Authors: J.F. Kirwan
66 Metres
The only thing worth killing for is family.
Everyone said she had her father's eyes. A killer's eyes. Nadia knew that on the bitterly cold streets of Moscow, she could never escape her past â but in just a few days, she would finally be free.
Bound to work for Kadinsky for five years, she has one last mission to complete. Yet when she is instructed to capture The Rose, a military weapon shrouded in secrecy, Nadia finds herself trapped in a deadly game of global espionage.
And the only man she can trust is the one sent to spy on herâ¦
The gripping first novel in a thrilling new series from J. F. Kirwan. Perfect for fans of Charles Cumming, Mark Dawson and Adam Brookes.
66 Metres
J. F. Kirwan
J.F. KIRWAN
In his day job, J. F. Kirwan travels worldwide, working on aviation safety. He lives in Paris, where he first joined a fiction class â and became hooked! So when a back injury stopped him scuba diving for two years, he wrote a thriller about a young Russian woman, Nadia, where a lot of the action occurred in dangerously deep waters. It was the only way he could carry on diving! But as the story and characters grew, he realised it was not one book, but three⦠J. F. Kirwan would love to hear from readers, you can follow him on Twitter at:
@kirwanjf
.
Contents
Thanks to my writer colleagues â Chris, Dimitri, Marie, Gwyneth and Mary Ellen â and to my pre-readers, Beatrice, Andy, Ruth and Simon, as well as to author reviewers Eve Seymour, Laura Wilkinson, Dionne McCulloch and Dave Poyer, and a very special thanks to my editor at Harper Collins, Charlotte, for helping me raise my game. Thanks also to my former diving buddies at the Birmingham University Diving Club and the Halden Diving Club, and anyone else I've had the pleasure of diving with on this blue planet, from Stoney Cove to Sipadan.
For my father, who loved thrillers.
The only thing worth killing for is family.
Her father's words to her, the day they'd come for him.
She'd been fourteen when two men in combat fatigues and balaclavas burst into the kitchen where she and her father were enjoying breakfast. The armed commandos hadn't seen his pistol lying beneath a folded newspaper. While her father struggled with the men, his eyes flicked between her and the weapon. She could have darted for it, threatened them, helped him. But she hesitated. The moment slipped past. They threw a black hood over his head, cuffed him, and dragged him away to be interrogated, tortured, executed and buried in the woods. A single thought haunted her ever since.
Had he known they would come?
***
Four years later, Nadia picked up his Beretta, its dark metal cool in her hands. She checked and re-loaded the magazine. She walked to the window, took one last look at the wild garden where her father had taught her to shoot, and the gravel path leading through the pine forest to the banks of the Volga. There, she'd learned first to swim, then to dive. Turning away, she stashed the pistol in her backpack and crept downstairs, hoping to escape unseen.
But her mother was waiting for her on the doorstep, arms folded. âYou'll end up a killer just like him, Nadia. Or a whore, like your sister.'
Nadia pushed by without replying. She passed through the creaking gate that had so often announced her father's return, and breathed easier after the turn of the road. She waited an hour for the bus, partly hoping â but mainly dreading â that her mother would come running around the corner begging her to return.
Fifty miles from Moscow, where her sister Katya lived, everyone had to get off the bus at a security checkpoint to show
papiren
. Nadia left her backpack under the seat. When she reached the front of the line, a young soldier flicked noisily through her passport, then glanced up, surprise lighting his smile.
âHappy birthday,' he said. âEighteen. A special day.'
***
Nadia moved into a grotty studio flat in Old Arbat, where each night she fell asleep exhausted from working in the local bakery from four a.m. until three p.m., then at a supermarket until nine at night. She kept her hair cropped, dressed for comfort, and was often mistaken at first sight for a young man, which was fine with her. She liked boys well enough, but hated the unsubtle flirting, the vodka-fuelled race to unconsciousness, the lies. She'd loved her father, but he'd been one of the worst with women, and she'd seen the damage it had done to her mother.
She didn't get enough time with Katya, but on Wednesdays they'd go to the Sevastopol Hotel, the rock-bottom market. They'd start on the sixteenth floor and work their way down, Katya usually buying her little sister Chinese or Afghan trinkets to brighten her dingy flat, seeing who could negotiate the hardest, laughing about it afterwards over ice cream. And every Sunday afternoon they'd head to Gorky Park, taking turns to push each other on the swings just like when they were younger, and ice skating as winter approached, always hand in hand. Sometimes they talked about their parents, but only back in the past, during those good, early years. But when they'd hug, Nadia remembered how they used to hold each other in bed during their parents' screaming matches downstairs.
Katya never invited Nadia to her place, never spoke about what she did with the rest of her time. Nadia didn't want to probe, didn't want to break the spell. Besides, she wasn't sure she wanted to know.
Then the ever-gorgeous Katya invited her dark-haired kid sister to a party at a luxurious country dacha owned by a wealthy businessman, Kadinsky. Nadia was never formally introduced, though Katya clearly knew him very well. Nadia was mesmerised by the women with perfect skin in glittering, low-cut dresses, the handsome and not-so-handsome men, their jewellery and fancy cars and easy talk of big deals. Viktor, a man twice her age, who turned out to be someone in government, seduced her. He wasn't bad-looking, took his time in bed, and left cash for her breakfast in the mornings.
