A Deadly Trade: A gripping espionage thriller. E. Seymour V.

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      ‘I haven’t forgotten, Hex.’ He puffed out his massive chest. ‘I am a man of my word, a man of honour.’

      He was neither of those things but I didn’t argue.

      ‘That’s most generous of you.’

      ‘Not at all, I am sure you will return the favour,’ he said, with a wily smile. ‘I will speak to my pilot and put him on standby.’

      We discussed the finer details of pick-up and time. Yakovlevich took a big gulp of whisky and leant back, making the leather creak. ‘These scientists to whom you allude,’ he said slow-eyed, picking up from where we left off. ‘How is this of interest to a man like you?’

      I evaded giving a direct answer. ‘In the light of the brain drain, Russia’s bio-weapons systems must be set back a couple of decades, at least.’

      Yakovlevich closed his eyes. He looked half-cut. The more inebriated he seemed the more interested he was. ‘Officially, Russia has no interest in such things. Unofficially, who knows?’

      ‘Is this why the FSB are interested in the death of a British scientist?’

      ‘The Kelly affair,’ Yakovlevich ventured with another slow blink. He leant forward and deposited the remains of his cigar into an antique marble ashtray.

      ‘More recent, the Wilding affair.’

      ‘Ah, I heard something about it on the lunchtime news. Most unfortunate. They are saying that she died in suspicious circumstances.’

      ‘Unconfirmed, I believe.’

      Yakovlevich held the glass to his thick lips, fixed me with a dragnet stare. ‘And you say this is of interest to the FSB? Since when did you work for the organisation?’

      I let out a laugh. ‘I don’t.’

      ‘So?’ he pressed, his lips drawn back into a lazy smile.

      ‘I keep my ear to the ground. As do you.’

      Yakovlevich let out a snort of laughter. ‘I like this game you play, Hex.’ He took another drag of his cigar. ‘Tell me what you have heard.’

      ‘A Russian diplomatic vehicle was seen outside Wilding’s home this morning.’

      ‘I know nothing of this.’

      ‘A pity.’

      I played my next card softly. ‘I heard something was taken.’

      His dead eyes briefly sparked with life. ‘Robbery? Fascinating. What exactly?’

      ‘Information,’ I said, obtuse.

      ‘Making the possibility of murder more likely,’ he said with a complicit smile. ‘In my experience, people are removed either because they threaten one’s interests, they know too much, or are offered the opportunity of collaboration but foolishly decline.’

      I am not a rude man. I believe in go along to get along. Charm gets you further than aggression – to a point. I did not tell Yakovlevich that he was taking the linguistic equivalent of the scenic route and failing to answer my question. The fact he was prevaricating told me quite a lot. The wily old bastard was buying himself thinking time. Yakovlevich issued a sly smile. ‘My memory is not so good but didn’t Wilding inspect old bio-labs in Russia?’

      ‘I’ve no idea. When?’

      ‘Early 90s, I believe. Part of a UK/US delegation.’

      ‘She must have been a junior member.’

      ‘Who knows?’ Yakovlevich said, dismissive. ‘Many laboratories were closed down. Many good men were put out of work. Russians have long memories. Perhaps she was killed out of revenge.’

      A fair point, a new angle, and one I wanted to explore. ‘Could she have been working on something that was of particular interest to your people?’

      His smile was caged.

      ‘I have no firm evidence,’ I continued, ‘but there’s a possibility that Wilding was working on bio-weapons. In a defensive capacity, of course,’ I added swiftly.

      ‘Of course.’ He smiled without exposing his teeth. ‘And how did you come by this information?’

      ‘On the grapevine, as we say.’

      He threw his head back, laughed, full-throated, then returned to his woozy eyes half-closed act. One glance at his watch was my cue for leaving. I duly obliged and drained my glass.

      ‘Forgive me, Mikhail, I’ve taken too much of your time already.’

      ‘Think nothing of it. A pleasure, always.’ He lumbered to his feet. ‘We must do business again soon.’

      I cleared my throat. I wasn’t sure what to say, the concept of taking on another assignment strangely unsettling, then Mikhail handed me over to Yuri who, resembling a creature trapped between night and day, escorted me from the building.

      I did not go far. I crossed over, walked to the end of the street and loitered in the descending mist. The air, dank and chill, nipped at my clothes.

      Yakovlevich emerged fifteen minutes later wearing a dark cashmere coat slung rakishly over his shoulders. For him to venture out alone without a minder in tow a rare sight.

      I followed at a respectable distance, the thickening fog concealing my pursuit. As I trailed from street to street, out into the glare of Knightsbridge with all its sleek and not so subtle charm, then dropped onto the Brompton Road and eventually to a residential maze of leafy squares and railings, I wondered where the big Russian was heading with such abandon. In his enthusiasm, he seemed to have forgotten the basic rules of tradecraft.

      Yakovlevich was now quite a way in front, the grey and gloomy streets deserted apart from the odd cyclist. A glance at my watch informed me that it was not yet four in the afternoon. Then he was gone.

      I paused, bent down as if to tie a shoelace, and listened. Muffled voices drifted from a garden square ahead. Screened from the road by railings and dense foliage, it provided an ideal location for a meet. I didn’t know who was on the other side of the conversation.

      No gambler, I was more inclined to study a quarry and calculate his actions accordingly. All men had a price and Yakovlevich was no exception. Superficially, he seemed like any other gangster, the acquisition of huge wealth and riches his reason to get up in the morning. In reality, he was a power junkie, which explained why he rubbed shoulders with those who could really shake things up and make them happen: his cronies in the FSB. Straining my ears, I heard Yakovlevich’s deep bass voice speaking in his native tongue. I had no clue what was spoken, but I calculated that Yakovlevich’s garden guest was a Russian intelligence officer. Had Yakovlevich personally ordered the hit, he would have kept his distance. The fact he was here, reporting back to base, indicated that Wilding’s blood was not on Yakovlevich’s hands. The same could not be said of the Russians.

      Straightening up, I squinted through the murk at the empty street. Frustratingly, there were few places in which to hide. Acutely aware that if I got СКАЧАТЬ