Die for Me Read online

  Dinner is in a suite overlooking the river. The decor is Stalinist neoclassical with a twist, and we’re shown to our places by suited waiters with a distinct paramilitary air. I’m seated between Lara and Anton, which presents an interesting conversational challenge, and Oxana is opposite me next to Richard. Oxana and I are both underdressed for our surroundings, but then we didn’t exactly ask to be here.

  “This is all deeply weird,” I say to Anton, and he shrugs.

  “It’s Russia,” he replies. “A theater where the play is rewritten every day. And the cast change roles mid-performance.”

  “So what role are you playing right now?”

  “A small but necessary one. A spear carrier. And what about you, Mrs. Polastri?”

  “Given that you’ve tried to have me killed three times now, I think you can probably call me Eve, don’t you?”

  “Very well.” He pauses as a waiter pours wine into his glass. “So, Eve, may I ask you, how does it feel to be running with the hounds rather than the hare?”

  “To be honest, I was hoping to avoid the hunt altogether.”

  “Too late. You left that option behind you when you murdered Asmat Dzabrati.” He smiles. “Yes, we know all about that.”

  “I see.” The stitches in my back are throbbing angrily. The wound feels raw and jagged.

  “You think you’re different from the rest of us, Eve, but you’re not.” He takes an exploratory sip of his wine. “This is really good. Try some.”

  “I’m afraid that if I drink so much as a drop, I’m going to pass out. It’s been the most traumatic day of my life, starting with the moment when Lara shot Kristina dead, thinking that she was me.”

  “That’s exactly why you need a glass of this excellent Romanian Chardonnay.”

  I touch the heavy crystal glass to my lips for politeness’ sake, and take a deep, cold swallow. Anton’s right, it’s delicious.

  “I wasn’t always a soldier,” he continues. “My first love was literature, especially Shakespeare, so I appreciate a moral dilemma. I’m not like your lady friend over there, devoid of feeling and thought.”

  “You don’t know her,” I say, surreptitiously necking a couple of painkillers with the wine.

  “Oh but I do, Eve. I do know her. And I know exactly how she works. She’s like a clockwork toy you can take apart and put back together over and over again. She’s entirely predictable, which is what makes her so useful. Enjoy her all you want, but don’t make the mistake of thinking she’ll ever be human.”

  I’m saved from replying by the arrival of the first course. “Scallops from Okhotsk,” murmurs the waiter before slipping a porcelain plateful in front of me.

  “Wow,” says Lara, squeezing a lemon segment over their scallops with such force that juice squirts in my eye. “Oh fuck. Shit.” They dab at my face with their napkin. “First that girl this morning and now this. It’s not our day, is it?”

  “How long have you been, um, gender non-binary?” I ask them.

  Lara brightens. “Since I was in England, a few months ago. Have you ever been to Chipping Norton?”

  “Never. My loss, I’m sure.”

  “I was an au pair there with a family. The Weadle-Smythes. I looked after their daughters. Fifteen-year-old twins.”

  “How did that go?”

  “It was really nice. The father was only there at weekends; he was a Conservative MP with a red face who spent almost all of his time in London. He had a girlfriend there, some sort of prostitute I think, but his wife didn’t mind because it meant that she could sit up all night watching Netflix. And Celia and Emma were so sweet. They used to take me out with them in the evening. We’d go to the local pub, get drunk, and then go dog-fighting.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes, they were a very traditional, upper-class family. The girls asked me if I had a boyfriend back in Russia, and obviously I said no. I explained that I worked in this quite macho world—I was vague about what I actually did—and I didn’t think of myself as girly and feminine, and didn’t like to be treated that way. So they said why didn’t I change my pronouns, which was kind of funny since I was sent there to improve my English. So I did.”

  “How did that go down with the parents?”

  “The mother was like ‘why are you referring to Lara as “they,” girls? She hasn’t split in two’ and the father rolled his eyes and talked about the ‘PC Brigade,’ so yeah. And then suddenly I was called back here to Moscow to…” Their hand flies to their mouth. “Shit, you won’t believe it. I was going to say that I was called back to shoot some woman, but then I remembered that the woman was you.”

