Incredible Spy Detective. Poets and Liars

8. Trust

[Great Britain, London, City of Westminster]

The managers of Träger publishing house responsible for organizing the literary event at the Church of St-Martin-in-the-Fields were tearing their hair out, the literary agent was cursing in Russian but seeking ways to turn the situation to their advantage, and journalists had occupied the lobby and porch of the Whitehall Court hotel.

Dawn was breaking outside the windows of the tower room overlooking the Thames, Alexandra sat on the living room couch, leaning on the cushions, her face buried in her hands.

When she spoke, her voice at first was muffled by her palms.

“I hate all of it!” she lamented. “Who would need to do this, dammit?!”

Richard remained silent. He already regretted listening and accompanying her to the hotel instead of taking her to his apartment, supposedly owned by the actor Richard North.

Now they were enclosed within four walls, she’s under the constant watchful eye of her managers and hordes of journalists, soon, enraged fans and haters will appear, making it harder for them to escape unwanted attention.

The police had questioned them several hours ago, and the tedious procedure had yielded nothing – but Alexandra finally calmed down. She had been trembling for a long time, so much so that she couldn’t even drink water, though she maintained her composure. Her body seemed to react separately from her mind.

Richard understood how she felt. She realized that she had come dangerously close to being in the position of the unfortunate Kristina Matveyeva, whose name she would remember for the rest of her life.

She was angry at the uncontrollable physiological stress reaction and the discomfort they had to endure while waiting for a call from the police or managers who would insist on the specific comments they were to give to specific media outlets.

The lawyer had already been in touch – for now, through McKellen. Overall, things didn’t look as terrible as they had initially seemed.

Suddenly, Richard felt angry at himself. How dare he reason like this? The situation was no threat to him – because it was him who had orchestrated it so that a colorless, odorless, fast-acting poison ended up in the glass that Alexandra would take.

And he was the one who had to distract her – so that one of her fans would want to pick up the glass from the visible spot. She needed to be scared, believe that she was in mortal danger.

Callousness was necessary in his profession when it came to choosing between the interests of the state, global interests, and the life of an individual.

Alexandra was frightened, but she had not lost control of the situation. During the conversation with law enforcement, she remained calm, even managing to irritate a Scotland Yard inspector with her questions.

Richard smiled inappropriately at the thought that, if she wanted, she could have been just like him, a spy, with her ability to make decisions, instantly analyze situations, and draw accurate conclusions.

Now she trusted him – otherwise she wouldn’t have allowed him to be near her. She was the type to be able to handle problems on her own, no need for a sympathetic shoulder or company to share her worries.

She only accepted help when it was necessary, and he had volunteered to be her personal bodyguard.

She laughed at the wording at the time and merely waved it off.

“… could have been anyone – not necessarily a catering employee or someone from the venue,” she reasoned, Richard listened without interrupting. “If only we knew what this crap was and whether it was in the glass or just on the surface of it …”

She reasoned like a detective, systematically, methodically, dissecting the data. He remained quiet, not wanting to betray his knowledge of crime scene investigation.

“The cameras will show the waiter carry the glasses, filling them, who could have come into contact – and added poison to the glass, on the glass, or even into the bottle … But if it were the bottle, someone else would have gotten poisoned too.”

Alexandra had not changed out of her clothes; the back of the couch and the cushions were covered in glitter. She paid no attention to how the delicate black silk fabric of her wide trousers wrinkled and pulled up on her flat stomach.

“Have you thought about taking a shower and then going to sleep?”

“I have to remember everything,” she replied stubbornly. “To rewind.”

“Fatigue reduces concentration and attentiveness, you’re only making it worse every minute. You’ll remember everything after some sleep because then it will settle as it should.”

For the first time in hours, she looked at Richard in a meaningful way – as if she were surprised that he was in her room.

“You’re right. You’re right!”

Alexandra jumped up from the couch, and glitter rained down to the floor. She took a few quick steps, but then froze in the middle of the room.

“But how do I fall asleep?”

She looked at him again, as if he could provide an answer.

Richard smiled, got up from the chair where he had sat all this time, and approached her until he was within arm’s reach. Alexandra looked up at him, trying to understand something, but her emotions and thoughts were already betraying her.

“Just lie down and sleep. You can do it.”

