Killing Eve: Bloodline (5)

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

            Balice is at her desk in the MI6 building at Vauxhall Cross, when her phone shudders in her pocket.

            A text from Charlie: 'Are you wearing it?'

            Balice checks, surreptitiously pulling back her pleated skirt. She is indeed wearing the black satin-trimmed tulle thong that Charlie so thoughtfully bought her at Agent Provocateur. Balice isn't particularly turned on by exotic underwear, but Charlie is, in a big way. Balice has never been sure how thrilled she is by this. Would he be equally excited by the sight of a chimpanzee in cutaway lace briefs?

            How has she ended up married to Charlie St Clair? How did that happen, exactly? One day they're making small talk at a reception at Thames House - the headquarters of MI5, where Charlie's a fast-track junior officer - and the next, it seems, they're putting out the recycling from a heavily mortgaged terraced house in Clapham.

            It all makes sense career-wise - inter-Service marriages are very much smiled upon, and the St Clairs make a thoroughly presentable couple - but there's the sex thing. Charlie's a man, and sex with men, while endurable, very much isn't Balice's jam. So she tends to stray, something her job gives her ample opportunity to do, and explain to Charlie that the stress of work on the Russia desk plays havoc with her libido.

            She's pretty sure that he plays away too. Probably with his PA. There's always a bit of a glint in Dawn's eye when she and Balice meet, and it would be just like Charlie not to look further than the end of his own office. Not that Balice grudges either of them their fun. Charlie's a decent guy. Not what you'd call a first-class brain, but he makes her laugh. And right now she needs him. His progress up the MI5 ladder has been steady, and he's now in charge of technical and surveillance operations. That includes the A4 watcher team, a greatly superior outfit to the one Balice has been using. If anyone can find Villanelle and Eve, Charlie's people can.

            At midday, Balice is driven from Vauxhall Cross to Thames House. The meeting goes exactly as she anticipates. She and Charlie have coffee in his office - latte for her, double espresso for him - as she makes her pitch for the use of his watchers.

            Charlie regards her indulgently. Recently he has been surprisingly uxorious. He's been trying to, as he puts it, 'get our sex life back on track'. He wants to 'spice things up.' So at an appropriate moment, Balice rises from her chair, locks Charlie's office door, and bends herself over his desk. Approaching, Charlie lifts her skirt, carefully drapes its pleated folds over her back, and reverently sinks to his knees. Placing a hand on each of her buttocks, he subjects her bottom to lengthy and appreciative close-up study. Then he hooks an index finger through her thong, draws it to one side, and moistening his lips, bends to his work. With her forearms on the desk, and a pleasant view of the Thames, Balice ignores the snuffling sounds to her rear and allows her mind to wander. It settles, as so often, on Villanelle.

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           No fancy knickers for her. That girl knows exactly what she wants, and she takes it. She's thrillingly, violently sexy and - the cherry on top - a consummately professional killer. So what do I do about Polastri? Much as I'd love to, I can't just murder her out of hand. I've tried that and it didn't end well. If it came out that I slept with her girlfriend and then sanctioned her killing, it would be super-embarrassing. Apart from anything, HR would kick off, especially after that officious bitch on the Albania desk made such a fuss about the fact that, of everyone at MI6 senior enough to green-light assassinations, almost all are cis-het, white and privately educated. No, I've got to find a good, sound reason to eliminate her. Something prejudicial to national security. Something really nasty. But first I need to find the bloody woman, and for that I need Charlie. Hasn't he finished yet? My elbows are getting sore.

            Eve and Villanelle present themselves for dinner room at seven o'clock, as requested by Anastasia. Both are smartly but informally dressed. The oak-panelled dining room is sombre, and hung with portraits of pre-revolutionary grand dukes and duchesses. Evening light slants through tall windows. Eve bends to examine a silver-framed photograph of the Romanov family aboard the Imperial yacht, the Standart. 'The royal martyrs,' murmurs Anastasia. 'They rule in heaven now.'

            Eve smiles, unable to think of a timely response, and Anastasia turns to her son. Valentin is pale, and the glass of mineral water in his hand is not quite steady, but otherwise he appears fully recovered. Presenting himself to Eve and Villanelle, he apologises for his earlier behaviour. Eve can't help feeling sorry for him. He looks nervous and contrite, like a whipped dog. His lean Slavic features and dark eyes are, she decides, rather beautiful. 'Please. It's all fine. Are you feeling better now?'

            'Worse, actually, knowing that I've made a complete...' He shrugs and gives her a hopeless smile. 'I'm the family fuck-up, I'm afraid.'

            'Valentin, that's hardly the way to talk to our guests.' The speaker is unremarkable in appearance, but somehow he fills Eve's gaze. He's got a tight smile, watchful eyes, and dark, backswept hair, and Eve senses Valentin shrink at her side. 'Nikolai Dominik.' He thrusts a hand at Eve, and crushes hers when she shakes it. 'You're Eve Polastri, I take it. And you're Miss...'

            'Vorontsova. Oxana Vorontsova.' Villanelle regards him levelly. A maid steps between them with a tray of champagne cocktails.

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'A pleasure to welcome you both.' Nikolai inclines his head in the ghost of a bow, and a younger man steps to his side. Round spectacles, prematurely grey hair, and a vaguely bookish air.

            'Sergei,' Villanelle says. 'Good to see you again,'

            'The pleasure's mine, Miss, ah... Vorontsova. And Mrs Polastri, of course.'

            'Eve, please.'

            'Eve.' He raises his glass. 'I'm Sergei Stepanenko. The last time I saw Oxana was in St Petersburg when you were... in enemy hands, as it were.'

            'I escaped.'

            'I heard. It's good to have you both with us. Great things lie ahead.'

            'Sounds interesting.' Eve sips her cocktail. 'Tell us about those great things.'

            He smiles. 'Vsemu svoye vremya...'

            'He's saying: all in good time,' Villanelle tells Eve.

            Eve's just about to reply that she knows perfectly well what it means when she intercepts Villanelle's steady gaze, and understands that she's to pretend that she speaks no Russian. 'Well. It sounds very exciting,' she says brightly.