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  Charlie loads, the snick of the AX’s bolt action barely audible, and settles themself, while I briefly aim the Leupold scope at snow-covered bushes five hundred meters away. There’s not a tremor, not a flutter of a leaf. We have perfect, windless conditions.

  I try to calm my heart. Breathe in, hold for four counts. Breathe out, hold for four counts. Breathe in… It’s not working. My heart’s punching my ribs, my mouth is dry, and my neck aches from peering through the Leupold. I scan the target area. The walkway outside the theater has been cleared of people. The left and right entrance doors have been closed. A deputation of three men and a woman waits by the center door.

  “Can you confirm head-shot range on that middle door?” Charlie asks me.

  “Seven hundred and fourteen point nine.”

  “Targets approaching. Two minutes from destination.”

  I sense Charlie settling into the weapon, stock to shoulder, cheek to cheekpiece, eye to scope. I can hear their slow, controlled breathing through the headset.

  “Car has stopped. Prepare to execute.”

  Stechkin is out first, and stands beside the car door for a second as Loy steps out after him. Then both are obscured by bodyguards as they approach the entrance and climb the side steps. “Wait until the door,” I tell Charlie. “They’ll stop to shake hands.”

  Behind the pillars, the group moves fast. Through the scope I catch glimpses of Stechkin, with his asymmetrical gunslinger gait, and the implausible blond swirl of Loy’s hair. As they approach the delegation at the door both men halt. Stechkin’s profile is in clear sight.

  “Send it,” I murmur, my voice weirdly calm, but Stechkin slips from view. From below us, partially muted by the headset, comes a sound like fireworks, and then there’s a thump of feet on the stairs. I freeze, Charlie turns, and a burst of automatic fire smashes into their chest. Behind us, weapons leveled, are three men in FSB combat dress. From behind them steps a fourth and obviously female figure, in a black ski jacket and ski mask. Approaching Charlie, who is writhing and gasping in a spreading pool of blood, she pulls off her ski mask and draws her Makarov handgun. “This is for Kristina, bitch,” she says, and fires a single round between Charlie’s eyes. She watches them die, then looks at me bleakly. “Eve.”

  “Dasha.”

  The three FSB men help me to my feet. I’m shaking so much I can hardly stand, and when we’re joined in the overcrowded octagonal room by Vadim Tikhomirov, I just stare at him.

  “Dead?” Tikhomirov asks Dasha, indicating Charlie, and she nods.

  “Then we’re square,” he tells her.

  “We’re square,” says Dasha, unzipping her jacket, holstering her gun, and giving me a tight, pale smile. “Thank you all, and goodbye.”

  Tikhomirov inclines his head. “Goodbye, Miss Kvariani.”

  As she’s leaving, Tikhomirov’s phone sounds. He listens for a minute, mutters something inaudible, and shakes his head.

  “Where’s Vorontsova?” he asks me.

  “I don’t know.”

  “We thought we’d worked out where the second firing point was. I’ve got a team there right now, but there’s no one there.”

  She’s alive, I tell myself. She’s alive.

  “The good news is that Loy and Stechkin are safely inside the theater,” he goes on.

  “How did you know they were the Twelve’s targets?” I ask him.

  “They had to be. I knew as soon as I got your report. For which thanks, by the way. You were brave and brilliant, and I could not have asked more of you.” He reaches out his hand, and mindful of the sad, bloodied figure of Charlie on the floor in front of us I shake it.

  “And now, while my men clear this place up, I should get you to a place of safety.”

  I follow him down the stairs, past the lifeless body of Tolya. When we reach the ground floor he opens a door for me, and then, frowning, closes it again.

  “Let’s suppose, just for the sake of argument, that there is no second firing point. That the whole idea of two sniper teams is, and always has been, a ruse. A diversion, sold to you in the knowledge that you might be an FSB plant. What then?”

  I attempt to pull my shocked and scattered thoughts together. “Two things, I guess. First, that your intervention here has proved them right, that I was an informer, and second…”

  “Go on, Eve.”

  “Second, that…”

  His voice hardens. “Say it.”

  I whisper it. “That the real attack is happening somewhere else.”

  “Exactly. And there’s only one place that’s likely to be. Where the intended victims are. The Bolshoi Theatre.”

