Die for Me (Killing Eve #3) - Luke Jennings Page 0,66

welcome to use it for the duration of the performance.” He withdraws, as unctuous as a courtier, and I look about me. The box is tiny, and upholstered in scarlet. Tchaikovsky’s music soars from the orchestra pit, while on stage a Christmas party is in progress, with the dancers in Victorian-era costumes. It’s all so captivating that I momentarily forget why we’re here.

Beside me I sense Tikhomirov relax. On the far side of the stage, in a larger, much grander box, all swagged velvet and gold tassels, sit Stechkin and Loy. Stechkin looks inscrutable, Loy appears to be asleep.

“Wait here,” Tikhomirov whispers. “Sit down.”

He’s back two minutes later. “It’s all fine. There are two armed officers outside the presidential box. Nobody can get in.”

I nod. I’m shattered. I’d love to close my eyes and drown in the music, but part of me is wondering, as Tikhomirov is surely wondering, where Oxana is. If Charlie and I were the diversion, what was the plan?

The first act comes to an end, the curtain falls, and the house lights come up. Opposite us Stechkin stands and guides Loy out of sight.

“There’s a private reception room attached to the presidential box,” Tikhomirov says. “They won’t be disturbed there.”

“I’m sure they’ve got plenty to talk about.”

He rolls his eyes and smiles wearily. “No shit.”

We remain in our seats. Tikhomirov keeps a phone connection open to his officers, but they have nothing to report. He begins to tap his foot and, eventually, he stands. “Shall we walk?”

“Sure.”

We leave the box and make our way around the long, curved corridor. It’s slow going; the passage is narrow and crowded, and several of the patrons are elderly. Halfway round we encounter the house manager, who is speaking irritably into his phone.

“Anything wrong?” Tikhomirov asks.

“Nothing unusual. A woman has locked herself in a toilet stall and passed out, apparently drunk.”

“Where?”

“In the ladies’ restroom, downstairs.”

“Take us there, please. Hurry.”

Anxious to oblige, the manager leads us down to the foyer, where a harassed-looking attendant is waiting.

“Show me,” says Tikhomirov.

The restroom is crowded with female patrons, through whom Tikhomirov barges unceremoniously. A bell sounds over the theater’s PA system and a voice announces that the curtain will rise on Act 2 of The Nutcracker in five minutes. When we reach the locked stall, Tikhomirov puts a broad shoulder to the door and breaks the lock. Inside, a young woman is slumped on the floor. She looks well off, with fine-boned features, little or no makeup and an expensive haircut. As the manager and I hover behind him, Tikhomirov puts his nose to her mouth, and rolls up one of her eyelids. Over the loudspeaker, the three-minute bell sounds.

“Well, she’s not drunk, and this isn’t an overdose.” He rifles through her pockets. “And what’s more, she hasn’t got any bag, money or identifying documents on her. Do you recognize her?”

“No,” I say, truthfully. “I’ve never seen her before.”

What I don’t tell Tikhomirov is that the clothes the woman is wearing, the black jeans, gray sweater, and gray-black Moncler camouflage jacket, are identical to those Oxana was wearing when she left the building this morning. I pray that I don’t look as sick and faint as I feel.

The one-minute bell sounds and Tikhomirov frowns. “What was that you said to me earlier?”

“When?”

“Ten minutes ago. About Stechkin and Loy.”

“That they… had plenty to talk about?”

“Yes. Yes!” He gets to his feet, ignoring the unconscious woman and the manager, and runs for the exit, dragging me after him. “Come on, Eve. Run.”

We tear through the gilded foyer, up the stairs, past ushers and program sellers, and back into the corridor serving the boxes. It’s almost deserted now; all the patrons have taken their seats for Act 2. At the right-hand end of the corridor, two bulky FSB officers stand outside the door to the presidential anteroom and box. They salute when they see Tikhomirov.

“No one’s gone in, General,” one of them says. “Not a soul.”

“Never mind that,” Tikhomirov barks. “Has anyone come out?”

“Only the interpreter, sir.”

“Sweet Jesus. Open the doors.”

The four of us burst into the anteroom. It’s bright scarlet with a ceiling of tented silk. There’s a drinks table, holding open bottles of champagne and malt whisky, and three silk-upholstered chairs. Two of these are empty, the third holds the seated body of Valery Stechkin. He’s dead, his neck wrenched unnaturally sideways, and his mouth gaping in a horrible simulacrum of pleasure. The body of the American president, meanwhile, has been arranged in a kneeling