by Tim Stevens
It was going to be a game of bluff, then. Fair enough. Purkiss said, ‘Fine. But it’s a pity. Because when Fallon goes down, you’re going down with him, and it could have been avoided.’ He stood up. Neither of the gunmen moved. Elle rose as well. Dobrynin watched Purkiss, his smile lingering.
‘Sit, please, Mr Hughes. Coffee?’
‘No.’ They stayed on their feet.
‘Perhaps my company can help you find this Fallon. We carry out investigations as well as performing security operations. Who is he?’
Again the interest in the narrowed eyes. Purkiss realised suddenly: he doesn’t know. What did that mean?
‘Former British Secret Service. Now a wanted criminal. A murderer.’
He leaned slightly forward as he said it and although the muscles of the man’s face remained shaped in the same expression of polite attention, the change in Dobrynin’s eyes was unmistakeable: a dilation in the pupils crowding out the surrounding grey irises, an almost imperceptible raising of the upper lids.
‘I see.’ For the second time Dobrynin’s mangled right hand came into view as he massaged it with the other. Then it disappeared again as if he’d been caught out indulging a nervous mannerism. ‘And what is he doing in Tallinn?’
‘Conspiring. As you know perfectly well.’
‘Conspiring to do what?’ He spoke as if he hadn’t heard the second part.
‘To derail tomorrow’s summit meeting.’
Dobrynin’s stare lasted a full five seconds before he blinked and shook his head. ‘Mr Hughes, I’m sorry, I really can’t do business with you. Not to put too fine a point on it but you’re a crank. If somebody you know is planning something as serious as you say, then it’s the police you should be talking to.’ He stood, as did his men. One of them waited for his nod, then went to retrieve their phones from the wall safe.
‘Goodbye.’ Dobrynin didn’t offer his hand this time. Purkiss said nothing, trying to keep his churning thoughts in check long enough that he didn’t mistake what he was seeing in Dobrynin’s face. The two gunmen opened the door and gestured them through. At the last glimpse, the rest of his face neutral, Dobrynin’s eyes were lit up with the unmistakeable fire of triumph.
They rode the lift in silence. Purkiss braced himself all the way for the sudden jolting halt, rough hands and gun butts taking over, but by the time they handed in their plastic visitors’ badges to the guard at the front desk he realised they were in fact going to be allowed out.
On the street Elle let out her breath in a slow whistle.
‘What the hell was that all about?’
‘Three possibilities.’ The car was parked two blocks away and as if they had communicated telepathically they began walking in the other direction to flush out tags. ‘One, Dobrynin genuinely has nothing to do with any of this, it’s all his boss Kuznetsov’s operation.’
‘Highly unlikely,’ she said. ‘He’s a good liar but not that good.’
‘You saw it?’
‘The hand? Yes.’ Dobrynin had kept his disfigured appendage out of sight beneath the desk except when he’d been saying he didn’t know what kind of a threat they thought they posed to him and his firm. Unskilled liars will touch their faces during the act of lying, as though trying to keep the untruths from escaping their mouths. More accomplished ones usually still struggle to prevent their hands from beginning the movement.
They paused at a corner as if debating which way to go, and Purkiss did a quick check. Nobody obvious behind them. Turning left, he said, ‘So. Possibility number two is that Fallon is working freelance. They’ve obviously come across him – he was sleeping with one of their number, Ilkun – but Dobrynin was genuinely surprised in there when I mentioned both that Fallon was former SIS and that he planned to scupper the summit.’
‘So both Fallon and Kuznetsov’s crew are working independently to achieve the same thing?’
‘Doesn’t seem credible, does it.’ A car was crawling alongside them but it was just an elderly driver, peering at the street signs. ‘Unless Fallon is trying to hijack their operation for his own ends. It’s the only explanation that makes the remotest sense that I can think of.’
‘That look on Dobrynin’s face at the end,’ she said. ‘It was as if the penny had dropped. As if he understood that Fallon was in competition with them.’
‘Yes.’