She let things coast for six months, no demands or promises on either side. She presumed he was married. She never asked, and he never said. She gave up the early morning bakery job, and thought about getting a cat.
Then one day Viktor was on the news, handcuffed, being forced into a police van. She leapt off the sofa and began packing a bag, but within minutes a loud rapping sounded on the door. The Beretta was on the table, fully loaded. She hid it under a loose floorboard, then opened the door.
Receiving misappropriated funds
. That's what they told her at the station, though she was never formally charged, never saw a lawyer. Once inside Lubyanka prison, Nadia was informed
she'd be their guest for twelve years, ten if she behaved. On the anniversary of her father's death, she gazed through the prison bars, studied the sad faces staring back at her from the ugly block opposite. She turned away, took in the inside of her cell. The double bunk with rancid sheets under which she shivered each night, curled up in the foetal position. The iron toilet that stank of her own piss and shit â they wouldn't give her the bucket of water to flush it until lunchtime. The cold grey bars, faded whitewashed brick walls, not even graffiti to lighten her mood. And the lone hook in the ceiling that her former cellmate had used to end everything while Nadia had been out in the exercise yard. The fourth suicide since her arrival.
Ten years? She wouldn't make it.
Shouting erupted down the corridor. Wolf-whistles, tin mugs clanging against cell bars, lascivious remarks from several lesbian inmates, one of whom already had her eye on Nadia. And then a gruff man's voice, more like a growl. Silence. Nadia stared at the bars. It couldn't be anyone for her. No one had visited her since her incarceration. But she listened. A man's shoes, heavy, impatient, and high heels clacking behind, almost running to keep up. Nadia smelled her sister's perfume, and took a step forward as the footsteps approached. But Katya wasn't alone. Nadia took a step back.
Kadinsky.
Since being locked away, she'd heard on the grapevine that he was a gangster, not a businessman, and now she saw him close up for the first time, he fit the bill. He had a gleaming bald head, like he actually polished it every morning, and was fat without being flabby, as if his weight was there to throw around, to crush you if necessary. He wore an expensive, baggy beige suit, and gold jewellery dripped from his wrists and neck. Katya stood behind him in a skimpy red dress and high heels, tousled hair falling behind her shoulders, her large eyes hopeful and scared at the same time. There was no guard with them. Kadinsky held a ring of keys in his hand. He selected one that looked indistinguishable from the twenty others dangling from the ring, shoved it into the slot, turned it with a resounding clank, and stepped inside.
Nadia wanted to hug her sister, but Kadinsky stood between them. He turned his head to the side, not enough to see Katya, but just enough so she'd know he was talking to her.
âOne word, and I walk. Turn around. Give the other inmates a treat.'
Katya gave one last look at her sister, then dutifully turned around and faced the bars. There was silence outside. Everyone was listening. Especially Nadia.
Kadinsky glanced at his gold Rolex, as if bored, somewhere else he'd rather be. Anywhere. He glanced at Nadia, then folded his chubby arms, stretching the fabric of his suit.
âI'll ask you a single question, girl. You have three chances to give the right answer. If you do, you come with us. If not, you stay, and see your sister in twelve years.' He glanced at the toilet bowl, grimaced, pulled out a silk handkerchief, blew his nose noisily, then stuffed it back into his pocket. âAnd be quick.'
Nadia tensed, stood almost to attention, and waited for the question.
âWhat did you do wrong?'
Nadia's reply was too fast, a prison reflex, what everyone here said when they first met someone new in the canteen or the yard.
âNothing,' she said.
âWrong answer,' he said. âSecond try.'
Of course it was the wrong bloody answer. He was a gangster, so in his mind everyone had done something wrong. She stared at the keys in his hands. The door was open. Soon, one way or another, it would be locked shut.
Think!
Maybe just the factsâ¦
âI met Viktor Romanovich at your dacha. We had an affair. It lasted six months. One day I saw him on TV, being taken away, arrested on corruption charges. While I was packing, they came for me, threw me in here.'
But what had she done wrong?
She'd just enjoyed the ride, a little life, a little luxury, someone who'd looked after her. She pictured Viktor. A man twice her age. Old enough to be⦠She shuddered. âI should have found out what he was up to, asked where the money came from.'
Kadinsky made half-fists, turned them palm upwards, and studied the fingernails of one hand, then the other. He stared at her like she was a waste of skin. âOne last try. What did you do wrong?'
Nadia looked at her sister's outline; she was trembling. What had she done wrong? She didn't know. Been born, maybe? So, she'd stay here, die here. Could she do that to Katya? If her father hadn't got messed up in God-knew-what, if he'd still been around, things would have been different. What had
he
done wrong? She never knew. But then she realised what it was she'd done wrong, both times. She'd not picked up the gun for her father, that fateful day. And when they'd come for her, his Beretta â the only keepsake she had from him â had been right there, on the table.