She wandered the slippery, cobbled streets of Penzance, their ‘B site’. It was low-key there, but with an airstrip nearby. Janssen had rented a plane and could fly them across to Dublin, and then Sammy’s contacts could get them to Helsinki. Then she’d get them across the border into Russia. A nice, neat little plan. But so far this one was going south fast, just like Sebastopol…
The guards she’d shot there. She’d checked afterwards. They’d survived, though one had retired early. Good for him. The eight other ops had been bloodless, more or less, a little roughing up here and there, but she’d stayed in the shadows. This should have been the final op, after which she could stop pretending to be a killer.
She found a Starbucks. It hadn’t opened yet, but the young guy setting up let her use the loo anyway. After splashing water on her face and wiping her armpits with damp paper towels, she ordered a soya cappuccino and a skinny blueberry muffin. She only ate half, watching the sunrise. Sebastopol. If only Sammy knew the truth…
Six months prior to that botched mission, Katya had told Nadia their mother was dying. Ovarian cancer. Stage Four. Metastasised. Dead woman walking. Katya had already been to pay her last respects. Amazingly – or more likely due to Katya – Kadinsky let Nadia go back to Uspekh for the weekend. None of her relatives there wanted to talk to her; they had an idea of her line of work, and after her father’s death all sorts of stories had come out. Some of them true. So, she was already judged and shunned. Like father, like daughter. She didn’t care. She had nothing to say to them.
Her mother didn’t look too bad – mainly bloated with dark rings around the eyes – but that was because she’d refused chemo, said it would only prolong the inevitable, that she’d had enough of this world, was anxious to try the next. As usual, her mother had something to say, and didn’t indulge in pleasantries before jumping straight to the point, after first clasping Nadia’s hand so she had to listen.
‘Your father is in hell, Nadia,’ she said, her voice strong, her eyes full of fire. ‘All those people he killed, they were waiting for him.’
Nadia felt the familiar knot tightening in her stomach, remembered why she’d left all those years ago. It was as if her umbilical cord had been shoved up inside her rather than cut, and her mother could pluck at it any time she wanted. Nadia still loved her father, even though she knew what he’d become, and didn’t want to think of him trapped in hell with only his victims for company.
Her mother tightened her grip. ‘I know I will pay for my sins first, but I’m going to heaven eventually, and I hope your sister, despite her slutty whoring –’
Nadia snatched her hand away. Her mother paused. Her eyes softened.
‘I know Katya will join me one day.’ She held out her hand. Nadia hesitated a moment, then took it.
‘Nadia. If you kill, you can never come to heaven. Never. I want you there with me. So I need you to promise.’
Nadia recoiled. She’d never wanted to kill, wasn’t even sure she could. But this…
‘I’m dying Nadia. You’re still my daughter.’ Her eyes grew hard. ‘You owe me.’ She looked away, to the window, perhaps realising she’d overplayed it. ‘And Katya.’
Nadia wanted to storm off, to tell her to go to hell, that it wasn’t reserved only for killers. But this was her mother’s deathbed, this was their last conversation. In a few weeks, she’d be standing over this woman’s grave.
Her mother looked at her then, the way she had before all their lives had turned to shit, and Nadia remembered the sweet mother who’d brushed Nadia’s hair when it had been wild and long, told her stories, taught her to bake cakes, and held her when she’d been frightened by thunderstorms. Something cracked inside Nadia. She tried to hold it back, but it was no use. A torrent of painful longing tore through her, heart-wrenching pangs for the mother she’d lost a long time before she’d lost her father. If there was a heaven, maybe this was the part of her mother they’d let in.
Her mother released Nadia’s hand. ‘Promise me, Nadia. Promise me you’ll never kill.’
Nadia knew she’d regret it, that in her line of business this was at worst a suicide pact, at best Russian roulette. Maybe her mother knew it, too, and that this way Nadia would end up in heaven faster, even if she’d rather be with her father. She wouldn’t have put it past her mother. But the bond was too strong, and images of those happier early years flashed across her mind, and child-like tears for the loss of a mother-daughter relationship that could have been so much more, tumbled down her cheeks. Her mother smiled, knowing she’d won. Right now it didn’t matter. And so the two words Nadia knew could seal her fate passed between her lips.
‘I promise.’
Nadia downed the last of the cappuccino, paid, left a ridiculous tip, and headed towards the disused docks where she was to meet with Sammy, Janssen, Toby and Kilroy. At least they were far from London, which would be locked down, airports and Eurostar heavily screened. Not that she could leave the country alone – Janssen had her passport. But they had some breathing space in this provincial tourist town, four hours by train or car from the capital. She suddenly remembered the helicopter pilot, wondered if he was okay, then ditched the thought. She’d done all she could.
She neared the older part of town and slowed. If one or more of the policemen had died last night, she was an accessory to murder. Approaching the iron door of the dilapidated warehouse, she paused, and had a final futile thought about doing a one-eighty. Then she heaved open the door. The hinges shrieked, setting her nerves on edge. She took a deep breath and stepped inside.
The warehouse reeked of mould. Fetid pools of water lay scattered across an uneven, cracked concrete floor. The large space was devoid of furniture save for a metal table and three rusted chains hanging from iron crossbars close to the roof. Sammy’s Suzuki stood near the door, the only remarkable item in the grim daylight filtering through a broken skylight. She heard faint slapping sounds as waves beat against the pillars underneath the floor.
‘Close the fucking door!’
Nadia glared at Janssen, and tugged the door shut with a definitive clunk. Sammy wandered over and flipped the latch, locking them in. His crash helmet hung from his left hand. With his back to Janssen, Sammy caught Nadia’s eye and raised an eyebrow.
Katya had also warned Nadia about Janssen. Said his ideas were a lot bigger than his delivery. She’d had to be careful with him in the bedroom. But Katya had said something else – which Nadia had not quite understood at the time – that Janssen was most dangerous when he turned his back on you.
She and Sammy joined the others at the battered table, a cylindrical device in its centre, smooth silver metal except for a couple of red LED displays that pulsed slowly, like a heartbeat. It was about the same size as a large tin of vegetables. The Rose.
A siren wailed in the distance, made all five of them glance at one another. Janssen, his bone-white hair lashed back in a ponytail, spread his arms wide.
‘Stay cool. They have no idea where we are,’ he said. His pale blue eyes were relaxed, as if he didn’t care about anything.
Nobody spoke, least of all Janssen’s men, Toby and Kilroy. They stood to his right, Toby bald and paunchy, eyes darting here and there, mainly toward the door. Kilroy was a good two heads taller, unmoving. Tattoos on his fingers, like rings, marked him as hard-core Mafia. The type you never spoke to. Neither Kilroy nor Toby looked happy, but there was resignation there. Clearly this wasn’t the first time a job with Janssen had been screwed up.
Nadia knew she should stay quiet. She’d never spoken out when her dad had been around, no matter what he’d done. Once he’d gone, though, she’d developed what her mother called a trouble-mouth.
‘The policemen back in London… Are they dead? The news isn’t saying.’
Janssen leaned forward