The smell of fresh death hit them when they opened the door. Both detectives had smelt it before, but neither had got used to it. A neighbour had heard strange noises coming from the flat the previous evening, but had waited until the next morning to call the police. One of the uniformed officers that arrived to investigate was bent over, dry retching into the front garden. The other was sitting on the wall with his hands clasped together, trying to stop them from shaking. They were both young. Every copper will see a body eventually. The lucky ones see something natural the first time, but these two weren’t lucky.

DS Cohen and DC Russell stepped into the hall. The carpet was old and worn with elaborate red patterns. A large pile of unopened post had been pushed to the side. Cohen bent down and picked up a few of the letters. Most of it looked like junk and there were a few obscure academic journals. They were on a variety of subjects: physics; maths; politics. Everything was addressed to Simeon Cavendish.

“Looks like he had a few bob,” said Russell. “Anyone who can afford to have a place like this and not even bother to rent it out is probably not struggling.”

The stairs creaked as the two detectives plodded up to the main landing. There was a small kitchen at the top with some dirty plates and forks in the sink. Cohen pushed the lid of the bin and saw some empty Chinese takeaway trays. He picked the packaging out. Beijing Paradise, Warwick Avenue. It was local, close to the tube station. The delivery guy would have been here. They were going to have to talk to him later. Cohen heard Russell poking around in the bedroom and walked through to join him.

“Not much in here,” said Russell. “Bed hasn’t been slept in for ages it looks like. No clothes in the cupboards.”

The door to the lounge was slightly open. Cohen walked up to it and grabbed the handle. The smell got stronger as he pushed the door open and walked inside. The windows were covered with thick curtains, starving the room of any natural light. The three dark shapes at the end of the room could have been anything when Cohen looked towards them. He stood for a few seconds in the dark until Russell walked up behind him and flicked on the light.

“What a fucking mess,” said Russell, striding into the centre of the room.

The three bodies were tied to wooden chairs facing the detectives. There were smatterings of blood on the walls and fireplace. More covered the floor, but it had blended into the red carpet. The small man on the left was dressed in a suit and had been shot in the head and chest. The man in the middle wore jeans with an expensive designer shirt and no tie. His shoes looked Italian. They were made of brown leather and were still shiny. His throat had been slit. A knife had been put into the side of his neck and pulled forward, slicing his windpipe, bleeding him almost dry. Cohen could see their deaths had been quick, but the third man hadn’t been so lucky. The man on the end was older than the other two. He had a strong head of silver hair and wore a tweed jacket with cream chinos. His shoes and socks had been removed and so had his toenails. There was an iron sitting on the floor next to him still plugged into the socket. His shirt had been ripped open and there were two deep burn marks on his chest. The melted flesh had dripped down onto his stomach. Russell walked around the back of the three bodies, taking a closer look. Cohen had never seen him flinch in these type of situations. He seemed to view dead bodies like waxworks. Separating the person from the corpse had never been an issue for Russell.

“How do you think the third one died?” said Cohen.

“I think this might have something to do with it,” said Russell, pointing at the back of the man’s head.

Cohen walked round and saw the knife stuck in his skull. It had been twisted after it was inserted. “Whatever they wanted out of these three, it must have been pretty important.”

“How do you know they wanted something?” said Russell. “Some people just do this shit because they get a kick out of it. I’ve seen it before.”

“Which one do you think is Cavendish?” said Cohen.

“Looks like the man here with the knife in his head was the main attraction,” said Russell. “I imagine the other two would’ve had to sit back and watch the horror show before they got done in.”

A shout came from downstairs. Cohen walked back onto the landing and leant over the bannister. The officer that was sick in the garden was standing just inside the door. “Forensics are here, do you want them to come up?”

“Yeah, send them in,” shouted Cohen. “And get the cordons up. We don’t want the public wandering past the scene all morning.”

Cohen walked back into the lounge. Russell had opened a chocolate bar and was munching away at it as he examined some pictures on the mantelpiece. The men in white suits came into the room and started to examine the scene. Cohen made his way downstairs to the street, leaving Russell to take charge of the situation. He took in a deep lungful of fresh air. He’d seen worse, but the trick with the iron was something new. He tried to imagine the pain of having a scolding iron shoved onto his chest. The knife in the back of the head must have been sweet relief.

Several members of the public had started to hang around the edge of the cordon. One of the uniforms was chatting to them and keeping them from walking towards the house. From the back of the crowd, two men in grey suits approached the officer and flashed some ID. They ducked under the tape and walked over to him.

“DS Cohen?” one of them said.

“That’s right, how can I help you gents?”

“We’re with the Foreign Office. I’m Walker and this is Varndon. We know this is your investigation, but we just need to have a look around.”

“And what interest does the Foreign Office have in our case?”

“We need to have a look around,” said Varndon. “Here’s a number to call if you want to get some confirmation.”

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to do better than that lads. This is a crime scene and no one gets in or out until my people have finished. You’ll have to step back behind the cordon.”

Cohen felt his phone buzz in his pocket. It was the station.

“Cohen speaking.”

“Cohen, it’s Lisa. I’ve just had someone very senior ring me to make sure you don’t hassle two suits that are going to turn up at your crime scene. I don’t know what the hell is going on, but don’t get in their way or we’re both in hot water.” Walker and Varndon seemed to know exactly what was being said on the other end of the phone. Cohen put the phone back in his pocket.

“Looks like it’s all yours,” said Cohen, stepping aside.

They walked past him and up the path into the house. Russell came out a few minutes later and walked over to where Cohen was standing. He offered him a cigarette and they both sparked up.

“Who are the new kids then?” said Russell.

“They say they’re from the Foreign Office.”

“From the FCO? What do they want here?”

“I don’t know, but I don’t like it. Get back up there and keep an eye on them. I need to speak to the Guvnor.”

The insomnia seemed to have eased a little. There must have been at least two hours sleep since the last time his eyes snapped open. Matt Harper reached for the glass of water on the bedside table. Just as the liquid was about to reach his lips, he smelt the gin and jerked his head back. He put the glass down and looked around for something else to drink. He picked up an open can of coke from the floor and took a swig. It was flat and warm, but he finished it off. He sat up and let the room come more into focus. His throat was dry and his head had a light thud, but other than that, he felt okay.

He walked into the lounge, flipped on the kettle and turned on the TV. He was sick of television after watching hour after hour of soul-destroying dross in the hope of dropping off to sleep. The news was leading with a story about three suspicious deaths somewhere in north London.

“British businessman Simeon Cavendish was found dead in his home yesterday morning along with two colleagues, Glasgow-born Marcus Stewart and Swiss national, Luca Francini. Cavendish, a prominent scientist, was the main shareholder in hedge fund Woolaton Capital. He left behind a wife and three children…” Harper flicked onto a different news channel. “Renewed troubles in Northern Ireland brought Belfast to a standstill yesterday as a Loyalist splinter group planted three bombs in pubs around the city…”

He turned the TV off and threw the remote on the table. A flush of the toilet told him the girl from the previous night was still in the flat. She walked out, a little surprised to see him, clearly having hoped for a conversation-free exit. She looked a bit older than he remembered, but he could still see why he took her home.

“Oh hi,” she said, grabbing her coat from the rack.

“Morning, you don’t want to stay for coffee?” he said, amusing himself by watching her shuffle uncomfortably towards the door.

“Oh, it’s fine, I have to get to work, but…I had a really good time. I’ll see you around yeah.”

“I hope so.”

The switch on the kettle flicked off and she melted quickly from his memory. He walked over and made himself a coffee. There was no milk, so he put two spoons of sugar in and had it black. The therapist had advised him to stay off caffeine and cut back on the amount of alcohol he drank, but he was struggling on both fronts. He had bought a large box of decaffeinated coffee, but the plastic wrapper was still on the box. He sat back down on the sofa and picked up his laptop. He scrolled through a few emails before coming to one with an urgent tag.Meeting: 10am. Office of the Deputy Commissioner. Required Attendee: DC Harper. He looked up at the clock. It was 9.15am. He got showered and dressed as quickly as he could. He got as far as the street before he felt his chest tighten. His breathing was racing and he started to regret the coffee.

He waved down a cab and jumped in the back seat. He took the chance to close his eyes and clear his mind, just as the therapist had suggested. She had given him a choice of things to imagine when he felt tense. The one that seemed to work was the lake. He imagined the choppy water with waves crashing into each other and gradually brought it to a calm state until the water was perfectly still. He sat in the back of the cab with his eyes closed for 10 minutes and then opened them and just watched London flash past. His heart had stopped racing and the tightness in his chest had eased. He managed to keep his mind off the meeting until he arrived at New Scotland Yard. He slipped a mint into his mouth to counter the smell of alcohol on his breath. The meeting room he was heading for was on the top floor. He walked out the lift and turned left onto a long corridor lined with offices. Most of the doors were open and a few secretaries glanced up to look at him as he walked past. The plush meeting room was at the end and they were all waiting for him when he arrived. He recognised the Deputy Commissioner, who was sitting at the head of the table. There were three other officers there, but he couldn’t place any of the faces.

“Harper, thanks for coming, I’m Deputy Commissioner Bailey.”

“Good to meet you Ma’am.”

“This is DS Cohen and DC Russell. They are working on yesterday’s Cavendish killing. And this is Detective Chief Inspector Morton. He’s leading the investigation.”

Harper nodded and shook the outstretched hands. He sat down and poured himself a coffee from the pot in the middle of the table.

“You’re probably wondering why you’re here,” said Bailey.

“Yes Ma’am.”

“Your undercover work for this force has been very impressive.”

Harper didn’t respond.

“The Commissioner is well aware of your achievements and he has requested we talk to you about a sensitive job.” Bailey pushed a file across the table. “Everything we know about the Cavendish killing is in this file.”

Harper opened the folder to a profile of Simeon Cavendish. Educated at Cambridge. Bachelors degree in Pure Mathematics. Several Masters degrees and a PHD in Finance. Formed his own hedge fund a few years back.

“More sensitive than usual?”

Morton pulled a file out of his briefcase. Harper’s name was on the top of the first sheet of paper with a picture taken during his time in basic training stapled onto the corner. It seemed a long time ago now.

“Says here you’ve helped put away Ukrainian arms traffickers, Lithuanian heroin suppliers, Armenian people smugglers, and it goes on and on. You speak native standard Russian and are fluent in several other languages from the region.”

Memories of the various operations flashed through Harper’s mind. The hours spent watching, listening, pretending to be someone else. The languages he spoke for fun with his grandparents became his pass into the fast lane. No pounding the streets chasing shoplifters for him. He was exempt. He was too useful.

“I’ve been with the unit for 15 years,” said Harper. “From the start.”

“Have you ever come across Simeon Cavendish?” continued Morton.

“Financial crime comes with the territory, but no, I’ve never heard of him.”

Bailey took the file from Morton and closed the folder. “Simeon Cavendish has been spending rather a lot of time in Russia over the past couple of years. He arrived back from there with the other two men the day before their bodies were found. We think whatever he was doing there got him killed.”

“And you’d like me to find out what that was?”

“Yes. But not, how shall we say…in an orthodox manner.”

“Ma’am?”

“This is all very sensitive Harper,” said Bailey, leaning forward and putting her elbows on the table. “Morton will be leading the official investigation from the UK, and we are sending a team, including Cohen and Russell, over to Moscow to liaise with the Russian police.”

“So why do you need me?”

“We don’t expect we will receive much official cooperation over there, so we need someone who can operate, let’s say, more freely.”

“You want me as a UC in Russia?”

“That’s right.”

A small wave of anxiety flashed across Harper’s body. He pushed the coffee away and clasped his hands together in front of him. He felt the excitement fighting with the apprehension as he mulled over the proposition.

“What would be the cover?”

“English teacher,” said Morton.

“Can’t I slip in at the embassy?”

“The embassy is off limits I’m afraid,” said Bailey. “Our brothers and sisters from the security services have taken a special interest in the case and they would prefer us not to rock the boat with the Russians. They control the embassy, so that’s not possible.”

Harper shifted in his seat. “So I presume they won’t know about me?”

“No one will know about you apart from the Commissioner and the people in this room. And we want to temporarily wipe your file.”

“Is that necessary?”

“We need complete deniability in case you get caught.”

“I see.”

“The Commissioner wants a result, but the spooks should think we’re onside.”

“And there is a reason we are putting you into this school,” said Morton. “Cavendish’s Russian partner is a man called Andre Vladimirovich Katusev. His daughter is a student there. If you can get to her, she could be extremely useful. Her name is Anastasia.”

“Anastasia,” said Harper. “That’s a nice name.”

They watched Harper and waited for his response. He stood up and walked towards the window. There was a mist over the city and visibility was poor. He could hardly see further than a few streets across.

“I need a day to think about it,” he said finally. “You know it was a only a few weeks since we finished the last court case. I like to take a bit of time out before I jump into something new. Can I get back to you tomorrow?”

“Sure,” said Bailey. “But if you decide to go for it, you’ll leave on Monday. Come back with the goods and you’ll be heading your own squad. You’ve got my word on that.”

Harper said nothing and made his way to the door.

“There’s one more thing I wanted to ask you about,” said Bailey. “Says here you got engaged during your last op. The press has given us a lot of flack over relationships started while on the job. Do you think she’s likely to go running to the papers?”

“I doubt it Ma’am. She’s related to some pretty heavy people. I don’t think they’re the type to start getting pally with reporters.”

“Well, that’s good. How did you leave it?”

“I just left it.”

“And it was that easy?”

“It was a job. It was that easy.”

They watched as Harper walked out and disappeared back down the corridor.

“What do you think?” said Bailey.

“Seems a bit full of himself,” said Russell.

“You would be too if you had his record,” said Morton.

“How are his psych evaluations?” said Bailey.

Morton flicked through a couple of pages in Harper’s file to the psychological assessments. “Seems fine. He passed all the checks with flying colours. Why?”

“He’s been in pretty deep on some of these undercover ops. I’ve seen plenty of officers go off the rails after work like that.”

“Nothing to indicate there’s anything like that happening.”

“Is he married?” said Bailey. “I mean outside of an operation.”

“He was. It fizzled out last year. It’s not exactly easy to hold a marriage together in his line of work.”

“Sadly you’re right,” said Bailey as she stood up and walked to the door. “Let me know as soon as he makes a decision. The Commissioner wants to get this off the ground.”

Harper pressed the buzzer and stood back from the door. The detached house was in a smart area of south London. You could almost forget you were in the city in an area like this. It was a village planted in the middle of the urban sprawl. The Force always offered to pay for therapy if anyone needed it. They took care of you like that. But he didn’t want it on his record, so the £100 an hour came out of his own pocket. It was pricey, but he was hoping it wouldn’t be forever.

Tamara Wainwright opened the door and gave him a welcoming smile. The house had a certain smell to it. She had scented candles burning most of the time. It reminded him of a trip to Thailand. If she meant it to feel relaxing, it worked for him. It was his second visit. He took his shoes and jacket off and followed her into the room on the left. He sat down on the couch and she took her place on the leather chair opposite.

“How are you feeling today Matt?”

“Better than before, but not perfect.”

“Are you sleeping?”

“Sporadically. But enough.”

Tamara sat and looked at him as he slouched on the sofa in front of her. She put her hands in her lap and gave him the chance to gather his thoughts and decide what he wanted to discuss.

“I’ve got a bit of a difficult decision to make about work,” he said.

“What kind of difficult decision?”

“Another case has come up. It’s perfect for me and I am desperate work on it, but I don’t know if I could handle it with all this going on.”

“With all what going on?”

“The anxiety. I’m feeling a bit better, but the idea of getting back to work, I’m not sure I’m ready for that.”

“Why don’t you think you can handle it? What do you think might happen?”

He checked himself as he thought of a way to explain things to her without giving too much away. They had agreed to leave out the details of his work and try to generalise instead.

“I’m worried I’ll lose my poise in front of people,” he said. “It could be dangerous for me if I lose my poise.”

She also considered her response carefully. Enough policemen had passed through her clinic that she had a good idea of some of the more secretive work they did. This game of cat and mouse was something she had perfected over the years for those with something to keep hidden.

“Have you taken all the advice I gave you?”

“I do everything you recommended, except giving up the coffee and the booze. But I’m working on it.”

“You know you’re not helping yourself by using either of those things.”

“Yeah, I know. But one step at a time right.”

“Of course, it’s entirely up to you whether you take this job or not, but what is happening to you is perfectly normal and not life threatening. You can’t stop living your life because of this. I want you to keep that at the forefront of your mind.”

“I just wish I could feel like I did before.”

“And how did you feel before?”

“I felt like nothing could touch me. I felt like I could take on the world and win.”

“And why can’t you now?”

“It just feels different. Like every step I take is like fighting my way through a wall of sand.”

“That’s because you’re pushing too hard. You can’t fight against this. You can’t fight against yourself. Your body is telling you something is wrong. There is no need to change your goals. You just need to work out a different way to progress to the same point.”

Harper sat quietly again and tried to take in what she was telling him. He knew it was the burning ambition and competitive streak inside him that were partly fuelling his problems. But he had never tried to dampen them before and wasn’t sure he wanted to.

“I’ve always worked hard. It’s part of me. I can’t just turn it off.”

“I’m not asking you to turn it off. You just need to think why you are doing it in the first place.”

“What do you mean?”

“What is driving this need to work hard? What is this need to always be first?”

“It’s the way I’ve always been.”

“And what happens if you take your foot off the gas?”

“Mediocrity happens.”

“And whose judgment call is that?”

“Mine.”

“Are you sure it’s your call? Or are you afraid of what others would think?”

Harper paused as he digested the question. No one had ever called him afraid before. It’s one thing to be stressed and overworked, but scared? He wasn’t scared.

“I think we’re getting off the point there to be honest,” he said, sitting up straight. “I’m just a bit burnt out. I don’t think we need to start getting into my childhood and all that.”

“What are you afraid of talking about?”

“I’m not afraid alright,” he said, slightly louder than he intended. She shifted in her chair and he felt immediately guilty. “Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to raise my voice. This is just all new for me. I’m not used to opening up like this.”

“That’s fine. It’s a perfectly normal reaction. Just take your time. We’ll go at your pace.”

Harper leaned further back and looked at the ceiling. “Look, Tamara, do you mind if we knock it on the head. I’m just not sure this was a great idea anymore.”

“Matt, I think you should stay. You’ve only been here 10 minutes. We can just go over some more exercises if you like.”

“No, I really have to get going.” He took the money out of his pocket and placed it on the coffee table. “Here’s the full amount. I appreciate your time, but I’ve got things to do.”

She stood at the door as he walked down the path and crossed the road. He looked back. She looked good in her brown dress. And he could see she was for real. She wasn’t the type to feign interest in someone. She seemed to care. He hurried back past the other large detached houses and towards the tube station. When he turned the corner, he took out his phone and dialed Bailey’s office number. It rang several times before a woman’s voice came on the other end of the line.

“The Deputy Commissioner’s office, how may I help you?”

“This is DC Harper. I’d like to leave a message.”

“Go ahead.”

“If you could just tell her I’d like to accept her offer.”

“Staaandaard!”

The newspaper seller had become expert at spotting anyone interested in 85 Albert Embankment. The crowds that bustled around Vauxhall tube station contained a lot of tourists just interested in snapping a photo in front of the famous MI6 building. But occasionally, there was someone who lingered a bit too long, or took too many pictures. These were the people his contact in the service was interested in. If he saw anyone suspicious, all he had to do was point a little camera in their direction and get a couple of shots.

“Get your Staaaandaaard!”

At the end of the day, he loaded them onto a USB stick and handed it to the posh bloke in the hat with his evening paper. Some days there was nothing to report, but other days, there were a few. Easy money. His other talent was spotting people that worked in the building over the road. Just for fun. The chances of meeting one were quite high considering most of them had to come past his stand to get to work. The two standing in front of him now were not typical, but it was something about the way they spoke to each other. The hushed tones; voices careful and aware.

Walker and Varndon kept talking in hushed tones as they crossed the road and walked into the MI6 building. They made their way up to the fourth floor and weaved their way through the throng of people packing their belongings into boxes. The door to Alpha’s office was slightly ajar, but Varndon knocked anyway.

“Come in,” came the voice from inside. They both walked in and took a seat opposite the head of their department. The old man was leafing through some files, sorting out what could be kept and what should be incinerated. “I think I’m the only one round here who still keeps anything on paper you know,” he said. “I just think some things are best left in their original format, don’t you think?”

Both men nodded as he surveyed them over the top of his spectacles. He walked over and shut the door to drown out the noise coming from the main floor of the department. “This move should have happened a long time ago you know.”

“Shows they’re taking the department more seriously,” said Varndon.

“And so they should,” said Alpha. “Some of them laughed at me when I said we needed a Financial Security Division. And now the same people are knocking on my door and asking for advice.”

“Which floor are we going to?” said Walker.

Alpha pointed upwards. “High enough to stop the sniggers.”

“The Cavendish house was a bit of a horror show,” said Varndon.

“Did the police give you any trouble?”

“They tried, but the call stopped them in their tracks.”

“That’s good,” said Alpha. “There’s nothing worse than some blunt instrument of a copper sticking his nose into things way above his station. Hopefully they’ll get the message. If they haven’t, I’ve pulled a few strings to make sure they know we have our priorities on this one and they are second tier.”

“So what now?” asked Walker.

“I’m sending you both to Moscow.”

“Which alias?”

“The same. Bankers with deep pockets.”

“I heard the Met are sending a team out there too,” said Varndon.

“They’ll be gone in a week,” said Alpha. “If they show signs of making any trouble, you tell me straight away and I’ll make sure they’re hauled back here.”

“When do we leave?” said Varndon.

“Monday. But be careful. Our friends in the Lubyanka will be expecting you.”

Harper stared at the small bottle of pills, contemplating whether to take one. The broken light flickered on and off in the cramped plane toilet. He finally took the cap off, poured the contents into the toilet bowl and pressed the handle. The suction system pulled them down into the bowels of the plane, scattering them somewhere over the English Channel. He had already removed the label displaying his real name before he left the house, so he just threw the unmarked bottle into the small bin. The effects of the pill he had swallowed earlier were just about wearing off. It had reduced the anxiety, but it had also dulled his senses. He decided he would have to cope without them. He moved his face close to the mirror and examined the red lines streaked over the whites of his eyes. The dry air circulating around the plane made his skin feel tight and stretched.

The lights had been dimmed when he stepped back out into the aisle. Some of the passengers continued watching films in the dark, while others fidgeted under their blankets trying to find a comfortable sleeping position. A baby that had been screaming during takeoff seemed to have settled down, much to the relief of its mother. Harper made his way to the back of the plane and sat down.

He took out his tablet and opened the files on the dead men.

Marcus Stewart. Veteran investor. Spent his business career investing in some of the world’s most hostile countries and coming away with a small fortune each time. Former British Army. Served with the SAS in Northern Ireland, the Falklands and Bosnia. Cavendish clearly wasn’t naïve. If you were going to spend time in the Russian business world, this is the type of man you would want to have sitting next to you. Harper turned to Luca Francini’s file. Born in Geneva. Grew up in Hong Kong. Worked for Goldman Sachs before joining Cavendish at Woolaton; the savvy and urbane frontman for the investors. The three of them had been in and out of Russia since the fund’s inception.

Then there was Andre Katusev.

The only information they had managed to dig up on Woolaton’s reclusive partner was from press reports. His own hedge fund was called Svaboda Capital. He had been touted as part of an emerging Kremlin inner circle. But there were no football clubs, no lavish yachts or public philanthropy. In comparison to his oligarch peers, he was like a ghost. The newspapers had nothing to get excited about, so he mostly seemed to stay off the front pages.

Harper pulled the tablet to his chest as a passenger walked slowly towards the back of the plane. He waited until the man had started to walk back before he relaxed again. The seats directly to his left were empty and there was a young teenage couple asleep in front of him. He scanned the rest of the cabin, but nothing much stirred. He read over the short intelligence files a few more times and consigned the main details to memory before wiping them from the device. There could be nothing linking him to the job once the plane touched down in Moscow. From now on, he was Ryan Evans, a slightly disgruntled office worker who decided to jack in his life in the UK for a bit of adventure in Russia. He took out the fake passport and gave it another quick once over. Keep it together Ryan Evans, he said to himself under his breath. Keep it together.

Cohen scrubbed the small window with his sleeve as they crawled slowly along the Moscow runway in the middle of the night. He managed to get a slightly better view, but there wasn’t much to see. A few orange lights flashed in the distance, but mostly it just looked like a white desert as far as the eye could see. He thought of Harper just a few hours behind them. Time was a priority, but it would have been seriously dense for them all to be on the same plane. He turned to look at Russell, who was still dozing in the seat next to him. Cohen elbowed him lightly in the ribs and he opened his eyes.

“We’re here,” said Cohen.

“Hallelujah,” said Russell. “I couldn’t be more thrilled.”

The plane approached the terminal building and parked in a spot away from the other aircraft. The eager passengers jumped to their feet and began yanking their bags and coats out of the overhead lockers. Cohen glanced over his shoulder at the three more junior members of his team. There was a translator and two less experienced detectives with experience in finance cases. None of them looked happy about being on the trip. Cohen and Russell let the other passengers file out before they stood up and reached for their hand luggage.  A few rows in front, one passenger was still seated. Cohen could only see the back of his head, which stayed perfectly still. The man looked towards the window as the five officers filed past him and towards the exit at the front of the plane.

“Jesus wept, it’s Baltic,” said Russell as they stepped out onto the top of the steps.

“Funny that,” said Cohen.

As they reached the runway, Cohen felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see the man from the plane standing next to him. He was wearing a cheap business suit and carrying a brown briefcase. His face was grey and devoid of any distinguishing features.

“You and your group will wait please Detective Sergeant Cohen.”

“And who are you?” said Russell, turning around and facing him.

“You will wait please,” he repeated.

The group stood and looked at each other for a few seconds, unsure of what their next move should be. Just as Russell was about to speak, several overlapping wails filled the air and a small fleet of police cars emerged from the edge of the terminal building.

“I really don’t see why they have to be so dramatic about the welcome party,” said Russell. “If they’re looking to scare us, they should just threaten to send us to dinner with Captain Charisma here.”

Harper took a seat at the back of the minivan and pulled up his hood. He watched the other teachers, all fresh-faced and enthusiastic, file in and sit down. The gruff driver did a final headcount and pulled off onto the motorway. Heat was blasting out of a vent at the front, offset by streams of cold air coming from rusted gaps in the chassis. The conversation died down and sleep took hold as they sped along the road towards central Moscow. Harper replayed the meeting with Bailey and details of the case started to fly around his mind. The driver picked up speed and Harper tried to ignore the sweat gathering on the back of his head and running down his neck. The road swept past in front and either side of him, every light and sound demanding his attention as they raced along. He looked around at the confines of the minivan and the walls started to move slowly inwards, tightening around him. Images of Cavendish and the others, bound and bloody, raced towards him out of the darkness up ahead. He squeezed his eyes closed and searched for the calm, but it was too late.

“Stop.”

The driver looked round and a few people raised their head from the slumber.

“Can you stop please,” Harper repeated. “I’m gonna puke.”

The driver lurched over to the right. A girl with short hair near the middle slipped forward and hit her head on the seat in front. In a few seconds, they were stationary at the side of the road. Harper bundled his way to the front and slid the door open. He rushed forward into the long grass and bent his head, mimicking a retching motion. The open air washed over him and the panic began to fade. He took some deep breaths and wiped the sweat from the back of his neck. He stood for a few seconds, with his hands on his knees, letting the grass brush against his fingers. As he turned to walk back, the concerned faces stared out of the window. He stepped back into the van with an apologetic look on his face.

“Sorry folks. Just a bit of car sickness.”

Everyone smiled sympathetically as Harper walked back to his place and sat down. The driver slammed the door shut and pulled off back onto the highway. Harper closed his eyes, but stayed awake as the rest of the passengers drifted back off to sleep. He let the slow hum of the engine vibrate through his body until the van juddered to a halt in a dark street. The snow lit up the area slightly, but it still looked grim and dilapidated. A drunk was sprawled on a bench next to the van. He stirred as the engine chugged next to him, but rather than leave, he just turned onto his side and ignored the disturbance. There was a crisp layer of snow on top of him, but he didn’t seem to care. The driver pulled open the door on the side of the van. He stood there with a clipboard, his breath freezing on the air as he looked at the list.

“Sarah and Jennifer,” he said. “Come here please.”

Harper watched as two spindly girls started to move towards the front and stepped down onto the icy pavement. They looked up at the building in front of them. The grey structure was smattered with filthy stains and a collection of rusted car parts sat around the entrance. They huddled closer together as the drunk let out a gurgling sound and punched out into thin air. The driver handed them a key each.

“You are on third floor. Apartment 304. Door code is 0000. I will be here in the morning. 9am.”

He turned to walk away and one of the girls let out a slow whine before bursting into tears. The driver turned around and furrowed his brow.

“What, 9am is too early for you?”

“It’s not early,” screeched the second girl, putting her arm round her new friend. “You just can’t leave us in this…this…well, horrible place.”

“Horrible?” said the driver. “Why horrible?”

“Look at it!” she shouted back at him. “It’s dark and disgusting and there’s some crazy man outside.” The tramp suddenly swung his legs round and sat up with a confused look on his face. He looked over at the two girls, one crying and one angry, and contemplated the van full of foreigners for a few seconds. His eyes drifted onto the nearly empty brandy bottle at his feet. He picked it up and waved a hand dismissively at the group before stumbling over to the front door and punching 0000 into the keypad. The door beeped and he disappeared into the gloom.

“Oh great,” said the crying girl, “you mean to tell me he lives there.”

The driver took his hat off and rubbed his head. “Anyone else want to stay here instead?” he asked. The van stayed silent. Harper was just about to volunteer when a young Irishman walked forward with his hand raised.

“Why don’t I stay with them?” he said. “It’d be better with a bloke around.”

“It’s okay for you?” the driver asked the girls.

“Yes please.”

“Okay, he stays here too.” The driver walked round to the back of the van and grabbed three pieces of luggage. He placed them on the pavement, got back inside and wound down the window. “Okay, you have my number. Remember please, 9am.” He pulled off down the street, leaving the group of three looking apprehensively at their new accommodation. Harper turned around and watched them disappear into the building. The girls looked like they were fresh from a few months in Thailand or Australia or one of the many other backpacker-friendly destinations. He wasn’t sure what they had expected to find in Moscow, but he was sure it wasn’t the authentic socialist nightmare they were now getting. They made two more stops, dropping off the remainder of the passengers. They looked mildly more pleased with their lot than the first group, but still seemed shocked it wasn’t the Holiday Inn. The driver sped off back onto the icy highway with just Harper sat in the back.

“You wanna cigarette?” the driver shouted.

“Sure,” said Harper, getting up and walking, hunched over, to the front of the minivan. He took the packet of Parliament cigarettes and the lighter from the driver’s hand and sat down.

“You feel okay now?”

“Yeah, fine, I’m not great in cars. Nevermind me though, you must be knackered,” said Harper, lighting up and taking a deep drag.

“Knackered, what is knackered?” asked the driver.

“Very tired,” said Harper.

The driver laughed. “I can’t afford to be tired. I have four children. Tired is for the rich man and the lazy Russian.”

“You aren’t Russian?” asked Harper, looking at the man’s face in the rearview mirror. The driver’s eyes flicked up to look at Harper.

“I am from Armenia,” he said, keeping his eyes on Harper’s, gauging his reaction.

“Armenia?” said Harper. “The birthplace of Christianity right?”

“Right!” said the driver, his face relaxing into a wide smile. “How do you know this?”

“Something my grandmother told me.”

“Your babushka was a very wise lady I think.”

“She was that, yeah. She was that.”

“She was Russian?” Harper checked himself at the question.

“Not that I know of,” he replied. “So those people we dropped off first didn’t seem too happy. Do you think they’ll stay?”

“Happens every time there is new group,” said the driver. “They come to teach English straight from university or nice holiday. Some they know what is Russia like. Others, it is big surprise for them. BIG surprise. I think they maybe stay a few months then leave. Russia is no good for pretty western girls.”

“What do you mean?” said Harper.