  Taking my wrist, he leads me more or less forcibly into a dark, arched passageway, and from there through a massive, studded door into Red Square. It’s jammed, and the dazzle of the lights, the blare of pop music and the acrid smell of fireworks envelop me in an instant. Tikhomirov pulls me through the crowd past a set of road barriers, to where a black SUV with FSB insignia is waiting. His assistant, Dima, is at the wheel.

  “Teatralnaya,” Tikhomirov orders. “Go fast.”

  12

  Even with the sirens howling, and some very aggressive driving on Dima’s part, it takes us almost ten minutes to reach the front of the theater. The entrance doors are closed, and the sumptuous foyer is silent except for the sotto voce chatter of the front-of-house staff, who surround us officiously as we enter and then stand back respectfully when Tikhomirov identifies himself. He makes a call, and thirty seconds later two FSB officers in dress uniforms hurry down the central staircase, salute, and assure him that all is well, and that all the appropriate security measures are in place. Tikhomirov looks unconvinced and summons one of the theater managers to take us into the auditorium.

  We’re led up a short flight of steps to a horseshoe-shaped corridor with numbered doors. “These are the lower boxes,” the manager explains, opening the furthermost door. “And this box is always kept in reserve. You’re welcome to use it for the duration of the performance.” He withdraws, as unctuous as a courtier, and I look about me. The box is tiny, and upholstered in scarlet. Tchaikovsky’s music soars from the orchestra pit, while on stage a Christmas party is in progress, with the dancers in Victorian-era costumes. It’s all so captivating that I momentarily forget why we’re here.

  Beside me I sense Tikhomirov relax. On the far side of the stage, in a larger, much grander box, all swagged velvet and gold tassels, sit Stechkin and Loy. Stechkin looks inscrutable, Loy appears to be asleep.

  “Wait here,” Tikhomirov whispers. “Sit down.”

  He’s back two minutes later. “It’s all fine. There are two armed officers outside the presidential box. Nobody can get in.”

  I nod. I’m shattered. I’d love to close my eyes and drown in the music, but part of me is wondering, as Tikhomirov is surely wondering, where Oxana is. If Charlie and I were the diversion, what was the plan?

  The first act comes to an end, the curtain falls, and the house lights come up. Opposite us Stechkin stands and guides Loy out of sight.

  “There’s a private reception room attached to the presidential box,” Tikhomirov says. “They won’t be disturbed there.”

  “I’m sure they’ve got plenty to talk about.”

  He rolls his eyes and smiles wearily. “No shit.”

  We remain in our seats. Tikhomirov keeps a phone connection open to his officers, but they have nothing to report. He begins to tap his foot and, eventually, he stands. “Shall we walk?”

  “Sure.”

  We leave the box and make our way around the long, curved corridor. It’s slow going; the passage is narrow and crowded, and several of the patrons are elderly. Halfway round we encounter the house manager, who is speaking irritably into his phone.

  “Anything wrong?” Tikhomirov asks.

  “Nothing unusual. A woman has locked herself in a toilet stall and passed out, apparently drunk.”

  “Where?”

  “In the lad
ies’ restroom, downstairs.”

  “Take us there, please. Hurry.”

  Anxious to oblige, the manager leads us down to the foyer, where a harassed-looking attendant is waiting.

  “Show me,” says Tikhomirov.

  The restroom is crowded with female patrons, through whom Tikhomirov barges unceremoniously. A bell sounds over the theater’s PA system and a voice announces that the curtain will rise on Act 2 of The Nutcracker in five minutes. When we reach the locked stall, Tikhomirov puts a broad shoulder to the door and breaks the lock. Inside, a young woman is slumped on the floor. She looks well off, with fine-boned features, little or no makeup and an expensive haircut. As the manager and I hover behind him, Tikhomirov puts his nose to her mouth, and rolls up one of her eyelids. Over the loudspeaker, the three-minute bell sounds.

  “Well, she’s not drunk, and this isn’t an overdose.” He rifles through her pockets. “And what’s more, she hasn’t got any bag, money or identifying documents on her. Do you recognize her?”

  “No,” I say, truthfully. “I’ve never seen her before.”

