— the wonders of technological advancements would ensure that the anti-bug mode jammed or scrambled any listening devices that were within its range.
Dillon got out of the luxurious interior, light-weight running shoes crunching on gravel and lit a cigarette. He looked up at the two hundred and fifty year old home of Professor Kirill, a magnificent, yet pretentious structure with its giant classicism, almost awe inspiring with its dressed stone dominated by four turreted corner towers. The windows were tall and narrow with leaded light panes of glass and set back into stone. Visually, Dillon thought as he walked back through the stone archway and around to the front of the building; this was a tense and formal place, almost emotionless. The spectacular open portico, sitting atop broad layers of steps, only endorsed what he was thinking.
The rain had eased a little, but the heavy clouds were still rumbling around almost directly above. Dillon walked back into the courtyard and across to what would have been originally a kitchen service door. He was met by one of the MI6 suits who were crawling all over the place.
“You Dillon?” The surly spook snarled at him, the flash of gleaming white teeth in the process.
“That’s me.” Dillon took a heavy pull on his cigarette and smoke plumed around him. He coughed. “Must remember to try and give these frightful things up.”
“We don’t need you here; we’re doing just fine without you, hard man.”
Dillon held up his hands. “Wow, tiger. I’m simply here to observe, my friend. Now, I’d appreciate it if you would get the fuck out of my face before I decide not to be so friendly towards you.” He smiled and blew smoke into the young spook’s face.
Holding eye contact, the agent used a comm. to confirm Dillon’s identity and stood aside to allow him to enter the building. With a glance over his shoulder, Dillon noted the sniper on the roof of the garage block opposite as he moved inside.
His stomach groaned at him. He reached the door. At least a dozen men in the grounds, he thought. Good. He wasn’t meant to have seen half of them: even better.
He walked through the kitchens and along semi-darkened corridors until he came to the service stairs that led up to the main house. Outside, the sound of rolling thunder made him look up as he climbed the stone steps.
Dillon watched Zhenya Tarasova enter the richly decorated room. She was much more beautiful than her photograph on file. Her beauty stunned him. She wore her auburn hair mid length just below her shoulders, a soft shimmering silken fan; she moved with elegance and grace, and a light smile danced across her face when she saw Dillon. She crossed to him, the only sound was high heels clicking as she walked over the highly polished marble floor, and Dillon felt himself irresistibly gazing into those beautiful Cossack eyes.
“You know why I am here?” he said softly.
“I know why you’re here, Mr Dillon,” she replied in near perfect English. “And I am very grateful for you accepting to look after me. Tatiana wasn’t being truthful when she described you. You’re much more beautiful.”
Her voice was husky, something that Dillon had always found attractive in a woman. He stood, smiled, and without speaking motioned to her necklace, bracelets and rings. She looked at him quizzically and Dillon made gestures for her to remove all of the jewellery. He walked around her, checking the clasps on her elegant deep red dress. Taking all of the items from her, he placed everything on a low maple occasional table, and then motioned for Zhenya to take off her shoes and follow him outside to the formal gardens.
She did so without question, and Dillon led her barefoot out into the grounds. The rain had stopped and the clouds had started to drift away to the east, the gardens scent, fresh, after the heavy rain of the past two days.
“Where are we going?”
“Bear with me, Miss Tarasova. Down these steps and through the stone arch, if you would, please.”
She laughed then, and Dillon heard the chink in the laughter; the fear was there, well hidden — especially considering the girl was only twenty-two years old — but still there.
They walked — Zhenya a step or two behind Dillon.
He stopped abruptly and turned round. He took her hand.
“You should be afraid. Especially as your uncle has received a number of death threats and he considers them to be very real. Not a hoax — but directly linked to this new software programme that he’s developed for the military. Your uncle fears that those making the threats may turn their attention on to you, as a soft alternative target while both of you are down here in Cornwall, either to kidnap you or to… well, I’m sure you understand the situation as well as I do. Now, there are many agents here whose job it is to protect you and your uncle. I am merely here to look out for you and to give back-up to them — if required. To be your personal bodyguard, shall we say? But I would like you to agree to one thing.”
Zhenya had gone white. Dillon could feel the clamminess of her palm, against his own.
“Yes, Mr Dillon?”
“I want you do everything I ask — without question or hesitation. I want your absolute trust — and never forget that I cannot be bought. I’m wealthy enough in my own right and money does not interest me. But I must know that when I say jump, you’ll jump without hesitation
— if you want to stay alive that is. Will you agree to this?”
She paused, and then smiled softly. “Yes. I will do what you ask. But I too have a question.”
“Okay. Fire away?” Dillon was looking around the garden.
“Why did I have to remove all of my jewellery and shoes?”
“Bugs. Almost certainly put there by the MI6 guys here, they’re only doing their job — but I wanted a little privacy. This little device,” Dillon held up his mobile phone, “is particularly clever and very effective at blocking and jamming, but I hate surprises. I trust myself far more than technology. I have a little motto — better to be cautious than dead.” He let the word hang in the air.
“Oh, I see.”
“So tell me, why do you think you’ve been threatened?”
“Since the death of my father, my uncle has treated me like his own daughter. I have my own private living quarters at the establishment in Scotland and we always eat dinner together every evening. My uncle works extremely hard — he is a genius. All I know is that we suspect terrorists want to get the new programme destroyed because it almost certainly means that governments and agencies around the planet will be able to locate and destroy them with extreme ease.”
“Why are you here in Cornwall?” asked Dillon. “Your uncle knew before he left Scotland that your life could be in danger. After all, you are his only living blood relation — the daughter he never had. You should have been sent somewhere safe, away from the possibility of extreme danger.”
Zhenya turned away from him, then stopped and picked a brightly coloured flower. She held the small delicate petals to her nose and, her eyes lowered, said softly; “My uncle is a man of unbending principles and I admire that. He will not be intimidated and will always stand by what he believes in. The truth is, he didn’t want me here at all; but I also, will not have my life dictated by madmen who may or may not carry out their loathsome threats. I am my own person, Mr Dillon.” She met his gaze then said. “I will do what I wish. And to be honest — if they can get to us here, then they can get to us anywhere we choose to hide.” She said with contempt.