“So when do we go in?”
He surveys the cafe, and takes a mouthful of soup. The rain beats harder against the glass frontage.
“Tonight.”
Niko doesn’t raise his voice, but Eve can hear that he’s upset. Two of his colleagues from the school are expected for dinner, Chilean Pinot Noir has been bought, and a small but expensive shoulder of lamb is waiting in an oven-proof dish, stuck with cloves of garlic. The subtext to the evening is that Eve will make herself look nice, and wear the St. Laurent scent he bought her, and her prettiest earrings, and when the guests have gone they will make slightly drunken love, and things will, one way and another, be OK again.
“I can’t believe that it—whatever it is—really has to happen tonight,” he says. “I mean, Jesus, Eve. Seriously. You’ve known about Zbig and Claudia coming over for weeks.”
“I’m sorry,” she says, conscious of Billy listening to every word. “I just can’t do tonight. Nor can I discuss this on an open line. You’ll just have to apologise for me.”
“So what am I going to say? That you’re working late? I thought all that finished when you…”
“Niko, please. Tell them whatever you like. You know the situation.”
“No I don’t, actually, Eve. I really don’t. I have a life, in case you haven’t noticed, and I’m asking you, just this once, to do something for me. So make an excuse, do whatever you have to, but be there this evening. If you’re not…”
“Niko, I—”
“No, listen to me. If you’re not, then we need to think very seriously about whether—”
“Niko, it’s an emergency. There’s a threat to life, and I’ve been ordered to stay.”
Silence, except for the rise and fall of his breathing.
“I’m sorry, I have to go.”
As she breaks the connection Eve catches Billy’s eye, and he looks away. She stands there for a moment, dizzy with shame. This is not the first time that she’s avoided the truth with Niko, but it’s the first time that she’s straight out lied to him.
And for what? Billy and Lance could handle this just fine without her. In fact they’d probably prefer to, but something deep inside her, something savage and atavistic, wants to run with the pack. Is it worth it? Turning her life into this furtive twilight, and testing the love of a good man to destruction? Is she onto something with Dennis Cradle, or just forging imaginary links to deceive herself she’s making progress?
If they find nothing on Cradle, she’ll take time off. Make things right with Niko, if it’s not too late. All the longer-serving officers at Thames House said the same thing: you had to have a life outside. If you didn’t want to end up alone, you had to tear yourself away from the sleepless intoxication of secret work. All it offered was an unending series of false horizons. And no closure, ever.
Thinking of Niko at home without her, laying the table, setting out the wine glasses, carefully placing the lamb in the oven, makes her want to weep. The temptation to ring him, to say that the situation’s resolved and that she’s coming straight home, is overwhelming. But she doesn’t.
“Have you got a girlfriend, Billy?”
“Not as such. Chat with this girl on Sea of Souls.”
“What’s Sea of Souls?”
“Online role-player game.”
“So what’s she called?”
“Her user name’s Ladyfang.”
“Ever met her?”
“Nah. Was thinking about pushing for a date, but she’d probably turn out to be really old, or a bloke, or something.”
“That’s a bit sad, isn’t it?”
Billy shrugs. “To be honest I haven’t got time for a girlfriend right now.” There’s a brief silence, broken by the buzz of his phone. “It’s Lance. He’s parked up, with eyes on the house. No sign of any occupants.”
“They won’t be back from work yet. And my guess is that they’ll both go straight to the restaurant. He’ll be coming from Thames House. Her firm’s based out at Canary Wharf. But we can’t count on it. Our clock starts at eight, when they meet the others at Mazeppa.”
“I’ll ring my mum. Tell her not to wait up.”
The forward operating base is a disused farmhouse two miles north-west of Fontanka. The assault team is gathered in a rectangular outbuilding housing a rusting ZAZ hatchback and an assortment of mud-caked agricultural implements. Temporary spotlights illuminate two long trestle tables bearing maps, architectural plans and a laptop computer. Metal boxes containing weaponry, ammunition and equipment are stacked on the earth floor. It’s 10 p.m., local time. Beyond the farmyard wall, silhouetted against the darkening sky, Villanelle can see the rotors of a Little Bird military helicopter.
In addition to Anton, the team numbers five. Four assaulters, of whom Villanelle is one, and a sniper. All five are wearing black Nomex coveralls, body armour, and close-fitting balaclava masks. Villanelle has no idea of the identity of the others, but Anton is conducting the final briefing in English.
The building in which Konstantin is being held, they learn, stands in grounds of half-a-dozen acres. Photographs show an ostentatious three-storey palazzo with pillars, balustrades and a steeply pitched tile roof. A chain-link fence surrounds the estate; entry is by means of a guarded electronic gate. To Villanelle, the place looks like a fortified wedding cake.
The assaulters can expect a fight. According to intelligence gained by surveillance, there’s a permanent armed security detail of six men attached to the house, of whom up to three, at any one time, are patrolling the exterior. Given Yevtukh’s reputation, and the probability that most are ex-military, they’re likely to mount a strong resistance.
Anton’s plan is simple: a surgical strike of such savagery and intensity as to leave the hostage-takers incapable of coordinated response. As the assault team clears the house, the sniper will seek targets of opportunity. Speed will be of the essence.
Villanelle looks around her at the other masked figures. The Nomex suits and body armour give them all the same bulky profile, but the sniper has the body-mass of a woman. They will be known to each other only by their call signs. The assaulters are Alpha, Bravo, Charlie and Delta, the sniper is Echo.
With the tactical briefing completed, the assaulters move to the weaponry boxes. After some thought, Villanelle arms herself with a KRISS Vector sub-machine gun, a Glock 21 handgun, several magazines loaded with .45 ACP rounds, and a Gerber combat knife. Then from one of the trestle tables she takes a fibre-optic scope and viewer, and the helmet carry-bag marked with her call sign, Charlie. Slipping the scope into a thigh pocket, she takes the helmet outside into the darkened farmyard to check the intercom and night-vision goggles. Around her there are brief illuminations as the other three assaulters test weapon-mounted torches and laser sights.
Lifting off the ballistic helmet, she watches them. There’s a tall guy, Delta, with dark-skinned hands, who’s shouldering a heavy combat shotgun. Bravo is a wiry figure of medium height, wholly anonymous, and Alpha is bullish and compact. Both are carrying short-barrelled Heckler & Koch sub-machine guns and multiple bandoliers of ammunition. All three are, without question, male, and she’s aware of them checking her out in return, eyes expressionless behind their face masks. Half-a-dozen paces away the sniper, armed with a Lobaev SVL rifle and night-scope, is measuring crosswind vectors with a velocity meter.
Inside the farmhouse the team finalises communications and radio procedure. The voices of the others are unrevealing; all speak fluent English, although with differing accents. Alpha sounds Eastern European, Bravo is definitely southern-states American, and Delta’s first language is probably Arabic. Echo, the woman, is Russian. And to these faceless creatures, Villanelle muses, I have to entrust my life. Fucking hell.