Die for Me (Killing Eve #3) - Luke Jennings Page 0,16
herself.
A visit to a nearby hairdressing and nail salon completes our makeover. Kristina pays for everything from a large roll of cash, which I’m guessing is Dasha’s. In the salon she sits quietly, staring into space, as Oxana and I are attended to. The stylist gives me a short, choppy bob, while Oxana gets a spiky pixie cut. My nails end up turquoise, hers black. When we’re done Kristina gives us a rare, shy smile. “Now you look like proper Russians,” she tells us.
Afterward, we take a taxi to Aviatorov Park. Why Kristina wants to take us there, I’m not sure. Maybe it’s the nearest thing to a tourist attraction that Avtovo has to offer. As the sky darkens, and flurries of new snow whirl around us, we mooch across the near-deserted park to a frozen lake girded by dark, skeletal trees. On the far shore, a Soviet monument stands on a promontory. A MiG fighter aircraft leaping into the sky, arrested at the moment of takeoff. Kristina indicates it perfunctorily before continuing on her ghostly way along the icy lakeside path. Only then does it occur to me that she has been ordered to keep us away from the apartment for as long as possible, so that Dasha can search our possessions and decide what to do about us. Which might include selling us out.
I ask Oxana about this, and she’s doubtful. “The only people who’d be interested in me, in us, are the Twelve, and they operate at a much higher level than outfits like the Kupchino Bratva.”
“Dasha might have heard of them, though. Presumably she has access to all kinds of underworld information sources.”
“I’m sure she has, but they wouldn’t lead her to the Twelve.”
“Supposing she did make the connection. Just for the sake of argument.”
“How would she get in touch with them? On Facebook?”
I nod, not quite convinced.
“Look, Dasha didn’t get to be a brigadier in a bratva by being stupid. If she breaks the vory code and betrays me to the Twelve or anyone else, she won’t ever be trusted again. Also, I’d kill her. Maybe not immediately, but one day I’d come for her, and she knows it.”
Days pass, and I begin to feel stronger. My shoulders are still painful, especially in the mornings, and I can’t walk far without my ankle protesting. But Dasha feeds us well, and the effects of living in a container on starvation rations are beginning to ebb. Oxana runs every day, sometimes for two or three hours, and pushes herself through a rigorous exercise routine on her return. I spend the time trying to improve my Russian by reading Dasha’s back issues of Vogue and listening to Radio Zenith, the local current affairs channel.
Sleeping with Oxana is so different from sleeping with Niko. Where Niko’s body was unambiguous, so familiar that it was part of my waking and sleeping, Oxana’s body is enigmatic. The more I explore it, the more mysterious it seems. Hard and soft, yielding and predatory. She draws me deeper and deeper. There are times when she slides into an impenetrable silence, or pushes me away from her, tense with anger at some imagined slight, but mostly she’s skittish and tender. She’s like a cat, yawning and stretching and purring, all lean muscle and sheathed claws. When we sleep, she faces outwards and I fold into her. She snores.
She keeps the details about our departure from England vague, and is confident that Dasha believes her, more or less. She’s asked Dasha about fixing us up with Russian interior passports and new identities. This appears to be possible, for a price.
What Oxana hasn’t yet raised with Dasha is the question of Lara Farmanyants, currently languishing in Butyrka jail in Moscow. Personally, I’d be happy to see the bitch rot there forever. Not only is she Oxana’s ex, she also tried to kill me. But Oxana wants her out of there, and is planning to ask Dasha whether it might be possible, through her vory connections, to make this happen.
I try not to let the idea of Lara upset me, but Oxana knows how vulnerable I feel when compared to her former girlfriend, and misses no opportunity to drop references to Lara’s amazing physique, athleticism and sexual virtuosity. There’s a rational part of me that knows that she can’t possibly miss Lara in the way that she claims to, and probably doesn’t give her a moment’s thought from one day to the next. But love is not