23. The Protégé
CHAPTER 23
The Protégé
ALISTAIR
I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. A huge headache swirls just behind my brows, getting ready to settle in.
FUCK.
“Are you sure?” I ask.
The protégé stutters his reply. “I have his … I have his … body.”
“How?” I demand. “What the fuck happened?”
“I’m still trying to figure that out,” says Brodie. “It happened so fast. It was confusing.”
“Just tell me what happened,” I growl.
Lucky narrows his eyes in suspicion of this “protégé” of six years we’ve never met. He has a point.
“But first,” I say, “I need to know we can trust you. That you are who you say you are.”
“I can do that,” he says, more confident now. Blackwood’s death has sent him reeling, but he knows he can prove his identity. “I know everything about you. About your family. Blackwood’s been feeding me your intel for years to give me the solid background knowledge I’ll need to take his place.” He pauses. “I just didn’t know it would happen so soon.”
“Go ahead, then,” I say. I’m looking for something the Russians couldn’t possibly know.
“Isobel Ravenscroft had a surgery last year that she kept secret from the family. You can phone the surgeon at Mount Assisi to confirm. She listed Blackwood as the next of kin. She told you she was in Bolzano with her book club, even paid for the hotel in case someone checked, so you can call them to confirm, too. Il Battente. April sixth to the eleventh, 2023. It was a good choice location-wise because she had been there before, in 2018, and would be able to answer questions about the place. Her favorite local dish was canederli, dumplings in a clear broth. The region is also known for its wine, particularly Lagrein and Santa Maddalena. When?—”
I cut him off. “That’ll do for now.” He certainly retains details, which I like.
“Right,” he says, back to being nervous.
Lucky interrupts. “The Ravens. We got them out of the house.”
I nod my acknowledgment and thanks.
Back to Max Brodie. “Tell me what happened with Blackwood.”
“I still don’t know. Vilmos was with us, on the team.”
“Who?”
“He’s an op Blackwood uses … or, used to use. Good at getting into places. He went in and never came out.”
“Went in where?”
“Serebryanaya Bereza Dvoretz. A private palace chapel that aristocrats hire for opulent weddings and baptisms.”
“And funerals,” I say.
“Yes,” Brodie replies. “Blackwood was certain something was amiss with Kuznetsov. That’s why he sent Vilmos in.”
“And Vilmos never came out.”
“So Blackwood went in. I asked him not to, but he felt responsible.”
“For Vilmos?”
“For Vilmos. For the danger he put you and your family in by missing the Ivanov baby. His intel had never compromised a mission before.”
Christ. No one’s perfect, Blackwood. You of all people should have known that. What a fucking waste of an exemplary human.
“Then he had this hunch that he just had to act on,” continues Brodie. “I think he considered it as his redemption. To set things right, he said. It wasn’t something I could talk him out of.”
I swallow the sudden thickness in my throat. Blackwood had been a brilliant and loyal friend of the family for decades. “How did you find his body?” I ask.
“So … all the catering trucks arrive—that’s how Vilmos got in—all the floral arrangements. The svyashchennik arrives in full regalia.”
“You speak Russian,” I say.
“A smattering,” he replies. “Enough to get by. I make a point of learning the basics before we go anywhere. The Bolzano dialect was an interesting one?—”
“Brodie,” I stop him. I understand now that I’m dealing with some kind of boy genius, the way he can just “learn the basics” of any language—like what an orthodox priest is called in Moscow—and reel off insignificant details from five years ago. I like the kid.
“Yes, sorry.” He takes a breath. “So food, flowers, incense, coffins—all four of them— arrive, but the people don’t.”
“Which people?”
“ Any people, apart from the staff. Not one attendee when the clock rolls around to starting time. Not even the baron.”
“So it’s his wife and three grown children’s funeral, and he doesn’t pitch up.”
“Nor does anyone else.”
“Hmm.”
“And Vilmos doesn’t come out, so Blackwood goes in. He wasn’t surprised. He knew something was up, just didn’t know what. So I wait till everyone starts packing up and going home. I snag a caterer’s uniform with a hairnet and mask, and I go in. Find the coffins. These huge ornate things.”
Oh, god.
I realize what he’s about to say just before he says it. Still, it’s a gut punch.
“They’re empty,” I say.
“Three of them are empty,” he replies.
I don’t need to ask him who is in the fourth one.
Damn it, Blackwood. What a waste.
“Get out of there,” I tell Brodie. “Come home.”
I don’t want any more of my men in Moscow. Ever.
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you know how to bring the body back?” I ask. Personally, I’m not sentimental about dead bodies. They’re just empty shells left behind. But I’m sure Blackwood’s family will feel comforted by the fact we could bring him home.
“I’ll follow protocol,” he replies.
I end the call, my mind racing with too many thoughts.
“They’re all still alive,” says Henderson. “The Kuznetsovs.”
Ivy blanches.
“Impossible,” I say. “My men took care of them.”
Henderson looks bleak. “I have no doubt they took care of the people who were pretending to be Kuznetsovs.”
Elena Kuznetsov had contacts in the theatre world. She would have known plenty of actors willing to secretly play the part for generous compensation, not knowing they were being sacrificed to spare her and her children’s lives.