Chapter 15
ZINAIDA
Enzo closes the door behind Niamh O’Connell just after seven, leaving us alone in the private dining room.
“I came by the basement entrance,” Niamh greets me when he’s gone. She’s wearing a colorful headscarf and dark glasses despite the wintry night and has the collar of her overcoat turned up to hide the rest of her face. “Given the recent media attention, I thought I’d better be discreet.”
Niamh is the association between the NCA and me that Agatha referred to in our meeting several days ago.
An association I’ve worked damned hard to cultivate, and one that has proven extremely mutually beneficial.
She’s in her mid-thirties and has risen fast through the ranks despite the twin challenges of being both Black and from Northern Ireland.
She works hard, she’s damned good at her job, and she hates losing to the dark side just as much as I do.
“The home secretary got one hell of a grilling about that article in Parliament,” she continues.
“Yes, so I believe.” Poor Agatha. I should have put more whiskey in that travel mug.
“Given the way the Opposition is always banging on about our lack of morals and family values, you’d think the hypocritical bastards would have welcomed the news about Ivanov.
” Niamh shakes her head. “Speaking of which,” she adds, looking amused, “Ivanov certainly went out in style. On a yacht, surrounded by drugs, booze, and hot models. I heard nobody even realized he’d fallen overboard until they went looking for him the following morning. ”
“Quite the scandal, wasn’t it?” I pour sparkling water into my glass and a very good Latour into Niamh’s.
“Well, I did hear he upset a lot of people.” She downs half her glass in one swallow, eyeing me over the rim. She’s well aware of just how much Ivanov “upset” me, since it was her information that tipped me off to Georgiy’s efforts in the first place.
“That he certainly did.” I look at her steadily. “You asked for this meeting, Niamh. What can I do for you?”
Her smile fades. “Hopefully you can do what I can’t.”
It’s one of the things I like about Niamh. Unlike Agatha, she doesn’t mince her words.
“This is definitely classified.” She turns her laptop so I can see the screen.
“The shipments of women are increasing. Three containers this month alone, all of them found too late, after they’d already been emptied.
” Her eyes flick to mine. “Do you think this is still connected to Ivanov’s operation? Put in place before his death, maybe?”
“No.”
Niamh’s eyes narrow at my blunt response.
“Ivanov was a piece of shit,” I go on evenly, “but I don’t think he was the mastermind behind the Avonmouth operation.”
She frowns. “Care to share how you came to that conclusion?”
Might have been the knife I held to Ivanov’s balls when I asked him the question.
I meet her eyes and smile blandly. “Call it a hunch.”
“Ah.”
I don’t miss the flare of distaste in her eyes. Niamh might have a stronger stomach than Agatha, but she still doesn’t enjoy being reminded who she’s in bed with.
I suppress a strange wash of something like loneliness. I don’t regret Ivanov’s death, and I won’t ever apologize for doing what must be done to rescue the victims of men like him.
But sometimes I wonder what it would be like to sit across the table from a woman like Niamh and just talk, like equals.
Like friends.
The truth is that my reputation, the dark things I do and must continue to do if I am to survive the life I’ve chosen, put a gulf between me and “normal” people, one that can never truly be breached.
But I’ve worked hard to build that reputation, to create the persona which in turn instills fear and respect into those who might try to take me down.
So there’s no point moaning about the price I pay for it.
“Well, my department has come to the same conclusion.” Niamh points to her laptop screen. “We have a contact from security at Avonmouth Docks. She gave us a tip-off about two containers that will be in the yard this Saturday.”
I feel the familiar, slightly sickening twist of adrenaline in my belly.
Does it ever stop? I wonder. Will I ever stop hoping that this container is the one in which I will find Sophie?
“We need to track down where these girls are going,” Niamh is saying. “And this is a start, at least. We can’t bust them open, or we’ll expose our contact.”
She clicks over to a shipping manifest. Two container numbers are highlighted on it, one in yellow, the other in pink.
She taps the yellow one. “Our tip-off is that this container will be emptied on Saturday night. We’re going to watch who opens it and then follow them, try to get a lead on who is behind this. ”
“Following them sounds like a good idea.”
Not as good as rescuing the girls and killing the motherfuckers who took them.
I sip my sparkling water, keeping my expression carefully neutral.
