Hugo Duchamp Investigates: The Third Trilogy

By Gn Hetherington

‘Hugo Duchamp Investigates: The third trilogy’ contains the seventh, eighth, and ninth books in the series following Hugo Duchamp, a Frenchman living and working as a policeman in London who is about to have his world turned upside down.

Fulfilling a promise, Hugo and his family journey to Moscow, Russia (Le Cri de Coeur) but soon find themselves in mortal danger when Hugo is called upon to assist the local police following the discovery of a mysterious box and its grisly contents. After a body is discovered on the grounds of the Chinese Embassy Hugo finds himself trapped inside with his family in danger on the outside. The clock is ticking and the killer has only just begun their deadly game.

After fire tears through Montgenoux, Hugo and his team must deal with the shocking aftermath of the death of an entire family (La Famille Lacroix) (The Lacroix Family) and the fallout as racial tension erupts through the town. When the prime suspect is murdered, Hugo must put aside his own grief to unravel one of his most complicated and heartbreaking investigations.

After decades away, Hugo returns to Paris (Les Mauvais Garçons) (The Bad Boys) after a request from the Minister of Justice, Jean Lenoir, following the death of a young man who apparently threw himself from the Eiffel Tower. Hugo soon finds himself face-to-face with his past as he tries to save the lives of a group of young people whose lives are in grave danger.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gn Hetherington
• Release date: Apr 17, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215820476

Gn Hetherington

Gn Hetherington is the author of the Hugo Duchamp Investigates series of books, set mainly in the fictional French town of Montgenoux, including the kindle top 5 international mysteries & crime bestseller debut 'Un Homme Qui Attend'. He is married and lives in London.

Book preview

To everyone who has been a part of this magical journey, especially:

My husband Dan

Dawn Frankland, Jackie Waite and Joy Edwards

My boys; Charlie, Seth, Hugo and Noah.

My beaux parents, Bill and Chris.

And to all the readers, I really am most grateful to you all.

Notes:

Montgenoux is, for the best part, a figment of my imagination, based loosely upon various regions of France. The story, the places and its characters are also a work of fiction.

For further information, exclusive content and to join the mailing list, head over to:

www.gnhbooks.com

We are also on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram. Join us there!

The artwork on the cover, the website and social media accounts were created in conjunction with two incredible talents Maria Almeida and Deborah Dalcin and I’m indebted to them for bringing my characters to life.

For Charlie, Seth and Dawn. Tu me manques.

Also available:

Hugo Duchamp Investigates:

Un Homme Qui Attend (2015)

Les Fantômes du Chateau (2016)

Les Noms Sur Les Tombes (2016)

L'ombre de l'île (2017)

L'assassiner de Sebastian Dubois (2017)

L’impondérable (2018)

Le Cri du Cœur (2019)

La Famille Lacroix (2019)

Les Mauvais Garçons (2020)

Prisonnier Dix (2021)

Le Bateau au fond de l'océan (2022)

Chemin de Compostelle (2023)

Hotel Beaupain (2024)

Souvenirs Négligents (2025)

The Coco Brunhild Mysteries:

Sept Jours (2021)

Métro Boulot Dodo (2022)

Cercueils en Spirale (2022)

Séance de Spiritisme (2023)

Quatre Pièces (2024)

Cité de la Haine (2024)

Asile de Fous (2025)

The Hugo Duchamp Prequels:

Hugo & Josef (2021)

Club Vidéo (2022)

Hugo & Madeline (2023)

Josef (2024)

Les Enquêteurs (The Investigators):

Service d’Aide (2025)

Le Cri du Cœur

by

Gn Hetherington

Prologue

Moscow, Russia. Early 2000

The Defection

The man, an American with a thick bushy moustache still containing the remnants of his last meal, dropped his heavy boots onto the ground, the snow scrunching under them. His teeth chattered with the relentless cold and the tighter he clasped his jaw shut the more it seemed to grind in protest. He lifted his head slowly, tired, bloodshot eyes watering as the icy cold air bit into them. He shuddered, shaking a fresh layer of snow from his shoulders. He knew he should be used to the vile weather but he wondered whether a sane person ever really could get used to winters which spread throughout all the months of the year like a desperate weed wrapping itself around and squeezing the life out of everything it came into contact with.

The tall, thin man opposite him leaned against the railing which snaked around the park, watching the American with obvious distrust and intense fear. He gave a low, forced laugh, throwing his head back nervously, a bony Adam’s apple bouncing excitedly in his throat. ‘Cold, comrade?’ He asked with a Russian accent as thick as fog.

The American did not answer, instead stepping backwards in the snow and staring vacantly towards the frozen river in front of them, the arcs still present from ice-skaters earlier in the day. The river sliced through the landscape, separating the snow-tinged greenery of the park from the dull uniform brick houses and buildings on the other side. He could not shake the feeling the cold was burrowing into his bones and eating away at him.

The American had been journeying to Russia for what seemed like decades, but in reality it had only been a few years. He had taken the job because his superior had told him it was a sure-fire way to get a promotion, the cushy desk job in Langley he dreamed of, where he could finally be the one giving the orders and sending other saps behind enemy lines. He was tired of being the sap himself and was certainly getting too old for it. The politics were one thing, he thought, he could deal with the daily minutia of paranoia and fear because it was, after all, part of the job, but the weather was an entirely different matter. He smiled, his trainer had warned him, the coldest part of the Cold War is the cold, and he thought now, as he could feel his organs freezing inside of him, that never a truer word had been spoken. He yearned for the warmth of his native Texas sun on his face, his hand wrapped around a cold beer dripping with droplets of cool water which would trickle down his warm fingers. It seemed to him in Russia the only drink available was vodka so strong you could feel it tearing strips off your liver.

The Russian lifted his head nervously. ‘You have the documents?’ His tongue darted across pale, dry lips. He smacked his mouth, forcing moisture into a dry throat. The Comrade knew for certain there was nothing casual about it. He could smell the fear, the desperation from where he stood. The scent of a man who knew his life was close to extinction was as palpable to him as cologne.

The American reached inside his fur jacket, pulling out a stainless steel hip flask. The Russian stared at it open-mouthed, his eyes widening in abject horror at what appeared to be a bullet-shaped dent in the flask.

