Killing Eve Die for Me (Killing Eve #3) - Luke Jennings Page 0,25

we don’t speak for an hour, just march side by side beneath cold skies criss-crossed with power and tram cables. We are learning each other. Sometimes I look at her and she’s there with me, fully present; sometimes she’s blank-eyed, in a dimension all her own. She’s trying hard to be considerate, even though it doesn’t come at all naturally to her. So she’ll suddenly stop beside me on the pavement and gently wipe the snow from my face with her gloved hand, or ask me odd, sweet questions like whether I’m happy, or want a cup of tea. Seeing the determined, slightly perplexed look in her eyes at these moments I want to hug her, but I know that this would infringe her rules about attracting attention in public. So I tell her, truthfully, that I’m happy. I don’t think about the killing that lies ahead. I think about now, and the two of us, and the tiny, elusive glimmer of her kindness.

It’s Monday, nine days later, and Dasha has just learned that the Pakhan has ordered his driver to take him from the apartment on Malaya Balkanskaya directly to the Elizarova banya. This works well for Oxana and me. We have everything we need in place, and it’s already snowing heavily this afternoon, which will compromise the effectiveness of the CCTV cameras in the streets surrounding the bathhouse.

We leave the apartment at midday for Kupchino station, and take the Metro two stops northwards to Moskovskaya. Our vehicle is waiting for us outside Alfa Bank, as agreed. It’s a Gazelle ambulance, about ten years old, with the interior fixtures stripped out but with emergency lights and siren still in place. According to Dasha, “ambulance-taxis” like this one are regularly hired by wealthy business types who want to beat St. Petersburg’s traffic jams and get to meetings on time. With their sirens blaring and their lights blazing, they can thread their way through the worst gridlocks.

Pulling on latex gloves we take the keys from the top of the rear wheel, where the owner has left them, and open up the Gazelle. After checking the equipment, we change into official blue ambulance-crew uniforms, and pull on our wigs and cotton caps. Oxana’s wig is a garish henna-red, mine peroxide blond. Oxana drives. We’ve left ourselves plenty of time, so she takes the slow lane on the eastbound motorway, impassively negotiating the busy traffic. She radiates calm, her eyes betraying nothing except anticipation. As for me, I’m all over the place. One moment I’m intensely focused, with my surroundings vibrant and pin-sharp. The next everything is flat and two-dimensional, and I’m so distanced from events it’s as if my life is being lived by someone else.

We’re in position by quarter to two. Oxana parks in the narrow street that runs alongside the Elizarova banya, thirty meters from the entrance, and we put our feet up on the dashboard and wait for the Pakhan’s arrival. My heart is slamming in my chest, and I feel weightless and nauseated. He arrives just two minutes before two o’clock, climbing from a black Mercedes SUV, and I switch on my phone to access the app controlling the microcamera that we planted in the bathhouse three days ago. The motion-activated camera is the size of my thumbnail, and it’s held in place by a blob of chewing gum the size of a cherry stone.

To my horror I get a low-battery warning on the phone. Three percent charge remaining. Fuck. I tell Oxana, my heart sinking. She doesn’t waste time getting angry with me for forgetting to recharge it, but just nods, all focus. The seconds and minutes crawl past, agonizingly slowly. Two percent battery charge left. The Pakhan will not visit the plunge pool, where the camera is hidden, until he has been through all the steam rooms. I touch the app icon, and a grainy image of the pool fills the phone screen. There’s someone in the pool, a big guy, wallowing like a whale, and definitely not the Pakhan. He hauls himself out and vanishes. His place is taken by two older men who descend the ladder one by one, briefly immerse themselves, and leave.

There’s now one percent of the battery charge remaining, and the pool’s empty. Another few minutes and the phone’s going to die. I feel sick with dread. Fear of letting Oxana down has eclipsed all thought of our real purpose here. We stare at the tiny screen. Oxana’s breathing is steady.