She wonders, vaguely, if she should have taken more care with her appearance. She’s wearing a zip-up tracksuit top, a pair of baggy-arsed supermarket jeans, and trainers. Simon was always on at her to make a bit more of herself, but all that vanity stuff—shopping, make-up, hairdressing—doesn’t come naturally to her. When she was working with the Joint Services Analysis Group at Thames House, a well-meaning colleague took her for an afternoon at an expensive spa. Eve tried to enjoy herself, but she was bored witless. It all seemed so unimportant.
One of the things she’s always loved about Niko is that none of these things matter to him, either. Yet he makes her feel beautiful, and sometimes, at the most ordinary of moments—when she’s getting dressed, perhaps, or climbing out of the bath—she catches him gazing at her with a tenderness that pierces her to the heart.
For how much longer, she wonders, will he look at her like that. How unreasonably will she have to behave for him to wake up one morning and decide that he just can’t continue? They must be almost at that point already. She’s taken to pacing mutely around the flat in the evenings, vodka-tonic in hand, like an alcoholic ghost. Later, as often as not, she passes out in front of her laptop. Murdered men stalk her dreams, and she wakes at random hours of the night, her heart pounding with dread.
Lance Pope and Billy Primrose arrive at 10 a.m., and exchange unreadable glances as Eve introduces herself. Lance is fortyish, with the lean, suspicious features of a stoat. Billy, audibly wheezing after the climb up the stairs, looks barely out of his teens, with black-dyed hair, skin like suet, and a deathly back-bedroom pallor.
“So this is it,” Lance murmurs.
Eve nods. “A long way from the comforts of Vauxhall Cross, I’m afraid.”
“I’ve spent most of my career in the field. I’m not choosy about furniture.”
“Just as well.”
“I’ve ordered some hardware,” says Billy, still wheezing faintly. “External processors, logic and protocol analysers. Basic stuff.”
“Good luck with that. I filed a requisition order six weeks ago.”
“It’ll be here this afternoon. I’ll need a bit of space.”
“Well, help yourself.” She takes off her glasses and rubs her eyes. “How much do you both know about why you’re here?”
“Bugger all,” says Lance. “We were told you’d brief us.”
She replaces her glasses, and the two men swim back into focus. Billy in gothic black, Lance in a seedy version of sports casual. She finds them both deeply unprepossessing, confirming the impression she gained from their files.
At seventeen, using the online handle “$qeeky,” a reference to the asthma from which he’d suffered since childhood, Billy was a member of a hacker collective responsible for a series of well-publicised attacks on corporate and government websites. The FBI and Interpol eventually took the group down, and its leaders received prison sentences, but the underage Billy was released on bail on the condition that he live at home, under curfew, with no access to the Internet. Within weeks he had been recruited by MI6’s Security Exploitation team.
Lance is a career MI6 officer, and a veteran of numerous overseas postings. Although an experienced agent runner, commended by the heads of station he has served under, he has not been promoted in several years. The problem is his chronic insolvency, caused by a predilection for online gambling. He’s divorced, and lives alone in a one-room rented flat in Croydon.
“We’re here to hunt down a professional assassin,” Eve tells them. “We have no name, no country of origin, no information concerning political affiliation. We know that she is a woman, probably in her mid- to late-twenties, and that she acts on behalf of an extremely well-resourced organisation with a global reach. We know that she’s got at least six high-profile kills to her name.”
Rain begins to beat at the office window, and she zips her tracksuit top up to her chin. “There are two main reasons we need to catch this woman, apart from the fact that she’s a serial murderer who needs to be stopped.”
“Which isn’t the concern of the Service,” says Lance, almost to himself.
“Which wouldn’t normally be our concern, but in this case, very much is. I’m assuming you both know who I mean by Viktor Kedrin?”
Billy nods. “Fascist nut-job, Russian, taken out in London last year.” He scratches his groin absent-mindedly. “Weren’t Moscow behind that?”
“The SVR? No, that’s what everyone assumed. In fact Kedrin and his bodyguards were shot dead by our target. It was a brutally efficient job, and she carried it out alone.”
“You’re sure about that?” asks Lance.
“Absolutely. And for what it’s worth, we have a CCTV image of her.” Eve hands each man a printout of a blurry figure in a parka, with the hood up. The image has been captured from behind. She could be anyone.
“Best we’ve got?” asks Lance.
Eve nods, and hands them each another printout. “But she may resemble this woman. Lucy Drake.”
Billy gives a low whistle. “Pretty fit, then.”
“Lucy Drake’s a model. Our killer used her as a double, to check into Kedrin’s hotel and to approach him in a lecture hall. But the likeness may only be superficial.”
“So could she have been freelancing for Moscow?” asks Billy. “The shooter, I mean, not the model.”
“Unlikely, given that the SVR have an entire directorate trained in assassination. And why would they have him killed in London when they could do it any time they wanted to at home?”
“Make a splash?” Billy shrugs. “Show that no one’s beyond their reach?”
“Possible, but our information is that the Kremlin were quite happy to tolerate Viktor and his far-right associates; they made the official regime look almost moderate. And they didn’t hesitate to use his
