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

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      Yakovlevich emerged first, followed by his friend. They crossed the road together, passing dangerously close to where I crouched, breathless. Taking a snap, I got a good look at the other man: middle-aged with short grey hair and a distinctive scar on the left side of his chin. Seconds later, they shook hands; Yakovlevich walking one way, ‘Scar-face’ the other.

      Mission accomplished, I slipped the camera back into the briefcase. I probably had another hour, if lucky, before the light entirely faded, smothered by the thickening murk. Within an easy stroll of Imperial College in Exhibition Road, I decided to head that way. The Israelis’ London Station, embedded in the Israeli Embassy on Palace Green, was also within striking distance. Reuben once told me a small team operated there from several floors below.

      Cutting back into a crush of shoppers, I allowed myself to be buffeted along on a human tide. A fragment of me wondered what it would be like to run alongside and join them. The thought lasted seconds.

      It started to spit with rain as I turned a corner and walked up Exhibition Road past the Natural History Museum, the V&A on the opposite side, and glanced up at the main entrance to Imperial College with its geometric glass and steel winking in the gathered gloom. By now the woman from the British Security Service would already have paid a visit, interviewed Wilding’s line manager and asked all the usual questions: were all security restrictions in place; was anything missing; was Wilding behaving oddly; had she trouble sleeping; was she depressed? I wished I could have been a fly on the wall when that conversation took place. But I had other ideas.

      I’m a big believer in timing. Wrong place, wrong time exists, but it’s rare. It underlines the theory of calculating the odds. Match a certain set of events with a number of different players and chances are those players will end up bumping into each other, the fact my path almost crossed with Wilding’s assassin a fine example. Given the circumstances, it was actually surprising that we didn’t meet. I hoped my theory held up now.

      Taking a left into Kensington Gore, I sauntered parallel to Queens Gate with its classy hotels and wide residential streets of Victorian buildings and white stucco grand six-storey edifices, similar to those found in central Moscow. I felt peculiarly settled in the shadows and I walked slowly, softly, in the direction of Kensington Palace Gardens, more specifically Palace Green, the most secure and exclusive road in Kensington and beating heart of Embassy land. Within its half mile stretch of prime real estate lay the red brick former home of the novelist and essayist, William Thackeray, its current occupier the Israeli Embassy. As one would expect, security around the embassy remained extremely tight. Fine by me. I had no intention of straying too close.

      My field of vision restricted, my hearing constrained by the hostile elements, call it intuition, but I sensed the redhead at Wilding’s house that morning would be chasing down the same leads, perhaps within the same time frame. All I had to do was pick a spot and wait.

      I set down the briefcase beside me and took up a position leaning against a plane tree. Surrounded by a collection of moving shapes, silhouettes, the gauzy light of cars and lorries, I took out a pack of cigarettes I’d bought earlier in a backstreet newsagents. Fog stretched over my face in a damp embrace. There were many approaching footsteps, some fast and staccato, others flat and heavy. Still I waited.

      Two cigarettes later, the last crushed against the heel of my shoe, I heard a purposeful yet even tread. Having devoted years to identifying the idiosyncrasies of others, I knew, without the smallest doubt, the gait and pace belonged to the woman with the flame-coloured hair.

      I struck hard and fast. Action is faster than reaction. There are exceptions. The woman, highly trained, was one. As my hands clamped around her throat, she flicked her head up, the crown striking my jaw. Next, she raised her right leg. For this I was ready. Before her knee could make the connection with my groin, I flexed, and substantially increased the pressure on her neck. I had to be careful. A man can be rendered unconscious in three seconds, dead in fifteen. I needed her alive, articulate and co-operative.

      I am a strong guy. My shoulders are broad. I used all my body weight to push her against the base of the tree. She didn’t scream. She couldn’t. Even so, you’d think someone would come to her aid. Nobody did.

      I released the pressure on her neck. I did not clamp a hand over her mouth. I removed her earpiece, stuck my hand in her jacket and lifted her phone, scrolled through, switched it off and shoved it back. I let her recover, but I stayed up close and very personal. I could smell her perfume: floral, contemporary, notes of citron, cedar and musk. Anyone walking by would assume we were lovers about to get it on. I put my mouth close to her ear and whispered, ‘If you’re smart, you’ll understand I haven’t set out to kill you.’

      ‘What do you want?’ Nice voice, low and melodic, well spoken. Her eyes, an iridescent green, shone like a cat’s in the night. She hadn’t asked me who I was and that told me the boy had talked and she had paid attention. I smiled. She was smart. We were going to get along fine. I loomed over her, using my body to put a barrier between her and anyone else in the street.

      ‘Wilding was working on something big. What was it?’ No way was I prepared to suggest a blueprint for a biological military weapon let alone any possible ethnic aspect. Way too hot.

      ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Not smart, reckless. I flew at her throat once again. ‘Do you enjoy killing women?’ she spat, her voice low and accusing. I let my hands drop as if I’d touched molten steel.

      ‘I didn’t kill Wilding.’

      ‘You were there.’

      ‘I don’t deny it.’

      ‘If you didn’t kill her, who did?’

      ‘We wouldn’t be standing here having this conversation if I knew.’

      ‘This isn’t a conversation. It’s an assault.’

      ‘How did he kill her?’ Call it professional interest.

      ‘Fuck you.’

      I admired her spirit. Faced with a force field of barely suppressed aggression, most keel over. Not this woman. ‘My guess is that he injected her with something.’

      ‘You should know.’ Her cold smile reminded me of light on icy water.

      ‘I already told you. I didn’t do it.’

      ‘So what were you doing?’ The green eyes narrowed to two feline slits.

      Tricky one. ‘Searching for information.’

      ‘What exactly?’

      I shrugged. ‘Data on a hard drive.’

      She blinked slowly once, a cover for the interest she undoubtedly felt. She now recognised that we were dancing on the same stage. ‘Where is it?’

      ‘I don’t have it.’

      ‘You insult my intelligence.’

      ‘I wouldn’t dream of it. I don’t have it. Someone wants it. May even have it. And now I want it.’

      ‘Who’s the someone?’

      ‘That’s what I’m trying to find out.’

      Her СКАЧАТЬ