CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
They took their time driving back to London, stopping if they wanted to, eating again in Windsor just before they joined the crawl of vehicles making their way back into the city ready for the working week. Ben couldn’t help feeling how immensely lucky he was. He had no plans for the week other than putting his bike back together and enjoying Nikolas’s body as often as he was allowed. Life was good.
Nikolas, he knew, would have a more troubling week.
§§§
Monday, Nikolas changed back into the Sir Nikolas Mikkelsen Ben had first met, dressing with immaculate perfection and retreating into himself. He returned from the lawyer’s offices calm but quiet. Ben made him a cup of tea. He was English; it’s what you did in times of crisis. He didn’t even think as he handed Nikolas a mug with a few oily fingerprints from his engine and with a teabag and spoon still in it. Nikolas looked at the offering and smiled for the first time that day. “Thank you, Benjamin. That is very thoughtful.”
“So? How did it go?”
“Good. I think. Amicable, as was required of me. I believe I made a statement to the effect that there were irreconcilable differences. As I did not write the statement, I could not decide if that meant that I was Danish or that I like to fuck men. It was rather surreal. We have had no differences at all for ten years. I believe we agreed on most everything about our arrangement.” He laughed suddenly. “We actually both agreed on you.”
“Me?”
“Hmm. She said one weekend that you were quite her favourite young man. I could only agree with her. Anyway, it is done. Should we celebrate? Food or sex? You decide—you seem to like both equally.”
The next day, there was a very small, clearly pre-prepared announcement in the quality press. If Nikolas saw it, he didn’t mention it. At the end of the week, however, in the supplement, there was a feature article from the society commentator entitled “The IT Girl Does IT Right” and a picture of Philipa with the caption: Lady Philipa in happier times with her favourite black lab, Bodger. The article went on to extol the virtues of amicable divorces. The photograph had been taken in Nikolas’s study at Barton Combe. Ben recognised the armchair Philipa was perched on—he’d been up close and personal with the leather once or twice. He also recognised the desk in the background; he’d been taken on that too. Most of all, he recognised the man sitting at the desk. Nikolas had been caught, almost certainly accidentally, in the background of the photograph. He had his head turned to the camera as if someone had just said something that annoyed him. He was writing, his hand poised over a chequebook. It was almost exactly the same pose as the photo Ben had of him at seventeen. Now, however, the face was neither young nor innocent, and he looked furious. Ben was pretty sure Nikolas was going to be furious again if he saw the article. He wondered if he should just hide it. It was possible Nikolas wouldn’t miss the supplement. He glanced at it again, debating.
And that’s when he saw it.
Everything that had been wrong and niggling at him just clicked into place. He sat heavily, a sense of utter dislocation washing over him. Then he flung himself up and sprinted to the bedroom, digging in a drawer. He pulled out the photo of the seventeen-year-old Nikolas and sat on the bed comparing the two pictures. Seventeen-year-old Nikolas was right handed. Forty-two-year-old Nikolas was left handed—Ben knew this very well; after all, he’d enjoyed Nikolas’s left hand many times. And then, with a foreshadowing of all the pain which he knew was coming his way, Ben heard an echo in his mind, “Then I think the question you should ask me is not if Nikolas Mikkelsen is my real name but who Nikolas Mikkelsen really was.” Whoever Nikolas was, he clearly wasn’t the boy in this photo. But they were identical, except for the right hand, left hand difference. Ben bit his lip. He knew what this meant—the boy in the photo must be Nikolas’s brother. His twin. So it begged the obvious question: why had Nikolas lied when Ben had found the photo? Why deny the existence of a brother? Why not say, with all honesty, “Oh, that’s my brother”? It didn’t make any sense.
He looked up and Nikolas was leaning in the doorway watching him. His expression was one of profound sadness.
He turned and walked away.
§§§
Ben found Nikolas in the kitchen, leaning on the counter, tossing treats to Radulf who was ignoring them and letting them skate over the tiled floor, as if being fed this way was demeaning them both. Ben sat down and laid out the photos on the table. Nikolas turned around, staring at him. “If you make me do this, Ben, then everything falls apart between us.”