He knew she had sleep problems due to the neurological peculiarities and the intermittent periods of agitation caused by a diagnosis. He knew the medications she took, and he knew she hadn’t brought them with her to London because it was prohibited to export them from Russia even with a doctor’s prescription.

“Okay.”

He didn’t have a chance to do anything – although he intended to embrace her – she had already stepped aside, started unbuttoning and taking off her clothes as she walked. By the time Alexandra reached the bathroom door, the top and trousers were already on the floor, only glitter and panties remained on her body.

Richard stared at her back, a glimpse of the black pattern of tattoos on her left arm, shoulder blade, left side, and thigh – all of which disappeared inside the bathroom. It was both expected and unexpected: she had no reason to either flirt with him or be shy about her body, because she had a damn good body.

By the time Alexandra emerged from the shower – as if reborn, having washed away not just makeup, glitter, and sweat but also the long, odd, rugged day – Richard was not in the living room.

The relief – that he might have left – flooded over her. Then came the realization that he wouldn’t have gone anywhere – he was surely already waiting for her in the bedroom.

Richard was strange – handsome, intelligent, with kind eyes, a dazzling smile, an athlete’s body – but he seemed empty. He was an actor – not by trade but by nature. It was as if he didn’t even know himself – even though he spoke and acted convincingly, everything was congruent, everything was as it should be …

She changed into clean underwear – panties and a tank top – tossed the towel onto the chair with intentional carelessness, and, deliberately stomping, marched to the bed, where Richard lay wrapped in half of the duvet.

Alexandra hoped he understood that if he suddenly thought of seducing her, she’d tear his ears off. She sighed, and he turned his head toward her; he was smiling, it was visible even in the darkness.

She threw off the duvet and lay down next to him, on her back, her eyelids heavy with fatigue, her body feeling wooden. She hoped she’d fall asleep. Hope was all she could do.

Richard turned onto his side, facing her, she felt his gaze on her skin, but she had already closed her eyes and didn’t speak – words would not have come easy to her.

“Sleep.”

“Mm-hmm,” Alexandra replied with a mix of annoyance and resignation.

When she held that glass in her hands, she felt dread – if she were a cat, her fur would have stood on end. She sensed danger – and so did he … He distracted her. Intentionally or unintentionally, it no longer mattered.

Intuition doesn’t lie; a beast does not deceive itself.

If intuition were to be trusted, this Richard needs to piss off … And at the same time, she managed to see something real under the thick layer of his makeup – when he said he wanted to become himself.

Alexandra opened her eyes and looked at him. His eyelids were closed, his expression smooth, his round bare shoulder in the semi-darkness, with a long old scar snaking down it – he resembled an anatomy template for a painter; tomorrow, he’ll probably have stubble, his face will have creases from the pillow …

Who the hell are you, Richard North?

She would see and find everything out in her dreams – the most important thing now was to sleep.

9. Circus

[Great Britain, London, Soho]

“Aren’t you going to at least ask where we are?”

The young man in a late 16th-century suit sat at an elongated glass table, his legs crossed, his pointed shoes resting on the tabletop, his full-lipped face smiling.

“No,” Alexandra shrugged. “Does it matter?”

“Everything matters.”

In front of him stood a bottle – labelless and dust-covered – and three goblets.

The young man pointed at the bottle, and Alexandra shook her head.

“No, Christopher, I can’t stand this wine anymore.”

Now it was Christopher’s turn to express disapproval.

“Such callousness!” he snorted with a mischievous smirk and clicked his tongue.

“Are we waiting for William?”

“Yeah. He’s running late – all because of that huge commission for Dante engravings …”

Alexandra took a seat with her back to the white canvas of the projector screen and looked around. It was a typical conference room for about a dozen people, with a glass door, tall windows through which, if the lamps inside were off, sparse lights from the building across and the glow of streetlamps could be seen.

“I can give you a hint about where we are!” Christopher persisted.

“Go ahead!”

Christopher was charming, the way brown-eyed young men, artistic, having had their fair share of entertainment, success and emotion, gifted with rich intellect, can be charming.

“We,” he theatrically gestured with his hands, “are at the circus!”

“At the circus?”

“Why specify?”

“To understand – and remember. I might have to write this down in the red book later.”

