That smell was back: Russian tobacco. Reece Nesmith III opened his eyes, closed them, opened them again. He was on the floor of the sitting room of his upstairs flat, and there was a fat man occupying the armchair, a yellow vest puddled at his feet. The cigarette producing the Russian smell hung from his lower lip. His expression could have graced a totem pole: it was every bit as serious, and just as mobile.
‘You hit me,’ Reece said.
His voice came out at a higher pitch than usual.
The man didn’t reply. Without taking his eyes off Reece, he gave the impression of having the whole room under surveillance, much the way he had at Miles’s. Fewer bodies to keep track of, of course, and not much furniture. The armchair. A small table on which the TV sat. And bookshelves, and many more books than they could hold: tottering ziggurats of them, mostly with multiple bits of paper protruding from their pages, as if they were spawning miniature texts of their own. Tadpole writing on these slips: Andy’s notes, and he always swore he could reconstruct his entire library from his high-speed jottings. Possibly an empty boast. Reece had never put him to the test.
He tried to get up, but the dizzy room prevented him. So he cleared his throat and spoke again instead. ‘You hit me.’ Same words, different key.
The man’s cigarette glowed brightly. ‘What’s your name?’ he said.
‘Fuck off!’
‘Russian, huh? Well, Comrade Fuckoff, you learn your English from watching the Superbowl? Because I’m hearing a distinctly Yankee twang.’
‘You just assaulted me on my doorstep!’
‘Kicked you a bit on the stairs, too. If you’re keeping score.’ He removed the cigarette from his mouth and examined the burning end, as if some technical error were occurring. Then put it back. ‘You followed me from that spooks’ parlour. Or tried to.’
‘You followed me!’
‘Like I say. Or tried to.’ The cigarette evidently wasn’t doing what it was supposed to, because he dropped it. ‘You weren’t much cop. Ready to tell me your name yet? I’m happy to kick you some more, if it’ll help.’
Nothing about his expression suggested he was kidding.
Reece looked at the yellow jacket onto which the burning cigarette had fallen. It was work clothing, something you’d wear on a construction site, and probably wouldn’t burn easily. It might be best, though, not to find out the hard way.
He said, ‘Reece. Reece Nesmith.’
The man grunted.
‘The third.’
‘There’s two more of you? That’s nearly half the set. When’s Snow White get here?’
‘Very funny.’
‘Glad you think so. Sometimes I have to explain my jokes. What is it, a condition? Or are you just, you know, a freak?’
Reece said, ‘I’m not a freak.’
‘Yeah, no offence. You should see the clowns I have to work with. Actual physical deformity would be an improvement.’ From his overcoat pocket he produced a half-full bottle of whisky and unscrewed the cap. ‘But let’s get back to why you were following me. And what you were doing in the first place, hanging out with a bunch of Euro-spooks. Long-retired Euro-spooks.’ He took a swallow. ‘Long-retired Euro-spooks who were third division messenger boys at best.’
‘You’re a spy.’
‘If you’re one of those 007 nerds, hoping the glamour rubs off, you’re in for a disappointment.’ He farted, and produced another cigarette. ‘Class takes practice.’
‘Please don’t light that.’
‘Your growth’s already been stunted. Where’s the harm?’
‘It’s my home.’
‘And burning it down would increase its value.’ But he didn’t light up, or not yet. ‘Why were you following me?’
‘I heard you talking with that guy. The other Brit. The one who acts like he’s been in the game, but hasn’t.’
The man nodded.
‘You were talking about Putin. About the Novichok business. When toxic paste was smeared on a doorknob and the bottle left in a park.’
‘Where someone found it,’ the man said. ‘And died. What are you, a reporter for
‘There’s a rumour there’s been a vengeance killing. That you Brits took out one of the team responsible. You were talking about it.’
‘If you’re wanting to bid on the film rights, you’re going the long way round. Nobody at Old Miles’s would have the first clue what actually happened.’ He raised the bottle to his mouth again, took another swallow. ‘Least of all Chester Smith.’
‘That’s why it wasn’t him I followed.’
The high-vis vest was smouldering now. Reece picked himself up, walked over and stamped on it, sending a whisper of black smoke spiralling upwards, like an evil ghost. There was only one chair in the room, but there was an upturned tea chest against one wall, and he crossed over, moved the incumbent table lamp to the floor, and sat. ‘What’s your name?’ he said.