“Bullshit. Stop being melodramatic.”
“Do you understand what I am saying? These things were never to be spoken of. If you make me tell you, it will be the end of everything.”
“Jesus. Sit down and just tell me, yeah?”
Nikolas sat and took the photo of the boy into his hands. “This is Aleksey, my brother. My twin brother, obviously. We were born in Russia on the coast near St Petersburg. Our father was a Russian diplomat; our mother was Danish. A pianist, actually. When Aleksey and I were born, she left our father and returned to her parents in Denmark. Their split was not amicable. We lived at my grandparents’ summer estates on Aeroe—which explains my distinct Danish accent…which you, of course, had not noticed. Anyway, when we were ten, my mother died, and we went to live with our father in Russia. We moved around a lot. He died when we were seventeen—just after that photograph was taken, actually. I had a place at the university in Copenhagen, so I returned to Denmark; Aleksey remained in Russia. He had grown fond of it, I believe. I joined the diplomatic service after my degree. I came to England ten years ago, and the rest you know.”
“And your brother?”
“He is dead. An accident.” He paused in his almost scripted, dry recital, as if unwilling to personalise the account at all, but then added reluctantly, “He fell off a balcony and was killed.”
“Oh, shit! I’m so sorry, no wonder—”
“It was a long time ago.”
“So why all the secrecy? Why didn’t you just tell me this was your brother to start with? Why let me go on thinking it was you? And why all the doom and gloom prophesy about telling me now?”
Nikolas flicked his eyes up to gauge how the next part of his story would be received. “Aleksey was a very troubled boy, Ben. We were completely different—and not just the left hand thing. From the earliest age he was the one no one could say no to. Nothing was too high or too far, no horse too powerful for him to ride, no ocean current too strong for him to swim.”
“You raced Aleksey?”
Nikolas smiled. “Yes. Every morning between the islands.”
“But you said you always won.”
Nikolas hesitated for a moment then shrugged. “I lied. I always lie, you know this. Aleksey won. He always won. He won everything. He could bear to lose at nothing. When we went to live with our father, they clashed. It was a difficult time. I would return to Denmark for holidays, but Aleksey stayed. Then when our father died, I returned to Denmark for good. I occasionally heard of Aleksey through my contacts in Russia. He had no control mechanisms, I think—the knowing when things are right or wrong. He could not or would not be told these things, and he did many terrible things before he died. Things I did not care to have come out, given my position. I had hoped his death had buried him and his story for good.”
“But what about you?”
“Me? I was not like Aleksey at all. I always preferred reading to running about. I was calm and in control of myself. He never was. He was like the ocean in a storm: beautiful in his fury. Everyone loved me. They feared Aleksey.”
“Did you?”
“No. But then Aleksey adored me. I was the younger twin. I think he thought of me as his pet. He treated me like his sidekick in his own adventure film. If boats had to be stolen and sailed away, I was co-opted for crew. He stole a car once, and we made it to France. I think we were eight. But he took all the beatings too. I was an average student. He was brilliant. I studied the piano for hours; he hardly needed to and was always better than me. When we went to live in Russia, he was fluent within a few weeks. He had to teach me.” He gave a rueful huff. “Twins are not always born half of this and half of that. I think we were more one-third and two-thirds.” Suddenly he took a sharp breath. “Now. That is the whole story. I have things to do. Please leave me in peace for a while.”
Ben watched him leave. Whole story? He had heard nothing but lies, half-truths, and obscuration. He held the picture of the boy once more, studying the face in the light of all he had been told. The wistful expression spoke to him of joy and innocence, the boy painting a delicate shell. Ben knew what he was seeing—who he was seeing. Nikolas had told the truth the first time—when Ben had found the picture. The boy was Nikolas Mikkelsen, quiet, thoughtful, studious—but right-handed. And the left-handed man who had just left the room? Ben reckoned he’d just spent the last four years of his life falling in love with Aleksey Mikkelsen, who was now, it appeared, living the life of his twin brother…
Ben was sleeping with a total stranger.
