Revenger

54

The files that told the truth about the last few hours of the Malachi Zorn affair were classified under the seventy-year rule: not to be opened until all the people mentioned in them were either dead or standing at the very edge of the grave. But there is no point in possessing money, status or influence unless one can use it to obtain those things that are denied to everyone else, which was why a powerful man in a hurry, who needed to find someone with the motivation to drop everything and do a dirty, dangerous job right this second, with no time to plan or prepare, was skimming through them now.

He wanted to confirm his recollection of one apparently insignificant detail of the events inside the Goldsmiths’ Hall in the City of London on the night it was used to host the launch of Zorn’s fraudulent investment fund. The great bulk of the document the man was reading related to the grenade attack on the men and women attending the launch. He, however, was only interested in something that had happened less than five minutes before the first grenade struck.

One of the witnesses interviewed by the Metropolitan Police was Alexandra Petrova Vermulen. She described how she had just arrived through the main entrance of the Goldsmiths’ Hall when she’d spotted Celina Novak, a freelance female assassin suspected of an involvement in the Zorn plot, coming down the stairs from the reception on the first floor. The two women had immediately recognized one another because they had known each other in Moscow, many years earlier. Vermulen did not specify the precise nature of their relationship beyond remarking that, ‘We were both the same age, going to the same parties, and a pretty girl is always aware of her competition.’

Having spotted one another, Vermulen and Novak did not immediately exchange any conversation. Vermulen had been caught in the traffic en route to the reception and obliged to run some distance to the Goldsmiths’ Hall, leaving her hot and dishevelled. So she went down to the ladies’ room in the basement of the building to repair her hair and make-up and was joined there by Novak. At this point they did have a conversation; not a particularly friendly one as it transpired, though Vermulen chose not to go into the details of their argument, beyond saying, ‘It involved a man whom we had both known.’

Vermulen’s statement continued: ‘I have been asked if I saw a considerable quantity of blood on the floor of the ladies’ room or on the counter top surrounding the handbasins. To the best of my recollection there was no such blood visible at that time. At the conclusion of my brief conversation with Celina Novak, I checked my appearance and went upstairs to the reception. Ms Novak was still in the ladies’ room when I left.’

The man reading the file leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes as he replayed the events Vermulen had described. He imagined the ornate marble entrance hall and stairs of the Goldsmiths’ Hall…

Vermulen dashes in, feeling distinctly hot and bothered. She spots Celina Novak on the stairs — an old rival with whom she’s shared a male friend, doubtless a lover. Presumably, Novak is leaving the reception because she knows it is about to be attacked. But Vermulen doesn’t know that. She just sees a beautiful woman with whom she has always competed, looking down on her, both literally and metaphorically.

Vermulen goes to the ladies’ room. Meanwhile Novak should be getting as far away as possible. Yet she chooses instead to follow Vermulen down to the ladies’ room. It isn’t enough to feel her victory over Vermulen. She needs to see Vermulen’s defeat.

But then what?

The man flicked through the file till he came to the section on forensic evidence. A significant amount of blood, along with small fragments of skin, strands of female hair and even bone splinters had been found beside and beneath the ladies’ room basins.

The spatter pattern of the blood indicated that it had come from the sharp impact of a human head or face against the hard plastic counter top.

It was extremely unlikely to have been caused by someone falling over due to the explosions upstairs, which would not have caused more than a slight tremor in the basement-level bathroom.

It certainly did not come from a wounded blast-victim who had somehow descended to the ladies’ room to examine or tend to her wounds. The blood patterns simply did not match that scenario.

The only possible conclusion was that a woman had been very badly wounded by someone grabbing her head or hair and smashing her face hard into the counter. The man winced at the thought of it.

The victim certainly wasn’t Vermulen. She had gone back upstairs to the reception without a mark on her. Her only injuries had been inflicted by flying debris after the grenade had exploded. Her blood did not match that found on the counter.

No one else had gone down to the ladies’ room in the short time before the explosions.

So the victim could only have been Novak. She had come down to gloat at Vermulen and been taken unawares. A very deadly woman had met her match.

And now, it was reasonable to assume, she would be very keen indeed to get her revenge. All he had to do now was find her. And the man knew precisely how to do that.

It was midnight in Puerto Banus — early in the evening by Spanish standards — and Olga Zhukovskaya was just finishing her dinner, alone in her penthouse. Her short-cropped hair was snowy white. Her face was lined, and her stick-thin body was developing a stoop. But her mind was still as sharp and her memory as comprehensive as ever. She had just poured herself a glass of Russian tea when her mobile rang.

‘Hello, old friend,’ she said when she heard the Englishman’s familiar tones. ‘How nice to hear your voice. But why call me now, of all times, after so many years? I’ve been retired for almost a decade.’

‘From what I hear you’re still keeping your hand in with freelance consultancies.’

‘I have made introductions, that’s true. I know a lot of people, and it is always good to bring people together.’

That was one way of putting it. Another would be that Zhukovskaya acted as an unofficial agent for a number of Russian ex-special forces and intelligence agency personnel who were now working as hitmen and women.

‘Could you bring me together with Celina Novak?’

‘Celina? I hadn’t expected you to ask for her. You do know that she was very badly wounded two years ago?’

‘At Goldsmiths’ Hall?’

‘Exactly. Her face suffered third-degree burns across a wide area. Several bones in her nose, cheeks and sinuses were broken. It was remarkable, really, that she was able to escape the scene.’

‘So how is she now?’

‘Very fit indeed. Her combat skills are unimpaired in any way. Of course, she looks — how can I put this? — somewhat different. But it does not affect her operational ability.’

‘So where is she?’

‘Paris. Where and when do you need her?’

‘London. Now.’

The man was trying to sound decisive. But Zhukovskaya could sense the desperation in his voice, and it intrigued her: why the frantic urgency? And how could she exploit it?

‘I am sure she can get to you within the next forty-eight hours,’ she said.

‘No. I mean right now. I need her at Le Bourget within an hour, at the outside. I’ll have a plane waiting for her.’

‘It’s a little late, surely. Aren’t there night-flying regulations over southern England?’

‘Yes. But exceptions can always be made, for example, for an air ambulance carrying a desperately ill patient.’

‘Of course… I assume that such an urgent mission, commissioned at extreme short notice, will carry a very generous fee.’

‘Absolutely… and you can tell Miss Novak that there will be a generous bonus attached to the job, too.’

‘How generous?’

‘Oh, this is a gift beyond money. You see, I can make her dearest wish come true.’