‘So do you have an interest in the Yevtukh case? In knowing exactly who murdered him?’
‘We’re following developments, certainly.’
‘Did Richard mention to you that we have an idea who was responsible?’
‘No, he didn’t tell me that.’ He looks thoughtful. ‘Let me ask you something, Mrs Polastri. Are you familiar with the expression “a canary in a coal mine”?’
‘Vaguely.’
‘In the old days, here in Russia, coal miners used to take a canary in a cage with them when they went down to dig a new seam. Canaries are highly sensitive to methane gas and carbon monoxide, so the miners knew that as long as they could hear the canary singing, they were safe. But if the canary fell silent, they knew they had to evacuate the mine.’
‘That’s fascinating, Mr Tikhomirov, but why exactly are you telling me this?’
‘Have you ever asked yourself, Mrs Polastri, why you were appointed by MI6 to investigate a major international conspiracy? You’ll forgive me, but you are hardly experienced in this area.’
‘I was asked to investigate a particular assassin. A woman. And I have a number of lines of enquiry that could lead to her identification. I’ve got closer to her than anyone else has.’
‘Hence the attempt on your life yesterday.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘There’s no “perhaps” about it, Mrs Polastri. Fortunately, we had people watching you.’
‘Yes, I saw them.’
‘You saw the ones we intended you to see. But there were others, and they intercepted and arrested the woman who attempted to kill you.’
‘You’re telling me you’ve caught her?’
‘Yes, we have her in custody.’
‘Here? In the Lubyanka?’
‘No, in Butyrka, a couple of miles away.’
‘My God. Can I see her? Can I question her?’
‘I’m afraid that’s impossible. I doubt she’s even been processed.’ He lifts a silver paper-knife in the shape of a dagger, and turns it in his fingers. ‘Also, the fact that she’s been arrested doesn’t mean you’re out of danger. Which is why I made sure you were brought here, yesterday, to spend the night as our guest.’
‘Do you have a name for this woman?’
He opens a folder on the desk in front of him. ‘Her name is Larissa Farmanyants. She’s what we call a torpedo, a professional shooter. New photographs will have been taken during her induction at Butyrka, but they haven’t sent them over yet, so I’ve printed out an old press shot for you.’
Three young women standing on a ceremonial dais, in an outdoor sports stadium. They’re wearing tracksuits zipped up to their chins, they’re holding posies of flowers, and they have medals and ribbons around their necks. The Tass news agency caption identifies them as medallists in the pistol-shooting event at the University Games, six years earlier. Larissa Farmanyants, representing Kazan Military Academy, has won bronze. Blonde-haired, with broad, high-cheekboned features, she stares blankly into the middle distance.
Eve stares back at her, dazed. This person, a young woman she has never met, tried to kill her. To put a bullet through the back of her skull.
‘Why?’ she murmurs. ‘Why here? Why now? Why me?’
Tikhomirov looks at her, his gaze level. ‘You’ve crossed the line. You’ve done what nobody thought you could, or would. You’ve got too close to the Twelve.’
Eve picks up the Tass printout. ‘This Lara woman could be one of the pair who killed Yevtukh in Venice. There’s a CCTV clip.’
In response Tikhomirov takes a second sheet of paper from the folder, and hands it to her. It’s an identical screen-grab to the one that Billy printed out at Goodge Street. ‘We’ve seen that footage,’ he says. ‘And we agree.’
‘And the other woman?’
‘We don’t know, although we’d very much like to.’
‘I wish I could help you.’
‘Mrs Polastri, you’ve helped us far more than you know. And we’re grateful.’
‘So what happens now?’
‘In the first instance, we will put you on a flight home, under another name, as we did your colleague, yesterday.’ He hands her the folder. ‘This is for you. Read it on the flight. Give it to the steward before you leave the aircraft.’
She picks up the Tass agency printout and is about to slide it into the folder when something stays her hand. For almost a quarter of a minute she stares disbelievingly at the image of the medal-winners.
‘The one who won gold,’ she says, glancing at the caption. ‘The Perm University student, Oxana Vorontsova. What do you know about her?’
Tikhomirov frowns, and flips open his laptop. His fingers stab the keyboard. ‘She’s dead,’ he says.
‘Are you sure about that?’ Eve asks, suddenly short of breath. ‘Are you absolutely one hundred per cent certain?’
Tikhomirov is as good as his word. He gives Eve lunch in the Lubyanka canteen, and then shows her into a Mercedes with darkened windows which is waiting at the entrance to the FSB complex on Furkasovsky Lane. On the rear seat is her suitcase, which has been collected from the hotel. Within the hour she is at Ostafyevo airport, being fast-tracked through the customs and security procedures by the car’s driver, a young man in a business suit to whom the airport staff are immediately deferential. He ushers Eve to a first-class waiting room, and sits with her, unobtrusive but vigilant, until her flight is called. As she leaves, with a dozen-strong group of Gazprom executives, he hands her an envelope. ‘From Mr Tikhomirov,’ he says.
The interior of the Dassault Falcon jet is shockingly luxurious, and Eve sinks pleasurably into her seat. Take-off is delayed, and dusk has fallen by the time the aircraft finally lifts off, banks to port over the glittering sprawl of Moscow, and sets its course for London. Exhausted, Eve sleeps for an hour before waking with a start to find a steward at her side, tendering frosted shot-glasses of Black Sable vodka.
She takes a long swallow, feels the spirit’s icy progress through her veins, and inclines her head towards the window, and the darkness beyond. Just forty-eight hours ago, she reflects, I was flying the other way. I was a different person then. Someone who hadn’t heard the passing
