Die for Me Page 3

  What this meant in practical terms was that she became a paid assassin for the Twelve. Orlov supervised her training, and later became her handler, installing her in the apartment in Paris, and at intervals dispatching her on kill missions.

  Villanelle loved her new life. The airy apartment overlooking the Bois de Boulogne, the money, the beautiful clothes. She even made a friend, a wealthy young woman named Anne-Laure, with whom she shared lunches at fashionable restaurants, shopping trips and occasional ménages à trois. I think that what she loved even more than this gilded existence, though, was the secret thrill of knowing that she wasn’t the person the world thought she was. When she looked in the mirror, she saw not a chic young socialite, but a dark angel, a bringer of death. She was addicted as much to the secrecy as to the killing itself.

  She still is. She doesn’t tell me her plans for when we get to Russia because withholding this knowledge gives her power over me. Whether I can persuade her to relax her grip, I don’t know. I hope so, because if we can’t trust each other we’re not going to make it.

  I’m not the person I was. The events of the last week have shown me the shadow self I’ve always denied, and forced me to hear the backbeat I’ve always pretended wasn’t there. All my certainties have evaporated. Villanelle has deleted them.

  “Fuck’s sake, Villanelle.”

  “What?”

  “You kicked me literally all night.”

  “You farted all night.”

  “I didn’t. You’re just making that up.”

  “I’m not. It’s because you don’t shit.”

  “Right, you’re a doctor now?”

  “Eve, since we left London you haven’t shitted once.”

  “Shat.”

  “Past tense of shit is shat? You’re shitting me.”

  “Funny girl. Yes, it’s irregular.”

  “Like you, pupsik. And you know why you haven’t shat for a week? Because you’re repressed.”

  “A psychologist, too. This is fascinating.”

  “You’re embarrassed. So you hold it in.”

  “I do no such fucking thing.”

  “You should kill a few people. Get it out of your system. Then you mightn’t be so uptight about shitting in front of your girlfriend.”

  “Say that again.”

  “Say what again?”

  “Girlfriend.”

  “Girlfriend. Girlfriend, girlfriend, girlfriend. Enough?”

  “No. Never stop.”

  “You’re so whipped.”

  “I know. Come here.”

  The last night in the container is the worst. The wind screams across our bow, pounding against the container stacks so that they creak and groan. In the darkness, my hunger pangs and the vessel’s pitch and roll join forces to nauseating effect. I draw my knees up against my chest and lie open-eyed as acid rises into my throat. Then I’m on my hands and knees, retching uncontrollably, but there’s nothing in my stomach to come up. The wind continues its assault for hours, until my body is wrung out and my throat raw from dry heaving.

  Throughout it all, Villanelle says not one word, makes not a single sympathetic gesture. A touch would do it, but none is forthcoming. I don’t know if she’s asleep or awake, angry or indifferent. She’s just not there. I feel so utterly abandoned that I half-expect to find myself alone when the morning comes, if it ever comes.

  Somehow, I drift off. When I wake an unquantifiable time later the wind has dropped, my stomach cramps have gone, and Villanelle’s sleeping body is warm against my back. I lie there unmoving, her arm heavy on mine, her breath whistling across my ear. Careful not to wake her, I maneuver myself into a position where I can see my watch. It’s gone 6 a.m., Baltic time. Outside the day is dawning, cold and dangerous.

  Finally, Villanelle stirs, yawns, stretches like a cat, and buries her face in my hair. “Are you OK? You sounded awful last night.”

  “You were awake? Why didn’t you say anything? I thought I was going to die.”

  “You weren’t going to die, pupsik, you were seasick. There was nothing I could say to make you feel better, so I went to sleep.”

  “I felt alone.”

  “I was right here.”

  “Couldn’t you have said something?”

  “What should I have said?”

  “Fuck, I don’t know, Villanelle. Just something to tell me that you knew how I was feeling?”

  “But I didn’t know how you were feeling.” She gets to her feet and stumbles across the clothing bales to the safety hatch. A minute later the interior of the container is illuminated with a thin morning light. Pulling down her leggings and pants, Villanelle squats over the bucket. In her thick sweater she looks shapeless and bedraggled, her hair standing out from her head in spikes. I follow her to the bucket, pee in my turn, then carry it over to the hatch and pour it out. The urine freezes immediately, thickening the cascade of yellowish ice streaking the container’s exterior.

