Killing Eve: Resurrection (4)

The fourth instalment of a new Killing Eve storyl, published exclusively on Substack

           

Max pulls the red damask curtains closed, concealing them from the other guests. He speaks swiftly. 'There's a man, an American, massively but mysteriously wealthy, named Ron Tiberius. He has residences in New York, London, Cap Ferrat, Telluride and St Barth's. He's a personal friend of some of the most powerful and influential men in the world.'

            'Not women?' Oxana asks quietly

       'No, not women, for reasons that I'll get to.' He glances at Maria, who remains inscrutable. 'Even in super-rich circles, Tiberius is known as a generous host. His guests, and we're talking heads of state, media proprietors, billionaire entrepreneurs, those kind of people, get the very best of everything. But wives and girlfriends tend not to be invited. The junkets he organises are very much boys' events, with Tiberius providing the female company. Nothing out of the ordinary there, but there's a bit of an age issue with the girls. Tiberius is in his fifties, but he likes them young. And so, it seems, do many of his guests.'

            Oxana sips her wine.

            'People like Tiberius deal in favours. Influence is his currency; he's already got all the money anyone could want. An introduction here, a blind eye turned there... And of course from time to time pressure must be brought to bear on someone, and that's a lot easier to do if you've observed the other person dallying, shall we say, with a trafficked sixteen year-old.'

            'I can imagine.'

            Max nods. 'Now. This club, Apokalypsis, is owned by Lev Leonov, one of the younger oligarchs, very much on the make. It's the sort of place Tiberius likes to prowl in search of fresh meat, and we've been reliably informed that he'll be making an appearence here tonight, as Leonov's guest. We wanted you to have a good look at him.'

            'If you're leading up to what I think you are, me staring at him from a few metres away wouldn't be very clever.'

            'He wouldn't register you. You're too old to be of interest to him.'

            Maria smiles. 'Max, that's not very polite.'

            'It's true.'

            'How does he get access to all these young girls?' Oxana asks.

            'He has this woman, Myrtha Willis. She was some kind of media trainee for the UK Conservative Party, and they had an affair. That came to an end, but Myrtha decided to stick around and make herself useful. So now she's his official date on the occasions when he needs one, but her main job is scouting for girls. Tiberius owns or part-owns several film and TV production companies, and she holds that out as bait. "Oh, Ron would love to meet you, he's always looking for fresh faces..." And she's a woman, so they trust her. Shall we dance?'

            Oxana is taken by surprise. 'Seriously?'

            'Seriously. Take my arm. Let's check out if he's here yet.'

            They sidle through the throng to the spotlit dance-floor, where Max is clearly in his element. 'Relax,' he tells Oxana. 'Dancing's a conversation, not an argument.'

            'I'm not a natural. Sorry.'

            'Don't you ever go out on the town? Like, with your girlfriend?'

            Oxana stiffens. It's the first mention of Eve's existence. 'Not really. But we dance together at home sometimes. We've got a playlist.' Why she says this she doesn't know. It's certainly not true. But the thought of them swaying cheek to cheek, Eve's eyes closed in trustful surrender, is so poignant that it makes her catch her breath.

            'I'm sorry, I've upset you.'

            'No, just itchy eyes. Gets me at this time of year.'

            'So what music do you guys like?'

            'All sorts. Lana, Taylor Swift...' And this, at least, is true. Eve loves to sing as she moves around the flat, doing stuff. Oxana finds it impossible.

            'OK, I have eyes on our dude. Your three o'clock. Tall, silver hair. With the girl in jeans and the woman in blue.'

            'Seen.' Oxana regards Ron Tiberius dispassionately. He would be handsome, distinguished even, but for a smug little up-twitch to his mouth. His gaze lingers on his dance partner, a reed-thin teenager, as if she were a gourmet snack. The woman, smiling vacantly, is swaying at the girl's side, driving her closer and closer to Tiberius.

            'Enough,' Oxana says. 'I know how this story ends.'           

Back at the table, Maria is on her phone. As Max and Oxana take their seats, she places it face down on the linen cloth. 'So?'

            'He's here,' Max says. 'And so's Myrtha. Sheepdogging some babe for him.'

            'Well?' Maria turns to Oxana.

            'Well what?'

            'Will you do it?'

            'You're way ahead of me,' Oxana says.

            'Really?' She reaches for Oxana's hand again.

            Oxana snatches it away. 'Why should I trust you?'

            'You're blown, Villanelle. If we can find you, so can others. Tikhomirov's people are desperate, making deals right, left, and centre. We can fly you out of here.'

            'What about...'

            'Yes, we'll take care of Eve too. But first you've got to commit to this assignment.'

            'Everything would be how it was? The flat? The money paid into my account?'

            'Everything would be how it was.'

            'And my liaison?'

            'Would be Max.'