The American noticed his reaction and lifted the flask. ‘This little beauty saved my life,’ he said with pride, ‘stopped a bullet from the German Secret Police.’

He took a long slug of whisky from the flask, slapping his lips in satisfaction. He offered the flask to the Russian. He shook his head. ‘I have your papers,’ the American said. ‘And you, do you have the information we require?’

‘Dah,’ the Russian replied. He reached into his coat and extracted a folder. He raised it to his mouth, his chapped lips pressing pensively against it. He studied the American with a burning intensity as if his life depended upon it, ‘you know what we have here, right?’

The American man shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. As far as he was aware, as far as he had been told, this mission was no different to the others. Retrieve the information, extract the asset and get them all back to Washington safely and securely.

‘I don’t know, and I don’t care. My job is to get you and your brain out of Russia, nothing more, Anton.’

The Russian lowered his head and whispered something in Russian which the American did not understand. He had seen it many times before, the fear and despair of someone who knows their life is hanging in the balance. As far as he could tell, the Russian was just another defector, running to a better life. As far as he knew there was nothing startling about Anton Veckenov. A mid-level Government employee working in the scientific industry who had probably grown tired of being paid little and treated badly.

The Russian lifted his head. ‘Don’t say my name again. As far as anyone is concerned Anton Veckenov is dead.’

The American sighed and glanced at his watch. It was already close to midnight and he had to get to the safe-house to begin transmitting the documents before one a.m. if he was to stand any chance of getting out of the country by morning.

‘Before you know it, you’ll have that new life in the States you’ve been dreaming of for you and your family, with fresh new identities and names like Josh and Tiffany,’ the American added with a wink.

Anton Veckenov blinked several times, his throat tightening, a vein bulging in it. ‘I hope so,’ he whispered.

The American clapped his hands. ‘I look forward to meeting your lovely wife Lena in the flesh. We’ll have to invite you over for a good old traditional American BBQ, you’ll love it. Steak as big as your head, I bet you’ve never seen such a thing, have you, after queuing up in stores and being doled out your basic rations?’

‘I hope so,’ Anton repeated again, uncertainty creeping through his voice like a vine.

The American slapped his back. ‘There you go, now give me the file and tell me what you know before we catch goddamn pneumonia in this shit-hole and then before you know it you’ll be on a nice safe cargo plane winging it’s way to the good ol’ US of A.’

Anton gave him a doubtful look. ‘If I give you the file, what’s to say you won’t just kill me?’

The American shrugged. ‘I could give you my word, but hell, who knows what that’s worth?’ He snorted, his wide mouth stretching into a grin. ‘Listen, I’ll level with you, its common practice, that’s all. I need to verify the documents you are selling are real.’ He shrugged again, ‘and then the plane is waiting for you and the lovely Lena, to start your new life.’

Anton did not answer. He turned away, rolling his head slowly as if considering his options. With a shaking hand, he offered the file. The American snatched it from him, flicking it open. His eyes narrowing as he tried to decipher the Russian language. He tutted. ‘What is this?’

Anton looked at the folder, his body slumping as he did so. ‘My life’s work,’ he said finally.

The American nodded. ‘Ah, I see. Selling it on to the highest bidder, eh, my friend?’

Anton’s nostrils flared, his face tightening. ‘You think this is about money?’

The American shrugged as if to say. What else is there? He studied the Russian’s face and saw something else. What was it? Anger? ‘What did they do to you?’ He asked after a moment.

Anton turned his head. ‘You think you know all about me from reading a piece of paper in an intelligence file? That I have two,’ he stopped, muttering something inaudible under his breath, ‘nyet one child. Life is not so black and white as you read, my friend. I have, I had, a daughter, Gina.’

‘Had?’ the American asked.

Anton looked off into the distance. ‘It was a hit and run, a drunk driver ploughed into two cars, one of them my daughter’s. He killed everyone in his path.’

‘I’m very sorry,’ the American replied whilst thinking, what does this have to do with anything?

‘It broke our hearts seeing our little girl lying in a hospital bed, being kept alive by machines. She was just thirty years old with her whole life ahead of her, yet to have a family of her own. The doctors said there was no hope.’ He stopped, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. ‘Seeing my wife by her side, her hands wrapped so tightly around her rosary it made her fingers bleed, it was more than I could bear. Igor, my son, was consumed by guilt. He’s a strong man, a policeman so he has to be, but he never came to the hospital, not once, instead he devoted himself to finding the man who did that to our poor Gina. But he never found him, the man disappeared like he was a wisp of smoke.’ The Russian blew his nose and wiped his gloves across the rim of his damp eyes.

‘I’m very sorry,’ the American repeated with as much conviction as he could find in the recesses of his cold, empty, heart. ‘Forgive me, but what does this have to do with your defection?’

‘Because,’ Anton spat, stabbing his finger towards the folder, ‘they did all of this for what you’re holding in your hands. I’ve spent most of my life working on it, those lines which probably look like gibberish to you, but in reality hold secrets you could barely imagine.’

The American gave him a surprised look. ‘They killed your daughter for this information?’

Anton lifted his head. The American thought he had never seen such sadness in a person’s eyes, and he had spent most of his life staring into the abyss of other people’s misery.

‘No, they did something far worse,’ Anton answered. ‘They made me kill her.’

The American’s eyes widened in surprise. He was not sure what he had been expecting, but it had not been this. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said finally.

Anton tapped the folder again. ‘All because of my work. They believed it was worth killing for.’

‘And is it?’

Anton snorted. ‘Ironically, the reason everyone wants it is because they believe it holds the secret to eternal life.’

The American stifled a laugh. ‘What are you talking about? Immortality?’ He added with a smirk.

‘Immortality.’ Anton answered simply.

Anton nodded. ‘Is it such a preposterous idea, comrade?’

The American regarded him with suspicion. ‘Well, yeah it is, Anton. Preposterous and impossible. Hell, I have a soft spot for my old Aunt Ethel and I like to see her on the holidays but she’s an old coot who does nothing but grumble and piss into the bag tied to her waist,’ the American said with a chortle. ‘I can stand a weekend of it, but an eternity?’ He shook his head vigorously. ‘No thanks, I’ll shed a tear at her wake and raise a glass to her memory and that’ll be that, and frankly it’s how it should be. For all of us.’

