“All alone?”
At first Simon takes no notice, not believing that the question has been addressed to him. Then the slight, dark-haired figure at his side swims into focus. He takes in the mischievous upturned eyes, the dimpled grin, the sharp little teeth.
“I suppose I am, yes.”
“You new here then. I think I remember if I see you before.”
“My name’s Simon. I got in a couple of days ago.” He gazes at her, marvelling at the soft swell of her breasts in the lilac crop-top, the trim little stomach, the skinny jeans and pretty, strappy shoes. She is, without question, the most beautiful creature he’s ever seen.
“Hi,” she says. “I’m Janie.”
Jin Qiang is a superb dancer. To the swooping, shivering strains of “Moon River,” he waltzes Eve expertly round the floor, one hand lightly holding hers, the other against the bare flesh of her back, guiding her. Despite their price, she’s glad she bought the cocktail dress and the shoes.
“So would you like to have lived in the 1930s?” she asks him.
“It was a time of great inequality. Great hardship for many.”
“I know. But also elegance… glamour.”
“Are you familiar with Chinese cinema, Mrs. Polastri?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
“There’s a film I love, made here in Shanghai in the 1930s, called The Goddess. A silent film. Very sad. Very beautiful and tragic actress Ruan Lingyu. She shows great emotion in her face, and in her movements.”
“She sounds wonderful.”
“She killed herself, aged twenty-four. She was unhappy in love.”
“Oh my goodness, that is tragic.”
“Indeed. Today, I don’t think many people in Shanghai would kill themselves for love. Too busy making money.”
“You sound like a romantic, Mr. Jin?”
“There are a few of us left. But we operate in secret.”
“Like spies?” Eve suggests.
They both smile, and “Moon River” comes to a close. Ice-blue neon flickers round the stage, and the singer segues into “The Girl from Ipanema.”
“The foxtrot,” says Jin. “My favourite.”
“I’m sorry you’re stuck with me. With my two left feet.”
“You have two left feet? Really?”
“It’s an expression. It means I’m a bit clumsy.”
“That is something I would never say about you, Mrs. Polastri.”
Half an hour later they’re on the scooter again, careering through streets vivid with neon. Eve is enjoying herself. Jin is a man of many interests. Hunan food, early Chinese cinema, and post-punk music among them. His favourite band, he tells her, is Gang of Four. “With that name, how could I resist them?” At the same time Eve recognises that for all the wry surface charm, there is a steeliness to Jin Qiang. In a tight corner, this man would make the hard choice, take the pragmatic decision.
They come to a halt outside an unprepossessing-looking establishment on a side street. As Jin opens the door, oily steam gusts into their faces. The place is crammed, and noise levels are deafening. Everyone seems to be shouting, and there’s a continuous clattering of pans and woks from the kitchen. Standing in the doorway, Eve is pushed roughly out of the way by a departing customer. Taking her arm, Jin steers her towards the small counter. A tiny, ancient woman in a greasy apron appears and directs them to a plastic-topped table. Narrowing her eyes at Eve, she screeches at Jin in Mandarin.
“She says I’m a very naughty boy,” he tells Eve. “She thinks I’ve picked you up.”
She laughs. “You’re going to have to help me with the menu.”
He inspects the streamers pinned to the walls. “How about bullfrog in rice wine?”
In the end they settle for spicy skewered shrimps and cumin-crusted ribs washed down with cold beer. It’s delicious, among the best food Eve has ever tasted. “Thank you,” she says, when she can eat no more. “That was fantastic.”
“Not bad,” he agrees. “And private.”
She knows what he means. Given the noise levels, audio surveillance would be impossible here.
“I have something for you,” he says, and below the level of the table, places a sealed envelope on her lap.
She doesn’t move or speak.
“I’m trusting you with my career, Mrs. Polastri. If you are right, and we face a common enemy—this organisation you speak of—we should work together. But I doubt Beijing would see it that way, so…”
“I understand,” says Eve quietly. “And thank you. We will not let you down.”
Simon knows, straight away. Janie’s hands, perhaps. Something in the set of her cheekbones and her mouth. But it doesn’t matter. He’s lost.