  “Small world. And you missed.”

  “You ducked.”

  “Was that cheating?”

  “You’re so funny. Oxana always said I have no sense of humor.”

  “I’m sure you have other wonderful qualities.” Watching them chomping the scallops, I’m reminded of Oxana’s comment about their jaws.

  “Yes, many. But we’re quits now, yes? I tried to shoot you—”

  “Twice.”

  “OK, twice. But you took my girlfriend.”

  “She was never yours, Lara, she was always mine.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Yes it is. Tell me more about the gender thing.”

  “Yes, tell us about it,” says Anton, overhearing. “What is all that about? I mean, you do a man’s job, and nobody makes an issue about it, so what’s the problem?”

  “Why is shooting people with a rifle and telescopic sights a man’s job?” asks Lara, spearing another scallop. “Anyone can learn to do it. I’m fed up with being called a female sniper. I’m just a sniper. A torpedo. I don’t want the bullshit that comes with people thinking of me as a woman.”

  “Or the privileges?”

  “What privileges? Men staring at my tits and talking to me like I’m stupid?”

  “No one talks to you like you’re stupid,” says Richard, who’s been listening to these exchanges. “People think you’re clever because you have the best of both worlds. You’re treated with respect as an elite assassin, and also admired as a very spectacular young woman.” He raises his glass to her with creepy gallantry.

  Lara regards him doubtfully. “You can say what you like, but my pronouns are my pronouns. If you don’t use them I’m not shooting anyone. I’m going to change my name, too.”

  “You’re not becoming a vegetarian, are you?” asks Anton.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  The waiter announces the second course. My Russian vocabulary isn’t wide when it comes to the larger mammals, but it’s something like elk or reindeer. Something that once had antlers, and has now been reduced to dark, bloody steaks in a red berry sauce. Our glasses are exchanged for larger ones and charged with Georgian wine that’s so easy to drink I need a refill almost immediately. On the other side of the table Oxana, animated by the morning’s slaughter, is on sparkling form. She meets Richard’s condescension with demure flirtatiousness, studiously ignores Anton, stares lasciviously at Lara, and shoots tender, soft-eyed glances at me. It’s a performance, a chance to run through her repertoire of learned responses.

  When I was a teenager my parents had a cat, a beautiful, murderous creature called Violet, although Violent would have been a better name, who presented them daily with bloodied and dying voles, mice and small birds. I hated the sight of these heartbreaking little tributes, and begged my parents to put a bell on Violet, or give her more food at home, but they were having none of it. “It’s just how cats are,” they told me. “It’s instinctive. She needs to hunt.” Violet died as brutally as she’d lived, under the wheels of a speeding car at night, and looking back on the years she spent with us I think my parents not only tolerated their cat’s savage ways, but were secretly gratified by them. Violet’s behavior was in some sense authentic and enabled them to feel superior to city folk who preferred to avert their eyes from nature’s darker realities. I unde
rstand my parents better now. Oxana, red in tooth and claw, is my Violet. She is how the world is, when you look at it without blinking, or flinching. She needs to hunt.

  Richard taps his glass with his knife, and I open my eyes. I’m so tired, so utterly exhausted, it’s as much as I can do to stop myself sliding under the table. “Can we all just stand up a moment and walk to the window?” Richard asks.

  Lara helps me to my feet. They seem to believe that we’re pals now.

  Loosening his tie, Richard starts to talk. With an expansive sweep of his arm, he indicates the blazing expanse of the city. After the dilapidated grandeur of St. Petersburg, Moscow is fortress-like and monolithic. It’s impressive, but too inhuman in scale to be beautiful. I feel myself swaying. Lara steadies me with a hand on my arm.

