“Holden knew?” Naumenko said, shocked, maybe angered by it, that Ed hadn’t passed the information on.
“Holden knew,” confirmed JJ, eager not to make it sound like criticism. “But like I said, he thought David had stood on London’s toes, that it was a done deal. So he felt terrible about it, knowing he couldn’t do anything to save his friend. What he could do, though, was request someone who’d do it as quickly and cleanly as possible, so he requested me.”
Naumenko nodded thoughtfully, taking in perhaps what this information said about Holden, recasting him in the light of it.
“I didn’t know any of this, and Bostridge meant nothing to me, but of course I did it quickly and cleanly anyway.”
“He was a wonderful man,” said Naumenko as if to himself, saddened by the thought of it, even though he was probably more steeped in death than JJ or any of them. “You know, I take nothing on trust, no one. Trust no one. But David ... he was one of those rare individuals, a man ...” He thought about it a moment before continuing, “I would have entrusted my life to him. And who else could I say that about? My mother, my wife? Not many more, not even my own brother. So you see, David Bostridge was a special person.” His voice was building slowly, becoming more forceful. “And yes, special people are killed in Russia every day, but this was wrong, this was ...” He ground to a halt, his face tightening, like he could feel the anger surfacing and wanted to hold it back.
The situation was looking more dangerous by the second—Holden’s analysis was probably right after all—but JJ couldn’t focus on it, drawn instead to the empty expanses that existed in his picture of Bostridge, a man seemingly lightly missed by his own family yet mourned bitterly by someone like Naumenko. There had to have been more to him; the only clue perhaps lay in the photo Jem had shown him, the young confident guy laughing at the camera and everything else ahead of him.
“I didn’t know him,” JJ said.
Naumenko fixed him with a stare in response, as if trying to interpret what he’d said. “You didn’t know him. Yet you think you can come here, throw his death in my face, and walk away again.”
JJ nodded, acknowledging the point, and inexplicably it made him think of Jem again, the way she’d looked standing at her father’s grave, and then a flood of other memories from that week, a week which had somehow managed to reanimate him, a moment of acute consciousness perhaps, before the inevitable. And if Naumenko was decided on having him killed, then perhaps it was as good a week as any to go out on.
“I don’t know, Alex,” said JJ, thinking aloud. “Maybe it’s my time to die.”
The comment seemed to throw Naumenko who looked puzzled and said, “What do you mean?”
What did he mean? He meant it was easier to switch off and step aside, it was easier not to think futures or care about the ones that presented themselves. It was just easier.
“I mean it’s your call,” said JJ. “But I’ll tell you now, leave Holden alone. He did his best, and he’s been good to David’s family.”
“Holden’s death is nothing to do with this,” Naumenko said dismissively.
“Oh it is. And I’m sure you’ve been given another reason for having him killed, but I can assure you, Ed Holden’s death is everything to do with this, just like mine is, just like Larry Viner’s.”
Naumenko’s brow furrowed as he added up what JJ was saying, his mind working quickly. And within seconds it was there, a look of determination as he said, “Who ordered David’s hit?”
“Philip Berg,” said JJ simply, and that was sufficient for the moment, an interesting enough name for the countdown to be suspended, a temporary reprieve just as faintly visible as the original warrant. JJ paused, instinctively using his capital, making sure he’d given it time to sink in, then continued, “Probably for Sarkisan but who can say? That’s why this crisis came about; in light of his connections with you, he wanted to remove anyone who might have been able to point the finger at him over David Bostridge.”
“Interesting,” said Naumenko, leaning forward, tapping his index finger lightly against his lips, a metronome’s tap as he thought it through. After a minute like that, total silence in the room around them, he said, “Of course, it would be in your interests to make this claim, and in Holden’s to tell you the same story.”
“Of course,” JJ agreed. “Ask yourself one question though. I don’t do politics, I don’t deal information, I belong to no one. I’m a freelance, a hired gun. So why does Philip Berg want me dead?”