Ratcatcher - By Tim Stevens Page 0,46

Russian, with no Estonian version.’

‘And Zhilin is – was – an ethnic Russian,’ said Teague. ‘Plenty of businesses target a minority clientele, of course. It’s just intriguing, given everything else.’

Elle: ‘Rodina Security handles routine work, according to the site. Bodyguard jobs, patrolling of private and corporate residences, countersurveillance.’

‘Any record of run-ins with the law?’ asked Purkiss.

‘We don’t know yet.’

*

At the office Purkiss remembered something and asked to use one of the computers. He called up the website he used to store photographs and downloaded the shots he’d taken of the man who had got out of the car along the coast road, the man he’d taken to be the one debriefing Lyuba Ilkun on Abby’s audio feed. The other three peered at the monitor. The resolution was poor but in one or two pictures the man’s face was clear: grim, set, the features of somebody with purpose.

‘Looks military,’ said Elle.

Rossiter: ‘And, dare I say it, Slavic.’

Elle switched places with Purkiss and emailed copies of the pictures to her contact at the Ministry of Defence. Rossiter stood looking down at the desk for a moment, then said: ‘All right. Are we agreed that for the moment our only lead, such as it is, is this security firm? Then we take a two-pronged approach. Two of us use every means at our disposal to find out what we can about the firm. History, personnel figures, finances, complaints, trouble with the police. The other two visit the firm’s offices and try to get an audience with somebody senior, on the pretext of wanting to hire them.’ He looked at them in turn, calmer, in charge once more. ‘Purkiss, you visit the offices. If the firm itself is involved in all this, they’ll know what each one of us looks like from the Ilkun woman, so it makes no difference which of us goes. But we have the local knowledge and contacts to do the financial and other searches. You don’t.’

‘Can’t argue with that.’ Purkiss stood and stretched, easing the stiffness that was beginning to creep back into his limbs. ‘Who comes with me?’

‘I will,’ said Elle. The glances shot back and forth between the three agents, too quickly to be interpreted, but Purkiss thought he knew what they were thinking: whoever went with him would be running a risk. Rossiter nodded.

‘Yes, it makes sense. A woman will be less immediately threatening.’ He removed his tie and handed it to Purkiss. ‘You’ll need this. It’s a bit late to get a suit.’

Elle’s phone rang. She listened, murmured a question or two, then said to the others, ‘My contact. The man in those pictures you took is Venedikt Kuznetsov. Former Scouts Battalion, same infantry company as the other two, but several years before either of them. Reached the rank of ensign, a junior officer, before being imprisoned following a court martial in 1994 for beating a civilian half to death.’

Rossiter said to Teague: ‘Get on to him.’

‘We’ve come across him already,’ said Elle. ‘He’s named on the Rodina Security website as their managing director.’

*

In the lift down to the basement Elle said: ‘If we don’t make some progress soon, we’re going to have to hand it over.’

‘To the police? The Service people at the Embassy? No.’

‘We might have no option –’

‘If we do that, Fallon will get away. He’ll go even further to ground than he has already. He’s clever, he knows he won’t be able to escape the combined resources of two countries’ intelligence services while staying active in the field.’

‘But is that so bad? If it aborts whatever he’s got planned, keeps the summit alive, does it matter?’

‘It’ll only postpone his plans. And if he disappears now we may never have another chance to get him.’

‘You may never.’

He stared ahead as the doors opened. ‘If you like.’

She kept a pace behind him as he strode towards the car, then said quietly, ‘I wasn’t being snide. In your situation I imagine I’d do exactly the same.’

She pressed the remote control for the car’s locks, swung into the driver’s seat. Purkiss got in the passenger side. He pulled the door shut and then his head snapped round at her.

The gun must have been in some sort of holster on the side of her seat. She was left-handed and she held it low and pointing across her body at a slight angle upwards towards his head, the barrel grotesquely elongated by the silencer screwed to its end.

EIGHTEEN

The word silencer was a misnomer when it came to