They had come almost full circle and the car was in sight.
‘You said three possibilities.’
‘The third is that we’re completely wrong about the first two.’
At the car they took turns, one keeping watch for tags while the other ducked to peer under the chassis for tracking devices. They’d parked far enough away that it wasn’t likely they had been spotted emerging from the vehicle but it was worth taking precautions.
He’d thought about telling her about the satnav he’d salvaged from the wreck of the car earlier, about what he had planned for that evening once dark had fallen. But he thought again of how he’d been caught off guard by his surprise when she’d pulled the gun.
No. It was best to trust only those you knew.
*
‘Play it back.’
Venedikt had gone inside as soon as Dobrynin called. The noise of the men in the yard was distracting. He sat at the kitchen table and listened to the live feed, then to Dobrynin’s voice directly into the mouthpiece: ‘They’ve gone.’
He listened again, keeping his breathing even, trying not to let delight overwhelm him.
Afterwards he said, ‘As we suspected.’
‘Yes.’
‘Our British friend has been lying to us.’
‘It looks that way, Venedikt Vasilyevich.’
Venedikt sat staring at the flagstones, pondering. Then he said, ‘Did you try to follow Purkiss?’
‘It wasn’t worth it. What staff aren’t with you we needed to close the office down. We have to assume our British friend will keep track of him.’
‘A big assumption. He’s disappeared twice already.’ Venedikt stood. ‘But you’re right. How’s the shutdown progressing?’
‘Just reception left, really.’
‘Good.’
‘A pity. Years of memories, Venedikt Vasilyevich.’
‘It has to be. We can’t turn back now.’
*
Unlike previously, Purkiss felt bad about giving her the slip. It seemed dishonest, and he had to admit he was rather enjoying her company. Nonetheless, the best time to do it was when she was least expecting it. As Elle started to pull away when a light turned green he said, ‘Sorry about this,’ and popped the door and swung out and slammed it shut. He took off across three lanes, weaving expertly through the blurt of horns and not looking back until he was lost in a warren of back alleys.
Police helicopters criss-crossed the darkening sky overhead. Assuming Elle wasn’t the one working with the opposition, she’d be adrift now, with no leads to follow up on and a deadline that was drawing ever nearer. He appreciated the frustration she must be feeling.
As he strode the streets looking for what he needed, he made an effort to untangle the threads. Seppo had photographed Fallon and alerted Vale, but it seemed Fallon and Seppo were sharing a flat. Seppo had been murdered, almost certainly by Fallon, and Purkiss’s phone call to Seppo’s phone from London had been traced and watchers had been set on to Purkiss from the airport. Fallon had had a relationship with a member of Kuznetsov’s crew, and when Purkiss had come around asking questions Kuznetsov’s people had tried to kill him. One of the three British agents was working with Kuznetsov. Kuznetsov’s second-in-command appeared astonished to discover that Fallon was ex-Service.
A snarl of ends, tangled like weeds and choking out coherent thought. All he had at the moment that seemed to hold out some promise was the address on the satnav. If it was a base of some sort then he might have a way in.
It took a frustratingly long time to find a car rental place and by the time he did it was a quarter to six.
Once more he used the Hughes ID. It was a risk, but not a great one. There was one risk he wasn’t going to take, however. Once behind the wheel of the car, a year-old Fiat, he slipped out his phone.
‘Change of plan, Abby. Tell Kendrick to meet us at the hotel. The opposition might be watching the airport, so I need to keep well away.’
*
The Jacobin normally preferred being outdoors, finding the confines of a room, however large, unpleasantly claustrophobic after too long. This evening, though, the sky had a smothering aspect, pressing down like a cold shroud. There was no stillness on the streets. Even the tourists seemed to be affected by the sense of anticipation, even of awe, that the events of the next morning were kindling.
A quick stroll to calm the mind and stretch the legs. As if on cue the Jacobin’s phone rang. Kuznetsov.
‘You lied to me about this other man. Fallon.’
