Best Kept Lies Read online

  Table of Contents

  Legal Page

  Title Page

  Book Description

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  New Excerpt

  About the Author

  Publisher Page

  Best Kept Lies

  ISBN # 978-1-78430-735-6

  ©Copyright Helena Maeve 2015

  Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright August 2015

  Edited by Sue Meadows

  Pride Publishing

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Pride Publishing.

  Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Pride Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.

  The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.

  Published in 2015 by Pride Publishing, Newland House, The Point, Weaver Road, Lincoln, LN6 3QN

  Pride Publishing is a subsidiary of Totally Entwined Group Limited.

  Shadow Play

  BEST KEPT LIES

  Helena Maeve

  Book one in the Shadow Play series

  What becomes of the Russian spy who lands himself in the crosshairs of a rogue British agent?

  Grigory Antipov’s work within the intelligence community is exemplary, but attracting too much attention is against his interests as a spy—a lesson painfully learned the night he is abducted off the streets of Rome. Captivity is a dangerous thing and Grigory already operates under a cloud of suspicion, given his predilection for male company. Luckily, his stint in British custody is short-lived, a mere flex of muscle from Agent Karim Awad.

  Karim’s objective is obvious. Lure Grigory into Section’s clutches and turn him against his own people—expose him to the wrath of Moscow if he refuses. His mission brief may not specify the methods to be used, but Grigory soon discovers that Karim is a man of many talents. With powerful interests at play and the threat of deadly force in the air, Grigory faces an impossible choice—surrender to his fate or sacrifice the only man whose touch makes him feel alive after so many years.

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

  Mercedes: Daimler AG

  BBC: British Broadcasting Corporation

  Hyatt: Hyatt Hotels Corporation

  Taser: Taser International

  La Stampa: Fiat SpA

  James Bond: Eon Productions

  Courvoisier: Suntory Holdings

  DHL: Deutsche Post DHL

  La Traviata: Giuseppe Verdi

  Godfather: Paramount Pictures

  Murattis: Philip Morris International

  Katyusha: Matvei Blanter, Mikhail Isakovsky

  Stelka: Strelka Institute

  Lego: The Lego Group

  IKEA: IKEA

  Facebook: Facebook, Inc.

  Jacuzzi: Apollo Management

  Eurostar: Eurostar International Limited

  Orangina: Suntory Holdings

  Citroën: PSA Peugeot Citroën Group

  Walther P99: Carl Walther GmbH Sportwaffen

  Browning: Browning Arms Company

  Fiat: Fiat Chrysler Automobiles

  Twitter: Twitter Inc.

  Chapter One

  “You’re a son of a bitch, you know that?”

  The crackle of red vinyl dragged across Grigory’s nerves, yet when he glanced up it was with a placid smile. No use antagonizing such a valuable asset.

  Nathaniel wrinkled his nose at the cloud of stale cigarette smoke that rose from the bench seat as he sat down. He didn’t comment on the setting. He had more important things on his mind.

  “Was it your people?”

  Someday, Grigory mused, they would look back on this and laugh. Assuming they lived long enough for hindsight to lend a touch of humor to their clandestine meetings.

  “Don’t you want to take your coat off first?” he inquired. “Make yourself comfortable?”

  Nathaniel raised his eyebrows. He’d never come out and say ‘cut the crap’—crap being par for the course in their industry—but it was written in the disbelieving lines of his face.

  “I won’t be staying. They’re expecting me back at the embassy in twenty minutes.”

  “Then you shouldn’t waste time asking questions you know I cannot answer.” Slowly, Grigory raised his coffee cup to his lips and returned his gaze to the flat-screen suspended above the bar.

  There was something vaguely offensive about a café in Rome displaying every feature of a New Jersey watering hole. Before Grigory could give it much thought, the ‘Breaking News’ logo flashed on screen.

  Ten Downing Street seemed both larger and grayer on TV. The prime minister fared no better beneath the flicker and flash of tabloid cameras. Burly men in stretchy dark suits flanked him like hailers. With little finesse, they bustled him into the back seat of a shiny Mercedes as reporters shouted questions from behind the barricades.

  The BBC feed lingered on that one last glimpse of Prime Minister Craft before he disappeared behind tinted glass.

  He wore the face of a man on his way to the gallows. Her Majesty hardly warranted the sulk.

  A blonde head blocked Grigory’s view.

  “Good morning,” greeted the perky waitress, her English beautifully accented. “What will you have?”

  She wore a pale coral shirt that matched the sign outside the café and a pair of cut-off shorts. From her apron dangled a hand-scribbled name tag that read Letitia.

  “Nothing,” replied Nathaniel. Then, for Grigory’s sake, he repeated, “I’m not staying.”

  “Chicken burger,” Grigory said, ignoring him. “And guacamole.”

  “Would you like a beer with that?”

  Grigory beamed. “Why not? Make that two.”

