Chapter Seven
I was facing Lucas again, this time in the middle of the floor of partitioned offices where we worked, everyone else standing around us in a silent ring as I confronted him.
'How did you know? I didn't mention Moscow,' I asked, already knowing the inevitable answer and dreading it.
Again he floundered for words, eyes darting between me and the people watching, then his hand dived for the gun I knew he had sequestered in his inner pocket.
But there was a shot then, and I looked up from Lucas' fallen, inanimate body to find Camille standing behind him, gun in her hand. I stared in open shock at the tall, willow-thin woman who habitually wore heels higher than Mount Blanc.
'I couldn't let him finish my job for me,' she said, shrugging.
Then she raised the gun again, at me – but there as another shot, again from behind, and she too fell to join Lucas on the ground. Sophie, her green eyes as happy-go-lucky as ever, grinned.
'You are mine, Katya.'
She raised the gun again, slowly, and I looked around in panic at the assembled co-workers, searching their faces.
'How many?' I shouted. 'How many of you have been lying to me?'
There was another shot – I didn't jump this time, I had been half-expecting it – and Sophie fell. Behind her was my boss, a sour, dumpy old woman with close curls of iron grey. The gun seemed out of place in her soft, sun-spotted hand.
'No!' I groaned. 'Not you as well!'
'Katya! Katya!'
Abruptly the scene was gone and I opened my eyes to stare up into the shadowy face of Kirill leaning over me. I gasped and shifted instinctively away, almost expecting him to raise a gun to me as well. He frowned, his face half-lit by strips of moonlight filtering through the curtains.
'You were calling out in your sleep,' he said.
'Sorry,' I muttered, embarrassed. 'Nightmare.'
He straightened, to my relief, giving me more room, and I relaxed. I raised a hand to rub at my eyes, humiliated that I didn't seem able to do a single thing around this man that didn't make me look like an idiot.
After a moment Kirill moved away, toward the door. I briefly considered trying to return to sleep, for it was still night time, but the thought made me shiver. I threw back the covers and Kirill looked back as I stood up.
'Need a drink,' I explained.
He nodded and passed through into the dark lounge room, leaving the door open. He lowered himself onto the couch as I crossed the room to the bench along the back wall, beside the small refrigerator. I noticed that a pillow lay against one arm and a blanket was heaped on the cushions.
'Are you sleeping there?' I asked incredulously as I bent down to take a cup from the cupboard beneath the sink.
'Yes,' he replied, smothering a yawn with one hand. 'I have devices on the door and windows to alert me if there's any movement.' Dark eyes flashed sardonically in my direction. 'Just in case you're thinking of running again.'
I didn't reply but took the cup filled with water and perched on the edge of an armchair. I realised that from here he had a perfect view of the outer door, with the one leading from this room to the entrance open. Before I might have scorned such precautions but now they reassured me.
'Do you think anyone will actually try to get in here?' I asked softly, almost whispering. 'Lucas is dead…'
Kirill's eyes were on the coffee table – I'd noticed that he rarely looked at people when he spoke, studying them when their eyes were elsewhere but looking over their heads or to one side if they lifted their own gaze. It was a frustrating habit.
'Lucas was just one. There are others, and one in particular to be guarded against.'
'Who?'
His face tightened. 'An American. Jason Bourne.'
'What does he want with me? What do any of them want with me?'
He sighed and fiddled with the gun in his hand that I hadn't noticed before. He carried it so naturally that it seemed more like an extension of his arm than anything else.
'Bourne because he learned that Gretkov was the one who instrumented the death of his partner, and because I lived when he thought I'd died. The others… Well, your father has enemies and they would be only too glad to get hold of you.'
'But why?' I pressed. 'Father and I are not that close…'
'You will inherit most of his wealth, should he die.'
'But he's not dead.'
'No. Not at the moment.'
I shivered and sank into the leather armchair, pulling my legs up to my chest and wrapping my arms around them. My father had always seemed invincible to me, before… but now I was being reminded that he, like the rest of us, was just a man. A man who could be injured.
'So what would they do with me, if Gretkov died?'
'Marry you, probably.'
'What?' I squeaked. 'Marry me?'
'And force you to sign a last will awarding all money to them if you die. Then send you away, under guard, until they felt it was safe to kill you.'
