Younger (32 page)

Marina took a sip, then set her glass down and sighed impatiently. “So, you have what’s left of the products for me, yes?” she prompted.

“Yes, I do.” Anna smiled as naturally as she could and held up the plastic Boots bag, then set it on the table next to her, opposite the Prada bag. “I transferred everything into these jars on the train out of London. The lab packaging was too obvious if someone chasing me went through my things.”

“You feared Martin Kelm? Yes, of course.”

“Oh, I wasn’t worried solely about him,” Anna said conversationally, meanwhile thinking
Okay, might as well go for broke now.
“I was more worried about you, you see.” She had, as they said in the theater, just gone off-script. Now neither actress was playing her role as the director would like. Anna had gone rogue.

Marina stopped in the act of reaching for the Boots bag. “You were afraid of me? Why ever would you be afraid of me?”

“Well, you know, when I saw those CCTV photos of you on the platform at Oxford Circus the day Olga was killed—”

“Don’t be ridiculous! I had nothing to do with that silly cow’s suicide.” She frowned. “Nor would I
ever
travel by Tube. What supposed pictures are these?”

“I got them from someone who had no doubt Olga had been given a helping hand onto the tracks,” Anna replied calmly. “Good disguise. He thought you were a workman. I did, too, until I studied a photo in which you were looking down and saw your birthmark.” Marina’s hand went on autopilot to the back of her neck. “You must have been enraged when you realized Olga was going to ruin your plans, eh? Plus, you know,” she continued in the same conversational tone, “I fibbed a little before. It wasn’t something about Kelm that Pierre was about to tell me when he died; it was about you. Had he told you he’d destroyed the
YOU
NGER formula? Is that why you poisoned his cappuccino? You fooled him. He thought it was the hot coffee burning his mouth. But it was the toxin, wasn’t it?”

“How dare you! You know very well Martin Kelm is a killer. Why do this, Anna? You are trying to blackmail me?” Marina shook her head and sneered. “I told Pierre you were trouble. You wish to prove me right when I’m the only one trying to help you?”

Anna reached out with both hands and ostentatiously switched her drink with Marina’s. “All right. We’ll drink then. To Pierre?”

“What are you doing with my drink? Have you lost your mind?”

Anna picked up the drink that had been Marina’s. “Not at all. Let’s toast, huh?” She had to fight now to keep her voice even. Surely, Marina had no intention of leaving her alive. Where in the hell was Andrew?

A softer tone came into Marina’s voice. “Don’t you want to be very rich, Anna? I can make you indescribably wealthy, you know.”

“Is that what you told Pierre?”

Marina sneered as the mask fell. “Pierre was weak. Oh, you should have seen him repenting, saying he had no right to play God, sniveling that if people—even some amateur third-rate mafia spies—were going to die because of
YOU
NGER, then
YOU
NGER had to die.” She snorted. “He thought I’d respect him for destroying the formulae that would make us billionaires! Did he tell you he was going to the police after he gave you the explanation he felt he ‘owed’ you? Can you believe that?”

“I can. Perhaps I understood him better than you did. But to
kill
him?”

“He destroyed everything without asking me!
YOU
NGER is mine, and Barton Pharmaceuticals will be, too, once that old bitch of a
maman
dies.
I
was the one waiting in the street, you idiot. I let myself into the flat with my own keys as soon as you left so I could take the products that were mine, too. I admit I underestimated you. Then I needed Mr. Kelm—to find you. But you found me instead, didn’t you?” She stared impassively. “I must tell you, Anna, the hair is now too blond. You look like someone impersonating a rich Russian. But you will never be either, will you? I must also tell you I have a pistol with a silencer in my hand that’s ready to fire. You will slump over like a woman who drinks too much, and I will be gone. Yes, the sable is a trifle warm and bulky but I like the inside pocket. And I am bored with your nonsense now.”

“Weren’t we going to drink to our reunion?” Anna said, with more bravado than she felt.

