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  “Gregory Barnaby,” he read, the name meaning nothing to him. His head was now hurting. He dropped the passport back into the bag and started rubbing his forehead. This seemed to ease the pain somewhat, and after two minutes he stopped, though clear thinking was still far from him.

  He looked at the passport again, and then the visa for the Russian Federation. The stamps in and out were one day apart, and in his bag, he found a copy of an invitation letter, also in the name of a Mr Gregory Barnaby. There was a hotel booking in the same name for the Radisson which had yesterday’s date on it. Nothing made sense.

  The stewardess came through the cabin at that moment, pausing to ask him to fasten his seatbelt as they were coming in for landing. He didn’t say anything and did as he was told, before stuffing the documents back into his bag and trying to remember why he had them. Where was his passport? Had he travelled out on this false one, and if so, why? His head was hurting again. It was a nightmare that he needed to wake up from, and yet here he was, sitting on a plane, with documents purporting to be his but in a name he didn’t know.

  Five minutes later the plane had touched down and was parked at the gate. He was the first one off and lost no time getting through security. There were no glitches.

  “Have a pleasant day, Mr Barnaby,” said the lady on passport control as she handed him back the passport. A passport that undoubtedly wasn’t his, that he had no memory of getting, and yet it had got him through and back onto British soil.

  Bile rose in his throat. He needed to get home, needed to sleep, needed to wake up from the nightmare. He jumped in the first available taxi and set off on the hour-long journey it would take to get home. It didn’t matter what the cost was; he just needed to get back.

  2

  William Hackett was a simple man who enjoyed the slower pace that his latter years offered him. A year this side of sixty, he saw his coming retirement as the chance to explore the world. Usually up before seven, he would spend the early hours in his well-cared-for garden, the vast family home offering acres of well-managed grounds.

  Back in the shower before eight, the household was starting to wake, various children were home at different times, usually with a grandchild or two for company. Today it was just their youngest, a girl named Beth who was twenty-five, and about to start a new job in the city.

  “Dad, I’m going to have to hurry you today,” she said, banging on the door of the main bathroom. Though he had a small en-suite in his bedroom, he preferred the space of the other shower. Two minutes after, he was out, and Beth thanked him, nerves starting to rise as only a first day in a new job can do.

  “You’ll be a star, my darling,” Bill said. Very few people called him William. That was too official for him, something his parents would use to scold him. He was Bill to his friends, and there were many of them. Beth closed the door, the shower coming on moments after, as Bill got dressed and then headed down the large staircase to the breakfast room, which was south-facing and always full of sunshine.

  They’d done well for themselves. Three kids within five years had meant the early years had been busy, but decades on, they were well off. The sizeable five-bedroom family home aside, there was the business he owned, and the children were each making their situations prosperous too. Beth, the last one to leave, would surely fly the nest now that her management job was about to start. He was so proud of all of them. Their mother––his dear wife––had passed away nine years before, her battle with cancer just too much for her body to take. It had been a swift end, and an unexpected one at that, but the whole process had brought them even closer together.

  Bill had set up a cancer charity as a legacy to his wife, its charitable status confirmed on the first anniversary of her death. The oldest child had already left home, and the middle one was about to follow so Bill had started splitting his time between the business empire he ran, and the new charity. He also made time for Beth, who at just sixteen when her mother died, was the one most affected by it all.

  Nearly a decade on from that fateful time, their relationship was as healthy as it had ever been. Bill knew he’d never remarry, and with two grandchildren on the scene, had enough company to keep him busy. Both children, who had moved away and were now married, were living within a few miles of him. Both married into money, though the oldest, his son, was a successful businessman in his own right, and brought enough wealth to his new family to set them up for life.

  It was their relationship and connection to family that kept them close. Their jobs were in London, but home could be anywhere. It was right that they lived near to Bill, especially as he would soon be on his own.

  Beth joined him for breakfast, which he’d cooked especially for her for the big day.

  “Dad, you shouldn’t have,” she said as she walked into the kitchen, the smell had hit her as she came down the stairs.

  “Nonsense, it’s a big day for you, and you don’t want to start the new job on an empty stomach.”

  “I just don’t know how much I can eat. I’m so nervous.”

  “Look at me,” he said, taking hold of his daughter by the shoulders, and looking into her hazel eyes. “You’ve done so much more than this. You’ve coped with everything life has thrown at you, and you’ve grown up into this amazing, beautiful young lady. I’m so proud of you. That firm is lucky to have you. They’ve got the amazing Miss Beth Hackett PhD working for them, and don’t you forget that. You are a wonderful lady, and it’s an honour to be your dad.”

  He held her close, resting her head on his chest. There were tears in both their eyes and for the moment they were wrapped in contented silence. The sound of sizzling bacon brought them apart again, and they ate a decent breakfast together, though Beth still didn’t have that much of an appetite.

  Just before nine, Bill waved his daughter goodbye, as she set off for the first day of induction in the new job. He’d let her drive his Mercedes to work. There was nothing like making a good first impression, but he knew she’d knock them dead. She was his daughter, after all. His children were born brilliant in his view, and he loved them dearly.

