Better Off Dead

FOURTEEN

International airports were among Victor’s least favourite places. Almost without exception they were teeming with armed security guards and cameras. Each time he passed through passport control he risked being compromised. Either because the identity he was travelling under had been flagged in connection with one of his previous jobs or it had ceased to be clean for reasons beyond his control, or his frequent surgeries had failed to outwit the continued advancements in facial recognition technology, or a keen-eyed member of staff identified that he simply wasn’t right.

He’d been in London within the last year as part of a job, but only to discuss it. The time before that, the visit had been what could be called a personal project, and though he’d been involved in serious criminal activity, no one had lost their life by his hand. Travelling anywhere he’d operated before carried risk, but in this instance visiting London posed minimal risk. He had a strong inclination that once he left again, he wouldn’t be returning for a long time.

He arrived at London City Airport after a smooth Rossiya flight that took a little over four hours, getting out of his seat when about half of the cabin had already departed to reduce the chances he would be picked out for scrutiny. Those in a hurry to disembark were more likely to be noticed, as were those in no hurry. The centre of the bell curve was where Victor always preferred to lurk.

A smiling woman asked him a few routine questions as she checked his documents and smiled wider after she’d wished him a pleasant stay. He circled the terminal twice as part of his routine counter surveillance, paying particular attention to those waiting with a view of where his arrival lounge connected with the terminal proper.

He had an overnight bag but no other luggage. Victor preferred to travel light. He would travel with no luggage at all if not for the fact it would mark him out as someone to pay attention to. The case was a cheap knockoff purchased from a market trader in St Petersburg. It contained similarly counterfeit clothes. Victor had no intention of wearing them or keeping hold of the case any longer than necessary. Though the case and the clothes had not been used as part of any criminal activity, they connected him to St Petersburg, to Russia. Therefore they were compromised. Not solely because of his relationship with Norimov or his enemies in the country, but because they were evidence of his movements. Any connection with his past, whether a day ago or ten years ago, had the potential to cause him harm.

A Polish woman fixed him a coffee and he sipped it while sitting on an uncomfortable plastic chair. Abandoning the half-empty cup on the table, he found a pay phone near an information kiosk, inserted coins, and used the knuckle of his left middle finger to punch out the international dialling code, then number.

It took a few seconds for the line to connect.

A voice said, ‘Privet?’

‘I’m in London,’ Victor replied in English. ‘But we might have a problem.’

‘What kind of a problem?’ Norimov asked, switching languages too, tentative but curious.

Victor watched travellers walk by, wearing shorts and T-shirts, limbs browned by holidays in sunnier climes.

He said, ‘You need to answer a question for me, and you need to be honest.’

‘Of course.’

‘Did you tell anyone to wait for me at the airport?’

The answer was a resolute ‘No.’

‘Okay,’ Victor said. ‘That’s good and bad.’

‘Why both?’

‘It’s good that you respected my wishes. But bad because it means a third party is interested in me and knows enough about my movements to have a watcher in place for my arrival.’

‘A watcher?’ There was hesitation in Norimov’s voice.

Victor looked over to where a large, dark-haired man in a padded jacket and jeans loitered near a concessions stand.

‘Don’t worry,’ Victor said as he watched the man trying to act casual. ‘I’ll deal with it.’

More hesitation. ‘What do you mean… you’ll deal with it?’

‘I mean I’ll neutralise the threat, of course. I’ll call again when I’ve news about Gisele’s whereabouts.’

‘Wait.’

Victor did, then said, ‘Is there something you want to tell me?’

‘Wait,’ Norimov said again. ‘Don’t hang up. You don’t have to neutralise any threat. He’s my man.’

‘I know that. Did you honestly think I wouldn’t know that the second I saw a pumped-up gorilla hanging around near my arrival lounge? I’m offended you have such a low opinion of me.’

‘I… I don’t know what I thought. I wasn’t thinking. I should have known better. I’m sorry. I truly am. I panicked, okay? I just wanted to make sure you arrived. That’s all. You’ll appreciate that I’m on the edge here, don’t you? Dmitri wasn’t going to follow you, I swear.’

Victor said, ‘He couldn’t follow me if his life depended on it. When you hire people for their muscle mass you really shouldn’t be surprised when they stand out in a crowd. I could smell the stink of steroids in the air before I even saw him. Where’s the other one?’

Silence on the line.

‘Don’t make me ask you again, Alex. You have two men in London. I’m looking at one of them. I’m asking you where the other is. Don’t even think about lying. Gisele’s missing. You haven’t been simply praying that I’d show. You said yourself that you didn’t believe I would meet you. You also said you have ten good men on your payroll. There were eight guarding you in that bar. That leaves two. Which isn’t a lot to send if you’re concerned about your daughter. But I take it the two in London now are the only ones who could get visas in time, or at all.’

Norimov took his time responding. When he did, ‘I’m sorry,’ was all he managed to say.

‘You said that already.’

‘I’m not trying to f — I’m not trying to screw you around, Vasily. I’m scared. I’m not thinking straight. I should have told you about Dmitri and Yigor. I’m sorry. I know you work alone. I didn’t want to risk you saying no. They won’t bother you. They won’t get in your way.’

This time Victor didn’t respond.

‘Are you still going to find Gisele for me?’ Norimov asked after a moment.

‘If I was here for you I would now be boarding the first flight out and the next time you heard from me would be when I was standing over your bed in the middle of the night.’ A pause. ‘But I’m not here for you, am I?’

‘I’m not likely to forget.’

‘But that doesn’t mean I will tolerate your interference. Consider this your first warning. Do you understand what the second will be?’

‘Yes. I —’

Victor hung up.

Fourteen seconds later the large man with dark hair fumbled to retrieve his phone from a pocket of his jeans. He held it to his ear and Victor watched the movements of his lips.

Privet? — yes.

Then: Net, konečno, on ne videl menja — No, of course he hasn’t seen me.

The man listened for a moment, then glanced at Victor. Oder’mo. On smotrit prjamo na menja — Shit. He’s looking straight at me.

Victor watched as the man ended the call and forced the phone back into his jeans’ pocket. They were tight. Victor approached the man. He stared at Victor as he crossed the space, his back straightening and his shoulders squaring, maximising his already significant height and bulk as a show of defiance and ego.

‘Dmitri, right?’ The man responded with a single, slow nod. ‘Do you speak English?’

Dmitri nodded again. ‘We met two years ago in St Petersburg. Your name is Vasily. You broke two of my ribs.’

His English was good, as Victor had expected. Dmitri wouldn’t be much use searching for Gisele in London otherwise.

‘I only meant to break one,’ Victor replied.

Dmitri frowned. He had a wide but low forehead and the same prominent eyebrow bone from growth-hormone abuse as the guys outside the bar. They were probably gym buddies.

He said, ‘I had to have two surgeries to fix them. And they’re not properly fixed. I have to sleep on my back or on my left side. I snore if I sleep on my back and my girl kicks me in the shin until I wake up and stop. Sometimes, when I’m already asleep, I will roll over on to my right. I don’t know it at the time, but then I wake up and I’m in agony. The pain is unbelievable. It’s the nature of the break, they tell me.’

‘I could have killed you. I didn’t. You should be thanking me.’

‘Fuck you,’ he said with a small smile.

‘It’s good to catch up, but we really don’t have time for this while Gisele is missing. I take it you’ve been trying to find her — checking where she lives; speaking to friends and so on?’ A nod. ‘Good, then you can help me.’

‘Why would I want to help you?’

‘This is about Norimov’s daughter, not me. He sent me here because you’ve failed to locate her. Either you can assist me or you can refuse. Whatever you decide, I’ll find her. If you help me track her down you can share the credit, assuming she’s still alive. If you don’t help me and I find her too late, then Norimov will know you put your personal feelings before the life of his daughter.’

‘You’re an asshole.’

‘That’s what people always tell me.’

‘I don’t like you.’

‘No one likes me.’

Dmitri took a step closer. ‘I don’t take orders from you.’

Victor could smell the coffee on the man’s breath. ‘I never said that you did. But I recommend you stand down before you say something you’ll feel compelled to back up.’

‘Do you remember what happened when you fucked up my ribs?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘We just asked you to leave, that was all. No big deal. You pretended to comply. You acted like you were an okay guy. Then you hit me with that cheap shot.’

‘A succinct summation.’

‘You’re a coward. I didn’t know that then, but now I do. So I’m never going to give you that same opportunity again.’

‘Good for you. But you probably shouldn’t have told me that. Better if your opponent doesn’t know your intentions. Like when I broke your ribs.’

Dmitri drew a sharp inhalation of air through his nose. It wasn’t quite a snort, but equally unpleasant. ‘It doesn’t matter. All that matters is you’re nothing but a little man who acts like pussy. In a fair fight, I’d snap you in half.’

‘Then I guess it’s good for me that I never fight fair.’ Victor stared into Dmitri’s eyes. ‘So, if we’re done with the bravado, what’s it to be? Are you going to help me, or not?’

Dmitri edged closer: aggressive but short of an outright challenge. He wasn’t about to start a fight in an airport, whatever his level of dislike. ‘I’ll help you find Gisele, assuming you’re not bullshitting that you can. But I’m doing this for Norimov, because he’s a good man. I’m not doing it for you.’

‘I appreciate that. I’d also appreciate it if you watch your language.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Don’t swear.’

Dmitri thought about this for a moment, then shrugged as if it didn’t matter. He said, ‘No swearing, sure. And I’ll do whatever you need me to do. Then when this mess is all sorted out’ — a little smile played on his face — ‘we can… settle our differences.’

‘Sure,’ Victor replied. ‘If you’re that keen to sleep on your back for the rest of your life, I’m more than happy to oblige you.’

FIFTEEN

Victor’s hotel was located only a few minutes’ drive from the airport. Dmitri drove fast, but not fast enough to draw attention. He was urged on by purpose but not to the detriment of caution. He may have been looking for his boss’s daughter, but he was still a career criminal. Victor ignored protocol and sat beside him in the passenger seat, instead of in the back. It gave him less protection and fewer options should Dmitri’s animosity take on a darker hue, but he wanted the Russian to work with him, not against him, and the less he did to potentially antagonise the man, the sooner he could effectively use him.

Victor spent the short journey asking questions and paying close attention to the answers Dmitri gave. Much of the information he had already garnered from Norimov. The hunt had not produced any leads. Dmitri had canvassed the local area, stopping people in the street to show them an old photograph of Gisele and to ask if anyone had seen her. They hadn’t.

‘The rest of the time I’ve been driving around, trying to spot her. I didn’t know what else to do.’

Victor nodded. ‘Has anyone else been looking for her? Other Russians?’

Dmitri shook his head. His neck was so thick Victor was almost surprised he was capable of even the slightest rotation. ‘I haven’t seen anyone. What does that mean?’

‘If they’re coming after Norimov, they have strength and resources. It wouldn’t be hard for them to find out that Gisele lives in London. So either they’re here looking for her too and you didn’t see them, or they’ve found her already.’

Dmitri sighed and chewed on his bottom lip. ‘Bad times.’

‘Have you checked her home?’

‘She’s not there.’

‘I know. I mean have you been inside?’

Dmitri shook his head. ‘It’s a flat in a building. People are there. We’d have to break the doors down. No keys. Norimov said not to. He said keep the profile low.’

Victor nodded again.

‘What do we do first?’

‘I’ll check in and take a quick shower. After that, we start looking for Gisele.’

The hotel was located in a cluster of other hotels, all serving the nearby airport and a huge exhibition centre. Dmitri pulled up outside the front entrance.

Victor said, ‘I’ll be about half an hour. Use that time to get me a good quality multi-tool and a box of big paperclips.’

Dmitri stared, confused, but decided against asking why. He shrugged. ‘Sure. Whatever you want. Multi-tool and paperclips. Big ones.’

Inside, the hotel was as spare and modern as its glass and steel façade suggested. Victor checked in, declining the offer of having someone take his suitcase to his room, and took the stairs up to the third floor. He’d only required a standard room to sleep in, but he had other requirements that necessitated a junior suite. He placed his suitcase on the floor next to the bed, examined the suite briefly to make sure it fulfilled his needs, and went into the bathroom to turn on the shower. He unwrapped a packet of soap and dropped it into the bath beneath the flow of water. He unscrewed the tops of the mini bottles of shampoo and shower gel. He poured a quarter of each into the bath. He left the shower running and took the freestanding magnifying mirror from the bathroom. He opened the curtains and placed it on the window sill, adjusting its position so it sat exactly where he needed it and with the mirror at the required angle.

His suitcase contained some clothes and other effects, which he distributed throughout the room — a suit and shirts hanging from the door of the walk-in wardrobe; shaving kit, toothbrush and toiletries in the bathroom; underwear on the bed.

He unfolded a bath towel and briefly held it underneath the shower’s flow. He dropped it on the tiled floor. He shook a can of deodorant, pointed the nozzle upwards at the ceiling and sprayed for a count of six.

Aside from the items he’d already taken from his suitcase, it contained an attaché case, which he removed. He positioned the suitcase on the bed and zipped it closed. He took the attaché case with him as he left the suite.

By the time he’d reached the ground floor he still had twenty minutes of his half an hour remaining. He headed away from the main entrance on its east side and walked to the hotel’s business centre, passed it, and carried on past the fitness suite. He pushed open an exit that took him to the hotel’s south side, where a trio of hotel employees on a break were smoking cigarettes and drinking hot drinks in the chill sunshine. An elevated railway with a road underneath lay before him.

He crossed the road to the other side and walked between the sparse line of trees that marked the boundary to another hotel. He went inside via its north entrance and made his way to the lobby where he smiled at the thin gentleman behind the front desk.

‘I’d like to check in, please.’

His room was on the fourth floor. It was a pleasant enough guestroom but nowhere near the standard of the other hotel. He spent a minute familiarising himself with its layout and then he opened the curtains. The view was a poor one. He looked out at the elevated railway to the north. Between its tall concrete supports he could see the south façade of the first hotel. Directly in his eyeline lay the hotel’s third-floor windows. Some had their curtains open. Others were closed.

Only one had a freestanding mirror positioned on the window sill.

The warehouse used by Norimov’s men as a safe house was located in an industrial park in East London. It was a dirty building with decades of grime and pollution staining the brickwork. It contained over sixteen thousand square feet of space that had once been used to store plumbing and heating equipment and goods. According to Dmitri, it had been empty for some years. He didn’t know if Norimov owned it or rented it, or if they were there illegally. A huge corrugated steel gate stood on the south façade, high and wide enough for lorries to back into. Next to the gate were two storeys of offices that protruded from the otherwise square warehouse.

The second of Norimov’s men introduced himself as Yigor. He wore synthetic sports trousers and a worn sweatshirt. His shoes were big white trainers that glowed in the light. He was a weightlifter, like Dmitri, like all of Norimov’s men. But he was the biggest of them. His arms were as thick as Victor’s thighs. His hair was long and greasy and his face was pinched and fat. Eyes the colour of the Baltic Sea stared out from hooded, half-closed lids. He smelled as bad as he looked, but was always smiling. It was a happy but half-crazed grin that showed an upside down mountain range of uneven teeth.

‘You the bad man, yes?’ he said in broken English, his South St Petersburg accent thick and coarse.

Victor said, ‘That’s me.’

They shook hands. Yigor’s hands were massively broad, making his fingers seem short and stubby. They were rough and calloused from years of lifting heavy weights.

‘I heard all about you,’ Yigor said. ‘Dmitri and Sergei say you baddest mother.’

‘You shouldn’t believe everything you hear.’

Yigor’s grin widened. ‘I like you. I can tell you are the bad man. Like me. Bad men together, yes?’

‘We’ll be best of friends in no time.’

The warehouse’s office annex had its own entrance — a glass door set perpendicular to the steel gate. A reception area stood on the other side with a long fixed counter topped with glass. The carpet had once been blue but was now stained with dirt and oil. The polystyrene ceiling tiles were stained yellow with nicotine from the days when smoking was allowed in the workplace. Downstairs, the interior office walls were wallpaper-covered aluminium, fronted by plate glass and glass doors. Some had strip blinds lowered. Most offices were kitted out with desks and chairs and filing cabinets — all cheap furnishings that had been well used in their time. There were a number of old computers, printers and other obsolete and worthless pieces of electronic equipment, and a telephone landline in every room, discoloured from age and use. The ground-floor offices had been left untouched, but Dmitri and Yigor had occupied the first floor. The offices there were similar to those below, except much larger and therefore less numerous. There was also a boardroom and kitchen. Norimov’s men had claimed an office each to serve as a bedroom, complete with folding cot, sleeping bag and other small luxuries. What had once been a boardroom now served as a communal area for Dmitri and Yigor. One half of the large oval table was covered in soiled pizza boxes, greasy takeaway containers, empty cigarette packs and crushed cans and warped bottles of soft drinks.

‘You can have that one,’ Yigor said, pointing to an empty room. ‘No need to pay for hotel. Save your money. I will get you a bed. Norimov pays for everything. Then you have more of the cash to spend on the women. This town is full of it. Buy them fancy cocktail that tastes of kids’ sweets; they like you lots. Good deal, yes? Norimov pay you plenty of the money, yes?’

Victor shook his head. ‘There is no payment. This is not a job.’

Yigor pulled a face. ‘Then you crazy. This war is going to be danger everywhere. Norimov’s enemies going to kill everyone he knows. They kill you too, if they can. You should ask for lots of money. So, you want a bed?’

Victor said, ‘I’ll pass.’

‘Suit self. Waste all your money on that hotel.’

Two hotels, Victor thought.

They kept their outside jackets on inside the warehouse because there was no heating. There was electricity so there were at least lights. Most of the bulbs and fluorescent tubes were missing or burnt out, however, leaving many offices unlit and large areas of the warehouse floor in darkness. One corner had a collection of crates, pallets and chains that served as makeshift weights for the two Russians to work out with.

Yigor said, ‘What do we do first, Mr Bad Man?’

‘Take me to where she works.’

SIXTEEN

Norimov hadn’t spoken to his daughter in years, but he kept track of her life as much as he was able. She went by her mother’s maiden name: Maynard. Gisele was twenty-two years old and had studied law in London and was a couple of months into her year-long pupillage at a law firm prior to qualifying as a barrister. The firm was located in the heart of the city’s financial district. Dmitri drove. Victor opted to sit in the back seat because he didn’t want to be surrounded by giants. The drive was short and Yigor told jokes for the entire journey. He was the only one who laughed at them.

‘I’ve already tried here,’ Dmitri said as he found a spot to pull into.

‘That’s good,’ Victor replied. ‘When?’

Dmitri shrugged as he applied the handbrake. ‘Soon as I arrived in London.’

‘A lot can change in a week. Wait for me.’

‘Sure.’ He relaxed in the seat and set the back of his head into the rest. ‘I sleep.’

‘Don’t get a ticket.’

Dmitri didn’t respond. Victor climbed out of the relative quiet of the car interior into the noise of London: traffic and people creating the urgent breaths of the city around him. He didn’t like London but he didn’t dislike it either. Its ancient identity had been warped and changed and divided into many disjointed pieces. It was huge and dense but low and suffocating. There was so much to enjoy but so much not to. From an operational perspective, he couldn’t ask for a better metropolis. It was always busy, always congested with crowds to hide among, and intercut with irregular alleys and side streets. The saturation of CCTV cameras was far from ideal, but British police officers did not carry firearms as standard.

He crossed the street, passing slow-moving cars and rounding a red bus collecting passengers. The buildings were all grand and centuries old, adding an air of importance, respectability, but also wealth. He walked at a leisurely pace, taking a circuitous route through neighbouring throughways, searching for watchers. A tall order in such a busy area, but if Norimov’s enemies had put her workplace under surveillance, those watchers would be Russian gangsters. Every person in this part of the city was either a suited professional, overworked and always rushing, or a tourist, walking slowly and taking photographs. Watchers would stand out.

He saw none. He wasn’t sure what that meant. If they already had Gisele, they wouldn’t need to look out for her at her place of business in the hope of kidnapping her on her way to or from work. But after making Norimov aware of the threat, they would expect his forces to mobilise. If their intention was to wipe him out, it would be smart to ambush anyone he had sent to look for his daughter.

Low stone steps led up from the street. Victor used his knuckles to push through the revolving brass-and-glass door. The lobby was vast and high-roofed and starkly modern. He approached a curved counter and explained to the receptionist he was a visitor to Gisele’s law firm. After using his left hand to sign the guestbook, he was given a pass and used it to get through the electronic turnstiles that shielded the elevators. A big security guard nodded at him.

On the second floor, he approached the law firm’s reception area. Both receptionists — one male, one female — smiled at him as he approached the boomerang-shaped desk. The smiles were good, if false. The smiles said: So lovely to see you again. They had been well trained. In his good suit he looked like a client, maybe even an important one.

‘Good afternoon, sir,’ the male receptionist began. ‘How are you today?’

‘Tremendous, thank you. What about yourself?’

‘Wonderful. How might I be of service?’

Victor said, ‘I have a four p.m. appointment with Gisele Maynard. I’m sorry to say I’m a little late.’

The receptionist didn’t check the system for the appointment. He didn’t break eye contact. ‘I’m sorry, sir. Ms Maynard isn’t in the office today.’

Victor made sure to appear taken aback. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘That’s terribly disappointing.’ He sighed and drummed his knuckles on the desktop. ‘I’ve come into the city specifically to see her. I’ve wasted a lot of time.’ After checking his watch, Victor added, ‘Are you expecting her back tomorrow?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t know.’ The receptionist did a reasonable job of looking sympathetic. ‘I really am terribly sorry for your inconvenience.’

‘Is she unwell?’

The receptionists looked at one another. The woman said, ‘She hasn’t been in the office since last week.’

He pretended to think; to remember. ‘I spoke to her last Wednesday and we agreed to this meeting then. When was she last in? If she had planned to go away, why would she arrange to see me?’

‘I don’t think it was planned,’ the male receptionist said. ‘It’s probably just the office bug.’

The woman added, ‘She was in on the Thursday, but we haven’t seen her since then.’

Victor made a big deal of sighing. ‘This is extremely frustrating.’

The man said, ‘Sir, I am very sorry. When she does come back to the office I’ll of course let her know you came in today. Can I take your name?’

He said the alias he’d signed in with.

The receptionist made a note of it. ‘Is there anything else I can do for you?’

Victor raised an eyebrow. ‘Anything else? No, that’s everything.’

The receptionist’s smile never faltered. ‘You have yourself a lovely day.’

SEVENTEEN

Gisele lived in south-east London in a top-floor apartment of a converted Georgian townhouse. The building had once been two residences of wealthy Londoners with three above-ground levels and a semi-subterranean one. Like many similar houses, these two had long ago been converted into flats for the city’s ever-expanding populace. The façade was painted cream and kept clean and bright. A U-shaped driveway of loose gravel provided access from the quiet street. A small garden and huge oak tree sat in the middle of the curve. Four cars were parked on the driveway. All were well maintained. Norimov hadn’t known if his daughter owned a vehicle, but Victor saw that she did. It was a maroon Volvo. Less than three years old. It was the only one of the four cars that did not have tyre-width grooves in the gravel leading up to it because it hadn’t been used in over a week.

He would have liked to have examined it more closely but he was illuminated by the sodium orange of streetlamps and an observer inside could see him from behind blinds or net curtains without his knowledge. It was only seven p.m. but sunset had been more than an hour ago. Lights were on in most of the windows. Gisele’s were dark, as were a few wherein the occupiers were still at work or commuting from it. Londoners worked long hours.

Victor wore a charcoal business suit, sky blue shirt and no tie. A suit was his preferred outfit for the majority of situations his work put him in for many reasons. He spent most of his time in cities where suited men were common and anonymous. A suit also provided an instant air of respectability. A man in a suit rarely seemed suspicious. If that man was running, he would appear late, not fleeing. Police wouldn’t stop that man near a crime scene unless they knew who they were looking for. Security guards would not check closely when that man flashed credentials. Civilians would be more easily convinced of that man’s lies.

And when that man was seen within a building where he didn’t belong, residents would believe he had reason to be there.

I’m an estate agent, Victor said inside his mind as he approached the front door. I’ve been asked to value Miss Maynard’s flat.

Broad steps led up to the two front doors — both painted in a fiery red — one leading to the flats on the left, the other to those on the right. Victor veered to the right side door. The garden flat had its own entrance at the side. The buzzer fixed to the right of the main front door had three buttons and numbers corresponding to each of the above-ground flats. The door had a deadbolt. He’d have preferred not to have to pick it with people inside the building but he couldn’t afford to waste time waiting until mid-morning when most would have left for their day jobs.

He reached into a pocket and took out two of the paperclips that Dmitri had sourced. Victor had cut, bent and manipulated them using the multi-tool, forming a torsion wrench and rake. He inserted the wrench into the bottom of the lock and applied gentle pressure. The rake went into the top of the lock and he dragged it back towards him, bumping the tumblers. Using proper tools the lock would have taken less than ten seconds to open. With the improvised wrench and rake it took thirty-three.

He pushed open the door, stopping when he saw no one in the hallway on the other side. It was a neat, simple space, clean and organised. Function over aesthetics. A door led to the ground-floor flat. A staircase led up.

A pile of post sat on the carpet near to the front door. There were letters and obvious junk mail and free newspapers and circulars for all three of the flats. Victor sifted through them, separating out the ones for Gisele Maynard or those that were addressed to different names but the same residence.

He ascended to the top floor. He heard music emanating from the first-floor residence. Some kind of dance music. Victor was glad he couldn’t recognise the ‘song’. Music had peaked more than a century ago. He didn’t understand why people couldn’t just accept that.

Gisele’s front door was double locked. A minute later Victor pushed it open. The smell hit him first. It was a clean, neutral fragrance. He wasn’t going to find a body here. He felt relief. He’d never met her. He’d only known of her existence for less than twenty-four hours. But he was glad he wasn’t going to her lay eyes on her as a corpse. At least not yet, anyway.

He eased the door closed behind him. Conversion flats had thin floors. The resident below might hear otherwise, even above the incessant thump of electronic drums. When the door clicked shut, the hallway fell into darkness. Victor stood for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom and listening. He’d seen no evidence of another intruder but that didn’t mean a skilled operator was not already inside the apartment. Victor knew nothing about the threat Norimov and his daughter faced, but he also knew it could materialise at any moment.

He maintained his vigilance, but moved on when he was as close to sure that he was alone as he could be, clearing the rooms one by one until he was certain he was the only one there. Then he made sure all the curtains and blinds were closed and turned on the lights.

Gisele’s apartment consisted of a narrow hallway with doors either side that led to two bedrooms, a bathroom and a box room, before opening up into an open-plan lounge and kitchen. French doors opened on to a small balcony that overlooked the shared garden. She had simple, but expensive tastes. The furniture was functional but high quality. He liked the minimalist approach. If he had his own taste, this would be it.

There were no signs of a confrontation. If Norimov’s enemies had found and taken Gisele, it hadn’t been from here. He sat down on a bespoke couch to examine Gisele’s mail. The couch was as comfortable as it looked, but he sat perched on the very edge, head in line with his hips, ready to spring to his feet should the need arise.

He’d ignored the flyers and other hand-delivered circulars, leaving them by the entrance downstairs. There were a couple of letters to the previous occupant, but he paid attention to them as he did the ones addressed to Gisele. He wasn’t interested in the contents of the letters but the postmarks. The earliest date was the ninth — two days before Norimov received the threatening photograph. The postmark stated the letter had been sent first class. At the earliest it would have slid through the letterbox on the tenth, but could have arrived on the eleventh or even twelfth. So he knew Gisele hadn’t been home for at least seven or eight days.

On the opposite side of the lounge, an ergonomic mesh chair sat before a desk made of glass and chrome. A computer rested on the desk. It would no doubt be able to tell him when she had lasted logged on, but he didn’t have to power it on to know it was password protected. He was no hacker. Instead, he turned his attention to a three-tier document tray next to the computer monitor. On the bottom level were bills and statements, all at least two weeks old. The middle tray contained more recent correspondence. Unopened letters sat in the top tray. The most recent letter had a postmark for the eighth. It had most likely arrived on the ninth or tenth, narrowing down Gisele’s absence to no more than seven days. She hadn’t been home since the day Norimov received the photograph.

In Gisele’s bedroom, Victor went through her things. He wasn’t sure what he was hoping to find, but time spent being thorough was never wasted. Her clothes were good quality garments. She had a large, sliding wardrobe. The dresses, blouses and suits inside were hung on wooden hangers and coordinated by colour and type. She liked colour, but there were few daring items. There were four trouser suits: grey, charcoal, brown and black. Victor appreciated their quality. An empty hanger hung between the brown and black suits so he knew she’d worn her navy on the day she didn’t return home. There was too much colour elsewhere in her wardrobe for her not to have that classic shade.

He searched through all her drawers, in every room. He opened every box and case. He had a glass of water in the kitchen area of the open-plan lounge, washing and drying the glass after he had finished and putting it back exactly as he had found it. The kitchen was at the rear of the building, overlooking the garden. The blind had fat wooden slats. Even closed, Victor could just about see the world outside.

Her phone sat on a table near to the couch. He used the knuckle of his little finger to punch out Norimov’s number. He answered after a few rings. It was after midnight in St Petersburg.

‘Have you found her?’

‘You have a lot of faith in me,’ Victor replied. ‘But even I don’t work that fast. I’m in her apartment.’ He explained what he’d found — and hadn’t. ‘She’s been gone for a week. You need to accept the fact they have her. Or they tried to take her and something went wrong. She could very well be dead.’

‘I won’t believe it until I see her body.’

He didn’t press the issue. ‘Have you had any further threats? Any attacks on your businesses? Any of your men assaulted?’

‘Nothing since the photograph. The only men injured are the ones you hurt.’

Victor thought about this for a moment. He looked between the blind slats. ‘You can relax for the time being. She’s not dead.’

‘But you just said… How can you know for sure?’

‘Because I can see three men climbing over the wall of the garden.’

‘What?’

‘They must have been watching from the street behind and saw the lights on in the flat. They think I’m her.’

Norimov’s voice was quiet when he said, ‘Then I almost feel sorry for them.’

EIGHTEEN

Victor replaced the handset and switched off the lights. The apartment fell into darkness. He judged the angle and cracked open the curtains covering the balcony doors. He looked over his shoulder to check. A swathe of dim light cut through the darkness of the open-plan lounge, illuminating the opening where it joined the hall leading to the front door. Outside of the swathe there was almost no visibility. He wouldn’t see an enemy two metres away. But they wouldn’t see him either.

They had probably been waiting in a car, interior lights off, eyes adjusted to the night. But the communal hallway and staircase was well lit. By the time they reached Gisele’s apartment they would have lost their night vision. That put them on an even footing with Victor. In a few minutes his eyes would adjust to the lack of light and he would see as well as he needed to, but by then it would all be over. They would be across the garden by now and moving past the entrance to the garden flat, circling around to the front of the building.

Victor heard the muted crash of the door being forced open below. He felt the vibration in the balls of his feet, having travelled up through the building. He pictured the startled face of the resident below.

Streetlamps outside cast a dull orange glow between the open curtains. Motes of dust drifted lazily across the path of light. He stood motionless in the darkness, listening. Ready. Content.

His ears captured sound from many different sources: the rumble of traffic outside; the soulless melody thumping its way through the floor below; the murmur of a heated argument far away. He concentrated to pick out the footsteps hurrying up the stairs. Initially faint; phantom sounds that grew and intensified with speed as the men ascended to the first floor, then the second. They were moving fast. This was no stealth operation. They were aggressive and loud. Not professionals.

He counted three sets, so no one was staying back to protect their escape route from interfering residents. Few, if any, would respond to the noise of the forced door. They would be shocked, then scared, then would convince themselves it wasn’t as they had first thought. They would seek to rationalise the danger away. Humans put their heads in the sand just like ostriches. Victor exploited that often.

They stopped outside Gisele’s front door. They weren’t about to pick it. They were passing on last-minute instructions because they didn’t have anything that resembled a proper plan. Sloppy. Nowhere near professional standards. They were street criminals. Thugs. They could even be psyching themselves up. Maybe: On the count of three…

The front door burst open and smacked into the wall.

Victor remained standing in the same position. He didn’t have to move. The three guys were going to do the hard work for him.

They had kicked the door in. It made a lot of noise. Even submissive residents might not talk themselves into thinking there was a reasonable explanation. The police could already have been called. Now, they were against the clock and they couldn’t know where Gisele — who they thought was Gisele — was located. So they had to move fast. They had to spread out. There was no danger in that.

They were three dangerous men after one civilian female. Easy.

Wrong.

He stood motionless, listening. He didn’t have to do anything yet. He only had to wait. They would come to him. He could hear the urgent exhales of the three men. They weren’t out of breath but were breathing hard as they rushed through the apartment. One would check left — the two bedrooms. The other would check right — the bathroom and box room. Which left the third to head straight into the lounge, into the swathe of light and into —

Victor, as he leapt from the darkness on to the guy from behind as he hurried forward, wrapping his right arm around the man’s neck, crook of the elbow pushing against the trachea, applying pressure on the carotid arteries either side of it, shutting off the blood supply to the brain. His left palm covered the man’s mouth and nose, muffling his cries, inaudible over the heavy footfalls of his two companions.

Ten seconds without oxygen was sufficient for the brain to shut down non-essential functions like consciousness and the man slackened. There wasn’t enough time to induce brain death and a snapped neck was too loud to risk, so Victor left him slumped where he lay.

With two rooms each to check, the other two would arrive in the lounge in close succession, but not together because one had two bedrooms to check with space to hide in — under the beds; in wardrobes — while the other had smaller, barer rooms to clear.

He took down the next man in the same way as the first, but the six seconds of the choke hold weren’t quite enough to induce unconsciousness before the third man appeared behind him.

He didn’t have to look back to know the third man hesitated when he saw his two companions prostrate and Victor standing over them, and hesitation was as good as surprise in Victor’s line of work.

It enabled him to close the distance before the man could grab the handgun from his pocket and point it Victor’s way. A snapshot from the hip might have had some success, but the man didn’t have the reflexes, skill or even courage to try.

Victor used a forearm to push the muzzle clear, grabbed the wrist and triceps to lock the arm, but the gunman knew how to fight and was throwing an elbow with his free arm before Victor could break the joint. He caught the attack on a raised forearm, pushing it up, exposing the man’s chest for an elbow of his own that he drove into his enemy’s ribs. He didn’t have the leverage to crack any, or the room to aim for the solar plexus, but there was a whoosh of air leaving the man’s mouth. In that moment he didn’t have the strength to stop Victor ripping the pistol from his hand.

He tossed it away because he had no need of it — and it would only make noise and mess Victor could do without, and there wasn’t time to adjust his grip on the weapon and get his finger inside the trigger guard and have the muzzle pointed at his enemy — because the man had recovered from the elbow to the chest and was fighting back. He was good. He had speed and strength but Victor had more of both.

He backed off to avoid a headbutt, slipped a hook and the elbow that followed it, blocked a kick to his thigh with a raised shin. He retreated another step, encouraging his attacker to continue the assault and tire himself out as he increased the ferocity of his attacks in an effort to make up for the gulf in skill until fatigue and frustration created an opening to —

Snap his opponent’s head back with an open-palmed blow to the face, breaking his nose and sending him stumbling backwards. Victor easily knocked aside the man’s panicked defensive punches and shoved him to keep him off balance until he tripped on the leg of one of his unconscious companions. His arms splayed in an attempt to stay standing, but in doing so left him defenceless.

Victor’s takedown dropped the man face down on to his head and his whole body slackened.

He stamped on the back of the man’s neck. The crack told him he’d broken vertebrae. His enemy’s limp body told him he’d transacted the spinal cord.

The second man — who had not quite been rendered unconscious — had managed to get himself to his hands and knees.

A kick between the legs put him back on his stomach.

Victor switched on a lamp and squatted down next to the man to wait until the pain had subsided enough for him to be useful.

‘Who sent you?’ Victor asked when the man finally stopped writhing and opened his eyes.

‘No Anglais.’

‘Then I’m afraid to say that you’re no use to me.’

Victor put a hand on the man’s throat and squeezed. A raspy scream escaped his lips. He stared into Victor’s eyes.

‘Wait… I’ll talk.’

‘I should be a language teacher.’

The man was average height but solid and strong. He stank of body odour from sitting in a warm car for perhaps hours, the morning’s shower long ago. He seemed about twenty-five. Prison tattoos were visible on his neck. He had a scar on his cheek.

‘If you promise to cooperate,’ Victor said, ‘I’ll take my hand away. Deal?’

The man nodded as much as the hand around his throat would let him. ‘Deal.’

Victor removed his hand, pretending he didn’t notice the man’s right fist in his jacket pocket; pretending he hadn’t noticed it slide inside the pocket when he’d begun strangling the man.

The instant Victor took his hand from the man’s neck, the man pulled a knife from the pocket and stabbed up at him. He didn’t know if the man was going for his spleen, stomach, heart, or even if he was just thrusting with little care to where the wound ended up. It didn’t matter. The blade didn’t get anywhere near Victor’s skin.

He caught the knife-holding fist, applying pressure with his thumb while twisting with his fingers to lock the wrist joint and relieve the weapon from the man’s weakened grasp.

Victor said, ‘That was a really bad idea.’

NINETEEN

He reversed his grip on the knife so the blade protruded from the bottom of his fist, and drove the point down into the man’s abdomen.

It made a popping, sucking sound as the skin pierced and sliced. The man’s face contorted in shock and horror more than pain. Adrenalin kept the agony away. That respite was temporary. The pain would come soon.

The man gasped and bucked as Victor tugged the blade free of the vacuum’s hold.

Blood so dark it was almost black bubbled out of the wound. It soaked his shirt, spreading fast, glinting in the gloom.

Victor said, ‘I don’t suppose you believe me when I say that in less than one minute you’re going to beg me to stab you again.’

The man just stared. Shock was pulling the colour from his face. Beads of sweat were appearing over every inch of skin. His hands pressed flat over the wound. Both were drenched with blood.

Victor showed him the blade. ‘The blood’s dark because I’ve stabbed you in the inferior vena cava. Don’t be fooled by the name. It’s one of the most important blood vessels you have. It carries all the blood from your lower body up to your heart. The blood’s dark because it’s deoxygenated because it hasn’t reached there yet. Now, it’s pouring out of your belly. It can’t enter the right atrium of your heart. It can’t be pumped to your lungs. It can’t pick up oxygen. In about four minutes there’s not going to be enough oxygen in your blood to keep you alive. Your whole body is going to crave it. But you’re going to lie there and bleed to death. The pain is going to be horrendous. I can’t stop the pain, but I can keep you alive. Do you want me to keep you alive?’

The man nodded, frantically, the whites of his eyes large and bright and full of tears.

‘Then I have to put the blade back inside the wound. It’ll create a vacuum and stem the bleeding. More importantly it will let the blood flow up to your heart. Pressure on the wound won’t be enough. Look.’ Victor gestured to the blood coating the man’s hands. ‘Do you want me to stab you again?’

The man didn’t answer. He stared and cried.

‘I’ll give you a few seconds to think about it,’ Victor said.

He left the man for a moment to break the neck of the first one he’d choked because he was coming round, then returned.

‘It’s a straight choice,’ Victor continued. ‘There are no variables. Either the blade stays in my hand and you bleed to death in a matter of minutes, or I slide it back in and you make it to the hospital. London has some great trauma surgeons. They deal with knife wounds a lot. This is a routine job for them. But you need to decide right now which way it’s going to be. Each second you delay is a minute less you’ll have to live when you eventually decide there really is only one option. You don’t want to die. You want to live. So, shall I put the knife back in?’

‘YES,’ he begged.

‘I won’t say I told you so.’

Victor slotted the knife blade directly into the wound. The man bucked and thrashed and screamed. The adrenalin was all used up now.

‘You made the right choice,’ Victor said. ‘The blade has plugged the hole and will slow the bleeding long enough for me to ask you some questions and for me to call an ambulance and for the paramedics to arrive and keep you alive until you get into theatre for a surgeon to stitch you up. But you don’t have a lot of time so you’re going to have to answer me without hesitation or stalling. You need me to believe you. If I have a single doubt about any answer you give then I’m going to pull the blade out again and I’ll only put it back in when you convince me you’re telling the truth. That’s fair, isn’t it?’

The man’s face was pale and soaked in sweat and tears. ‘Yes,’ he yelled. ‘Hurry the fuck up and ask me.’

‘Tell me you understand.’

He nodded. ‘I do. I understand. Please hurry.’

‘Just so we’re clear: who are you here for: me or Gisele?’

‘The woman. We saw the light on. We thought —’

‘I don’t care what you thought. And you should only care about answering my questions because you haven’t got enough life left to waste even a second of it.’

‘Okay. Okay.’

‘How long have you been looking for her?’

‘A few days.’

‘Be more specific.’

He thought for a moment. ‘A week.’

‘Be more specific,’ Victor said again.

‘I don’t know. Christ… Since last Tuesday.’

‘Eight days?’

‘Yes. Fuck. Eight fucking days.’

‘I’ll forgive you the language because of the circumstances. But don’t push it. Who are you working for?’

A half-moment of hesitation. ‘Blake Moran.’ He spoke the name with reverence and fear, even with a knife in his abdomen.

‘That’s nothing but a name. Who is he? Tell me about him.’

‘I don’t know… He’s the boss man. He’s… God, it hurts so much.’

‘A drug dealer?’

The man nodded. ‘The biggest.’

‘I doubt that,’ Victor said. ‘At this moment who are you more afraid of: him or me?’

The man didn’t answer fast enough so Victor took hold of the knife’s grip and twisted it — just a little, but enough. He muffled the resulting scream with a palm over the man’s mouth.

‘YOU,’ he yelled when Victor removed his hand.

‘Remember that before you answer my next question. Where can I find Moran?’

‘He has a big house in Bromley. Like a fucking fortress with guards and dogs —’

‘Yeah, yeah. I get the idea. What about businesses? Clubs, bars…?’

The man grimaced and gulped. ‘A café. In Lewisham. Near the station.’

‘What’s it called?’

‘I can’t remember. I’m sorry.’

‘It’s okay. I’ll find it.’

‘Please, that’s all I know. Call me an ambulance.’

‘Remember what I said about not having time to waste?’ The man nodded. ‘So stop wasting it. Who told Moran to find the woman?’

‘No one. No one tells him what to do.’

‘Everyone takes orders,’ Victor said. ‘Even men like Moran. What were you going to do with the woman, had you found her here?’

‘Secure her and take her someplace safe.’

‘Where?’

‘One of Moran’s sites. A derelict house. The address is on my phone.’

‘That’s bad form. Even someone like you should know that. Once you’d taken her to this house, then what was the plan?’

‘Call Moran. Tell him we had her. Wait for further instructions.’

Victor patted the man down until he’d found the phone. He checked it, then showed the man the screen. ‘Is this his number?’

The man nodded. ‘That’s him. I’m starting to get cold. Please, call the fucking ambulance.’

‘Are you supposed to use a password or some sort of code?’

‘I… I don’t understand. The ambulance, man.’

Victor slipped the phone into a pocket. He considered for a moment. ‘I think that’s it. Thank you for your honesty. It’s saved me a lot of time and hassle. I appreciate that.’

‘So… you’ll call me an ambulance now?’

Victor looked down at him. ‘You didn’t seriously believe me, did you?’

The man’s eyes widened. ‘What? What do you mean?’

‘I’m not going to call you an ambulance. And even if I did, they’re not going to be able to keep you alive.’

‘But you said… What about the surgeons?’

‘If you were on the operating table at this very moment, maybe. But even that would be a long shot. The wound is mortal. That was the point.’

‘Please. Don’t kill me,’ the man pleaded.

‘I already have,’ Victor said.

‘But… you told me —’

‘I lied,’ Victor said. ‘I’m not a very nice person.’

The man began crying and reached out when Victor stood. ‘Don’t leave me.’

‘If you pull the knife out, the pain will be over sooner. Otherwise, you have maybe five minutes. If you believe in God, now would be a good time to start begging him to forgive your many sins. And even if you don’t, it can’t hurt, can it?’

Victor walked away.

Behind him, the man prayed.

TWENTY

An hour later, Nieve Anderton climbed out of her black Audi. Two police cars were parked outside the building. Another sat on the gravel driveway. Parked next to it was the ambulance. The Audi was a solid, powerful sports car. The door was big and heavy. She made sure it didn’t slam. Not to avoid the noise, although she preferred to remain quiet and unheard, but to stay in control. Being in control was important.

A brown leather blazer covered the blouse that hung loose over her belt. The blazer was smart and of a tailored fit. The blouse carried a designer’s stitched logo on the chest pocket. Her jeans were similarly labelled. Her boots were made from polished rattlesnake skin. She liked to dress well. She liked to make a statement.

The street was quiet despite the police presence. Residents kept to themselves. They didn’t make a fuss. A few silhouettes at windows was about as obvious as they were going to get. A paramedic stood on the pavement outside the driveway, looking at his phone — texting or checking email or watching funny cat videos. He was in no hurry, any more than the various cops and crime scene techs. There was no need to rush. Everyone was dead. Three corpses, Anderton had been told. So far unidentified. They looked like criminals, apparently. Burglary gone wrong, people speculated.

‘One’s bled out from a knife wound to the abdomen,’ the Crime Scene Coordinator was telling her as she slipped on plastic overshoes. ‘The other two have broken necks. One’s face down; looks as if he’s been stamped on. The other has had his head wrenched.’ He did the action. ‘Like this. Nice, eh?’

‘How many assailants?’ Anderton asked, zipping up her overalls.

‘That, I can’t tell you. No footprints in the blood. No other obvious signs. We’ll know more once the nerds have finished.’

‘Nerds?’ Anderton echoed.

‘Hey, I’m allowed to say it. I used to be one.’

Neighbours were being questioned by police constables. No one seemed to have seen anything, but plenty of people heard doors being kicked open and sounds of a struggle. Then screaming.

Anderton left the Crime Scene Coordinator to attend to the various plastic-bagged exhibits that were being ferried out of the building. She squeezed her way past a couple of detectives who looked at her with measurable disdain, and entered the building.

‘All the way up to the top, ma’am,’ a uniform offered.

‘Thank you.’

She ascended the stairs. It was difficult. The overalls were far too big for her frame and the shoes had little grip on the carpet-less steps. Anderton reached the top, slightly out of breath. She was in shape, but didn’t hit the gym anywhere near as much as she used to. Age was catching up with her. Life would begin in a couple of years, she’d heard plenty of times.

‘And who the flying fuck are you?’

A burly detective in a poorly fitting suit stepped out of the apartment. He looked about forty years old and smoked about forty a day. Even without the aggressive attitude, she knew he would be trouble. She could read people well enough to know that just from the way his shoulders sat, bunched and widened: attacking because he was defensive. Not the smartest man to show his hand so easily.

‘My name’s Nieve Anderton,’ she said, offering her hand. ‘I’m from the Security Service. And who might you be?’

‘The guv’nor. Detective Chief Inspector Crawley. And you’re on my crime scene, Ms Anderton, so I suggest you piss off back to the salon. This is a police matter.’

She smiled through the insult. ‘Are you always this personable, or is it only with the ladies?’

‘Oh, this is me in first gear, love, I assure you. I haven’t even begun to turn on the charm.’ Crawley rested his hands on hips. His beer gut was bigger than his ego.

She met him at his own game. ‘When you do turn it on, be sure to let me know. I wouldn’t want to miss it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go in there.’ She pointed to the open front door.

Crawley looked astonished. ‘You do? Well, why didn’t you call ahead? I could have had the red carpet brought down and rolled out for you. Guess we’ll have to make do without. Tell you what, I’ll lie down and you can walk over me instead.’

‘I assure you I’d like nothing more than to trample you with my four-inch Pour La Victoires, but I wouldn’t want to pop you open like a balloon.’ She glanced down at his distended stomach. ‘So I guess we’re both out of luck. Therefore, why don’t you save us a lot of time and give me your cooperation and access to your crime scene. I’d certainly appreciate it.’

‘I’d very much appreciate it if you would get lost and let me and my men do our job. You MI5 clowns can fuck it up after we’re done. How’s that sound?’

Anderton took a breath and stepped close enough to smell the fried chicken on Crawley’s clothes. ‘I’m sorry you didn’t get many hugs as a child, Inspector. But this really has gone beyond a joke. You’re obstructing official Security Service business and if you don’t let me in there then I make a call to your superintendent. David, isn’t it? We’re on first-name terms, you see. Lovely wife, he has. Beautiful kids too. His eldest has a bit of a crush on me, I think. Do you get what I’m trying to tell you? Or should I make it clearer? How’s this? Back off, or I’m going to have to bend you over and fuck your career up the arse until you’re shitting blood.’ She smiled at him. ‘Okay?’

He stepped back. ‘Nice mouth you have there, sweetheart. And you called me charming!’

‘Oh, I assure you, this is me in first gear. Do you understand me, DCI Crawley?’

‘Yes, I understand you.’ He sighed and shook his head. ‘You’re the guv’nor.’

‘That’s correct,’ she said, and stepped around him. ‘Walk me through it.’

He followed and gestured. ‘Door kicked in. All three were killed in the lounge over there. Other rooms have been tossed. Nothing taken, far as we can see.’

The bodies had yet to be removed. The forensic people were milling around them and the rest of the flat. Tape placed by the Crime Scene Coordinator marked areas of interest. One of the corpses lay face down on the laminate flooring. He looked as though he had suffered a hell of a beating. The back of his neck was red. Underneath the skin, the spine was broken, but the exterior wound was almost non-existent. The second corpse, again with a broken neck, was more obvious in the manner of death: the head was at a skewed, unnatural angle to the rest of the body. There were no other injuries.

The third body was drenched in blood, originating from a wound to his belly, but soaking his clothes and forming a pool around him. Anderton almost couldn’t believe the amount that had come out of him. His skin was so white it looked as though he was wearing make-up — a vampire in an old horror flick.

Interestingly, the knife that had killed him was clutched in his right hand. He had pulled it out. Which was about as stupid as it got. Anderton thought every man and his dog knew never to remove a blade. It was suicide.

‘Some blokes fucked ’em right up,’ Crawley said from behind her.

She turned to face him. He was scratching at his crotch. He didn’t stop when he saw she noticed. No brains. No manners. No class. She spotted a ring on his finger and felt enormous sympathy for the man’s wife.

‘So,’ he continued. ‘Are you going to tell me what a super secret agent from MI5 is doing at my crime scene?’

Anderton smiled. ‘You surely don’t expect me to answer that, do you?’

He rolled his eyes. ‘Defence of the realm, national security, need to know, blah blah blah.’

‘Couldn’t have put it better myself, Inspector.’

‘You do realise that if you showed me the courtesy of sharing a little intel that A, it would encourage cooperation and B, help us both out?’

‘You mean the same courtesy you showed me in the hallway?’

‘Yes, well. Call me psychic, but I knew exactly how this was going to turn out and I’m not keen on me and my boys doing all the legwork on this investigation so you can swoop in at the end and steal all the glory.’

‘I’m not in the glory business, Inspector. I’m in the protecting-this-country business. The same business that you should be in.’ He looked away. ‘Any evidence left by the killer?’

‘Killers,’ he corrected. ‘And no. Nothing so far.’

Anderton pivoted on the spot, analysing the scene. She pointed. ‘He stood there, close to the door and out of sight. When they came in, they had split up, searching the other rooms. The one furthest away from the door was the first to die. We can see that because there are absolutely no signs of a struggle. He rushed straight past the killer — had no idea there was any threat — and was then attacked from behind before he could get further into the flat. Pressure on the carotids from behind. Classic rear-naked choke would have taken him out in seconds. Killer then waits for the next one to show. That’s when it gets a little messy, because the third one must have been following close behind.’

Crawley was shaking his head. ‘Excuse me, but what the hell are you talking about? What’s all this about one killer? The CSC doesn’t know how many attackers there were. And these weren’t plastic hard men. No way one guy took them all out.’

‘Look around this place,’ Anderton said. ‘There’s barely any mess aside from the three corpses and the blood. How did that happen if there were multiple attackers? There would be multiple signs, wouldn’t there? This flat would be a bombsite. But it’s not. We have a ridiculously neat arrangement of bodies, all in this area just inside the lounge entrance. How did multiple attackers hide well enough to catch three men by surprise and then kill them without leaving a single trace? If you know, I’m all ears.’

Crawley was still shaking his head, but he didn’t respond.

‘And look at the way they’re lying,’ Anderton said. ‘Two of them have their feet pointed at the hallway.’

‘And?’

‘That means sixty-six per cent were taken down without even getting the chance to turn around. No way that happened unless a single attacker took the first out without the second one knowing about it.’

Crawley shrugged, defeated. ‘All right. You might have a point. We’ll look into it.’

‘Who owns the flat?’ Anderton asked.

‘One Gisele Maynard. Twenty-two years old. Lives alone. Neighbours we’ve spoken to haven’t seen her for days. I hope you’re not suggesting a girl — sorry, a woman — beat seven shades of shite out of these three, are you?’

Anderton acknowledged the ridiculousness of his question with a smirk. ‘I think you would be surprised what we’re capable of, Inspector, when we’re allowed out of the kitchen. But in this case I’m with you. No, I don’t see it.’

‘Wow, you agree with me. It’s like all my Christmas mornings rolled into one.’

‘I wouldn’t get used to it, if I were you.’

Anderton smiled at him and he matched the smile. She handed him her card and he took it without the slightest hesitation. This pleased her. Not because she wanted him to like her, but because he was a once-disobedient hound now loyal to its new master.

‘Let me know if you turn up anything else, Inspector.’

