The Silenced

Chapter 18

Petra and Mikhail arrived in London at 9:15 p.m. Once in the terminal, Mikhail located a pay phone and made a quick call.

“It’s all arranged,” he told Petra. “An apartment in Bayswater.”

“Good,” was all Petra could manage to say. She didn’t think she’d ever been as exhausted as she was at that moment.

They took the Underground into the city, and before they had even gone two stops, she was slumped in her seat, asleep. At Earl’s Court, Mikhail woke her so they could switch trains, and woke her again when they reached Bayswater.

“Let me take your bag,” he said.

She yanked it away from his hand. “I’m fine.”

Being Russian in London had its advantages. The city was teeming with their former countrymen. The Russian community was large, and very connected. The use of the apartment was courtesy of one of Mikhail’s distant cousins. It was in a tired-looking building on the second floor. A fine layer of dust covered the floors and the windowsills. With the exception of two thin mattresses, a couple of plastic chairs, and a folding table, the place was empty.

Sleep was what Petra wanted, but she knew she needed to check in with Stepka first. So while Mikhail ran out to pick up some food, she called Moscow.

“Anything?” she asked.

“I’ve narrowed it down to three groups,” he said. “All in London. But I think that’s as far as I can get from here.”

“Who are they?” she asked.

“A group called CM8 run by a guy named Leon Currie. And another headed by an ops runner named David Wills.”

“And the third one?”

“That’s kind of tricky.”

“What do you mean?”

“It appears to be associated with British intelligence.”

“Associated?”

“From what I’ve learned, it’s a front for MI6. A business called Wright Bains Securities.”

MI6? Those were the last people she wanted to deal with.

“Do you have a name there?” she asked.

“No name yet.”

“See what you can dig up,” she said. “We’ll work on the others from this end.”

As she hung up, she felt a little better. They had a potential lead again. They just needed to figure out which of the three might be the connection to the Ghost.

“Finish it.” That’s what Dombrovski had said the last time Petra had talked to him.

“I don’t know if I can.”

“You’re the smartest one of all of us.”

“No, I’m—”

“Yes, you are. You’ve been training for this moment for years. Your instincts are good. You’ve learned everything you need to carry this out. The names, the photograph. It’s the best lead we’ve ever had. Finish it, Petra. Finish it.”

Names, yes, but not the name. If she had that, finish it was exactly what she’d do. But she needed that damn name, the name the Ghost called himself now. Only so far all she had was a trail of useless bodies.

Petra looked at the picture again. Fourteen people, but only two who meant anything, the two young men standing at opposite ends of the bar. They almost looked like twins, but they weren’t. The one on the right was the one she was looking for, but it was the one on the left who was the key. Learn his name and everything would fall into place. But his identity had been so thoroughly erased that only a small group of people had known who he was. A small group that had become a handful, then that handful had been reduced to …? How many? Three? Two?

They had been so close with Moody. But in the end he, too, had given them nothing.

Petra lay down on the bed and pulled the thin blanket that had been left with the mattress over her shoulders. Tomorrow she had to be sharp. She needed to turn off her mind and sleep.

But so many things were still swirling inside. The Ghost. Dombrovski. Stepka.

And, of course, Andrei.

“I miss you,” she whispered. “I miss you so much.”