“I mean they are used to being prettiest girl, and here they are not prettiest girl. It makes them a little crazy.”

“Do people still call it the West?” said Harper.

“I am older,” said the driver. “For us, it will always be the West.” They turned a corner and pulled up outside into a small courtyard. The building seemed better quality than the previous places. It had the same rotting bench and scratched metal front door, but it was grander.

“So, you are the lucky one Ryan Evans,” said the driver, looking at his sheet. “You are living in this Stalinka. It is old building. Built well, with high ceilings. Two people live here now, English boy and Russian girl. You are the third.”

Harper took the key and the front door code from the driver, shook his hand and watched him pull off, cigarette smoke creeping out of his open window. He tapped the code into the front door keypad and a clunky tune beeped out of the speaker. He pulled his suitcase inside and walked up to the lift directly in front of him. The doors rattled open and he dragged his suitcase into the small space. He got out on the fourth floor and looked around. The corridor was old, but someone had gone to the effort of putting some potted plants on the stairwells. There was a plastic bottle that had been chopped in half and filled with water and various fly sprays huddled in a corner. Harper walked over to the door of his new flat and slid the key into the lock. It was still the middle of the night, so he turned it as slowly as he could, trying not to make a noise. It was dark inside and he squinted to look for a light switch on the wall, but couldn’t see one. He stood in the dark for a few seconds. His anxiety bubbled slowly somewhere deep in his gut. He took a deep breath and fended it off, relaxing his muscles as much as he could. Just as he went to feel for the switch a second time, he felt someone approaching him out of the dark.

“Hello,” he whispered, but it was too late. He felt a strong shove backwards and he crashed into the coat rack and sprawled onto the floor.

The founder of Lenin’s brutal secret police watched Walker and Varndon as they hurried along the path. The statue of Felix Dzerzhinksy sat in the middle of Muzeon Park; a menacing presence over the graveyard for Soviet statues. The two men pushed on through busts of politburo luminaries and military heroes towards a wooden pagoda draped with soft drink adverts. Varndon clapped his gloved hands a few times and rubbed them together to stave off the cold morning air. They both scanned the surroundings for anyone walking nearby, but they seemed to be alone.

“If the opposition do know we’re here, they must have thought better of turning out at this time in the morning,” said Walker.

“The simple things work to your advantage sometimes,” replied Varndon.

Both their heads snapped round as a man walked out from behind the café. His eyes twitched left and right as he approached them and took a seat on their bench.

“Enjoying the sights chaps?”

Varndon noticed his hands were shaking from more than the cold. The man saw him looking and slid them under the table out of sight.

“Nice office you’ve got here,” said Walker. “Good aircon.”

“Ah, well, yes, needs must I’m afraid. We don’t really want to draw any unnecessary attention to you pair and the embassy is somewhat under siege these days.”

“More than usual?” said Varndon.

“The Russians are keeping us on our toes,” said the man. “It’s got worse in the past few months and particularly since this Cavendish thing last week.”

“Worse how?”

“A couple of our junior embassy staff got guns shoved in their mouths in the middle of the night over the weekend. Someone fishing for something.”

Varndon took another scan around the park. Several stray dogs wandered into one of the entrances and gathered around a pile of litter. They all stopped talking as a young girl with a school bag shuffled along the nearby riverbank.

“We shouldn’t stay here too long,” said the man. “Walker, head back the way you came and make sure to walk past the big hammer and sickle on the way out. The intel files will jump straight onto your phone from a device nearby.” Walker looked over in the direction of the large metallic structure and the man nodded to confirm it was the right one.

“Righty ho,” said Walker, mimicking the man’s accent.

They waited until he had left the park and walked off in the opposite direction.

“I understand you’re the elder statesman,” the man said to Varndon.

“I’ve been onboard officially for about five years.”

“City man?”

“Private banking with a bit of work for Alpha when I could. When the city turned toxic, he asked me over, and I was happy to oblige.”

“Well, good for you. You’re certainly in a division on the up. An old Soviet expert like me is a bit of a relic these days.”

The two men exited the park and walked past a gaudy maritime monument. They crossed the road and walked alongside the frozen river. The pavement was slippy and Varndon took small steps to lessen the risk of a fall.

“How long has your man Walker been with the department?”

“Not too long, maybe a year.”

“Is he reliable?”

Varndon paused. “He’s very smart. We got him in on a bargain. He was facing a few years in jail after that Libor mess, but we offered him a better option. It’s the Vegas principle. The card counters end up in the rafters.”

“I suppose you can’t teach some things to an outsider.”

“It’s hard,” said Varndon. “It helps us if people know the culture from the inside. And they need to be plausible. Walker is definitely plausible.”

They stopped on the corner of the street next to a modern office building.

“So look,” said the man. “Everything we know about Cavendish and Woolaton Capital is on those files. I think it’s best if we leave it to you now.”

“Sure,” said Varndon, shaking the man’s hand. “We can handle it from here.”

Varndon felt the shaking again as their hands slid apart.

“Damn cold always gives me the shakes,” he said, stuffing his hands into his pockets and looking down at the floor.

“Quite,” said Varndon, turning to walk away.

“Oh, and Varndon,” said the man. “Don’t underestimate Katusev. He’s a bit of an enigma and that normally means there’s plenty to hide.”

Harper opened his bedroom door slightly and looked out into the hall. He peered around for the dog that had flattened him a few hours previously, but it was nowhere to be seen. He walked across to the bathroom, keeping an eye on the other doorways as he went. He had slept for around an hour. The dark marks under his eyes protruded slightly. He ran some cold water onto his finger and dabbed the skin a little in the hope they might go down. He looked at himself in the mirror. He was still in reasonable shape, he thought. The trips to his 24-hour gym in the middle of the night were the only positive thing to come from a forced lack of sleep. He showered and stepped back out onto the cold floor. The small room was thick with steam, so he opened a small rectangular window to clear the air, dried himself and walked back across the hall.

He didn’t notice the black shape sitting at the foot of the bed until he was well into the middle of the room. He stood fixed to the spot. The side of the dog’s mouth twitched as it contemplated a growl.  It had a small cut above its left eye, presumably from when he had kicked it off him into the wall. He edged back a little and gave the animal a clear path into the hall. The dog’s ears pricked up as it heard a key turn in the front door and it dived off the bed and ran past him.

“Rasputin, you are a beautiful boy, come here to me,” a woman’s voice said in Russian.

Harper chucked on some shorts and a t-shirt walked out into the corridor. The girl standing in front of him rubbed the dog’s ears and patted its side. She was wrapped up in a tartan winter coat and her scarf covered the lower half of her face. She jolted a little as she looked up and noticed the stranger standing in front of her.

“I’m the new teacher,” said Harper. “I just arrived from London”

The girl pulled the scarf off her face and he could see she was smiling. “Oh yes, we were expecting you,” she said, switching to English. “I just thought that maybe you wouldn’t be here yet, you gave me a bit of a fright.” She had high Slavic cheekbones and smattering of very light freckles stretched across her nose. “Welcome to our apartment, is the room okay for you? I tidied it and put on some new sheets.”

“It’s fine,” said Harper. “It’s really great actually. They dropped some of the other new arrivals off at some really dodgy places.”

She placed her coat onto a hook and smiled again. She briefly left her gaze on him and he allowed her to look into his eyes for a few moments.  “Dodgy, you English love this word, dodgy.”

“Yeah?” said Harper. “Do you know a lot of English people over here?”

“A lot of our teachers are from England,” she said. “The owner of the school is American, but he prefers his overseas teachers to be English.”

“Why’s that?”

“Russians will pay more for a teacher from England. So what is your name?”

“Ryan Evans,” said Harper.

“Ryan, it’s a nice name, but it’s Irish no?”

“I think so,” said Harper. “I’m not sure. And what should I call you?”

“Anya, pleased to meet you.” She stamped a few bits of snow from her boots and kicked it onto the entrance mat. “Shall we have some tea?”

“Sure.”

They walked into the kitchen and Harper sat down on a blue sofa. There was an assortment of dried fruits sitting in a bowl in the middle of a small table. She stood making the tea with her back to him. Her grey jumper stopped just above her jeans and revealed a slim line of flesh. Harper noticed a newspaper sticking out of the top of her bag.

“Can I have a look at this?”

“Of course.”

The front cover jumped out at him. ‘London cops arrive in Moscow’ was splashed over the front page. There was a picture of Cohen and Russell surrounded by Russian police at the airport. His skin prickled a little and his throat tightened as his mind flicked back to thoughts of the job.

“You read Russian,” she said, turning around and looking at him.

“Just a few words,” replied Harper. “I’ll need to take some lessons.”

“Well, we can practice if you like. I teach Pavel sometimes.”

“Pavel? I thought the other guy was English.”

“Oh he is English, he is Paul, from Sussex or Surrey or somewhere like this, but he is a very big fanatic of Russia, so likes Pavel instead.”

“Ok,” said Harper. “I see. And where is Pavel now?”

“There was a big party last night in the school’s dacha just outside Moscow. Most of the staff are still there, but I have an appointment, so needed to get back. I am not much of a drinker, so I think my hangover is okay compared to some of them.”

Anya handed Harper the cup of tea. A light smell of her perfume drifted over to him and caressed the back of his throat. He took a spoon of sugar and mixed it into the cup.

“So you have to go back out again soon?” he asked, taking a sip of his tea and putting the cup down onto the table.

“No, my appointment is here,” she said. “I have a student coming over for a private lesson. She is Pavel’s, but he was not in a fit state, so I am filling in. I hope you don’t mind, but I will use the kitchen for this. It will only take an hour.”

“Look, I don’t want to get in the way. I’ll sit in my room for a while.”

The sound of the doorbell caused the dog to bound towards the door, barking and scratching at the metal. Anya stood up and looked at her watch.

“Oh shoot, she is early,” she said. “Could you please answer the door while I put Rasputin in my room.” Harper walked to the front door and pulled open several locks while Anya bundled the dog into the room and gave it a few treats to eat. The handle jammed a little and needed a strong shove before it opened.

“Nastya, please come in and sit down,” Anya shouted from the bedroom.

The woman standing in the hall was dressed all in white, apart from black high-heeled boots. She was smoking a thin cigarette with a lavender filter. Her elaborate white fur hat looked like snow fox or possibly some kind of Arctic wolf. Her huge sunglasses covered half her face. She finished tapping away on her mobile phone and turned towards him. She took off one of her gloves and offered him her hand, palm facing downwards, with a strong air of regency. Harper suppressed the urge to smile and shook it lightly, not knowing whether she had expected him to kiss it or not. She took a last pull on her cigarette and threw it into a nearby bucket of sand.

“Anastasia Katuseva,” she said. “And you are?”

The gleaming towers of Moscow City jutted up into a grey sky. Cohen wiped the condensation from the front windscreen to get a better look at this latest testament to Russian modernity. The towers clustered together like a forest of metal and glass. The structures loomed larger as the convoy swept along the highway towards its destination. Cohen looked back at the three cars behind them. One contained a trio of Russian detectives and the other was for the small group of uniforms that had been shadowing them from the airport and around the hotel. But the third group of men remained a mystery. They wore plain clothes and always hung back to observe. Russell’s earlier attempt to ask them for a lighter elicited little more than grunts. Whoever they were, they clearly weren’t in the market for an informal chat.

“It’s like we’ve just driven into a different city,” said Russell, as the cars pulled into a parking area at the foot of one of the towers.

“Different country more like,” replied Cohen.

“Let’s just hope our resident oligarch hasn’t decided to pop out.”

They walked across the complex to the far tower and took the lift to the top floor. The group crammed into Svaboda Capital’s plush boardroom and sat in frosty silence as one of Cohen’s junior officers set up the recording equipment.

“Only 10 minutes,” said one of the Russian detectives. “This is policy.”

“Policy?” said Russell. “Whose policy?”

“You want to go back to hotel?” said the detective.

Cohen placed his hand on Russell’s arm. “Ten minutes will be enough thank you officer. I’m sure what we have to ask won’t take very long.”

Several polished executives walked into the room and chatted quietly amongst themselves. Everyone except Russell stood when Andre Katusev strolled in with a female assistant, beaming widely and taking his place at the head of the table.

“Gentleman,” he said, addressing Cohen and Russell in practiced BBC English, “thanks for coming to my office.” His easy manner reduced the hostility. “I hope it wasn’t too much of an inconvenience. I understand we don’t have too much time, so please, I am happy to answer any of your questions.” He wore jeans and an expensive designer shirt with silver cufflinks; the casual dressed down wealth of the Mayfair set. An expensive metal watch was wrapped round his wrist, slightly offsetting the cultivated nonchalance of the rest of his wardrobe.

“Thanks for meeting with us Mr Katusev,” said Cohen, not wasting any time in case more restrictions were suddenly placed on the conversation. “As you know, we are investigating the death of Simeon Cavendish and his colleagues in London last week. I understand he was your business partner?”

“That’s right,” said Katusev. “Woolaton Capital and Svaboda had a joint venture…I mean…have a joint venture.”

“Have or had?” said Cohen.

“Have,” said Katusev. “Nothing has changed there yet.”

“Did you have a good relationship with Mr Cavendish?”

“Absolutely.”

“And could you please explain to us what your business relationship involved?”

Katusev placed his elbows on the table and clasped his hands together.

“It was a big shock for us all when we heard the news about Simeon, Marcus and Luca,” he said. “They were good people and deserved better than this horrible end.” Katusev pointed towards the coffee and his assistant handed him a cup. “Regarding our business together, we had a contract to cooperate on some ventures.”

“And what type of ventures were these?” said Cohen.

“It’s difficult for me to go into too much detail,” said Katusev. “These are things that our rivals would be very interested to hear about. I’m sure you understand. But I can tell you it was mainly a trading venture.”

“Do you mean trading as in televisions and stereos, or are we talking about something more complicated?”

“Financial markets,” said Katusev. “We were…” The line of questioning was interrupted by one of the gruff men from the back of the room. He said something in Russian to the detective, who suddenly grabbed the recording equipment and put it in his pocket.

“We are finished now,” said the detective, standing up.

“Hang on a minute,” said Russell. “What happened to ten minutes?”

“It’s enough,” said the detective. “You can submit the rest of your questions in writing and we will get you answers.”

“In writing?” said Russell. “Is that some kind of joke?”

“No joke, we will leave now please.”

The Russian uniforms ushered Katusev and his executives from the room. He shrugged lightly at Cohen as he left.

“Who are these people?” said Russell, pointing at the men from the third car. “Are they in charge or are you in charge?” The Russian detectives looked at the men at the back of the room and they indicated again it was time for everyone to leave. Cohen and Russell reluctantly headed for the door. Outside in the corridor, Katusev and his entourage had disappeared. They headed back down to the lobby in silence. Russell struggled to hide his frustration as they were marched back across the complex and into the cars.

“This is a complete farce,” he said as they pulled off back towards the hotel.

“Did you honestly expect anything else?” replied Cohen. “They’re just ticking the boxes.”

Russell folded his arms. “I didn’t expect it to be this much of a waste of time. There are plenty of things we could’ve been doing at home.”

“Look, just try to go with the flow. We’ve got some more people to see. Anything we can get might be useful.” The convoy pulled up outside the hotel and the detectives escorted them back to the lobby.

“So do we get our recording equipment back?” said Russell.

“At the airport,” said one of the detectives.

“But that’s not until next week,” said Cohen.

“You will get it back tomorrow,” said the detective. “That’s when you’re leaving.”

Walker and Varndon watched from a safe distance as the convoy pulled off down the road. They sat sipping coffee, Walker still smirking at the sight of Russell ranting and raving as he walked back to the car. The café was empty of customers. The waitress behind the counter sat reading a tabloid with a look of permanent disinterest on her face.

“Looks like the Met are a busted flush,” said Walker.

“Maybe,” replied Varndon. “Maybe not.”

“You ever met the guy?”

“Katusev? No.”

“Must have nerves of steel to be a businessman in this place.”

“I’ve met quite a few Russians over the years. They respect one thing above everything else. Strength.”

“Not money?”

“Money too. But just look at the companies that have come here flashing money in the past and left with their tails between their legs. Money is one thing. Looking someone in the eye and showing them you aren’t scared is quite another.”

“That’s very deep Will. I’ll make sure to practice my death stare.”

“You do that.”

Walker put some money down on the table and they slipped out of the café towards the road. Snow swirled around and had gathered in small drifts against the buildings. Varndon walked slightly ahead with his hands planted in the pockets of his jacket. “Katusev is a bit of different animal though from what I hear.”

“How do you mean?”

“He’s a risk taker.”

“What kind of risks.”

“He knows the rules like they all do. Stick to business. Stay out of politics. But he likes to keep closer to the Kremlin than most. Push his influence here and there. It’s a dangerous game.”

“More dangerous than the one we play?”

“I prefer not to think of what we do as a game.”

They looked down the pavement to the spot where they had parked. There was nothing but a few battered Ladas and some trucks carrying cement.

“Where’s the car?” said Walker.

“I thought we left it there?”

“We did.”

“Well it’s not here now.”

A slight man with light hair and pockmarks on his face suddenly appeared between them. “Have you lost your car Mr Varndon?” A dark blue 4x4 pulled out of a nearby underground car park and came to a stop in front of them.

“I presume this is where you offer us a lift?” said Walker.

“Well I don’t want to leave you both standing here in the snow. The famous Russian hospitality is a virtue of the FSB too you know.”

The Duke and Duchess of Cambridge greeted Harper on his arrival at the Westminster School of English. The picture of the royal couple on their wedding day was crudely tacked on to the wall above the school’s front door. A stick thin girl stood smoking a cigarette near the entrance, her hips jutting slightly to the side. She watched Harper as he walked in the door. He smiled, but the gesture wasn’t returned. A sign inside pointed students in the direction of the third floor. As he climbed the stairs, a door opened and an old lady with a shopping trolley walked out. She was looking towards the floor and muttering in Ukrainian: “Using a residential building as a business…makes it too crowded…all these foreigners coming in and out.” Harper walked past her and carried on up to the third floor. He approached a middle-aged woman with a purple rinse manning the front desk and introduced himself.

“Hi, I’m Ryan Evans,” he said. “The new teacher.”

She made a small clicking noise with the side of her mouth and put out her hand. “Documents please.”

Harper handed her his passport and the contract he had signed back in London. There were several students sat waiting patiently on cheap wooden chairs. A low light bathed the room and paint was cracked and peeling off the walls. Voices were coming from an adjoining corridor. The mellow tones of an English nursery rhyme flowed through the building.

“Ok, you live with Anya, correct?”

“That’s right,” replied Harper.

“She will be here in ten minutes when she finishes her class. She is your instructor.”

“Okay, great.”

“Oh and there is a message here for you. The man said you should call this number back at 10am.” Harper looked at his watch. It was 9.57am.

“Is there a spare classroom I can make the call in?”

“Hmm, you should go downstairs to our small office. No one is there. It is room number six. Here is the key.” Harper took the key and walked down to the floor below. Room six was at the far end of the corridor. He went inside, shut the door behind him and pulled out a small metallic case. He opened it and looked over the ten Russian sim cards sitting side-by-side. He picked one at random, placed it into his mobile phone and punched in the number from the message.

“Morton speaking,” said the voice on the other end of the line.

“I got your message,” said Harper. “But I don’t have too long to talk. I saw in this morning’s paper that they are cutting the trip short.”

“Yeah, the bastards are putting Cohen and Russell back on the plane this afternoon. It’s pretty obvious now they were just doing it for the media. They never had any intention of letting us conduct a real investigation. They’ve already started spinning the line that they have done everything they can to help us, but it’s all a load of nonsense.”

“I’ve made contact with the daughter.”

“Already?” said Morton. “That’s excellent. Any results?”

“I’m working on it. She has these private lessons with the guy I’m living with. I’ll need to work out a way of taking those over.”

Harper turned around at the sound of a door closing down the corridor. His breathing quickened and he felt his senses sharpen. He put his hand over the phone and looked through the keyhole. He saw a small boy shuffling along the floor. He stopped outside the toilet and leant his weight onto the door to open it. He whistled the nursery rhyme from the floor above as he walked inside.

“Sorry,” said Harper. “I just heard something outside.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah I’m fine. Just being extra careful.”

“That’s wise. Look, Katusev managed to get a message to us today. He wants to meet in London where there’s less heat. They’re watching him like a hawk over there at the moment, but I get the impression he wants to keep us onside.”

“Sounds good. What do you want me to do?”

“Just sit tight and keep working on getting close to the daughter. You’re over there partly because we suspected something like this would happen. Act like a teacher. Enjoy yourself. And remember, we’ll always contact you through the school.”

“No problem.” The line went dead. Harper took out the sim card and cut it into a few pieces. He pushed a couple of shards into a used apple core in the office bin and threw the rest out of the window onto a thick pile of snow below. He bent down and put his eye to the keyhole. The corridor was empty. He stepped out of the office and walked back upstairs to the main reception.

“Anya is in the teachers’ room,” said the receptionist, without looking up. Harper looked around at the several corridors. Just as he was about to speak, she pointed to a corridor on his left. He walked down it and stopped at a door with an A4 sheet of paper sellotaped onto it. It said TEACHERS in Russian and had a couple of smiley faces either side. Harper walked inside. The room was stuffy and untidy with a couple of old computers on trolleys in the corners. There were several young women and a man sitting round a small table. Anya was seated closest to where he was standing. She was wearing a tight black jumper and jeans. He could smell the watermelon perfume she had on the day before.  She noticed him at the door and got to her feet.

“Oh hi Ryan, you made it.”

“Yeah, I hear you are going to be my instructor?”

“That’s right,” she said. “But don’t worry, I am not so strict.”

“Well, that’s good to hear. But you don’t know how lazy I am yet, so maybe you’ll need to be strict.” The man sitting at the table glanced up at them briefly. Harper saw him catch the eye of the girl opposite and raise his eyebrows.

“Everyone, this is Ryan Evans,” said Anya, turning to face the group. “He is our new teacher.” Harper raised a hand to say hello to the girls and they both smiled. “Please meet Genia and Yulia, and this is Pavel, our housemate from England that I told you about.”

“Hi Paul,” said Harper. “So where are you from in Blighty?”

He shook Harper’s hand more firmly than was necessary. “Pavel.”

“I’m sorry?” said Harper.

“Pavel.”

“Okay, sorry Pavel, what part of the UK are you from?”

Pavel suddenly began to talk heavily accented Russian in Harper’s direction. His grammar was noticeably terrible and Harper struggled to make out what he was saying for the most part. The gist was that Russians find it very rude when foreigners come to Russia without first learning Russian. Anya listened politely and translated for Harper, leaving out the insulting tone.

“Ryan doesn’t speak Russian yet, so maybe you can make an exception and speak English with him?” said Anya.

Pavel let out a small grunt. He turned round to the two girls and made a comment about how he couldn’t believe the school is employing people without Russian. Harper smiled and continued to feign ignorance.

“Okay,” he said.  “Well, hopefully I can learn quickly and not offend too many people in the meantime. Great to meet you guys.”

“Okay, so let’s go,” said Anya. “We can use my classroom.” Harper heard Pavel muttering more derogatory comments about him in Russian as he followed Anya out of the teachers’ room. They passed back through the reception and went into one of the classrooms down the opposite corridor. Anya scooted around and cleared up some small cards with pictures of animals that were scattered around the desks.

“So you teach children?” said Harper.

“Some children, some teenagers. But I prefer children. Teenagers are the worst to teach.”

“I can imagine.” She sat down on the seat next to him. He felt her knee brush his as she pulled her chair closer to the table.

“They are giving you only one-on-ones to start with. Just conversation.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. And all adults. It won’t be too difficult, as long as you like to talk. Do you like to talk?”

“I think I can manage talking.”

Anya took some papers from her bag and handed them to Harper. “I think the best thing is if you read these and come back to me with any questions. There are some ideas in there about how to structure the lessons and keep things interesting. Don’t feel like you have to use them, you can use your own techniques if you like.”

“Thanks,” said Harper, putting them into his own bag. “Your English is really great, you know that.”

Anya looked at him and blushed slightly. “Thank you. I worry about it sometimes. The students can sometimes complain if they don’t get a native teacher.”

“Well, I’m not complaining.”

“Then you are very kind.” Harper noticed a light redness on her neck. She handed him a small list of Russian names and contact details. “So, the best thing to do is email each student beforehand and see if they have anything they want to talk about. They usually do.”

Harper looked down the list for Nastya Katuseva’s name, but it wasn’t there. “Will I be teaching the girl who came round to the flat yesterday?” he said.

“Nastya? Well, not unless Pavel wants to give her up. To tell you the truth, she told me that she is getting a little bored with him, but please don’t mention this, he can be quite sensitive.”

“Sure.”

“You know, she is having a birthday party this weekend. She has invited all the teachers from the school. You should come.”

“Isn’t she the daughter of some oligarch?”

“Her father is Andre Katusev. Have you been to many oligarch parties Ryan?”

“Not that I remember.”

“Well, this can be your first. You know their family is very well-known here in Russia. Do you have a big family Ryan?”

“What?” Harper rubbed the part of his finger where his wedding ring used to be. “Family? No. Not really.”

“Our marriage is over Matt, get that into your head.”

Harper didn’t try to stop her as she walked into the flat and began throwing the remainder of her belongings into a cardboard box. He wanted to say something, but there was nothing left to say. Anything he said now would just sound limp and pathetic. She had a new haircut and was wearing more make-up than usual. She looked good to him now she was leaving.

“Where are you living?” he said, trying not to sound too intrusive.

“That’s none of your business.”

“I just want to know you’re okay. You know, for money and everything.”

“It’s not your concern now Matt.”

Harper walked into the bedroom and picked up some of her books from the shelf. “Did you want these?” She took them from him without saying a word.

“Look, I’m sorry, about everything.”

“Sorry? I don’t care if you’re sorry.”

“Well I am.”

“Sorry for what Matt? Sorry for leaving me alone in this flat for weeks at a time? Sorry for cheating on me? Sorry for giving me an STD after you fucked one of your little sluts? Fuck you Matt. Fuck you and your sorry. I’m not interested.”

He followed her back to the door. As she opened it, a man stood on the other side and took the box from her. He looked at Harper, but said nothing.

“Who’s this?”

“This is Dan. He’s helping me.”

“Helping you?”

“Yeah, helping me. You know, when someone does something for someone else. You might want to try it sometime.”

“So you’ve replaced me already?”

“Replaced you? Have you not been listening to me? There was nothing left to replace. I was married to a bloody ghost.”

Harper stepped outside the flat as she called the lift. “You know I can change if you want me to change.” The lift arrived and the doors opened. Dan stepped inside and left the two of them in the corridor.

“You’ve already changed too much. The man I married was loving and caring and I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him. But this person standing in front of me. This paranoid, deceitful egomaniac. I don’t know who this person is.”

He watched as the lift doors closed and it trundled down to the ground floor reception. The anger bubbled up inside of him as he thought about Dan and her together. If he could just explain more, tell her about the pressures. Maybe she would change her mind. But he knew it was over. He walked back inside the flat and slammed the door behind him. Forget it. It’s over.

“How much of Kent does he own?” said Russell.

“It’s probably best not to think about it,” replied Cohen, as he finally turned onto the long road leading up to the front of Stanmore Hall.

“It must have taken us nearly ten minutes to get here from the front gates,” said Russell.

Morton looked out of his window at the vast estate. A small herd of deer watched their car warily before disappearing into the confines of some nearby woods. “You know what pisses these guys off most when they buy somewhere like this? They get told that some footpath or other goes straight across their land and there’s nothing they can do about it unless they get down to the local village and negotiate with a group of old timers on the parish council.”

Russell laughed. “I’d love to be a fly on the wall for that meeting.”

Cohen stopped the car on a gravel drive at the bottom of a large stairway. They got out of the car, watched closely by figures in dark suits from the windows on the upper levels.

“He uses ex-French foreign legionnaires as his personal bodyguard,” said Morton. “There was a bit of an incident last year when someone approached him in a restaurant in Kensington and got their arm dislocated. They don’t mess about these boys, so probably best to keep sudden movements to a minimum.”

Cohen looked more closely at one of the guards. The distinctive outline of an AK-47 assault rifle flashed momentarily into view before disappearing behind the man’s back. As they walked up the steps, a butler emerged to meet them.

“Welcome gentlemen. My name is Foreman. If you’d like to follow me.”

They followed Foreman straight ahead and up some stairs onto the first floor. There were subtly placed security cameras attached to the ceiling and other hints of modernity were dotted around the corridors. The only sign of Russian influence was a landscape painting of St Petersburg hanging on one of the walls. Foreman showed them into a large oval office and left the room.

“Seems like the guy’s pretty big on security,” said Russell. “Doesn’t seem like he sleeps easy at night from the look of this place.”

“If anyone wanted to get at him, they’d need some kind of army to take on his private bodyguard,” said Cohen.

After a few seconds, a separate door swung open and Katusev came striding into the room. The tension from the interview in Moscow had evaporated as he greeted them all warmly and invited them to take a seat in front of his desk. He wore white cotton trousers and cream loafers with no socks. His black jumper was stretched tightly over a chiseled physique.

“Apologies if I kept you gents waiting,” he said. “I have just had a new gymnasium installed in the basement and my trainer was keen that we try out some of the equipment.”

“No problem at all,” said Morton. “In fact, we just got here.”

“You are Scottish DCI Morton?” said Katusev, pulling his chair closer to the desk.

“Aye, that’s right.”

“You must come and join me on my next Highlands hunting trip. Are you a hunting man?”

“I’m more of a whisky man I have to say.”

Katusev smiled. “Me too as it happens. The single malt that follows the hunt is one of my favourite parts of the day. You know, the last time I was…”

“With all due respect Mr Katusev, is it possible we could get straight onto the business at hand,” said Russell.

The smile disappeared from Katusev’s face. “Why of course. I don’t want to take up any more of your time than is necessary.”

“Please forgive my colleague if he is a bit short,” said Cohen. “It’s just our time in Moscow was extremely frustrating and, naturally, we would like to push ahead with our enquiries as swiftly as we could.”

“Yes, it was unfortunate your time in Moscow was wasted,” said Katusev. “I did my best to secure us a private meeting, but you can imagine the obstacles that were put in my way.”

“We understand there’s nothing you could do,” said Cohen. “And we appreciate the invitation to come and see you today.” Foreman came back into the room pushing a squeaky service trolley with coffee and biscuits. He handed them each a cup and walked back out.

Katusev took a sip of his coffee and placed the cup back down on the saucer. “Please understand that I am happy to cooperate as far as I can with the authorities here. I have always respected your legal system and I have made this country my second home over the last few years. Some of my children are still at school here and I have some very important investments that I do not plan to jeopardise. So please, how can I help you with your investigation?”

“How about telling us who you think massacred Simeon Cavendish and his mates in Warwick Avenue?” said Russell. “That’d be a start.” Katusev looked towards Morton, seemingly looking for some kind of reprieve from such an aggressive line of questioning, but the Scotsman contented himself with sitting back and waiting for an answer.

“The truth is I have no idea who killed them,” said Katusev. “They were all three good friends of mine, especially Simeon. We had known each other a long time, since before the wall came down.” Katusev stood up and walked over to a wooden cabinet at the side of the room. He took out a framed photograph and handed it to Morton. “This is a picture of us at a scientific convention in Paris in 1987. It was the time of Glasnost and it was very exciting for the scientific community on both sides of the iron curtain. The chance to meet the so-called enemy face-to-face was a unique experience. And of course, once you begin to talk to people, you understand that the enemy is actually not so dissimilar to yourself.”

“And did Mr Cavendish have any enemies?” said Cohen.

“When you are a successful businessman like Simeon, you will always have enemies.”

“There are lots of successful businessmen who don’t end up tied to a chair with a knife in the back of their head,” said Russell. “You for example, Mr Katusev. You’re a successful businessman and you’re still walking around with air in your lungs.”

“Really Mr Morton,” said Katusev, raising his voice slightly. “The line of Detective Russell’s questioning is more than a little insulting to me.”

The three officers turned their heads as a legionnaire in black military fatigues opened the door and stepped inside the room. Katusev put his hand up and said a few words in French and the man reluctantly retreated back into the next room. “Apologies for the interruption officers, he is just doing his job. As you can see, I don’t take the air in my lungs for granted.”

