Revenger

82

Trent Peck the Third hurried around his penthouse apartment, clearing the empty packets of last night’s Chinese takeaway from the table in front of the leather sofa where he’d been sprawled eating dim sum and watching a box-set of the first season of Prison Break (ten years old but still a classic) on his 55-inch Loewe TV. He checked that his built-in espresso maker was stocked with beans and water, then cast an eye around the open-plan living area that stretched right across the front of the apartment. Once he’d thrown the surface trash in the bin, the rest of the place wasn’t too bad.

All the while he was giving Alix the kind of detailed examination that hadn’t been possible while he’d been driving through London like a lunatic, trying to shake off that damn VW. She had to be forty, at least, he figured, but she’d taken a lot of effort to keep her looks, succeeded and knew it. Peck admired women like that. They were grown-ups. They knew their value in the marketplace, and they weren’t coy about what they wanted in the sack, but they’d also been around long enough to be realistic in their expectations.

Trent gave her the benefit of his most charming smile. ‘Can I get you a cup of coffee? Reckon I make the best in London.’

‘Sure, that would be great. This is just so, so sweet of you, taking me in like this. Your place is amazing, by the way.’

He fixed a cappuccino with low-fat milk, no sugar, for Alix, and a double espresso for himself. Then he led them across to the big leather sofa, offered Alix one end, took the other, waited till they’d both had time for a sip or two of coffee and then said, ‘So, what on earth are we going to do now? Seriously, we need to figure out your next move. Mine, too, come to that. I can’t just keep you here, you know. I need to talk this through with someone.’

Her eyes widened in alarm. ‘No you can’t! No one must know I’m here — absolutely no one!’

‘Trust me, the guy I’m thinking of is totally reliable. He’s not going to tell anyone anything. But I really value his advice.’

‘So who is he?’

‘Someone at the embassy… a mentor, I guess you could call him.’

‘Promise me you’re not going to hand me over to the police.’

‘I promise… on one condition: everything you’ve told me has to be true. If I find out you’ve been bullshitting, or there are things you’ve not been telling me — like illegal activity on your part, or involvement in any of Carver’s alleged illegal actions — well, then all bets are off. Is that fair?’

She nodded.

‘Great,’ Peck said. ‘Then we’ve got a deal. Now, I’ve gotta get to work, and I’d better not take my automobile. Don’t want to be followed again.’

Trent Peck stood on the pavement outside his building for half a minute till a cab came by. He hailed it and told the cabbie, ‘US Embassy, fast as you can.’

Two men in a parked C–Class Mercedes saloon watched the taxi disappear down the road. They’d arrived less than a quarter of an hour earlier, having taken over from the men in the VW Passat who’d first picked up Petrova’s trail when she’d left the hotel. They had pictures of her arriving at the apartment building with a male, whose car had diplomatic plates. They had pictures of him leaving. Now the driver of the Mercedes called Oleg Kutchinski, who was sitting in an office in the white stucco mansion on Kensington Palace Gardens that houses the Russian Embassy.

‘Petrova is now alone in the apartment,’ said the driver.

‘Good. Stay where you are. Maintain observation of the apartment. Wait there until you receive further orders.’

‘What if she leaves the apartment?’

‘Then inform me and follow her. Wherever that woman goes, I want to know about it.’