Ratcatcher - By Tim Stevens Page 0,106

onto Purkiss’s exposed neck. Purkiss swiped the Jacobin’s leg out from under him and it was his turn to land hard. Purkiss had slid to the other end of the boat and had the gun out.

And it was over.

*

‘You should have let them put the chest drain in. You’d be in better shape.’

Purkiss’s words sounded to him thick. Before his eyes swam two men, two boats.

‘I did.’ Between words Rossiter gave a little start, like a hiccup. He sat against the wheel of the now-drifting boat, both hands pressed against the left side of his chest. Much as Purkiss had seen him in the flat, after the stabbing.

‘I had the drain, gave it half an hour. Then got them to remove it and discharged myself.’

‘Because you had my friend, Abby, stowed away.’

‘In the boot of my car, yes.’

A beat passed. Purkiss felt a flare of panic. Had he passed out for a while? But to the south, the mass of approaching traffic had advanced only slightly.

So many questions. ‘Where’s Teague?’

‘Dead, in the bathroom in my flat.’

‘He was on to you.’

‘Yes.’ He broke off, gasping, his voice softer afterwards. ‘I surprised him in my flat, as I told you. But he was there looking for incriminating evidence.’

‘You’ve failed.’

‘I have.’

Purkiss didn’t ask the obvious question. Why did you do it? He found he didn’t care. Gingerly, to stop his vision blurring further, he craned round. The speed boat had covered more distance than he’d realised. Kendrick and Elle were specks in the water.

Rossiter said something. Purkiss said, ‘What?’ partly because he’d only half heard, partly because he had difficulty believing what he had heard.

‘You can’t take me in.’

‘You’re asking me to let you go.’

‘Of course not.’ He broke off, waxen, breath coming in hissing jerks between his teeth. ‘You have to kill me.’

Purkiss waited.

‘Kill me and dump me. Quickly.’

‘Why?’

‘The Service can’t be implicated in any of this.’

Purkiss coughed a laugh. ‘Bit late for that.’

‘It doesn’t have to be. Work with Elle, come up with a narrative. It was all Kuznetsov’s doing. The Service wasn’t involved at all.’

‘The Service wasn’t involved. You’re not Service. You’re a traitor.’

‘It won’t be seen that way.’ Despite the pain in his voice he was managing to put urgency in it. ‘The Service will be tainted. It’ll damage our standing. Weaken us irrevocably.’

‘Our. Us.’ Purkiss shook his head. ‘You really are something else, Rossiter.’

‘Kill me.’

‘No.’

‘You’d like to.’

‘More than anything else.’

Another beat. Then Rossiter said, ‘I can make you.’

*

The first of the helicopters had arrived and were circling above the carnage like crows over roadkill, the gusts from their rotors ruffling the water. Without being asked, Rossiter had reached across from where he was slumped and given the engine some throttle to move the boat further away.

‘Claire – your Claire – was mine.’

For a moment Purkiss misunderstood, thought he was hearing soap opera dialogue.

‘Best agent I ever had. Bright, ruthless, utterly loyal. A master of subterfuge.’

Purkiss listened, the gun weighing down his hand.

‘You know what I’m getting at, don’t you.’ Rossiter seemed to grin, but it was a grimace as he shifted position. ‘She was the one who carried out the hit on the Iranian, Asgari. She told you she was investigating Fallon. Other way round. He was investigating her.’

Rossiter’s voice was dwindling, the rushing blood in Purkiss’s temples drowning it out.

‘I was running her. Recruited her a couple of years after she joined the Service. She had passion, she had commitment. As you well know, John.’

One of the helicopters was taking an interest in them now that others had joined the scene. The crackle of radio static cut the air.

‘Fallon was on to her, but he wasn’t sure of my identity. Knew there was someone running her, of course, and I was on his list to be investigated. But there were several others, and he began with the people he was certain of. Claire was one of them.’

Purkiss hadn’t checked the magazine, wasn’t sure how many bullets were left. Focus on that, focus on anything but what he’s saying.

‘She loved you, John. Thought you’d be an ideal recruit, wanted to approach you eventually, open up to you about what we were doing. I agreed with her. You’d have done us proud. But for now, I advised her to keep her activities from you. It was her idea, a masterstroke, to make you believe Fallon was the one needing investigation. It got you on her side against him, allowed her to gain the benefit of your skills.’

He was remembering