by Ru Pringle
‘Yegor,’ she says, at length. ‘I am very grateful for this meal, and the unexpected hospitality you’ve shown.’ She puts down her fork. Forces herself to look squarely at him. ‘But I need to know. Why am I here? Why are you helping me, and what is it that you want from me?’
The man chews a mouthful of venison and puts down his cutlery. He dabs his lips with a napkin.
‘You came to my attention,’ he says.
She waits in vain for elaboration. ‘For doing what?’ She’ll get to his implication of a purpose for her later. Gryanov rests his elbows either side of his plate, fingers steepled in front of his chin.
‘It seems to me that your plan was a good one. It deserved to succeed.’
Coira’s starting to wonder exactly how much information about her the man has access to. All of it, apparently. She meets his gaze again. ‘Do you want to see the government overthrown?’
Again, that equivocatory expression. ‘Coira, Coira – still you are thinking from a different age. This question – it has not been relevant for a long time. Since last century, in fact. You believe a government is running this country?’
He leans back. Toys with his wine glass.
‘But, very well. We will use for now the language of nations. The current UK regime is not a friend to business in Russia. Too often, your crazy politicians are doing things which are against even their own interests. Even so, it is not in Russian interests for UK to fall completely down. You have nuclear weapons! No one is wanting to see nuclear weapons in hands of even bigger crazy people, who like to kill everyone without reasons. Let me just say … it is good for Russian interests for the government of United Kingdom to keep itself distracted by internal affairs.’
‘And where do I fit in to all this?’
He shrugs. Leans over his plate and begins chewing another forkful. ‘Sorry to – how is the phrase: “burst your bubblegum”?’
‘Just bubble. No gum.’
‘Just so!’ He licks lips. ‘I am afraid that, really you don’t. At best, you are a very small piece in the game that is being played.’ He snaps his fingers and opens his palm, as though performing a vanishing trick. ‘Even, like nothing. Like I am telling you: you came to my attention, that is all. You are resourceful. Even the way you escaped from Edinburgh revealed to me much initiative.’ He shifts subtly forward, brow raised. ‘You are a very capable woman. Ruthless also, with police training, and with practical experience of security at national level. I’m always recruiting.’
It’s starting to make sense. ‘Recruiting …?’ Coira glances around nervously. She doesn’t know what she expected, but it wasn’t this.
‘You should think about it.’ Gryanov gestures with his knife and fork. ‘Face it: where will you go? You are wanted by your government. If you work for me, this means nothing. I will get for you a new passport; fly you out of the country on the next helicopter, if this is what you would like. I will get for you a new ID. A new face, if you want it – you are in the ideal place for this right now. You want to live ten years longer?’ He shrugs. ‘I will make this happen. Starting today, you can make for yourself a new life. You will never again need to worry about war in UK, or where your next meals are coming from – or about the government of His Majesty finding you.
‘You see,’ he continues, teasing something from between his teeth with a manicured fingernail, ‘there has been an experiment going on. Like … Charles Darwin. You know him?’
‘Not personally.’
‘“Survival of the fittest”.’ He’s either missed the dig or chosen to ignore it. ‘Charles Darwin was a clever man. I think, perhaps, the greatest of all the scientists. In the next decades, eighty or ninety percent of humanity will die. Maybe more. This we cannot change. I think everyone is knowing this, even the ones who are choosing that they don’t believe yet. It is like the biggest experiment in natural selection for sixty-six million years. Who do you think the survivors will be?’
I suspect you’re about to tell me.
He leans forward again. ‘In this century, there will be a lucky few people, Coira Keir. The ones who will survive. Mostly, these will be super-rich men like me – and our friends. I acknowledge the irony of this, but …’ again that evaluative down-turned mouth expression ‘… still I sleep at night. If people had not wanted our product, we would not have become rich, yes? We humans like to think we are different, but we are the same in this way as any species. We consume, we shit, we fuck. And we compete. That’s it. There are winners, there are losers. Survivors and the extinct.
