3

In his formal black morning suit, Julien blended in perfectly with the hundreds of other wedding guests, though he was probably the only one who hadn't been invited.

He'd been told to buy the outfit rather than rent it, because it reduced the chance of a trail leading back to him, so the suit was a good fit.

He'd not bothered with a top hat and was glad about that when he saw no one here wearing one.

His cufflinks weren't gold but looked it, though he was wearing an Omega Speedmaster, which was decidedly showy.

Everyone here had money, some display of wealth was expected.

Sadly, he didn't own the watch.

Julien supposed it was possible he might not be the only interloper.

MI5 could have someone here.

Or MI6.

Both? The activities of wealthy Russians living in the UK were always of interest to the security services, especially the activities of men like Mikhail Ivanovich Morozov.

Friend or foe, depending on who was asking.

Though Julien didn't blame the guy for playing both sides.

Upset the Russian leader and the consequences could easily be fatal, as many had discovered.

The FSB, the Russian security service, had long arms, long memories and infinite deadly resources.

It had been surprisingly easy to gatecrash the wedding.

When you looked the part, carried a professionally-wrapped gift and arrived in an expensive car, though not a helicopter as many seemed to have done, people were easy to fool.

If he'd been asked for his invitation, Julien was ready to give a dramatic groan, along with the name of a guest actually on the list, but it hadn't been necessary.

No one asked.

He left his gift with a pile of others—they'd get an explosion of confetti when they opened it and nothing else—then made his way with the rest of the guests to the private chapel on the Sandridge estate, right next to the modern swimming pool complex.

How that glass monstrosity had received planning permission, he had no idea.

Or maybe he did.

Money in the right hands in the local planning department.

The chapel had been freshly painted and the smell lingered.

The stained-glass windows were impressive for a small church and there was a stunning quantity of flowers, though not enough seats for everyone.

Julien stood at the back with a group of men around his age and younger.

He listened to muttered conversations, noted names and information that might be useful, and memorised faces for the same reason.

The priest blessed the couple three times and gave them each a candle which was supposed to stay alight until the end of the ceremony.

When the groom's cough accidentally blew out the candle the bride was holding, there were gasps of dismay from some of the congregation and titters from others until the priest had made some joke Julien hadn't caught, and smiles returned.

Fortunately, the service was only part Russian Orthodox, so most people were sitting down, and the whole thing only lasted around forty minutes.

Julien had expected a lot longer.

It would have been even shorter had the priest not used the opportunity to lecture about love.

The men around Julien were surreptitiously checking their phones as he droned on in a nasally voice.

When the beaming bride and groom finally walked down the aisle as husband and wife, Julien focussed his attention on the mother of the bride.

Behind the six bridesmaids, youngest to oldest, came Morozov, arm in arm with his wife, Svetlana, who was wearing the item Julien had come to collect.

Shit! He looked away.

He hadn't wanted to have to take the necklace off her neck but it could be done.

Potentially, it might be easier than breaking into the safe in the main bedroom.

Well, he'd soon find out.

Julien left the church as quickly as he could.

All that mattered now was seeking out the right opportunity.

He'd hoped it might come on the short walk back to the hall, but it didn't.

Svetlana didn't stop walking.

When they reached Sandridge, it was time for photographs, which he avoided.

Since photographs were de rigueur and Julien had been aware someone's mobile could accidentally catch his image, he'd allowed his hair to grow longer than usual and styled it differently, gelling it in place with a side parting.

With the addition of black rimmed glasses, he looked as unlike himself as he could manage without overdoing it.

Back in the hall, Julien accepted a glass of champagne and pondered his next move.

The first was not to drink too much, which was a pity because it was a good vintage.

The less time he spent here the better, but he couldn't rush things.

He'd likely only get one chance.

If he messed up, he'd have to rely on Denis, the youngest member of his team, to create enough of a disturbance to allow him to slip away, and although he semi-trusted him, if it came down to it and shit happened, Denis would save himself first.

As would Julien.

Julien remained constantly aware of where Svetlana was in the room.

He accepted canapés that were offered because he didn't particularly want to stick around for the wedding breakfast, though Denis, who was wandering around with a tray of champagne waiting for Julien's signal, would have made sure there was a place at a table for him.

Finally, Julien gave him the sign.

He'd seen what he needed to.

A lift of his glasses from his face and a rub of his eyes before he put the glasses back on, then he slowly made his way around the room until he was behind Svetlana.

Luckily the clasp of the necklace was right where he needed it to be, and not a complicated mechanism.

A succession of people had hugged her and now he needed a woman to do the same, hope that she hugged like a grizzly bear, and no eyes were on him.

Denis would be watching.

The moment the right woman stepped forward and Julien was sure she was going to give a breath-stealing hug, he moved in.

There was a loud crash, courtesy of Denis, and the diamond necklace was in Julien's pocket.

He was back on the other side of the room before the kerfuffle died down. That had been easier than he'd expected.

The waiter Denis had collided with was red-faced and apologising to the guests he'd splashed with champagne. Denis was fussing around with a cloth and making his own apologies.

"I saw what you just did."

