J.F. Kirwan - 88° North

He said nothing. And the only reaction she could read was one of resigned relief.

‘You knew?’

‘MI6, remember?’

‘I wish you weren’t being a saint about it. Some yelling is in order.’

‘Don’t have it in me, Nadia.’ He reached for her hand. ‘But say the word, and we’ll leave here, go somewhere and—’

‘No. Salamander. It’s the last thing I’m going to do.’

He leaned back, removed his hand, took a sip from his beer in its polystyrene stay-cool sleeve, and stared out at the vista. ‘When’s the Chef arriving?’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I wish I was someone else. Someone who’d dive every day with you in the Maldives until …’

He turned back to her, leaned forwards, his eyes moist, his voice edgy. ‘Until you become too weak, start bleeding internally, and I get to nurse you for a couple of weeks watching you suffer and slip away minute by minute …’

He stopped, leaned backwards again, and took another swig. ‘We’re not tourists, Nadia.’ He patted the inside of his jacket, his M9. ‘ This is who we are. Besides, we both know what the likelihood of failure is. Blue Fan killed three SAS yesterday, she impressed you this morning with her martial skills, and the local police aren’t lifting a finger to bring her in.’ He glanced down, as if considering whether or not to say something. Then he did, low, confessional, so she could barely hear him. ‘I wish I could take your place.’

She reached for his hand. He looked up. ‘Anyway,’ he said. ‘Who needs the Maldives?’ He tilted his beer at the window. ‘Best skyline in the world is right here.’

She wanted to stop the world, freeze it, here and now. But Jake was right. They were on a mission, on the clock. She’d had her moment of caprice, freeing Jin Fe. Now it was back to work, because the one thing Salamander wasn’t killing was time.

‘We need to agree on a ground rule, Jake. Salamander plays people. He makes them hostage to each other. They do what he wants, to save the other one, and then both end up dead anyway.’

‘Your point?’

‘We don’t play his game.’

Jake took a swig, the last of the beer, and slapped it down on the table. ‘Deal.’

She had to be sure. It was how Salamander had escaped in Chernobyl, and her sister and father had paid the price. ‘I mean it, Jake.’ She took a breath. ‘If killing him means you die, I will still pull the trigger.’

He didn’t blink. ‘Same goes for me, Nadia.’ He caught the waiter’s eye and made the universal air-signature to ask for the bill.

Jin Fe returned. Nadia took one look at her, decked out in the worst possible combination of garish American baseball and basketball attire, and began laughing.

‘What?’ Jin Fe said. ‘ What? ’

Jake looked her up and down. ‘We’ll never lose you now.’

Nadia touched her shoulder. ‘Ten thousand dollars. Money well spent.’

Nadia’s phone beeped, and she checked the screen. Her smile subsided. ‘The Chef. His plane just landed.’

Jin Fe beamed. ‘You have your own chef?’

Nadia smiled and squeezed the girl’s shoulder.

Jake’s phone buzzed. ‘It’s Hanbury. Something’s up.’

Chapter Three

They gave Jin Fe a key to their suite and some taxi money, and sent her back to the hotel, with her passport and a slip of paper with a telephone number on it. Nadia said they’d be gone for a few hours, and if they weren’t back by morning, to call the number using the hotel phone.

Jin Fe frowned, but there was a gleam in her eye, perhaps at the prospect of staying in a western hotel without a client, where she could call room service. Nadia wondered how much of a bill the girl could rack up in a matter of hours. It didn’t matter – Nadia still had forty thousand dollars left in her Swiss account, money she was never going to spend, and there was no one else to leave it to. There was nothing of personal value in the room the girl could steal; Nadia and Jake travelled light. Even so, he questioned her judgement.

‘You sure about this? We don’t know her from Adam – well, Eve, I suppose.’

‘I need to do this, Jake.’

‘She could be long gone when we get back.’

‘Good. The whole point is to set her free.’

‘Being free after being in a cage so long might be tough for her. I wondered if you’d want to watch over her a bit.’

‘She is tough. Besides,’ she patted her own gun inside her jacket, ‘I’m not exactly the nurturing mother poster-girl. And we have more pressing business.’

Jake held his hands up in mock-surrender. He reached for the bill while pulling out his wallet. I hope it works out for her.’

‘Thanks,’ she said.

He chucked a few twenties on the table. ‘For what?’

And in that moment, suddenly the Maldives sounded like the only place to be, with him, until the bitter end. She flushed the thought away, this time for good, and laid a ridiculously large tip on top of his bills.

‘For being here,’ she said.

For being you.

They took a cab to Hanbury’s apartment, halfway down the Peak. The slaloming road was hemmed in by trees, but she glimpsed Stanley Harbour on the other side of the island, as the road snaked its way down Victoria Peak’s spine, then crossed back towards Central. The drive was hypnotic, and she nearly drifted off. Whether that was due to jet lag or her illness, she didn’t care to speculate. When they arrived, the driver left them standing outside the barred electric gates, which didn’t open until the taxi had departed.

A woman in a traditional housemaid’s uniform arrived and escorted them along a gravel path. There was no other access unless you happened to be a squirrel, the trees and bushes were so dense. The location was remarkably quiet, save for the distant hum of traffic down below. It meant Hanbury would hear anyone approaching.

Like a squat crab, the apartment perched on four sturdy concrete pillars, the two front legs far longer due to the sharp slope of the terrain. The front, overlooking Hong Kong Bay, was mainly glass. Bullet-proof? Maybe not. Still it was higher than the skyscrapers. A sniper would have to fire a bullet from Kowloon, three miles away. One or two marksmen she’d worked with in Russia could pull it off.

She glanced at her watch. She’d be much happier once the Chef joined them.

A trim, forty-something, black-suited, white-gloved butler, backed by two hyper-looking Dobermans, barred the solid oak entrance. He held out a small lacquered tray.

‘You need to relinquish your firearms if you wish to enter.’

‘Mr Hanbury is expecting us,’ Jake said. The butler did a statue impression, exuding the notion that he was prepared to stand there all night. The dogs didn’t look so patient.

Nadia shrugged. She surrendered her Beretta Cougar. Jake pulled out his M9 and thumped its black polycarbonate body onto the tray. The butler made a short bow and moved aside, his free arm indicating the entrance hall. But as soon as Nadia crossed the threshold, there was a penetrating whine. The dogs growled, baring their teeth, one of them drooling. She froze. The tray appeared next to her. She dug out her knife, and dropped it next to the pistols. Jake fished out his.

The butler said something in Chinese, and the dogs sat down. As Nadia passed, she let them sniff her hand, and crouched down to stroke them behind the ears, her head within biting range. They let her pet them, but remained alert, watching her. She was impressed. Even the dogs were smart.

Hanbury, in tan trousers and a red striped shirt open at the collar, stood in the dimly-lit vast lounge. He gazed dreamily to the city below, one hand smudging the window glass, a whisky tumbler in the other. Classical music blared from four Bang and Olufsen speakers as tall as her. Shostakovich’s 5 th. For her benefit, perhaps. Jake approached and began to speak, but Hanbury shushed him by raising the whisky glass, spilling a drop onto the plush carpet, while the crescendo built.