“Please do, I was about to leave anyway.”
With a smile, ‘Mister Broadhead’ sat opposite, placing the attaché case on the table between them.
He did not seem to take offence at the familiarity in which she drew the case to herself.
She opened the attaché case and withdrew the orange folder, the contents of which she studied earnestly.
He looked over at the newspaper and saw that the crossword she had apparently been battling with was in fact complete, and probably had been in around ten minutes flat.
Eventually she closed the folder and returned it.
“So I’m dead then?” she queried, a flash of amusement on her face.
“Your fingerprints and DNA records have been exchanged, and eventually the Jamaica Constabulary will conclude that Svetlana Vorsoff was the victim of a robbery that went wrong, slain by persons unknown.”
He placed a hand inside his jacket, delving into the pocket there and took out an envelope which he handed across.
“As requested.”
The blonde examined the British passport that the envelope contained, and she knew without asking that it was the real article, not some clever forgery.
“Who was she and what happened on the yacht that night?” he asked.
She returned the file and closed the attaché case.
“KGB, and a rather close friend of Elena, one would suppose.” replied Svetlana. “As to the ‘what’, well I hardly think your blood pressure would stand it.” The flash of Vorsoff gaiety and mischief that had been absent since London made a brief reappearance in the hoot of laughter that his expression caused, but it faded as quickly as smoke on the breeze.
“She went by a rather pretentious codename, and it was she who killed Caroline.”
Broadhead considered that for a moment, recalling an incident on a tube train.
“I think I saw her, and if that is true then I am deeply sorry as I it means I may have led her to you in London.”
“Elena would have found us one way or another, so you must not beat yourself up over this, and it was not I who was the target in London, but Caroline.”
Svetlana withdrew a pair of sunglasses and placed them atop the silvery buzz cut before finishing her drink.
“Elena relishes inflicting emotional pain on others, and quite perversely upon herself also, or why else would she have sent her latest girlfriend to inveigle her way into ones affections in order to Shanghai me back to Russia?”
“You knew this?”
“Her obsession?” Svetlana rolled her eyes. “Well of course I did.” Svetlana appeared a little disappointed in him. “There is more to this whore sat before you than you apparently realise.”
The offhand use of that vulgar word made him wonder if she accepted that as her lot in life. The intelligence, the intellect locked away inside her, was therefore just so much lost potential and even a hardened copper, such as he was, saw the tragedy in that.
“Well, at the very least I hope that the new identity will allow you to stay clear of her from now on,” he stated apologetically.
Svetlana paused and looked him in the eyes, holding his gaze for a moment as she weighed her words, before tapping the envelope with a white painted fingernail.
“Dear Sir Dickie, what on earth leads you to believe that I made my request in order to run away, hmm?”
In those green orbs the eye candy façade was lowered for a fleeting heartbeat, and he felt a chill.
“Yet another of her lovers running for the border, but this time with all the blood money? Well that is a short lived fiction indeed, and one that Elena will see through before very long so I had better make use of the advantage whilst I still have it.”
She stood.
“There are some envelopes in the centre of the newspaper, and I would be grateful if you could ensure their delivery?”
He stood, and quite formerly he gave a little bow.
“Of course.”
“Thank you.” She leaned across as if to peck him on the cheek but instead kissed him fleetingly on the lips.
“This is probably goodbye.”
“I know, so you take good care of yourself, Miss.”
He watched her depart before flicking through the pages of the newspaper until he found seven envelopes; three were addressed to the wives of the Pell, Stokes and Scott Tafler, whilst three had postal addresses for Constantine’s mother, Caroline’s and Patricia’s parents, and the elderly occupants of a farm outside Moscow.
He gathered up the envelopes and placed them into the inside pocket of his jacket but paused as an article in The Times caught his eye on the very page where the envelopes had rested. The first summit of world leaders since the war was due to be held at an exclusive ski resort in the Swiss Alps. A byline added that Russia’s glamorous Premier would be taking advantage of the slopes during the breaks, having tirelessly worked towards peace and rebuilding ties with the worlds community etc etc.
Sir Richard looked thoughtfully in the direction Svetlana had taken before checking his watch. He had enough time before his flight back to London to enjoy the warmth and blue skies a while longer, so with a happy sigh Sir Richard Tennant, senior policeman for the Metropolis of London, relaxed and finished his drink.
The term ‘chapel’ hardly did justice in describing the beautiful structure that served the spiritual needs of those he lived and worked at the United States Naval Academy, thought the President. He had spent long minutes in silent prayer, alone inside the building having used his position to ensure that for a short time he would be the only worshiper there.
A muffled cough reminded him that he was not entirely alone, and never could be whilst in office and he stood slowly, reluctant to leave the peace and wished for solitude that this place held.
His posse of Secret Service agents had at least given him space, positioning themselves at intervals along the walls at ground level and in the gallery. He nodded to Mike and saw the man’s lips move, murmuring into a discrete radio microphone to inform the rest of the detail that ‘Knight’ was moving.
An agent opened the door for him and he emerged into the sunlight of a pleasant February morning, and decided to walk to Farragut Field, ignoring the cars waiting outside Buchanan House, the one-time home of the Superintendent of the Academy, and now temporary residence of the President of the United States of America.
The President glanced up at the room the First Lady occupied but she was not stood at the window watching her husband go, and he doubted that she would ever again play the dutiful wife, no matter how public the occasion.
He felt the loneliness keenly, the need for companionship, and had to force himself not to walk stoop shouldered as he strolled along Chapel Walk towards the Severn River.
The academy was quiet, it lacked the hubbub of a training facility in full flow and there were fewer than fifty Midshipmen here. Those who had been in training at the start of the war had largely been siphoned off, depending on their level of training into vacant berths as the casualties had mounted.
He paused when he drew level with the bronze statue of an Indian brave…Native American, he corrected himself. The statue appeared to have been defaced, painted somewhat less than artistically from the shoulders down and he read the name of whom it represented. Tecumseh, the kindly man who had befriended the pilgrims, and saved them from starvation.
He did not know what the daubing with paint was all about, but Henry would have done. Henry knew the history behind countless military traditions whereas the president had held the military in contempt for many years, and had no interest in such things, at least until relatively recently.