“We are not trying to accuse you of anything Mr Katusev,” said Cohen. “We are just trying to get a bit more understanding of why those men are dead. When was the last time you saw Mr Cavendish?”

“Just before he left Moscow for the last time.”

“And what can you tell us about the work you were doing together?”

Katusev stood up and walked over to one of the large bay windows in the office. “You know we have taken extraordinary measures to stop leaks about our work.”

“If you’re worried about confidentiality, I can give you my word that whatever you say will stay within the investigation team,” said Morton.

Katusev turned and walked back to his desk. “These worries about leaks seem far less important now Simeon is dead. Worrying about leaks is worrying about money and it seems somewhat…crass… to worry about these things now.”

A look of cynicism flashed over Russell’s face as Katusev spoke. “Right, crass, forgive me, but you don’t come across as a man who ever sees money as crass.”

Katusev ignored the comment. “How much do you gentlemen know about high-frequency trading in the financial markets?”

“Not too much,” said Morton, “but we’d be happy to learn. Are you talking about stocks and shares?”

“Stocks, bonds, oil, derivatives. It doesn’t make much difference in our world. We go where the money is. To put it simply, the days of traders in brightly-colored jackets shouting at each other are long gone my friends. The trading world has been taken over by computers and this means the man with the best programme makes the most money.”

“And this was your project?” said Cohen. “Making the best programme.”

“If you get it right, it’s modern day alchemy. And we were very close to getting it right.”

“You were close?” said Morton. “You mean you were close when Cavendish was killed?”

Katusev took a small black and white photograph from his desk drawer and handed it to Morton. “This man is called Seva Vitsin. He was one of our researchers. In fact, he was our best researcher.”

“Was?” said Cohen.

“He disappeared with some key research.”

“Do you think his disappearance is connected to Cavendish’s death?” asked Morton.

“It’s possible. Everything is possible.”

“And do you think he disappeared of his own accord? Or do you think he may have been kidnapped?”

“Both are a possibility,” said Katusev. “Seva was our star. He devised the key parts of our programme and some people would go to great lengths to possess what is in this boy’s mind.”

“Boy?” said Cohen. “How old is he?”

“He is 19. Somewhat of a prodigy.”

Cohen picked up the picture from the desk. “So one possibility here is that whoever killed Cavendish was in fact looking for Seva Vitsin?”

“You are right. It is hard to believe Seva’s disappearance and Simeon’s death are unconnected. There are a lot of people looking for Seva at the moment. The Russian government recently became a partner in our venture. They were very insistent. This was not my choice, but sometimes compromises are necessary. They are as anxious as we are to locate the boy.”

“Anxious enough to torture Simeon Cavendish and his partners?” said Russell.

“I have told you what I know,” said Katusev. “I am not going to start pointing fingers directly. I am not a fool.”

Morton stood up and extended his hand to Katusev. “We appreciate your help. It’s likely we will need to speak to you again.”

“Of course.”

“Do you mind if I keep the picture of Vitsin?”

“It’s yours.” Katusev walked the three detectives back to their car. More legionnaires had now appeared on the roof and around the gravel drive.

“What sort of money is this programme worth?” asked Cohen.

“If you can beat the market,” said Katusev. “The potential for profit is…intimidating.”

“And you found a way to beat the market?”

“There is only one person on the planet that knows how to beat the market Sergeant. His name is Seva Vitsin.”

Alpha arched his back a little to relieve the pain simmering away near the bottom of his spine. He reached for the heater and turned the dial up a couple of notches, all the while keeping an eye on the darkness beyond the border. The driver, Randall, was sucking slowly on a boiled sweet, making a faint clack clack sound as he rolled it from one side of his mouth to the other and it collided with his teeth. The three other cars were parked close by, all with their headlights turned off. The goods they had come to trade were sitting quietly in the black Saab estate a few yards away.

Alpha stirred as several sets of headlights appeared in the distance. It was tough to judge how far away they were, but the vehicles were clearly slowing down. They finally stopped around a quarter of a mile from the border, lining up behind one another at the side of the road. Alpha stayed seated as car doors swung open and the highway suddenly teemed with movement. He watched from the darkness as four of his people escorted the two men forward towards the Russians. He could just about make out a similar group advancing from the other vehicles. Once both sides were close enough to confirm they were receiving what they expected, the handcuffs were taken off and the prisoners started their walk away from their captors. The four men all slowed down as they passed each other on the road.

It always happened, thought Alpha. People liked to assess their worth.

Walker and Varndon quickened their pace as they crossed the Estonian border and neared the waiting reception party. Alpha remembered clearly the days they were both recruited to the service. Varndon was simple. His small favours to the department were becoming big favours and he was very good at what he did. Pushing money from one bank account to another to pay agents. Creating shell companies within shell companies to benefit operations. He was practically a full-time employee when he eventually came onboard officially.

The service can always rely on men like William Varndon.

Walker on the other hand, was an uncomfortable necessity. Alpha could make out his cocky stride as he got closer to the car. He had strutted into their first meeting at Vauxhall Bridge in the same manner. These city boys had no respect for anyone. They played by their own rules and the economy had suffered as a result. If the head honchos had listened before instead of wasting money on chasing ragtag Islamists around the hills of Afghanistan, the country wouldn’t be in such a mess. No, Walker hadn’t changed his spots. He’d just found a new way to get his daily adrenaline rush.

Alpha opened his window as the men arrived back at the parked cars. “Well done all. That was nice and clean. Let’s get out of here.” Randall spun the car round in the road and set off back in the direction of Talinn. Alpha checked over his shoulder and just caught the faint red glow of the opposition’s motorcade disappearing from view. They kept a steady pace all the way back to the capital and arrived at the city limits just before sunrise. The embassy was quiet as they parked up and filed into a side entrance. Alpha led Walker and Varndon into the Ambassador’s office and closed the door.

“Welcome back gentlemen,” he said. “You look tired.”

Varndon rubbed his eyes. “They interviewed us for as long as they could. They didn’t want to waste any time by letting us sleep.”

“I can understand that. I’d do the same. What were they asking about?”

“They quizzed us about the expansion of the Department and about you. Kept asking about your health.”

“Nice of them to be concerned,” said Alpha.

“But they mainly wanted to talk about Cavendish,” continued Walker. “We got the usual paranoia about ‘you people did it’ but it was fairly obvious they knew about as little as us.”

“They were pretty shaken up,” said Varndon. “Svaboda’s top quant went AWOL. He took all the code with him and disappeared off the face of the planet.”

“Or someone forced him to disappear,” said Alpha.

“Or that,” said Walker. “The guy’s name is Seva Vitsin. The Russians kept asking about him. They must have presumed we already knew. They just kept pushing. Where is Vitsin? Who has Vitsin? Vitsin this. Vitsin fucking that. It was like a bloody broken record.”

Alpha stood up and placed his hands into his trouser pockets. Walker’s constant swearing grated on him, but he said nothing. “How do you think you were blown?”

“We have no idea,” said Walker. “The whole country is a house of mirrors.”

“Were the higher ups concerned about the exchange?” said Varndon.

“They’re only concerned about publicity,” said Alpha. “As far as the general public knows, nothing happened.”

“Who went the other way?” said Walker.

Alpha took off his spectacles, folded them and placed them in his inside jacket pocket. “Have you ever heard of Leonid Ashansky?”

“The Prince?”

“That’s right,” said Alpha. “They call him the Prince. He presides over a very diverse empire of interests. Some of it legal and some of it illegal. The illegal part landed him in Belmarsh prison last year.”

“What did they get him for?”

“He was running weapons out of Russia into Northern Ireland. Shipments of explosives and grenade launchers for a group of Loyalists out of east Belfast. There’s a lot of dead IRA over there because of Leonid Ashansky. Anyway, we knew the Russians wanted him back pretty badly, so back he went. The other man was his second-in-command, Yuri Gershov, a real nasty piece of work.”

“I can’t imagine the plod were very happy about that,” said Walker. “Must have taken some serious effort to convict him.”

“Well, the police need to understand that there are security concerns well above their station,” said Alpha, a hint of anger in his voice. He buttoned his jacket and patted down the creases in the material in a signal that the meeting was over. “I think you two should get some sleep. We can continue the discussion tomorrow back in London when we are all feeling a little fresher.”

“Is the Met team still in Moscow,” said Walker?”

“The Met are bunch of clowns,” said Alpha. “They got chucked out after a day. They’ve got no one in Russia.”

Harper slugged back the remainder of a quarter bottle of Dagestani cognac. It was smooth. He looked at the bottle and took note of the brand name, for next time. A faint scratching sound came from the other side of his bedroom door. He opened it and looked down to see Rasputin eyeballing him. The dog stood still, just staring up at him. The black fur above his left eye was still flecked with dried blood. He waved his hand to motion the animal to go, but it bared its teeth and he thought better of it. It casually looked around and then turned and walked away.

“Ryan, are you ready?” said Anya, emerging from the kitchen. A few cracks of static jumped into the air as she ran a brush through her hair a few times. She dipped her little finger into a pot of lip gloss and ran it across her lower lip as she turned to face him.

“Do I look okay?”

“Yeah, you look great… fine.”

“Thanks.”

“Do I look okay?” said Harper, smirking.

Anya looked him over. “Yes. Okay.”

“Just okay?”

She blushed. “You look like a man. A man can look how he wants and it’s always okay. As long as he is clean.”

“I’ll remember that.” They made their way down onto the street and Anya stuck her hand out to hail a gypsy cab.

“So Johnny two names is going to meet us at the party?” said Harper.

“Who is this Johnny two names?”

“Paul-Pavel.”

Anya laughed. “You shouldn’t make fun of him.”

“Some people need to be made fun of sometimes. It’s good for them.”

A battered Lada pulled up in front of them and Anya bent down to the window. The destination caused the driver to hesitate a little, but he was persuaded by a slightly higher price. They both got in the back seat and the car juddered off up the road.

“I don’t think he has ever been to Rublyovka,” said Anya.

“We’re going to Rublyovka?”

“It’s where the Katusevs live when they are in Moscow. I would imagine they have property in quite a few places though.”

Harper had heard of Rublyovka. The fabled suburb for Moscow’s most exclusive residents was out to the west of the city. It wasn’t somewhere you went without an invite and he planned to make the most of his. His mind skipped back to his second call from Morton. They were doing all they could from London, but they needed him to find anything he could on the missing genius, Vitsin.

“Do you want some of this?” said Harper, offering Anya a black hipflask he had in his jacket pocket.

“Oh, no thanks.”

“You don’t drink?”

“I’ll have some wine when we get there.”

“Me too.”

“You drink wine with Cognac?” said Anya, looking slightly surprised.

“I’m English. We drink anything with anything.”

“You mean like a Russian homeless person?”

“Yeah, I suppose you could compare English drinking habits to those of a Russian tramp.”

The traffic was light and they swept along the Moscow highways out into the countryside. The taxi driver looked a little twitchy as they pulled up to the large security gate at the entrance to the complex. Two armed guards strolled over, looking disdainfully at the rusting vehicle. One of them shot some questions at the driver and he swiftly pointed in Anya’s direction, who thrust two elaborate party invites into his hand. The guard must have seen the same invite multiple times that evening, but he shone his torch on them all the same and examined them thoroughly.

“Don’t take this piece of shit anywhere near the house,” he said to the driver in Russian as he handed the invites back to Anya. “Drop them at the gates.”

The driver nodded and pulled forwards. They all marveled at the waves of opulence that flashed past the car. Mansions in a myriad of styles sat among the trees. The Moscow grime had disappeared and been replaced with a moneyed sheen. The driver’s face looked less impressed and more irritated the further they got into the estate. He put his foot down so they arrived quickly at their destination.

“Can you take us up to the house?” said Anya as he pulled over next to the gates of the Katusev property.

“You heard what the guard said,” shouted the driver. “He doesn’t want my shit car up at that place. It’s not for people like me.” They paid him and he soon disappeared back off into the forest.

“What’s his problem?” said Harper.

“Some Russians don’t like to see this type of place. It can make them a little envious.”

Harper took another swig from his flask. “It’s not just Russians that it makes envious. I’m feeling pretty envious myself at the moment.”

“Well,” she said, linking her arm into his. “Why don’t we pretend we are arriving home to our own house. That way, for a few minutes, you don’t have to be envious.”

“Ha, why not.” Harper put his hands in his pockets, squeezing her arm onto the side of his body. They walked slowly up to the floodlit house. It was built in a classic Russian style and painted in a yellow pastel colour. A fountain on the vast front lawn spouted a spherical stream of water into the air. Anya handed the invites to one of the bouncers on the door and they were directed towards a hall straight ahead of them. Harper noted there were more bouncers blocking entrance into other parts of the house. They wandered down a small corridor and onto the top of a staircase leading down into a large ballroom. A sea of people thronged the room and a small army of waiters moved deftly among them distributing canapés and drinks to the guests.

“Oh, I can see some of the other teachers,” said Anya, grabbing Harper’s arm and pulling him down the stairs. They pushed their way past a few people to the back of the room. Harper recognised some of the faces from the minibus. He smiled at the two girls that had been dropped at the grotty flat.

“Hey there, how are you? He said. “Did you manage to get another place or did you have to stay there?”

“It was a lot nicer inside,” said the girl that had burst into tears on the pavement. “But the corridors just smell horrible.”

“The school don’t seem very concerned,” said the other girl. “They said they would let us know if anything else comes up, but it doesn’t sound too promising. How is your place?”

“Oh it’s okay,” said Harper, not wanting to sound too smug. “They’re all pretty much the same. The resident dog doesn’t seem to like me very much.”

“Well, we should all go out for drinks one day,” said the first girl. “We can meet at the school or something. You live with that nice girl Anya, don’t you?”

“Yeah, it’s us and another guy. She was just….” He looked around and spotted her a few yards away talking to Pavel and some students from the school.

“Excuse me,” said Harper as he turned and walked over towards the group. As he joined the circle, he noticed that Pavel had dropped his rule of never speaking English in Russia. He gifted Harper a cursory glance and continued talking.

“…I just found the pace of Crime and Punishment so leisurely. Dostoevsky seems to delight in dwelling on irrelevant emotions. Bulgakov seems to understand pace more and the importance of the external in literature. I just found Myshkin to be very difficult character to spend time with…”

“Raskolnikov,” said Harper.

Pavel flashed an irritated look in Harper’s direction. “What was that?”

“I think you meant Raskolnikov. Myshkin is from the Idiot.”

“Err, well…no…I said Raskolnikov.”

“If you say so,” said Harper.

“No, I think you said Myshkin,” said one of the students. “Pavel, I think you maybe need to be more diligent with your reading of Russian literature.”

Pavel scowled in Harper’s direction. “Well maybe Evans would like to regale us all with his opinions on Crime and Punishment since he is suddenly such an expert. I mean, I’m sure with your excellent Russian you’ve read all the classics in their native form.”

“I’m not sure people really…”

“No, I insist,” said Pavel. “We are on the edge of our seats.”

Harper thought of his grandmother’s library. The rows of Gogol, Tolstoy, Pushkin, Turgenev, Bakunin. He could picture it intimately in his mind. No television and an abundance of time. “It just seems to me Crime and Punishment shouldn’t be easy to read.”

“A book that is purposefully badly written?” said Pavel. “That’s the most ridiculous literary observation I have ever heard.”

“I’m not saying it’s badly written,” said Harper. “I’m saying it is written to make you feel uncomfortable. You are forced to spend time inside the head of man who is struggling with his own conscience. Dostoevsky wants to instill Raskolnikov’s sense of panic and guilt in the reader. The book is about the trial a man puts himself on inside his own head.”

“Or a woman,” said Anya.

“Or a woman,” said Harper. “Of course.”

“I think maybe you may have a Russian soul,” said one of the students.

“I think so too,” said Anya, looking up at Harper. Pavel’s face contorted slightly and he started to look over the heads of the students for alternative company. He spotted someone near the staircase and moved off without saying goodbye.

“I hope I didn’t offend him,” said Harper, half-heartedly.

“He is always a bit offended by something,” said Anya. “Anyway, he was talking bollocks. Is that right word? Bollocks.”

“Ha, that’s the right word Anya.”

“Oh good. Now, I’m going to find some wine. Do want some?”

“Please, any colour, whatever’s going.” Harper watched her walk off through the crowd. Her little black dress exhibited the contours of her body. She was thin, but not too thin to look boyish. And she proudly displayed a pretty brown birthmark on her left shoulder. As she disappeared towards one of the waiters, the striking figure of Nastya Katuseva flashed across his eyeline. A small entourage stood fawning over her as she showed off some jewellery. Harper grabbed a brief look at himself in a nearby mirror and walked over.

“Hey Nastya, sorry to interrupt, I just wanted to say happy birthday.”

She finished laughing at something one of her friends was saying and stuck her white-gloved hand in Harper’s direction. This time he decided to kiss it.

“Thank you darling,” she said, grabbing the tail of her red dress and sweeping it around towards him. “How do you like our little country pile?”

“I love it,” said Harper. “You’ve clearly got taste.”

“You can buy taste sweety. We are aiming for class.”

“Well, your aim is good. It reminds of a place we have in Tuscany.”

“A place in Tuscany? On a teacher’s salary?”

Harper smiled. “Our family business is diamonds.”

He saw that he now had her full attention. “Diamonds, really? Have you seen my gift?” She turned her head slightly so he could see her earrings.

Harper studied them. “You know, a woman needs a certain beauty to wear a good stone like that Anastasia. They would be wasted on anyone else here.”

She giggled a little and pushed her hair behind one of her ears. “Remind me of your name please honey?”

“Ryan. Moscow’s most sought after English teacher.”

“Well Ryan, you know I think we could have a lot in common. I’m going to ask the school to give you to me as a teacher. That is, if you don’t mind.”

“The pleasure would be all mine,” he said, kissing her hand again. “I’ll hopefully see you again soon.”

“Oh, you will,” she said, looking him up and down.

Harper walked off across the room, making sure not to glance back as he went. The crowd had swelled almost to capacity and people jockeyed for position around the edges of the room. Harper took his chance to slip back through the bodies towards the front door. A bouncer in a dinner jacket was still hovering around the stairs leading to the upper level and the only people who seemed to have access were elderly members of the Katusev family.

Harper bided his time, leaning against a wall and pretending to talk on his mobile phone. His chance came as the guard pulled out a cigarette and walked out into the fresh air. He darted over to the staircase and offered to carry the bag of one relative with a fur coat. She thanked him enthusiastically as they reach the top and he quickly disappeared into a nearby bathroom. He waited for a few moments until he heard the relative’s footsteps patter back down the hall and rejoin the party. When he was sure she was gone, he stepped back out into the hall and looked around.

Nothing moved.

There were several open doors nearby, but he could see they were all bedrooms. He needed to find the study. He peered carefully round the corner leading downstairs and saw the security guard chatting to a female partygoer. He turned down the light with a nearby dimmer switch and moved silently to the end of the hall. Another couple of doors stood opposite each other. This time they were closed. He turned the handle on the one on the right. A smell of fresh linen crept out of the opening. He opened it a little further, but there was nothing but blankets. He turned the handle on the opposite door, but it was locked. The steady beat of house music filled the building. Harper nodded his head a couple of time to the beat and shoved his shoulder onto the door in time with the sound. After a few hits, he heard a small crack and the door opened inwards into a small passageway leading to the attic. He went inside, pushed the door closed behind him and walked slowly up the stairs.

The attic study was spread across the whole floor and was bathed in a low light. Harper took a quick scan of the room. He couldn’t see any obvious signs of security cameras. The outside of the room was mostly bookcases with what looked like collectible volumes. A small conference table sat in the middle of the room with some equipment for piping people in on television screens.

“Where are you Seva Vitsin…” he whispered under his breath as he made his way towards a desk at the back of the room. He leafed through a couple of folders sat on the oak surface. They had the Svaboda insignia on the top.

Harper’s eyes shot back towards the door as he thought he heard a creaking sound coming from downstairs. His skin prickled and he listened closely for any sign of footsteps, but the dull thud thud of the music was the only thing audible. He quickened his search, opening the desk drawers and examining as many papers as he could. He felt around at the back of the last drawer and pulled out a single USB stick. He examined it before slipping it into his pocket. He held his breath as he made his way back across the room. Just before he reached the top of the study stairs, he froze. There was no question there was a creaking sound this time. Someone was coming up the stairs into the attic. Harper stepped back and looked for somewhere to hide. The only place he could go was back behind the desk. He turned quickly, but caught his heel on a thick rug, tripping and landing heavily on his hip. He went to get up, but it was too late. A man in a black tuxedo stood directly in front of him, looking down into his eyes. They looked at each other for a few seconds, both unsure of what to do next before Harper got steadily to his feet.

“Enjoying the party?” he said, brushing himself off.

“I was a bit bored of the party to be honest,” said the man, revealing his English accent as he spoke.

“Yeah, me too,” replied Harper.

Both men looked down the stairs as a shriek of laughter travelled up from the corridor. The voices got steadily quieter and finally disappeared. They looked at each other again, both gauging the other, considering what to say next.

“I was on my way out,” said Harper. “Is that an issue for you?”

“No,” said the man. “I was on my way in. Is that an issue for you?”

“Be my guest.”

Harper walked past him to the top of the stairs.

“Wait,” said the man. He took out a pen and scrawled some directions on the back of piece of card. “Meet me here tomorrow at 11am. I mean, it’s always good to meet new people at parties, right?”

Harper adjusted his sitting position as a dull pain throbbed in his hip. He was alone in the park apart from the dancers. Couples in their seventies and eighties glided around an open-air dance floor as the tinny sound of Soviet music flowed out of rusted speakers. One middle-aged woman danced around solo with a phantom partner, smiling at her beau as convincingly as anyone else. A sudden burst of feedback from the sound system triggered a pulse of anxiety in Harper and he felt his senses heighten. He rolled his shoulders back and scratched at his neck as the noise subsided. The man from the attic emerged at the far side of the dance floor, weaving his way through the couples and briefly swinging the partnerless lady round before heading in Harper’s direction.

“They’re here every week you know,” he said, plonking himself down next to Harper. “It’s amazing. It’s like going back in time. Do you fancy a dance?”

“Not right at this minute,” said Harper. “I hurt my hip when I fell over.”

“Oh, sorry about that. Probably my fault.”

“Yeah, don’t worry about it. There’s enough cheap vodka in this part of the world to numb the pain,” said Harper, taking a slug of his hip flask and passing it on.

“That’s the good stuff,” said the man.

“Yeah, why not. The good stuff is nearly as cheap as the bad stuff.”

“You’re right there mate. You’re right there.”

Harper sniffed a little and the cold froze the hairs on the inside of his nose. “So I presume you’re a journalist?”

“I prefer reporter,” said the man. “It’s only the Yanks that tend to call themselves journalists. Sounds a bit too high-minded to my ear.”

“So you weren’t searching for truth and justice in Katusev’s attic then?” said Harper, turning his head towards the man.

“I was stealing documents actually. Same as you I presume?”

Harper said nothing and watched the dancers. Some small children joined their grandparents on the dance floor. A boy of around five dressed in a waistcoat and bow tie approached a small girl and bowed deeply before extending his hand towards her. Once she had curtsied and accepted, they walked to the centre of the floor and began to waltz.

“You wanna walk round the military museum,” said Harper. “It should be nice and quiet this time of day.”

“Sure,” said the man, standing up. “Why not.”

They walked out of the park and towards the pillars of the Central Armed Forces Museum. Harper gave a couple of banknotes to the old lady on the front desk and they entered the grand reception hall. A mound of captured Nazi banners were stacked in a big pile straight ahead and a MiG 29 hung menacingly from the ceiling. The two men walked through the building out into the paved outdoor section. They passed a line of missile launchers and fighter jets and found a secluded spot behind a huge transport helicopter.

“You never told me your name,” said Harper, sitting on the chopper’s steps.

“Danny Garrett.”

“Danny Garrett. So, what do you want from me Danny Garrett?”

“I’m not sure yet. Seems neither of us wanted to bump into anyone in that attic. But then again, it was probably lucky we bumped into each other rather than someone else. If you know what I mean.”

“I’ll agree with you on that one.”

“So what do you do?” said Garrett. “Journo? Corporate investigations? MI6? Nothing would surprise me out here to be honest.”

“Garrett, I’m only here because I’d prefer if you didn’t tell anyone you caught me snooping around in Katusev’s study.”

“You don’t have to worry about me telling anyone. But it seems to me we’re after the same information. I could be a useful friend for you.”

Harper took another slug from the flask. “And what if I just walk away now? What happens then?”

“Nothing happens. I’m not here to blackmail you. But I think you’d be stupid to do that. I’m working the Cavendish killings for my paper. If you’re interested in the case, we could help each other out. But I’d prefer it if I knew who you were.”

Harper stood up and looked across the yard for any sign of company, but there was no one else around. “I don’t normally trust people I don’t have to,” he said, “but I’d prefer we have a relationship than risk you asking around about me elsewhere.”

“Okay,” said Garrett. “So who are you?”

“I’m a private investigator putting together a profile on Katusev.”

“You’re a PI? That’s a new one.”

“Well, not many of us would take this sort of kamikaze job on, but I needed the money.”

The tinny Soviet music crept over the fence from the park. Garrett turned and paced towards the fence and back, trying to organise his thoughts. “Look, I understand you’re putting a lot of trust in me by telling me that. I want you to know I won’t betray that trust.”

“Well, I hope you won’t. My gut tells me I can trust you and I normally go with my gut. But remember, you were sneaking around in that study too. I reckon we have a mutual interest in keeping that quiet, you know what I’m saying?”

“Of course.”

“So, now everything is out on the table, how about you tell me what you know about Cavendish? I hope I haven’t just blown my cover for nothing.”

This time Garrett checked the yard. They were still alone. “Okay, well, let’s take it from the beginning. Cavendish and Katusev were working together on some secretive project. Word is it was some sophisticated algorithm to make money on the stock markets. Big, big money. Anyway, from what I heard the Kremlin muscled in on the project a few months back, threatened to destroy Katusev if he didn’t oblige.”

“That chimes with what we’ve heard,” said Harper. “Anything else?”

“You heard about the missing researcher?”

“Seva Vitsin.”

“That’s him. He was the main brain. Bit of an eccentric apparently. Didn’t like to keep notes or anything like that. That’s why when he disappeared they were so screwed. They have very little left without him.”

“Do you know where Vitsin might be?”

“That’s why I was in the study,” said Garrett. “I was hoping to find out.”

“That makes two of us.”

“I don’t know where he is, but I do know where he’s from. He was born in Kazakhstan. He’s ethnic Russian, but he grew up in Almaty.”

“Almaty huh? You speak Kazakh?”

Garrett laughed. “I barely speak Russian. So you think Vitsin disappeared back to Kazakhstan?”

“I know Katusev thinks he’s there.”

“How’s do you know that?”

Harper pulled the USB stick from his pocket. “I found this in the study before you arrived. Katusev hired some ex-KGB sleuth to go out there and look for him. This report is what he came back with.”

“And what’s on there?”

“Nothing. He talked to Vitsin’s family and friends. They all drew a blank. They might be lying, but it sounds like they don’t know where he is.”

“Might be worth looking for ourselves? You fancy a little holiday?”

“That’s a bit forward, we only just met.”

“I’m a reporter, it’s my job to be forward.”

“Is that right.”

Garrett checked his watch. “Listen, I’ve got to meet a mate to watch the football. Here’s my number. Have a think about Almaty.”

“I will,” said Harper. “Who’s your team?”

“Arsenal.”

“Jesus, hard luck on that one.”

“And you?”

Harper pulled up his sleeve and showed Garrett his Tottenham tattoo.

Garrett laughed. “Now that is a huge disappointment.”

“I’ve got nothing against Arsenal,” said Harper. “They’re the best team in South London.”

“Yeah, yeah, blah blah fucking Spurs fans. You lot need to get over it.”

They walked back through the museum and out onto the main road. The temperature had dipped and Harper pulled his scarf tighter and tucked it in his coat.“So until next time,” said Garrett, taking his mobile from his pocket and checking his messages.

“Next time,” said Harper.

Garrett suddenly looked paler as he stared at his phone. “I don’t believe it,” he said, his eyes still fixed on the screen.

“What?” said Harper. “Have they lost already?”

“He’s dead.”

“Who?”

“Andre Katusev.”

“I just don’t understand how you get past a small army of Foreign Legion mercenaries,” said Russell, as he drove back up the road towards Stanmore Hall.

“Looks like they’ve got half the Kent force up there,” said Cohen.

“Let’s face it, no one would want to miss this.”

An officer in plain clothes waved them round the side of the house as they approached. “I’m DC Burrows,” he said, as they both got out of the car and flashed their badges. “You’re from the Met right?”

“Yeah, we interviewed the guy a couple of times on a connected homicide. We don’t want to get in your way, but it would help if we can have a look around.”

“Be my guest. Its sounds like you’ve got more of a steer on what’s going on with this guy anyway. We don’t get too many dead Russian oligarchs in this part of the world.”

“You know you’ve got a reporter running around with a long lens in those woods?” said Cohen.

Burrows looked off towards the trees. “What? Shit. Jonno! Si! There’s some fucking reporter in the woods, get down there and get his camera off him.” The two uniformed officers jumped into their car and screeched down the path towards the trees. Cohen and Russell watched the car disappear from view and headed up towards the front door. There were two white tents on the grass in front of the house and the top of a third was just visible on the roof. A larger tent covered the lobby area. Forensics walked in and out, busily filing evidence and shipping it to the vans outside. Cohen pulled back the white flap and saw three legionnaires side-by-side on the floor, all dead, all with a single bullet in the forehead.

“Where’s Katusev,” Cohen asked one of the forensics kneeling down next to the bodies.

“He’s in his gym. Just go down those stairs over there.”

Russell followed Cohen over to a side door and walked down into Katusev’s gymnasium. Another Legionnaire was slumped over a running machine, part of his skull blown off and his eyes still open. A detective beckoned them over to the far corner where more forensics and several uniforms were gathered. Cohen could see Katusev’s cream loafers as he approached, spots of blood staining the material.

“I’m DS Cohen. This is DC Russell. We can do a preliminary ID for you if you want.”

“Please do.”

The group parted to let them get a clearer view of Katusev. His barbell was pinning him to the exercise bench by his neck. His hands were clamped around the metal and he looked like he was still straining to push the weight upwards. A bullet entrance wound sat in the middle of his forehead.

“That’s him,” said Cohen.

“Where’s the eighth bodyguard?” said Russell. “He had a team of eight people guarding him.”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” said the detective. “You better have a look at this.” The three men walked back up the stairs and into a small room packed with monitors near the back of the house. “You might have noticed the amount of cameras in this place. It’s a bit of an open and shut case really.” The detective pulled up several sharp colour images of the different parts of the property and skipped the tape back to several hours previous. “Give it a few minutes.”

They watched the monitors. The guards sauntered around, looking a little disinterested. Katusev was lifting weights with the guard from the running machine spotting him.

The detective tapped his finger on one of the screens. “This guy, watch.”

They all leant into the screen as a Legionnaire emerged from one of the bedrooms and screwed a silencer onto the end of a pistol. He went to the roof, smiling at his colleague before gunning him down in cold blood. He sneaked back down to the stairway overlooking the lobby and waited for three more of his team to convene just inside the front door. Again, he struck up a conversation before slotting a bullet into each of their heads.

“Did you see his gun jam?” said Russell. “One guy looked like he got a shot off, but nothing happened. He must have tampered with their weapons.”

They watched as the black figure headed outside and continued his killing spree before turning his attention to the gym. The monitor in the bottom left corner showed Katusev wiping his head with a towel before laying back down. As the spotter gave him the bar, the man who had just killed six of his colleagues walked casually into the gym and shouted some encouragement towards Katusev before opening up on the last Legionnaire. The mercenary was hit in the throat and staggered towards the running machine, blood spurting from his neck. Finally, Katusev tried to push the bar back onto its rack, but lost control and squirmed as the metal slammed down on top of him. The killer stood over him, watching as he struggled, and then executed him.

“Cold bastard,” said Russell.

“Have you got any idea where this guy went?” said Cohen.

