Ratcatcher - By Tim Stevens Page 0,73

standard procedure. Every agent in the field arranged his or her own safe house, the whereabouts of which was unknown to anybody else, even trusted colleagues. They couldn’t return to her usual flat in case Teague showed up.

‘So he hates the Russian president too,’ said Purkiss. ‘Teague.’

She shook her head, her eyes weary. ‘Not that he ever mentioned. But I don’t know. God. Nothing’s certain any more.’

The safe house was a second-floor flat in a nondescript suburban area. Purkiss had a notion they were west of the Old Town. He trooped upstairs with the others two, fatigue pulling at his limbs.

The living room was barely furnished and cold as only a room left unheated for months can be. Elle flicked the boiler into life, went into the kitchenette. Purkiss sank onto a reconditioned sofa and Kendrick seated himself at the tiny dining table. He placed the rifle across it and began to strip it.

‘Thing about these old Soviet weapons,’ he said, ‘you can treat them like shit. Leave them out in the rain, drag them through swamps, bury them under an avalanche. They go on working like loyal old mutts.’

The aroma of coffee began to replace the mustiness. Purkiss put his hands round the mug Elle handed him and drank gratefully. She’d provided sandwiches as well, huge doorsteps of granary and ham and cheese.

Purkiss’s phone vibrated. He snatched it from his pocket.

Caller’s number blocked.

‘John. It’s me.’

‘Fallon.’

He felt Elle stiffen beside him on the sofa, saw Kendrick sit up in the chair.

‘Here’s something to establish good faith.’ The voice was low and grating.

An instant later another voice, so close to the mouthpiece it was distorted, whispered:

‘Mr Purkiss. He’s –’

‘Abby. Are you hurt –’

Fallon’s voice came back, Abby’s having ended so abruptly it must have been clamped off by a hand or a gag of some sort.

‘She’s fine, at the moment. This is the deal. Listening?’

‘Yes.’

‘You for her. You come in, and she walks.’ A pause. ‘What time do you have?’

‘One thirty.’

‘Four a.m., Kiek in de Kök.’

He was gone.

TWENTY-EIGHT

The rain was becoming more determined, as if claiming the streets now that so few people were about any longer. The Jacobin worked as quickly as he could, making sure the boot was locked, and doing a routine sweep for bugs under the bonnet and the chassis even though the likelihood was remote.

He hadn’t expected Purkiss to return to the hotel. He’d told Kuznetsov about the hotel to get the man off his back. The Russian had of course wanted to use the woman immediately as bait to draw Purkiss in, but the Jacobin had held off, still clinging to the hope that Purkiss might lead him to Fallon. He’d known Kuznetsov would stake the hotel room out, but assumed he’d post a couple of men at most, not mount an eight-man surveillance operation. As it turned out, Kuznetsov had been right. Purkiss had gone back, and now Kuznetsov had lost a third of his personnel, and the police were involved. All in all, a chaotic couple of hours.

Now the Jacobin was forced to agree with Kuznetsov. It was time to bring Purkiss in, and his friend, Abby, was the lure. He’d agreed the venue with Kuznetsov, Kiek in de Kök, as well as the time. Two and a half hours from now, which would give Kuznetsov’s depleted crew time to finish the transfer to the new site and the securing of the base, and to set up position at the venue. The delay wouldn’t give Purkiss a significant advantage because he didn’t have vast reserves on which to draw. Just that sidekick of his, and Elle.

Elle. As the Jacobin went back indoors for his coat, he reflected that it was a pity she was probably going to die. He had cared for her, of course. Had he loved her, even, once? He supposed the flicker of loosening that her voice, her presence, had stirred in his chest could be interpreted as love, or as close as he had ever come to experiencing it. But that had been some time ago, and when he’d feared the feelings might get in the way of what he needed to do, he’d rooted them out. Now he felt nothing.

Less even, perhaps, than the body face down in the empty bath, invisible from where he stood at the front door of the flat.

He dragged on his coat and killed the lights and went out to the car.

*

‘Kiek in de Kök.’ Kendrick had stripped and cleaned and reassembled the