard core of determination. She needed to get to the embassy. She could crossmatch the CCTV images from Starbucks and the Current Bun with photos online from Russian churches in the UK. She needed to call Jen in the hope she didn’t have other plans for the evening. She could have this wrapped up in hours.