Anton continued. ‘Ah, there you go, the cruelty of time and the ravages of disease. Aunt Ethel is probably still as sharp as a tack in here,’ he added tapping his skull. ‘What if the body is just a host for the brain and when we use it up we just move on to the next one?’

The American frowned again. ‘I don’t get it. What are you saying?’

Anton moved closer to him. ‘I was working with another scientist, the pair of us were the two pieces coming together to make the whole. He is, was, a brilliant scientist, devoting his life to understanding the human brain and how to utilise it. For decades surgeons have been saving people’s lives by giving them new organs when their own fail them. But there is only so much you can do. For years my colleague and I have been working on a way to perform brain transplants, a way to move the essence of a person from their dying body to a new, healthier one.’

The American gave him a sceptical look. ‘Well, I could see why people might be interested in that, but still…’

‘We began by experimenting on animals and had obtained some interesting results, but nothing which inspired us to move onto experimenting with human beings.’

The American sucked air into his lungs. So they gave you some motivation. Use your knowledge to save your daughter. ‘Your daughter,’ he said softly.

Anton’s head turned slowly, tears brimming on his eyelids. He nodded.

‘What persuaded you to do it?’ The American asked.

‘They lied,’ Anton replied. He waved his hand dismissively. ‘Oh, it doesn’t matter now how they did it. The fact is they used the blindness of my grief, I was a fool, but I so desperately wanted to believe Gina was still alive, despite what the evidence told me. I HAD to believe and swallowed the line they fed me, like some damn orfe fish in the Moskva River. They did all this for something we know doesn’t even work and they did so because they thought they could use it as a weapon which meant they had to have it before anyone else.’

The American frowned. ‘A weapon?’

‘We were working on this because we believed it would end suffering, but of course, it could have other implications. With this knowledge governments could choose who dies and who lives forever thus creating a superior race. This is not about war or genocide. With this knowledge, they don’t need to kill, they just choose who to save and who to let die, creating their perfect people, their perfect world.’

They lapsed into silence. ‘Yet, here we are,’ the American said. ‘And you’re about to defect and spill your guts to us Yanks, why? The chances are we’ll do exactly the same as the Ruskies would have done.’

‘Because,’ Anton spat, ‘my country betrayed me. They killed my daughter for my work. And I won’t let them have it, but I know they’ll kill me too if I don’t give it to them. My partner has already gone missing, for all I know he’s told them everything and he’s already dead. I can’t take the chance of them getting me, because my formula is what they need to make the experiment work. This is not about the money or protection your country can give me, it’s about not giving them what they want. It’s all I can do to make them pay for what they did to me.’

A silence descended between them again as thick as the night air. Anton reached over and took the American’s hip flask and took a tentative sip, the veins in his neck flexing as the whisky hit the back of his throat.

The American tilted his head and shrugged. It was really none of his concern. If Langley thought what this man was selling was worth it, it was none of his business. ‘Okay buddy, let’s get out of here.’

Anton nodded. ‘Dah.’ He stepped towards the American, stopping suddenly, altered by a loud WHOOSH echoing through the still night air. He frowned, a puzzled expression appearing on his face. He lifted his head towards the sky as if searching for a bird.

‘Why do I suddenly feel warm?’ He asked the American with a puzzled frown. The words came out of his mouth in sharp bursts before his body crumbled into a heap on the ground.

The American stumbled towards him, his eyes wide as they flicked over Anton’s writhing body. They narrowed as a dark circle appeared on Anton’s coat. It grew quickly. Anton’s head turned slowly down and he touched the circle. ‘It’s wet,’ he mumbled in confusion, a moment later his head lolled to the side. The American pulled Anton’s body to the wall, all the time his eyes darting from side to side as he tried to understand where the shot had come from. He watched helplessly as the blood circle began spreading across the surrounding snow.

Anton’s eyes slowly flickered open. The American could see the life ebbing from them. ‘So it ends here,’ Anton said, his voice as soft as a gentle summer breeze.

‘No, buddy, we’ll get you help,’ the American replied quickly.

Anton tried to lift his head again but it fell against his shoulder. ‘So it ends here,’ he repeated. A smile appeared on his face but it was weak, contorting into a grimace as the pain enveloped him. His eyes snapped open again. ‘But I got the last laugh, comrade.’

‘The last laugh?’ The American asked in surprise.

Anton raised a shaking finger towards the folder the American had dropped onto the ground near them. ‘I’ve hidden the true formula,’ Anton said his voice weakening as blood spluttered from his mouth, ‘and they’re all so stupid they’ll never see it’s invisible to their eyes.’

Invisible to their eyes. What on earth did the old man mean? He watched helplessly as Anton’s eyes flickered rapidly before closing for the last time. ‘Shit,’ the American hissed. He pulled his body erect, dropping Anton's body onto the ground. He looked around, lowered his body and scuttled towards a tree where he hoped he might get a better view of where the attack had come from.

A bird spooked by a noise in the clearing, shot from a tree overhead, spraying the American with snow. He brushed it off his shoulders, waving a fist at the bird as it disappeared into the darkness. He stopped. Somewhere, nearby in the darkness there was the unmistakable sound of a throat being cleared. ‘Who’s there?’ he growled.

He saw the boots first, heavy and highly polished as they stepped into the moonlit walkway. The American’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘What the hell are you doing here, Anatoly?’ he hissed.

A smile spread across Anatoly Petrov’s face. He raised a finger, scratching at the port-wine birthmark which covered most of his right cheek. Even in the moonlight, the American could see the amused glint in eyes.

‘Did you really think we’d let an asset switch sides?’ Anatoly Petrov replied. His voice was light but hoarse as if he was a heavy smoker or a man used to barking orders.

The American turned towards the spread-eagled body of Anton Veckenov, his mind processing a dozen different thoughts and scenarios. He did not understand how Anatoly Petrov, a mid-level police officer could have known about the meeting. Had Anatoly been tailing one or both of them? In his line of business, the American had always known it to be prudent to give men such as Anatoly Petrov enough financial incentive to turn a blind eye to his presence and activities in their country.

