Killing It Page 4

  Jake frowned. He hated having to work with anyone outside the Platform. ‘Why? It’s a family business, and with Dimitri gone Sergei is the only option.’

  ‘Sergei is a cokehead whose only skills seem to be partying and pissing people off. Rok-Tech currently has five people on its executive board. Intelligence confirms that three of them are fiercely loyal to both Dimitri and The President. If they stay on the board they will undoubtedly vote against the black market sale of the VirtuWorld software. We therefore need to recruit three Russian businessmen who can hand-hold Sergei through his takeover of Rok-Tech and replace Dimitri’s three allies on the board. We get this sorted and then’ – he grinned – ‘the Weasel gets popped.’

  ‘Weasels’ were what we called targets. No one had ever determined which came first, the codename or the bastardised version of the nursery rhyme that you would now and again hear echoing down the corridor.

  Half a pound of C4 and knives,

  a 30-calibre rifle.

  That’s the way a Rat plays.

  Pop! goes the Weasel.

  ‘Any questions?’

  ‘We’re all good,’ said Geraint. ‘We have a few new gadgets for Lex and Jake to try out. Isn’t that right, Nicola? Some great stuff.’

  ‘Yep. Great,’ was all he got back from Nicola. She was twirling a long strand of glossy hair round a perfectly manicured navy-blue fingernail. I tried not to think of how my own beauty rituals had declined to such a degree that I used a two-in-one shampoo and conditioner as I didn’t have time for a second rinse.

  ‘We’re going to need more than new gadgets,’ said Jake. ‘Trying to take out Dimitri is near-suicide – he’s a violent billionaire paranoid about security with a twenty-four-hour heavily armed security team. And on top of this we have to make it look like an accident? We can’t do this without an inside man.’

  ‘Or woman,’ I added.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, Lex. Do you always have to be so bloody politically correct?’

  I ignored him and looked at Sandy.

  ‘You have the wife, don’t you?’

  The briefing email had included a helpful summary of the key players. I had noticed the profile on Dimitri’s wife, Dasha, had included the words ‘political activist’.

  Sandy broke into a broad grin.

  ‘Listen up everyone, Lex will be the lead agent on this mission. And she is absolutely correct. We have the very glamorous Dasha Tupolev, wife of Dimitri, mother of his three children, on our side. G-Force, get up the file on Dasha please.’

  Geraint clicked a button and a society magazine photo of Dasha and Dimitri at a black-tie event was projected on to the whiteboard. She was wearing a strapless full-length black fishtail dress and was giving the camera her best megawatt smile. Diamonds sparkled round her neck and on her ears, her long blonde hair was styled poker straight. Dimitri was mid-conversation with someone out of frame. He was a big man, broad-shouldered, with heavyset features and thick black hair. A hulk in a tuxedo. Beauty and the Beast.

  Sandy motioned towards the photo. ‘Dasha and Dimitri Tupolev have been married eight years. Dasha is thirty-one, Dimitri is forty-five. They have three children; Viktor aged seven, Natalya aged four and Irina aged one.’

  Another photo flashed up – Dasha and Dimitri next to an impressively huge Christmas tree, Irina in Dasha’s arms. Their two elder children in front of them. No one was smiling.

  ‘Dasha grew up on a farm in Siberia and at eighteen moved to Moscow after being scouted by a model agent.’

  A photo collage of Dasha’s modelling shoots replaced the family Christmas card.

  Sandy continued, ‘Looks like the move to the big city led to the start of a heavy interest in Russian politics. Here she is at a demonstration protesting The President’s regime, just before she met Dimitri.’

  The grainy photo showed Dasha in a woollen hat surrounded by other protestors. Anti-President signs were held aloft by those around her. The photographer had captured them mid-shout; their mouths were open and brows furrowed. In a sea of people, Dasha and her cheekbones stood out.

  ‘Dasha’s irritation at Dimitri’s serial adultery and horror at his plans to empower The President further meant she was always a prime candidate for turning. And as luck would have it, a couple of months ago Dasha was coming out of her favourite London hair salon when a violent mugging took place right in front of her.’ Sandy smirked. ‘Over the course of the summer, I got to meet with Dasha several times at Kensington and Chelsea Police Station.’

