by Tim Stevens
Purkiss understood, then, what Fallon’s stare had meant in the long minutes after they were left alone. The man had been utterly astonished to see him.
It was like a bizarre type of motionless, silent sparring. Purkiss did not know what to say, where to begin. Fallon clearly had lots he wanted to say, urgently, but his words were kept at bay by the huge, the all-encompassing fact that both separated and joined them. Spliced, thought Purkiss absently: that was a good double-edged word to describe the dynamic.
An hour passed, or possibly ten minutes. Neither man dropped his gaze.
Fallon ended the silence again, his mouth moving with the sticky sound of somebody deficient in saliva.
‘We have two things to talk about. One is more urgent. Why don’t we address that first.’
Purkiss said nothing.
‘Why are you here?’
Purkiss watched the face but the question seemed genuine.
‘I came here to find you.’
‘How did you know –’
‘Somebody sent me a photo of you in Tallinn.’
Fallon blinked slowly, as if considering this.
‘What are you doing here?’ said Purkiss.
‘Trying to stop an attack on the summit.’ He coughed, broke off wincing. ‘Today, is it? It’s the morning of the thirteenth?’
‘Yes. There’s about three hours to go.’ Purkiss would have leaned forward if he could, the urgency beginning to take hold. ‘Keep talking.’
‘I’m on a Service operation. It’s why they got me out of Belmarsh. A rogue Service agent here in Tallinn is helping Kuznetsov, the man who’s holding us here.’
‘Do you know which one? Which of the three agents?’
Fallon stared. ‘You know them?’
‘Yes.’
‘No, I never discovered which one.’
‘Teague.’
‘You stopped him?’ said Fallon.
‘No.’
‘He’s still at large?’
‘Yes.’
Fallon closed his eyes, nodded, then looked at Purkiss again. ‘Briefly, I got close to one of Kuznetsov’s crew. A woman.’
‘Lyuba Ilkun.’
‘You know that, too. I was hoping to get on board the operation. I’d convinced her, I think. Kuznetsov on the other hand was suspicious. They grabbed me several days ago, might have been a week – you lose track.’
‘You’ve been down here all the time?’
‘No. They were keeping me in some kind of cellar until a few hours ago. Hooded me, brought me here.’
A cellar. It would have been the farmhouse.
Purkiss said: ‘You’ve been roughed up. What did they ask you?’
‘The usual. Who I was working for, who I was working with. It was pretty bad in the beginning – they’re amateurs at this but what they lack in finesse they make up for in brute force – but they eased up after a while. As though Kuznetsov realised he wasn’t going to get me to talk, and wanted to keep me intact until he could find out who I was by other means. They’ve left me entirely alone for the last day or so, apart from feeding me. And moving me here.’
Purkiss was thinking rapidly, sifting through conversations in his memory. ‘They don’t know that you’re Service?’
‘They might suspect it. I certainly didn’t tell them.’
It fell into place with what Purkiss thought must be an audible click. ‘They do now.’
‘How so?’
‘Teague doesn’t know Kuznetsov has you. Or at least he didn’t when I first met him. As soon as I told him and the other two agents I was looking for you, he would have got on to Kuznetsov and asked him if he’d heard of you, without telling him who you were.’
Fallon’s frown deepened.
Purkiss went on: ‘Kuznetsov didn’t tell Teague he had you, but I think Teague suspected that he did. It’s why Teague let me carry on, why he didn’t just hand me over to Kuznetsov from the word go. Teague wanted me to find you because he wanted to find you himself. He knew you were here to stop the operation, so he needed to be assured that you’d been neutralised. Later, I met Kuznetsov’s second in command, Dobrynin –’
‘The one with the mutilated hand. He was one of my interrogators.’
‘Right. I told him I was looking for you and that you were a former SIS agent. I did it to gauge his reaction. He looked delighted.’
‘So why would Kuznetsov hang on to me after he’d learned who I was, and why has he kept it a secret from Teague?’
‘Maybe –’ Purkiss stopped. There was no maybe. He didn’t know.
They fell silent, Purkiss listening for footsteps, Kuznetsov’s men returning to tell them to stop talking. None came.