Everything he knew had just been stripped away from him. He thought for an embarrassing moment he was going to cry. Everything—every word, every time they slept together, all they’d shared—was a lie. But then Nikolas—no, Aleksey—had warned him, “If you make me do this, Ben, then everything falls apart between us.”
Ben picked up the keys for the Range Rover and drove aimlessly for a while until he realised that he was at Kate’s apartment. She was in and apparently thought he’d come to thank her for looking after the dog, until she saw his face. She let him in and sat him down. “I want to hire you.”
“I already work for you—well, for Sir Nikolas, but—”
“This is just me. It’s about…him.”
“Okay…that’s awk—”
“What do you know about him already?”
She frowned. “Only what’s on his bio, the occasional things he’s said. Danish, obviously. Degree in Russian and politics from the University of Copenhagen. I know he lived in Russia for a while. Joined the diplomatic service and came here to the UK as a diplomat. I never did get how he made the transition from that to being head of the department. Sorry, that’s about it.”
“Can you do an investigation for me? Everything. Any means.”
She was silent for a moment. “He’s my boss, Ben. I’m not comfortable doing that.”
“He’s more than that to me, but you probably worked that out by now.”
“I don’t think you want to do this, Ben.”
“Yes. I do. But I don’t actually want you to focus on Nik. He had a brother: Aleksey. Twin. Focus on him. They were born in Russia near St Petersburg. Everything you can find out.”
She let out a small breath and nodded. “Okay, I’m more comfortable with that. It may take some time.”
Ben nodded. He’d slept with an impostor for four years. Another few weeks wouldn’t make any difference at all. But it did. That night, for only the second time since they met, Ben turned away in bed. He said he was tired. Nikolas only laughed. “So, it begins. I will sleep next door.” They kept separate bedrooms after that and were icily polite around each other during the day. On Wednesday, Kate called.
“I have the info.”
Ben looked at the phone for a moment. “You said a long time.”
“This is a long time—for me. How long did you think I would need? I’m insulted. Can you come over?”
Ben was at her apartment within half an hour. She had the computer open and sat him down in front of it. “Okay, this is a weird one, Ben. Complicated. So, at first, I could find no record of an Aleksey Mikkelsen. I tried Alexei even Lyosha, which is the diminutive in Russian. Nothing. But then I searched for Aleksey under Sir Nikolas’s birth date in Russia and found him.” She clicked on a picture. “Meet Aleksey Primakov; he changed his name back to his father’s when he was seventeen. But I’m getting ahead of myself.” Ben was hardly able to process what she was saying because Nik was staring at him from the computer screen. The picture seemed to have been taken at a funeral. Everyone else was looking down, hands folded, Nikolas—no, Ben had to remember, Aleksey—was staring challengingly at the camera as if daring the man to actually take his photograph. He appeared younger and more filled out. He focused back on what Kate was saying. “So, two boys, born in Russia to Nina and Sergei Primakov. She’s Danish, daughter of a very wealthy industrialist, Godtfred Mikkelsen. Incredibly beautiful. You can see where Sir Nikolas gets his looks from. Sergei is Russian. I couldn’t find a picture of him from this time. Probably because he was head of Directorate S in the SVR.” Ben’s head snapped up.
“You’re kidding.”
She shook her head. “Nope. Top man in their illegal intelligence division. He had thirteen departments working directly under him responsible for planting illegal agents abroad, conducting terror operations, sabotage. He even oversaw the delightfully named biological recruitment of foreign agents—he ran the honey traps. This was a very powerful and very nasty man. And I guess Nina finally saw that because when the boys were born, she packed them up, reverted to her maiden name, Mikkelsen, and took them back to her parents’ summer estates in Denmark. The boys grew up there, but when she killed herself—”
“She killed herself?”
“’Fraid so. When they were ten. She drowned. Walked into the sea one day and never came out.”
