7. Something Missing. Something Found.
"So, did you get to go to the ice-hockey then?"
Svetlana just blinked at Tchéky, completely loosing her train of thought. "Pardon?"
"The ice-hockey," he prompted. "Are you all right Svet?"
She rubbed a hand across her eyes, stifling a yawn. "Um, yeah. I'm fine. Didn't get much sleep last night." She tried to focus. "Er, the ice hockey? Yes I went." She shook her head. "I don't know. Maybe I used to be a fan, but . . . I found it hard to get involved. Something . . . something was missing, I think."
Something was missing. That, she thought wryly, could be applied to so much of her life right now.
"Sorry to hear that."
"Oh, it wasn't a complete loss. It was good to get away for a while. You were right about that much. I think the problem's me. I still feel lost when it comes to everyday things."
"If you need anything, Svet . . ."
"I know. I know." She forced a smile. "I only have to ask." As she looked at him though, she couldn't help but wonder what he was hiding from her. The only thing she could see in his face appeared to be concern for her though. "Thank you, Tchéky."
He looked down – scratched the tip of his nose. "Director Karpuchin sends her congratulations for a job well done by the way. A written commendation will be attached to your file."
Svetlana just looked at him numbly.
"Yours and Anna's too." He held up a hand to stay the outburst he knew was coming. "Yes, I know. I know. I read what you wrote in the report, and I don't particularly like it any more than you do. But you have to face it. To the high ups results are what matters. She delivers results, so her methods are overlooked."
"She tortured a man to death, Tchéky! She cut his hand off while he was still alive to save herself a minor inconvenience." She folded her arms tight across her chest, looking away from him.
"He was hardly a good man. He's implicated in scores of deaths, and criminal activity that has brought misery to thousands."
"But he didn't deserve that! No one deserves that." Svetlana's voice was heated.
Tchéky raised his hands. "Look Svet, I'm just playing devils advocate here. Saying what others will no doubt say. Believe me, I've been in this position before. And I know just what kind of a nut job she is. But I also know that no one is going to do anything about it. This is not a battle you want to fight."
"So absolutely nothing is going to happen? We endorse what she did as acceptable action. Torturing someone to death for the hell of it is just fine." She sounded borderline incredulous. "How exactly does that make us any better than the enemy we're supposed to be fighting?"
Tchéky just looked at her unhappily.
She sighed. "I should have stopped her. I knew what she was going to do. Part of me did at least. That makes me just as guilty as her."
"That's ridiculous." He shook his head emphatically. "You aren't responsible for her actions. How could you have stopped her?"
"I could have shot her."
For a moment he gaped at her, genuinely taken aback. "Svet, I know you're upset . . ."
"Damn right I'm upset." She walked past him, heading for the door. There, briefly, she paused. "I'm going for a walk. Clear my head. I've been waived active duty for a couple of days, right?"
He nodded. "Yeah, you have a couple of days off."
"Good." Then she was gone.
* * *
She was being followed. That in itself was nothing surprising. Indeed Svetlana would have found it considerably more surprising if she wasn't being tailed by someone.
What was odd was that there appeared to be two separate groups doing the following. The joint taskforce mob were just as ham-fistedly predictable as ever, easy to spot in the bustling marketplace due to the fact that were wearing business suits that weren't exactly ideal for blending into the rest of the crowd. Over the past few weeks she'd come to identify six different men who had apparently been assigned to watch her whenever she was away from headquarters in rotating shifts. Today's pair were the ones she'd christened Larry and Moe.
She moved to stand beside a stall selling cheap looking necklaces, not because she had any intention of buying anything, but because she found it mildly amusing to see Larry stop suddenly and try to appear fascinated by the contents of a flower stall.
The stallholder tried to sell her one of the necklaces, but she held up a hand in refusal, shaking her head and walking on. "No. Not for me."
The second lot were much more surreptitious about what they were doing. Their dress sense was right for a start, and Svetlana was willing to bet that Larry and Moe weren't even aware of their presence. She didn't look directly at the shortish, moustachioed man in the battered old brown leather jacket, but steered her path casually towards him, curious to see how close to him he'd let her get.
Not very close, as it happened. He glanced down at his wristwatch, expression irritable – as if someone had been supposed to meet him there but was late – then strode off quite rapidly without looking at her once. No doubt the slightly plump, matronly looking woman Svetlana had identified as his partner was even now moving back into position.