‘Do you know what’s planned for the summit?’ said Fallon.
‘The assassination of the Russian president.’
‘How?’
‘I don’t know. Do you?’
Again Fallon shook his head. ‘The closest I got to finding anything out was when Lyuba used to talk about the “event”. All very abstract.’
Purkiss felt the unspoken thing rising between them again. It wasn’t time, yet, and he said: ‘All right. A full debrief.’
‘Agreed.’
‘You first.’
*
On the screen a reporter, one of the network’s heavyweights and looking unfeasibly bright and awake given the hour, yammered away against the backdrop of the Memorial. Police bearing very visible light arms hove into view from time to time, not accidentally. At the bottom of the screen a ticker tape relayed information about little else. Every now and again the picture cut away to the hotel where the president was staying overnight, an aerial shot making the early morning helicopters look like circling moths.
Venedikt drank tea, replenishing his glass as quickly as he emptied it. On the screen a related human-interest piece showed a group of young people in Moscow raising a raucous toast to their new friends in Estonia. This was followed by the now-familiar footage of the president arriving at the reception banquet the night before. As the camera closed on his face, Venedikt raised his own glass.
The supreme sacrifice, tovarisch. Just as his grandfather had made.
And a brilliant plan, meticulously conceived, was now going to be made perfect. All along, Kuznetsov had striven not to leave any fingerprints. In a few hours from now, when the world was picking over the pieces, fingerprints would indeed be found.
The fingerprints of the British Secret Service.
Thirty-Three
Ventilation in the basement was poor, and the sweat was moulding Purkiss’s clothes to his body, adding to the sense of restriction imposed by the bonds. He blinked, tried to flick the stinging droplets from the corners of his eyes.
‘So, you see,’ he said, ‘things don’t add up.’
Fallon’s story had been a masterclass in the art of the debriefing: rapid, clipped, not a word wasted. Released early from Belmarsh with an unconditional pardon, sent to Tallinn because of preliminary intelligence suggesting activity potentially detrimental to the forthcoming summit visit, he’d picked up the Kuznetsov link through old-fashioned legwork, haunting bars and clubs frequented by ex-military types. At the same time he had learned of the unofficial cell of SIS agents, the trio working without Embassy cover. Pillow talk from Lyuba had confirmed that Kuznetsov’s operation, whatever it was, was being assisted by a British intelligence agent, and that this person wasn’t connected with the Embassy. Fallon didn’t think Lyuba knew herself who the agent was.
And he’d been sharing a flat with an SIS agent-in-place called Jaak Seppo. It was the part that didn’t make sense.
Purkiss listened without comment, then relayed his own story, less succinctly, leaving out any mention of Vale, saying only that “a contact” in London had passed on to him the picture of Fallon that Seppo had sent him.
Now he said, ‘Why would Seppo shop you to my contact, knowing he’d get in touch with me?’
‘I don’t know.’
Had there been the slightest hesitation there?
‘You’re not telling me everything, Fallon.’
This time the pause was definite.
‘No, I’m not.’
Purkiss waited. When Fallon stayed silent he said, ‘A full debrief. We agreed.’
‘There’s something I can’t tell you now.’
‘Damn it, Fallon.’
‘I can’t explain why. It doesn’t affect the position we’re in.’
‘For the love of God –’
‘I will explain. I promise. Once we’re out of here, once we’ve stopped Kuznetsov.’
And so it had come to be, without being made explicit by either of them before. They were allies, working together towards a common goal. Old buddies again.
Purkiss hadn’t breathed in but he felt his chest swelling, the agony in his ribs so intense it became almost pleasurable. He stared at this man, battered, bloodied, teeth smashed. Pitiable.
‘You killed Claire.’
Fallon’s head had been hanging forward, his gaze downcast. Now he lifted his eyes.
‘Yes,’ he said.
*
Understanding came fully formed, not in stealthy increments. The Jacobin sat down under the enormity of it.
He was in the kitchen, forcing himself to take food despite having no appetite. Beyond the window the city napped through the darkest hours, as reluctant to rest as he was.
