“Clearly, we don’t have a lot of information on him over the next ten years, but there’s no doubt he was responsible for assassinations both here in the UK and in Russia. He’s responsible for torturing dissidents, setting honey traps…He was in Afghanistan, of course. I guess all the kind of stuff you’d expect. Very nasty piece of work, just like his father. There’s much more info on Sir Nikolas, of course. He got his degree, joined the Danish diplomatic service…served in various international posts and then the perfect posting—to Moscow. He was fluent in Russian, had Russian nationality—if he’d wanted to use it. We can’t prove that he met up with Aleksey at all in the six months he was there before Aleksey died, but I’m pretty sure he did—but I’ll get to that. So, six months after Sir Nikolas arrives in Moscow, Aleksey is dead—a fall from a hotel balcony. Apparently, they found a dead boy in the room—and he’d been sodomised, beaten. Did I mention I hate this job? He was a street boy—there are thousands of them on the streets in Moscow. Anyway, there would have been a massive scandal—you have no idea how backward the Russians are about homosex—sorry. Anyway…Sir Nikolas was able to help squash those details of his brother’s death coming out. It must have been awful for him. It’s hard to believe he’s never talked to you about any of this.”
Yes, wasn’t it? Ben could see the scene: Aleksey arriving at the hotel to find his brother dead. After everything he’d sacrificed for Nikolas, everything he’d done and endured, his brother had thrown away his own life in a squalid, scandalous moment. When did Aleksey decide to become Nikolas? When had he taken on the life of the Danish diplomat? At what moment had he done the swap? He had the knowledge and the means to pull it off. “Aleksey” dies; “Nikolas” goes on to live the life he was supposed to have.
“See, I’m pretty sure now that Sir Nikolas did meet regularly with Aleksey while they were in Moscow together, and that’s how, when Sir Nikolas came to the UK, he was able to sell himself, as it were, to the authorities and set up the department. He and Aleksey must have talked, and Sir Nikolas must have learnt a great deal about Zaslon, because that’s what he recreated here—with us—although possibly with less torture? Fewer honey traps?”
He’d done a lot more than that, Ben thought. Aleksey had sold them out—his ex-colleagues in Zaslon. But he’d lived a very dangerous lie. Even his marriage…Philipa’s family thought they were using a man they believed to be Nikolas Mikkelsen as a cover, whereas in reality Aleksey Primakov had been using them. No wonder he’d been so bitter at the divorce, at being forced back out into the cold.
And now—
Ben had the unnerving sensation of plummeting in an elevator and his heart stopping for one moment then kicking back in—fast, panicked beating.
He’d
seen the picture in the paper on Saturday.
He’d
made the connection, and yet he had known nothing of this before. How many of Aleksey’s ex-colleagues in Zaslon were still alive, and how many would look at that photo of left-handed Sir Nikolas Mikkelsen and know that Aleksey Primakov hadn’t died in a fall from a hotel balcony?
“Kate, I have to go. Thank you. I’m sorry. I’ll explain later, if I can.”
He barely heard her reply. He drove like a madman. That’s what he was now—insane—ignoring red lights, focusing only on getting back to the house. The door was open—the red door that had been home and security for the last six months.
Even before he went through it, he knew he had lost the only person in his life who would ever mean anything to him.
But then hadn’t he lost him already?
Hadn’t he lost him the moment he had denied him in bed and proved himself to be no better than all the other people in Aleksey’s life who had purported to love him only to betray him?
The house was empty—torn up, evidence of great violence everywhere, but Aleksey was not there. Ben hadn’t even known Nik—Aleksey—had a gun safe, but it was open in the office, guns strewn around the floor. Aleksey was a soldier—had been. Elite Special Forces, more secretive even than Vympel. He heard a noise from the bedroom and picked up one of the guns, checking it over as he slid around the doorframe and along the hallway. He eased into the room and heard the sound again—under the bed. He knew what it was and crouched down, lifting the covers. Radulf stared back at him for a moment then came out, utterly silent but speaking with his body, all twisting rubs and anxiety. Ben murmured to him for a while, calming them both down.
Then he heard another noise from downstairs. He’d been expecting it. They were watching the house, which was a good sign—it meant possibly that Aleksey had got away. He told Radulf to wait where he was. Radulf immediately went back under the bed. It seemed like a good plan. Ben went silently back to the hall and cautiously peered over the handrail. He had one possible advantage in this situation—Zaslon may have found Aleksey, may even know he was living with someone else in the house, but it was very doubtful they knew who, or what, Ben was. They were about to find out.
A man was coming up the stairs, covering himself with a raised automatic pistol. Ben shot him in both knees. He wanted this one alive. The shots brought out another man from the kitchen. Ben shot that one in the head. One alive was enough for his purposes.
§§§
When the man came around, Ben had him tied to a chair in the kitchen. Ben sat across from him, straddling another chair, what was left of the man’s knees almost touching Ben’s. Ben was glad now that Aleksey used to smoke, for he’d found his lighter on the counter and was clicking it on and off. The man swallowed deeply. He couldn’t help but be aware of the smell of petrol. He was soaked in it.
“You would not dare, you fucking faggot.” His Russian was guttural and spat out in great pain. Ben spoke only a few words of Russian, but he understood the import of this if not the finer details.
He responded in English. “Where is Sir Nikolas Mikkelsen?”
The man spat and said in broken English, “He dead.”
Ben’s heart did its alarming stop and start thing again, but then he realised the man wasn’t talking about recent events.
“Where is the man who lives here?” He clicked the lighter on, weaving one finger in and out through the small flame.
The man laughed in his face. “You would not. Whole house goes poof. Like you: poof.”
