Ratcatcher - By Tim Stevens Page 0,76

exactly wrong, one hundred and eighty degrees out. There are no grand sweeping narratives in history, other than the ones we construct. Something happens and then another something happens, and then another, and in retrospect we impose a contrived causal link between them, so it seems like one progressed inevitably from the last.’

She said nothing, absorbing it. Purkiss sat up, warming to his theme.

‘Take tomorrow, or later today, rather. The presidents are meeting, and if all goes according to plan, they’ll seal an agreement which will make it less likely that their two countries, Russia and Estonia, and by extension Russia and the NATO powers, will go to war. But there are thousands of other potential triggers, manmade and otherwise, that could lead to such a war. Yet in a year’s time, ten years’ time, if we haven’t gone to war then the historians will attribute this achievement directly to today’s meeting. Baselessly so.’

‘But if the meeting is sabotaged, if the Russian president is assassinated… the chance of war is dramatically increased.’

‘Exactly. Chances, probabilities – that’s all we can deal in. Not certainties. It’s what Hume taught me. That’s why I chose the Service.’ He sat back against the pillows again. ‘You can’t make the world a better place. But you can help reduce the probability of awful things happening, not awful things in principle but individual things. And if that’s the most you do with your life then I think you can say you’ve had a life worth living.’

Her eyes were soft and he thought he saw a sadness in her smile.

‘And where does this fit in? What we’re doing?’

She waved vaguely at them, at the bed. Before he could be lost for words, she let the cover drop away from her body, leaned in towards him, and he reached for her once more.

TWENTY-NINE

Purkiss was dressed by the time Kendrick let himself in. Kendrick’s face was taut, the cheeks stretched hollow, his limbs tense as claspknives. He barely nodded at Purkiss as he strode over to the table, where he picked up the gun and hefted it as if it were a prosthetic arm he’d temporarily misplaced.

Elle emerged from the bedroom in a dressing gown. Purkiss handed her the mug of coffee he’d made. She waved at Kendrick’s stare and disappeared again into the bedroom.

‘Have a good walk?’ Purkiss asked. Kendrick had none of the jitteriness of the true speed freak, so probably hadn’t overdone it.

Kendrick sat himself in Purkiss’s line of sight and leered. ‘Filthy bastard.’

Purkiss looked at the smirking face, managed to stop his mouth from twitching in a smile. ‘There’s coffee in the pot. Help yourself. If you need any caffeine on top, that is.’

‘I won’t tell Abby.’ Kendrick laid a forefinger alongside his nose.

Purkiss sighed, exasperated. Perhaps Kendrick had overindulged after all. ‘Why would she care?’

The silence went on longer than was comfortable. Purkiss noticed that Kendrick’s gaze had changed, turned from mocking to wondering.

‘My God. You genuinely don’t know, do you?’

‘What?’

Kendrick let out his breath in a great hiss between his teeth, propping his boots up on a chair. ‘Purkiss… for someone who’s only slightly less educated than God, you can be a right stupid bugger at times.’

‘What?’ Purkiss spread his palms.

‘She’s crazy about you. Batshit insane. Like a teenager with a pop star.’

‘Abby?’

‘Yes. Abby.’ Kendrick shook his head. ‘And you haven’t seen it. All that wisecracking, all those chirpy Mister Purkiss remarks… it’s all a front. She’s besotted. Christ knows why, she could do better.’

Purkiss said nothing, his thoughts churning. Was it possible? He’d had a vague notion Abby admired what he did, that her loyalty wasn’t just due to the money he paid her, but… that? Comments, snatches of conversation, nonverbal signs began to play themselves again in his head.

Elle emerged again, dressed and glancing from one man to the other, aware that something had passed between them. Kendrick chuckled softly, and the moment was gone.

*

They did an inventory. Elle’s Glock 19, a lighter version of the Glock 17 with which Purkiss was more familiar. The SIG Sauer he’d taken off the man Braginsky in the hotel. Kendrick’s AK-74. Elle had six rounds left as well as a spare 15-round magazine, while the SIG Sauer still had all ten of its rounds but no spare clip. The assault rifle had one spare magazine holding 30 rounds. And that was it.

The priority, Purkiss had made them agree, was to see Abby to safety before revealing themselves. Any appearance by the two of them