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  Malevich’s hands shook, they had been doing this since that night at the ambassador’s residence. Everywhere he looked he imagined her blood. He saw it on his hands, he saw it when his eyes were closed; it was everywhere. He’d never wanted to kill, especially not a woman. He remembered every little detail in vivid colour. After the deed, walking briskly away, he’d had to stop in the street to vomit until he was dry. He remembered the breeze, and he would never lose the guilt, everlasting, of taking a life. Killing came so easily for those thick-necked operations men Moscow had sent to blow up their own embassy. Whatever it was those men had, he’d missed out on it. Nothing about killing had come easily or naturally to him, but he’d known before he’d even touched down in Paris that the day could well come when it would be asked of him.

  The state had trained him to kill. It was all abstract and arbitrary then, a kind of macabre lottery in which he hoped his number would never be called, that he’d never be activated. He remembered the exact time—fifteen minutes to midnight—when he’d walked into the ambassador’s compound, the smell of jasmine on the rain, the copper of blood. He owed it to the state to kill again and it was the kind of obligation they made sure you never forgot. When all this was over? He’d run, run away from all this, away from everything.

  He breathed deep and pressed on, focused on the task at hand.

  Tailing someone was no longer a fine art; the old KGB had been very good at teaching and employing such fieldcraft. One of the keys to their Cold War successes, of course, had been their sheer number—the KGB were once a mighty force, when the ideology and political influence of their nation ensured that there was a swarm of officers running their agents around the globe. Sure, Putin had gone some way towards making up for that shortfall, but the post-Soviet breed was nothing on the oldschool intelligence officers. Malevich was one of a dying breed, a state-trained sleeper who was so entrenched in his cover life that he’d almost forgotten his obligation, his duty, to the Rodina, his motherland.

  He’d liked his teaching job here in Paris, liked this homeland, his colleagues and students, but now he was an activated agent for his country. He’d been an agent all this time, but it had never felt real. Had he ever thought it would? No, not like this. Stealing some secrets, following someone and reporting their activities, posing as someone he was not; that was the work he was expecting. Not murder. Not like that. And all for—what—a goddamned diary written by a Russian statesman who’d been dead for over a hundred years?

  He wouldn’t be able to stay in Paris now, that much was clear. Not after what he’d done … Oh, what he’d done. His hands clenched the steering wheel, his knuckles white. He was a disposable asset, there to be used on a rainy day, when there was something about him that would suit the job. He had no way of questioning the order given to him, and no place to do so. They owned him.

  He thought of his sister—and the thought gave him the strength to keep going. She was a constant glimmer of hope on his horizon, ever present, his northern star. A future.

  Malevich reached for his mobile, tried calling her again. Her phone was off—perhaps she had gone to the airport early, perhaps she was already on the plane to her new life. His orders came with money, which meant a new life for her, too. He didn’t want to leave Paris and start again, but he was duty-bound to serve his country. It was more than repaying their investment in him—in setting up this life he so enjoyed—it was what his father and grandfather had done and their fathers before them.

  He’d almost been sent to Afghanistan but had been spared that horror, and he’d left military service before his unit was sent into Chechnya. So, finally, he had served his country on a frontline. Was serving his country. There was still work to be done, all of it by tonight. He changed the radio station and shifted in his seat. Soon, with his next target now acquired, all this would be behind him.

  5

  PARIS

  Shaking a tail was a skill Fox had learned the hard way. He hammered the Golf along Rue de Grenelle, weaving in and out of the growing number of vans and cars on the road in the early morning. The black Peugeot was mirroring his moves a couple of hundred metres back, albeit a little less recklessly. There was something in its controlled and patient presence that was far more unsettling than if it were right at his rear bumper trying to run him off the road.

  He raced through an intersection, geared down and hit the brakes hard, turned sharp right onto Avenue Bosquet—hitting over a hundred kilometres per hour as he crossed the wide expanse of lanes and shifted up through third and fourth gears—then saw an opportunity coming up to his left and veered across the road, taking a side street, gunning the accelerator.

