The Game (Tom Wood)

SIXTY-FIVE





Two weeks later

Muir was waiting in the Piazza del Popolo before the archway of the grand sixteenth-century gate that led to the Via Flaminia. She stood sipping from a cup of coffee, dressed casually, sunglasses over her eyes. Victor had arrived early, but so had she. It was midday and the sky was blue and cloudless. The piazza was busy with Romans eating lunch and tourists taking more photographs than they could ever possibly need. They were densest around the Egyptian obelisk that stood, twenty-three metres tall, in the centre of the square, but they also congregated near the ornate fountains and before the symmetrical churches of Santa Maria del Miracoli and Santa Maria in Montesanto. The amount of people made it more difficult to check she was really alone, but the crowd provided enough anonymity that he could take his time to be sure.

She didn’t acknowledge his presence until he was standing right next to her. He’d allowed her to see him before then.

‘I wasn’t sure you’d come.’

‘Neither was I.’

‘I’m glad you did.’

Victor remained silent. He kept his gaze on the crowd, searching for signs of watchers he might have missed, or who had only now arrived. It was a near impossible task, but he did so all the same.

‘How are they?’

Muir blew out some air. ‘They’re doing okay, considering what they’ve both been through. There’s a long way to go, I’m sure. But we have some great people. We’ll take care of them, I promise. It was good thinking, dropping them off at the consulate. That’s made things a lot easier.’

‘What do the Italians know?’

‘Everything.’

Victor looked at her.

‘Not about you, obviously. No point trying to bluff our way out of this one when you left seven corpses at that mill.’

‘I’m only responsible for six of them.’

Muir smiled. ‘Whatever. Six or seven, it hardly makes a difference. The Italians know about the embassy plot and, unofficially at least, they’re pretty grateful not to have had a major terrorist attack in their capital. Perhaps not unsurprising when you think about it.’

‘What about the Russians?’

‘Same thing. They’re happier than the Italians. Putting four embassy security in the hospital is a lot more palatable than having a hundred staff and guests blown to pieces, ambassador and head of the SVR among them. They’ve got you on CCTV but they don’t know who you are. They’ve been told that you’re one of ours. A NOC. Which is pretty close to the truth, I guess. Prudnikov would like to thank you personally.’

‘What did you tell him?’

‘That you’re a very private person. He took it with a smile, and passes on his sincere appreciation.’

‘Noted.’

Muir said, ‘Lucille has asked about you.’

‘Does she know?’

‘That you killed her husband on the Agency’s behalf?’

‘Yes.’

Muir shook her head. ‘She doesn’t even know he’s dead at this point in time. They didn’t have any contact. Kooi paid her money, regular as clockwork, but she hadn’t seen him in for ever. And I’m not sure what good it would do for her to know who Kooi really was. Better for Lucille to believe this was all some big misunderstanding and that Kooi was the victim of a mugger and not killed because he was a piece-of-shit contract killer.’ She paused. ‘No offence.’

‘None taken.’

‘Listen,’ Muir said. ‘I want to say I’m sorry.’

‘I already said I didn’t take offence.’

‘Not that. I’m sorry I put you through all this. I never would have sent you after Leeson had I had any idea what you were going to walk into.’

‘Yes, you would.’

‘Okay,’ Muir conceded. ‘But I wouldn’t do it again.’

‘I know.’

‘I’m glad you came out of it in one piece.’

‘So am I.’ He started walking out of habit. He didn’t like to stand in one place for long. Muir walked alongside him. ‘Any progress on the client?’

‘There is no client. At least, the broker and client are not different people. Robert Leeson, otherwise known as Ruslan Lisitsyn. He was SVR, privileged background, educated in the UK and the US, and was hotly tipped to make director someday. He fell off the grid a couple of years ago after a botched assignment in Odessa where he was running an operation that tried and failed to kill the head of the Georgian mob. They’ve been after him ever since according to the guy you left in that trunk. He also claims Leeson’s own people set him up.’ She paused for a moment. ‘I have a theory: let’s say Lisitsyn made himself an enemy of Prudnikov, perhaps he found out something he shouldn’t, but whatever, our boy Lisitsyn was too slick for the set-up. He goes underground, only travelling by boat or car to keep hidden from his hunters in the Georgian mob and SVR. He uses his private wealth and contacts in the intelligence world to reinvent himself as a broker, but all the while working on a plan to erase the threat posed by Prudnikov without the blame turning his way. He bides his time and to make his plan into a reality he assembles a team of killers from those he’s been hiring out to other people.

‘Rome police found the body of a Clarence James Coughlin in an apartment overlooking the Russian embassy. He killed himself. Slit his own wrists. No sign that anyone else was in there with him and no trace of anyone going by the name Hart matching your description.’

Victor nodded. ‘Coughlin didn’t kill himself.’

‘I believe you. Hart’s still out there, but he must be long gone by now.’

He reached into his inside jacket pocket and withdrew an object wrapped in acid-free tissue paper. He handed it to Muir, who unwrapped it.

‘Would you give it to Peter for me?’ Victor asked. ‘It’s important.’

‘Sure,’ Muir said as she turned the carved wooden figurine over in her hands. ‘But it looks like it’d give the kid nightmares.’

‘It won’t. Trust me. He’ll like it.’

‘Okay. Should I tell him it’s from you?’

Victor shook his head. ‘Just say it’s a present.’

Muir nodded and rewrapped the figurine. ‘You ever thought about coming to work for us full time?’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Take care of yourself, Miss Muir.’

She offered her hand and he shook it.