The Traitor's Story (28 page)

History

He got a flight after lunch. From the moment he’d left the museum until after takeoff, his mind sifted again and again through the things Alex had said about Sofi and what it meant, searching for innocent explanations or mitigating factors. The best he could hope for was that she’d betrayed him and loved him at the same time, and that was his final defensive line, the belief that she could not have faked what they’d shared this last year.

Only as the plane flew high above the Baltic did he think of Kaliningrad and all the things he’d feared until a few hours before, things which now seemed like a sideshow because he no longer had much of a future left to lose.

But he would lose it all the same, because if Karasek had survived, and if the subsequent investigation also failed to produce enough concrete evidence to end Perry’s career, then the only thing to really come out of it would be proof that Finn had handed sensitive documents to a known gangster.

If that was the case, it all depended on how Louisa had constructed the operation, and how willing she would be to hang Finn out to dry in exchange for the promise of getting the scalps she’d sought further down the line. He’d jumped so readily at the chance of Sparrowhawk, so relieved had he been that they didn’t know about him and Naumenko, that he’d ignored the ramifications of it going wrong.

And now, he realized it was just as well he was getting out, because he’d prided himself on his skill, on his expertise, if not his professionalism. Yet in truth, he’d allowed himself to be set up as a scapegoat, and had perhaps been played by a foreign agent for the last twelve months—he’d never seen his business with Naumenko as real corruption, but this was certainly looking like real incompetence.

He took a taxi from the airport, and by the time it got close to the apartment, the streets were already filling up with stag weekenders, some of them dressed outlandishly, providing a boost to the local economy and tarnishing the reputation of the British all at once. Still, he thought, each of these interchangeable groups spilling along the street at least represented a future wedding—there was that to be said for them, if nothing else.

He took the stairs, and even as he pushed his key into the lock he could hear Sofi talking. He made an effort to be quiet opening the door, even though it seemed that she was on the phone. But as he closed it gently behind him, his caution paid off, because a man said a few words, the sound cutting Finn to the bone, and then Sofi continued.

Finn stood for a moment, not sure what to do. They were in the living room, but should he just go in there and confront them? He saw his summer coat hanging on the rack and remembered the gun he’d dropped into the pocket, grateful that he’d forgotten to remove it subsequently. He took it now, and stepped quietly into the living room.

They both had their backs to him. Sofi was standing, talking into the phone as he’d first suspected. A guy with dark, cropped hair and a fitted black sweater was sitting on the sofa, hunched over a laptop on the coffee table. It was Finn’s laptop.

It was the guy who spotted him first, perhaps sensing that someone was standing there. He turned, saw Finn, then said something to Sofi. She turned, jumped– unmistakably a jump . . . had she always been secretly afraid of him?—then ended the call and said, “Finn! What are you doing back?”

“I finished early. What’s going on?”

“It’s really embarrassing—promise you won’t be mad at me. My computer went down and I tried to use yours but I think I did something maybe wrong. This is Peter, our tech guy from the newspaper. He can fix it, I promise.” It was the intonation, the look on her face—if it hadn’t been for what Alex had told him, he would have believed her, as implausible as the story was.

“That’s a relief.” She smiled, the edges collapsing away as Finn continued: “So he’s not trying to hack into my laptop and you’re not a Russian agent who’s been screwing me for the last year in every way, and I didn’t fall in love with someone who pretended to be in love with me when she actually cared nothing.”

“That’s not true!”

“Are you in love with me?”

“Yes,” she said, but there seemed no conviction in it, and the lie leeched the blood and the energy out of him. He felt an odd disconnect at the sight of this woman who was so familiar and yet simultaneously a stranger, too. Because he knew now, in her eyes and her lips and the tremor in her voice, that she had never loved him.

“Were you ever even attracted to me? If you weren’t, then you should consider a career as an actress because you had me completely fooled.”

“Finn, it’s not what you think.”