  In the rear-view mirror Fox saw the Peugeot make the turn, its rear sliding out as the heavy sedan fishtailed before the engine power corrected its course and the car surged after him in a cloud of tyre smoke. On the open road his vehicle would be no match for theirs, and he had no chance if they tried to ram him into submission—let alone if they had weapons; best he had was a few baguettes on the back seat. He played leap-frog with a few vans, moving in and out as he overtook them, and again saw the Peugeot mirroring his moves. There was no way he could risk leading them back to his friends—he had to lose them here in Paris, and he had to do it fast. Up ahead, a possibility: the Eiffel Tower. She stood tall and graceful, seemingly lighter than air, a delicate-looking latticework of metal illuminated in the morning light.

  Fox checked over his shoulder, the Peugeot was still there. He looked ahead, missed the stop sign and yanked at the wheel, skirting around a group of racing bicycles, the Golf drifting sideways on its low-profile tyres as he geared down, turned the wheel into the slide and powered out.

  Flashing blue lights appeared in his rear-view mirror, weaving through the other vehicles, to the piercing sound of the twotone French police siren. The cop car—a little white Renault hatch—joined the chase, riding hard next to the Peugeot, which seemed to let the cops overtake.

  Two options. Keep going and hope to lose them, or pull over and take whatever was coming—from the police and from Babich’s men. No doubt Babich’s Umbra corporation had help via sources in the French police or intelligence; how else had they known he was here in Paris? Fox and his friends had flown in on a private GSR aircraft and used a backdoor customs entry, courtesy of the FBI. How could Babich’s men know he was in France, let alone in Paris, this morning, without inside help? Fuck it! But what—did he really think he could lose the French cops in their own city? Was he mad? He knew he was damned if he stopped, damned if he didn’t.

  He slammed on the brakes, did a tight handbrake turn so the back slid out, made a sharp left and jammed the accelerator to the floor. The flashing lights were still there behind him, but Fox was gaining distance since the take-off; still in the background was the Peugeot, black and squat, biding its time.

  Fox made a high-speed right turn, merged with the traffic, weaved through it, glanced in the rear-view mirror: Slam!

  A taxi clipped the rear of the cop car and it spun across the lanes of oncoming traffic, smashing hard against some parked cars. The Peugeot was still there, a way back now, hunting him as it surged ahead.

  Fox slammed on the brakes again, the anti-lock braking system shaking the pedal underfoot as he just managed to avoid a nose-to-tail with the car in front that had slowed to rubberneck the accident behind them. He overtook on the inside lane, made the next left turn and took the avenue alongside the base of the Eiffel Tower. He leaned on the horn, scattering a few jaywalking tourists as he sped by, turned right, and headed for the bridge around the other side of the tower.

  He powered the Golf eastwards along the bank of the Seine, doubling back.

  Ahead to the right, he could see blue lights racing along the other side of the river—they’d cut the chase off from there.

  And now dead ahead—strobing through the other vehicles in the oncoming lane—the beaten-up cop car from before, its back bump
er dragging in its wake.

  Fucking great …

  Fox checked his rear-view mirror, the Peugeot sedan was lurching in and out, right on him and closing the gap, no chance to evade right now … He couldn’t stop and hide either, however tempting that would be. Even if just the cops got him now … That’d leave Kate and Gammaldi alone out at the farmhouse; alone long enough for Babich’s guys to track them down.

  Across the river the cop cars were rushing towards him—two of them, racing along the quai.

  The bridge was coming up; he needed to cross it and take a route through La Défense, lose them before the highway. That meant splitting his way through those cops.

  Two-tone sirens howled as they bore down, closer, faster.