  Bracing myself against the sub-zero blast of the wind, I search the horizon. Slicing between sea and sky is a faint, gray knife blade. I’m not sure if it’s a trick of the light, so I find my glasses in my bike-jacket pocket and look again. It’s land. Russia. I stare out of the hatch, trying to focus my thoughts, and then Villanelle is beside me, her cold cheek pressed to mine.

  Sniffing, she wipes her nose with her sleeve. “When we get there, you do exactly what I say, OK?”

  “OK.” I watch as the silhouette of St. Petersburg slowly hardens. “Villanelle?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m scared. I’m really fucking terrified.”

  She slips a hand under my sweater and over my heart. “It’s not a problem. Being scared when you’re in danger is normal.”

  “Are you scared?”

  “No, but I’m not normal. You know that.”

  “I do. And I don’t want to lose you.”

  “You won’t lose me, pupsik. But you have to trust me.”

  I turn to her, and we hold each other, my fingers in her greasy hair, hers in mine. “It’s been a good honeymoon, hasn’t it?” she says.

  “It’s been perfect.”

  “You don’t mind me being a psychopath?”

  I stiffen. “I’ve never called you that. Ever.”

  “Not to my face.” She bites the lobe of my ear. “But it’s what I am. We both know that.”

  I stare out through the safety hatch. Other container vessels are visible now, converging on the distant port.

  “Listen, Eve. I know you want me to, you know, try to feel the things that you feel…”

  Whether it’s from hunger, lack of sleep, or just the freezing wind, tears spring to my eyes. “Sweetie, it’s OK, really it is. I… I’m happy with how you are.”

  “I’ll try to be more normal, OK, but if we’re going to survive, you’re going to have to be a bit more like me. A bit more…”

  “More Villanelle?”

  She brushes my neck with her chapped lips. “A bit more Oxana.”

  3

  We feel the Kirovo-Chepetsk slowing. A glance through the hatch tells us that the approach to St. Petersburg is frozen, with the ice extending at least two miles out to sea. For the next few hours we barely move, and then an icebreaker vessel appears off our port bow, and begins cutting a ship lane for us. It’s a desperately slow business, and we alternate between lying in frustrated silence on the clothing bales and facing the glacial wind at the hatch as the icebreaker shears, meter by meter, through the creaking, protesting ice.

  By the time the Kirovo-Chepetsk docks at the terminal in Ugolnaya harbor, and the engine vibrations finally cut out altogether, it’s been dark for hours. In the steel box that’s been our home for the best part of a week, the air is thick with the smell of our bodies. We’ve eaten the last of the cheese and chocolate and hunger is tearing at my guts. I’m exhausted, wrung out and terrified, mostly at the thought of being separated from Villanelle. What’s her plan? What will happen when the container doors ar
e opened? Where will we be, and what will we face?

  Unloading begins a couple of hours after docking. We’re one of the first containers to be lifted off the Kirovo-Chepetsk, and my heart races as we swing through the air and lock on to the waiting trailer. Zipped into the inside pockets of my motorcycle jacket are the Glock, which presses uncomfortably against my ribs, and three magazines of 9mm ammunition. If the container is scanned for body heat, or searched in the course of a security check, God knows what will happen. Igor assured us in Immingham that no such checks would be made, and that our safe transit to a St. Petersburg industrial depot would be taken care of, but we are a long way from Immingham now. As the container truck moves off, I reach for Villanelle and touch her cheek. She flinches irritably.

  “What?”

  “Suppose we’re stopped?”

  She yawns. “Fuck’s sake, Eve.”

  “Well?”

  “If we’re stopped, just do what I say.”

  “You always say that. It doesn’t help.”

  “I don’t give a shit. Stop getting on my tits.”

  She turns her back to me, and I lie there, grinding my teeth. Right now I’d welcome arrest if it involved a square meal, and to hell with Villanelle and the future. I imagine a warm office, a steaming bowl of borscht, crusty brown bread, fruit juice, coffee… I’m so furious, and so knotted up with hunger and anxiety, that I fail to realize we’ve left the port area behind us.

