“No, tell me, do you think I’m pretending?”
He pulled her wrist down, her glass untouched. Richard’s hold on her wrist was gentle. She wasn’t exaggerating – her hands were always cold.
Blue eyes met brown again. Her eyes were dark, they appeared large and bottomless thanks to her long lashes and perfect eyeliner and shimmering brown eyeshadow. On her smiling lips was long-lasting lipstick – and burgundy traces of the red wine of the blood of kings.
“Alright, you don’t have to answer,” Richard interjected with a smile. “Shall we dance?”
Before she could resist or object, he took her glass – placing it in a niche near the column extending into the vaulted ceiling, the one they were standing next to, in a visible spot – where they could find it later. He then pulled Alexandra onto the dance floor, barely touching her glittering back, shortly taking her hand again, confidently this time.
Where had he gone wrong, why did she still not trust him?
One – he placed his hand on her back, felt her fingers on his shoulder, two – they closed the distance between their bodies, discordant with the music that seemed to be playing from another era, three – they took a step in unison, merging with the haphazard movements of the cheerful guests, four – the sound of shattering glass, a scream, a gasp, a dull thud – like that of a falling body …
They turned around, Alexandra instinctively rushed forward to the woman on the floor, foaming at the mouth – but Richard grabbed her by the waist and pulled her back.
He struggled with himself, solving an internal dilemma: should he act the hero or prevent Alexandra from getting involved, shield her from everything, stay by her side? The security had already called an ambulance – and it would most likely come too late.
The niche where Richard had placed the glass was empty. On the floor were glass shards and a bright pool of wine. The body of the fan, who had obviously grabbed the glass of her favorite writer, was quiet, no longer convulsing – and he was not looking at it.
Richard opened his mouth to address the security guard who had entered the room, but Alexandra reacted faster.
“Lock all the doors and call the police.”
Her voice was loud and clear, as if it had a physical presence beneath the arched ceiling. The resonance reverberated through Richard’s body, he immediately pulled Alexandra close, wrapping his arms around her shoulders.
The sounds of scream and panic are terrifying in a basic, primal way, often more than their cause … Alexandra’s body relaxed only after several seconds of his strong embrace.
Richard’s heartbeat was oddly fast, as if he himself was frightened. His hands and suit were covered in glitter after he had to let her go – because by then, police officers had entered the crypt.
8. Trust
[Great Britain, London, City of Westminster]
The managers of Träger publishing house responsible for organizing the literary event at the Church of St-Martin-in-the-Fields were tearing their hair out, the literary agent was cursing in Russian but seeking ways to turn the situation to their advantage, and journalists had occupied the lobby and porch of the Whitehall Court hotel.
Dawn was breaking outside the windows of the tower room overlooking the Thames, Alexandra sat on the living room couch, leaning on the cushions, her face buried in her hands.
When she spoke, her voice at first was muffled by her palms.
“I hate all of it!” she lamented. “Who would need to do this, dammit?!”
Richard remained silent. He already regretted listening and accompanying her to the hotel instead of taking her to his apartment, supposedly owned by the actor Richard North.
Now they were enclosed within four walls, she’s under the constant watchful eye of her managers and hordes of journalists, soon, enraged fans and haters will appear, making it harder for them to escape unwanted attention.
The police had questioned them several hours ago, and the tedious procedure had yielded nothing – but Alexandra finally calmed down. She had been trembling for a long time, so much so that she couldn’t even drink water, though she maintained her composure. Her body seemed to react separately from her mind.
Richard understood how she felt. She realized that she had come dangerously close to being in the position of the unfortunate Kristina Matveyeva, whose name she would remember for the rest of her life.
She was angry at the uncontrollable physiological stress reaction and the discomfort they had to endure while waiting for a call from the police or managers who would insist on the specific comments they were to give to specific media outlets.
The lawyer had already been in touch – for now, through McKellen. Overall, things didn’t look as terrible as they had initially seemed.
Suddenly, Richard felt angry at himself. How dare he reason like this? The situation was no threat to him – because it was him who had orchestrated it so that a colorless, odorless, fast-acting poison ended up in the glass that Alexandra would take.
And he was the one who had to distract her – so that one of her fans would want to pick up the glass from the visible spot. She needed to be scared, believe that she was in mortal danger.
Callousness was necessary in his profession when it came to choosing between the interests of the state, global interests, and the life of an individual.
Alexandra was frightened, but she had not lost control of the situation. During the conversation with law enforcement, she remained calm, even managing to irritate a Scotland Yard inspector with her questions.
Richard smiled inappropriately at the thought that, if she wanted, she could have been just like him, a spy, with her ability to make decisions, instantly analyze situations, and draw accurate conclusions.
Now she trusted him – otherwise she wouldn’t have allowed him to be near her. She was the type to be able to handle problems on her own, no need for a sympathetic shoulder or company to share her worries.
She only accepted help when it was necessary, and he had volunteered to be her personal bodyguard.
She laughed at the wording at the time and merely waved it off.
“… could have been anyone – not necessarily a catering employee or someone from the venue,” she reasoned, Richard listened without interrupting. “If only we knew what this crap was and whether it was in the glass or just on the surface of it …”
She reasoned like a detective, systematically, methodically, dissecting the data. He remained quiet, not wanting to betray his knowledge of crime scene investigation.
“The cameras will show the waiter carry the glasses, filling them, who could have come into contact – and added poison to the glass, on the glass, or even into the bottle … But if it were the bottle, someone else would have gotten poisoned too.”
Alexandra had not changed out of her clothes; the back of the couch and the cushions were covered in glitter. She paid no attention to how the delicate black silk fabric of her wide trousers wrinkled and pulled up on her flat stomach.
“Have you thought about taking a shower and then going to sleep?”
“I have to remember everything,” she replied stubbornly. “To rewind.”
“Fatigue reduces concentration and attentiveness, you’re only making it worse every minute. You’ll remember everything after some sleep because then it will settle as it should.”
For the first time in hours, she looked at Richard in a meaningful way – as if she were surprised that he was in her room.
“You’re