‘You’re a fucking animal, Maxim Sergeyevitch,’ she says ruefully.
‘And you’re a lazy bitch, Oxana Borisovna.’
They both laugh. Maxim stirs strawberry jam into his tea. He’s the only qualified teacher in London of the Systema Spetznaz, a brutal unarmed combat discipline taught to Russian special forces. A lean, shaven-headed figure in his fifties, he served as a teenage recruit under Boris Vorontsov, Oxana’s father, and fought with him in Chechnya and Dagestan. Exactly why he has relocated to London’s Docklands, Oxana knows better than to ask. It was Johnny Fernandes who put themin touch, so she assumes that Maxim’s now in the pay of the Twelve.
‘You’re looking good,’ he tells her, looking pointedly at her chest. ‘More of a woman.’
‘That’s not verypolitikorryektniy.’
‘It’s true.’ He sips his tea. ‘You’ve got a job coming up, haven’t you? You’re about to go into the field.’
She says nothing, just watches him.
‘Is it dangerous?’
She shrugs. ‘Probably.’
‘Can I say something as… a friend?’
‘Sure.’
‘You can’t lose the fight you walk away from. Don’t get killed to prove a point.’
‘I’m working on that.’
‘Work harder. Your mind is the sharpest weapon you’ve got. You know who told me that?’
‘I can guess.’
‘If your father had listened to his own words, he’d be alive today.’
‘I avenged him.’
‘I know that. In the unit, they still talk about Boris Vorontsov’s tiger cub. As far as I know, there’s still a photo of the two of you in the bar in Promezhitsa. You can’t be more than sixteen.’
‘I was a very old sixteen.’
He nods, a little sadly. ‘Survive, Oxana Borisovna. That’s the advice your father would want me to give you.’
‘I hear you.’ She stares in front of her. ‘Can we run the last sequence again? The stab defence?’
‘Are you sure you’re up to it?’
‘Let’s see.’
I leave tomorrow. I have my Ruffley Royal nanny uniform at the flat, and this afternoon I’ll be shopping for yacht-wear. Suitably demure, of course, and not too expensive. I don’t want to be accused of not knowing my place.
I’ll be going in clean. No weapons, nothing concealed; the security on theMedusais certain to be intense. What will they be like, my fellow passengers? Tahir Yilmaz I can guess at, I’ve met his type before. But the pop-star girlfriend, the son, and the two girls, Defne and Buse? They’re the ones I’m going to be dealing with. Will they be nice, or will they treat me like shit? In a way it doesn’t matter, I’m not going there to be liked. But it’ll almost certainly help if I can gain their trust. We’ll see.
Unsurprisingly, I left Ruffley Hall under a bit of a cloud. Scotty and Puss were furious at the damage done to that vile Konrad doll, but Honeyball, with her secret knowledge of my secret agent status, was all over me. Nodding, winking and fan-girling like mad. And although I only spent a week there, I was genuinely sorry to say goodbye to my roommates. Georgie and Charlotte were splendid girls, definitely the best of British, and nobody, I suspect, will ever call me Ox again. Anyway, although it was completely unearned, I’ve got a certificate to show the Yilmaz family and anyone else who might want to take an interest. Villanelle the nanny! Who knew?
I’m excited, but I’m also aware that the moment I leave for Greece, I’ll be beyond the reach of Eve, should she try to contact me. While I was at Ruffley Hall I could keep my thoughts of her at bay, but the moment I stepped back into the flat, it hit me. She’s gone, and she’s probably not coming back. I miss herterribly, every waking minute, and I hate myself for driving her away. What have I done? What the fuck have I done?
14
Eve decides to take herself out to lunch. She’s just seen an article in theWiltshire Gazetteabout a nearby restaurant which has recently won its third Michelin star. The Stag at Fairley, the piece claims, ‘is perhaps the finest of the neo-traditional English eateries’. What ‘neo-traditional’ actually means Eve has no idea, but on a whim she rings The Stag, and asks if they have a lunchtime table for one. She half-expects a snotty refusal, but when the receptionist answers he sounds friendly, and tells her that although The Stag is usually booked up for weeks ahead, she’s in luck; they’ve just had a cancellation.
With an hour in hand, Eve walks up to Cranborne station, where the same Toyota Prius is waiting as the day that she arrived. Fairley, the driver tells her, is twenty minutes away, so she climbs into the back seat, he flicks his cigarette away, and they move off. The driver’s keen to chat, but Eve closes down his questions. The car smells of sweaty plastic and stale smoke, so she opens the window.