wanted that pencil so much?”
“I’ll tell you tomorrow. I don’t want to think about all that. I want us to be here, in this bunk, in this cabin, forever.”
“I know, pchelka, me too. One day.”
“One day.”
“Spoki noki, baby bee.”
“Sweet dreams.”
When Anton doesn’t show up for breakfast the next morning, no one takes much notice. The empty brandy bottle at the edge of the platform has been noted, and Nobby and Ginge make sympathetic references to hangovers and mornings after. By eight-thirty, however, the two men are looking at their watches and exchanging concerned glances. Ginge offers to go to Anton’s cabin and wake him, and when he returns he looks grave.
He and Nobby confer, then we split up and search every inch of the platform. It doesn’t take long. The two office containers are locked, but a glance through the windows tells us they’re unoccupied.
“There wasn’t any kind of boat or inflatable craft he could have taken?” I suggest helpfully, and Ginge shakes his head.
“No. And even if there was, it was blowing at least force eight last night. The boss wouldn’t have been crazy enough to try anything like that.”
“Only possible conclusion, he went over the side,” Nobby says. “Probably after downing that bottle.”
“Deliberately?” I ask.
“Nah. Why would he? He was well up for this project and obviously wanted to see it through. Probably got pissed up and lost his footing. Easily done.”
Ginge nods. “Question is, what do the rest of us do now? We’ve got twenty-four hours until the chopper comes to pick us up.”
“Carry on as before?” Oxana suggests. “It doesn’t need to make any difference.”
“I can be your spotter today,” Nobby says.
“Sure. Whatever.”
Ginge looks from face to face. “Everyone OK with that? We carry on as we were? Meanwhile I’ll see what I can do about the lock on that front office. Pretty sure there’s a satphone in there and that the antenna works.”
“Who you gonna call?” Nobby asks. “Ghostbusters?”
“Our employers. Give them a heads-up about the boss.”
“Rather you than me.”
“Got to be done, boyo.”
We return to the firing points. The sea and the sky are calmer today, and visibility much improved. Charlie’s nailing pretty much every target at seven hundred meters plus, now. One shot, one kill, as Ginge continually impresses on us. From what I can see, Oxana’s hit rate is every bit as consistent.
We spend our last night on the platform in my cabin. I tell Oxana about the encounter with Tikhomirov, and how he asked me to contact him if I discover what the Twelve are planning, and I say that, if possible, I intend to do exactly this. The more important our target is, I argue, the less likely it is that the Twelve will let us walk away when the job’s done. We’re more than expendable, we’re a liability.
If I can make contact with Tikhomirov, on the other hand, and provide him with enough information to intercept us before we fire a shot, he may see an advantage in keeping us alive, and letting it be known that we were acting as his agents all along. Oxana is briefly angry that I didn’t tell her earlier and deeply suspicious of any alliance with the FSB, but agrees that in the long run we are probably marginally better off relying on the state security service than the Twelve.
“And this is what you wanted the pencil for?” she asks me.
“Exactly. To try to get a message to him.”
I tell her my plan, such as it is, and she considers it in silence.
“Could work,” she says eventually, stroking my cheek with cold-roughened fingers. “At the same time I’d kind of like to go through with the hit. I’d love to pull the trigger on someone really high profile. Just to sign off.”
“I wish you didn’t enjoy it so much.”
“I’m good at it. Every ocean needs its sharks. Every kill I’ve carried out has left the world a better place.”
“That’s not what it’s about, though, is it? I mean, you’re not really interested in making the world a better place.”
“Mmm… no. Maybe not.”
“And you’re not a sadist. You don’t get turned on watching people suffer.”
“Not particularly.” She slides her hand down my back. “Apart from you, obviously.”
“Very funny. And stop wobbling my bum.”
“I love your bum.”
“Easy for you to say, with a body like a weasel on steroids. But go on. Remind me. What is it about murder that turns you on so much?”
“I could ask you the same question.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning not to be that