“No. I stopped that when I was ten. I lost the desire for it…”
“Their father sent for them. The grandparents fought it, but he had rights, and he was a very powerful and determined man. They went. Now, this is where it got confusing but…shit; I hate this job sometimes…Okay…Over the next seven years we have Nikolas returning to his grandparents for holidays. He’s often reported at events with them. He spent one summer in the States, learnt English. He competed in the junior horse riding national championships another summer. But he always returns to Russia after the holidays—to a private boarding academy near St Petersburg where the boys were educated. Aleksey, however, stays in Russia during the holidays with his father. And they seemed to move around a huge amount. When I first found all this, I assumed he’d formed a close bond with the father—wanted to spend his holidays with him. But that’s kind of not…Remember, anything I found about Aleksey and Sergei is from our own agents who had infiltrated their organisations, so it’s accurate but possibly biased a little? Anyway, we have reports of the boy with the father at trials of dissidents, at executions, even at some of the torture camps the Soviets denied having but we knew existed from firsthand accounts of survivors. Very unusual holidays, yeah? Ben, are you okay? So, the boys are seventeen. Nikolas returns to Russia as usual after a summer holiday in Denmark, and two days later his father is dead—Aleksey killed him.”
“What?”
“I don’t know how much Sir Nikolas knows about the events of that night or any of what followed…maybe you should ask him? His grandparents brought him back to Denmark the next day. Have you asked him about any of this?”
Ben shook his head. That would be kind of hard because Nikolas was dead, and Aleksey probably wouldn’t tell him. “Why did Aleksey kill his father? I thought you said they were close. How did he do it?”
“He shot him. It was at a dinner party for party officials. He walked into the room, put the gun to his father’s temple, and pulled the trigger.”
“My God.”
“Yep. Pretty incontrovertible. So, Nikolas gets safely back to Denmark, and Aleksey is in custody. It’s a hard one for the authorities. Sergei was an important man so there had to be a trial. Also there were too many witnesses to just make Aleksey disappear. And then it all comes out at the trial…According to the defence team hired by the grandfather, Sergei had been abusing Aleksey since he was ten—and we’re not talking about not letting him watch TV here, Ben. They brought out doctors’ reports to catalogue massive internal injuries sustained at a very early age, repeated hospital visits for broken bones, weeks off school which can’t be accounted for. Seriously, if Sergei hadn’t been one of the most feared men in the Soviet Union, he’d have been arrested years before. Also, which is the thing that really got to me, they claimed that Sergei had actually only wanted Nikolas to come and live with him—the easygoing, placid son. Apparently, there was correspondence between him and the grandparents. He tried to send Aleksey back to them because he was too wild to handle. However, Aleksey—and, remember, he was only ten—made a deal with his father, he would stay and be Nikolas for him—i.e., good—if Nikolas was left alone and allowed to live in Denmark. It’s incredible, Ben; the prosecution tried to claim that Aleksey was totally okay with the sex—that he orchestrated it. He was ten! Once, he was in hospital for three weeks! The boy lived with his father being Nikolas, standing mutely by at executions…torture. It’s unbelievable. None of these facts were actually disputed by the prosecution but they twisted the various interpretations. Ben, are you all—?”
Ben went outside for a while. He wouldn’t cry in front of Kate. Especially in front of Kate. He held it together, barely, arms wrapped tightly around his chest, jaw clenched, eyes raised to stars he couldn’t see.
Aleksey had become Nikolas to save his brother from a monster.
“Aleksey adored me.”
Who did Aleksey believe he was now? Could he actually tell anymore?
He went back in. Kate kept her eyes on the screen, respecting his privacy and continued. “He was found guilty, of course. There was huge confusion over the forensic evidence, though. His defence team claimed there was no gunshot residue on his hands. But there were thirty witnesses who’d seen him do it, and he confessed. It was a foregone conclusion that he’d be found guilty—even though there were clearly mitigating circumstances. But seventeen-year-old Aleksey knew a lot of things the state couldn’t afford to have come out. They couldn’t put him in the ordinary prison population. I lose track of him at times, because this is when he changes his name from Aleksey Mikkelsen to Aleksey Primakov, perhaps to prevent any connection begin made to Nikolas which might ruin his prospects. Five years, Ben. He was in various political prison camps for five years. He was seventeen and looked like that. Can you imagine what his life was like?”