The detective rolled on the tape a little bit more. The black figure emerged from a shed at the back of the house on a motorbike and drove off towards the woods.

“We need to start tracking him,” said Cohen. “It’s probably a good idea to see if there are any cameras in the nearby villages that might help.”

Cohen and Russell walked back outside and toward their car. The uniforms drove back out of the woods and approached the house. Cohen could see the photographer in the back seat, looking a bit edgy as they pulled up onto the gravel.

“No story for you today then mate,” said Russell, as they pulled him out of the vehicle. The photographer said nothing, instead leaning on the squad car and vomiting onto the floor.

“Jesus,” said Russell. “Is he nervous about getting banged up?”

“He’s had a bit of a shock,” said one of the uniforms, handing the photographer a can of Diet Coke from the front seat. “He’s just stumbled across a corpse in the woods. It was the gunman.”

Dupont Circle’s morning rush was coming to an end as Alpha crossed the road from Massachusetts Avenue and sat down facing the fountain. A few hungover interns scurried through, dressed beyond their years and carrying the ubiquitous Starbucks. A small but enthusiastic group of Tibetans waved a Chinese flag with a cross through the middle and handed out leaflets to passersby. Alpha averted his eyes as a black man with a grey beard wandered from person-to-person, thrusting a paper cup in front of them and asking for change. The man collected seven refusals before he moved on to try his luck downtown.

Washington had changed since the time he called it home. It was more crowded now. There was more government in this town. And more government meant more lobbyists, more lawyers, more reporters, and more entertainment. The role of MI6 liaison had seen some changes too. Relations were more cordial these days. Back then, the stench of Philby still hung around the corridors of Langley, polluting the atmosphere for anyone that followed in his footsteps.

He felt a firm hand squeeze his shoulder and remembered Lonaghan’s habit of never approaching people from the front. “Glad you could make it.” The CIA man’s familiar Boston drawl had faded, but was still detectable. “I’m sorry to drag you all the way out here John. But the higher-ups insisted we have a face-to-face.”

“You know Patricia would never forgive me if I passed on an opportunity for her to go shopping in Georgetown,” said Alpha, standing up and turning to face the man behind him. “Besides, I always like the opportunity to come over here and sniff the air. You never know what you might smell.”

“Very wise my friend, very wise.” Lonaghan walked round the bench and shook Alpha’s hand. “How are you John?”

“I’d be better if we had what we needed.”

“We all would John. Look, let’s walk.”

Alpha followed Tom Lonaghan out of the Circle and they headed up the hill on Connecticut Avenue. Lonaghan dressed in a style that only worked in DC. His raincoat covered a well-fitted grey pinstripe suit with a waistcoat and a red cravat. His wide-brimmed hat sat nonchalantly on top of his head, drawing attention away from his face. They walked silently past the rows of bars and crossed Florida. The Washington Hilton loomed up on the right hand side. Presidents probably still keep one eye on the crowds there, he thought. Even long after Reagan. They carried on past Kalorama’s grand stone buildings, a haven for embittered wasps and high earners with a taste for city living. The area was a testament to DC grace. Lonaghan fit the scene.

“This part of the city always makes me feel less claustrophobic,” he said, as they emerged onto the bridge over Rock Creek. “I always try to find a reason to walk over here. Even if it’s out of my way.”

Alpha stayed silent, leaning on the faded green railing and looking out over the trees. A helicopter buzzed through the sky in the distance and a steady stream of traffic swept across the bridge behind them.

“The bosses are getting impatient John,” said Lonaghan, removing his hat for a second to wipe the sweat from his brow.

Alpha stared straight ahead. “I need a bit more time.”

“You convinced me to let you run with this. You know I’ll always back you, but it’s starting to make me look bad. I won’t be able to hold the dogs off for much longer. Langley wants Vitsin found. Fast.”

“I’m doing everything I can. I’ve got Walker and Varndon on the their way to Almaty as we speak.”

“What makes you think he isn’t still in Russia?”

“If he was still there, it wouldn’t have taken the FSB long to find him. He stands much more chance of staying anonymous in Kazakhstan.”

“Have you got friends out there?”

“We’ve got as many friends as the Russians.”

They walked a bit further as a jogger appeared on the far side of the bridge and trotted slowly past them. Lonaghan brushed his cheek with his palm and looked at the back of his hand. “I’d like your boys to work with our people in Central Asia. I think they could be helpful. Strictly support.”

“Are you asking me or are you telling me?”

“I’m asking you. But I’m telling you it’s in your best interests. The bosses want to take over the whole op. This will give you a bit more time.”

“Ok. But strictly support. I don’t want some goon with a buzzcut bossing my boys around as soon as they land.”

“Strictly support.”

Alpha looked up at the sky as a few spots of rain escaped from the grey clouds hovering over the city. “How scared are they up on the Hill?”

“Those in the know are banging the drum pretty loud. If the Russians get hold of that algorithm, they’re going to have more money than they know what to do with. That means more military spending, more chest beating and, most importantly for our politicians, less reason to listen to us.”

“Do they understand that a bankrupt Russia is a dangerous animal?”

“We don’t want them bankrupt John. We’ve been there before and it’s not a good situation for anyone. No, we don’t want them bankrupt, we just want to keep them honest. They have zero incentive to change things when they are swimming in money.”

“Tom, there’s something I should probably tell you.”

“Go on.”

“We got some intel in last week on the actual value of this thing. The potential returns. It’s much bigger than we initially thought.”

“How much bigger?”

“We’re talking a 200 percent return. If the Russians put 50 billion into it, they’ll walk away with 100 billion profit in the first year. Guaranteed.”

“Guaranteed?” said Lonaghan. “There’s no such thing.”

“He found the Holy Grail Tom. Their tests proved it conclusively.”

“Hell. They would hardly need to collect taxes with that on their side.”

“You’re right. It’s a licence to print money.”

“You need to find this guy John. For all our sakes. I don’t want to have to tell the President that the Kremlin has full control of the world’s most profitable hedge fund.”

Harper sniffed the flowers as he walked through Rublyovka. The high gates on the Katusev mansion were locked and two armed guards watched his approach. As he got closer, one stepped forward and demanded to know his identity.

“I’m one of Nastya’s teachers,” Harper said in English.

“Ne panimayu,” said the guard. I don’t understand.

Harper gave him a small card with his name and the name of the school and pointed to the intercom system. The guard relayed the details through to the house while his colleague patted Harper down and looked inside the bunch of flowers. There was a tense silence before the intercom buzzed and he was allowed to walk up to the house. The door was open when he got there, so he walked through into the familiar reception area.

He stood looking around, but no one came to greet him.

Without the party guests, the house had the feel of a museum. He walked slowly towards the ballroom. It seemed far larger without people. He hadn’t noticed the intricate Russian Orthodox Frescos that covered the ceiling while he was at the party. A depiction of Christ adorned with shimmering gold outlines formed the centerpiece of the domed roof. He jumped slightly as he heard footsteps coming towards him. He turned to see a plump woman with a white hat and pinafore. She had Asiatic features and her tight skin showed signs of sun damage. The wary look on her face suggested she wasn’t overly pleased to have an unknown foreigner standing in front of her.

“You are from the school?” she said in heavily accented Russian. Harper nodded and gave her the flowers. “You can’t be here for very long I’m afraid.” She led him back through to the front of the house and into a side room. Several bunches of flowers were stacked on the floor and she placed his offering alongside. As she stood up, he noticed tears rolling down her cheeks. He instinctively walked over and gave her a hug, before sitting her down on a nearby chair and holding her hand.

“He was a good man,” she said in her native Uzbek.

“He was a very good man,” Harper responded in the same language.

She looked up at him, with a shocked smile on her face. “You speak Uzbek?”

“I love to speak Uzbek,” he said. “It’s a beautiful language.”

He felt a new warmth from her as she held his arm. “Nastya is just getting out of the shower. She will be here soon. You can give the flowers directly to her if you like.”

“That would be nice. Everyone at the school is thinking of her.” Harper stood her up and gave her a tissue from his pocket to wipe the tears from her face. “It’s such an awful thing to happen. And so unexpected…”

“It all started when that damn Kazakh boy came here,” she said. “Everything was fine before that. He poisoned the fortune of this family.”

Harper’s mind focused. “You mean Seva?”

“Yes, that was his name. Seva. He was a quiet boy and never opened his mouth. I had a bad feeling about him immediately.”

“Did he come here more than once?” said Harper, trying to sound uninterested.

“No, only once. He came with his parents and that professor who stayed in the car.”

“Professor?”

“It was his university teacher or something. I told him to move the car because it was parked on the grass and he refused. He looked at me like I was some peasant.”

Harper heard footsteps coming down the stairs and picked up the flowers. Nastya Katuseva wore a purple designer tracksuit and had her hair tied up inside a towel as she stepped down to meet him.

“Look, Nastya, I know this is a difficult time,” said Harper. “But people at the school wanted to let you know we were thinking about you. I just volunteered to bring these down for you. I won’t stay. I’m sorry for your loss.”

She took the flowers and managed a weak smile. “That’s nice. Please say thank you to everyone for me. I’m going to need my English lessons for when I need to fight for my inheritance in your courts. The vultures will already be circling.”

“Vultures?”

“I have just inherited a $6 billion fortune Ryan. You think that people are going to allow this to simply become mine. In my world, sentiment does not last very long. I can handle his gold digging little wife, but there will be plenty more formidable opponents looking for their share of the spoils, I can guarantee you.”

Harper looked for some sign of grief, but struggled to find it. They both looked towards the door at the sound of raised voices coming from the entrance to the property. A large crowd of men had surrounded the security and were demanding they open the gates. One of the new arrivals suddenly lost patience and grabbed a guard by the neck, kicking his legs from underneath him and pinning him to the ground. The second guard backed off with his hands up.

“Vultures,” cried Nastya Katuseva, hitting a button on the wall to open the gate and marching off down the drive. Harper watched her remonstrating before giving up and allowing them to come up to the house. They ignored Harper as they filed into the house with boxes and headed upstairs.

Nastya marched after them, shouting while holding the towel on the top of her head in place. “How long has he been dead? Tell me? His body isn’t even cold and you FSB bastards already divided up his fortune. If you think I’m going to make this easy for you, believe me, you’re wrong.”

Harper made a quick call for his taxi driver to meet him outside and headed towards the gate with his head down. One of the guards was calling for assistance on his mobile phone, while the other nursed his throat. A line of black FSB BMWs blocked the road. Harper looked for his cab, but it wasn’t in sight. As he set off in the direction of the estate’s exit, a voice called out in Russian from the motorcade.

“You, come here.”

Harper kept walking, but the voice got louder and more forceful. “You. Who do you think you are walking away from?” Harper stopped as he heard the spin of car tyres behind him. One of the vehicles lurched in front of him and skidded to a stop. Major Oleg Nikolaev kept his eyes firmly on Harper as he got out the car. The back window of the BMW rolled down and more eyes bored into him from inside.

“Documents,” Nikolaev barked as he stood toe-to-toe with Harper, leaving just inches between their faces. Harper reached into his inside pocket and handed over his passport.

“Why are you here?” Nikolaev said, flicking through the pages. “Ryan Evans.”

Harper stuck to English, figuring knowing Russian could lead to more complicated questions. “I teach English to Nastya Katuseva. I was just leaving.”

Nikolaev spat on the floor. “English? That’s the problem with these fucking people. They hate being Russian. It humiliates them when they are in fucking London or wherever they go. So they pay people like you, to teach them a new nationality.”

“Ne ponimayu,” said Harper. I don’t understand.

Nikolaev walked back to the car with Harper’s passport and picked up his radio to phone in the details. Harper froze as a rifle barrel emerged from the window and pointed straight at him. He looked around for an escape route, but there was nowhere to go. The man in the back of the car smiled as Harper squirmed and pulled the gun back inside. Nikolaev’s radio finally buzzed to life and he returned to Harper and pushed his passport into his chest.

“Are you here to fuck our women?” asked Nikolaev, stepping forward.

“I’m here to teach English,” said Harper, avoiding Nikoalev’s eyes.

“The only Russian women that sleep with foreigners are whores.”

Harper said nothing and stepped back slightly.

“Dirty fucking whores with fucking diseases.” Harper turned his head to the side to avoid the smell of coffee on Nikolaev’s breath.

“Now leave,” he said finally, shoving Harper backwards. The taxi suddenly pulled round the corner and Nikolaev watched as Harper got in and it drove off into the distance. He walked back to the BMW and sat back down in the front seat. He adjusted the rearview mirror, so he could see his men in the back.

“Check him out properly. Today.”

Danny Garrett sat sipping coffee in the small café below his fifth-floor office. He bobbed his head a little to the Russian pop music filtering through the speakers and turned the page of his newspaper.

“Shame your boys got pumped the other day,” said Harper, sitting down opposite him. “I suppose it was the ref’s fault?”

“Where are you in the league now? Oh yeah, below us.”

“Touchy,” said Harper. “Can I have one of these,” he said, pointing at some biscuits sitting in a small bowl on the table.

“Help yourself.”

“Do you still fancy coming on a little holiday with me?”

“Almaty? I thought you weren’t keen.”

“I think if I go missing, not too many people would be interested. I’d prefer it if you were around to document my downfall.”

“You want me to come as an insurance policy?”

“Yeah, partly, but I reckon we can cover more ground together. You find facts yeah? That’s your job.”

“Last time I looked.”

“So you up for it?”

“What do I get out of it?”

“I think I know where our missing researcher is, or rather, who he is with.”

“Yeah? Who?”

“I’ll tell you when we get there.”

“I see.”

“And if you’re still not convinced, I’ve got a little story for you too.”

“Go on.”

“The FSB raided Andre Katusev’s house yesterday.”

“How do you know that?”

“I was there.”

“You really have got some brass balls you know that.”

“You’re very kind. Are you coming?”

“Of course I’m coming.”

A paper dragon hung in the window of the Beijing Paradise Chinese restaurant next to a faded menu. A motorbike courier and a well-heeled lawyer sat waiting for their orders on the plastic chairs in the small reception area. Cohen flashed his badge at the man behind the counter while Russell struggled to park the car in a small space across the road.

“I’m DS Cohen. I’m here to see Mr Lau.”

The man behind the counter examined the badge as the customers pretended not to listen. “Yes, Mr Lau, one second.” Russell came walking into the shop as the man behind the counter disappeared into the back.

“It’d be rude not to order something while we’re here,” said Russell.

“Here’s a menu. Knock yourself out.”

The man appeared from the back and beckoned them to come through. They ducked under the counter and walked back into the kitchen. Russell’s mouth watered as a delivery man packed up a freshly-made Peking Duck and disappeared out of the door.

“Mr Lau is in here,” said the man, motioning to a social area where several staff were sitting around chatting in Mandarin. All but one man stood up and left as Cohen and Russell walked into the room.

“Alfred Lau?” said Cohen.

“Yes, please sit down.”

“I’m DS Cohen and this is DC Russell. We’re sorry that you had to cut your holiday short, but it really was imperative that we speak with you.”

Lau shook his head a little. “Oh sure, sure, it’s okay, I am happy to help police.”

“Well, that’s good to hear. Now, we understand you made a delivery to this flat recently.” Cohen showed Lau a piece of paper with Cavendish’s address.

“Yes, I remember. A nice English man. Very polite. He gave me good tip.”

“Did anything seem unusual when the man answered the door?”

“No, no, just as normal. Normal delivery.”

“What did they have?” said Russell.

“I think just some special fried rice, sweet and sour pork Hong Kong style and satay chicken sticks.”

“You’ve got a good memory,” said Russell.

Lau laughed. “Yes, like a photo camera.”

“Was there anyone in the street maybe when you delivered the food?”

Lau sat back and thought. “There was a man. He was in a car, just not far from the place. I remember because he looked at me when I was unpacking order.”

Cohen leant forward. “Do you think you can describe the man?”

“Yeah sure. I remember, he looked like Albanian or something.”

“Excuse us, for a second Mr Lau.”

Russell followed Cohen back out into the kitchen. “We need to get a sketch artist down here. I don’t want to let him disappear off again if we can help it.”

“I know one that lives in St John’s Wood,” said Russell, pulling his mobile from his pocket. “Let me get on the blower.” Cohen sat back down with Lau as Russell made the call.

“Do you think that memory of yours works for faces too?”

“Sure, sure, I am good with faces, no problem.”

“I hope you’re right.”

Russell walked back in the room. “He’ll be here in half an hour Sarge. We may as well eat I reckon.”

Cohen gave Lau £20 and he brought them an assortment of piping hot Chinese food as they waited in the small room. Once they’d finished the meal, a pot of Chinese tea was set down on the table and Russell poured three servings into some ornately decorated cups. As Cohen took his first sip, the man from behind the counter walked in and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Your friend is here now.” The long-haired sketch artist walked in and cleared a space among the discarded food containers.

“Shall we get straight to it?” he said

“Go ahead,” said Cohen.

Lau’s memory kicked into gear like a video recording. The sketch artist struggled to keep up as he blurted out the description, regularly turning to a small Chinese-English dictionary he kept in his trouser pocket. The artist added the finishing touches as Lau made sure he had extracted everything he could from the mental image of the man in the car.

“Okay,” said the artist. “Here’s your man.” He flipped his sketch board round and showed Cohen and Russell the face.

“Looks like a wrong ‘un,” said Russell. “But they always do on those things, don’t they Sarge?” Cohen said nothing and just stared at the picture. “Don’t they Sarge? Sarge? Are you okay?”

Cohen took the picture from the artist. “I know who that is.”

“What? Who?”

“His name’s Yuri Gershov. He’s muscle for a guy called Leonid Ashansky.”

“Jesus, Ashansky? You mean the Prince?”

“Yeah.”

“Isn’t he sitting in Belmarsh prison?”

“That’s exactly where he is. Time we paid His Royal Highness and his little helper a visit.”

Pavel ignored the homeless man lying motionless a few metres away from the entrance to the flat. A strong smell of urine filled the corridor and he held his sleeve to his nose as he stepped carefully around him. Why do people let them in, he thought, as he hurried inside and closed the door behind him. The man stirred as the door slammed. He looked up to make sure no one was around and whispered quietly into a microphone stitched to the inside of his sleeve. “One of them is here.”

Nikolaev and his team got out the car and walked into the building. As they exited the lift, the watcher pointed to the flat and disappeared down the stairs. One of the agents took out a master key and opened the door. Nikolaev walked in and looked around. The door to his right opened and Pavel faced the four men with a puzzled look on his face. The confusion turned to fear as they advanced on him and pushed him back onto his bed.

Nikolaev cast an eye around the room and onto the effeminate foreigner sitting on the bed in front of him.

“You are a gay?” he said, eliciting sniggers from his men.

“No. What do you want?”

“Oh, you speak Russian? That’s good. But you speak Russian like a gay. This is not how Russian is meant to be spoken.”

Pavel lowered his head and hunched his shoulders. “Please, don’t hurt me. What do you want?”

Nikolaev picked up Pavel’s passport from a bedside table. “Paul Murray. Teacher at the Westminster School of English, Pushkinskaya. Tell me, do you like working at this school?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to stay in Russia?”

“Yes.”

“So tell me where is Ryan Evans?”

Pavel looked around the faces in the room. They were all scowling at him while they waited for an answer. “He said he was going to Kazakhstan.”

Nikolaev placed the passport back on the table. “Almaty?”

“Yes, that’s what he said.”

“Which is his room?”

Pavel showed them to the end of the corridor and opened Harper’s bedroom door. The men fanned out and rifled through the cupboards and drawers, but found nothing except clothes and a few teaching materials. Nikolaev picked up a tattered copy of Heart of a Dog from Harper’s pillow and flicked through the pages.

“Mr Literature,” he said, chucking the book to one of his agents.

Pavel looked at the stack of other titles next to Harper’s bed. There was more Bulgakov and several works of Turgenev. There was also Crime and Punishment.

“There is one other thing you might be interested in,” said Pavel.

Nikolaev stepped towards him. “Really? And what’s that?”

“I’ll show you.” Pavel took Nikolaev and one of the agents out of the flat and across the children’s playground to the garbage area.

“I saw him cut up one of his sim cards and chuck it in here the other day. It seemed very suspicious to me.”

Nikolaev smiled at the willingness of the foreigner in front of him to throw his colleague under the bus. “So what are you waiting for?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Find it.”

“What do you…” Pavel let out a small yelp as Nikolaev’s agent grabbed him under his arms and dumped him in the big metal bin. Pavel looked down at the bags of rotting food and old clothes.

“Find it,” said Nikolaev, drawing his pistol and pointing it at his face.

Tears started to stream down Pavel’s cheeks as he tore open the bags and fished around. He felt his hand plunge into something moist and pulled it up to find a baby’s nappy wrapped round his wrist. He kept sobbing as he searched and tried not to throw up. Fifteen minutes passed before he found the four squares of plastic sitting in a pizza box. He picked them up and handed them over.

“This must be it,” he said.

“Put this back together,” said Nikolaev, handing the shards to his agent. “And deport this fucking faggot out of my country.”

Walker snapped a couple of photos as the minibus wound its way up the mountain road. Varndon smiled politely as a father scolded his young daughter for pointing and giggling at the two Europeans. They continued on in silence until they reached the Koktebya, Almaty’s highest point and home to its looming television tower. They came to a stop next to a small fairground. The rides were static and tourists looked thin on the ground. The little girl dragged her father out of the minibus and ran excitedly towards a small carousel. The owners of makeshift market stalls looked hopefully at Walker and Varndon, waving their hands over the collection of horse statues and clothing colored with the blue and yellow flag of Kazakhstan. They both browsed a little before excusing themselves and taking the paved walkway into the small park.

“They’re not very pushy these Kazakhs,” said Walker. “If this was Egypt, he’d still be walking alongside me, waving some piece of tat in my face.”

“Well, it’s not Egypt, I can tell you that for certain.”

The stalls and the rides disappeared as they made their way further into the park. Near to the end, the trees closed in and the path jutted off to the right. They ducked through and emerged out onto a viewing platform. A man in a leather coat stood facing out towards the panoramic view. A nearby office block mimicked the jagged peaks of the snow-capped mountains. The rest of the city stretched off into the distance, a footnote in the Soviet project, polished and modernized by the gushing tap of petrodollars. The man turned around. His Asian features gave him the look of some of the locals. Walker and Varndon hesitated for a second in case he was just that.

“Guys relax,” he said in a New York twang. “The agency thought sending a Korean American out here would have its advantages. Fucking racist huh? I should sue their asses.”

Walker laughed. Varndon said nothing.

“I’m Billy. Lonaghan told me to take you through the operation.”

“Operation?” said Varndon. “I thought you were just support. We already have an operation?”

“Yeah, support, sure. That’s what I meant. But we didn’t think it would hurt to get started. After all, we’re all on the same team.”

This time Varndon laughed. “Yeah, we’re on the same team, when it suits you people. When it doesn’t, the shutters come up.”

“Look, I’m not looking for a fight,” said Billy. “We got our orders and we’re sticking to them. No one’s out to take anyone’s glory here. So you wanna know what’s going down?”

“Course we do,” said Walker. “But aren’t we a little exposed up here? I know it’s out of season, but there were a few people knocking about back there.”

Billy nodded his head through the trees. “My guys are on watch. They’ll let us know if anyone’s coming.”

“Okay,” said Walker. “So, what’ve you got?”

“Vitsin is here.”

“How do you know that,” said Varndon.

“He came in by train on a false passport. We’ve got some people on the payroll down at the train station. They gave us the security tapes and we spotted him. He had some weak disguise on, but it was definitely him.”

“So where is he now?”

“We don’t know.”

Varndon moved and leant on the railings. “You don’t know? You mean you lost him?”

“We never had him. I’m just telling you that he’s here.”

“So how do you propose to find him? What tricks do you Americans have up your sleeves these days apart from chucking money at a problem? Check his facebook account maybe?”

“That’s cute,” said Billy. “Maybe I’ll put on a tuxedo and crash a tank through a wall. Or sit in a casino somewhere getting a tight asshole about how my drink is made. That’s what you motherfuckers do all day right?”

Walker stepped into the middle of Varndon and Billy. “Transatlantic tension. Interesting. I thought we were supposed to be fucking the Russians this week, not each other. Shall we start again?”

Billy shrugged. “We’ve got surveillance on his family and known close friends. Luckily, there aren’t many of those. He’s not much of a talker by all accounts. If he turns up anywhere there, we’ll know about it.”

“What about the Russians?” said Varndon. “I presume they’re watching too?”

“It’s safe to say they will be, but we can’t do much about that.” Billy turned and looked through the viewing platform’s telescope. “He’s out there somewhere. We’ve spun our own web now. We just need to wait for him to fly into it.”

Harper raised his empty glass and shook it at the barman. The young Kazakh ambled over, took it from him and poured him another beer. He took a banknote from Harper and threw his change down onto a plastic plate.

“Service with a smile,” said Harper, spinning around on his stool.

The Hotel Alma’Ata house band plucked at their guitars as they prepared to kick off the night’s entertainment. A tall Arab with tight denim jeans and a long ponytail took a swig of his drink and grabbed the microphone.

“Good evening Almaty!” he shouted, raising a round of whoops and cheers from the ragtag bunch of prostitutes, office workers and oil riggers lounging on stools around the bar. “Welcome to the Detroit Tiger!”

The classic rock exploded out of the speakers and the punters swarmed onto dance floor, grinding their hips and raising their glasses into the air. A burst of feedback scythed through Harper’s body and he arched his back as his nerves bristled.

“Why aren’t you dancing?” said a girl to Harper’s left. “Are you grumpy?”

“I’m not grumpy,” said Harper. “It’s just not my kind of music.”

“What, you like dance music, all serious and no fun?”

“Something like that.”

“Sometimes, huh? What about a party? You wanna party with me? It can be cheap for you. You are young and good-looking, so only half-price. Sixty dollars.”

“You don’t waste time,” said Harper, feeling her hand on the inside of his thigh. He waved at Garrett, who had just appeared through some double doors at the back of the bar. The girl looked slightly despondent at having her pitch spoiled by the prospect of company.

“Any luck?” said Harper, as Garrett pushed his way through the writhing bodies.

“I’ve got an address for the parents.”

“Good man.”

“And I’ve got a car. Real piece of shit, but it was all I could get at short notice.”

“Perfect. A real piece of shit is better for our needs. Let’s go.” Harper slugged back the rest of his beer and placed the glass on the bar. He waited for Garrett to head off back towards the exit before he turned and gave his room key to the prostitute. She unfolded her arms and retracted her protruding bottom lip, before picking up her coat and walking towards the hotel reception.

“Thought I’d lost you there for a second,” said Garrett, as Harper emerged from the bar, Bon Jovi blaring behind him.

“Just settling up the tab.”

They got into the black Lada and Garrett pulled off, fixing his phone to the dashboard so he could see the GPS. “It’s not far, probably a couple of miles.” They drove up the hill until they reached a main road and headed for a complex of mirrored tower blocks.

“This is it,” said Garrett. “The second tower from the end.”

“Nice,” said Harper. “Katusev must’ve been paying him a good wage. Slow down a little, but keep driving.”

“What? You don’t want to go in?”

“Not today.”

“But, isn’t that what we came for?”

“Just drive past Garrett, don’t argue.”

They slowed to half speed and rolled past the building. The GPS beeped to indicate they had arrived at the destination and Garrett reached out to turn it off. He drove on a bit further and parked up in a supermarket car park next to a selection of expensive SUVs.

“So what was the point of that?” said Garrett.

“We’re not the only ones looking for Vitsin, remember that.”

“What, you think there might be people spying on the flat?”

“There were two groups surveilling that building. One was in a white maintenance van and the second had a black Range Rover.”

“How do you know that?”

“I’m trained to spot these things. The important thing is not how I know, but what we are going to do about it. I think Vitsin is hiding out with one of his old professors. I need to get inside that flat to find out who the guy is.”

Garrett looked over at the tower. “So how are we going to get those surveillance teams to leave?”

“We need them to think the parents are leading a reporter to Vitsin.”

“And which reporter might that be?”

“Take a guess.”

“So you brought me out here as bait?”

“You’re getting a story aren’t you?”

“It’s not going to be much of a story if I’m not here to write it.”

“Don’t be so melodramatic. You’ll be fine.”

Garrett started the engine back up. “So who else is looking for him?”

“I’m guessing one lot are the Russians. Probably FSB or maybe SVR.”

“SVR is their equivalent of MI6 right?”

“That’s right. But I’m guessing they’re more likely FSB. The same lot I bumped into the other day at Katusev’s house.”

“And who are the others?”

“That’ll probably be our boys. Or the Americans.”

“Holy shit. Are you comfortable with this?”

“Why not? We’re reporters looking for a story.”

“You’re a reporter now are you?”

“Tomorrow I’m a reporter. Today, I need a drink. Now let’s get back to the hotel.”

Cohen sat tapping his pen on the desk as he waited for the prison guard to bring Ashansky to the interview room. Belmarsh was only for the A-list. They didn’t put you in this place unless you had earned it. There was a certain level of criminality you had to display before you got room and board in this part of south London. Running guns to breakaway Loyalists was certainly a crime that fell into that category. The door opened and the guard came back in alone. “I’m sorry Sergeant, but Leonid Ashansky has been transferred.”

“Transferred? Where to?”

“Nobody knows I’m afraid. I’ve asked around, but seems it’s been kept very firmly under wraps.”

“Is that normal procedure?”

“We’d usually have a sniff of what’s going on. But there was nothing. It’s all a bit strange to be honest.”

“Well, who took him away? Surely, your blokes must have helped with that?”

“All I know is that it was all done at short notice. I can’t help you further than that. The orders came down from a senior level.”

“A senior level?”

The guard started to look slightly edgy as Cohen waited for an answer. “Look, I just don’t know. I think you’ll need to go higher than me if you want more.”

“Course,” said Cohen. “Fair enough.” The guard escorted him back through several security doors and back to the prison reception. Cohen’s phone rang as he stepped back out of the imposing brick entrance and walked towards the road.

“DS Cohen.”

“Sarge, it’s Russell.”

“Did you find Gershov?”

“He’s skipped bail.”

Cohen stopped walking. “What? When?”

“They don’t know exactly. But he’s vanished.”

“We won’t find him if he doesn’t want to be found.”

“How much do you know about this guy Sarge?”

“He was the hatchet man for Ashansky’s gun running operation. He should have gone to jail with his boss, but the evidence was too flimsy, so they were lining him up for an assault charge instead. Weak, but it’s all they had.”

“Is he Russian?”

“Russian Israeli. Booted out of Mossad for selling rockets to the Palestinians.”

“How did you get on with Ashansky?”

“He’s vanished too and everyone here has selective memory loss.”

“Sarge, this case is starting to scramble my brain. First, the Russians kick us out early. Then Katusev gets slotted. And when we finally find a suspect, he disappears into thin air. It’s like we’re always two steps behind.”

“Let’s speak to Morton. We might be playing catch-up, but we’re not the only game in town.”

Harper pushed the hatch open and climbed out onto the roof opposite the apartment complex. He signaled to Garrett to crouch down as he followed him up into the open air. They knelt on the black felt and Harper pulled out a pair of binoculars.

“They’re still there,” he said, looking in the direction of the car park. “I’m going to stay here until both vehicles have gone after you.”

“What if they don’t buy it?”

“Then we have to think of something else. So what are you going to tell the parents?”

“I’ll think of something.”

“Just make it good. They need to go with you.”

“Well, just make sure you come out with something worthwhile.”

“I will, don’t worry. Are you ready?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Good luck.”

Garrett shuffled back across the roof, making sure to stay crouched, and disappeared down the hatch. Harper waited patiently, regulating his breathing and pushing the nerves and excitement as far away as he could. He trained his binoculars onto the street below. Garrett appeared out of the front door and walked across the road. Harper watched the two surveillance vehicles as Garrett passed them and approached the front door. His heart started to pound a little faster as the reporter disappeared inside.

Harper looked at his watch and noted the time.

He kept the binoculars on the door, not daring to lower them in case he missed something. A few residents came in and out and a handful of children came up from the street and played on the nearby swings. There was no reaction from the surveillance vehicles. Harper’s arms started to ache from holding the binoculars. The aching was becoming uncomfortable when the door finally swung open and Garrett emerged, an elderly Kazakh couple trailing along behind him.

