He stands as she enters. A man of medium height in an expensively cut linen suit. A lethal stillness about him, and a smile that doesn’t begin to reach his eyes. “Excuse my presumption,” he says. “But I couldn’t help observing your appreciation of the performance. As a fellow opera lover I was wondering if I might offer you a glass of frappato? It comes from one of my vineyards, so I can vouch for its quality.”
She thanks him. Takes an exploratory sip of the cold wine. Introduces herself as Sylviane Morel.
“And I am Salvatore Greco.” There is a questioning note in his voice but her gaze does not flicker. It is clear to him that she has no idea who he is. She compliments him on the wine and tells him that it is her first visit to the Teatro Massimo.
“So what do you think of Farfaglia?”
“Superb. A fine actress and a great soprano.”
“I’m glad you like her. I was fortunate enough to assist, in a small way, with her training.”
“How wonderful to see your belief in her confirmed.”
“Il bacio di Tosca.”
“Excuse me?”
“Questo è il bacio di Tosca. ‘This is Tosca’s kiss!’ Her words when she stabs Scarpia.”
“Of course! I’m sorry, my Italian…”
“Is most accomplished, Signorina Morel.” Again, that icy half-smile.
She inclines her head in denial. “I don’t think so, Signor Greco.” Part of her is conducting the conversation, part of her is calculating ways and means, timing, evasion routes, exfiltration. She is face to face with her target, but she is alone. And this, as Konstantin has so often made clear, is how it will always be. No one else can be involved except in the most peripheral, disconnected way. There can be no backup, no staged diversion, no official help. If she’s taken, it’s the end. There will be no discreet official leading her from the cell, no waiting vehicle to speed her to the airport.
They talk. For Villanelle, language is fluid. Most of the time she thinks in French, but every so often she awakes and knows that she’s been dreaming in Russian. At times, close to sleep, the blood roars in her ears, an unstoppable tide shot through with polyglot screams. On such occasions, alone in the Paris apartment, she anaesthetises herself with hours of web-surfing, usually in English. And now, she notes, she is mentally playing out scenarios in Sicilian-inflected Italian. She hasn’t sought out the language, but her head echoes with it. Is there any part of her that is still Oxana Vorontsova? Does she still exist, that little girl who lay night after night in urine-sodden sheets at the orphanage, planning her revenge? Or was there only ever Villanelle, evolution’s chosen instrument?
Greco wants her, she can tell. And the more she plays the well-born, impressionable young Parisienne with the wide-eyed gaze, the greater his desire grows. He’s like a crocodile, watching from the shallows as a gazelle inches closer to the water’s edge. How does it usually play out? she wonders. Dinner somewhere they know him well, with the waiters deferential and the bodyguards lounging at a neighbouring table, followed by a chauffeured drive to some discreet, old town apartment?
“Every first night, this box is reserved for me,” he tells her. “The Greci were aristocrats in Palermo before the time of the Habsburgs.”
“In that case I consider myself fortunate to be here.”
“Will you stay for the final act?”
“With pleasure,” she murmurs, as the orchestra strikes up.
As the opera continues, Villanelle once again gazes raptly at the stage, waiting for the moment that she has planned. This comes with the great love duet, “Amaro sol per te.” As the final note dies away, the audience roars its applause, with cries of “Bravi!” and “Brava Franca!” echoing from every corner of the house. Villanelle applauds with the others, and eyes shining, turns to Greco. His eyes meet hers, and as if on impulse, he seizes her hand and kisses it. She holds his gaze for a moment, and raising her other hand to her hair, unfastens the long, curved clip, so that the dark tresses fall to her shoulders. And then her arm descends, a pale blur, and her clip is buried deep in his left eye.
His face blanks with shock and pain. Villanelle presses the tiny plunger, injecting a lethal dose of veterinary-strength etorphine into the frontal lobe of his brain and inducing immediate paralysis. She lowers him to the floor, and glances around. Her own box is empty, and in the box beyond, an elderly couple are dimly visible, peering at the stage through opera glasses. All eyes are on Farfaglia and the tenor singing Cavaradossi, both standing motionless as wave after wave of applause breaks over them. Reaching over the partition, Villanelle recovers her bag, retires into the shadows, and takes out the Ruger. The double snap of the suppressed weapon is unremarkable, and the low-velocity .22 rounds leave barely a loose thread as they punch though Greco’s linen jacket.
The applause is subsiding as Villanelle opens the door of the box, her weapon concealed behind her back, and beckons concernedly to the bodyguards, who enter and genuflect beside their employer. She fires twice, less than a second separating the silenced shots, and both men drop to the carpeted floor. Blood jets briefly from the entry wounds in the back of their necks, but the men are already dead, their brainstems shot through. For several long seconds, Villanelle is overwhelmed by the intensity of the killings, and by a satisfaction so piercing that it’s close to pain. It’s the feeling that sex