  The damaged cop car veered across lanes to cut him off—Fox planted his foot flat on the floor, tweaked the steering wheel and winced as the Renault scraped past, then slammed on the brakes, pulled hard right, the Golf on two wheels for a moment as he steered it onto the bridge.

  In the rear-view mirror, speeding like he was, he only glimpsed the base of the Eiffel Tower and the black Peugeot, the beaten-up cop car mounting the kerb as it turned to follow him; up ahead, two police cars turned onto the bridge and headed straight for him.

  He tightened his grip on the steering wheel, kept the accelerator flat to the floor and braced for impact.

  6

  HIGH OVER THE MED

  Hutchinson had never felt so nauseous. The aircraft jinking and pitching up and down and rolling side to side like a rollercoaster from hell.

  He filled his sick bag again, his eyes watering from the effort.

  Across the aisle, Capel had gone green, his book in his lap and eyes closed as he clutched the armrests. The other agent, a beefy former Hostage Rescue Team member nicknamed Brick, was still reading his magazine as if oblivious to the motion, and Babich—Babich still appeared to be asleep with his head turned away, facing his window. Maybe he was just good at hiding it, maybe he was as sick as him.

  Hutchinson couldn’t take it anymore. He sucked in some deep breaths, settled himself, and when there seemed a slight lull, unclipped his belt, got up and headed forwards to see if there was anything the pilots could do to get them out of this mess.

  They’d taken no chances in this prisoner transfer. Babich had been moved to an Air Force hangar in DC that housed three identical Defense Department C-37As, from where they had taken off in tandem the previous night, followed three different flight paths to land at three different Italian Air Force bases. Trust his flight plan to be the one going through this commotion.

  “Where’re we at?” Hutchinson asked, gripping the back of the pilot’s chair as they dropped altitude.

  “Radar’s still out, but I can see clearer skies coming up in a few minutes,” the pilot said over his shoulder. “Hang tight back there, won’t be long.”

  Hutchinson grumbled a reply, returned to his seat, buckled in, knuckles white on his armrest.

  Brick just kept on reading. Babich had woken up, and was sitting forwards, staring down at his toes. Didn’t look so fucking cool and collected now, Hutchinson was glad to see.

  No doubt Babich was used to travelling in a more luxurious style; he’d been vastly wealthy and untouchable … Until now. Even the Russian government was thankful the US had finally done what they didn’t have the stones to do themselves. Many influential Russians would be afraid of the information he might spill—politicians, judiciary, you name it. A guy like Babich hadn’t got this far and amassed so much without a lot of illegal back-scratching, and once all the dust had settled, a decade from now maybe, Russia’s corruption index might just drop out of … Ah, who was he kidding? This case would make a decent dent, but such corruption was here to stay, forever, everywhere.

  Hutchinson closed his eyes, waited for the bucking and rocking to relent. Why couldn’t he have outsourced this one? Could have sent his second in command, Valerie, while he spent a few days’ R and R somewhere as reward for a job well done in getting this guy to trial. He tried to imagine himself lying on a beach in Mexico, beautiful girls strolling by, a drink in hand … The plane rolled to the left and he reached for another sick bag.

  7

  PARIS

  Fox picked up the pace, leaving the two police cars spinning in his wake. He flicked the gears into second and took a tight left turn onto a cobbled street wet from the street cleaners up ahead. The Golf’s tyres skidded as he kept the accelerator to the floor—the engine red-lined, upshifted gears—mounted the kerb to get around the cleaner’s truck and lost a side-mirror in the process of getting back on the road.

  Two more police cars pulled out of a side street, headed straight for him; the Peugeot still behind him, just rounding the corner, closing fast.

  Fox pulled the handbrake, executing a tight turn to the left and the cop cars flashed by where he’d been, one skidding into the Peugeot as it made the same turn. Fox shot down the side road, a motorcycle swerving hard to avoid him.