For the next half hour she wandered around the market more or less aimlessly, browsing from store to store, buying the occasional knick-knack as whim took her. It was a cool crisp, pleasant morning, the sky overhead a clear azure dotted with fluffy white clouds, and it was enjoyable to just wander. In a strange way it was also enjoyable observing the antics of her tails as they struggled to remain unobtrusive.
Slowly a plan formed.
At first she tried to dismiss it, but it wouldn't go away, nagging at the back of her mind until she knew she was going to go through with it. Despite the fact that it was almost certainly a stupid thing. Despite the fact that it would almost certainly end up getting her in trouble. Doing something was better than doing nothing.
She moved on from the marketplace choosing a street more or less at random. It was the man with the moustache and brown leather jacket who picked up her tail again rather than the matronly woman. The nearest suit to her was Moe.
After about five minutes walking, looking in shop windows, she found what she was looking for. She stopped abruptly in front of a clothes shop, and the man with the moustache was forced to walk past her to avoid giving himself away. As she'd hoped he turned into the convenience store right next to the clothes shop, and, after a couple of seconds, she followed him.
The convenience store had two entrances. The one she'd just used facing onto the street and a second one opening onto a mini-mall. Moe, predictably, came inside after her to ensure that he wouldn't lose her if she took the exit he wasn't watching.
Svetlana picked up a shopping basket, and moved steadily down the aisles, occasionally putting something into the basket. Brown leather jacket was doing similar several yards ahead of her, giving no sign that he was aware of her presence.
Moe's attempts at shadowing her were almost laughable, but she pretended to ignore him. She wondered briefly if even her shopping list was reported back to headquarters.
Glancing quickly over her shoulder, checking to make sure Moe could see exactly what was going on, she made her move.
She chose an object from the shopping basket – a toothbrush – and concealed it in the palm of one hand. Then she started walking briskly, right up behind brown leather jacket's back. As she passed him she slipped the toothbrush into the pocket of his jacket, making sure as she did so that the move was obvious enough to anyone standing behind her, watching.
Brown leather jacket looked round reflexively at the slight, unexpected contact between them, further sign-posting what had happened. Svetlana kept on walking briskly, as if nothing untoward had occurred.
To Moe it would look like a slightly clumsily executed drop-off. Which would rather put a damper on his nice easy morning's work, and presented him with an interesting dilemma as to what to do next.
Moe bit, and better than she could have hoped. He went for the gun holstered beneath his left shoulder. "Hey! You! In the brown leather jacket. Don't move!"
Brown leather jacket, of course, did exactly the opposite, breaking into a darting run and pulling down a stack of baked bean tins behind him with a tremendous clatter. Moe squeezed off a shot, missing his target and perforating several milk cartons. Somebody screamed. When he tried to run after brown leather jacket he trod on one of the fallen tins and went sprawling onto his hands and knees, his gun flying from its grasp.
Larry, seeing the sudden uproar from outside, charged in to assist his partner.
Under cover of the confusion Svetlana ditched her shopping basket and made for the mini-mall exit. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted the matronly looking woman, moving quickly away from the scene, and walked swiftly in the opposite direction.
Ten minutes later Svetlana allowed herself to stop and get her bearings. For an hour or two at least she was out of headquarters, without a tail. And she knew exactly what she was going to do with that time.
* * *
"Hello doctor. I need you do something for me."
"Who the hell are you? How did you get in here?" Doctor Alexei Mikhailov jolted violently, his Adam's apple bobbing in a manner that made him resemble a startled and rather scrawny looking turkey.
Svetlana reached calmly around him and swung the door shut behind him. An attractive, smartly dressed woman radiating the correct amount of confidence and certainty that she had every right to be where she was rarely found herself being challenged, certainly not by something as lax as Russian hospital security. She didn't bother to explain that to him though.
"I said, how did you . . ." Alexei trailed off, staring down at her waist where her jacket had just fallen open as she reached around him. Staring at the sidearm that was on display there.
She looked him levelly in the eyes. "It would probably have been better if you hadn't seen that, Doctor. As far as I'm concerned it doesn't need to play any part at all in how out conversation goes."
"If I co-operate with you, eh?" His tone was cynical. "What do you want?"