  The container truck’s progress through the outskirts of St. Petersburg is unhurried, and we feel every grinding gear change. When we finally come to rest, there’s absolute silence. Then a thunderous vibration seizes the container and it tilts sharply, so that everything inside slips downhill and banks up against the rear doors. I go with it, and end up with Villanelle’s knee in my face. Hurriedly, arms and legs scrabbling, we drag the bales on top of us. I burrow so far down that I can feel the cold steel floor of the container beneath me. The cargo doors are likely to be opened at any moment, and my heart is beating so violently I’m afraid I’m going to pass out.

  With an agonized scraping the container slides to the ground. Minutes pass, and then there’s a muted clanking as the locking rods are released and the doors are swung open. Beneath the bales I freeze, my jaw clenched and my eyes squeezed shut, so scared I can’t think. The moment stretches out, but I can hear nothing. Vaguely, I become aware of one of Villanelle’s arms lying across my back. And then, just meters away, something slams shut, a truck engine grumbles into life, and there’s the distant screech of un-oiled gates.

  For several minutes, neither of us moves. Then I feel the arm slither away, and the bales shifting. Even so I remain frozen to the container floor, not daring to hope that we’re alone. It’s only when I hear Villanelle’s voice that I open my eyes and glance upward.

  “Hey, dumbass,” she whispers, directing the beam of a red-light torch at my face. “It’s OK. There’s no one here.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Come out.”

  Hesitantly, I feel my way to the open doors of the container, find my glasses, and look around me. We’re in the loading dock of a warehouse the size of a cathedral. Above us, strip lights suspended from rusting joists give off a sick, sulfurous glow. To our left are the dim outlines of the steel doors, now closed, through which the container truck entered and exited. A razor-cut of light shows around a judas gate let into one of the doors. Ahead of us, vanishing into the shadows, stand serried ranks of industrial garment rails, all holding wedding dresses. It looks like an army of ghostly brides.

  Villanelle beckons and I follow. I stop after a few steps, dizzy and light-headed. I feel bloated, and there’s a sharp pain lancing through my guts.

  “Are you OK?”

  I stand there for a moment, swaying. “Just need to get my balance.”

  She frowns, then turns back and jabs a finger into my side. “Sore?”

  “Yes, how did you know?”

  “It’s obvious. You can’t just not shit for a week.”

  “I’m sure I’ll get round to it soon. Anyway, it’s stopped hurting, so let’s go.”

  We walk the perimeter of the warehouse, but there’s no quick way out. There are a couple of steel fire doors, both immovably locked. The windows are way out of reach, at least ten meters from the ground, and the skylight that runs the length of the building is even higher. A small office, accessible by a stairway, is suspended above the shop floor. We climb the stairs. The door is unlocked, and on the desk there are invoices and other documents indicating that the warehouse is owned by a company named Prekrasnaya Nevesta. Beautiful Bride. The desk also holds a cheap TeXet phone and a paper bag containing a stale sausage sandwich.

  “Have it,” Villanelle says. “I’m not hungry.”

  She’s lying, obviously, but I wolf it down anyway.

  “Just don’t expect me to kiss you anytime soon,” she says, pulling on a pair of the latex gloves that she always seems to carry around with her. “That thing stinks. It’s probably donkey meat.”

  “I won’t,” I tell her. “And I don’t care.”

  She turns the phone on. It has 1 percent battery life left. Before it dies in her hands I check the time against my watch. Twenty to six.

  “What time do you think people start work here?”

  “I saw a punch clock by the entrance. Let’s go back down and have a look at the employees’ cards.”

  It turns out that the first members of the workforce arrive at six, or shortly after. We have barely a quarter of an hour. “When they come in, that’s when we need to make our move,” Villanelle says. “If we try and stay hidden we’ll definitely get caught.”

