I grimaced. Valentin didn’t need to tell me twice. Roman Dvornikov was our financial wizard. Merlin, dragon level stuff, not school boy Harry Potter.
Money made the world go around, and he was the one spinning the dial, for us, anyway. I’d built my entire career out of enforcement for the Bratva. Seeing funds drying up wasn’t in my interests at all. I was too much of a career criminal to turn over to anything legitimate. At least, nothing that would make me the kind of income I’d become accustomed to.
FSB was KGB, although they pretended it was all brand new. Their involvement was never good for anyone.
“Tell them to keep their distance and let me get on with it. We don’t need any novochock or polonium 10 left lying around. This is one we don’t want sitting at Russia’s doorstep.”
Valentin gave a short nod. “Agreed.” He drew in a breath, shifting slightly. “Listen, Maxim, I can only assume the President has friends on that list as well. We don’t want the President to be embarrassed because of our failure.”
“Valentin, really. I don’t do failure.”
My friend’s smile twitched and he leaned back. “I know this. You are a very reliable man. That is why I really think it’s time you talk to your Elizabeth Harrington and get us a way inside.”
CHAPTER 4
Elizabeth
Indulgently, I limped up the stairs when I got home, late, again. There was a blister rubbing itself raw on my heel because my socks had been slipping down inside my plimsolls all shift. I’d managed to shrink them at the launderette the other day when I realised I was about to run out of clean work clothes.
Again.
The idea of being allowed to use the washing machine in the house was some kind of outlandish fantasy by now. I didn’t let it bother me. It was of little importance, compared to all the rest of the shit Sutherland put me through.
Last time I bought bandaids was when I started learning to box. I hoped I still had some left somewhere in the depths of my bedside drawer.
Finding one in the bottom of the crushed cardboard packet felt like more of a victory than it should have, but I was too dog tired to go in search of an all night store now, and the little strip of adhesive dressing saved me from having to leave the house.
Friday night was supposed to be for letting off steam, having fun. I was sitting on the end of my bed, taping myself up, thinking about hitting the books. Sometimes it didn’t feel like I was only eighteen.
I let out a sigh and shook it off. People went through worse things every day. I could handle this. It wasn’t forever. I was going to be fine.
I crossed to the window to draw my curtains, pausing before I did to look out across the street. Maybe it was my imagination, but I could have sworn I saw a shadow in the window of the building across the street. Again I thought about that bullet, and the man in the high viz jacket, and my heart skipped a beat.
Was he there right now, looking back at me? Stupid, but I liked the idea of that. It made me feel less alone.
How long had he been watching the house? What was his aim? I was too tired to figure it all out now, but damn it, thoughts of him were going to keep me awake all night and far too distracted to revise.
In the darkness of my bedroom, I rolled the carpet back to get to the boards, and lifted up the section where I kept everything that truly mattered to me.
I only had a few photographs of Mum and me, and they were getting dogeared and worn from all the times I’d taken them out just to have another look. The picture of Dad with the two of us, me bundled up in so many blankets, small enough for him to cradle in his arms, I kept even more carefully.
I worried that one day they’d all get too faded. Sometimes in my dreams, the colors in them got darker and darker until the teeth in our smiles were the only point of contrast, and then even they would darken, merging into the background, as all the details disappeared into a useless black mass of nothing.
Sometimes it felt like my old life had been erased and I was still clinging on even though the universe didn’t want me to.
But I could sit on the floor of my room when the house was still and quiet, and lay the photos out in front of me, side by side. Peering in on the little windows of the past with my flashlight, I remember what it used to be like when it was just the two of us in this house and I could imagine Mum was asleep in her room downstairs, or sitting up in the living room watching the news with a glass of red wine in her hand and her high heels kicked off, complaining that she looked ten pounds heavier in that skirt suit, or the wind had messed up her hair. I used to love seeing her come on screen.