She nodded, as if in agreement they should get straight to business. "I want you to x-ray me."
For a few seconds Alexei was too startled to speak. Then anger sparked in his face. "Get an appointment. Like everyone else has to." He didn't quite have the courage to just turn around and walk away, but Svetlana sensed it was close.
"I'm afraid my circumstances don't allow me to do that, doctor," she told him calmly.
"I can't just x-ray someone who has walked in off the street. There are rules. Procedures. I have things I need to do. Patients in need of treatment . . ."
"You were just about to go on your lunch hour. I apologise for the inconvenience, but today you're going to miss lunch."
His jaw shut, biting off whatever he was going to say. He looked at her face intently. "If I don't do it you'll what? Shoot me?"
"I 'd rather it didn't come to threats, or anything like that. It doesn't have to. We don't have to make this into an unpleasant ordeal." Suddenly she smiled at him. "If you have to have a reason, then do it because you like my smile."
Finally he sighed – nodded once. "You do have a nice smile."
* * *
"What exactly are we looking for? I presume you have some kind of reason for this rigmarole? That getting people to x-ray you isn't just some bizarre method of getting sexual kicks?"
Svetlana brushed her hair back from her face, pointing to the small scar on her left temple. "I was told that I was shot in the head, but I have reason to believe I may have been lied to in that matter. As far as I'm aware a bullet passing through my skull would have left telltale evidence that would show up in an x-ray."
Alexei Mikhailov made a small, strangled noise. "You were shot in the head?"
She regarded him calmly. "That's what I'm trying to determine."
"I mean . . .. I mean, you don't know whether you've been shot? Wouldn't that be something that kind of stuck in the memory?"
"I don't remember much of anything doctor."
His face had gone pale – paler than before – and he was sweating; she could see it, his skin greasy in the artificial light. "Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. What's going on here? What the hell are you involved in?"
"You really don't want to know that Doctor. Believe me when I say that."
He looked at her a moment before nodding quickly. "Yeah. Yeah, I get that." He rubbed a hand across his face, swallowing heavily. "Jesus. You have a name?"
She just looked at him.
"Right. Something else I don't want to know. Is there anything I could call you though? Might make it easier."
Svetlana hesitated, then – remembering what Tchéky had called her in the restaurant – nodded. "Irina is as good as anything. For all I can be sure of it might actually be my real name."
He took a deep breath – seemed to have managed to calm himself slightly. "Well then Irina, if you'd like to turn your head to one side and place it against the plate there . . ."
* * *
"So. Is that good enough for you then?"
Svetlana paused briefly – considered – before responding. "Can you do another? My right side this time."
Alexei looked at her wearily. "You were shot – or not shot – there too?"
She caught the cynicism in his voice. "I have another scar there. Not more than six months old at a guess. I don't know how I got it, and no explanation for it has been forthcoming."
"You really have total memory loss?"
"I can't remember any personal information – anything about my life before six months ago – at all. Other things – general knowledge, learned skills and so on – I don't have a problem with."
He grunted. She thought she detected genuine curiosity. "Do you have any other symptoms? Loss of motor control; reduced language faculty; short-term memory problems; difficulty recognising faces; epileptic seizures. Anything like that?"
"You mean aside from the acute paranoia and persecution complex?" She favoured him with a wry smile. "No. Not that I've noticed."
He rubbed the bridge of his nose, then looked back at her face. "That's . . . unusual. That the brain damage caused by a bullet to the head would be so specific, I mean. In itself the memory loss is not so utterly extraordinary, but you would expect a whole range of other problems to go with it if the cause were physical."
"That's what I've been thinking."
"If you want me to x-ray your side you need to take your shirt off."
She did so, hanging it across the back of a chair and standing before him unselfconsciously in her plain black bra. Her gun was also in the way of the area that needed x-raying. She laid it calmly aside on a nearby work surface.
He looked at the gun. To her. Back again.
"Yes. You probably could run away and alert security if you wanted." She smiled once more, looking him directly in the eye. "I'm really not sure that I'd shoot you in the back to stop you."
He shook his head, as if wondering at himself. "I have to admit to a certain curiosity."
* * *
"So doctor. What is your considered opinion? Has a bullet ever passed through my head?"