  Punctuating their order with a flick of the pen, the waitress fluttered her lashes and turned on her heel. Her ponytail swung as she sauntered toward the kitchen. She couldn’t have been older than eighteen.

  Watching her made Grigory feel impossibly old. Eighteen had been sweating over his university entrance exams and staring wistfully out of the window as neighborhood boys staggered out of their beds simply to trawl down to the public pool. Eighteen had been the certitude that if he hadn’t got into Lomosonov University, his life would have been over.

  Eighteen was an eternity ago.

  “You know I don’t care for Italian beer,” Nathaniel muttered under his breath.

  “Who says I ordered it for you?”

  Nathaniel’s stiff upper lip became a flat horizontal line. Like pretty, blonde Letitia, he struck Grigory as too green for the world. At least no one expected Letitia to deal in state secrets.

  He allowed himself a sigh. “Your prime minister chooses the wrong call girl to unburden himself to and it must be the SVR’s long reach twisting
her arm?” If he clucked his tongue, it wasn’t to dismiss the possibility but to chide Nathaniel for jumping to such a far-fetched conclusion.

  It was a sad reality all across the globe that politicians were not to be trusted—especially when they pledged their loyalty to secret spy agencies first.

  “Believe me, this comes as much as a surprise to us as it does you.”

  Young and inexperienced as he was, Nathaniel didn’t take the bait. “Did you just ask me to believe a spy?”

  “Intelligence officer,” Grigory corrected. He couldn’t resist pedantry when he had the upper hand.

  Nathaniel stabbed a fingertip into the table. “Someone bloody well leaked this to the press. My superiors are furious. If it was your people, they should know this is being treated as a hostile op. What’s the Russian word? Dezinformatsiya?”

  “It’s not false, though, is it?” Grigory helped himself to another sip of coffee. Bitterness paired well with the stink of statecraft. “Propaganda seems more apt.”

  “The words ‘Russian-backed coup’ might have been bandied about the office…”

  “There’s a little Shakespeare in all of us.”

  Nathaniel went from barely restrained to combustible in a matter of seconds. “Damn it, Grig!”

  It was just as well the café was largely empty and they’d sat far enough in the back that no casual passersby could see him seize Grigory’s forearm in a vise-tight grip.

  “This means internal investigation. Probes into every department… What do you think’ll happen when they assign me a shadow, huh? If I’m found out, you can kiss your privileged access goodbye.”

  And the same goes for your career, your freedom—perhaps even your life. The British were no more tolerant of treason than Grigory’s comrades.

  “You won’t be.”

  Nathaniel released his arm, falling back against the red vinyl of the booth. “You don’t know that! Apparently you don’t know anything.” Agitation bubbled beneath his uneven tan, but the brief spike of fury had passed. He raked both hands through his hair and blew out a shuddering breath. His fingers shook when he made to straighten his skinny blue tie. “I want to talk to your handler.”

  “That’s not possible.”

  “Make it possible. I’ve cooperated, I’ve jumped through every bloody hoop… Now it’s your turn. I leave Rome in forty-eight hours. Set up a meet before then or I come clean to my superiors.”

  Grigory barely resisted the urge to rub his temples. He could feel the headache building behind his eyes, the throbbing of his pulse like a hydraulic piston.

  This part of the conversation would have to be omitted from the report. He’d put too much work into smoothing things over after Nathaniel’s maladroit recruitment to lose him on a threat uttered in the heat of the moment.

  Managing informants was two parts hand-holding to one part drilling. Enlisting talent was simply the first step in obtaining valuable information.

  “Nathan, be reasonable…”

  The swish of soft cotton slacks was all the answer he received.

  Nathaniel stalked out of the café without so much as a glance over his shoulder. The door swung slowly shut in his wake.

  Reason was not on today’s menu.

  “Here are your drinks… Oh!” The waitress blinked fast, as though struggling to compute the sight of an empty seat across from Grigory. “Should…I take this one back?” she asked, waving the spare beer.

  Grigory shook his head. “You can leave it. Thank you.”

  “Your friend seemed upset,” Letitia ventured. Impossible to discern if she did it out of innate friendliness or if it was all part of the American flavor of the joint.

  The alternative—that she was an undercover agent fishing for information—would’ve dogged Grigory in the early days. Paranoia was just another distraction.

  Letitia sighed wistfully. “He should’ve tried the wings. Instant pick-me-up.”

  “That he should have…” Grigory glanced at his watch. He had another hour before his next rendezvous. “But you know what? I think I could use a plate myself.”

  The waitress’s delighted grin almost took the sting out of his abysmal morning.

  * * * *

  Streaks of white clouds pocked the midday sky by the time Grigory left the burger joint with a stomach full of bread buns and broiled meat. The taste of fearsomely spicy barbecue sauce lingered in his mouth, though he had done his best to wash it down with light beer. He walked slowly down the crooked, narrow streets, his body as sluggish as a snake’s after a good meal.