“Yeah, I’ve been hearing that a lot lately—seems I got everyone wrong.”

“I cared for you,” she said, and in those four words the betrayal seemed complete. She’d cared for him, she had come to care for him, but not to love him. He struggled even to think of an appropriate response.

But he didn’t get the chance to speak again. Sofi couldn’t see the gun from where she was standing, but the guy could see it hanging by
Finn’s side and had probably guessed how this would end. Suddenly,
he leapt from the chair, barreling low across the room. He pushed past Finn and out into the hallway, heading for the front door.

Finn raised the gun, aimed at his back and said, “Open that door and I’ll shoot.” The guy froze, his hand on the latch, as if trying to judge how serious the threat might be.

And then, too late, Finn caught some movement from the corner of his eye and felt something hard crash and splinter into the back of his head. It knocked him forward, a percussive pain sounding through his skull. He thought he’d fired the gun for a moment, but it was the impact of the blow or the door slamming shut as the guy made his escape.

She’d hit him hard with something. He tried to stand upright, struggling to get his bearings. Was the gun still in his hand? For a
moment, he wasn’t even sure. And then he saw something again, or
heard it, felt the disturbance in the air as she swung a second time. He threw himself back into the blow and knocked her backward, too, and heard the clatter and a visceral crack as he crashed to the floor.

He was up quickly this time, onto his haunches, and the gun was still in his hand, he felt it now, but immediately he stopped and stayed very still. It was the laptop, that was what she’d hit him with, and only as he looked at it on the floor did he feel the trickle of blood, warm in his hair.

Sofi looked unharmed. She’d fallen to the floor, too, her head against the side of the sofa, and it could not have been a heavy fall. She didn’t look damaged in any way, except for the strange angle at which her head was positioned in relation to her body.

He didn’t move for several seconds, still expecting her to groan, to free herself from that awkward resting place, because people didn’t die so easily. Finally, he put the gun in his pocket and moved cautiously toward her, reaching out to the warmth of her neck, searching for a pulse he would not find.

And when he finally accepted that no harm could be done by moving her, he pulled her free and rested her head properly on the floor. He touched her lips, brushed his fingers over the softness of her cheek, stroked her hair, trying to understand that she was dead, that he had killed her, that perhaps she had tried to kill him.

He sat next to her and held her hand, and wanted to cry but could not, perhaps because of the shock, or because he didn’t know what those tears would be for. He was angry, too, that this had denied him a full explanation, that he was left with only the lies and not the hope that some part of her had been true.

He didn’t know how long he sat there. Her hand was still warm when he eventually let it go, though he didn’t know if that was residual or the heat from his own hand warming hers. He looked at her face again, at the beauty that had so easily fooled him, and he knew for sure now that he’d lost everything.

He took out his phone, but was hit with a fresh realization, that until the mess of Sparrowhawk was sorted out he couldn’t even phone Harry, let alone anyone else from the office. But he needed someone to help him through this, and he had only one contact left, so without even thinking, numb and empty, he put in a call to Louisa, and waited.

Chapter Thirty-Four

His plane took off into a clear blue sky, and it remained like that over the whole of Northern Europe. The snow that had fallen across Scandinavia the week before was still evident, the landscape of Sweden white and clearly defined. But the sea was free of ice now, suggesting this had been winter’s parting shot.

It was the same as the plane descended along the Finnish coast into Helsinki. There was still plenty of snow on the ground, but it glistened in the sunlight and he could easily imagine coming back here a week from now to find it all gone. He thought of Harry Simons, and about how depressed he would have been by the thought of the cold weather’s imminent retreat.

Once he got to the hotel, he checked into his room and called Karasek’s number. It rang a couple of times before someone answered. Finn didn’t understand the words but recognized Karasek’s voice instantly—he hadn’t anticipated that Alex might have given him Karasek’s personal cell number.

“Mr. Karasek, it’s Finn Harrington.”

