‘Are you serious?’
‘I’m curious.’
Petra bucks against Villanelle’s hand. ‘He’s weird.’
‘In what way?’
‘He’s got this . . .’ She gasps, and pushes Villanelle’s fingers deeper.
‘He’s got this what?’
‘This thing for . . . Mmm, yes. There.’
‘This thing for?’
‘Eva Braun, apparently. Please, don’t stop.’
‘Eva Braun?’ Villanelle raises herself on one elbow. ‘You mean, Hitler’s—’
‘No, I mean the cat’s mother. Scheisse!’
‘What kind of thing?’
‘Like he’s her reincarnation. Are you going to fuck me again or not?’
‘I’d love to,’ says Villanelle, withdrawing her hand. ‘But I should get back to work.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Yes. I’m just going to borrow your shower.’
‘So you’ve got time for a shower, then?’
‘If I don’t have one, I’ll end up in the shit with Birgit. And that I don’t need.’
‘Who’s Birgit?’
‘Max’s crazy bitch manageress. She sniffs us to make sure we’re clean. If I walk into her smelling of pussy she’ll fire me.’
‘Well, we don’t want that, do we? I might join you in the shower.’
‘Be my guest.’
‘I already am.’
Back in the staff quarters, the temperature is, as usual, several degrees lower than elsewhere in the hotel. In the room they share Villanelle finds Maria sitting on her bed, wrapped in a blanket, reading a Polish paperback.
‘You missed lunch,’ Maria says. ‘Where were you?’
Villanelle takes her rucksack from the chest of drawers and, turning her back on Maria so as to block her view, reaches inside it and takes out a ring of keys. ‘A guest wanted me to make up her room again.’
‘Shit. Which one?’
‘That singer. Petra Voss.’
‘That’s not fair, not in your lunchbreak. I saved you some food from the kitchen.’
She hands Villanelle an apple, a wedge of Emmental cheese, and a slice of Sachertorte on a saucer. ‘We’re not supposed to have the cake, I took it out of the room-service fridge.’
‘Thanks, Maria. That’s nice of you.’
‘People don’t know how hard it is, all the shit we have to do.’
‘No,’ mumbles Villanelle, her mouth full of Sachertorte. ‘They really don’t.’
‘So we’re not going to Moscow after all,’ says Lance. ‘That’s a shame. I really fancied some of that.’
‘Richard thought it was too dangerous to send me. Being a woman and everything.’
‘To be fair, you’re not field-trained. And you do have a tendency to go a bit off-piste.’
‘Really?’
‘That last night in Venice, for example. You should have let me know where that jewellery designer’s party was.’
‘How do you know the party was for a jewellery designer?’
‘Because I was there too.’
‘You’re kidding. I didn’t see you.’
‘Well, you wouldn’t have.’
She stares at him. ‘You followed me? You seriously fucking followed me?’
He shrugs. ‘Yeah.’
‘I’m . . . I don’t know what to say.’
‘I was doing my job. Making sure you were OK.’
‘I don’t need babysitting, Lance. I’m an adult woman. Which appears to be a problem round here.’
‘You have no field training, Eve. That’s the issue, and that’s why I’m here.’ He glances at her. ‘Look, you’re good, OK? Smart. None of us would be here if you weren’t. But when it comes to tradecraft and procedure, you’re . . . well, you’ve got to trust me. No flying solo. We watch each other’s backs.’
After pulling on a pair of rubber cleaning gloves, Villanelle uses her pass-key to let herself into Linder’s room, which Maria has serviced earlier. She works fast. The bathroom cupboards reveal little of interest, beyond a predilection for rejuvenating face creams. The clothes in the wardrobe are good quality, but not so showy and expensive as to alienate his working-class supporters, or to give the lie to his supposedly spartan lifestyle.
In the base of the wardrobe there’s an aluminium-bodied briefcase fitted with a lock. Villanelle’s keyring holds several conventional door keys – enough to give a normal profile on an airport scanner – but also locksmith’s jigglers and a bump key. A delicate twist of one of the smaller jigglers, and the lock springs open. Inside are an Apple laptop computer, several unmarked DVDs in plain boxes, a plaited leather bullwhip, an Audemars Piguet Royal Oak watch, a boxed pair of cougar-head cufflinks by Carrera y Carrera, a Waffen SS ceremonial dagger, a death’s-head ring, a display case holding a heavy steel dildo (‘The Obergruppenführer’), and several thousand euros in unused banknotes.
Leaving the case open, Villanelle conducts a quick tour of the rest of the room. On the bedside table is a miniature projector, an iPad tablet, a hardback copy of Julius Evola’s Ride the Tiger, and a Mont Blanc fountain pen. Beneath these, on the floor, is a cabin-size valise secured by a five-digit combination lock. Glancing at her watch, Villanelle decides not to attempt to open the valise; instead, she tentatively lifts and shakes it. Whatever’s inside is light; a faint swish suggests clothes. She replaces the valise, then unzips the large tan leather suitcase that has been placed against the wall. It’s empty.
Sitting on the bed, Villanelle closes her eyes. A half-dozen heartbeats, and she smiles. She knows exactly how she is going to kill Max Linder.
Turning round in his chair, Billy takes off his headphones. ‘Video file coming in from Armando Trevisan. Subject: attention Noel Edmonds. Is someone taking the piss?’
Eve looks up from the Sverdlovsk-Futura Group’s website. ‘No, get it up. Best quality you can.’
‘Give us a sec.’
A clip of a crowded pavement, shot from about a metre above head-height. A dozen or so pedestrians enter and exit the frame, a couple of them lingering in front of a clothes shop window. The footage is low-resolution grey on grey. It runs for seven and a half seconds and cuts out.
‘Is there a message?’ Lance asks.
Billy shakes his head. ‘Just the vid.’
‘That’s the Van Diest boutique in Venice,’ Eve says. ‘Run it again at half-speed. Keep going until I say.’
Billy runs the clip twice before Eve stops him. ‘OK, slow it down even more. Watch the women in the hats.’
As they enter the frame the women seem to be together. The nearer of the two is wearing an elegant print dress, and her face is concealed by a broad-brimmed hat. The further figure is taller and broader; she’s wearing jeans, a T-shirt and what looks like a