Julien tensed. There was a young guy at his side, a few inches shorter than him, with floppy dark hair and big brown eyes. He stared straight at Julien with a half-smile on his face.

"I beg your pardon?"

Julien played up his French accent.

The guy turned and lifted a small cup of borscht from a proffered tray. Julien shook his head and once the waiter had moved on, Julien turned back to trouble, only to see the necklace, which should have been in his pocket, sliding into the borscht. What the fuck?

Even though he knew better, his hand still dropped to feel the outside of his pocket. Not there. To his horror, he watched the soup disappear into the guy's mouth.

There was a shriek from the other side of the room and Julien guessed the loss of the necklace had been discovered. He glanced around because it would have been suspicious not to, but then turned back and grabbed a napkin. "Spit it out."

"I don't spit."

Oh fuck. Julien might have laughed at the indignant tone if he hadn't been so annoyed.

"Don't panic. I haven't swallowed it. I'm not that stupid. It would tear through my digestive track. Meet me at St Alstan's lychgate at ten. I'll hand it back in return for a lift. Deal?"

Julien was speechless. A rare phenomenon.

"Say yes. I can't stand here talking to you for long or I'll be in trouble."

"You're already in fucking trouble,"

Julien muttered under his breath, but wondered why this brat would be in trouble for talking to him.

"If you don't agree, I'll tell Svetlana what you did."

He sounded a touch desperate now, glancing around as if he were looking for someone.

At that precise moment, Julien didn't see that he had much choice but to agree. "Ten o'clock, then."

"There you are!"

A pretty girl in neon pink slid her hand into the pest's.

"Hard to spot me when all the guys are wearing the same thing. We're a waddle of penguins."

"Silly! I'd know you anywhere. Let's go and find me a mojito."

"My favourite drink."

Smart-arse Baby Penguin waddled off with Fluffy Pink Flamingo and Julien had to force himself not to watch him…them walk away. That had been unexpected. He was both impressed and pissed off. He turned his attention back to the room and saw people searching the floor around where Svetlana was standing. She was clutching her neck, her chin wobbling. Morozov looked equally agitated at her side.

Julien had wondered what the pair would do. They might insist on searching the waiting staff but could hardly insist on searching every guest, not without putting backs up, and there were some important people here.

But what do you do when you lose something worth over two million pounds? Particularly when it wasn't yours in the first place? Though that wouldn't bother Morozov, who undoubtedly considered the necklace his despite its origins.

There was CCTV installed outside and inside the hall, but it was Cheng's job, another member of the team, to ensure nothing had been recorded. When Morozov's men discovered the CCTV had been interfered with, they'd know for certain someone here was a thief, though at that point Julien doubted they'd still be thinking the necklace had dropped off her neck and been temporarily lost. In the meantime, the show had to go on and Julien had little choice but to play his part longer than he'd hoped. Looked like he was eating here after all.

He didn't see the thief again until they were all seated in the ballroom. Trouble sat at the top table with the bridal party. Ah! The little monster was Morozov's son, Ilya. Interesting. There hadn't been a hint of a Russian accent. But then Julien normally had no hint of a French accent either. They both had English mothers. Probably the only thing they had in common.

Ilya lived in St Petersburg, but of course he'd come back for his sister's wedding, presumably by some roundabout route because of the sanctions. He'd been born in the UK, gone to school here, then left for Russia when he was eighteen or nineteen. That had been four years ago. Not a kid, though he looked like one. Julien would have put him at no more than late teens. He was maybe five nine, thin enough to slip through a crack in the pavement with a pale face, huge dark eyes and thick lashes. His suit was too big for him—jacket, shirt and trousers. He'd look so much better in a slim, tailored fit. Julien blinked. Why am I thinking about what he's wearing? The little shit had lifted that necklace without him noticing, which was astounding. But what was he playing at? Why would he need taking anywhere? His father was rich enough to buy him a supercar. And a morning suit that fit properly.

Questions he asked himself again when towards the end of the meal, he saw Ilya being more or less manhandled from the ballroom by a tall, well-built guy whose muscles threatened to burst the seams of his jacket. The removal of Ilya wasn't being done in a way that most people would have registered as too forceful, especially since the older guy sported a broad smile, but Julien saw the stricken look on Ilya's face, took in the too-tight hold on his arm and knew Ilya was in trouble.

He considered following and decided not to. He didn't want to draw the wrong sort of attention. Better to leave and look for a way to keep the lychgate under observation in case Ilya didn't turn up alone. If he didn't turn up at all, Julien would have to apologise for his failure to get the necklace, endure his boss's ire—and Lors was not a man to be crossed—and wait for another opportunity. Not something he wanted to do, though what choice did he have? But leaving without being noticed would have to wait until the meal was over and everyone was milling around anxious for the dancing to start, or the cake cutting or elaborate first dance or whatever entertainment was planned. Once a few people had decided to leave, he could go too.

It was hard not to think about Morozov's son. There was something strange about the situation and Julien didn't like uncertainty. Something about Ilya disturbed him, and not just that he had the necklace. The expression on his face… Fear? Then his indignation about spitting.

He was gay.

Julien almost laughed. Was that it? That was what had thrown him?

Why did it matter? Julien wasn't gay.