Kuznetsov had had Fallon, all along. Had taken him captive while he was courting the Ilkun woman, and had found out somehow that he was SIS. Now he had Purkiss, another former SIS operative. Two British agents.
He was going to use them to implicate the Service in the attack.
Fury at oneself was never productive, never ever, and the Jacobin struggled to suppress it. If you’d worked it out earlier, you’d have taken care of Purkiss yourself rather than deliver him to the Russian. Kuznetsov might still have used Fallon, but a single agent could have been attributed to coincidence. With two, the hand of SIS would be unmistakeable.
My Service. Destroyed, utterly. Because that would be the result. Conflict on a global scale, and attributable squarely to the British intelligence service. Whatever the eventual outcome, SIS would cease to exist, both in fact and in legend. All the good it had done, all the noble achievements of the previous hundred years, would be dissolved in the acid of its treachery. A treachery not only towards Britain, but towards humanity as a whole.
It was the outcome exactly, diametrically opposed to the one the Jacobin had set out to achieve.
He sat staring at the wet city on the other side of the glass, and wondered if it was time to pull the plug.
*
‘There are things we need to talk about.’
‘We’ve nothing to talk about. There’s nothing I want to say to you, or to hear from you.’
It was true. During Fallon’s trial Purkiss had rehearsed in obsessive detail the possible ways a conversation would go between the two of them. He’d never been permitted to communicate with Fallon, and afterwards, after the conviction and sentencing, he’d avoided visiting him in prison. Now he knew why. Words seemed utterly trivial, a form of non-communication between them.
Fallon’s eyes were almost closed. ‘It’s difficult to explain. There are things you don’t know about what went on.’
‘Excuses? Is that what you’re talking about? And you think it would do me good to hear them, would help me to achieve closure by understanding your point of view and defusing some of the hate?’ Despite himself Purkiss laughed, a guttural sound. ‘Thanks for the concern, but if I go to my grave hating you that’ll suit me fine.’
‘No. Not excuses.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. Is that too value-laden a word?’ He fought to stop his voice rising. ‘Justifications, then. Justifications for murder.’
‘I didn’t murder her.’
‘You just said you did.’
‘I said I killed her.’
‘That’s –’ Purkiss drew a deep breath, all the way in, ignoring the pain flaring in protest. ‘Don’t split hairs with me now, Fallon. Don’t you dare do that.’
‘Or what?’ It was Fallon’s turn to laugh, without mirth. ‘You’ll hit me? Kill me? Go ahead, give it a try.’
Purkiss’s pulse was up. It wasn’t good. The adrenaline would be wasted.
More quietly Fallon said, ‘I’m not goading you. It’s a serious point. We’re trapped here. If we cooperate, you’ll be able to kill me. If we don’t, we’ll both die. As will countless others.’
For the first time Purkiss shut his eyes, not wanting to see the man’s face, wishing he could shut his ears as well.
Fallon went on: ‘I’m being cryptic because if I tell you everything I need to tell you, we won’t be able to cooperate –’
‘Nothing more you could say would make me less willing to cooperate with you –’
‘Trust me. When I tell you eventually, you’ll understand. But I promise you, John. Full disclosure. Nothing held back. After we get out of this.’
Purkiss opened his eyes and stared at the man, taking in every detail of his face, inoculating himself against his presence.
‘And then I’m going to kill you.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘I’m not joking, Fallon.’
‘I know you’re not.’ A beat. ‘We need to come up with a plan.’
‘I’ve got one already.’
*
Thumb poised over the green “call” key, the Jacobin stared at the number on the display. It was one he’d never used before, that of the Kaitsepolitsei, the Security Police.
He’d be assumed to be a crank, so confident would the KaPo be about its security arrangements, until he revealed how the assassination was going to be carried out; then he’d be taken seriously, and although he wouldn’t stay on the phone long enough to be traced, there was no question the summit would be aborted. Then what? It would be a victory of sorts, a major summit derailed by a terrorist threat, but a Pyrrhic one, as the intelligence services of both Estonia and Russia would spin it as a successful example of international cooperation. The summit would simply be rescheduled. And, there was a real risk of Kuznetsov’s being tracked down and captured, in which case he, the Jacobin, would be named, and SIS would be implicated after all.