TWENTY-ONE

Blake Moran’s café was located between a kebab shop and a narrow single-lane road, on the other side of which lay a bowling alley. Like the kebab shop next to it, the café was no chic eatery or coffee shop. It looked the kind of place that non-regulars hurried past, concerned by the hordes of unsavoury men that hung around inside all day long. Metal tables and chairs stood outside on the pavement. A freestanding blackboard listed today’s specials in indecipherable script. Victor thought he made out the word soup.

He waited at a bus shelter thirty metres away, on the other side of the street. He pretended to study the route and timetable listings while he performed the last stage of his surveillance. The cover was probably excessive. No one inside the café seemed to pay any attention to the goings-on outside. Intermittently, men would come out to smoke. Often they had lit up before they made it to the door. Victor didn’t envy the public health inspector who would have to give the proprietor a verbal warning.

He’d operated against, and been around, enough organised criminals in his time to recognise a front. The café was a bad establishment in a worse area, filled with gangsters. Any hapless passer-by who had the misfortune of stepping inside for a drink or meal would never elect to go back a second time. But the custom, or lack thereof, didn’t matter. Cafés had a high percentage of cash turnover, which meant they were good places to launder money through. Every cup of surprisingly expensive espresso or bottle of mineral water the goons inside ordered would be delivered with a receipt. No money would change hands, but the day’s take equivalent in illicitly gained cash could be put through the books and come out the other end clean and declarable.

The same went for the kebab shop next door, judging by how friendly those who ran the two establishments were. Combined, the two likely gave Moran a tidy legitimate income that covered his everyday expenses and kept the tax man and the police off his back. So, he was reasonably smart. The three men he’d sent after Gisele had one pistol between them. If they regularly carried guns, they would have had them on them in the apartment, or at least in their car. If those four only had one gun between them, Moran’s crew were not universally armed. A few knives, coshes and knuckledusters, no doubt, but light on firearms. That made things a little easier for Victor.

As was typical for London, there were a couple of CCTV cameras in the immediate area, but neither would impede his plan. From what he could see, the men inside the café seemed relaxed. They were joking and drinking coffee: killing time between actions. The man Victor stabbed had called Moran a drug dealer. That seemed an inaccurate term. The thugs in the café didn’t look like dealers and in the time Victor had been conducting surveillance he had seen only a handful of men come or go. That didn’t equate to dealing drugs. The men were thugs, like the four in Gisele’s apartment had been. They were muscle. Soldiers.

Moran was a trafficker, not a dealer. His men could sit around in the café all day because the work was irregular. They would go into action when a shipment was due — whether coming in or going out. Moran bought in bulk and shipped in bulk. He needed his men to protect his business from being ripped off by those above him in the pyramid or below him. No business would be done in the café. That was just a front. And no wholesaler could ship product as soon as it was received. So Moran had a distribution centre.

Like his residence it would serve as a better location to confront him, but there was no telling when he would head to either. Each hour that passed meant more chance of him finding out about his three dead men. In some ways that might help, as he was likely to mobilise his soldiers to find out what had happened. The number in the café would certainly fall as a result. But those that remained, and Moran himself, would be alert and on guard. Maybe not thinking further attacks were imminent, but a natural rise in awareness and readiness would be an automatic response.

More problematic though, would be what Moran might do. He was no small-time dealer, but he wasn’t about to expand his territory to St Petersburg. He wasn’t preparing to usurp Norimov. He hadn’t been the one to send an old Russian blood threat. Someone had asked him to kidnap Gisele. Either that person was the direct threat to Norimov or he was a link to it. Regardless, when Moran discovered he’d lost his crew because of that he would report this fact and whoever was targeting Norimov would know they had competition to find Gisele. Victor only wanted them to know that when he was ready.

He crossed the road and headed towards the café. There were a dozen of Moran’s soldiers inside. There might be others scattered around the rest of the establishment. Guns or not, they created a near impassable barrier. An easier way existed. He entered the access road adjacent to the café, walking on the same side of the road as the bowling alley. Across the narrow street was the side of the café. A quick glance gave Victor an accurate picture of numbers, positions and their readiness. So far so good.

The street was a single lane. No pavements flanked it. The bowling alley occupied the entire side Victor stood on until the road turned after about seventy metres. There were a few shabby signs for businesses further along on the opposite side, all closed. Between them and the café was a short driveway for deliveries and a high metal gate blocking access to the uneven area of asphalt that lay behind the café. Victor could see two vehicles parked there: a van and a Mercedes-Benz. The soldiers’ vehicles had to be parked elsewhere: either along the access road or similarly close by. A single CCTV camera overlooked the gate.

Victor doubted it would be manned full-time but scaling the gate under full view of the camera was still too much of a risk. He walked along the access road. A three-storey office building stood adjacent to the metal gate. The ground-floor windows were reinforced with mesh and covered in posters for local nightclubs and events. They were several layers thick. Frayed corners flicked in the breeze. There were no lights on anywhere in the building but the premises were protected by a security firm according to a couple of signs. Maybe that meant there was a guard somewhere inside or it could just refer to an alarm system. Next to the office building was a row of small businesses. Three of the four businesses on the same side of the street as the café had either obvious alarm boxes or security grilles. The odd one out had neither. It had whitewashed windows because it had closed down. A long time ago, judging by the letting agent’s faded sign. No lights were on, either on the ground floor or two floors above. Perfect.

The improvised lock picks were still usable. The torsion wrench would last a good while longer, but the pick was marked and bent a little from the previous usage. Victor used his fingers to bend it back into shape as much he could and crossed the street.

No one was around to witness him pick the closed-down business’s front door. There were two locks. He was inside within forty seconds.

Dust and mould spores reached his nostrils. He stood in the darkness and let his eyes adjust and his ears take in every sound for his brain to separate and analyse. He could hear the tick of pipes and noise of the outside city filtering in.

He was in a short hallway. A frosted glass door led deeper into the ground floor. He ignored it and ascended the stairs, making his way to the back of the building as soon as he reached the first floor. A pebbled window let in a little light. He unlatched it and heaved it open. It took some effort. The paintwork had eroded and the wood had swelled and warped.

He opened it as far as he could without risking damage, creating a gap higher than necessary for him to slide through, head first, on his back, until his hips lay across the sill. Cool wind ruffled his hair. He looked around.

Below was a narrow alleyway, barely shoulder-width across, marked on the far side by a spiked metal fence. On the other side of the fence lay a loading bay for a removal firm. The alley didn’t link to the open space behind Moran’s café because the office building was deeper than the two of businesses next to it. Victor had expected as much. He set his fingertips on the top of the outside window frame and slid backwards and up into a sitting position. He then pulled up his feet and set them on the window sill, shuffling back until his heels had reached the edge of the exterior sill and then hung over it. He stood, walking his palms up the wall until they gripped the lip of the flat roof above.

Victor set one foot against the inside of the brickwork surrounding the window and pushed off with both feet at the same time as he pulled with his hands, muscles straining all along his forearms, biceps and shoulders until he was high enough to swing a leg around on to the roof to make the last heave easier. He rolled on to his back and stood.

He’d reduced his profile to a crouch by the time he reached the roof of the office building. It was about a metre higher than the current roof. He stepped up on to it and over the small parapet. Skylights dotted the roof. He moved across until he overlooked the rear entrance of Moran’s café and the parking area behind it.

A back door was open and music from a radio drifted out through it. From the little he could see from his elevated position it looked as though it led into a kitchen. There were no windows on the ground floor at the rear of the café, but several on the two floors above. Some had lights on. Behind the closed blinds would be the headquarters of Moran’s organisation. Probably no more than an office or two with an air of legitimacy. The man himself would be in one of the lit rooms.

Victor changed position so he could see the van and the Merc parked outside the café. The space led behind the office building. Parking spaces were clearly defined in white paint, but all were empty aside from broken pallets and other junk presumably dumped there by Moran’s men. A fire escape was fixed to the office building’s back wall. A useful way of getting down, except Victor had no plans to.

He used the grip of the handgun to chip away at the roof’s concrete parapet until he had a handful of fragments. He hurled them at the Mercedes-Benz.

It was Moran’s car, Victor was sure. With all his men in the café a few metres away, and protected by a locked gate, there would be no need to engage the alarm. But the car had a huge price tag. If he parked it anywhere else he would only do so with the alarm switched on. That would become habit.

The concrete chips pelted the Merc’s bodywork.

The alarm blared. Lights flashed. Habit.

Victor moved back to where he overlooked the café’s kitchen door. Within seconds Moran’s men began rushing out of it — fuelled by espressos and excitement from the break in monotony that the alarm’s excruciatingly loud wail provided. It wasn’t a ruse to draw Moran out of the building. It wasn’t to distract his men. It was to mask the noise he was about to make.

Victor backed off a couple of metres, ran, and leapt off the roof.

TWENTY-TWO

The gap between the office building and the café was about four metres. The office building was three storeys high. The café only two. For a moment, Victor sailed through the night air, right foot extended, left trailing behind, arms out at right angles for stability, then arching forward as he tilted his head and gravity pulled him down, bringing his feet together and bending at the waist so when the balls of his feet hit the roof he was absorbing the fall’s energy and using it to bounce into a roll, moving on to his shoulders and elbows, hips and legs following over his head and coming back on to his feet.

Below him, the alarm ceased.

He heard a voice — Moran’s or one of his lieutenants — shouting, ‘It’s nothing. Get back inside and make sure you’re ready. We’re moving out in ten.’

The sound of Victor’s landing had been reduced by the roll but would have been registered by everyone outside if not for the car alarm. Someone in a room directly below him might still have noticed it. But he had leapt to and landed on a room without lights on at the windows. He’d stacked the odds in his favour as much as he could hope to.

There were no skylights, but Victor hadn’t expected to find any. There was no fire escape either. But there was a drainpipe.

He tested its stability. Good enough. He lowered himself off the roof, pressing his shoes either side of the pipe, then took hold. He felt it give a little as his weight pulled on the screws, but it held. He climbed down, taking his time to both limit noise and so as not to put any sudden strain on the pipe. When he was level with the sash windows, he took a hand from the pipe to try the window to his left. He wedged his palm beneath the centre cross-beam and heaved. It didn’t budge. He tried the one to his right. This one didn’t lift either, but he felt less resistance. He braced himself and tried again. His arm shook under the strain, but the window lifted a couple of inches. He took a breath and tried again. This time it lifted further and he felt warm air from inside flow out. Sounds followed it — music and talking, but both muted, from beyond a closed door.

Victor pushed the window as far up as it would go, then lowered himself further down the pipe. He reached through the gap with his right hand and gripped the inside sill. Then he pulled himself across as he pushed off the pipe, jerking his left arm over to grab hold too. A moment later, he was inside the room.

It was an office. Two desks occupied opposite corners. Filing cabinets lined one wall. Maps of London tacked to corkboards filled the other. Victor eased the window until it was nearly closed, but left a couple of inches to slip his hands under. He straightened down his jacket and brushed the grit and dirt from his suit. He didn’t want his appearance to give away how he’d entered.

He waited at the door, listened, and slipped outside the room when he heard no one in the immediate proximity. The music from downstairs was louder now. It drifted up a staircase at the end of the hallway. Between the staircase and the office was another door. It led to a room where he’d seen lights on.

Two voices on the other side of the door.

He drew the pistol, cocking it as he turned the handle so the click of the door opening disguised the noise.

The two men were both looking at him as he stepped inside. They were slow to react because the last thing they expected was for an armed stranger to walk through the doorway. Moran sat on a leather sofa, slouched back with his feet up on a glass coffee table. He was stripped to the waist and wearing a pair of spotted boxer shorts and sports socks. He faced a huge, but switched off, TV mounted on a wall. Next to the dirty soles of his socks were bags of cocaine, a mirror smeared with residue and a slim chrome tube. Another man stood near the doorway. He was talking about:

‘— the importance of maintaining a unified front when dealing with—’

Victor dropped him with a backhanded pistol whip, and brought a finger to his lips. ‘Shh.’

‘Who the fuck are you?’ Moran breathed. His eyes were as red as his nostrils.

Victor eased the door shut with his free hand and stepped forward. ‘I’m all your nightmares rolled into one.’

‘How did you get in here?’

‘Magic.’

Moran hadn’t moved. He hadn’t even sat up. ‘Do you have any idea who the fuck I am?’

‘You’re the man who wishes he was anywhere else but here.’

‘I’ve got fifteen hard fucktards downstairs. You pull that trigger and you’re dead. Do you get me, boy?’

‘No, if I squeeze the trigger, you’re dead. And you have twelve men downstairs, not fifteen. The other three won’t be coming back.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Do you recognise the gun in my hand?’

Moran didn’t speak, but his eyes answered for him.

‘You may have twelve men downstairs, but they’ve done you exactly zero good so far. And once you’re dead, what does it matter to you what happens next?’

Moran said, ‘What do you want?’

‘That’s better. I want to ask you a few questions.’

Moran sat up, pulling his feet from the table and setting them on the floor. ‘Go on then, ask.’

‘Gisele Maynard. I take it you recognise the name?’

No answer.

Victor said, ‘It’s really not in your interest to play games with me.’

‘So what are you going to do about it? You’ve showed your hand, boy. You want answers. I have those answers. You can’t torture them out of me. You can’t risk the noise or the time. Not unless you want my lads charging in here. You can’t shoot me either. You’ve gone to all this trouble for answers. Kill me, and you’ll get none.’ He smiled. ‘I think I’ve just owned you.’

Victor nodded. ‘You’re right. But your outfit is already down the three-man crew you sent after Gisele.’ He took a step and stamped his heel down hard on to the temple of the unconscious man. ‘Now you’re down four men.’

Moran shrugged away his shock and kept himself composed. ‘They’re company assets. You think they’re irreplaceable? You think I can’t put more guys on the payroll?’

‘Again, you’re right. So I’ll tell you what I’m going to do.’

‘I’m all ears.’

‘I can’t shoot or torture you, so if you don’t answer my questions I’m going to turn around and walk out of here.’

‘Quelle surprise. Run along now, bitch. Consider this a free lesson in who not to fuck with. Next lesson, I’ll have to charge. The price is your worthless life.’

Victor continued, ‘Then, after I’ve disappeared into the night, you’re going to hear from me again. The four you’ve lost so far will become ten by this time tomorrow. And I won’t stop there. I’ll keep picking them off. On the streets. In their homes. When you’re collecting product. When you’re delivering it. You’re going to struggle moving and protecting the same quantity as before. You’ll be spread thin. Thin means vulnerable. You can hire more men, sure, but as quickly as I can kill them? And before word hits the street that your organisation is haemorrhaging numbers? Can you rebuild your strength before your rivals decide it’s the right time to move in and take over? How are your suppliers going to react when they learn you’re being picked apart? How are you going to convince more men to put themselves into my crosshairs when new guys don’t survive the first twenty-four hours in your employment? How are you going to keep the loyalty of your existing men when you’re willing to let them die? And for what? To protect whoever hired you? Did they really pay you that much? Are you that scared of them?’

Moran didn’t blink. ‘You’re nuts.’

‘There’s a good chance of that, yes. What’s it going to be? Am I going to walk out of that door or am I going to walk out of that door and come back later?’

‘Sod it,’ Moran breathed. ‘It’s just a job. I didn’t get paid that much. It was a favour, okay? Whatever this is about, whoever you are, I’ve got nothing to do with that girl. I was asked to snatch her. That’s all. Bundle her into the back of a car and drop her off.’

‘Who asked you for this favour?’

‘Andrei Linnekin.’

‘Who is that?’

‘One of my suppliers. My main supplier. He ships the shit over here from wherever the hell it comes from. Afghanistan or some other hole. He asked me to get the girl as a favour.’

‘Where can I find Mr Linnekin?’

‘I don’t know. I swear I don’t know where he lives or operates from.’

‘Then how were you supposed to contact him when you had Gisele in your possession?’

‘Phone him, of course.’

‘Give me his number.’

Moran hesitated. ‘Look, if I do that and you go and fuck up his shit, he’s going to know I told you, isn’t he?’

‘And?’

‘What do you mean and? He’s Russian mafia, isn’t he? He’s with one of those commie outfits that own half of London.’

‘So?’

‘Are you soft in the head? You mess with him and he’s going to put a straight razor through all my tendons and leave me in the sewer for the rats to eat. Do you know how I know he’ll do that? Eh? Because I’ve seen him do it to someone else who betrayed him. Why do you think he had me there to see it? So I would know to never do the same.’

‘You’ve already told me his name, so my incentive for keeping you alive is rapidly diminishing. Either you give me his number or I look for it myself while you try to keep your guts inside your body.’

Moran picked the mobile phone from the glass coffee table and tossed it to Victor. He caught it in his free hand.

‘His number is in there,’ Moran said.

‘You’ve made the right choice.’

‘You are crazy, aren’t you?’ Moran asked. ‘You kill my men, break into my place of business, threaten me and now you’re going after the Russian mafia. And all for some woman. I take it she’s your girlfriend or your sister, right? She has to be, for you to do this.’

Victor shook his head. ‘I’ve never met her.’

TWENTY-THREE

The morning was cold and damp after the night’s downpour. Puddles reflected the diseased sky above. Andrei Linnekin climbed out of his silver custom Bentley. He sipped from a tall takeaway cup of coffee — latte with a double shot of hazelnut syrup. Two of his men were already on the pavement, one facing each way. He was glad to see they were alert. They had better always be alert. He paid them enough to ensure they never blinked. He was a powerful man. One of the handful of men that were trusted by the bosses back in the old country to run London. That brought him enormous wealth and influence, but also made him a prime target for all manner of criminals. Two more of his men exited the Bentley after him.

‘You and you,’ Linnekin said, pointing. ‘Stay here and keep an eye on my baby.’ He stroked the car’s bonnet, revelling in the squeak of skin against the polished paintwork. ‘I want her kept safe. She’s delicate.’

He crossed the road. Traffic was almost non-existent in this part of the city, especially at this time of day. The street cut through an abandoned industrial complex. It was huge. A chemical plant of some sort. Linnekin didn’t know the specifics and he didn’t need to know. What mattered was it had closed down over a decade ago. The whole neighbourhood was industrial. There were no residences or other commercial properties. It was as close to isolated as anywhere in the godforsaken metropolis could be. The complex was the Russian’s favourite place in which to conduct the occasional torture or execution. His men could work over some poor hapless soul for days on end without concern of discovery.

A chain-link fence surrounded the complex but there were several holes made by junkies looking for somewhere to shoot up or smoke rock. They didn’t do so any more. Not since Linnekin’s men had put half of them in the hospital and the other half in the morgue. Word of these things spread. There were safer places to get a fix. The first of Linnekin’s men held open one such hole for his boss to climb through.

Linnekin wore designer jeans and a short-sleeved shirt. The shirt had three buttons unfastened at the top to show off the solid gold jewellery glinting among his chest hair. His thick wrists were similarly adorned. His open-toe sandals kept his feet cool and dry. There was no sun for his sunglasses to filter but he rarely took them off. He was unarmed because he was always unarmed. He didn’t need to carry a piece when all of his men did.

He made his way across the wasteland lying between the fence and one of the complex’s factory buildings. The ground was made up of uneven concrete slabs, cheaply laid and now cracked and warped. Grass had sprung up along the joins. There was a bad smell in the air: old chemicals and rust. He checked his watch. He was five minutes late and counting but he didn’t care. Linnekin owned the city. People waited for him, not the other way around. Sometimes he would be deliberately late to meetings with men of no small worth to show them he feared no one; to show them in turn who should be feared.

One of his men walked ahead, the other behind, footsteps loud on the hard ground. He passed a perforated oil drum, blackened by soot. Litter had collected along the factory wall. London was a dirty town, made filthier by its inhabitants, who didn’t give a shit about it. No pride, Linnekin thought, tossing his mostly empty coffee cup to the ground.

The lead man stepped through an open doorway. There was no door. Linnekin followed. He took off his sunglasses. The smell of chemicals was metallic and pungent. He’d never grown used to it. Concrete rubble from a collapsed ceiling covered the floor. The hole above was huge. Steel reinforcement bars hung down from around the opening, twisted and rusted. Linnekin heard the scurrying of rodents as he walked through the rubble, careful where he placed his feet. He should have thought about that and worn better footwear. He wore sandals as his feet would sweat even in a snowstorm. He glanced up through the hole in the ceiling. A square shaft rose straight upwards until it disappeared into the darkness. Water dripped on his head. Linnekin cursed and rubbed his hair. He cursed again, brushing his palm against the thigh of his jeans to wipe off some of the styling product.

In the adjoining room, he followed his man through a gap in a wall. Sunlight found its way into the room through smashed-out windows. Glass crunched underfoot. More rooms, more rubble and Linnekin passed through another doorway without a door and into a large open area. There were holes in the floor and ceiling. Their footsteps echoed. He noticed he could only hear two sets of footsteps and glanced over his shoulder. There was no one behind him.

He stopped and turned around. After ten seconds, nobody had come through the doorway. Linnekin called for the lead man to stop. Now the only sounds he heard were his own breathing and the crunch of grit beneath his sandals. He moved back and through the doorway. The corridor on the other side was empty. He tried to think when he’d last seen or heard the man following him. He didn’t know.

The corridor was long and dark. Skylights ran along the ceiling but were caked in grime. Piping ran along one wall. Linnekin peered into the gloom.

‘Peta,’ he called.

No answer. He’d better not be taking a leak. Idiot had the bladder of a thirteen-year-old boy. Linnekin called again, louder. Still no answer. He went back through the doorway.

‘Get Peta on your cell,’ Linnekin said to his lead man. ‘Find out —’

His man wasn’t there. The room was empty.

He sighed. ‘What is it with everyone wandering off?’ he shouted. ‘You stay at my side, remember? How can you protect me when I can’t even see you? Morons.’

There was no reply. Heads were going to roll for this. He was in no mood for this kind of incompetence. One day it might cost him his life. His men knew that. They knew better than to leave him. He paid them never to…

His eyes widened as he began to understand. His pulse quickened. His breathing grew faster. He swallowed.

Linnekin panicked. Now, he knew what was going on. This was it. This was the day when every brutal act he’d committed was answered for. This was the day he looked his brother in the eye before he was murdered. Linnekin knew it because that was how he had gained his position of power, influence and wealth — by killing men who believed him unquestionably loyal.

He fumbled for his gun before remembering he hadn’t been carrying one. He never carried one. The days when he needed to had long passed. He tugged his phone from a pocket.

His hands were shaking so much it took three attempts to enter the correct code. Why did he even have it locked? Who was going to steal from him? He found the number for one of the two guarding the car.

The line connected after a few seconds but the reception was terrible at the centre of all that concrete and metal.

‘Hello?’ he said. ‘Can you hear me? Get in here now.’

There was a garble of static in response.

‘Get in here now,’ he shouted. ‘I need you. Hurry.’

The call disconnected.

No one was going to save him. He had to save himself. He turned around to rush towards the doorway and run for his life back the way he had come. But he didn’t move because a man stood in the doorway.

He was tall and wore a charcoal suit. His hair was short and black. His eyes were just as dark. The expression was blank and unreadable but Linnekin knew what kind of man he was staring at and who stared at him in return. He recognised a killer when he saw one.

The man’s hands were down at his sides. He stood casually. No weapons. No aggression. But implicitly threatening by nature of his presence. He may have been unarmed but Linnekin feared him no less than if he held a silenced pistol in his right hand.

Linnekin couldn’t take his gaze from the blank face and cold black eyes. ‘Who are you?’

The man in the suit stepped forward. ‘Who I am is not important.’

Linnekin glanced around, desperately. There were people nearby — his men outside and Moran and his crew already here. They had to be close. He could call for help, but what good was it going to do? If the man had got this far then what had happened to them? Linnekin thought of the two men by the car and was furious at himself for leaving them to protect his precious Bentley. Would they hear if he screamed? Would they get here in time if they did?

Then Linnekin realised what had happened and felt like a fool. ‘Moran isn’t here, is he? He sent you to kill me.’

‘No one sent me.’

‘Then he gave me up, didn’t he?’

‘Without much of a fight, I have to say.’

Linnekin exhaled. His mouth was dry and his tongue felt thick and coarse. ‘What are you waiting for then? You believe I’m scared of you? Do you think I’m going to piss myself? I’ve been expecting a bullet my entire life and lived twice as long as I ever believed.’ He stood straight and squared his shoulders. ‘I won’t beg.’

‘I don’t want you to beg.’

‘Then why don’t you tell me what you do want with me? You won’t get any money. I’d rather die now than give you the change in my fucking pocket.’

‘Keep it,’ the man said. ‘I don’t want your money. But there are two things I do want. The first is for you to watch your language.’

‘You can’t be serious.’

‘I bet you your knees that I am.’ The man adjusted his suit jacket to show the grip of a pistol protruding from his waistband. ‘Shall we find out if I’m serious?’

Linnekin caught his response before it left his lips. He then shook his head. ‘The second thing?’

The man stepped forward again. There were about three metres between them. He said, ‘I want answers.’

‘And what do I get in return?’

‘You’re in no position to negotiate.’

‘I’m a businessman,’ Linnekin said. ‘I’m always negotiating. The moment you told me you wanted something, you opened negotiations. You want answers. I want to walk out of here. So let’s cut a deal.’

‘Now I know where Moran learned his technique. Okay,’ the man said. ‘I like your style. Let’s deal. You tell me what I want to know and I let you walk out of here.’

‘What about my men?’

‘They’ll have headaches.’

Linnekin considered, then said, ‘Okay. Then we have a deal.’

‘Good. I want you to start by telling me why you’ve been trying to kidnap Gisele Maynard aka Gisele Norimov.’

‘Who?’

The man didn’t answer.

Linnekin said, ‘Who?’ again, then: ‘I don’t know who you’re talking about.’

‘I can see that,’ the man replied, a note of surprise in his voice. ‘You had Blake Moran’s men watch her apartment for over a week. Last night, they broke in expecting to find her. They intended to kidnap her. Instead, they found me.’

‘I heard Moran lost some men. Good. A small price for betraying me to you, but I appreciate the sentiment. You have my thanks.’

‘Was Moran telling the truth about you asking him to kidnap Gisele?’

Linnekin shrugged. He let his shoulders relax. ‘When I ask someone for a favour I’m not asking; I’m telling them they have no choice. I didn’t remember the girl’s name at first because I didn’t pay any attention to it.’

‘Explain.’

‘I’m not into kidnapping. Such things are beneath me. Do I look like I’m struggling to pay the bills?’

‘Then why?’

‘Because, like Moran, I was asked to. Why are you even here if Moran’s men found you and not the girl?’

‘My reasons are my own,’ he said by way of an answer. ‘What is the name of the man who asked you?’

‘Who said anything about a man? She didn’t give me her name.’

‘A Russian?’

Linnekin shook his head. ‘British.’

‘Describe her to me.’

‘Tall. Well dressed. Blonde. Green eyes. All business. I’d never met her before or heard from her since.’

‘Why did you take a risky job from someone you didn’t know? You said yourself that you don’t need the money.’

‘Because it wasn’t in my interests to turn the job down.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Because I know what the f — I know what I’m talking about. This woman knew all about me. She knew my name. She knew the names of my men. She knew which town I was born in and when I came to this shithole of a country. She could name every front company we use and had the licence plates of every truck. She even knew when my next shipment was due to arrive. You don’t say no a person like that. Just like people don’t say no to me.’

The man considered this. His expression didn’t change.

Linnekin added: ‘Whoever she is, she’s dangerous. I could tell that in the same way I can tell you are too. Only you’re a very different kind of animal to her. You’re more direct. She’s smarter.’

‘I doubt that.’

Linnekin smirked. ‘Really? She got me to do what she wanted without even having to threaten me. And I left with a smile and wishing her well. You, on the other hand, I’ll spend every waking moment of my life hunting down.’

The man said, ‘A brave thing to say when you’re at my mercy.’

‘We made a deal, remember? I’m talking so when this is over I’m walking. That was the deal. Your word is on that. People like you and I are the worst of the worst and we know that. We’re happy with that. But we keep our word. That’s the only humanity we have left. I’m telling you everything straight, just like I said I would. You’re going to let me go, just like you said you would. We didn’t negotiate about what happens later. Don’t pretend you thought this would be the end of it. You know very well that I can’t let this lie.’

‘Fair point,’ the man said. ‘What were you supposed to do when you had Gisele in your possession?’

Linnekin smirked again. He was starting to enjoy himself. ‘Nothing. She told me she’d know when I had Gisele.’

The man in the suit remained silent.

‘So,’ Linnekin continued, ‘she’s watching me, isn’t she? She’s watching my whole network; my men; everything we do. Everyone we meet. Which means she’s now going to know all about… you.’ Linnekin grinned. ‘Still think you’re so smart, tough guy?’

TWENTY-FOUR

Victor returned to the old plumbing supplies warehouse a little after eight a.m. He entered through the door leading into the office annexe and followed the sound of grunting into the main warehouse space. Dmitri was working out — squats — with an improvised barbell weighted with sand-filled buckets and chains. Yigor spotted him. Both men were drenched in sweat. The air stank.

Dmitri noticed him and walked over. ‘Why have you got blood on you?’

Victor explained in as few words as possible.

Yigor grinned. ‘I knew it. You are Mr Bad Man.’

‘What’s the next move?’ Dmitri asked.

Victor didn’t answer. He made his way back into the office annexe and upstairs to the first floor where he used a landline to call Norimov.

When the line connected, Victor said, ‘Do you know a man named Andrei Linnekin?’

‘No. Who is he?’

‘A Russian mob boss. He had a drug trafficker named Moran put a crew out to look for Gisele. They were the guys who I encountered in her apartment. They’d been looking for her for the past week.’

Norimov said, ‘Why did he tell Moran to kidnap my daughter?’

‘Because he was too lazy to do it himself.’

‘I don’t recognise the name Linnekin. I would have thought when my rivals were identified they would be men I knew; men I had broken bread with. He must be following orders for someone back here.’

‘Not necessarily,’ Victor said. He summarised what he’d been told about the blonde woman with green eyes.

‘So she’s just another link in the chain.’

‘I’m not so sure. According to Linnekin, she knew everything about him and his operation.’

‘Because she was told it by the bosses. Linnekin may be a boss in London, but he’ll answer to someone in Russia. That’s how it works.’

‘Then why didn’t they go straight to Linnekin? Why trust the job to a foreigner only for her to go to a Russian? Unless things have dramatically changed in recent times, the Russian mob isn’t exactly trusting of outsiders. Or women.’

‘So who is she and why is she after me?’

‘Smart enough not give Linnekin her name. Smart enough to convince him to take on a job he neither needed nor wanted. She wants Gisele, but couldn’t do it herself. Either because she doesn’t have the resources — which can’t be the case if she knew so much about Linnekin — or she didn’t want to get her hands dirty. Linnekin created a buffer between her and the kidnapping.’

‘Why?’

‘Again, I don’t know. She’s careful. She wants things done in a particular way. She didn’t expect Linnekin to palm the job off to someone like Moran. She won’t be happy when she finds out he did and it’s exposed her.’

‘How will she find out? Don’t tell me you didn’t kill him.’

‘We made a deal. If nothing else, I’m a man of my word. Besides, he’s not my enemy. He’s a middleman. If I killed him, I would need to kill his entire network. And I don’t have the time for that.’

‘If he finds you —’

Victor said, ‘You of all people should know that I’m more difficult to kill than I like to appear. Linnekin’s smart. He won’t come after me so soon. He knows nothing about me. He’s going to enjoy being alive first.’

‘You’re taking a huge risk, my boy. That’s most unlike you. Better not to take any chances and kill Linnekin.’

‘When, and only when, I deem it necessary,’ Victor said. ‘But for now I have more pressing matters.’

There was silence on the line for a moment. Victor could hear the heavy footfalls of Dmitri and Yigor climbing the stairs nearby.

Eventually, Norimov said, ‘If this woman you speak of doesn’t have Gisele, why is she missing?’

‘I’m starting to think that maybe she’s not.’

‘What?’

‘Something doesn’t make sense. Gisele has been missing for a week — the same length of time since you were threatened — but if they have her they’re not saying so. If they don’t have her, where is she?’

‘That’s what I want you to find out.’

‘There’s a chance they’ve already come after her.’

‘I know that. You don’t have to keep telling me.’

‘I don’t mean they have her.’

‘Then what do you mean?’

Victor said, ‘What if they tried to kidnap her before you received the photograph? Because then you wouldn’t be able to warn her. That way, the first you’d know about the threat was when they told you they had your daughter or when you opened a box and found her head inside.’

‘What are you getting at?’

‘It’s a hypothesis,’ Victor said. ‘Perhaps this woman tried to kidnap Gisele and failed. When she couldn’t locate her, she went to Linnekin for help, to look for her in London. At that point you were sent the threatening photograph because the attack had begun and she didn’t realise you two were estranged. The photograph was sent so you would know who was behind the kidnapping attempt, so that you would divide your forces to protect Gisele. Which is what happened. Maybe the attempted kidnap happened right outside Gisele’s building. She was too scared to return home and so is staying elsewhere. There was a gap in her wardrobe that would fit a medium-sized wheeled suitcase.’

Norimov thought about this for a moment. ‘But where would she go?’

‘How would I know? I’ve never met her. I know next to nothing about her. I don’t know who her friends are or who she would stay with.’

‘Please let it be so. You’ve got to find her before they do. Please, Vasily. You must protect her.’

‘I’m aware of the objective. But she might turn up in a few days blissfully ignorant of what’s been going on in her absence.’

‘I’ll pray that she does,’ Norimov said. ‘Some more of my men are on the next plane to London. An old friend in the FSB came through and managed to get them visas.’

‘I don’t want any help. I’m only using Dmitri and Yigor so I can keep an eye on them.’

‘You’re in charge, Vasily. My boys can sit on the sidelines until you need them.’

Victor hung up. He stood in the gloom, thinking. Something wasn’t right. He didn’t believe everything he’d told Norimov. But he wasn’t sure what he did believe.

TWENTY-FIVE

Anderton’s contact was a heavyset man with skin as black as the silk shirt he wore beneath a tailored charcoal suit. The only colour came from a folded pink pocket square protruding from the suit jacket’s breast pocket. He lounged at a corner table, his feet up and resting on a stool before him. Black loafers rested on the floor. Toes wiggled beneath socks.

A glass was raised Anderton’s way as she approached through the clutter of tightly packed tables and chairs. The bistro was small and hot and close to capacity. The air was full of the sound of loud chatter.

Anderton said, ‘Marcus,’ and smiled as she took a seat opposite.

Marcus Lambert smiled in return: a flash of large bright teeth. ‘My dear. How are you keeping?’

‘I’d like to say as tremendous as always, but I’m afraid I have a delicate situation.’

Marcus responded with a slow nod. ‘So soon to the meat of the matter? No sexy waltz of chitchat first? I’m heartbroken.’

‘I’m afraid so. Time is not my friend today.’

‘And there was me thinking it was my caustic wit that brought you here.’

She said, ‘The pleasure of your company is why we’re not doing this over the phone.’

‘I shall accept that little lie. Why don’t you tell me what kind of trouble you’re in?’

She didn’t respond. She held his gaze.

‘Ah,’ Marcus said eventually. ‘It’s about that.’

‘It was never going to be anything else.’

Marcus placed his wine glass on the table between them. He laced his fingers together. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but you said it was under control. And that was after you told me we were never supposed to mention it again.’

‘Right on both counts. But I’m not mentioning it. Neither are you. Someone else is.’

‘Oh,’ Marcus said.

‘Yes, oh,’ Anderton said back.

‘I thought that was solid. You told me it was.’

‘That was then. This is now.’

Marcus sat back. ‘We don’t work together any longer. How is this still my business?’

‘Because your business only exists because of what I — we — did. And you’ve done so very well out of it, haven’t you?’

He looked away while he considered. Anderton left him to it because there could only be one conclusion.

‘What do you want me to do?’ Marcus asked.

‘I need your company. Specifically, I need some of your assets.’

‘I don’t like where you’re going with this.’

Anderton smiled. ‘That’s irrelevant, Marcus. You run a private security firm and I’m your new client. I’m asking for a team. Off the books, of course. Only your best.’

‘What exactly do you intend to use them for?’

‘You know what I need them for. I have my own people for eyes and ears but we’re past that stage now. I can tell you specifics if you like, but I’m guessing you don’t want to know any more than absolutely necessary.’

Marcus thought about this. ‘How much more damage must be done before this is over?’

‘An old Cambridge tutor of mine — Professor Vaughn — used to say, “If you poke a bear once, you may as well keep poking.” Do you understand what that means?’

Marcus said, ‘I’m afraid I had a very different level of education to yourself. In inner-city London, you count yourself lucky if your teacher shows up. Riddles were never on the agenda.’

‘My point is that we’ve already crossed so many lines with our little indiscretion —’

‘Indiscretion,’ Marcus echoed. ‘You make it sound so harmless.’

Anderton ignored the interruption. ‘So what use is there in debating how far we go now?’

Marcus finished his wine and poured himself another glass. ‘Does Sinclair know about this?’

She used her nails to lift a Sicilian green olive from a little bowl on the table. ‘Of course. He’s been assisting me. He understands the importance of cleanliness.’

‘Is he still crazy?’

Anderton bit a piece from the olive and chewed. ‘Mmm, that’s divine. I love it here. They only use the best.’

‘Well?

She finished eating and wiped her fingers on a napkin. ‘He’s who he’s always been. Just like you, however much you try to hide it behind all this aspirational decadence.’

‘Always has to come back to class with you, doesn’t it, Nieve? If I so chose I could buy this here restaurant you’re so partial to. Today. In cash.’

She smiled at him. ‘That’s the thing about class, Marcus: the more you try to buy it, the more you find it’s sold out.’

He swallowed some wine. ‘Sinclair’s a liability. You know I had to fire him, don’t you? The man took far too much pleasure in his work than is healthy, even for a mercenary. Using him for this makes me very uncomfortable. He’s a dangerous dog who should have been destroyed long ago.’

‘There’s some merit in that analogy, granted. But he has as much stake in this as you and I. And you’re forgetting the essential fact about our dear friend: I hold his lead.’

Marcus considered this. He toyed with the gold Patek Philippe on his left wrist. ‘I have a team in North Africa. They’re good. More importantly: they’re reliable.’

‘They sound perfect,’ Anderton said.

‘When and where do you want them?’

‘Here, in London. And I need them here yesterday.’

TWENTY-SIX

The United Kingdom has the highest rate of violent crime in the whole of Europe, but even so a triple murder in a leafy London street was a big deal. However, not even a day after Victor had killed three of Moran’s men in Gisele’s apartment there were no outward signs that any crime had been committed. The street seemed as quiet and peaceful as it had before. He expected there to have been a police car stationed outside the building last night, parked against the kerb where it was visible to the residents, to reassure them. The two officers unlucky enough to have pulled that duty would have complained to each other about the waste of manpower, but the decision was for public relations. A triple murder, yes, but the three dead men were all criminals. Whoever had killed them wouldn’t be coming back to butcher the neighbours.

Victor made sure his tie was straight and the knot tight as he walked up the gravel driveway. The same three cars were parked there as had been on his first visit. Gisele’s sat in the same place as before. At the front door, he knuckled the buzzers for the two flats below Gisele’s. No one answered. He descended the steps and moved around the side of the building to where the garden flat was located. He knocked on the front door.

There was no answer, but he heard someone inside so knocked again.

A chain clinked in place and the door opened a few inches until it became taut.

‘Yes?’

A narrow segment of a woman’s face was visible in the gap between door and jamb. She looked in her late fifties or early sixties.

Victor flipped open his wallet to give the woman the briefest snapshot of the ID inside. Her limited line of sight helped. ‘How do you do, ma’am? I’m Detective Sergeant Blake with the Metropolitan Police. I’d like to ask you a few questions about the events of the other night.’

‘I already spoke at length to a DCI Crawley.’

‘I know, ma’am. But the inquiry is ongoing and with new information comes the need for new questions. May I come in?’

She chewed her lip for a second. ‘Now really isn’t a good time for me.’

‘I won’t keep you long, I promise. The sooner we can fill in all our blanks, the sooner we can catch those responsible.’

‘Those? Inspector Crawley gave me the impression you were only looking for a single perpetrator.’

That gave Victor a moment’s pause. Whoever DCI Crawley was, he knew how to read a crime scene. ‘We can’t rule anything or anyone out at this present time. But the quicker they’re off the streets, the better. As I’m sure you’ll agree.’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’

‘May I come in?’

Deliberation. A sigh of defeat. ‘Okay. Yes. Come inside.’

She shut the door to unhook the chain and opened it to allow him to enter. He stepped through the doorway into the hall. The ceiling was only a few inches above his head.

‘This way, please.’

The woman led him through to a lounge and offered him a seat. Floral paper covered the walls. Ornaments and antique oddities adorned every sideboard, of which there were many. Oil paintings hung from every wall. The floors were all carpeted and overlaid with colourful rugs.

He sat down in an armchair that gave him the best view of the door and the window. The curtains were closed. The flat was half sunk into the ground and even with the closed curtains he knew the driveway would only begin halfway up the window. Natural light would be a problem, especially in winter. Two lamps were switched on. The room had a warm, soft glow. The woman looked ten years younger than she had in the hallway. He didn’t know her name. He’d been looking out for letters but there had been no mail by the door or left on sideboards.

‘So, Sergeant. How can I help?’

‘I wonder if I might trouble you for a glass of water first. Please.’

‘No problem,’ she said, sounding like it was. She left him to go to the kitchen.

He stood and slid open the drawers of a corner bureau until he found utility bills and bank statements. He was back in the armchair when she re-entered with a highball glass of water.

‘There you go.’

‘Thank you… is it Miss or Mrs Cooper?’

‘Miss. But call me Yvette, please.’

‘Thank you, Yvette.’

He sipped the water and set the glass down. ‘As I’m sure you’re aware by now, there was a violent crime in the top-floor flat two nights ago.’

‘Three murders.’

‘That’s right. I’d like to talk to you about the flat’s occupier.’

‘Okay.’

He saw she was suspicious and holding back, perhaps not believing he was who he said.

‘Do you know Gisele Maynard?’

‘We’re neighbours. I knew her about enough to say hello in the morning. That kind of thing.’

‘Do you know where she is?’

Yvette shook her head. ‘I haven’t a clue.’

‘When was the last time you saw her?’

‘Oh, I really don’t know. Obviously, before she went missing.’

Victor nodded. ‘So, you believe she is missing?’

‘I… Well, no one’s seen her, have they?’

‘That’s what we’re trying to establish. She hasn’t been to work in over a week now. Does she have a boyfriend she might be staying with?’

‘No. There’s hasn’t been anyone like that in her life for a while.’

‘What about friends?’

‘I don’t think she had many. At least, proper friends. All she did was work. She was very passionate about her job.’

‘And family? She has a father in Russia. Might she be visiting him?’

Yvette shook her head. ‘Definitely not. She had nothing to do with him. He’s not a nice man. Shouldn’t you be writing all this down?’

He smiled and tapped the side of his skull. ‘I have a good memory for these things. On the night of the murders, did you hear or see anything?’

‘No, I was at work that night. Thank God.’

‘What kind of work do you do, Miss Cooper? I’m sorry, Yvette.’

‘I do shifts at the delivery office. I hate it.’ She smiled and laughed. ‘Don’t have much choice at my age.’

Victor nodded. Yvette sat with her knees close together and her hands in her lap.

‘Do you live alone, Miss Cooper?’

‘Yes. Why?’

‘If there was another resident, I would have to speak to them about the other night. That’s all.’

‘I had a flatmate once. Years ago now. I prefer living on my own. Not sure how much longer I’ll be able to afford it, though. It’s so expensive in London.’

‘I know what you mean,’ Victor said. ‘My partner and I are struggling to save for a deposit.’

‘Take my advice and go somewhere where you’ll get a place twice the size for the same money. But, good luck with it.’

Victor said, ‘I think that’s everything. Thank you for your time.’ He stood, and said as she went to do the same. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll see myself out.’

‘Do you have a card? In case I think of anything else.’

He patted the left side of his chest, over his inside jacket pocket. ‘Not on me, I’m afraid. But someone will probably pop round to see you again.’

‘Great,’ she said without enthusiasm.

‘Cheers. May I use your bathroom?’

‘If you must.’

Like the rest of the flat it had a low ceiling. An extractor fan buzzed on when he flicked the light switch. He closed the door behind him. He stood for a minute. He didn’t move. He didn’t need to do anything because he had seen what he had come into the bathroom to see.

When he stepped out and back into the hallway he found Yvette standing there, waiting for him. Her face was stern and frowning. ‘Are you really a copper? Let me see your ID again. You’d better not be a bloody journalist after scraps. You people make me sick.’

Victor didn’t bother arguing. He opened the closed door.

‘Hey,’ Yvette called, ‘what are you doing? That’s my room.’

On the other side of the door was a bedroom. It was as full of ornaments as the lounge. The bed was immaculately made. There was no en suite or sliding or walk-in wardrobe. He approached the second door. Yvette stood in his path.

‘I’d like you to leave.’

Victor said, ‘You claim to live alone yet there are two toothbrushes in your bathroom. You told me you weren’t here the other night but I saw your lights were on. It’s not yet dark but all your blinds are closed.’

‘I said I’d like you to go now. Get out of my home.’

‘I will have no choice but to move you if you don’t let me pass.’

She squared herself in front of him. ‘If you do, I’ll call the police. The real police.’

‘Last chance,’ Victor said. ‘Move.’

She glared at him. ‘Get. Out. Now.’

‘It’s okay, Yvette,’ a voice said from behind the closed door.

It opened and a young woman appeared.

‘Hello, Gisele,’ Victor said.

TWENTY-SEVEN

At five-six she was a little shorter than Victor had expected. She had an average build with strong shoulders and hips. Her skin was almost white and dusted with freckles across her nose and cheeks. Her hair was dyed a darker red than her natural colour, making her eyes all the bluer. They were large and the shape of almonds, but half-hidden by a pair of designer glasses. Though she didn’t have the height, in every other respect she looked like her mother. She tried to ignore it but he saw her stiffen at the sound of her name. She saw that he knew.

‘If you don’t leave,’ Yvette said. ‘I’m going to call the police.’

Victor ignored her. He kept his gaze locked with Gisele’s. Her eyes were beautiful, whites intense to the point of glowing and irises bluer than any ocean he’d ever seen. Her mother’s had been the same.

‘Who are you?’

Yvette said, ‘He’s says he’s a policeman. But he lied. He’s a stinking journo.’

‘No, he’s not,’ Gisele said.

‘No, I’m not,’ Victor agreed. ‘I’m here because your father sent me.’

‘Stepfather,’ Gisele corrected. Norimov had been right. She did hate him.

He nodded to concede his mistake. ‘I don’t have time to explain. It’s important that you come with me.’

She shook her head. Once. ‘No chance.’

That caught him off guard. He hadn’t considered that she would be an unwilling player. But it made sense. She was smart, educated and she hated Norimov. Victor felt foolish for thinking she would behave otherwise. He was as much a stranger to her as she was to him.

‘Your stepfather is concerned for your safety.’

‘Then maybe he should have chosen a less dangerous way to earn a living.’

‘He loves you,’ Victor said.

She laughed. He didn’t know whether that was because she considered such a thing funny or because of the clumsy way he delivered it. He was unused to saying such things.

‘What did you say your name was?’

Again, Yvette answered for him: ‘Blake, unless he’s lying about that too.’

‘If he works for my stepdad, then everything he told you was a lie.’

Victor said, ‘You can call me Vasily, if you like.’

‘Okay, Vasily. My stepdad sent you. Great. Now fuck off.’

‘Seconded,’ Yvette added.

‘I don’t want to scare you, Gisele. But I don’t know how else to say this: you’re in a lot of danger. I’m here to protect you. But you have to come with me.’

She leaned against the doorframe, arms folded in front of her chest in a show of defiance. ‘I’m going nowhere.’

‘Your life is at risk.’

The blue eyes widened. ‘You think I don’t know that?’

‘I think that a week ago something happened that scared you and you’ve been staying here ever since. Am I right?’

Yvette said, ‘You shouldn’t trust him.’

She stood close to him, closer than he usually allowed people to get, but he saw that she did this out of protectiveness of Gisele — standing between him and her — and so made no move to reposition himself or her.

‘Oh, don’t worry. I won’t.’ She stared at Victor, hands on her hipbones. ‘You’ll forgive me if I have an issue taking your word for that, seeing as I’ve known you for two whole seconds.’

‘I understand that. I do. I can imagine how all this sounds to you. I’m a stranger, but I’m an old friend of your father’s. He sent me because there are people who are seeking to do him harm. And you by association.’

She thought about this for a moment. ‘If you and my… if you and Alex are old friends, how come I’ve never met you?’

‘That’s a good question. I suppose I should have said we were business associates instead of friends.’

‘Ah,’ she said, ‘so you’re a gangster too. Now I really don’t trust you.’

‘Gangster?’ Yvette said, eyes wide.

‘I’m not a gangster.’

Gisele said, ‘If you know Alex, then you’re a criminal. Feel free to deny it, if you like.’

‘That is true enough,’ Victor said. ‘I am a criminal. But that doesn’t change the fact that you are in danger and I’m here to keep you safe.’

‘Why am I in danger?’

‘Perhaps we can sit down in the lounge and talk this through,’ he suggested.

‘I’m fine where I am,’ Gisele said. She settled against the doorframe as though it was the most comfortable place in the flat.

Yvette added, ‘There’s no point sitting down. You’ll be going soon. Alone.’

‘Okay,’ Victor said. ‘You’re in danger because your stepfather has enemies. We don’t yet know who they are, but they’re targeting you by virtue of your relationship to him.’

‘I have no relationship with him. I’ve never had a relationship with him.’

‘That doesn’t matter to them. What matters is your stepfather loves you and they can get to him by getting to you. He believes they’ll try and use you as leverage against him. I’m here to stop them doing that.’

‘What do you mean: use me as leverage?’

‘They’ll kidnap you first and use you to draw out your stepfather.’

‘And then?’ Gisele said, a challenge in her voice.

There was no point in lying. Hiding the truth wasn’t going to convince her to trust him. He said, ‘They’ll kill you.’

He saw the defiance falter in her expression as whatever anger towards Norimov and distrust of Victor she had was replaced by fear. He didn’t like scaring her, but there was no other way of making her understand the danger she was in. He saw that she believed him.

Yvette said, ‘Gisele, we must call DCI Crawley. He has to know about this.’

‘No,’ Gisele said while still looking at Victor. ‘Not yet. Not until I know more.’

‘But you need —’

‘I don’t need to do anything, Yvette. I don’t want anyone knowing about Alex and his bullshit. It’s taken a long time to distance myself from all that. The moment it gets out that I’m the stepdaughter of a Russian mob boss my career is over before it’s even begun. I’m not letting that happen until I absolutely have to. God, I fucking hate him for putting me through this shit again.’ She exhaled to calm herself down, then to Victor she said, ‘How am I supposed to trust you? Why are you here to protect me and not those juicers he hangs around with?’

‘I don’t expect you to. You shouldn’t trust me. You shouldn’t trust anyone you’ve just met, even me. But I am here to help and I suppose we can say your stepfather trusts me to protect you more than he does his men.’

‘So, what? You’re like a professional bodyguard or something?’

‘Let’s say that I understand how an enemy might come after you and how to stop them.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘This is such bullshit.’

‘I’m not going to argue. The point is there are dangerous people who want to do you harm. And they will, unless I stop them. I can’t do that unless you agree to do as I say. Okay?’

‘No, it’s not okay. I don’t know who you are. All I have to go on is what you’re telling me. Which isn’t a lot. For all I know you’re one of Alex’s enemies trying to trick me.’

‘How can I prove myself to you?’

She considered for a moment. ‘Are you carrying a gun?’

He nodded.

‘Oh my God,’ Yvette breathed. ‘You brought a gun into my home? How dare you.’

Gisele said, ‘Give it to me.’

It was a stupid mistake to have made, to ask her how he could prove himself. She had her mother’s power to make him trip over his words and fail to think before speaking.

‘I can’t do that,’ he said.

Gisele wasn’t surprised by his answer. ‘Then get lost. Go back to Alex and tell him that I wouldn’t go with you. While you’re at it, tell him I said I hate him.’

‘Please,’ Victor said. ‘If I worked out that you’re here, then it’s only a matter of time until your stepfather’s enemies do the same. They won’t ask you to come with them. They’ll just take you. I might not be around to stop them.’

‘Holy shit. You killed those three guys in my flat?’

He didn’t react but he was surprised how well she could read him. Maybe it was a family trait.

‘Gisele, please. We don’t have time for this.’

‘I’m calling the police,’ Yvette announced and strode into the lounge where Victor remembered a landline sat.

He didn’t try and stop her. He could render her unconscious in seconds, but then Gisele would never trust him. He had to leave Yvette alone. He had to convince Gisele to come with him before the call connected and local units were dispatched. But there was no time left.

He drew the handgun. Gisele gasped and Yvette turned in response and screamed.

Victor racked the slide to eject the chambered round, caught it in his other hand, and released the magazine. He held out the weapon by the muzzle.

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘You win. Take the gun.’

She stared at it. ‘It’s real, isn’t it? I know. I’ve shot a few.’

‘You have?’ Yvette asked, repelled.

Gisele shrugged. ‘Back in Russia. Alex’s idea of quality time with me. No wonder I’m so fucked up.’ She snatched it out of his hand. ‘Please, put the phone down. Everything’s cool.’

Her voice was quiet and soft but carried enormous strength and persuasiveness. Yvette paused, then nodded. She replaced the handset.

