Ratcatcher - By Tim Stevens Page 0,81

another person, and had noticed this quality in the Englishman in abundance. Also, if Kuznetsov went down, the Englishman knew he would go down with him.

The car’s heater needed to be on because of the cold, but the air was stuffy. Venedikt pressed the button to lower the window on his side, breathed deeply through his nose, savouring the bright aromas of wet fields and woodsmoke. A year of planning, then the frustration of major complications in the last two days. But here he was, six hours from his goal, the path ahead cleared.

He was going to pull it off.

*

The Jacobin let himself into the flat, pulled up one of the chairs around the dining table. He preferred it over the armchairs: they were too low and rising from them would be difficult before long. He needed rest, badly, and sleep, but could afford neither. The usual stroll through the night-time streets was of course out of the question now.

He made the necessary phone call, then folded the handset away, surprised at how difficult he had found the exchange. It must be the tiredness. Sentimentality, emotional weakness in general, always showed through like a garish undercoat when the outer layers got rubbed thin by fatigue. It wasn’t a matter to dwell on because he needed to think about what to do about the Russian.

Up until the Jacobin had impersonated Fallon’s voice on the phone to Purkiss, he’d considered the far-fetched notion that Purkiss was somehow in league with Fallon, that his stated pursuit of the man was a smokescreen of some kind. But Purkiss’s reaction to hearing “Fallon”‘s voice – immediate, unquestioning hatred – convinced the Jacobin. Purkiss was hunting the man, wanted him as badly as he said. This validated the Jacobin’s earlier plan, told him he’d been right to play Purkiss along in the hope that he’d find Fallon. But he’d failed, and now he, Purkiss, was in Kuznetsov’s hands.

Had Kuznetsov killed Fallon? Tortured him, gone too far and lost him, and now taken Purkiss as a replacement? But why torture either man, unless out of wanton cruelty, something the Jacobin thought unlikely? Perhaps Kuznetsov entertained delusions about being a spymaster, and had decided to kick off his career by beating as much information as he could about the British SIS out of two of its former agents. Again, possible, but implausible.

The problem was, the Jacobin had no idea where Kuznetsov had taken Purkiss, where the new base was. Kuznetsov had mentioned earlier during the planning stages of the operation that there was a second base, as an alternative should the farm be compromised, but he’d kept quiet about its location and the Jacobin hadn’t pressed him, assuming the farm would remain secure. With hindsight it had been a mistake. He had tried phoning Kuznetsov earlier, just before reaching the flat. The number was no longer in service. Kuznetsov was cutting all ties, getting rid of his phone so that he couldn’t be tracked.

The Jacobin rose uncomfortably from the chair and went into the bathroom and splashed water on his face, then filled a tooth glass and drank. In the bath the body looked cramped, its face turned downward so that only a quarter was visible. There would be plenty of time to move it later on, after eight o’clock had come and gone.

He stood at the sink, finishing the water, gazing at the huddled mass, and was reminded of the much smaller crumpled figure of the girl on the lawn. In mid-swallow the thought struck him.

Purkiss had gone into the exchange knowing there was no escape for him, that if he wasn’t killed immediately he’d be taken captive. In which case, what precautions had he taken to allow his colleagues to track his whereabouts after his capture?

The Jacobin put down the glass, took out his phone.

*

Down the steps he was shoved, vertigo and the lack of visual cues making them seem steeper than they really were. His shoulders bashed off the walls. At the bottom he finally lost his balance and tipped forwards, unable to use his trussed hands to break his fall, colliding face-first with something wooden – a door, he guessed – that was like yet another punch to his swollen nose and lips, sending a surge of pain all the way through his head to the back of his neck.

Hands steadied Purkiss and he heard the faint whine of hinges and another shove propelled him into a wider space, judging by the slight echo.