Ben nodded. “Okay, I’ll save this for my big exit. But this may improve your English.” He produced his boning knife. “It’s a simple question. Where is…? No? Okay.” He took the man’s hand, inserted the tip into a knuckle joint and cut the finger off. He went calmly to the sink to wash his hands so they weren’t slippery from the blood and returned to his seat. “Where is Nikolas Mikkelsen?”
“Fuck you!”
The man lost another finger, but incredibly, he still refused to answer. With a sigh of boredom, Ben wiped his hands on a tea towel then crouched next to the man, trying to avoid the blood, and unzipped the helpless man’s pants.
“No!”
Ben smiled. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to cut anything off.” He dug the man’s cock out and let it hang. It was very, very soft—which was predicable and understandable. “You ever done any sounding? Yeah, didn’t think so. Pussy. What do they teach Russian Special Forces anyway? Okay, so, see that little hole there? Well, I could push my finger in, but don’t worry, I’m not going to. I’ve got a much better idea. I was thinking my screwdriver…your English okay with screwdriver? Yeah, I can see you get exactly what I mean; but see, here’s the thing, I’m much better with this.” He held up the bloodstained knife once more, the man’s eyes tracking it like a cat watching a mouse. “So, this is going to go down into that little hole, and I’m going to do some scraping around. Hollow you out a bit. How does that—?”
“He got away. I swear it. He went over wall there.” The man flung his head back to indicate the courtyard wall.
Ben got out of his crouch, wincing at his old knee injury and went into the courtyard. There was a distinct blood trail up and over the wall, just as the man said. Behind the wall was the alley that ran along the back of all the mews houses. That led to garages and then the road. He came back in.
“He was shot?”
The man nodded. “Twice, we think. Maybe. Lot of bullets, but he still run like fucking wind.” He chuckled and shook his head fondly as if they were just friends chatting about another mutual acquaintance. “He always run like wind. Faster than me always.”
This was interesting. Ben sat back down, tapping the knife on his wrist. The man was losing too much blood to stay focused for long, so Ben nicked the tip of his cock, just to perk him up a bit. “You knew him personally?”
“Of course. He my boss many years. He and Gregory. You tell bastard Aleksey that Gregory say hello. He know what that mean. And I no tell you shit more— Ahh! Please! No! I have wife and children.”
“Well, there you go, you don’t need your cock, do you? Tell me about him.”
“Here? Now? I need hospital, not talk you about— Okay! He was a fucking bastard. That what you want know? He cold fish. You have that expression? Never smile. Never laugh. Except maybe when he hurting someone. Then he enjoy much.”
Ben pursed his lips. “Was he married? With someone…?”
The man laughed. “Aleksey? Let someone touch? He never be touched. Not even handshake, slap on back. Killed prisoner when man grabbed leg, begging. Snapped neck. Now that funny. We all laugh. But you know about Sergei, no? Sergei a great man, and everyone overlook what he up to with Aleksey. Although I got boy, too, so I no really think it right, and it make Aleksey like that, no? The cold and not like the touch. But we all heard little Aleksey begged Sergei to fuck him, that he—”
Ben waited, rubbing his knuckles where he’d punched the man, until he could see signs of consciousness returning, then picked up the phone. He ignored the frantic struggling when the man discovered he was gagged and that his dead colleague now lay at his feet.
When the crisp voice asked him which service he required, he replied in heavily accented English, “Fire,” waited, then continued, “yes, I report fire.” He gave the address. “Fire in kitchen; I no want it spread in house.” He stood there, staring at the bleeding, terrified man, until he heard sirens, then he clicked the lighter and tossed it into the petrol-soaked lap. He didn’t stay to watch the oily blue flame engulf the chair or listen to the frantic, doomed struggling, but gathered up the bags of incriminating items he’d packed, mainly Aleksey’s gun collection, grabbed Radulf’s lead, and went to the vehicle. He knew it was probably bugged, but he wouldn’t need it for long.
Ben pulled around the corner and watched as fire fighters entered the house, then drove slowly along the alley until he picked up the blood trail; it ran through the alley and out onto the road. Ben knew Nikolas—damn it, Aleksey—had other houses in London. He had possibly made it to one of them. But then what would he do? He knew the men who were hunting him, their technologies. He knew their capabilities. He’d been one. Aleksey had been a monster, too.
Where would Aleksey feel safe? Where would he go to ground?
And then Ben remembered the place that didn’t exist. The dream.
You have reached your destination.
Ben turned the Range Rover and headed west.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Ben had only ever worked on the periphery of the technological espionage world. The department had other operatives for that. But he knew enough not to use his phone and to suspect that the vehicle was probably being tracked. He stopped at the first motorway services and made a call on a payphone. At Taunton, a convenient town, he pulled off the motorway and left the vehicle in the bus station car park, hefting the bags, taking the dog, and just walking away.
He spotted the Lada in the place where they’d arranged to meet. Tim was standing nervously alongside the car. Ben hadn’t seen him for some weeks. Tim didn’t owe him, as Ben had told him many times, but that hadn’t stopped the man from agreeing to help. He watched Ben approach, seeming to sense a hug or kiss wouldn’t be appropriate. If he saw the blood on Ben’s clothes, he didn’t mention it.
“John is coming to get me.” He handed over his keys. “When whatever this is, is over, will you come and tell me about it?”
Ben held his gaze. “I’m not sure that will be possible, Tim. When it’s over, it will probably be… over. But if I can, I will. Thank you for the car.” He loaded everything on board and set back off toward London to the self-storage park where he kept most of his possessions, having only needed a few clothes while he’d lived with Nikolas—but now was not the time to think about the months he’d lived with Aleksey, thinking he was a diplomat called Nikolas. He clenched his jaw on those thoughts and concentrated on driving. Radulf appeared to be concentrating as well, but Ben reckoned he was just trying to pretend he wasn’t now a passenger in a Lada.