‘I still want him out of this flat.’

‘Me too,’ Gisele said. ‘He’ll be gone in a minute. Won’t you?’

‘Only if you’re with me.’

She turned the gun over in her hands. She was examining it, maybe comparing it to those she had fired in the past. He could tell she was equally fascinated and appalled by it. ‘Why are you so keen to be my bodyguard?’ You don’t know me. I’ve never even set eyes on you before today.’

‘I know your father.’

‘But you said you’re not his friend. So why are you helping him?’

‘Okay,’ Victor said. ‘Your father asked me to help you, but I didn’t say yes because I used to work with him. I agreed because I used to know your mother when I worked with your father. She was a nice woman.’

Gisele swallowed. ‘She’s been dead for years.’

He nodded. ‘I know. It was a long time ago when we knew each other. I liked her. She was always nice to me. If she needed my help, I would help.’

Gisele studied him, her eyes searching his for the truth — for something to believe in. She was still staring when she said, ‘What colour were her eyes?’

He didn’t blink. ‘Blue, just like yours.’

‘Easy enough to find out. How tall was she?’

‘Taller than you are. Five eight and a half. You must have your biological father’s height.’

‘Left or right handed?’

‘Left. But right-eye dominant.’

‘I didn’t know that part.’ She paused, frowning. ‘You could be lying and I wouldn’t know.’

‘I’m not lying. I couldn’t have known that you didn’t know that information.’

‘Then you know more about my dead mother than I do. Thanks for pointing that out.’

‘I taught her how to use a bow and arrow. That’s how I know.’

He watched Gisele’s eyes angle to look again at the gun in her hand. She said, ‘You told me if she wanted your help you would say yes, but she’s dead. She’s not asking you to help me.’

Victor nodded. ‘If she were alive now and she asked me to protect you, I wouldn’t hesitate. She isn’t alive to ask me, but that doesn’t change my answer.’

Gisele took a deep breath and exhaled through her nose. She held his gaze with her blue eyes full of strength and intelligence. He felt as if he was looking back in time.

‘Okay,’ she said, eventually. ‘I’ll come with you.’

‘Don’t do it,’ Yvette said. ‘You can’t possibly believe him.’ Her own eyes were large and accusing, gaze flicking between Victor and Gisele.

Gisele’s eyes never left Victor’s. ‘I grew up surrounded by liars. Now, I work in a profession defined by lies. I know liars. He doesn’t sound like one to me.’

‘Don’t be so naive, dear,’ Yvette added. ‘This one is bad news.’

Gisele said, ‘Maybe. But I have my phone. I’ll call you later and let you know I’m okay.’

Yvette was aghast. She frowned. ‘If he hasn’t murdered you by then.’

Gisele ignored her. She held the gun out to Victor. He took it.

‘You’ve made the right choice,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’

TWENTY-EIGHT

Gisele sat in the passenger seat of the man’s car and tried to stop herself becoming overwhelmed by what was happening. She was voluntarily in a car with a strange man who claimed to have been sent by her father because his enemies were after her. Enemies who had tried to kidnap her a week ago. It was crazy. It was madness. This kind of thing didn’t happen to people like her.

‘Holy fucking shit,’ she thought aloud following a big exhale.

She saw the man who clearly wasn’t named Vasily frown. He didn’t speak, however. His gaze never left the road ahead. She didn’t like the silence. It gave her too much time to think about how stupid she was being. He had a gun.

A deep breath calmed her down a little. She had believed him before. There was no reason to reverse her opinions just yet.

When it became obvious he wasn’t going to speak for the entire journey unless spoken to, she said, ‘I guess we should get to know one another.’

He didn’t look at her. ‘That’s not necessary.’

‘Not necessary? Are you joking?’

‘I don’t make jokes.’

‘Good to know, Mr Serious, but I’m going to go ahead and disagree with you on that whole “necessary” thing. If you’re going to be my bodyguard then it makes sense to know you better, and vice versa.’

The lights changed and he accelerated. ‘I’m not a bodyguard.’

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘But, whatever, you asked me to trust you and I’ve taken a huge risk getting into a car with you. You don’t want me to regret my actions already, do you?’

He didn’t respond.

She said, ‘Let me put it another way: if you want me to come with you and stay with you then I need to feel comfortable with you, and right now you’re not making me feel very comfortable. I’m about thirty seconds away from digging my nails into your eyeballs and calling the police.’

That made him look at her. She saw that he understood she was not joking. He hesitated, not sure how to respond.

‘I’m down to about twenty-three seconds,’ she said.

‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Let’s get to know one another, if you like.’

‘I’d like you to want to too.’

‘Fine,’ he said again. ‘I do. Tell me about yourself.’

‘That’s better. That’s much better. Not so hard to be friendly, is it?’ She didn’t wait for an answer because she knew she would probably be waiting a while. Whoever this guy was, he wasn’t a talker. ‘You know a bit about me already, yeah? But did you know I can touch the end of my nose with the tip of my tongue?’

That made him look at her, eyebrow raised. She laughed at his reaction.

‘Not even a hint of a smile? Man, you’re cold. I can’t really,’ she admitted. ‘Just trying to take the edge off what is an extremely stressful situation.’

‘This is not exactly the time for humour, Gisele.’

‘So you’re saying there is a time for humour?’

He glanced at her. She took this as his way of saying yes. She said, ‘Are you married?’

‘No.’

‘Kids?’

‘No.’

‘Girlfriend?’

‘No,’ he said for the third time.

She exhaled. ‘Loving the one-word answers. Really getting to know you. Let me try changing tactic. How old are you?’

‘I’ll keep that to myself.’

‘Ah, like that, is it? Youth fading, old age creeping up on you? You’re over thirty, right? What are you, nearly forty?’

He looked at her.

She smiled. ‘Just joking. A bit. Where do you live?’

‘I move around a lot.’

‘So do I. I walk, run, ride a bike, take the bus. That’s not an answer. Where are you from? I don’t think you’re Russian, but your accent is hard to place.’

‘That’s the idea.’

‘So, where were you born?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘What do you mean, you don’t know?’

‘Exactly what I said. I don’t know where I was born.’

‘What does it say on your birth certificate?’

‘I didn’t have one.’

‘What does it say on your passport?’

‘I have lots of passports.’

‘Okay, fine. What does it say on your very first passport?’

‘Like my age, I’ll keep that to myself.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘I knew you were going to say that.’

‘Then why ask?’

She shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter, does it? If you don’t want to tell me anything about yourself there’s nothing I can do about it.’

‘It’s not a case of want but necessity. The less you know about me, the better.’

‘The better for you, you mean.’

‘For both of us,’ he said.

She saw an honesty in his eyes despite his evasiveness. He refused to open up about himself but made no effort to lie or pretend. It would have been easy enough to lie to her. She wouldn’t know what was true and what was not. She liked that he didn’t do that.

‘Okay, I’ll give up getting to know you for the moment. But only because by saying so little about yourself you’ve actually told me quite a lot.’

‘I have?’

‘Oh yeah, bud. But now it’s your turn to ask me something. And before you say you don’t need to, I’m telling you that you do. Remember what I said about these here nails and your eyeballs.’

After a moment, he said, ‘What happened a week ago?’

Gisele took a deep breath. ‘I knew you were going to ask me that. And I don’t exactly want to relive it.’

‘It’s important.’

‘Fine. I guess I have to sometime, right? Might as well be now. I was working late at the office. There was lots to be done as my boss wasn’t in that day. I was the last to leave. I barely made the tube home. When I got out at my station I noticed there was this guy hanging around. He looked at me. You know, stared. I thought he was going to ask me for money or a light or something, but then he looked away and started playing on his phone. I didn’t think anything more about it, but I was walking fast, just in case. Which was pretty dumb because all I could hear was my own footsteps. I couldn’t hear his behind me.’ She took another breath. ‘I guess I was lucky because his phone went off and I didn’t look back but I knew it was him. So a minute later when this car pulls up next to me I’m already alert and I start running. What I didn’t know was that the man behind me had tried to grab me at that exact moment. But I was already running so he only caught a handful of hair and yanked it out.’ She rubbed the back of her head.

‘Did he chase you?’

She nodded. ‘I guess. I think so. I didn’t look back and I’m quite quick. As well as self-defence, I jog and take a spin class. I like keeping fit. Even if I could still lose a couple of kilos.’

‘Where did you go when you ran away?’

‘Not far. I ran into the first place I could find: an Irish pub. Soon as I was inside, I called the police. No one followed me in.’

‘That was smart. You forced them to back off. They might have gone straight to your flat to wait for you there.’

‘The detective said the same thing.’

‘Did you see the driver of the car?’

She shook her head.

‘What was the car like?’

She shook her head again. ‘I have no idea. I’m sorry.’

‘There’s nothing to be sorry for. Was there anyone else in the car beside the driver?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘What did the police say?’

‘That I was very lucky.’

‘Did they have any idea who the two men were?’

‘No. They asked me lots of questions, of course. Do I have any enemies? Do I owe anyone money? That kind of thing. They said they might have been looking to rape me. Fuck, can you imagine? It’s a cliché, but you never think it will happen to you. Well, you don’t want to believe it could. Otherwise you’d never leave your house, would you?’

‘Did you tell them about your father?’

‘Why would I? I haven’t seen Alex for years. I haven’t had anything to do with him since I’ve lived here. I say that, but I still take his money. And yes, I know that makes me a hypocrite. But you know what they say: not everyone can afford to have principles.’

‘Did the cops tell you to stay with your neighbour?’

‘The police said they would have a patrol car drive by to keep an eye on me, which they did. Exactly one time. When I realised that they weren’t going to do anything else until after I was raped or murdered, I decided I would take the week off work and stay with Yvette. She offered. Well, insisted. She’s nice. A bit paranoid though. She wouldn’t open the curtains in case they came back looking for me. That’s why I hid when you knocked on the door. I hope you didn’t scare her too much.’

‘Please apologise on my behalf when you see her next.’

‘So the guys who tried to grab me are enemies of Alex?’

Victor nodded. ‘He believes another outfit is seeking to wipe him out.’

‘Good. He deserves it.’

‘You don’t mean that.’

She shrugged.

Victor said, ‘Regardless, you don’t deserve this.’

‘How do you know I’m not exactly like him?’

‘I can tell. You’re a good person. Like your mother.’

‘How good could she have been if she married him?’

‘Norimov kept her in the dark as much as possible. She knew he was a criminal, but she didn’t know what that meant.’

‘Then she should have found out.’

‘She loved him long before she knew he was a criminal.’

‘That’s not a very good excuse.’

She saw him consider this for a moment. ‘Maybe not.’

He slowed to a stop at a junction. Gisele saw his eyes never stopped moving while they waited for the light to change. Not just at the roads ahead and to the left and right but also to the road behind. She saw it for what it was — vigilance — and felt comforted by it. She knew next to nothing about this man, but somehow trusted he would keep his word to protect her.

She relaxed in the seat and let her eyes defocus on the city outside, blurring the sharp lines and glare into softness and light.

TWENTY-NINE

Through the cabin windows, the city was a seemingly infinite blanket of orange dots glowing in the darkness. The plane touched down at London City Airport shortly before seven p.m. local time. It wasn’t a commercial airliner but a private charter jet. It was a Gulfstream G550, capable of seating up to nineteen people. Tonight it carried eight passengers. All men. The cabin crew, more accustomed to serving oil tycoons, bureaucrats of the European Union and Arab sheikhs, were not sure what to make of these eight unkempt passengers onboard the luxury jet.

Instead of suits, they wore jeans and khaki trousers, T-shirts and hooded sweatshirts, sports coats and leather jackets. They were all tanned with varying degrees of facial hair. Most were well built, ages ranging from early thirties to late forties. They had boarded the Gulfstream with few words at Tripoli International Airport, declining offers of help with their luggage. Their bags were a far cry from Louis Vuitton and Prada. They were sports bags and rucksacks, as dirty and weatherworn as the men who carried them; instead of being stored away in the luggage hold or even in the overhead compartments, they were placed on the fine leather seats next to their owners.

The Gulfstream was equipped with a bar stocked with a range of wines, spirits and liqueurs. The crewman stationed behind it spent the flight bored and restless with nothing to do. Each of the passengers ignored the complimentary alcohol, instead drinking only bottled water, tea or coffee. They accepted the food, however, emptying the stock of gourmet meals and making a horrendous mess in the process. They had no taste and no class, eating smoked salmon pâté from the same plate as tartare steak; asking for crème anglais to be poured over strawberry semifreddo. The crew were appalled.

It was a three-hour-forty-minute flight from Tripoli. The televisions and other gadgets were ignored. The men seemed to have neither interest in their surroundings nor the need to pass the time. They did little more than eat. And after they had eaten they slept. One even lay sprawled on the long couch, booted feet up and leaving smears of dirt on the suede. Only one stayed awake, reading and making notes in a small notebook, unbothered by the snores around him.

The comfort and facilities of the luxury charter jet were wasted on the group. Their very presence was an insult to the expertise of the cabin crew. They whispered among themselves, sampling the bar’s drinks to pass the time and speculating on who the eight men could be, the conclusions becoming more and more outrageous as blood alcohol levels rose. They had the look of men who performed tough manual work. One of the crew suggested they were soldiers, but it was agreed with their lack of uniforms, manners and un-military haircuts, they had to be otherwise employed. But how could these men afford to travel in such an expensive aircraft? If they were not rich themselves, who was footing the bill for the charter? And, more importantly, why?

The men exited the aircraft with barely any acknowledgement to the crew. Only one bothered to express his appreciation. If he noticed the inebriation of the cabin crew, he did not comment upon it. A woman waited for them on the tarmac. She shook their hands in turn and led them to where a couple of black Range Rovers were standing by. The men boarded the vehicles and the crew watched the brake lights disappear into the night.

THIRTY

Gisele shifted in the passenger seat. Her jeans were digging into her stomach. They were high-waisted to keep her tummy in. The sweater helped too and its geometric pattern added some breadth to her otherwise modest bust. She liked to look nice but drew the line at such patriarchal shackles as high heels and underwear that encouraged yeast infections. Women shouldn’t have to torture themselves in order to look their best. Men wouldn’t stand for it — literally — so neither would she.

She thought of herself as an attractive woman — not as hot as she would have liked, but she received enough compliments and pick-up attempts to have a positive self-image. Her companion, stone-faced and unblinking, didn’t seem to notice. This irritated her. She noticed him. He was tall and in-shape and had an aura of unshakeable confidence bordering on arrogance. She found that a particularly attractive quality in a man. A shame then that he had no personality.

She wanted to be taken seriously as a lawyer and dressed appropriately conservative and tried to act older than her years. She wasn’t prepared to flirt and flatter to get ahead, even if the opportunities seemed to be there. Men at her firm clearly liked her, especially the older men. She already had the weight of her stepfather’s criminality hanging around her neck. The only way she would ever be respected was by showing people she knew what she was doing. Problem was, she didn’t yet know how to do her job. Studying law and practising it couldn’t be more different. For now, she was happy to assist and watch and learn. Her time would come, eventually. She knew that.

Gisele wanted to make it as a lawyer, to earn respect and pay the bills and do some good to distance herself from Alex and the life he led — the life that had paid for the nice house they had lived in and bought her everything she ever wanted and nothing that she had needed.

Feeling herself getting stressed thinking about her stepfather, she rubbed her arm and said to the man next to her, ‘Where are you taking me?’

‘Your stepfather’s men have a warehouse where they’re holing up. We’ll stay there until we know our next move.’

‘What do you mean, next move?’

‘You let me worry about that for the time being.’

She nodded, then examined him. Fit, but slim. Decent clothes. Well groomed but not stylish. ‘You don’t look like a bodyguard.’

‘I’ve told you. I’m not a bodyguard.’

‘Then what do you do for a living?’ she asked.

He didn’t answer. He acted as though he hadn’t heard her.

‘Well?’ she said after a moment’s silence.

‘I’m a security consultant.’

‘No you’re not.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because if you were then you wouldn’t have pretended not to have heard my question.’

He remained silent.

‘We’ve already established you’re a gangster,’ she said. ‘I just wanted to know what kind.’

‘How many kinds of gangster are there?’

She shrugged. ‘I only know two kinds. There are guys like Alex who wear a suit and act respectable, like they’re a CEO or something; and there are those who do the heavy lifting so people like Alex can get rich. So, which kind are you?’

‘I’m a different kind.’

‘The security consultant kind?’

He nodded.

‘Which of Alex’s guys are there?’ she asked.

‘Dmitri and Yigor.’

She smiled. ‘Cool, I haven’t seen them for ages. It’ll be great to catch up.’

‘You like them?’

‘Sure I do. Why wouldn’t I?’

He said, ‘Because they’re gangsters working for the stepfather you hate.’

She shrugged. ‘It’s not their fault I hate him, is it? Growing up, they paid me more attention than he did. Yigor used to drive me to school and let me play the same stupid music every day. Dmitri, he’s a sweetie. Once you’ve spent some time to get to know him, anyway.’

‘Then I guess I haven’t had the time.’

‘You don’t you like him?’

‘It’s more the other way around.’

‘He doesn’t like you? I can only assume he has good reason. What did you do?’

‘I suppose you could say that we had an altercation a couple of years ago. One that he still holds a grudge over.’

‘Like a fight?’

‘Of a kind.’

She looked shocked. ‘And you won?’

‘It wasn’t a fight per se, so there wasn’t what you’d call a winner and a loser. But he came off worse, if that’s what you mean.’

‘So are you one of those guys who knows that cage-fighting MMA stuff?’

‘Not exactly, but I know a little about self-defence.’

Gisele smiled, impressed and intrigued. ‘Me too. I told you about my class, right? Can you show me some cool moves?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t know any cool moves.’

She eyed him, suspicious. ‘Why don’t I believe you?’

THIRTY-ONE

It was cold in the aircraft hangar. Outside it was less than ten degrees according to her car’s thermometer. Inside it had to be even colder, Anderton thought. She wore her long winter coat and scarf. There was no heating, obviously, and the domed ceiling was at least thirty metres overhead. Forty thousand cubic feet of space for aircraft was almost empty. The only vehicles inside were Anderton’s car and two black Range Rovers. Men climbed out of the 4x4s. Eight of them in total. Anderton knew their faces only because she had seen the files Marcus had supplied. She knew each man’s name and particulars because she had studied those files and memorised every detail. She had never worked with them before.

They dropped out of the vehicles, boots loud on the hard floor and echoing around the hangar. It took them a few minutes to assemble before her because they unloaded bags and rucksacks. Most eyeballed her a little, sizing her up and coming to all sorts of judgements and conclusions. They would have worked with intelligence officers before. They had probably all been screwed over or put in danger because of bad intel. She would be the whipping girl for their collective distrust and dislike of what they referred to as green slime.

But that was before, back when they had been serving their respective countries and risking their lives for far less money than anyone who gets shot at for a living should make. Now, they earned a lot more and didn’t have to answer for their actions. They were mercenaries. According to Marcus, his best. And if not his best, his most reliable. In Marcus’s world, on The Circuit, as private security contractors called it, reliability was code for willingness to do jobs that other mercenaries would not. Don’t worry about this guy. He’ll do what needs doing. He’s reliable.

That’s what Anderton required above all else. ‘What do you think?’ she whispered to the man next to her.

Sinclair shrugged by way of an answer and folded his arms in front of his chest. Ropey muscle tightened beneath the tanned forearms. Normally, the stance would have indicated defensiveness to Anderton, but coming from Sinclair it could not be read as such. Marcus had referred to him as a dog that should have been put to sleep, and he was at least half right. Sinclair was an animal, and therefore his behaviour could not be interpreted by human standards.

He was a white South African. Dangerous and unpredictable, but he was loyal and excelled at doing the kinds of things that turned even Anderton’s stomach.

Overhead fluorescent tubes bathed the mercenaries in harsh, unforgiving light. When they had formed a loose line, she closed the distance between them. The heels of her snakeskin boots clattered on the floor.

The hangar air was crisp and stank of diesel and engine grease and jet fuel. When she was three metres from the men it also stank of body odour. She reminded herself that a few hours before they had been in Libya and then on a flight. There was no lack of discipline in their hygiene. They simply didn’t have the time or opportunity to pay attention to activities like regular showers, shaving and using deodorant. Plus, she had been in some of the same parts of the world these men had recently operated in and most natives there didn’t either. They were all tanned from time in Tripoli, North Africa and the Middle East. Most had been in that region for months. She had winced when reading reports of some of the things they had done. But that was good. She didn’t want heroes.

They had been stationed in Libya for the last three weeks, working for Marcus as they had all done numerous times before. They were running a number of simultaneous operations for several different clients who had hired them through Marcus’s company. They had provided close protection for VIPs. They had conducted surveillance. They had trained and advised. And they had killed.

Anderton took a breath. She was well read. She was well prepared. Now it was time to get to work.

‘Gentlemen,’ she began. ‘Thank you for such a speedy arrival. I know Marcus hasn’t told you much about why you’re here.’

‘A job,’ one said.

His name was Wade, the team’s unofficial leader. The eldest and most experienced of them. He meant the kind of job that men like him and the others were qualified to complete; the kind of job that was discussed at night in aircraft hangars. Anderton didn’t know why Wade had given up a life of service to his country to work as a private security contractor, but she guessed it was in no small part influenced by the extra zero on his yearly income.

‘That’s correct,’ she said. ‘It’s a single objective operation to take into custody a civilian female. I’ve prepared a detailed dossier on the target, but the salient facts are: she is twenty-two years old; she’s —’

‘You’re hiring the eight of us to snatch one girl?’ said another — Rogan. ‘You’ve got to be fucking kidding.’

‘I’m about as far removed from kidding as it’s possible to be. Taking this girl into custody is the least you have to be concerned about, I assure you.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘It means I am not the only party interested in her. Her father is the boss of a Russian organised crime network and he’s dispatched some men to protect his daughter. To get to her, you’ll have to go through them.’

The mercenary snorted. ‘We eat Russian mafia for breakfast.’

Others smiled or smirked.

‘That’s great to know,’ Anderton said without inflection. ‘But I suggest you take them seriously. These are not street thugs we’re talking about.’

‘No offence, missy,’ Wade said, ‘but you’re not giving us a lot to go on besides your opinion. And you’ll forgive me if I don’t settle for the opinion of a desk jockey whose closest run-in with danger is using a pencil sharpener. We’ve been working round the clock down in raghead land and we’re a week into prepping our next action. We’re shipped off to London and all that work has gone down the drain like a turd. No single girl, even one with some gangsters guarding her, requires the eight of us.’

Another of the mercenaries said, ‘True story.’

‘Maybe you’ve all been in the sun too long,’ Anderton countered, calm and reasoned. ‘Forget what you’ve been doing. This is the only job you should care about. Clear?’

‘Waste of talent, is what it is,’ one of the men said.

Anderton smiled at him. ‘Then no doubt you’ll finish it in double-quick time.’

The hangar was quiet for a moment.

Wade straightened. ‘London is not like Libya. We fuck up in the slightest way and we find ourselves in the epicentre of an almighty shitstorm.’

‘Which is why you get paid so much, sport,’ Sinclair said.

Wade looked at him. ‘And who the fuck are you?’

Sinclair didn’t bother to answer with words. His gaze locked with Wade’s and his mouth stretched into a sardonic grin.

Anderton answered for him: ‘He’s an associate of mine. He’s part of the operation.’

Wade, clearly not liking Sinclair staring at him, said, ‘Can’t he answer for himself?’

Anderton said, ‘He’ll talk as and when he’s ready. But I’m in charge here and we have things to discuss.’

But Wade was in no mood to forget. He was still looking at Sinclair. ‘What’s the matter, boy? Too chicken to talk to me.’

Anderton saw the barb had only been half-serious, but Sinclair immediately tensed up and his fists clenched. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and menacing.

‘If I’m a chicken then I’m the meanest fighting cock you ever saw. And I’ll peck those eyes right out of your skull.’

He began walking towards Wade, who, not wanting to appear weak before his men, stood his ground.

When Sinclair’s face was inches from Wade’s, he said, ‘Wanna see how hungry I am?’

Wade said, ‘Back off.’

Anderton kept her cool. These guys were wound up tighter than she’d figured. She was all too aware she was standing in a room with eight trained killers who were a spark away from exploding.

‘What my esteemed associate was trying to say,’ Anderton continued, as if the stand-off wasn’t happening, ‘is that this job may not have a hard target but it is in a hard environment — one of the most heavily surveyed cities in the world, wherein there are many difficulties that can multiply into innumerable unknown factors that can potentially impede our ability to complete our objective and emerge on the other side with our skins intact. Hence the need for a large, experienced team.’

Sinclair, still in Wade’s face, nodded. ‘What she said.’

Anderton put a hand between them. ‘Gentlemen, if you’re done, we have a lot to go through before we move out…’

THIRTY-TWO

Gisele was quiet for the rest of the journey. She was quiet when Victor parked Dmitri’s car two hundred metres down the access road from the plumbing supplies warehouse. Victor climbed out first and scouted out the area. He saw and heard no threats and returned to the car. She looked at him, expectantly.

‘It’s clear.’

‘What’s clear?’ she asked.

He realised he had been thinking out loud. No, he corrected himself. He had been acting as part of a unit — on point — informing the rest of the team about the path ahead. It had been a long time since he’d thought and acted in such ways. He didn’t particularly like that Gisele had brought that behaviour out of him.

‘Nothing,’ Victor said.

He drove the remainder of the way and parked outside the warehouse.

‘It’s not exactly the Ritz,’ Gisele said as she closed the passenger door.

He didn’t respond because his first thought was that she was complaining, but then he saw her face and understood she was joking. For a moment it seemed as if she was enjoying herself, but he understood the humour to be a distraction; a front because she was nervous. She believed her life was in danger, but she didn’t want to believe it. Anything that eased the reality was a welcome diversion. If he could keep her safe while Norimov solved the problem, she might never have to know anything beyond that.

‘I’ll think of it like we’re going camping,’ she said, looking around. ‘Only without the scenery.’

‘Don’t be scared,’ he said.

‘Well, I wasn’t until you said that.’

Victor frowned. He wasn’t sure if he had been wrong in his assessment or if she was still joking. But this time, he remained silent. He let her in through the glass door next to the huge steel gate. He drew the pistol because he heard voices other than Dmitri’s and Yigor’s, but tucked it away again when he realised they belonged to more of Norimov’s men, newly arrived from Russia.

‘This way,’ he said to Gisele and took her up the stairs to the first floor of the office annexe.

‘When do we eat around here? I’m getting a little peckish. These hips won’t grow themselves, you know?’

‘Dmitri or Yigor might have some food, or they can go and pick something up.’

‘What are you, their boss?’

‘No. But I’m not leaving your side. So they’ll have to do the grunt work.’

‘You said you weren’t a bodyguard.’

‘I can’t protect you if I’m not with you, can I?’

She looked him over. ‘No offence, but you’re not exactly massive.’

He took no offence. ‘You’ll have to take my word that in keeping you safe my body mass will be the least important factor.’

‘Gisele,’ Dmitri roared when they reached the boardroom.

He leapt to his feet and rushed her way. Victor moved to block his path but she stepped around him and embraced the big Russian, who lifted her up as he hugged her.

‘Ugh, don’t crush me.’

He was grinning as he gently lowered her down. Also in the room was Yigor along with three other of Norimov’s men. Victor recognised them all from the bar. The two he’d disabled outside the rear entrance were there, the smaller one sporting a nose splint and the larger one a scowling expression. The third man was Sergei. His scarred ear was bright red in the cold.

‘You found her,’ he said to Victor, who nodded.

The Russians all looked at him for an explanation but didn’t press when he failed to present one. Some knew Gisele. Others did not. They spent a few minutes introducing themselves or catching up. Victor pretended not to notice the stares he was getting from Aleksei and Ivan — the two he’d dropped outside the bar. Yigor was the only one of the five Russians Victor had not fought. He was glad to have avoided that. Yigor was the biggest of them all, and the one Victor saw knew how best to handle himself.

There were lots of happy faces and back-slapping. Gisele looked uncomfortable being the centre of attention.

He took the opportunity to ask her: ‘Why do you want to be a lawyer?’

Apparently relieved to be lured away from the jovial Russians, she said, ‘Because I believe in the law and I want to be part of it.’

‘But why?’

‘Oh, look at you, wanting to find out how I tick. I’m flattered. Nay, humbled.’

‘That’s not answering the question.’

‘You’re a pushy one when you want to be, aren’t you? Wish I hadn’t let you off the hook so easily beforehand, but fine, I’ll justify myself to you if that’s what you want. Everyone hates lawyers, don’t they? That makes no sense to me. Sure, there are some sharks out there, but aren’t there in any profession? And how many of those professions are more essential? Not many, I’ll tell you that. We need lawyers to ensure the law is followed, because the law is the very definition of society’s morality. It should be formidable and scary and vengeful, but also understanding and gentle when required. It doesn’t always work and it almost never achieves true justice, but it’s all we have and it’s better than the alternative.’

‘Which is?’

‘Barbarism.’

‘Very articulate.’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘Are you being sarcastic?’

‘Not at all.’

‘Okay. Good. Thank you, then. I think.’ After a pause, she grinned. ‘Also, you can earn a decent living. Which is useful because I like nice things. I’m not all about the altruism, you know. Let’s call that Alex’s influence. I’m trying to shake it off. Might take a few more years. What about you? You said your name is Vasily, yes?’

He nodded. He felt the accusation in her tone.

She affirmed it when she said, ‘But you’re not Russian.’

‘It’s the name your father knows me by.’

‘So what’s your real name?’

He didn’t answer.

‘What? You’re joking, right? I come here with you, trusting you, and you won’t tell me your name? That’s ridiculous.’

‘I don’t expect you to trust me. I said I hope that eventually you will. It’s safer for you if you don’t know who I am.’

‘That’s a lie.’

He said, ‘It’s as close to the truth as either of us needs.’

She frowned, open-mouthed, trying to decipher the comment. He was spared further interrogation because she heard Sergei say to Yigor, ‘We’ll take her back in the morning. No one will get to her between the five of us.’

‘Hey, hold on a minute,’ she said. ‘Who’s this you’re taking back? If by “her” you mean me, then I hate to rain on your parade but there isn’t a snowball’s chance of my going to Russia with you.’

‘Gisele, please,’ Sergei pleaded. ‘You have to come with us. We’re going to keep you safe. Okay?’

She pointed a thumb at Victor. ‘I thought that was his job.’

Sergei said, ‘He’s done his job. Now, it’s our turn. You don’t need him any more. You have us. Your father wants you at his side. It’s safer there.’

‘He’s not my father. And if you try to take me to Russia I will scream all the way through passport control. Try it. Let’s see if I’m joking.’

Sergei turned to the other Russians for backup. They looked away or shrugged. They were well used to beating cooperation out of people, but had no clue how to handle their boss’s rebellious stepdaughter.

She turned to Victor. ‘Are you going to back me up, or what?’

He realised he didn’t know how to handle her either. He said, ‘We can discuss the particulars tomorrow,’ to put a halt to further discussion or potential argument. He wasn’t yet sure of his next move. He had to rest and recharge.

Gisele said, ‘Whatever. But I’m not going anywhere, just so you know.’

‘I’ll go get food,’ Yigor announced with a clap of his hands. ‘We should celebrate, yes? Eat lots of bad food and drink lots of good vodka, yes?’

‘No one drinks alcohol,’ Victor said, ‘until this is over.’

Gisele looked at him. ‘Wow, you’re a party animal, aren’t you? Personally, I could use a few shots to help forget all this life-and-death stuff. It’s getting a bit old.’

‘When this is over,’ he insisted.

‘I’ll hold you to that. You can buy me a cocktail.’

Yigor sneered at him as he put on his coat. ‘Yes, Mr Bad Man. You the boss.’ He saluted. ‘Just the food.’

THIRTY-THREE

Victor left Gisele with the Russians and performed a circuit of the warehouse. It was a huge space but almost entirely empty. He took his time, searching for anything out of place; any signs of intruders or danger. He didn’t envision Norimov’s enemies launching an attack, but he couldn’t rule out that they were aware of the warehouse. He was confident he had not been followed since his arrival in London, but he couldn’t say the same for Norimov’s men.

He cleared the first floor of the office annexe, and then the floor below and finally the warehouse proper. As expected, there were no signs of any forced entry.

Upstairs again, he found Gisele sitting in the darkness on an old office chair.

‘Where have you been?’ she asked.

‘Checking the perimeter.’

‘Why?’

He stopped himself from launching into an explanation of the dangers of operational complicity, and instead responded: ‘Habit. Why aren’t you with the others?’

She shrugged. ‘Needed some me time. Those guys can be pretty intense. Are you going to join us?’

‘I have to call your father.’

‘Stepfather. Tell him to go to hell from me.’

He waited until she had gone back into the boardroom, then called Norimov.

‘She’s safe,’ Victor said.

For a moment, there was silence on the line. He pictured Norimov holding the phone away from his face, perhaps pressed against his chest, while he controlled his emotions.

When Norimov spoke, his voice was full of happiness. ‘I don’t know how to thank you.’

‘You don’t need to. I did this for Eleanor, not you.’

‘I understand. I do. Regardless, you will for ever have my gratitude.’

‘Keep your gratitude,’ Victor said. ‘It’s worthless.’

Norimov sighed. ‘I guess I deserve that. Put Gisele on the phone, please.’

‘She doesn’t want to talk to you. She doesn’t like you very much. Can’t say that I blame her.’

There was a long pause. ‘This horrible business will push her even further away from me.’

‘No doubt.’

‘Thank you for not placating me.’

‘I wouldn’t begin to know how to,’ Victor said.

‘I know I have wronged you, my boy, and when you return to St Petersburg with Gisele I will do my very best to get back into your good books.’

Victor said. ‘I’m not coming with her.’

‘Right,’ Norimov breathed. ‘Of course. Your task is over. She’s safe now. So I guess this is goodbye.’

‘It is,’ Victor said.

He hung up before Norimov could say another word and stood in the semi-darkness of the room. His reason for being in London was over. Norimov’s men could take over from here. He could hear laughter coming from the boardroom at the end of the corridor. One of the Russians was telling a story about when Gisele had been a child. Victor stood, looking at the closed door framed by lines of light.

He turned away and approached the nearest staircase. Within a couple of hours he would be on a flight to mainland Europe. By tomorrow, he could be anywhere in the world. He pictured a tastefully decorated hotel room, crisp white sheets, far away from anyone who knew anything about him.

Behind him, the boardroom door opened. Dmitri.

The Russian caught up with him. ‘There’s something you need to see.’

He waited.

‘The electrical box,’ Dmitri explained. ‘I think it’s been tampered with.’

Victor didn’t hesitate. He wanted no reason to stay, but he was not prepared to leave Gisele if anything was unaccounted for.

‘Show me.’

Dmitri led him to the far end of the corridor and into a room full of pipes and cables.

‘Over there,’ he said.

The box was fixed to a wall, two metres from the ground. Victor opened it up. It took him a second to realise it hadn’t been tampered with. A second later he heard the three other Russians enter the room behind Dmitri.

He faced them. Dmitri stood a little ahead of the rest. They occupied the other half of the room with their combined massive bulk, forming an impenetrable wall of muscle by virtue of just standing there, side by side. The door was behind them. Yigor was the only Russian not present, but he hadn’t returned yet with food.

They were silent, but words could not have added to what their body language told him. Victor knew he should have seen this coming, but he’d believed they cared more about Norimov and his daughter than their pride. He realised he should have known that a wound to a Russian’s pride took far longer to heal than any physical injury.

‘We don’t need to do this. I’m on the next plane out of here.’

Dmitri said, ‘Not until we’ve settled our differences.’

‘This is a bad idea.’

There was a vicious smile. Russian pride.

Dmitri shook his head. ‘No, it’s not. We have Gisele. She’s safe.’

‘Okay,’ Victor said. ‘Let’s work this out.’

‘There’s nothing to work out. We’re going to beat the shit out of you.’

‘I don’t think so.’

Dmitri laughed. The others didn’t join in. They were too pumped up and focused on violence to find any humour in the situation. ‘Don’t worry. We’re not going to kill you. Just hurt you like you hurt us. Make things right.’

‘I understand,’ Victor said. ‘But I didn’t know you were so selfless.’

Dmitri smiled, then frowned. He hesitated for a moment, then asked — as he had to — for an explanation. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘There’s four of you,’ Victor said. ‘And you’re all a lot bigger than me, so we all know you are going to win.’

‘Yes…’ Dmitri said.

‘And you almost must know that the first of you to enter my reach is the one I’ll be able to kill before the other three put me on the floor.’

Dmitri said nothing.

Victor continued: ‘As you orchestrated this little revenge mission, these guys will expect you to make the first move. So you must be prepared to sacrifice your life in order to let the others have their revenge. Like I said: I didn’t know you were so selfless, Dmitri.’

He said, ‘You won’t have time to kill me.’

‘There’s only one way to find out.’ Victor turned his attention to the other three men. ‘Unless there is someone else who wishes to die in your place?’

He held their gaze, one at a time, until each had looked away. Then he stared back at Dmitri.

‘Well?’

The door opened. Gisele entered the room, saying, ‘There you all are. What are you guys doing in here without me? I thought I was supposed to be the guest of honour.’

Everyone looked at her. No one responded. She read the tension in the air. ‘What the fuck is going on?’

Before anyone could answer, the lights went out.

THIRTY-FOUR

A single small window let in some ambient light from the streetlamps outside. The Russians were slow to react, faces a mix of shadow and orange glow, looking to one another for an explanation; for someone to take the lead. Victor pushed through them and dragged Gisele to the floor, below the level of the window.

‘Hey,’ she said. ‘What are you doing? You’re hurting me.’

Victor stayed quiet for a moment, to listen. He heard nothing.

Gisele pulled her hand free of Victor.

‘Stay down,’ he said.

‘Okay, okay. You could have simply asked, you know?’

Dmitri said, ‘What’s happening?’

Victor gestured at the window and the orange glow filtering between the aluminium blind slats. ‘We’re the only ones who have lost power.’

‘Then it’s a circuit breaker,’ Dmitri said, but without conviction. He stepped closer to Victor — further away from the window — and squatted.

‘Please,’ Gisele said. ‘What’s going on? Why are we on the floor? What does it matter if we’ve had a power cut?’

Victor didn’t answer. He didn’t yet know. Maybe it was nothing, but he didn’t believe in coincidences.

One of the Russians — Ivan — stepped towards the window, curious; investigating. No tactical sense.

Victor said, ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you.’

He glanced back, an incredulous expression contorting his face for a second before it exploded.

Blood and tissue splattered against the far wall. Shattered glass from the window flew across the space and rained down over the floor, pelting Victor as he shielded Gisele. The shot Russian dropped into a heap, the left side of his face missing, blood quickly pooling around him.

Gisele gasped and some of the other Russians yelled in surprise or horror. Victor paid no attention as he concentrated on listening for the sound of the shot, to work out how far away the shooter was positioned. It never came.

A suppressed rifle then, shooting subsonic ammunition from enough distance for the city to swallow up the noise, but with a heavy round to inflict that kind of damage. Victor pictured the shooter across the street, maybe one hundred metres away, on the roof of the building on account of the difference in height between the hole in the window and where it had struck the target. Any further, and the slow round’s inaccuracy would have made such a shot too problematic to take.

Regardless, the sniper was an excellent marksman to have made a headshot from a cold bore with a slow round when the target had only just appeared and had been partially concealed by blind slats.

Dmitri and the others dropped to the floor to join Victor and Gisele. She kept her palm over her mouth as she breathed in huge, panicked breaths. Victor avoided the growing pool of blood draining from the exit wound in the dead Russian’s head and took the pistol from his coat along with the spare magazines.

‘What do we do?’ Dmitri asked, eyes wide in the darkness; a brave man but one succumbing to panic.

‘First thing: calm down. Second: we have to defend the staircase outside this room. That’s the best place to assault. Come on. We don’t have long.’

Still in a crouch, he opened the door and stepped out of the room, Dmitri and the other Russians following him, making more noise than he would like but there wasn’t time to instruct them on better operational procedure. The warehouse was vast, but mostly open on the ground level. The first-floor office section was narrow, located on the building’s west side, accessible via two sets of stairs.

Victor whispered to the Russians, instructing them on the best positions to take to cover the nearest staircase. They nodded and spread out as they were told.

‘That’s their primary assault route,’ Victor told them. ‘If you hold your positions here, you’ll drive them back. You’ll have them in a crossfire.’

‘How do we know there are more?’ Sergei asked. ‘Maybe just one man with rifle.’

Victor looked at him. ‘If you believe that, go down those stairs and make your way outside.’

Sergei said nothing further.

‘What are you going to do?’ Dmitri asked Victor.

‘There are two staircases leading up, remember?’

He motioned for Gisele to come over to him. She did, walking as fast as she could while still crouched.

‘Where are you taking her?’ Dmitri demanded.

‘Out of the line of fire. If you and your guys can contain them at the first staircase, I can do the rest. Okay?’

Dmitri nodded. ‘Do it.’

With Gisele following close behind, Victor headed towards the furthest set of stairs at the far end of the office floor, straining to see in the darkness where the artificial ambient light failed to reach. A single corridor spanned the entire length, a staircase at either end, and doors leading off to offices, a kitchen, toilets and walk-in storage cupboards. He opened each door as he passed, improving visibility as the outside light seeped from the rooms’ windows into the corridor. The sniper had shot from the south. He couldn’t shoot through these windows.

Victor paused when he reached the open reception area at the far end of the corridor. The staircase lay out of sight around a corner. He listened. He didn’t know how many were out there. He didn’t know anything about their skill or armaments beyond the fact they had a sniper with a suppressed weapon who was a fine shot. He had to assume the others were as capable. They wouldn’t assault with sniper rifles though, but automatic weapons — sub-machine guns or assault rifles. His handgun would come off second in any firefight, but he knew the location better than any attacker and those attackers knew nothing about him.

Behind him, the Russians were nervous as they waited at the defensive positions he’d assigned them. They were gangsters now, not soldiers as they had once been long ago, but they had guns and he had no reason to doubt their ability or willingness to use them. Whether they would be able to repel whoever came up the staircase, he couldn’t be sure. But they would slow them down, and that’s all he needed them to do. He cared only about Gisele’s survival and his own.

He hand-signalled her to follow and whispered, ‘Hide behind that desk and keep down until this is over. Don’t come out. Okay?’

She nodded, breaths coming fast and quick. ‘Okay.’

He watched her get down to her hands and knees, then moved on. A floor-to-ceiling window covered the wall adjacent to the staircase. Victor saw no reflections of movement within. He gestured for Gisele to stay put, then hurried across the reception area, gun up and leading, sweeping around the corner as he stayed in partial cover. The staircase was clear. He heard nothing from below.

Victor checked Gisele was staying in her hiding place and then took up a position further into the room, from which he could cover the staircase. He felt no fear because fear was an emotional response to danger. The brain learned to fear before it learned how to solve problems. It was a survival mechanism: running from danger increased the probability of living through it. Emotion was older than thought, and stronger, but Victor had learned that the best way to survive was through cold logic and lateral thinking. He suppressed the part of his brain that wanted him to be afraid. He allowed no emotion to cloud his judgement and survived many times because no fear ever slowed him.

Behind him, the Russians waited in the darkness, breathing heavily and sweating. Their gaze passed over each other when they weren’t staring at the stairwell and its descent into blackness. They were tough, brave men but all were scared of what was coming. Adrenalin made them shake. Sweat shone on their faces. The thump of their racing hearts filled their ears. No one wanted to end up like poor Ivan with half a face.

They didn’t hear the shuffle of feet on the floor below, near to the staircase; didn’t see the figure that peered up from the darkness and made a swinging motion with his arm.

Something small and metal hit the polystyrene ceiling tiles above their heads, bounced off a wall and clattered and rolled across the thin carpet.

‘What was that?’ someone yelled.

A second later, the grenade exploded.

THIRTY-FIVE

Light flashed in the darkness, sparks and flames rushing out from the epicentre; shrapnel hissing through the air, burying into walls and melting ceiling tiles; debris raining down, clattering on the floor; smoke billowing, filling the corridor, swirling and snaking to fill the space; sound, powerful and excruciating, pulsed outwards, consuming all.

The dull thump of the explosion was colossal, the burst of light so bright it reached all along the corridor and illuminated the room around Victor for the briefest of instants, blinding him while the overpressure wave reverberated through his body.

A disorientation grenade. Or flashbang.

The Russians grimaced and squinted, their ears ringing with a high-pitched whine, their eyes seeing nothing but impenetrable white, streaming tears from the smoke.

A black-clad figure emerged at the top of the staircase, moving fast and assured in a half-crouch, picking out the closest target and hitting him in the chest with a burst of sub-machine gun fire. The Russian stumbled backwards into a doorframe, sliding down it, lifeless by the time he reached the floor, clothes soaked red.

The gunman swept his weapon away even as the Russian was still stumbling backwards; seeking targets, shooting at the next nearest enemy, but missing as he backed off through the doorway of another room. Nine millimetre rounds took chunks out of the door and wall.

The Russians returned fire, sporadic and desperate, blinded by the flashbang.

The gunman kept moving, firing in bursts, taking cover as behind him another black-clad figure followed, reaching the top of the stairs, sweeping the other way, covering the lead man’s blind spot, seeing no live targets but double-tapping the Russian slumped against the doorframe when he saw him twitch.

No enemy could be too dead.

The noise of the shooting was monstrous. The lights flashing were as bright as fireworks illuminating the office around Gisele in staccato strobes. The barrage of noise and light overloaded her senses. She sat huddled in a ball behind the desk, as the man had told her.

Smoke hung throughout the room. The air was a thick grey gloom that deepened shadows and dulled the orange glow of outside streetlamps.

She had her palms pressed over her ears in an attempt to muffle the incredible amount of noise. She kept her chin down, almost pressing against her chest and shoulders hunched.

Gisele flinched and gasped and trembled but didn’t scream or cry out. Despite her fear she knew she had to stay as small and quiet as she could manage. There was nothing else she could do.

Victor pictured what was happening because he couldn’t yet see. He knew about disorientation grenades. He knew how they worked. He knew what they did. He knew it had been thrown in ahead of an assault. The Russians would be deaf and blinded if they were fortunate, or injured or killed if they were not. In either case the staircase would be undefended. The assaulters would advance up it without risk and begin the massacre.

The positions he had assigned them would help. The flashbang would not have rendered them all incapacitated. If they had an advantage in numbers they could fight back. It was possible that they could still pin the assaulters long enough.

Victor’s world came back into focus as the noise of the gunfire grew louder. In between the semi-automatic shots from the Russians’ handguns, he recognised the distinctive click of the MP5SD, almost inaudible thanks to the integrated suppressor. He picked out two rhythms for two shooters. Such firepower was expensive and hard to source. These guys were better than well armed and had breached the warehouse without making a sound. They were no mere street thugs or enforcers but a well-equipped, well-trained assault team.

Bullets blew through the partition wall Victor was using as cover, easily penetrating the cheap material, showering his face with dust and debris.

He ducked and moved away, further into the room, eyesight improving with every passing second. Though barely able to see and hear, the map of his environment in his mind was unaffected, as was his understanding of what was happening behind him.

He switched the pistol to his left hand and stuck it out of cover to let out a few blind shots towards the far staircase, knowing the Russians were out of the line of fire. The pop-pop-pop registered in his ears, but far quieter than it should do, masked by the incessant ringing from the explosion.

He turned to cover the closest staircase, but there was no sign yet of any other assaulters. He switched back again, seeing muzzle flashes flare bright through the smoke and darkness. The Russians were returning fire. Whether they had their senses back was irrelevant. Indirect fire could kill just the same as an aimed shot.

Rounds hit the ceiling somewhere above him. A light fixture exploded.

He shielded himself with an arm as chunks of polystyrene from the ceiling tiles and shards of glass rained down over him.

If the sniper and the two assaulters were the sum total of their attackers, Victor and the Russians could force them to withdraw with their superior numbers. But the team’s intel had to be accurate for them to know about the warehouse. Then they would have a good idea of the number of defenders. If there were only three then they would have attempted stealth, silently picking off their enemies. They hadn’t. The sniper had taken the first opportunity to reduce the number of enemies because the assaulters were already in the building. And they weren’t going for stealth. They were going strong. Because they had the firepower and, more importantly, the numbers.

The two at the far staircase were just one two-man fire team. There would be more, sweeping through the warehouse to clear it in a slick military assault. The Russians weren’t going to keep the two upstairs occupied long enough before the other team or teams joined the battle and overwhelmed them. If another fire team attempted to flank them using the near staircase, Victor couldn’t stop them.

The gunfire would eventually draw the attention of the Metropolitan Police, but the warehouse was in an industrial area with no residences and no through traffic. By the time they arrived, this would be over.

The plan had been to defend. It wasn’t going to work.

Victor hurried over to Gisele. She was shaking and even in the dark looked white with fear. He held out the pistol he had taken from Ivan’s corpse.

‘Is it true what you said before about knowing how to use a gun?’

She managed to nod and he passed her the weapon. She took a deep breath then released the magazine to check the load before pushing it back in place with her palm. She racked the slide.

Victor said, ‘If anyone approaches without identifying themselves, you shoot. Don’t hesitate.’

Her eyes were wide. Fear. Disbelief. But she nodded.

He didn’t know if she would. He didn’t know if she was capable of taking a life. He hoped that neither of them would have to find out if she was.

Victor descended the near staircase, fast but quiet, gun up and sweeping. He reached the ground floor offices. There were multiple rooms and corridors, leading both outside and into the rest of the warehouse. He paused and listened. He heard nothing.

The attackers must have entered the building from the west side, at the furthest point from the offices, where they wouldn’t be heard breaking in. There were rolling doors and loading bays along the west wall. They could have entered through any one of them or any number of them at the same time, either staying together or splitting up. They knew there were people in the offices upstairs, but they couldn’t know where else threats might wait, so had to move with some caution, but it wouldn’t be long before they reached the office segment. From the main warehouse, there were multiple ways in, but still only two staircases up for the attackers to converge on. Victor didn’t know where they were now, but he knew where they had to end up.

Shooting the attackers in the back wasn’t complicated. Doing it without getting caught in the Russians’ line of fire was far from simple.

He hurried, because there were no enemies at this staircase.

He was behind them.

THIRTY-SIX

Victor heard the second team before he saw them. A door — leading to the warehouse itself — was kicked open in a room behind him. He spun around and moved laterally because that room was divided from his only by glass. He managed to get off two snapshots before the assaulters spotted him, but missed because he was moving and so were they.

MP5s opened fire, bullets following him, punching holes through the glass until it gave way and collapsed in a shower of glittering shards. He shielded his face with an arm as he ran and slid through a doorway, shooting back under his armpit to buy him some time.

He gained only a couple of seconds before he heard, then saw, a grenade bounce off the doorframe and then a wall and then roll along the floor towards him.

He dived over a table, trailing a hand to tip it over as he fell, bringing the tabletop down on its edge behind him.

The flashbang exploded.

His eyelids were already squeezed shut but still he saw white. The overpressure wave thumped against the table and pushed it, and him, across the floor.

Shrapnel embedded in the tabletop. The plastic veneer melted and the chipboard beneath smouldered and burned. The grenade wasn’t manufactured to kill, but at close range could do so or maim. Had the table not protected him, he would now be out of the fight.

His eyes could just about focus and he heard nothing, but knew the two men were moving the second after the explosion, thinking him incapacitated.

He waited a moment — picturing them headed through the doorway, fast and well trained, hesitating because they couldn’t see him behind the table — then rolled to his side, arms and head coming out from behind it, squeezing off rounds.

The first man was hit in his centre mass, falling backwards into the second assaulter, bringing him down too as he fell.

Victor was up and moving, not risking further engagement because he had to get back to Gisele.

Muzzle flashes illuminated the first-floor corridor in intermittent bursts of light. The loud reports of the Russians’ handguns drowned out the suppressed automatic fire from the sub-machine guns that hissed through the air and tore through the thin interior walls.

Lumps of polystyrene fell from the ceiling. Dust swirled with the smoke from the flashbang. The air stank of cordite and fear.

The Russians backed off under the relentless stream of automatic gunfire, shooting back blind as they darted between doorways.

The lead assaulter ejected the empty magazine, slipped it back into the assigned pocket of his tactical vest, pulled out a full one and slammed it home. He worked the breach and resumed shooting.

The second put down suppressing fire while the other man was vulnerable, then reloaded himself while the first covered him in return.

The Russians were not elite but they had picked their positions with a frighteningly good tactical sense. The two-man fire team had expected to clear the office floor within sixty seconds. That wasn’t going to happen. This was going to drag on for at least another two minutes before the inevitable victory was achieved.

Victor hurried through the ground-floor offices, staying in the centre of rooms and corridors despite the natural inclination to seek safety near to walls, because in close-quarters battle it was along walls that bullets tended to travel.

He took a circuitous route through the offices to avoid any pursuers and to prevent rushing blindly into another fire team.

The din of the shooting upstairs grew louder as he neared it — the loud pops of the Russians’ handguns above the suppressed automatic fire of the sub-machine guns; the clinking of expended brass and the thump of bullets striking walls; urgent commands and desperate screams.

He could tell the assaulters had taken the stairs and were fighting back the defenders. It wouldn’t be long before they were killed — or fled. He didn’t know the strength of their courage or how deep their loyalty to Norimov or Gisele went.

Victor slowed as he neared the hallway where the staircase was located. He saw no one on the ground level.