She tells him she works for a child-minding agency. That she lives in a one-bedroom flat in Jingan, near the Art Theatre. As they talk she gazes at him. No one’s ever looked at him like this. The soft, unblinking stare. The long brown eyes fixed patiently on his.
There was a girl at university, an Eng Lit student who played in a ukelele band. She and Simon slept together intermittently, but he was never quite sure what she expected from him, and eventually the relationship faded into a friendship with which they were both more comfortable. He wondered, vaguely, if he was gay, and in the spirit of experiment, allowed himself to be seduced by his male tutor, a mediaevalist with a penchant for Gregorian plainchant and spanking. That didn’t really work out either, and Simon decided to let the whole sex thing slide, and to concentrate on his studies. He left with a first-class degree and an unfocused sense of longing. For what or for whom, he didn’t know. For almost a year he lived at home, celibate and unemployed. Then one day, almost as a joke, a friend emailed him a link to MI5’s recruitment page. From day one, the secret world felt like home.
He’s told Janie that he’s “here on business,” and this seems to satisfy her. She asks him about his likes and dislikes. About movies he’s seen, about pop videos, boy-bands, celebrities, shopping and fashion. In anyone else this bubblegum worldview would be exasperating. In Janie, it’s enchanting.
Two dragon-fruit Martinis later (Sprite for her, touchingly), they’re dancing. The playlist is commercial pop, and Janie sings along to every track. Simon’s not much of a dancer, but the floor’s too crowded to do more than shuffle and nod. The tempo slows, and he places his hands on her hips, feeling their gentle sway, inhaling the scent of the jasmine blooms pinned to her upswept hair. Intoxicated, he draws her towards him, and she lays her head on his shoulder. Through his jacket, which he dares not remove for fear that it will be stolen, he feels the unyielding pressure of her breasts. His heart pounding, he touches his lips to the soft tendrils of hair at her temple. He doesn’t think she’ll sense this but she does, and her face tilts up to his, her lips parted.
Kissing her, feeling the sugary flicker of her tongue, he feels a lightness of being so intense he wonders if he’s going to pass out. She moves her mouth across his cheek, nips his earlobe with her little cat’s teeth. “You know I wasn’t always a girl,” she whispers.
He knows. He can feel the evidence swelling against his thigh.
“It’s fine, Janie,” he says. “Really, it’s fine.”
Back at the Sea Bird Hotel, Eve knocks on Simon’s door, but he’s still out. And having a good time, she hopes. He’s a good friend and colleague, but he definitely needs to loosen up.
In her room, she takes out the envelope that Jin has given her. Inside is a single A4 page, which appears to be a printout of a transfer of funds between two international banks. The banks and account-holders are identified only by number codes. The sum in question is a little over £17 million.
Eve stares at the paper for a moment, trying to divine its importance, before replacing it in its envelope and locking it in her briefcase. Jin, she knows, is returning to Beijing tomorrow. The investigation into Zhang Lei’s murder will continue, but there is no more that she can contribute. It’s time for her and Simon to fly back to Lo
ndon, report to Richard Edwards, and investigate the lead that Jin has given her at such personal risk. She also needs, urgently, to make things right with Niko. It will be good to be home again, but part of her will miss Shanghai and its luxurious strangeness, its myriad scents and colours. And part of her, she’s forced to admit, will miss Jin Qiang.
In bed, she reviews the evening moment by moment, and in particular the dancing. The open window admits a faint breeze, and with it the corrupt tang of Suzhou Creek. It takes her some time to fall asleep.
Drifting between wakefulness and dream, Simon knows a peace that he’s never thought possible. Beside him, Janie turns, and raises her arms sleepily above her head. “Promise you like me?” she murmurs. “Not just using for sex? Wham-bam, then bye-bye Janie?”
“Like you?” he wants to tell her. “I love you. You’re everything I’ve ever wanted. I’d give up my work, my country, everything I know and believe in, to share my life with you.” But he says nothing, and instead plants slow kisses on the pale curve of her left breast. She watches him for a moment, and then, eyelids fluttering, she plucks at her nipples and they begin again.
