Page 46 of Lethal Torture

I drink my tea to hide my smile. I like the home secretary. She’s a woman who knows what it takes to survive in a man’s world.

“When it comes to Sophie’s House, however,” she says, her frown deepening, “we’re talking about a charitable foundation the government openly supports. I rely upon you to keep that end of your business entirely murk free. And this”—she stabs the newspaper accusingly—“implies otherwise. Would you like to explain, Miss Melikov, why you, your foundation, and the National Crime Agency are mentioned in the same sentence as the death of that pond scum Georgiy Ivanov?”

I lift the coffee jug from the silver trolley beside our table, weighing up how much it’s safe to say. Agatha has proved herself less squeamish than her male predecessor—and more proactive in actually getting results, even if that means occasionally stepping over a legal line or two.

It seems that dumping Georgiy Ivanov’s body off the side of his own yacht crossed more lines than Agatha is comfortable with.

I don’t give much of a fuck. But I do care about keeping Agatha onside.

So I pour her coffee and give her the elegant smile of the slightly illegal businesswoman she’s learned to trust, rather than the ice-cold glare of the psychopath she’d prefer to ignore the existence of.

“The headline in theDaily Truththis morning was unfortunate, I’ll admit.”

“Unfortunateis the understatement of the year.” She doesn’t look remotely mollified. “The prime minister called me at four a.m. He wasn’t amused.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Clearly, this isn’t destined to be one of our easier conversations. “Although, frankly, I’d have thought the prime minister would take the win. The article clearly states that the National Crime Agency had been closing in on Ivanov’s sex trafficking ring before his death. The journalist doesn’t refute the vile practices Ivanov was engaged in, or the fact that many of his rivals wanted him dead. Your agency not only exposed the ring, but arrested many of its clients and associates.” I smile blandly. “All Sophie’s House did was give refuge to the women they rescued, which is the precise reason I founded it in the first place. Implying some dark conspiracy between your agency and my foundation is just theDaily Truthtrying to sell papers, since they and the Opposition can no longer complain your government isn’t doing enough to fight sexual predators.”

And we both know a tabloid headline isn’t why you’ve requested an emergency meeting in the privacy of my club at seven a.m. on a dreary winter morning.

“Hmm.” Agatha cocks a cynical eyebrow at me over her coffee. “Allow me to speak plainly, Miss Melikov.”

“Please do, Minister.”

“Not even theDaily Truthis stupid enough to lament the demise of a rock spider like Georgiy Ivanov,” she says tartly.

I sip my tea, trying desperately not to laugh.

“And I think we both know your relationship with the NCA goes rather deeper than taking the girls they rescue.”

That sobers me fast enough. I meet her eyes. “But?”

She gives me a hard look. “Word is spreading, Zinaida. People—even those on my side of the fight—are starting to whisper that your charity is more than just a refuge.”

“Whispers can be useful,” I say lightly. “It doesn’t hurt men in Ivanov’s business to know someone is aware of their activities.” I smile coldly. “Particularly someone like me.”

Agatha’s mouth quirks. “True.” She composes herself. “But when it comes to accusations of murder—even implied murder—there’s a line which cannot, under any circumstances, be crossed.”

Given that our entire association revolves around me crossing lines her agencies cannot, it’s an effort not to let my smile turn cynical. “I shall bear that in mind.”

She eyes me narrowly over the table. “I suggest you do, Miss Melikov. Because if I see another headline like this one, I will have to reassess our... association.”

I know as well as Agatha does that there’s no way she’s going to interfere with a relationship that has given her department its best record on busting trafficking in a decade.

But I don’t say that.

If building London’s two most exclusive members-only clubs has taught me anything, it’s that the more powerful you make people feel, the more inclined they are to think they’re doing you a favor when, in fact, they’re asking you for one.

So instead I just nod with every appearance of humility. “I understand.”

A diplomatic silence ensues, during which I sip my tea, Agatha sips her coffee, and we both pretend that is the end of the matter.

When she does eventually break the silence, she almost succeeds in taking me by surprise. “As it happens, I have more than an inkling of who fed theDaily Truththese particular whispers.”

“Oh?” I keep my face neutral, my tone disinterested.

They will find it difficult to whisper at all when I’m done with them.

“Obviously,” she says, her mouth twitching at the edges, “you didn’t hear this from me.”