He approached the staircase, gun leading, aiming up as he moved before it, stepping through a swathe of orange gloom spilling through a window on the west wall. He smelled the acrid odour of cordite and the sulphur of the flashbang smoke. The assaulters were out of sight above him, but the suppressed fire of their sub-machine guns was loud and distinctive to his ear. The return fire from the Russians was sporadic.

‘Gisele,’ he called. ‘I’m coming up.’

There was no response. He didn’t know if that meant she couldn’t hear him over the gunfire or because she was dead. He ascended the first step, but stopped. A noise.

Footsteps in the hallway leading to the rest of the ground-floor level — where he’d come from a moment before.

He made out a man-sized shape in the darkness, realising at the same time that with the nearby window he was more visible than the new arrival — who would have seen him first.

Victor leapt from the staircase as another MP5SD opened fire. Rounds buried into the wall and staircase where he’d been standing, blowing out splinters of wood and a cloud of paint dust.

He hit the floor in a roll to disperse the impact, scrambling into the cover of an arrangement of office desks and chairs. Bullets chased him, taking chunks out of the cheap veneer and plywood furniture.

He dodged out of the line of fire, popping up to shoot back as his attacker moved forward to the mouth of the hallway, driving him back. Bullets sparked on steel supports.

Victor moved again — staying in one position would only make it easier for his assailant — and aimed where the gunman would next appear.

THIRTY-SEVEN

On the upper level the two assaulters moved positions, putting bursts along the hallway, outnumbered but not outgunned, suppressing the Russians until they were in cover. At random intervals the Russians returned fire, shouting indecipherable instructions to one another, maybe coordinating their attacks or just keeping the others informed that they were still alive.

Another one was hit as he popped out of cover, caught in the throat and face with a long burst that made the Russian dance, a geyser blood spurting from him, before he dropped. That left two. There was no danger of not triumphing, but they were burning through time they didn’t have. This warehouse may be empty but other units in the industrial estate were not. Each second the firefight continued increased the chances of a passer-by or a worker on a cigarette break hearing the gunshots.

The police would be on the way soon after that, if they weren’t already.

Victor waited, drawing a bead on the darkness where the room met the hallway. Any movement would be greeted with a double tap. Another flashbang exploded on the floor above him. He was unable to move to the stairs and ascend to help the Russians above because he had to cross through the path of his attackers’ vision. But five seconds waiting became ten.

He moved because he knew his enemy was in the process of outflanking him. The gunman was the aggressor, better armed and with allies nearby. He would press the attack, not wait for a defender to engage him.

There were two other ways into the room — one door on the east wall leading directly into the main warehouse, and another to the north that fed into a series of storerooms, that were also accessible from the rest of the warehouse. The gunman could come through either.

No way to know which, and it wasn’t possible to cover both effectively. Victor dashed towards the hallway, away from both, throwing himself into a dive when he heard a door kicked open behind him.

Bullets whizzed over Victor’s head and sparked where they struck the steel supports. He zigzagged as he ran, knowing his attacker would be in pursuit. He weaved ten metres along the hallway, shouldering a door open and half-running half-falling into the room on the other side.

Nine millimetre rounds cut through the air behind him. He could feel the change in pressure and air temperature on his neck. Splinters of doorframe caught in his hair.

The firing stopped, the shooter no longer able to keep him in his gunsights. He could be in pursuit, closing fast, but already proven smart enough not to rush into an ambush.

Victor grabbed anything he could and threw it in the direction of the door to create obstacles to slow his enemy.

He needed time. He had to maintain distance. He kept moving, utilising the cover provided by desks and tables, chairs and cabinets, running in diagonal lines, ducking as he heard the rapid spit of the MP5SD opening fire somewhere in the darkness behind him.

Glass smashed. Metal sparked. A fluorescent ceiling light exploded.

Victor ran, relying on speed, distance and angles to make himself a target too hard to hit. He hurried, knowing his way through the offices better than his pursuer, who would move at a slower pace, expecting an ambush.

‘Gisele,’ he called as he powered to the top of the staircase.

He exchanged glances with Dmitri, who had retreated here from his original position.

Victor said, ‘The others?’

The Russian shook his head in way of an answer. He was drenched in sweat and bleeding. ‘Get her out of here,’ he panted.

Victor nodded, knowing what Dmitri meant and respecting his sacrifice. ‘There are others downstairs. They’ll breach this staircase soon.’

Dmitri said, ‘Then hurry,’ and squeezed off some rounds down the corridor.

Victor hurled the desk aside, expecting to see Gisele dead from a stray round, but instead she lay in a huddle, hair disguising her face, and for a moment Victor saw not Gisele but her mother, Eleanor. She had Ivan’s pistol clutched in both hands but her eyes were shut. She didn’t even know he was there.

He pulled the gun from her grip before he touched her on the shoulder so she didn’t shoot him by mistake.

‘Are you hurt?’

She shook her head.

‘We have to go.’

She nodded and he heaved open a window. ‘Climb through after me,’ he said.

She nodded again.

He hauled himself through and dropped. It was four metres to the ground. Far enough to break bones, but he slowed himself with the wall and rolled to disperse the energy of the impact.

‘Hurry,’ he shouted up. ‘I’ll catch you.’

He figured she would take some coaxing, but she didn’t need any. She dropped and he caught her, falling with her into a half-roll to spare them both injury. She took a second longer getting to her feet.

‘Come on,’ he urged. ‘It’s not over yet.’

THIRTY-EIGHT

Victor had to assume Dmitri’s car was disabled or covered. At the very least reaching it would put them both at risk. Instead, they ran. They headed away from the warehouse, steering clear of the main roads, sticking to alleys and side streets. He stayed behind Gisele, both to shield her from any pursuers and to better listen out for them, guiding her with his hands, forced to move slower as a result but he couldn’t risk it the other way and her falling behind or taking a bullet in the back. Sirens blared in the distance.

She was fit but already slowing under the pace Victor was pushing her to. After a few minutes she was breathing hard and stumbling as much as running, but they had covered a lot of distance.

‘Stop,’ he said. ‘Catch your breath.’

He pulled her into an alleyway before she could rush past.

‘Okay?’

She nodded but couldn’t speak for a moment because her heart was racing and she’d lost her fine motor skills.

‘Are… we… safe?’ she managed to ask between gasps.

Suppressed gunshots echoed off the buildings, answering for him. Brickwork crumbled at the mouth of the alley.

‘Move.’

There was no crack from the bullets so they were subsonic, but the muted bark from the muzzle wasn’t the distinctive click of an MP5SD. It was louder, duller. A handgun. Whoever was behind them weren’t part of the assault force who’d stormed the warehouse. They had probably been watching the perimeter or providing surveillance or backup and had chased them the whole way or were sweeping the area and found them.

He risked a glance behind — seeing two men — and pushed Gisele onwards, knowing their enemies were catching up with every step. Alone, he could outrun them, but she limited his pace and enabled their pursuers to stay close enough that he knew they would never create enough distance to hide.

‘That way,’ he hissed, and pushed her down a bisecting alley.

At the end was a chain-link fence on top of a low wall. He slipped ahead of Gisele and interlaced his fingers, palms up.

He didn’t have to tell her what to do. She understood and used his palms as a step as he propelled her upwards. She was no athlete, no climber, but she caught hold of the top of the fence and pulled herself over. No hesitation. No asking for aid.

Victor followed, leaping, grabbing hold, hauling himself up and over, dropping down to the other side a split-second behind Gisele and pushing her to the ground because he knew their pursuers were right behind them and lining up their sights.

The twin gunshots were louder in the alley’s confines. Gisele flinched, but they were already lower than the wall. A bullet hit a fence post and made the chains rattle and sway.

Victor waited until he could hear the scrape of feet running before pulling Gisele up and away. They were on a railway track siding, overgrown and uneven. He led her over the tracks, not looking out for trains because it was easy enough to hear a hundred-plus ton locomotive. On the far side of the tracks stood a number of train carriages, stationary and disused, covered in graffiti and stinking of rust and decay. A bullet pinged off the exposed frame of a carriage, far enough away that Victor had no immediate concern, but a reminder that their pursuers were relentless and had lethal intent.

He came to a stop and ushered for Gisele to follow suit. He pointed. ‘Get on your stomach and shuffle under that carriage and crawl so you’re hidden by the wheels.’

She nodded. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘Don’t get out under any circumstances, unless it’s me telling you to. Anyone who tries to crawl under the train after you, wait until you can see their face and go for their eyes. Okay?’

She nodded again and dropped to her stomach and did as he instructed.

He stood and moved to the corner of the carriage, settling into the darkness, waiting for their pursuers to follow.

The two men hurried across the train tracks, arms out, eyes peering along the barrels of their handguns. Unlike the others who had assaulted the warehouse, these two wore civilian clothes. They’d lost sight of their targets but knew where they had to be. The abandoned train carriages formed the only concealment. The two men would have seen them had they tried to make a break for it along the tracks. The alternative was a nine-metre drop that would surely kill them. No one was that stupid.

Communicating with hand signals only, they split up, one going left while the other went right, intending to approach the rusting carriages from either flank. They had no concern for the woman. She was a civilian. Which meant there was only her protector who offered any threat, and he couldn’t ambush them both if they split up. They were cautious because they were professional, but neither was scared.

The thrill of the chase was strong in both.

They lived for moments like this.

THIRTY-NINE

Dmitri staggered away from the wall, unable to see with his blinded eyes the blood that stained his shirt, but capable of feeling the intense burn caused by the two bullets in his chest. He reached one hand to the wall in an attempt to stay on his feet while the fingers of his free hand crept along his chest, touching warm, sticky liquid and ripped clothes. He coughed bloody foam.

Slowly, his own wheezing cries grew louder than the ringing in his ears and he realised he was lying on his back, the grimy ceiling tiles coming into view through the whiteness, but then strangely turning grey, as if stained, then black.

Victor waited in the darkness. London was too low-rise and built up for the night to ever be truly black. Even here, away from streetlights and other illumination there were varying degrees of gloom. This side of the carriage was in shadow, the primary ambient light coming from the buildings and streetlamps from the east, from Victor’s left. He crouched low, where it was darkest, listening to the quiet crunch of shoes on gravel and vegetation, noting when they broke apart and formed to separate sounds, one growing increasingly quieter while the other grew louder.

They had split up. A problem, but Victor never expected it to be easy. They were cautious footsteps, but they were not slow — they were still in pursuit. Wary, but still the aggressor. Still in charge of the situation.

That would soon change.

The first man leaned forward as he approached, lowering his eyeline in an effort to peer beneath the first carriage. Did something catch his eye? He wasn’t sure. It would be a stupid place for someone to hide — trapping themselves somewhere with no easy means of escape — but desperate people made mistakes. The thought of scaring someone to stupidity appealed to him.

He moved on, slowing as he reached the carriage, checking the ground ahead for anything that might make noise underfoot and give away his position. He kept close to the front of the container, brushing the weather-beaten metal with his shoulder, blending his own shadow that extended before him into the carriage’s own.

The gun rounded the corner first, moving fast but smooth, his hands and arms following as he turned through ninety degrees until he was facing along the shadow side of the carriage. His eyes had adjusted to the gloom, but the darkness was still dense.

He didn’t see the girl’s protector — crouched no more than two metres in front of him — until he was springing forward, coming up from below the pistol’s muzzle. By then it was too late to aim and get off a shot.

With both hands gripping the pistol, he had no way to defend himself after his attacker pushed the barrel to one side as he closed the distance between them and snapped out a straight punch to the man’s throat.

He gasped — airless and soundless — trachea crushed, and had no strength to resist as his attacker hyper-extended his right wrist, pulled the gun from his grip, and dragged him to the ground and held him there while he spent the last seconds of his life in silent agony.

Victor held him prone while he struggled. His mouth was wide open in a vain attempt to suck in air. A knee pinned his legs and a hand on each arm kept him from writhing too much and making more noise than could be avoided. At the far end of the carriage the silhouette of the second man appeared against a backdrop of overgrown vegetation. Victor watched the man, unconcerned, knowing that if the dying man hadn’t seen him at a distance of two metres, the second wouldn’t at twenty. Noise posed more danger of discovery, but every passing second meant the dying man grew weaker and struggled less.

When the man on the ground became limp, Victor released him. He checked the gun — a 9mm SIG Sauer — and the load. The magazine was full and a subsonic round was in the chamber. He made sure the suppressor was screwed on tightly, and stood.

The second man had already passed out of sight, moving between two carriages as he continued his search. Victor didn’t follow. Whether the man had seen him or not, he wasn’t prepared to funnel himself between the carriages, leaving himself exposed at both flanks as he emerged. There would be no way of knowing if the man had doubled back or was setting an ambush.

Instead, Victor stalked parallel, rounding a clump of long grasses and discarded oil drums until he was on the far side of the next two carriages. He peered into the darkness, but couldn’t pick out a human shape in the mix of shadows. He waited, focusing on the sounds reaching his ears, disassembling the ambient noise until he identified the quiet footsteps. Twelve, maybe fifteen metres away.

Then they stopped. Victor pictured the man waiting in the darkness, until he heard another noise — quieter, shuffling.

He realised his enemy was crawling under a carriage. But which one? He could be moving either to Victor’s left or right. No way to tell without moving himself, but it would be down to chance if he chose the right direction. He opted to stay put. He lowered himself into a crouch, scooped up a handful of gravel, and hurled it forward.

The gravel pinged off the metal hulls of some carriages and scattered on the ground.

It wasn’t meant to sound like someone moving to tempt his enemy to move back, but it would distract him and disguise the noise of Victor dashing to the right. He peered around the edge of the carriage, seeing and hearing no one. He grabbed another handful and threw it up into the air so it rained down on top of the carriage.

Again, he used the noise to disguise his movements as he hurried back to his previous position, reaching down to grab and throw more gravel, then to the left, moving fast because he now knew where the man had to be, rushing around the back of the carriage, into darkness, but seeing the man’s silhouette against the distant vegetation.

Victor squeezed the trigger three times and the silhouette dropped into the shadows.

He approached, walking fast, to check the man was dead as he hadn’t seen where the bullets impacted or even if they had all hit. When the man came into view he saw one had struck him high on the chest, shattering the clavicle, while another drilled a hole in his face through the left cheek a couple of centimetres below the eye.

The man was alive. The subsonic bullet hadn’t had the velocity to pass all of the way through the skull and blow an exit wound out of the back. Victor figured it had deflected as it passed through the cheekbone and followed the curve of the skull, missing the brain. A fatal wound if left untreated, but the man was in no immediate risk. He probably couldn’t even feel it. A miracle he was still alive, some might say. His good fortune would be short lived.

He lay on his back, breathing rapidly, arms straight by his sides, either not daring to move or believing he couldn’t. He wasn’t screaming, so the adrenalin surge hadn’t yet faded.

Victor walked closer.

‘Help,’ the man said. British accent.

‘You’re asking the wrong guy.’

‘Please.’

‘I heard you the first time.’

Victor squatted next to him and searched through his pockets. The man didn’t try to stop him. Unsurprisingly, he was clean. Operating sterile. A pro.

It took a moment of searching in the dark until Victor found something appropriate to his needs. He would have preferred a piece of wood, but the square of rotting cardboard would do. He folded it in half and then again. The man watched him.

‘Aren’t you going to ask me anything?’

‘In due course.’

Victor squeezed the cardboard in his hands, making it thinner and denser.

‘If you let me live,’ the man said, ‘I’ll tell you everything.’

‘You don’t know everything,’ Victor replied, compressing the cardboard one last time, forming it into a small plank about five centimetres wide by ten long, two centimetres thick. ‘And I don’t have the time to make sure what you say is truthful. We need to act fast, don’t we?’

The man swallowed. ‘I won’t lie to you.’

Victor held up the cardboard. ‘It’ll save me a lot of time and you a lot of pain if we make sure of that at the very start.’

The man shook his head. ‘We don’t need to make sure.’

‘Bite down.’ He lowered the piece of cardboard to the man’s mouth.

‘Please…’

‘Trust me, you want this.’

Breathing hard, the man opened his mouth. Victor lowered the cardboard between the man’s teeth. He bit down on the cardboard. A piece of wood would have been better, but it would do.

‘Ready?’ Victor asked.

He didn’t wait for an answer. He used the edge of his palm to strike the shattered collarbone.

The man’s scream was louder than even Victor expected. It was a high-pitched wail that echoed between the carriages. The man tensed and went into spasm.

Victor checked his flank while he waited for him to finish, then took out the cardboard. The man had bitten through it. ‘Are you going to lie to me?’

‘No.’

‘You see, now I believe you. What’s your name?’

‘Joe.’

‘Joe what?’

‘Forrester.’

‘What the fuck are you doing?’

Victor looked over his shoulder to see Gisele approaching. He said, ‘I’m interrogating him.’

‘You’re torturing him.’

‘No, I’ve tortured him. Now I’m interrogating him.’

She came closer. ‘I don’t think the distinction is important.’

Victor said, ‘I assure you that it is to him.’

‘I won’t allow it. It’s a war crime.’

‘I don’t suppose there is any point reminding you that we’re not at war here?’

‘You could have fooled me, and you’re being facetious. I won’t let you commit torture in my name.’

‘Fine.’ Victor rose to his feet.

He shot the man named Forrester between the eyebrows.

Gisele startled. She stood gasping, hand over her mouth. She glared at him, angry and disgusted despite the surprise and revulsion. ‘What did you do that for? You murdered a defenceless man. What the fuck is wrong with you?’

‘I’ll tell you all about it some other time. Right now, we need to get out of here.’

FORTY

The air smelled divine — blood and gunsmoke. Perfume of the gods. Sinclair sucked in a big lungful as he stepped forward. Spent brass cartridges crunched underfoot. The insidious blare of sirens grew ever closer. The mercenaries were getting restless. They were keen to withdraw. Sinclair was unhurried. He had no fear of the police, even without Anderton’s power over them.

Besides, he required answers.

Peering through the scope of his rifle from across the street, he had watched the flashes of gunfire play out through the windows of the first-floor offices and listened to the radio chatter of the assaulters with keen interest.

He’d dropped the first Russian as soon as the opportunity had presented itself — and a fine shot, even if he said so himself — much to the irritation of the assaulters, who would have preferred more time to get into position. Sinclair operated to his timescale, not to the whims of fools. That first kill had elevated his blood lust, but the Russians had refused to cooperate, annoyingly staying away from the reach of his rifle. With enormous self-restraint he had avoided taking shots based on muzzle flashes alone to avoid killing one of the assaulters by mistake. No tragedy in itself, but Sinclair didn’t want the hired mercs questioning his skills as an exceptional operator. He wanted only praise. Only glory.

‘It’s time to get the fuck out of here,’ Wade was saying.

‘Soon,’ Sinclair said.

The plan had not been for a prolonged firefight. Two two-man fire teams were supposed to clear the warehouse and overwhelm the Russians with flashbangs and automatic fire. A two-minute assault. Three, tops. Based on the assumption they were up against an outgunned and surprised resistance. But that was not what Sinclair had seen or heard. The Russians were not supposed to put up much of a fight, if any. Certainly not embed the assaulters into a prolonged gun battle.

Sinclair had intervened to save the attack.

Want a job done right…

Only it hadn’t worked out like that. Sinclair wanted to know why. He wanted to know about the man he had fought — the man who had escaped with the girl.

Rogan said, ‘This one’s still alive.’

Sinclair turned and approached. One of the giant Russians lay slumped on the floor, unmoving, but his eyes were open and alert.

‘Dmitri, yes?’

The Russian didn’t respond, but Sinclair knew he’d understood.

He squatted down next to him. ‘I’ll give you a choice, sport. Tell me who your friend in the suit is and I’ll put you out of your misery.’ He drew his Kabar combat knife and began cutting. ‘Or don’t, and we’ll get to find out just how much pain you can take.’

FORTY-ONE

The car was a rust-stained Ford that was almost as old as Gisele. It barely looked roadworthy but her companion selected it over newer, better vehicles. At first she didn’t understand why, but then she knew: it had no alarm as standard and was too neglected to have acquired one. She watched, a little in awe, as it took him six seconds to jimmy the lock and less than twenty to cross the wires beneath the steering column to get the engine started. She’d known cars could be hotwired, but had never seen anyone actually do it. The ease with which he managed it surprised her.

‘Get in,’ he said.

She didn’t care for the way the those two short words sounded suspiciously close to an order, but now was not the time to discuss his manners. She did as instructed, reluctantly at first because she knew it was stolen. She saw that he noticed she didn’t like getting into a stolen car any more than she’d liked him torturing and executing a man. He didn’t comment though.

Gisele slumped in the passenger seat and closed the door. She fastened her seat belt and he pulled away from the kerb, accelerating hard. Cars and buildings flashed past the window. She glimpsed smudges of people and the blur of bright signs glowing through the rain and night. Her companion drove like a racing driver — fast but in control, effortlessly weaving through the traffic while Gisele braced against the forces trying to fling her from side to side. He braked sharply to avoid a turning bus and the seat belt stopped her hurtling forward. Before she had taken a breath the force of the car’s acceleration pushed her back into the seat. From the corner of her eye she saw him glancing at her — concerned for her or what she might be doing, she didn’t know. She kept her own gaze forward and her mind on keeping the contents of her stomach where it belonged. Thank God she hadn’t eaten for hours.

She looked at his face. It was as blank as it had been when she had first met him in Yvette’s flat, as if nothing had happened between then and now.

‘Aren’t you scared?’ she said.

He didn’t answer her. It didn’t matter. She was scared enough for both of them.

‘I… I’ve never seen anyone die before. I’ve never even seen a corpse… This is crazy.’

‘There’ll be time to reflect later. For now, we need to put as much distance between us and the warehouse as possible.’

A horn blared as they overtook another car. She looked over her shoulder to see the silhouette of the car’s driver gesticulating his anger. She turned back, reaching out to grab the dashboard in an effort to steady herself as he performed another fast overtake.

A moment later, Gisele noticed the car was slowing down.

‘Why are you…?’

She stopped herself because she saw lights flashing ahead and seconds later the wailing of sirens reached her ears and a police car sped past them in the opposite lane. She twisted in her seat to watch it disappear into the distance.

‘Do you think they’re heading to the warehouse?’

‘Most certainly.’

‘Will those gunmen still be there?’

He shook his head. ‘They’ll be long gone by now. Like us. That’s why we have to keep moving.’

She thought of the terror she’d felt hiding behind the desk, waiting to be killed.

Tears welled in her eyes and she wiped them away with a sleeve before he could notice. She was determined not to cry. She didn’t want to be weak. Tears were losing control of emotions and she had to stay in control. She felt strange; not exactly scared but hyper-alert and aware of every sound and sight and sensation assailing her. She’d experienced something similar experimenting with drugs at university. This was real though, not some chemical artificially changing her consciousness. Her ears were hot. She placed a thumb to her neck to feel her pulse. The bursts of pressure were so fast she couldn’t count them.

‘Are you okay?’ the man asked as he accelerated again now the police car had vanished into the distance behind them.

A moment ago the answer would have been yes. Now, she felt panicked. ‘My pulse,’ she said. ‘My heart is beating too fast. I’m scared.’

He reached across and put the tips of two fingers over her carotid artery, driving one-handed. He held the fingers there for a few seconds. ‘Your pulse is about one hundred and thirty-two beats per minute. That’s fast, but nothing to be scared of. Breathe deeply and hold before releasing slowly.’

She did. Nothing to be scared of, she repeated in her thoughts.

‘There you go,’ he said. ‘It’s dropping already. You’re fine.’

She nodded. She didn’t feel fine but she felt slightly better.

‘What you’re feeling is perfectly normal.’

‘Then why aren’t you going through the same?’

‘This isn’t my first time in combat.’

‘Are you saying you’re used to it? How do you get used to it?’

‘Like anything else: with experience.’

Gisele stared at him. She wanted to ask what other experiences he’d had, but at the same time she also didn’t want to know. She kept her lips closed.

She watched the man as he drove, studying his expressionless face and rigid posture. Whoever he was, whatever his name, however he claimed to be protecting her, could she really trust him? No, she told herself. He glanced her way and she had been too lost in thought to look aside before their gazes met. His eyes were as black as the night outside. She didn’t know who he was. She didn’t know where he was taking her. She swallowed her fear before it could smash through her façade of composure.

She sat upright. If he wasn’t going to suggest it then she was. ‘We ought to go to the police.’

‘Why?’

‘What do you mean, why? Because of what just happened. The shooting. The killing. Armed men attacked us. This is a huge deal. We were involved. We have to explain what happened.’

‘It won’t do any good.’

She stared, incredulous. ‘How did you work that out?’

He said nothing.

She looked at him. ‘You mean it won’t do any good for you, don’t you?’

He didn’t answer.

‘Because you killed two men. Shit, you tortured one too. Oh God, this is crazy. You’re psychotic.’

‘I did it to protect you.’

‘Then tell them that. I’m a witness. I can back you up —’

He was shaking his head. ‘I’m not going to the police under any circumstances.’

‘And what about me? I can go. I’ll explain what happened.’

‘They’ll work it out eventually by themselves.’

‘That’s not the point. It’s our civic duty to report a crime. We have to. It’s the law. They can help us. They can help me.’

‘No, they can’t.’

‘That’s what they do. That’s the point. Slow down.’

‘Soon,’ he said.

‘Slow down,’ she insisted. ‘Now. You’re going to get us both killed.’

‘When we’re far enough away from danger, I will. Not before.’

She thumbed the button to release the seat belt. It swiftly glanced across her chest.

He saw. ‘Put that back on.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘It stays off until you slow down.’

He took his eyes from the road to meet with hers. She fought not to blink under the intensity of his gaze, but she held firm. She needed to make this stand.

He looked away and the car began to slow to something approaching the speed limit.

‘Engage the seat belt,’ he said.

She reached for it. ‘If you drive crazy again, it comes off. Understood?’ He nodded and she pushed the clasp back in the receiver. ‘Alex used to drive like a maniac when I was a kid. I hated being in the car with him. That’s probably why it took me so long to learn to drive.’

‘Understood,’ the man said.

‘Now, please, if you don’t mind, take me to the police so I can sort this mess out.’

He said, ‘There is no way to sort it, at least not for the police. You need protection and the police aren’t going to protect you. They’re going to take your statement and drive you home and leave a car outside your building overnight. And then what happens if they don’t catch whoever is after you? Do you think that car will stay outside for the rest of your life? What about at your office?’ She said nothing. ‘The police are not bodyguards. They will investigate thoroughly and completely, but only once you’re dead. Until then, you’re a waste of their resources.’

‘So you’re saying I’m helpless?’

‘No. I’ll help you. We’ll get through this together.’

She was shaking her head before he had finished. ‘No. Just take me to a police station, please.’

‘Not now. We have to create some distance first. If you still want to later, I will.’

She nodded because she didn’t believe him and she didn’t want him to know. ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Then we call Alex. We need to find out if the others are okay and let Yigor know what happened.’

He didn’t respond.

‘Did you hear me? I want to know if Dmitri and the others got away.’

‘Later.’

‘Fine,’ she said again. ‘In the meantime, I have to use a bathroom.’

‘Soon. You’ll have to hold it.’

‘I can’t.’

His eyes flicked between the road and hers. She felt as though he would see through the lie had he not had to keep glancing away.

‘Okay,’ he said, finally.

FORTY-TWO

The car stopped a few minutes later and Gisele was opening the door before he had finished applying the handbrake.

‘I’m leaving the engine running,’ he told her. ‘Be as fast as you can. If you hear a horn, I want you back here fast. Understand?’

She nodded without looking at him. ‘I’ve got it.’

The garage forecourt was empty of other cars. He’d parked close to the entrance of the store and she hurried the short distance to the doors, pushing one open with a shoulder and stepping into the warmth. The bright fluorescent lights made her squint after so long in the car. She searched with her eyes for the sign to the bathroom. A small sign was affixed to the wall above a door near to the counter.

‘You have to buy something,’ the young man said from behind a till.

‘I just want to splash some water on my face. I’ll be quick. Please.’

He was shaking his head before she’d finished talking. ‘You have to buy something.’

Gisele sighed and fished around in her pockets and collected some coins in a palm. She turned over her hand to set them down on the counter and headed for the bathroom.

‘What are you buying?’ the man asked.

She pushed open the door. ‘Anything. It doesn’t matter. You pick.’

Inside, she engaged the lock and leaned back against it. She took big, urgent gulps of air, then remembered what her companion had said and slowed her breathing and felt calmer. She didn’t need to use the toilet. She didn’t want to splash water on her face. She didn’t know what to think or do. She figured she had about five minutes before he would come looking for her. Gisele studied her reflection in the small mirror mounted above a sink stained with limescale. The harsh light wasn’t doing her skin any favours. She was always struggling with her complexion but now her make-up was smudged and her mascara had run. She was pale and drawn and her eyes were red and puffy. Her hair was a mess. Not that any of it mattered now.

She took her phone from her coat pocket. Gisele thumbed the screen and tapped in her code to unlock it. There were numerous texts and messages and updates and notifications that competed for her attention but she ignored them all and tapped the icon to make a call. Then she tapped nine-nine-nine.

Her thumb hovered over the dial icon.

We can’t go to the police, he’d said. He would say that. He’d killed at least two men, torturing one of them. Whoever was after her, he was just as bad as they were. She didn’t know who he was. She didn’t even know his name. He’d rescued her, but from who? For all she knew, the men chasing her might be the good guys. Her companion certainly wasn’t. The police hadn’t been much help before, but she understood why. Nothing had actually happened to her. No crime had been committed. But they would help her now people were dead. They would believe her. They would protect her. Like her nameless companion had.

‘Shit,’ she whispered aloud.

Whoever he was, whatever he had done, he had risked his life to protect her. The two men who had chased them to the train yard had shot at them, or at least him. If it hadn’t been for her companion, who knows where she would be now. Captured? Dead?

Gisele pushed the home button to cancel the call and slid the phone back inside her pocket. She wasn’t prepared to sell him out to the police after what he’d done, but she had spent enough time in his company. She stood on her tiptoes to unlatch the window lock and push the window open. She slid off her coat and pushed it through the gap, climbing up as it fell out of sight and wriggling through after it. It was only a short drop to the ground outside. It felt like nothing after the drop from the warehouse window.

He was waiting for her. She didn’t see him straight away as he was standing with his back to the wall, out of her line of sight until she turned her head. Startled, she put a palm to her chest.

‘Come on, Gisele,’ he said. ‘We don’t have time for this.’

‘Get away from me, you fucking psycho.’

‘We’ve been through this,’ he said, stepping towards her.

‘You’re a psychopath. You murdered a defenceless man.’

‘You wouldn’t let me torture him. So no logical reason to keep him alive. He’ll be one less enemy to potentially deal with at a later time.’

‘You call that logic? He was wounded. He wasn’t a threat. He was shot, for God’s sake. And you could still have questioned him.’

‘To no gain,’ he said. ‘You took away his incentive to tell the truth. Any answer he gave would have been a lie.’

Her eyes were wide with shock and disgust at his blunt logic. She didn’t know how to respond at first. ‘You… you can’t be sure of that.’

‘Hence the necessity of torture.’

‘That’s no justification. Torture does not work. In my research —’

He cut her off. ‘When all this is over I’ll happily debate with you the merits or demerits of torture. But we don’t have time. We need to go. I’m here to protect you, Gisele. And to do that, you have to stay with me until this is over.’

She stepped away from him. ‘Until what is over? What is this?’

‘Until the threat against your father is over.’

‘Stepfather. Those guys back there, they weren’t Russian gangsters, were they? At the train tracks, that man was British.’

‘He was. As for the others, I don’t know. But you’re right, they’re not Russian mob.’

She kept backing away as he approached. ‘Then who are they?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘What do they want with Alex?’

‘I don’t know that either. But they want you for it.’

‘And you can stop them?’

He hesitated. She hadn’t expected that. She ceased backing away because he was no longer coming towards her.

‘I can’t promise that,’ he said, finally. ‘But there’s nothing I won’t do trying.’

She saw the sincerity in his eyes even if she couldn’t bring herself to believe him.

He continued: ‘The police can’t help you. We have no evidence. We have no idea who these people are or what it is they’re after, beyond you. The police can’t do anything with that. By the time they work out what’s going on, you’ll be dead. I can’t allow that. I won’t allow it.’

‘It’s not up to you,’ she protested. ‘It’s my life. I’m in charge of me. However much you care about it, you don’t care about it as much as I do. I’m not a child. I don’t know you. I don’t have to do what you say. If I want to go the police, then you should respect my decision.’

‘It’s not about respecting you or not. In this instance, I know more about these things than you do and I’m the best person to make decisions on how to keep you alive.’

‘Maybe so, and I will carefully consider your advice. But, ultimately, I make my own decisions. You can’t force me to do what you say.’ She read his look. ‘Are you telling me I don’t have a choice?’

‘I’m telling you that it’s better if you come with me willingly.’

‘So you’re prepared to kidnap me to stop them kidnapping me?’

‘It’s not like that.’

‘What is it then? What else do you call it?’

‘Protective custody.’

‘With emphasis on the word custody.’

He said, ‘For your own good. So I can make sure no harm comes to you.’

‘You say it as if you really mean it.’

‘Please, Gisele. Stay with me until morning. Let me protect you until then, at least. Get some sleep and at first light if you want to go to the police then I’ll drop you off at the nearest station. By morning, the police will have a good idea of what happened at the warehouse so you’re more likely to be believed than if you go now. But until then you need to be at my side. Whoever attacked the warehouse is still out there and if they tried that hard to get to you, they will be looking for you now. So we have to get off the streets.’

She eyed him, suspicious but failing to find a lie. ‘You’ll really take me to the police in the morning if I want?’

He nodded.

‘Swear?’

He nodded.

‘Say it.’

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I swear.’

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I’ll stay with you tonight. But only because I can’t get my head around any of this and I don’t even know what I’d tell the police. You’re right, I need to sleep and I have to think.’

‘Good. First, we need to destroy your phone. Before you protest, it could be traced. I’ll buy you a new one.’

A sigh. ‘Fine.’

He led her back to the car and they climbed in.

After a moment, Gisele said, ‘What would you have done if I hadn’t come with you willingly?’

He turned released the handbrake and checked the mirrors. He didn’t look at her. ‘It’s probably best if I don’t answer that.’

FORTY-THREE

They drove through rundown areas looking worse for the night and rain. Rubbish bags were piled up near lamp posts, graffiti covered walls and bus stops were vandalised. High streets consisted of betting shops and 99p stores and a multitude of fast-food outlets.

The café Victor selected was open all night and had the red-and-white bands of the Polish flag in the signage. The air inside seemed thick with the smell of grease and loud with an argument in the kitchen that flowed through the fly strips hanging down over an open doorway.

Victor took a seat so his back was against the far wall and stopped Gisele when she went to sit down opposite him.

‘That one,’ he said, pointing to the chair next to her.

She glanced over her shoulder at the large plate-glass window at the front of the café and didn’t comment as she took it. He liked that she understood without being told that he wanted a clear view of the street outside. She was no professional, but she was a fast learner.

Victor ordered the soup of the day and a coffee and wouldn’t allow Gisele to just have the tap water she asked for.

‘She’ll have a Coke,’ he said for her.

When the waiter had gone, she said, ‘Don’t do that again.’

‘Do what?’

‘Order for me. Don’t tell me what I can and can’t have.’

‘You need the sugar, Gisele. It’ll help calm you down.’

She studied him. ‘Then say that. Don’t treat me like I’m an idiot.’

He nodded. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not used to having to explain myself.’

She shrugged. ‘It’s okay. I can see you’re not good with people.’

He didn’t respond to that. They waited in silence for a moment.

Gisele said, ‘I have a friend from uni days. She lives in Chiswick. We could stay with her.’

‘No,’ the man said. ‘Now they’ve lost us they could be watching people you know, expecting you to seek refuge.’

‘Shit,’ she said.

‘It’s okay. It helps us.’

She nodded, understanding. ‘So they’ll be spread thin.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Then I wish I had more friends.’ She sighed and stood. ‘I have to use the bathroom,’ then added when she saw his look: ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to try and sneak off again. Lesson learned and all that.’

‘The thought never occurred to me.’

He watched her walk to the bathroom.

The soup and the Coke arrived while Gisele was in the bathroom. The soup was Polish tomato and it was served hot enough to make an excellent projectile weapon, should it come to it. Victor ordered a second bowl of it and a ham sandwich for Gisele, figuring she’d gain her appetite when she saw it.

‘Don’t be thinking I’m eating that,’ she said as she sat down. ‘I have a rule about not putting anything in my mouth that had four legs and a face. Or two legs. Or fins. Anything that was alive, basically.’

He looked at her.

Before he could respond, she snapped, ‘Don’t give me any shit about it or I’ll tear your head off. I kid you not.’

‘I can tell, and I assure you I wasn’t going to give you any…’ he left a pause, ‘about it. I respect your self-discipline.’

‘Really?’

He nodded. ‘Yes, really. Any wilful sacrifice is worthy of respect.’

‘Why do I feel like you’re trying to take the piss?’

‘I don’t know why you feel like that. Maybe I’m not very good at giving out compliments or you’re not good at receiving them.’

Gisele’s face softened and she said, ‘Probably both.’ She popped the tab of the can of Coke and took a gulp. She burped. ‘Sorry.’

Victor ate his soup while keeping his gaze on the passing foot and vehicular traffic. There was only one other customer — an old guy in a huge trench coat who dipped biscuits into a mug of tea. The argument in the kitchen flared up intermittently. Victor’s Polish was rusty, but he got the gist of it. The new hiring wasn’t working hard enough but didn’t much like being told so. Victor guessed they were members of the same family.

‘Good?’ Gisele asked.

‘The soup?’

‘Yeah, the soup.’

He nodded. ‘Make sure you drink all of that Coke.’

‘Yes, Dad. What’s next?’

‘We’ll ditch the car and take public transport. The more we vary our route and our mode of transportation, the harder we’ll be to track. A moving target is a hard target.’

She sighed. He saw that the enormity of the predicament was weighing on her so asked, ‘How long have you lived in London?’

‘Half my life, I guess.’ The distraction worked. She relaxed a little. ‘I used to board in a private school in Buckinghamshire. My mother had been taught there and wanted me to have the education she’d had. I don’t know why. She grew up to marry a gangster. Great use of her education there, right? Maybe she wanted me to reach the same lofty heights. In the holidays I would go back to Russia. Within a few years it didn’t feel like home any more. I always hated Alex and couldn’t wait to come back to England. Then, when Mum died I stopped flying back in the holidays and stayed with friends. I barely heard from Alex and made no effort to contact him. He carried on putting money in my bank account every month, and I even hated him for that. I still spent it, of course. I figured he owed me for what he put me and my mother through. Now, I feel like a hypocrite for taking his money when I know how he made it. I put the deposit down on my flat with his money. I intend to pay it back eventually, when I’m actually earning a real wage.’

‘Commendable of you.’

‘Maybe. It seems to me I have to work twice as hard to be a good person because of who he is. Not that it makes any sense.’

‘Is that why you want to be a lawyer?’

‘I guess so. I originally wanted to be a lawyer so I could go after Alex.’ She laughed. ‘I’ll put that down to teen angst though. Now, I’ve calmed down a little and I don’t want to use the law against people but for them. I’m not sure why I’m telling you all this when you’re a criminal like him.’

‘I’m nothing like him.’

Her forehead creased. ‘Yeah, right. How are you so very different then?’

He thought for a moment. ‘I keep my word. I would never betray an ally.’

She studied him. ‘So Alex betrayed you?’

He nodded.

‘Then why are you helping him?’

‘I told you: I’m not doing it for him.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Yeah, I remember. It’s all for my wonderful mother. I hope I’m as great as her one day.’ She looked away and finished the can of Coke, then tapped her nails against it. ‘Last night, I saw this moth with only one wing, trying to fly. It made me so sad.’

Victor had no idea how to respond.

FORTY-FOUR

London was a twenty-four-hour city. Taxis and buses flowed along its arterial streets all through the night. The bus’s route wasn’t important. After leaving the café they had taken the first that had arrived at the stop. Victor paid cash for his ticket while Gisele had a prepaid travel card she touched against the reader. The driver was an old Jamaican with two thick strips of white hair above his ears. He didn’t hide his annoyance at having to pick up the handful of coins Victor had paid with. A few tired souls occupied seats on the bottom level, all sitting as far away from one another as the seating arrangement would let them. A woman in a green coat looked up from her book at Victor as he passed her.

He directed Gisele to the back of the bus where they sat down near a man in work boots and a padded jacket, enjoying the extra warmth generated by the bus’s engine. When the man alighted two stops later, Victor took his seat so he was next to the emergency exit. He gestured for Gisele to follow him.

‘Precaution,’ he explained and she nodded.

He liked that she didn’t ask him to explain his actions any more than he had to. A group of rowdy young guys boarded and stood in the centre of the bus. They had the loud voices and exaggerated movements of inebriation. They laughed and joked about their evening so far and were expecting more fun when they reached their next destination. One looked Gisele’s way and Victor smelled the trouble in the air as easily as he could smell the alcohol and cologne. Even a drunk man could see that Victor and Gisele were no couple with the age gap and lack of intimacy. He was tall and well built with perfectly styled hair, shiny tanned skin and shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal forearms covered in elaborate ink. He took a step forward, swaying under the bus’s movements, holding on to a bar for support.

No, Victor mouthed.

The young guy stopped, doing a double take, not quite understanding the situation initially but his lizard brain knew danger when it saw it despite the alcohol and he snapped his eyes away. Gisele glanced across at Victor but said nothing.

In part to hide his embarrassment and in part on the hunt for further amusement, the young guy with the perfect hair turned his attention to the nearest available alternative: the woman in a green coat who sat near him, reading a paperback book, doing her best not to attract the attention of the group.

He lifted it from her hands, asking, ‘What you got there, darlin’?’

She stiffened under the sudden violation of her personal space and property. The fear in her eyes was as obvious as the menace had been in Victor’s. She pushed herself back in her seat to create space between her and the man with the forearm tattoos.

‘Men can be such idiots,’ Gisele said. ‘Can’t he see he’s frightening her?’

Victor said nothing. He watched the scene before them.

The woman in the green coat didn’t answer. The young guy flicked through the book, saying, ‘Haven’t read one of these since school. Any good?’

Undeterred by her silence, he took the seat next to her. She recoiled and tried to stand up to get past him.

‘Hey, don’t be like that. I’m trying to be friendly here.’

He grabbed her by the wrist to pull her back on to the seat and she slapped him.

‘Shit,’ he hissed.

The slap and his reaction stunned the rest of the bus, including his friends, into silence.

‘Give me my book and leave me alone,’ she said.

One of the friends said, ‘You didn’t have to hit him.’

‘Don’t be such a prick-tease,’ another added.

‘This is going to get bad,’ Gisele said to Victor. ‘Do something.’

He shook his head. ‘We don’t draw attention to ourselves.’

The young guy with the perfect hair and shiny tanned skin stood and the woman backed away from him, but into his friends. They didn’t restrain her, but they didn’t get out of her way either. He rubbed his cheek and threw the book to the floor.

‘How would you like it if I slapped you?’ he asked.

‘What’s going on back there?’ the bus driver shouted.

‘Do something,’ Gisele said again. ‘You can stop this.’

Victor didn’t respond.

The woman said, ‘Just leave me alone. I didn’t ask you to sit next to me.’

‘I was trying to be friendly,’ the young guy responded. ‘And you fuckin’ slapped me.’

‘You scared me.’

‘Do I look like a scary bloke to you?’ he asked, stepping forward until he was inches from her face, then leaning closer, using his height and size to best advantage, threatening by proximity, making her recoil down and away.

‘Stop that, you dickhead,’ Gisele said, and stood. ‘Leave her alone.’

She took Victor by surprise and he wasn’t fast enough to stop her. She’d already taken a step forward before his hand had grabbed her coat.

The young guy turned towards Gisele. ‘Stay out of it.’

‘What exactly is your problem?’ she said in response. ‘Are you that pathetic you have to feel like a man by intimidating women?’

Victor tried to pull her back but she resisted. ‘Let go of me.’

‘No.’

The young guy, seeing the chance to distract from the insult, saw this and laughed. ‘Looks like this is the party bus tonight, boys.’

His friends joined in the laughter.

Gisele turned to face Victor. ‘Let go of me right now or this is nothing to the amount of attention I will bring on us.’

He saw the strength of will in her eyes and released her coat. He knew better than anyone that some battles could not be won by force alone.

She turned back and approached the young guy with perfect hair. ‘Get off at the next stop and teach yourself some basic manners. You’ll thank me in the morning.’

‘You don’t get to tell me what to do. Who the fuck do you think you are?’

Victor stood and moved closer, keeping out of the way in respect for Gisele’s wishes, but close enough to intervene should it prove necessary. Including the tanned guy with the tattoos, there were five. They were young and fit; the latter because they went to the gym to look good, not for health, but building muscle to attract women built strength too. A reasonable level of endurance could be expected, based on age if nothing else, but no fighting experience beyond the occasional street brawl that was over in a punch or two. They didn’t yet know how exhausting real combat could be. They wouldn’t find out either, if it came to it, because it would be over long before they tired.

Gisele said, ‘I’m not telling you what to do. I’m telling you what you should do.’

He frowned, confused and insulted and embarrassed in front of his friends. ‘Ah, fuck off,’ he said and shoved Gisele.

Victor was already moving but she snapped out her hand, grabbing the guy’s fist, her thumb across his knuckle line, twisting clockwise, rolling the fist and wrist and elbow until the arm was pointing up and locked and all the pressure was in his shoulder, trying to torque the joint past where the socket would let it go. Her free hand pushing down against the guy’s up-turned elbow increased the pressure and forced him down until he was on his knees, grunting and wailing.

The speed and violence of the move stunned his friends, but only for a second. One stepped forward. Then another. The others would soon follow.

Victor said to them, ‘Of all the times in your life that you need to make the right decision, this is the most important.’

One said, ‘What does that mean?’

‘It means I’m giving you all the chance to go home tonight without a detour to the hospital. Take it.’

They hesitated. He stared each one in the eye, seeing each fighting the internal battle between courage and fear and showing them that in turn he fought none.

‘Let go of me,’ the young guy with the tattoos yelled at Gisele.

‘Once you’ve apologised to her.’

The woman in the green coat, wide-eyed, said, ‘That’s… that’s really not necessary.’

Gisele applied extra pressure to the lock and the young guy yelled, ‘Okay, okay, I’m sorry.’

‘And you’ll get off at the next stop?’ Gisele asked.

‘Yes.’

Victor used a knuckle to ring the bell and the bus came to a stop a moment later. The doors hissed open and Gisele released the hold. The young guy with the no-longer perfect hair struggled to his feet with the help of his friends and they disembarked. Victor didn’t take his gaze from them until the doors had hissed closed again and they were throwing insults from the safety of the pavement outside.

‘Are you okay?’ Gisele asked the woman in the green coat.

She nodded with enthusiasm. ‘You totally kicked his ass. Thank you.’

Gisele smiled in response. ‘You’re welcome.’

Victor touched her on the shoulder. ‘We have to get off this bus.’

FORTY-FIVE

What a day. Andrei Linnekin sipped from a bottle of Peroni and took a bite from his takeaway burger. He sat behind his desk in the office above his club. He had not taken away the food, of course, but one of the idiots working for him had fetched it. The idiot was not only stupid but slow. The burger was barely lukewarm. Still, Linnekin was hungry and wolfed down the food. The man he’d sent was one of the ones busted over the head by the asshole in the suit. He looked ridiculous with bandages wrapped around his skull. Linnekin was making him, and the others, jump through hoops, keeping them on their toes with fear of what he might do in retribution for their failure. He didn’t let on that they would not be punished, that it was he who felt responsible for what had happened to them. He hoped that soon the matter would be satisfactorily resolved.

Moran had wisely fled the city, if the rumours were to be believed. Linnekin had all sorts of pain planned for him if he ever returned. True loyalty could not be bought. It had to be enforced.

There were practical considerations too. His men expected him to be strong. His enemies would only fear him if they believed him to be strong. His bosses would remove him if he was shown to be anything but strong.

He didn’t feel strong, but he kept that to himself. He finished the last of the burger — leaving the gherkin — and washed it down with the rest of the Peroni. A king’s banquet, he thought to himself.

Commotion from beyond his office door made him sit upright and reach for the sawn-off shotgun he kept behind his desk. He held it out of sight as a precaution. It would not do for his few remaining able men to see him with a gun in hand unless it was unavoidable. If they thought him scared, they would be scared in turn and he needed them fearless.

They had pistols in shoulder rigs or tucked in waistbands, plus shivs, knuckledusters and an assortment of other tools for killing and maiming. Linnekin didn’t pay too much attention. His only concern was that his men were better equipped than London’s police force. He couldn’t quite believe it when he had first arrived in the city and been informed of this. Don’t insult my intelligence he had said, thinking he was being played for a fool. Then, when he realised it was the truth: Are they trying to make it easy for us? Imbeciles. He’d subsequently learned about the armed response teams, but knowing that the regular cops carried nothing more fearsome than a club was a source of constant amusement.

The door opened. A figure stood in the doorway. A woman with blonde hair and green eyes. Her.

‘Hello, Andrei,’ Anderton said, pleasant and courteous.

He toyed with the beer bottle. ‘I find it funny how you English speakers use that word to greet one another in person when it was invented specifically for use with the telephone.’

‘How educational,’ she said, stepping into the room.

‘What do you want?’

‘I see I’ve interrupted your dinner.’

Linnekin brushed the greasy burger wrapping to one side. ‘I’m done. Why are you here? You told me that I’d never see you again.’

‘This is true. But circumstances have evolved since our last conversation.’

‘I haven’t got the girl, if that’s what you mean. I delegated it to a man named Blake Moran. I —’

She interrupted him. Linnekin hated such disrespect, but managed to maintain his composure.

‘I know. I’ve known the whole time. But I’m not here because of the girl. I’m here because I’d like to talk to you about the man who came to see you.’

Linnekin took his time before responding. She had interrupted him. Now she could wait.

‘You mean the man who cracked open the skulls of two of my men and threatened to kill me? The man who only did so because of the — how did you put it? — favour you asked of me.’

‘There was no favour. You were well paid for your services.’

‘We’ll have to disagree on that,’ Linnekin said. ‘I’m not in the kidnapping business, as I told you before. But you didn’t leave me any choice, did you? With all those thinly veiled threats.’

Anderton took a seat opposite him.

‘I don’t remember asking you to sit down.’

She smiled at him. ‘You must have forgotten your manners. Momentarily, of course. And, yes,’ she said, in answer to his earlier question. ‘That’s the man I mean. He’s caused me a lot of problems tonight.’

‘I’ll shed a tear for you later.’

She pursed her lips and nodded. Linnekin was glad of any offence he could cause. He both feared her and hated her and was determined not to let this woman think she had any control over him.

One of Linnekin’s doormen stumbled through the doorway behind her. His face was bloody.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Linnekin. They —’

He waved his hand. ‘Just get out.’

The doorman left.

‘Did you have to do that?’ Linnekin asked.

She smiled. ‘I assure you, I was most polite.’

‘Can we get to the point?’

‘Of course. May I have something to drink? I’m a little thirsty.’

Linnekin said, ‘Sure. My bladder’s full.’ He reached for his flies.

‘I’ll let that one go, but only because I know what you’re doing. You don’t like me. I understand. You’re not used to taking orders from anyone. Least of all a woman, yes? And especially not when that results in you being embarrassed in front of your men. But you need to understand who I am. You need to understand that you only exist in this city by grace of me and me alone. With one email I can have every one of your men arrested.’

He shrugged to hide his anger and fear. ‘So, what? You have nothing on me. You’re a devil, but you’re a government succubus. You wouldn’t dare coming after me, head on.’

She considered for a moment. ‘Perhaps, but why should I when with one phone call I can have your poppy fields in northern Helmand burned to ashes.’

He stiffened at the threat.

She saw it, and smiled. ‘How will you explain that one to the bosses back home?’

Linnekin, teeth clenched, exhaled through his nose. ‘What do you want?’

‘I’ve told you: information about your visitor. Six-two, dark hair and eyes, suit. What is his name?’

‘He didn’t give one.’

‘What did he say to you?’

‘He was looking for the girl. He thought she’d been taken.’

She absorbed this. ‘What else?’

‘That was about it.’

‘I’m sure there was more to your discussion than that. He killed three of Moran’s men and disabled two of yours. That’s a lot of damage, just to ask one question.’

‘He didn’t say who he was and I wasn’t in a position to interrogate him, okay?’

‘Did you tell him about me?’

Ah, the point.

Linnekin said, ‘I don’t know anything about you, do I?’

‘That’s not answering my question.’

‘He had a gun to my head. I was at his mercy. What did you expect me to do?’

She nodded, false sympathy and faux understanding smeared across her perfectly made-up face.

‘Do you know why I hired you in the first place?’

Linnekin shrugged. ‘Because you’re lazy?’

‘Cute. I hired you because I didn’t want any blowback. I didn’t want to be connected. I wanted someone to kidnap the girl for me; someone who didn’t know why and didn’t know who she was.’

‘And your point is?’

‘Now you do. Now I’m connected because you’re connected. My point is that means we’re either enemies or friends.’

‘Which would you prefer?’

‘I think it’s more a case of which would you prefer, Andrei.’

‘What do you English say about with friends like these…?’

‘We also say the enemy of my enemy is my friend.’

‘What are you proposing?’

‘We work together to solve this problem. I believe this man is still in London with the girl. Your network has eyes and ears. Keep them open. That’s it.’

Linnekin considered. ‘And if we spot them?’

‘Inform me. My people will do the rest.’

