The second target was Dragan Horvat, a Balkan politician who ran a human trafficking network. His mistake had been to take his work home with him, in the form of a pretty, heroin-addicted seventeen-year-old from Tblisi. Unaccountably, he had fallen in love with her, and taken to flying her on expensive shopping sprees in European capital cities. London was the couple’s favourite weekend destination, and when Villanelle bumped into him in a Bayswater side street late one evening Horvat smiled indulgently. He didn’t immediately feel the stab wound to the inner thigh that severed his femoral artery, and as he bled to death on the pavement his Georgian girlfriend watched him with spaced-out eyes, absently twisting the gold bracelet that he’d bought her that afternoon in Knightsbridge.
In between kills Villanelle lived in the Paris apartment. She explored the city, sampled the pleasures it had to offer, and enjoyed a succession of lovers. These affairs always took the same course: a heady pursuit, a devouring couple of days and nights, the abrupt termination of all contact. She simply vanished from their lives, as swiftly and as mystifyingly as she had entered them.
She ran in the Bois de Boulogne every morning, attended a ju-jitsu dojo in Montparnasse, and practised her marksmanship at an elite shooting club in Saint-Cloud. Meanwhile, unseen hands paid her rent and managed her trading activities, whose proceeds were paid into a current account at the Société Générale. “Spend what you like,” Konstantin told her. “But stay under the radar. Live comfortably but not excessively. Don’t leave a trail.”
And she didn’t. She made no surface ripple. Became part of that monochrome army of professionals who hurried from place to place, their solitude stamped into their gazes. What authority imposed the sentences of death that she executed, she didn’t know. She didn’t ask Konstantin, because she was certain that he wouldn’t tell her, and in truth, she didn’t really care. What mattered to Villanelle was that she had been chosen. Chosen as the instrument of an all-powerful organisation which had understood, just as she herself had always understood, that she was different. They had recognised her talent, sought her out, and taken her from the lowest place in the world to the highest, where she belonged. A predator, an instrument of evolution, one of that elite to whom no moral law applied. Inside her, this knowledge bloomed like a great dark rose, filling every cavity of her being.
Slowly, the auditorium of the Teatro Massimo begins to fill. Sitting back in her seat, Villanelle studies the programme, her face shadowed by the partition between her box and the next. The performance time arrives and the house lights dim, the audience hubbub fading to silence. As the conductor takes his bow, to warm applause, Villanelle hears a figure quietly take his place in the adjoining box. She doesn’t turn, and as the curtain rises on the first act, leans forward to gaze with rapt attention at the stage.
Minute succeeds minute; time is slowed to a crawl. Puccini’s music engulfs Villanelle, but does not touch her. Her consciousness is focused, in its entirety, on the unseen person to her left. She forces herself not to look, but senses his presence like a pulse, malign and infinitely dangerous. At moments, she feels a coldness at the nape of her neck, and knows that he is watching her. Finally the strains of the Te Deum die away, the first act ends, and the crimson and gold curtain falls.
As the house lights come up for the interval, and conversation swells in the auditorium, Villanelle sits motionless as if hypnotised by the opera. Then, without a sideways glance, she stands and leaves the box, noting with her peripheral vision the presence of two bodyguards who are lounging, bored but watchful, at the end of the corridor.
Moving unhurriedly into the vestibule, she makes her way to the bar and orders a glass of mineral water, which she holds but doesn’t drink. At the far end of the room, she sees Leoluca Messina moving towards her. Pretending she hasn’t seen him, she turns into the crowd, re-emerging near the entrance to the foyer. Outside, on the opera house steps, the heat of the day has not yet abated. The sky is rose-pink over the sea, a livid purple overhead. Half-a-dozen young men passing Villanelle whistle and make appreciative comments in the local dialect.
She returns and takes her place in her box moments before the curtain rises on the second act. Once again she makes a point of not glancing to her left at Greco; instead, she gazes fixedly at the stage as the opera unfolds. The story is a dramatic one. Tosca, a singer, is in love with the painter Cavaradossi, who has been falsely accused of aiding the escape of a political prisoner. Arrested by Scarpia, the chief of police, Cavaradossi is condemned to die. Scarpia, however, proposes a deaclass="underline" if Tosca gives herself to him, Cavaradossi will be released. Tosca agrees, but when Scarpia approaches her, she seizes a knife and kills him.
The curtain falls. And this time, when Villanelle has finished applauding, she turns to Greco and smiles, as if seeing him for the first time. It is not long before there is a knock at the door of the box. It is one of the bodyguards, a heavyset man who enquires, not discourteously, if she would care to join Don Salvatore for a glass of wine. Villanelle hesitates for a moment and then politely nods her acceptance. As she steps into the corridor the second bodyguard looks her up and down. She has left her bag in the box, her hands are empty, and the Valentino dress clings to her lean, athletic form. The two men glance knowingly at each other. It is clear that they have delivered many women to their boss. The heavyset man gestures to the door of Greco’s box. “Per favore, Signorina…”
He stands as she enters. A man of medium height in an expensively cut linen suit. A lethal stillness about him, and a smile that doesn’t begin to reach his eyes. “Excuse my presumption,” he says. “But I couldn’t help observing your appreciation of the performance. As a fellow opera lover I was wondering if I might offer you a glass of frappato? It comes from one of my vineyards, so I can vouch for its quality.”
She thanks him. Takes an exploratory sip of the cold wine. Introduces herself as Sylviane Morel.
“And I am Salvatore Greco.” There is a questioning note in his voice but her gaze does not flicker. It is clear to him that she has no idea who he is. She compliments him on the wine and tells him that it is her first visit to the Teatro Massimo.
“So what do you think of Farfaglia?”
“Superb. A fine actress and a great soprano.”
“I’m glad you like her. I was fortunate enough to assist, in a small way, with her training.”
“How wonderful to see your belief in her confirmed.”
“Il bacio di Tosca.”
“Excuse me?”
“Questo è il bacio di Tosca. ‘This is Tosca’s kiss!’ Her words when she stabs Scarpia.”
“Of course! I’m sorry, my Italian…”
“Is most accomplished, Signorina Morel.” Again, that icy half-smile.
She inclines her head in denial. “I don’t think so, Signor Greco.” Part of her is conducting the conversation, part of her is calculating ways and means, timing, evasion routes, exfiltration. She is face to face with her target, but she is alone. And this, as Konstantin has so often made clear, is how it will always be. No one else can be involved except in the most peripheral, disconnected way. There can be no backup, no staged diversion, no official help. If she’s taken, it’s the end. There will be no discreet official leading her from the cell, no waiting vehicle to speed her to the airport.
They talk. For Villanelle, language is fluid. Most of the time she thinks in French, but every so often she awakes and knows that she’s been dreaming in Russian. At times, close to sleep, the blood roars in her ears, an unstoppable tide shot through with polyglot screams. On such occasions, alone in the Paris apartment, she anaesthetises herself with hours of web-surfing, usually in English. And now, she notes, she is mentally playing out scenarios in Sicilian-inflected Italian. She hasn’t sought out the language, but her head echoes with it. Is there any part of her that is still Oxana Vorontsova? Does she still exist, that little girl who lay night after night in urine-sodden sheets at the orphanage, planning her revenge? Or was there only ever Villanelle, evolution’s chosen instrument?