            'Like-'

            'Yes, like Konstantin. Except that you killed Konstantin, and we'd prefer that you didn't kill Max.'

            Max smiles at her affably. 'I could even help you with your dancing.'

            'You could even fuck right off. But I'll tell you what I'll do.' She turns to Maria. 'Is the number station still transmitting?'

            'Yes. Round the clock.'

            'Same frequencies and schedules.'

            'U-huh'.

            Max looks wistful. 'I love all that old-school spy stuff. I'm such a Cold War nerd. The greatest sadness of my life is that the Berlin Wall fell the year I was born.'

            Maria smiles. 'Max gets very sentimental after a few drinks. In fact we've gone back to a lot of the older tech because online communication is so insecure. So we still broadcast number codes from our shortwave station to our agents in the field, yes.'

            'Good. I'll listen out for my call-sign.' Oxana scans the dance-floor, but there's no sign of Tiberius, the woman or the girl. 'So why do you want him taken out?' she asks. 'I mean, he's disgusting, obviously, but...'

            Maria lifts the Mercier bottle, and finding it empty, upends it in the ice bucket. 'How much do you know about British politics?'

            'They're low on my list of interests. Although I used to enjoy running circles round MI6.'

            'And round your girlfriend,' Max says.

            'That's not your business,' Oxana retorts. 'Go on, Maria.'

            'After the general election next month, there will be a new prime minister in 10 Downing Street. Her Foreign Secretary is likely to be her long-term supporter Adam Fentiman. They were at Oxford together, before he joined the Army. They may even have had a fling; he's supposed to be quite the charmer. What's less well known is that Fentiman is an occasional houseguest of Ron Tiberius.'

            'Ah.'

            'Exactly. Ah. Three months ago, an image started floating around the internet of Fentiman, now fifty-something, with his arm round a clearly underage young woman on the deck of a yacht. Underneath is a caption, by one ChewyCandyGirl (pronouns: she, her), reading: "Sexy Beast, but #FartedAllNight."

            'Ooof.'

            'Quite. So MI5 get their tech bros onto it, and identify the yacht as Tiberius's, and the location as the port of La Napoule on the French Riviera. ChewyCandyGirl, however, is nowhere to be found. So Fentiman is hauled into Thames House, where the MI5 rottweilers demand an explanation with the usual menaces, and Fentiman swears that the image is a deep-fake, never seen the girl in his life, etcetera. As a clincher he adds that he hasn't broken wind in quarter of a century, since sustaining a shrapnel wound of a personal nature in the first Gulf War.'

            'So Fentiman is now basically Tiberius's puppet.'

            'Exactly. Tiberius can drop him in it at any point he chooses. And our people have their own ideas about British foreign policy. They want it decided by us, not by an American sex offender.'

            'And the woman, Myrtha-'

            'Is not really a political creature, despite her background. But she may well have access to Tiberius's secrets. She's definitely a wild card. You know what they called her at Downing Street? Sharky the Beaver.'

            'You want me to do her too?'

            'We definitely want him gone. Her if you get the chance.'

            'Buy one, get one free?'

            'No, take out both and you'll be recompensed for both.'

            Oxana sits there, unmoving. 'It'll take time to research and plan.,' she says eventually. And I'm going to need transport, cash, passports... Full logistical support, basically.'

            A faint smile. 'That's what we do.'

            Oxana glances at her watch. 'Shall we start with a taxi back to my flat.'

            'You don't feel like dinner?' Max asks. 'We've got a booking at L'Europe.'

            'What else do we need to discuss?'

            'We could... get to know you better.'

            'No. You know everything you need to.'

       In the taxi, Oxana reviews the evening. Was she too keen? Too ready to reassume her old role? Could she trust pale, enigmatic Maria? And Max, what was she to make of him? Should she believe them about Tikhomirov? About his time being up? Something worries her. Something she can't quite put her finger on.

            As she unlocks the door to her building, the feeling intensifies. There's a brief cabbagey whiff, and then she's racing up the stairs and unlocking the flat. Inside, everything's silent, but for the faint hum of the fridge. She doesn't turn the lights on. The electronics - Eve's headphones, the twin laptops, the wifi router, the switched-off TV - all show the usual, jewel-like points of light. With her night vision fully focused, Oxana hurries to the bedroom and looks around her. The bed's empty.

            'Eve,' she calls out. 'Eve?'

            Nothing.

            'Eve, it's me? Sweetie, please.' She snaps on the light, and wrenches the covers off the bed. 'Don't do this. Don't fucking do this to me.'

            Nothing.

            She runs wild-eyed from room to room. There's no disarray, no blood, no signs of a struggle. Nor is there a note, and even at her most furious, Eve would never walk out without having the last word. Falling to her knees, Oxana allows herself ten seconds of keening self-pity. Then Villanelle stands, her gaze murderous.

The story continues…