‘Aside from his face, I know nothing about him.’

‘That’s no problem. He’s with the girl. Look for her and you’ll find them both.’

Linnekin nodded. ‘Okay. Deal. I know what he did to warrant my vengeance, but what is this girl to you?’

Anderton didn’t answer. She stood up and left. Linnekin watched her go, hoping the suited man would kill her to save him the bother. But he wanted the man for himself. He had given his word.

FORTY-SIX

It was still raining when they alighted a few stops later, leaving enough of a distance between them and the group of drunk guys to ensure they did not cross paths again, but not staying on the bus for any longer than they had to. He found another car to steal, this time a twenty-year-old Vauxhall estate.

‘That was a nice move back there,’ Victor said when they were both inside. ‘But you really shouldn’t have got involved.’

‘I’m not like you. I wasn’t going to let him hurt her.’

‘He didn’t hurt her.’

‘Not physically, at least not at that point. But no one deserves to be intimidated like that.’

Victor said, ‘But when you intervened you couldn’t have known what the end result would be. Had I had to become involved, things could have turned out very differently.’

‘Or maybe I knew that as soon as that greasy prick was challenged, he would back down. Maybe you need to start giving me a little more credit. I’ve been taking self-defence classes for months. I knew what I was doing. Plus, I carry a can of pepper spray, just in case.’

‘It could have escalated into something very bad for both of us.’

‘But it didn’t, did it?’

‘No,’ he admitted.

‘And it didn’t put us at any additional risk, did it?’

He hesitated, then had no choice but to agree. ‘It did not.’

She stopped and looked at him. ‘So what exactly is your problem?’

He considered her and if not for the danger they were in might have smiled. ‘You’ll make a good lawyer some day, Gisele. Of that, I have no doubt.’

‘I’ll take that as you conceding the argument.’

He didn’t answer. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the beginnings of a smile, but it disappeared within a heartbeat and she said:

‘Maybe you need to start trusting me.’

He nodded to placate her. He didn’t trust her — not when their lives were in danger. But he was impressed with her resolve. She was calmer than any civilian should be in such a situation. For now, at least, he did not have to be concerned with Gisele’s actions or inactions further complicating his job.

Except, this was no job. It was a favour on behalf of a dead woman. He focused on the road ahead to prevent the memories surfacing. This wasn’t the moment to let himself be distracted. Both for his sake and the sake of the young woman sitting next to him.

She didn’t ask where they were going, but he guessed that was because the enormity of what had happened was hitting home. He expected her to cry, but she didn’t. His eyes flicked between the mirrors as he drove, watching out for pursuers, but after ten minutes he was sure there were none. After another ten he allowed himself to think about what to do next. The immediate danger may have passed but a whole new level of threat had materialised. Whoever these guys were, they were not Russians and they were not gangsters. They were mercenaries. Good ones.

Eventually Gisele said, ‘We can’t wait any longer. We need to find out if Dmitri and the others made it. Back at the warehouse, I mean. We shouldn’t have left them. We need to contact Alex or Yigor.’

‘No,’ Victor said.

‘Don’t be a bastard. They were trying to protect me just as much as you were. Maybe more so. I need to know they’re okay. I’m worried about them.’

‘They’re all dead, so stop worrying.’

‘I can’t believe you just said that. You can’t be sure they’re dead.’

Victor said nothing to that. Apart from Yigor, the Russians were all dead. He stayed quiet because Gisele wasn’t ready to accept it.

‘As you killed my phone, let me borrow yours for a minute so I can call Alex.’

‘I don’t have a phone.’

Her eyes widened with disbelief. ‘What? Then you’re the only person who doesn’t.’

‘I came to the same conclusion myself.’

‘This is ridiculous.’ The annoyance turned to despair. ‘I need to know if they’re all right. I need to know…’ She exhaled sharply. ‘You don’t give a shit about them, do you?’

He saw the hostility in her eyes. He was used to such looks but it was essential to keep her on side. He couldn’t protect her if she saw him as an enemy. ‘Okay, I’ll call your stepfather.’

A few minutes later he stopped the car next to a payphone and left the engine running and the driver’s door open while he went inside to call Norimov.

As soon as the line connected, Victor said, ‘She’s okay.’

Norimov breathed a huge sigh of relief. ‘Put her on the phone.’

Victor looked at her sitting in the passenger seat, rubbing her shoulder, staring expectantly at him, waiting to hear about Dmitri and the others. He shook his head and he watched as she put her face in her hands.

‘Not now,’ Victor said. ‘What do you know?’

‘Only what Yigor told me. He called not long before you did.’

‘Which is?’ Victor asked.

‘That when he tried returning to the warehouse it was swarming with cops.’

He thought about this for a moment, then summarised the attack and subsequent escape, finishing with ‘Dmitri and the others are dead.’

‘That hurts me. My poor boys. They were good men.’

‘No one who works for you is a good man.’

‘They died for me — for Gisele. Whatever wrongs they did before then is irrelevant. When Gisele is safe I will grieve for them. They deserve that of me, at least.’

‘Gisele is far from safe. The assaulters were mercenaries — pros — with suppressed MP5s, body armour and flashbangs. I’ve killed two of them, maybe three, but there are as many more still alive. What aren’t you telling me, Alex?’

‘I… I don’t understand what you mean.’

‘A rival organisation is not going to hire a team of professional mercenaries just to kidnap your daughter. That seems a little excessive, don’t you think?’

‘I agree. They must have known I sent men to London to protect her.’

Victor didn’t respond. ‘If there’s something you’re keeping from me then you should know I’m going to find out what it is, and you’d better pray that I don’t learn that you’ve put Gisele or myself in danger as a result.’

‘Vasily, I’ll swear on my life, if that’s what it takes. I’ve told you everything.’

‘It is your life you’re swearing on.’

A pause, then, ‘In time you’ll see I’m telling the truth. Until then, I implore you to get Gisele out of the country. Bring her to me, to St Petersburg, where I can protect her.’

‘Negative. You can’t protect her from these people. Four of your men just died to prove that fact. Until I know more, we’re not moving.’

‘But —’

‘The decision is not yours to make. Your safe house was blown. If your enemies knew about that, they know everything. Gisele stays with me until I’ve figured out exactly what is going on.’

Norimov was quiet for a long moment. Eventually, he said, ‘Okay,’ because there was nothing else he could say.

‘Where’s Yigor now?’

‘Driving. He’s waiting to hear from you.’

Victor said, ‘He can stay waiting.’

‘What are you and Gisele going to do next?’

‘I’m not telling you.’

‘Excuse me? I’m her father.’

‘And I’m protecting her. That means I do things my way. My way is the reason you don’t yet have to organise her funeral.’

A sigh. ‘Okay. Fine. You can handle this however you see fit. I’ll go along with whatever you think is best.’

Victor said, ‘You don’t have a choice,’ and hung up.

FORTY-SEVEN

They ditched the car, leaving the engine running and the lights on. It was only a matter of time before it was stolen, Gisele’s companion had explained. What the thief or thieves did with it was unimportant, but they would add another layer of defence against their enemies. They caught a bus, then alighted to board the tube, then another bus before a taxi took them the rest of the way to a hotel. He paid the fare and left a modest tip.

He guided Gisele into the lobby and up to the third floor and she followed him to where she assumed he had been staying as he already had a keycard. She watched in silent confusion as he went into the bathroom and spent a few minutes pouring shampoo and body wash into the bathtub, then rinsing it away before unwrapping soap and wetting towels. She wanted to know what he was doing but had no energy to ask. She left him and flopped down on to the bed.

He entered a moment later and said, ‘Get up.’

She lay there, eyes closed, hoping he would just let her rest.

A strong hand gripped her by the wrist and wrenched her to her feet.

‘What the fuck. ⁠. . ⁠?’

He didn’t answer. She looked on as he messed up the neatly made bed and squashed and punched the pillows.

‘What did that bed ever do to you?’

He ignored her — infuriating her in the process — and went briefly back to the bathroom, returning with a freestanding mirror that he then placed on the window sill, painstakingly positioning it as if it was the most important thing in the world.

‘You have serious issues.’

‘Let’s go,’ he said.

‘Go? We just got here. You said we were going to rest.’

He held open the door and ushered her through it.

Back on the ground floor he steered her away from the lobby when she headed in that direction. She was looking around and becoming increasingly confused as he took her through the hotel’s ground floor, past the business centre and fitness suite and out of the southern exit.

‘Where are we going now?’ she asked.

‘We’re nearly there.’

He checked the traffic and crossed the road beneath the railway and cut between the sparse line of trees.

‘Here?’

They entered his other hotel and used the stairs to ascend to the third floor. He unlocked his room with another keycard and led Gisele inside. She stepped in slowly, brow creased and eyes wide as she looked around, trying to understand what they were doing. This made no sense at all.

‘You can sit down,’ he said.

‘Are you going to tell me to stand up in three minutes’ time?’

‘No.’

‘Promise?’

He nodded and she flopped down on to the bed. After a moment, she asked, ‘What was wrong with the previous room?’

‘This one is better.’

‘If you say so,’ she sighed. ‘I’ve given up trying to understand you.’

She watched as he closed the curtains. As with the mirror, he spent a bizarrely long amount of time adjusting them. He turned around. She realised there was only one bed. Her pulse quickened as she feared he would want to share it. It disgusted her to think of him lying next to her.

‘You can sleep in the bed,’ he said. ‘I’ll take the armchair.’

She wondered if he’d seen in her face what she’d been thinking and felt bad for it. She pushed herself up on to her elbows. ‘Funnily enough, I’m not actually tired now. My brain is fried. Deep-fried in crazy, that is.’

‘Nevertheless, you should try to get some rest. First rule of soldiering: sleep whenever you can.’

‘In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m not a soldier. I’m about as far from a soldier as you are from a normal person. Well, maybe not that far.’

‘You still have to sleep,’ he insisted. ‘You may not feel like it now, but if you don’t, it will catch you out tomorrow. That’s how it works.’

‘And we need to be alert, right? Because they might come after me again?’

‘That’s right.’

‘God, it’s so much work.’

She sat up and pushed herself off the bed. She had to walk off some of the nervous energy. She paced and watched him as he wedged the back of a desk chair underneath the door handle. It seemed such a simple precaution to take, but she would never have thought to do it. Her mind was racing at one hundred miles an hour, but she couldn’t think clearly. In comparison, his calmness was unnatural and unnerving.

Stepping away from the door, he said, ‘Whoever these people are, they are heavily invested in you, Gisele. They’re skilled and they have numbers. And they will succeed unless we do everything right. Even then, it might not be enough.’

‘Thanks for the reassurance.’

‘I’m not attempting to reassure you. I’m telling you how it is, because you can’t afford to relax for a second.’

‘Then how am I meant to sleep?’

‘Stop trying to pick a fight with me. It won’t work.’

‘I don’t like you,’ she said.

He nodded. ‘I know. But I don’t need you to like me. I just need you to do what I say.’

‘You sound like Alex.’

He didn’t respond. He went to step around her on the way to the bathroom and she flinched. He saw it and backed away, seeing her fear even though she was trying to hide it. For a moment they stood in silence, her afraid and him surprised, until he said, ‘There’s nothing to be nervous of, Gisele.’

‘You killed two men. You tortured one.’

‘I did what was necessary,’ he explained.

‘Says you. I don’t know what’s necessary or not. I don’t understand any of this.’ She rubbed her arm. ‘All I have to go on is what you tell me. How am I supposed to know if what you’re saying is true? I look at you now and you don’t seem any different from when I first met you. But so much has happened since then. I can barely keep a lid on what I’m feeling. I can only just about stop myself screaming at the top of my lungs. Yet you… nothing. You said you were used to it, but it’s more than that, isn’t it? What happened doesn’t bother you at all. Getting attacked. Killing those men. The blood. The violence. None of it has even the slightest effect.’

She was staring at him intently and saw that he thought about lying but the second’s deliberation was all it took for Gisele to see the truth.

She said, ‘Man, you are a fucking psycho,’ and backed away.

‘It didn’t bother me, that’s true. But you don’t have to worry about me, Gisele. I won’t hurt you.’

‘Again, says you.’ She backed away another step until her shoulder blades were against the wall next to the door. ‘What’s the word of a murderer worth?’

He didn’t respond.

She said, ‘If you wanted to, you could kill me just like that,’ and clicked her fingers. ‘Couldn’t you?’

His black eyes didn’t blink. ‘I’ll never want to.’

‘But you could. If you are lying and turn on me, there’s literally nothing I could do to stop you, right?’

He had no choice but to nod. They both knew it was the truth. Denying it would have been ridiculous.

He said, ‘I’m here to protect you, Gisele. To that end I’ll do everything I’m capable of to make sure no one harms you. If that scares you, then I’m sorry.’

She noted he was careful to create as much distance as possible between them as he passed. He flicked on the light switch.

‘You don’t scare me,’ Gisele said from behind him. ‘You terrify me.’

He paused, and nodded without looking back.

FORTY-EIGHT

The night had always been Victor’s friend. He guessed he had spent more of his waking life during the night than the day. He had learned to know the night and to use it, but now it was an enemy because he was not alone. Gisele was finally still beneath the duvet after tossing and turning for a while. She complained about the lights being left on but Victor was insistent. She lay on her side at the very edge of the bed — as far away from him as possible. He didn’t blame her.

Victor stood by the window, gazing outwards. He was relaxed, yet vigilant. He was used to waiting. Waiting was half his work: waiting for people to show; waiting for them to leave; waiting for it to get dark. The most undervalued skill of the assassin was patience. Those who didn’t have it didn’t survive for long. Now, that patience might keep Gisele — and him — alive.

He’d said he would take the chair but he stood. The chair was wedged against the door handle. He was positioned by the window, looking out between the curtains, but from an acute angle. Across the street on the other side of the concrete posts supporting the elevated railway line he saw his other room and the mirror set on the window sill. He could see nothing in the reflection. If he could, it would mean someone was in the room.

Gisele woke with a start, bolting upright in the bed, gasping when she saw him but then relaxing, slowly, when she had processed the situation.

‘I fell asleep,’ she said.

‘That’s good,’ Victor replied. ‘Try and go back to sleep. Get as much sleep as you can.’

‘First rule of soldiering?’

‘Something like that.’

‘What are you doing by the window?’

He shrugged, as though it was nothing. ‘Just passing the time.’

‘You can’t sleep?’

He shook his head.

‘What time is it?’ she asked.

‘Almost three thirty.’

‘Have you had any sleep?’

‘Yes,’ he lied.

He looked at her. She was massaging her left triceps. That was the third time he’d seen her rubbing her arm. As far as he knew, she wasn’t injured.

‘Are you okay?’

She huffed. ‘Never better.’

‘What’s wrong with your arm?’

She looked back at him, at first confused, then understanding. ‘I get somatic pain when I’m stressed. Nice how my body turns against me at the very worst possible times, isn’t it?’

If she had been injured, he could have used his medical knowledge to help, but she had no physical ailment he could treat. He was powerless.

‘You almost look concerned about me,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry, I’m used to it.’

‘Tomorrow,’ Victor said, ‘you’re going to have to cut your hair.’

She stopped rubbing her arm. ‘Seriously?’

‘It’s a precaution. Your hair stands out as it is.’

‘It’s not exactly long. If I cut it shorter then I’ll be more memorable and noticeable, surely?’

‘True, but they already know who you are and what you look like. If it takes them an extra second to realise that the young woman with short hair is actually you, that might save your life.’

She frowned. ‘What can happen in a second?’

‘Let’s hope you don’t find out.’

‘Fine, you win. It’s the middle of the night. I don’t have the energy to argue with you any more. In the morning I’ll cut my hair off and go all nineties lesbian.’

‘A few inches off the length will do fine.’

‘You want me to colour it too?’

‘Ideally, yes. We’ll pick up some dye tomorrow.’

‘Sounds great. Can’t wait. Why don’t we go the whole way and I’ll get dreadlocks? Perhaps a few facial piercings? Maybe bleach my eyebrows white?’

‘I’m glad you’re able to keep your sense of humour in all this.’

‘One of us has to.’ She smirked and pushed her fingers through her hair. ‘I’ll give myself a page-boy cut. Will that do? I think I can pull it off.’

He nodded. ‘That sounds perfect.’

She looked away, fingers still in her hair. ‘I’m going to miss you.’

‘You are?’ Victor said, surprised that anyone would miss him, least of all someone he’d known for such a short time.

Gisele’s gaze met his. A line of confusion separated her eyebrows for the moment it took her to process what he’d said. ‘I… I was talking to my hair.’

‘Of course,’ Victor said, feeling foolish. ‘But it’ll grow back.’

She nodded as if she hadn’t already known that, as if the misunderstanding had gone unnoticed, to spare him any embarrassment. Then she said, ‘There’s no way I’m going to fall asleep now. Why don’t we play a game or something? Otherwise I’ll spend the rest of the night awake, staring at the ceiling, panicking at every sound.’

‘You don’t need to do that. I’ll stay on stag until first light.’

‘Stag?’

‘British Army term,’ he explained. ‘Means on duty. In this case, on guard duty.’

She sat forward. ‘You were in the British Army?’

‘That’s not what I said.’

‘So you weren’t?’

‘That’s not what I said either.’

‘Are you going to tell me anything about yourself?’

‘Not if I can help it.’

She raised her eyebrows — annoyed but not enough to pursue the issue.

He could feel her working up to saying something. He didn’t prompt her. He let her say it in her own time.

‘I haven’t thanked you for what you did for me earlier tonight. I thought I was going to die back there.’

He said, ‘You don’t have to thank me.’

‘You’ve saved my life.’

Not yet, he thought.

FORTY-NINE

The two big Range Rovers raced through the dark streets, rain pelting the bodywork, tyres throwing up rainwater. In the first vehicle were four of Marcus’s mercenaries. In the second, Anderton sat in the passenger seat while Wade drove. Sinclair sat in the back seat, chewing gum as he adjusted the straps of his Dragon Skin vest to get the most comfortable fit. The windscreen wipers swung back and forth, flicking away rain, each time presenting Anderton with a glimpse of her reflection on the glass. A pretty sight once, but not now with the creases of dishonour cutting through her flesh.

She finished her phone call with a curt, ‘Keep yourself available,’ and directed Wade to take the next turn. He drove fast, pushing the limit of what they could get away with without drawing the attention of the police. Her credentials would get them out of any bother, but better not to get into it in the first place.

She updated the two men with what she had learned.

Rogan’s voice came over the radio: ‘This is Unit One, we’re nearly there. ETA six minutes. Over.’

She thumbed the send button: ‘Confirm, Unit One. When we arrive I want you to split up and secure the perimeter while we enter and establish location. Make sure you have eyes on all exits. I don’t want them slipping away.’ She released send.

‘Copy that.’

The Range Rover exited the bridge, following the road as it meandered to the right. Wade decelerated as they came to a traffic island.

From the back seat, Sinclair said, ‘I can handle it. Alone.’

She didn’t bother to reply.

‘I said I can handle it.’

Anderton met Sinclair’s gaze in the rear-view mirror. ‘Like you handled it at the warehouse?’

He frowned. ‘That was different. No one told me about the assassin.’

‘So he would not have bested you had you known he was there?’

The South African’s voice was clipped and sharp. ‘Correct.’

‘For your own sake, I hope you’re right,’ Anderton said. ‘I don’t want any more mistakes.’

‘There won’t be,’ Sinclair assured.

She nodded. ‘I know. Because this time I’m leading.’

He looked away and continued chewing his gum.

Next to her, Wade’s gaze was locked on the road ahead but Anderton saw the fear the man was trying to hide. She could smell it on him. He was thinking of his two dead teammates.

Anderton felt nothing. The death of the two mercenaries had no effect on her except to elevate the stakes of the game. She had a worthy enemy. One who would soon be dead.

FIFTY

As she had predicted, Gisele couldn’t get back to sleep. She tried. She really tried. Bedclothes rustled as she attempted to get comfortable and there were sighs of frustration when she failed to drift off. But no matter what she did to relax and clear her mind, images and sounds assailed her consciousness: flashes of grenades, gunshots and cries. Then the fear would rush back into her and her heartbeat would thump in her ears and she found herself panting and more awake than ever. Eventually, she gave up and pushed herself into a sitting position against the headboard, pulling the bedclothes high up over chest even though she was fully dressed.

He stood near the window, as before. He didn’t acknowledge her. He was so still and focused he didn’t seem alive. She couldn’t decide whether this was a good or bad thing. She did know that it was freaky.

When she couldn’t stand it any longer she climbed out of bed and padded over to where the room’s phone sat on a desk. She lifted up the receiver. That broke whatever spell he was under. He faced her and she said:

‘What’s Yigor’s number?’

‘Put the phone down, Gisele.’

‘Give me Yigor’s number.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Put the phone down and go back to bed.’

‘I really don’t like your tone. I never knew my real dad, but you’re not him. You’re not even my stepfather. So don’t talk to me like that. I want to speak to Yigor. Now.’

‘That’s a risk I’m not prepared to take.’

‘What do you mean by that? Yigor’s on our side.’

‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘But at this present time I don’t know how those men found us at the warehouse. There’s a good chance one of your stepfather’s men sold you out. Only one of the men he sent here is still alive. And that man conveniently happened to have been absent from the warehouse when it was attacked.’

She stared at him, wide-eyed in disbelief. ‘No way. You can’t possibly be serious. Yigor would never do that.’

‘Then the team must have been shadowing you this whole time and for some reason opted to wait until you had armed guards before moving in.’

Her mouth hung open for a moment. ‘What was that, sarcasm? Great time to find your sense of humour. Don’t mock me, okay? And don’t need to be dismissive of my opinion either.’

‘Okay,’ Victor said.

‘It’s ridiculous to think Yigor had anything to do with that. He used to drive me to school, for fuck’s sake. Trust me, he wouldn’t.’

‘Drive nice and slow,’ Anderton told Wade. ‘Don’t pull up directly outside. Park like we’re guests. He might be watching.’

The mercenary nodded and steered the Range Rover through the hotel’s large car park at the building’s east side. He drove as instructed, slow.

‘There,’ Anderton said, pointing to a free space some twenty metres from the hotel.

Wade guided the vehicle to a stop.

She radioed Unit One: ‘Okay, we’re here. Wait ninety seconds and join us. Park further away and secure the perimeter. Don’t break cover unless I explicitly say so.’ She released the send button and looked at Sinclair. ‘Ready?’

Inside the lobby, Anderton led the two men straight to the front desk. They all wore civilian attire, jackets done up to hide weapons.

‘Let me do the talking.’

A pretty blonde with too much make-up smiled at them. Before she had a chance to say a word, Anderton said, ‘Get your manager. Now.’

He was a short man in his fifties with a pronounced gut. Anderton showed him her credentials and he read them with eyebrows raised.

He said, ‘You’d better come with me.’

In a small office behind the lobby, he asked, ‘What is it that I can do for you?’

‘I’m here because of a potential threat to national security.’

‘My God, do you mean terrorists?’

‘I can’t divulge that information at this stage,’ Anderton said. ‘I need the room number of one of your guests. A single man, Caucasian, early to mid thirties, short dark hair. Tall. Well dressed. He’ll have a young woman with him.’

The manager swallowed. Nervous. ‘What… what’s his name?’

‘We don’t have a name, but we do know he checked in yesterday morning.’

‘Madam, we have hundreds of guests at any one time. I’m sure there are dozens who match that description. Most of whom are accompanied by a lady friend. Some don’t even stay the night, if you know what I mean. So, I’m not sure I can help you without more information. Would you like me to print you off a list of guests?’

Anderton smiled to put him at ease. ‘Show me the footage from your security cameras.’

In a small, claustrophobic room, Sinclair and Anderton stood behind a big hotel security guard who sat in front of a bank of video monitors and equipment. The manager had shown them to the room, then hurriedly left.

‘So,’ the guard began as he manipulated the controls, ‘what’s this guy done?’

‘That’s classified,’ Anderton said.

‘What camera did you want to take a look at? We’ve got twenty-two to choose from. I can give you Car Park A, Car Park B, Car Park C, Lobby A, Lobby B —’

‘Lobby. Whichever one covers people passing through the main entrance.’

‘Gotcha.’ He pressed a few keys on the keyboard before him. ‘And what timecode did you want me to look at?’

‘Go back five hours,’ Sinclair said. ‘And cycle through from there. It’s not complicated.’

The guard sighed and shook his head as he rewound the footage from the hotel lobby. ‘Hey, chill out, man. You don’t have to take that tone with me, I’m only doing my job here.’

‘Then shut up and do it.’

He looked back over his shoulder. ‘Shit, you can’t talk to me like that.’ He took his hands from the controls in a show of defiance. ‘You’re not my boss, you…’ he put on a bad imitation of Sinclair’s accent, ‘you fucking South African prick.’

In a second the guard was off the chair, face forced into the floor, his right arm twisted behind his back, Sinclair holding his wrist and elbow, ready to break the arm with an ounce more pressure. The guard yelled in pain.

‘Easy,’ Anderton said. ‘Easy, we don’t have to do it that way. He’s sorry.’ She looked at the guard. ‘Aren’t you?’

‘Yes.’

Sinclair released him. ‘Then work faster and keep your lips shut or I’ll chew them off your face.’

The guard pulled himself off the floor and slid back on to his chair. Grimacing, he returned to the controls. He rewound the footage to the requested timecode and then played it forward.

‘Take it to eight times speed,’ Anderton said.

He did so and they watched the rapid, jerky movements of guests and staff entering the hotel and passing through the lobby. Anderton noticed Sinclair’s teeth were grinding together.

‘Stop.’ Anderton clicked her fingers. ‘That’s him. Play it.’

On the screen a man entered the lobby, only his back visible. He was dressed in a suit and had short dark hair, but no other features were obvious. Trailing a few metres behind him was a young woman.

Anderton left the room. She gestured for the blonde receptionist to follow her. Back inside the viewing room, she pointed at the screen.

‘Who’s that man?’

The receptionist leaned forward and looked closely, her brow furrowed. The monitor showed two figures walking past the reception desk and heading for the stairs.

‘He walked past you three and a half hours ago,’ Sinclair prompted.

‘Oh, yeah,’ she said. ‘I remember him. He was a nice guy. Thompson, I think his name is.’

‘What room is he in?’ Anderton asked.

‘Three-ten. Why? What did he do?’

The guard said, ‘Don’t ask, Layla.’

Anderton frowned as she left the room with Sinclair in tow. ‘This is too easy. Something’s not right.’

Sinclair said, ‘I like easy.’

FIFTY-ONE

‘They could have been following you for all we know,’ protested Gisele. ‘You could have led them straight to me.’

‘That’s better,’ Victor said. ‘That’s the kind of critical thinking you should be using. You can’t work on the simplest assumption. You have to consider every eventuality.’

She stared at him. ‘Oh, very clever. Nice way to get me to come round to your way of thinking and make it seem like it was my conclusion. But I’m not dumb enough to fall for it, so I’d appreciate it if that was the first and last time, all right?’

‘I chose the most straightforward way to make my point. I don’t have time to teach you everything.’

‘Teach me? Are you fucking serious? Teach me what?’

Victor took a breath. ‘Easy on the language, okay? I’ve given you a pass until now because of the circumstances, but I don’t appreciate it.’

‘You think I care what you appreciate? I don’t appreciate you killing people in front of me either.’

‘Would you prefer it if I only killed people when you weren’t looking?’

She took a breath like Victor had, only a deeper one that she held longer and let out slower. ‘I’m not going to allow myself to be pulled into these stupid arguments. You’re protecting me, sure. Thanks. But I won’t be treated like an idiot.’

‘Good. It’s not my intention to treat you like one. I’m trying to teach you how to survive this. The men after you are extremely dangerous. They are ex-military and they will kill us both if we don’t do everything right. Do you understand that?’

Gisele said, ‘You can’t stop me caring what happened to Dmitri and the others.’

‘I happened to them,’ Victor said. ‘I left them. You’re my priority, not your father’s gangsters. I did what I could to help them, but the only thing that mattered was getting you out of there. They provided a useful distraction for our enemies.’

‘You’re saying you used them as human shields?’

‘Would you prefer to be dead in their place?’ She looked appalled but didn’t answer. ‘Bear that in mind. And don’t waste your compassion on those men. Each and every one is — was — a killer. They don’t deserve it.’

‘You killed people too. I saw you. Does that mean you don’t deserve my compassion either?’

‘I deserve it even less than your father’s men.’

She didn’t respond.

‘If you’re going to survive this,’ Victor said more quietly, ‘you’ve got to have an utterly selfish mindset. If you have to run over a street full of people to live another day, then you do it.’

‘I would never do that.’

‘Then if comes to it I’ll have to do it for you.’

‘You’re a disgusting excuse for a human being. Do you know that?’

‘I’ve had a niggling suspicion.’

‘And it doesn’t bother you?’

‘Very few things bother me.’

‘You can’t honestly believe the things you say.’

‘We’re programmed to survive. Whether you believe that was instilled into us by evolution or God, that’s who we are. We’re survivors. Civilised society only exists when survival is not at stake. Put a person in fear for their life and see how much attention they pay to morality. You said yourself that morality needs to be enforced by the law.’

‘Yes, because there are bad people out there. I didn’t mean that all people are inherently evil. I’d say you have a very pessimistic view of the world, but if you ask me it’s a thinly veiled justification to do terrible things. But you don’t have to be that way. You have a choice. It’s never too late to change who you are. Make a fresh start. Be a good person. You never know, you might find you prefer yourself like that.’

‘If I were a good person we’d both be dead by now.’

While three of the mercenaries maintained the perimeter, jackets zipped up to hide their body armour and weapons, Rogan joined Anderton, Sinclair and Wade in a corridor leading out of the lobby.

‘The target’s location has been identified,’ Anderton reiterated to the men outside. ‘We’re moving up. Be alert, but maintain your distance.’

She didn’t want to alarm people unnecessarily or risk the target spotting them from his window. It was the middle of the night but the area was far from empty of people.

The reply came: ‘Copy.’

‘Okay,’ she whispered to the three men with her. ‘Unit One has the perimeter, but it’s loose. We don’t want them getting past us on the way, so let’s do this nice and fast, but smooth. Sinclair and I will take the lift. Rogan and Wade, you guys ascend the far staircase so we come to their corridor from either end. Don’t get jittery, boys, there are too many people here to risk a negligent discharge. All set?’

The elevator arrived at the third floor and Anderton and Sinclair entered the corridor. Both had pistols drawn and ready. Anderton whispered into her radio: ‘Unit Two in position.’

She signalled to Sinclair and they moved down the corridor, Anderton on the left, the South African on the right.

Wade’s voice came through her earpiece: ‘This is Unit Three, we have reached the third floor.’

They turned a corner and saw the two mercenaries at the far end of the corridor. Simultaneously, the two groups moved with caution towards the door marked 310.

‘Okay,’ Anderton whispered. ‘That’s near enough. Wade and Sinclair go in first and secure the main room. Rogan and I follow. Rogan, clear the bathroom. I’ll watch your backs. Okay, close in.’

They crept forward. Wade and Sinclair took up positions either side of the door, with Rogan and Anderton behind them. She could taste sweat on her lips. This was it.

‘Green light.’

FIFTY-TWO

Wade aimed at the room’s lock with a twelve-bore pump-action shotgun fitted with a nine-inch Hushpower suppressor. The blast disintegrated the lock and Sinclair charged in through the busted door. Rogan followed him, each man sweeping a different half of the room, Wade entering last, disappearing into the bathroom.

‘CLEAR,’ he shouted.

‘Clear,’ Rogan stated.

Sinclair, lowering his gun: ‘Fucking crystal.’

Anderton stepped into the lit room. No Gisele. No killer. She was annoyed, but not as surprised as the three men. It had felt too easy.

‘Check under the bed,’ Sinclair said.

Wade shook his head. ‘There’s not enough room,’

‘Do it.’

He squatted down and made a play of lifting up the skirting. There was only a two-inch gap.

Anderton radioed the mercenaries outside. ‘They’re not here. Be alert.’ She walked over to the window, rested her palm on the sill, and whispered, ‘Where are you?’

Across the street, Victor turned around from arguing with Gisele to see a woman with blonde hair in his other hotel room. He remembered Linnekin’s description of her: blonde, tall, well dressed, all business. He couldn’t see if her eyes were green, but this was her.

He stood still, watching. She did not look happy in the slightest. He felt a small measure of satisfaction at her anger, but that didn’t change the fact Gisele’s enemies were closer than he wanted.

With the curtains almost fully drawn he wouldn’t be seen in return. He could see men in the room behind her — two or three. The mercenaries.

The others must be elsewhere, but nearby. They would be here in force.

For now, they didn’t know the room was a decoy.

Victor looked at Gisele. ‘Get dressed.’

‘Where is this fucker?’ Sinclair asked to anyone who was listening.

Anderton ignored him. She said, ‘Clear out and search the hotel. They might still be on the premises: bar, restaurant, fitness suite. Look everywhere.’

Sinclair, Wade and Rogan withdrew, leaving Anderton alone with her thoughts.

She had sensed something wasn’t right beforehand. Now, her instincts had been proved correct. She circled the room. The bedclothes were mussed. In the bathroom, a towel was damp. Complimentary toiletries had been opened. All suggesting the room had been used and they’d missed them. Yet…

She approached the bed. She stared at the pillow. It was squashed in the centre. The pillowcase was the perfect white of hotel-laundered linens. She looked closely, leaning in.

‘No hairs,’ she said to herself.

Neither short dark hairs from the assassin nor longer red hairs from Gisele.

Anderton turned to face the window. The curtains were not fully closed. Interesting. More significant than that though was the freestanding mirror sitting on the sill.

She was careful in her actions to appear casual, as if she had not realised what was happening. This was not the killer’s room. This was a ruse. This was a shield. A decoy. And Anderton had fallen for it.

Seemingly in an idle wander she approached the window. She placed both hands on the window sill once again and gazed out, emitting a long sigh of frustration and annoyance. She resisted shaking her head. That might be overkill.

There was a hotel on the other side of the street.

Anderton judged the position of the mirror and the angle and pictured him across the street, standing at one of the windows of the hotel opposite.

‘What do we do?’ Gisele asked as she slipped her shoes on, voice high-pitched between rapid breaths.

‘It’s okay,’ Victor said, watching the blonde woman sighing in frustration at the window opposite. ‘We’re safe for the moment. We wait for ten minutes to give them time to extract. Then we go.’

She stood. ‘Where to? How did they find us?’

‘Anywhere. We’ll work it out on the way. And they haven’t found us. Stay calm.’

Making sure to look as if she wasn’t looking, Anderton scanned the hotel across the street. There were dozens of windows, each belonging to a room. Maybe half had windows open or lights on, telling Anderton they were occupied. Norimov’s assassin would have to set up a surveillance point at least at the same floor as the current room. Third or higher. She discounted those rooms on the first two floors.

Logic would dictate that the room’s lights would not be on, or if not the curtains would be drawn. Mentally, Anderton dropped those rooms that did not apply. That left five rooms. Three on the fourth floor; two on the third. One of the fourth-floor candidates was at the far left of the building, almost on the corner. A height advantage was no good if the horizontal angle was acute. Anderton crossed it off.

Four left.

She picked up the room’s phone and called an enquiries line. She told the operator the name of the hotel opposite and hummed quietly while she waited.

A man answered and asked her what he could do for her.

Anderton said, ‘This is Detective Chief Inspector Crawley from the Metropolitan Police. I need your help with a case.’

‘Oh, okay, what can I do for you?’ was the nervous reply. Anderton pictured someone not dissimilar to the manager of the current hotel.

‘It’s quite simple, so please don’t be nervous. A confidential informant of mine is staying in your hotel but I don’t know which room he’s staying in.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Hooper, but he’ll be using an alias for safety reasons. Trouble is, I don’t know what the alias is and I can’t get through on his mobile.’

‘How can I help then?’

‘I think we’ll be able to work out what name he’s using if you bear with me. He’ll have checked in within the last forty-eight hours on his own and won’t have checked out yet.’

‘I’ll have a look at our records and get the names of those people.’

Anderton could hear him tapping on a keyboard for a few moments.

‘Right,’ the man said, his voice confident now, happy that he could perform this role and help. ‘I’ve got over… uh, well over twenty single men… John Belamy, Peter Cochrane —’

‘Did any of those guests request anything specific in their choice of rooms? My CI has… how shall we say? Quirks. He would want a room with a north-facing window. Can you see if anyone asked for such a room?’

There was a silence for a moment. ‘I’m afraid such a request might not be noted on the system. The operator might simply have given him a room that met that criteria. Let me see… uh, no. Sorry. There’s no such request on any of the reservations. I’m not sure what else I can tell you.’

‘Okay,’ Anderton said, sounding like it wasn’t that big a deal. ‘Of the single men who checked in during the time period, how many ended up in a north-facing room?’

There was a half-exhaling, half-whistling sound. ‘I can see… Let me count. Yeah, nine single men in north-facing rooms.’

‘Great,’ Anderton said, encouragingly. ‘That narrows it down. My guy doesn’t like to be near the ground, so which of those nine men is in a room on the third or fourth floor?’

‘We’re getting close,’ the man said. ‘Down to two. One on the third floor and one on the fourth: Roger Telfer and Charles Rawling. If you want, I can put you through to them one at a time so you can see which is your man. It’s no bother. I’m happy to help. They are —’

‘Which had the earlier check-in?’

The man clicked his cheek. ‘Uh… that would be Charles Rawling. Room 419. Is that your guy? Would you like me to put you through to his room?’

‘That won’t be necessary,’ Anderton said. ‘I’ll see him in person. But thank you for your assistance, er…’

‘Nathan.’

‘Thank you Nathan. You have yourself a good night.’

‘You’re very welcome.’

Anderton hung up. She knew they were in the fourth-floor room and not the third. Both had been available when Norimov’s assassin had checked in. He would have taken the fourth-floor room as a preference, for the height advantage.

She radioed Sinclair: ‘Listen carefully. They’re in the hotel across the street. This room is a decoy. He’s in 419, repeat 419. Charles Rawling. If I’m right, he knows we’re here and he’s looking at my back as we speak. But he doesn’t know I know. He’s going to wait until we clear out and vanish with the girl. So long as I sit here, he thinks they’re safe. Don’t tell the others. He might notice their reactions. Make your way over there while he’s watching the rest of us. Do what you do best.’

‘With pleasure.’

FIFTY-THREE

Sinclair exited the hotel via the main east entrance and cut through the car park, moving south. He crossed the road beneath the overhead railway line and headed for the other hotel where Anderton assured him the killer was waiting. He made sure to avoid the north-facing façade of the new hotel and therefore the watchful gaze of the girl’s protector.

If Anderton was right, it wasn’t a bad trick. Not Sinclair’s style, but he could see the merits of it. He preferred to meet his threats head-on, on his terms, not those of his enemies. Hiding was weak and it was stupid.

He felt liberated without the cumbersome presence of the mercenaries. He was on his own in the hunt. Just the way he liked it.

Wade’s team had been useful taking out Norimov’s retinue of thugs, but they were no longer required. Two of them had got themselves killed already. It proved what Sinclair had known from the start: that the others were B-team quality. They had served in elite military units, sure, but they had lost the edge that came with constant training and discipline. Sinclair had never lost that edge because he had possessed it long before his time in the armed forces. He wouldn’t have survived the slums of Johannesburg without it.

He had learned early on to rely on himself alone. Sinclair could operate from the shadows, unseen and unheard; by the time his adversaries noticed him, it was too late. Sinclair felt only excitement. Combat jacked him up like nothing else in the world. A perfect drug.

He entered the hotel via its east entrance and took the elevator to the fourth floor.

From his position at the window Victor could see little of the happenings across the street at the other hotel. The mirror told him the woman and the mercenaries had exited his room. He pictured them searching the hotel in case he and Gisele were in the fitness suite or business centre or bar. Once they realised they weren’t in the building, what would they do?

He couldn’t be sure. No doubt one or more would be left on site as watchers in case they returned, the others waiting nearby for the order to move in.

‘Talk to me,’ Gisele said. ‘I’m freaking out here.’

‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘We’ll go now. We’ll slip out of the hotel via the south entrance. Chances are, the bulk of them will be gone. Those who’re left won’t see us.’

She gulped and nodded. She looked terrified.

He put a hand on her shoulder. ‘We’ll be fine. Okay?’

She relaxed a little at his touch. ‘Okay.’

There was a knock at the door.

Gisele startled. Victor snapped a palm over her mouth to catch any noise.

Shh, he mouthed. It’s okay.

It wasn’t. He didn’t believe in coincidences — he couldn’t afford to — but the knock could be innocent. His enemies were in the wrong hotel. He could see two of them watching the perimeter. They didn’t know he was here with Gisele. No one did. He approached the door, stopping two metres away, out of a direct line of sight from the fisheye spy lens. The gun was in his right hand.

‘Who’s there?’

A voice answered. Male. South African accent. ‘Mr Quinn, sir. I’m from hotel management. I’m sorry to disturb you at this late hour.’

‘What can I do for you, Mr Quinn?’

‘I’m afraid I need to perform a quick check on the smoke detector in your room. It’s purely routine.’

Victor made a cursory glance behind him at the device on the room’s ceiling. It was a small white plastic box containing a CO2 detector. ‘It looks fine to me.’

The man called Quinn said, ‘I’m sure it does, but we’ve had a few false alarms and I wouldn’t want it going off by mistake and interrupting your sleep.’

The tone was of a man with too much work to do and not enough time, a little impatient at the hold up.

‘Like you’re doing now?’ Victor said.

‘I’m terribly sorry, but I’m afraid it is important. I’d hate for it to go off and startle you.’

‘I’ll risk it, thanks.’

A pause, then a second knock: ‘I promise, I’ll be quick as a flash.’

Quinn didn’t sound as if he would take no for an answer and each second Victor had to deal with him meant time he wasn’t watching out for his enemies. Unless that was the point. He approached the door, footsteps silent on the room’s carpet. He gestured for Gisele to stay still and stay quiet.

She nodded. Looking at her, he understood how they had been caught off-guard. He was at his best operating alone. Alone, he was always aware; always ready. He could rely on himself to do what had to be done. He’d relied on allies in times past, but Gisele was no professional. She was a civilian. But that wasn’t it either.

He was responsible for her. More than that, he wanted to be responsible for her. He’d known her a matter of hours but he cared whether she lived or died. That made them both vulnerable. He’d told her she had to have a totally selfish attitude to survival. He no longer had that.

Sinclair waited on the other side of the door. He stared at the pinprick of light at the centre of the spyhole. It was impossible to see through it from his side, but he didn’t have to. All he needed to see was that dot of light extinguish when the killer brought his eye to the lens.

Then he would know exactly where the killer’s head was located. Sinclair had his pistol drawn and pointed at the spyhole, index finger on the trigger, ready to squeeze.

A guaranteed kill shot.

FIFTY-FOUR

Victor stood to one side of the door to keep his body protected by the interior wall. He used his hand to signal to Gisele to move back and away from the door so she was out of the line of fire. He swapped his gun into his left hand and with his shoulders to the wall aimed it at the door.

‘Can you come back later?’

‘I’m afraid not, sir. It has to be done now.’

Victor angled the muzzle to where he thought the man stood, based on the sound, but it wasn’t an exact science. Without looking he couldn’t be sure of his position or even if he was an enemy.

‘Look,’ he said, ‘I haven’t long come out of the shower. How about you come back in ten minutes when I’m dressed?’

He pulled the hammer back with his thumb.

‘All right,’ the South African said. ‘I’ll return in ten minutes.’

Victor listened to footsteps quieting. He peered through the spyhole. No one stood in the corridor outside. He stepped away from the door and eased his finger off the trigger.

‘Oh my God,’ Gisele breathed. ‘How have they found us?’

‘Yigor.’

‘He wouldn’t. I know him. Shit. What are we going to do?’

‘Get out of here. Fast.’

He moved away from the door and over to the window. The two Range Rovers were still there. There were still gunmen positioned nearby, trying to look inconspicuous. Victor didn’t understand why they were there and not in his hotel. To distract him, maybe. But then the mercenary at the door wouldn’t have needed to knock to find out if he was inside because they would already know that to have men positioned to distract him.

Which meant the man at the door and those outside were not operating together. At least at this moment. The South African had seen through Victor’s ruse, but the others had not. He would no doubt be passing on his discovery, but it would take a few minutes for the other mercs to arrive. That delay gave Victor and Gisele a chance.

He returned to the door and peered through the spyhole. The corridor outside was empty but he knew the South African was out there, either waiting for Victor and Gisele to show themselves or preparing to attack.

Inside the room, they were vulnerable. It was small and impossible to defend. The window didn’t open. It would be toughened glass and hard to smash. The noise of trying would alert his enemy. Even if Victor and Gisele could get through it without taking a bullet in the back, they were too high up to drop and the hotel exterior would be almost impossible to climb with any speed. At any moment the mercs across the street could spot them or the blonde woman would lean out of the window to shoot him and Gisele while they descended.

He needed another way out. He needed a distraction. There was a plastic kettle on the sideboard along with cups and sachets of coffee, sugar and teabags. Victor unplugged the kettle, laid it on its side on the floor and stamped on it with his heel until he could pull it apart to expose the element at the bottom and the electric thermostat integrated into the base. He prised the thermostat away and tossed it aside. He plugged the kettle’s remains back into a socket and switched it on. Without the thermostat to regulate the temperature, the element would eventually become so hot it would melt. Victor didn’t require it to get that hot. He dropped a handful of sachets on to the element.

Gisele watched him.

After ten seconds the paper began to smoulder and smoke. Victor kept his gaze on the door and the gun aimed and ready to shoot. He didn’t have to watch the smouldering paper. He knew what would happen. He grabbed both towelling robes from the bathroom and pushed them into Gisele’s hands.

‘Hold these and follow my lead,’ he said.

She nodded.

An excruciating wail filled the room as the smoke alarm on the ceiling detected the elevated concentration of carbon dioxide gas in the air.

Victor waited. He knew alarms would be sounding throughout the hotel. Behind him, the paper sachets caught fire. He let them burn.

He figured thirty seconds would be long enough and approached the door. A glance through the spyhole told him what he wanted to know. He opened the door. The alarm’s wail was even louder with those in the corridor and from other rooms sounding simultaneously. Several guests were in the corridor, having exited their rooms. They wore pyjamas and robes. They were sleepy and squinting. Others were following. The same scene would be unfolding in every corridor on every floor of the hotel.

‘This is outrageous,’ someone was saying.

Another said, ‘It’ll be a false alarm.’

Victor looked past the guests, all shuffling in the direction of the elevators and stairs, to where, at the end of the corridor stood a man not in pyjamas or a robe. He wasn’t sleepy or squinting. He had a strong, stocky build, around six feet tall. He was tanned and dressed in khaki trousers and a sports jacket zipped up to his sternum and half-hiding an armoured vest beneath.

He stared straight at Victor.

Sinclair’s unblinking gaze burned into the black eyes of the killer. Bastard had pulled off a good trick with the alarm. Lots of people were between them, shielding the killer and the girl and preventing Sinclair from taking a shot.

The corridor extended around the hotel floor in a rough square. The section where Sinclair stood was on the opposite side to where the elevators and stairwells lay. That was the only way out, but the killer would no doubt try and play hide and seek. Sinclair had no intention of letting him do that with the girl.

They backed away because — presumably to their surprise — they saw Sinclair reach under his sports jacket. Through the shifting mass of guests, he saw the killer and the girl turning, then running.

Sinclair drew his weapon, a Glock 18 fitted with an extended magazine and long suppressor. It was a handgun, but one capable of fully automatic fire. A single squeeze of the trigger would release five bullets in the same time that a conventional pistol fire took to fire one.

An elderly woman in front of Sinclair gasped when she saw the gun.

‘You might want to duck,’ he told her.

FIFTY-FIVE

Despite the civilians between them, the South African mercenary opened fire. The wailing alarm drowned out the noise but Victor saw bullets taking chunks out of walls and sending blasts of dust and debris. Behind him, a woman was caught in the line of fire. Atomised blood misted in the air. A round caught the shoulder pad of Victor’s suit jacket.

He half-fell, half-slid around a corner, pushing Gisele ahead of him, a hail of bullets following, noiseless but no less deadly. A wall-mounted light fixture exploded.

He scrambled back to his feet, drawing the SIG, waiting for the firing to stop. Even with an extended magazine the Glock expelled its load in five short bursts. Victor didn’t waste the opportunity.

‘Stay here.’

He rushed back out into the corridor to catch the target as he reloaded.

But Sinclair wasn’t reloading. The empty Glock was in his right hand and he had drawn his backup handgun into his left.

I knew you were going to do that.

Both men moved and fired at the same time, bullets smacking into walls around them. Guests were already down on the floor or had fled back into rooms. Their screams were silent with the alarm blaring. One of the killer’s bullets caught Sinclair’s handgun and sent the weapon flying out of his fingers.

He dived around a corner.

Victor took the opportunity to scramble backwards, trying to get out of the corridor before his enemy returned with a fully loaded weapon in his primary hand.

‘Come on,’ he said to Gisele.

He dodged around and pushed past terrified guests, reloading the SIG as he ran. The magazine wasn’t empty but he wanted it at full capacity if he faced the mercenary again.

He was aware of people looking at him; the ripped suit jacket; the gun. He couldn’t do anything about that. Getting out alive meant more than going unnoticed. He hurried to the end of the next corridor; leaned round the corner.

Bullets struck the wall next to him, sending plaster exploding into his face. He recoiled, eyes filling with water. He wiped them furiously on his sleeve until he could see.

He pushed Gisele clear, dropped into a crouch and leaned round again. The South African was at the far end of the corridor, the Glock now in both hands.

Victor managed to squeeze off a single inaccurate shot before more rounds came his way. Chunks were blown out of the floor and wall around him. A man, emerging from his room because of the alarm, but unaware of the firefight, walked straight into the path of bullets. He was hit twice and fell to the floor in a tangle of splayed limbs.

Victor fired, but his target was already moving, dodging back into cover, an empty magazine falling from his gun, Victor’s bullets striking the wall where his enemy had been a moment before.

He moved, firing as he did so to keep the South African pinned down while he made for the stairwell, ushering Gisele to follow him. People were screaming and shoving each other out of the way to escape the gunfight.

Victor took a robe from Gisele and touched her on the arm. ‘Put it on and hurry to the bottom.’

She nodded.

He put down covering fire in the mercenary’s direction until Gisele had descended a couple of floors, then charged through the panicking crowd, vaulting over the banister to drop down to the next level, doing the same again, and again, until he landed on the ground floor a moment after Gisele, stumbling to keep his balance then throwing open the stairwell door and dashing through into the lobby. He heard his enemy above, yelling at people to get out of his way.

Victor slipped on the robe and kept moving, Gisele, also robed, at his side. They couldn’t exit out of the front with the other mercenaries likely to approach from that direction so he headed for the rear of the hotel, slowing down to attract less attention and avoid signposting his route. Panic from the floors above was spreading fast. The crowds of guests were agitated and becoming scared. The fire alarm continued to wail.

He eased Gisele and himself into a mass of people wearing dressing gowns and robes and let them both be crowded towards the exit. Security personnel were as panicked as the guests. They didn’t know how to deal with a gunfight. For minimum wage, they had no intention of getting involved. He kept his eyes moving, looking out for threats, but no one paid him or her any attention. They were lost in the anonymity of the crowd.

The rear doors were held open by hotel staff to let the guests out faster.

‘Keep moving, keep moving,’ one was saying. ‘We’ll have you back inside soon. There’s nothing to worry about.’

He stepped outside into the cool night air. It was raining, but not heavily. The hotel was shaped like a letter V and they stood in the courtyard between the wings where vehicles were parked and guests were gathering. To the north a line of trees shielded elevated train tracks. On the other side of the tracks, some seventy metres away, stood the other hotel. It had been approximately three minutes since the South African had knocked at the door. If they weren’t here already, the other mercenaries soon would be. He saw no black Range Rovers but they could have covered the distance on foot.

‘This way.’

They set off to the west, keeping people all around them, scanning for threats. The chaos of the ever-expanding crowd of guests helped keep them hidden but simultaneously hindered his attempts to spot his enemies before they spotted him or Gisele.

Victor made sure to act like the people around him — walking at a frightened pace, distressed expression, wide eyes. Gisele didn’t have to pretend. He led her in a zigzagging path through the mêlée so they didn’t provide easy targets for someone taking aim. After a minute they had passed the west wing of the hotel. It was quieter on the far side. A sparse crowd of mostly hotel employees had gathered here. They were happier than the guests because this was an extra break from work. They didn’t yet know why they had been told to exit the building.

Another line of trees marked the boundary of the hotel’s grounds. Victor and Gisele cut across to them, walking at a casual pace so they did not catch the eye of enemies looking on as easily as they would if hurrying. On the other side of the trees lay a long car park of maybe five hundred spaces. Most seemed occupied. Beyond the car park stood a huge hotel complex. Victor disrobed and gestured for Gisele to do the same. He tossed the garments aside.

Within a minute he had selected a medium-sized Renault that was too old to have an alarm as standard. He used the SIG like a hammer and smashed out the window of the driver’s door. He reached inside and opened it, then leaned across the glass-covered seat to open the passenger door for Gisele.

‘Get in.’

She did while he tore off the covering from the steering column and hotwired it blind, gaze constantly sweeping the area for mercenaries. The engine rumbled into life.

Two men were running their way.

FIFTY-SIX

They converged on them from two sides — one twenty metres to Victor’s left, the other twenty-five to his right — weaving their way between parked vehicles with fast, confident movement. The closest man had a tall, bulky frame but was faster than the other man, who was small and lithe.