  A standard Eight technique was ensuring a person of interest witnessed a crime. It gave them a reason for spending time at a police station where they would be escorted to Eight’s specially commandeered interview room to give their statement. Follow-up sessions all gave further excuses for private conversations away from prying eyes and overenthusiastic bodyguards.

  ‘Last year, Dasha’s cousin, a cousin she grew up with in Siberia and who was more like a brother, disappeared while working for Dimitri.’ Sandy rubbed his leg and sat down next to Geraint. ‘During one of our interviews I showed Dasha proof that Dimitri was behind his death, dismemberment and distribution into the Thames. He believed this cousin had been stealing from him. Knowing Dimitri approved the murder of a close family member was more than enough to guarantee her cooperation.’

  ‘And she knows that what we have planned for Dimitri is elimination, not incarceration?’ As far as I was aware, being angry at your other half was a little different to actually being complicit in their death.

  Sandy turned to Geraint. ‘Play tape number two.’

  A video of Dasha sitting in an interview room was projected on to the whiteboard. The tell-tale thick black band of a lie-detector monitor was strapped across her dusty pink Chanel jacket.

  ‘I’ve known for some time that I’m married to a monster.’ I was surprised at how English Dasha sounded. Her years over here, and no doubt spending so much time with mothers at her children’s exclusive private schools, had helped hone her speaking voice and soften her accent. ‘The things he has done . . .’ Her eyes dropped. ‘It makes me sick. What he did to my cousin . . . I . . .’ Her voice broke. She paused and took a sip of water. ‘My cousin was not the first and he won’t be the last. That’s how Dimitri works: violence first, questions later. I know he’s a marked man. It’s only a matter of time before one of his enemies finally succeeds in killing him.’ She looked back up towards the camera with a steely stare. ‘I’ve already mourned him. And if I agree to help you, then at least I will be taking a stand against The President. Stopping him gain even more power. He—’

  Sandy pressed a button on Geraint’s laptop, pausing Dasha mid- sentence and mid-frown. He looked round at us. ‘Interrogation ran the stats on her vitals during this interview three times. She meant every word she said. Remember, it’s not that big a jump to go from exchanging wedding vows with someone to wanting to see them dead.’ His lip curled. He was a bitterly divorced father of two. ‘Our problem is that two weeks ago, all communication stopped. Her protection detail has doubled; which either means hubby is worried for her life, or fearing for her loyalty. We can assume her emails and phone are now being closely monitored which makes re-establishing contact a severe ball-ache. Which is why, dear Lex, you’ – he pointed at me – ‘are such a special asset. They will always be on the lookout for someone like Jake, someone like me. So you, a woman, a fellow mother, are the only chance we have of making contact covertly. If we can’t reopen a channel of communication with her the whole mission fails.’ He leaned forward. ‘So, Mummy, are you up for it?’

  *

  You had to admire the Platform. My first day back at the office and they had already found a way to take advantage of my new status as a mother.

  I wasn’t surprised. In this job you needed to use everything you had to get by. To make yourself worthy of being one of the elite. For me, being a woman has always been one of the unique skill sets I brought to my team. People trust women more.
People want to hurt women less. Women don’t need to be taken seriously. Women aren’t a threat . . . Pop!

  I understood now why Sandy had made a point of saying I would be taking the lead on this mission. I was the perfect undercover mum to get close to Dasha. And the success of the operation was reliant on the inside information she could provide about her husband.

  Everyone round the table was staring at me.

  ‘Of course I’m up for it, Sandy. The whole reason I had a baby was to advance my career.’

  Sandy ignored the dig. ‘Robin, call Surveillance. We want everything they have on Dasha brought here. Lex, you and Jake have the rest of the day to work out how to engineer a chance encounter. You need to make contact with Dasha tomorrow; we’re on a tight schedule and we can’t move forward without her intel.’

