Chapter 11
Leonid Bronsky was just sitting down to a late dinner at the Four Seasons Hotel Gresham Palace in Budapest when Ustinov called him.
“Good evening, Boris,” he answered.
“I have good news for you,” Ustinov said. “I talked to the director, and he is very impressed with your initiative.”
Bronsky grinned. “Of course he is. I knew there was nothing for me to worry about.”
“He would like to meet with you. When can you be in Moscow?”
Warmth bloomed in Bronsky’s chest. Just like he’d hoped, he was being brought back into the fold, thanks to his hard work. Finally, his sputtering career was getting back on track.
“I should think sometime tomorrow afternoon,” he said.
“I’ll set up a meeting for six p.m., if that works for you.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Until tomorrow, then,” Ustinov said and hung up.
Bronsky wanted to shout in triumph, but since he was in public, he contained his excitement and kept his expression to a broad grin.
He was halfway through his meal when his phone buzzed again. It was a text from one of the contacts he’d used to arrange the hit on Dame Felicity.
Need to meet. Urgent. Same place as before, midnight.
Bronsky frowned. What possible reason could the man have to require a face-to-face?
He considered texting back to ask just that but refrained. It was always best to leave as little digital footprint as possible.
With twelve a.m. rapidly approaching, he gulped down the rest of his meal, then headed out, reaching the meeting point beneath the bridge over the Danube a few minutes before midnight.
The man was waiting for him in the passageway, standing in the shadows and looking around nervously.
“What is it?” Bronsky asked as he approached.
“I received a message from my man in the U.K.,” he said. “There is a good possibility that the target wasn’t in the car.”
Bronsky stared at him, sure he hadn’t heard correctly. “That’s ridiculous. The news is reporting her death.”
“He thinks the person who died was a stand-in, and that the target might have gone out of the country.”
“He knows or is he guessing?”
The contact shook his head. “At the moment, it’s merely a rumor, but he says his sources are very reliable.”
Bronsky grimaced. He found the news hard to believe. But he also couldn’t return to Moscow without knowing for sure. He had no doubt that his own life would be forfeit if he showed up, and the rumor turned out to be true.
“He needs to find out immediately,” Bronsky snapped.
“How is he—”
“How is not my problem!”
The contact shrank back. “I-I’ll let him know.”
“I expect to hear from you first thing in the morning.”
As the contact opened his mouth to speak, Bronsky heard a muffled thwap from somewhere behind the man. Before he could even react, the contact staggered into his arms.
Bronsky reflexively grabbed him. His hand touched a wet spot on the man’s back. Another thwap echoed under the bridge and something zipped past Bronsky’s head.
Someone was shooting at them.
As a third shot rang out, Bronsky shoved his contact’s lifeless body away and fled in the opposite direction.
He heard the spit of the silenced pistol two more times before he lost the shooter in a warren of narrow streets, not far from the river. He kept moving until he was sure he was safe, then leaned against the wall of a dark alley to catch his breath.
He had no idea who the shooter could have been, or, more importantly, for whom the shooter worked.
It was possible his contact had run afoul of someone, and Bronsky was simply caught in the middle of it. But it was best to assume he was the target.
God knew, he’d made more than enough enemies over the years. But they were all in his past, so he had no idea why someone would be coming after him now.
Unless the Brits had already figured out he was the one behind Dame Felicity’s assassination.
He thought it over then shook his head.
He’d been very careful when setting up the operation. Even the contact who had just died in his arms hadn’t known his real identity.
No, he was targeted because of something else. What that was, he’d have to figure out later. Now that he’d lost the shooter, his more pressing problem was that of Dame Felicity’s status.
He needed to find out whether she was still breathing. And if she was, he would make sure she wasn’t for long.
He knew exactly whom he had to call.
The line rang four times before it was answered by a sleepy male voice. “Hello?”
“Hello, Gordon. Did I wake you?”
The line went silent for a few seconds before Gordon Pryce said, “M-Mr. Bronsky?”
“I’m glad you still recognize my voice after all these years.”
“W-w-why are you calling me?”
“That’s a stupid question. Because I need your assistance, of course. Why else?”
Pryce was an analyst at MI6 who had been part of Bronsky’s network of spies back when Bronsky was stationed in London.
Bronsky had used a honeypot to recruit him in the form of a beautiful female agent.
Dozens of compromising pictures were taken, any one of which would have ruined the man’s life and career.
Pryce had no choice but to become an informant.
The analyst had provided much of the information Bronsky had fed to Wilfred Thomas during the original pursuit of Dame Felicity.
“What do you want?” Pryce asked.
“Nothing too difficult for a man in your position. I simply want you to tell me if the head of your organization is really dead or not.”
“As far as I know, she’s dead.”
“ ‘As far as I know’ is not good enough. I want the truth.”
“But—”
“I’ll be in touch,” Bronsky said, then hung up.
Now, he needed to get out of Hungary. He scrolled through a list of safe houses he knew about, until he found one where he thought he could stay several days without being discovered.
It had been a while since he’d been in Helsinki, and at least it wasn’t the middle of winter.