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Agent. A fucking spy, then. The Inspector had not lied; this went beyond police interest, beyond organized crime. But he'd known that from the start. The vor on this side of the channel were doing crime, pure and simple. The vor on that side, even the ones who thought they were doing just crime, were often doing so much more. Politics corrupts everything.
And everything in this plan had been carefully calculated, of course. The cover story had been constructed meticulously, with his profile in mind. The background planted so deeply in the records he'd believed it without question.
Abused girl, the innocent victim of a brutish man like Nikolai, to arouse a sense of protectiveness and a hint of guilt. But a brute conveniently dead to avoid questions, because if he had been alive, Nikolai could have found out he was not, in fact, the father of a blind girl, but some patsy in prison. Nikolai had no idea who he was, the man who died of cancer in jail, or what he'd been convicted of. Probably something innocuous compared to raping and blinding one's daughter.
Tough to build a cover that deep. He had to admit to a grudging respect.
Then there was the disguise itself.
The nice clothes to catch his attention. He liked nice clothes. But not too nice. Out of date – saves on the budget of the operation, and also fits in with the cover story. Clever. A tiny bit shabby to add to the illusion of helplessness, to make him want to help, to protect. Poor girl. Dingy apartment. Fixed income. Everything designed to make him think what he was supposed to think – delicate, helpless, nonthreatening. Those little shoes. Not the shoes of someone who could ever do harm to one such as Nikolai.
The good eye that was not good at all, was meant to make him feel even more guilty. Yes, he'd felt responsible when he found out she'd been stabbed in the eye. How many men have ever stabbed someone in the eye? When so few have done something so heinous, they share a collective guilt. What kind of a monster could stab someone in the eye?
How convenient they had a pretty agent who had suffered such an injury at some time in the past. It's not the sort of thing you can fake easily, is it?
She was watching him with that one good eye. He opened both of his, cold and blue. She kept looking.
"Ilya Berev," she said, pointing to the mess on the right side of her face.
That surprised him. "The Viper?" he asked, amazed. He had been finishing a stint at Penal Colony Number 2 just as Berev was arriving. Nikolai had been in isolation at the time, so they'd never met, but everybody knew about the Viper.
So. She had been one of his victims. No, The Viper did not call them victims. He referred to them as his roadkill. "It is surprising you are still alive," he said. He did not think Berev ever left anyone alive.
"I think he was fairly surprised when the cuffs went on," she replied with a hint of smugness.
Now that was truly surprising. "No joking? I had no idea it was woman who brought him down."
"That was a deal breaker, to soothe his bruised ego," she shrugged. "In exchange for certain information, we agreed that no one would ever know he'd been taken in by a woman. It was easy enough to manage. Only my immediate superiors knew. It's not as if public recognition was something I was looking for. After all, deep cover was my specialty."
Yes, it was.
"The Viper paid us handsomely for the favour. Talkative fellow, Ilya is, once he gets going," she added.
"But I heard… he told everyone that he threw acid at the guy but the guy kept coming at him like maniac."
"He did, and I did. No knife after all, just acid. You would not believe the amount of plastic surgery it took to build up the bridge of my nose so I can wear these things." She shoved the glasses back on her face. "Otherwise, I'd be walking around with an eye patch like a pirate."
"Or scaring small children," Nikolai suggested. The missing eye was especially unpleasant to view under the harsh fluorescent light, now that he was looking at it clearly.
"Joke," she said dryly. "Clever."
The anger boiled deep in Nikolai's chest. He had to struggle to keep the lid on it, otherwise he would never figure out why she was there.
She was not here to gloat. She was not so petty. There had to be some other reason. She had to be there to make him talk. So they had discovered his weakness, fair enough. Score one point for the captors. But she was no longer so much of a weakness now that he knew she was not who he had thought she was.
"Sarajevo?" he asked, the place where Ilya Berev had gone down. "Your… grandfather?"
"Ilya knew me as Adelita, yes," she confirmed.
