“Speaking of next of kin, what about Aunt Evgenia herself?” Taverner asked.
“I found the facility in Switzerland,” Minka piped up. She turned her phone to show pictures of an elegant greystone building set on sweeping green lawns. “A home for old people. Exclusive and expensive.”
“How did you find it?” Mary Alice demanded.
Minka shrugged. “Was easy if you know where to look.”
“If she’s that old, do we really think she’s capable of traveling to England and torching Benscombe?” Natalie asked. Helen winced at the mention of Benscombe.
I shrugged. “She could hire somebody. We don’t know if Lazarov pays for the old folks’ home or if Auntie Evgenia has money of her own. Either way, there is a slim chance she might know who Pasha would choose to partner with in his little assassination games.”
“Or she might be the brains behind the whole thing,” Mary Alice suggested. “Old women can be nasty. We should know.”
“Preach, sister,” Natalie said, raising her glass to clink with Mary Alice’s.
Taverner was frowning into his coffee. “So Pasha Lazarov had no other living relatives besides his aunt, no known associates beyond a handful of paid bodyguards, no wife, no kids. That sounds grim.”
“That sounds understandable,” I corrected. “He was a child when his father died, and his mother and sister were killed just a few years later. Losing your entire family when you’re young can mess with your head, make it hard for you to trust in anything. Some people never really recover from that.”
Taverner’s gaze sharpened. “So I’ve heard.” He stoppedtalking then which was good. It gave me a chance to let the little flicker of rage that had risen up die down again.
When I spoke, my voice was level, and the hand that reached for my coffee cup was steady. “I think our next course of action is clear,” I said calmly. “Pack your bags, girls. We’re heading to Switzerland.”
Chapter Fourteen
Benscombe, 1986
Billie’s flight lands early inthe evening, but it’s June and the sun is just beginning to set when she pulls up to Benscombe. She’s flown halfway around the world with nothing but a handbag that holds a change of underwear and a toothbrush. She’s wearing what she thinks of as her off-duty uniform—a silk blouse, thin suede jacket, and boot-cut jeans. Her vintage cowboy boots crunch across the gravel as she crosses the drive. She pauses just long enough to breathe in the scent of roses and cut grass and remembers it’s Midsummer night. The telegram in her pocket is creased; the message consists of only three words:It is time.
She doesn’t lift the knocker. Constance is expecting her and has left the door unlocked. She walks through the house, the hallways as familiar to her as her own reflection in the mirror. Constance is in the kitchen, sitting at the table she’s covered in oilcloth, a cheerful red patterned with oxeye daisiesand fat pink roses. On the table is a pot of tea and a pair of cups, her best Royal Doulton.
Billie sits without speaking and Constance pours for her. “Drink it. You will feel better.”
Billie does as she’s told, putting the cup back carefully into the saucer when it is empty. “I don’t feel better. That was a lie. This isn’t going to work if either of us lies.”
Constance gives her a long, level look, her ice-blue eyes assessing. “Fine. There is a rather good single malt in the cupboard. I was saving it for a special occasion. I suppose this qualifies.”
Billie’s laugh is brittle, but she retrieves the bottle and a pair of glasses. She pours two fingers for each of them and pushes a glass towards Constance. She lifts the other, and Constance mirrors the gesture.
“What shall we drink to?” Constance inquires in an arch voice.
“Midsummer night.”
“To Midsummer night.”
They finish their drinks and Billie quickly pours another. Constance’s mouth twitches with amusement.
“You can’t put this off, you know.”
“I know.”
“I’ve trained assassins for decades—the best who ever worked have passed through these halls,” she said, gesturing expansively towards the house. “But I chose you for this.”
“Why?” Billie asks.
“Because you are the only one I trust to see it through. You may flinch, but you will not falter.” The words are notsaid with warmth, but Billie feels the affection in them. And she hears the tiniest thread of something she has never heard from Constance before. Fear.
That’s when she understands exactly what Constance wants from her. It isn’t her expertise or her competence. It’s her humanity.