Gisele was already shuffling lower in her seat before Victor could say, ‘Stay down.’

He put the car into reverse and backed out of the parking space, swinging the wheel clockwise to put him facing in the direction of the nearest exit while he cranked down the driver’s window.

The big guy, now sixteen metres away, reached under his sports jacket. The smaller man continued to sprint their way.

Victor changed into first gear, kept hold of the wheel in his left hand while he drew out the SIG with his right. The tyres squealed and smoked. He extended his arm out of the open window next to him and fired twice.

Both bullets struck the door panel of a large SUV inches from the big guy, who startled at the impact, momentarily slowing him as he pulled out an MP5k from under the jacket. Victor would have shot at him again but he had already accelerated out of line of sight.

Automatic gunfire roared in response.

Holes puckered the safety glass of the rear windscreen and blew out the back-seat door window behind Victor. Gisele covered her head with her arms and hands.

The road brought them closer to the second man, who had braced himself into a firing position, crouching and leaning on the hood of a small car.

Victor didn’t hear the pistol shots over the noise of the MP5K but he felt the reverberations of bullets thumping into the car’s bodywork. The wing-mirror glass exploded and showered Victor with tiny shards that struck his arm, shoulder and face. He flinched and squinted to protect his eyes, lurching in his seat away from the spray of glass, involuntarily turning the steering wheel.

He recovered in time to stop the car crashing, but dented a wheel arch against a parked minivan. Metal screeched against metal.

Victor ducked down in his seat, returning fire as he passed the closest gunman. Rounds continued to strike the Renault. In his rear-view mirror he saw the big guy with the MP5K rush out into the road fifteen metres behind him and flames spit out of the weapon’s muzzle.

Holes blew through both windscreens, spreading cracks across the safety glass, impeding Victor’s view. He felt a tyre blow.

‘Brace yourself.’

He waited a few seconds until he had put some distance between the Renault and the two gunmen, then slammed on the brakes and pulled the handbrake and was jumping out of the car before it had stopped moving.

He kept low and ushered Gisele to follow him out of the same door because it was further away from the gunmen than her own. She crawled over the seats and Victor pulled her out.

‘Go.’

He fired off a couple of shots while Gisele ran as fast as she could for the count of five, then he ran after her, heading to the exit, counting off seconds in his head, picturing the smaller gunman giving chase, then stopped, spun around and dropped to one knee as he extended the SIG and brought his left hand up for stability, the iron sights of the gun lining up over the pursuing mercenary, who had moved out of cover to give chase.

The man’s momentum carried him forward as bullets hit him in the chest, shoulder and finally face. He dropped to the ground, leaving blood, brains and chunks of skull sliding down windscreen glass.

Victor moved to intercept the guy with the sub-machine gun, but he wasn’t there.

Instead there was nothing but rows and rows of vehicles.

He stopped and signalled for Gisele to do the same. He motioned for her to get down between vehicles and he dropped into a push-up position, lying on his front to peer beneath the cars. The asphalt was cold and hard and wet under his palms. He saw no feet or legs, but his line of sight was interrupted by numerous wheels.

If he couldn’t see his attacker, then the reverse must also be true.

He stayed down for a moment, thinking. The big guy wasn’t stalking closer, keeping low and hidden until he initiated his attack, because that would only work if Victor was stationary. Once he ran, he would quickly get out of range with his enemy too low to see him. So the gunman wasn’t trying to get closer for an ambush. He was trying to stay alive.

No point dying for a pay cheque that couldn’t be cashed. Victor lived by the same principle. But the merc would still want his fee, which meant he was calling for backup.

Victor hurried over to where Gisele waited.

‘Are you okay?’

Gisele nodded. ‘I’m fine.’

He stood and looked around. Still no sign of the gunman but he saw a man frantically trying to unlock the door of an old MG convertible, but he was too scared by the recent gunfire to get the key in the lock. Victor dashed over, coming up behind the man and relieving him of his keys. The man stood trembling with fear. Victor put a hand on his shoulder and forced him to the ground.

‘Hide,’ Victor told him.

It was advice that could save the man’s life. A fair trade for his car, Victor thought. He waved Gisele over, but it was too late, because he saw a black Range Rover pull into the car park.

FIFTY-SEVEN

They ran, heading south, away from the Range Rover, turning side-on to get between cars until they were clear of the car park and facing a dock where the vehicle wouldn’t be able to pursue. Either those inside would be forced to jump out and chase on foot, or the 4x4 would turn around and try to get ahead of them — or both. Any of the scenarios worked for Victor because it would mean a divided force.

He followed the waterline to the east, Gisele at his side, passing the hotel again but out of sight of the crowds and potential onlookers. They crossed the dock on a footbridge that ran alongside the road bridge, ending up on an empty strip of concrete that continued along the elevated road to his right but finished at a dead end of steel fences and vegetation. A foot tunnel led east under the road.

Victor glanced back to see a figure running along the far side of the dock, heading to the footbridge. Muzzle flashes glared bright in the darkness but the range was too great for accurate shots.

‘Through the tunnel,’ he said to Gisele. ‘Hurry.’

The pursuing mercenary made it up to the bridge in time to see the killer disappear. He immediately thumbed his mike. He reported as he ran:

‘Targets are on the south side of the dock, entering a tunnel under the bridge. They’re going to come out on the east side of the road. Repeat: the east side.’

Anderton’s voice replied: ‘Copy that. Stay in pursuit. We’ll head them off.’

The mercenary kept running. He was fast and fit and had crossed the footbridge in less than fifteen seconds. He cut across the strip of concrete and into the tunnel, gun up and ready for an ambush.

Predictably, the tunnel stank of piss. When he saw it was empty of people he sprinted along it, slowing before he reached the far end, wary of a potential ambush, then moved out fast, gun leading. Directly in front of him was the tall chain-link fence marking the boundary of London City Airport. A footpath beside it extended to the north and south. He swept left as he emerged from the tunnel — no one — then right, seeing the girl running, twenty or so metres ahead.

He aimed, but didn’t fire as he saw movement in the corner of his right eye, not from the empty tunnel but from above.

Victor leapt down from the elevated road, crashing into the mercenary, taking him to the ground under his bodyweight, feeling him slacken from the impact. He ripped the gun from the man’s hand, reversed his grip and hammered the pistol’s muzzle down into his eye until it became wedged in the socket and the struggling ceased.

He tore free the dead man’s radio, switched it off, and shouted, ‘Come on.’

Victor and Gisele dashed back through the tunnel, then headed north, on to the footbridge.

‘Down,’ Victor said, because he heard the roar of a powerful V8 engine on the nearby bridge.

They went into low crouches and he saw a Range Rover pass, heading south in the opposite direction. A few seconds later a second Range Rover did the same. It wouldn’t take them long to work out that Victor and Gisele had doubled back.

‘Run,’ Victor said.

They sprinted across the bridge and headed north on to a narrow road that fed the hotel’s car park. He left Gisele on the pavement and dashed into the road, straight into the coming traffic, arms waving, dodging a minivan that wasn’t going to slow down in time, then moving in front of a small Peugeot that did, tyres squealing on the damp asphalt.

The driver shouted, ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ as Victor circled the bonnet.

The door opened before Victor could reach for the handle. The driver — a big Polish man — was climbing out to confront him, eyes wide with rage.

Victor dropped him to his knees with an uppercut to the solar plexus. He left the man wheezing and gasping and grabbed hold of Gisele’s wrist to drag her around to the passenger door. He opened it and bundled her into the seat, slammed the door and rushed back around to the driver’s side, shoving the kneeling Pole to one side.

The door fell shut under the Peugeot’s momentum as Victor accelerated away. He put his left palm on the top of Gisele’s head and forced her down in the seat because she was sat too upright.

‘Stay down,’ he said. ‘Keep your head lower than the windows.’

She didn’t respond but she didn’t fight or argue. Either she was happy to do as he told her or she was too scared to resist. It didn’t matter as long as she was breathing.

In the rear-view, the Polish man was climbing to his feet and staggering along the road after them. Victor respected his single-mindedness, but he wasn’t about to return the vehicle. He hoped it would still be in one piece by the time the police released it back to the man, but the odds were against it. He cut through the car park and then joined the road that ran between the hotels, heading west.

Wade kept his eyes on the road and the traffic, slowing as they came to a traffic island. Anderton and Sinclair were looking to their left — east — expecting to see the girl and the assassin running alongside the road, having come out of the foot tunnel as reported by Cole and then heading south because there was no escape north or east.

‘Where are they?’ Sinclair spat.

Anderton said, ‘Take the first exit left. That’s the only way they could have gone.’

‘No,’ Sinclair said, shaking his head. ‘We should have seen them.’

She radioed Cole, who had been pursuing on foot: ‘We can’t see them. Report.’

No reply.

‘Cole, answer me. We —’

‘He’s dead,’ Sinclair said. ‘They doubled back. They’re on the opposite side of the dock by now.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘Because that’s what I’d have done,’ Sinclair answered.

Anderton sighed. ‘Then we’ve lost them.’

Victor pushed the Peugeot as hard as it could take. The engine was weak and the handling non-existent but the car was small and the tyres had decent grip. He weaved it through the traffic, ignoring the blaring of horns and minor collisions he left behind. He knew he was risking attracting the attention of the police — whether via an unmarked vehicle or from a call made by a civilian — but better to be chased by cops than killers. Whoever these guys were, he couldn’t see them shooting through the police to get to him and Gisele. If they had any sense they would back down the moment the police became involved. He wasn’t going to rely on that, however.

Gisele kept low in the seat as he instructed, swaying and sliding as he swerved and braked and accelerated again. When he saw no pursuers he slowed down and took the next turning so he could join the traffic like a regular driver and disappear into the crawl of inner-city vehicles.

Victor glanced at Gisele. ‘Are you okay? Are you injured?’

‘What?’ she whispered, eyes open and blankly staring at a point beyond the dashboard.

She was having a panic attack. Her automated nervous system was crashing. Her lizard brain was caught between fight or flight. The result was paralysis.

‘Just breathe,’ he said, ‘but slowly. Draw in one lungful of air and hold it in the bottom of your chest for as long as you can. Then let it out nice and slow.’

She did. He could feel the fear radiating from her like a tangible energy. He wasn’t sure what to say. Nothing was going to make it vanish. Fear was nature’s purest form of advice. It couldn’t be mastered. To control it took years. He had no advice that could free her from it now.

He put a hand on her arm. The skin trembled beneath his touch. ‘It’s going to be okay,’ he said because it wasn’t okay and it was the truth that scared her, not lies.

She nodded. Maybe she believed him. Maybe she didn’t. She still shook. She had to work through the fear in her own time.

He said, ‘Are you hurt?’

In his peripheral vision he saw her shake her head so he concentrated on the road in front of them and his mirrors. There were no men with guns or black Range Rovers.

‘I think I’m going to be sick,’ she said.

‘I can’t stop yet. You’ll have to do it into the footwell.’

Gisele shuffled in the seat, leaning forward, knees parted. She stayed like that for a couple of minutes, but didn’t vomit.

She asked, ‘What do we do now?’

‘For now we keep moving,’ Victor said. ‘After that, I have no idea.’

‘You won’t think less of me if I start crying, will you?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Okay, good,’ she said, voice breaking. ‘Because I can’t hold it back any longer.’

He drove in silence as next to him she cried and cried.

FIFTY-EIGHT

Rain lashed the windows and ran down the glass in chaotic rivulets. Gisele stared at the flowing serpent of headlights beyond, twin red eyes glowing in the darkness. They stared back, malevolent but harmless, threatening violence but delivering none. For now. She inched closer to the man next to her, hoping that while she remained there, no one would hurt her. If she’d felt he would respond she would have leaned against him, encouraging a comforting arm to be wrapped around her. But she stayed rigid in her seat. However much she wanted that embrace, she would not ask for it and show more weakness than she had already.

She hated him for his callousness and criminality. She hated herself more because she needed him. He had proved his loyalty and she could cry because of it, even if it was only because he had liked her mother. Whatever their relationship had been or had not been, it gave him an immovable conviction the likes of which she would not have believed possible. How could someone risk their life for someone they did not know on behalf of someone they had once known? It was a mystery to her, but she was okay with that. Whoever this man was, he did not think or operate like other people. It would be easier to fathom the motivation of an alien.

She knew almost nothing about him and though that had irritated her earlier, now it reassured her because all she understood was that he was someone of strength and resolve, who could deliver extreme violence to protect her from it. He was a spectre more than a person — made of violent energy more than flesh. Flesh could be destroyed. Energy could not.

But she wasn’t like that. She was weak. She was scared.

Gisele stared out at the snaking red eyes blurring through her tears.

If Gisele moved her right hand he took the next right turning. If she moved her left, he headed in that direction. When her hands stayed still in her lap he maintained the same heading. After fifteen minutes they were far away from the hotel, having taken a random route to an unpredictable location.

Victor said, ‘You can sit up now.’

She took a long time to do so, the adrenalin hangover robbing her of strength. ‘Are we safe?’

‘No,’ Victor answered, even though he wanted to say yes. ‘We’re anything but safe.’

She nodded, bottom lip over the top. He saw that she had wanted a different response. Any different response. Offering comfort and reassurance were not his strong points. It occurred to him that he should have entered this as a character; someone more personable and relatable. But he was sharper as himself. Acting a role took effort. Keeping Gisele alive required all of his concentration, but he saw now that it would be easier to have her do exactly as she was told if she liked him. If she thought of him as a friend then she would trust what he said without question. That lack of hesitation might be the difference between life and death. But it was too late now to initiate a charm offensive. She’d seen him kill people. She wouldn’t be able to look past that. No one could. That was why he’d made sure her mother had never known what he did for Norimov. Now, he felt that in deluding Eleanor he had betrayed her.

He noticed that the fuel tank was getting low. He wasn’t planning on keeping the car much longer but he couldn’t be sure a pair of Range Rovers were not going to appear behind him at any moment. If they did, the Peugeot would need fuel. He pulled into the first twenty-four-hour petrol station he saw.

‘I’ll be as fast as I can.’

She was quiet as he climbed out of the vehicle. He didn’t know what she was thinking. He could see the fear and uncertainty in her expression but otherwise it was blank.

He half-filled the tank and paid in cash, keeping his head angled away from the forecourt’s security cameras and then face tilted away from the one behind the cashier. He was more obvious than he would usually be because the cameras were well positioned and top-of-the-line and he was being actively hunted. He saw the young guy behind the desk notice his behaviour but the kid was confused. He hadn’t worked out what Victor was doing. Better to be noted by someone who would forget him within ten minutes than have his face recorded in crystal-clear high-resolution video.

He bought some bags of crisps and chocolate bars from the shelves and an armful of bottled water. He noticed the guy behind the counter smiling to himself, thinking Victor was stoned on account of the junk food and avoiding eye contact in an attempt to hide his vacant gaze. Victor did nothing to convince him otherwise.

Before leaving the garage shop he scanned the forecourt through the glass. No Range Rovers in sight. No gunmen.

He handed her the plastic bag of supplies as he slid into the driver’s seat.

She peered into the bag. ‘I don’t like junk food.’

‘Eat. It’s all full of carbohydrates.’

‘Carbs are the devil.’

‘We need them. You especially. Eat up.’

She sighed and he heard her rummage in the bag.

‘Don’t say anything,’ he said as her mouth opened. ‘Just eat.’

She found a chocolate bar she liked the look of, and bit off a small chunk. She chewed slowly. ‘What are we going to do?’

‘Find somewhere to lie low.’

‘Then what?’

He didn’t answer.

‘Why don’t we simply keep driving?’ she asked. ‘Let’s get out of the city. Never come back.’

‘Where would we go? We don’t have a car. Public transport is risky. People are looking for us.’

She held up her hands. ‘We’re in a car.’

‘It’s stolen. We’ll have to ditch it soon.’

‘Why can’t you steal another one? Or we can take a train or go to the airport. Anything.’

‘Not yet,’ Victor said. ‘They’ll expect us to run. They could be watching train stations and airports and following reports of stolen cars. If we’re spotted, it’s over. First we lie low and consider our next move. We can’t risk snap decisions. In the morning, maybe we will leave the country. But it’s a choice we’ll make when I’ve had time to think. Do you have your passport on you?’

She shook her head. ‘It’s at the office. In my desk. I went to a conference in Brussels. I… I knew I shouldn’t have left it there.’

‘That’s a problem then. They’ll know about your workplace.’

‘Then what are we going to do?’

‘I’ll come up with something. But for now, I need you to think.’

She stopped chewing and looked at him, reading his tone. ‘Me? About?’

‘At the hotel, the man who knocked on the door wasn’t trying to kidnap you. Neither were the men in the car park.’

‘I… I don’t understand.’

‘I’d been led to believe they wanted to abduct you, but that’s not what I witnessed. They were trying to kill you. That was an assassination attempt.’

Her mouth hung open and her brow was furrowed. Shock. Disbelief. ‘Why would they want to kill me? You said they wanted to take me to put pressure on Alex. That’s why you’re protecting me. That’s what you told me.’

‘I was wrong. This isn’t about your stepfather. This is about you.’

‘That doesn’t make any sense. How can it be about me?’

‘I don’t know, but with a little time you might figure out why this is happening to you.’

‘So you’re saying it’s my fault?’

‘That’s not what I said.’

She pushed her fingers through her hair. ‘Then please explain what the fuck you’re saying?’

‘That there is a woman who wants to kill you,’ Victor said. ‘The people who attacked us in the warehouse and at the hotel are working for a woman with blonde hair and green eyes. She’s British. Do you know anyone like that?’

‘I don’t know. How would I, based on that description? I could have met dozens of women like that, couldn’t I?’

‘Has anyone threatened you?’

She shook her head. ‘No.’

‘Any criminals you might have crossed as part of your work? A case you’ve been working on?’

Her head was still shaking. ‘I haven’t worked a single case yet. Don’t you get it? I’m not a qualified barrister. It’s not that long ago that I got my degree. I don’t handle even the most minor of cases, let alone one that might warrant all this. God, there’s nothing I know or have done that could give all these people a reason to try to kill me. If I had, then my whole firm would be under threat too. They wouldn’t single me out. I’m not important.’

‘You are to her. To her you’re so dangerous she will risk everything to kill you.’

The shaking stopped. The eyes were wide. ‘But I’m nobody.’

Victor left her in the car while she ate and walked to the edge of the garage forecourt. He reached into his inside jacket pocket and withdrew the small two-way radio transceiver he’d taken from the dead mercenary. It was a Motorola, an expensive model, with a range of up to ten kilometres. It would be less in a dense urban environment. He couldn’t be sure it would be in range. Only one way to find out.

He powered it on and thumbed the send button.

‘Do you know who this is?’

He waited. For a moment, all he could hear was the sound of tyres splashing through puddles. Then, a woman’s voice came through the speaker.

‘I do know who this is,’ she said. ‘You’re Norimov’s man. The assassin.’

Her voice was distorted and crackling because the signal was weak.

She added: ‘It’s nice to speak to you at last.’

‘Nice is perhaps not the word I’d elect to use,’ Victor said.

‘Even putting luck to one side, I have to admit you’re proving quite the troublemaker.’

‘It wasn’t luck that killed four of your guys tonight.’

A pause, before she replied, ‘Is that why you’re speaking to me now, to gloat? That would be a mistake.’

‘I don’t make mistakes.’

‘Is that so?’ the woman said back. ‘Except for the fact you’re now involved in something that doesn’t — shouldn’t — concern you. That is a monumental mistake on your part.’

The voice was becoming more distorted. They were travelling further away from him and Gisele.

He said, ‘Would you like to have a wager on that?’

She chuckled. ‘Sure, why not? I’ll humour you. What exactly are we betting with?’

‘Your life,’ Victor said and smashed the radio beneath his heel.

FIFTY-NINE

Victor pulled over on a high street in the north of the city where bright signs advertised a multitude of fast-food outlets. There were other shops in between, but all closed at this hour. The street was empty of people.

‘Wait here.’

Gisele nodded.

He’d left the engine running because hot wiring was temperamental and he didn’t want to risk it not working again, especially if they had to move out in a hurry. He scanned for threats as he walked until he found a letting agent. He examined the properties listed in the window display. He checked the photographs and read through the details. He memorised the two that best matched his criteria — house; unfurnished; quiet neighbourhood; available immediately.

Gisele was sitting very still when he climbed back into the car. He didn’t ask if she was okay because no civilian would be in the circumstances.

The display hadn’t listed the precise addresses of the properties, but they didn’t take long to find with the details provided. Both had signs out front, but the first house — despite its immediate availability — was occupied. The second was empty.

It was an end-of-row terrace, slim-fronted but long. The front garden was overgrown with weeds. The window frames were cracked and warped. The front door was sun-bleached. Victor parked the Peugeot half a mile away and led Gisele on foot. Having the car closer would be useful if they had to make a fast getaway, but it was stolen and therefore had more chance of leading enemies to them than saving them if they were otherwise found.

Victor walked ahead to scout for threats. Gisele followed a little behind, as he’d told her to. She needed to stay close to him so he could protect her, but with enough distance to give him time to clear an area before she entered it. He led her down the alleyway that ran behind the row of terraces and separated its back garden from those of the houses behind. Fences rose tall on either side of their shoulders. When he came to the right spot he stood with his back to the fence and linked his fingers in front of him.

‘Here,’ he said. ‘Climb over.’

She stared up at the high fence. ‘You’ve got to be kidding.’

‘Put your foot on my hands and use it as a step. I’ll lift you.’

‘And I’ll break my neck falling down the other side.’

‘No you won’t. The garden will be higher than we are now. The drop will be a short one.’

‘Says you.’

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We have to be fast.’

She made a big deal of sighing, placed her hands on his shoulders, then raised her right foot and set it down on his upturned palms.

‘After three?’ she asked, sarcastic.

‘Three,’ he said, and lifted.

She grunted and pushed herself up, grabbing the top of the fence and then hooking an elbow. He hoisted her higher and she struggled up and over. He heard her drop down on to the other side.

‘Are you okay?’ he asked.

There was no answer.

‘Gisele, are you okay?’

‘I’m fine.’

There was anger directed at him in her tone. It was not an unexpected response to the trauma she had been through in the past few hours. From an operational perspective he would have preferred her to remain quiet and passive, but for her sake it was better to be angry than scared.

He turned, leapt vertically, took hold of the cold wood and heaved himself up. He dropped down next to her.

‘What now?’ she asked.

There was no alarm. The house was unfurnished. The landlord had no need of one because it didn’t affect him if the tenants were burgled. Victor picked the lock of the back door and ushered Gisele inside. He checked every room; every door; every window. He made sure all the exterior doors and windows were closed and locked and the interior doors were all open so sound would travel through the house easier.

She said, ‘You’ve made a draught.’

He didn’t respond.

‘There’s no furniture.’

‘We don’t need any.’

‘Whose place is this?’

‘No one’s. It doesn’t matter. We’ll stay for a few hours until it’s light and move on. Get some sleep.’

He turned around and went to perform checks of the house. He again checked every room and window. Nothing had changed in the last ten minutes and nothing was likely to, but he needed the alone time. The house had been neglected in the way rented properties often were. The tenants were not going to put any time or expense into maintenance when they didn’t own it. The landlord didn’t live there so only cared about the bottom line.

Victor saw its potential. Given two weeks he could reverse the neglect. Given a month he could transform it. But he could never live in the house. It didn’t meet his specifications on defensibility. There were too many neighbours. He would end up getting to know them and they would know more of him in return than he wanted anyone to know. Alternatively, he would have to make a determined effort to keep out of their way and they would talk about him and begin to wonder why he was so antisocial. He tore off a peeling segment of wallpaper to stop the tear getting any larger.

He was standing in an empty bedroom, staring out through the sliver of space between curtain and wall. Foxes were scavenging in the night. He couldn’t see them. But he heard their keening on occasions. Red flashed in his mind.

He heard a scrape.

Any hint of fatigue evaporated, replaced by focus. He stood silent and listened. It had originated outside the house. Faint and quiet among the other sounds, but close. A shoe on asphalt, maybe. It was hard to be sure. He peered into the night. He saw nothing. He head a car passing on the street outside the house’s front. He heard an airliner flying overhead. He heard the wind shaking fences and branches and rushing over every surface. Ten minutes passed without another notable sound reaching his ears. He remained poised, listening and watching. If it had been the sound of a killer moving into position, Victor would be ready. If it was nothing, it didn’t matter whether he was ready or not. But it mattered to him. He had to be ready every time, just in case. He had to hear every sound. Not only his own life depended on it, but Gisele’s too. He didn’t want her to die. He didn’t want to let her mother down.

After twelve minutes he decided the noise had been nothing. He would have liked the neighbouring house to have a dog that barked whenever anyone came near its territory. But no barking had ensued when Victor and Gisele had climbed over the back fence. Any canines nearby stayed indoors with their owners and any territorialism would wait until the morning. In another life he pictured himself with a dog. He liked dogs. They seemed to like him too. They always wanted to play-fight with him. But owning a dog meant having a home, and he couldn’t foresee himself ever having one again. He had to keep moving, whether he was working or not. Trouble would inevitably find him if he stayed in one place too long. A moving target was always harder to hit than a stationary one, as he had told Gisele.

He’d been standing there for two hours when he heard Gisele climbing the stairs. Each step creaked. It would drive most occupiers crazy, but Victor liked it. A silent staircase was a killer’s best friend. He willed Gisele to turn around and go back down. He wanted her to rest. He wanted to be left alone. He kept his thoughts to himself.

‘I fell asleep,’ she said from behind him. He knew she was standing in the doorway because her steps did not disturb the room’s floorboards.

‘That’s good,’ Victor said. ‘But you should go back to sleep.’

‘What are you doing?’

‘If they come, they’ll come through the backyard. Like we did.’

‘They won’t find us here, will they?’

‘Act as though you’re always vulnerable and you’ll have more chance of surviving when you are.’

‘If you say so.’ She hugged her arms. ‘It’s cold.’

She was right. It was cold. The outside temperature was below ten degrees with the wind chill. Inside, it wasn’t much warmer. The winter air found its way under doors and through cracks. He hadn’t noticed until now because the cold wasn’t going to kill him in the time he would be here. Comfort meant little to him when survival was at stake. But he understood she was nothing like him. She was a civilian. And young. What hardship meant to him and her could not be more different.

‘I know,’ he said. ‘There’s electricity but the gas must have been disconnected. You can have my jacket if you like.’

‘No,’ she said, sharpness in her voice despite the tiredness. ‘I mean: no, thank you. It’s okay. I’ll survive. There’s no food in the fridge or the cupboards. I woke up starving.’

He knew he should have picked up some proper food for her before they arrived. He hadn’t thought to at the time because food wasn’t a priority. A few high-calorie snacks had been more than enough for him. The body could function at near maximum capacity for days without food, eating itself to stay fuelled. But it couldn’t survive long pierced by bullets.

‘We’ll get you something when we move out.’

‘I’m not sure I can wait that long without eating.’

‘You can. You just haven’t had to before.’

‘Right.’ She sighed. ‘I know I could stand to lose a kilo or two. Might as well start now. It’s not as if I have anything better to do.’

‘You don’t need to lose any weight.’

She shot him a look, as if he were about to follow the comment with some sarcasm. When he didn’t, she smiled. ‘Thanks.’

‘There’s nothing to thank me for. It’s a statement of fact.’

‘Then thank you for stating the fact.’ A pause, then: ‘Is there anything I can do to help? I found a stack of party cups left in the kitchen cabinet. I could get you some water if you’re thirsty.’

He was. But he wanted her to rest more. ‘I’m okay. Get some more sleep if you can. We need to move on soon.’

SIXTY

Daylight came. Slowly, because Victor watched every second of it. The rear bedroom window faced east and he saw the steady lightening of the sky above the distant rooftops, haloed in blue then yellow and white. Birdsong accompanied the change of colours, then the rumble of engines starting up and working hard, left idling while heaters fought back the cold and frost. When he could see the outline of every paving slab in the backyard, he stepped away from the window. No one would attack now. Their enemies would wait for darkness or the perfect opportunity. This was neither.

They had survived the night. He lay on the floor. There was no carpet, only bare floorboards, but he was asleep in seconds.

When he woke he sat immediately upright, ears collecting sound, subconscious failing to pick out the noise of attack but detecting nothing that concerned him. He descended the stairs. He’d been asleep for just over an hour — the first rest he’d had in two days. The guilt he felt at leaving her undefended twisted his stomach.

She was asleep, curled up into a ball in a corner of the empty lounge. She looked peaceful.

He left and cleaned himself in the downstairs bathroom using only water because there were no toiletries of any kind. He stood at the sink, cupping water in his hands under the running tap, then scrubbing it under his armpits, over his chest and shoulders, along his arms and over his stomach and shoulder blades. He finished by doing the same with his face and hair. The water was so cold it made his hands turn red and brought up goose bumps over every inch of skin it touched. His lower body would have to wait for now. There were no towels and not even a roll of tissue so he let the winter air slowly dry him.

Gisele awoke, groaning and squinting. Usually, she was up at six a.m. and out of the front door just after seven. She was never at the law firm for less than ten hours a day. Often, it was twelve. A few times a month it was more like fourteen. Everyone hated lawyers but in Gisele’s opinion they didn’t get enough credit for how long and hard they had to work.

Taking the week off after the incident on the street had given Gisele a lot of free time she wasn’t used to and the best way to make use of it seemed to be by sleeping. She wasn’t sure whether this was working off the sleep debt of many late nights and early mornings or because of the stress of the incident. Now, getting up early for work seemed like a luxury she might never experience again. She didn’t need to get up but sleeping in had lost its appeal. She was anxious and too awake to be able to snooze.

She padded on the balls of her feet to reduce the exposure to the cold floor and grimaced at the sight that greeted her in the mirror above the fireplace.

Gisele heard the sound of running water and for a horrible moment thought the worst, before realising it only meant her companion was in the downstairs bathroom. She tensed. She didn’t like the idea of the man being awake and nearby while she lay asleep and vulnerable.

Gisele let out a cry from the other side of the house.

Victor was out of the bathroom, through the hallway and into the front room within four seconds, gun in hand, safety off, slide jacked and ready to fire.

She was grimacing and standing on one leg while rubbing the sole of her left foot. ‘Splinter,’ she hissed, not looking up. ‘People who don’t have carpets should be beaten, I swear. I can’t get it out. My nails are too short.’

He lowered the weapon and eased the safety back on with his thumb.

‘Shit,’ she said, her eyes widening as she glanced up at him. ‘Did you fall into a wood chipper or something?’

He didn’t comment. She was referring to the numerous scars that marked his torso and arms. Some were from minor injuries that he’d had to suture himself and appeared worse than they might do otherwise. Others though looked as good as it was possible for a scar to look after being stabbed or shot. Most had occurred when he was much younger, when he knew less about how to avoid being injured and when his body could more easily repair itself. He was more careful these days. He had to be. Scar tissue had only eighty per cent of the strength of healthy skin. Some wounds still caused him pain in the quiet moments when his mind had nothing else to focus on.

‘I have to say,’ Gisele continued. ‘It doesn’t make me feel very protected when you’re a walking manual of how not to stay safe.’

‘Very funny.’

‘Yes, well. I’m finding a little humour helps me forget about being hunted and all the dead people.’

He tucked the gun back into his waistband. ‘Try not to make any noise unless it’s unavoidable.’

‘I impaled my foot on a monster splinter. What else was I supposed to do? Pain is what I’d call a cause of unavoidable noise.’ She tried to prise the splinter from her foot, hissing in pain and failing to get hold of it between her nails.

‘I’ll be back in a minute to pull that splinter free. I know a good trick for getting them out.’

‘It’s okay,’ she said, grimacing. ‘I’ve got it. I can do some things by myself.’

When he returned he was fully dressed. He carried two disposable cups of water. He handed her one. She sat cross-legged on the floor in the lounge, back to the wall and the coat draped across her knees.

‘Drink this. You have to stay hydrated.’

She took the cup and sipped from it. He stood nearby, drinking from his own, reacting to every sound of cars or people passing in the street outside.

‘I’ve been thinking. ⁠. . ⁠’ Gisele said.

‘Go on.’

‘Whoever this woman is, I’ve never met her. So I can’t have done anything to her to warrant all this.’

‘Directly, at least.’

She nodded to accept the point. ‘Therefore it has to be something I know or can do. Information I have that’s a threat, perhaps.’

‘Could be. But what?’

‘That I don’t know. If it’s information that I have, I don’t know what it is. I don’t know what I know.’

‘We need to figure it out though.’

‘Now that I do know.’ She sipped her water. ‘It can’t be anything to do with Alex’s business because I’ve never had anything to do with it. I’ve been in the UK for years. They must know that. So it has to be because of my job. I don’t have enough of a life outside of work to have done anything to make me a target.’

‘You said you’re not even qualified.’

‘I’m not. That’s why this doesn’t make sense. I haven’t even taken my first case yet. I can’t have crossed the wrong people, because I haven’t dealt with any.’

‘They must know that too.’

‘Then this is all a big mistake. This woman thinks I have some knowledge I don’t and wants to kill me for it. That can’t be right, can it?’

She looked at him for an answer — an explanation — and with it a way out of a situation that would have seemed ludicrous a day ago. People wanting Victor dead was a common enough occurrence that the why wasn’t always essential. But to the twenty-two-year-old woman before him, the why was everything. She needed to comprehend this for her sanity.

He said, ‘Maybe you read a document you weren’t meant to or saw something you shouldn’t have.’

‘But what? When?’

He shook his head. ‘We need to work it out,’ he said again.

‘Then it must be a detail that out of context is completely insignificant to me.’

‘But everything to her.’

Her shoulders sagged and she looked down at her hands. ‘I just don’t know what it could be.’

He studied her and realised that the lack of understanding created hopelessness and that what she required at this moment was simple assurance. ‘You’ll work it out,’ he said. ‘I believe in you.’

She looked up and her eyes met with his. She gave a half smile and he knew he had held off her despair, if only for a short time.

He said, ‘I’m going to fetch some supplies. I won’t be long.’

Her face dropped. ‘On your own? I don’t want to be by myself.’

‘I won’t be long,’ he said for a second time.

‘Can’t I come with you?’

He shook his head. ‘On my own, I can avoid them.’

She frowned. ‘And I’ll give us away; is that what you’re saying?’

She’d replaced the fear with anger. That was good. It was a coping mechanism.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I can’t trust you to stay hidden so you’ll have to stay here.’

‘Thanks for that. You’re such a bastard sometimes.’

He turned from her, content that she would spend the time while he was away cursing him instead of crying and jumping at every noise outside.

SIXTY-ONE

He found shops nearby that were open. There was a row of cafés next to a corner pub and a small convenience store. He bought a sandwich and croissant in the first café and a filled bagel and piece of carrot cake in another. In the convenience store he purchased some drinks and toiletries, including hair dye and scissors. After a short walk he found a phone shop and bought two prepay mobile phones. He was back at the house within eighteen minutes. She was sleeping in the lounge, huddled in a corner with her coat over her like a blanket. He watched her for a minute to determine if she was really asleep or just pretending to be. When he decided she was sleeping he placed all of the food down nearby because he didn’t know what she would prefer and took a bottle of water upstairs.

He gave her half an hour to sleep and returned to the room. She was awake.

He handed her a pair of scissors and a box of hair dye. She studied them in her hands, as if she had never seen such things before.

‘I thought you were joking, before. I didn’t realise you were being serious. You honestly want me to cut my hair?’

‘And colour it too. It’s too attention-grabbing as it is.’

‘Is that a compliment?’

‘If you like.’

She took the box from him and eyed the smiling brunette on the cover. ‘Can’t I go blonde instead? It’ll suit my skin tone better.’

‘The store didn’t have a lot of choice, I’m afraid. The main thing is for you to blend in as much as possible. We don’t want you attracting attention.’

‘Half the women in this town dye their hair blonde.’

‘Please, just do it.’

Gisele sighed and looked at the scissors again. ‘Do you know how to cut hair?’

He shook his head.

She fed her fingers into the scissors and snipped the air a few times. ‘Okay. Fine. I’ll dye and I’ll cut it so it’s just below my ears.’

‘Thank you.’

‘You don’t have to thank me,’ she said, sighing. ‘I should be thanking you, shouldn’t I? You want me to cut my hair in an effort to help me. I wouldn’t have even thought about doing it.’

He considered this, and nodded.

When she had finished he stood examining the results for a long time. Gisele didn’t like such scrutiny from anyone, least of all him. The dye had coloured her hair to a mid-brown and she had managed to cut a few inches from the length so the ends brushed against her jaw.

‘Looks good,’ he said.

‘Thanks.’ She wasn’t sure she believed him. ‘I was right though, it doesn’t suit my skin tone.’

‘That helps us. The less you look like you, the better.’

‘I’ll have to take your word for that.’ She paused, then added: ‘What about clothes? We should get some different ones, don’t you think? Maybe some new glasses too.’

‘That’s smart. That’s a good idea.’

She smiled for a second, buoyed by the praise. She studied him. ‘You were already planning that, weren’t you?’

‘Yes.’

She hesitated, then said, ‘You’re not a bodyguard, are you?’

‘I said at the start I’m not.’

‘You’re not a gangster either.’

‘I never claimed to be.’

‘So,’ she said, ‘what are you?’

‘If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.’

‘Why don’t you try me?’

His black eyes locked on to hers, studying her gaze, reading her thoughts. He gave a little nod of understanding and said, ‘Why are you asking when you already know?’

‘I should have known I wouldn’t be able to hide it from you.’

‘You should have,’ he said, eyes unblinking. ‘That kind of knowledge is very dangerous.’

‘Not to me,’ Gisele was quick to reply. ‘Not when you swore to protect me.’

‘From the people hunting you. I never said anything about myself.’

‘You can’t fool me any more than I can fool you. If I had a gun to your head and my finger on the trigger you still wouldn’t harm me. I don’t understand why that is. It makes no sense at all to me. You say it’s because you knew my mother, but that’s not enough. It doesn’t matter if it makes sense to me, though, does it? All that matters is it makes sense to you.’

He stood still for a moment and doubt crept up Gisele’s spine as she feared she had misjudged how deep his loyalty ran. But he blinked and turned away.

‘How did you know?’ he asked.

‘When I was younger I overheard Alex on the phone, threatening someone with a ubiytsa who would do anything for him. I didn’t know what it meant at the time as my Russian wasn’t that good then. I haven’t thought about it since. I’ve only remembered it now. It means assassin, doesn’t it?’

He didn’t try to pretend otherwise. ‘What he said was untrue. I wouldn’t do anything for him.’

‘I know. I can tell. But he wanted whoever was on the phone to think that.’

He turned back. ‘Don’t be under any false impressions about who I am, Gisele. I said before that I deserve your sympathy even less than your father’s men. I meant it.’

She didn’t respond for a moment. When she spoke, there was a bitterness in her voice: ‘Don’t worry, I know exactly what kind of a man you are. You’re helping me now, but you could just as easily be one of the men hunting me, couldn’t you?’

He didn’t answer.

‘Only you’re not. You’re protecting me and for that reason I can fool myself enough to believe that you’re not entirely awful, even if you don’t believe it yourself.’

He didn’t respond to that either.

‘Have you been through this before?’

‘Through what?’

‘Protecting someone. You seem to know a lot about it.’

‘I told you that I know about personal security. It comes with the job.’

‘That’s not answering my question.’

He looked at her with his standard stone-faced expression, but she thought she detected something in his eyes — like he was fighting to maintain the façade.

Gisele said, ‘She… she didn’t make it, did she?’

He swallowed and exhaled and she saw that for the briefest moment he considered lying. But he told her the truth. ‘No, she didn’t.’

‘What happened?’

‘It’s complicated. We were helping each other. We were under threat. People wanted us both dead. It was my fault. I left her alone when it wasn’t safe. I shouldn’t have.’ He paused and rested a hand on her shoulder. ‘But I’m not going to let the same happen to you, Gisele. I promise.’

She looked away and nodded. ‘I believe you.’

SIXTY-TWO

The head of the department worked from a corner office of HQ’s fifth floor. It was a spacious, modern room that he had personally decorated with cricket and golf memorabilia. He’d been a rower in his university days, but that was over forty years ago and the sagging shoulders and protruding belly told of an indulgent, sedentary lifestyle. Anderton had met him perhaps thirty times and he seemed like an affable chap. He never tried to flirt with her and she knew better than to initiate such activities, even if she needed to. Which she didn’t. She had the sharpest mind in the building. It was the reason everyone hated her, though they did everything in their power to hide that fact.

‘What can I do you for, Nieve?’ the director asked.

‘I have a problem only you are in a position to help me with.’

He looked at her over the rim of his reading glasses. ‘That sounds decidedly troublesome.’

‘Quite. I’m sure you’re busy with all the drama here in the city last night.’

‘I am,’ he agreed, looking at her closely. ‘Downing Street are kicking my arse over this. Gunfights in the middle of London. Incredible.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You’re not working on it?’ the director asked, a certain tone to his voice. ‘It’s not a narcotics situation?’

‘It’s not narcotics, but I do have some insight into the matter. Thought you might be interested in a few details about the chap running around shooting up half the city.’

‘Go on,’ he said. The director smiled at her, as though she were a child withholding a truth already known. ‘Don’t keep me waiting, there’s a good girl.’

‘He’s a professional killer. A freelance, as far as I’m aware. To begin with he worked primarily in Russia and Eastern Europe. His handler was a former FSB officer who’s since switched to organised crime. The CIA believe this assassin killed some of their people in the aftermath of a hit gone wrong in Paris two years ago. The SVR want him for kills in Russia and East Africa. And that’s without all the rumour swimming around the water cooler about incidents in Minsk and Rome. Shall I go on?’

The director shook his head. ‘Then how is it he’s still walking around?’

‘Because the various parties haven’t worked out that he’s the same man.’

‘But you did?’

‘I’m the best at what I do.’

‘Are you telling me you know why he’s in London?’

Anderton nodded. ‘That would be my fault.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘The shooters who’ve been engaging with him are a private security team consisting primarily of former members of our armed forces. They’re following my orders.’

The director sat as far back as the chair would let him. He stared.

Anderton continued: ‘They’re hunting the stepdaughter of this assassin’s former handler: Aleksandr Norimov. I don’t want to bore you with the specifics but she’s in a position to make my life very difficult. Alas, she’s being protected by this assassin. He’s making things… awkward.’

‘You can’t be serious. Is this some kind of sick joke?’

‘I assure you, it’s no joke. I have a list of things you can help me with. Some are perfectly legal. Others are a little greyer, to put it politely. But the sooner we put our heads together to get this sorted, the sooner you can pop back to Downing Street to get some well-deserved pats on the back. And then, naturally, I’m going to require that you forget all about this conversation.. Clear enough so far?’

‘I suggest you listen to me very carefully, Ms Anderton. You need to turn around and walk out of this office and start penning a suitably humble resignation letter. Obviously I don’t yet understand all the details — and by God I don’t want to — but I can confidently say there is nothing I can do to help you. You are, as they say, fucked.’

She smiled at him. ‘I’m going to tell you a story, Jim. You don’t mind if I call you Jim, do you, Jim?’

The director’s eyes narrowed. He pushed an intercom button with a little finger. ‘Have security come to my office immediately.’

‘Back in 1948, a seven pound baby boy was born in a sleepy village in rural Shropshire. He was —’

‘I have no idea what you think you’re doing, Ms Anderton, but I suggest you keep your trap firmly shut and don’t give security any trouble when they get here.’

‘The boy was a bright student from average means but he went on to win a scholarship at Trinity College. Not only was he intelligent and a hard worker, he was gay. He kept it a secret as far as he could, but entered into a relationship with a fellow student. Things turned sour when this student decided he didn’t want to be gay and ended the relationship. There was an argument. The boy was later found dead.’

The director’s face had gone white.

Anderton perched herself on the director’s side of the desk and looked down at him. ‘The coroner ruled it a suicide but there was some doubt, wasn’t there?’

‘How do —?’

‘Because I do my homework, sir. I know all your dirty little secrets, just like I know the secrets of every man and woman in this place. Don’t look so surprised. We’re in the secrets business.’

‘What do you want?’

‘I’ve told you. I want your assistance — phone trace authorisations, restricted database access, that sort of thing. And importantly I need a back-dated authorisation letter to absolve me of my actions up until now, and for what will follow.’

‘What does that mean: what will follow?’

‘It means things are going to get very dirty, Jim. But I want to come out of this clean. And now you want me to come out clean, don’t you?’ She smiled, reassuringly.

‘You know that is beyond even my power. Whatever happens next, what’s already happened has to be explained. We can’t just pretend it never happened.’

She brushed some lint from the shoulder pad of his suit jacket. ‘You can have everyone else involved, how does that sound? The mercenaries work for Marcus Lambert’s private security firm. He’s a big old fish to catch, isn’t he? Been involved in all sorts of questionable activities over the past few years, hasn’t he? When this is over I can give you the name of every shooter involved and evidence that Marcus had them brought to London. It’ll all be wrapped up nice and fast and tidy. And the right people will hang for it. Well, except me.’

‘You’re a monster.’

‘Oh, Jim.’ Anderton held his face in her palms. ‘I do find it amusing you say that as if it’s a bad thing when we both know that’s precisely why you hired me in the first place.’

SIXTY-THREE

The winter sun was bright in a cloudless sky. Victor drove like the other city drivers — slow, within the speed limit, acting like everyone else and not someone hunted by enemies and on the run from the authorities. The car was stolen, but only recently. No one would be looking for it yet and it would be abandoned long before it became a risk.

He parked the car and left the engine running to encourage someone to steal it. He led Gisele on foot down a busy street. Iron bollards lined the pavement, designed to look like the deactivated cannons from the Crimean War that had once been used in their place. Permanent reminders of an imperial past, ignored by those who walked by them.

Around him, people who had never jogged a day in their lives wore sportswear and trainers. Market traders shouted to advertise their wares and counted out change, fingertips red in the cold air while the rest of their hands stayed warm under the protection of fingerless gloves. He stopped at a street stall selling souvenir clothing. There were lots of football shirts and T-shirts printed with ‘I ♥ London’ and faces of Royal Family members. He picked out a hooded sweatshirt that said ‘Oxford’ on the front and a cap with an image of the city skyline. He paid the vendor.

‘Very you,’ Gisele said.

He took her out of the flow of pedestrians and pushed the sweatshirt into her hands. ‘Put this on.’

‘You’re joking, surely? It’s about four sizes too big.’

‘It’s only one size too big. It’ll change your body shape.’

‘Why would I want to do that?’

‘So the people looking to kill you will have a harder time picking you out of a crowd. Hurry up.’

She did as instructed, pulling a face the whole time. He adjusted the strap at the back of the cap and fitted it on to her head.

Gisele said, ‘I look ridiculous, don’t I?’

‘You look like a tourist.’

‘Like I said, ridiculous.’

‘We need to be as forgettable as possible. We have to be anonymous. If you look and act like everyone else, it will make it more difficult for them to spot us.’

‘What about you? You look the same as you did yesterday.’

‘I know how to make sure people don’t see me.’

‘Yeah…’ she said. ‘Must be useful in your line of work. Maybe after this is over I’ll switch careers. Mine is dangerous enough as it is.’

He didn’t respond to that.

She stopped, thinking. ‘We agree that, whoever this woman is, she’s after me because of my job.’

‘It appears that way. We can’t know for sure yet.’

‘Okay, Mr Pedantic. We think that’s it. But as I said before, I’m not a barrister. Any work I do is for the qualified barristers. Maybe this woman is really after someone else. Maybe it’s a mistake, her wanting me dead.’

Victor thought back to his visit to Gisele’s firm. He cycled through his conversation with the receptionist. It’s probably the office bug. An innocuous statement at the time, but no longer.

He said, ‘While you were still going into work, was anyone off sick? Did anyone not show up that day or during the days beforehand?’

‘I… I don’t know.’

‘Please think, Gisele. Take your time. Were any of the other lawyers not in the office that day?’

The tip of her tongue was visible between her lips while she tried to remember. Then her eyes widened and she said, ‘Lester Daniels. He hadn’t been in for a couple of days. I’ve no idea why.’

‘What kind of law did he practise?’

‘That’s a good question. He’s kind of this old jack-of-all-trades at the firm. Bit of a renegade. I love the guy. Such a character. But what does this have to do with Lester?’

‘Did you work with him at all?’

‘Of course. All the time. I’m the firm’s general dogsbody. Oh shit, what are you saying? Is Lester involved in this?’

‘Perhaps. Do you know where he lives?’

The Daniels’ home was a three-storey townhouse in the centre of a parade of identical flawless residences with brilliant cream façades fronted by black wrought-iron fencing. One million pounds bought a mansion in most parts of the world. In a pleasant area of London, it bought a three-bedroom house with on-street parking.

‘How well do you know Lester?’ Victor asked as they approached.

‘As well as anyone knows their boss, I guess. Perhaps better. There have been a lot of firm social evenings. Drinks in swanky bars when someone wins a case, that sort of thing.’

‘Do you know what car he drives?’

She thought for a moment. ‘One of those classic sports cars with a soft top. Racing green, he told me.’

Victor didn’t enquire further because there was no such car parked on the street. Vehicles lined each kerb, nose to tail. There were no empty spaces and only enough road left between either flank for a single car to drive along slowly. Victor liked that. A Range Rover would have difficulty giving chase and there was nowhere for watchers to loiter.

Gisele drew a breath and pushed the doorbell. It rang with a cheery electronic jingle. Victor noted the speed with which it was answered, but not by Lester Daniels. He took the woman before him to be Mrs Daniels, based on her age, the ring on her finger and her expression. It was one of anxiousness and pain. He wasn’t as surprised as Gisele, who hesitated and stammered when the woman asked:

‘What do you want?’

The lack of politeness and tone matched his evaluation of her. She was stressed and worried and had better things to do than answer the doorbell to strangers.

‘I… uh… I’m Gisele Maynard. I… I work with Mr Daniels. I was wondering if I — we — could speak with him.’

The woman looked at Gisele with wide, disbelieving eyes that shone with anger. ‘Is this some kind of fucking joke?’

Gisele was too shocked to respond.

Victor said, ‘Has something happened to Lester?’

The angry eyes snapped in his direction. ‘I wouldn’t know, would I? He’s missing.’

‘Oh my God,’ Gisele breathed, putting a hand to her mouth.

‘Who are you people? What do you want?’

Victor said, ‘May we come in, Mrs Daniels?’

‘It’s Rose, and you haven’t answered my question. Who are you and why are you here? This really isn’t a good time. My husband is missing.’

‘As I was saying,’ Gisele began, ‘I work with Lester. But I’ve been off… sick for the last week. This here,’ she put a hand on Victor’s arm, ‘is my brother, Jonathan. I didn’t know Lester was missing. I’m so sorry. Is there anything we can do to help?’

The offer seemed to soothe the anger from Rose Daniels’ face. But pain replaced it. Her eyes moistened. ‘Thank you, that’s kind of you.’ She stepped aside and held open her door. ‘Come inside, please.’

‘Thank you,’ Gisele said, and entered through the doorway.

Victor checked the street for any new vehicles or people, but there were none. He followed.

Rose Daniels was a small woman who seemed smaller still in the tall hallway that rose high above Victor’s head. She led them through to the kitchen, where a mug of tea sat brewing and steaming on a wooden worktop. She took a teaspoon from its resting place near the mug and fished for the teabag. Her hand was trembling as she carried it to a bin and she dropped it. She started to cry.

‘Allow me,’ Victor said as he used his nails to retrieve the teabag from the slate floor and took a square of kitchen towel from a roll to wipe up the mess.

Rose nodded her thanks as she dabbed her eyes and gestured for them to sit at a breakfast bar. Gisele complied, but Victor remained standing where he could see the hallway and the kitchen window without having to turn his head.

She began talking without any prompts.

‘The police are useless. They say he’s not missing. They say he’s been using his credit card and his car has been recorded on CCTV. They haven’t said as much, but I can tell they think he’s run off with another woman. But Lester would never do that. He wouldn’t. He really wouldn’t.’

‘I don’t believe it either,’ Gisele said. ‘Lester’s a lovely man.’

Rose cried again at that, but controlled herself after a moment.

‘When did you last see him?’ Victor said, trying to sound like a concerned acquaintance and not an investigator.

‘Over a week ago,’ she said. ‘He left for work as normal on Wednesday and never came home. He wouldn’t simply disappear on me without saying anything. Something’s happened. I know it.’

Gisele looked at Victor, who made sure not to look back in case Rose saw the exchange.

‘I think,’ Gisele began, ‘that what happened to —’

Victor interrupted before she could continue: ‘Are any of his clothes missing?’

Rose looked away. ‘Yes. I checked, of course, after what the police told me about his card. But I don’t believe it. There must be another explanation.’

He saw from Gisele’s eyes that she understood the reason for his interruption. She said, ‘Was he stressed because of work? I know he had a big caseload.’

‘Lester loved his job. Even when he was overworked. If you’re trying to imply he couldn’t cope and disappeared then —’

‘No, I’m sorry,’ Gisele was quick to assure. ‘That’s not what I meant. I don’t know what I meant. This is all so shocking.’

They sat in silence for a while. Rose sipped tea, then said, ‘Forgive me. I didn’t ask if you wanted any. How rude of me.’

She went to stand but Victor held out a hand to motion for her not to. ‘That’s okay. We’re going to have to go, I’m afraid. My sister is giving me a lift to the airport.’

‘Yes, yes. Don’t let me hold you up.’

Gisele said, ‘I’m sorry to have disturbed you at this difficult time. Is there anyone I can call for you?’