  “Everything that you see before you is dead or dying,” Richard says. “Nothing works. There are no big political ideas, no great leaders, nothing to give people hope. I’m not just talking about Russia, but Russia is the perfect illustration of what I’m saying. Everything that people value, everything that once made them proud, belongs to the past. Communism was flawed as a system, but there was an ideal there, once upon a time. An aspiration. People understood that they were part of something, however imperfect. Now there is nothing. Nothing except the systematic looting of the nation’s assets by a rapacious, self-appointed elite.”

  His words have the sheen of frequent usage. He’s spoken them before, perhaps many times. Oxana is listening with a slight frown on her face, Anton is expressionless, and Lara, who has let go of my arm, is examining their fingernails.

  Sensing my eye on them, Lara inclines toward me. “What do you think of the name Charlie?” they whisper. “I really like it. Oxana was codenamed Charlie on the Odessa job and I was super-jealous.”

  “It’s nice. Suits you.”

  “So what does the Twelve propose?” Richard continues, turning away from the window to face us. “What have all our plans and strategies been leading up to? A new world, nothing less. We put the corrupt old men out of their misery, and we rebuild.”

  “He likes to talk, doesn’t he?” Lara murmurs.

  “Mmm.”

  “You really think Charlie suits me?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “The old dies, the new is born. That’s how history works. A golden age comes to pass—an era of prosperity, nobility and wisdom—and then over the course of millennia things decline until that golden age is just a folk memory, a set of half-understood stories, a vague longing for what has been lost. And that’s where we are now. Feeling our way through the darkness.”

  “Not Alex?”

  “No. Charlie’s perfect.”

  “You’re right. Everyone’s called Alex.”

  “But we can find it again, that golden age, because history is cyclic. All that is needed is a few good people. Men and women with the vision to see that the old must be destroyed to make way for the new, and the courage to do it.”

  Richard’s voice continues its urbane flow. I read somewhere that Etonians learn a skill called “oiling,” which is the art of courteously, but firmly, persuading others to your point of view. Richard is oiling us now, but his words are beginning to run together. I pull out my chair, and as I lower myself to the cushioned seat Oxana flicks an irritated glance at me. I’m not very drunk, but I feel heavy-limbed and uncoordinated. It’s as much as I can do not to lie down under the dining table and close my eyes.

  “And that, my friends, is where we come in,” Richard says. “We are the advance guard of the new age. And we’re not alone. All over the world there are people like ourselves, aristocrats of the spirit, waiting for the moment to strike. But our task is perhaps the hardest, and the most dangerous. With one decisive action, we have to set the whole process in motion. And so I ask you all—Villanelle, Eve, Lara, and of course you Anton, old friend—are you with us? Are you ready to go down in history?”

  Oxana nods.

  Anton narrows his pale gaze. “All the way.”

  “Sure,” says Lara. “But from now on it’s Charlie. Lara is my deadname.”

  Richard gives her the ghost of a bow. “Very well, Charlie it is. Eve, you look… uncertain.”

  “It’s been a long day. But let me get this right. This morning you seemed quite anxious to end my life, and now you want me to join your team?”

  “Why not? We could use your input. And correct me if I’m wrong, but I sense that you would welcome the challenge of a new world order. The old one didn’t do a great deal for you, after all.”

  “You’re sure I’m not too… what was it you called me this morning? Ordinary?”

  “Eve, we were all in a different place this morning. I think you’re exceptional.”

  I shrug. “OK.”

  As if I had the ghost of a choice.

  Somehow, the meal draws to a close, and Oxana steers me back to her room. I can hardly place one foot in front of the other. Oxana’s snoring within a couple of minutes, her arms out-thrown, her mouth wide open, but I’m so tired that I can’t sleep. The stitches don’t help. The painkillers and the wine have kicked in, reducing the pain to a hot, dull throb, but I still get a warning stab if I move too suddenly.

  What have I agreed to? Is any one of us going to get out alive? From Richard’s apocalyptic tone, and his talk of the danger of the mission, I would guess not. None of the foot soldiers, anyway. Richard himself, of course, is another matter. If one thing is certain it’s that when the smoke clears he’ll still be standing there, Old Etonian tie knotted, urbane smile in place.