"My considered opinion . . . Irina?" He reached out and pointed to a spot on the x-ray of her skull. "No. You have never been shot in the head. The bone here is completely intact. There's no sign of any trauma whatsoever. Something like a bullet has certainly never passed through it. No matter how good a job they did at patching you up there would still be obvious signifiers."
Standing beside him, her shirt back on, Svetlana just nodded. Looking at the x-ray she'd already come to exactly that conclusion herself, but it was nice to have expert opinion back that up.
She stared at the x-ray – blinked a couple of times. It shouldn't have come as a surprise. She'd been expecting exactly this – 99% expecting exactly this. But it was still a shock. They'd lied to her.
How much else was a lie. Was anything they'd told her true in fact? If she hadn't been shot what the hell had been done to her?
"Can we look at the next x-ray?" Her voice sounded strange to her own ears – like it came from several miles away. Alexei looked at her sidelong, but nodded.
She caught his sharp intake of breath as he put the x-ray of the right side of her abdomen up. It was immediately obvious what the cause was. Directly below the location of her scar was a small completely opaque circle. She pointed to it. "What's that?"
He gave a slightly helpless looking shrug. "Plastic. Possibly metal."
"And it's definitely inside me? Not just a flaw on the x-ray?"
"It's too regular and precise in shape to be a flaw. You'd expect to see it on the other x-ray too if that were the case. No, I'd say it's definitely something inside you."
Svetlana traced the area around the scar with her fingertips, then pushed down, seeing if she could feel anything solid. She thought she could, but it was difficult to be definite.
Alexei was looking at her, expression strange and slightly fearful. He more or less repeated her earlier question. "What is it?"
"A tracking device," she concluded after a pause. Briefly she wondered if it might also be a bug too, but quickly dismissed the idea. Any microphone that small would be unable to pick up any useful sound from that deep inside her – except possibly the working of her bowels. For it to be a bug it would need to have been implanted in her neck.
"A tracking device?" Alexei blanched. "You mean someone knows you're here. Right now?!"
Her heart was suddenly racing, but she shook her head. "Unlikely. It's probably passive at the moment. Too risky sending me on covert missions with an active tracking device inside me." And the sweep she'd been given her going into Chebakov's would almost certainly have given her away. "No it would probably only be activated were I to . . . go missing."
Like now? When I've just ditched my tails. The thought brought her up short.
Alexei was staring at her. "Covert missions? What the hell are you?"
She didn't answer him. Her thoughts were running off down dark and twisted highways.
"Some kind of . . . spy? Secret agent?" The look she gave him made him grimace. "No. I remember. Don't ask. Safer that way. Jesus Christ!" He raked a hand distractedly through his greying hair.
Svetlana put a hand lightly on his shoulder to steady him and waited for him to calm down a fraction before speaking. "Could you remove it?"
He looked startled. "I'm not a surgeon!"
"But you do have some training in basic surgical procedure, even if it's only what you learned in medical school," she insisted.
Reluctantly he nodded. He looked at the x-ray again. "They put in a relatively safe place. No major blood vessels, and little risk of damaging any internal organs. I could probably take it out under local anaesthetic. If . . . if that is what you want."
Yes, she was about to say, but hesitated.
Having it removed would be an irrevocable step. As soon as she did that she was on the run, cut off from the taskforce with no outside resources she could call upon. She would be alone, with no memories, and no way of finding out anything more about her situation. The only concrete things she possessed were the clothes on he back and the name of what might have been a CIA agent. That was not enough.
Eventually she shook her head. "No. No, on second thoughts leave it in."
If she did run it would need to be with far more planning and preparation than this. She wasn't even sure yet if she wanted to run.
The clear relief on Alexei's face was so palpable that it almost drew a smile from her. She touched his arm again. "Thank you doctor. I'm sorry I involved you in this, believe me. I'll go now and you won't see me again." She turned away from him – started to walk away.
"You're not going to shoot me then?" The query sounded almost puzzled.
She looked back at him, surprised. In a way she should shoot him, she supposed – cover her tracks. If the taskforce found out about this visit, or he said something inadvertent . . .. Anna would have shot him without a moment's hesitation.
She smiled. "Now why would I even think about doing something like that?"
* * *
There was a reception committee waiting for her in the lobby of taskforce headquarters. A half-dozen suits materialised around her as soon as she walk through the automatic doors.
