Page 41 of Born To Be Bad

“I can do that,” he says, more confident now. Blackwood’s death has sent him reeling, but he knows he can prove his identity. “I know everything about you. About your family. Blackwood’s been feeding me your intel for years to give me the solid background knowledge I’ll need to take his place.” He pauses. “I just didn’t know it would happen so soon.”

“Go ahead, then,” I say. I’m looking for something the Russians couldn’t possibly know.

“Isobel Ravenscroft had a surgery last year that she kept secret from the family. You can phone the surgeon at Mount Assisi to confirm. She listed Blackwood as the next of kin. She told you she was in Bolzano with her book club, even paid for the hotel in case someone checked, so you can call them to confirm, too. Il Battente. April sixth to the eleventh, 2023. It was a good choice location-wise because she had been there before, in 2018, and would be able to answer questions about the place. Her favorite local dish was canederli, dumplings in a clear broth. The region is also known for its wine, particularly Lagrein and Santa Maddalena. When?—”

I cut him off. “That’ll do for now.” He certainly retains details, which I like.

“Right,” he says, back to being nervous.

Lucky interrupts. “The Ravens. We got them out of the house.”

I nod my acknowledgment and thanks.

Back to Max Brodie. “Tell me what happened with Blackwood.”

“I still don’t know. Vilmos was with us, on the team.”

“Who?”

“He’s an op Blackwood uses … or, used to use. Good at getting into places. He went in and never came out.”

“Went in where?”

“Serebryanaya Bereza Dvoretz. A private palace chapel that aristocrats hire for opulent weddings and baptisms.”

“And funerals,” I say.

“Yes,” Brodie replies. “Blackwood was certain something was amiss with Kuznetsov. That’s why he sent Vilmos in.”

“And Vilmos never came out.”

“So Blackwood went in. I asked him not to, but he felt responsible.”

“For Vilmos?”

“For Vilmos. For the danger he put you and your family in by missing the Ivanov baby. His intel had never compromised a mission before.”

Christ. No one’s perfect, Blackwood. You of all people should have known that. What a fucking waste of an exemplary human.

“Then he had this hunch that he just had to act on,” continues Brodie. “I think he considered it as his redemption. To set things right, he said. It wasn’t something I could talk him out of.”

I swallow the sudden thickness in my throat. Blackwood had been a brilliant and loyal friend of the family for decades. “How did you find his body?” I ask.

“So … all the catering trucks arrive—that’s how Vilmos got in—all the floral arrangements. The svyashchennik arrives in full regalia.”

“You speak Russian,” I say.

“A smattering,” he replies. “Enough to get by. I make a point of learning the basics before we go anywhere. The Bolzano dialect was an interesting one?—”

“Brodie,” I stop him. I understand now that I’m dealing with some kind of boy genius, the way he can just “learn the basics” of any language—like what an orthodox priest is called in Moscow—and reel off insignificant details from five years ago. I like the kid.

“Yes, sorry.” He takes a breath. “So food, flowers, incense, coffins—all four of them— arrive, but the people don’t.”

“Which people?”

“Any people, apart from the staff. Not one attendee when the clock rolls around to starting time. Not even the baron.”

“So it’s his wife and three grown children’s funeral, and he doesn’t pitch up.”

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