“According to our contact, only one container will be emptied on Saturday.” Niamh’s eyes flick up to mine.
“We’ll follow whoever transports the girls inside it, find out where they go.
But apprehending the transport vehicle will ruin any chance we have of catching whoever is behind this.
And searching the yard will risk exposing our contact in security. ”
“That’s unfortunate.” I stare at the pink number long enough to memorize it, then raise my eyes to her and nod.
Saving one shipment is better than none, I tell myself.
She takes a deep breath and closes the screen. “Let’s hope tracking the girls leads us to whoever is bringing them in.”
No chance.
My fingers curl into a fist beneath the table.
One of the reasons men like Georgiy Ivanov end up cockless and dead at my hands is because the NCA, for all of Niamh’s best efforts, are usually ten steps behind the kind of information I get access to.
Put simply, it takes a criminal mind like mine to understand how men like that operate.
It also takes time.
And meanwhile, I have to stand by and watch an entire shipment of women go to whatever hell they’re destined for.
“Well, as you know, sometimes girls from those shipments turn up at Sophie’s House. I’ll let you know if any of them give us information that might be useful.”
I smile at her despite my clenched fist under the table.
There’s no point pushing the issue. And this is how these things have to work.
Hints. Innuendo.
Nothing that might put Niamh in more danger than she already is.
She risks her career every time we have these discussions. The home secretary might have plausible deniability, but Niamh’s career is over if anyone even suspects her of having this conversation.
“Zin.” Her eyes settle on mine with an unusually grave expression. “Don’t think I’m not grateful for your . . . efforts.”
I raise my eyebrows. “But?”
“You saw the Daily Truth.” She shifts uncomfortably in her chair. “Those efforts are attracting a little too much unwanted attention. You need to be more careful. More . . . discreet, perhaps.”
My hands twist beneath the table.
“The home secretary seemed to think the Minister for Trade might have had something to do with the story,” I say, watching her closely.
Enzo is still working on the private secretary. Luke’s file on Lowbridge is virtually encyclopedic. But as yet, we still don’t have any real fix on the man. And I agree with Luke about treading carefully.
Only my inner circle was aware that I was closing in on Ivanov, yet someone is dripping my secrets straight to a sitting member of the House of Lords.
“That prick Lowbridge.” Niamh nods, her face darkening.
“He’s always wanted Agatha’s job. He was never going to get it, of course, not while he’s still running a Fortune 500 company.
Politicians might all be corrupt pricks, but they have their limits.
And besides, nobody likes a social climber, even an extremely wealthy one.
Especially a really wealthy one.” Her mouth twists.
“He’s doing everything he can to bring Agatha down, unfortunately. ”
“Any idea where Lowbridge got the idea that we’re working together?” Waving off Niamh’s protests, I refill her glass.
“That’s bloody good wine. No,” she says. “Probably just a good guess. Although I was a bit surprised he’d risk pissing you off, given that I understand he wants an invitation to your Winter Ball.”
I give her another bland smile, turning my glass on the table. “My member list is highly confidential.”
“Sure. But Lowbridge is one of those pricks who can’t help boasting. Apparently he told the journalist that he knows you well. He even insinuated that you work with us in order to protect your own interests.”
My glass stops turning on the table.
“Are you saying he implied that I use these girls in my own fucking clubs?” I keep my anger in check. Barely.
“The journalist, apparently, was too scared to print that part.” Niamh watches me cautiously.
Smart fucking journalist.
“I think I’d like to talk to this journalist myself.”
She looks uncomfortable. “He spoke to me in confidence.”
“If he’d like to keep speaking at all,” I say flatly, “you might suggest that he take my call.”
Niamh takes an extra-large gulp of her wine.
I don’t try to make her feel better.
Arrangements like ours are a two-way street. And every now and then, people like Niamh and Agatha need to be reminded that the traffic only flows along that street because of the work I do from the shadows.
“Anyway.” She looks at her glass. “I should probably go soon. I need to get all the sleep I can on my day off, since it looks like it will be a midnight session on Saturday night.”
“Well, you know me,” I say lightly as we stand up. “I do my best work late at night.”
After Niamh leaves, I toy with the idea of going back to Pigalle Soho to work some more, but I have a feeling I won’t be able to focus.
Nothing to do with the fact that Luke isn’t there tonight, huh, Zinaida?