‘It’s just as well I am here,’ Anatoly said after a minute had passed. He pointed at Anton Veckenov. ‘You’ll need help with that.’

The American frowned. He knew he had not murdered the elderly Russian defector. But who had? He studied Anatoly. He had certainly come from the direction of the shot. ‘No, I don’t. This has nothing to do with me.’

Anatoly stepped over the corpse and lowered himself onto his haunches. He shook his head. ‘Really? Still, it’s best not too many questions be asked about Anton’s demise. His work was quite specific. Imagine how it would look if I, devoted agent, found you, foreign agent on our land murdering one of our citizens.’ He smiled. ‘Tsk, tsk. Imagine the international scandal this will cause!’

Anatoly stood up, ambling back to the American. He pushed his shoulders up because he knew when he did he cut an imposing figure. He was a stocky man, with a fleshy, hard face, his eyes dark and intimidating. In his business, intimidating people provided a distinct advantage. ‘Do you really want to risk being taken into custody, comrade?’

The American’s nostrils flared in anger. He was not used to being threatened, especially by the likes of Anatoly Petrov. He opened his mouth to speak but stopped himself, distracted by the sound of a twig snapping on the other side of the clearing. He narrowed his eyes and exhaled, his breath clouding the dark, damp air around him. He held his breath for a moment and cocked his head, searching for the sound of more twigs breaking. Somewhere nearby he heard an owl cooing and then there was silence again. He turned back to Anatoly. ‘Did you come alone?’ he commanded.

Anatoly raised an eyebrow in surprise. ‘Of course I am alone. You think me foolish?’

The American did not answer, his eyes scanning around the clearing searching desperately into the darkness. There were no more sounds and he realised that perhaps his nerves were on edge. He cocked his head towards the remains of Anton Veckenov. ‘You’ll deal with that?’

Anatoly nodded slowly. ‘Of course. I’ll even make it look convincing. For a price, of course.’

The American snorted. ‘For a price!’ He cried with incredulity, ‘you’re not getting another cent from me, or old Uncle Sam, Ruskie, and you can threaten me as much as you like. You have far more to lose than I do should our relationship be exposed, no? I hear they have a special wing in Serbia for dealing with Ruskies like you who play both sides. Take care of this satisfactorily and I’ll make sure Langley are fully aware of your helpfulness in the matter. This is all I’ll do and it’s more than you deserve.’

Anatoly scratched the birthmark on his cheek once again, studying the American with a burning intensity. After a few moments had passed he smiled as if pleased with the decision he had arrived at.

The American continued. ‘And of course, you know how they appreciate helpfulness,’ he turned his back to Anatoly, tapping his finger against the lapel of his jacket as if reassuring himself the folder was still there.

Anatoly stepped back in front of him, his eyes twinkling with something the American could not read. What was it, amusement?

The American pointed at the body of Anton Veckenov. ‘You must have been pretty worried about what he could tell us if you’d rather kill him than let him defect.’

Anatoly shrugged. ‘Traitors are traitors,’ he offered by way of an answer.

The American’s eyes narrowed and he did not answer. Anatoly was certainly correct about something. He did not want to get caught up in the fallout over Anton’s death. ‘What will you do with him? How will you explain it so no questions are asked?’

Anatoly shrugged again. ‘Oh, the usual, this area is usually a hive of activity, drugs, prostitutes, it’s not too much of a stretch to imagine a usually straight-laced man such as Anton would be tempted over to the dark side.’

The American nodded. ‘Or...’ he trailed off.

‘Or?’ Anatoly asked, his interest piqued.

The American tapped his finger against his broad chin as he considered. ‘Or we kill two birds with one stone,’ he replied.

‘I don’t understand.’

The American turned again to the body and tapped the folder again. If the information it contained really was as valuable as Veckenov had claimed, though the American doubted it was, then they needed time to explore its possibilities. A plan began to form in his brain. A plan which would get the American out of Russia, divert suspicion and pay back someone whom he hated very much.

‘I have a proposition for you Lieutenant Petrov, one which if you execute correctly should push you up the ranks a little. How does Major Petrov sound to you, Anatoly?’ He added with a smile. Flattery was unfailingly important to men such as Anatoly Petrov.

Anatoly exhaled, his jaw jutting forward. He did not answer but his eyes sparkled like the moonlight above them.

‘The Chinese are always sniffing around, aren’t they?’

Anatoly nodded. ‘I suppose, why?’

‘Let’s suppose Anton was selling the information to the Chinese,’ the American responded, ‘and when they got it they killed him. If your superiors believe the Chinese have escaped with valuable secrets, it will keep the both of them embroiled in their very own Cold War for years to come. And that gives you my dear Anatoly the career progression you so covet. You grew suspicious of Anton and trailed him, found him hunched in a conspiracy with the Chinese and executed him. The Chinese spy, sadly made his escape, but you might say, our friend here made a deathbed confession, expressing his regret at betraying Mother Russia, you know the sort of thing you need to say to sell this to your superiors, he threw himself and his lovely family at the Mother’s mercy.’

Anatoly’s tongue darted out, like a lizard trying to catch a fly.

‘Major Petrov,’ the American repeated, ‘national hero who murdered a traitor and chased off the enemy. You’ll be dining out on it for decades, my friend.’

Anatoly appraised him. ‘And what is in this for you?’

The American shrugged. ‘To get out of this godforsaken hellhole once and for all. If this information is as good as Anton says it is, it should be enough for me to buy that piece of land I have my eye on in the Keys and no-one needs to know where it came from.’ He laughed. ‘The spy business is a young man’s game my friend, and those days are soon to be behind me.’ He stepped forward and held out his hand. ‘We’ll leave it at that, Major Petrov.’ He gave another, self-satisfied laugh. ‘Well, dosvidaniya, Anatoly, hopefully our paths will never cross again, but if they do, forget you ever saw my face.’

‘You know what I like most about you, comrade?’ Anatoly said.

The American smiled. ‘My dashing good looks? My caustic wit? I give up, you tell me, Anatoly.’

