‘The hotel staff are at your disposal. If there is anything you want to know you can ask them, or call this number and ask for me.’

‘Am I safe?’ she asked. It was a blunt question.

‘Please do not worry,’ Alve answered. ‘We do not harass the members of the international community who have chosen to make Stockholm their home, and they do not harass us or our guests.’

With a reassuring nod, he withdrew, leaving Valera to decide what to do. She wasn’t used to having options, and for a moment she stood in the middle of the room, paralysed by the possibilities. Then she went to the window and looked out at the city. To her right she could see a grey tangle of roads and walkways that linked Gamla Stan to its southern neighbour, Södermalm, and above them a row of tall buildings clinging to the side of a hill. In front of her was another small island and, beyond it, another much larger one covered only in trees. She decided that was where she wanted to go.

Valera picked up the money and the slip of paper, and a minute later she was on the street, looking out over the water at Djurgården, the tree-covered island she’d seen from her hotel room window. She turned north and walked past the imposing stone and stucco facade of the Royal Palace towards the bridge that would take her to the island. Valera couldn’t make herself completely believe what Alve had said. She’d lived too long under constant, watchful eyes to suddenly imagine them not there. But she told herself she hadn’t come this far to hide, and that if anyone was paying attention to her, then the Swedish security service would be doing the same to them.

Chapter 37

Chapter 37

Knox should have spent the two-hour flight from London to Stockholm deciding if he believed Bennett really was who she said she was. He knew the CIA had a handful of female agents in the field, but for one to show up in London without any word making its way to Leconfield House via the inter-agency grapevine was very odd.

However, two more immediate issues stopped him from focusing his attention on the woman sitting next to him. The first was that he was not a very good flyer, especially when hungover. For too many of Knox’s formative years planes had been omens of death, their presence a sign to run, hide, and hope for the best. And once he’d signed up to the army, he never felt more vulnerable than when he was airborne. While other soldiers would relish the momentary reprieve from action, Knox spent every minute in the air on edge, knowing all it would take was one well-aimed rocket or engine malfunction to kill him instantly or send him falling thousands of feet to his death.