Better Off Dead: (Victor the Assassin 4)

by WOOD TOM

  Gisele shook her head. She didn’t believe she could lie with enough conviction.

  ‘I hope he’s okay,’ Caroline said.

  ‘Me too.’ She began to walk past the desk. ‘I’d better get a move on. Doctor says I shouldn’t even be out of bed.’

  ‘Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help. Oh, I almost forgot. A guy came here looking for you.’

  Gisele’s felt her pulse spike. ‘A guy? Who was he? When?’

  Caroline checked the diary. ‘Last Thursday. Said he had a meeting with you. There was no record of one. I thought he was full of shit, personally. Weird, huh?’

  She swallowed. ‘Yeah. What did he look like?’

  ‘Dark hair. Real serious-looking.’ She gave a light-hearted impression of such a look, eyes narrowed and brow furrowed. Then she smiled coyly. ‘I wouldn’t kick him out of bed, though. He looked like the kind of man who knows things, if you get me.’

  Gisele relaxed. ‘Don’t stress about him. We know each other know. He’s cool.’

  The receptionist grinned. ‘Good for you, girl. What’s his name?’

  Gisele hesitated, mouth open and unable to respond.

  ‘Oh,’ the receptionist said. ‘Like that is it? Bit of a mystery man, is he?’

  ‘Understatement of the year,’ Gisele said, smiling back.

  The smile slipped from her face the instant she turned away. Her heart was racing. She was amazed she’d got this far on nothing but her wits. It was starting to feel natural. Maybe he was right: maybe she would make a good barrister some day.

  The receptionist hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d said most people had left already. The open-plan area where Gisele had her desk was empty. That would cut down on the conversations and lies she would have to engage in, and gave her a better chance of finding what she came here for. She didn’t know how many of the senior lawyers were in their individual offices, but the general rule was if the bigwigs were working late then so was everyone else. If they were partying: everyone partied with them. Still, a few workaholics might be about.

  What would she say to them if she was challenged? They were all confident, intimidating people. She could hardly pretend to be ill with fake coughs and sniffles. She crossed the open-plan area and headed to Lester’s office. No one was about. She licked her dry lips and turned the door handle.

  Locked.

  ‘Shit,’ Gisele said.

  She fantasised kicking it open and striding in, but she knew she’d break her foot long before the door gave way, and be dragged out by security long before that. Then she would find out if Alan really was as nice as he acted.

  What would her companion do in her place?

  Gisele knew. He would kick it open. Easily, no doubt. Or he would pick the lock in seconds. She didn’t even know what a lock pick looked like.

  Her left arm was hurting and she rubbed it as she thought through her options. The main problem seemed to be that she had no options.

  If she couldn’t come up with something fast, it was all over.

  On a wide boulevard nearby luxury vehicles wet with rain gleamed in the glow of streetlights. While Gisele performed her role at the firm, Victor attempted his own, walking fast along the kerb, his jacket sleeve brushing the wing mirrors of parked vehicles. They were tightly parked, nose to tail. The car roofs were about armpit height, the big 4x4s rose up to his chin. Staying close to the cars gave him excellent concealment from any gunmen across the street, at whatever elevation, from whatever distance. A high-velocity round wouldn’t be stopped by the bodywork, but the more bodywork between Victor and the shooter, the more chance of a ricochet or deflection if the shooter was good, or an outright miss if he was not.

  The pavement was busy with pedestrians in business attire and winter clothing. Most chatted on their phones or toyed with them. He walked a little faster than those around him. Moving with pace would make it harder for anyone tracking him to take a shot. A continuous stream of people passed him on both sides, providing a good deal of cover and concealment. The movements of the crowd were unpredictable and would interrupt lines of sight from any position. He weaved through the pedestrian traffic, never walking in a straight line because he couldn’t know where such a shot would come from. If he’d miscalculated this action it would prove fatal.