Some time later Simon wakes, and through half-closed eyes sees her tiptoeing round the room, slim-hipped and naked, long hair swinging round her shoulders. When she first brought him here, he was touched by the modesty of the place. The cheap chest of drawers and dressing table, the Barbie-pink curtains and bedspread, the Hello Kitty poster on the wall. Now she touches his clothes, running her fingers over the jacket he’s slung over the single chair. A slim hand disappears, and an instant later reappears holding his phone. She looks at it admiringly for a couple of seconds, and replaces it. The action touches Simon, who guesses that such an article is way beyond her budget.
Then, with great speed, she dresses herself, pulling on white knickers, jeans and a T-shirt, and pushing her feet into a pair of trainers. As she tip-toes towards Simon, he pretends to be asleep. She leans over him for a moment, so close that he can hear her breath, and then backs soundlessly away. Opening his eyes, he sees her dip her hand back into his jacket, take the phone, and hurry from the room.
Simon lies there for a moment, too shocked to move. Then he leaps from the bed, and lifts the rattan blind. He catches a fleeting glimpse of Janie beneath a street light, moving fast, and then she’s gone.
He pulls his clothes on, sick with dread, and races down the narrow staircase to the street. It’s rained while they’ve been in bed, and the air is charged with the smell of the wet streets. Simon is soon breathless and footsore, his shirt clammy with sweat.
But there she is ahead, and he drives himself after her. What the fuck? What the actual fuck? Has he just fallen hook, line and sinker for the oldest scam in the book? If Eve and Richard Edwards discover any of this, any of it, he’s finished. Forget the sheer, gobsmacking unprofessionalism, the humiliation would be off the scale. Honey-trapped by a nightclub tranny. A chick with a dick. What a 24-carat twat he’s going to look.
There’s just one chance. If he can get to her, and somehow get his phone back… Perhaps, just perhaps, Janie’s exactly what she says she is. Perhaps she simply couldn’t resist the chance to make a few bucks by stealing a high-tech foreign phone. Please, he prays, as he dodges and weaves through the crowds, dragging the muggy night air into his lungs, please let that be the case. Let it be something forgivable. Let me get back with Janie. Because he knows that as long as he lives, he will never experience anything like the dreamy bliss of their intertwined limbs.
The streets are narrowing now, and the crowds thinning. Instead of street lights, there are loops of low-wattage bulbs strung between half-completed dwellings. Incurious faces look up from beneath sagging awnings and watch him as he passes. There are still a few food stalls operating, a few woks sizzling over charcoal fires, and Simon slows to avoid a rickety table supporting a plastic bowl of writhing, living creatures.
Janie’s still about forty yards ahead—Christ, she can move—and now they’re in some kind of new-build estate. Rendered-brick housing blocks intersected by a grid of unlit lanes. The area’s almost deserted, and if she turns now, she’ll see him.
Shrinking into the shadows Simon checks his watch. It’s almost 2 a.m. The temptation to call out to Janie is agonising, overwhelming. But he has to know the truth.
At the entrance to one of the buildings she presses a buzzer. After perhaps half a minute, a figure steps into the dim pool of light, and Simon knows immediately that the scenario is infinitely worse than any he’s imagined. The man’s not Chinese. He looks Russian or Eastern European, and he’s got hardcore intelligence operative written all over him. Even at a distance, he radiates a pitiless authority. I’m fucked, Simon tells himself, as Janie hands the man the MI6-issue phone. I’m totally and utterly fucked.
Too wretched to be afraid, he forces himself to note every detail of the man’s appearance. There’s a brief conversation, and then he and Janie vanish into the building together. After a minute, Simon warily approaches the entrance, looking for a name or a number. There doesn’t appear to be either, but he’s confident he will be able to find the place again.
Briefly, he considers simply telling Eve that he has lost his phone, that it’s been stolen, and not saying anything about Janie. But he knows that it’s not in him to lie. He’ll tell her everything and offer his resignation, effective immediately. Perhaps she’ll accept it and send him back to London for what will undoubtedly be a highly unpleasant debriefing by Richard Edwards. Perhaps—and his heart leaps sadly at the prospect—they’ll decide to keep him in play. Feed him back to Janie to find out who’s running her.
He’s fifty metres from the building when he hears his name called.