There was a pause before Karasek said, “Who are you and how did you get this number?”

His accent had improved since they’d last spoken. It wasn’t the near-faultless standard of Alex’s English, but a vast improvement on where it had been.

“You know who I am, Mr. Karasek, but let’s speed things up. I got this number because Aleksandr Naumenko gave it to me. We have some matters that we need to discuss with you.”

Finn knew he wouldn’t refuse, the unease of having any dealings with Alex being tempered by the presence of an apparent middle
man, a meeting certainly preferable to what might happen if he did
refuse.

Once again there was a pause before he said, “Then you ought to come over, Mr. Harrington.”

“No. We meet in a neutral location and I want a private conversation, none of your guys around. How about the bar of the Hotel Kämp?”

“I’ll get back to you.” The line went dead.

It was fifteen minutes before he called back. Finn had no doubt that he’d called Perry during that time. Unless Karasek had outworn his usefulness, Perry would have warned him that Finn might well try to kill him.

“Finn Harrington.”

“The Ateljee Bar on the fourteenth floor of the Hotel Sokos Torni, two p.m. Don’t bring a gun. My men will search you and then leave us alone—we can talk of what we want.”

Finn scribbled it down and said, “I’ll see you then.”

He arrived just before two, and shared the small elevator with a handful of people who were well dressed and in high spirits. They reached the top regular floor of the hotel, and stepped out into a small lobby. The other visitors piled through the door to a metal spiral staircase that climbed up to the bar itself, perched like a crow’s nest on top of the building.

Two heavy-set guys, in suits but quite distinct from the small joyous crowd, were standing in the lobby as if waiting to take the elevator down, but as soon as they saw Finn they gestured for him to come to one side. He smiled, waited until the others had set off, clanging up the stairs to what sounded like a party above, and then held his hands out wide.

One stood a little way distant, vigilant, while the other patted him down, clearly looking for either a weapon or a wire. Like Alex had said, Karasek was a paranoid man, and perhaps with good reason—it seemed the world had moved on and left him
behind, just as it had with Khodorkovsky and countless others, all in different ways and for different reasons, the one common factor being that they had once seemed to be rewriting history but were now mere footnotes.

Once the bodyguard was satisfied, he stood back and gestured toward the stairs up to the bar.

Finn smiled and said, “I won’t keep you long.”

The guy looked back noncommittally, giving Finn the impression that he didn’t speak English. They were smarter and sleeker than the guys who’d worked for Karasek back in Tallinn, and in better shape than the old crowd, too.

Finn took the stairs, the laughter and voices above him joyous enough that he doubted Karasek was part of it. And as he emerged into the small, crowded bar, he quickly realized it was a wedding party. They were filling the internal bar area and had spilled out onto the large viewing deck on the north side.

Finn turned to look the other way. The southern viewing deck was occupied by just two people, one guarding the door, the other sitting at one of the tables, with what looked like a gin and tonic in front of him—Karasek, looking oddly defiant.

As Finn approached the door, the bodyguard appeared disinclined to move, but Karasek looked over, said something, and the guy opened the door and allowed Finn to step out. Finn smiled at him, then looked at the view and felt the biting wind sting his face.

The bodyguard stepped through the door and closed it, staring out at them rather than at the party within. Finn could see every aspect of Karasek’s decision to meet here. It was a controlled environment: out of range of sniper fire or passers-by, plenty of witnesses should Finn want to try anything. The viewing platforms had once been protected only by handrails, but reinforced glass had been placed inside of them now, reaching up to chest height. Despite the appeal of being fourteen floors up, the opportunities for killing Karasek here would be slight.

Kill him he would, though—if not now, then certainly on this trip. Karasek ignored Finn, instead picking up his drink and sucking through the straws. Finn looked at him, smiling, because drinking his gin and tonic through straws was exactly the kind of decision that made Karasek look like a precocious schoolboy in his father’s suit.

