Chapter Thirty Two The Balloon
Viktor moved through the darkness with the downcast tread of a broken man.
Anastasia was a dangerous adversary, he had trained her after all and that was why he had planned with such detail. Every carefully constructed plan, every contingency, every backup: all of it ruined by the chaotic, unpredictable, infuriating orbit of James Ashworth-Pemberton’s world.
But he had the balloon. He could disappear, regroup, try again another day. They had the rest of their lives, however short that might be. He would find another opportunity. He would be more careful. He would succeed.
The balloon was not far, he climbed in and realised how tired he was. It looked beautiful to him, if not the man who had been caring for it, who now lay unconscious on the ground below. With midnight approaching, the envelope was already inflated and ready to fly.
All it needed was the burner to be turned up. A few blasts at full power and he would be airborne. By the time anyone realised he was gone, he would be miles away, drifting south toward the coast, toward a boat waiting to take him to France, toward safety.
He reached the balloon, checked the rigging. Everything was in order.
‘Going somewhere?’
The voice came from the shadows. Ukrainian. Female. Utterly calm.
Viktor turned, suddenly aware he wasn't the only one who had slipped away in the noise and dazzle of the fireworks.
Anastasia stepped out from behind a stand of silver birches, still in her wedding dress, the white fabric ghostly in the darkness. She looked like something from a fairy tale: the bride who had wandered into the woods and found something waiting there.
‘You knew,’ Viktor said in the language of their shared past, the language of what they had been to each other. ‘All along, you knew.’
‘I’ve always known.’ Anastasia’s voice was steady. ‘You taught me too well, Viktor. I know how you think. I know how you plan. I saw the patterns before you even finished drawing them. And the stupid thing is, after all of your attempts, you still failed.’
‘Then you know I’ll be back.’ He smiled, that cold, professional smile that had never reached his eyes. ‘You can’t stop me forever. I’ll disappear, regroup, find another way. And next time...’
‘There won’t be a next time.’
‘You can’t protect him every moment of every day. Sooner or later...’
‘No, Viktor.’ She met his eyes. ‘There won’t be a next time. Goodbye.’
‘I will decide that, not you. You forget who is in charge here’ and with that he pulled the lever and the burner roared to life.
The envelope swelled with heat, straining against the tethers.
Viktor worked the controls with the efficiency of someone who had done this before, feeding flame into the balloon and throwing off the thick anchor ropes.
Anastasia watched from the shadows.
The balloon rose. Slowly at first, then faster, the basket lifting clear of the ground, drifting up into the night sky. Viktor worked the burner, gaining altitude, clearing the trees that ringed the clearing.
The balloon drifted higher. Viktor pulled the lever for more altitude, more heat, more lift to carry him away from this place and everything that had gone wrong here.
Anastasia smiled as she thought through the device she had built.
The design was simple: when activated, the blade caught the flames as they increased, heating until it went cherry red and ignited the sparklers.
In turn, they ignited the fuse: a ribbon soaked in fifty-year-old cognac from Gerald’s flask.
The fuse took the flame to the propane canister where it was introduced to three bottles of Freddie’s Famous Exploding Shots.
And then like most people introduced to Freddie and three bottles of his cocktails; it would explode.
The whole thing was planned to take about a minute, long enough for the balloon to gather some altitude and be safely away.
He looked down at her as the balloon rose and called out:
‘It’s only au revoir. I’ll be back for you soon.’
Anastasia smiled.
‘No,’ she said, too quietly for him to hear. ‘You won’t.’
The balloon drifted over the lake, a dark shape against the darker sky.
The blade glowed red in the heat, the sparkler ignited.
And then:
The night sky lit up.
The explosion was spectacular: a burst of orange and gold that outshone the last of the fireworks still crackling in the distance. The balloon ruptured, the envelope tearing apart, debris showering down toward the black water of the lake below.
From the terrace of Hartington Hall, the wedding guests looked up and cheered.
‘Blimey,’ said Freddie, champagne sloshing as he pointed at the sky. ‘They really went all out on the finale. That was incredible!’
‘Weren’t we meant to be going away in that?’ James asked, looking up with cheerful confusion. ‘I thought that was our ride. Bit dramatic, setting it on fire first, lucky we were not on it.’
‘Change of plans,’ Anastasia said, appearing at his elbow. ‘I thought we could take the car instead. More romantic.’
‘The car? Really? But I had the whole balloon thing organised...’
‘James.’ She took his hand, looked up at him with those dark eyes that had captured him from the first moment. ‘Trust me. The car is better.’
He smiled. That innocent, infectious smile. ‘All right. The car it is. Whatever you want. Always.’
???
Anastasia stood for a moment alone at the edge of the terrace, watching the last embers of the balloon drift down toward the water.
Tomorrow, people would notice Viktor was gone. There would be questions. Searches, perhaps. She would deal with that when it came. Viktor had always been good at disappearing. Let them believe he had disappeared again.
She straightened her dress. Looked back toward the house, where James was waiting for her, where the party was still going, where the rest of their lives was about to begin.
She walked away, back to James, back to the light and the music and the celebration that was still going strong.
Whatever happened next, it wasn’t going to happen tonight. And tonight, there was still celebrating to do.
They walked back toward the house, arm in arm, leaving the burning debris to fall into the lake behind them.