  *

  Eight’s surveillance team had started following Dasha and Dimitri five months ago, as soon as rumours of VirtuWorld’s software had started circulating. Dasha’s life seemed to be a flurry of coffee mornings, charity committees and highly regimented beautification rituals that involved six different technicians at three different salons. No wonder she looked like she did, despite having three kids. Sandy’s analysis was right. If I was going to make contact with Dasha without arousing the suspicions of her paranoid husband and constant entourage of minders, I would need to use my secret weapon.

  My beloved six-month-old daughter.

  Chapter Four

  THE NEXT MORNING I was doing a good job of pretending it was just another normal day right up until the moment I had to squeeze my .38 revolver into my overflowing nappy bag. I picked up Gigi and held her close, breathing in her soft, sweet smell. Bringing her into this dark world of mine, even just for a cameo role, terrified me. Above all, my priority was to keep her safe. No matter how much I wanted to prove to myself and to the whole Platform I was still worthy of my job here, I was not going to let anything happen to her.

  I laid Gigi into her pram, wishing there had been time for R & D to create a bulletproof onesie. I had reviewed the potential risks of this op over and over again. Each time I concluded that being hit by the bus we were about to catch was about as likely as Dimitri’s bodyguards raining bullets down on us in broad daylight outside an exclusive London school. But that didn’t stop my hands shaking a little and my heart hammering the whole way to Notting Hill.

  As we got off the bus, I looked down at Gigi fast asleep with her hands next to her head as if she was in a state of surrender. We turned the corner and I could see Dasha on the other side of the road leaving her five-storey mansion. She got halfway down the steps and then turned back towards the open front door, where a dark figure filled the frame.

  Dimitri.

  He was dressed in a suit and his hair was slicked back.

  I couldn’t make out what they were saying. She was gesticulating as he glared down at her. He put a hand on his hip and pointed at her as he spoke before abruptly disappearing back into the house. The front door slammed behind him. Dasha stared at the closed door for a few seconds before turning round and continuing down the steps to where her four-year-old daughter was waiting with her scooter and two burly bodyguards. Dasha gave her daughter a kiss and they set off together along the pavement. The men followed ten paces behind. They both had earpieces and, from the bulge in their jackets, concealed weapons. I took a deep breath. I am normal. Normal, normal, normal. I sped up and crossed the road.

  ‘Dasha! Dasha!’ The statuesque blonde turned. She tilted her head and stared at me. She was dressed in skin-tight trousers, high-heeled boots, a clinging silk shirt and a soft leather caramel-coloured fitted jacket. I was deeply grateful that my long black River Island coat covered my porridge-stained top and hid the fact the top button of my jeans was undone.

  ‘It’s me, Alexis! How are you? Remember me? We met at Sandy’s party. She was saying the other day she hadn’t heard from you in ages. She’ll be so excited that I’ve seen you. We must plan a play date.’

  To me, my words came out too high-pitched and too fast. I needed her to play along and put the fast-approaching bodyguards at ease. From what I had read about her I had concluded she had to be bright. A farmer’s daughter in Siberia could not rise to the palatial heights of Notting Hill without having some brains to match her beauty.

  There was a silence that seemed to go on forever. Until finally, she replied, ‘How is Sandy? That right leg still giving her trouble?’ She cast a glance down at the pram, nearly looking surprised at seeing a real sleeping baby within it.

  She was a clever one. No doubt.

  ‘It’s her left leg, actually. But yes, it still hurts to walk. Poor old Sandy.’

  ‘You must send her my love and say sorry it’s been so long. Things have been crazy.’ She tilted her head back very slightly at the hovering bodyguards behind her.

  ‘Mummy, hurry up! We’re going to be late.’ Her daughter had scooted back to her side and was staring up at her, brows furrowed.

  ‘Hello, Natalya. What an adorable scooter you have, with its very own pony head.’ I tapped the neon purple smiling horse head fixed to the middle of the scooter’s handle bars with two fingers and stared at Dasha and returned my own subtle head tilt. ‘He really is wonderful. I bet all the girls at school wish they had one too.’

  ‘Who are you?’ The little girl looked at me briefly before turning back to her mother. ‘Come on, Mummy. Now!’ She turned on her heel and scooted off.

