Chapter 7
THE HUNTER AND THE HUNTED
The tension in Pemberton's office stretched like a wire about to snap. Volkov's companion had positioned himself between us and the door, while Volkov himself stood with the casual confidence of a man who had orchestrated this confrontation perfectly.
"Now then," Volkov said, his voice maintaining that terrifying politeness, "I believe we can resolve this matter quite amicably. Mr. Pemberton, if you would be so kind as to retrieve whatever documents my niece entrusted to your care."
"I told you, I don't know what you're talking about," Pemberton said, though his voice betrayed his fear.
Volkov’s smile thinned. “I’m afraid I must insist. Family papers, you see, can be . . . inflammatory when they fall into the wrong hands. Especially old photographs. Certain letters. The sort of thing that might interest the authorities.”
“Perhaps,” I said evenly, my fingers tightening around the strap of my handbag, “we should continue this conversation at Scotland Yard. I imagine Inspector Crawford Sinclair would be quite interested in your family concerns.”
His pale eyes sharpened, fixing on me with new interest. “Ah. Inspector Crawford Sinclair. Yes, we are acquainted. A persistent man, your fiancé. He’s been asking all sorts of questions—about insurance fires, warehouse accidents.
” His smile turned predatory. “I do hope nothing unfortunate happens to him.”
The threat landed like a blow, but I refused to flinch. My blood pounded, but I forced my expression to remain composed. Losing control now would only make things worse.
“Miss Worthington,” he went on, his gaze sliding to my handbag, “I believe you have a choice to make. You can return what belongs to my family . . . or you can learn just how dangerous it is to meddle in affairs that do not concern you.”
"Where is Anya?" I demanded. "What have you done with her?"
"My dear niece is exactly where she needs to be—with family, learning to honor her obligations." His voice hardened. "She has something that belongs to me, and she will return it. Just as you will return what you're holding."
The sharp blast of police whistles echoed from the street below. Volkov’s head snapped toward the window, his polished composure fracturing for the first time.
“Viktor,” he barked to his companion, who immediately moved toward the rear exit.
Pemberton’s secretary must have called the police. Their response had been impressively swift.
Volkov’s veneer of civility vanished. “Your secretary has made a very serious mistake, Mr. Pemberton.”
"The only mistake," I said, backing toward the window to see if the police had surrounded the building, "was yours in thinking you could intimidate innocent people to cover up your crimes."
Heavy footsteps thundered up the stairs outside. Volkov looked between the front door and the back exit, calculating his options. His companion had already disappeared through the rear door, but Volkov himself seemed reluctant to flee.
"This is not over," he said, his accent thickening with anger. "My niece has taken something that doesn't belong to her, and I will have it back. Whatever the cost."
"Whatever she took," I replied, "it's probably evidence of your crimes. No wonder you want it back."
The office door burst open, and three constables rushed in, led by a sergeant I recognized from Scotland Yard. Behind them came Robert, his face grim with concern and barely controlled fury.
“Catherine,” he called out, his face filled with concern, “are you all right?"
"Yes, though Mr. Volkov was just making some rather concerning threats."
But when I turned back to where Volkov had been standing, the space was empty. He had vanished as completely as if he'd never been there at all.
"Where did he go?" Robert demanded, moving to check the back exit.
"There's a rear staircase," Pemberton said shakily. "Leads down to the alley behind the building."
Robert barked orders to the constables, sending them to search the surrounding streets. I suspected it was already too late. Volkov had the skills of a man trained in espionage. He would know how to make an escape.
Returning to my side, Robert asked, “What happened here?"
I quickly explained about following the trail from Mrs. Whitmore to Pemberton, the booking agent's revelations about Anya's escape plans, and Volkov's sudden appearance.
"He knew about this envelope," I said, retrieving it from my handbag. "Whatever Anya left with Mr. Pemberton, Volkov is desperate to get it back."
Robert examined the sealed envelope carefully. "We'll need to open this at the Yard, with proper witnesses. If it contains evidence of crimes, we'll need to maintain a chain of custody."
"Inspector," Pemberton interjected, his voice still shaky from the encounter, "there's something else you should know. Miss Petrova was scheduled to sail for New York on Friday. But she'd inquired about sailing today.”
"The Mauretania," I added. "She was considering changing her plans.”
“We’ll need to check the passenger manifests immediately," Robert said. "Both for the Mauretania and the Aquitania." He turned to Pemberton. "Did Miss Petrova travel under her real name?"
"She had documentation in the name of Anna Volkov," Pemberton replied. "Said it was her legal name, though she performed under Petrova."
Anna Volkov. So she was definitely Dmitri's niece, not just someone he was pursuing for other reasons.
I thought about the newspaper clipping I'd found in Anya's hiding place, about Volkov's suspected involvement in insurance fraud and warehouse fires.
“Could Anya have evidence of her uncle’s activities?” I dared say no more than that since Pemberton was present.
“If she had, it would be enough to bring down the entire operation. And definitely worth killing for." Robert looked at the envelope. "Which is why we need to get this to the Yard immediately."
As we prepared to leave Pemberton's office, the theatrical agent asked, “What if that man comes back?”
“He’ll be arrested,” Robert said. “We're placing you in protective custody immediately. And we're posting guards on this building."
But even as we made our way down to the waiting police vehicles, I couldn't shake the feeling that Volkov was watching from somewhere nearby. The man had spent years evading revolutionaries and Soviet agents. A few London constables wouldn't stop him if he truly wanted something.
What he wanted was in Robert’s hands—the evidence that could destroy his network and send him to the gallows.
The question was whether we could decode Anya's insurance policy before Volkov found another way to claim it—and silence everyone who knew about it.
As our police escort made its way through London's traffic toward Scotland Yard, I caught sight of a familiar black motorcar keeping pace with us several vehicles back. It maintained its distance perfectly, professional and patient.
The hunt was far from over. If anything, it had just begun.