‘Your arrogance,’ Anatoly answered.

‘My arrogance?’

He nodded. ‘Dah. Your arrogance because it makes you stupid. You strut around like you are cock of the walk, crashing into my country as if you own it. Your arrogance makes you stupid, comrade.’

The American took a step back. There was something about Anatoly’s tone which concerned him. It was still friendly but there was a coldness as icy as the night air spreading through it.

Anatoly stepped around him, pressing his body against the wall. He reached inside his pocket and pulled out a cigarette. He lit it, the tip glowing red as he sucked the smoke into his body. ‘It is kind of you, however,’ he said, ‘to think about me and my future and you’re correct, Major Petrov does have a ring to it and it is what I deserve.’

‘And you’ll get it, friend,’ the American replied in as light a tone as he could manage. He was not a man used to feeling fear, but at that moment, the caustic nature of his business was evident to him.

‘Major Petrov,’ Anatoly whispered to himself, a smile creasing his birth-marked cheek. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a gun, he reached into another pocket and pulled out a silencer which he began slowly screwing into place on his pistol. ‘I know we’re alone,’ he said as if discussing something innocent, ‘but I believe it always pays to be prudent.’

The American watched as the silencer clicked into place. ‘You don’t have to do this, Anatoly,’ he said, unable to hide the desperation coursing through him. ‘You know you don’t. Whatever you want, name it, we’ll give you it, you have my word. Money. Power. Whatever floats your boat, it can be yours.’

Anatoly took a step towards him. ‘You think I want YOUR money? YOUR power? Your arrogance didn’t just make you stupid, comrade, it made you careless. Did you really think we were just going to let you walk away with our secrets? Did you?’

‘You’ve been playing both sides all the time, haven’t you? You double-crossed me?’

Anatoly nodded. ‘Double-crossed, triple-crossed, what does it matter? When will you idiots learn you NEVER cross Russia. She won’t tolerate it.’

‘So what happens next?’

‘I think you know how this story ends.’ Anatoly responded. ‘I was surveilling a Russian traitor, defecting and taking state secrets with him and in the process I was forced to defend myself from you, an American spy, and you both were killed. Very neat, nyet?’

‘You don’t have to do this,’ the American repeated. ‘You know how the game works, Anatoly. You take me in, your bosses negotiate with my bosses, I get freed, one of yours gets freed and we all go back to playing our War Games and we’ll be friends again.’

Anatoly took another step forward. ‘Not this time, friend, not this time.’

The American nodded, the realisation of his situation spreading across his face like a calmness. ‘So be it. From one soldier to another, make it quick, dah?’

Anatoly’s eyebrows raised and he gave the American a quick nod. He lifted the gun and with a squeeze of his finger pulled the trigger and a bullet exploded into the American's chest. His head dropped, his face crinkling in confusion as he stumbled and crashed to the ground. His blood spread beneath him like a cape across the brilliant white snow beneath him. Anatoly reached into the American’s coat and pulled the folder out of it. He tutted as his sleeve brushed against the blood oozing from American’s chest.

‘You have no idea about the meaning of the word soldier, American, so don’t think to compare yourself to me.’ He stepped over the body and strode across the path. ‘Sweet dreams, comrade, my colleagues will be along shortly to toss you on to a nice warm bonfire.’ He called over his shoulder. ‘That should please you the amount of time you spent whining about how cold you were!’ He added with a chortle. ‘But thanks for the idea about the Chinese,’ he stopped and stroked the port-wine birthmark on his cheek. ‘It might just work, kill two birds with one stone.’ A smile stretched across his fleshy face. ‘Yes, indeed. The Yanks try to get the traitor out of the country, the Chinese intervene and kill the American. I arrive on the scene just as the Chinese make their escape.’ Anatoly snorted. ‘Ha, the coward will high tail it back to China and get off our backs once and for all,’ he said aloud with a self-satisfied flourish.

Whistling to himself, Anatoly moved through the clearing and passed through a row of trees where he had parked his car. He stopped dead in his tracks, he could hear footsteps retreating to the west, the opposite direction from where he was. The footsteps were soft and light against the snow. Dammit, he cursed. I warned you what would happen if you didn’t stop sticking your nose in. He stepped out of the light and began striding towards the west side of the park. I warned you, Salome, I warned you. He spat into the snow. Whatever happened next he was doing for his country, and there was no place for sentiment. The stupid woman had every warning she was going to get. It was time she felt the consequences of her interference.

‘You can’t run forever, Salome!’ He hissed into the night. ‘I’ll get you, one way or another!’ he said as he jumped into the car and slammed the door behind him. He pulled the radio mic out of its cradle on the dashboard and clicked angrily at the switch, the crackle of the airwaves breaking the silence. He exhaled. ‘This is Petrov. Are you there?’ He let go of the switch, his ear trained to listen to the white noise of the radio. Time passed, he assumed it was only moments but in his black mood it felt much longer. All Anatoly wanted was to get away, erase his presence from the space he now inhabited.

‘Dah,’ a voice finally replied over the radio.

A smile appeared on Anatoly’s face, relieved to hear the voice of Mikel Kotov, one of the best agents he knew. The man who asked no questions, that was how some people referred to him, others called him the man with no face. Both suited him, Anatoly considered. Mikel was a man with a cold heart, an efficient and loyal agent, as adept at killing as he was at slipping into new faces and disguises. He was, in that respect, the perfect spy, there had been times when Anatoly himself had not recognised the agent when he was wearing a new cover. He narrowed his eyes and pictured the bloodied remains of Anton Veckenov, his body spread-eagled in the snow. He smiled. In his wildest dreams he would not have imagined a more perfect scenario. He had always known recruiting Mikel was an inspired idea, but even he could not have imagined after what had just happened how fortuitous the decision had actually been.

‘I’m at St. Andronikov Monastery,’ Anatoly spoke into the intercom. ‘Your presence is required.’

A pause. ‘Shall I organise a team?’ Mikel enquired.

‘Nyet.’ Anatoly replied.

A second, longer pause. ‘I understand. Dosvidaniya.’

The static flatlined. Anatoly smiled. The man of few words would be another good name for Mikel, though perhaps not as interesting a one. Satisfied, he turned the key in the ignition and the car roared into life.