  And yet I said yes. Whatever the project involves, it must surely include the murder of at least one prominent figure. It seems strange that Richard should want me to be part of the team. He probably just wants me on board to keep Oxana happy, or as a way of controlling her.

  It’s weird. On the one hand I know that Richard’s speech is brassy, echoing bullshit. That all this talk of golden ages and spiritual rebirth is just cover for what will undoubtedly turn out to be one more squalid political coup. On the other hand, there’s something perversely thrilling about being locked into a conspiracy with Oxana. For all its horror, this is her world. I knew that when I abandoned my own. And was it really so ridiculous, Richard’s talk of destruction and rebirth? Hadn’t I done the same thing myself? Destroyed my old life to make way for my truer, darker self?

  I turn over in bed at the same time as Oxana and we collide in a confusion of limbs.

  “Go to sleep, stupid,” she murmurs blearily.

  “I’m kind of terrified,” I tell her. “And my back hurts.”

  “I know.”

  “They’re going to kill us. They’re just making us do one last job for them first.”

  “Probably.”

  “What do you mean, probably?”

  The bedclothes shift as she raises herself on one elbow. “I mean that you have to live in the present, pchelka. I’ve told you this before. Right now, we’re fine, and we need to sleep. You especially. Tomorrow, when we’ve cleared our heads, we’ll make a plan.”

  “Aren’t you afraid?”

  “How do you mean? Of what?”

  “Of everything that might happen.”

  “No. I’m not afraid. We’ll find out soon enough what they want from us, then we can figure out our next move. Right now they need us, and that’s all that matters.”

  I reach out in the dark and feel her face. The line of her cheek and her mouth. I touch her lips and she bites my finger. “You’re enjoying this,” I say. “We’re on this insane death ride, totally out of control, and…”

  I feel her shrug. “You know what I am. Read the textbooks. They’ll tell you that people like me are very bad at processing threat.”

  “Is that true?”

  “No, it’s bullshit. What’s true is that we don’t get fucked up. We stay calm and focused. We get our sleep, and we live to fight another day.”

  “So you’ve read psychopathy textbooks?”
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  “Of course. All the so-called important ones. They’re actually quite funny. All those creepy guys desperately trying to figure us out. You know, don’t you, that all the case studies are male? They just assume that female psychopaths work the same way.”

  “They get it wrong?”

  “All the time.”

  “Give me an example.”

  She yawns. “Like, for a start, they say psychopaths aren’t capable of falling in love.”

  “And are they?”

  “Of course they are. I mean, I love you, baby bee.”

  I can’t speak. Oxana reaches out and I feel her hand close over my heart. “Listen to you,” she says. “Boom, boom, boom. You’re so sweet.”

  “Why didn’t you say?”

  “Why didn’t you say, dumbass? You do love me, don’t you?”

  “I… yes, of course I do.”

  “Well then, there we go. Now turn over, so that I can spoon into you, and go to sleep.”

  Breakfast, by unspoken agreement, is conducted in near silence, the only sound in the dining room the murmur of the waiters as they dispense joltingly strong coffee. We all take the same places as the night before. Outside the snow flies past the windows, caught in the rogue currents surrounding the building. Looking out, as I pile my plate with scrambled eggs and salmon caviar, I can barely see the ground. Just the black sweep of the highway and the gray-green curve of the river.

  Oxana chooses the same dishes as me and stares fixedly in front of her as she eats. She’s in a wretched mood. When we woke up this morning, our bodies entwined, she extricated herself with fastidious distaste before dressing in a whirlwind fury. It was as if I revolted her, as if she couldn’t bear to be naked in front of me. All that I can do is avoid her gaze and wish myself elsewhere.

  I know what’s going on. In saying that she loves me Oxana thinks she’s gone too far, so she’s trying to unsay it by hating me. And it’s working. Charlie looks at us as if keen to talk, but on seeing our expressions turns away and starts carefully spreading themself successive squares of toast and apricot jam. Beside them, Anton devours soft, flaky pastries.