Killing Eve: Bloodline (2)

The second episode of a new Killing Eve adventure, published exclusively on Substack

            The Indian Military and Sporting Club doesn't advertise its presence. The club is situated on St James's Street, a couple of minutes walk from Piccadilly, and only a small brass plaque, worn to near illegibility, gives any clue as to its identity.

            The reception desk is staffed by a pair of elderly men, both wearing campaign ribbons, who direct Eve and Villanelle to a broad staircase. The two women ascend between dimly-lit formal portraits, to a mezzanine on which regimental silver and horse-racing trophies are displayed. At the centre, on a marble plinth, is a statuette of a tautly muscled filly with wide, intelligent eyes. Villanelle and Eve gaze, entranced. 'Her name was Princess Beautiful,' says Johnny Fernandes, materialising beside them. 'She was owned by the Maharaja of Baroda, and won all the Indian classic races, including the 1943 Derby.'

            'She is beautiful,' says Villanelle.

            Johnny smiles. 'Follow me.'

            The dining room is hushed and spacious, with tall, heavily curtained windows overlooking the street. Most of the tables are occupied, and conversation is muted. Johnny leads Eve and Villanelle to a table in a pillared alcove, where they are overlooked by a painting of a fiercely moustached figure in dress uniform. 'General Rathore,' says Johnny. 'My old commanding officer.'

            'You were a soldier?' Eve asks.

            'Cavalryman. Third Lancers.' He straightens his tie as they seat themselves, then beckons to a waiter. 'I'd recommend the club curry. It's usually pretty good.'

            The food arrives in crested serving dishes, followed by tall glasses of mango soda.

            'This is spicy,' Villanelle says.

            'Too spicy?' Johnny asks.

            'I'll survive.'

            'Your wound's mending nicely. Not many people take a hit from a Lapua .338 Magnum and live.'

            'What makes you think the bullet was a Lapua?' Villanelle asks.

            'It's the round I'd use.' Johnny says. 'The difference being that I wouldn't miss. And nor, I suspect, would you.'

            Villanelle smiles faintly. 'Probably not.'

            'Nice haircut, by the way.'

            Villanelle looks at Eve. 'There you go, babe.'

            'You did it?' Johnny asks Eve.

            'Yes, all my own work. You don't think it looks too scruffy?'

            'The mess the surgeons left it in, I think it's a very... practical solution.'

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'You didn't ask us here to talk about my hair,' Villanelle says.

            'Indeed I didn't.' Johnny lays his hands on the linen tablecloth, and fixes her with his gaze. 'How are you? Truthfully.'

            Villanelle considers. 'I had headaches for a month. And nightmares. But I was in good hands.' She glances softly at Eve. 'I'm fine now.'

            'And you, Eve.' Johnny inclines his head courteously. 'How are you?'

            'Fine too. Thank you.'

            'Excellent. Because I have an assignment for you both. If you think you're ready, that is.'

            'Is it dangerous?' Eve asks. She reaches for Villanelle's hand. 'I'm sure you'll understand if I'm feeling a bit protective.'

            'Of course. And I wouldn't throw you both in at the deep end, I promise. So no, it's essentially a babysitting job. Albeit with a rather unconventional baby.'

            'Go on,' Villanelle says.

            'Valentin Dominik, twenty-six. Russian, and extremely wealthy. Not stupid - he got a first from the London School of Economics - but wild, and very much a party boy. Often features in those 'eligible bachelor' pieces in Tatler and Vogue. Long list of semi-celebrity girlfriends of the model-slash-influencer type.'

            'Where do we come in?' Eve asks.

            'We want you both to move in with him. The Dominiks have a large mansion in Kensington Palace Gardens, overlooking Hyde Park. The road used to be known as Millionaires' Row, but today most of the owners are billionaires. We'd like you to take a close look at Valentin and his life, and conduct a tactical threat assessment.'

            'How's Valentin going to feel about this?' Villanelle asks. 'Us moving in and checking him out. My guess is he's not going to like it.'

            Johnny shrugs. 'It's a big place. The family already have half a dozen live-in staff and security people. A couple more's not going to make much difference.'

            'So we're going in as staff, or guests?'

            'Technically, you'll be his father's guests, and if Valentin doesn't like that arrangement, tough. My guess is that he'll make the best of it. He gets a hefty allowance, despite the fact that he doesn't actually have a job, and in theory the money tap could be turned off at any time. I suspect he'll toe the line.'

            'Why the threat assessment?' Eve asks. 'Is the family in some kind of danger?'

            'The super-rich are always in some kind of danger, or imagine that they are. The Dominiks are the kind of people Vadim Tikhomirov and his cronies hate.'

            'Any particular reason?'

            'They're emigrés. Decadent imperialists, sneering at Russia from the safety of he West. Nikolai Dominik despises them right back, needless to say. Regards Tikhomirov as a jumped-up functionary, and isn't shy of saying so.'

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'How did he make his money?' Eve asks. 'Nikolai, I mean.'

            'He didn't make it, he inherited it. The Dominiks are very much old money. Nikolai's grandfather Feliks was a general in the White Guard, the lot that fought the Bolsheviks after the October Revolution in 1917. Feliks was killed, but the family got out of Russia, and managed to bring a fair bit of their gold and jewellery with them. Since then, with the help of their aristocratic European relatives, the Dominiks have had their fingers in all sorts of pies. Art, property, banking...'

            'Those old upper-class connections are still in place?' Eve asks.

            'Very much so. They're less obvious than they used to be, but yes.'

            'Have the Dominiks had much to do with Russia in recent years?' Villanelle asks.

            'Officially, no. Unofficially...' Johnny shrugs. 'Support for nationalist and traditionalist causes, donations to the Orthodox church, that sort of thing.'

            'So if there's no specific threat, why do they need us?' Eve asks. 'You said they have their own security people.'

            'Yes, but you'll be reporting to me. I want impressions, thoughts, concerns, straws in the wind. Anything that seems... off.'

            'But you can't give us the bigger picture?'

            'I don't want to influence your thinking. And I'm afraid, right now, that that's as much as I can tell you. You have twenty four hours. There's a flat not far from here you can use as a bolthole, and I suggest you stay there tonight. This afternoon, however...' He reaches into his jacket pocket and hands them each a credit card. 'I want you to go shopping. You need to feel at home in the world of the Dominiks and their friends. You need to look the part. So...' He looks enquiringly at Villanelle.

            'Leave it to me,' Villanelle says. 'Is there a limit on these cards?'

            'Not that I know of. Coffee?’