But before Marina could turn her answering hiss into words or a shot, a cheerful British voice boomed next to them, making them both jump. “Mrs. Barton! What a coincidence, running into you in Rome!”

Where in the name of God had David come from? And what did he think he was doing? She was sure she looked as shocked as Marina did.

“What—?” Fury and fear vied for prominence in Marina’s widened eyes, but she regained control and looked up with cool detachment. “Mr. Wainwright, isn’t it? The director? You have surprised me.”

As if remembering his manners, he turned to Anna. “Sorry to interrupt, Ms . . . ?”

“Jones,” she answered weakly. “Lisa Jones.” She felt suddenly dizzy. Good God, was she about to get David killed, too?

“Mind if I join you?” he asked, but he was already pulling out the chair next to Marina and opposite Anna. “I hope I’m not intruding, but I don’t know a soul in Rome, and this is such a coincidence!” He sounded chirpy and eager, an Englishman abroad thrilled to bump into someone from home.

“Why are you here?” Marina asked tersely. Anna could tell she was working at sounding normal, but it came out more Gestapo officer than grieving widow.

“Looking at location sites for a television series. And you?”

Marina sighed deeply, her right hand still hidden in the depths of her jacket’s voluminous sleeve. “London, Moscow.” She shook her head sadly. “So many memories of Pierre. When my friend Lisa called me to ask to meet in Rome for shopping, of course I said yes.”

“Please”—David gestured—“drink your drinks. Don’t wait for me. I’ll order something when the waiter comes.”

Anna raised the glass that had been Marina’s and faked a sip; she’d watched the other woman drink from it, but she was taking no chances. She sat barely breathing as Marina picked up the glass that had been Anna’s and raised it to her lips. Then she turned and let it slip from her grasp to shatter on the cobblestones, clear red liquid spreading in all directions. “
Ach, blyad!
Look what I’ve done.” Marina reached down with her left hand to push the large pieces of glass out of the way.

“Don’t!” Anna shouted but it was too late. Marina sat back up, her face drained of color. The hand she held up showed a trickle of red; she’d been nicked by the glass. “Oh, Anna.” She sounded regretful. “
Tetrodotoxin
. So I will die, too. You’ll be a murderer now. But you will die with me.” Anna looked immediately to Marina’s other hand and saw that the gun hadn’t been an empty threat.

Anna froze. David didn’t, but even as he reached out to grab Marina’s arm, a man had already sprung up from behind, a man who was not Andrew Barnes but the grappa drinker Anna had noticed in the café across the square. He barked something in rapid-fire Russian as he reached smoothly around and took the gun from Marina’s hand before anyone in the crowd had even noticed it. He pocketed it, then he pulled her gently but firmly back into her chair before removing his hat and nodding pleasantly to Anna and David, who were sinking shakily into their seats. The pale blond hair and icy blue eyes gave him away even if the bulbous prosthetic covered up his own distinctive nose. His other hand remained in his coat pocket.

“I was just telling Mrs. Barton I would have to shoot if she moved. I’ve been wanting to say that ever since I watched her push poor Olga onto the tracks.” He smiled his bright fake smile at Marina’s venomous look, then widened it to include Anna, drily continuing in his clipped British tones. “I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation. Thank you for clearing me of Pierre Barton’s murder, Ms. Wallingham. Much appreciated, I assure you. I take it you’re wearing a wire now? That’s what I’d have gone down for, you know: the death of poor Pierre.”

“But Marina! We need an ambulance. She’s dying!”

“Nonsense. She’s far from dying.” He shrugged. “A little cut. A little tetrodotoxin. Pffft. Our Marina is a chemist. She knows even with a normal dose, the victim has several hours to live. A speck in her bloodstream? She might feel slightly ill, but she’ll survive. Unlike the husband she most probably doped with enough to kill several men.”

Anna had to hand it to Marina. Her voice as she spoke to Komarov dripped with contempt, not fear. “Pierre always said, ‘That Kelm is a nasty piece of work.’ He knew you were rotten. But not me. I trusted you for the very reason I should have known better: I trusted you because you are Russian.” She sounded almost sad. “I despair of my own people. I truly do.”