He stops, sure that he’s mistaken. But there it is again, low and clear on the warm, damp air. Is it Janie? How could it be? As far as she’s concerned, he’s asleep in her flat.
“Simon, over here.”
The voice is coming from the unlit lane on his left. Heart pounding, he takes half-a-dozen tentative steps, senses movement in the darkness, catches an incongruous hint of French perfume on the night air.
“Who’s there?” he asks, his voice unsteady.
He has a momentary impression of a figure exploding from the shadows, of the whirling arc of the chukabocho, and then the carbon steel blade chops through his throat with such force that his head is almost severed.
Rising on her toes like a matador, eyes demonic, Villanelle sidesteps the black swathe of blood thrown from the falling body. Simon’s limbs shudder, a bubbling sound issues from his neck, and as he dies Villanelle feels a rush of feeling so intense, so icily numbing, it almost brings her to her knees. She crouches there for a moment, waves of sensation coursing through her. Then, wrenching the chukabocho free of the corpse and dropping it into a plastic shopping bag, followed by her bloodied surgical gloves, she walks swiftly away.
Ten minutes later she spots a battered Kymco scooter parked at the foot of an apartment block. Disabling the ignition lock and kick-starting the engine, she heads northwards, keeping to the narrower roads, until she reaches Nan Suzhou Lu, where she drops the plastic bag into the dark swirl of the creek. It’s a beautiful night—the sky purple, the city dim gold—and Villanelle feels vibrantly, thrillingly alive. Killing the English spy has restored something in her. The Zhang Lei action had its professional satisfactions, but the moment itself lacked impact. Taking out Simon Mortimer was a return to first principles. A violent, artistic kill. The chukabocho, weighed in the hand, was not so very different from the Spetsnaz machete her father taught her to use when she was a teenager. Unwieldy to begin with, but a lethal thing when correctly deployed.
The beauty of it is, she had no choice. Konstantin had ordered Janie to make sure that she was never followed to a rendezvous, and to drug the Englishman if necessary. But the little hooker fucked up, and once Simon Mortimer saw Konstantin, he couldn’t be allowed to live. That’s the way she’s going to argue it, anyway. The
killing will almost certainly be blamed on the Triads, whose traditional murder weapon is the cleaver. Polastri will get the message loud and clear, but as far as everyone else is concerned—the press, the police—Simon Mortimer’s just going to be a tourist who found himself in the wrong place, at the wrong time.
Villanelle is about to head southwards towards the French Concession when a thought occurs to her. Within minutes, the scooter is puttering to a halt at the foot of a building adjacent to the Sea Bird Hotel. The hotel is unlit except for a small blue neon sign over the entrance. Villanelle knows which room is Eve’s; Konstantin’s surveillance people have watched her come and go since the night she and Simon arrived.
Silently, Villanelle climbs up the side of the hotel, the antique pipework and ironwork balconies offering easy hand- and footholds even in the near-darkness, and slips feet-first through the open, third-floor window.
For almost two minutes she crouches there, unmoving. Then she steps soundlessly towards the bed.
Eve’s clothes have been hung over a chair, and Villanelle gently runs the back of her hand over the black silk cocktail dress before lifting it to her face. It smells, very faintly, of scent, perspiration and traffic-fumes.
Eve’s lying with her mouth slightly open and one arm flung across the pillow. She’s wearing a flesh-coloured camisole, and without make-up looks unexpectedly vulnerable. Kneeling beside her, Villanelle listens to the whisper of her breath, and inhales her warm smell. Noting the faint tremor of Eve’s mouth, she touches her tongue to her own upper lip which has begun, very faintly, to throb.
“My enemy,” she murmurs in Russian, touching Eve’s hair. “Moy vrag.”
Almost as an afterthought, she searches the room. There’s a combination-locked briefcase chained to the bed she decides to leave alone. But on the bedside table, there’s a pretty, gilt-clasped eternity bracelet, and this Villanelle takes.
“Thank you,” she whispers, and with a last look at Eve slips silently out of the window. As she goes she hears the distant siren of an ambulance and the whooping of police cars. But Eve, for now, does not stir.
Codename Villanelle Page 14