“I have never truly kissed another man, and you are the only man I have wanted to give my body to…”
Wanted…Aleksey had tried to tell him. He’d tried to be truthful in a situation where the truth was almost too painful to consider. But Ben hadn’t heard. He only ever heard what he wanted to. As Aleksey had said, he took emotionally and never gave back. Ben finally realised exactly what games Aleksey had been taught in the prison camps. And for what? To take the punishment for his brother’s crime…No gunshot residue? Thirty witnesses too shocked to remember a gun held in a boy’s right hand.
“So, fall of communism, collapse of the Soviet Union, blah blah…It helped Aleksey get out of prison early. His father’s old colleagues lost power and his enemies rose. He’s released and immediately recruited to the SVR himself.”
“Nik— Aleksey was SVR?”
“Better than that. He appears to have been recruited for Zaslon. We can’t prove it exists, but we know it does. For ten years he’s an operative in one of the most secret branches of their military illegal-intelligence agency. He was the ideal candidate. Fluent in languages and a product of their own political system. I would think that after five years in Soviet prison camps he was ideal in other ways, too. Believe it or not, we actually have a photo from this time.” She clicked on the screen, and a photo of what appeared to be an embassy party on board a yacht came up. Nikolas—Aleksey, why is it so bloody hard to remember?—was at the back of the picture. This time, everyone else was looking at the camera, raising glasses. Aleksey was watching a seagull that was wheeling in the bright sky overhead.
“I do not believe in fate. We make our own destinies through sacrifice and pain…”
Aleksey had sacrificed everything to save the brother he adored. Ben felt tears come again and didn’t even try to hide them. He couldn’t tell if they were of anger or guilt or just plain sadness for Aleksey. His Nik. The real Nik.
“Keep the photo if you want it so much, but you must promise me one thing. You must promise me that whatever happens in the future you will look at it and know that is the real me. If you promise me that then you can have it.”
Ben finally understood what Aleksey had been trying to tell him. Aleksey, the wild boy so full of life, so bold and beautiful, could have been Nikolas, could have been the one with summers in America, going to university, living his life to the full. Instead, he’d killed all that he was and could have been to live a lie—the shadow man. But he had kept the photograph of his brother. Sacrifice and pain.
“Clearly, we don’t have a lot of information on him over the next ten years, but there’s no doubt he was responsible for assassinations both here in the UK and in Russia. He’s responsible for torturing dissidents, setting honey traps…He was in Afghanistan, of course. I guess all the kind of stuff you’d expect. Very nasty piece of work, just like his father. There’s much more info on Sir Nikolas, of course. He got his degree, joined the Danish diplomatic service…served in various international posts and then the perfect posting—to Moscow. He was fluent in Russian, had Russian nationality—if he’d wanted to use it. We can’t prove that he met up with Aleksey at all in the six months he was there before Aleksey died, but I’m pretty sure he did—but I’ll get to that. So, six months after Sir Nikolas arrives in Moscow, Aleksey is dead—a fall from a hotel balcony. Apparently, they found a dead boy in the room—and he’d been sodomised, beaten. Did I mention I hate this job? He was a street boy—there are thousands of them on the streets in Moscow. Anyway, there would have been a massive scandal—you have no idea how backward the Russians are about homosex—sorry. Anyway…Sir Nikolas was able to help squash those details of his brother’s death coming out. It must have been awful for him. It’s hard to believe he’s never talked to you about any of this.”
Yes, wasn’t it? Ben could see the scene: Aleksey arriving at the hotel to find his brother dead. After everything he’d sacrificed for Nikolas, everything he’d done and endured, his brother had thrown away his own life in a squalid, scandalous moment. When did Aleksey decide to become Nikolas? When had he taken on the life of the Danish diplomat? At what moment had he done the swap? He had the knowledge and the means to pull it off. “Aleksey” dies; “Nikolas” goes on to live the life he was supposed to have.
“See, I’m pretty sure now that Sir Nikolas did meet regularly with Aleksey while they were in Moscow together, and that’s how, when Sir Nikolas came to the UK, he was able to sell himself, as it were, to the authorities and set up the department. He and Aleksey must have talked, and Sir Nikolas must have learnt a great deal about Zaslon, because that’s what he recreated here—with us—although possibly with less torture? Fewer honey traps?”