  For a moment the large family home was too large. He wouldn’t allow that thought to fester for too long, however. It was home and would remain that for all the children, and the grandchildren also. It was extraordinary that he could if needed, have them all to stay at the same time and not run out of beds. He didn’t want it any other way.

  Anya sat in her seventh-floor office at the FSB HQ in St Petersburg. In the summertime, with leaves on the trees, she would have been able to see the edges of the Summer Gardens from where she was, but not now. All she could see today was the grey of the concrete and granite, reflecting the grey above. There had been some more snow overnight, and more forecast for later that day. It seemed winter was coming a little earlier this year.

  Forensics on the body had not revealed anything more. Two shots to the head from a high calibre weapon had killed the victim instantly. The victim was confirmed as being Anthony Fernandes, a fifty-three-year-old Englishman, who was wealthy, a business owner and politically well connected, especially in Russia. That opened up a whole line of enquiry. She’d been passed the file that they had on Anthony; as he was a frequent traveller to Russia, mainly to Moscow, there was quite a bit they knew.

  The photos had been dropped off for her that morning. The photographer didn’t like to wait around to give them to her in person. It was funny how the old fears and stigma come back when faced with the FSB. While not entirely causing as much panic as the former KGB used to, anxieties about the building and the modern occupants of its many floors were still there. No one was more powerful, in principle, than the FSB was in Russia. They went right to the very top, to the inner circle of the Kremlin no less. And agents like Anya were the shining new face of the modern FSB. Bright, internationally educated, she’d studied at the best schools in England before graduating, with a first-class degree, from Moscow’s most prestigious university. She could h
ave walked into any college around the world, and many had made offers, but her mother’s influence and Russian determination had won her over––this was one the Motherland wanted to educate itself.

  Natively fluent in both Russian and English, she’d spent much of her youth in England, where her father had many connections and an open wallet for her. She had a flair for languages and politics, and got a prestigious job, with political connections, in London straight after graduating. Having spent a few years there, and partly to get away from a man that she’d had a very on-off relationship with, she’d been recruited to work for the FSB. She started work in Moscow, near her mother, before being offered an excellent opportunity to move to St Petersburg, which she took after some thought. Now, at twenty-seven, she ran her own office and was widely respected and liked by those under her, but kept at arm’s length by others. Some saw more to it than just her skills. They saw her looks opening as many doors as her qualifications. Russia still had a long way to go with equality, and it was something internally with which Anya battled all the time.

  In her latest case, there had been no word as yet about the attacker. The photos were explicit, and while the light was not excellent at the time of the shooting, there was plenty to go on. They were also looking at surveillance footage from the airport. It was reasoned that the hit was an international one in nature and that it was highly likely the attacker would have looked to leave straight away.

  The British consulate had been notified that morning by her office. As the victim was a British national, they had no choice. Anya knew the Consul General well, and had been at a drinks reception just a couple of weeks before. They were yet to release the name of the victim, so what news there was of the attack was limited to the local St Petersburg news channels. It hadn’t even made the Moscow news, let alone anything international. She was sure that it would, and she had two people working on that angle for her, trying to limit the damage that it might do politically, especially if he was killed by a Russian. The more time passed though, and the more she looked at the details of the attack, the less she suspected it was anything like Russian Mafia. It was too messy for one thing. Too public, with too many witnesses. The victim was sitting on a park bench, and from the look of the photo, as well as the accounts from the witnesses, he knew the attacker. There was no flight or fight, but maybe the victim just froze. It was hard to tell, and no one that she spoke to was close enough to know. It was as if he was expecting it, which closed the circle of possibilities dramatically. Business connections were being looked into, and these were largely based in Russia or the UK. If the attacker had fled to the UK, that would complicate things. Especially if there was a hint of any political motive. She’d look at every angle.

  There was a knock on her door––an aide told her that the British were here, and Anya asked her to show them in.

  “Miss Lubova, how pleasant it is to see you again,” the Consul General said, bounding into her office, hand outstretched for the handshake.

  “Yes, but I am just sorry for the context of our meeting,” she said.

  “Of course, indeed. Well, why don’t you tell me what you know so far and we can talk about next steps?”

  She ran through the details, starting with the victim. The Consul General knew the man. He’d been at several functions they’d put on over recent years, so it was a shock to hear. She ran through what they knew about the crime scene and build-up to the shooting. She even showed him the photo.

  “You can be assured that we are doing everything we can to catch the killer,” she said.

  “If you are on the case, I believe that full well, my dear.” He was about twice her age and looked it too. He was innocent enough, though, and she was quite fond of him.

  “Look, my hunch is that the attacker has fled, possibly back to the UK.”

  “A UK hit?”

  “As I said, it’s my hunch.”

  “Go on,” he said.

  “It’s just the way it was done. This was not a robbery; it was not for money. It was almost meant to be seen by people. That’s not how the Russian Mafia work, nor many of the lesser criminals I run into here. The attacker had to know he was safe for some other reason. Maybe political, maybe something else.”