Harper punched the air in front of him and accidentally clipped his knuckle on a brick. He watched Garrett lead them across the car park, just yards from the watchers and down onto the road where they had parked the black Lada earlier that morning. They got inside and Garrett pulled off slowly and obviously. The maintenance van pulled straight out after them, but the black Range Rover stayed put. Harper clamped his teeth together as he waited for it to make a move. “Come on, follow them you bastards.”

Garrett and the van moved further down the road and were preparing to take a left when the Range Rover skidded out of its parking space and set off in pursuit. “Go on, fuck off you wankers,” Harper shouted, gathering up his things and running for the hatch. He jumped in the lift and after a few minutes he was across the road and opening the door Garrett had just come out of. He made his way to the top floor and found the flat as quickly as he could. He jammed a makeshift pick into the keyhole and after a few twists, pushed open the door.

He listened for company, but there was no sound.

The huge flat spanned across to the other side of the building. He crept in, making as little noise as possible. He looked into the bedrooms and found one seemingly decorated by a teenage boy. Sci-fi models hung from the ceilings and Hollywood film posters adorned the walls. Harper opened a few drawers and looked for anything connected to Vitsin’s studies. He got down on his knees and pulled some boxes out from under the bed, but all he found was a football and a few clothes. He started to panic as his search looked like drawing a blank. He leant against the wall as he felt his throat tighten and his vision start to blur around the edges. “Keep it together Harper, for fuck’s sake.”

He let himself breathe for a few minutes before walking back into the dining room. As he looked around, a neatly arranged set of family photographs caught his eye. He walked over. Vitsin stared out at him from several frames, his face intense and serious, emitting a searing stare towards the camera each time. He realised this was the first time he had seen the boy’s face. Harper scanned the collection and noticed a small frame at the end of the row. The picture showed Vitsin standing next to a scruffy, middle-aged man. Harper looked at it, trying to figure out why it looked different to the others. Then he noticed that the boy was smiling. Not just smiling for the camera, but a genuine happiness at being pictured with the man standing next to him. There was even less doubt in Harper’s mind now about where he would find him.

He ripped the back off the frame and took the photograph out. He held it up to the light to get a better look and saw an imprint from some writing on the back. He flipped it over. Seva at Professor Ruminenko’s home, Hong Kong. Harper threw the frame on the sofa and slipped the photo into his pocket. The anxiety bubbled back up and he held the mantelpiece to steady himself. He walked back out of the flat and headed towards the lift. As he descended, he looked again at the photo. Vitsin’s boyish face possessed a sharpness that somehow elevated him beyond his years. Harper rushed back towards the road, took out his phone and punched in Garrett’s number.

“Garrett?” said Harper, struggling to hear anything over the sound of the engine. “Where are you?”

“I don’t know,” said Garrett. “It’s behind me. I can’t shake it.”

“What?”

“The Range Rover.”

“Where are the Vitsins?”

“I dumped them.”

“Where?”

“In town. I thought they would draw away the surveillance, but this one seems more interested in me. What shall I do?”

“Look, just meet me back at the hotel, can you find it?”

“I think so. Wait. Oh fuck. It’s nearly on me. I’ve gotta go…”

Morton checked over his shoulder again as he walked further into the Heath. He could see Cohen and Russell up ahead in the distance and signaled to them to follow him onto the open ground. The three men converged and continued walking together across the grass, carefully avoiding the muddier patches of ground.

“It’s best to keep moving,” said Morton.

“What’s going on Guv?” said Cohen. “Isn’t this a bit extreme?”

“You can’t trust your phones anymore. We’ve been bugged.”

“Bugged?” said Russell. “Who the fuck is going to bug us?”

“I don’t know yet. But it’s happening. I had my comms swept this morning and they were riddled with traces of surveillance. Phone, email, even my car.”

Russell looked at his phone. “Is it internal affairs?”

“I doubt it. They’re not that clever.”

“Do the Russians have the capabilities to get into our systems?” said Cohen.

Morton checked over his shoulder again. “I think the Russians have got the capability to hack into anything they want.”

Russell quickened his pace and walked up alongside Morton. “Ashansky and Gershov have both vanished Guv. Ashansky was transferred out of Belmarsh and has just disappeared off the grid. Gershov skipped bail.”

“I know,” said Morton. “I’ve been asking around too, but everyone in the know is either scared shitless or unavailable.”

“So what do we do now?” said Russell.

“Good old-fashioned policing,” said Morton. “I want to know what happened to those fucking Russians. Pull in as many of Ashansky and Gershov’s known associates as you can, today. I want every two-bit Slav villain in this city spilling his guts. And leave the police brutality rulebook at home.”

“Happily,” said Russell.

“Where does this leave Harper?” said Cohen.

“There’s a strong chance his cover has been compromised.”

“We need to warn him.”

“We can’t do that until he gets in touch.”

“Does Bailey know about all this?” said Russell.

“I’m going to see her now. If there’s one positive in this, it’s the fact we have the Deputy Commissioner in our corner. The woman’s a Rottweiler.”

The secretary shuffled along the corridor with an embarrassed look on her face, occasionally turning and flashing a crooked smile in Bailey’s direction. The school was silent. They reached the end of the hall and the secretary rapped on the old, wooden door before pushing it open.

“Deputy Commissioner Bailey to see you Headmaster.”

The secretary beckoned her into the room and excused herself, quietly closing the door. Bailey took in the grand office and the man sitting in the expensive suit at the end of it. She thought of the school fees she struggled to hand over every year and whether they contributed to the décor.

“Thanks for coming Lynn. May I call you Lynn?”

“Of course.”

“I’m Peter.” He stuck his hand out and motioned for her to take a seat. “I’m sorry for making you come all this way, but I did feel this was something that we should discuss face-to-face.”

“How serious is it?”

The Headmaster sat back down in his seat, facing her, but looking towards his desk drawer. He opened it, pulled out a plastic bag and placed it on the table. Bailey knew what she was looking at. The 20 ecstasy pills were crammed into the bag, each with a tiny logo stamped on one side.

“We found these in Maria’s locker.”

“But…she wouldn’t,” said Bailey, struggling to look him directly in the face.

“It looks like she was planning to sell them to other pupils.”

“With all due respect Peter, that’s preposterous.”

“Ordinarily, I would agree. But we can’t ignore the evidence.”

Bailey stared at the bag of pills. She searched her mind for an explanation. An excuse. Something. “How do you know they weren’t planted?”

“We don’t. But that’s something for the local police.”

Bailey shifted uncomfortably in her seat and thought about her words carefully. “Is that necessary?”

“Is what necessary?”

“The involvement of the police, I mean, at this stage.”

“Lynn, I understand your concerns, and under normal circumstances, I am averse to involving the police in school matters, but the teacher who found this bag is married to a local officer.”

“And?”

“And I managed to convince her to let me talk to you first, but I’m afraid we will have to report this as soon as our meeting is over.”

“I understand.”

“Maria is waiting for you in reception. She’s been suspended indefinitely. I’m sorry Lynn. I know this could be inconvenient for you.”

Bailey shook his hand and walked back out into the empty corridor. She felt dizzy and steadied herself on a nearby windowsill. The secretaries glanced up at her as she walked back past their office and then descended into whispers once she had gone. She quickened her stride and turned the corner towards the reception. Her daughter was sat, hunched over and deflated on a bench next to the school trophy cabinet. She walked over and sat down next to her, putting her arm round her as she started to cry.

“I don’t know where they came from mum. I swear.”

“I know. Shush now.”

“It all happened so fast. Am I going to jail?”

“Not while I’m around.”

They stood up and walked out of the school’s large front doors. A group of girls played tennis in the distance, the teacher’s shrill whistle just about audible as they walked back to the car.

“Is that your phone mum?”

Bailey picked her mobile out of her pocket and put it to her ear. “Hello. Deputy Commissioner Bailey.” She waited for the person on the other end to speak, but there was nothing. “Hello?”

“Some things can’t be brushed under the carpet Lynn.” The man’s accent was neutral and he spoke to her like he knew her.

“Who is this?”

“Is Maria with you?

Bailey stopped walking. “Who the hell is this?”

“Someone that wants to save your reputation.”

Garrett’s hand slipped off the gearstick as he slammed his foot on the clutch and tried to jam it into a higher gear. The car’s ancient engine screamed as he turned into a side street and set off up a steep incline. As he reached the top, the Range Rover appeared at the bottom and effortlessly ate up the ground. He took a right, swerving round two pedestrians. The car appeared at the crest of the hill and turned after him, gaining until it was just a few metres behind.

It crept closer and he felt a nudge on his back bumper. “Jesus.”

He sped up again and took a left turn. He kept his foot down as the road was replaced by an uneven mud surface. He could taste his escape when a loud crack came from the underside of the car and he felt himself slowing down.

“No, please, no.”

He pumped the accelerator, but his heart sank as he realized there was no response. The car rolled to a complete stop and he clambered out of the vehicle. As he stepped out onto the ground, his foot sank into the mud up to the top of his ankle. He wrestled it free at the same time as keeping an eye on the Range Rover. He took a few more steps, but the mud got thicker and he struggled to move.

“Bad choice of car,” said Nikolaev as the black Range Rover rolled up alongside him. Garrett stood still and said nothing. The back window rolled down and a man with a balaclava pointed a pistol towards his face.

“Why are you running English?” said Nikolaev. “You have something to hide?”

“Probably not as much as you people,” said Garrett.

“I know who you are,” said Nikolaev. “You’re the mother fucker that wrote that book about Chechnya. I served in Chechnya and you know what I think? I think you don’t know shit.”

Garrett puffed his chest out as much as he could. “Do you know how bad it will look for you when I write a story saying you pointed a gun at a British reporter?”

“You think you can intimidate me?!” shouted Nikolaev, his face reddening and the veins in his neck protruding. “You think having a pen means you’re invincible? Look where you are. There’s nothing here to protect you. We’ll end you like we ended that traitor Katusev.”

Garrett said nothing and Nikolaev sensed the fear in his face.

“The bodyguard did a nice job for us. Shame he had to go too.”

“I’ve got no argument with you,” said Garrett.

“That’s what you think. What were you doing with the Vitsins?”

“I’m a reporter. I was working on a story. That’s my job.”

“So that’s the way it’s going to be with you? Well, I’ve got a better story for your newspaper. It involves you, dying, face down in the mud in Kazakhstan. Do you think they’d like a story like that?”

Nikolaev looked at his men and laughed. Garrett said nothing.

“Do you think they would?” he repeated, as the smile dripped from his face.

A bullet hit Garrett’s windpipe and a red stream squirted into one of the muddy puddles. The blood poured over his fingers and he dropped to his knees, coughing and spluttering.

“I think they would,” said Nikolaev. “I think they would….”

The mechanized shutters of the Sofia restaurant rose upwards and folded away into the shop front. A waitress milled around inside, setting the tables ready for the lunchtime trade. Russell wiped the sweat from his clammy hands on his trouser leg. Cohen took in the faces of the rest of his team. They were watching him, trying to control the adrenaline, waiting for the signal.

“The man we want to speak to is dangerous,” said Cohen. “He’s killed civilians and he’s killed police. It doesn’t make any difference to him.”

He looked around for their reactions, testing whether the nerves were holding. “But he’s also a close associate of our missing murder suspects, so we need to locate him and we need him to cooperate. Clear?”

“Clear.”

“Okay, let’s do it.”

The van burst into life. The eight coppers jumped out of the back and ran towards the door. Cohen and Russell fell in behind them. The front door was locked so they wasted no time sticking a boot on it. The waitress screamed in Bulgarian as they piled into the dining area, smashing glasses and knocking over chairs.

“Where’s Draganov?” shouted Russell. “Where the fuck is he?”

The waitress carried on screaming as the officers spread out and checked the side rooms. Cohen and Russell followed two of the team upstairs. They kicked in the first bedroom door. Two groggy, semi-naked women, lifted their heads, only partly registering what was going on. Drug paraphernalia littered the floor and used condoms were stuffed in a bucket in the corner. The second door opened and a spindly man in black jogging bottoms and no shirt stood in the doorway.

“What the fuck are you pigs doing to my restaurant?”

Russell steamed forward and pushed him back into the bedroom. The man cracked his head on the bedframe and let out a small grunt as he fell onto his side and held his head in his hands. Cohen signalled to the uniforms to leave and walked in behind Russell, closing the bedroom door.

“We’d like a chat Dimitar,” said Cohen.

“You can’t do this,” said Draganov, rubbing his head furiously where he struck the bed. “I’ve got rights.”

Russell grabbed his hair and rained a flurry of heavy punches down on the side of his head. “You’ve got fuck all today son. Now answer the man’s questions.”

“I don’t know anything, I’m just a restaurant owner!”

Cohen sat down in an armchair. “Where are Leonid Ashansky and Yuri Gershov?”

“I don’t know, I swear.”

Russell rammed Draganov’s arm up his back until he heard a crack. “Aaagh. You’re fucking crazy! You broke my arm.”

“We aren’t messing around Dimitar. You might want to search your little brain for some answers, because I have no problem with letting DC Russell here break your legs too.” Draganov cried out again as Russell twisted his arm to maximize the pain from the break.

“Look, okay, okay, just let go of my arm.” Russell eased off and Draganov doubled over in pain.

“Where are they?” said Cohen.

“The word is they are back in Russia. There was an exchange near Talinn.”

“An exchange? An exchange between who?”

“Between the Russians and your MI6.” Draganov smirked. “I thought you fucking pigs were supposed to know what happens to your own prisoners. You two must be real fucking plants. Kept in the dark and fed shit.” He started to laugh and Russell gave him a dig to the guts.

“Why did the Russians want them back?”

“That’s the wrong question DS Cohen.”

“What’s the right question?”

“You should ask why your spooks wanted to get them out of the country.”

“What are you talking about?”

Draganov wiped some blood from his lip. “You think a guy like the Princejust comes to London and sets up his organization without talking to your government first? He works for fucking MI6.”

“Ashansky?”

“Yeah, Ashansky. He runs a few guns for them and provides assassins when they don’t want to get their hands dirty. In return, they let him enjoy the bright lights of London without anyone bothering him. It’s beautiful man.”

“Is that what happened with Cavendish?”

“What, that fucking scientist guy and his friends? Word is your spooks got Ashansky to send Gershov over there to find out some information about some genius Russian kid that disappeared.”

“So why the fuck did Gershov kill them?”

Dragonov let out a squeaky giggle. “Have you met Yuri?”

“I haven’t had the pleasure.”

“He’s known for going a little too far sometimes. You know, the type of far where people get fucked up.”

A hundred different thoughts flashed through Cohen’s head. “So MI6 sent their own people to Russia to get captured on purpose? To facilitate the exchange.”

“Exactly,” replied Dragonov. “And they come back with some nice information on what the Russians know and don’t know too. Now can you get out of my fucking restaurant please before I call the police.” This time Draganov burst into a fit of laughter at his own joke. “Oh, and you should probably buy a new suit.”

“What would I need a new suit for?” said Cohen, standing up and walking towards the door.

“For the funeral.”

“What funeral? What are you talking about?”

“For the piece of shit undercover cop that put Ashansky in Belmarsh in the first place. Wherever he is, he’s finished.”

The gypsy cab pulled into the side of the road. Harper jumped into the passenger seat and stuffed all the money he had left into the driver’s hand. He tried Garrett’s number again, but this time there was no answer. As they approached the hotel, he opened the door and darted across the road down towards the entrance. He walked through the double doors into the reception and stopped, fixed to the spot. The normally bustling lobby was reduced to a few men scattered around the outside and the staff had disappeared from the reception desk. He took a few steps forward and stopped again.

“You’ve been a busy boy.” Harper turned towards the voice to see Varndon stood behind him with Walker to his side. He tried to get the measure of them and work out what kind of expat category they fitted into.

“Who are you?” said Harper, taking a few steps backwards and looking around for anything that could be used as a weapon.

“No one you know,” said Varndon.

“I figured that one out for myself,” replied Harper.

“But there is someone here that you do know,” said Varndon. “Someone that wants very much to talk to you.”

Harper searched his memory for the location of the lobby’s exits. If he could make the stairs, he could escape through the bar and out onto a road at the back. Walker seemed to follow his thought pattern and moved round to his right flank, blocking the route.

“Are we going to have a problem here?” said Harper.

“Oh you should’ve expected that Matt. It was inevitable. For my colleague here on the other hand, his problem is not so expected.”

Time seemed to slow as Harper looked from one man to the other.

Varndon pulled a pistol from his coat with the ease of a professional and pointed it at Walker. A stream of red hit the lobby’s marble floor as the bullet hit his skull and he slumped backwards into a crumpled heap. Harper lurched to his right and dived over the reception counter. He pushed his back against the wall and looked around for a door. The staff exit to his right was ajar, but there was a large gap in the counter where Varndon could get a clear shot at him.

“I’ll be leaving now,” said Varndon. “Enjoy your reunion.”

“What the fuck is he talking about…” Harper hissed to himself, rapidly pulling open some nearby drawers, searching again for something to defend himself. He looked towards the door again. It was the only option. His adrenaline spiked at the sudden sound of more people entering the lobby behind him and knew he had to move. He pulled himself onto his haunches and readied himself to sprint to the door. The aggressive Russian voices behind him got closer. And then one voice stopped him in his tracks.

“Get that little snake!”

It was impossible. There was no way… Ashansky.

Morton picked his way through the scrum of reporters outside New Scotland Yard. They were gathered round a flunky from the press office, eliciting a steady stream of ‘no comment’ replies. He made his way to the top floor and into the meeting room where he had last seen Harper. Bailey was sat down making herself a coffee. “Morton, have a seat. This won’t take long.”

“Thank you Ma’am.”

“The Commissioner has asked me to pass on his admiration for how quickly you and your team have cleared up the Cavendish killings.”

“Cleared them up? But we haven’t even made any arrests.”

“Yes, I know. But I understand your main suspect is a Russian national by the name of Yuri Gershov?”

“That’s right. He was awaiting trial on assault charges and has skipped the country. We believe he’s back in Moscow.”

Bailey took a sip of her coffee. “And you are aware that Russia does not extradite its nationals to the UK?”

“Well, yes Ma’am, but…”

“Morton, you’ve done an outstanding job here, but the Russians are not going to hand Gershov over to us. The Commissioner will make sure the extradition request is filed, but in his eyes, the investigation is over.”

“What about Harper?”

“The UC operation is finished too. Bring him back as soon as possible.”

“Ma’am can I speak frankly?” said Morton.

“Please, go ahead,” said Bailey, leaning back in her chair.

“Did you read the report I sent you?”

“Yes. And the Commissioner has read it too.”

“And?”

“And nothing. Just because a low-level pimp says Gershov was working for MI6 doesn’t make it true I’m afraid.”

“Ma’am, I’ve given you good intelligence to say our security services used foreign gangsters to torture and kill British citizens.”

“Yes, I said I saw the report.”

“And when they knew we were digging too deep, they got rid of the suspects. If that wasn’t bad enough, they’ve let them loose to hunt down the undercover officer that shut them down in the first place. These people are out of control…Ma’am.”

Bailey’s eyes narrowed. “You’re treading on very dangerous territory here detective. The Commissioner is satisfied we’ve been seen to do as much as we can on this. Nobody has lost face here. The press is being briefed on it as we speak.”

“And what about Katusev? What about Vitsin?”

“Katusev is Kent’s problem and Vitsin is none of our business. The Commissioner is concerned about the reputation of this police force, not running around pretending to be George Smiley. We’ll leave that to Vauxhall Bridge.” Morton felt the vein in the side of his head start to pulse and struggled to contain his temper.

“I know it’s not what you wanted to hear,” said Bailey. “But the Commissioner has to make decisions that benefit the whole force, not just individual officers.”

“Individual officers like Matt Harper you mean?”

“I shouldn’t have to remind you DCI Morton that we all went out on a limb over Harper’s deployment. He does not officially exist to this force.”

“Yes Ma’am.”

“Yes Ma’am. Good answer. Remind me to decline next time you offer to speak frankly.”

Bailey finished her coffee and left the room. The reporters had dispersed when Morton made his way back outside. He walked into the pub opposite the Yard and found Cohen sitting at a corner table.

“Fucking cowards are shutting us down,” said Morton.

“Shutting us down?” said Cohen. “But, how? Why?”

“The Commissioner’s playing politics. No one expects him to find a murderer that’s fled to Russia, so he’s lost his appetite for a result. It’s finished.”

“And what about Harper? They can’t just forget about him with that psychopath waging his vendetta.”

“I don’t get the impression they’re too concerned. But don’t underestimate Harper. Did you read his training history?”

“Not that I can remember.”

“He spent time at Hereford. He’s done more special forces training than any other UC in the country. If they want to take him out, they might get more than they bargained for.”

“Let’s hope you’re right.”

“I know I’m right.

The sound of Ashansky’s voice reverberated around Harper’s head. There were more people now, but now there was only one voice he could hear. It boomed out from the lobby behind him, deep and guttural.

“Hey Misha,” Ashansky shouted in Russian. Misha. Harper had blocked the name Misha Kapralov from his mind since the operation. There were things Misha had done that Harper knew he would have to answer for some day. Things he didn’t want to think about.

“Little Mishka,” said Ashansky. “Why do you not come out and say hello to your friends? We’ve missed you.”

A black shape came crashing over the counter and smashed into the back wall, landing just feet away from Harper. Walker’s body hit the floor and his dead eyes looked in Harper’s direction. The first of Ashansky’s team vaulted over the counter after the body and Harper made a dash for the open door. He emerged into the open for a second and bullets whizzed over his head from several directions. Shouting erupted behind him and another bullet whistled over his head. He found himself in a concrete corridor and darted for a nearby fire exit. The winter sun shone on his face as he broke out into the fresh air and crashed forward into some nearby bushes. He emerged out of the other side with pieces of razor wire wrapped around his arm and stomach. He ripped them away from his body, the blades cutting into his hands as he pulled at the metal. There was a river with concrete banks in front of him. He heard Ashansky’s men hacking at the bushes behind him and briefly considered diving into the icy water. He set off down a footpath. When he looked back, three men came through the bushes and started wrestling with the razor wire.

Ashanky’s voice chased him as he ran. “Miissshhaaa!” Harper pumped his legs as fast as he could. Another bullet skimmed off the bank and hit the water. He reached a small bridge and ran across it, emerging onto piece of flat waste ground. The smell of raw sewage crept out of some nearby pipes. He stood for a few seconds, assessing his options. The only cover he could see was too far in the distance. His pursuers would have a clear shot at him if he tried to make it. He jogged over to the sewage pipe. The smell got more pungent as he approached it. The pipe sloped downhill in line with the gradient of the city. There was no way to know where it came out. It was large enough for him to climb inside, but a sharp feeling of claustrophobia urged him to stay in the open air.

“Miiisha!” Harper turned around. Ashansky had crossed the bridge and was standing on the other side of the waste ground. He had shaved his head and wore mirrored sunglasses. The time in prison has slimmed his face, but taken away none of his menace. Next to him stood Yuri Gershov. His face projected pure hate in Harper’s direction. They all raised their guns as Harper took a few steps away from the pipe.

“I don’t want to kill you here Misha,” said Ashansky. “I’d prefer if we could just talk, but you are making this very difficult.”

He put his hands up as if to surrender before throwing himself into the pipe. He clawed at the ridges in the metal to pull himself further inside and get some traction. More shots echoed past him. He let out a grunt as he felt a sharp stab in his back. He realised it was a bullet as liquid started to flow from the wound. Darkness descended as he glided along in the dark tube. The circle of light leading out onto the waste ground got smaller as he picked up speed. It gradually turned into a white dot and then disappeared. He kept his eyes open as long as he could before he felt himself passing out.

Alpha walked out of his office onto the main floor of his new department. He surveyed the plush new surroundings through the corner of his eye as he stood by the water cooler. The higher floor gave his people a better view. This should have happened years ago, he thought. This was his due. His secretary waved at him as he walked back into the office. “Mr Varndon on the line for you Sir.”

“I’ll take it now,” replied Alpha.

He sat down and picked up his phone. “Are you on a secure line?”

“It’s secure,” said Varndon.

“Good. Where are we?”

“I delivered Harper to Ashansky. We won’t be hearing from him again.”

“And Walker?”

“I took care of him myself.”

“Good. He couldn’t be trusted on this. It needed to be done.”

“We should never have recruited him in the first place. People like that are not cut from the right sort of cloth.”

“Well we won’t have to make that mistake again. We’ve got the money to do things properly now.”

“I got some more info on Vitsin.”

“Go on.”

“The CIA caught him coming in by train, but they didn’t spot him heading out the day after. I checked and it looks like he went by rail all the way to Hong Kong.”

“Hong Kong? Why there?”

“I don’t know, but I’m planning to find out.”

“Keep that to yourself Will. Get to Hong Kong and let Langley waste their time in Almaty. And take Ashansky and his people with you. He’s keen to make up for the mess Gershov made with Cavendish.”

“What about the Met? Are we sure they’re out of the picture?

“The Met have closed down their investigation. Deputy Commissioner Bailey has been extremely helpful since her daughter’s little drugs incident.

“And what will they do about Harper?”

“Matt Harper doesn’t officially exist. They don’t have to do anything.”

Harper felt a small pang of guilt as he stood over the unconscious maintenance worker. He quickly stripped the man’s clothes and put them on. He dragged him over towards the radiator and covered him with a nearby blanket before slipping out of the storage room and into the railway station. He winced as he walked across the main hall, the bullet shooting a searing pain up and down one side of his body. A group of policemen stood chatting in the ticket hall. One of them broke off briefly to smash a homeless man with his baton and shoo him towards the exit. Harper arced round them as best he could and bought himself a ticket with money he had just stolen. The departures board indicated his train was leaving in five minutes. He started to jog, but the pain was too much. He bought a small bottle of vodka from the kiosk on the platform and entered one of the back carriages. He walked up the train until he found a toilet, where he locked the door and sat down.

A weak overhead light buzzed as he stripped down to his underpants. A bruise was forming down his thigh where he had shot out of the end of the sewage pipe into a shallow pool. He prodded the bullet wound with his finger and gagged as the pain intensified. He sipped a little of the vodka and poured some over the skin. He took a few sharp breaths and dug his finger into the flesh, resisting the urge to scream as he scraped around inside for the small piece of metal. When he managed to clamp his fingers onto both sides, he yanked it out. The wound wasn’t deep, but a steady flow of blood started to seep out of the hole. He ripped up his vest and tied it around his waist, trying as best he could to stem it. He put his clothes back on and walked down the train. The smell of cabbage and sweat intermingled in the sleeping section, thickening the air. He reached the last carriage from the front as the train pulled out of the platform. The passenger numbers had thinned and he found himself alone. He pulled down the shutter on the window to ward off unwanted visitors and turned the silver handle on the entrance to the mail carriage. The only light inside came from a couple of partially opened grates on the ceiling. The dust danced around in the rays as he stared upwards. Harper stepped over a few packages and sat down on a pile of empty letter sacks. He finished the rest of the vodka and shook the bottle onto his tongue to get the last few drops.

Misha. Little Mishka.

Ashanksy had looked different. He was thinner and his shaved head had caused Harper not to recognise the man whose daughter he had been due to marry. He drifted off into a half-sleep, replaying some of the operation like a highlight reel in his head. He saw the smart Mayfair club where he had first approached Ksenia. She had appreciated the bottle of champagne he had sent over to her table. The police accounts department had appreciated it less, but they had to hold their tongues. She waited a few months before she introduced him to her father. He never pushed. It had to come from her. There was suspicion at first, but gradually he became part of the inner circle. Gershov never trusted him; that much was obvious. But the fonder Ashansky grew of him, the less of a voice Gershov had on the subject. The legitimate side of the business was always out in the open. Harper remembered his first day on the legal side of the trading operation. He worked hard and learnt the ropes fast, showing Ashansky he had promise. But the induction into the shadier side of the business empire only came with the proposal. He knew he had to be family, or soon-to-be family, to get close to what he needed to know. She cried when he asked. I love you Misha. I love you so much… I love you too.

But Gershov’s eyes never left him. Those sunken, dead eyes. They followed him around the room like the eyes of portrait. He waited for his chance to test Harper’s loyalty. The only test where there was no way back.

Kill him Misha. Kill him…

Anya took the steps two at a time as she made her way down into the underpass. Neo-Nazi graffiti was scattered along the walls. Messages of Black arses go home and Russia for the Russians were scrawled next to a clutch of swastikas. Metal shutters covered most of the kiosks, but it was still possible to browse in the few that had glass fronts. She stopped at one, casting her eyes over the watches, all bunched together on a plastic stand. The faces showed it was past midnight. A truck rumbled overhead as she continued walking towards the other side. She moved slowly, glancing in the remaining windows. She got a few metres from the end when a stocky man in a black coat sauntered down the stairs and stood still, facing towards her. She slowed a little and instinctively moved to the side, but he mirrored her movement. They stared at each other for a few seconds before Anya turned to walk back the other way. She waited until she was past the watch shop before she looked back over her shoulder. The man was advancing towards her, whistling slowly as he came further into the underpass. His burly frame suddenly slipped into darkness as the overhead lighting dimmed and he disappeared completely. Some make-up fell out of her bag as she sprinted towards the street, but she didn’t dare to turn and pick it up. She looked over her shoulder again, but all she could see was black. She screamed as a second figure appeared in front of her. He grabbed her arms and pulled her towards him before the other man walked up from behind and slapped a piece of cloth over her mouth. She tried desperately not to breath in, but eventually had to relent and took a deep lungful of the substance soaked into the material. Relaxation washed over her body and she stopped struggling, allowing herself to be carried up to the street. She could feel her cheek rubbing against the fur on one of the men’s coats. There was a voice in her head telling her to keep her eyes open, but it gradually faded, until she couldn’t hear it anymore.

The wheels of the plane touched down on the tarmac. Anya tried to work out in her head all the destinations that were roughly four hours from Moscow. She gauged from the air temperature that they hadn’t flown north, but it wasn’t much. The nausea from the plane ride lingered and she concentrated on breathing steadily to stave off any sickness. She kept silent as she was grabbed under her armpits, dragged off the plane and put into a waiting vehicle. The sound of the plane’s engines disappeared as they raced away. She didn’t struggle as they bundled her back out of the car and into a nearby building. She sucked in the clean air as the bag was ripped off her head. A graze on her chin seeped blood where the material had burnt away a piece of her skin. She tried to thrust her shoulders forward, but the handcuffs kept her back rigid to the chair. The sound of footsteps crept up on her and she saw a dark figure out of the corner of her eye. He sat down without looking up, keeping his eyes on a brown file.

“What do you want with me?” she said, her voice shaking.

Nikolaev ignored her and carried on reading. He finally placed it down in front of him and turned his attention towards her.

“You are Anya Valentinovna Naumova. Twenty five years old. A teacher at the Westminster School of English. Not very long ago, a new employee calling himself Ryan Evans came to live with you. Tell me everything you know about this person.”

“Where am I?” Anya felt a hand clasp her throat from behind and grip hard, cutting off the air supply. After a few seconds, it relented and she spluttered, her chin dropping forward onto her chest.

“I ask the questions,” said Nikolaev. “What do you know about him? The queer told us you were close friends.”

“I hardly knew him,” said Anya, her anger preventing her from crying in front of Nikolaev. “He hasn’t been at the school very long. They asked me to mentor him.”

“Were you fucking him?”

“No!”

“Not even once?”

“No! Not even once.”

Nikolaev smirked and signaled to the guard standing behind her, who took off the handcuffs. “Where is he now?”

“He went to Kazakhstan. I don’t know anything else.”

“Did he ever say anything about working for the British police?”

“No, I swear.”

Nikolaev walked round the table and stood in front of her, looking down. Her head jolted back as he grabbed her cheeks and squeezed, forcing her to look back up at him “Well, he does work for the British police. And that makes me suspicious of you.” Anya’s anger was replaced with fear and a few tears escaped from her eyes. She grabbed his wrist, but couldn’t force him to release his grip. He threw her head back and slapped her round the face.

“You’re going to help us.”

“I’ll never do anything to help you,” she said, the rage leaping back into her eyes.

