Die for Me (Killing Eve #3) - Luke Jennings Page 0,36

Konstantin or anyone else ever mention it?”

“Never.”

The bedside telephone rings. Oxana answers it, listens for twenty seconds, and hangs up. “That was Richard. He says we’ve all had a stressful day, ha fucking ha, and he’d like to invite us to meet for a quiet, informal dinner. He thinks we should all get to know each other better, so that we can draw a line under this morning’s unfortunate events and move on.”

“Move on,” I say. “Seriously? He’s completely fucking insane.”

“Well I’m starving, so it’s fine by me. Lara’s coming to collect us in fifteen minutes. Wear the bee sweater. I like you in that.”

The twelfth floor is luxurious, in an impersonal, chain-hotel sort of way, but we are unquestionably prisoners. The triple-glazed windows can’t be opened, and the exit door to the lift is code-controlled. Watchful young men and women, some of them carrying weapons, patrol the corridors and move between cryptically numbered offices. By the time we leave Oxana’s room the place is as busy as ever. Their work, whatever it is, continues day and night.

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