Illegal Action

43

The bells of Westminster Cathedral were ringing for evensong as the woman packed away her laptop and its small black companion in their bags. Moscow had agreed that Jane Falconer, or whatever her real name was, now presented a serious threat to the operation. She had made it obvious that she disbelieved the Italian’s discovery of a second painting. So far her scepticism did not seem to have affected anyone else. But it well might. The operation was on a knife-edge. Curse Brunovsky for inviting her into his household.

The woman knew she would be blamed for letting Falconer escape that night in Battersea. Those who had sent her here did not take failure lightly. They had no understanding of the difficulty of direct action against such a target in a London street, while being certain to escape unseen. But they had agreed that another attempt of that kind might well jeopardise the whole operation. Her task now was to remove the risk from Falconer and it had been left to her to do it in whatever way she thought best.

She was trained to work alone but now, aware of their criticism, she was feeling isolated. It was not her fault that Rykov had drawn attention to himself by unauthorised interference in areas he did not understand. As a result the messenger Ivanov had failed to make the meeting.

Her phone rang as she mused. The voice was fraught. “I need to see you right away. It’s urgent.”

“Keep calm,” she said coolly. “Tell me what’s happened.”

“Not on the phone.”

She sighed. Another stupid man. Italians were completely unreliable. If it rained when it was meant to be fair, if a train was twenty minutes late, if the sandwich bar ran out of prosciutto—hysteria ensued. Orderly people, the Germans or the Swiss, stayed calm over small mishaps. Citizens of chaotic nations (how many post-war Italian governments had there been?) were outraged that anyone else should replicate their own complete lack of organisation. “When can you meet?” she asked.

“Tonight. Come to my flat.”

She thought for a moment, assessing the risk. “Give me the address,” she said, and as he told her she memorised it instantly.

“Come at eight,” he ordered, seeming to forget in his near-hysteria that she held the whip hand.

“No,” she said bluntly. “I will be there at ten.” It would be best to arrive under cover of darkness.

He lived in a converted loft a few streets north of Oxford Street, in what was still known as the home of London’s rag trade, though many of the buildings now housed the offices of solicitors and estate agents. A few were being converted into flats, but on a weekday night at this hour, the neighbourhood was quiet, half-deserted.

She had taken a taxi to Tottenham Court Road, then walked the rest of the way, half a mile or so, knowing that she was far more likely to be remembered at the address by a cab driver who dropped her there than by anyone who simply passed her in the street. She was dressed in trainers, dark waterproof trousers with deep pockets and a jacket with the hood up, covering her hair and obscuring her face.

The entrance to his building was off a main thoroughfare, in a cobblestone alley empty of cars. She pressed the bell and looked around her. There was no one. The door buzzed; in the small bare hall there was nothing but a metal lift. Pressing the button for the top floor, she rose smoothly and silently up through the building. The door opened and he was standing there, holding a large, well-filled brandy balloon.

“Come in, come in,” he said and walked ahead of her into the vast converted loft. Large, colourful squares of stencilled fabric hung on the walls; the floorboards were waxed and buffed to a burnt-orange shine. In the middle of the floor square brick pillars, spaced at intervals, harked back to the days when the floor had been divided into small offices. Now the space was uncluttered—a large, sleek television screen hung flat against the wall. Two black leather chairs and a long sofa were grouped like modernist icons around a glass coffee table. Further back sat a dining area, with a grey slate table and steel chairs, and behind it a restaurant-sized cooking range, shining black wall-to-ceiling cupboards, and a fridge-freezer built deeply into the wall.

She took all this in, while mentally assessing the flat for vantage points, visibility, means of access and egress. One side of the room overlooked the alley from which she’d entered, the other fronted a building undergoing restoration, pitch-black inside. Facing her, she could see a short corridor, which must lead to a bedroom and bathroom. She doubted there was a second entrance to the flat.

He didn’t offer her a drink but sat down immediately in one of the chairs, motioning her to take the sofa, where at one end a skinny black-and-white cat was curled up asleep. Ugh, she thought, sitting at the other end. She disliked all animals, especially house pets.

“Have you come from the gym?” he asked, gesturing irritably towards her clothes. His agitation was obvious.

“Yes. I’ve not been home. Now tell me, what is the matter?”

“Everything,” he said brusquely. Beside her the cat stood up and stretched. “I had a telephone call this morning from the police. A detective at the Art Squad. He said he wanted to talk to me as soon as possible. I tried to delay him, but he wasn’t having it. I am due to see him tomorrow.”

“Is he coming here?” she asked quietly. The answer would be crucial.

“No. I said I’d go to him.”

“Do you know what he wants to see you about?”

“He wouldn’t tell me, but it’s obvious, isn’t it? He must know about Blue Mountain.”

“I don’t see why.”

“What else could it be?” When she looked at him with raised eyebrows, he shouted, “That was in the past. No one here knows about it except you. Besides, I served my sentence—what more could they want from me? No, it must be Blue Mountain.”

“All right,” she said quietly. “Let’s suppose they have heard something—possibly from Morozov’s people. Why should that alarm you? You can say that Forbes got in touch with you about the find and you simply relayed the news to Brunovsky. That’s not hard to remember, is it? And it has the merit of being perfectly true.”

“That’s easy for you to say.” He groaned and put his head in his hands. “I should never have listened to you. You said it was foolproof, if I did what you said I would have no worries. Che incubo.” He raised his head and stared at her, his eyes red and strained.

“I’ll put the kettle on,” she said soothingly, and got up and went to the large range at the back of the room. He was getting hysterical, she realised. She would have to calm him down. And this time there was no one to disturb her.