‘You’re going to have to take it slowly,’ says Billy, rubbing his eyes. ‘Because I don’t.’
‘Let’s take it from the top,’ says Eve. ‘Orlov heads up the Operations Department of Directorate S, a bureau whose existence is denied by the authorities, but which is, nevertheless, a reality. He runs a worldwide network of operatives, drawn from secret units in the Russian military and trained as deep-cover spies and assassins. Imagine what kind of man Orlov must have been, to have reached a position like that. Imagine what kind of experience he must have had. And then imagine what happens when he leaves the SVR, as he did ten years ago, armed with all that knowledge and experience.’
‘He goes into the private sector,’ says Lance.
‘That would be my guess. He’s recruited by an organisation that needs his particular, perhaps unique, skill-set.’
‘The Twelve, for instance?’
Eve shrugs. ‘It explains the link between him and our female assassin.’
‘You’re sure we’re not making false connections?’ Lance says. ‘Joining imaginary dots to convince ourselves we’re moving forward?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Eve says. ‘But I need to talk to Richard. If anyone can shine any light on a figure like Orlov, he can. And one thing’s becoming increasingly clear: everything points to Russia. Sooner or later we’re actually going to have to go there.’
Lance grins. ‘Now you’re talking. Proper old-school intelligence work.’
‘Cold at this time of year, though,’ Billy says. ‘Snow makes my asthma flare up.’
‘You’d love Moscow, mate. Fit right in.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘It’s wall-to-wall geeks and metalheads.’
‘I’ve never actually been abroad. Mum doesn’t like it.’
‘Never?’ Eve asks.
‘Well, I was going to go to prison in America at one point, but that fell through.’
‘What actually happened with all that?’ Eve asks. ‘I’ve read the file, but . . .’
In answer Billy pulls up his T-shirt sleeve. There’s a tattoo on his doughy upper arm. Five black dots arranged in a grid.
‘Fuck’s that?’ Lance asks.
‘Glider pattern from the Game of Life.’
Eve peers at it. ‘I literally have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘It’s a hacker emblem. When I was seventeen, I was in this collective. We never met face to face, but we’d communicate online. We had some pretty advanced tools and basically we’d hack anything we could, especially US corporate and government sites. We didn’t do it because we were like, anarchists or anything, but just for the arse of it. Anyway, there was a sort of unofficial leader of the group, called La-Z-boi, who used to direct us to sites, especially foreign government sites. And I will honestly never know how we didn’t figure this one out, it’s so obvious, but La-Z-boi worked for the FBI, and took us down. Everyone went to prison except me.’
‘How come you didn’t?’ Lance asks.
‘Under age.’
‘So what happened?’
‘Released on bail. Had to live at home with my mum, which is where I lived anyway, but under curfew, and with no access to the internet.’
‘And that’s when MI6 came knocking?’ Eve asks.
‘Basically, yeah.’
She nods. ‘Get onto Richard. Set up a secure meeting. We need to know more about Orlov.’
Even if it’s only a means to an end, Villanelle takes little pleasure in her work at the hotel. She and the other room attendants are required to rise at six thirty, eat a hurried breakfast of cheese, bread and coffee in the kitchen, and then start vacuuming the public spaces of the hotel. When this is complete the morning room-cleaning shift begins.
There are twenty-four guest bedrooms at Felsnadel, and Villanelle is responsible for eight of them. She is expected to start cleaning each room at the end furthest from the door, so that no detail is missed. Every surface – dressing tables, desks, televisions, headboards, wardrobe doors – is to be dusted or wiped down. Wastepaper baskets are emptied, and anything on the desks or bedside table tidied. Beds are then stripped and neatly remade with fresh sheets and pillowcases. In the bathrooms, where room staff are required to wear rubber gloves at all times, cleaning is carried out from top to bottom, starting with mirrors. Baths, shower-stalls and toilets are cleaned and sanitised, towels and toiletries replaced. The suite and its carpets are then vacuumed.
Some rooms require more work than others, and all are revealing of their occupants. Magali Le Meur’s room is chaotic, with towels, bedclothes and used underwear strewn over every surface. Her dressing table holds a carton of menthol cigarettes and a half-empty bottle of Peach Amore Schnapps. The bathroom floor is sodden, the toilet unflushed.
Silas Orr-Hadow’s room, by contrast, looks barely touched. He’s made his own bed, folded and put away all his clothes, and left the bathroom exactly as he has found it. On the desk, every book, paper and pencil is aligned and squared off. On his bedside table is a photograph of an anxious-looking bespectacled boy, recognisably Orr-Hadow himself, holding the hand of a uniformed nanny. Beside it are two well-thumbed hardback books: Winnie the Pooh and Mein Kampf.
By the time Villanelle reaches Roger Baggot’s room, her eighth and last, she’s in a vengeful mood. The place reeks of cologne, and when Villanelle strips the bed she discovers a woman’s crumpled thong, which she guesses to be Johanna’s, and a used and knotted condom. When the room is finally presentable, Villanelle allows herself to sink into one of the calfskin-upholstered chairs. If the work is unpleasant, and at times revolting, Villanelle is conscious that her room-attendant duties afford her some badly needed privacy. Maria is a friendly enough room-mate, but her depressive character irritates Villanelle, as does her snoring.
The morning briefing with Birgit has also yielded a single, salient fact: the whereabouts of Linder’s room. He’s on the first floor, in a spacious suite overlooking the front of the hotel. None of the rooms that Villanelle services is on the first floor. Killing her target is going to require careful timing.
For Linder’s guests, the pace of life at Felsnadel is leisurely. There is an extended breakfast offered in the dining
