by Tim Stevens
The aftershock of the gunfire had left a high peal in Purkiss’s ears. Below, the sirens were becoming more insistent, the notes from assorted vehicles overlapping. Purkiss crouched, holding the Sig-Sauer lowered in a two-handed grip. From the doorway of one of the stairwell blocks Elle and Kendrick had broken into a run towards him, Kendrick with the rifle at the ready and Elle holding her pistol at her side. As they got near Purkiss saw her eyes were dazed. It was the first time she’d killed, he thought.
‘There may be more coming up behind,’ she said, her voice steady. ‘And the police are on the way.’
Purkiss said, ‘The fire escape.’ He pulled open the door and looked down. Nobody in the alley yet. They began to descend, Purkiss in the lead and Kendrick at the back, their soles squealing on the metal steps. As they approached the window Purkiss had climbed out of, voices from the room beyond became louder. He ignored them and slipped past, hearing them turn to shouts.
Two floors from the bottom Kendrick said, ‘Ah, bollocks,’ as a police car pulled across the mouth of the alley.
There was nothing to do but keep going. One floor down Purkiss said, ‘Jump’, and swung himself over the banister. His shirt caught on a spur of metal and tore all the way down. The doors of the car were opening, uniformed men emerging and yelling. Purkiss hung in space for a second, then hit the floor, rolling. Something spanged and chipped off the tarmac beside him. The low crack of the shot trailed after it.
Why are they shooting at us, he thought, before realising the shot had come from far away and another direction. He rolled over and over, deeper into the alley, sounds coming disorientatingly from all around, shouting and sirens and two more cracks (from above, he now understood; reinforcements had arrived on the roof). Then he was up and running at a low crouch, glancing behind him, seeing Elle and Kendrick close at his back.
Behind them a couple of the policemen were shouting something. One of them tried to come forward, but he cringed back as a rain of shots spackled off the steps. The police seemed torn between returning the fire from above and covering Purkiss and his colleagues, especially as the firing from the roof didn’t appear to be aimed at them. Kendrick crouched behind some steel bins and started to lay down covering fire, aiming diagonally upwards at the fire escape door. Purkiss hoped to God he didn’t start shooting at the police.
The alley didn’t, as Purkiss had thought before, end blindly. There was a narrow gap, wide enough to fit a single person, leading through to a street at the back of the hotel. Elle pointed at the gap and nodded. Purkiss waved her ahead of him and yelled at Kendrick, ‘Come on.’
The shooting from above had stopped. That was a bad sign, because the police would now be free to come after them or, worse, start firing. Purkiss grabbed two dustbin lids and held them up as makeshift shields. He winced as a bullet smashed into the wall of the alley. Another sang off one of the lids, the impact almost knocking it from his hand. He waited till Kendrick disappeared through the gap, then crammed himself through. Ahead Elle was sprinting, not waiting for them. He understood that she needed to get to the car and start it up.
They weaved and cannoned through the maze of streets, bouncing off the rain-slicked walls. Purkiss was aware of a terrifying claustrophobia. He felt hemmed in on all sides by the clusters of people, the coloured lights, the vehicles. He had no idea where he was running, kept his gaze on Elle several yards ahead, who was a faster runner than he’d realised. He saw a screaming couple recoil from them. As if for the first time he noticed the rifle in Kendrick’s grip. He yelled, ‘Get rid of that.’ Kendrick snarled something bestial in reply and kept hold of the gun.
And they were at the car, its exhaust already alive and growling. They piled inside. Elle looked in the mirrors, pulled away gently and kept the speed slow, maddeningly so. Much as Purkiss wanted to shout at her to put her foot down, he understood the need to be unobtrusive. He turned in his seat and stared back through the rear window. High on the roof of the hotel he saw helmeted figures swarming under the spotlights, the occasional prick of light from a gunshot. On the streets below people were massing in fear and wonder, craning their gazes upwards, like peasant villagers staring up at a Gothic castle where terrible deeds were being perpetrated.
*
Never in front of his men would Venedikt lose control. To do so would be humiliating, unmanly. It would also be tactically unwise, because every display of fear and doubt in the leader would kindle such feelings in his followers, where they would be magnified a thousandfold.