In the clearing a rat watched as the car disappeared and silence descended once again upon the clearing. The rat emerged from a crack in the wall, scampering across the snow towards the newly formed blood river and began lapping hungrily at the thick liquid oozing from the American. The rat stopped for a moment as a pair of eyes snapped open, flickering with confusion as if they were trying to understand what was happening. Uninterested, the rat continued with his meal.

Moscow, Russia.

Present Day.

Salome Duvall

Salome Duvall swung her legs over the railing, dropping her feet onto the snow-covered pavement beneath her. With one hand she steadied herself on the railing and with the other smoothed down her unruly mane of hair, which was, like her eyes, as dark as a raven. She touched the ornate emerald necklace she wore around her neck as if reassuring herself it was still there, her mouth twisted into some words she did not utter. She stepped forward, pushing the snow away with a long ornate ivory handled walking cane, glanced down at the threadbare boots she was wearing and shuddered, she had forgotten how cold it could get at night and wished she had worn better clothes. However, as was the story of her life, money was in short supply and the fact was she had not expected to ever return to Russia. Russia. She was barely able to utter it aloud such was the hatred coursing through her.

Russia had once been her home though its memory had begun fading from her consciousness a long time ago. She did remember one thing clearly. She had left with nothing but the clothes on her back and the camera in her hand. She had not looked back. She had dared not because she knew what it could mean for her and the only person she had left to care about. She had fled not for her life, but to save another.

It had been almost two decades, and they had passed as slowly as a clock without batteries. She had however held on to one belief. She had vowed she would only return to avenge those who wronged her and her family. It hardly seemed believable to her now the time had come. She was close, so close she felt she could almost smell the breath of the bastards who had exiled her.

Salome turned her head slowly in the direction of a row of floodlights which lined the pathway like rigid steel sentry guards splattering a dim light over the ice rink. She closed her eyes, reminded again of the last time she had inhabited this space. She could see it. The three of them gliding across the pure virgin ice, their hands entwined. Salome had never known such love and peace before or since. Although the night was dark and quiet, except for the creaking of the trees as they bowed majestically as the wind whipped around them, she found if she really concentrated she could still hear the slice of the blades as they glided across the ice rink and the gay excited laughter of a child. Salome sucked in her breath, shaking her head as if trying to dislodge the memory which had presented itself to her again, like an excited child in the back of a classroom with their hand-up, shouting ‘Pick me!’ Remember me. She touched her stomach feeling the hollowness of a womb once full.

Salome took a step closer to the ice rink, teetering gently on the slippery surface, and again was reminded of the child skating around and around with a happiness so warm it threatened to dent the shell Salome had placed around her heart. She opened her eyes. She wanted to remember everything. It was no longer enough just to imagine it. She had spent too long burying it, like a cavern deep within the earth, impenetrable and lost to humankind. I’ll see you later, my darlings, but don’t count the minutes because they’ll be too long.

She moved her hands slowly across the metal railings which encased the ice rink. She was now standing on the exact spot where eighteen years earlier she had been given a choice. It had been no sort of choice, but a command, a threat in no uncertain terms. Stop looking for him. Leave Moscow tonight and never come back, or they’ll kill you both and there will be nothing I can do to stop it.

‘Salome, you shouldn’t be out here in plain sight.’ A man’s voice called out from the shadows, it was deep and cavernous, and she did not need to see him to know who it was. His voice was as deep as the eyes which never moved or betrayed emotion, but still she yearned to see herself in their reflection once more.

Salome sucked in her breath and spun around. She hated herself for the warmth which had begun spreading through her body. Mikel Kotov walked towards her. He always seemed to her like a man who wore many different faces. Faces he could call upon and use interchangeably. She remembered once when she had distantly reached up to touch his face and he recoiled like a kitten that had been abused. She supposed he must have seen and experienced some terrible things in his life, things he did not or could not share, things he could not forget.

‘Mikel?’ She called out breathlessly, angry at herself for sounding so desperate, like a child seeking out her teenage crush.

Mikel Kotov moved slowly in her direction, a smile spreading his cheeks, a finger scratching nervously across the coarse stubble on his jaw. There was something about the face which had always troubled her as if it did not match the voice or the eyes. Copper hair was swept high over a proud, prominent forehead. His cheeks were smooth and round, like a gerbil storing food. She supposed he was not what you would call a handsome man. But his face could be described as interesting, lived in. A face to study if he allowed you time to do so. It seemed as if every time she stole a look he pressed one back at her, please don’t look at me, it said. At first, she had wondered why he did not want to be appraised but as time passed she had come to realise it was probably because his anonymity was more than likely what had saved him.

‘You are even more beautiful than I remember, Salome,’ he said taking a slow step towards her. His tongue slid along his bottom lip moistening it, pushing a snowflake away.

Salome’s hand flew to her mouth, the other to her mess of raven hair. It felt rough and unruly beneath it and she cursed herself for not having taken more care in her appearance. She had spent most of the last few decades not wanting anyone to cast their gaze upon her in case they discovered who she was. No man had ever looked at her in the way Mikel was now. It was both intoxicating and terrifying. She half wished he would look away but hoped he would not. She gazed at his hands. They were exactly as she remembered, big and strong, not soft but not hard, it was all she could do to stop herself from throwing herself into his arms. They lapsed into an uncomfortable silence, two lovers who knew they could not speak the truth they wanted but realised small talk was pointless.

She frowned, unsure why. ‘I couldn’t help myself,’ she said finally turning away from him to look again at the ice rink. ‘I used to come here with my family.’

Mikel moved next to her, he was now so close she could feel the electricity between their two hands which rested by their sides. ‘I remembered you told me, that’s why I knew you’d be here when you didn’t show up at the rendezvous.’

Salome lifted her wrist and strained to read the dials of her watch. It was 9:30 p.m, an hour later than when she had promised to meet Mikel at the bar he said was a safe meeting point. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you, I just thought I’d come here again, one last time, and I suppose I lost track of time.’

Mikel’s finger inched towards her arm and he brushed against it. ‘It’s all right, it’s understandable after all this time.’ He glanced at his own watch. ‘I knew you’d be here and I would have given you more time if I could, but…’ he trailed off, the words dissipating in the cloud of his breath.

