‘It is a bit rank.’
‘On the other hand we could save his life if he tells us what we need to know. I’ve got an antidote for the aconitine.’
Rinat’s eyes widen. ‘Pozhaluysta,’ he whispers, tears and vomit streaking his face. ‘Please. Whatever you need.’
‘I’ll tell you what I need right now,’ says Lara thoughtfully, selecting another pastry. ‘I’ve had this tune going round and round in my head all morning, and it’s literally driving me crazy. Dada dada dada dada da dadadada . . .’
‘Posledniy raz,’whispers Rinat, agonisedly contracting into a foetal position.
‘Oh my God, that’s right. How totally embarrassing. My mum used to sing along to that song. I bet yours did too, detka.’
‘To be honest, she didn’t have much to sing about. Unless you count terminal cancer.’ The tip of her tongue flicks to the scar on her upper lip. ‘But we’re wasting Rinat’s last precious minutes.’ She crouches down so that she’s directly in his line of sight. ‘What I need from you, ublyudok, is answers, and I need them fast. One lie, one fucking hesitation, and you can shit yourself to death.’
‘The truth. I swear it.’
‘OK then. The man you kidnapped in Odessa. Why did you take him?’
‘We were ordered by the SVR, the Russian secret—’
‘I know who the fucking SVR are. Why?’
‘They called me in to one of their centres. Told me—’ He’s racked by another spasm, and a bubble of yellowish drool forms on his lips.
‘Clock’s ticking, Rinat. What did they tell you?’
‘To . . . take that man Konstantin. Take him to the villa in Fontanka.’
‘So why did you do what they asked?’
‘Because they . . . Oh my God, please . . .’ His hands claw at his arms and chest as the paraesthesia renews its assault.
‘Because they?’
‘They . . . they knew things. About Zolotoye Bratstvo, the Golden Brotherhood. That we’d sent girls from Ukraine to Turkey, Hungary, Czech Republic for sex work. They had interviews, documents, they could have destroyed me. Everything I’d—’
‘And the SVR interrogated this man Konstantin at your house in Fontanka?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did they get the answers they wanted?’
‘I don’t know. They questioned him but they . . . Oh God . . .’ He retches, spits bile, and his bladder empties. The smell, and the furious buzzing of the blowflies, intensifies. On the other side of the table Lara helps herself to a third pastry.
‘They . . .?’
‘They made me keep away. All I heard was one question that they kept shouting at him. “Who are the Dvenadtsat, the Twelve?” ’
‘Did he tell them?’
‘I don’t know, they . . . They beat him up pretty badly.’
‘So he talked, or not?’
‘I don’t know. They kept asking this same question.’
‘So who or what are the Twelve?’
‘I don’t know. I swear it.’
‘Govno. Bullshit.’
He retches again, tears streaming down his cheeks. ‘Please,’ he whimpers.
‘Please what?’
‘You said . . .’
‘I know what I said, mudak. Tell me about the Twelve.’
‘All I’ve heard is rumours.’
‘Go on.’
‘They’re supposed to be some kind of . . . secret organisation. Very powerful, very ruthless. That’s all I’ve heard, I swear.’
‘What do they want?’
‘How the fuck would I know?’
She nods, her expression thoughtful. ‘So how old were those girls? The ones the Golden Brotherhood sent to Europe?’
‘Sixteen, minimum. We don’t do—’
‘You don’t do kids? What are you, a feminist?’
Rinat opens his mouth to answer but convulses, his back arching upwards so that, for a moment, he is supported on his hands and feet like a spider. Then a foot is planted on his chest, forcing him agonisingly to the ground, and the woman he knows as Marina Falieri pulls off her raven-black wig and removes her amber contact lenses. ‘Burn these,’ she tells Lara.
Undisguised, she looks very different. Dark blonde hair, and ice-grey eyes of a fathomless blankness. Not to mention the silenced CZ automatic pistol in her hand. Rinat knows it’s the end, and somehow, with this knowledge, the pain recedes a degree or two. ‘Who are you?’ he whispers. ‘Who the fuck are you?’
‘My name is Villanelle.’ She points the CZ at his heart. ‘I kill for the Twelve.’
He stares at her, and she fires twice. In the sultry midday air the suppressed detonations sound like the snapping of dead wood.
It doesn’t take long to drag Rinat to the prepared grave and bury him. It’s a hot and unpleasant task, and Villanelle leaves it to Lara. Meanwhile she loads the table, chairs and remains of lunch into the motoscafo. When she returns, it’s with a fuel can. She takes off her T-shirt and jeans, soaks them in gasoline, and places them on the fire that Lara has built, on top of the smouldering remains of the wig.
When Lara has finished burying Rinat, Villanelle orders her to take off her shorts and bikini top. The clean-up takes the best part of an hour, but eventually the clothes have all been burned, the ashes picked through, and all surviving buttons, studs and clips thrown in the lagoon.
‘There’s a bucket in the boat,’ Villanelle murmurs, staring out over the water.
‘What for?’
‘Take a guess?’ She indicates the pungent traces of Rinat’s bodily fluids.
Finally, she’s satisfied, and they go down to the jetty, change into new clothes that Lara has brought, untie the boats from their moorings, and set off on a north-easterly course. The Venice Lagoon is shallow, with an average depth of ten metres, but there are declivities of more than twice this. Not far from the island of Poveglia, the motoscafo’s depth-finder indicates that they are passing over just such a drop-off, and Villanelle takes the opportunity to drop the metal table and chairs, the pickaxe and the spade overboard.
In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries Poveglia was a quarantine station for the crews of ships harbouring the plague. In the early twentieth century it was home to a mental institution where, Venetians say, patients were subjected to sinister experiments. Now abandoned, and reputed to be haunted, the island has a desolate look about it, and tourist craft rarely venture there.
A narrow canal, overhung by foliage, divides Poveglia into two halves. Here, out of sight of any passing vessel, the