‘I didn’t lie. I just didn’t give you the full facts. In any case, you’ve been lying to me all along. You know where he is.’
‘No, I don’t.’ Kuznetsov’s voice was thick with something – fury? ‘But given what we’ve learned this afternoon, don’t you think it might have been relevant to tell me earlier about his background?’
‘As I say. I’ll give you full disclosure when you afford me the same courtesy.’
This time the anger was unmistakeable. ‘Don’t fuck me on this. It’s worked out well so far –’
‘Agreed.’
‘But I owe you nothing, beyond the protection we owe each other.’
‘I have no quibble with you there. But remember this isn’t over yet. Fourteen hours. A lot could go wrong.’
‘Purkiss could destroy everything.’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s killed two of my men.’
‘I know.’
‘Give him to me, damn it.’
‘As soon as you give me Fallon.’
‘I’ve told you, I don’t know –’
‘Then we’ve nothing more to talk about for the moment.’
The Jacobin folded away the phone and idled back down the street, expecting it to start ringing again. It didn’t.
Purkiss’s latest disappearance might be his last. Perhaps it was time to do as Kuznetsov asked, to hand Purkiss over or get rid of him. The longer he remained active, the likelier it was that he’d get lucky and find a way in.
And yet… and yet. Purkiss’s fanatical need to find Fallon was driving the man, and he wouldn’t stop until he was successful. Since Kuznetsov was being uncooperative there was no better way to locate Fallon than to follow where Purkiss led. After that and only after that would it be safe to dispose of Purkiss.
No; not only after that. There was another circumstance in which Purkiss would need to be got rid of, and that was if he was in imminent danger of exposing and stopping the operation. Then he’d have to be despatched, and quickly.
Twenty
Abby had turned the cramped hotel room into a home from home. Two laptops sat opened on the writing desk, flanking an enormous flat-screen monitor. Across the carpet were arrayed a printer, scanner and shredder.
‘Where did you get all the gear?’ said Purkiss, seating himself in the room’s only armchair.
‘Some fantastic shops down the road. I told you it’s one of the most wired cities on earth.’ She gazed at the equipment with a mother’s joy. ‘Cheapish, as well. The expenses bill won’t hurt you too badly.’
She’d been unusually downbeat when she opened the door to him. When he asked why, she said it was because she hadn’t yet cracked the memory stick he’d found in Seppo’s flat.
‘It’s the most diabolical protection system I’ve ever come across,’ she said, staring at the tiny piece of plastic. ‘Five hours, and a couple of promising-looking results, but still nothing.’
‘I can give it to someone else,’ he offered. She gave him a look that would have stopped a tank in its tracks.
Her phone went and she listened and said, ‘Kendrick. He’s coming up, says not to attack him when he knocks.’
Purkiss got the door. Kendrick was in cargo trousers and a bomber jacket. No jeans, which was sensible because Purkiss had said there might be outdoor work, and it looked like rain, and wet denim was terrible for mobility.
Kendrick pointed at his own chin. ‘You’ve got rid of the facial hair. Wise move.’
‘Really? I thought it made me look quite the part.’
‘It made you look like a Cypriot whoremonger.’
The rope burn on his neck was red and raised, and Purkiss remembered with a sense of dislocation that less than forty-eight hours earlier they’d been on board the yacht in the Adriatic.
Kendrick saw him looking and ran a finger along the mark. ‘Looks like you’ve seen a little action yourself.’
‘Garrotte.’
‘Ouch.’ He nodded across at Abby. ‘Don’t fancy yours much.’
She ignored him and busied herself at her monitor.
Kendrick said, ‘This has got something to do with the fun and games tomorrow, I take it.’
‘Yes. Pull up a pew and I’ll fill you in.’
‘Got guns?’
‘No.’
‘You should have said. I’d have brought some.’