‘We believe all eight are dead, sir.’
It was sir now, not Venedikt Vasilyevich. Dobrynin had been making and taking phone calls. Now he stood before Venedikt, his mutilated hand grasped in the other, the only sign of his nerves.
‘Eight.’.
‘Yes. Braginsky and Ivanov from the room, the remaining six on the roof.’
‘All dead.’
‘None in custody, as far as we know. The police have not been seen to take anybody away yet. The only ambulance has been to attend to an injured policeman on the ground.’
‘And no Purkiss.’
‘No, sir. He and the other two have escaped.’
Venedikt felt the urge to probe his temples with his fingertips but resisted. Control.
‘And we don’t know if Purkiss learned anything from any of the men.’
‘No, sir.’
The office was spartan, unused before now. He would have preferred that they hadn’t had to use it. Now, perhaps, they would have to move again. But where to? He watched Dobrynin’s face, the grave, calm expression. On the periphery of Venedikt’s vision the wall clock said ten past one.
Seven hours.
‘It’s a setback.’
Dobrynin stood poised, waiting for the next.
‘A setback. But no more.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Dobrynin exhaled, audibly, grasping the meaning. We stay put. We proceed as planned.
Venedikt waved him into a seat. With pen and paper they made rapid calculations. Eight men down. A third of their number. It was a setback, indeed, a serious though not a fatal one.
After Dobrynin had left Venedikt walked outside and stood in the sharp cold, relishing the tingle of the fine rain on his upturned face. The row of disused hangars in the distance resembled the tailbones of some gigantic fossilised prehistoric beast. Only one, the nearest, was illuminated, the men moving about moth-like under the arc lights. They had worked swiftly, transporting everything to the new location within ninety minutes.
No. The energy and manpower that would have to be spent in moving everything again would be better directed towards another goal. Finding Purkiss, and neutralising him.
First, Venedikt needed to speak to his English ‘friend’. The word was increasingly bitter in his mind. The ‘friend’ was playing games with him. It was time for a reminder of who was in charge.
He stepped back into his office and took out his phone.
*
‘Nothing.’ Purkiss wanted to thump the dashboard in frustration. ‘Absolutely nothing.’
Beside him Elle said, ‘We took down several of them. And the police may have taken some of them alive. Might find out something useful.’
‘That doesn’t help us. Or Abby.’
The cacophony of the hotel was fifteen minutes behind them, an occasional emergency vehicle still blasting past. Purkiss had rattled off the little he’d learned. The farmhouse base was being shut down – no doubt his and Kendrick’s appearance there and subsequent escape had triggered this – and the target the next day was going to be the Russian president.
‘An ethnic Russian group planning to kill the leader of what presumably they regard as their home nation,’ said Elle. ‘Two possibilities. Either they see him as too conciliatory, too liberal, or it’s meant as a provocation, intended to harden Russian attitudes towards the Estonian government and people.’
‘I’d go for the second,’ said Purkiss.
In the back Kendrick was a
gitated, shifting about in his seat as if it were heated, hands playing over the AK-74. He said, ‘What’s on the agenda?’
Elle answered. ‘We hole up, take stock. I’ve a safe house a couple of miles away.’
Purkiss knew it was standard procedure. Every agent in the field arranged his or her own safe house, the whereabouts of which was unknown to anybody else, even trusted colleagues. They couldn’t return to her usual flat in case Teague showed up.
‘So he hates the Russian president too,’ said Purkiss. ‘Teague.’
She shook her head, her eyes weary. ‘Not that he ever mentioned. But I don’t know. God. Nothing’s certain any more.’
The safe house was a second-floor flat in a nondescript suburban area. Purkiss had a notion they were west of the Old Town. He trooped upstairs with the others two, fatigue pulling at his limbs.
The living room was barely furnished and cold as only a room left unheated for months can be. Elle flicked the boiler into life, went into the kitchenette. Purkiss sank onto a reconditioned sofa and Kendrick seated himself at the tiny dining table. He placed the rifle across it and began to strip it.