Svetlana didn't hesitate for even a fraction of a second, walking directly up to the one she judged to be in charge. "I need to speak to the head of security section right away. There's been an incident."
* * *
Svetlana looked up from the chair as the door opened. It was Tchéky. His expression looked grim.
"What the hell happened? What did you do?" He sat down heavily in the chair across the desk from her.
"I've been over this four times already, Tchéky. In tediously explicit detail."
"Go over it again." His voice was flat
She gave him a slightly odd look, then sighed exasperatedly through clenched teeth. "I went out shopping this morning – the old marketplace. I happened to notice I was been tailed."
"Agents are regularly assigned tails as a matter of routine. There are various freedoms that we all knowingly sacrifice." Tchéky's attitude was definitely odd – distant in a way she couldn't recall from him.
"It wasn't our lot. I know them. They follow me everywhere, and I've got used to it. They're not exactly the most unobtrusive individuals, are they?"
Tchéky grunted. "So you're saying a third party was tailing you too. As well as our security detail."
"Yes." For the fifth bloody time. "A man in his mid to late forties. Five foot seven. Medium build. Dark hair with a neatly trimmed moustache showing a hint of grey. He was wearing a brown leather jacket. His partner was a woman of similar age. Five five. Looked to be on the plump side, though that might just have been padding beneath her coat. She wore steel rimmed glasses and had collar length mousy brown hair."
"The security detail claim to have been unaware of these two individuals."
"Why does that not surprise me in the slightest?" She held Tchéky's gaze firmly with hers. He was the first to look away.
"So, you were being tailed. Explain what happened in the convenience store. It has been reported that you were seen passing on what was possibly classified intelligence."
For a moment she just stared at him. "I was seen passing on a flex-neck toothbrush!"
He blinked, slightly startled by the intensity of her reaction. "And why would you want to do that?"
"I was trying to find a way of identifying him to security section. A better way than walking up to the security section detail and starting a bloody conversation in the middle of the street. I failed to anticipate that the idiots would be stupid enough to pull a gun in front of several hundred witnesses. A mistake I'll grant you."
Tchéky rubbed a hand across his eyes and sighed.
"Look. You have the man in custody. You've searched him. You know I didn't pass anything on to him . . . Wait. Why are you looking at me like that?" She groaned in sudden understanding. "We don't have him in custody, do we? He got away."
He seemed momentarily unable to look her in the eye. "He managed to evade capture, yes."
"Do we employ trained monkeys around here, Tchéky? No? Well perhaps we should do. They could hardly do a worse job than those . . . those incompetents."
"The quality – or otherwise – of our security section personal is not at issue here. Your actions are."
She let out a breath – forced herself calm. "With the benefit of hindsight, yes I made a mistake. I should have cut short my shopping trip, returned to headquarters and reported the situation rather than assume that the agents in the field were capable of dealing sensibly with the matter. So I screwed up." She tugged at the restraining belt securing her to the chair. "But this is a bit much. I am not disloyal. I have never given any indication of being disloyal . . . have I Tchéky?"
Eventually he shook his head. "No." But he pressed on regardless. "You lost the security section detail and disappeared for three hours. Why? Where did you go?"
She'd been through this multiple times too – gritted her teeth in frustration. "I was caught up in a situation which could have led to me being compromised. I left the scene at the earliest opportunity and – using the standard techniques we have all been drilled in – I deliberately ensured that I lost any further tails I might have acquired, before returning to headquarters when I deemed it safe to do so."
He didn't speak; just gave a fractional nod.
"I've already been over my route in detail. I can go over it again if you like."
He shook his head. "No. That won't be necessary." Abruptly he stood up.
"Wait Tchéky," she said as he started to turn away. "What's going to happen?"
He looked back at her, eyes strange. Then he shook his head. "I don't know yet."
After he was gone Svetlana sat back in her chair, tilting her head back and staring up at the ceiling as she waited.
* * *
Svetlana stood, theoretically looking out of the windows of her quarters, though in reality she saw nothing beyond the pale ghost of her reflection in the glass.
A silent, impassive faced man had come into the interview room just over an hour ago, and – unspeaking – released her from the chair harness. Her questions had gone unanswered but she'd been let out and allowed back here.
There was a soft knock on the door behind her. "Come in."