  He identified the watchers within a minute. There were two: one at the junction at the end of the street and another opposite the building. Both men, competent but nowhere near elite, because they were mercenaries, not pavement artists – soldiers, not spies. One sat on a bench reading a newspaper. A reasonable cover, except he held it too close to his waist to read comfortably so he could watch the building entrance. The second man smoked. On first impression he was doing nothing more. He might have popped out of a nearby building to enjoy his cigarette in the sunshine, or perhaps he smoked while waiting for someone. His mistake was the three crushed stubs near to where he stood.

  Victor entered the building. He didn’t look to see if either man noticed him. If they knew who to watch for then they would have, without question. If they didn’t, then there was nothing to gain by looking in their direction except an increased chance of recognition. Everything relied on Victor’s presence being unexpected.

  Inside it was predictably grand, but unnecessarily so with huge chandeliers, frescos and bronze statues. Plenty of money had been spent but little class had been applied. The city had numerous clubs over a century old and had survived until this day through a steadfast adherence to excellence and tradition. This club was one of the many that tried too hard to emulate the originals. Victor was no snob, but he appreciated the difference.

  ‘Mr Ivanov,’ Victor said to a statuesque maître d’ in a cocktail dress. ‘Table for two.’

  A brief check of the log. ‘Your date is waiting for you, Mr Ivanov.’

  ‘Tremendous.’

  She led him through the tables, busy with the early evening crowd. He walked directly behind her, scanning the interior for threats, but saw none. Every table was busy. There were no lone men or women trying not to look observant.

  Good. This might work.

  The maître d’ motioned. ‘Here you go, sir.’

  Sitting at the table was a blonde woman with green eyes.

  SIXTY-NINE

  She didn’t see him until it was impossible not to because the maître d’ had helped hide Victor until the last moment and she had been expecting someone else. When her gaze met his there was an instant of confusion that became surprise then disbelief, but did not reach fear. Which surprised him in turn. She waited.

  Victor held out his palms to show he was no threat. She sat so casually and unconcerned that he almost felt like none.

  He gestured to the free chair. ‘May I?’

  There was hesitation while she decided on the best course of action.

  She said, ‘Be my guest.’

  He knew it would be a mistake to think she was acting out of passivity. He sat, never breaking eye contact. ‘No corner table available,’ he began as he nudged the chair forward. ‘But thank you for leaving me the seat facing the door. How thoughtful of you.’

  Her expression stayed neutral. Her own eyes unblinking. He saw the surprise had already gone. Now, her gaze was searching, evaluating; calculating.

  ‘Why don’t we keep our hands on the table?’ Victor offered. ‘To avoid any misunderstandings.’

  He placed his palms flat on the tablecloth. It was cool and smooth – four hundred thread count Egyptian cotton. She did the same. Her fingers were long and slender. The nails were unpolished but manicured.

  ‘If you feel that’s necessary. But we’re both professionals. I’m sure we can behave with some civility.’ She paused. ‘Unless you’re scared of little old me.’

  He smiled because it was a good taunt. To insist their hands remained on the table was to admit fear, but to remove them let her win this first contest of wills.

  ‘Thank you for meeting me,’ Victor sa
id, taking his hands from the tablecloth.

  She said, ‘I did wonder why Yigor insisted on a face-to-face. I should have trusted my instincts.’

  ‘I’m glad you didn’t.’

  ‘You do a flawless impersonation of the man.’

  ‘That sounded like a genuine compliment.’

  ‘It was. You can thank me by explaining why we’re here.’

  He didn’t answer because a waiter approached to take their order.

  ‘Can you give us another five minutes?’

  They sat without speaking for a moment until the waiter had gone. Victor used the time to separate out and analyse the conversations taking place all around him – a young couple eager to finish their meal and find somewhere private; a business dinner more about egos and posturing than commerce; a group of workmates discussing their day and how they were unappreciated and underpaid.

  ‘What do you want?’ she asked again.

  ‘I’m here to talk. To see if we can resolve this with some, as you put it, civility.’

