Pope walked toward the bed and nudged Vivie aside.
Before Vernon could lie down on top of her, Catherine sat up and kissed him. She got to her feet as his tongue thrashed wildly about inside her mouth. She fought off an impulse to gag. For a moment she considered allowing him to make love to her, then killing him afterward when he was drowsy and satisfied. But she didn't want it to go on longer than was absolutely necessary.
She stroked his penis. He groaned and kissed her harder.
He was helpless now. She turned him so that his back faced the bed.
Then she slammed her knee viciously into his groin.
Pope doubled over, gasping for breath, hands between his thighs. Vivie screamed.
Catherine spun and drove her elbow into the bridge of his nose. She could hear the sound of the bone and cartilage snapping. Pope collapsed onto the floor at the foot of the bed, blood pouring from his nostrils. Vivie was kneeling on the bed, screaming. She was no threat to Catherine now.
She turned and moved quickly for the door. Pope, still on the floor, swung his leg.
It smashed into Catherine's right ankle and caused her own legs to become entangled. She crashed to the floor, the heavy fall taking her breath away. She saw stars for a moment and tears spilled into her eyes. She feared she was about to lose consciousness.
She struggled to her hands and knees and was about to climb to her feet when Pope grabbed her ankle in a vise grip and began dragging her toward him. She rolled quickly onto her side and drove the heel of her shoe into his broken nose. Pope screamed in agony, but his grip on her ankle seemed only to tighten.
She kicked him a second time, then a third. Finally, he let her go.
Catherine scrambled to her feet and ran to the couch, where Pope had made her leave her handbag. She opened it and unzipped the inner compartment. The stiletto was there. She took hold of the handle and pressed the release. The blade snapped into place.
Pope was on his feet, plunging through the darkness, hands reaching out for her. Catherine spun around and lashed out wildly with the weapon. The tip of the blade tore a gash across his right shoulder.
Pope grabbed the wound with his left hand, screaming in pain as blood began to pump between his fingers. His arm was across his chest--no way to plunge the stiletto into his heart. The Abwehr had taught her another method that made her cringe just to think about. But she would have to use it now. No other choice.
Catherine took a step closer, drew back the stiletto, and rammed it through Vernon Pope's eye.
Vivie was in the corner of the bedroom, lying on the floor in a fetal position, weeping hysterically. Catherine took her by the arm, pulled her to her feet, and pushed her back against the wall.
"Please--don't hurt me."
"I'm not going to hurt you."
"Don't hurt me."
"I'm not going to hurt you."
"I promise I won't tell anyone, not even Robert. I swear."
"Nor the police?"
"I won't tell the police."
"Good. I knew I could trust you."
Catherine stroked her hair, touched her face. Vivie seemed to relax. Her body went limp and Catherine had to hold her up to keep her from collapsing onto the floor.
"What are you?" Vivie asked. "How could you do that to him?"
Catherine said nothing, just stroked Vivie's hair while her other hand gently searched for the soft spot at the bottom of the rib cage. Vivie's eyes opened wide as the stiletto slid into her heart. A cry of pain caught in her throat and came out as a low gurgle. She died quickly and quietly, blank eyes staring into Catherine's.
Catherine released her. The motion of the body sliding down the wall pulled the stiletto from her heart. Catherine looked at the human wreckage all around her, the blood. My God, what have they made of me? Then she fell to her knees next to Vivie's dead body and was violently sick.
She conducted the rituals of escape with surprising calmness. In the bathroom, she washed their blood from her hands, from her face, and from the blade of the stiletto. There was nothing she could do about the blood on her sweater except conceal it beneath her leather coat. She walked through the bedroom, past the body of the woman, and into the next room. She went to the window and looked down into the street. Pope, it appeared, had kept his word. There was no one outside the warehouse. They would surely find his body in the morning, though, and when they did, they would come after her. For now, at least, she was safe. She collected her handbag and, from the table, the one hundred pounds in cash she had given Pope. She took the lift down, crossed the warehouse floor, and slipped out into the night.
22
EAST LONDON