Die for Me (Killing Eve #3) - Luke Jennings Page 0,40
to sleep.”
Breakfast, by unspoken agreement, is conducted in near silence, the only sound in the dining room the murmur of the waiters as they dispense joltingly strong coffee. We all take the same places as the night before. Outside the snow flies past the windows, caught in the rogue currents surrounding the building. Looking out, as I pile my plate with scrambled eggs and salmon caviar, I can barely see the ground. Just the black sweep of the highway and the gray-green curve of the river.
Oxana chooses the same dishes as me and stares fixedly in front of her as she eats. She’s in a wretched mood. When we woke up this morning, our bodies entwined, she extricated herself with fastidious distaste before dressing in a whirlwind fury. It was as if I revolted her, as if she couldn’t bear to be naked in front of me. All that I can do is avoid her gaze and wish myself elsewhere.
I know what’s going on. In saying that she loves me Oxana thinks she’s gone too far, so she’s trying to unsay it by hating me. And it’s working. Charlie looks at us as if keen to talk, but on seeing our expressions turns away and starts carefully spreading themself successive squares of toast and apricot jam. Beside them, Anton devours soft, flaky pastries.
By the time Richard arrives we’ve all finished. Ignoring the food, he pours himself a cup of coffee, and takes his place at the table.
“We have ten days,” he announces. “Ten days to prepare for an operation that will require supreme daring and technical skill. If we succeed—when we succeed—we change the course of history.” He spreads his hands and looks at each of us in turn. “I want you all to remember the words of Field Marshal Suvorov, which I believe were much admired at your former regiment, Anton?”
“They were indeed,” Anton says. “‘Train hard, fight easy.’ Painted on the CO’s door.”
“We’ll be leaving midday tomorrow,” Richard continues. “Destination to be announced in due course. Today is for supply and paperwork. We’ll be measuring you up for clothes and equipment, and taking photographs for passports, et cetera. It’s a tight turnaround, but our people are used to working against the clock. Your documents, clothes and hand luggage are being delivered in twenty-four hours. Your weaponry is waiting for you at the training destination.”
I listen with increasing disbelief. I agreed to be involved in whatever Richard and the Twelve are planning because of Oxana, and because I had no choice. I couldn’t imagine Richard and Anton, knowing what they know about me, being so suicidally unwise as to award me any but the most minor, walk-on role. A couple of days on the range at Bullington doesn’t add up to any kind of real training. I can fire, dismantle and clean a Service-issue Glock, but that’s as far as it goes. I’ve spent my professional life behind a desk. I wear glasses. What part could I possibly play in an operation requiring “supreme daring and technical skill”? I’d be a liability, and it would be crazy to think otherwise. Yet Richard is clearly including me in this briefing.
The day passes slowly and miserably. Oxana is unreachable, she won’t even look at me. Instead she flirts listlessly with Charlie, making sure that I can see, and stares out the windows. With its stale, climate-controlled atmosphere, the apartment is oppressive. Everyone is on edge. The snow continues to fall all day, and although it’s freezing on the streets I’d give anything to be out there, breathing the clean, cold air. Impossible, of course. We can’t even open a window.
Dinner is once again superlative but I have no appetite, and the smell of rare meat and blood-thickened gravy turns my stomach. Instead, that evening, I drink the best part of a bottle of Château Pétrus, a wine so expensive that I never thought I’d taste it. Seeing me pouring my fifth glass, Richard looks at me indulgently. “Pétrus is the unofficial house wine of the Twelve,” he says. “You’re going to fit in perfectly.”
“I’m definitely looking forward to drinking a shitload of this stuff,” I say, hearing my voice slur. “Assuming I make it back alive, that is.”
“Oh you will,” he replies. “You’re very hard to kill. It’s one of the things I like most about you.”
“You don’t like anything about me,” I say, swaying aggressively toward him and spilling a crimson splash of wine on the damask tablecloth. “You just