Rose exhaled sharply. ‘The damned police. You can tell them to do their job.’

They said their goodbyes and left Rose to her tears.

SIXTY-FOUR

Outside, as they walked away, Gisele said, ‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’

Victor nodded.

‘But why? I don’t understand. What did he do? Something he was working on? Someone he was representing?’

‘That’s what we need to find out. Whoever this woman is, she’s connected to one of Lester’s cases — and that case must have the potential to destroy her. If she thought killing the lawyer working the case would prevent it going ahead, that suggests no other lawyer could step in. So, either Lester is the only barrister on the planet who was able to take the case, or there won’t be enough time for another to continue it now he’s out of the way. So, which case did you work on with Lester that has an inbuilt deadline? Possibly a case that he picked up only recently.’

‘I don’t know.’ She saw the scepticism in his eyes. ‘I don’t. I said I worked for him sometimes. I didn’t say I knew the details of everything he did. I filed, I researched, I photocopied and made him cups of Earl Grey. It’s not as if I even met the clients. He would work on dozens of different cases at any one time. Like I said, he was a maverick. He did things his own way. He didn’t even like to share with the other seniors. He would never tell me anything important. To have any idea what this might be about I’d have to go to the firm and check through his case files.’

Victor shook his head. ‘You can’t do that. They’ll be watching.’

‘Then we’ll never know what this is about. We’ll never know why Lester was killed. We’ll never know why I’m… Hold on.’ She stopped and turned to face him, forcing him to stop too. ‘If Lester is the barrister on a case that could, as you say, destroy her, why does she want me dead?’

He said, ‘Because you worked on the case too, even if you don’t know you did. Lester must have told her that. He must have given her your name.’

‘Why? That makes no sense.’

‘I’m afraid it does make sense. They must have tortured him or threatened to kill him or his family. Before he was killed, he gave them your name. They asked him who else knew what he did and he said you.’

‘No. He wouldn’t do that. Not Lester. There’s no reason to. It was a lie. I don’t know anything.’

‘Everyone talks in that situation. And you do know. There’s a piece of information you have that she can’t risk getting out. Lester was the original target, but you’re a loose end.’

‘What the fuck does that mean? That I have to be killed just in case?’ She put her face in her hands. ‘So all this is a mistake? Oh my God, people are trying to kill me for no fucking reason.’

‘You scared them,’ Victor explained. ‘When they tried to kidnap you and you escaped, they panicked. They couldn’t question you. They couldn’t find out what you did or didn’t know. They assumed the worst, which was that you indeed knew everything and could destroy them. It doesn’t matter what the truth is. Lester gave her your name and the fear of exposure is enough for her to send a team of mercenaries after us. Whether you are a genuine threat to her is irrelevant. Now, it’s gone too far. They can’t let you live.’

‘What information could be so important to go through this, but so insignificant that I don’t have any idea what it might be?’

‘Her name,’ Victor said. ‘That’s the only thing that makes sense. It’s there in a file, innocuous and unimportant, but it connects her to something. And you’ve seen it: filing, photocopying, whatever.’

‘How could she have got away with it? Lester and me both being murdered? It would be too much of a coincidence, wouldn’t it?’

‘People like this don’t get caught for crimes against civilians. They would have spun a story to hide the truth: maybe you and Lester ran off together before tragically dying in a car accident.’

‘That couldn’t work, could it?’

‘These things happen all the time. The reason you don’t know about it is because it works.’

‘Then fuck her. We can’t let her get away with this.’ Her hands were tight fists at her sides. ‘I want to bring her down. What else can we do? Keep running and hiding until they catch up with us again?’

‘No,’ Victor said. ‘That’s no plan. You’re right, we have to go after her.’

‘Please tell me you know how.’

He nodded. ‘Go through Lester’s files. You have to figure out who she is and what she’s scared of.’

‘But you said they’d be watching the firm. How can I?’

‘We’ll find a way. But first, I need to speak to your stepfather.’

The address Victor gave Norimov corresponded to a brownfield site on the south side of the river, between a long-disused power station and a development of new apartment blocks. There was a single route into the stretch of wasteland: a narrow path topped by loose gravel, just wide enough for a car to traverse. The land was uneven but flat. Signs near the path advertised the future homes that were to be built on the site.

Victor had been waiting with Gisele since eleven a.m.

A rented Subaru pulled off the road at five minutes past twelve. Late, despite Victor’s warning. The car slowly navigated the wasteland in a slow circle before coming to a stop in the approximate centre.

A moment later the phone in Victor’s pocket vibrated. He answered.

Yigor said, ‘I here. Where you?’

‘Nearby,’ Victor answered. ‘Step out of the car, open all the doors.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I’m telling you to.’

‘You crazy.’

‘Do it. Stay on the line.’

Victor watched as the Russian climbed out of the driver’s seat and proceeded to walk around the car, opening the passenger door and both rear doors. No one else was inside.

‘Happy now?’

‘Deliriously so. Stay on the line. I’m coming over.’

He stood up from where he lay on a verge between the old power station and the wasteland, some five hundred metres from where Yigor was parked. He returned to his own stolen Fiat and climbed inside. Gisele sat in the passenger seat. Victor said nothing and she obeyed his earlier request to stay silent. He activated the phone’s speaker and set it in his lap so he could listen to Yigor while he drove the short distance to meet him. He parked ten metres away from the Subaru, climbed out of the car. He hung up and slipped the phone back in his pocket.

Seeing this, Yigor did the same. ‘What was that for?’

‘To make sure you couldn’t contact anyone.’

‘Why would I?’

Victor didn’t answer.

‘You hurt my feelings, Mr Bad Man. I never —’

‘Save it,’ Victor said, drawing his pistol. ‘Give me your gun.’

Yigor looked shocked, then offended. ‘Why? You see I bring no one. You can trust me.’

‘I don’t trust anyone. Give me your gun and I won’t distrust you as much.’

‘You paranoid, man.’

‘The gun,’ Victor said. ‘Now.’

The Russian screwed up his face and with big exaggerated movements drew out his weapon. He threw it at Victor’s feet.

Victor tucked his own gun away and retrieved Yigor’s from the ground. He passed it to Gisele through the open passenger-door window.

She said, ‘I told you that you could trust him.’

‘What now?’ Yigor asked, hands in pockets.

Victor said. ‘You’re going to answer some questions.’ He aimed his gun at the Russian’s left knee. ‘You need to tell me everything you know if you enjoy the ability to walk.’

The mobile phone vibrated against his hip. He fished it out and checked the screen, thinking Norimov was calling. He wasn’t. It was a different number displayed. For an instant he didn’t understand. Then he did. The sender was Yigor, who was edging closer, then charging, the scrape of his shoes and the blur of movement in Victor’s peripheral vision providing a split-second of warning — enough time for Victor to drop the phone to free his hands and bring them up in defence.

The big Russian slammed into him. Even properly braced Victor would have no chance to resist the momentum. Being only half ready, the impact jolted him backwards, ruining his balance, giving Yigor the opportunity to grab his jacket and fling him at the stolen car where Gisele sat. Victor collided with the bonnet, toppling back on to it, then rolling laterally to avoid the elbow driven down at his skull. The sheet metal buckled and dented from the monstrous force.

Yigor’s muscle was gym-built and steroid-fuelled, but he had the speed of a lighter man. He grabbed Victor as he rolled off the bonnet, lifting him up and slamming him on to the ground, going down on top of him to crush and smother. Victor took the impact of their combined weight, losing the air from his lungs, but scooped up a rock into his left hand and drove it into Yigor’s face, tearing a gash across his forehead.

Victor twisted and pushed out from under him as Yigor recoiled from the blow, creating some distance and releasing the rock as he came to his feet. He reached for the gun but it had fallen from his waistband in the struggle and lay unseen near his enemy’s feet.

He attacked to distract him from noticing the weapon, the Russian blocking the punch and grabbing Victor’s jacket as he followed through with another, pulling him closer and launching a headbutt that Victor slipped and turned from, taking hold of the hand attached to his jacket, twisting it clockwise, forcing the Russian to release him or have his wrist locked. He chose the former. Victor backed off to create space, but circling so his enemy turned away from the gun on the ground.

Yigor used the pause to pull a folding knife from a coat pocket. Blood from the forehead wound seeped down the left side of his face.

Victor ducked low to avoid a slash at his neck, darting to Yigor’s left to keep out of the knife’s arc, and slipped around his exposed flank. A hook to the ribs caused the Russian to cry out and attempt a wild backhand attack. Victor batted the weapon from Yigor’s grip. It whistled through the air, clattering on the hard ground too far away to risk going for.

Yigor ducked low and threw himself at Victor, pushing him into the car’s driver’s side and pinning him there with his superior weight. He had to outweigh Victor by sixty or seventy pounds.

Hands went for Victor’s throat, palms wrapped around the neck, fingertips pushing against his spine, thumbs pressing down on his windpipe, cutting off his air supply. He punched up in return, striking Yigor’s face, adding to the blood from his forehead and cheek wounds, but they were arm punches with no power generated from planted feet and twisting hips. Yigor smiled through them, asking for more, happy to take them. They both knew Victor would be dead long before Yigor’s face broke apart.

Victor’s chest burned for oxygen as he grabbed the man’s hair in his right fist to lock it in place and drove his other thumb into Yigor’s left eye socket. The Russian tried to pull away from the pressure on his eyeball but Victor could stretch his arm further than Yigor’s two could extend while maintaining the choke.

The Russian grimaced, then roared, lifting him off the ground by his neck and slamming him into the car’s bodywork, but Victor didn’t release Yigor’s hair or lesson the pressure on his eye. Yigor slammed Victor down again, harder, then, having no other option to avoid losing his eye, snapped his hands free to tear away Victor’s own.

An anticipated move and Victor was already acting, kicking Yigor in the sternum and propelling him backwards a few steps. It exhausted Victor to do so. He gasped and coughed, weakened by the strangulation.

He was still fast enough to block the first punch, but not the second. Victor’s vision darkened. His head swam. He almost didn’t see the next one. He jerked his head to the side, slipping it — just — Yigor’s thumb scraping across his ear before the fist smashed into the edge of the car’s roof where it met the driver’s door.

He howled and jumped back, letting Victor slide along the bodywork and out of range, sagging from the effects of the punch and oxygen deprivation.

The Russian clutched at his broken fist and snarled in pain and rage because he knew he was beaten with his primary hand now useless, no matter how temporarily weakened Victor was at that moment. He came forward anyway, turning side on, ready to fight to the end with only his left hand.

‘Stop,’ Gisele shouted.

She was out of the car and looking at Yigor, holding the pistol Victor had given to her in shaking hands. The Russian faced her, good hand rising, passive. Victor blinked, trying to put the world back in focus.

‘No…’ he managed, because he saw what was going to happen.

Yigor shuffled towards Gisele, hand still raised. By the time she realised he wasn’t surrendering it was too late. He tore the gun from her hand and aimed it at Victor.

The Russian said, ‘I win.’

SIXTY-FIVE

Yigor held the gun in his left hand because the right had to be broken in more than a dozen places. It hung uselessly at his side, bloody and swollen. He used the gun to usher Gisele and Victor together and then over to his car.

‘Why are you doing this?’ Gisele asked.

Yigor said, ‘I want money. I sell you both and make all the money.’

He walked a couple of metres behind Victor and Gisele. It was the textbook distance in such circumstances — too far for the captives to turn and take their captor by surprise, but close enough for the captor to respond should their captives try to escape. At that range, no one missed, even someone shooting from their offhand. Only amateurs pushed a muzzle into someone’s back, and even an amateur could turn around fast enough to disarm someone who did. Yigor was no professional in Victor’s sense of the word, but he wasn’t stupid, and more than that he was afraid of Victor. That was unusual. Victor’s manner was carefully constructed to appear unthreatening. Such a disguise of normalcy meant enemies were apt to underestimate him. That wouldn’t happen here. Yigor’s battered face and broken hand were painful reminders not to drop his guard.

Gravel crunched underfoot. Victor stopped when he reached the Subaru. He saw Yigor’s reflection in the window glass and Gisele next to him.

‘Open the door and get behind the wheel,’ Yigor said.

Victor stood still.

‘No stalling. Just do it. Or I kill you both now.’

‘Then you won’t get paid,’ Victor said.

‘You want to find out? No, you don’t. You want to keep alive long as you can. So open door.’

There was no option but to obey. If there had been, Victor would already be acting. Driving the car was something he did not want to do. In the back he had a number of workable plans of action he could implement. But Yigor wasn’t stupid.

Yigor waited two metres away with a clean line of sight. Even if Victor had a key he couldn’t get the engine started and accelerate fast enough to avoid Yigor’s shot from such a short distance. A guaranteed hit for anyone even remotely competent with a sidearm. A guaranteed kill shot for someone like Yigor, even left-handed. Victor couldn’t risk it. He couldn’t allow Gisele to be alone.

He opened the driver’s door and climbed in.

‘Seat belt?’ he asked as he pulled up the lever to edge the seat forward a couple of notches.

Yigor hesitated because he hadn’t thought that far ahead. There were pros and cons. Seat belt on meant Victor was bound to his seat, preventing sudden movement, but gave him a far better chance of surviving a deliberate crash. Off meant he couldn’t risk any reckless driving but provided freedom of movement to try something else. It was a difficult choice. Which was why Victor had asked Yigor to make the decision for him, because the answer would reveal more about Yigor’s thought processes than was smart to let an enemy like Victor know.

‘No belts.’

Victor nodded.

Yigor pointed the pistol at Gisele. ‘Get in the passenger seat or I shoot your boyfriend.’

‘He’s not my boyfriend.’

‘And he never will be.’

She did. Then Yigor climbed into the back, sitting directly behind the driver’s seat. It was the best place for a captor to sit in these circumstances. The Russian pulled the door shut behind him.

‘Don’t forget I have gun,’ he said. ‘Try anything and you will be shot. Maybe I don’t get paid all the money, but that’s life. But not for you. You’ll be dead. Don’t forget.’

‘I won’t forget.’

‘That’s good. You fight pretty well for a little man. I cannot lie. You hurt me. But I hurt you more, yes?’

‘Tell that to your hand.’

Yigor frowned. ‘I only need one to pull trigger.’

‘Don’t do this,’ Gisele pleaded. ‘Alex will pay you.’

Yigor laughed. ‘Norimov has no money. He’s the poor man. Why you think I work against him all this time? She pay me plenty money to tell her about warehouse. She will pay even more for you two. I sorry, Gisele. You nice girl, but money is money.’ He gestured at Victor with the gun. ‘Now, you in front: drive car. Remember this gun. Do anything I don’t first tell you to do, or try acting the crazy, and bang-bang in your back. Maybe I get lucky and you don’t die. Maybe you become the cripple. Then you can watch me hurt the girl before I hand her over. You wouldn’t want to miss that, would you? I’m pretty good at making people hurt. And you know what? I like doing it.’

‘A shocking revelation,’ Victor said. ‘You’ll be telling me next you have trouble forming meaningful relationships.’

‘Relationships are for the pussies. Now start engine.’ He dropped the keys over Victor’s left shoulder. ‘Keep thinking of the gun at your back, okay, Mr Smart Mouth?’

Victor inserted the key and started the engine. ‘Where are we going?’

‘To the warehouse.’

‘What for?’

‘To wait. Nice and quiet there, yes?’

‘I don’t know the way from here.’

‘You stupid. I’ll be the guide.’

‘Thank you.’

Yigor laughed. ‘Nice try, my friend. I see what you want to do. You think if you are Mr Polite then I will be nice to you. You think maybe I will let you both go? You are the funny man. You a coward. I don’t know why Norimov thought you could help. Look how you ended up.’

‘Manners cost nothing.’

‘Drive, Mr Dead Man.’

Victor did. Gisele kept her gaze on the road ahead. Her eyes were wide and full of fear. He wanted to say something to reassure her, but kind words were not his forte and he respected her too much to placate her now.

Yigor said, ‘And so you are knowing, if you try crashing car then you will be the one who hurts. I’m not wearing the belt back here. So, you stop fast and I use you as my airbag. Crunch. You’ll be flat like a worm. And me? I’ll laugh. Maybe do it anyway. I want to see what you look like after I crush you.’

‘I’ll pass, if it’s all the same to you,’ Victor said.

Yigor laughed. ‘I like that you are the Mr Funny Man even when you are in the biggest trouble. You won’t be so Mr Funny Man soon, yes?’

Victor remained silent.

‘Please, Yigor,’ Gisele said. ‘Let us go. Please.’

He growled and raised the gun as if to pistol-whip her. ‘Keep silent or I hurt you.’

She recoiled.

‘Do as he says,’ Victor said.

‘Yes, listen to your boyfriend the hero. But not a very good hero, yes? When I was little long time ago I wanted to be the hero like in the movies. What about you?’

Victor said, ‘Me too.’

‘But now I am the bad man. Same as you. Sometimes, I wonder why that happened. Do you?’

‘All the time,’ Victor said.

‘Makes me sad, tell the truth,’ Yigor said. ‘Messes with my head. But too late now to be good. You know what I tell myself, make myself feel better?’

‘What do you tell yourself?’

‘Fuck it,’ Yigor said with a laugh. ‘That’s what I say. Kids they know shit. I knew shit. If I known you make the money being bad I would have wanted to be bad. But you, you’ve been bad but it’s good you helped Norimov. So you been bad but die as good. Nice shit, yes?’

‘Beautifully put.’

‘Maybe I write poem about it.’

Victor continued driving. Yigor called out directions, guiding Victor through the urban streets. Gisele didn’t speak. The hands of the analogue dashboard clock ticked around. Five minutes passed, then ten.

‘Next right,’ Yigor said.

Victor slowed and indicated. ‘You realise they’ll kill you when you hand us over, don’t you?’

‘Tell me: why do you bother? I know they won’t. They want the girl and now they want you. They don’t want me. I make the money because I help them. You should have helped them too.’

‘Dmitri’s dead. So are the others. Gisele and I will be next. Do you really think you’ll be the only one who walks away from this?’

Yigor stayed quiet.

‘You’re a dead man, Yigor,’ Victor said. ‘And you’re too stupid to see it.’

The Russian’s lips were pressed together and his nostrils flexed with each angry breath.

Victor laughed and laughed.

‘Hey,’ Yigor said, ‘you missed the damn turn.’

Victor glanced back. ‘I’ll take the next one.’

‘No, you fucked up. Turn the car around.’

‘The road is too narrow.’

‘Then back up.’

Victor slowed to a stop and put the gear into reverse. ‘Watch the road for me.’

Yigor laughed. ‘You keep trying, don’t you, Mr Funny Man? I keep my eyes on you all the time. Use your mirrors.’

Victor pushed his foot down on the accelerator. Five miles per hour. Then ten.

‘What’s with the hurry?’ Yigor asked.

‘I’m bored of waiting,’ Victor answered.

Fifteen miles per hour. Gisele looked at him. At first in surprise that quickly began to warp into understanding. Twenty miles per hour.

Yigor frowned. ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

‘Do you remember what you said before, Yigor? About the airbag?’

The Russians eyes widened in confusion, then fear when he realised how fast they were going. ‘Stop the car. Now.’

Victor did. He released his foot from the accelerator and slammed the brake pedal and wrenched up the handbrake. But before he did that, he pulled up the lever to adjust his seat, and kept hold.

The car came to a stop within two seconds. But the unlocked driver’s seat was still moving backwards, only stopping when it slammed its weight and Victor’s directly into Yigor’s shins.

SIXTY-SIX

The car rocked back and forth on its suspension for a moment. Victor grimaced from the whiplash. His chest felt a little sore. Gisele hadn’t been wearing her belt and was now unconscious and slumped in her seat. Yigor had come off worse. Far worse. Both shins had snapped. His knees were broken. Even his ankles were broken.

He groaned instead of screamed because the adrenalin in his system was negating the pain. Otherwise he would be unconscious like Gisele. It was one of the benefits of shock, but the disadvantages were going to be as costly for a man in Yigor’s position. He didn’t try to retrieve the gun that had flown from his hand in the sudden stop.

‘What the fuck?’ he managed to grunt, looking down at the wreckage of his legs.

Victor unclasped the seat belt and examined Gisele. She’d hit her head and was out cold but breathing well. He climbed out of the car. They were on a quiet road that cut between factories. No other vehicles. No people. No witnesses.

He circled the car and opened the far rear door. Yigor stared at him. White showed all around his pupils. Sweat shone on his paling face. Victor ignored him and fished in the footwell until he found Yigor’s gun under the passenger seat. There was nowhere else it could have gone.

‘Wait,’ Yigor said.

Victor closed the door. He circled back around the vehicle. Yigor’s gun was a .45 calibre Colt 1911.

He opened the door next to Yigor.

‘Wait,’ the Russian said again, this time through gritted teeth because he was shaking off the shock and now the agony of multiple fractures was intensifying with every passing second.

‘Please,’ Yigor begged. Rivulets of sweat ran down from his temples. ‘No shoot me. Please.’

‘Give me your knife,’ Victor said. ‘Grip first.’

Yigor’s trembling fingers took it from his pocket. He struggled to turn it around in his hand and presented the grip to Victor by holding the blade. Victor took it in his left hand and tossed it away.

‘Phone.’

Yigor tried to pull it from his hip pocket, but screamed as he increased the pressure of his trousers on his injured legs in the process. He tugged his hand away and took a series of breaths as he fought to control the pain. Tears joined the sweat on his face.

Victor said, ‘Either you get it or I do.’

Yigor hesitated, then tried a second time. He screamed again, but this time he didn’t stop. He kept screaming until the phone was free. He didn’t have the strength to hold it up, so Victor reached inside the car to take it out of his hand because he was too weak to try anything.

‘Who is the woman?’

‘I not know her name. We speak on phone only.’

Victor looked through the call log. Between the most recent calls to Victor’s phone and a call to Norimov, was another number.

‘Is this her?’ Victor asked.

Yigor nodded. ‘I sorry,’ he said, sobbing. ‘For everything. I got greedy. I should have said no to taking photo.’

‘You took the photograph of Norimov coming out of the restaurant?’

‘Yes. I make threat. But not easy turning on Norimov. I had to think about it first. Not easy saying yes. I so sorry.’

‘Apology accepted,’ Victor said. ‘But I’m still going to kill you.’

‘No,’ Yigor spat. ‘You need me. I can call and help fix things, yes? You need me.’

‘I only need you to die.’

‘Then shoot. I care not.’

‘Unfortunately for you, your gun doesn’t have many bullets.’

Yigor frowned in confusion, then his eyes widened when Victor turned the pistol around so he held it by the barrel, steel grip protruding beyond his knuckles like the head of a hammer.

Gisele had woken up by the time Victor had driven Yigor’s car back to the wasteland, gently lifted her from the passenger seat, and placed her in the stolen Fiat. The Subaru was a better car and it wasn’t stolen, but it had a dead giant Russian in the back.

‘Holy shit,’ Gisele breathed, groggy and disorientated. ‘My head is killing me.’

Victor squatted down so he was at her level. He took her head in his palms and peered into her eyes.

‘Do you know where you are?’

‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘Hell.’

‘Follow my finger with your eyes.’ He moved his index finger laterally and then in circular motions. ‘Do you feel sick or does anything else hurt apart from your head?’

‘No.’

‘Then you’ll be fine,’ Victor assured her. ‘You don’t have a concussion.’

‘What happened?’

‘Yigor’s dead. You don’t want to know any more than that.’

She inhaled deeply and nodded. ‘Okay, what happens now?’

Victor said, ‘This is what we’re going to do…’

SIXTY-SEVEN

They took the Docklands Light Railway into the city, disembarking the train and making their way out of the station and into the heart of the city’s financial district, the Square Mile. The streets were alive with men and women in business wear and heavy winter coats — sipping from takeaway coffee cups or on the move, eager to get home after a day’s trading; borrowing; stealing.

With Gisele at his side and a limited timeframe, Victor couldn’t perform the kind of thorough counter-surveillance run he would have liked, but he circled his destination at a circumference of four blocks, spiralling inward as he analysed the environs. It was an area of historic office buildings, ornate and beautiful. Bars, cafés and eateries flanked the streets at ground level to sustain and entertain the workers.

The sun had retreated behind the horizon but the numerous lights from streetlights, headlights and shining through windows and from signs meant he had no trouble checking every face and vehicle he saw. Victor bought a black coffee from a street vendor and sipped it as he walked slowly against the flow of pedestrians. Gisele declined one.

The air smelled as dirty as the sky appeared. Here, Victor looked like everyone else and Gisele stood out in the sweatshirt and hat, but she didn’t look like the employee of a law firm and that was the important factor. As they approached their destination, Victor slowed their pace and took his time, searching for danger spots and anyone who could be a threat. He saw no one, but they couldn’t yet risk getting too close to the building housing Gisele’s workplace. If they were watching, they would be near the building, ready to act. Her disguise wouldn’t fool them there.

‘Is this the one?’ Victor asked Gisele when they came to a tube station.

She nodded. ‘This is the closest, yeah. What do we do now?’

‘Wait.’

They did, loitering inside the main entrance so they were not exposed to any threats passing on the street outside. Victor was good at waiting. He could remain relaxed and alert for endless hours without becoming distracted or bored. He had killed many hard targets simply by waiting long enough for the perfect opportunity to strike. Similarly, he had survived many threats by out-waiting an enemy who was encouraged to make a mistake through boredom or distraction. Gisele did not have the same experience nor the same hunter’s mentality, but she kept any nervousness or frustration in check.

After nine minutes, she said, ‘Him. In the grey overcoat. I think he works at the accountancy firm on the floor above. I see him in the café every lunchtime. Decaf skinny latte.’

Victor didn’t acknowledge the comment. He turned to follow Gisele’s gaze. A small crowd of people were crossing the road, hurrying to beat the flashing traffic light and get out of the rain. They were heading towards the station, the density of the crowd increasing as they were funnelled through the entrance. Victor set off in their direction, looking down as he fiddled with his jacket buttons.

A man bumped into him and apologised. Another did not. A third, wearing a grey overcoat told him to watch where he was going.

Victor stopped and turned, watching as the man walked away muttering to himself. Gisele was looking at Victor and he nodded. She made her way over to him.

‘Was that it?’ she asked.

He nodded again and led her away from the entrance.

‘I didn’t see a thing.’

‘That’s the idea. Here.’ He opened the man’s wallet and Gisele spotted a white passcard and slid it out.

‘That’s it. Wasn’t sure if theirs would be the same as ours, but I guess everyone would have to use the same ones to get through the lobby, wouldn’t they?’ She dropped it into a pocket. ‘What are you going to do with the wallet?’

‘Dispose of it.’

‘Do we have to? Seems a little harsh. On him, I mean.’

She gestured to where the man in the grey overcoat was standing before the station’s electronic turnstiles, patting down the pockets of his coat and trousers and shaking his head. A station employee watched him with an unsympathetic look.

‘How’s he going to get home?’ Gisele asked.

The man in the grey overcoat was becoming increasingly frustrated at his inability to locate his wallet. The station employee motioned for him to move out of other people’s way.

Gisele said, ‘What if it’s his kid’s birthday party and he’s going to miss it? Maybe the kid doesn’t get to see her dad much. Maybe this is going to break her heart.’

Victor saw the compassion in Gisele’s eyes. He didn’t know what it felt like, but he saw its importance. ‘Would you prefer that I return the wallet?’

‘Yes, please.’

He did, tapping the man on the shoulder and saying, ‘I think you dropped this.’

He wasn’t thanked.

They found a quiet area outside the flow of people. He made sure no one was in earshot and said, ‘There’s no accessible entrance to the building aside from the main one, so when you’re inside, walk quickly, like you’re in a hurry, but not so fast as to draw undue attention. Keep your head angled down to give cameras a harder time seeing your face, but be aware of who is around you. Make sure you breathe. Holding your breath because you’re tense will just make you more stressed. Take long, slow breaths. Don’t forget what we discussed. Don’t draw attention to yourself. If you’re forced to engage with someone, keep it brief. Only provide the cover story if you’re asked. Don’t offer it. When we lie we provide too many details in an attempt to be believed. So do the opposite. Get to Lester’s office and retrieve only what you need and then leave. If something feels wrong, it probably is. Trust your instincts. Just walk away. Remember to —’

She interrupted him: ‘I remember. We’ve been through it a hundred times already. If I don’t know what to do by now, I’m never going to. But I do know it.’

He saw that she was putting on a brave face for his benefit. In a way, she was trying to protect him, so he wouldn’t worry.

She said, ‘Whatever happens, I hope you believe me when I say I’m sorry all of this has happened. You couldn’t have known what a pile of shit it would be when you said you’d protect me. You’ve done so much. More than I can ever repay. I’m so sorry. I really am.’

‘There’s no need to apologise, Gisele. None of this is your fault. And even if it were, I would still protect you.’

She was shaking her head. ‘Knowing my mother is not enough of a reason for you to go through this for me. It’s not. It’s not enough.’

‘That’s how it began, Gisele,’ he said. ‘But now I’m doing this because I know you as well.’

‘I… I don’t know what to say to that.’

‘You don’t have to. Just remember to —’

‘I’ve got it, okay? Trust me.’

He looked down at her. She was untrained and vulnerable yet spoke with impressive confidence. He realised he was more concerned for her life than he was for his own.

Victor placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘I do trust you.’

SIXTY-EIGHT

The building’s exterior was a typical example of early eighteenth-century Edwardian architecture, but the interior had been completely modernised. The lobby was vast and formed the ground floor of a large atrium. Two rows of three lifts provided access to the five floors of offices that ringed the atrium behind glass walls. Two bright-faced receptionists sat behind a long, curved counter. A security guard stood before an electronic turnstile and failed to stifle a yawn.

Gisele kept her head angled down to protect her face from security cameras, as her companion had instructed her, but kept her eyes moving in an attempt to identify any threats. She exhaled through pursed lips, mouth already dry. What was she supposed to do if she did identify any? Knowing a few self-defence techniques and having a can of pepper spray was not going to do her much good if she came face to face with an armed mercenary.

But if her companion was right, that scenario wouldn’t arise.

The lobby seemed even more massive than usual — vast and scary. She avoided eye contact with the two people sitting behind the reception desk and touched the white plastic identity card to the turnstile reader.

‘How are you today, miss?’ the security guard standing nearby asked.

Damn, she’d hoped he wouldn’t be paying attention. She glanced up at big, kind Alan and said, ‘No rest for the wicked.’

He smiled and she wondered if he really cared as he seemed to or whether it was all part of the job. A blinking light switched from red to green and a double-glass divide parted to let her through the barrier. She looked over her shoulder. Alan the security guard was watching her. She told herself to relax. She knew him. She saw him every day. He wasn’t one of them.

There were six lifts in two banks of three opposite each other. She pressed the closest button and rubbed her palms together while she waited for a set of doors to open. She exhaled when they parted and no gunman was standing inside waiting for her.

She walked in backwards to make sure no one was about to follow her. The wait for the doors to close after she hit the button for the law firm’s floor was an eternity.

The ascent was thankfully swift and no one was waiting as she stepped out. She dared to hope that maybe this was going to work out, after all. Stay focused, she reminded herself. Mind on the present.

Near to the lifts was a fire evacuation plan fixed to a wall. It showed the layout of the entire floor. She’d never noticed it before. She’d never paid that much attention to her surroundings.

One corner turned and she was in the firm’s reception area. It was a tastefully decorated space that did a good job of making the firm appear friendly and welcoming. And it was, for paying clients.

Caroline, the receptionist, greeted her. ‘Miss Maynard, welcome back. I… I almost didn’t recognise you.’

‘Oh yeah,’ Gisele said, nervously touching her hair. What with the stress of thinking about everything else she had forgotten about the disguise. Thinking fast, she said, ‘Bit of a new look, right? Not sure I like it, but I had one of those crazy I-feel-like-a-change moments. You know?’

‘Tell me about it. I think one of those moments is around the corner. But I’m talking about my boyfriend, not my hair.’

Gisele laughed along with her, happy that she seemed to have got away with it.

The receptionist said, ‘Little late to be becoming to the office, isn’t it, hun? Nearly everyone has gone off to celebrate Bella’s victory. Cocktails on the firm’s tab. Nice work if you can get it, yeah?’

‘She won? That’s great news. Good for her. Tell her I said well done when you see her next. As for the free cocktails, why do you think I want to have a proper job here? Cosmos, girl. It’s all about the cosmos. Anyway, I’m just nipping in to pick up a few things. I’m still under the weather but I don’t want to fall any further behind or I’ll never catch up again.’ She felt her face growing warmer and feared a blush might give her away. She cleared her throat. Her mind raced for something else to say. She was going into the cover story needlessly. Like he said, giving too many details in trying to be believable. All she could think of was: ‘Has Lester come back to work yet?’

‘No.’ Caroline’s face was sombre. ‘In fact, I’m getting a bit worried about him. Something is going on, I reckon. Not that anyone’s telling me anything. Have you heard how he is?’

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 said, 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.

He said, ‘What’s mine again?’

They held each other’s gaze for a long time until he was aware of a waiter at his side, who said, ‘Can I get you anything, sir?’

Victor would have said no but the waiter was not the one who had come over before. This one spoke with a South African accent.

The man added, ‘Don’t even think about it, sport,’ before Victor could make a move. He heard the soft click of a hammer cock. ‘Unless you want me to shoot you in front of all these nice people.’

Anderton was shaking her head, the faux fear and anger replaced by genuine mirth. ‘You really thought you could trick me, didn’t you? For shame.’

SEVENTY

As Gisele stood outside Lester’s office, frantically thinking about how to get through the locked door, the door of a nearby office swung open, startling her. A man exited, carrying a basket of cleaning products — sprays, brushes, cloths and such. He was short and thin, wearing the uniform of the cleaning company that serviced the offices.

Gisele controlled her initial surprise and fear and smiled at him. He smiled back.

‘Hey,’ she said, ‘don’t suppose you have a key to this office?’ She pointed at Lester’s door.

The man continued to smile and nodded, clearly not understanding English, then went on his way.

Another door opened further along the corridor and she heard the voice of one of the senior barristers talking on a mobile phone. Desperate to make herself scarce before he appeared she hurried to the end of the corridor, where there were two doors, one marked ‘hommes’ in gold paint, the other ‘femmes’.

There were five cubicles opposite a row of sinks. It was kept spotlessly clean and had all kinds of environmentally friendly hand soaps, sanitisers and moisturisers lined up on the shelf behind the sinks. She went into a cubicle, dropped down the seat, locked the door, and sat down. What now?

She had failed at the first sign of difficulty. She needed his help, but wanted to do this on her own. She wanted to succeed. She had to do her part while he did his.

He hadn’t told her exactly what he was doing, offering only vague assurances. He had been trying to spare her the uncomfortable details, she knew. She would never approve of his methods, but she had survived this far when by all rights she should have died several times over. She had known him for little more than a day but he was the best friend she could ever hope to have because he was sacrificing everything for her. He judged her for nothing. Her faults mattered not to him. He didn’t care that she was self-centred and moody, and yes, somewhat spoiled.

He was fearless and indomitable. She wanted to be like that. She couldn’t imagine him weak or hurt or not knowing exactly what to do in any situation. He wouldn’t feel defeated now. He would get the job done. He would act. When they had been trapped in the hotel room he had known straight away what to do.

Her eyes widened. The idea came to her in a sudden, wonderful instant. Remembering what had happened at the hotel was the catalyst, but she thought of the fire-escape plan near the lifts and knew it would work.

She left the toilets. She didn’t know where to find what she was looking for, which embarrassed her a little — she vowed to be more responsible in future — but she found one soon enough. She paused for a moment. The alarm switch was fixed to the wall of a long corridor lined with doors leading to the offices of the senior personnel. What if one of them was working?

Gisele backtracked and found another switch in the open-plan area. Perfect.

She took a deep breath, fed her fingers into the gap, gripped the lever, and pulled.

The blaring wail startled her. It was louder than she had imagined.

Knowing she couldn’t afford to hang around, she hurried over to her desk, lowered herself to her knees and crawled beneath it. She counted off the seconds in her head, having calculated she needed to hide for at least a minute.

On sixty, she crawled out and rose to her knees first, so she could peer out over the top of her desk. No sign of anyone. The alarm made it impossible to hear even her own footsteps.

Walking fast, she made her way to the reception area. No receptionist. Caroline had followed procedure and headed down to the lobby. She would be waiting outside in the cold now. Gisele hoped she wasn’t too cold.

She had no idea where it would be, so began with the bottom drawers of the reception desk, knowing that was how burglars opened drawers — bottom to top. Frustratingly, she found it in the top drawer: a ring of spare keys.

There had to be twenty of them. It was impossible to know which would open Lester’s office, so she took the entire set. The weight surprised her. She rushed back the way she had come, the alarm blaring in her ears the whole time.

The thirteenth key Gisele tried turned out to be the right one.

He would be proud of her.

The Range Rover came to a stop. Victor heard the engine turn off and doors open and footsteps. The drive had been a short one, and he had spent each and every second working through his options — planning and strategising. So far, there was no workable course of action because Anderton had had one of the mercenaries handcuff him before bundling him into the boot. He’d traced every inch of the space around him for something to use as a pick or shim, but they were too thorough to have left anything he might be able to make use of.

The boot opened and light spilled inside, making him wince. Anderton came into view a moment later, her green eyes regarding him with something between curiosity and contempt. Hands grabbed him and hauled him out.

His eyes moved, taking in the positions of the mercenaries — numbering five — Anderton, the two Range Rovers and the vast empty space of the aircraft hangar around them. The fluorescent lights were bright and the air was cold.

‘Where is she?’ Anderton asked as she turned to face him.

The South African mercenary remained out of Victor’s line of sight, but he kept track of his position by listening to his footsteps. He was standing a couple of metres to his seven o’clock, in between Victor and the door they had entered through.

Victor didn’t answer the question. His gaze swept over the four mercenaries who stood before him. None had weapons drawn but he knew they were armed. Behind them, the second Range Rover was parked. Then, at the far side of forty metres of empty space, the exit. He pictured breaking Anderton’s neck, but with a gun drawn behind him he would be dead in seconds if he tried.

‘I’m waiting,’ she said.

‘Get used to it.’

She smiled and her eyes diverted for a moment and she nodded.

Pain exploded through Victor’s brain as the South African struck him on the back of the skull with a handgun. His vision blackened and he dropped to his hands and knees, feeling the world beneath his palms rocking and shaking. He vomited.

‘Careful,’ Anderton said. ‘I don’t want him killed so soon.’

‘Apologies,’ the South African replied. ‘He’s weaker than I expected.’

The blackness slowly retreated from before Victor’s eyes and the ground came into focus. He gasped and used the back of his hand to wipe the ropes of vomit hanging from his mouth. He didn’t have the strength to stand.

Anderton stepped closer and her snakeskin boots entered his line of sight. ‘You know how this works, don’t you?’ Her voice was soft, almost sympathetic. ‘You know you’ll tell me eventually, so why go through the pain first?’

Victor spat to clear his mouth. ‘There’s nothing you can do to me that will make me talk.’

‘We both know that’s untrue. You’re just too stubborn to accept it. Don’t be that man. You’ve done so well up until now. You’re a professional. Don’t end up bloody and begging. Let’s end this in a civilised manner. Remember when we made that wager?’ She squatted to her haunches so he could raise his head enough to look her in the green eyes. ‘I’d say I’ve won, wouldn’t you?’

‘Not yet,’ Victor said.

‘Where?’ Anderton said.

He spat on a snakeskin boot.

She sighed. ‘Your choice.’ She stood and stepped back. He heard her say, ‘Gentlemen, over to you.’

Soles scraped on the ground and shadows fell over him. Then it began.

He tucked himself into a ball and covered his face and head as best as he could as the blows came from all angles. Kicks landed against his ribs and hips and arms. Punches rained down on every exposed part of his body. A heel stamped down on his left ankle. An elbow caught him above the right eye. A fist pushed through his guard and his vision blackened again and his body slackened and he didn’t have the senses left to continue protecting himself.

It became impossible to feel the individual hits as the pain became one horrific mass and his brain struggled to cope and his consciousness began to slip away.

‘That’s enough,’ Anderton said. ‘He’s no use to me as a vegetable.’

Victor wheezed and coughed, struggling to breathe, bruised ribs resisting expanding. He tasted blood and saw little more than smudged colours and blurred shapes. Sounds were quiet and distorted, but he recognised Anderton’s voice:

‘Not so clever now, are you?’

He couldn’t respond even had he wanted to.

She said, ‘Where?’

Victor groaned by way of an answer. His mind still worked even if his body did not. While she was questioning him they weren’t beating him. He didn’t yet know how much damage had been done, but he knew his body couldn’t take another assault. He had to stall. He had to recover. More importantly, Gisele needed time.

‘Let me ask him,’ the South African said and Victor saw a glint of brightness among the colours and shapes and knew a knife had been drawn.

‘Is that what it’s going to take to make you talk?’ Anderton asked Victor.

Her face became clear through the fogginess. He met her eyes. ‘I’ll… never… talk.’

‘You know what? I think I believe you.’

The South African said, ‘I promise he’ll change his mind within two minutes. Won’t you, sport?’

Anderton stroked her bottom lip. ‘Maybe we don’t have to go there.’

Victor held her gaze.

‘Maybe he’s already told me everything I want him to.’

Victor didn’t blink.

‘Let me cut him,’ the South African said.

‘No,’ she replied and he shrugged and backed off. ‘I have this under control.’ She looked down at Victor. ‘I have to say I wasn’t confident that you were really coming to meet me. I wasn’t convinced you would take the bait and come in Yigor’s place. Not because I doubted my own abilities to manipulate you, but because I didn’t believe you would leave Gisele on her own. After all you’ve been through in the last twenty-four hours I thought you would never leave her defenceless.’

Despite the agony that wracked his body, Anderton’s words hurt more.

She said, ‘Even if you believed you were tricking me, not the other way around, you must have known it was a dangerous course of action. Without you, Gisele has no one. Yet you risked that to meet me? Flattering, I suppose. You put both your lives in danger just to chat with little old me.’ She placed a hand on her chest, as if overwhelmed by a compliment.

Victor kept his expression even. If ever he had to hide his thoughts, now was the time.

‘For what possible gain?’ she continued. ‘To learn my name? Really? That was important enough to risk everything for?’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. You haven’t survived until now by being so foolhardy. So, why this sudden turnaround? Why take such a considerable chance? Why did you want to meet me here?’ Her eyes widened. ‘Ah,’ she said, ‘because you didn’t want me elsewhere. That’s it, isn’t it?’

She waited for an answer she didn’t receive. He knew she would see through any lie.

But his silence seemed to say as much. ‘Oh, now I understand. You knew the meeting was a set-up. You knew. But you came anyway. You walked straight into the trap because it guaranteed my presence and the presence of my men. Obviously, you didn’t expect to get captured, but you wanted us all here to deal with you so they wouldn’t be available to deal with Gisele. This is nothing more than a distraction.’ She tapped her lip. ‘But why is that necessary when we don’t know — sorry, yet know — where she is? Or do we? She must be somewhere we’ve been watching, hence the necessity to draw us here away from it. You wouldn’t go through all this for her to sneak back home and pick up her favourite blouse, would you? No. You’d only do this if it was really worth it. You’d only do this if you were working towards an endgame. Bingo. She’s going after the case files, isn’t she?’

‘It never had to come this far,’ Victor said. ‘Gisele didn’t know anything. She didn’t know your name, despite what Lester Daniels told you. If you’d have left her alone then you would have been safe.’ He smiled at her. ‘Instead, trying to protect yourself is the very thing that will bring you down.’

Anderton’s jaw tightened. She rose and turned to face the South African. ‘Get to the law firm. She’s there, right now.’

‘Let me kill this one first,’ the man said back.

‘When you have the girl. If you don’t get there in time, we’ll need him to call her.’

‘Trust me,’ the South African said, ‘you don’t want to keep this troublemaker alive.’

Anderton said, ‘I know what I’m doing. He’s done. You three, go with him. Now.’

Victor heard the four men hurry away, leaving one remaining mercenary with Anderton.

He looked up at her. ‘I’ll never make that call.’

She used the heel of a snakeskin boot to roll him on to his back. He was able to focus enough now to clearly see the smugness on her face. ‘Again, I believe you. I could have Sinclair slice you up to within an inch of your life and you still wouldn’t give her up, would you? It’s really quite sweet. If my life and liberty were not at stake, I could cry. I never knew hired killers could be so honourable.’

Victor remained silent.

‘But I don’t need to do anything to you, do I? A moment ago you told me your every move without uttering a single word.’ She smiled her serpent’s smile. ‘You’ve played a good game so far, I’ll give you that. But I’m afraid you’re simply not in my league.’

SEVENTY-ONE

Victor heard one of the Range Rovers driving away, tyres squealing under the hard acceleration. The law firm was maybe ten minutes’ drive through London’s busy streets at this time of day. Gisele would be nowhere near finished by then, let alone out of the building.

‘Rogan, don’t take your eyes off him until I get back,’ Anderton said to the remaining mercenary. ‘I mean it. Not for a second.’ Then, to Victor: ‘Just in case you’re not as hurt as you seem. I have no intention of underestimating you as you did me.’

Victor looked away.

The mercenary called Rogan said, ‘It’ll be a pleasure, ma’am.’

Anderton winked at Victor and then approached the second Range Rover, the footsteps of her snakeskin boots echoing around the vast, almost empty space. Victor watched the vehicle drive out of the hangar and disappear into the night. He didn’t know if she was going to join Sinclair and the other mercs, or heading somewhere else. Victor lay on the floor and thought about Gisele in the law firm, alone and vulnerable, with no idea people were on the way to kill her. He’d failed her. He’d failed her mother.

He refused to give up. While he breathed, it wasn’t over.

Every inch of his body seemed to throb or ache or sting. He twisted his head until he could look at Rogan as he paced about nearby. The man had short greying brown hair. He wore black jeans and a denim jacket lined with wool. About six feet tall, solidly built, late thirties. His heavy workman’s boots glistened with Victor’s blood. He noticed the mercenary was clean shaven.

They made eye contact. When Victor didn’t look away, the man’s face creased in anger and aggression.

‘What the fuck are you looking at?’

Victor didn’t respond.

Rogan said, ‘You killed three of my mates.’

Victor spat out more blood.

‘You hear me down there, you prick?’

The mercenary came closer. He put a light kick into Victor’s flank.

‘Forrester. McNeil. Cole,’ he said, punctuating each name with a kick. ‘They were my friends and you killed them. You rammed a fucking handgun barrel through Cole’s eye socket, you sick fuck.’

Victor said nothing. One corner of his mouth upturned.

White showed all round Rogan’s irises. ‘You think that’s fucking funny, do ya?’

Hands grabbed him under the armpits and hauled him to his feet. He winced as he tried to support himself, shifting his weight on to his right foot to spare his injured left ankle. He didn’t need to. The mercenary kept him upright. He was strong and had no trouble supporting Victor’s weight. Rogan stared into Victor’s black eyes.

‘They were good lads.’

‘But not so good at their jobs,’ Victor said.

Jaw muscles bunched beneath the mercenary’s skin. His grip on Victor tightened and he half scowled, half smiled.

‘When that little bitch is dead, I’m going to really enjoy sending you to join her. That psycho Sinclair is going to have to fight me for the privilege of cutting you up.’

Victor grinned.

Rogan shook his head, disbelieving. ‘Who in the name of fuck do you think you are?’

‘I’m the man who’s going to kill you.’

He burst out laughing. Spit and sour smoker’s breath struck Victor’s face. If Rogan had any fatigue from holding Victor up for so long, he didn’t show. Victor was glad the man was so strong.

When he stopped laughing, he said, ‘And please, just for my own personal fucking amusement, tell me how you’re planning on pulling that off when you’re beaten to a pulp and cuffed?’

Victor stared back hard as he said, ‘Do you mean the handcuffs I’ve already picked?’

Rogan hesitated, surprised, then took a half-step away — in part in the involuntary reaction to danger; in part to create a better viewing angle. His gaze dropped to see:

The handcuffs still locked around Victor’s wrists.

Rogan glanced up in time to see a blur of movement before Victor’s forehead collided with his nose.

The rest of his body was weak, but no punch or kick could damage the strongest bone in the human body. The mercenary’s nose was paper-delicate in comparison and he’d created the perfect amount of space between them for Victor’s to generate the momentum to crush it flat.

Blood exploded across both Rogan’s face and Victor’s. The man’s hands retreated from their hold on Victor to protect himself as he stumbled backwards. Victor stumbled too, unable to properly support himself, but he grabbed the man’s belt with both cuffed hands as he put his left leg behind Rogan’s and they fell to the floor together.

His enemy was stunned from the headbutt and blinded by the tears and blood in his eyes. Rogan didn’t know what Victor was doing until palms pressed down over his mouth and teeth sank into the thin layer of skin and tissue to the right of his trachea.

The palms muffled the man’s scream as Victor ripped a chunk out of his neck.

He turned his face away to spare it from the arcs of pressurised blood from the severed carotid artery.

Rogan was too overwhelmed by pain and terror to fight back but thrashed in panic as blood escaped his neck in machine-gun blasts.

Victor’s weight pinned him down for the few seconds it took until Rogan lost consciousness. Victor rolled and lay for a moment, recovering from the exertion while the mercenary bled out next to him.

His hands were slick with blood and he wiped them on the man’s clothes. He then searched through Rogan’s jacket pockets, then through the pockets of his jeans. He found keys for the Audi, a Zippo lighter and cigarettes, but no handcuff key. He found the man’s knife, but it was no good against his restraints. He spread his palms across the ground through the pool of bright arterial blood, but still no key.

He cleaned his hands again and forced himself on to his knees and tried to stand. A buzz of pain rushed through his head and his balance faltered. He managed to stay standing, weight balanced on his right foot. It was an improvement to be able to remain upright. Every part of his body seemed to be sending pain signals to his brain but the damaged ankle and bruised ribs appeared to be the worst of his injuries. Anderton had spared him before any irrecoverable damage had been done.

He glanced around the hangar. No sign of any handcuff keys or where they might be. He would have dislocated his thumbs, but the cuffs were on too tight and his hands too big to make such a means of escape possible. He staggered to where the Audi was parked. He opened a door and checked the glove compartment and door pockets, but still no key.

He used the vehicle to support himself and shuffled until he could rest his elbows on the bonnet. He reached out and with both hands twisted and pulled until he detached a windscreen wiper. With the aid of his teeth he tore away the rubber wiper to reveal the long, slender wiper blade.

He turned around and leaned against the bonnet to prop himself up while he fed one end of the wiper blade into the narrow gap where the handcuff bow fed until it could go no further. Despite the pain, he forced the cuff tighter so the teeth drew the end of the wiper blade further into the mechanism, covering the next tooth and stopping it locking. The bow could then be pulled back out of the mechanism and Victor had one hand free.

In seconds, his other hand was released and the cuffs clattered against the hard floor.

SEVENTY-TWO

Lester’s computer was password protected. Gisele had expected as much, but was still hoping for a minor miracle. She tried a few guesses: his date of birth; his wife’s name; the usual kind of thing people had. She gave up after a couple of minutes. There was no telling how much time she had before someone would catch her. The alarm still sounded, but inside Lester’s office it was a little more bearable, muted by the walls and door.

Having given up with the computer, she turned her attention to hard copies of case files. He had a filing cabinet full of them, but she limited the search to the priority cases — those with upcoming deadlines — and ones she had assisted with by scanning or copying documents or filing. She found herself reading about a man named Adeib Aziz, an Afghan policeman currently imprisoned at Bagram Airbase for killing a British intelligence officer named Maxwell Durant. She read the case against Aziz, or the lack thereof. He had been convicted based on the testimony of a single witness who had not been contactable since the conviction. Lester had taken on Aziz’s appeal, working pro bono on behalf of an international human rights charity. Lester was as ruthless and driven a barrister as Gisele knew, but he’d had a good heart too. If Aziz’s case was not heard in a week’s time, his appeal would be turned down by default and he would spend the rest of his life in an Afghani prison.

Could this be why the blonde woman had killed Lester, and was mistakenly after Gisele, to stop Aziz being released?

She searched further into the file, reading between the lines.

The blonde didn’t want Aziz released. She’d had Lester killed to stop it happening. But why? What was so important about keeping him in prison? Unless he was innocent. If she knew he was innocent then maybe it was she who was guilty instead. Were Aziz’s conviction to be overturned, the investigation into Maxwell Durant’s murder would be reopened.

Assuming Aziz had taken the fall for killing Durant, for the intervening years the woman must have thought she’d got away with it, that she was safe. But then Lester took on the case no one wanted. Now, she was trying to protect the truth.

Gisele read on, because she couldn’t believe anyone would go through so much purely to prevent Aziz being released, regardless of the questions that might follow. There had to be something more concrete.

The file contained an after-action report pertaining to the arrest of Aziz. The investigation and arrest had been carried out by a three-person team consisting of a private military contractor, William Sinclair, and two officers of the Intelligence Corps, Marcus Lambert and Nieve Anderton.

Gisele smiled to herself. The plan was working.

The fire alarm ceased blaring. The sudden silence startled her, snapping her attention from the file in hand. She dropped it. Pages scattered across the floor.

‘Shit.’

She tried gathering them up, but paused when she saw a line of shadow under the door to Lester’s office. She held her breath as the handle turned and it opened.

‘Christ, Alan,’ she breathed, palm moving to her chest. ‘You scared the hell out of me.’

Big, kind Alan the security guard stood in the doorway. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Maynard. I didn’t mean to startle you. Just checking out the… hey, why didn’t you head to the lobby when the alarm went off?’