Finn paid him no more attention, looking out at the view across the city to the blue of the sea and the small flat islands.

After a while, Finn said, “I bet you like it up here. On a good day you can probably see all the way across to Tallinn. I don’t think you’re really welcome in Tallinn, though, not anymore. I’m surprised they put up with you here. Give them time, I suppose.”

“What do you want?”

Finn sat down opposite him, then looked at the door. “I don’t like him looking at me.”

“What of it? He’s inside. He can’t hear.”

“Okay, sorry to have wasted your time.” Finn stood. “I told Naumenko it was better if he spoke to you himself.”

Finn walked toward the door, a couple of steps, and was reaching for the handle when Karasek said, “Relax, Mr. Harrington. You seem to have lost your
cool
since the last time we met.”

Finn looked back at him. Karasek gestured casually, and the bodyguard nodded and headed for the spiral staircase. Finn gave a look of being contrite, as if he realized he’d been petty. He came back and sat down.

“So, what is so important that Naumenko must discuss with me?”

“Actually, he couldn’t care less what you’re up to. He knows you’re working with BGS to try to bring him down, but he also knows you’ll fail to do that. I think he’s concerned that his name is mentioned in connection with some numbered bank accounts that you and BGS are trying to access.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He seemed genuinely mystified, so maybe Karasek wasn’t chasing the money after all, but had some other motive.

“Nor do we, if I’m honest, but we’ll find out. See, we intercepted the BGS network. We know you’re working with them, and we know that in some way you’re trying to use me to get to Naumenko. Once we’ve joined those dots, I think you’ll find Aleksandr Naumenko will be very interested.”

That was enough for Karasek to look a little rattled, suggesting Finn was in the right neighborhood.

“I have no connection with this BGS. I tell you what I think . . . I think somebody is using BGS to get to me, not Aleksandr Naumenko.”

Finn nodded, smiling in a way that made Karasek even more jumpy.

“I imagine you spoke to Perry after I called you. Did he tell you Gibson is dead? I killed him. I killed Taylor, too. They’re both dead, but Gibson talked first, so I know exactly how involved you are with BGS, and so does Alex. But here’s the good news—the person we really want is Perry, so tell us what you know about what Perry’s up to, and we won’t have a problem with you.”

Karasek smiled, trying to look superior but appearing priggish, then stabbed the air with his finger and said, “Join the dots.”

Finn looked out over the city. A small plane was crossing the sky, pulling a long banner behind it. For a moment, he tried to read what it said, forgetting it would be in Finnish.

“You know they killed a fifteen-year-old boy last week, and they tried to kill a girl, too?”

Karasek shrugged, clearly unaware of Jonas’s death, but equally unconcerned by it. The death of a boy was nothing to Karasek, but as much as Finn wanted it to be otherwise, it seemed the crimes against Jonas and Hailey had been entirely Perry’s doing, not Karasek’s.

The small plane crossed into his line of vision over Karasek’s shoulder, and Finn realized now that it was circling the tower at a distance. He looked inside and saw the whole wedding party crushing toward the other viewing platform. It seemed the banner was a message for the newlyweds.

He looked back at Karasek and said, “Sparrowhawk—it was meant to destroy you and destroy Perry.”

“It failed.”

“True.” He could hear the plane, but it was out of sight now, on the other side of the tower. “And it’s so rare in my business that you get a second chance.”

Karasek shook his head, baffled and mocking. Finn heard a spontaneous cheer from the bar and glanced inside, the banner now in sight to those on the other platform, everyone in the bar facing north.

Finn lunged across the table, punching Karasek hard in the face. It wasn’t enough to knock him out, but fierce enough to leave him shaken, groggy. Finn jumped up, pulled him to his feet. Karasek
mumbled something in Estonian. Finn threw him against the rein
forced glass, adrenaline pumping, the cheers and claps still coming from within the bar. He grabbed Karasek by the chest and crotch, and thrust him upward, just managing to get his center of gravity over the lip of the glass, tipping him over.