“I expected as much from someone who spends their day poisoning the minds of young people with a foreign culture.”

He slapped her face again.

“You’re coming with us,” said Nikolaev, as the man in the shadows walked up alongside him. “Put the hood back on.”

Stanley Bay was still. A few punters sat hunched over their drinks at the pub near the water, enjoying the Hong Kong night. Varndon slipped past them towards the jetty. A low hum of voices floated over from Murray House where diners soaked in the building’s colonial splendor over expensive seafood. Ashansky turned towards him as he approached the end of the wooden platform. Gershov was crouched on his haunches, eating tiny sunflower seeds from a bag and spitting the black shells onto the deck.

“You can almost pretend you still have an empire here,” said Ashanksy.

“People in glass houses and all that,” replied Varndon.

“People in what?”

“Nothing.” Varndon kicked one of Gershov’s shells away from his foot. “Alpha’s not happy. What the hell happened with Harper?”

“He jumped in a sewage pipe.”

“Well, why didn’t you throw one of your people in after him?”

“Look, you think I don’t want that piece of shit dead as much as you?”

“I doubt it. He saw me shoot an officer of MI6. Do you know what that could mean for me?”

“We will give you job,” said Gershov, cackling and displaying bits of sunflower seed lodged in his yellowing teeth.

“I’ll get back to you thanks,” said Varndon, looking over his shoulder as a couple strolled onto the jetty. “We should move.”

They followed Varndon onto a path covered by overhanging trees. They wound their way up and back down again, emerging onto an enclosed beach. Gershov hung back on the path as Varndon and Ashansky moved down closer to the water. An oil slick from a dumped engine blackened the sand next to the rocks.

“You need to find him,” said Varndon.

Ashansky stepped forward towards him. “Are you giving me orders now?”

“We put our necks on the line getting you out of jail so you could kill him Leonid. That’s what you wanted wasn’t it?”

“You think I’m stupid? You got me out of there because you knew sooner or later those fucking cops would come asking me questions about Cavendish.”

“The reasons are immaterial. You want Harper and we need Vitsin. We have to work together or everyone loses.”

Ashansky grunted and stepped back. “What do you plan on doing with the Vitsin kid once you get hold of him?”

“That’s our business.”

“That’s right. You people like your secrets.”

“Do the Russians know you’re working with us?”

“No. I am a good customer for their weapons. That’s their only concern.”

“Do they know where their weapons are going?”

“They don’t care if they are being used to kill IRA or fucking Eskimos. They just want the money.”

“Sounds about right.”

Gershov whistled as a couple of backpackers wound their way down onto the beach. They retraced their steps, passing the chattering teenagers on the way and walked back past the jetty into an empty market square.

“He has to surface sometime,” said Varndon. “When he does, he’ll lead us to Vitsin. And then we need to take him out. No mistakes this time.”

Ashansky slapped Varndon on the arm. “You know, you are starting to remind me more and more of Yuri.” Gershov sniffed and spat the contents of his nose onto the pavement. “He’s also a ruthless bastard.”

“It’s just a shame your snappy little pet doesn’t always do his job.” Gershov moved forward and Ashansky put his hand up to hold him back.

Ashansky laughed. “Be careful Mr Banker, he bites.”

Varndon turned his head as he walked off down the road. “If you lose Harper again, you’ll find out how ruthless I can really be.”

Harper threw the newspaper into the bin and sat down on a wooden bench. He closed his eyes, but the image of Garrett and his young family was seared into his mind. Reporter Danny Garrett, 28, murdered. Harper punched down on the bench, cutting his knuckle. As he watched the blood trickle over his fingers, his phone rang in his pocket.

“Harper, it’s Morton. Thank Christ you’re alive. Where are you?”

“I’m in Hong Kong.”

“Listen, Harper, things have changed. We need you to come home.”

“You’re not joking things have changed.”

“The operation’s been compromised. Just come back.”

“I’ve just been shot at by people I spent a year trying to put behind bars. Is that what you mean by compromised?”

“Ashansky and Gershov work for MI6 Harper. They killed Cavendish and now they’re after you. You have to listen to me and get the hell out of there.”

“Does the Commissioner know all this? Bailey?”

“They shut us down. They haven’t got the stomach to fight Vauxhall Bridge.”

“Have you?”

“What are you talking about?” said Morton.

“I’m not coming back. I’m not finished here.”

“Harper, it’s over. Forget about Vitsin.”

“It might be over for you Guv, but not me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I saw one of our gentleman spies shoot his partner in the head a few days ago. Do you really think they’re going to let me walk the streets in peace?”

“We can protect you.”

“Can you protect me against Ashansky too? And what about the Russians? They’ve already killed a friend of mine, do you think they’ll stop there?

“You’ve got more chance here than you have there. Just come home.”

“I haven’t got a choice guv.”

“Harper, please, don’t do this. If you come back, the force can protect you. If you start pursuing some crazy revenge mission, they’ll deny they ever knew you.”

“And those are the people you want me to trust with my life?”

“Come back. Please.”

“I’m sorry guv. I have to finish this.”

Harper chucked the phone in the bin and set off across the courtyard. He attached himself to a group of students and walked the faculty corridors until he arrived at the lecture hall. He pulled down a squeaky seat at the back and waited. Students filed in, some speaking Cantonese, some Mandarin and some English. The blood on his hand had dried. He closed his eyes and tried to clear his head. But thoughts of Garrett fought their way into his mind, mixed in with an even worse darkness.

Kill him Misha.

A loud crackle of feedback from the speakers snapped him out of it and he sat up as a heavily-built man with slicked back grey hair marched onto the stage and clicked on his Powerpoint presentation. Harper watched as he scolded a girl in the front row for talking on her mobile phone. He stood scanning the rest of the crowd for any more offenders before stepping back up onto the stage.

“Ruminenko,” said Harper, under his breath. “I found you.”

Cohen opened his front door as Morton pulled into the drive. He looked up and down the road for any other cars, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Morton clicked his key fob at his car and walked past him into the front room. He shook hands with Russell, who was sitting nursing a cup of tea.

“You okay Guv?” said Cohen.

“Not really. I’ve just spoken to Harper.”

Cohen sat down in an armchair. “When is he coming back?”

“He’s not.”

“He’s not? I don’t understand.”

Morton pulled back the curtain to look out of the window. Cohen’s neighbor was knelt down pulling some weeds out of a flowerbed, but the rest of the street was quiet. “Have you had your place swept?”

“I did it myself. It’s clean.”

“Russell?”

“I got someone in from another force. Someone good. My place is clean too.”

Morton nodded and folded his arms. “He doesn’t think he’s going to be safe if he comes back. There are a lot of people that want him dead.”

“We can’t just leave him hanging out there,” said Cohen.

“I know,” replied Morton. “I want you two to go out there and find him. Try to talk some sense into him. I have some friends in the Hong Kong police that owe me a favour. They’ll help you out.”

“Are you coming with us?” said Russell.

“No. I’m going to try to track down whoever is responsible for all this at Vauxhall Bridge.”

“Is that wise now the top brass have washed their hands of it?” said Cohen.

“What else do you suggest? They’re out their trying to kill our boy and I’m supposed to sit back and do nothing. A criminal is a criminal whether they’re on Her Majesty’s Secret Service or not.”

“You’re right Guv. Just be careful.”

“Don’t worry about me. Just get out there as soon as you can and bring him back. I’m not going to hang Harper out to dry just because some politician plod has lost his bollocks.”

Harper watched as the students buzzed around Ruminenko at the end of the lecture. The old man picked off their questions and sent them on their way before starting to gather up his materials. Harper stood up and walked down the steps towards him. He was tall and wore a shabby suit. He glanced at Harper as he got closer. “Can I help you?”

“I hope so.”

Ruminenko stopped what he was doing and turned to face him. “You don’t look like one of my students.”

“I’m not.”

“Then, who, may I ask, are you?”

“My name’s Matt Harper. I’m a police officer.”

“And British? What does a British police officer want with me?”

“I need to find Seva Vitsin.”

Ruminenko tried his best to look surprised, but Harper could see this was a situation he had been expecting. “Seva? I haven’t seen him for years. I’m afraid if you want to find him, your best bet is probably Moscow.”

“Professor, please. He is in danger. And so are you.”

“I would love to be able to help you officer, but I really have no idea where he is. Now if you would excuse me, I am a busy man.”

“Professor, wait, please.”

Ruminenko placed the remainder of his files into his briefcase and rushed off towards the exit. A couple of students were still hanging around outside the lecture hall and followed him up the corridor. Harper made his way outside and stood next to Ruminenko’s Renault. The professor looked hassled when he pushed open the double doors and made his way across the car park. He only noticed Harper when he got close to his car and a flash of anger crossed his face.

“I told you. I don’t know where he is and please don’t follow me.”

“You have to listen to me, professor, there are some ruthless people looking for Seva. You have to tell me where he is. It’s the only way you’re going to protect him…and yourself.”

Ruminenko dropped some of his papers as he searched around in his pockets for his car keys. “This is the last time I’m going to tell you. I don’t know where he is. Now leave me alone.”

Harper stepped aside and allowed the professor to get in his car. The Renault backed out and drove past a taxi rank and onto the main road. Harper got into a cab and shoved some money into the driver’s hand.

“Just follow that car.”

The driver turned down the chattering Cantonese on the radio and navigated the traffic, pushing past other cars when the Renault got too far ahead. The professor put his foot down as they hit the tunnel leading to Kowloon and the Chinese mainland. An orange glow filled the taxi as it increased its speed and kept the Renault in sight.

“Go to the toll booth on the end,” said Harper, as they emerged.

A few rows over, the professor tapped on the steering wheel impatiently. “Just let him overtake you,” said Harper, as they pulled off from the booth slightly ahead of Ruminenko. The professor kept his eyes on the road, unaware of the cab that had been following him across the city. They cruised along the highway until the Renault lurched off onto a slip road and entered the urban sprawl. Ruminenko drove for a few blocks and turned down a side-street, parking up at the entrance to a scruffy local market. Harper ducked down as they passed the car and drove to the end of the street. He paid the driver and set off in pursuit of the professor, who had disappeared into the throng.

“Cheap for you, cheap for you.” Harper put his finger to his lips as a trader spotted him approaching and waved a small Buddha statue at him. The message was ignored or lost in translation and the man persisted, pulling on Harper’s shirt as he walked past his stall. His sales pitch switched to anger as Harper slapped his hand away and shot him a hostile look. The nearby traders were watching and backed off. Harper stood on his tiptoes and looked around for Ruminenko’s shock of grey hair, but all he could see were locals. He went further into the chaos until he came to a crossroads. The market stalls stretched off in three directions. He stood looking around, but felt himself getting more desperate as he contemplated losing the professor. He span round ready to slap another hand as he felt a light tug on his shirt, but stopped when he saw a slight teenage girl looking up at him.

“You look for guilo?” said the girl, unintimidated. “You look for guilo?”

“The man with the grey hair,” said Harper, touching his head.

She nodded and held out her hand. Harper took some notes from his pocket and gave her a few, but she kept her hand where it was. He placed a few more in her palm and she reluctantly put them into her pocket.

“Cafe near tobacco stall,” she said, pointing down the row to the left.

Harper looked down the row. He could see a smoky haze surrounding one of the stalls in the distance. He started towards it, keeping an eye out for Ruminenko. The smell of flavoured tobacco seeped into his nostrils as he got closer. As he got a few stalls from the café, he looked over his shoulder and saw the girl with her hand again outstretched, talking to a group of foreigners. He ducked into a small shop and hid behind a purple banner covered in Chinese symbols. The owner paid little attention to him as he pretended to browse at the back. A steady flow of people floated past outside. Harper waited, looking through a small gap in the material, slowing his breathing. A European in a black jumper shot quickly past the shop and Harper struggled to see his face. He was closely followed by two more. Russians. Harper could see it in their features. Then a fourth man walked past and stopped directly outside the shop. Harper could only see the back of his head. He pointed his finger towards the café opposite the tobacco stand, signaling to the other men. Harper held his breath as the owner of the shop beckoned the man to come in and buy something. The Russian looked almost directly at Harper as he turned his head. This man he did recognise.

The newspaper seller spotted Lonaghan as he emerged from the underground. The American’s polish marked him out from the crowd. His posture was straighter. His skin was smoother. And then there was the hat. He grabbed a Daily Telegraph from the pile and handed over a few coins. He flicked through the first few pages as he meandered over the road. He remembered now why he hated this shitty little island so much. Forget the condescending attitude. It was the inability to understand that they no longer mattered that made them more insufferable. It was like having to placate a child that wanted to join in an adult conversation. The voice was loud, but everything they said was ignored. Lonaghan made his way through security and walked out into Alpha’s new domain. An overweight woman got up from her desk and greeted him in that annoying way some British people greet you, like they are apologizing at the same time.

“Mr Lonaghan, hello, I’m Sandra, welcome to our new home.”

“Hey, it’s great to be here.” He beamed widely at her. “I think I’m a bit early. Is John around?”

“Let me take you over.” Lonaghan took in Alpha’s new hive as he walked through the desks. Share prices and currencies flashed across large television screens mounted to the walls alongside government hearings from around the world.

“Pleasant trip?” said Alpha, walking out of his office to greet them.

“Right up until the point that I arrived at Heathrow,” said Lonaghan, following him in and shutting the door.

“There’s no need to be like that.”

“This country’s a toilet, I resent you for making me come here.”

“Making you? I didn’t make you do anything.”

“My guy in Kazakhstan tells me Varndon has done a little disappearing act. Are you trying to fuck me John?”

Alpha sat down. “No one is trying to fuck anyone. If Varndon has disappeared, he has his reasons for doing so. As soon as he gets in contact, you’ll be the first person I call. Take a seat.”

“I’d prefer to stand,” said Lonaghan, picking up a pin badge from Alpha’s desk with a Stars and Stripes crossed with a Union Jack. “We’ve always had a good relationship John, but I can see what’s going on here.”

“And what’s going on?”

Lonaghan looked over his shoulder out at the office. “This new department must have cost some real dough.”

“And?”

“Your superiors may be looking for a return on their investment.”

“That’s not the way things work around here.”

“What, you’re commies now? Seems to me a big kill like Vitsin would look good for you right now.”

“I think you’re getting a bit paranoid.”

“Paranoia is part of our trade. I like to nurture mine. Keep it in shape.”

“Well, this time, I think you’ve let it run away from you a little.”

“Maybe so,” said Lonaghan. “Maybe I’m too paranoid. But then again, maybe I’m not.” He spun the pin badge round in his fingers and put it back on the desk. “The Russians have disappeared too. I suppose you don’t know anything about that either?”

“Nikolaev and his crew are murderous gangsters. That’s not the type of company I keep.”

“If you say so.”

Alpha’s face darkened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know what it means.”

“Enlighten me. Please.”

Lonaghan took his hat off and walked up to Alpha’s desk, looking down into the old man’s eyes. “Just remember that the bodies that are littering the path on your climb to the summit of this organisation may come back to haunt you if you forget who your friends are.”

“I didn’t think threats were your style Tom.”

“They’re not.”

Harper waited for Nikolaev to disappear before emerging from behind the banner. An eclectic mix of religious statues and oriental ornaments packed the shop. He looked around and his eyes settled on the far wall, where a selection of Japanese weapons adorned the shelves. Harper picked up a miniature Tanto sword and pulled the weapon from its sheath. He ran his finger along the blade and felt it cut into his skin.

“How much?” he said to the shop owner, who looked up from reading a magazine.

Harper gave him some cash and slipped the blade into his inside jacket pocket. The smell of apple tobacco filled the air. He walked over and looked into the front of the cafe, but the place was deserted. He opened the door and locked it behind him, pulling down the small blind. A white and grey canary twittered behind the counter, hopping along its metal bar. The cage stood in front of a small archway on the back wall, which was covered by a thick curtain. There were no others exits or entrances. Harper stepped lightly as he walked over towards it. He listened first and then pulled the curtain back just enough to see through. There were more tables and chairs, but the room was a lot smaller. He pulled the curtain back a little more and saw the back of one of the Russians, standing at the top of a flight of stairs.

He put his hand into his inside pocket and pulled out the blade.

Japanese symbols stretched along the length of the metal. A small drop of Harper’s blood had dribbled down and stained the silver. He looked through the curtain again. The Russian stood with his hands behind his back, looking to the bottom of the stairs. Harper clamped the knife firmly in his hand. He opened the curtain a bit more, pushing the blade through first. The Russian was only a couple of metres away from him, back straight and feet shoulder-width apart in a military style. As Harper moved forward, the canary launched itself at the side of its cage. The Russian spun around at the sound of feathers banging against the wire and reached for his gun. Harper lunged at him, grabbing the front of his shirt and driving the knife up through the bottom of his jaw and into his skull. The Russian’s body tensed and his eyelids flickered as Harper held him up, waiting for the life to drip out of him. He squeezed Harper’s shoulders and collapsed forward. Harper dragged the body to the side and crouched down in the corner. He heard footsteps and a second Russian came flying out of the stairwell with his gun drawn. Harper ran at him and lodged the knife in between two of the vertebrae in his lower back. The man’s legs went limp and he squealed in pain. The sound evaporated as the knife ran across his throat. Harper took the pistol from the agent’s hand and knelt down, pointing the gun at the top of the stairs.

“Hey policeman,” said a voice in English from the bottom of the stairwell. Harper recognised it as the FSB man from the Katusev house. “Mr British policeman. Come down here. I want to talk with you.”

Harper edged closer to the top of the stairs and looked down. There was a brick wall at the bottom and a room to the left. He kept the gun pointing straight ahead as he descended. He could hear Russian voices muttering in the basement and stopped just short of the bottom.

“Your men are dead,” said Harper. “Give me Vitsin and you won’t go the same way.”

The sound of Nikolaev laughing boomed around the small room and up the stairs. Harper heard a door open and a small canister rolled in front him, spitting grey smoke into the air. He recognized it as CS gas and ran forward with his forearm over his mouth. Professor Ruminenko was slumped in a corner with a bullet in his chest. He was dead. Cooking facilities and a large pile of books sat next to a dirty mattress. A fire exit straight in front of him was ajar. He pushed it open as the CS seeped into his nostrils. Harper bounded up the metal stairs, three at a time and emerged onto the road where he had entered the market. He scoped the area and spotted Nikolaev and one of his agents bundling Vitsin into a black Land Rover. As they sped off, Harper saw Ruminenko’s Renault. He ran back down the stairs, holding his breath, and fished the keys out of the dead professor’s pocket.

“Sorry about this professor.”

He sprinted back to the street in time to see Nikolaev’s car disappear round a corner. He started up the Renault and put his foot down, the car straining to gain speed. His nose started to stream as the gas entered his system. He saw the Land Rover up ahead going through some traffic lights and pushed the gear stick into fourth. The lights started to change so he slammed it into fifth and put his foot flat to the floor. A chorus of horns blared as he careened round the vehicles coming from his left and right. Harper followed them onto the highway and dodged around the other vehicles as best he could in a bid to keep up. He looked up at the signs overhead. They were heading into mainland China.

“Come on you piece of shit,” Harper shouted at the car as Nikolaev edged further into the distance.

He looked up at the sound of a horn blaring up ahead. The Land Rover came back into view as it swerved around behind a large lorry just ahead of a tunnel. The HGV sat stubbornly in the middle of the road as they probed around the edges for a way forward. A sudden crash shattered the windscreen as a bullet hit the Renault. Harper ducked and punched a hole in the broken glass. He peered through the small opening and saw the Land Rover shoot up the inside of the truck. He slammed his foot back on the accelerator and headed for the gap, scraping the side of the car as he emerged into the tunnel. Another bullet hit the windscreen, spraying shards of glass over the seats and into his face. As he looked up, he saw Nikolaev’s agent slide himself out of the back window and fix his aim. Harper turned left and right to shake him, but the barrel stayed trained on him.

“Come on. Take a fucking shot then you wanker.”

His vision was blurred as tears rolled down his face from the CS. The Land Rover slowed down and the agent smiled as he prepared to pull the trigger. Harper closed his eyes as he heard the shot, but the bullet ricocheted off the road. The Land Rover started to shake from left to right and the agent disappeared back inside. Through the back windscreen, Harper saw Vitsin with his arms around Nikolaev’s neck. The Land Rover suddenly crashed into the side of the tunnel and flipped onto its side, sliding down the road until it came to a stop.

Harper pulled up alongside the wreckage. The lorry behind them had stopped and traffic started to back up behind it. The agent with the gun was hanging out the smashed back window, impaled on a shard of glass. Harper mounted the vehicle and pulled open the passenger door. Vitsin’s small frame was crumpled in a heap. Harper stuck a hand in and pulled him out. He was bleeding from a cut on his forehead and his lip was split. They climbed off the car and Vitsin sat down on the road.

“Are you hurt?” said Harper

“I’m okay,” he replied, wiping the blood from his face.

A group of motorists had gathered near the lorry. Harper pulled out his gun and climbed back onto the car. He opened the driver’s door. Nikolaev was trapped between the steering wheel and his seat. Harper pressed two fingers to the pulse on his neck. As he touched the skin, the Russian snapped awake and went for the gun sitting in his belt. Harper tried to restrain him, but he wrestled himself free and grabbed the weapon from his holster. Harper pushed his own pistol into Nikolaev’s head as the Russian lifted the gun.

“Drop it,” said Harper.

Nikolaev said nothing, keeping his finger on the trigger.

“Drop it!” shouted Harper.

Nikolaev looked at Harper with disdain before swinging the gun round towards him. The bang echoed in the narrow confines of the tunnel as blood covered the front of the car and Nikolaev slumped downwards. Harper slid back down onto the road and knelt down next to Vitsin. The sound of police sirens blared in the distance.

“We have to move.”

“The girl.”

“What girl?”

Vitsin pointed at the boot of the car. Harper rushed over, pushed the corpse of the agent back into the car and opened the boot. The girl was face down. He untied the rope binding her wrists and ankles and turned her over. She took a deep lungful of air as he pulled off the tape covering her mouth. She cried as she saw his face.

“Anya.”

There were less people in the seedier part of Waterloo. Morton hurried past the pubs and charity shops and towards the station. The smell from a cheap bakery wafted down the street, tempting customers into the shop. A tramp sat on the pavement trying to inhale a bottle of strong cider, stopping only to vomit before clamping his mouth back onto the neck. The Special Branch man sat reading a paper in the small park just off the crossroads. A couple of enthusiastic volunteers were pulling weeds from the flowerbeds as Morton walked in.

“You wanna go somewhere else?” said Morton, sitting down on the bench.

“No, I’ve seen them here before. They’re just gardeners.” The Special Branch man folded his paper and put it down. “Your man’s name is John Tremaine. But they call him Alpha.”

“Who is he?”

“He’s head of the Financial Security Division at MI6.”

“We have one of those?”

“We do these days.”

Morton picked up the paper and waved away some midges from above his head. “What else do you know about him?”

“I know he’s not someone you want to mess with.”

“Why do you say that?”

“He’s on his way up. Talk is that he’ll take over the service soon. You really want to be pissing off a guy like that?”

Morton watched the gardeners. “I’ve already pissed him off. I think it’s too late to worry about that.”

“Just be careful Morton. The people I asked about Tremaine. There was this, well, fear in their eyes. There are stories.”

“What kind of stories?”

“One of the boys heard that his interrogations are pretty brutal.”

“Brutal how?”

“Instead of going to work on the subject, he prefers to bring in someone important to them instead. Apparently, he once brought in a guy’s elderly mother and sat her down in front of him. First he broke her arm with a baseball bat and then started to pull her teeth out with fucking pliers.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah, Jesus. The nice old man act is exactly that. An act. These guys play a different game Morton. The rules can be…ambiguous.”

“Ambiguous? Where’s the ambiguity in killing your own agent and leaving a police officer to be murdered?”

The Special Branch man looked away. “It’s way out of order. I agree.”

“I appreciate this Jim,” said Morton. “And I won’t ask you for anything else.”

“It’s no bother. Anytime.” He picked up his paper and walked away towards the station. Morton got up and walked out of the gate over towards the theatres. He found an empty coffee shop and sat down, mindful of anyone that may be following him. He felt his phone buzz in his pocket as he sat down in the corner.

“Morton speaking.”

“Deputy Commissioner Bailey is on the line for you.” The phone clicked and buzzed as Morton waited to be connected.

“Morton?”

“Ma’am.”

“I’m only going to ask you this once. Why the hell have your detectives been sent to Hong Kong?”

“To help out a colleague Sir.”

“Matt Harper is not your colleague, do you understand that? He’s nobody. We’ve wiped his file. He never has existed and never will exist. I told you to back off from that case and you chose to ignore me. You’re suspended.”

“Suspended? You can’t do that.”

“I can and I have. And I’m warning you Morton. If you don’t get Cohen and Russell back here soon, you’ll be the one sitting in Belmarsh.”

Cohen and Russell ducked under the police tape and followed Detective Li further up the tunnel. The road was clear of traffic and the sound of the strip lights buzzed up above.

“They found another load of bodies up by the market in Kowloon,” said Li. “Some Russian professor from Hong Kong University and two unknowns.” He pulled out his camera phone and showed them some pictures of Ruminenko and the dead agents. “Either one of them this guy you’re looking for?”

“No,” said Cohen. “Neither one is Harper.”

Li waved his badge at one of the uniforms standing near the cars and turned back round to face them. “Just pretend like you should be here. Morton’s an old friend and I’m happy to help. But take a look at what you want quickly and let’s get out of here. I’d prefer if I didn’t have to explain you to my chief.”

Cohen walked over to the Land Rover and bent over to get a better look inside the back window. The gunman was still impaled on the shard of glass, his eyes staring blankly ahead. “It’s not him,” said Cohen.

Russell approached the front of the car, where Nikolaev’s body was still crumpled up inside. “There’s not much of this one’s face left, but it’s not him either.”

Li noticed the uniform speaking into his radio and walked over and started to talk at him in rapid Cantonese.

“Wait,” said Russell, beckoning Cohen over towards Nikolaev’s body. “I recognise this bloke. It’s the FSB hood from Moscow that shut down our meeting with Katusev.”

Cohen looked a bit closer at Nikolaev’s face and tried to imagine him with his cheekbone still intact. “You’re right.”

Li’s conversation with the uniform became more animated, both men pointing and shouting towards the end of tunnel.

“You think Harper did all this?” said Russell, keeping his voice low.

“I don’t know. That’s not a theory I’m planning on pushing with the Hong Kong police.”

“I think that’s wise.”

Li split off from his conversation and ushered them back towards the tape. “You need to get out of here now.”

“What’s the rush?” said Russell.

“There’s been a city-wide alert put out for two suspended British detectives matching your description.”

“We’re not suspended,” said Cohen.

“The alert says you are. The order is to arrest you on sight.”

“Jesus,” said Russell. “Who put out the alert?”

“The request came from London.”

A security guard was tapping on the window of one of the black Mercedes as Varndon walked out the front door of the British Consulate General. The sky had blackened and threatened to tip a deluge all over Hong Kong Island. Ashansky stepped out of the first car and peered up at the clouds. “Looks like a storm,” he said, leaning on the roof of the car and pointing upwards.

“Maybe,” said Varndon. “I thought I told you not to come here.”

“What? Are you embarrassed of us?”

“No. I just don’t think it’s a good idea for you to come here.”

Ashansky grunted. “So, let’s walk.”

“Fine. Just move the cars will you. It looks like a bloody mafia funeral out here.”

Ashansky tapped on the roof of the car and they pulled off. The two men crossed the street and started down the hill towards Queen’s Road East. The Russian pulled out his sunglasses and put them on. “Nikolaev and his crew are dead.”

“All of them? Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” said Ashansky. “Their corpses were scattered all over Kowloon.”

“You think they found Vitsin?”

“There was no sign of him, but the body of some old professor of his was mixed in with a load of dead KGB.”

“You mean FSB?”

Ashansky shrugged. “Same difference.”

Varndon fished his umbrella out of his coat as a few raindrops started to fall onto the pavement. “What was the professor doing there?”

“He’d been hiding the boy in the basement of some café. They must have followed him there and taken Vitsin.”

“But now they’re dead.”

“Now they’re dead. And the boy is missing.”

Varndon took a piece of paper from his inside pocket and handed it to Ashansky. “This message came through to the Consulate today. And it was addressed to us both.”

Ashansky held the paper under Varndon’s umbrella to keep it away from the rain. I have Vitsin. I want to make a deal. Meet on the last ferry to Macau tomorrow. Come together. No weapons. Any sign it’s more than the two of you and I’ll happily hand him over to the Russian embassy. Harper.

Ashansky screwed up the note and put it in his pocket. “Looks like little Mishka is playing a new game.”

“I don’t like it. He’s acting like he’s got nothing to lose.”

Ashansky laughed. “Believe me, he’s got plenty to lose. When he is tied to a chair and I allow Gershov to demonstrate some of his more creative skills with a razor blade and a blow torch, he will know he has plenty to lose.”

“How many men can you get for tomorrow?”

“As many as you need.”

“Good. The FSB will have another team out here in 48 hours. We need to finish this before they have chance to react.”

“Oh, and I got someone to pay a visit to little Mishka’s flat in London yesterday.”

“And?”

“Turns out he has been visiting a rather expensive head doctor.”

“Really. Get someone over there. I want to see his files.”

“I’m way ahead of you.”

They reached the main road and Ashansky put his hand in the air. One of the black Mercedes pulled up in front of them and Gershov emerged onto the pavement and opened the door for his boss. He eyeballed Varndon, who held his gaze.

“Just remember that Harper is mine,” said Ashansky.

“He would have been yours already if your help was more efficient.” Varndon didn’t flinch as Gershov snarled in his direction. “I’ll be in contact tomorrow. Don’t bring these people to the Consulate again. We’ve got standards to keep up.”

Tamara Wainwright put her spectacles down on the table and rubbed her eyes. The front door slammed and she watched her last patient of the day meander down the path and cross the road. She felt sorry for the man as he disappeared down the street and round the corner. His voice had cracked with emotion throughout the whole hour. Resisting the urge to walk over and put an arm round him was hard, but there had to be a line. Physical contact invited confusion into the relationship in a male patient’s eyes. She had seen him on the evening news a few weeks before. He was the head of a major company and a regular talking head on the television. This was not a man many would guess was being bullied by his own staff and his wife and teetering on the edge of a breakdown. His issues would take time to resolve. She just hoped that he had time.

“Sigmund, here Sigmund.”

She took a tin of dog meat from the cupboard, scooped the contents out into a bowl and placed it on the floor. “Come on Sigmund.” She waited for the familiar sound of the dog bounding down the stairs into the kitchen, but it didn’t come. She stopped what she was doing and listened.

“Sigmund?”

A cold draught blew on her ankles as she walked through into the lounge. She stopped as she saw the open French window at the end of the room. The air blew on her face and her skin tingled. She stepped out and looked around for the dog. Its toys were scattered around, some half-buried in the mud. She felt the moisture of the grass on her bare feet as she walked through the foliage archway. A faint whimpering came from one of the bushes to the side of the flowerbed. She dropped down to her knees and pushed aside the leaves and branches. The dog’s front paws lay limply on the mud and it recoiled at her touch. She pushed the branch aside a bit more and caught sight of the dog’s blood-soaked stomach.

“My God, Sigmund.”

She placed her had on the mud and as she lifted it, the red liquid dripped down her wrist and onto her white blouse. She sprung to her feet, holding her hand out in front of her. As she backed up away from the dog, a hand covered her mouth and an arm grabbed her around the chest. She kicked her legs as she was carried back into the house, but the grip was too strong. A second man in a balaclava followed them back into her treatment room and closed the door. She hit her head on the wall as she was thrown onto the couch. The man who had grabbed her closed the curtains and flicked on a small table lamp. She thought about bolting for the door as the two sets of eyes looked at her, but knew there was no chance she would get away.

“Give us files on Matt Harper,” said the second man, handing her a USB stick and pointing towards her computer. The Eastern European accent was thick and menacing. The thought of handing over the details of a patient made her feel sick to her stomach. The man stepped forward and grabbed her by the shoulders and shoved her over towards the computer. She typed in her password, her fingers shaking and leaving sticky, red fingerprints on the keys. She plugged in the USB and pulled up the folder with all her patient files.