‘What I am offering, Coira Keir, is the opportunity for you to be one of the survivors.’
Coira’s throat squelches involuntarily. Her mind is jumbled. She can be angry all she likes – and she is, finally, angry – but the truth at the core of what he says is inescapable. The world he describes is coming, no matter how bitterly she or anyone else might rail against it.
It feels like someone has just given her a right hook out of nowhere.
‘You’ve given me … a great deal to think about.’ She manages to say the words evenly.
Gryanov shrugs. Hell. How can I even process this?
‘I foresee a catch,’ she tells him. ‘What would I be expected to do?’
A waiter comes round and collects the plates. More wine appears. ‘Nothing to speak of.’ While Gryanov’s expression is affable, there’s a glint in his eye that she does not like the look of one bit. ‘I want you in my security team. Your duties would include training and briefing. Of other security teams. Also of intelligence teams.’
In other words: spill all I know for your spy networks. ‘Conditions?’
‘Needless to say, confidentiality will be a requirement. Hours would be much less than you are used to. Holidays – you would enjoy eight weeks every year, and because of my aeroplane fleet, transport to holiday destinations will not be a problem. Also, my friends and I all are owning some secure and very pleasant tropical islands, which you will be welcome to use. Bonuses will be available. All is flexible: you will have many countries to choose from as your base, including Sweden and Norway. A house and medical and pension plans will be provided. I believe you will find the pension to be generous. If you choose, you may draw it when you reach an age of fifty-five.’
Only ten years away. Coira stirs risotto with her fork. She tries to feel outraged, or something, but once again her anger has fizzled away. Maybe she’s simply too tired. She’s slightly terrified of how attractive this all sounds.
‘I’m flattered, Mister Gryanov. But …’ she puts down her fork once more. ‘Respectfully, I know almost nothing about you or this organisation of yours. How can I be guaranteed you’ll follow up with any of this?’
‘We are not animals,’ he says, neutrally. ‘We look after our friends. But, you are sensible to ask this. So, my less sensitive computer records will be made available to you. Also, a lawyer will be assigned to you. You will, needless to say, be required to sign a contract.’
Coira narrows her eyes. ‘A lawyer? Whose law would they be using?’
Gryanov seems amused. ‘But, Ms Keir – the laws made by internationally trading corporations, of course! Most of the world’s governments also have incorporated them long ago. As part of international trade agreements. Were you thinking that organisations as large and as complex as mine can operate without rules? This would be very bad for business. How would anyone be achieving trust, when we are trading? How would there be punishments for a business that is behaving badly? You are expecting us to negotiate by shooting each other?’
‘I … am not familiar with this.’
‘I think, maybe not so unfamiliar. But this is why a lawyer will be assigned for you. For advising you.’
Coira looks at her plate. Scoops up another mouthful and chews it. ‘Is that it? Nothing else? If I agree to work for you, that’s all you want from me?’
‘There is one other thing.’
Grya
nov pulls from his wallet pocket a completely transparent rectangle about the thickness of a piece of card. He slides a thumb across it, and shows it to her.
‘Nice ’phone.’
‘It is totally new technology. Circuitry of superconducting nanotubules. The ’phone itself is the battery – full charge, less than five seconds.’
Coira finds herself looking at an image of a familiar sailing boat, seen from above at about forty-five degrees. There are subtle shifts in perspective, as though it’s a real-time video with image stabilisation. From a drone, she guesses.
It’s not a normal image, however. It’s the product of wall-piercing microwave, radar or infrared technology. Inside the boat, she can clearly see the engine, and a figure she knows is Alistair, pacing about.
‘Your shipmate is an MI5 agent.’
This jolts her.
‘I know,’ she manages, fairly levelly. Gryanov does that thing with his mouth again. Nods.
‘Interesting. Yes, I see that you do. And yet, still you travel with him?’
‘I have my reasons.’
