Morosov had changed his rental car. On his return from Washington, he’d swapped the Hyundai sedan for a Chevy Silverado pickup, something totally different from his previous vehicle. And more in tune, he thought, with the city’s distinctly blue-collar vibe. Pittsburgh’s tightly spaced housing, clinging limpet-like to every hillside, was clearly designed for industrial workers, even if the industry itself was long gone. Morosov had no idea what that industry had been, nor did he very much care. But having been moving around the city since Sunday, he had little doubt a pickup would fit right in. Within minutes of taking possession of his new vehicle, he’d driven it onto a derelict patch of land, the fat wheels churning up mud and patches of snow until the sides of the Silverado were covered in pale brown dirt. This time, when he returned to Parkside Hill, he was determined to blend in. The mongrel bastard wasn’t going to pick him up a second time.
He’d pulled into Parkside Hill around two a.m. and found a decent place to park with a good view of the negr’s apartment. Then he’d set the alarm on his phone for five in the morning and sunk into a deep, exhausted sleep. When the alarm had gone off seemingly moments later, Morosov had cursed the target’s annoying habit of getting up early, rubbed at his tired eyes, and waited.
Now, sure enough, the door to the target’s apartment building was swinging open. Petrov was standing at the top of the steep steps that led down to the sidewalk, dressed in running gear. He looked as trim and fit as ever. Morosov, conscious that he was getting soft around the edges, felt a stab of envy. No matter. The prick would be a hell of a lot less fit after he got home.
Petrov headed downhill at an easy pace, disappearing around a bend in the street within a few seconds. Morosov waited a couple of minutes and then got out of his truck. Crossing the street in long, purposeful strides, he trotted up the steps to the front door of the apartment building. Peering at the front lock, he pulled what looked like an electric toothbrush out of his pocket. To be fair, it was an electric toothbrush. Morosov had just modified it a little. He pulled off the brush head to reveal a thin sliver of metal that looked like, and operated as, the business end of an electric lockpick. Using his right hand, he inserted the makeshift pick into the top of the lock. Then, with the other, he pushed a small, L-shaped piece of metal taken from a hairgrip into the bottom. The noise from the toothbrush’s electric motor sang far too loud in his ears, but it was only for a few seconds. The L-shaped piece of metal turned in his hand.
The front door to the apartment building swung open.
Morosov climbed the rickety, creaking stairs, looking for the right apartment number. By the time he got there he was out of breath – and angry at Petrov for choosing to live at the very top of the building. Oddly, there was a set of free weights neatly stacked on the landing outside the apartment door. Undoubtedly the target’s, vain asshole that he was. He thought about smearing the novichok on either the weights or the apartment’s door handle but rejected the idea. There was no telling when the weights would be used again. If his handlers extracted him before then, he might never use them, or some American operative might pick them up for the move to a new safe house. And other people would doubtless open the apartment door, not just the target. Killing the monkey was one thing. Sickening an American agent, or the local politsiya, or some emergency worker, was something else entirely. He needed to place the novichok somewhere that was absolutely guaranteed to be fatal, but that no one else would think to touch.
He made short work of the apartment door and found himself in a living room, unsurprised at the contrast between the upscale décor and the rest of the building. He’d always had airs and graces, this one. As if that would ever change what he was. An ape in Pushkin’s clothing.
He glanced through an open door into the spotless kitchen, its every surface polished to gleaming. He could see part of a straight-backed dining chair, its wooden legs dark and rich and expensive.
There’d be no termites in that thing. Anyplace the monkey bought furniture would be too upscale for that.
Suddenly, he wasn’t seeing the apartment. There was a lightbulb swinging from a corrugated-iron roof, Polukhin’s dropped jaw, a chair leg slamming into his temple. He remembered his knees giving way, the dirt floor flying up to meet him.
Fucking baboon. Now, he was going to pay.
Reaching into his coat pocket, Morosov fished out a face mask and a pair of latex gloves. Pulling them on with an efficient snap of rubber, he found his way into the negr’s bathroom. Every surface gleamed, like an operating theater. And sure enough, to one side of the sink, there was a spotless electric toothbrush. Morosov grinned at the irony. It was the same make as his lockpick.
He pulled out the small bottle of novichok disguised as contact lens solution; held his breath; carefully unscrewed the cap with latex-gloved hands; squeezed a handful of drops onto the brush head and a few more onto the handle. Finally satisfied, he screwed the cap back on and stepped out of the bathroom.
‘For Pavel,’ he murmured.
The monkey was as good as dead.
Careful not to touch those parts of the gloves that had been in contact with the novichok, Morosov peeled them off and dropped them into a plastic shopping bag emblazoned with the words ‘Giant Eagle’. The face mask followed, together with the novichok itself. Morosov made sure the top of the bag was tied tightly before heading out. He would dispose of everything safely. Not like those GRU fuck-ups in England, who’d fled for home leaving behind apocalyptic levels of poison. And in dangerously deceptive packaging, too. What did they think would happen? That the first Englishwoman to come across an abandoned bottle of perfume wouldn’t use it? The resultant death had been horrible, and public, and unnecessary. Even worse, the actual fucking target had survived. The entire op botched from backside to tits, the whole of Russian intelligence made to look like a bunch of brain-dead kulaks.
Not this time. Petrov – and only Petrov – would die. Mikhail Sergeevich Morosov would have his revenge – and be $500,000 richer into the bargain.
Smiling broadly, he opened the apartment door and headed out.
For a moment, he thought he was back in Djibouti. There was the same bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, there was the monkey, angry and fearful, swinging hard at his head. But there was no Polukhin this time, no dirt floor, and no chair leg. The monkey was swinging a dumbbell. It was the last thought he had before the cold metal connected with his temple.