Kendrick was former Colour Sergeant Tony Kendrick, Second Parachute Battalion, or 2 Para. He’d been in 16th Air Assault Brigade during Operation Telic in Basra in the autumn of 2003, shortly after which Purkiss had met him for the first time when he himself was stationed in Iraq for six months, helping to establish the fledgling Service presence there. By the time Purkiss left the Service to work for Vale, Kendrick was already out on the street, drifting and kicking his heels. Both men had spotted an opportunity, and they had come to an arrangement that benefited them mutually: extremely hazardous freelance work in return for an exceptionally generous fee. Not that Kendrick would ever admit it was generous.
Purkiss brought them up to speed as they sipped Abby’s venomously strong tea and the hard drives whirred, quietly busy. Outside the first rain began to spatter against the panes. It was the first time Abby had heard the full story, the part about Fallon in particular, and she said, genuine sympathy in her eyes, ‘You poor man. If I’d known how personal it was…’ She left the thought unfinished because there wasn’t anything she could have done.
‘Thanks,’ said Purkiss, because there wasn’t any more he could say.
‘Jesus,’ said Kendrick. He was sitting on the bed, booted feet propped on the stool at the dresser.
‘What?’
‘The man killed your girl.’
‘Yes.’
‘It was my girl, I’d be out there, mad as a snake, finding the bastard. Not sitting on my arse in some crappy hotel room.’
‘I’ve been waiting for you.’
‘Should’ve called me sooner.’
‘I didn’t know what this involved until this morning. This Kuznetsov… whatever his connection with Fallon, we’re going to have to go through him first. And he’s got his own private army.’
‘Any idea of numbers?’
‘Those British agents are delving into that,’ Purkiss said. ‘We can’t know if everyone in Rodina Security is involved. My guess is that it’s a select few, not the whole firm, though how many exactly is anybody’s guess. Twenty? More, perhaps. Certainly I’ve had a whole load of them on my back.’
‘The more the merrier.’ Kendrick had his middle-distance stare on, was cracking his knuckles, grinding his teeth. Purkiss didn’t want him to peak too soon.
He said, ‘Here’s the plan for this evening.’
*
The Jacobin sat at the computer, headphones on, listening to the dispatch from the SIS contact at the embassy in Moscow.
‘Takeoff time’s confirmed at twenty thirty-five hours. President and entourage en route to private airfield now. The usual one near Sheremetyevo.’
The Jacobin listened a while longer, then thanked the contact, ended the connection,
turned to the other two at their desks and said, ‘On schedule. President’s expected to land just before ten p.m.’
‘Anyone think the attack might come tonight?’
None of them did. The security was too tight, the landing zone outside Tallinn too closely guarded a secret. A late supper with the Estonian president was expected, again at an undisclosed location. No, the danger was going to present itself in public.
The Jacobin peeled off the headphones, ran a hand through tired hair, said, ‘And where the hell is Purkiss?’
Neither of the others offered an opinion.
They rolled their chairs over to one of the computers to share information. The Jacobin listened as the facts and figures were rattled off, pretending that the information was new. Rodina Security was a private concern with ambitions to go public. It was solvent, had survived an audit two years earlier by the tax authorities, and had no record of trouble with the law, if one discounted the fact that just under twenty per cent of its staff, including its managing director, had criminal records. It employed thirty-four people, twelve in administrative and clerical capacities and the rest as security personnel. All thirty-four were of ethnic Russian background.
On the screen Kuznetsov’s face appeared alongside a potted biography. The Jacobin studied it. It was a face which the word craggy seemed to have been coined to describe. Dark eyes glowered from beneath a domed brow on which the hair had been cropped back; the mouth and jaw were set like a boxer’s. A brutal face but not a stupid one. Kuznetsov wasn’t stupid. He was boorish, crass even, but he was cunning as a whip.
The Jacobin was under no illusions as to Kuznetsov’s intentions after the event. The man despised the English. He’d never pretended otherwise. The Jacobin would be caught up and swept away, drowned in the tide of history, as Kuznetsov would put it in one of the mangled, half-remembered Marxist platitudes he’d picked up from what passed for his reading. But the Jacobin too was making history, of a very different kind. And in it there would be no place for Kuznetsov and his ilk.