‘Such?’
‘Such terrible things.’
‘So will you, trust me.’
‘I’m a soldier, kroshka. You said so yourself. I’m built to fight. But you could have any life you want. You could walk away.’
‘There’s no walking away. And I wouldn’t if I could. I like my life.’
‘Then you’ll die. Sooner or later the Englishwoman will find you.’
‘Eve Polastri? I want her to find me. I want to have some fun with her. I want to roll her under my paw like a cat with a mouse. I want to prick her with my claws.’
‘You’re mad.’
‘I’m not mad. I like to play the game. And to win. Polastri’s a player too, that’s why I like her.’
‘Is that the only reason?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe not.’
‘Should I be jealous?’
‘You can if you want. Doesn’t make any difference to me.’
Lara is silent for a moment. ‘You never have any doubts? About any of this?’
‘Should I have?’
‘That moment before you pull the trigger. When the target’s already dead, but doesn’t know it. And then when you close your eyes at night, there they all are. All the dead people, waiting for you . . .’
Villanelle smiles, kisses Lara’s mouth, and slips her hand between her legs. ‘They’re gone, detka. All of them.’ Her fingers begin a delicate dance. ‘The only person who’s waiting for you is me.’
‘You never see them?’ Lara whispers.
‘Never,’ says Villanelle, sliding her fingers inside her.
‘So do you ever feel . . . anything about them?’ Lara asks, moving against Villanelle’s hand.
‘Sweetie, please. Shut the fuck up.’
They’re almost asleep when, half an hour later, a phone stars to vibrate on the bedside table.
‘What is it?’ asks Lara dreamily, as Villanelle reaches across her.
‘Work.’
‘You’re fucking kidding me.’
Villanelle plants a kiss on the tip of her nose. ‘No rest for the wicked, detka. You should know that by now.’
Chapter 2
If Dennis Cradle is surprised to see Eve when she collects him from his house, he conceals it well. The car is an eight-year-old VW Golf from the MI6 vehicle pool, smelling of stale air-freshener, and Cradle takes his place in the passenger seat without a word. As they drive away Eve switches on the Radio 4 Today programme, and they both pretend to listen to it.
Cradle remains silent for the duration of the journey to Dever. Initially, Eve reads this as a desperate attempt to assert some sort of authority, given that when she worked at MI5 he was considerably her senior. And then a darker interpretation of his manner strikes her. He’s not saying anything because he knows exactly what she’s doing here, and so does the organisation he works for. In which case, how much else do they know about her? And for that matter, about Niko? At the thought that her husband might be the object of hostile surveillance, and possibly worse, Eve feels a twisting, agonising guilt. There is no way of avoiding the fact that she’s brought this situation on herself. Richard would have understood if she had decided to step down after Simon Mortimer was murdered in Shanghai; indeed, he encouraged her to do so. But she can’t, and won’t, let go.
In part, it’s a desire for answers. Who is the unnamed woman who has carved such a bloody trail through the shadowlands of the intelligence world? Who are her employers, what do they want, and how have they achieved such terrifying power and reach? The mystery, and the woman at the heart of the mystery, speak to a part of Eve that she’s never really explored. Could she herself ever be transformed into someone who acts as her target does? Who kills without hesitation or pity? And if so, what would it take?
The traffic is heavy leaving London, but Eve is able to make up time on the motorway, and it’s just after quarter to nine when she takes the slip road signposted ‘Works Access Only’. The road leads through sparse woodland to a steel gateway set into a high chain-link fence topped with razor-wire. In front of the gate is a guardhouse, where an armed military police corporal checks Eve’s security pass before nodding her through the gate towards the cluster of low, weather-stained brick buildings that comprise the former government research station. As Eve drives into the car park, she sees half a dozen tracksuited figures running laps of the fenced perimeter. Others, carrying automatic weapons, saunter between the dilapidated buildings.
At the reception block, Eve and Cradle are met by a trooper from E Squadron, the Special Forces unit based at the camp. Casting an eye at Eve’s pass, he beckons them to follow him. The interview room is at the end of a strip-lit underground corridor. It’s minimally furnished and there are no CCTV cameras in evidence. A trestle table holds an electric kettle, a half-full bottle of mineral water, two stained mugs, a packet of biscuits and a box holding tea bags and sachets of sugar and powdered milk. The room is colder than Eve would have liked, and the air-conditioning gives off a faint, shuddering whirr.
‘Shall I be mother?’ asks Cradle drily, approaching the trestle table.
‘Whatever,’ says Eve, seating herself in a dusty plastic chair. ‘I haven’t got time to waste here, and neither have you.’
‘Are we observed? Overheard? Recorded?’
‘I’m assured not.’
‘I suppose that will have to do . . . Christ, these biscuits must be six months old.’
‘Ground rules,’ says Eve. ‘You lie, prevaricate or bugger me around, the deal’s off.’
‘Fair enough.’ He pours the mineral water into the kettle. ‘Milk, one sugar?’
‘Do you understand what I just told you?’
‘Mrs Polastri. Eve. I’ve been conducting tactical questioning sessions for over a decade. I know the rules.’
‘Good. Let’s start at the beginning, then. How were you approached?’
Cradle yawns, unhurriedly covering his mouth. ‘We were on holiday, about three years ago. A tennis camp, near Málaga. There was another couple there from Holland, and Penny and I started playing regularly with them. They told us that their names were Rem and Gaite Bakker,