Salome turned to him. ‘I understand,’ she said softly, the words moved from her voice box like whips of air. It did not sound like her own voice to her, rather a young, foolish girl. ‘I know you are taking a great risk in helping me again Mikel and I am grateful.’

Mikel nodded. ‘When we spoke last week I sensed the urgency, and,’ he stopped and gave her a tight smile, ‘I knew you wouldn’t listen to my protests and would come back anyway, so of course I had to help you.’

It was all Salome could do to stop herself from running and throwing herself into his arms to feel the strength of his muscular arms wrapping around her slight body. ‘You worry too much, Mikel,’ she said cheerfully, ‘but really after all this time, why would anyone even care about me? I kept my word. I disappeared and I never shared what I had discovered. What possible danger could I pose to them now?’

‘These people don’t forget, Salome,’ Mikel groaned. ‘They have long memories.’

Salome wafted the air as if dealing with a troublesome insect. ‘Bah! I am nothing to them now. Time has moved on.’

He shook his head. ‘They may have let you go, but it doesn’t mean they haven’t been watching you. I always knew where you were, which means Anatoly must have as well. What you know, what you have, could still prove to be a great danger to them. Anatoly is a very powerful man now and I bet he’d do anything to make sure he doesn’t lose his power, and that includes ignoring a deal he struck with you eighteen years ago.’

Salome’s eyes narrowed angrily. Hearing his name was like a knife stabbing at her heart again and again. She hated Anatoly Petrov more than she had ever hated anyone or anything. ‘I kept my part of the deal and he kept his,’ she replied angrily. ‘But he knows I have the evidence of what he did to Anton Veckenov and the American eighteen years ago so if anything happens to me…’ she trailed off allowing the words to disappear into the night air. ‘Which, if he is as powerful as you say, means I have just as much hold over him as he does me.’

Mikel nodded. ‘Of course, but again, why risk it all now? And what is all of this about the Chinese?’

Salome turned away. She had thought about it a great deal during the previous few weeks as she planned her perilous journey back into Russia. A journey she had only undertaken because she felt as if, after eighteen years of desperate waiting, the stars had finally aligned in her favour. ‘Because,’ she replied, ‘this time I hold the cards.’

Mikel stepped away, his jaw tightening and the muscles flexing on his face. Salome observed him and realised, perhaps for the first time since she had met him eighteen years earlier, he was or could be, a very dangerous man. When Anatoly had met her at the ice rink and told her she had to leave Russia or she would be assassinated, Mikel had been standing behind him. A silent hulk of a man, a face as impassive as a mask, betraying no emotion. His different coloured eyes as lifeless as a corpse. She had watched him that night, her body on the verge of convulsions and she had known if she did not leave, Anatoly would signal to Mikel who would pick Salome up and squash her like a bug, all without breaking a sweat or showing a glimmer of emotion. She had nodded her agreement, such as it was and had left with Mikel. There was a glimmer of hope but she did not know whether to play it. She had recognised Mikel instantly and she knew what he had done. They drove in a silence as heavy as a concrete slab pressing against Salome’s skull because she believed at any moment he would turn to her and kill her. He had not. They journeyed through the night towards the border, Salome kept thinking he would stop to rest but he had not. When he had pulled the car to a halt she had made her decision, realising she had little to lose. He would either help her or kill her, either way, it did not really matter any longer.

I need you to do something for me, she said when she had amassed the courage. Make sure Anatoly keeps his word and does not hurt my child.

Why would I do that? he asked, the faint hint of amusement evident in his voice.

Because if you don’t, I’ll tell Anatoly what you did that night, what you did to help the American. I was there because I followed him to try to find out what happened to my husband. I took photographs. Photographs which are safely hidden and will remain so as long as I’m alive.

He had turned to her, eyes as cold and hard as a hammer, flicking over her face like a predator, the concentration obvious on his face as he decided what to do with her. She caught her breath as he reached inside his coat, believing he was reaching for his gun. There was still no emotion on his face, but she thought there was something different in his stare. He handed her a card and she took it, having to steady a shaking hand with the other. The card contained nothing but a telephone number.

Call this number if you are in danger or need anything and I’ll make sure they keep their end of the bargain and never harm your daughter.

‘Salome? Are you all right?’

Salome’s head jerked towards him, her eyes wide with confusion. It took her a moment to place where she was. She attempted a smile. ‘I’m sorry, I was just remembering the first time we met. I was sure you were going to kill me.’

Mikel did not answer. He did not need to.

‘But when you gave me your telephone number I knew, I just KNEW, you were a good man.’

Mikel raised an eyebrow but again did not respond. And she was reminded again of the last thing he had said to her, she did not understand what it meant, she still did not understand what it meant. We’re the same, you and I.

‘You said earlier, you hold the cards now, what did you mean?’ Mikel asked. His tone was light as if prising a secret out of a child without them knowing.

She turned to him, moving his hand off her arm and stepped toward the edge of the ice rink, running her cane along the rim. She pulled her cape tightly around her body, but it was no match for the relentless cold. As much as she needed his help, she knew one thing for certain. His kindness to her meant nothing. Whatever, whoever Mikel Kotov was, he had only survived for so long because he neither cared for nor trusted anyone, she was sure of that.

Mikel sighed, his eyes narrowing. ‘What does this all have to do with the Chinese Embassy?’ he asked again, the unmistakable rasp of anger snapping through his tone. ‘Zhang hasn’t been active for a long time, believe me, I’ve been watching.’

Salome spun around on her heels, fixing him with her own look of anger. ‘As have I, Mikel, as have I. What, you think my time in exile, scurrying through the darkness, has been spent in futility?’ She gesticulated and shook her head vigorously. ‘Nyet, comrade, nyet.’

Mikel moved to her, standing squarely in front of her, his huge body throwing her into darkness. ‘You don’t trust me, Salome, yet you expect my help?’

Salome stepped away from him, striding with a determination away from him. ‘As I said, I have been watching, waiting for my chance to get back in, to finally discover what happened to my husband, and why Anton, and his family, and my family, all of our lives were ruined.’