‘Thing about these old Soviet weapons,’ he said, ‘you can treat them like shit. Leave them out in the rain, drag them through swamps, bury them under an avalanche. They go on working like loyal old mutts.’
The aroma of coffee began to replace the mustiness. Purkiss put his hands round the mug Elle handed him and drank gratefully. She’d provided sandwiches as well, huge doorsteps of granary and ham and cheese.
Purkiss’s phone vibrated. He snatched it from his pocket.
Caller’s number blocked.
‘John. It’s me.’
‘Fallon.’
He felt Elle stiffen beside him on the sofa, saw Kendrick sit up in the chair.
‘Here’s something to establish good faith.’ The voice was low and grating.
An instant later another voice, so close to the mouthpiece it was distorted, whispered:
‘Mr Purkiss. He’s –’
‘Abby. Are you hurt –’
Fallon’s voice came back, Abby’s having ended so abruptly it must have been clamped off by a hand or a gag of some sort.
‘She’s fine, at the moment. This is the deal. Listening?’
‘Yes.’
‘You for her. You come in, and she walks.’ A pause. ‘What time do you have?’
‘One thirty.’
‘Four a.m., Kiek in de Kök.’
He was gone.
Twenty-Eight
The rain was becoming more determined, as if claiming the streets now that so few people were about any longer. The Jacobin worked as quickly as he could, making sure the boot was locked, and doing a routine sweep for bugs under the bonnet and the chassis even though the likelihood was remote.
He hadn’t expected Purkiss to return to the hotel. He’d told Kuznetsov about the hotel to get the man off his back. The Russian had of course wanted to use the woman immediately as bait to draw Purkiss in, but the Jacobin had held off, still clinging to the hope that Purkiss might lead him to Fallon. He’d known Kuznetsov would stake the hotel room out, but assumed he’d post a couple of men at most, not mount an eight-man surveillance operation. As it turned out, Kuznetsov had been right. Purkiss had gone back, and now Kuznetsov had lost a third of his personnel, and the police were involved. All in all, a chaotic couple of hours.
Now the Jacobin was forced to agree with Kuznetsov. It was time to bring Purkiss in, and his friend, Abby, was the lure. He’d agreed the venue with Kuznetsov, Kiek in de Kök, as well as the time. Two and a half hours from now, which would give Kuznetsov’s depleted crew time to finish the transfer to the new site and the securing of the base, and to set up position at the venue. The delay wouldn’t give Purkiss a significant advantage because he didn’t have vast reserves on which to draw. Just that sidekick of his, and Elle.
Elle. As the Jacobin went back indoors for his coat, he reflected that it was a pity she was probably going to die. He had cared for her, of course. Had he loved her, even, once? He supposed the flicker of loosening that her voice, her presence, had stirred in his chest could be interpreted as love, or as close as he had ever come to experiencing it. But that had been some time ago, and when he’d feared the feelings might get in the way of what he needed to do, he’d rooted them out. Now he felt nothing.
Less even, perhaps, than the body face down in the empty bath, invisible from where he stood at the front door of the flat.
He dragged on his coat and killed the lights and went out to the car.
*
‘Kiek in de Kök.’ Kendrick had stripped and cleaned and reassembled the gun and he sat at the table, practising his aim. ‘It sounds like –’
‘Yes, I know what it sounds like.’ Purkiss mopped sandwich crumbs from the table with his finger, caught Elle watching him.
Kendrick said: ‘Craziest idea I’ve ever heard.’
‘No. I’ve come up with crazier.’
There really weren’t any other options. If they simply didn’t turn up at the venue, Abby would be killed. If they turned up but Purkiss didn’t hand himself over, she’d be killed. If he gave himself up as Fallon was asking, he’d probably be killed. But if he wasn’t, if they kept him alive even an hour, then Abby, back in action again, might be able to work her magic.
Purkiss asked Elle, ‘Do you have anything to wrap it in? Cling film, a small zippable sandwich bag?’
She emerged from the kitchen with a roll of plastic wrap. He tore off a small rectangle and put it in his pocket.