He’d done a lot more than that, Ben thought. Aleksey had sold them out—his ex-colleagues in Zaslon. But he’d lived a very dangerous lie. Even his marriage…Philipa’s family thought they were using a man they believed to be Nikolas Mikkelsen as a cover, whereas in reality Aleksey Primakov had been using them. No wonder he’d been so bitter at the divorce, at being forced back out into the cold.
And now—
Ben had the unnerving sensation of plummeting in an elevator and his heart stopping for one moment then kicking back in—fast, panicked beating. He’d seen the picture in the paper on Saturday. He’d made the connection, and yet he had known nothing of this before. How many of Aleksey’s ex-colleagues in Zaslon were still alive, and how many would look at that photo of left-handed Sir Nikolas Mikkelsen and know that Aleksey Primakov hadn’t died in a fall from a hotel balcony?
“Kate, I have to go. Thank you. I’m sorry. I’ll explain later, if I can.”
He barely heard her reply. He drove like a madman. That’s what he was now—insane—ignoring red lights, focusing only on getting back to the house. The door was open—the red door that had been home and security for the last six months.
Even before he went through it, he knew he had lost the only person in his life who would ever mean anything to him.
But then hadn’t he lost him already?
Hadn’t he lost him the moment he had denied him in bed and proved himself to be no better than all the other people in Aleksey’s life who had purported to love him only to betray him?
The house was empty—torn up, evidence of great violence everywhere, but Aleksey was not there. Ben hadn’t even known Nik—Aleksey—had a gun safe, but it was open in the office, guns strewn around the floor. Aleksey was a soldier—had been. Elite Special Forces, more secretive even than Vympel. He heard a noise from the bedroom and picked up one of the guns, checking it over as he slid around the doorframe and along the hallway. He eased into the room and heard the sound again—under the bed. He knew what it was and crouched down, lifting the covers. Radulf stared back at him for a moment then came out, utterly silent but speaking with his body, all twisting rubs and anxiety. Ben murmured to him for a while, calming them both down.
Then he heard another noise from downstairs. He’d been expecting it. They were watching the house, which was a good sign—it meant possibly that Aleksey had got away. He told Radulf to wait where he was. Radulf immediately went back under the bed. It seemed like a good plan. Ben went silently back to the hall and cautiously peered over the handrail. He had one possible advantage in this situation—Zaslon may have found Aleksey, may even know he was living with someone else in the house, but it was very doubtful they knew who, or what, Ben was. They were about to find out.
A man was coming up the stairs, covering himself with a raised automatic pistol. Ben shot him in both knees. He wanted this one alive. The shots brought out another man from the kitchen. Ben shot that one in the head. One alive was enough for his purposes.
§§§
When the man came around, Ben had him tied to a chair in the kitchen. Ben sat across from him, straddling another chair, what was left of the man’s knees almost touching Ben’s. Ben was glad now that Aleksey used to smoke, for he’d found his lighter on the counter and was clicking it on and off. The man swallowed deeply. He couldn’t help but be aware of the smell of petrol. He was soaked in it.
“You would not dare, you fucking faggot.” His Russian was guttural and spat out in great pain. Ben spoke only a few words of Russian, but he understood the import of this if not the finer details.
He responded in English. “Where is Sir Nikolas Mikkelsen?”
The man spat and said in broken English, “He dead.”
Ben’s heart did its alarming stop and start thing again, but then he realised the man wasn’t talking about recent events.
“Where is the man who lives here?” He clicked the lighter on, weaving one finger in and out through the small flame.
The man laughed in his face. “You would not. Whole house goes poof. Like you: poof.”
Ben nodded. “Okay, I’ll save this for my big exit. But this may improve your English.” He produced his boning knife. “It’s a simple question. Where is…? No? Okay.” He took the man’s hand, inserted the tip into a knuckle joint and cut the finger off. He went calmly to the sink to wash his hands so they weren’t slippery from the blood and returned to his seat. “Where is Nikolas Mikkelsen?”
“Fuck you!”