  As I search the container, removing the evidence of our stay—rucksacks, empty water bottles, food wrappings, shit bags—Villanelle prowls round the warehouse, examining the ranks of wedding dresses. Massive electrical heaters mounted on wheels stand at intervals in the floor’s central aisle, and one of these seems to particularly interest her. After a couple of minutes she returns to the container, collects the neatly knotted bags of her own shit, and directs me to a hiding place among the garment rails, about ten or twelve meters from the gate. “Wait here,” she says, passing me the rucksacks. “And don’t move.”

  The minutes pass with agonizing slowness. I’m terrified that people will arrive early, Villanelle will be caught out in the open, and I’ll be discovered crouching among the wedding dresses. Eventually, however, she reappears beside me. “When I give the word, run like fuck for the gate,” she tells me, as we put on our rucksacks. “Don’t speak, don’t look back, and stay close to me.”

  “That’s the plan? Run like fuck?”

  “That’s the plan. Remember, they’re civilians. Factory workers. They’ll be much more scared of you than you are of them. They won’t have any idea what’s going on.”

  I look at her doubtfully, and at that moment we hear the creak of the judas gate opening. As quickly as I can I take off my glasses and stuff them into a pocket. Then there’s a murmur of voices, and an unhurried series of electronic clunks as the Prekrasnaya Nevesta employees begin to punch their timecards. Overhead lights flicker on, there’s a whiff of cigarette smoke, and as unseen figures shuffle past our hiding place, the distance between the two of us and the gate seems to grow greater and greater. Cool it, I tell myself, trying to steady my breathing. It’ll be like running up Tottenham Court Road for a number 24 bus. Easy-peasy.

  A series of vibrant rumblings announces that the heating units have been switched on. Tightening the straps of her backpack, Villanelle moves to a runner’s crouch. “Get ready,” she whispers, and I imitate her, dry-mouthed with apprehension. The rumbling of the heaters becomes a whirr and then there’s a spattering sound, ragged screams, an outburst of swearing, and the sound of feet running past us toward the center of the warehouse. “Go!” Villanelle mouths, and sprints toward the warehouse entrance, her pack bouncing on her back.

  I’m there at her shoulder,
running for that bus. Away to our right I’m aware of a confusion of shouting figures and angry faces swiveling toward us. Somehow we reach the judas gate. Villanelle swings it open, we leap through, and race over the rough, frozen ground toward a chain-link fence. Waiting for us at the exit is a security guy in a hi-vis jacket. He stretches out his arms in a tentative attempt to block us and Villanelle whips her Sig Sauer from her jacket and points it at his face. He dives sideways, and I reach past Villanelle for the latch of the exit gate and wrench it open. She pushes through, dragging me after her, but my foot twists on the frozen ground, and I fall heavily onto my hip. I try to stand, but my ankle explodes with pain.

  “Get up, Eve,” Villanelle says with quiet urgency, as a shouting mob begins to pour out of the warehouse.

  “I can’t.”

  She looks down at me, her eyes expressionless. “Sorry, baby,” she says, and runs.

  Within moments, I’m surrounded. Everyone’s arguing, swearing at me, staring at me, and shouting questions. I curl up in a fetal position on the ground, my knees drawn up to my chest and my eyes closed. I can feel my ankle swelling. It hurts like hell. This is the end.

  “Otkryvay glaza. Vstavay.” Open your eyes! Stand up! A male voice, harsh and accusatory.

  I squint upward. Angry faces against an iron-gray sky. The speaker is an older man with a shaven head and skull-like features. To his side is a woman, fortyish, with a spectrally pale complexion and discolored teeth, and a young guy with a spider’s-web neck tattoo. Others, perhaps a dozen of them, mill around. They’re wearing hoodies, overalls and work boots. Their voices are strident, but most of them just look baffled.

  “Ty kto?” Who are you?

  I don’t answer. Perhaps, as Villanelle hoped, they’ll think that I’m mentally ill. That I’ve been driven by voices in my head to commit random acts of trespass and destruction. Perhaps, and this is admittedly a long shot, someone will take me to a hospital, from where I can contact the British authorities. Erratic behavior as a consequence of post-traumatic stress, I will suggest apologetically, and this will not be far from the truth. I will be flown home and prescribed rest. Niko will take a lot of winning over, but sooner or later he will take me back, and forgive me. And then the Twelve will kill me. Fuck.