“We’re dead.” Stepan paced the floor of Kira’s foyer. “We’re both dead.”
Around him his soldiers shifted uncomfortably, exchanging wary glances; the only thing keeping them silent was the firm glare of their captain.
But Kira wasn’t so convinced. “They can’t do this,” she said. “I’ve got connections—I’m practically a celebrity—”
“What you are,” Stepan snarled at her, “is a coddled, spoiled brat who has never faced a real challenge in her life. Everything you have—everything—was handed to you because of me. And when you’re found at the bottom of this pretty, expensive staircase with a broken neck, none of your famous friends, none of your stupid things, will have mattered one bit.”
Fear was an unfamiliar sensation, but now it fluttered at the back of Kira’s throat.
Stepan’s expression softened, just a trace. “You should come with me.”
Kira shook her head, even as her heart sank. “I’ll be safer on my own.” She took a slow breath. “And you will, too.”
There was something like heartbreak in Stepan’s eyes as he turned to Orlov. “We’re leaving.”
Orlov relayed the order to the men; there was a quiet grumble among them and slight reluctance to their movements as they filed out of the flat.
Kira was moving, too—taking the stairs two at a time as she sprinted to her bedroom, leaving her phone behind on the floor of the foyer.
The walls of her walk-in closet were too close, too tight, as she pulled down a bag and fussed over the racks of clothes and shoes. There was no telling how long she’d need to hide—there was so much she’d need to bring—
—what was she doing? She had more than enough money to buy anything she might need, and packing would only slow her down.
Kira barely paid any attention to the distressed, confused maids as she bolted down the stairs and through the kitchen, out the back door into the alley beyond.
John Clay sat, completely forgotten, on the floor of Kira Konovalova’s foyer.
He hadn’t understood a word of the message that blared from Kira’s phone, but the Russians’ reaction was a fairly big hint as to what was going on. The authorities were closing in.
The smart thing to do was run. But as silence descended on the house, it occurred to Clay that he was alone in a flat stuffed to the rafters with valuable art and antiques.
It was while he was lifting what looked to be a Turner down from the wall of Kira’s drawing room that he heard a door open.
The maids had long since fled. He hadn’t heard sirens, which ruled out the police. That left alarmingly few options regarding who had just entered the flat.
Footsteps approached along the hall toward the study. Leaving via the door was out of the question; Clay eyed the window, but it wouldn’t open wide enough to let him out unless he smashed it. And that would take time he didn’t have.
The door to the study eased open, and Jay Moriarty stepped through with the most insufferable look on his face.
“You little bastard.” Clay slumped into the nearest chair and drew some quick conclusions. “You actually fooled me with that fucking phone trick.”
Moriarty shrugged. “Lucky for you, Moran’s Russian was just good enough to pull it off.”
Clay heaved himself to his feet and grabbed the maybe-Turner again, tucking it under his arm. “Speaking of,” he said, as he and Moriarty strolled toward the exit, “where’d he get to?”
“He’s handling some loose ends.”
A car pulled up at the end of the alley, blocking it off, and Kira stumbled to a horrified halt.
The passenger door opened, revealing a familiar face: Eric Hayes, the private investigator. “Get in!” he barked.
With confused relief, Kira leapt into the passenger seat and slammed the door shut. The car sped away.
“What’s going on?” Hayes’ hands were tight on the wheel. “Someone’s got you under surveillance—I had to slip past their perimeter just to get this close.”
The trap was already closing. “It’s the FSB,” Kira gasped out, voice and hands shaking. “They’re after me.”
Hayes gave her a sidelong look. “But you’ve cut ties with your father—”
Kira shook her head. “I helped him. Gave him access to my businesses. My properties. I even told him to steal one of my paintings and sell it, so he’d have money to leave the country.”
“Then you need to run,” Hayes said firmly. “Get out of London. I can take you to the airport—”
“No. Someone might have seen me get into your car.” Kira glanced out the window; they were on a busy enough street that she’d be safe, for the moment. “Let me out here. I’ll take a taxi to the airport.”
“You’re sure?”
Kira nodded, and the car slowed, pulling over at the curb. She threw the door open and offered Hayes one last, grateful look before she hurried away down the street.
She didn’t see him settle back in his seat, pull out his phone, and hit “stop” on the app that had recorded their entire conversation.
A cargo ship was scheduled to disembark within the hour, and Orlov had ensured it would do so with Stepan and his men hidden aboard.
Stepan allowed himself a brief pang of regret over parting ways with Kira, but it had been a mistake to let her talk him into her ridiculous plan. Best to keep moving, one step ahead of the FSB.
There was a sluggishness to the men as they moved around the warehouse, packing up their meagre belongings and equipment. They spoke to each other in low tones, glancing frequently over their shoulders.
Stepan gave Orlov a sharp look. “What’s wrong with them?”
Orlov hesitated; there was an odd energy about him, too. If Stepan didn’t know any better, he’d think the man was nervous. “They don’t like leaving soldiers behind.”
Ah. The two men in the hospital. But there was nothing for it—Stepan couldn’t afford to wait. And they’d been stupid enough to get themselves injured in the first place.
“We need to get moving,” he snapped.
Orlov nodded, relaying the order to the men.