After a long moment the Jacobin hit “cancel” and put the phone away.
*
Purkiss paused, the muscles burning in his thighs and his belly, sweat slicking his hair to his forehead. Six inches, he estimated. Half a foot of progress after five minutes of struggle.
If his arms had been fastened behind the back of the chair it would have been easier. He could have used them to give him forward momentum. Instead, his wrists were pressed between the small of his back and the back of the chair, secured to each other with plastic ties, the toughest bonds of all. He was able to achieve forward motion only by bracing the balls of his feet on the concrete floor of the basement, and thrusting his pelvis forwards using all the strength in his abdominal and anterior thigh muscles and those of his hamstrings. Each such thrust caused the feet of the chair to scrape a fraction of an inch forward, an almost comically poor return on his efforts.
Facing him, Fallon urged him on, silently. They would have reached each other more quickly if Fallon had been inching forward similarly, but Fallon’s ankles were tied to the legs of the chair and no amount of rocking would budge him.
In between surges of exertion, Purkiss felt the blood hammering in his ears. He tried not to listen out for footsteps coming down the stairs, because if he heard them there’d be nothing he could do about them. Whoever came through the door would notice the progress he’d made, however meagre, and would move him and Fallon so far apart that all bets would be off.
Purkiss squeezed his eyelids shut against the sweat sting once again. He visualised the run-up to a long jump. Not just any long jump, but one that traversed a ravine, dark and bottomless. In his mind’s eye he was lopin
g up a grassy verge towards a small peak, the air cool and rarefied about him. As he approached the peak he picked up speed so that the lope turned into a sprint, and the nub of rock was coming on fast. He put everything into the final push, embracing the terror that leapt at him as his feet left the rock and cycled in the empty space over the terrible yawn of the chasm. Impossibly, defying the laws of physics, he was across and rolling and clear.
Fallon grunted something. Purkiss opened his eyes, disorientated for a moment. Looking down and around he saw he’d progressed an entire foot. Not bad.
‘Bastard.’
‘Die, damn you. Die now.’
It wasn’t difficult for Purkiss to make his share of the shouting sound heartfelt.
They’d waited till Purkiss had got within two feet, his chair slightly to the side of Fallon’s, before letting rip: nonsensical bellows alternating with profane curses. In the midst of it Fallon leaned forward as far as he could and tried an experimental butt. His forehead nudged Purkiss’s nose.
The bootsteps came, then, at a dash, more than one pair, and in counterpoint to their rhythm the frantic jangling of keys. Purkiss glared into Fallon’s eyes and gave a nod.
Fallon tilted his head back as if to sneeze and brought his face forward so that the frontal bones of his skull smashed into Purkiss’s nose, snapping his head back against the chair. White light exploded up beneath his eyes, crowding out all sound and sight. Apart from the blood: there was a lot of blood, he was gratified to see. He flailed his head from side to side, flinging cords of gore-streaked mucus against the nearest wall and against the opening door. As the first man stepped through, Purkiss threw his head back and arched his spine and rolled his eyes up and bit down on his tongue hard enough to draw more blood. He began to jerk his legs assymetrically.
Near his ear, one of the men yelled an oath involving somebody’s mother. Purkiss felt hands grip his shoulders. He let the spasms ebb as the men, two of them, he thought, shouted in Russian that they needed to get him on the floor. The cords around his torso slackened and were unwound. He risked a glance and saw one of the men punch Fallon in the face, one-two, rocking his head to either side in turn. The man holding Purkiss tried to control his descent, but Purkiss let himself be dead weight and slipped through the man’s grasp. He hit the floor, his head cracking audibly against the concrete. The man snarled at his companion to leave the bastard alone and come and help him. Purkiss lay twitching on the floor, listening to the rising panic in the men’s voices. He was wondering whether to void his bladder for added realism when one of the men said, ‘Get him upstairs,’ catching him under the arms while the other man took his feet. Only his wrists were fastened behind him now, no hood this time.