Leo gripped hold of one of the biographies on the table. As Yates moved within range he swung it, striking him across the jaw, knocking the former agent to the floor. Moving at speed, he took the gun from his pocket, kneeling on his chest, pinning him down and saying in Russian:

—I’ve done worse things than kill a man like you.

Leo looked up at a terrified Nara, saying in Dari:

—Translate for me.

—Leo!

—Translate!

He turned back to face Yates.

—My wife didn’t die instantly. It took twenty minutes. She died from loss of blood. Maybe Anna Austin did shoot her by mistake but you let her die, didn’t you? Maybe you were worried Raisa would tell the world Anna Austin tried to shoot you? My wife was lying on the floor, desperate for help – you saw an opportunity, didn’t you?

Leo struck Yates across the face with the gun, splitting his lip.

—Answer me!

Yates spat blood, listening to Nara as she translated. He was calm, saying:

—No matter what you do to me your wife will always be remembered as a whore.

Hearing the translation, Leo cocked the gun, saying in English:

—Tell me how she died.

Yates didn’t answer. Leo moved the gun to the exact position where Raisa had been shot, the barrel pressing against Yates’s stomach.

—Tell me.

Yates shook his head. Leo pulled the trigger.

Same Day

Nara dropped to floor beside Yates, moving to help. Leo stopped her, saying:

—He’s been shot in the same place as my wife was shot. It took her twenty minutes to die. Tell him that he might have that long. But he’s older and the bullet was fired at point-blank range. In all likelihood, he has less time.

Nara translated, stumbling over the words. Leo continued, calmly:

—In this soundproofed room no one will have heard the shot. The only way he’s going to survive is if I show him the mercy he failed to show my wife. I’ll consider doing that if he tells me the truth.

Nara translated, pleading with Yates to speak. Leo directed his Russian at Yates as though he could understand.

—When Anna Austin fired at you, you fired back, not another officer. You shot and killed her, didn’t you? And once she was dead you realized the trouble you were suddenly in. You’d visited Jesse Austin that same day. He was dead. And now you’d shot his wife. You saw my injured wife as an opportunity: she was injured, seriously, but she wasn’t going to die, not if you’d sought help. The cover-up wasn’t your superior’s idea. It was your idea. But in order for your plan to work my wife needed to die. Isn’t that right?