I stared at him in revulsion – the idea seemed like it had come straight out of the Middle Ages – but his eyes were on the gun he was turning over in his hands. Suddenly I was feeling much more grateful towards my father for sending Kirill to protect me, even if he wasn't the most convivial person around. There was silence in the apartment for a short while and I noticed the clock on the wall – it was four-thirty in the morning.
'You said Jason Bourne was the main threat,' I said slowly, breaking the quiet. 'Is he so much better than the others?'
Kirill's face twisted itself into a snarl. I watched, fascinated, as the anger was removed and features schooled into neutrality again.
'Yes. And better than me.'
How much had that quiet admission cost Kirill in pride? From the ugly look that remained in the man's eyes it seemed that things were personal between them. Curiosity prompted me to enquire further, although I got the feeling that I shouldn't tread there.
'Do you know him?'
He snorted but said nothing. I sensed animosity, a personal grudge – not surprising, if they had tried to kill each other yet failed.
'What happened?'
At first I thought he wouldn't answer, and there was a long, awkward silence in which I wished I could retract the question. Then he exhaled and spoke, voice clipped.
'The day Gretkov was arrested, about a year ago. Those damn Americans, interfering…' he frowned again. 'Gretkov had hired me to kill Bourne, among other things. I thought I had done so in Goa but he came back. I chased him through half of Moscow.'
He closed his eyes briefly and I waited, enthralled. I was coming to feel proud when I could coax more than five words from him at a time.
'It ended in a car wreck in a tunnel. He walked away.' His knuckles whitened where they clutched the gun. 'He should have died so many times that day.'
I was aware, then, of how deadly quiet it was. There was a low whirr from the fridge in the corner of the room but otherwise it was silent and still as Kirill recounted, his eyes on his gun, perhaps even forgetting that he was talking. I was a little surprised at such eloquence on the subject but I didn't want him to stop.
'Afterwards, Gretkov said he still had use for me, even after failing on Bourne. He received some threats against you and sent me here.'
I didn't know what to say. I was grateful that he'd spoken this much about himself, revealing his past – a thing I knew men such as he were loath to do – and distracting me from my own worries. Still, I could never put that in words without annoying him and sounding just plain awkward, so I remained silent and the seconds ticked by.
I was starting to become sleepy and the leather of the armchair was feeling very soft and warm when something on the coffee table beeped. It wasn't loud but it was insistent and it sent my heart rate straight up, eradicating all sleepiness. Kirill lunged forward to shove the newspaper aside, revealing a small black device with a red light flashing on its surface.
'Katya,' he said, voice beginning neutral but growing urgent. 'There should be a bag among the things I brought for you. Go and pack it, taking what you want most, but don't turn any lights on and make no noise. Now. Go!'
I leapt up, fear building, and obeyed with alacrity. I changed in the dark, pulling on the pair of jeans I'd worn earlier because I knew they fitted. There was indeed a satchel in one of the bags, black as most of the things were, and I stuffed clothes into it without paying much attention. I decided to leave my boots behind, much as I loved them, for their high heels were very impractical. Father could pay for me to buy a new pair, I thought angrily – my sudden fear finding an outlet in the form of fury – for putting me through all of this.
It took me only a few minutes before I was back in the lounge room where I found Kirill putting on his coat, his own bag already packed and at his feet. Remembering, I darted into the bathroom to snatch up the toothbrush and toothpaste. I couldn't live without them.
As I returned to the lounge Kirill checked his gun a final time and fitted a silencer to its end, keeping it in his hand as he shouldered his bag. Frightened and anxious, I waited for him to tell me what to do.
'Someone tried to open the door. Come. We have to leave now. Keep close behind me and we'll go to the car, parked in the alleyway behind the hotel, using the side exit. Here's a key in case I'm shot – go to this address.'
He handed me a car key and a card with an address for a place on the other side of Paris. I felt faintly sick and very jumpy, and not just because I was in danger of being shot. Kirill, too, was a target, and he himself had acknowledged that he might die in the coming minutes. I had to admire the cool way he handled it.
'Ready?' he asked, voice surprisingly gentle.
I looked up and nodded, not sure that I would be able to speak if I opened my mouth. He gave me a slight smile.
'Don't worry. I'm good at this, and they want you alive.'
Great. I had a seasoned killer as my companion. But I had to admit, as I followed him from the lounge room, that I was certainly glad he was on my side.
AN: And, as promised, an update!!! ...in less than three month's time. Yeah. I'm proud :) Thank you so, so much to everyone who has been reading, and especially those who reviewed; thanks for sticking with the story, guys!
