Ratcatcher - By Tim Stevens Page 0,18

for a walk in the Old Town. The conical turrets were blacker against the backdrop of the newly darkened sky. By the clock on the tower of the Holy Spirit Church it was half past eight. In thirty-six hours’ time it would be over.

Purkiss. He was troubling in himself, but so were the implications of his presence in the city. The Jacobin hadn’t yet explained to Kuznetsov who Purkiss was, but would have to soon, even though Kuznetsov would reasonably blame the presence of a former SIS officer on poor security on the Jacobin’s part.

There was no point in conducting an intensive manhunt. Tallinn was a small city but not that small, and the manpower available to Kuznetsov wasn’t unlimited. The Jacobin assumed Purkiss was still operational, so there would be little gained in checking the hospitals. He would have to be ignored for now, until he showed his hand again.

The Jacobin watched a British stag party posing crudely for photographs on the Town Hall Square, and was put in mind of the small man, Seppo, and his camera that morning. Like Purkiss, he was another loose end unsatisfactorily tied off. Too much was unexplained at this late stage.

Unless –

Seppo and Purkiss.

Of course. The connection was not only possible but seemed likely.

With a renewed lift of spirits the Jacobin left the square.

*

Purkiss passed between the twin mediaeval towers of the Viru Gate into the Old Town at eight fifty-five by his watch. He’d assumed it was hours later, his sense of time having slowed along with his reactions. After lurching round corner after corner he’d finally stopped, hands braced on thighs, fighting the urge to vomit. For the first time he noticed that he’d dropped his shoulder bag at some point and had no spare clothes. The weight in his limbs was beginning to lift, but his eyelids still felt sodden.

A street newspaper vendor sold him a guidebook and map. From another vendor he bought a pay-as-you-go phone. He tried Seppo again, got no response, binned the phone and bought another from a different shop. He called Vale, surprised to find that his tongue and jaws worked well enough that he could make himself understood.

‘I’m compromised.’

He told him about the surveillance from the airport, the chase.

‘Fallon must have got on to Seppo.’ Purkiss could hear cellophane being stripped off a fresh pack of cigarettes. ‘Obtained your name and arrival time. I’m sorry.’

‘Not your fault. Everyone breaks if the pressure’s extreme enough. And Fallon’s a professional, he’d have known if Seppo was trying to feed him disinformation.’

Down the line Vale drew deeply, exhaled through his nose. ‘Do you want to come back?’

Purkiss ignored that. ‘I’m going to Seppo’s flat.’

‘That’s highly dangerous.’

‘It’s the only way.’

He rang off and dialled again. Abby answered after two rings.

‘Abby, it’s me. Sorry to wake you.’

‘You didn’t. It’s a quarter to seven.’

He looked at his watch. ‘Sorry, yes. Bit disorientated.’

‘How’s Tallinn?’

‘Friendly people. Can you get a GPS fix on this phone?’

‘I can do anything, Mr Purkiss.’

‘If I don’t ring you back in two hours, locate me and phone this number.’ He gave her Vale’s number. The two of them had never met; Vale provided the funding and some very basic logistical support but was otherwise content to leave Purkiss to hire his own help on a freelance basis. If she had to contact Vale it would mean Purkiss was fatally compromised.

With the help of the map he found himself on the outskirts of the Old Town, picture-postcard red roofs clustered on the far side of a busy main road. He crossed unsteadily, the blare of traffic making him flash back to the recent past. For a moment he wondered if there’d been some kind of hallucinogen in the syringe, but concluded that the stress of the last hour was still gnawing at him.

He walked cobbled streets, modern shopping facades kept discreet amongst the splendour of the mediaeval buildings. The aroma of roasting meat assailed him from restaurant doorways. He realised he hadn’t eaten since grabbing a bite on the way to see Vale that morning. There was no time to stop. On the other hand he was weak, needed protein and carbohydrates. He stepped into a square, the cobbled pavement of which sloped alarmingly, bought a steak sandwich and a litre bottle of water from a vending wagon, and sat on a stone bollard to eat. He felt his blood glucose levels rise immediately. As if in tandem a memory surfaced for the first time.

After he’d dropped