He’d explained his plan to them. ‘Abby was tracking my phone via a website which she had password-protected access to, so you two wouldn’t be able to use it. If they swap her for me, she’ll be able to track me and find out where they’ve taken me, assuming they don’t kill me immediately.’
‘But they’ll anticipate that and get rid of your phone as soon as they’ve got you,’ said Elle.
‘The tracking’s done through the phone’s SIM card,’ he said. ‘If I take that with me and manage to install it in another phone, she’ll be able to track that phone.’
‘So how will you get the card in a new handset?’
‘Smuggling the card in with me is the easy bit.’ He pointed at his open mouth. ‘Getting it into a handset’s going to be tricky.’
He had no idea if a SIM card would be damaged by stomach acids, but assumed it might be, so he asked for the plastic wrap. He’d have to remove it from his phone and swallow it at the last minute, since he needed to keep his phone on standby in case Fallon rang again.
Two a.m. The safe house was in the Old Town. The rendezvous point, Kiek in de Kök, was ten minutes’ drive away. Even though they planned to get there early, there was still an agony of time to kill.
Kendrick did a rapid strip and reassembly of the rifle again. He said, ‘Can’t stand this. I’m going for a walk.’ He stood and pulled on his jacket.
Elle raised her eyebrows, looked at Purkiss. Purkiss said, ‘He’s always like this before a job. Best we let him walk off some steam or he’ll be unbearable to be around.’ To Kendrick he said, ‘Go easy.’ His eyes flashed a warning. Kendrick nodded distractedly and banged out of the flat.
‘A bit worked up,’ said Elle.
‘He’ll be fine.’
Purkiss hoped he would be, that he didn’t overdo it. Since leaving the Army Kendrick had developed a tendency to enhance his natural edginess with amphetamines at times when added alertness was needed. When he’d first discovered this, Purkiss had been alarmed, but Kendrick wasn’t to be told, and the extra stamina he derived from the stimulants did, Purkiss had to admit, seem to give him an advantage.
Purkiss and Elle sat in silence for several minutes, listening to the distant nighttime sounds, the flat’s creaks and echoes.
‘She’s a close friend.’ Her glance was questioning even though the words came out as a statement.
‘Abby. Yes. Salt of the earth.’
He’d known Abby three years, encountering her first on a web forum where he was seeking technical advice, back in the early days of his work with Vale when he was still doing his own searches and becoming frustratingly aware that his skills as a computer geek weren’t up to par. After she proved helpful with more than one of his enquiries, he suggested they meet to discuss possible employment options. He discovered that she worked freelance for the Metropolitan Police, among other organisations. Eventually she came to take on jobs exclusively for him. The rates he paid made this worthwhile. Despite their close association he knew very little about her. She’d mentioned parents back in Lancashire, but that was about all.
‘And Kendrick. There’s a rapport there. The kind we develop with other Service colleagues, if we’re lucky.’
‘Yes.’ She'd sounded wistful. He was about to say that Abby and Kendrick were the closest thing he had to friends, but the suddenness of the realisation brought him up short.
To change the subject he said, ‘Teague being the traitor. That’s got to be difficult for you.’
She shrugged. ‘To be honest, I wasn’t convinced he wasn’t, even when I told you otherwise. What bothers me more is Rossiter. Seeing him there, stabbed, bleeding… he can be a difficult sod to work for, but my God, he didn’t deserve that.’
‘He’ll be all right. They’ll put a drain in his chest for a couple of days.’
She shifted closer, her legs tucked under her on the sofa, and put a shy hand on his arm. ‘He thanked you, but I haven’t yet. So, thanks.’
Purkiss looked at her eyes, dark in the pale, drawn face. At her mouth, her throat. Through the layers of fatigue he felt a stirring.
Somehow she was closer still. He leant his face in and kissed her forehead, then her mouth. Her lips yielded at first, then responded, pressing back. His hands slid round across her back and up to her hair, drawing her head towards him. Her own arms came up and her hands grabbed at his back, his shoulders, and he broke the kiss to pull at her sweater and drag it off in a cascade of hair which she shook out of her face. Then his hands were on her breasts through her thin blouse and hers clasped his face. She said, ‘Wait,’ rose and tugged on his arm.