Gryanov leans forward again, eyes like dark stones. He reaches into another pocket. Slides something across the table.
‘I want you to kill him. For me.’
Coira stares, frozen, at what’s on the table. It’s undoubtedly a pistol of some sort, but like nothing Coira’s familiar with. It doesn’t look like it’s made of metal.
‘I want you to go on to that boat, and …’ Gryanov puts his finger at a spot on his forehead, just above his nose ‘… put a bullet right here.’
Coira recoils. ‘Why?’ He doesn’t answer. ‘Why would you ask me to do such a thing?’
Still no answer.
‘I’m not a killer.’
‘Evidence to the contrary, Ms Keir.’
She chews down on that. ‘You could have killed him any time you wanted to. Why … why would you want me to do it?’
No answer.
‘Is this … a test? Some kind of initiation?’
He’s still just sitting there, looking at her. As slowly and steadily as she can muster, Coira moves her chair back and stands up.
‘Mr Gryanov.’ All moisture seems to have evaporated from her mouth. The expected rage has finally arrived. Fortunately, perhaps, it’s almost entirely swamped by fear. ‘I appreciate your hospitality, and your most generous offer – but, it’s time for me to leave. As you correctly pointed out, I am … nothing. I have neither the desire to harm you, nor the ability. And so, I hope you will understand, and will respect my wishes.’
Gryanov’s expression doesn’t change.
‘Most interesting.’
With calm deliberation, he wipes his lips on his napkin. Dumps it on his plate with a little more than the force required.
‘You would turn down such an offer? An offer almost anyone else on this planet would beg to receive? For a man … who will betray you to the same government you sacrificed your freedom, your friends and all your prospects – even risked your life – to resist?’
She just looks at him, hoping her trembling isn’t noticeable.
‘You are a source of constant surprise, Ms Keir.’
ALISTAIR HAS TAKEN to pacing the cabin.
He’s given up trying to distract himself. He’s been trying the radio, listening to MP3s from back in the teenies, even doing random cleaning and maintenance chores around the boat. The for’ard cabin, the heads and the cooking area are the cleanest and tidiest they’ve been for years.
The uncertainty has been driving him out of his mind.
Two hours and fifty-three minutes now, by his watch. He’d expected her to be gone for the five or ten minutes it would have taken to ask the captain for a ’phone. Maybe half-an-hour at the longest, if they needed to go ashore. Including the trip back.
He beats his head methodically against a bulkhead. Hurls a cloth across the cabin and stands with his hands on his hips, staring at the hatch.
Shit. Shit!
Has she simply gone, leaving him waiting around for her like a mug? Could she really have been exploiting him all this time?
What is wrong with him?
He probes the wound in his arm. It’s still throbbing, though mercifully showing no major signs of infection. He scratches his beard. Grabs a handful of his hair.
The chain was just long enough to anchor securely, and the boat is bobbing gently at the mouth to the bay. He’s seen no overt sign that he’s still in the crosshairs of whoever’s behind this operation, but he suspects at least a couple of drones still have cameras on him. He’s tried the radar. Unfortunately it’s designed to spot objects at sea-level. The most he can tell from it is that there’s nothing nearby within a few metres of the surface.
No. Whatever’s happened, she can’t have simply left him hanging. That just doesn’t seem like her.
Coira. What have you gone and done? Where the hell are you?
Over the whirr of the wind generator, he hears a distant engine.
HE’S ON DECK IN A FLASH, binoculars ready. He can feel his heart thumping. In the ghostly, granular green of night vision, not far from the shore he sees a powerboat, skimming over reflections of the glass building’s lights. It’s not the boat that took Coira to the island. In fact, it looks little longer than Otter’s Pocket.
Alistair waits impatiently as it arcs round to meet the yacht. He begins sliding the L85A2 from its locker into the footwell, but hesitates as the other boat begins pulling up. Allowing the lid to close again, he turns on the deck light.