“Everything on Matt Harper,” said the voice over her shoulder. “Now.”

She transferred over some of his basic details and paused as she looked at the files with the details of their sessions. His thoughts. Her thoughts. Everything they had had discussed. She felt her head snap back as he grabbed her by the hair and pulled hard. “Everything!” She placed the cursor over the files and dragged them onto the USB. The man waited for them to copy and grabbed it out of the computer. She stared at the screen as they spoke to each other in a language she didn’t understand. They fell silent as a knock at the front door disturbed their conversation. She held her breath and braced herself to be hit or worse as they whispered behind her back. She breathed out as they bolted for the door and ran back through the lounge and out into the garden. She staggered over to the curtain and pulled it back. The bullied CEO stood on her doorstep, looking slightly embarrassed. She noticed his forgotten umbrella sitting on a side table, picked it up and staggered unsteadily towards the door.

“Tamara, my God,” he said, as she stood in front of him, her hair bedraggled and her hands bloodstained. “What happened?” She dropped the umbrella and hugged him, holding on tight and not letting go.

Harper watched as the last security guard switched on his headlights and drove off down the mountain. The temperature was dropping fast so he zipped up his jacket and walked back towards the monastery. The clouds hung low around the Lantau peak and he could feel them caressing his face. They would be safe here, he thought. Safer than in the city anyway. He made his way round to the back of the building and opened the door. Vitsin sat in the far corner, his gaunt face lit by flickering candlelight.

“How are you feeling?” said Harper.

“My leg still aches a little from the crash, but I’m okay.”

“That’s good. Here, I got this for you.” He handed him a bottle of water.

“I never meant to cause all this trouble, you know,” said Vitsin, struggling to twist off the bottle cap and putting it to his lips.

“You don’t have to explain anything to me.”

“I feel like I need to explain.”

Harper stayed silent.

Vitsin crossed his arms and bent forward a little. “At first it was just offers. You security services and ours, both offering me the world to come and work for them. They were persuasive, but I told them I wasn’t interested.”

“I can imagine that didn’t go down well.”

“They knew I was getting close to completing my work. And I’m sure if I had everything stored on a computer they would have just taken what they wanted. But I write very little down.”

“So they tried to take you instead.”

“I noticed people hanging around my apartment at night and the same faces were walking past me several times a day. Watching. Waiting.”

“Why didn’t you ask someone at the fund for help? Katusev maybe?”

“Everyone was on edge by this time. Katusev had his own problems with the government. I didn’t want to throw my problems on him too.”

“So what happened?”

“Some people tried to grab me late at night near the Metro station. I had a knife in my pocket. I stuck it in the biggest one’s gut and ran. I ran and didn’t look back.” Vitsin wept and wiped his eyes with his sleeve.

“None of this is your fault Seva.”

“So many people have died since. I just wish I had stayed in Moscow.”

Vitsin looked up. He was unconvincing as a man of close to 20-years-old. He had no facial hair and the build of a youth. He crossed his legs with one thigh on top of the other, his foot twitching loosely on the end of his leg.

“I shouldn’t have brought the professor into this. It’s my fault he’s dead.”

Harper sat down next to him. “Did you pull the trigger?”

“That’s not the point.”

“Did you pull the trigger?”

“I suppose not.”

“The answer is no Seva.”

Vitsin said nothing.

“They killed Ruminenko. Not you. You have to believe that.”

Vitsin stood and walked over to the back of the temple. Golden Buddha statues lined the wall. Harper followed and stood beside him.

“You know, the professor always told me I should dedicate myself to something more pure, but I would never listen.”

“I imagine it was hard to resist the big offers.”

“The money was nice, but it was more than that. I wanted to prove I could do what no one had ever done before. Katusev and Cavendish gave me that opportunity.”

“And Ruminenko tried to stop you?”

“He came from a different era. An era where they changed the world. He just wanted that for me too. He understood that what I was going to do was intellectually empty.”

“There’s still time for you to achieve other things.”

“You think?”

“Sure. You can do anything you want.”

“I just want this to be over. I’m tired of running.”

“I’m not sure it will ever be over Seva. But after tomorrow, you can disappear and try to make a new life for yourself. That’s the most I can offer.”

“And that’s the most I can expect.” Vitsin sat down in the corner of the room and rested his head on a pile of carpet.

Harper blew out one of the candles. “Did Anya say where she was going?”

“She went up the hill to look at the big Buddha statue.”

Harper ducked through the door and went back outside. The statue dominated the landscape. The lights around its base illuminated it for miles around. He set off into the misty gloom. Insects buzzed around the plants and small animals scuffled in the undergrowth. When he reached the bottom of the steps, he could see Anya’s tiny figure ascending them in the darkness. He slowed down halfway up as his breathing got faster and the sweat started to soak his shirt. As he reached the top, he listened, but all he could hear was his own breathing. He climbed over the security gate and jumped down onto the other side. He circled the statue and found her sitting cross-legged next to one of the lights.

“Was the conversation too dull down there?” he said, sitting down next to her.

“I just wanted to let Seva be on his own for a while. I don’t think he is much for company.”

Harper wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “I’m sorry that you got caught up in all this Anya. That was never my intention.”

“I don’t blame you.”

“Well, I’m sorry anyway.”

“What’s your real name?”

“Matt Harper.”

Anya swiped her hand slowly through the mist in front of her face. “You should be careful you know. Lies flow from your lips like breath from your lungs. Women will find it hard to trust you.”

“It’s my job Anya. It’s not me.”

“That’s what everyone says when they start a job. But one day they wake up and they are the job. Is that what happened to you?”

“I don’t know, maybe.” Harper thought about it for a few moments and pushed it from his mind. “Where will you go?”

“I don’t know. I can’t go back to Russia. They’ll be waiting for me there.”

“If you need some money, I can help you out. It’s the least I can do.”

“That’s kind. But I have some savings overseas. I think I’ll be okay.”

Harper looked out into the darkness. Lights from a boat or a lighthouse twinkled in the distance. He concentrated on the stillness and tried to push any lingering violence from his mind.

Anya looked at him. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Where will you go?”

“I don’t know. It’s difficult to escape what I’m running away from.”

“You mean those gangsters and your spies?”

“I’m not afraid of them. There are worse things to be afraid of in this world.”

Anya put her hand on his. He flinched away, pulling his arm towards himself. She reached out and took his hand again, bringing it back and setting it down between them. “What happened to you Matt? There is a lot of pain in your eyes.”

“It’s not something you want to know.”

“Maybe not, but it seems it’s something you need to say.”

Harper’s face hardened. “Those gangsters. I infiltrated their organization in my last operation. That’s why they’re after me.”

Anya said nothing, not pushing him to speak.

“We were on a boat one night, delivering some weapons just off the coast near Portrush in Northern Ireland. The drop point changed at the last minute and I snuck away to make a call to my handler.” Harper clamped his hands together as the shakes coursed through his fingers. “There was this Ukrainian kid, only thirteen, he worked for one of the gang members and had come along on the boat. He caught me on the phone, heard everything, and went running to Gershov, accused me of being a copper. He was shouting it around to everyone. Really fucking things up for me. Gershov knew Ashansky wouldn’t buy it, I was about to marry his daughter after all, so he saw his chance to get to me another way.”

“How?”

“He knelt the kid down on the deck and accused him of talking shit. He said there was only one way to find out. That undercover coppers don’t shoot people. Then he put a gun in my hand.”

“What did you do?”

Kill him Mishka.

“I did what I had to do to stay alive.”

Anya kept her hand on his. Harper felt his eyes moisten and he turned to look away from her, wiping them with the back of his hand.

“I see that kid’s face every day of my life Anya. He wasn’t some hardened criminal. He was just a kid. It’s not really something I can run away from.”

Harper stood up. “I think the lack of oxygen up here is making me feel dizzy. I’m going to go down and get some rest. We need to get up early tomorrow.” He turned his back and started to walk back towards the top of the steps.

“You know Matt. I don’t think you’re a bad person.”

“No? Well, I can’t say I agree with you on that one.”

“You should come with me to the airport tomorrow morning. Forget about those people and start a new life somewhere.”

“And what about Seva?”

“Seva is not your responsibility.”

“I know. That’s why I have to make sure he’s okay.”

The deepest depths of the Wan Chai district seemed the safest placed to be with the police combing the city looking out for their faces. You could hide in an area like this for months, even years, and sometimes a whole lifetime and plenty of men did. The girls gave up on Russell after he smiled politely and refused a second advance. They clustered around the bar, looking expectantly towards the door for more customers, but it was still too early in the day. An Asian man and a few American office workers were scattered around the bar watching the stripper slither around the pole in a fluorescent mini-skirt. Cohen stopped to buy a round of drinks for the girls as he walked back in from the street.

“Friendly?” said Russell.

“Very friendly,” replied Cohen.

“How much do you reckon?”

“I didn’t ask,” said Cohen, taking a sip of his coffee.

“You know it doesn’t seem as seedy out here. It’s all sort of, out in the open, if you know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.”

“Did you speak to Morton?”

“Yeah, I managed to get him at home, but he was pretty jumpy. Gave me the number of a phone box and told me to call him back.”

A new girl came through the side door and made a beeline for their table. She hopped onto Russell’s lap and giggled, rubbing herself against him. He laughed nervously and managed to untangle her arms from around his neck, lightly ushering her off in the direction of another customer.

“Anyway,” continued Cohen. “Harper’s been in touch with him. He wants us to meet him, tonight, on the last ferry to Macau.”

“Did he say anything else?”

“No. That was it.”

The stripper came to the end of her act and stood naked for a few seconds on the stage, her arms outstretched and her palms facing upwards, accepting the sparse applause. She gathered her clothes and walked off through a curtain, immediately replaced by one of the girls from the bar.

“What did he say about the suspension,” asked Russell.

“It’s true. We’ve been relieved of duty.”

“Morton too?”

“Yeah.”

Russell rubbed the underside of his chin. “So they want us to come back?”

“Yeah, Morton is in hot water, but as far as they’re concerned, we were just following orders, so if we go back, we’re off the hook.”

“What do you want to do?”

The barman came over with another coffee and a bottle of Singha beer. Cohen ripped open a packet of sugar and poured it into the cup. “Well, it takes time to arrange a flight. I’d say it’s unreasonable to expect us to fly back before, well, at the earliest, tomorrow morning.”

“Just in time for a small trip to Macau then?”

“I don’t see why not.”

The black Mercedes parked up opposite the terminal. The smell of saltwater crept through the vents. Varndon and Ashansky sat in the back, watching the passengers file in and out. The red ferry sat docked in the harbour, its engines running slowly, spewing out a steady stream of white water. Four of Ashansky’s men, dressed in business suits, walked past them and headed towards the entrance.

“Where are they going to be?” said Varndon.

“They’ll be close,” replied Ashansky.

“And if Harper spots them?”

“He won’t. They’re professionals.”

“So is he. Have you heard from Gershov?”

“He’s sweeping the terminal. If Harper’s planning on bringing any back-up, he’ll sniff them out.”

The flow of passengers started to increase. Varndon leaned forward. “We’re going to have to leave or we’ll miss it.”

Ashansky looked at his phone. “Okay, let’s move.”

They crossed the road into the terminal and fell in behind a crowd of revellers. The ferry had two decks. Varndon looked around for any sign of Harper and Vitsin. Ashansky nodded to the far corner of the lower deck. Gershov sat with a coat on his lap. Opposite him were Cohen and Russell. The barrels of two pistols jutted out slightly from under the coat.

“Looks like he’s on his own now,” said Ashansky. Gershov nodded his head towards the upper deck, pointing them in the direction of Harper and Vitsin. The automatic door clicked and closed behind them as the engines kicked into gear, propelling the boat forward. Ashansky followed Varndon to the front of the ferry and up to the second level. The deck had space for around 150, but was only half full. A noisy group of high school kids shouted at each other across the middle aisle and some English partygoers laughed, downing cheap bottles of Japanese beer.

“There they are,” said Ashansky, pointing at the other end of the boat. His men were sat nearby, reading newspapers, blending in with the crowd. They walked down the aisle, taking in the passengers, mindful of any trap. Vitsin watched them approach, while Harper looked out of the window.

“May we join you,” said Varndon, sitting down. Ashansky’s eyes bored into Harper’s and Varndon kept a covetous watch on Vitsin.

“Your friends from London won’t be joining us,” said Ashansky. Varndon wiped some steam from the window and looked outside. “I have to say I expected more from you. It’s a shame.”

“Look at him,” said Ashansky. “Little Mishka is out of ideas.”

Varndon raised his hand to let Harper speak.

“Can we talk alone?” Harper said, looking at Varndon.

“Of course. Let’s go out on the deck.”

Ashansky looked on suspiciously as Varndon followed Harper through a side door and out into the open air. The boat skipped along the water past a rusty barge. They walked to the back of the deck and leant on the plastic railings.

“You can have Vitsin,” said Harper. “He’s not my concern.”

“I know we can,” replied Varndon. “It’s definitely not your concern.”

“I want an assurance that neither you nor Ashansky will come after me once we step off this boat.”

Varndon laughed. “And why would I give you that?”

“To buy my silence.”

“Your silence? Your silence on what exactly?”

“On what I saw in Almaty. On everything.”

“I think you’ve lost it completely.” Varndon leaned in closer to Harper. “I know all about your therapist visits. I know about the booze problems, the drugs, the nightmares.”

“Is that right?”

Varndon produced a piece of paper from his trouser pocket and started to read aloud: “Patient has experienced severe panic attacks and anxiety. Post-traumatic stress a distinct possibility. Patient’s tendency to downplay symptoms must be discouraged. Fitness for continued employment questionable.”

“You’ve done your homework.”

“We know everything about you Harper. You think I’d turn up here without knowing what makes you tick?”

“I suppose not.”

“Whatever you had planned with those dull-witted friends of yours downstairs is over. And you’re over. Vitsin belongs to me now…and you belong to them.”

Ashansky and one of his men walked out onto the deck. Varndon walked away and ducked back inside the door. “You were very convincing you know,” said Ashansky. “I never once suspected you were a pig, despite Gershov’s warnings.”

Harper said nothing.

“And Ksenia really loved you. But she is broken now. You left my beautiful daughter broken.”

Harper straightened his stance and looked at Ashansky. “I’d be more willing to listen to a lesson in morality from someone without so much blood on his hands.”

“You want to talk about killing? Well, that’s something you know all about little Mishka.” Harper looked towards Ashansky’s man, who was pointing a gun towards his chest.

“What? You want to try something? Go ahead. It will save me the hassle. We can just dump you in this fucking water right now.”

Harper put his hands in his pockets.

“No? I thought not.”

They pushed him back towards the door. Several guns were pointing in his direction when they got back inside.

“Now I hope you’re not thinking of doing anything stupid for the rest of the journey,” said Varndon. “We could do without any nastiness with all these people around.” Harper looked at Vitsin. He was concentrating on the floor and fidgeting with the zip on his jacket. He stayed that way until the ferry began to slow on the approach to Macau. The boat edged sideways into the terminal, coming to a stop next to a raised wooden platform. Ashansky’s men flanked the group as they made their way downstairs and Gershov herded Russell and Cohen alongside Harper.

“Good party,” said Russell. “Thanks for the invite.”

“Care to tell us what the hell’s going on?” said Cohen, stepping out onto the gangplank. Harper ignored them and walked ahead. A line of vans waited in the empty car park with more of Ashansky’s men inside.

“Why don’t you let them go?” said Harper, pointing at Cohen and Russell. “It’s not them you want, it’s me.”

“You know what I want?” said Ashasnky. “I want all my enemies dead. And that includes them.”

“It’s good that you think about your enemies,” said Harper. “Some people can get complacent in that respect. Forget who they’ve wronged.”

“What are you talking about?”

Harper stopped. “Do you remember Northern Ireland Leonid?”

“Of course I remember.”

“Do you ever think what those guns you supplied were used for?”

“Who gives a shit.”

“The IRA gives a shit.”

“Yeah? Fuck the IRA.”

“I wouldn’t say that too loudly if I were you.”

A whistling sound shot through the air followed by a small thud. As the group looked around for the origin, a second bullet hit Gershov’s face and he dropped to his knees and crashed to the floor. A flurry of sniper fire filled the air and Ashansky’s men reached desperately for their guns. Harper grabbed Cohen and Russell and ran back towards the boat, taking cover behind a concrete pillar. They watched as Ashansky’s men dropped to the floor like dominoes. The men in the vans returned fire towards a building on the opposite side of the street, but their potshots bounced back off the brick.

“Get back,” said Harper, grabbing Cohen’s coat and pulling them towards the terminal. “And get your heads down.”

An explosion ripped through the vehicles, sending shards of metal hurtling through the air. Half of one of the vans crashed back down onto the road and scattered flames across the car park. Harper raised his head and saw Ashansky slumped on the floor, crawling towards them, his trousers soaked in blood from a bullet wound to the leg. A man with a shock of blonde hair was approaching him from behind, a pistol with a silencer in his left hand. Ashansky crawled faster, looking towards them, terror in his eyes. He stopped moving as the barrel of the gun pressed against his temple.

“Mishhhkkaaaaaaaa!” The bullet hit his skull and his face hit the concrete. The gunman nodded to Harper and ran back towards the road, jumping into a getaway vehicle and speeding away from the terminal.

“Come on, let’s move,” said Russell.

“Wait,” said Harper. “Where’s Vitsin? Where’s Varndon?”

They looked amongst the carnage. Plumes of heavy, black smoke billowed out from the vans and into the air. Both were gone.

“We have to go,” said Cohen. “Come on.”

“We can’t leave without Vitsin.”

“Forget Vitsin,” shouted Russell. “Let’s get out of here.”

Harper looked across the wreckage, but there was no sign of Vitsin’s slight frame. Cohen grabbed his arm and pulled him towards the road. The three of them ran across the road, jumped a barrier and headed under a small bridge. A security guard shouted at them in Mandarin from a nearby building. They quickened their pace, jogging along a flyover and climbing down some metal steps into a coach park below. The screech of sirens got closer as they listened to hordes of police cars making their way to the terminal.

“So I suppose we played a part in that trap?” said Cohen.

“I needed you there so they’d let their guard down,” said Harper. “I’m sorry, but there was no other way.”

They broke into a sprint as the sirens got louder behind them. Passengers were disembarking their coaches and wandering towards the chaos and hardly noticed the three westerners running in the opposite direction. Harper and Cohen slowed up as Russell started to drop behind. They walked across the road towards the water, trying to act as natural as possible.

“The Irishmen are friends of yours then are they?” said Cohen.

“I wouldn’t say friends,” said Harper. “We had a mutual interest.”

“Shush,” said Russell. “What’s that?” They all stopped walking and looked around.

“What’s what?” said Harper.

“It sounds like a big fan.”

They listened closer, shuffling out into the middle of the empty road. A flash of light lit up the gloom as the helicopter’s spotlight bathed them in a yellow glow. Police cars screeched round the corners from both directions and skidded to a stop beside them.

“Put your hands up,” said Harper.

The urban sprawl of West London appeared as the plane broke through the clouds and descended on Heathrow. Harper twisted his wrists to relieve the chafe from the handcuffs while the Hong Kong detectives sitting either side of him maintained their watch. His mind raced, making it hard to concentrate on any one thing. Cohen and Russell were on the opposite side of the closed-off business class section, flanked by more police. The plane bounced a little as the wheels touched down on the runway, jerking everyone forwards.

“Welcome to London Heathrow. Local time is….”

They sat while the economy passengers exchanged pleasantries with the air stewardesses and filed out. Harper sucked in a deep lungful of chilly London air as they walked out onto the top of the steps. It was good to be home, even with the prospect of a jail cell hanging over him. The other passengers had been herded onto a bus and were heading to the terminal.

“So?” said Harper to the detectives as they stood on the tarmac. They ignored him and looked over towards the main building. Two police cars and an unmarked Ford were making their way towards them. The vehicles parked up next to the plane and Harper recognized the familiar figure of Deputy Commissioner Bailey step out of the first marked car. She spoke briefly with the senior Hong Kong detective and Cohen and Russell were put in the back seats, still in handcuffs. Bailey pointed at Harper and then to the Ford.

“What, no hello?” he shouted towards Bailey. The Deputy Commissioner paused briefly, shook her head and climbed back inside the car. Harper felt a shove in his back. One of the Hong Kong detectives pushed his head down and bundled him into the back seat of the Ford, closing the door behind him. There were three men in the car and two of them were pointing guns at him.

“You move and we shoot,” said the man next to him. “You say anything out of turn and we shoot. You breathe a bit too fucking heavily and we shoot. Got it?”

Harper nodded his head. They raced away from the terminal, past a disused runway and onto a service road. A black plane loomed large up ahead, orange lights flashing from its dark underbelly. They pulled Harper out of the car and pushed him up the steps. A blue light soaked the military interior. They took him to the back of the plane, strapped him down to one of the seats and put a black hood over his head. He thrashed his head from side to side as he felt his breath blocked by the material. His hands and feet started to throb as the straps slowed the blood supply. The noise from the engines increased and the plane rumbled backwards for a few minutes before coming to a halt. The vibrations shook his body as they shot forwards and lifted off the concrete. His pulse raced and his thoughts darkened as a hint of claustrophobia took hold of him. The urge to get off the plane hit him and his breaths started to come out in short bursts. The plane rose higher into the sky and leveled off. When the bag was snatched off his head, the blue light had been dimmed to practically nothing. His eyes searched around for something to focus on, but there was only nothingness. A voice came out of the darkness, quiet at first. Harper listened closer, trying to make out some of the words. “…you’re mine now.” The man moved his face into the remnants of the blue light, showing himself for a few seconds.

“Varndon…”

The National Liberal Club sat camouflaged in the London grandeur. Alpha walked up the steps and greeted Connelly on reception. He handed him his coat and umbrella and made his way up the winding staircase. The smell reminded him of the Service in the old days, clubs and lunches, fewer women around and no need for the illusion of transparency that has infected modern government.

“The Foreign Secretary is outside sir,” said the waiter as he walked into the bar. Alpha ordered a coffee and made his way onto the empty balcony. The sunlight shone on the Thames, but failed to make a dent in the murk. Worthing sat at the far end. His hair was slightly damp and a black gym bag sat next to his chair. His red socks shone out from beneath the table.

“Foreign Secretary.”

“John, good to see you. Do sit down.” The waiter set Alpha’s coffee down on the table and placed a menu alongside.

“Do you fancy a bite?” said Worthing.

“I’ll pass. The coffee will suffice.”

“I think I’ll have the lemon chicken. I’m famished.” The barman took the menu and disappeared back inside.

“Have you spoken to the PM?” said Alpha, feigning nonchalance.

“Yes. He’s asked me to pass on his compliments on the Vitsin operation. Everyone is very pleased. Apart from the Chinese of course.”

“The Chinese are never happy.”

“Well, all the same, they didn’t particularly appreciate us starting a small war on their patch.” A group of bankers appeared on the balcony, laughing raucously, before one of them spotted Worthing and ushered the rest back inside.

“Friends of yours?” said Alpha.

“The members know I like to take my meetings out here. It’s just a bit of courtesy.”

Cheers floated over from the water as two party boats passed each other, waving and raising champagne glasses. The captains’ sounded their horns as the boats parted, prompting more hoots from the partygoers.

“The PM is particularly pleased that we did this without the Americans. Giving the cousins a reminder that we are still around is never a bad thing.”

Alpha smiled. “Indeed.”

“And where is the Vitsin boy now?”

“We have him here in London. He’s perfectly secure.”

“Secure is the least I expected. Is he onside?”

“We don’t know at the moment. He’s not saying anything.”

“Not saying anything? What’s your read?”

“Honestly? I don’t think he is on our team. I don’t think he is on anybody’s team. He’s somewhat of an oddity.”

Worthing reached down and wiped some dust from his trouser leg. “The priority here John is not to utilize what he has. The British government is not some casino banking operation. The priority here is to make sure it cannot be utilized by others.”

“We have certain options to achieve that.”

“I imagine we do. I’ll leave it to your discretion, but let’s just make sure we are back to square one on this. The square when the boy did not exist.”

“I’ll take care of it myself,” said Alpha. “You can rely on me.”

“It seems I can. You know, there have been some rumblings on our side about the competence of your head girl.”

“Oh yes?”

“Let’s just say, she may be leaving the hot seat quicker than she thinks. And that means we need someone we can rely on to replace her.”

The waiter re-appeared and placed the chicken down in front of Worthing. The faint smell of lemon permeated the air.

“I couldn’t agree more Foreign Secretary.”

“There was one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“What about these Met detectives that caused you so much trouble? I’d prefer if we didn’t start a civil war with Home Office over this.”

Alpha took a sip of his coffee. “It’s taken care of. The top brass at the Met doesn’t want a war. The three officers that were working the case will be let go.”

“And what about this other chap? The one they sent undercover. Harper wasn’t it?”

“You won’t hear from him again Sir. No one will.”

“Well… that would be preferable.”

A strong smell of bleach filled Harper’s nostrils as his eyes snapped open and he lifted his head a few inches off the metal table. The handcuffs had been replaced with thick metal clamps, fixing him on his back. He looked down at his body. He had been stripped to his underpants. A large purple bruise had spread out from his gunshot wound. Goose bumps covered his skin and he could hardly feel his fingers and toes. A small black dome above him buzzed quietly, watching his every move. He wanted to pity himself, but it was harder than he expected. He’d chosen everything that brought him here. He closed his eyes again and his mother’s voice spoke to him softly inside his head.

“How are you Matt?”

“I’m sorry I don’t call more mum.”

“You don’t have to be sorry. I know you’re busy.”

“Yeah, but it’s no excuse.”

The forgiving tone of his mother was replaced by his stepfather’s anger, standing at the front door of their house, refusing to invite him in.

“If you want to see her, she’s in the graveyard.”

“You buried my own mother without me?”

“And where the hell was I supposed to find you?”

“The station.”

“The station said you were indisposed. I told them to get a message to you, but they said it was impossible.”

“You should have insisted.”

“Look Matt, if you want to blame someone else for you not being there, that’s your choice. But we both know the truth here.”

“Yeah? And what’s that?”

“That woman loved you, more than anything, more than she loved me. And you took it all for granted. Like you took your marriage for granted. If it gives you any comfort, you were the only person she wanted to see when she was on her deathbed. It was your name she was calling. It really is a shame you had better things to do with your time…”

A light in the corner clicked on and the door opened inwards. Hate bubbled up inside Harper as Varndon strolled into the room. Neither man spoke as the door slid closed. Varndon smirked as he watched Harper try to pull his fists free from the metal clamps. The skin on his knuckles turned red then white before he settled back down on the table.

“I’m afraid you’re all out of escape routes,” said Varndon, circling him from a safe distance.

“Where the hell am I?” said Harper, spittle gathering around the sides of his mouth.

“You’re not far from Gdansk. It’s a little place the Polish government let us use for our…sensitive interrogations. But that is rather inconsequential at this point.”

“What did you do with Cohen and Russell?”

“Oh, we didn’t have to do anything. Your colleagues were more than willing to take up the slack on that score.”

“You don’t think there’ll be people asking where I am?”

“Who exactly? You seemed to have alienated any friends and family a long time ago. Maybe some of those one-night stands or the hookers you are so fond of will come looking for you. What do you think?”

Harper snorted. “That’s funny. Nearly as funny as when your Russian friends took a few IRA bullets.”

“You think I gave a shit about them?”

“I don’t know, did you?”

“Scum like that comes and goes. They were useful for a few errands, but nothing more. You probably did us a favour in the long run.”

“Who the hell are you Varndon?”

“I am the constant. Governments come and go, but people like me, we remain.”

Varndon rubbed his hand over Harper’s torso until his fingers got to the bullet wound. He tapped it lightly a couple of times and then dug his thumb deep into the flesh. Fresh blood sprayed onto the table and Harper’s shouts filled the room.

“Sadism is not something I have always encouraged in myself,” said Varndon, twisting his thumb amidst Harper’s breathless scream. “It’s just something that I find more opportunities for these days.”

“You fuck…!”

“I’ve only taken it too far once or twice. There was a South American couple I picked up in some nasty little Rio slum. Life is so much cheaper in those types of places. It’s so much easier to ignore the guilt.”

He pulled his thumb out of Harper’s side and wiped the blood on the metal table. Harper gagged as he felt Varndon’s hands slide around his throat and squeeze hard. His head thrashed around, banging against the cold metal as Varndon bared his teeth and pushed his face closer to Harper’s. His attacker’s eyes reddened and moisture ran over his eyelashes and dripped onto Harper’s cheek as he pushed harder on his windpipe. Harper held his breath and waited until their faces were just a few inches apart before slamming his forehead against Varndon’s nose, sending him sprawling across the floor.

“That was just a small indulgence on my part,” said Varndon, backing up against the wall and wiping the blood from his face. “You’ll have to excuse me.”

“You’re fucking crazy.”

“Maybe.”

Harper coughed and spluttered as his lungs fought for more oxygen. The white glare from the lights began to hurt his eyes and he squinted to relieve the pain.

“If it was up to me, you’d be dead by now,” said Varndon, pulling a syringe from his pocket and sticking it into Harper’s arm. “But some people think it is more prudent to keep you alive.” Harper felt his vision blur and a relaxing sensation washed over him. The tension in his muscles began to disappear and the pain from the bullet wound evaporated.

“I hope that feels good,” said Varndon. “Because that’s all you have to look forward to now.” Varndon’s voice seemed to get quieter and Harper’s eyes dropped closed. “I’m going to have to go. I need to get back to London. I’ll give your regards to the Deputy Commissioner. I’m sure she’ll be keen to know you’re comfortable in your new surroundings.”

A couple of students stood in the reception pointing at the screenings board as Alpha walked in. The plastic letters were crudely tacked on and one of the films was spelt wrongly. He walked up the red-carpeted stairs to screen number two. A car sped along a Caribbean beach in an advert on the screen. He looked over and saw Bailey sitting in the corner.

Alpha shuffled along the row and sat beside her. “Will we have company?”

“I gave the guy some cash. He’s not selling any more tickets.”

Alpha took his coat off and placed it on the arm of the seat. “Your people made a real mess in Hong Kong.”

“You’re blaming me for that?”

“I’m not blaming anyone. It just wasn’t helpful.”

“Well, I tried to stop them.”

“Well, maybe you should’ve tried harder.”

“What did you expect me to do?” said Bailey, raising her voice and immediately lowering it again. “They acted off their own back.”

“I’m starting to doubt your usefulness to be honest.”

“I’m not God over there. The most I can do is exert some influence.”

“Quite.”

The advert changed. A group of nubile young couples ran down onto a beach and stripped off their clothes before breaking out a case of soft drinks.

“You do remember why we have this arrangement, don’t you?”

“Of course I do.”

“It wouldn’t be difficult to publicise your daughter’s brush with the law.”

Bailey said nothing and watched the screen.

“The headlines wouldn’t be pretty.”

“I gave you Harper, didn’t I?”

“Eventually. If you’d been more plugged in earlier, maybe I would still have my Russian assets alive.”

“UC ops are kept within a tight circle.”

“So it seems. A circle you aren’t part of.”

“I need to be careful. They’re not stupid.”

“With your people, the bar isn’t very high on that score.” Alpha offered Bailey a boiled sweet. “Don’t worry dear, I have big plans for you.”

“What plans?”

“I want you to take over from the Commissioner.”

Bailey turned to look at him. “What?”

“I want you replace him. Head the Met.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s very simple. When I take over my little patch and start to make some changes, I will need a friendly face in the Commissioner’s chair. That’s you.”

“And do you think the Commissioner will just allow that?”

Alpha placed some files on Bailey’s knee. “These are transcripts of the Commissioner leaking confidential information to a reporter. I will make sure certain politician friends of mine give it the publicity it deserves. And I would like you to hand it your people in internal affairs.”

“Where did you get this?”

“It’s not important. What’s important is that you climb to the top of the tree when he is knocked off. And that your daughter is left to enjoy the rest of her formative years…unharassed.”

Morton sat with his hand wrapped around a whisky glass. He glanced up and the barman added another generous measure. Music from the fruit machine was the only sound in the pub. He waved at Cohen and Russell as they came in and pointed them to the back corner booth. They noticed the tiredness in each other’s eyes as they sat down.

