Die for Me (Killing Eve #3) - Luke Jennings Page 0,57

time to prepare, but not too much time, because the longer you keep people waiting, the more likely it is that there’ll be some kind of security issue. My guess is that it’ll be within a couple of days of our leaving here.”

“We don’t have much time then.”

“No, pupsik, we don’t. So stop talking and come here.”

10

The helicopter comes for us at midday. Aboard are two Twelve paramilitaries, both carrying sidearms. They jump down onto the platform, carry out a thorough search of the entire installation, nod cursorily at Nobby and Ginge, and shepherd us on board the Super Puma. As we swing away into the wind I peer downwards, suddenly fearful that Anton’s body will appear, arms outstretched, borne up by the choppy waves. But there’s nothing, no accusing corpse, only the diminishing figures of Nobby and Ginge on the platform, and the gray wastes of the sea.

At Ostend, the two men keep us on a short rein, fast-tracking us through security and passport control and marching us out onto the tarmac, where the Learjet is fueled up and waiting. I squeeze Oxana’s hand as we take off, and keep hold of it. Our destination, as expected, is Moscow. The engine noise is little more than a discreet hum, but I’m too nervous to talk.

When faced by danger, Oxana and I are polar opposites. I foresee terrible outcomes, and become possessed by fear, while Oxana’s sense of impending threat is so shallow as to barely register. As her body prepares itself for action, her mind remains calm. It must be the same for Charlie, who lounges back in their seat, chewing gum that they’ve somehow extracted from the soldiers, and studiously ignores us.

“Are you all right?” Oxana asks.

I nod. There’s so much to say, and I can’t say any of it.

“Glad you left England with me?”

I touch her cheek. “Did I have a choice?”

“I know what’s best for you, pchelka. Just trust me, OK. I know there was the Charlie thing, but seriously. Trust me.”

“I’m worried now. What do you know that I don’t?”

“Nothing. I’m just saying. Whichever way this thing plays out.”

“Shit, sweetie. Talk to me.”

“I don’t know anything, I’m just saying. Trust me. Trust us.”

“I’m so scared.”

“I know, babe.”

Scared or not, I proceed with my plan. After breakfast on the platform I surreptitiously tore a small blank strip from a page of Birds of the North Sea and glued it into the back of my passport, using a couple of dabs of honey. Now, as soon as we’re airborne, I take out my hard-won pencil and write, heading the message with the telephone number that I’ve memorized, and asking the person reading it to call the number urgently, on a matter of state security, and deliver the following message to General Tikhomirov: 2 shooters, this week, range 700m.

Shortly before we begin our descent to Moscow, one of the paramilitaries collects our passports, securing them with an elastic band. We seem to circle the city forever, and as we go through landing and disembarkation procedures at Sheremetyevo I’m so terrified I almost vomit. If the paramilitary examines the passports, as he well may, that’ll be the end. If I’m lucky, it’ll be a bullet in the back of the head. I don’t want to think of the alternatives.

Entering the airport buildings, we’re fast-tracked through a small VIP customs hall. There are two officers, dressed in bulky green winter uniforms. An older woman with tiny, granite eyes, and a shaven-headed young man whose broad-brimmed cap is several sizes too large for him.

Our paramilitary chaperone takes our passports from his pocket, removes the elastic band, and as he flicks through the pages of the top passport before passing it to the woman, I feel my knees begin to shake. I’m guessing that my face has gone white, because Oxana puts an arm round me and asks if I’m all right. I nod, and the other Twelve guy peers at me suspiciously. “Delayed reaction,” I stammer. “Flying. I get very nervous.”

“Give them all to me,” the granite-eyed woman orders. Her name tag identifies her as Lapotnikova, Inna. Taking the passports, she opens the first, looks up, and beckons Charlie to the counter. I’m second in line after Charlie. I watch Ms. Lapotnikova slowly page through the forgery, and come to a halt as she reaches the page with the note. She reads it expressionlessly, and slowly looks up at me, one eyebrow raised questioningly. I nod imperceptibly and she discreetly pulls