  What I don’t tell Tikhomirov is that the clothes the woman is wearing, the black jeans, gray sweater, and gray-black Moncler camouflage jacket, are identical to those Oxana was wearing when she left the building this morning. I pray that I don’t look as sick and faint as I feel.

  The one-minute bell sounds and Tikhomirov frowns. “What was that you said to me earlier?”

  “When?”

  “Ten minutes ago. About Stechkin and Loy.”

  “That they… had plenty to talk about?”

  “Yes. Yes!” He gets to his feet, ignoring the unconscious woman and the manager, and runs for the exit, dragging me after him. “Come on, Eve. Run.”

  We tear through the gilded foyer, up the stairs, past ushers and program sellers, and back into the corridor serving the boxes. It’s almost deserted now; all the patrons have taken their seats for Act 2. At the right-hand end of the corridor, two bulky FSB officers stand outside the door to the presidential anteroom and box. They salute when they see Tikhomirov.

  “No one’s gone in, General,” one of them says. “Not a soul.”

  “Never mind that,” Tikhomirov barks. “Has anyone come out?”

  “Only the interpreter, sir.”

  “Sweet Jesus. Open the doors.”

  The four of us burst into the anteroom. It’s bright scarlet with a ceiling of tented silk. There’s a drinks table, holding open bottles of champagne and malt whisky, and three silk-upholstered chairs. Two of these are empty, the third holds the seated body of Valery Stechkin. He’s dead, his neck wrenched unnaturally sideways, and his mouth gaping in a horrible simulacrum of pleasure. The body of the American president, meanwhile, has been arranged in a kneeling posture in front of his Russian counterpart. Loy’s neck is also broken and his head has been positioned, face down, in Stechkin’s crotch. For several long seconds the four of us stare, incredulous, at the last and greatest work of the artist formerly known as Villanelle.

  “Find her,” Tikhomirov whispers to the two men. “Find the fucking interpreter.”

  He closes the door on the dead presidents, pulls out his phone and starts giving orders. Other FSB men arrive at a run and are dispatched around the building. After a few minutes Tikhomirov lowers his phone and stares at me. “Eve, you need to go. Find Dima. He’s in the car outside. He’ll take you somewhere safe. Go now.”

  It’s like walking in a dream, or a nightmare. The corridor seems to last forever, my steps noiseless on the scarlet carpet. As I step out onto the mezzanine floor the orchestra is playing “The Waltz of the Flowers.” My parents had a scratchy old record of The Nutcracker.

  Then there’s shouting, as six FSB men burst into the foyer from the direction of the orchestra stalls. At their center, writhing and kicking, is a female figure in a dark suit. It’s Oxana and she’s fighting for her life. A rifle butt smashes into her head but she fights on, her face bloody, teeth bared like an animal, and with a furious twist of her body manages to wriggle out of the suit jacket that two of the men are holding and sprints for the main door. She makes it, and hurtles down the steps toward the square. Very calmly one of the FSB men steps into the open doorway, raises his rifle and fires an aimed burst. The rounds hit Oxana between the shoulders—spots of red on the white shirt—lifting her momentarily before pitching her onto her face in the wet snow. I try to run to her, screaming now, but my feet won’t carry me, hands hold me back, and all that I see is the dark, unfurling flower of her blood.

  Of what follows, my memory’s fractured. I remember being bundled into a vehicle by men carrying guns, and driven fast through the city. I remember it being very cold when we reached our destination, and being hurried across a courtyard and up a flight of stairs into a small room with an iron bed. I remember letting go. Submitting, finally, to the knowledge that I’m breaking apart.

  It’s not only Oxana, although it will always be only Oxana. It’s the things I’ve seen and done. I followed her into the mir teney, the shadow world, not realizing that I couldn’t survive there, that unlike her I couldn’t breathe its poisoned air. I remember, so clearly, the sensation of riding away with her on the volcano-gray Ducati. Of fitting myself to her back, of holding her tight as we flew into the night. I’d never encountered anyone so dangerous, or so lethally reckless, but she was the only person in the world with whom I felt safe. And now that she’s gone, there’s nothing left of me.

  Oh my love. My Villanelle.

  When I finally start to weep, I can’t stop.