The secret to a good lie is making it part truth. Easier to remember that way. He himself was fond of the story about his father being a civil servant. Patient in a state mental institution, servant of the state - same thing in his mind.
"Nikolai, I don't expect you'll ever trust me again."
"That is understatement, bitch."
"Hey, there's no call for personal remarks. You were hardly honest with Adele, were you? Mr. Businessman."
"I was honest. Eventually."
Her face softened at that.
Interesting. Did he have something on her?
She sighed. "Oh, crap," she said.
He did!
But what it was that he had on her, why she had this soft spot, that he did not know. How honest had any of it been? Now he looked and found her hideous, but he had not found her so in her flat. Was it this harsh lighting, or was it because he now knew more about what she really was? Did he find her hideous now because of what she looked like, or was it because of what she'd done?
Betrayal of the worst sort.
He had not lied when it counted. He had meant every touch, every caress, every kiss. He had tasted her come and he had not been playing a part.
"Nikolai, you had to get out. A - you were too far into character. B - You were being too efficient as a vor. The enterprise was expanding under your direction. The higher-ups felt there was a loss of perspective on your part. And C… you know what C is, Nikki."
He pursed his lips.
"You went too far on the Russian side and the FSB knows it. They do NOT want us to know what you know. They want you back. They've gone past demands and threats, all the way to pleading. They want you bad. How high does it go? How far into the Kremlin?"
Nikolai leaned his back against the wall, one bare foot on the edge of the cot, classic prisoner's pose. He imagined her eye, back hidden behind the dark glasses, flicking down to the exposed skin of his foot. Did she know the words inked there said 'What the fuck do you care?'
"You know it goes all the way through Kremlin. You just want specifics," he said lazily. "Greedy bitch." That would get to her. Make her mad. Tease her.
Names, positions, amounts of appropriated cash, places. These things Nikolai knew. These things she did not know. She wished she knew them. Was that all she'd ever been hungry for?
No. It was deep cover, but it was not all cover. She'd wanted him. She must have. You can only fake so much. The way she'd opened up to him, the sounds she made, the way she flowed into his mouth - you cannot fake that. Can you?
"You will never be allowed to walk free. You have to pick a side. Take the Inspector's offer, Nikki. Stay in England. Work with us. Defect."
Nikolai laughed. "Did you not hear? Wall fell down. We no longer 'defect'. We are free to come and go."
"If you go, you go back to prison. They can't let you on the street. Look at you - the tattoos prove you belong - it'll be easy for them to shut you up forever. You know they can't afford to put you anywhere but the punishment block, or six feet under. No one will help you."
"Except you?" Nikolai snarled as he sprang to his feet in one smooth motion.
She flinched, just slightly, when he got up so fast. He could not see through the glasses but he knew she must have at least glanced at the door. And he was taller than her. Taller enough to loom over her.
The door rattled open. "Checking," the outside guard announced.
"Fine," she shouted.
The guard looked in the door. "Sit down," he ordered Nikolai, starting to enter the room.
"It's fine," she said firmly. "Leave us."
The guard squinted at Nikolai like it was high noon in a cowboy movie. Nikolai stared back until the guard had to look away. It didn't take long. The door slammed shut again.
Nikolai looked down. Her hair was pulled back in a tight braid that fell straight down her back. Very practical. Everything spoke of economy and efficiency. Before her wound, she would have been a most formidable agent.
After her wound, as it happened, she was still formidable enough to bring down a tough guy.
But that didn't keep her from swallowing nervously, and he could see her pulse under the skin of her neck, fluttering.
"Well? Is this your plan to get me to talk? Are you saying you can help me, Agent X?"
"Lydia," she whispered, and she was so close to him he could feel her breath on his throat.
"Lydia," he repeated, trying out the name. "Lydia. You played your part well, Lydia. You played me well, Lydia." Sweet, warm breath or no sweet warm breath, he would not be played again.
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