“You’ll remember everything, don’t underestimate yourself. Forgetting certain things is your defense, a trick of your own mind. You hold the keys.”

Alexandra leaned her elbows on the glass surface, sighed – in the same theatrical style as her interlocutor. They exchanged glances, chuckled, and Christopher continued to rock in his chair, leaning back with his legs still on the table.

“What kind of beasts are there in the circus?”

“Oh,” the young man said with a conspiratorial look. “Various ones.”

“Are we part of the circus too?”

“No. We live in the wild – no one forces us to jump through fiery hoops, dance for a piece of sugar or dental insurance—”

“Poor animals.”

“You don’t say! They dream of being themselves, but they’re not allowed to.”

Alexandra frowned, Christopher didn’t consider her contemplation a hindrance to their conversation.

“By the way, you promised to find me a partron,” he mentioned.

“I remember.”

“How’s that going?”

“God, Christopher, where am I supposed to just find you a spy gathering intel for the British Queen in France?”

The young man didn’t have a chance to respond – they both turned to the glass door simultaneously as an older man entered.

“William!” Alexandra threw her hands up, getting up from her chair.

Christopher continued rocking.

William was of short stature but youthful and robust, his posture straight, he was dressed in an early 19th-century suit. People like him always drew attention to themselves – as soon as they entered a room.

“Alexandra!” he mirrored her tone.

“How are you? How’s Catherine? How’s Dante?”

“Good, Catherine is my hope and support, and Dante is a work in progress.”

Their embrace was warm and friendly, Alexandra immediately livened up – Christopher, on the other hand, squinted.

“You didn’t hug me!”

“Because you’re not her partron,” William smiled forgivingly, as if speaking to a child.

“Don’t worry, I’ll hug you too.”

Alexandra walked around Christopher and positioned herself so she could lean down with her arms outstretched, while the young man continued to lean further back.

“Circus,” William commented as he walked further inside and sat in Alexandra’s chair.

She never did get the chance to hug Christopher – both of his chair’s legs slipped on the linoleum, he fell to the floor with a loud crash.

While Alexandra helped him up, William, lost in thought – as Alexandra was before him – looked off into the distance, past the bottle and the three goblets.

“Even if you don’t like chess, you’re already playing,” William began when the woman and the young man finally settled down at the table. “You’re on the board.”

He pressed his finger on the glass surface of the table, and Christopher swallowed.

“Both of you are playing – you and Christopher’s partron.”

They exchanged glances.

William continued, “Now’s your move, Alexandra. Such are the rules of the genre – you represent the forces of chaos.”

“And me?” Christopher widened his eyes.

“Your partron desperately clings to order, but soon he will understand that there will be no more old order – because he has already begun his path to becoming.”

“Hooray!” Christopher exclaimed. “I mean, I hope it doesn’t tear him apart and all, and I’ll finally get to meet him.”

“So what’s going to be my move?” Alexandra spoke.

“Any – it depends on your wish to move the plot along. To push what’s already moving.”

“Christopher’s partron,” Alexandra concluded. “He came into motion.”

William nodded.

“So I need the one who acts in a circus, jumps through fiery hoops, spies for the British Queen, and he’s on the first stage of the Great Work already?”

“Exactly,” William agreed.

“What should I do with the wine – and the fact that someone wanted to kill me?”

“Trust your intuition. They didn’t intend to kill you – it was a counter-move, an attempt to provoke a reaction.”

“Why a counter-move?”

“You’re successful,” Christopher answered for William. “They’re afraid of your radiance. Your existence is like a red flag to them.”

“After what happened, there will be even more resonance.”

“They’re foolish. They’ve read your books, but they didn’t understand anything.”

“That’s how it always goes—”

“Our lot, Alexandra, is to be out of time and place in our era,” William rose from the chair, adjusted his jacket’s lapels. “And to get slaps on the back of our heads from those who speak a different language.”

“It’s a wordplay,” Christopher added. “They can speak our language just fine.”

Christopher repeated after William as he stood, Alexandra watched them walk to the exit, as always, no goodbyes.

The young man turned around.

“Circus,” he reminded.

Alexandra nodded. When they disappeared, she mouthed the word – to make sure she remembers.