“And good riddance to London,” Stepan called out afterwards—a little joke, to raise morale.
The men exchanged glances, and Stepan caught a few quiet grumbles.
It was probably nothing.
It was already a shit morning by the time Mark Turland arrived at the offices of Norton Insurance. He was still working on Kira Konovalova’s claim for her stolen Greuze; with any luck, Oculus’ investigation would bear fruit. If the company had to pay out Konovalova’s policy, it was a safe bet he wouldn’t see a bonus this year.
Settling in front of his computer, Turland began the daily slog through the morning’s emails. Amid the usual company announcements and pointless updates was a message from Ms. Konovalova herself:
Please see attached file for additional information regarding my claim.
Said attachment was an audio file; the e-mail client’s virus scanner didn’t raise any flags, so Turland went ahead and hit “play.”
“But you’ve cut ties with your father—”
“I helped him. Gave him access to my businesses. My properties. I even told him to steal one of my paintings and sell it, so he’d have money to leave the country.”
Turland blinked and sat back in his seat, exhaling loud and slow.
Rumour had it that Kira Konovalova was one of the richest women in Europe, but if so, most of her wealth was hidden in all sorts of offshore assets. That said, Norton’s forensic accountants were very good at what they did. They’d find those assets eventually.
The day was looking up. Not only could he deny Konovalova’s claim; thanks to him, the company would be in a position to pursue some very lucrative damages.
Perhaps he’d get that bonus after all.
With both Konovalovs out of the country, Jay was once again free to go out in public. As was John Clay, who asked to meet at a coffee shop not far from the Marigold.
This time, Jay asked Sebastian to come with him. They arrived before Clay did, and Sebastian settled in close at Jay’s side as they claimed a table, one arm propped against the back of his chair.
It was only a few minutes later that Clay was standing over them, holding the largest coffee available. He slumped into a seat across the table and said, “I suppose I should thank you.”
Jay shrugged. “Or apologise.”
Clay made an indignant noise. “For what?”
“For starters,” Jay said, “fucking up the plan.”
“And not listening to him,” Sebastian added, cocking his head in Jay’s direction.
“You were also quite rude about Moran.”
Clay scoffed. “Right. I’m so sorry for not playing along with your insanely elaborate scheme.”
Sebastian raised his eyebrow and turned to Jay. “I think that’s the best we’re going to get.”
“Probably,” Jay conceded.
“Now,” Clay said, leaning forward across the table, “about my money.”
Sebastian looked to Jay, but Jay was equally as confused as he was.
“You are fencing the Greuze, aren’t you?” Clay asked. “I’m the one who brought you in on the job in the first place—I think I’m owed a cut.”
With exasperated disbelief, Jay said, “We saved your arse.”
“Twice,” Sebastian reminded him.
“I think we can consider that your cut.” Jay sat back, leaning into Sebastian’s arm. “Besides, I was thinking I’d hang onto the Greuze for a bit.”
Clay’s eyes darted between Jay and Sebastian. “Not exactly your style,” he said dryly.
Jay shrugged again. “I’m attached to it, now.”
“All right, well played.” Clay’s annoyance had a tinge of humour to it. He pushed back from the table and stood, hefting his coffee. “At least give me a ring the next time you’re hiring a second-story man.” With a glance at Sebastian, he added, “And next time, bring the guard dog in from the start.”
Spartan as Jay’s flat usually was, it didn’t take much to fix it up after a ransacking.
Sebastian finished sliding the kitchen drawers back into place and turned to see Jay propping Study of a Young Shepherdess up on a sideboard at the far end of the living room. “You’re really going to leave it out in the open?” he asked.
“I’ll hang it up properly later.” It took a second or two for Jay to catch what Sebastian really meant; he offered a small, reassuring smile. “At the point anyone would even think to search this place, I’ll have bigger problems than possession of stolen property.”
He went to push the sofa back into place, and Sebastian moved to help him. Once that was done, Jay flopped down to slump against the cushions; after a moment, Sebastian sat next to him.
Into the silence of the room, Jay announced, “I cleared a drawer.”
Sebastian blinked at him. “What?”
“A drawer,” Jay repeated. He wasn’t looking at Sebastian. “In case you wanted to keep anything here. Some clothes.” A brief, contemplative pause. “Maybe a knife.”
Sebastian, who had just cleaned up Jay’s kitchen, felt it necessary to point out, “You have knives here, already.”
“Yours are better.”
“Because you keep yours loose in a bucket.”
Jay made a frustrated noise and rubbed his forehead. “If you don’t want—”
Sebastian hooked an arm around his shoulders and pulled him in close. “I want, all right? Thank you.”
Jay sighed into Sebastian’s neck and relaxed against him. His personal phone was in the canal, its replacement sitting in his pocket; he’d also disposed of all the equipment left behind the night of the botched hand-off. Sebastian had helped him thoroughly sweep the place for bugs and turned up nothing.
And yet there was a lingering sense of alienation in the room; Jay was protective of his space, and the sense that it had been violated—however briefly—had yet to fade.
Sebastian squeezed Jay’s shoulder. “Are you going to be all right? Tonight, I mean.”
“I’ll be fine,” Jay murmured against his throat, “so long as you’re here.”
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