Morosov jumped out of the rumbling black cab, ran across the pavement, and took the steps up to 22A Brooklands Street two at a time. He had spent too long at the Dorchester Hotel, wasting time with a Chinese princeling too stupid to understand that he needed Morosov’s services. Some of the shorter West End shows had been getting out, adding a snarl to the night-time traffic that Morosov could have done without. Now he was running late. His tardiness did not stop a small moment of pride as he caught sight of the elegant brass plate beside the door: Rowley Consultants. Very English, he liked to think. Very anonymous. But all his. His days of slaving away for the fucking government were over. If they needed him, they could pay him what he was worth.
He headed up the stairs to the first floor, where he let himself in to the compact space he rented as an office. In one corner was a tiny cubby hole, as secure from outside interference as Morosov could make it. Slightly out of breath, he squeezed inside and parked himself in front of a computer. Practiced hands fired up a TOR search engine and plunged him into the dark web. There was a single message waiting. Reproachful Cyrillic characters glowed up at him through the gloom.
TORquil: Where are you? I will sign off at 10 past the hour and you will need to make new arrangements.
Morosov breathed a sigh of relief. He still had time. He switched his keyboard from Roman to Cyrillic and typed back:
Aslan230: I am here.
There was only the briefest of pauses.
TORquil: About time. What do you want?
Aslan230: Have you heard from Dialogos?
It was a full ninety seconds before the response came through.
TORquil: No.
Aslan230: Do I need to remind you that, unlike Dialogos, I know who you are? Don’t make me come find you.
TORquil: Fuck you, Aslan. It’s the truth.
Aslan230: OK, then. I paid you good money to tell me if and when he gets in touch. I expect value for it.
TORquil: And what value are you expecting? You know as well as I that Dialogos is dead.
Aslan230: I like you, TORquil. I prefer business to more painful measures. Another $5,000 (bitcoin, of course) to remind you of my goodwill.
TORquil: Money is always welcome. But you are throwing it away. He’s dead.
Aslan230: It is mine to throw and yours to catch. If Dialogos gets in touch with you, you tell me, and you tell me what he wants. You do that, you get another $5,000.
TORquil: That’s all?
Aslan230: That’s all.
TORquil: Then goodnight. It is not my job to destroy your illusions.
TORquil vanished from the chatroom. Morosov sighed and leaned back in his chair. The sodium glare of streetlights flooded through the window. He could picture TORquil, in his grungy Crimean apartment, raising an ironic glass of Stoli in his honor. And perhaps he was right to do so. He had been waiting for the bastard monkey to surface for three years without any sign. But the Paki’s information had given him fresh hope.
He rubbed at a small scar on his left temple.
The negr, murderer that he was, would pay for what he did.