10. Breakfast

[Great Britain, London, City of Westminster]

Alexandra was in the bathroom, Richard was leafing through the red notebook that she left on the table, brows furrowed on his handsome face. The words arranged into formulas, in English and Russian, the notes were divided into chapters, sectioned by associative array.

Keys, lists of names and phrases – sorted by the stages of the Great Work, according to her personal system of symbols … Turning the notebook over and opening it on the other side, Richard found conventional notes, sorted chronologically.

As soon as she woke up, she wrote down: ‘Christopher’s partron acts in a circus’.

The word ‘circus’ jolted Richard – it had to be a coincidence, she can’t have found out about the Circus. ‘Partron’ is most likely a neologism, or Poet jargon.

There was a knock at the door, Richard shuddered. He quickly put the red notebook back to where it was, to its former position, and walked for the door. The breakfast was served appetizingly on a cart, Richard knew Alexandra will be happy to see the pot of coffee and a jug of hot milk, but won’t even touch the food … Once again, he wanted to display himself as trying to be thoughtful, though not always getting it right.

She came out of the bathroom in her underwear, her hair in a messy bun, her bangs parted on her forehead. Richard sat in the chair in his underwear, too, scrolling through the news on his phone, appearing bored, he took some time before turning to her.

“Good morning,” he smiled.

He was awake when she woke up, and pretended to be asleep. His eyes closed, he listened to her stir and stretch across the wide bed, as she glanced at the body lying on her left and sighed through a slight smirk.

Right away, she got up and went to the living room to write something in the red book.

Now she seemed unhappy to see him – unhappy that he didn’t think to leave.

“Good morning, Richard,” she said.

Richard put his phone down and approached her – he headed to the bathroom. Alexandra appraised him openly, half-smiling, he stayed in his underwear on purpose, to show off his six-foot tall bodybuilder figure – broad chest and shoulders, six-pack and round ass … The white snake of a scar on his left shoulder, a pink blot of a scar on his right pectoral, something pale, a barely noticeable scar or burn, on his left thigh. If she turned to follow him with her gaze, she’d have seen two more – under his left shoulder blade and under his right knee.

He walked past her, closed the door, and met his own eyes in the mirror.

He needs to find out who Christopher is.

Alexandra didn’t wait for Richard as she went to pour her coffee, climbed onto the couch – it still glittered from yesterday – and stared into the void until the bathroom door opened.

“I’m afraid to read the news,” she said, forcing a smile.

“Then don’t. Your managers will tell you everything you need to know – the rest doesn’t matter.”

His hair was wet as if he didn’t dry it at all, wetness glistened on his neck, shoulders and thighs. He won’t be able to seduce her with that.

“I forgot to thank you. Thanks. For sticking with me through this, for— Well, you know—”

She waved her hand – the empty cup in her other – as she tried to explain her feelings, but it was a rare moment when Alexandra the wordsmith was at a loss for words.

“I was happy to help. And I will be happy to help – if you let me.”

She did not respond, she simply sighed.

“The lawyer didn’t call. They’ll likely take our fingerprints – you, me, everyone in the official lists. They won’t be able to identify all guests – there wasn’t a registration for the event.”

A real detective … Richard sat next to her and carefully took the cup from her hand.

“It’s not your fault. None of it. The police will handle it. You’re safe now, I’m here, no one will dare to put you in danger again.”

On and on he goes! Like he wants her to jump at every shadow, to dread staying alone.

“They probably won’t try to poison your food again,” he nodded at the breakfast cart.

Alexandra scoffed.

“I know. Whoever it was, they were trying to provoke me, not kill me.”

Richard’s face fell slightly, he started turning the cup in his hand, watching the smears of coffee foam inside it.

Alchemists see symbols even in the abstract – like a Rorschach test.

“It could have been one of your haters – they feed on fear.”

“It wasn’t a hater,” Alexandra protested, and when Richard looked at her, added, “their methods are less sophisticated.”

The poison was scentless, the glass was handed directly to her, a rational explanation will come later along the way … And the innocent victim’s name will sink into the crowd.

She had no proof – just her intuition and what William and Christopher had told her in her visions.

“Then who? Do you have any theories?”

He tried to understand, to figure it all out – but to a layman the terms she operated with were mere fantasy tropes, not truth or objective reality.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «Литрес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на Литрес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.