  ‘Well, I wasn’t exactly expecting you to ask me to accompany you to Paris for the weekend.’

  ‘Perish the thought.’

  She said, ‘And how exactly do you propose we resolve this?’

  ‘Simple. We go our separate ways.’

  ‘Just like that?’

  He nodded.

  ‘You’re right, that does sound simple. But I’m afraid it isn’t going to be possible. You have nothing to offer me.’

  ‘I don’t? I’ve been in London just over forty-eight hours and I’m already sitting across from you. Where do you think I’ll be in a week’s time?’

  Her expression remained neutral, but a little too neutral. She had to be concerned, but he couldn’t shake her resolve.

  She nodded by way of response, then said, ‘And I’ve known about you for half that time. Would you like to know what I’ve discovered already?’

  ‘First rule of intelligence: it never tells the whole story.’

  ‘A sentiment I’ve spent my career living by. I’m sure you’ve done the same. And quite a career you’ve had too. Professional assassin. Freelance. Aleksandr Norimov used to be your broker, first for the Russian intelligence services, then when he went into business for himself. I’ve read all sorts of unverified reports about incidents in Paris, Minsk, even as far afield as Tanzania. Quite the well-travelled curriculum vitae you have.’

  Victor waited.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she continued. ‘I don’t expect you to confirm anything. You don’t need to. What I find particularly interesting is that you haven’t worked for Norimov for at least half a decade. I know he sold you out to an SVR colonel a couple of years ago. Funnily enough, I’ve met this particular officer at a cocktail party in the Russian embassy here in London. This was before you two crossed paths and I only spoke to him for a few minutes but I remember he was the most arrogant man I’ve ever met. Men who are that arrogant are usually sociopathic.’

  ‘Not only men,’ Victor said.

  She cocked her head slightly and continued: ‘So if Norimov sold you out to a man like that – and I admit I don’t know why – I can’t believe you found it in your heart to forgive him. Let alone put your life at risk for his daughter. A stepdaughter, at that.’

  ‘You want to know why, is that it?’

  ‘Partly,’ she said. ‘Though in truth it doesn’t matter why you’re doing what you’re doing. But whatever it is, it must be a fucking good reason.’ Victor’s jaw tightened at the obscenity. She saw it. ‘Too unladylike for you?’

  ‘There’s enough ugliness in the world without adding to it, regardless of gender.’

  ‘I didn’t take you as a hippy.’

  ‘Do you want to see my Greenpeace card?’

  She smiled a little. She struck him as the kind of person who never allowed themselves to laugh. To laugh meant to lose control. He could relate.

  She said, ‘We’ve strayed off point. But I rather like that we can. Even though we’re enemies it doesn’t mean we can’t be friends.’

  ‘I might go ahead and disagree with you on that.’

  The smile lingered. ‘“You shall judge a man by his foes as well as by his friends.”’

  Joseph Conrad, Victor thought, lips closed.

  ‘Shall we cut to the chase?’ she asked.

  ‘Be my guest.’

  ‘I’m an officer of the British SIS and I’m fucking good. I have close ties with Russian and American intelligence. I have contacts in every police force in Europe. Interpol practically fall over themselves to help me out when I make a call. What do you think will happen if I put all my efforts into finding out exactly who you are?’

  ‘You’ll find nothing.’

  She sat back and stared at his face. He knew she was searching for any of the various visual tells that would reveal he was lying. He also knew that she found none. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘You’ve got a good poker face, I’ll give you that. But we both know that the thing you hold dearest is your anonymity. Without it you’re nothing.’

  ‘Do you have a point?’

  She began to sit forward, but stopped, knowing it showed her eagerness. Victor pretended not to notice. ‘My point, as you well know, is that whatever happens in this city is not the last of it. You’ve managed to stay alive and out of prison so far, so all credit to you, but I’m no arrogant SVR colonel or technology-reliant CIA officer. I’ve been doing this a long time, and the Office has been in the game longer than anyone else.’