Anna looked up to see Barnes emerging from inside the café, not looking especially pleased to have captured Pierre Barton’s killer. “How nice to see you, Andrew,” Anna said smartly. “You’ll want to mop up that liquid with something. And be careful with the broken glass. It’s swimming in tetrodotoxin.” But Hulk #1 was already there, swabbing up the spillage with gauze held in a rubber-gloved hand and sticking that and the broken glass into the small evidence bag he held. It was all done so smoothly, no one in the café was paying attention.

“You!
Andrew?
” Only the sight of Barnes made Marina lose her cool. “Who the hell are you?” She started to get up but was held in her seat by Grigoriy Komarov.

“You’re so clever you hired an MI6 agent to be your husband’s keeper,” Anna said, her voice trembling but triumphant. “He was the real thing, your Aleksei—only, not for your side.”

“Sorry, Anna.” Andrew sounded like one of those polite British film spies now. “I don’t know why she suspected we were ready for her at the other café.”

After a pause, Marina said, “You should know those of us genuinely from cold climates always seek the sun, fool.” Her voice was diminished now, as if she was just starting to grasp the prognosis of her situation.

Andrew smiled mildly. “Be nice to me and we’ll get you medical treatment.” She spat on the ground next to the table, then, with head held high, she let the Hulk escort her to the black Range Rover that had materialized in the pedestrian piazza.

“And now, my friends, I, too, must be on my way,” said Komarov, his voice still not betraying any accent other than well-bred English. “My role in this tiny farce has come to an end. I’ll just take my bag”—he picked up the Boots bag with the hand not in his pocket—“and move along. Whatever it is that Mrs. Barton hoped to pass off as
YOU
NGER I leave with you as a souvenir.”

“Not so fast,” Barnes said, the ferocity of his voice assuring Anna that Komarov was the big game he’d been chasing all along with this little scenario. The Russian just chuckled.

“Sorry, Mr. Barnes, but I worked very hard to win this formula for my country. And my gun is still in my hand. Right now it’s pointed at Ms. Wallingham, whom, as you heard, I just rescued from a would-be killer and who will now accompany me to the edge of the piazza. She’s beautiful at any age.” He smiled brightly. “It would be a shame to lose her. So this is indeed
adieu
.”

He gestured to Anna with his chin. “Come along now.” As she stood, David, too, started to get to his feet but sat down again when she shook her head at him.

She didn’t fear Komarov. He had no reason to kill her now. If anything, she was glad for a few minutes with him as they walked slowly across the piazza. “And my friend?” she asked without preamble. “Who killed Jan Berger?”

“Ah, your California friend hit by the car, yes? Not me, Miss Wallingham. If I were you, I would ask myself,
Cui bono?
Who profits? That’s most often where the answer lies.” They’d reached the sidewalk, where an Alfa Romeo sedan slid up beside them. He bowed formally and smiled. “It’s been a pleasure.”

The car, with Grigoriy Komarov inside it, drove off. Anna turned around and headed back toward the café as David ran to meet her.

“That’s it. He’s gone,” Anna told Barnes when she and David reached a different table at the café, where he sat waiting with three glasses of white wine, a uniformed technician already kneeling by the other table to clear up the last remains of the broken glass and wash away the spillage while other security types spoke to the waiters.

“You already knew he’d be able to walk away. And why not? He was just a man walking out of a piazza in Rome carrying a Boots bag.” Andrew’s tone was unusually bitter, telling Anna how badly he had wanted to be able to seize Komarov for Pierre’s murder. Poor Pierre. At least he was the victim that counted. He gestured toward the larger shopping bag that was now by his feet. “He left us not only Marina’s fake products but also the sweater and wallet she picked up at Gucci and Prada. Nothing like a wee bit of retail therapy before murder, is there? Cold-blooded as they come, the Widow Barton. And
you
? Seeing her birthmark?
Still
keeping evidence from Secret Intelligence Service? Are you insane?”