fact. When one had committed oneself to a refusal to give an inch, the dreams stiffened one’s resolve.
The figures were burned in the Jacobin’s mind. Two and a half thousand operational strategic warheads, two thousand operational tactical warheads, seven thousand stockpiled warheads of both varieties. It was the best estimate of the Russian nuclear arsenal, not at the height of the Cold War but today, more than two decades after the fall of the Soviet empire. There was no chance, none at all, that the growing economic and geopolitical resurgence of the old enemy would not be accompanied eventually by the flexing of its military muscles, whether directly or through terrorist proxies. And no chance that the nuclear stockpile would remain unused. Meanwhile the governments of the EU and the US were embracing détente, rapprochement, a host of French terms that failed to disguise the English one they were meant to replace: appeasement.
As the evidence of the country’s growing aggression and arrogance had accumulated – the Litvinenko murder, the crushing of Georgia – there had been those within the Service who had pressed for a more assertive approach to the Russian Bear: greater numbers deployed in Moscow and Petersburg to bolster the existing networks there, targeted assassinations, pressure on the politicians to adopt a more publicly pugnacious stance. These courageous voices had been shouted down by others, less courageous. Russia is an ally in the War on Terror. We rely on Gazprom’s oil. And, more honestly if hardly more excusably: Look at the state of the economy. There’s no money left. The mealy-mouthed justifications nauseated the Jacobin.
After the morning of Saturday the fourteenth everything would be different. Within a week, within days, the Kremlin would have made its move, and the weasels in Whitehall and Washington would no longer be able to cower in their burrows. And leading the fightback would be the Service, reenergised, with a reacquired sense of purpose.
The old man, the landlord, had opened the door in a fury. His anger quickly dissolved into terror. By the end he was grovelling. He’d been useful, not for revealing where he’d sent Purkiss – this was already known to the Jacobin – but for what he’d said about the questions Purkiss had asked. The picture was becoming extremely complicated.
The call came from Kuznetsov. ‘My men are in place. He’s trapped.’
That was quick. The Jacobin was impressed, but didn’t betray it. ‘They underestimated him last time. Make sure it doesn’t happen again.’
‘You have my word.’ Was there snideness in the tone? Kuznetsov’s true attitude towards the Jacobin had become increasingly apparent in the last week.
‘Non-lethal force only.’
Kuznetsov said nothing.
‘I mean it, Kuznetsov.’
‘It causes delay, and ties up my people who are needed elsewhere. A quick despatch is far more efficient.’
The Jacobin gripped the phone, fighting down the frustration. ‘I told you, I need to extract information from him. Crucial information that could scupper the whole enterprise if we let it.’
‘If he is as dangerous as you say, then we’re better off with him dead.’ The call was disconnected.
The Jacobin paced, channelling the anger, trying to divert it like lightning into the earth. The pig-headed idiot had ideas above his station, was going to let his ego wreck everything.
From across the nearby bay a horn sounded, low and prolonged like a moan.
ELEVEN
He’d identified four of them so far but suspected there were more. The bull-necked man was barrelling his way through the throng, hanging back when Purkiss changed direction so that he could track him. On either side of the entrance there were two of them, their stares like spotlights trained on a lone sprinter across a prison yard. And behind the bar the woman, Lyuba, was ignoring the shouts of drinkers trying to get her attention and stood with folded arms, her gaze naked as the others’.
He fished the card out of his breast pocket and read the number by the light of his phone.
It was going to be impossible to make himself heard over the cacophony. On the other hand, he couldn’t risk heading back into the restrooms where it was marginally quieter, because he’d be trapping himself down a cul de sac. He thumbed in the text message and hit the send key.
The bull-necked man was trying to drive him towards the two at the entrance and he headed deep into the heaving mass of clubbers but it was hazardous because he didn’t know how many of them would be waiting further back in the depths of the