‘Kogo-to zastrelili,’ Lance tells him, pointing into the metro. ‘Someone’s been shot.’
The man in the leather cap ignores his words. ‘Please,’ he says, gesturing towards the black van. ‘Go in.’
Eve stares at him wretchedly. Her feet are freezing.
‘I don’t think we’ve got much choice,’ Lance says, as passengers continue to stream past them. ‘Probably safer there than anywhere else.’
The drive is conducted in silence and at high speed, the van swerving aggressively from lane to lane. As they race southwards down Prospekt Mira, Eve attempts to focus her thoughts, but the swaying van and the overpowering smell of petrol, body odour, cologne and her own vomit make her nauseous, and it’s all she can do not to throw up again. Staring through the windscreen at the road in front of them, she runs a hand through her hair. Her forehead is clammy.
‘How are you feeling?’ Lance asks.
‘Shit,’ she answers, not turning round.
‘Don’t worry.’
‘Don’t worry?’ Her voice is a rasp. ‘Lance, someone just tried to fucking shoot me. I’ve got bits of sick between my toes. And we’ve been abducted.’
‘I know, not ideal. But I think we’re safer with these guys than on the street.’
‘I hope so. I fucking hope so.’
They swing into a wide square, dominated by a vast and cheerless edifice in ochre brick. ‘The Lubyanka,’ Lance says. ‘Used to be the headquarters of the KGB.’
‘Great.’
‘Now occupied by the FSB, who are basically the KGB with better dentistry.’
The driver takes a road to the side of the building, makes a turn, and parks. The rear of the Lubyanka is a wasteland of building works and litter. Wire grilles cover windows impenetrable with grime. The man in the leather cap steps down from the front passenger seat, and slides open the van door.
‘Come,’ he says to Eve.
She turns to Lance, wide-eyed with apprehension. He tries to get up but is pressed firmly back into his seat.
‘She come, you stay.’
She feels herself boosted towards the van door. Leather-cap waits outside, blank-faced.
‘This could be what we came for,’ says Lance. ‘Good luck.’
Eve feels empty, even of fear. ‘Thanks,’ she whispers, and steps down onto a cold scattering of builders’ grit. She’s hurried past an entrance covered by corrugated iron to a low doorway surmounted by a hammer and sickle in carved stone. Leather-cap presses a button, and the door gives a faint, expiring click. He pushes it open. Inside, Eve can see nothing but darkness.
Oxana Vorontsova is walking at the side of a road in a city that both is and isn’t Perm. It’s evening, and snow is falling. The road is bordered by tall, flat-fronted buildings, and between these the dark expanse of a river is visible, and ice-floes painted with snow. As Oxana walks, the landscape takes shape ahead of her, as if she’s in a 1990s computer game. Walls rise up, the road unrolls. Everything is made up of graduated flecks of black, white and grey, like the wing-scales of a moth.
The knowledge that she is living in a simulation reassures Oxana: it means, as she’s always suspected, that nothing is real, that her actions will have no consequences and she can do what she likes. But it doesn’t answer all her questions. Why is she driven to this constant search, this endless walking of this twilit road? What lies behind the surfaces of the buildings that rise up to either side of her like stage scenery? Why is it that nothing seems to have depth or sound? Why does she feel this terrible, crushing sadness?
Far ahead of her, an indistinct figure waits. Oxana walks towards her, her step determined. The woman is looking forward, into a snow-blurred infinity. She doesn’t seem to be aware of Oxana’s approach, but at the last moment she turns, her gaze a spear of ice.
Villanelle snaps awake, wide-eyed, heart pounding. Everything is sunlit white. She’s lying in a single bed, with her head supported by pillows. Wound dressings and compression bandages cover much of her face. In the direction that she’s facing she can see light streaming through net curtains, a cast-iron radiator, a chair and a bedside table holding a bottle of mineral water and a box of Voltarol tablets. When she first woke up here forty-eight hours ago, she felt utterly wretched. Her ears ached excruciatingly, bile rose in her throat whenever she swallowed, and the slightest movement sent pain jolting through her neck and shoulders. Now, apart from a faint, residual ringing in her ears, she just feels drained.
Anton walks into her field of vision. Apart from a mostly silent young man who has brought Villanelle her meals, he’s the first person she’s seen since arriving here. He’s wearing a down-filled jacket, and carrying a zip-up cabin bag.
‘So, Villanelle. How are you?’
‘Tired.’
He nods. ‘You’ve had primary blast wave concussion and whiplash. You’ve been on strong sedatives.’
‘Where are we?’
‘A private clinic in Reichenau, outside Innsbruck.’ He steps to the window, pulls back the net curtains, and peers out. ‘Do you remember what happened to you?’
‘Some of it.’
‘Max Linder? The Felsnadel Hotel?’
‘Yes. I remember.’
‘So tell me. What the fuck went down? How did you get caught in the explosion?’
She frowns. ‘I . . . I went to Linder’s room and prepared the device. Then he came in. I suppose I hid. I can’t remember what happened next.’
‘Nothing at all?’
‘No.’
‘Tell me about the device.’
‘I’d worked through a lot of ideas. Phone, digital alarm clock, laptop . . .’
‘Speak up. You’re slurring your words.’
‘I thought about different methods. I wasn’t happy with any of them. Then I found Linder’s vibrator.’
‘And you rigged it with the micro-det and the Fox-7?’
‘Yes, after planting forensic evidence on one of the other guests.’
‘Which guest? What evidence?’
‘The Englishman, Baggot. I hid the plastic wrapping from the explosive in the lining of his washbag.’
‘Good. He’s a moron. Go on.’
Villanelle hesitates. ‘How did I get out?’ she asks him. ‘After the explosion, I mean?’
‘Maria messaged me. Said Linder was dead and you’d been found unconscious at the scene and needed a