In the darkness metres away, twin outboards burble to a stop. The powerboat glides into the yacht’s pool of illumination. As it passes the stern, one of the men on board reaches out a hand and grabs the ladder, holding the two boats together.
Someone Alistair doesn’t recognise steps up the ladder on to the deck.
He only properly grasps who it is when she curses violently as she catches one of the enormous heels she’s now wearing on the ladder’s top step, almost pitching her face-first into the cockpit. She’s wearing a sheer, glittering dress and is clutching what looks like a kid-leather handbag. Her hair has been cut and styled.
‘Aren’t you going to fucking help me, then?’
Alistair realises he’s been standing with his mouth open. He offers a hand to grab, but she’s standing on the top rung, resolutely holding out a foot, with an extremely pissed-off expression on her skilfully made-up face. Understanding, he undoes the shoe and tosses it aside.
She stands like a flamingo on the aft bench as he does the same for the other one.
‘Thank fuck for that.’ She turns to take some items she’s handed from the powerboat, and deposits them on the deck of the cockpit. With a brief salute from the driver, the powerboat roars off into the dark.
Feeling light-headed, Alistair examines what’s on his deck. There’s an embroidered cotton laundry bag with his clothes and a plush towel hanging out of it, a clear plastic case which seems to contain an unlikely number of tampons, and a perspex-fronted wooden box displaying what, on closer inspection, transpires to be a 1976 bottle of Taittinger Comte de Champagne Rose.
Coira half-stumbles at him. For a split second he thinks she’s attacking him, but instead she throws her arms around his waist, pushing her cheekbone into his sternum. Bewildered, he flails for balance, steadies himself against the frame of the spray hood, and clasps his other hand round the back of her head.
She smells of perfume. ‘What the hell?’ he manages.
‘Get us out of here,’ she says. ‘Quickly.’
He’s bursting with questions, but does as she asks, hauling up the mainsail followed by the anchor as she sits on the deck looking into space.
They sail off quietly into the night.
CHAPTER 48
______________
Safe Haven
‘MAGGIE? THAT REALLY YOU?’
‘It is. Mungo?’
‘The
same. Thocht ye wis deid.’
‘Can you confirm the status of Kate?’
‘Sorry, hen. Thocht ye’d hae heard. Kate’s oot the picture.’
‘Any news of Tam?’
‘Nae word.’
‘Fuck.’
‘Whaur are ye?’
‘Can’t tell you that. Things are complicated.’
‘Whit dae ye need?’
‘Exfil. Kirk-Alloway’s compromised.’
‘I saw.’
‘Did they know?’
‘Dinna ken. Canna see hou.’
‘What else is there? Is Paisley Yarn possible?’
‘Can I ca ye back?’
‘No.’
[Long pause]
‘Paisley Yarn’s still active. Transport an papers’ll be waitin.’
‘Is Paisley Yarn … stable?’
‘Nae sign o Auld Nick or Jock Tamson’s Bairns. Flights sooth apairently still gettin throu.’
‘Really? Confirm, please: flight links south still operational?’
‘Aha.’
‘What’s my timescale?’
‘Dinna wait too lang, hen.’
‘Thanks. Thanks, Mungo.’
‘Tak care. Oot.’
COIRA LIES IN THE FORWARD CABIN, limbs tangled with Alistair’s, listening to rain and spray lashing against fibreglass, and ropes and cables clattering against the mast. The turbine is spinning so fast it sounds like a kazoo.
At least the decision has been made for them. The weather means there’s nothing to be done today.
Anticipating the storm the previous night, Alistair had steered the boat northwards for a couple of hours to the island of Soay. It had taken her that long to start believing that their “escape” wasn’t part of some cruel game, and that Gryanov might genuinely be letting them go. With cloud gathering from the south, the air to the north had briefly cleared, treating them to stars and a dazzling Aurora Borealis. Shimmering green curtains slowly undulated, spawning bars and rays of deep pink and occasional fast ripples of electric blue which danced and raced above the black teeth of the Cuillin of Skye.