The man lost another finger, but incredibly, he still refused to answer. With a sigh of boredom, Ben wiped his hands on a tea towel then crouched next to the man, trying to avoid the blood, and unzipped the helpless man’s pants.
“No!”
Ben smiled. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to cut anything off.” He dug the man’s cock out and let it hang. It was very, very soft—which was predicable and understandable. “You ever done any sounding? Yeah, didn’t think so. Pussy. What do they teach Russian Special Forces anyway? Okay, so, see that little hole there? Well, I could push my finger in, but don’t worry, I’m not going to. I’ve got a much better idea. I was thinking my screwdriver…your English okay with screwdriver? Yeah, I can see you get exactly what I mean; but see, here’s the thing, I’m much better with this.” He held up the bloodstained knife once more, the man’s eyes tracking it like a cat watching a mouse. “So, this is going to go down into that little hole, and I’m going to do some scraping around. Hollow you out a bit. How does that—?”
“He got away. I swear it. He went over wall there.” The man flung his head back to indicate the courtyard wall.
Ben got out of his crouch, wincing at his old knee injury and went into the courtyard. There was a distinct blood trail up and over the wall, just as the man said. Behind the wall was the alley that ran along the back of all the mews houses. That led to garages and then the road. He came back in.
“He was shot?”
The man nodded. “Twice, we think. Maybe. Lot of bullets, but he still run like fucking wind.” He chuckled and shook his head fondly as if they were just friends chatting about another mutual acquaintance. “He always run like wind. Faster than me always.”
This was interesting. Ben sat back down, tapping the knife on his wrist. The man was losing too much blood to stay focused for long, so Ben nicked the tip of his cock, just to perk him up a bit. “You knew him personally?”
“Of course. He my boss many years. He and Gregory. You tell bastard Aleksey that Gregory say hello. He know what that mean. And I no tell you shit more— Ahh! Please! No! I have wife and children.”
“Well, there you go, you don’t need your cock, do you? Tell me about him.”
“Here? Now? I need hospital, not talk you about— Okay! He was a fucking bastard. That what you want know? He cold fish. You have that expression? Never smile. Never laugh. Except maybe when he hurting someone. Then he enjoy much.”
Ben pursed his lips. “Was he married? With someone…?”
The man laughed. “Aleksey? Let someone touch? He never be touched. Not even handshake, slap on back. Killed prisoner when man grabbed leg, begging. Snapped neck. Now that funny. We all laugh. But you know about Sergei, no? Sergei a great man, and everyone overlook what he up to with Aleksey. Although I got boy, too, so I no really think it right, and it make Aleksey like that, no? The cold and not like the touch. But we all heard little Aleksey begged Sergei to fuck him, that he—”
Ben waited, rubbing his knuckles where he’d punched the man, until he could see signs of consciousness returning, then picked up the phone. He ignored the frantic struggling when the man discovered he was gagged and that his dead colleague now lay at his feet.
When the crisp voice asked him which service he required, he replied in heavily accented English, “Fire,” waited, then continued, “yes, I report fire.” He gave the address. “Fire in kitchen; I no want it spread in house.” He stood there, staring at the bleeding, terrified man, until he heard sirens, then he clicked the lighter and tossed it into the petrol-soaked lap. He didn’t stay to watch the oily blue flame engulf the chair or listen to the frantic, doomed struggling, but gathered up the bags of incriminating items he’d packed, mainly Aleksey’s gun collection, grabbed Radulf’s lead, and went to the vehicle. He knew it was probably bugged, but he wouldn’t need it for long.
Ben pulled around the corner and watched as fire fighters entered the house, then drove slowly along the alley until he picked up the blood trail; it ran through the alley and out onto the road. Ben knew Nikolas—damn it, Aleksey—had other houses in London. He had possibly made it to one of them. But then what would he do? He knew the men who were hunting him, their technologies. He knew their capabilities. He’d been one. Aleksey had been a monster, too.
Where would Aleksey feel safe? Where would he go to ground?
And then Ben remembered the place that didn’t exist. The dream.
You have reached your destination.
Ben turned the Range Rover and headed west.