Die for Me (Killing Eve #3) - Luke Jennings Page 0,44

more. I say nothing about my conversation with Tikhomirov. I try not to think about it at all, and to ignore the ghastly sensation that we are sleepwalking toward a cliff edge. Instead, I lose myself in the moment, feeling the soft weight of Oxana’s head on my shoulder.

After three and a half hours we land at Ostend–Bruges airport. The light has almost gone, and as we leave the warmly upholstered interior of the Learjet we’re met with a bitter wind and driving sleet. A minibus is waiting for us on the tarmac, and we’re driven a few hundred meters to a waiting Super Puma helicopter, where the pilot hands us noise-canceling headsets. The helicopter’s rotors are already swinging as we board, and the lights of the airport vanish behind us as we gain height over desolate beaches and the wind-blurred expanse of the North Sea.

Oxana tucks in next to me again, but with the engine noise and the headsets conversation is impossible. Where we’re going, I have no idea, although Oxana’s pensive expression suggests that she may have figured it out. We hold a roughly northwestern course toward England, but why would we be traveling there by helicopter? If our destination is London, we could have flown there directly from Moscow. Are we going to be landing on a ship?

After forty-five minutes we start our descent. The helicopter’s spotlights illuminate dark, wrinkling waves. “We’re there,” Oxana mouths at me. “Look.” She jabs a finger downwards.

At first I see only the surface of the sea. Then a gray rectangle swings into view, and the Super Puma’s spotlights lock on to it. A marine platform, its size hard to estimate, supported by two trunk-like columns. As we approach the platform I see that there’s a helipad at one end, which two tiny human figures are illuminating with torches. Never in my life have I seen anything so unforgivingly harsh. “Fucking hell,” I mouth at Oxana, and she nods.

We touch down, and the Super Puma rests on the helipad for no more than thirty seconds as we climb out into the bitter, sleeting wind. It’s so ferocious, I’m afraid that if I lose my footing I’ll be swept away, and I cling to the arm of the nearest person, who happens to be Anton. He shouts something to me, but it’s whipped away in the wind.

We walk the length of the platform, heads down, to where three converted shipping containers are lashed to the decking with steel hawsers. Anton guides us inside the nearest of these, flicks on an electric light, and when we’re all inside, including the two men who guided in the helicopter, closes the steel door.

It’s not much, but it’s a lot more homey than the last container I was in. Two double-glazed windows have been let in to the lengthways wall, framing views of the sea and the sky. At one end there’s a trestle table and six folding chairs, at the other a microwave, a chest freezer, and a kettle. A tray on the table holds jars of honey, Marmite, and strawberry jam. Above it, there’s a bookshelf stocked with well-thumbed paperback thrillers by Mick Herron, Andrei Kivinov, and others, and a hardback copy of Mangan and Proctor’s Birds of the North Sea.

“Welcome to Knock Tom,” Anton says. “It was originally a Second World War anti-aircraft emplacement, built by the British to protect the North Sea shipping lanes. So if you get bored and feel like a swim”—he points out of the further window—“the Essex coast is about ten miles in that direction. But I promise that you won’t be bored. We’ve got a lot of work to do and a lot of ground to cover.”

“So let’s get to it. First off, meet Nobby and Ginge. They are going to be your instructors and your watchdogs, so listen up and do what they say. They’re former E Squadron sniper team leaders, so they know their stuff. Lara and Villanelle, I know you have experience as solo operatives, but this project poses unique challenges. Our targets, plural, have the best security the world has to offer. Teamwork is going to be vital.”

“Charlie. My name is Charlie. Since you’re talking about teamwork.”

Silence. Nobby and Ginge exchange grins.

Anton looks as if he’s swallowed a wasp. “Charlie it is, then. Moving on. We’re going to be using two teams, each with a spotter and a shooter. The window of opportunity will be small, and the weather conditions challenging, so the role