  ‘Perhaps not something to brag about, given the state of the British Empire.’

  ‘Are you referring to an empire carved out by a tiny island barely visible from space that achieved what continents could not before or since? A little over a century ago that empire controlled a quarter of the world’s land mass and a quarter of its population. Not a bad effort for the last empire the world will ever know.’

  ‘The Soviets might have something to say about that.’

  ‘An empire that falls apart within a lifetime is no empire.’

  ‘Alexander the Great begs to differ.’

  She smiled. ‘Look at us, discussing history and politics like we’ve known each other for ever.’

  ‘I thought you were threatening me.’

  ‘Poppycock. I was merely helping you to understand the nature of your predicament.’

  ‘A while ago,’ Victor said, ‘you talked about cutting to the chase.’

  ‘It’s good that you can maintain your sense of humour, considering the severity of your situation. I’m not sure I could in your place. Or maybe you’re delusional. Perhaps that’s why you’re not as terrified as you should be.’

  ‘I’m not scared.’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘Yet you felt the compulsion to state that fact?’

  Her eyes were green fire that burned with the intensity of the sun. He fought not to look away.

  ‘But I’m offering you an out,’ she said. ‘I’m offering you a deal. Call it mercy. Call it pity.’

  ‘I hand over Gisele and you let me walk away?’

  ‘Nothing so unchivalrous, I assure you. You don’t need to give Gisele to me. You don’t have to give her to anyone. All you have to do is walk away.’

  ‘You make it sound so easy.’

  ‘Isn’t it? What’s so difficult? Don’t tell me you’re in love with her already.’

  Victor smiled to acknowledge the taunt. ‘No deal.’

  ‘I’m disappointed. For you.’

  Victor shook his head. ‘No, you’re not. You’re scared.’

  ‘Don’t flatter yourself.’

  ‘You’re terrified of being exposed. That’s why you’re risking everything to tear up London in the hope of killing Gisele. Hardly the actions of someone calm and relaxed.’

  ‘And why are you meeting me? You’re here to negotiate a ceasefire. A side only does that when they are uncertain of victory.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m not here to negotiate.’
/>   Her eyebrows rose. She sat forward sharply, eager to know, no longer concerned about showing emotion or maybe too intrigued to think to hide it. ‘No?’ she echoed. ‘Then pray explain.’

  ‘I’m here for two things. The first is to tell you to leave Gisele alone. I’m not asking; I’m telling. I’m offering nothing in return. And if you’re as clever as I think you are then you’ll realise that, whatever else you fear, you should fear me more.’

  She did well to hold his gaze without blinking because she had to recognise there was no bluff, no exaggeration. He meant every word.

  ‘The second?’

  He stood. Her eyes remained locked to his as he circled the table. ‘For this.’

  She said, ‘We’re being watched. Right now.’

  ‘No, we’re not.’

  ‘I’ll fight,’ she said.

  ‘It wouldn’t make a difference.’

  The green eyes blazed. ‘Only one way to find out.’

  He stopped when he stood next to where she sat. She stared up at him. He was pleased to see fear at last in her gaze.

  She said, ‘And if you do kill me, you’re in a crowded London restaurant and you’ll never —’

  ‘Shh,’ he said. ‘I’m not that stupid. I’m not going to kill you here like this with all these witnesses. Not my style. Besides…’ He lifted up her bag and drew out a wallet. He looked at the credit cards inside, her laminated ID, and then at her. ‘There’s no rush, is there, Ms Nieve J. Anderton?’

  ‘You’re making a very big mistake.’

  ‘I’ve heard that one before.’

  ‘You’re a dead man.’

  ‘I’ve heard that one before too. Several times, in fact. Can you guess what all those who’ve said that to me have in common?’ he whispered over her shoulder.

  She stared at him, eyes narrowing in undisguised anger. ‘You think it makes a difference that you know my name? Do you think that scares me? A name is the easiest thing to find out about a person and the least important.’

  He dropped the wallet back into the bag and passed it to her.