Although she didn't look round she could tell from the rhythm of the footsteps behind her that it was Tchéky. Still gazing out of the window she waited for him to speak.
He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "I just thought I should let you know. You've been cleared of any wrongdoing in this morning's events, and it has been accepted that your actions were reasonable in the circumstances."
She paused a moment before responding. "Do we have any clue who the people following me were?"
There was a hesitation. "Investigations are ongoing."
"So that would be no?"
"There is one thing."
"By the sound of your voice, Tchéky, I'm not going to like this am I?" She finally turned round to look at him.
His expression was uncomfortable. "Until we manage to ascertain more details about this morning's events I'm afraid you've been confined to headquarters."
"So when you say I've been cleared what you really mean is that I'm a prisoner."
"Svet, the decision was taken for your own protection."
She didn't bother to reply – just looked at him steadily.
"I argued against it. But I was overruled."
She turned away, back to the window. "Can I talk to you Tchéky? In complete confidentiality I mean."
"Of course you can, Svet. You've always been able to talk to me."
She looked over her shoulder at his face. He looked slightly perplexed, she thought. And more than slightly troubled. "I mean talk to just you."
After a pause he nodded, taking a pen out of his jacket pocket and twisting the cap around. Then he leant past her, placing the pen on the windowsill. "Okay. We have a few minutes. Until the beep. What is it?"
"I was never shot, was I Tchéky? That's why there's all this paranoia about this morning. There never was any accident."
For a moment his mouth worked without producing sound. "What on earth makes you think that? That's . . ."
"Ridiculous? Is it really?"
"Of course it is."
She folded her arms across her chest. "I mentioned that dream, didn't I? About being in America."
He nodded; was about to say something, but she cut him off.
"Well I had another dream. One I didn't mention to you. There was a man in it. A man in both dreams actually. The same man. And he had a name, which I managed to remember when I woke up. So, you know what? I did some checking up."
"Some checking up," he repeated hollowly.
"And guess what I found? I found that the man from my dreams really existed. The name and the face matched up with one on our files."
"Svet . . ." he started.
She ignored him. "The name belonged to someone who, officially, worked for the US Department of State. I think you know what that suggests?"
He blinked. "CIA."
She just looked at him.
He cleared his throat again. "So . . . So you knew a man who works for the CIA. You know Svet, that's hardly inconceivable. You're an intelligence officer, and you've worked in the United States. I'd be more surprised if you didn't know any CIA officers. It's not like the cold war is still going on. It's not like we're enemies any more."
"But we're not exactly allies either, are we?" she pressed.
"Where the hell are you going with this? Because I don't honestly see anything . . .."
"If the dreams are anything to go by I more than just 'knew' this CIA officer. We were . . . intimate."
He stopped, but covered himself quickly. "And?"
"I've read some of the archives. Do these names mean anything to you? Neil Caplan; Mark Roberson; Peter Frampton; Scott Anderson; Robert Mitchell; Leonard Eisendrath; Jonathan Bristow. I could add half a dozen more if you like."
Tchéky nodded resignedly. "I see where you're going with this Svet. But no. No. You're putting two and two together and you're coming up with twenty."
"So you can look me in the eye and tell me with absolute honesty that I was never selected for a mission whereby I was sent to the USA to seduce a CIA agent named Michael Vaughn for the purposes of stealing intelligence."
"Of course you weren't."
"Still, lets – for the sake of argument – say that I was. So there I am, hypothetically now, in the USA, insinuating my way into this Michael Vaughn's life, making him believe that I loved him, while all the time I was really reporting back our conversations; our pillow talk; going through his briefcase; betraying him. Except something went wrong, didn't it? Something that wasn't foreseen. I really did fall in love with him. It wasn't just pretend, and I refused to keep doing my job."
He threw up his hands. "Do you have any idea how mad this all sounds?"
She carried on as if he hadn't spoken. "So what then? Maybe I decide to defect, and you extract me back. Something like that. I'm a traitor to my country of course, but perhaps I'm still useful somehow. Perhaps you want to try out some new psychological conditioning techniques. Wipe my memory say, and set me back to work again as if nothing was amiss."