  Behind—no cops, no lights, just the Peugeot, still there, in hard pursuit. Fox kept the Golf revving high as he wound through a couple more cobbled lanes, took a sharp right, hauled arse down a narrow passageway and—hit the brakes, just managing to stop before a street sweeper, a young African guy plugged into an iPod, who gave Fox the bird and slowly pushed his motorised cart across to the opposite pavement.

  A siren growing louder, closing in somewhere to his left. The second the street sweeper was clear, Fox floored the accelerator and took off again. He rounded a curve and was back on a main street, packed with traffic leaving town, the way he wanted to go, directly towards the highway to Normandy.

  The rear-view mirror was clear—then an old Beetle came up fast behind him, tooting its horn hard …

  His eyes roamed the traffic, trying to find an answer.

  He backed the Golf the way it had come—hand hard on the horn to urge the Beetle back, jumping his car with the brakes a couple of times to get the point across: Move it, buddy, or I’ll ram you. The Beetle driver was yelling at him and the scattered pedestrians near the pavement café joined in. He was nearly clear when a delivery van pulled in and blocked him from behind.

  Just beyond the van, slowing as it closed in on Fox: the black Peugeot. It moved smoothly, as if its driver was well practised in tactical patience. The siren sounded like it was right next to him. He looked ahead; the Beetle had long gone, merged with the traffic. Fox checked his rear-view mirror, the cops’ little hatchback took the place of the retreating van and tried to box the Golf in. The Peugeot waited.

  Fox headed straight for the police in reverse, hard and fast. He braced for impact and just managed to punch his car into the right front corner of their car. His own car spun—flashing right past the Peugeot—and ended up pointing down another side street. He slipped it into drive and raced to the avenue ahead, the Peugeot and the slightly damaged cop car in pursuit.

  Just ahead of Fox, two more police hatchbacks slid into the intersection and completely blocked his path. Fucking great, game over, but he was still driving flat-out in third gear …

  He slammed on the brakes and hung hard on the wheel, the car spinning 180 degrees and continuing on, barrelling backwards into the cop cars. Parked nose-to-tail with not a metre in between, he split the gap hard.

  Whipping the wheel again, he whirled back through a reverse 180 as the Peugeot and the pursuing cop car raced through the wreckage in Fox’s wake.

  He was on the Right Bank’s main road now, headed towards the La Defense tunnels, travelling against the traffic, and the double lanes were mostly clear.

  The Peugeot and the remaining cop car were gaining on him as he slid into a right-hand turn.

  Two more police cars rushed towards the intersection up ahead. Two ahead, one behind, and the Peugeot. It was all about the timing.

  Fox slowed, then sped up quickly.

  The cop car behind hit his bumper, so Fox a
ccelerated through the upcoming intersection, his pursuer lagging just enough –

  A Yop delivery truck slammed into the police Renault, an explosion of crushed metal and glass under a fountain of white yoghurt drinks.

  8

  HIGH OVER THE MED

  Thank Christ for calmer skies, Hutchinson thought.

  He glanced over at Babich. The man went back to looking unperturbed out his window.

  Hutchinson closed his eyes and thought back to the conversation he’d had with Bill McCorkell before he’d left DC. Bill was a good guy—by far the smartest and most level-headed of any government security expert he’d ever come across—and having him as liaison with the White House on this Umbra case had made the difference in this becoming a model for future transcontinental corruption cases. Bill and he both worried about whether the Italian legal system would put Babich away long enough for the US litigators to line him up, but that kind of multinational cooperation had proved effective when it led the Russians to come into the fold and instigate legal proceedings of their own.

  McCorkell had been instrumental in negotiating Babich’s arrest with Moscow—and some six months later, they were getting somewhere, albeit slowly. Nevertheless, it was the end of the line for Babich and his network, one way or another.

  Hutchinson looked back over at his prisoner. Even after his conversation with Bill McCorkell, it still puzzled him why the Russians had let a man like Babich acquire such power from the ruins of their Soviet system.