Killing Eve: Resurrection (7)

The seventh instalment of a new Killing Eve story, published exclusively on Substack

  

          The boy is back on the beach three mornings later. He's not wearing the sailor-suit this time, but jeans and a hoodie. He's thin, with melancholy, far-seeing eyes. Again, he wordlessly hands Villanelle an envelope, and then runs back towards the road. This time Villanelle follows him, and sees him climb into a waiting car, a heavy old Mercedes. The passenger door closes and the car is swiftly drawn into the traffic stream.

            This time it's a map, hastily scrawled in ballpoint on the back of a café receipt. It shows the Forestry Academy Park in the Vyborgsky district. A cross is marked in the park's northwestern corner, and a time: 17:30.

The hours pass slowly. It's a beautiful day, and as Villanelle steps out of the metro onto Lesnoy Prospekt the light is just beginning to fade. The park is hushed after the rumble of the highway. Shadowed paths wind between trees dense with new foliage. A few figures are visible; children's shouts and the distant barking of a dog are carried on the early evening air.       

            Villanelle walks in a north easterly direction, not sure what she's looking for, and reaching the perimeter, darts a quick look at the map. The rendezvous point must be a couple of hundred metres to her left. She's still got quarter of an hour in hand, so she sits down at the broad base of a larch tree and waits. No one passes her, and a vast stillness descends. 'Don't fuck me on this,' she murmurs, unsure who she's addressing.

            With five minutes to go she sets off down the track, and soon sees a grey stone monument in a clearing. A trim, middle-aged man with a dachshund on a leash is approaching from the west. Ignoring him, Villanelle reads the inscription on the monument. The place is the site of a famous nineteenth century duel in which both combatants were killed.

            'An affair of the heart,' the man says, drawing up alongside her. 'Women, eh?'

            'I know. Are they even human?'

            He smiles faintly. 'Pet the dog.'

            Warily, Villanelle crouches and reaches out her hand. The dachshund growls, its eyes bulging, and shows its teeth.

            'Bolik, stop that! He can sense that you're afraid.'

            She backs away and stands up. 'What have you got to tell me?'

            'Continue along the path in the direction I've come from. When you reach the exit you'll see a courier waiting by a motorcycle... Bolik, enough'.

            I'd never admit this, even to Eve - especially to Eve - but small dogs really unnerve me. Dachshunds most of all. Those whippy little tails and glassy eyes. The way they hate and fear me on sight. How do they know what I am?

            The bike's a BMW. The courier, faceless and genderless in leathers and visored helmet, waits as she climbs on, and then they're heading south fast, cutting and weaving between vehicles on Lesnoy Prospekt, swinging onto Lebedeva, and racing over the bridge.      Ten minutes later they pull up on a featureless street near Moscow Station. The houses, once elegant, are dingy and weather-stained. Electrical cables criss-cross the pale evening sky. The courier nods Villanelle towards the entrance to one of the taller blocks, and takes off. Villanelle walks beneath a gated arch into a courtyard, where a young woman in a tailored grey suit is waiting. She shakes Villanelle's hand, introduces herself as Kira, and steers Villanelle through a doorway and towards an elevator.

            'Safe house?' Villanelle asks, as they ascend.

            Kira gives her a tight smile. 'Airbnb. Safer.'

            It's a residential flat, spacious and old-fashioned. There's a hard-looking figure just inside the door, keeping an eye on a close-circuit laptop feed of the courtyard downstairs. An AK-19 rifle stands against the wall within reach. He pats Villanelle down quickly and expertly, and Kira leads her into a darkened reception room in which only a single spotlit chair is visible. 'Please,' Kira says, and leaves the room.

            Villanelle sits in silence, facing the spotlights and the darkness. She senses that she is being watched, but can see nothing. To one side are the tall, faint shapes of curtained windows. In the air, just detectible, is the scent of lilies. Or perhaps it's Kira's scent.

            'Villanelle.' The voice is a man's. A gravelly, smoker's voice.

            'Do I know you?'

            'Unlikely. But your reputation precedes you. So, an acquaintanceship of a kind.'

