Ratcatcher - By Tim Stevens Page 0,98

of anything but the tone that heralded the arrival of the text, loud as a blast in the confined space, a double ting sound like the tapping of a spoon against the rim of an empty glass to gain an audience’s attention before an after-dinner speech.

Didn’t think of that, did you, forgot to mute it.

Purkiss knew it had been heard outside his hiding place too, because from beyond the lid he heard a muffled cry and a creak as the weight shifted on the lid.

THIRTY-EIGHT

The man was a surly old walrus, moustache and fingers the same nicotine sienna. He stared through the haze from his rollup with eyes stewed in last night’s booze.

‘You’re out early.’

‘I wanted to get away from the crowds back in town.’

‘You’re not interested in the handshake?’

The Jacobin shrugged. ‘Big deal. People make friends, they fall out again. Round it goes.’

The man was old enough to have been a child during the war. He gave half a laugh. ‘Isn’t that the truth.’ He sat up straight on his stool, dropping ash on the newspaper spread on the counter before him. ‘What can I do for you?’

The Jacobin told him: something fast. He took out his wallet and fanned the notes. Money no object.

The old man squinted through the smoke, nodded. ‘Got just the thing. Come on.’

It bobbed among the small collection at the jetty, dull white in the morning gloom, a Finnish make, not brand new but well cared for.

‘Handles exceptionally well, and I can’t say that for some of these other buckets,’ the old man said. ‘Inboard motor, as you can see. Maximum speed a hundred and ten knots.’

Back in the office the Jacobin exchanged keys for cash. The old man eyed him. ‘You all right? You look like you’ve had a rough night.’

‘Touch of asthma. The morning cold always makes it play up. I’ll be fine.’

‘Good, because I want my boat back.’

The Jacobin accepted the man’s offer of a waxed jacket to go over his suit. He climbed aboard. He wasn’t an experienced speedboater, but the controls were easy enough to grasp. The engine started smoothly, its low rumble comforting beneath his thighs.

‘Keep clear of town,’ called the old man. ‘They’ll torpedo you if you get too close.’

The Jacobin nosed away from the jetty. Ahead the grey sea stirred, annoyed by this new intrusion.

*

Venedikt glanced sharply across at Dobrynin and saw he too had heard it. Some sort of sharp clinking of metal. He tensed, muscles bunching, hand moving to the pistol at his hip.

Across from them the Englishman, Fallon, arched his back sideways, his lumpish clotted face twisted in a grimace. Through lips of rubber he muttered: ‘Seatbelt.’

‘What’s the matter? You want it on?’ Venedikt laughed. ‘Afraid you might hurt yourself if we stop suddenly?’

‘Digging into my back.’

Dobrynin strode across the cabin and pulled Fallon forward by his collar. He fumbled at the small of his back and cast free the ends of the seatbelt. Venedikt relaxed. It was the movement of the parts of the buckle that had made the chinking noise. Fallon heaved his bottom up and down a few times, taking advantage of the marginal improvement in his comfort, until Venedikt said, ‘Stop that.’

Up ahead in the cockpit, Leok and Lyuba were exchanging low remarks. The Black Hawk was proceeding northwards, keeping well clear of the no-fly zone, before it began its eastward turn and, at the end, its full swing to face back towards the shore.

Seven twenty-seven.

*

Inside the bench Purkiss cringed, breath held, readying his fists and his legs to emerge doing as much damage as he could before they cut him down. Instead of being raised, the lid creaked and bore down harder as if the weight on it were increasing. He heard, distinctly, Fallon’s voice. It sounded like he said seatbelt in Russian.

Then another voice, further but still close, Kuznetsov’s this time. Something about Fallon’s not hurting himself.

Then a series of thumps on the lid. He recoiled at each one. A bark from Kuznetsov.

Silence followed.

Slowly, controlling the sound, Purkiss exhaled. Fallon too had heard the tone made by the arriving text message, had recognised what it was. Had realised Purkiss was on board the aircraft, and had covered it up. Unbelievable reflexes, in his beaten-up condition.

Purkiss found the “mute” button and pressed it. He read the message while his heartbeat slowed to normal.

Working on a GPS fix on your phone at the moment. So Fallon not working with Kuznetsov, then. Kendrick asks what sort of missile?

Two pieces of