  “And you think he’s fled to the UK?”

  “That would be my best guess, yes. The victim is English, has made a lot of friends and plenty of enemies, in both our countries. But like I said, the details do not fit for a Russian funded hit. We’re looking at the flights out, and have a team at the airport and passenger port now.”

  “Could I take a copy of the picture you have of the guy with the gun? Maybe we can put a name to him?”

  “Please do,” she said, sliding over a copy she had produced for that very reason. He stood up and walked over to the window.

  “You know, this couldn’t have happened at a worse time,” he said. “Tensions are already strained. There’s talk about whether my post will even stay open here. And you know what UK extradition laws are like, especially to Russia. This could all get very messy.”

  “Yes, I know. This is the last thing I want.” Anya joined him at the window. The road below was crammed with cars, and yellow buses tried weaving in and out of the traffic, not helping the congestion one bit.

  “Will you keep me informed?” he said, turning from the window and taking his coat off the chair.

  “Yes, of course. And if you get a name from the photo, I’d appreciate being told.”

  “I’ll do my best. You know how these things go.”

  “I certainly do.”

  “Goodbye, Anya,” he said, kissing her on the hand.

  “Goodbye,” she replied, as he walked back out of the door.

  3

  Bill woke up later than usual. It was nearly eight. The house was quiet. Beth had already left for work. He walked around in a daze, not sure if he was indeed awake or still asleep. Vague images from a dream he’d had came back to him, his head hurt.

  He turned on the shower, and went looking for some pills to take that might offer him some relief. Finding what he was looking for, he went back to the shower and stood under it, the cold water bringing him to life somewhat. For years he’d taken cold showers. Not on health grounds, though he had learnt that it was an excellent kick to the system. When he was thirty, he’d helped a project in Africa. They brought clean water to a village that had never had its own supply. Cold showers were only the things of dreams for a people with no drinking water, let alone a bath or shower. Seeing their delight as the water was connected for the first time was something he’d never forget, and from that moment on, he had a new-found respect for the luxuries he had so readily available around him. He’d continued taking cold showers ever since as his way of connecting with those great people he'd once got to live with for one summer.

  His continued work with charities, including founding his own cancer charity, had led him to be considered for the New Year's honours list. A knighthood was in the offing, the official letter from Buckingham Palace hung like a trophy on the kitchen wall. It was all to be kept secret, it told him, but he was invited to the Palace to meet the Queen, and details of the reasons were to follow.

  As he stood there under the cold water of his shower that morning, his mind brought back images of being strapped into a seat on a plane. An air stewardess was leaning over him asking him something, though he had no idea what. It was so real that he turned off the shower, and putting a towel around his waist, ran to the office he kept at home, in search of his documents. His passport was where he expected, and to his relief, was in his name. There was no visa, no stamps. His cheeks reddened for even having had to look. Still, there was the thought, the memories. Both so vivid, seemingly so real. The feeling that went with it too.

  He pushed it all to one side and got dressed. His head was starting to hurt a little less, and he needed to eat. He’d missed out on his garden time that morning, but there was nothing he could do about it now.
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br />   The next thirty minutes went as they usually did for him. He had a healthy breakfast, yesterday’s cooking exploits for Beth were a rare exception, and he drank orange juice in the lounge while watching the breakfast show on television. As he stood up, looking out on his beloved garden, the bench he used to sit on with his wife but hadn’t done so since she died, those images started to come back. A park, trees, a wedding party. Tall iron gates, a river. Statues, giant stone heads and figures on wooden boxes. A man was sitting on a bench. A gun. Blood.

  Bill was scared, an unusual feeling for someone usually so caring and peace-loving. He walked out into the hallway. By the back door was a bag, his bag. His shirt lay on top of it. Why he’d left it there, he had no idea. He picked it up. There was a stain on the sleeve. It was blood. He dropped the shirt in fear. He picked up the bag. Inside, there was a passport and other travel documents which he opened with anxiety rising in him. He flicked through the passport pages quickly, and he got to the photo section. It was him all right, but not his name. Bill roughly turned the pages, desperate not to find what he knew was there, and sure enough, a Russian visa opened. It was impossible that he’d been in Russia the night before and yet these were the dates. Bill stuffed everything back into the bag, including the shirt with its blood stain on the sleeve and dropped the bag onto the floor. He needed to sit down. Nothing was making any sense, and his growing thoughts were making him very frightened.

  Anya was due for a briefing update at the British consulate in St Petersburg just after four. Both sides were to share what they had, in the spirit of openness. It was expected that neither would have much to tell the other at this point, this early on in the investigation with still so much up for grabs. The run to the consulate had been smooth, it was only a short distance to travel, and in that part of the city, with no bridges nearby, traffic was light. She was cleared through security at ten past four and waiting in a private room for the meeting to start. Someone brought in a tray of drinks, which she helped herself to, making a green tea and putting a slice of lemon in it. She took her first sip as the door opened and in walked the Consul General with an aide. She’d come alone, and wondered if that had been the best idea. It was too late now anyway.