            'I'm listening.' Again, that impression of silent presences watching her from beyond the lights.

            'As our associate told you, the man and woman you met at Apokalipsis were not our people.'

            'Go on.'

            'Our enquiries suggest that they were British intelligence officers.'

            'OK.'

            'Did this occur to you?'

            'Many things occurred to me.'

            'MI6 is not kindly disposed towards you, Villanelle. They want their officer back. And now it appears that they've got her.'

            'I see.'

            'Long-term, Mrs Polastri's presence here was always going to be problematical. I'm sure you can understand that.'

            'Are you going to help me get her back?'

            'To Russia? No.'

            The beating of Villanelle's heart seems to resonate. She can hear herself breathing. 'So what are you saying?'

            'Tell us more about your conversation at the club.'

            'They called themselves Max and Maria. They said, or strongly implied, that they were from the Twelve.'

            'You believed them?'

            'I neither believed or disbelieved them. They certainly weren't like anyone from the Twelve I'd ever dealt with. Too... flippant.'

            'What did they want?'

            Villanelle is able to recall every word of the conversation at Apokalipsis. When she's finished there's such a long silence that she wonders if her questioner has left the room.

            The door opens. 'I've been told to take you out for an hour,' Kira says. 'They need to process.' She leads Villanelle to the elevator.

            Outside, the light is fading. They find a café, sit at a pavement table, and order hamburgers and beer. A guy walks past them, and looks back. Meeting two basilisk stares, he moves on.

            'Skinny jeans,' Villanelle murmurs.

            'I know. Tragic.'

            They sit in silence as dusk falls. 'So how do you fit in here?' Villanelle asks.

            'I'm a researcher most of the time. Historian by training.'

            'Any particular period?'

            'Late Tsarist.'

            'Interesting.' Villanelle mirrors Kira's smile. 'I like your ankle boots.'

            'My boyfriend doesn't like them. He says they're clumpy and unfeminine.'

            'You wear them for him, or for you?'

            'For me. Totally.'

            'So what's he do, this boyfriend?'

            'He's, er... Actually, I'm not sure right now.' She waits as the food and drinks are arranged on the small table. 'He used to work with me, but when we told our supervisor about our relationship he was moved to a different directorate. What about-'

            'Me?'

            'Actually, forget it. Sorry. I was told not to ask you stuff like that.'

            'It's complicated. How's your burger?'

            'Mmm.' Kira angles her face for a bite, and barbecue sauce splashes on her bare knee. 'Delicious but messy.'

            Villanelle swipes the sauce from Kira's leg with a finger, which she then pops into her mouth. 'All the best things are.'

Back in the darkened room, she takes her place on the chair facing the lights.

            'We want you to go along with the MI6 plan,' the gravelly Russian voice orders. 'You will give the impression that you have bought their false-flag recruitment in its entirety, but you'll be reporting back to us. Names, places, operational details, everything.'

            'So I should kill Ron Tiberius?'

            'Yes. The world will be a cleaner place without him.'

            'And in return you are offering me... What exactly?'

            'A return to our previous arrangement, with the same benefits.'

            'That's what Max and Maria offered.'

            'No doubt. But we are in a position to deliver on our promise. Additionally, we will use our people at MI6 to locate Mrs Polastri.'

            'And return her to me?'

            'No. She must stay in their hands until your association with them is concluded. We cannot be seen to intervene on your behalf.'

            'She's very important to me.'

            'So we understand.'

            'And if she's hurt, harmed... Any of that TQ bullshit, seriously, all deals are off.'

            'The British are a pragmatic people. I doubt they'll subject her to tactical questioning or any other kind of hard interrogation. They're going to need her co-operation, and they're going to need yours. She's their bargaining chip.'

            'So why me? Why can't they do this Tiberius guy themselves?'

            'Because the moment he's dead the conspiracy theorists are going to be all over this. If there's a British link, however tenuous, they'll run with it, and these days that's as damaging as outright proof of involvement.'

            'So I just wait for them to contact me?'

            'You wait.'

The story continues…