Tchéky shook his head wonderingly. "Okay, setting aside the obvious ridiculousness of all this for a moment, I'll speak hypothetically too. If you were a traitor, and what you say happened did happen, we would not have wasted all this effort getting you back. We'd have just shrugged our shoulders and given you up as a loss – not worth the hassle. Even allowing that we had got you back somehow, we wouldn't have gone through all this . . . rigmarole. You'd simply have been tried for treason, and if you didn't receive the death penalty, you'd get to live out your life in a hard labour camp somewhere in Siberia."
She raised an eyebrow.
He seemed annoyed, verging on downright angry. "Not speaking hypothetically anymore, I can't envisage any set of circumstances where it would be worthwhile to wipe someone's memory – assuming such a thing is even possible – and reprogram them to be a field agent." He sighed, the anger bleeding abruptly away. "Look Svet, I understand why you might feel that something wasn't right, and why you would think we're hiding things from you. What happened to you doesn't seem natural or possible. It seems crazy even to me. But . . . this is real life. Not John le Carré or Robert bloody Ludlum."
The pen beeped. Both of them stared at the other, breathing slightly heavily.
Svetlana's gaze settled on the back of his hand. He was still wearing the elastoplast on the webbing between thumb and forefinger, she noted. As he had been for at least three weeks. As, for that matter, had Sergei and a couple of other agents she'd seen around the place.
"How's your hand?"
"What?" Tchéky seemed startled by the sudden segue in the conversation.
"Your hand." She nodded towards it. "You've been wearing that plaster every time I've seen you for god knows how long. It must have been quite a bad injury."
"Oh. Erm, this?" Svetlana could practically see his thoughts ticking over as he struggled to come up with an appropriate lie. She didn't wait to find out what it would be, instead reaching across and ripping the plaster off before Tchéky had time to react.
Instead of an injury there was a tattoo. 'O'. It resembled a symbolic representation of an eye and, looking at it, she knew with a disquieting certainty that she had seen it somewhere before.
Glaring at her angrily Tchéky snatched up his pen and stalked out.
* * *
"Do we have any idea who might have been tailing her yet?" Tchéky spoke into his cell phone. He was seated in a high-backed leather armchair, the light from a table lamp drawing his face in a mass of hard angles and deep shadows. One hand toyed with the rim of a whisky tumbler, swivelling it back forth as he talked.
"Leads are being pursued," the distorted voice answered after a miniscule pause.
"That sounds like a no to me."
"The matter is out of your hands, Mr. Romatsev. If it becomes necessary for you to know the results of our enquiries then you will be informed. Otherwise you will not be." There was a hint of a snap to the voice, Tchéky thought. And it still sounded like a no.
"If it is Derevko . . .."
"Derevko has accepted that her daughter is dead. We understand why you have this . . . obsession with Ms. Derevko, and we sympathise. To a degree. But it has reached a point where it is no longer helpful. Where it appears almost to be affecting your focus. The tails were not Derevko's."
"Unless you do know their identity you cannot say that for sure . . ."
"Enough!"
Tchéky flinched.
The voice was urbane again, all trace of anger gone. "In light of recent events we have been minded to reconsider your suggestion that Agent Borushka be sent in for further reconditioning."
"Oh?" Tchéky was so startled by the change in subject that he couldn't manage anything more coherent.
"Yes. Perhaps we were over hasty in dismissing your concerns . . .."
"That's funny," Tchéky hastened. Suddenly he was filled with an acute fear, though he would have struggled to explain its cause – even to himself. "Because I was going to say that, on reflection, I was too hasty. That you were correct. There is no problem."
"Explain."
Tchéky's tongued flicked out, moistening lips that suddenly felt painfully dry. "I don't see what's to explain. I'm merely saying that I was overhasty in my assessment. Of course, as you say, there were always going to be one or two little gaps – teething troubles if you like. But after the Siberia mission . . . .. All my doubts have been erased."
"Your tone of voice does not seem to contain the same confidence as your words suggest."
He swallowed – composed himself. "I'm not sure what you're saying here."
"Then I will make it explicit. Have there been any further incidences to suggest that her conditioning is slipping? Any more dreams, or untoward behaviour? Any suggestion that she is questioning the veracity of what she has been told?"
Tchéky hesitated – glanced down at the back of his hand and the tattoo he still hadn't bothered re-covering. "No," he lied.
"Good." There was a click and the line went dead.
He downed the whisky in a single shot.