  13

  An hour after sunrise I’m brought food and coffee on a tray by Dima, Tikhomirov’s assistant. He doesn’t speak, instead he moves quietly and swiftly. Looking out of the window I recognize the courtyard below and realize that I am inside the Lubyanka complex, the headquarters of the FSB. The door to my room is unlocked; there’s a corridor outside with a bathroom, and stairs leading downwards, but I don’t go further than the bathroom. I spend the day curled up on the bed, staring at the rooftops and the falling snow. Later, a man in civilian clothes comes in and gives me an injection, following which I sleep deeply. On the second day a female doctor comes in, asks me to undress, and subjects me to a medical examination. I spend a second day lying on the bed, too tired and numbed to think. In the evening there’s another injection, and the soft rush into forgetting.

  The next morning Dima arrives with my breakfast and stands by the door, his arms folded, as I eat and drink.

  “You’re going on a driving trip,” he tells me. “To Perm, fifteen hundred kilometers away. You will be on the road for two days.”

  “Why?” I ask. “And why Perm?”

  “You need to leave Moscow. It’s too dangerous here, and you will be in safe hands. Also…” He looks at me sympathetically. “We thought you might like to see the city where Miss Vorontsova grew up.”

  No such thought has occurred to me but I nod blankly. I have to go somewhere, and it might as well be Perm as anywhere else. Dima takes my breakfast tray, and returns shortly afterward carrying a suitcase and a winter coat. The suitcase contains new but nondescript clothes, washing things, and a plastic folder of documents.

  An hour later I’m sitting in the passenger seat of an unmarked 4x4 vehicle, some kind of Lada, beside a plain-clothes officer. Alexei, as he introduces himself, doesn’t say much, but radiates tough, unhurried competence. As he swings the Lada through the narrow, slushy streets east of Lubyanka Square he conducts a speakerphone conversation with a woman named Vika, telling her that he will be away on official business for four days, and asking her to take Archie to the vet if his limp persists.

  Twenty minutes later we are on a motorway, headed east. The windscreen wipers thump back and forth, and a snow-blurred landscape rolls past, dull gray and frozen white.

  “Music?” Alexei suggests, and I turn on the radio, which is tuned to a classical station. A violin concerto is playing, all spun-sugar romanticism, not my
sort of thing at all, but I feel the tears running down my cheeks. Alexei affects not to notice. “Glazunov,” he murmurs, transferring a packet of cigarettes from his tunic pocket to the glove compartment. “Heifetz recording.”

  As the movement ends I wipe my eyes and blow my nose on a tissue, sniffing loudly. “I’m sorry,” I say.

  He glances at me. “Please. I don’t know the details, but General Tikhomirov told us that you did a brave thing for us. A brave thing for Russia.”

  Seriously? What the fuck did he tell them?

  “Undercover work is hard,” he says, speeding up to overtake a line of slow-moving vehicles. “It’s stressful. We are in your debt.”

  “Thank you,” I reply. It seems wisest to leave it at that.

  Warm cars always make me sleepy. After a time I close my eyes, and dream of Oxana, rising up out of the steamy Shanghai street, with her cobra gaze fixed on me. I try to reach her but the pinprick of monsoon rain quickly becomes the slap of bullets into our flesh. We fall into the North Sea, and there, suspended in the icy half-dark, are Charlie, Anton, Kris in her velvet coat, and a naked and gray-lipped Azmat Dzabrati, all of them watching as the currents draw us apart until only our fingers are touching, and Oxana drifts into invisibility. I try to call after her, but the seawater rushes into my mouth, and I wake up.

  Alexei tells me that I’ve been asleep for more than three hours. We stop at a service station for sandwiches, coffee and Milka chocolate. Then Alexei fills the Lada with diesel, takes his cigarettes from the glove compartment, and hands me a loaded Glock. “Five minutes, OK?”

  “Sure. Am I in danger?”

  “Not at all. But I agreed not to leave you unarmed and unprotected until we reach Perm.”

  “Right.” I pocket the Glock, go for a pee in the foul, frozen toilet, and wonder about shooting myself, as I did in Dasha’s apartment. Is this my future? Moving from place to place, never settling, never resting, never forgetting? That afternoon we drive for a further six hours in a hissing column of trucks and cars. To either side of the motorway an endless vista of snowbound plains and shadowed forests unrolls beneath cloud-packed skies. At intervals we pass small administrative settlements.