Luke Jennings

“You know she’s a fucking psycho,” said Frank.
“Nobody’s perfect,” said Konstantin.

Her own eyes are the frozen grey of the Russian midwinter.

We are their soldiers, Oxana. Our job is to shape the future.”
“Oxana is dead,” she murmurs.
“And Villanelle must survive.”

“My cover name,” she said. “I’ve chosen it.”

But the eyes that are gazing at FatPanda are not amber brown like Nurse Wu’s. They are the icy grey of the Russian midwinter.

Psyche Revived by Cupid’s Kiss,

Thames House, the headquarters of the British security service MI5, is on Millbank, in Westminster. In the northernmost office on the third floor, Eve Polastri is looking down at Lambeth Bridge and the wind-blurred surface of the river.

twenty-six-year

If you think a live extremist preacher’s a headache, wait until you have to deal with a dead one.”

Why, she isn’t completely sure. Perhaps because she can’t imagine taking a human life herself, she is fascinated by the notion of a woman for whom killing is unexceptional.