Page 103 of Gates of Tartarus

Kavi and I are left alone in the kitchen. He looks at me, face grave. “Well,priya. We should get started too.”

I make sure to work extra hard during our yoga session, not whining, as I usually do, when Kavi makes me do push-ups. I need to build up muscle tone pronto. We do an hour-long routine – I think Kavi’s worried too – focussing on strength and flexibility. Afterwards, when we meditate, I decide I’ll try staring at the backs of my eyelids again, just in case it helps with precognition. I’ve been half-heartedly trying dream incubation, but if the Russian mafia comes after me, I want to be forewarned. Here again, Kavi has us do a longer session, and whereas after twenty minutes, I’d normally start thinking about one of the guys, today I make a real effort to concentrate, gently bringing my attention back to my breathing whenever I start to daydream. By the time we meet up with Jorge for lunch, at the MI5 cafeteria, I’d actually be ready for a nap if I weren’t so worried.

Jorge gives me a big hug, sensing how churned up I am. Unlike Kavi, I don’t feel more centered after this morning’s session, and I think I might be developing a twitch. My eyes keep darting about, as if the Bratva’s going to attack the building at any moment.

“Breathe,querida. Of all the places you could be, Thames House is surely one of the safest. And we don’t know that Kronos is part of the Russian mafia – that’s just a theory.”

“Un-huh,” I dip my head. “Yup. Sure thing. Do mobsters still give their victims concrete boots? That’s what they’re called, right? Concrete boots? So that you swim with the fishes? Or do they just dump you in the desert, if thereisa desert, of course? Or do they feed people to pigs now? England has a lot of pig farms, doesn’t it?” My imagination is galloping madly away.

“Querida!Don’t be somelodramática! You sound like a character in a bad telenovela. Stop scaring yourself.”

I’m so surprised to hear Jorge chastise me – he’s usually so understanding – that I snap out of my looming frenzy.

“Sorry,” I mumble, chastened. “Won’t happen again. Just exploring the possibilities.”

“Well don’t,” he says sternly.

Kavi gives my shoulders a squeeze. “Besides, don’t you think we can protect you? I’m hurt.”

He sounds genuinely aggrieved, and I hasten to reassure him. “Oh! Ah. Well–” then, when I see the teasing look on his face, “Oh, ha, ha, ha. Fine! Panic over.”

“And a good thing too,” Jorge adds, giving me a cuddle. We find a table, and he fills me and Kavi in on that morning’s interview. The gang member didn’t have anything useful to add. Some of the women he picked up for Ratko were Eastern European, but that’s it. Emlyn and Seef are going back over Ratko’s background, but other than Magda and her link to Kronos and now the possible connection to “White Russians”, there’s nothing to suggest he was supplied by the Bratva.

???

On the plus side, the booster has definitely enhanced rather than diminished my abilities. Seef can’t make it over, so Emlyn and I join him at MI6, where I have HD views of Magda and Tennireef, both of them wearing identical expressions. Resting smug face. I can see why they dated and why it didn’t work out. Neither is doing anything interesting–no convenient meeting with a Russian gangster –but we’re all encouraged by how easily I manage to link with them. And I’m feeling more than a little chuffed that I’m no longer winded after running five miles (Seef can say all he likes that the track’s a mile and a half: I know that it’s five). I’m actually enjoying learning self-defense. I’ve gotten fairly proficient at the palm and knife strike and better at escaping the wrist hold. Today, Seef’s going to teach me how to get out of a rear choke-hold, an extremely common form of attack, he says.

He prowls behind me, and my breath hitches. Then his body’s pressed up against mine, and his arm snakes about my neck. I can’t help it: I shiver at the feel of the muscled length of him. Flustered, I remind myself that Seef is a sadist scrot and that I have three boyfriends. But I can’t help softening, my head almost tilting back in welcome.