‘And you have?’

She nodded. ‘But I’m not the only one.’ She stopped, staring at his face. When she spoke her next words she wanted to see his reaction. ‘But I’m not the only one who has been watching. So has the American.’

‘The American?’ Mikel asked sharply.

Salome watched him, a frown appearing on her face. She had not been able to gauge his reaction, such was the mask he wore. She gave a curt nod. ‘Yes, the American. He is back in Russia too.’

‘How can you be sure it’s him?’ Mikel asked sharply. ‘Eighteen years is a very long time. I’m not even sure I’d recognise him, and I…’ he trailed off, leaving the sentence unfinished.

Salome’s eyes narrowed. ‘Yes, it’s him. A new name, a new identity, but it’s him all right. And as far as I can tell, Anatoly doesn’t know it’s him, because if he did, he’d be dead already and so would you for helping him to escape.’

Mikel looked at her and nodded. ‘Why would he come back now?’

Salome waved her hand. ‘Because, like me, he’s been watching and he’s had a long time to plan his revenge on Anatoly.’ She stared at Mikel. ‘The answer to all of this lies in the Chinese Embassy. Have you found a way in as I asked?’

He paused. ‘It's not easy, Salome. A Foreign Embassy on Russian land isn’t subject to our usual rules, we can’t just walk in and out of it, certainly not without drawing attention.’

‘Dammit, I know that,’ she hissed. ‘Which is why I asked for your help. Are you seriously telling me with all your years working for the FSB, you can’t find a way?’

‘I didn’t say that,’ Mikel snapped back, his mouth as tight as rope. ‘I told you, we’ve been watching Zhang since he came back into the country. Anatoly has become his best friend, you know the old adage, keep your friends close but your enemies closer. Anyway, we’ve been monitoring the comings and goings at the Embassy ever since Zhang came back, and just lately, things have become interesting. Zhang’s up to his old tricks.’

Salome touched his arm, a flash of hope appearing in her eyes. ‘His old tricks?’

Mikel nodded. ‘Nothing like the old days, but it’s him all right, thinking he can do as he pleases.’

‘And what is it he is doing?’

‘It seems he has some personal vendetta going on because he reached out to an old contact. A man known to the FSB, and to you. A man who specialises in making problems go away.’

Salome raised an eyebrow. ‘A hitman, you mean?’

Mikel gave a quick nod. ‘Dah. It seems someone has already pissed Zhang off.’

‘And Anatoly is allowing this?’

Mikel shrugged. ‘He doesn’t know about it. He asked me to monitor Zhang and the Embassy. I was going to tell him and then you called and asked me to get you inside.’ He paused. ‘And are you really telling me, Zhang has been hiding the secret to this whole business all of this time?’

Salome smiled. ‘And the marvellous thing is, he doesn’t even know it.’

Mikel stood in front of her. ‘But how do YOU know all of this, Salome?’

Salome turned away from him, unsure of how much she should share with him concerning her journey back to Russia. She knew she should trust him, he was after all risking his own life to help her. ‘I have a contact here in Moscow who holds the key to all of this, can you believe that? After all of this time, it’s all been sitting here just waiting for us to piece together, and we have to thank a woman called Helga Boyarov, sadly all she had to do to help us was to die!’ She glanced around the park anxiously. ‘I can’t say more, not here, not now, as you said, we don’t know who might be watching, or listening.’ Before Mikel had a chance to ask more, she continued. ‘This contract killing you’re talking about, how does that help us?’

‘Because it could be our way in. Zhang has arranged for a grand cocktail party this weekend, a party for his guests who are going to be involved in an unexpected accident on the way.’

Salome snorted. ‘As usual, the midget coward is covering his back.’

Mikel nodded. ‘But it might just work in our favour.’

‘How?’

Mikel pulled a dossier from inside his jacket and handed it to Salome. She rolled the papers open and studied the picture on the first page. It was of a man she guessed to be in his thirties with a mop of blond hair and the greenest eyes she thought she had ever seen. ‘Who is this man?’

‘His name is Hugo Duchamp,’ Mikel replied. ‘He’s a policeman from France. The Cocktail party tomorrow is being held in his and his travelling companions’ honour and he is going to help us.’

Salome handed the papers back to Mikel. ‘A policeman!’ she scoffed as if the word was like poison in her mouth. ‘And what makes you think someone like him can be trusted?’

Mikel shook his head. ‘I have many contacts around the globe, Salome and I’ve checked him out. Duchamp is the real deal. A decorated officer and an honest law enforcer.’

‘Anybody can buy credentials, Mikel, you know this. How do you think I’ve managed to keep alive all these years?’ Salome added with a sad smile.

‘True, but not him. Back histories like his can’t be bought or made up.’

Salome studied Mikel with interest. ‘Then what is he doing here?’

Mikel shrugged. ‘As far as I can tell it’s a personal matter, not of much interest to us, but the point is, I’ve done my research and I’m one hundred percent sure this policeman is a man above reproach.’ He pointed at a photograph of a young man with a mop of brown hair and wearing a bow tie. ‘The hit is out on this man, a man very dear to Comrade Duchamp. We will, therefore, intercept Duchamp when he arrives in Russia,’ he glanced at this watch, ‘in the next hour,’ he added anxiously, ‘and we will tell him of the hit in return for securing his assistance.’

‘His assistance?’

Mikel nodded. ‘Dah. Comrade Duchamp will be our eyes and ears in the Embassy. He will find out what we need to know and he will report back to us and he will do so because if he doesn’t, his friend will die.’

‘I don’t like this,’ Salome whispered. ‘This man has nothing to do with this, we shouldn’t involve innocents in our business. It isn’t fair and it could be dangerous for them. Involving these men makes us no better than the people behind all of this.’

Mikel shrugged again. ‘I’m sorry Salome, but we have little choice. You want this to be over, don’t you? You want to find out what happened to your family, don’t you?’

Salome’s head dropped and she nodded. ‘All the same, I haven’t come this far to put my fate in the hands of a stranger. I need to find a way to get into the Embassy myself Mikel, will you help me?’

‘Very well, but let’s try this first.’ Mikel replied, pointing again at the