Karasek realized what was happening and cried out, his voice lost against the party and the wind licking around the tower. He thrust out with his arms, then grabbed wildly as he fell down the other side of the glass, his feet finding the narrow ledge, one hand finding the railing, then the other.

“Stop, Harrington! Wait!” He was breathing rapidly, as if his heart might fail him. “It was Perry who wanted you. He knew Sparrowhawk was a trick, that you were trying to catch him. That’s what he was doing. He wants to prove you worked with Naumenko, that you were . . .”

“Corrupt?”

“Yes, yes—corrupt.”

“Why did you help? What was
your
reason for getting involved?”

“For everything . . . for Kaliningrad, for Katerina, but . . . it wasn’t . . .”

Finn nodded and said, “I know.” He punched over the top of
the glass, one hard swing downward into Karasek’s face. Karasek
fell silently—probably stunned by the punch—which Finn thought a shame.

Finn turned and walked off the terrace. As he did so, the first of the wedding party turned away from the other terrace and the view of the plane that now flew on toward the west. Still none of them looked at him or out to the other terrace, let alone wondered if there had not been another man out there.

He caught a glimpse of the bride and groom as he headed down the stairs—not a particularly young couple, perhaps around his own age or Adrienne’s. And as he reached the bottom of the spiral staircase, another small group of partygoers was just coming out of the elevator.

The three bodyguards stood alert at the sight of Finn, but he simply smiled and stepped into the recently vacated elevator car. One of the guards, the one who’d been sent down, tried to go back up but found himself stuck behind the late guests on the stairs.

As he left the hotel, Finn noticed a small crowd off to one side—mostly workers from the hotel by the look of them. One of them came running back into the hotel, a look of horror and distress on his face, and in the gap that had briefly opened up Finn saw Karasek’s smashed body, which fittingly had landed in the gutter. The crowd and the surrounding street were surprisingly subdued—no screams, no shouts, no alarm.

Finn strolled back to his hotel. He had an answer, one as anticlimactic as had always seemed to be the case—it had all been about revenge, fueled no doubt by Perry’s increasing realization that his newfound autonomy was actually a form of sidelining, and perhaps fueled further by Finn’s new career. It wouldn’t have surprised him if Perry’s plan dated back to the first time he’d seen one of Finn’s books in an airport bookstore.

Somehow, Finn wasn’t even shocked by the pettiness of it. A boy had been murdered, a girl almost killed, families destroyed, and all because one corrupt civil servant had objected to the part another corrupt civil servant had played in his partial downfall. It should have been shocking, but Finn’s passion was history, a subject that was littered with trivial horrors.

The snow had been cleared from the esplanade, and people were sitting at tables outside the cafés, enjoying the sun, protected from the cold by blankets. It made him realize how much he’d missed this city, and the north in general.

As he walked, he was still determined that he would kill Perry, that he had no choice anyway if he wanted his life back. But he desperately wanted his life to return to normal now—or a new normal. He wanted to sink back into his books, into Béziers, but he also wanted Adrienne there with him.

He walked into the hotel and headed across the lobby, making for the elevators. One of the concierges was talking to a young businessman in a suit and heavy coat, but when he saw Finn he stopped and called out, “Mr. Harrington.”

Finn turned, and the concierge gestured toward him and said, “This is Mr. Harrington.” He looked back to Finn then, smiling as he said, “We just tried your room—this gentleman has called to see you.”

“Thanks,” said Finn, and looked at the young guy standing there, smooth-faced, pale in a healthy way, his hair about as bed-head as he could get away with whilst wearing a suit—he looked like a Burberry model. Finn gestured toward the middle of the lobby and they moved over there. The guy was carrying a briefcase, which he was holding a little too tightly. They stood for a second and then Finn said, “Well?”