Angel and the Assassin 3: Sins of the Father

to
    yourself when you were eight. Do you remember?”
    He did. He had bought a book of Russian phrases at the supermarket checkout,
    and by the next day, he was speaking simple sentences to his mum, making her laugh.
    “It seemed to come naturally to me, didn’t it?”
    He found the Sky News home page. The headline, MURDERED MAN’S DNA
    FOUND ON DEAD PROSTITUTES, jumped out. He clicked on the video and put the
    sound up.
    “ The man found murdered in a back alley in Bermondsey last week has been associated
    with the killings of five prostitutes. His DNA was found on all five women, who were killed over
    the last eighteen months in the Southwark area ,” the newscaster read. “ Ben Cranmore, a well-
    known architect, was found with his throat cut in an area frequented by those looking for sex for
    hire. A source close to the family says Cranmore’s wife is devastated .”
    That wasn’t what Conran had said. But there was a strange poetic justice in this
    world sometimes. A perfect balance of good and evil.
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    “I heard about that this morning,” Sharon said. “He got what he deserved, killing
    those poor working girls. It might have been one of the other prostitutes what killed
    him.”
    “Hard to feel sorry for him, isn’t it?” Kael said.
    “I don’t.” Sharon scattered salt and pepper liberally on her food. “People like him
    are all respectable on the outside, and inside they’re rotten to the core.”
    “Like the man who fathered me,” Kael said quietly, looking into his mother’s eyes.
    Reaching across the table, she took Kael’s hand. “He was a bad bastard, no
    question. But look how you turned out. You’re such a good son to me, and you look
    after Angel like he’s your son. You’re nothing like your father. Nothing at all.”
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    Chapter Fifteen
    “Where’s my boy?” Kael said into the mobile he had bought at a shop in Moscow
    just minutes before. It had been surprisingly easy to get Romodanovsky on the phone.
    The man had clearly been expecting him and waiting for contact.
    “He is perfectly safe. I wouldn’t harm him.”
    “I’d kill you if you did. There’s absolutely nowhere in the world you could hide
    from me if you did anything to harm Angel.”
    “You love him.” Romodanovsky’s tone was a combination of teasing and
    admiration.
    The time for playing games was over. “Yes. I love him.”
    “I know which flight you came on.” Kael could actually hear a smile in the man’s
    voice. “I have excellent intelligence about you. Remain where you are. A car will be
    there shortly to bring you to my house on the Moskva River.”
    Kael hung up and watched the busy Moscow street, loud with the noise of traffic
    and pedestrians. Knowing it would be colder in Moscow than England ever got in
    winter, he had worn a black, knee-length wool coat over his usual black clothes. At
    Domodedovo Airport, he had checked the outdoor temperature—minus nineteen
    Celsius—and had bought a fur ushanka to cover his bald head.
    Looking as Russian as any other man on the street and speaking the language
    without an accent, he blended in perfectly as he waited for the car. Moments later a
    sleek black Bentley pulled up. Glancing quickly into the back, Kael decided to sit in the
    front seat. The uniformed driver paused in surprise before saying, “Welcome to Russia,
    Mr. Saunders.” The driver spoke in heavily accented English.
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    “Just take me to Romodanovsky,” Kael replied in Russian and then sat in silence
    for the nearly two-hour journey to the Romodanovsky dacha. The winter white
    landscape rushed past, the bare branches of the trees black against the white sky as they
    left Moscow. The countryside was beautiful, with long stretches of wide-open land, the
    sun gleaming on the snow, and then miles and miles of dense forest, the trees overhead
    shutting out the light to the road.
    Sunlight on snow would be very painful to Angel’s light-sensitive eyes, and Kael
    hoped his boy had his Irlen lenses with him.
    The property, when they approached it, had no gates and no fencing, but
    everywhere he looked, Kael saw security cameras and guards with dogs. They were
    stopped twice on the long road up to the house.
    The dacha was as big and rich as an English country house and set in extensive
    grounds, with the Moskva River running through the property. Outside on the