‘Yeah, sorry about that. I assumed it was another false alarm. I’ve got so much work to catch up on.’

He looked at her and she saw the suspicion in his gaze. ‘As it happens, it was the switch around the corner that was set off. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?’

‘I… ’ She shook her head. ‘I thought it was a drill. I’m sorry, I know I should have gone downstairs.’

His searching eyes took in her hair, non-office attire and file pages scattered across the floor. ‘Perhaps you should come downstairs with me, miss.’

She stood, gesturing to the door and saying, ‘Sure, okay. Let’s go,’ so Alan looked away for a second, giving her time to pocket the after-action report without his knowledge.

He ushered Gisele ahead of him into the corridor. She turned in the direction of the exit and saw a man walking through the open-plan area.

She knew he was one of them as soon as their eyes met. He had tanned skin. He was stocky and wore khaki trousers and a leather jacket. An image flashed in her mind. This was the man who had shot at them in the hotel corridor.

Alan emerged from the office and saw the approaching man. ‘Who’s this?’

‘Never seen him before,’ Gisele said, making no attempt to disguise the fear she felt.

Alan picked up on it and stepped towards the man in the leather jacket.

‘Be careful,’ Gisele said.

‘Don’t worry about me.’

For a moment she was comforted by Alan’s presence. He was so big he seemed indestructible. But then she remembered Dmitri and the others: bigger and tougher than Alan, and now all dead.

‘Run along, and try not to set off the alarm again, eh?’ He winked at her.

She did. As she turned the corner she heard Alan’s commanding voice: ‘Who are you?’

‘I’m the computer guy,’ the man replied in a South African accent.

Gisele pushed open the heavy swing door into the lady’s room. She heard a muted thump from somewhere behind her as she stepped inside.

The man who wasn’t a real computer guy was in the corridor outside. Gisele didn’t have to look to know that he was following her. She hoped he hadn’t hurt poor Alan too much. She pictured him waiting a moment to ensure Gisele was preoccupied when he entered in maybe twenty or thirty seconds. She breathed fast and hard, trying to think what to do. She was trapped. What would her companion do?

He wouldn’t waste time so neither did Gisele. She entered the furthest cubicle, closed and locked the door, shut the toilet lid and stood on it, then climbed up on to the cistern and over the partition wall.

She landed awkwardly on the other side, grimacing as she banged her knee against the toilet bowl. She hurried out, leaving the door wide open and rushed into the first cubicle, put the toilet seat down, took off her shoes and then stood on top of it. She nudged the door to, far enough so it hid her from view but not so far that it might appear closed or locked.

The heavy swing door opened and a man’s shoes clicked on the tiled floor.

Gisele’s teeth clenched and her nostrils rapidly flexed and contracted as she fought to control her fear and stay balanced on the toilet seat. She rested her shoes on the cistern lid and slowly took the can of pepper spray from her handbag. The footsteps paused and she heard the door clunk shut.

For a terrible moment she thought the man would simply shoot her through the thin cubicle wall, but the shoes clicked again. A different sound this time, softer — the man taking a sidestep to view the cubicle doors. She willed him to see that the far door was the only one closed and locked and not see her deception.

Gisele listened to the sound of slow footsteps growing louder. As they came closer she could make out his shadow. She had to stop herself crying out with relief when the shadow moved past the first cubicle without slowing. She waited. Her hands were so damp with sweat the can of pepper spray began slipping from her grasp. The harder she squeezed it, the faster it slid.

If she dropped it and it hit the hard floor tiles…

She lowered her hands and caught the bottom of the can between her thighs, for the first time ever she was glad she carried plenty of weight there. While her thighs kept the can steady, she wiped the sweat from her palms.

The sound of shoes clicking on tiles ceased. Gisele pictured the man standing before the last cubicle door, maybe raising his pistol, ready to shoot.

This was it. I trust you, he’d said.

A loud crash indicated the man had kicked open the cubicle door.

Gisele was dropping off the toilet seat while the sound of the door banging still echoed around the room. She dashed out of her cubicle as the man was backing out, realising he had been tricked.

She pushed the can up towards his turning face and pressed the button.

He roared as the vapour found his eyes.

His hands rose to protect them and Gisele ran for her life.

SEVENTY-THREE

Sinclair followed a moment later, eyes burning and full of water, but he could still see well enough to shoot and hit. She was a canny fox, this one. He liked that. He liked that his eyes stung from the pepper spray. But there was no target to hit. She could not have run the full length of the law firm in the few seconds it took for him to give chase, so must instead be hiding. Multiple doors lined the corridor. He tried the handles as he moved, opening the unlocked doors and checking the rooms beyond without success until he reached the open-plan area.

He hoped to find her under a desk, huddled in a trembling ball. If she was hiding so, he could save the bullet and strangle her. She had a small neck and he had large hands. Perhaps one hand would be enough. He imagined her panicked gasps as he crushed her trachea between his fingers.

He decided against keeping his weapon drawn. Doing so would only be an admission of his inability to control the situation. He was in control. This was his moment.

Sinclair remembered a cold night in Helmand, terrorising a car of Afghans at a checkpoint, pretending he didn’t understand them as they begged and pleaded him not to shoot. He hadn’t, but a man in the back of the vehicle had beat his wife around the head until she spat out teeth in an attempt to stop her screaming. When Sinclair told the story, he never made it to the end without cracking up.

Sinclair stepped towards the door to a stationery cupboard.

He opened it. Nothing.

A noise behind him. He turned to see Gisele running across the far side of the open-plan area.

He followed. No need to run. It was too much fun to have a premature end.

Gisele ran, rounding desks and chairs, passing the water cooler and the colour laser printer. She knew he was behind her, but daren’t look to see him chasing. She made it down a corridor and around the corner into the reception area. No Caroline behind the desk as Alan hadn’t given the all-clear for people to return after the alarm.

For a second, she considered hiding behind the desk, thinking the man with the shaved head wouldn’t think to look there, but decided against it. She had to get out. Fast.

She pushed every lift button.

‘Come on, come on.’

She heard the man’s approaching footsteps. She hurriedly pushed the buttons again.

The man appeared. He smiled at her. ‘You’ve caused us a lot of bother, missy. But this is the end of the road.’ He reached under his jacket.

The lift doors opened next to Gisele.

Her nameless companion stepped out and shot the approaching mercenary three times in the chest.

Victor led Gisele down to the ground floor and kept his palm on the small of her back as they crossed the vast lobby.

‘My God,’ she breathed. ‘What the hell happened to you?’

He didn’t answer. Even though he’d cleaned off much of the blood, his injuries were obvious.

When they neared the exit, he said, ‘There are more of them outside. They didn’t see me come in, but they’ll see us when we leave.’ He gestured towards a security guard near the revolving doors. ‘Stay next to him until I return.’

‘Hurry back,’ Gisele said.

Victor heaved open the door and left the office building, leaving the warm and still interior air behind and stepping into the freezing night wind that toyed with his hair and brought moisture to his swollen right eye. A page of discarded newspaper tumbled and swooshed along the pavement. On the far side of the road a young woman climbed into a taxi.

He looked both ways, surveying the locale, ready to move and shoot and fight and die if necessary. He seemed relaxed because he was relaxed. If there was any place in which he truly belonged it was in the heart of violence. He had no fear of it because he knew it was who he was.

They were waiting in case Gisele appeared. They couldn’t know what had happened inside. They would only make their move when she did. For now, they would leave him be, although they would not let him out of their sight. But that was exactly what he wanted.

He descended the stone steps. The wind hid the sound of his footfalls. The Range Rover was parked against the kerb some thirty metres away. The lights, exterior and interior, had been extinguished, but Victor could see the shapes of three men. No features were visible, but they didn’t need to be. The men who sat there were mortal enemies who would be dead before the night’s end or would be Victor’s killers. Victor had had many enemies. Many were still alive. But almost without exception they were a threat to him as he was to them because of his work. Hazards of the profession. Now was different. Victor would kill these men or be killed by them because of someone else.

In the Audi, Victor took the handgun from his waistband and set it between his thighs, grip up for quick access. He let the engine idle. He wanted the man in the Range Rover and anyone else watching to see the exhaust gases clouding in the cold air. He had the interior light on. He wanted his hands to be seen gripping the wheel. They would assume he was waiting. They would assume he was waiting for Gisele. They would shift physically and mentally from standby into readiness — from warm-up to poised in the starting blocks. He could feel their elevated heart rates and the buzz of adrenalin and other hormones flooding their bloodstream. He could feel theirs because he had no such sensations. His pulse thumped slow and steady.

He continued the act by glancing at the building’s entrance, knowing they would see it, knowing it would only intensify their readiness. He felt their body temperatures rising, sweat beading, pupils dilating, vision focusing, hearing becoming selective. Almost.

One last misdirection: he took out his phone and held it briefly to his ear.

He mouthed Okay.

Now or never.

He dropped the phone into his lap, released the handbrake, put the car in gear, stamped the accelerator and yanked the steering wheel.

The tyres squealed for traction, releasing a puff of burnt rubber, then found their grip and the car launched out from the kerb.

In the rear-view he saw the driver of the Range Rover spring into action after a split-second’s delay, surprised by the sudden change in proceedings but reacting to it with impressive speed.

As Victor shot across the intersecting road, cutting through the flow of traffic and hearing thumped horns and braking tyres, he pictured frantic messages and hasty improvisations. They were chasing him because they thought they had been fooled. They had, but not as they thought. They would work it out soon, but he only needed to buy Gisele and himself a moment.

He braked hard and turned left, back end sliding out but turning into the skid to control it then accelerating again as he drove along the north side of the office building, knowing they would think him heading to a rear exit, hoping to pick up Gisele before they could catch up.

Victor grabbed the phone as he worked the wheel in one hand, thumbed for her number, and when the line connected, shouted, ‘Go.’

He didn’t wait for a response. He dropped the phone and focused on the road ahead and the Range Rover he’d allowed to catch up behind.

Oncoming headlights brightened — two blurs of pale light enlarging and disappearing as they swerved through the traffic.

An orchestra of horns sounded. Brakes shrieked and tyres squealed. Anticipating a collision, he fought the instinct to tense, instead allowing his body to stay relaxed and loose to lessen the chances of injury and death in event of a crash. He worked the wheel and the brake pedal, avoiding a head-on as he cut into the opposite lane to disrupt the narrative of the attacker, to make him have to think about his own survival and not just that of his target.

It worked because the oncoming Range Rover slowed — only for a second, but that hesitation told Victor his attackers, however reckless, cared more about living than winning.

Victor kept his foot on the accelerator, closing the distance to the Range Rover fast — forty metres, thirty, twenty, ten.

At five his enemy blinked in their game of death and heaved the wheel as Victor had known with certainty he would. They passed within inches, tearing off each other’s wing mirror, making both cars rock in the change of air pressure.

Victor stamped the brake and pulled up on the handbrake as he sped towards a coming junction. Smoke and screaming was released from the tyres and the car’s back end swung around. Victor didn’t try and fight it and let the vehicle go into a spin until it had performed a one-eighty, then accelerated hard and controlled the wheel until he was racing back to the law firm.

Sinclair groaned as he climbed to his feet. His Dragon Skin vest had caught the three rounds meant for his heart, but he’d still blacked out. He didn’t know what had happened with Norimov’s hired killer and Rogan, but the specifics mattered little.

The assassin was trouble and he was good. The presence of the killer necessitated the drawing of Sinclair’s pistol. He could not afford to run into him unarmed and defenceless. He knew Gisele’s protector would not offer him the kind of sportsmanship he would offer in return. Sinclair would not hunt a tiger from the elevated safety of an elephant’s back. He would meet him on the ground, in undergrowth, man to beast. Shame on the hunter who hung his trophy without earning it.

He moved, content to hurry now he was pursuing an equivalent and not a child. Properly employed haste, like the unflinching application of violence, was necessary here.

Another man might find rage in the continued interference of the assassin, and indeed Sinclair knew well his own capacity for emotion. Getting shot, even armoured, was no fun, but the dull ache of the blunt-force trauma to his chest energised him instead. He savoured the pain and the thrill of base savagery; it fermented in his soul.

Sinclair rushed through the offices. Wade’s voice barked through his earpiece:

‘We’ve lost him. We’ve lost him.’

Sinclair said, ‘What about the girl?’

‘He left alone. He —’

‘You idiots,’ Sinclair spat. ‘It was a trick. He’s doubled back.’

Victor braked hard outside and dashed up the steps as fast as his injured ankle let him. Gisele saw him before he reached the doors and came out, still scared but glad to see him.

‘Where are they?’

‘Close. We don’t have much time.’

She headed to the car, knowing it was the one he’d driven because of the open driver’s door and running engine.

‘No,’ Victor said, stopping her. ‘They’ll be looking for it.’

He went to hail a taxi but saw a minicab against the opposite kerb. He grabbed Gisele’s wrist and they hurried across the road. He pulled open the rear door and bundled Gisele inside. He climbed in after her.

‘Oi,’ the driver said. ‘Bookings only, fella. You’ll have to sling your hook.’

‘Drive us a mile south and I’ll pay you for a day.’

The driver thought about it for a moment. ‘No bullshit?’

Victor put his hand on the door handle. ‘If we don’t get going this instant then the deal’s off.’

‘All right, all right,’ he said as he released the handbrake. ‘Just don’t tell the guv’nor.’

The car pulled away from the kerb. Victor scanned the area. In the rear-view mirror he saw a black Range Rover turn on to the street.

SEVENTY-FOUR

Gisele sat behind the driver. Victor sat close to her so he could use the rear-view mirror with an unobstructed view. He grimaced against the pain of many wounds while he watched the reflection of the Range Rover. It accelerated until it reached the law firm, then came to an abrupt halt outside, near to the abandoned Audi. They thought he was inside.

He noticed the driver looking at him in the rear-view — looking at his battered face and the blood on his clothes.

‘What’s going on?’ Gisele asked, breathing hard. ‘How did they know?’

‘The plan didn’t work. It’s my fault. I underestimated her. I’m sorry, I should never have left you alone.’

‘It was my choice as much as yours.’

He kept his gaze on the mirror, seeing doors open on the Range Rover and two men rush out and up the steps to the building. He must have looked for a second too long because Gisele saw him and her head began turning.

‘Don’t,’ he told. ‘Keep looking forward.’

She did, her face tense and her lips locked. He saw her palms rest on her thighs.

‘It’s okay,’ he said to her, even though it was not.

She nodded. She didn’t believe him. She trusted her own instincts more than his words even if no one had ever wanted her dead until a week ago. Victor couldn’t remember such a time.

The driver noticed the tension. ‘Is everything okay back there?’

Victor said, ‘We’re fine.’

He saw in the mirror as the driver’s gaze flicked to Gisele and lingered a moment.

‘Are you all right, love?’

Victor reached out a hand to rest on hers, to tell her what to do, but she’d already said, ‘I get travel sickness.’

The driver said, ‘Don’t worry, darlin’. I’ll take it nice and smooth.’

Sinclair listened to Wade’s spluttering excuses as he strode outside the law firm. The black Audi had been abandoned on the street, driver’s door open and engine left running. No other door was open. Wade was still providing useless updates as Sinclair stepped forward to the edge of the steps, looking left and right along the street, seeing vehicles and pedestrians.

At the east end of the street, a minicab was indicating. Two human shapes sat in the back. At this range, no details were discernible.

I see you.

Sinclair shoved Wade aside and drew his pistol. He adopted a shooting position, one eye closed while the other peered along the weapon’s iron sights, focusing on the smaller of the two shapes, ignoring the blur of colours and shapes that surrounded it. His brow was creased in concentration. His lips were closed and his jaw set, nostrils expanding and contracting with each deep, regular breath. Beads of sweat formed along his hairline. He slowed his breathing and with it his heart rate. He timed the beats, index finger compressing on the trigger — two pounds of pressure, then four, six, and holding the tension there, ready to squeeze a little harder; just another half-pound of force to trip the trigger and activate the firing mechanism.

The world around him ceased to exist.

I was born to do this, Sinclair said to himself. Never miss. Never fail.

The recoil kicked and he felt the reverberations flow all the way to his shoulder. He loved that feeling. The mechanical caress, dull and strong. As a child, it had hurt. Now, he missed the pain.

Life is pain.

The pistol’s suppressor caught the escaping superheated gases as they exploded from the muzzle, deadening the sound but not killing it. The rumble of city life did that, wrapping up and smothering the weapon’s bark in a blanket of car exhausts, voices and footsteps.

SEVENTY-FIVE

In the mirror, Victor saw the South African on the steps outside of the law firm’s building, lit by streetlights, haloing the rain around him. He had a handgun drawn. They were out of conceivable range — an impossible shot, almost — but the man adopted a shooting stance. For a second, Victor didn’t believe he would take it.

He grabbed the back of Gisele’s head and forced it down.

The rear windscreen cracked around a small hole.

The minicab driver contorted in his seat, dead the instant the round punctured his skull and penetrated his brain. The mess was absolute. The deformed and tumbling bullet blew out the front of his forehead, the pressure wave following it exploding the skull, spraying bone, brain and blood in a wide arc, splattering over the windscreen and the car’s interior.

The bullet continued its trajectory, leaving a fist-sized hole in the cab’s front windscreen. Another followed it, tearing through the passenger seat and dashboard and burying itself somewhere in the engine block.

Victor, keeping low, forced himself between the front seats and grabbed hold of the steering wheel. He heard horns and saw flashes of headlights and swerving cars. He felt the reverberations of more rounds striking the rear of the car. The wing mirror shattered.

Metal screeched against metal as the right side wheel arch scraped along the door of a parked BMW. Shocked passers-by stared as Victor fought to control the cab. The low whine of the engine and the wail of the BMW’s intruder alarm filled his ears. Next to him, Gisele made herself small in the seat. She was scared, but she didn’t scream or panic or distract him with questions.

No more bullets hit the car as he pulled himself between the seats. They were now out of reach of even the gunman’s exceptional skills. Victor reached down to activate the driver’s seat adjuster to slide it back the full distance before climbing on top of the dead driver. He forced himself into a driving position, and accelerated.

He kept as low as he could, which wasn’t much, but the driver’s body would provide some protection from further shots.

He took the first turning he saw, swerving left and into a side street, clipping the bumper of a parked car, the roar of the revving engine echoed by the narrow distance between tall buildings. A guy in a suit went to cross the street ahead, but darted back when he saw the speeding cab.

Something was wrong with the vehicle’s handling — bullet damage to a tyre, maybe — and Victor struggled to keep it straight.

‘Seat belt,’ he said to Gisele.

The wheel shed the peeling tyre and it flipped and cartwheeled into the air. The raw wheel struck asphalt and sparked. Victor lost control on the slick surface, fought the erratic swerves, jolting in his seat as the car side-swiped a bus, catching a flash of panicked faces through the glass before rebounding away, smelling the acrid stench of burnt steel from the grinding wheel.

He fought to keep control as the nose of the cab exited the side street. He couldn’t stop it careering into the lane of oncoming traffic. A horn sounded and the vehicle spun as another bus collided with a rear-wheel arch. Tyres screeched and left burnt rubber on the tarmac. Glass pebbles from a broken window scattered across the road.

Stunned pedestrians stopped and watched as the car spun into a row of parked vehicles, denting bodywork and breaking more windows. Alarms sounded.

The bumper clipped the rear of a taxi, knocking that vehicle on and further distorting the erratic path Victor was taking. The tyreless wheel collided with a kerb at an angle and jumped it. He worked the wheel and punched the horn when he saw he couldn’t prevent the cab crashing into a bus stop. The two men waiting for the next bus ran clear.

Headlights glowed and flared through the raindrops, leaving smears of red and light as the wipers, still working, swept them away. The front crumple zone had done its job and absorbed the majority of the impact, turning the cab into an unrecognisable misshapen heap of metal, but one that kept Victor alive, if not unscathed.

He heaved open the warped driver’s door and stumbled out of the wreckage, bloody and disorientated. Gisele climbed out too and he ushered her forward, shielding her with his body as he staggered away, heading for the cover of parked cars and storefronts, reaching for the gun in his waistband but grasping only air, realising too late that he’d had it in his lap while driving and in the crash it must have ended up in the footwell or under a seat. He couldn’t go back for it.

They had to keep moving. Their pursuers were close but their line of sight was impeded by the bus that had hit the cab and now blocked the junction. The other people on the street didn’t realise what had caused the crash, but backed away from him anyway because he was covered in the cab driver’s blood and walking with determination instead of staggering like someone scared or in pain and in need of help. The blood dispelled any chance of slipping away unnoticed, but the dispersing effect it had on other people meant he could walk faster through the crowd.

Wade managed to manoeuvre the Range Rover around the bus by going up on to the pavement. Ahead, the crashed minicab sat, damaged and dented vehicles near it, glass glittering on the road. A crowd had gathered, watching from a short distance away as a few compassionate or ghoulish individuals edged closer, peering into the cab.

Beautiful chaos, Sinclair thought, savouring the scene before him, revelling in the panic and aroused by the sight of destruction.

He breathed in air both sweet and terrible.

‘Ease up,’ Sinclair said, gun clutched in both hands but held out of sight, ready to be snapped up and put into action.

Wade lessened the pressure on the accelerator pedal, slowing the vehicle as they passed the wreckage. No one inside.

‘There,’ Sinclair said, pointing to a crowd of people in the distance, a man and woman pushing their way through. He gestured to the two mercenaries in the back. ‘Pursue on foot. We’ll head them off.’

Gisele hurried. Her legs weren’t moving as fast as she compelled them — shock taking hold. Victor took her by the arm and pulled her along, limping on his injured ankle.

A man in front of them stumbled and fell. The echo of the shot arrived a split-second later. Victor just about made it out over the background noise. The man on the ground wasn’t dead, but the round had gone through a shoulder blade and exited through his arm. Blood quickly pooled under him. Another man screamed in shock and horror. Someone shouted for an ambulance.

Victor kept moving, accelerating into a jog and pushing through the crowd with one hand while the other held Gisele close to him. More shots sounded but no one was hit in front of him. Behind, he couldn’t be sure with the screaming and panic.

He exited the street at the first available opportunity, heading right into an alleyway.

Gisele said, ‘I’m hit. I’m bleeding.’

He stopped and looked at her, pushing her back up against the wall of the alley so he could examine her. She touched her head. There was blood on her fingers and in her hair. He turned her head and separated her hair.

‘You’re okay,’ he assured her. ‘ It’s a scratch. From before.’

At the end of the alleyway, Victor slowed to a walk and took Gisele’s right hand in his left. He relaxed his face and they stepped out together, side by side.

‘Try to smile,’ he said.

He didn’t look to see if she was. He kept his eyes moving — gaze sweeping the street, the cars, the pedestrians, the buildings — looking for threats. Traffic was heavy and slow, as were the crowds of walkers. London at any time of the year; overcrowded and congested. He liked that. Gisele slowed him down, and the packed street offered good cover. The shootings one block away were irrelevant here. No one knew what had taken place.

Victor led Gisele across the road, dodging through the traffic, and down a covered precinct. The street beyond was quiet — few passing cars; few scattered pedestrians. He looked both ways along it, looking for the Range Rover or any other vehicle that could be a threat. Nothing. He listened for the sound of pursuers. No rushing footsteps echoing. Yet.

The further they walked, the denser the crowds became. Tourists were everywhere, identifiable by their casual pace at odds with and offensive to the harried Londoners.

Sirens wailed. Victor caught a glimpse of a police car passing across a junction up ahead, heading to the site of the crash and shooting. More would be coming. Good. The more cops in the area, the fewer opportunities their pursuers would have and the fewer risks they would be willing to take.

He took her into an adjoining side street. He wasn’t sure where it would lead. He knew London well — as he knew any city where he had ever operated — but not every route.

The street exited on to a road lined with boutiques and coffee shops. Men and women sat at outside tables, sipping steaming drinks and smiling and chatting. Victor led Gisele to the other side of the street, walking fast to slip through the traffic, ignoring the scorn of motorists who never got used to Londoners darting in front of them. A cyclist rang a bell in annoyance after swerving to miss them.

A woman in a woollen hat spotted the blood on Victor’s clothes and trickling down Gisele’s face. The woman nudged her partner and Victor read Look at those two on her lips. Her partner tilted up his reading glasses to get a better view. Victor reversed direction, heading north, away from the couple.

He saw a tall man some twenty metres away, a shadow of stubble around a mouth set with determination. Another mercenary followed a little way behind.

‘In here,’ Victor said.

He shoved open the door to a restaurant and pulled Gisele inside behind him.

SEVENTY-SIX

The restaurant had a high ceiling and ornate metal tables and chairs. Similarly ornate mirrors covered the walls. Victor waved a hand to dismiss a waiter’s ‘Table for two?’ and hurried through the room, eyes picking out the ways in and therefore out, seeking an exit instead of a way deeper into the building. His instincts told him to head for the kitchen and an inevitable back door, but he felt a breeze on his face from an entranceway below a sign for the toilets.

A waitress overloaded with bowls and plates stepped out in front of him and was thrown out of his path, sending soups and salad across the floor. Gisele apologised on his behalf.

Through the entranceway, he turned to follow the corridor, saw doors leading off to the men’s and lady’s toilets and the fire exit at the far end propped ajar to let air funnel inside.

From behind him, he heard the crash of the restaurant door being flung open.

‘Run,’ Victor said.

The two pursuing mercenaries charged through the restaurant, knocking diners and staff aside, jumping over the spilled food and puddles of soup, knowing exactly where their targets had gone, thanks to a waitress yelling in the direction of the toilets.

They entered the corridor, moving fast, the first leading with longer stride, heading for the open fire exit, the second following a metre behind, view blocked by the taller man.

He drew a pistol from beneath his jacket.

Which Victor batted out of his hand as he charged out of the adjacent men’s room, slamming the man into the wall with his momentum, elbowing him in the face, sinking him to his knees.

The lead man turned and snapped his pistol up, but not fast enough to stop Victor stepping inside and striking him in the chest with a short left punch. He staggered backwards, gasping, dropping his weapon to reach out with both hands, searching for purchase on the walls to his left and right.

The scrape of metal alerted Victor to the man behind him, going for the gun while still on his knees. He scooped it up, twisted around one hundred and eighty degrees, arms straightening and aiming.

A side kick sent the gun out of the mercenary’s hands for a second time. He rolled out of the way of Victor’s next attack, who didn’t try for a third because he knew the taller man would be recovered behind him. Victor spun around, blocked the knife thrust meant for his back, dodged a second, grabbed an outstretched arm when the third came and swung him into the men’s room door, face first.

Releasing the arm, Victor slipped the second man’s elbow, then dropped him to the floor with a kick to the back of the knee, creating the space to strike the taller mercenary, catching him in the mouth with a right elbow, then sending him sprawling from a palm heel to the jaw.

He went for the closest gun, but the prone man recovered fast and charged him from behind, powering him into a wall, making him toe the pistol away as he stumbled. He caught his attacker with a backwards headbutt, creating enough time and space to twist around and follow up with another headbutt, impacting with his forehead into the bridge of the mercenary’s nose — not shattering it because he was already stumbling back, but sending blood streaming from the nostrils.

He ran because the tall man was rushing for the second gun and he was going to reach it before Victor got to him.

The gun clacked and a bullet took a chunk from the fire exit as Victor dashed through it. He veered out of the line of fire an instant before a second round buried itself in the brickwork opposite.

The fire exit led out into a narrow alleyway just wide enough for a car to squeeze down. Victor headed right, as he had instructed Gisele to do, and found her staring at him, tense from the gunfire.

Sinclair heard the gunshots too. They were muted by a suppressor and subsonic ammunition, but he heard them all the same. He stood outside the Range Rover, holding an MP5 out of sight behind the open rear door.

A voice through his earpiece: ‘We’ve lost him in the restaurant… In pursuit. He’s heading west.’

‘Stay back until I say otherwise,’ Sinclair replied. ‘I have him.’

The mouth of the alleyway was fifteen metres away on the far side of the street. The gunshots had come from that direction. He waited. The target and her protector appeared. Sinclair stepped out of cover, began bringing up the sub-machine gun when Wade said:

‘Careful. Cops.’

Sinclair glanced to where a police car had stopped at the end of the street, no doubt looking for the culprits responsible for the recent crash and shooting.

‘Get in the motor,’ Wade screamed. ‘We gotta move out.’

The siren grew rapidly louder as the police car sped closer. Sinclair didn’t look. He didn’t need to.

‘Fuck ’em,’ Sinclair said, raising his weapon.

Victor saw a man on the far side of the street, partially shielded by the open rear door of the Range Rover. The man had a shaved head and wore khaki trousers and a leather jacket. The South African. The man called Sinclair, who had made the near-impossible shot that killed the cab driver. Though mostly out of sight, Victor could see the fat integrated suppressor of an MP5SD held in cover.

Sinclair wasn’t looking his way. He was glancing to his right, at the cop car pulled over at the mouth of the street. The MP5 started to rise.

‘GUN,’ Victor yelled, and pointed in the hope the police officers would see.

Instead of hanging around to find out, he darted to his right, away from the gunman, dragging Gisele down into the cover of a parked vehicle.

The cop car skidded to a halt near to Sinclair before he’d found the shot. All he needed was an instant, a heartbeat, but it didn’t come. In his peripheral vision he saw the armed response officers exiting their car, weapons up.

‘DON’T FUCKING MOVE.’ They came forward. ‘Hands in the air. Drop the gun.’

‘As you wish.’

He released the MP5 and it clattered on the road surface. The first cop approached Sinclair while the other stayed back, covering.

‘Turn around. Keep your hands up.’

Sinclair did as instructed.

The cop came closer, putting his gun away to take out handcuffs. He stood behind Sinclair. The cop reached up and took hold of Sinclair’s right wrist, but didn’t complete the manoeuvre.

Sinclair wrenched his arm down and spun to the right before the cop had a chance to act. Now facing him, Sinclair slammed his knee into the cop’s groin and with his left hand pulled the pistol from the holster in one fluid move.

Even if the other cop had reacted fast enough he couldn’t have taken the shot. Sinclair was using his partner as cover.

He pushed the Glock’s muzzle against the closest cop’s ribs and fired three times. Before the corpse had hit the ground the gun was raised and the second officer was flailing backwards, taken out with a double-tap to the sternum. A third between the eyes followed.

Sinclair turned back towards his prey, but they were gone. At the end of the street, the two guys who had pursued on foot were boarding Wade’s Range Rover. Sinclair approached.

‘You lunatic,’ Wade yelled at him. ‘You’ve fucked us all. I’m done with this shit.’

Sinclair executed him with a single shot to the face.

He looked at the remaining two mercenaries. ‘Anything to add?’

They shook their heads. Sinclair pulled Wade’s corpse from the driver’s seat and onto the road. He climbed in.

‘This is Unit Two,’Anderton’s voice said through the radio. ‘I see them.’

SEVENTY-SEVEN

The second Range Rover turned on to the street ahead of Victor and Gisele. They couldn’t turn back — that would mean heading in the direction of their pursuers. There were no alleys or side streets leading off. To the right lay an impassable wall of brick with barred windows. To the left plywood hoardings rose two and a half metres, securing a construction site beyond.

‘This way,’ Victor said.

He stood before the hoarding with his hands cupped as the Range Rover accelerated towards them. Gisele didn’t hesitate. She used her left foot to push off and he heaved her up. She cried out as she landed on the other side. He followed, leaping up and hauling himself over. He dropped down and pulled Gisele to her feet.

He grimaced, his injured ankle worsening from the drop, but they pressed on, scrambling down a slope on to an expanse of cracked asphalt stained with red building sand. There were huge piles of sand and gravel at one end of the area, a portable office cabin at the other. Directly ahead was the steel frame of a ten-storey building.

Behind them, a section of plywood hoarding collapsed as one of the Range Rovers crashed through it, blasting chunks of wood into the air. The vehicle tipped forward and dropped a metre before its front tyres hit the slope and its suspension absorbed the impact.

The only way to go was onward into the shelter of the partially constructed building. The Range Rover roared down the slope behind them. Victor and Gisele passed between steel columns, stepping up on to the poured concrete floor. The ceiling above was concrete too. Construction materials and cables lay everywhere. Some walls had been erected. In places, plastic sheeting formed temporary barriers. He glanced over his shoulders to see their pursuers gaining with every second.

‘Keep going through until you reach the other side,’ Victor said to Gisele. ‘Then find somewhere to hide. Don’t come out until you hear my voice.’ He gave her the gun. ‘Take this.’

She tried to push the gun back into his hands. ‘No. You take it. You need it.’

‘Do as I say, Gisele. Or we’re both dead.’

She looked at it, then at him. ‘What are you going to do?’

He didn’t answer because she already knew. ‘Go.’

Victor watched her hurry away. In seconds she was lost in the darkness. He turned around, eased himself into position, side-on behind a support column, and waited. Their enemies were near, frantically chasing for them, high on the thrill of the hunt — there was nothing quite like it — intensified by the fear of failure. Victor would use that against them.

He rocked his head from side to side to crack his neck. His hands tingled.

Death was close.

The Range Rover had blown a tyre and collided with a horizontal stack of girders. Steam billowed from under the bonnet and it struggled to reverse, wheels throwing out great sprays of wet red building sand that painted its black bodywork and coated windows. The mercenaries inside abandoned it.

There was no denying it, the vehicle was a wreck. The noises emanating from the engine were of a beast wounded and succumbing to the cruel hand of mortality. They drew their weapons and waited for Sinclair to join them.

Using hand gestures, he told them what to do.

He moved noiselessly through the construction site, silenced MP5 out before him, gaze focused along the iron sights. Where he looked, the muzzle pointed. He was eager to kill; to finish this. Not for fear of police intervention, but for his own personal satisfaction. He lived only to see death. He breathed slow, regular breaths. He was excited but calm in battle. The sweat tasted like honey on his lips.

He had heard the sound of plastic sheeting flapping in the wind. Somewhere in the darkness was a killer with a gun. Sinclair moved slowly. He had all the time in the world. He knew this was it. His enemy was lying in wait, ready to ambush.

Not that Sinclair felt at risk. He was the predator. He sat at the very top of the food chain, every other living thing below him. His prey.

He pictured the killer, gambling that they would be rash or stupid. Hoping they were going to walk into his trap.

Praying, more like.

Sinclair had set a trap of his own.

He’d signalled for the two mercs to move forward while he circled around the flank. However good Norimov’s assassin was, he didn’t have eyes in the back of his head.

The two men would die, serving as bait to bring Sinclair’s prey out into the open.

He would feast on them all.

SEVENTY-EIGHT

Victor waited in the shadows. He crouched low, where it was darkest, listening to the quiet scrape of shoes on concrete or crunch of heel on gravel, noting when they broke apart and formed to separate sounds, one growing increasingly quieter while the other grew louder. The sounds were close, but they overlapped and echoed around the space. Victor waited. The two men were moving too fast. They were attempting caution but too anxious to make it work. Adrenalin and limited visibility were not conducive to accurate special awareness.

If he could take the first out without the second’s knowledge, the second wouldn’t be a problem. He changed positions, closing the distance between himself and the first man. He stood side-on to another column, watching the man’s shadow approach.

Victor sprang out of cover, but his ankle slowed him. He took the man by surprise, but was not fast enough to take him down noiselessly.

The mercenary managed to squeeze the trigger, but the muzzle was already twisted away from Victor, gun torn out of the hand an instant later, clanging off a steel column after hurtling through the air.

Victor dropped his forehead into his enemy’s face, darting back at the same time as the man recoiled, then turning to intercept the second gunman, who was responding to the noise, hurrying through the darkness, gun up, but failing to get his sights lined on to Victor, who was moving laterally, disappearing behind columns and partially constructed walls. He reappeared a moment later, coming at the gunman from his flank.

Victor caught the second man in the face with the edge of his right palm, then across the top of the gun-holding hand with his left forearm — shock and pain overloading the nervous system, jolting the weapon from the man’s grip. The mercenary fought back, fast and strong, trying to hit Victor with hooks and elbows.

He slipped aside, waiting for his opponent’s over-eagerness to create an opening, too slow and weak to exploit the man’s lack of skill until he left himself exposed. Victor slammed him with an elbow. The man lost his footing and collapsed to the floor, down but still conscious, cheekbone broken.

Victor grabbed the pistol, not hearing the first mercenary until he was already on him, grappling, trying to get the gun out of his grip, not the best fighter but bigger and stronger and uninjured.

The weapon was pushed upwards, forcing Victor’s arms above his head, using his extra reach and strength in an attempt to free the weapon. A kick to the side of the man’s knee took four inches from his height as he sank downwards. Victor exploited the momentary weakness to pull their arms down and drive his enemy’s fist into a steel column.

A smear of blood was left on the metal, but the man didn’t let go, so Victor did, letting the gun fall from his fingers. It struck the ground and the toe of his shoe sent it skidding away.

His enemy released him as he knew he would and went for his throat, but Victor was already moving, using his greater agility to slip from the grapple and land a solid punch to the man’s chest.

The impact knocked the mercenary back a step, but he was as tough as he was strong and within a second he’d recovered. He rushed Victor, who timed the inevitable takedown attempt and stepped aside, letting the man stumble into space, losing his balance and recovering too slow to stop Victor leaping on to his back and snaking an arm around his neck until the pit of his elbow was at the front of the mercenary’s throat.

The second man was on his feet already and going for his gun, so Victor released the choke and went after him, grabbing the outstretched pistol and fist as they turned his way, then wrenching them down and pulling towards him, muzzle harmlessly pointed at the floor, tipping his enemy off-balance. The man yelled in surprise and then in pain as Victor tore the gun from his grip and smashed it into his face. The first impact dropped him to his knees. The next opened up his skull.

Victor turned, seeing the surviving mercenary going for Victor’s own disarmed pistol, scooping it up into his hands but immediately flying from his grasp as he contorted from the two bullets Victor put into him.

He glimpsed Gisele in the darkness and gestured for her to come to him. She did, keeping low and moving fast. He led her back the way they had entered.

A noise. He pushed her into the cover provided by the crashed Range Rover as an MP5 opened fire.

‘Keep down. Get behind a wheel.’

Gisele did, cowering as bullets slammed into the vehicle shielding them, puckering the bodywork with holes, cracking glass, making the car reverberate with multiple impacts.

The subsonic nine millimetre rounds fired from the MP5 had too little power to pass all the way through the car, but it wouldn’t protect them for much longer. Victor didn’t need to put his head into the line of fire to know the gunman was stalking closer. There was nowhere to run to.

He shuffled to where the car’s fuel inlet was located. He drew the mercenary’s knife, reversed his grip and drove the blade through the car’s bodywork approximately twenty centimetres below the inlet. Metal squawked as he tugged it free. He waited a second. Nothing.

Gisele whispered, ‘What are you doing?’

Victor stabbed with the knife again, five centimetres lower to account for the fuel tank being approximately a quarter full. Which was more useful to him than a fuller tank. This time when he pulled the blade free, petrol trickled out of the hole.

He stabbed twice more to widen the hole and soaked a handkerchief in the petrol. He stuffed it into the hole and looked at Gisele.

‘When I say go, run like you’ve never run before. Okay?’

‘Where to?’

‘Anywhere that’s not here. Find somewhere to hide and don’t come out until this is over.’

She nodded. He lit the handkerchief with Rogan’s lighter.

Sinclair kept his index finger depressed on the trigger until the magazine emptied. Brass clinked on the ground and crunched underfoot as he moved to get a better angle, releasing the spent magazine and slamming in a second.

He stalked closer to the road. He had the MP5 up, stock comfortable against his shoulder, eyes peering along the iron sights.

Without losing focus on his prey he continued to move in a semi-circle, seeking a line of sight. He released a quick burst to keep them in place, to make them hesitant to leave the protection of the vehicle.

Then the killer yelled, ‘MOVE,’ and he rose out of cover, sprinting away from the bullet-riddled car as the woman did the same. They set off in opposite directions and it made Sinclair hesitate for an instant, unsure who to aim at first.

He swung the MP5 to track the girl, putting the iron sights in front of her to account for the speed of her movement. Hitting a moving target was not about aiming at the target, but knowing where the target would be by the time the bullets reached their mark.

But he hesitated because orange light glowed in the darkness, casting flickering shadows. Fire. Near the vehicle’s fuel inlet.

That’s not good.

He turned, and ran.

The burning handkerchief ignited the petrol vapour, which ignited the liquid petrol and oxygen inside the enclosed fuel tank.

The resulting explosion sent a huge gout of flame flowing from the car. The overpressure wave picked Sinclair from his feet and tossed him to the ground. Searing heat washed over him.

He coughed as black smoke and fumes flowed over him. He didn’t know he’d been knocked down until he tried to move, but his body wasn’t responding. With difficulty, he managed to sit up. He then stood, a little wobbly but strength and coordination coming back to him as the sounds reaching his ears grew louder.

He retrieved his sub-machine gun and headed after the girl. However much he wanted to kill Norimov’s assassin, that guy was a pet project. It was the girl who truly mattered.

Another time, sport.

Through the swirling black smoke, a figure leapt at him.

SEVENTY-NINE

Sinclair used the MP5 to parry Victor’s thrust, knocking the knife from his grip, but leaving himself exposed to the punch Victor connected with. The South African grunted and flailed forward, twisting around as he stumbled, bringing his sub-machine gun up, aiming at Victor —

Who was fast enough to grab the weapon before Sinclair could aim it, one hand on the barrel, the other on the stock, directing it upwards, muzzle pointed at the ceiling, but also twisting it against the rotation of Sinclair’s wrists. He had no option to release it or suffer a break.

Victor tossed the weapon. The gun was too long and therefore too impractical to employ at such close range. If he tried, he would only be disarmed as his enemy had been.

It sailed through the air, hitting a wall, crunching broken glass as it hit the floor somewhere in the darkness.

‘You should have taken the bullet,’ Sinclair said. ‘It would have saved you a lot of pain.’

Victor had his guard up in time to ward off the subsequent attack, and they traded blows, some scoring hits, others parried, neither landing anything meaningful until Victor was hit with an open-palm blow to the chest, knocking him off his unstable balance. He slipped and blocked another. A third hit him in the side of the ribs. He sagged, and risked a sweep at Sinclair’s load-bearing leg.

The lingering effects of his injuries slowed him and the sweep was checked with a kick, jolting him off balance, restricting his movement enough for Sinclair to grab him by the jacket and swing him through ninety degrees and into the wall. Victor responded with a headbutt now they were close, but again he was too slow or his enemy expected it, and the attack missed, only glancing the South African’s skull, causing no real damage.

Sinclair backed off to create space and responded with a forward kick, heel missing Victor’s pelvis by an inch as he sidestepped, grabbing the outstretched leg before Sinclair could withdraw it, pulling him closer, feinting another headbutt that made Sinclair twist away, putting himself further off balance. A short sweep put him on the ground, hard.

Victor stamped down but Sinclair caught the foot before it could crack ribs, twisted to break Victor’s one good ankle, but turning with the movement saved the joint.

The South African released him, rolling away from his vulnerable position on the ground and was fast to his feet, attacking even faster, going for the takedown.

Victor had been expecting it, but couldn’t react in time to avoid it altogether. He broke the fall by rolling with the impact, going for where lay a section of pipe. Sinclair’s grip not secure enough to stop him, but he was on top of Victor before he could employ the weapon. Sinclair batted it out of Victor’s hand, who then blocked the first punches aimed at his head, twisting and rocking to lessen the damage of those that got through his guard.

Sinclair pushed his forearm against Victor’s throat, leaning forward to apply extra pressure, but leaning too far. Victor grabbed him by his jacket and wrenched him off balance. He gave up the choke to stop himself falling, but Victor bridged with his hips and pushed the South African clear. As he rolled on to his back, Sinclair tugged a knife free from a belt sheath, stabbing the point down at Victor’s chest.

It caught his triceps as he scrambled away, grabbing a woven rubble sack as he rose to his feet, slower than his enemy, and took another slash to his arm before he had the sack stretched between both hands. He used it as a shield to turn away attacks as he backed away, creating distance, waiting and timing. He knew he was too slow and too weak to match his opponent otherwise.

His timing was good, but his reflexes were dulled. He caught the incoming thrust with the sack, stopping the blade from puncturing his ribs and the heart beneath, but he couldn’t prevent it slicing through his shirt and skin. He gritted his teeth and his arms shook with the strain of keeping the knife point from puncturing further. Sinclair was slightly shorter but far stronger than Victor in his injured state. He had the advantage of leverage, though — better braced, while Sinclair was coming forward, head not in line with his hips.

Victor wrapped the sack around Sinclair’s arm and stepped away. Not fast enough to stop the knife cutting him again, but fast enough so that Sinclair stumbled forward under his own exertion. Before he could recover his balance, Victor used the sack wrapped around the arm to swing Sinclair around and into a pile of cement bricks. He tumbled over them, but regained control, landing on his feet, charging Victor.

The torn sack struck Sinclair in the face, blinding him long enough to land a front kick into his chest, propelling him into a temporary wall, knocking a safety sign away from its mounting. He lashed out with the knife, catching Victor as he followed up with a punch, drawing blood from a shallow cut to his shoulder.

Victor grabbed the knife-holding wrist in one hand and used the other to drive Sinclair back into the wall, trying to impale his skull on metal rods exposed by the dismounted sign, but only gouging scalp. Blood seeped through his hair and down his neck.

The South African ignored the wound and slammed his knee into Victor’s abdomen, doubling him over, but he whipped his head up as Sinclair tried to wrap an arm around his neck, catching him under the chin with the top of his skull, cracking teeth and stunning him long enough to twist the knife from his fingers and into his own grip.

He attacked, thrusting with the knife, but far too slow to score a hit on the South African. Sinclair spat out blood. ‘You’ll have to do better than that, sport.’

Victor ignored him, attacking again as Sinclair circled, moving to the left — away from the knife — arms outstretched, hands ready to parry and try and catch hold of Victor, palms turned inwards to keep the vulnerable arteries on the insides of his forearms protected.

Sinclair stayed light on his feet, always moving, careful not to present a static target for when his opponent struck. The injured ankle restricted Victor’s movements too much to exploit the weapon in his hand. He couldn’t cover distance fast enough. Sinclair easily outmanoeuvred him, scoring with kicks and punches when Victor missed thrusts and slashes. And each blow further weakened and slowed him. He spotted the MP5 in the shadows, but not close enough to risk going for.

‘There’s no dishonour in giving up,’ Sinclair said as Victor reeled from an elbow to the face. ‘We both know this is only going to end one way.’

Sinclair was too patient to try anything risky. He didn’t need to. Victor kept attacking because he had no other option, trying feints even though he realised he had neither the speed to trap his enemy nor the strength to overpower him.

A kick to the thigh sent agony detonating through Victor’s leg and he dropped to one knee, slashing with the knife to keep Sinclair from closing the distance.

The South African laughed at him. ‘Now, this is just cruel. Have some dignity, sport. I promise I’ll make it quick.’

Victor maintained eye contact as he rose to his feet.

Sinclair nodded in understanding. ‘Okay. Have it your way.’

He glanced around, saw where the section of metal piping rested on the floor a couple of metres away and scooped it up into his hand. Victor had no choice but to let him. He wasn’t fast enough to intercept.

Sinclair said, ‘Time to put you out of your misery.’

He approached. The pipe was almost a metre in length, far outranging the knife in Victor’s hand. He knew Sinclair would be every bit as focused as he had been before, picking his moment to exploit his weapon’s better range. One decent strike would be all it took to shatter bone.

So Victor reversed his grip, grasped the point between finger and thumb, and threw the knife.

Sinclair hadn’t been expecting that. He was too focused on his own strategy, not Victor’s; too patient to make the kill.

The blade struck Sinclair in the neck, a little to the left of centre, five centimetres above the clavicle. His eyes widened and he stumbled back a step. He didn’t reach for it straight away. He maintained his defences. Until the blood pushed out from either side of the blade and rained down his chest.

He knew he was finished but he wasn’t dead yet.

He dropped to one knee and Victor was running, pain fierce in his ankle, because he knew Sinclair was going for a backup pistol in an ankle holster.

Victor dived to the ground and slid, scooping up Sinclair’s MP5 and twisting on to his back. He depressed the trigger. Fire flashed from the muzzle.

Sinclair, pistol out of the holster and rising to aim, took the burst across the torso and shoulders, contorting and flailing and then dropping. The body armour wouldn’t save him this time.

For the briefest of moments Victor felt relief as he lay in the darkness, but then he stood and heard Anderton’s voice behind him say:

‘Drop the gun.’

Victor didn’t. He pointed it at Anderton. She had stepped out from behind a wall of plastic sheeting. She moved with slow, awkward steps because she had a gun to Gisele’s head.

‘I’m sorry,’ Gisele said. ‘She found me.’

He rose to his feet. ‘There’s nothing to be sorry for.’

Anderton kept one elbow close to Gisele’s torso so her arm didn’t protrude too far beyond her hostage. Her other hand held Gisele in place as a human shield. Gisele was breathing rapidly but shallowly. Scared, but in control. She was wasted as a lawyer, Victor thought. She had the talent to be an exceptional assassin. Not that he would wish that life on anyone.

‘Drop the gun,’ Anderton said, still calm and composed.

Victor shook his head. ‘No.’

Anderton’s eyes were wide in disbelief. ‘No? This isn’t the time to starting kidding around. I’ll kill her.’

‘No, you won’t,’ Victor said.

‘Why not? She’s my hostage. If you don’t do as I say, she’s dead.’

‘She’s not your hostage,’ Victor said, stepping closer, sights drawing a bead on Anderton’s head. ‘She’s my hostage.’

Anderton didn’t respond. For a moment, she didn’t know how to, then she said, ‘I don’t think you appreciate your situation. You’re going to do exactly as I ask, or —’

‘You won’t kill her,’ Victor said.

‘I won’t? You clearly haven’t a clue what I’ll do. You think because I’m a woman I’m not capable of —’

‘I know what you’re capable of, Ms Anderton. But I know exactly what you’ll do. Gisele is my hostage, not yours. Do you know why? Because she’s the only thing that is keeping you alive. If you squeeze that trigger, you will die a second later. So, kill her. But make sure you enjoy that last moment of life first.’

Anderton shook her head.

‘She’s my hostage,’ Victor said. ‘While she lives, you live. You need to protect her. In fact, you’re the best protector she could ever wish for. You’re a better guardian than me because you’ll do absolutely anything to keep her alive. Because her breaths are the only thing keeping you breathing.’

Anderton shook her head again, but slower; weaker. ‘I’ll kill her.’

‘No you won’t. You’re not the suicidal type. You’re a survivor. Everything that’s happened has happened because you’ll do anything to survive.’

‘Don’t fuck with me.’

‘I assure you, that’s the last thing on my mind. We both want the same thing.’

‘That’s right,’ Anderton said, hissing the words, eyes wide and bright in realisation and optimism.

‘That’s right,’ Victor agreed. ‘Neither of us want you to die. Put the gun down. If you keep it pointed at Gisele then eventually you’ll have no choice but to squeeze that trigger. Do you know how long it takes to do that?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Point three seconds to apply enough pressure and activate the firing pin. My gun has a slightly heavier draw, so it’ll take me point four seconds to shoot. Unfortunately for you, it’ll take point nine seconds for you to change your aim. Put your gun down and I won’t shoot. There’s nothing personal between us. All I want is to keep Gisele safe. You want to live. Lower your weapon. That’s the only way you can survive this. You’re a survivor, so live another day. Drop it or find yourself in a closed-lid casket.’

Anderton swallowed. Her face was wet with rain but also sweat — panic and fear oozing out of every pore, realising that she was no longer in control. ‘I’m going to count to ten.’

‘No,’ Victor said. ‘I’m going to count to ten.’

‘I was right before. You are insane.’

‘That’s a distinct possibility. But it doesn’t change the fact I’m going to give you ten seconds to put the gun down or shoot her. Two choices. First choice: you live. Second: you die. Ready?’

‘Wait.’

Victor didn’t wait. ‘Ten,’ he said. ‘Nine.’

‘Stop.’

‘Eight.’

‘Hold on —’

‘Seven.’

‘— a fucking second. Let —’

‘Six.’

‘— me think. You’re —’

‘Five.’

‘— fucking crazy. I —’

‘Four.’

‘— will kill this —’

‘Three.’

‘— bitch.’

‘Two.’

Victor could see the white all around Anderton’s irises. She roared in frustration and anger and fear.

‘One.’

‘Okay. You win. You’re insane enough to actually do this, aren’t you?’ She threw the pistol to the ground. ‘I’ve survived this far. You’re right, I’m not dying for this girl. Not today. Not ever.’

‘Good choice,’ Victor said, the MP5 still aimed at her skull.

‘You promised not to shoot me,’ Anderton reminded him.

‘I did.’ Victor dropped the sub-machine gun. ‘And I’m a man of my word. Now let her go.’

Anderton nodded, then released Gisele. She let out a massive breath and staggered towards Victor, legs weak from the overload of adrenalin. She was crying.

Anderton backed away. ‘I hope you understand that this isn’t over.’

‘It is,’ Victor said. ‘You just don’t realise it yet.’

She disappeared back where she’d come from and Victor heard her sprinting away and sirens somewhere on the street above them. He held Gisele’s head to his chest and gave her a moment to let her emotions out. The sirens grew louder and the rain heavier. She stared up at him. He saw her brow furrow in the way it always did when she was working up the courage to ask him something.

‘Why… why didn’t you shoot her?’

Victor retrieved the MP5 from the floor and held it in one hand to push the muzzle against his temple. Gisele’s eyes widened in panic and she reached out to stop him.

He squeezed the trigger.

Click.

‘What with?’ he asked.