  ‘I must go, Alexis. So nice to see you. I’ll be in touch to plan that play date.’ She nodded. Hopefully a confirmation she had got the message. She stalked off, her bodyguards trailing behind her, no doubt pretending they were too professional to appreciate the impressive sashay the four-inch Christian Louboutin boots gave her walk.

  *

  I waited until they were out of sight and pushed Gigi down the road to a Caffè Nero I had spotted getting off the bus. She was still sleeping and barely stirred as I manoeuvred us in and bought a large cappuccino to go. I sipped it slowly as we walked up and down the street, the innocent picture of a mother soothing her baby to sleep. By the time the cup was empty it was time to make the drop-off.

  I checked my watch as I approached Natalya’s school. The bell would’ve rung over fifteen minutes ago and the main door was firmly closed. The street was empty. Adorning the outside of the imposing building, just inside the railings, were neatly lined-up children’s scooters in all the colours of the rainbow. I slowed as I walked past them until I spotted Natalya’s distinctive horse-head scooter, then leaned over and tucked the small flier I had in my pocket inside the horse’s mouth. I looked around. I was just another mother looking at just another scooter.

  The flier announced the launch of www.westlondonyummum.net and was covered in photos of smiling mothers and smartly dressed children doing an array of highbrow activities from mastering chess to playing the violin. ‘Members Only Access to the Finest Tutors West London Has to Offer’ it screamed across the top. I had written on it, ‘Sandy thought you would like to join! Alexis.’

  I had included a login name and password that would give Dasha access to a secure encrypted chatroom that Geraint had set up. Anyone monitoring her web browsing would just see a long list of chatroom topics with such gems as ‘Can five-year-olds be bipolar?’ and ‘So gifted could be autistic?’

  Mission accomplished, I stepped back from the scooter and headed towards the bus stop making faces at Gigi, who was now wide awake, gurgling appreciation at my efforts to make her laugh, and none the wiser at being witness to any international subterfuge.

  *

  Back home, after safely delivering Gigi to Beata and a waiting bowl of puree, I went upstairs. Shutting the bedroom door behind me, I leant up against it and slowly exhaled. It had all gone to plan. Contact was made, drop-off successful and apart from me ruining Gigi’s appetite with an abundance of snacks, no harm was done. I unzipped the nappy bag on the bed and saw Gigi’s colourful baby rattle, her sma
ll pink hat and the cold hard metal of my .38 nestled between Sophie the well-chewed giraffe and a half empty Tupperware box of mini breadsticks.

  So this was my life now.

  How the hell did I end up here?

  *

  I didn’t expect to ever settle down. Even as an adult I still ate Kellogg’s variety packs. When faced with so much choice down the breakfast aisle I found I couldn’t commit to one whole box. And that was just cereal.

  How could I give up my mix of men coming in all their different flavours, shapes and sizes? Not to mention the small issue of having to keep my day job a secret. I couldn’t imagine changing and didn’t have any desire to. Men were my sweet treat. Fun to snack on but nothing substantial. Just like in my working life now, my love life back then was all about getting to know the target, working out what made them tick and swooping in for the kill. I would then abandon the scene of the crime and move on without a backward glance.

  But then Tianjin happened.

  Three years ago Jake and I had flown out to China to eliminate a high-profile target. It should have been an easy job but we were double-crossed. What was meant to be a routine meeting at an empty restaurant with one of our informants ended in us being bundled into an unmarked van and taken to a remote building.

  Even now, years later, on the other side of the world, in the safety of my bedroom, my heart started beating faster as I was taken right back to what I had thought were my final moments.

  We were screamed at, blindfolded and marched outside. Thrown to the ground, then roughly pulled up to our knees as our perceived crimes against the state were read out.

  Kneeling there in the dirt, the cold wind whipping my cheeks, I tried to prepare myself. Death was coming. But I wasn’t going to let myself down. I could barely breathe. My heart beat so fast and strong I could feel it in my throat, hear it in my ears. Every part of me was throbbing with such force I was shaking. My body was screaming with life, one final standing ovation before the curtain fell.