Page 62 of Lethal Torture

15

ZINAIDA

Enzo closesthe 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 theassociationbetween 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.