“You look like shit Guv,” said Russell.

“I know. I haven’t had much sleep. They shoved me in a cell and the scumbags across the hall knew I was old bill. Someone must have tipped them off. They didn’t shut up all night. How did you two get on?”

“They put us in together, but it was pretty quiet.”

“Good for you.”

Morton looked over Russell’s shoulder towards the door. A young couple walked in and stood at the bar, laughing and giggling with each other. “They’ve been following me since I walked out of the station.”

Cohen lowered his voice. “Who are they?”

“Bailey’s people maybe. Special Branch. Spooks. I don’t know. I’m not sure it even matters anymore to be honest.”

“Shall I offer to buy them a drink?” said Russell. “Spike it with Rohypnol.”

“Probably not wise,” said Morton.

The couple bought their drinks and walked over to the opposite corner of the pub. The barman brought two more whiskys over and placed them on the table.

“So anyway, it looks like we’re fucked,” said Morton.

Cohen took a sip. “They gave you the same offer then?”

“Retire or retire in disgrace. Not much of an offer.”

“We could go to the press,” said Russell.

“We could,” said Morton. “But the Commissioner is tight with a lot of the editors. I doubt they’d give us the time of day. Besides, the evidence all points to us acting unilaterally. I don’t think it would turn out well.”

“What about Harper?” said Cohen. “Where did they take him?”

“I don’t know,” said Morton.

A few more customers walked in and sat at the bar. Morton lowered his voice. “Let’s slip out the back. There’s no reason why we should make things too easy for them.” The three men walked into the back bar and out the fire escape onto a narrow road. They walked through a few alleyways and emerged outside a small shopping arcade.

“Look, I’m sorry for putting you both in this situation, I really am,” said Morton. “But it seems we only have two options now. We can try to go quietly into the night or we can go out fighting. I propose the latter.”

“I’m with you Guv,” said Russell. “All the way.”

“Cohen?” said Morton

“I am too Guv, but it’s difficult, I’ve a got a mortgage, and a baby on the way. I have to think about them too.”

“I know you do,” said Morton. “If you want to walk away now, that’s your call. No hard feelings.”

Cohen sighed heavily. “The problem is they aren’t going to let us walk away, are they? Unless we finish this, we’re going to spend the rest of our lives looking over our shoulders.”

“I agree,” said Morton. “It’s gone too far. There’s too much at stake.”

“So what can we do?” said Russell.

“We need to get to the puppet master. We need to get to John Tremaine.”

Harper blinked a few times, trying to focus on one point of the ceiling. His limbs seemed heavy and he felt like he had to remind himself to breathe in and out. The sound of a distant drum banged sporadically in the back of his head. Or was it in the room? I don’t know. There were screams, people in pain and people dying, close by, maybe outside the door. He braced himself for another injection as the light in the corner clicked on and the door slid open. The smell of smoke followed footsteps into the room. Heads with black masks and Perspex visors crowded around the table, looking down at him, their muffled shouts lost in the chaos.

“This is him, let’s go….”

The metal clamps were released and his limbs freed from their shackles. The men swept him out of the room and into the corridor. A guard riddled with bullet holes was slumped against the wall outside. Harper clapped his hand over his mouth as the smoke got thicker. Sharp pains in his ankles made it hard to move forward. There were men behind him and in front of him, whisking him along in an efficient column. A scream pierced the air, followed by copycat howls from the other cells. Horrible sounds of madness and pain. He thought of trying to double back, but he was too weak to fight off his captors. He’d have to take his chances. They passed through several sets of mangled security doors, blown open with explosives, emerged briefly into the open air and sprinted across a walkway enclosed with metal fencing. The fresh air cleared Harper’s senses a little. There were five men with him, all heavily-armed. Grenades bounced off the belt of the man in front. They jumped through the door at the other end of the walkway and plunged back into the darkness. The group slowed down as they came to the start of a long corridor and crept forward in a crouched position. An explosion of automatic rifle fire sent them scurrying back to cover. Harper was shoved to the floor next to a water dispenser.

“Flashbangs and smoke, Go!”

The men at the front bowled the devices down the corridor and snapped back round the corner as more bullets whizzed towards them. An explosion of light bounced around the corridor and the acrid smoke percolated across the ceiling and downwards. The masked man next to Harper threw himself onto his stomach and scuttled off into the smoke with his gun prone in front of him. There were several short volleys of fire and he gave the all-clear signal to the rest of the group.

“Move.”

They picked Harper back up and ran through the smoke-filled corridor, past the dead guard. Blood slopped out of a wound in his chest onto the white floor. They pushed on through a few more security doors and burst out into a wooded area. Harper looked back at the entrance to the facility; a well-camouflaged bunker jutting out from the ground. The bodies of dead guards were strewn around, the aftermath of the firefight to gain entrance. They jogged along for around half a mile before coming to a line of military jeeps parked up in the trees.

“Who are you?” said Harper, as one of the men threw some clothes in his direction. “Where are we going?”

“Wait for the briefing,” said a voice from behind one of the masks.

The motorcade roared off down the road. As the adrenaline wore off, the remains of the drugs in Harper’s system kicked back in and his eyelids started to droop. He gave in and closed them completely.

“Good job people. Let’s get this guy to the finish line.”

Alpha spotted Varndon through the crowd and raised his newspaper. They walked down the busy east London street in silence until they reached the local market. The throaty tones of Arabic, Urdu and Hindi fought for prominence in the market’s tight enclaves and the strong smell of fish filled their nostrils. Alpha stopped to look at some of the produce, before ignoring the sales patter and moving on.

“They’re laughing at us William, these people.”

“I tend to ignore these parts of London,” replied Varndon.

They walked on further into the market, the jangly sounds of bhangra accompanying their footsteps. Alpha brushed an empty cigarette packet from a bench and sat down. “It’s places like this where our wars should be fought. This is the frontline now.”

Varndon snorted. “You know the Head Girl’s opinion. She prefers to try to ‘understand’ these fucking jihadi bastards for some reason.”

“She’s out William.”

“What? When?”

“As of today. And that incompetent fool over at MI5. You’re looking at the new head of an amalgamated security services.”

“John…”

“And I’m going to need a number two. I want you next to me at the top.”

“I don’t know what to say, I’m flattered.”

“Say yes.”

“Okay, yes.”

“Come on let’s walk.” They stood up and walked further through the market. A group of young North Africans sat outside a café, laughing loudly and smoking hookah. The café owner hung around the entrance to the door, watching passersby and inviting them inside.

“This is what we’ve been waiting for William.”

“It’s what the country’s been waiting for. What the country needs.”

Alpha stopped at an Islamic bookstall and picked up some pamphlets. He flicked through the pages and gave some money to the young boy standing behind the counter. “How can it be that this garbage is legally sold on our streets? Why are people not in jail for buying this poison?”

“Because they’re all fucking cowards.”

The stalls began to thin out and they turned a corner onto a canal towpath. Alpha stiffened at the sight of a homeless man sat under the bridge just ahead of them. He had Indian or possibly Sri Lankan features and held his hand out as they walked past, encouraging them to place some money in a small cup.

“Where are you from?” said Alpha, bending down, but not getting too close.

“Please, please.” The man smiled widely and pointed to the cup.

“This is just it William. The shittiest aspects of empire on our own doorstep.”

The man squealed as Alpha stepped back and drove a foot into his head. As he tried to scramble to his feet, Varndon produced a knife from his inside pocket and thrust it into the man’s temple. They watched as his limbs flailed around and waited for his last movement. As soon as he had stopped moving, Alpha threw the pamphlets down on top of him.

“There’ll be no more bowing down to the terrorists or the criminals or the extremist homosexuals that pollute our streets William. I’m going to restore order to this broken country. Restore its integrity.”

Varndon shot a short look back to check there was no one around. “You need to think about the media. They’ll fight you, and they’ll infect the public with their bleeding heart nonsense.”

Alpha grunted. “We’ll give the public a reason to be courageous.”

“How so?”

“Terrorists are not the only ones that find bombs useful. We’ll hit a major city. Probably something chemical. The sight of thousands of British citizens reduced to vegetables should be enough to persuade the less enthusiastic.”

“What can I do?”

“I want to you coordinate the aftermath. There’ll be an immediate clampdown: domestic renditions; new restraints on the media; quarantine zones for dangerous elements. We come down hard when the fury is greatest.”

“I won’t let you down John.”

“The Foreign Secretary will make a speech tomorrow to announce my appointment. I’d like you to be there.”

“Of course.”

They emerged back onto the main road. Rush hour had passed and the crowds had diminished. “And everything is sorted in Poland I presume?” said Alpha.

“We won’t be hearing from Harper again.”

“What about the other three?”

“They’ve been put out to pasture by the Met.”

“Are they going quietly?”

“It looks like it. They’ve got a lot to lose financially if they don’t. I’ve got people on them just in case. We don’t want to take any chances.”

“Good work.”

Alpha’s phone rang and he reached into his pocket. “Yes.” As he listened to the voice on the other end, the satisfaction faded from his face. “When?” His eyes flicked up towards Varndon and the corner of his mouth twitched involuntarily. “Meet me back in the office in 30 minutes. And I mean 30 minutes.”

“Problem?”

“It’s Poland.”

“But he’s secure. I made sure of it.”

“There was a raid. The personnel were wiped out.”

“What about the detainees? John?”

“All accounted for, except one.”

“Harper?”

“Yes.

“What the hell is going on?” said Varndon, raising his voice. “Who the hell could get into our black site?”

“Whoever it was, after tomorrow, they’ll soon understand they’ve picked a fight with the wrong man. I promise you that.”

Cohen and Russell stepped off the train at St Albans and made their way outside to the taxi rank. A few schoolchildren in smart uniforms were smoking on the pavement, keeping an eye out for teachers and parents.

“Wilbur Rise, next to the pub,” said Cohen.

The cab pulled out of the car park and up the road. They passed a few shops, wove their way through the pedestrians and out onto a country road.

“This one here?” shouted the driver.

“Looks like it.”

They paid him and the cab disappeared back off into the town.

“Not a bad place he’s got here,” said Russell. The gated cottage had a thatched roof and gravel drive. Morton walked out the front door to meet them and shook both their hands.

“It’s my brother’s place and he’s out of the country,” said Morton. “He’s a bit of a security buff, so it’s tough to get in or out unnoticed. Thought it would suit our needs.”

They all walked into the house and sat down at the solid oak kitchen table. Morton chucked a newspaper down in front of them. Alpha’s face stared out. He was posing by the Thames in an open-necked shirt. His smile accentuated the lines on his forehead.

“I know you said he was on his way to the top, but I didn’t expect it to be this week,” said Cohen.

“He delivered on Vitsin,” said Morton. “He’s written his own ticket. They’re parading him to the press tomorrow.”

“Where?”

“Down on the Strand.”

“We got nowhere with our contacts,” said Russell. “Couldn’t find anyone that had an inside line on the guy.”

“I spoke to my people too,” said Morton. “They’re either bullshitting me or they’re shit scared. Special Branch and MI5. No one wants to say anything about this guy now he’s going to be heading up both services. He seems untouchable.”

Morton picked a slim electronic panel out of his pocket. A red light was flashing and it vibrated in his palm. “Someone’s set off the perimeter alarm at the back of the house.”

They rushed through the kitchen door and up the stairs to a back bedroom. Morton flicked on a computer screen and clicked a couple of icons, bringing up a delayed recording from the camera on the back gate. They watched as a dark-haired figure vaulted the wall and landed in the garden before sloping off towards the house.

“How long is that delay?” said Cohen.

“Wait…”

Cohen looked out the window and down the garden. A few blackbirds flew around the bird bath in the middle of the lawn, fighting over some seeds, but nothing moved.

“It was at least three minutes ago,” said Morton.

“What was that?”

“What?”

Cohen gestured towards the hallway. The door had closed while they had been looking at the computer screen. Russell looked at Morton and shaped his hand into a gun, but Morton shrugged and pointed downstairs. There was another creak outside in the hall and this time they all heard it. Russell pushed himself up against the wall next to the door and picked up a metal wall bracket laying on the carpet. Cohen walked up to the door with Morton close. He signaled down from five to one with his fingers and pulled the door swiftly towards him. They both charged forward and stopped abruptly, face-to-face with the man from the security tape, standing at the top of the stairs.

“You need better security gents.”

“Jesus God,” said Morton. “Harper.”

Harper picked up his cup and gulped a mouthful down. “That’s the first proper cup of tea of I’ve had in weeks.”

“Get it down ya,” said Morton.

The cup rattled on the table as Harper’s shaking hands placed it down on the wood. He struggled to ignore the falling sensation that had plagued him since he left the facility. He concentrated on the wall and fended off the worst of it.

“Was there a need for all the theatrics?” said Morton. “You could’ve knocked on the door you know.”

“You had some unwanted guests hanging around at the back.”

“Where?”

“Don’t worry. They’re tied together just off the path. They’re not snooping on anyone for the time being.”

Cohen looked out of the window towards the path. “Where the hell did they take you after Heathrow?”

“Some off-the-map shithole prison where people disappear. I’ll save you the details.”

“How did you escape?” said Russell.

“I had a guardian angel. Looks like they stepped on the wrong toes somewhere along the line.”

“Whose?”

“I’ll explain everything.” Harper picked up the newspaper and put his finger on Alpha’s face. “But first things first. We have to take this guy down before he gets the crown on his head. Or we’re finished.”

“What do you suggest?”

“There’s a way. But we need to move fast.”

The noise of the crowd bounced off the high buildings on either side of the Strand and washed over Alpha as he stood and waited by side of the stage. The sea of people stretched back to Trafalgar Square. They were his people now. All of them. He turned to see Worthing’s ministerial car sweep round the corner and park up next to a metal barrier. The Foreign Secretary exited the vehicle and walked towards him with a cabal of aides following behind.

“Foreign Secretary.”

Worthing broke off from his entourage and lowered his voice as he shook Alpha’s hand. “This is a big day for the country John. There have been too many setbacks under your predecessors. Too much complacency. I want today to signal a new dawn for everyone. Let’s make sure we get some good headlines out of this. Show the public we mean business.”

“Foreign Secretary, we are in complete agreement.”

“Excellent.”

They walked up the steps to the back of the stage. Television cameras pointed towards them and around 30 journalists lined the rows at the front. Alpha spotted Varndon nearby, watching over the melee. Giant widescreens to the side of the stage introduced Worthing to the crowd.

The Right Honourable Francis Worthing, Secretary of State for Foreign and Commonwealth Affairs.

He waved as he walked towards the microphone. An enthusiastic roar came from the party faithful that made up the front half of the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, apologies if we kept you waiting. We are here today to introduce you to the first head of a newly created domestic and foreign security service.”

Alpha watched as the cameras flashed on Worthing.

“The national security threat is constantly evolving. To get stuck in an outdated mindset is to give our enemies the upper hand. Our appointment is a man that understands the world we live in. It is this kind of modern thinking that we need to employ if this country is to thrive and move forward. We need to anticipate all the dangers to our democracy and show that these security services we so value are still the best in the world. Now without further ado, I’d like to hand the stage over to John Tremaine.”

Alpha posed for a few seconds as more cameras flashed at the stage.

“Thank you Foreign Secretary. My….”

The sound of his voice trailed off as the speakers died overhead. Alpha tapped his microphone, but there was no sound. “Can someone…” He looked towards the technical area at the back of the stage. The crowd put their hands over their ears as the speakers emitted a loud crackle and the widescreen flicked onto plain white. The white faded, replaced by the image of two men sitting on a distant balcony. The ornate brickwork of the National Liberal Club was recognisable above them. Worthing’s face went pale as he heard his voice booming out of the speakers and saw the reporters reaching frantically for their pens.

“I think I’ll have the lemon chicken. I’m famished.”

“What ‘s going on?” shouted Alpha. “Turn it off.”

Members of Worthing’s entourage ran towards the technical area and started shouting at the operators.

“The Chinese are never happy.”

“Well, all the same, they didn’t particularly appreciate us starting a small war on their patch.”

The technicians pushed and flicked switches, but the film kept playing. Alpha and Worthing stood frozen to the spot, watching their faces in horror.

“The PM is particularly pleased that we did this without the Americans. Giving the cousins a reminder that we are still around is never a bad thing.”

“And where is the Vitsin boy now?”

“We have him here in London. He’s perfectly secure.”

“Secure is the least I expected. Is he onside?”

“We don’t know at the moment. He’s not saying anything.”

“Not saying anything? What’s your read?”

“Honestly? I don’t think he is on our team. I don’t think he is on anybody’s team. He’s somewhat of an oddity.”

“The priority here John is not to utilize what he has. The British government is not some casino banking operation. The priority here is to make sure it cannot be utilized by others.”

Worthing grabbed one of his aides by the scruff of the neck. “TURN THAT FUCKING THING OFF!” The crowd fell silent as Alpha paused on the screen, contemplating his answer.

“We have certain options to achieve that.”

“I imagine we do. I’ll leave it to your discretion, but let’s just make sure we are back to square one on this. The square when the boy did not exist.”

“I’ll take care of it myself. You can rely on me.”

The screen crackled and cut to Alpha walking alongside Varndon by the East London canal. The scene looked idyllic as the two men strolled side-by-side next to the water.

“Terrorists are not the only ones that find bombs useful. We’ll hit a major city. Probably something chemical. The sight of thousands of British citizens reduced to vegetables should be enough to persuade the less enthusiastic.”

The first sentence looped over and over as the camera focused in on Alpha’s gnarled and angry face.

“Terrorists are not the only ones that find bombs useful. Terrorists are not the only ones that find bombs useful. Terrorists are not the only ones that find bombs useful. Terrorists are not the only ones that find bombs useful….”

The journalists erupted into a barrage of shouting and questions. Alpha couldn’t take his eyes off the screen as the sound faded out and the picture disappeared. As he looked back at Worthing, the Foreign Secretary darted towards his car and away from the crowds. He searched the crowd for Varndon’s face, but he was gone. He stepped back as the angry faces in the crowd hurled abuse in his direction. A soft drink bottle landed next to his foot and the liquid exploded over his trouser leg.

“You fucking people. You fucking scum.”

He picked the bottle up and threw it back towards the crowd before turning and running back down the stairs. “Where’s my bloody car?”

“It’s over Tremaine,” said Cohen, walking down the steps after him. “You’re finished.” Alpha looked up to see Morton and Russell advancing on him from the side of the road. A line of police officers watched nervously, unsure of the right move. The noise of the crowd rose from the other side of the stage and crashed over them.

“Detain these men,” shouted Alpha. “They’re suspended police officers.”

“Stay where you are,” said Morton.

The officers looked at each other and didn’t move. Alpha backed away and looked for an escape route. Another roar erupted from the crowd and he lunged at the nearest woman police officer, wrapping his arm around her throat and pulling her gun from its holster.

“Get back, all of you,” he said, pointing the barrel at her head.

They all moved back as he dragged her towards a side road and disappeared from view. Russell went to move forwards and Cohen stopped him. “Stay where you are, we can’t risk it.”

“I’m going to try to head him off,” said Morton, heading towards the crowd.

They all ducked as the sound of a gunshot burst into the air. Cohen and Russell rounded the corner. The WPC’s body lay in a pool of blood in the middle of the road. They ran forward and Russell knelt down next to the body.

“She’s gone guv.”

“Shit.”

There were several stage doors and a small café dotted along the road. They walked up slowly, keeping flat to the wall. Cohen reached out and pulled at one of the handles. It opened towards him. He looked inside and saw the lock had been forced off its hinges. “He must be in here.”

“Wait,” said Russell. He ran back down towards the main road and came back up with two pistols. He handed one to Cohen and made sure his own was loaded. They crept round the door and moved into the gloomy corridor. Racks of costumes lined the walls. Cohen pushed an elaborate feather jacket out of the way as he moved. Dust from the old clothes filled the air.

They both span round as the door creaked behind them.

Morton raised his hand in apology as he entered the corridor and shut the stage door behind him. The three of them moved further into the theatre until they reached two black doors.

“This must lead upstairs,” said Morton. “I’ll go this way and you two head towards the stage.” He opened the door and disappeared. Cohen motioned to Russell to follow him and they walked through into a changing room. A line of mirrors and desks covered with make-up bottles lined the room. A mannequin with a beehive wig sat in a chair in the middle of the room, naked from the waste down. Russell pointed at an open door leading to the stage and walked towards it, pointing his gun ahead of him. He stopped briefly before walking out next to the curtain. He spotted the shadowy figure of Morton creeping along between the seats in the upper tier. Russell moved towards the centre of the stage, struggling to see ahead of him in the dark. A bang came out of the darkness, magnified by the acoustics and Russell felt a sharp pain in his left knee.

“Turn the fucking light on!” Cohen shouted towards Morton. Morton ran to the booth at the back of the seats and flicked as many switches as he could. A purple light finally soaked the stage and Russell lay in the centre, grasping his leg and wailing in pain. Alpha stood a few metres away with his gun pointed downwards.

“Take the gun off him!” said Cohen, pistol prone.

“You know how long I worked for today?” said Alpha.

“Put the gun down Tremaine.”

“I worked my whole life for today. I gave everything.”

Cohen stepped forward. “I’m not going to tell you again.”

“You think you have the country’s best interests at heart.” Alpha took a step forward, still looking down at Russell. “But you’re wrong.”

Cohen tightened his grip on the trigger.

“People like me are necessary. Every country has people like me. It’s just in some places they admit it and in others we are kept in the shadows. But the shadows are where the world is run from. You’ll realise that in time, then you’ll come running to people like me.”

Cohen ran forward as Alpha slid the gun into his mouth and pulled the trigger. A splatter of purple-tinged liquid shot up towards the lights and scattered around the back of the stage. Alpha’s knees hit the floor and he toppled forward with a thud.

“An ambulance would be nice,” said Russell, clutching his knee.

“I’m on it,” said Pearce, grabbing his phone from his pocket.

Morton came rushing down the aisle from the back of the theatre and jumped up on to the stage. “That’s one person I won’t miss.”

“Me neither,” said Russell. “Wait. Where’s Harper?”

Morton put his finger on Alpha’s pulse. “He bolted straight after the speech. Must have seen something I didn’t.”

“Or someone.”

The front door to St Paul’s Cathedral was ajar as Harper slowed to a walk and approached the entrance. He scanned the square in front of him for Varndon’s lanky gait. A couple of stray tourists and a street sweeper were the only people left after the offices had cleared out. A piece of paper pinned to the wall showed that visiting hours had ended five minutes previously. Harper pulled the heavy door open and stepped inside. The temperature was a few degrees below the street and he felt a chill on his neck. He pulled the door closed behind him and put down the metal bar, locking it from the inside. The evening light shined down from the dome onto the walls below. Harper moved forward, his senses on high alert for noise or movement up ahead. He flinched as a faint moan came from behind the chairs to his left. He looked over and saw a priest’s black shoe jutting out of the gangway. He turned him over and checked his breathing. The pulse was strong, but blood seeped form a nasty looking head wound. Harper sat him up against the wall and waited until he opened his eyes.

“Drink this,” he said, passing him a cup of water from a nearby fountain. The priest took a sip and winced in pain. The sound of metal on stone screeched out from somewhere inside the building and Harper jumped back to his feet. He crept forward, using the pillars as cover. He took his gun out of his belt, crouched down and moved further towards the cathedral’s centre.

“Miiissshhkkaaa.” The sound of Varndon’s voice was faint and echoed off the walls. “That’s the name you try to forget, isn’t it?”

Harper pressed one ear against the stone and tried to work out which end of the cathedral the voice had come from. He dropped on his front and crawled past some candles into one of the aisles. The smell of smoke had crept down to the floor and under the chairs. Thoughts of Northern Ireland rushed around his mind. He squeezed the sides of his temples as the kid’s face stared into the back of his eyes.

“A killer needs to commit to the vocation Harper.” Varndon’s voice echoed less this time and Harper edged towards the sound, his gun out in front of him. “A lack of commitment will cause a killer to put a gun to his own head in the end. Do you understand what I’m saying little Mishka?”

A feeling of motion swept over Harper’s body. He grabbed the nearest chair leg and screwed his eyes closed, battling to convince his mind that he was static. Varndon kept talking, but the words were no longer audible. The bright colours of the church’s décor turned grey and Harper observed himself from above, crouched on the ground with tears in his eyes. His mind hovered above his body and his fingers reached out to himself. After a few seconds, he felt his mind melding itself back to his flesh. He took deep breaths and steeled himself to keep moving. The sound of a door creaking open howled through the building and Harper ran across the centre of the cathedral, pushing his back up against a pillar on the opposite side. The door slammed shut at the end of one of the wings and he ran towards it, his footsteps slapping on the stone. He was blinded for a second as he ran under a ray streaming through the window. He reached the door, pushed it open and crouched down, investigating the room inside with the barrel of his gun. Sweat dripped onto the metal and dropped off the butt onto the floor. The start of a spiral staircase stood in front of him. He kept moving, sticking to the outside of the steps and pointing the pistol skywards. He moved at the sound of footsteps ahead of him and stopped when they ceased.

“You’re weak Mishka. It sickens me to smell your fear.”

He reached the midway point and looked down to the floor to stave off oncoming nausea. A surge of burning liquid hit his throat and he vomited on the stone. He spat a few times and wiped his mouth before continuing up towards the summit. He took two steps at a time as he heard the door to the roof slam up above him. He knew Varndon was only a few metres away from him as he reached the top, somewhere on the outside of the dome. He stepped out into the open air and snapped his head left and right, looking along the narrow path.

“What’s your next move?” shouted Varndon, his voice clearer and more human than before. “Make it the right one.”

Harper jumped and squeezed his fingers onto the stone ledge up above, heaving himself up by placing his legs on the outer railings. He inched round, making as little noise as he could. He held his breath as the pigeons flew from their perches and swooped down onto Ludgate Hill. He looked down at the cars below. A woman ran out of a coffee shop and waved down a black cab. The figure looked tiny and his head span. As he reached the opposite corner, he looked carefully around the stone. Varndon stood directly below, looking in the opposite direction.

Harper pointed his gun downwards at the back of the other man’s head. “Turn around.”

Varndon moved slowly to face him. “Looks like you win.”

Harper climbed down from the ledge and stood opposite him. “Put your hands in the air.”

Varndon raised his hands. “Anything you say.”

“Now, we’re going to walk back down. Let’s go.”

Harper motioned with the gun and they started off back towards the exit. They circled the steeple and Varndon walked back through the door to the top of the spiral staircase. As Harper followed, Varndon kicked out and swung the wooden door into his face. Harper fell backwards into the iron railings outside and his gun dropped to the floor. He looked down at the road and the vomit rose again in his throat. Varndon leapt at him and peppered his body with punches, taking his head and smashing it against the stone. Harper felt his cheekbone shatter and his lip split. His mouth filled with blood and his vision blurred as small bone fragments slipped into his eye.

Varndon punched him hard in the face again. “You’re a real fucking pain in the arse you know that.”

Harper dropped to all fours, spitting blood onto the ground. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a foot hurtling towards his face. As it was about to connect and he grabbed it and twisted the ankle. Varndon’s body contorted and he fell to the ground. Harper pounced on him and brought his forehead down hard on his nose, digging his elbow into his neck several times and hammering his fist onto the side of his head. He retrieved his gun as Varndon groaned in pain on the floor. He stamped down hard on his groin, causing him to hiss and lay still on his side. Harper stood over him, breathing hard and pointed the pistol at the side of Varndon’s head.

“This one should be easy for you,” said Varndon. “I might even be convinced you’re not a complete pussy if you do this.”

Harper gritted his teeth and felt his finger kiss the trigger. The Ukrainian boy’s face flashed in front of his eyes again. His flesh tingled and everything slowed down around him.

“Just fucking DO it if you’re going to do it!” shouted Varndon. “This is what fucking murderers do, isn’t it?”

Harper felt his arm move down towards the ground. It was being guided down by something. As he noticed the hand on his arm, he felt no urge to move it away. Someone loosened his grasp and took the gun, but Varndon didn’t move or try to escape.

“We’ll take it from here Matt.” Tom Lonaghan’s Boston twang hung in the air behind him. Burly men with short haircuts pushed past him and scooped up Varndon, dragging him back towards the stairs with no resistance. Harper leant on the iron railing and took in some deep breaths. The vomit burned the inside of his mouth. He looked out at London. Dusk cast darkness over the landscape.

“That’s the second time I’ve been saved by the CIA now,” said Harper.

“It’s all part of the service,” said Lonaghan.

“I’m starting to feel in your debt.”

“You don’t owe me anything. Tremaine needed a reminder that there are some people in this business that don’t like to be screwed. He’ll get the picture now.”

“What are you going to do with Varndon?”

“He’ll go missing for a while. If he’s lucky, it’ll only be for a while. That guy’s safer locked away, believe me on that.”

They made their way back down the stairs and into the cathedral. Lonaghan’s men swarmed around like worker bees.

“You’re one tough bastard,” said Lonaghan.

“Maybe,” replied Harper.

“What are you going to do now?”

“I need to find Vitsin. They took him somewhere.”

“We found him.”

“You did? Where is he?”

Lonaghan paused. “He’s coming with us. It’s his choice.”

“Is it really his choice?”

“It’s the truth Harper. He knows working for us is the safest place for him.”

“You mind if I hear that from him.”

“I’ve got no problem with that.” They walked out of the cathedral and stood on the steps looking down the hill.

“I presume the ‘special relationship’ won’t be quite so special now,” said Harper. “Not when they work out what happened.”

“We’re not the ones that got greedy,” said Lonaghan. “They’ll get over it.”

“Remind me not to make an enemy of you.”

“Why don’t you come and work for me? I could use a guy like you.”

“Work is the last thing on my mind at the moment.”

“Your call.” Lonaghan shook his hand and walked down the rest of the steps. “But you should think about it. People like us don’t stay away from the action for too long.”

Harper stood to the side of the path as a group of runners floated past him towards the bandstand. He had never seen the bandstand with a band inside it before, but there was a first time for everything. An elegant pensioner with a flute pushed out a few practice notes next to an eastern European with a violin. Harper sat down on one of the surrounding benches as a few more stragglers turned up and started to unpack their instruments.

Morton looked sallow and tired as he picked his way across the grass through Clapham Common’s early morning exercise fanatics. He passed the band and sat down next to Harper. “It makes me tired just looking at them. I’d be as depressed as you if I lived round here. This much exercise just isn’t natural.”

“You should try it, you might live longer.”

“I’ll think about it,” said Morton.

“I haven’t thanked you for sticking by me,” said Harper. “Not everyone would have stuck their neck out like that.”

“Don’t mention it. There’re too many fucking bureaucrats in our profession these days. Blokes like you need to be backed up.”

“Well I appreciate it.”

The band struck up the first tune. Mozart swirled around, unappreciated by the runners bouncing along with their headphones stuck to the side of their heads.

“I heard you’re back on the force,” said Harper.

“Yeah, they had a change of heart. Seems like any pressure they felt to get rid of us evaporated with Tremaine and Worthing. Funny that.”

“Yeah, funny. What happened to Bailey?”

“She resigned.”

“Yeah? I didn’t expect that.”

“She was in Tremaine’s pocket. Tried to smear the Commissioner. I feel sorry for her in a way. She just made some bad decisions.”

“We’ve all made those.”

They stood and walked down the path back towards the High Street. The music was gradually replaced by the sound of the morning traffic.

“The Commissioner wants to give you your own squad Harper.”

“That’s the second job offer I’ve had recently.”

“What was the other one?”

“Nothing interesting. Look Morton, I just don’t think it would be good for me to jump back in at the moment.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Well, I’m going to make sure the people that matter know your record. A man’s reputation is all he’s got sometimes.”

“I’ll leave that up to you.”

“What are you going to do now?”

“I’m not quite sure.” A few more people filtered into the park and headed towards the music drifting across the common. “There’s a girl I want to find.”

“What’s her name?”

“Anya.”

“Nice name.”

“Yeah, nice girl.”

“Does she want to be found?”

“I hope so.”

“Which name you going by if I need to find you?”

“Matt Harper.”

“Back to square one then.”

“Yeah, it’s not a bad place to be.”