Fortunately, Seef doesn’t seem to notice. He tells me that I need to drop my chin and bury it in his elbow, to prevent the blood supply to the brain from being cut off, and then bring both hands up to press on his elbow joint, forcing it inwards against my body. I then have to turn on the ball of my right foot, pivoting and spinning outwards while kicking off with my left. All the while, I need to keep my chin down and the pressure on his elbow. It’s tough work, and he makes me practice again and again. I feel so small next to him, and I’m not convinced I could really get free if someone of his size and skill came after me. But I’m scrappy, and Seef – miracle of miracles – tells me that I’m doing well. Did I accidentally hit him in the head when I wasn’t looking?

We finish off with the 360 defense. Once again, he circles, looking for an opening, and once again, I pivot, trying to learn his “tells”. I like this exercise: it involves brain and body both, and I’m trying to figure out if there’s a way I can take him by surprise when he calls out, “You look like you’ve got a monkey up your sleeve.”

That throws me:quoi?First monkeys, then lions’ balls, and now monkeys again. What next? A giraffe’s prostate? I pause, hands on hips, cocking my head and widening my eyes at him earnestly. “Have you considered putting together a dictionary? Seriously. Maybe even a phrase book? Just so that we can communicate effectively, being on the same team and all. Merely a suggestion.”

To my surprise, he grins at me, a big, heart-stopping smile that transforms his face, making him look light-hearted and boyish.This, I think,thisis who Seef really is, or could be, or could have been, before life happened. “Where would be the fun in that? OK, Driscoll,en garde!” He rushes me, and I am taken offgardeand end up flat on my back on the mat.

“Someday,” I tell him solemnly, “someday I will takeyouto the mat.”

“I look forward to it.” He gives me a hand up, and I take it with a smallfrissonas my mind helpfully flashes a picture of just how I’d like to take him down, straddling those rock-hard thighs, hands pressed on that gorgeous expanse of muscled chest. My face must betray a little of what I’m thinking, because a quizzical look flashes in those aquamarine eyes. Hastily, I squeak, “Shower!” and rush off to the changing rooms.

I’m expecting him to be gone by the time I come back out, but he’s staring down at his phone, mouth tight and shoulders tense. I feel a physical pang: I miss the playful Seef from a few short minutes ago. Not stopping to think, I blurt out, “Fancy a pint?”

He spins, as if I’ve taken him unawares, and his eyes narrow. “Let’s get something straight, princess. I don’t know what you’ve done to Emlyn: maybe you give good head. And I hear you like to spread it around. But I’m not going to be part of your little harem.”

I feel like I’ve been hit square in the solar plexus. All of the breath abruptly leaves my body, and my eyes widen again, this time in anguish.How could he? Does he really? Does everyone?“Right. Right,” I whisper. I can taste bile in my mouth and quickly walk past him to the door.

Once outside, I take a shaky breath. I’m too shocked for tears, though they’re hovering. I can’t go back home like this. There’s a taproom across the street, Mother Kelly’s, which sounds cheering, and I head there. I’m not a beer drinker, but I’m sure they’ll have wine. I find a table – happily, the place hasn’t started to fill up yet – and sit down, glumly clutching my glass.So that just happened. Seef thinks I’m a manipulative slut. Is that what other people will think when they hear about my relationships? Maybe I should just break everything off before it goes any further. Conform to what society expects. I take a big sip of wine, willing the tears away.

Peter Green comes on over the sound system. “Need someone’s hand to lead me through the night / I need someone’s arms to hold and squeeze me tight / Now, when the night begins, I’m at an end / Because I need your love so bad.”

I don’t look up when Seef sits down heavily opposite me. “I’m sorry, Maela. I’m so very, very sorry.”

I twirl the stem of the glass and say nothing. “I need someone to stand up and tell me when I’m lyin’ / And when the lights are low, and it’s time to go / That’s when I need your love so bad.”

Seef sighs. “I’ve been an asshole from day one, and it’s not your fault.”

Here, I look up briefly. He looks incredibly sad and soul-weary, and my traitorous heart turns over. It physically hurts. Still, I say nothing. What is there to say?

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