  This part of Rome was as much tourist-trap as it was a pedestrian wet dream. With no cars allowed, the fiercest roadside terror was the pigeons. Little rotund bodies defied the laws of physics as they swooped and scattered before Grigory in a rustle of gray wings. The feathery curtain revealed souvenir shops and overpriced eateries—mostly pizzerias and gelato sellers with Italian-sounding names, front windows showing off the tricolore.

  No American-inspired hole-in-the-wall here. No smiling waitresses, either. The few servers Grigory spotted stood outside their place of employment with aprons knotted around their waists and cigarettes perched between two fingers. They seemed authentic in their thorough contempt for the world.

  A boxy gray bus was pulling up to the stop at the end of the street just as Grigory rounded the corner. He sped his steps and the double doors sealed behind him. He shot the driver a smile as he scanned his RFID ticket against the yellow sensor.

  Owing to its electric engine, the bus didn’t jounce quite as much as its gas-powered siblings. Still, the potholes in the pavement were unavoidable.

  Grigory listed this way and that, gripping the backrests for balance. He found a seat at the back of the bus and dropped down heavily, strength seeped from him as though by osmosis.

  The bus was mostly empty at this hour, even on a tourist line. The gentle sway of overworked suspensions rocked him into an unpleasant sort of semi-awareness. He registered the bustle of passengers climbing on, climbing off, heard the hum of voices all around him, but the details eluded him. If asked whether the teenage pair three rows in front were Swedish or German, he would’ve been unable to say.

  His thoughts veered, predictably, to Nathaniel’s prickly ultimatum.

  It was a bad time to be making demands on the SVR. It was a worse time to be issuing threats. Too many new faces in the Kremlin made for a chaotic foreign strategy. For all that Grigory knew, they had been the ones to out Prime Minister Craft in a fit of pique.

  A so-called strategic war in Ukraine had been set in motion for the same reason.

  “If we are, it was Moscow’s decision,” Zorin told him, her tone dismissive when Grigory shared his concerns with her.

  He’d leapt from his seat three stops into his journey and stepped off the bus just outside the Teatro dell’ Opera.

  Crowds of tourists milled around under the European flag, some armed with long-lens cameras, others with smartphones or guidebooks—seldom both. Grigory was used to weaving between them with a strange sort of fondness. He’d been like them once—so sure of his world, so eager to trust.

  Peering down at the swarm from the window of a barbershop that smelled of peppermint and sage, he felt only impatience.

  “Jennings wants a chat.”

  Zorin looked up from the teapot she was maneuvering with expert care. “With me?” Her thick, blonde eyebrows nearly met in the middle when she frowned. “You told him that’s not possible.”

  “He wasn’t inclined to listen. This business with Craft…”

  “I see.” Zorin slid his cup along the table and folded long-fingered hands above her own.

  She was often economical with words, but her protracted silences slithered under Grigory’s skin.

  “He’s a little insecure,” he explained.

  “So reassure him.” It’s your job, she seemed to be saying.

  “It might be best if I embrace my role as bad cop. Besides,” Grigory added
as he sat on the scuffed leather couch, “you have a gentler touch.”

  Zorin’s mouth twitched. Before Grigory could tell if she was amused or offended, she had already smoothed her pale, angular features into a blank mask.

  “When?”

  “He leaves in two days.”

  “I know,” Zorin scoffed.

  Not amused, then.

  Annoyance dripped from her voice. “When do you want this rendezvous to take place?”

  “Day after tomorrow.” Grigory had spent the ride to the barbershop on Via Firenze thinking up viable locations. He’d had a feeling Zorin would want solutions to the problems he presented. “Nine o’clock. I have tickets to La Traviata.”

  “Italian opera,” Zorin scoffed into her tea. “A little on the nose, don’t you think?”

  Grigory shrugged. “I enjoy it.”

  “You would.”

  He concentrated on taking a slow sip of tea, the scalding brew blistering his throat as it trickled down. The barbershop had fewer ears than other Rezidentura-approved sites, but that still didn’t make it secure.

  Zorin must have been more irritated than he’d realized to take such a cheap shot.

  “Oh, live a little, Zhenka…” Grigory stood and reached into his jacket. He couldn’t resist a smirk as Zorin stiffened, training kicking in.

  “You don’t like your tea?”

  “Too much sugar,” he lied. The glossy ticket struck the table with a dull whack. “The black number with no back should do it. You know, the one the general likes?” He answered her glower with a crisp smile.

  You hurt me. I hurt you.

  Zorin’s silence stretched and stretched, as taut as an elastic band, until he turned for the door.

  “If it was us…” she started. She didn’t have to go on.

  “We just shot ourselves in the foot?”

  She arched an eyebrow. “You’re fond of their expressions, aren’t you?”

  Grigory held her gaze. “Know thine enemy,” he answered, in Russian.