by Tim Stevens
Craning his neck he peered through the driver’s window just below the trunk. The driver was concertinaed against the webbed windscreen, his head locked in place by a branch that had been driven through the windscreen into his left eye socket. His mouth was agape.
He was in the way. Purkiss clambered back along the trunk to its base and moved across to the other trunk. This one did not feel as secure, and swayed palpably as Purkiss edged along it on his hands and knees. By lying along its length he was able to cling almost alongside it and look through the passenger window. On the dashboard he saw what he wanted. It appeared undamaged.
The problem was getting to it. He could climb into the car through the rear window or the passenger one, but that would certainly push the Lexus all the way through the fork and send it falling. His arm wasn’t long enough to reach it from where he was clinging to the branch.
He hugged the trunk, and thought about Claire, and Fallon, and the three Service agents, one or more of whom were betraying him. And he thought about how the forest around him was darkening as the afternoon set in, and how this was the last afternoon before Fallon set in motion whatever he had planned for the morning.
He needed a way in, and urgently.
Purkiss shuffled up the trunk until he was directly over the passenger window and braced his hands on the trunk, testing the strength in his arms. He swung down so that once again he was hanging in the air, trying not to imagine the drop below him, the consequences of slipping and falling. He pressed his feet together and pushed them through the window hole, catching the back of the seat with his shoe as one of his hands slipped. He regained his grip but the nudge to the seat produced a terrible growl from the metal and it shifted against the ancient bark. The Lexus jolted a foot further through the wedge.
He had to withdraw his feet to steady himself. Once more he dangled, flailing. He tried again and this time he got one foot hooked around the back of the small box on the dashboard. Tongue between his teeth, he groped with the other foot, pressed it against the box and tugged gently, feeling it shift in its slot. In a second it was free. Gripping it between his feet, he withdrew it through the window. He hung for a moment, arms burning and the sweat in his palms slicking the bark. He could feel himself losing his grip, and every instinct screamed to let his legs kick and scrabble at the air, anything to help him regain purchase, but if he did so he’d drop the box. He kept his feet clamped together and instead tried to swing his arm further over the trunk in a movement like a swimmer’s crawl stroke. As he did so his other hand gave way and he was falling.
Keep your feet locked together... With hands curved into hooks he caught the hub of the front passenger wheel and the jerk to his shoulders felt as if it had pulled them from their sockets. He hauled upwards with all his reserves, feeling the ton-and-a-half of vehicle begin its inexorable slide through the wedge, and now he was bracing his feet on the hub, awkwardly because of the prize still gripped between them. His hands were reaching up and getting hold of the trunk again and this time he didn’t let go. He swung up and on to the trunk and the box slipped from between his feet but he reached back and caught it one-handed before it fell.
He scrambled to the base of the branch and leaped to the safety of the slope as the Lexus dropped in virtual silence through the space below and landed directly on to the Toyota. The driver hadn’t killed the engine because the tanks went up in twin blasts that roared off the sides of the valley, the heat from the fireball sending up a shower of wood and rocks and spinning fragments of metal.
Purkiss lay prone on the slope, one arm shielding his head while he leaned on the other, staring at the box in his hand. A satellite navigation system, chipped and scuffed but in working order.
*
Behind the man the sea was wild, lashing ropes of spume against the rocks of the shore. He’d got there first and Venedikt didn’t like that, although Venedikt himself was a little early. The man stood quite still beside his car, a top-range Mercedes. On either side of him were four other men in civilian clothes but with a bearing unmistakeably military. Most had the wiry build of the Special Forces soldier.
Venedikt emerged from his own car and approached, Leok remaining behind the wheel. Two others fell into step beside Venedikt, one of them Dobrynin, his deputy. Behind him and to his right the van lumbered forward and came to a stop, shuddering under its own bulk like some ungainly prehistoric behemoth.
Like Venedikt the man was wearing a suit. Counter to expectations he wasn’t hiding his eyes behind a pair of dark glasses. Venedikt respected that, thought it showed the proper respect for him. The man was of medium height, far shorter than Venedikt, with a slight build. His pedigree was uncertain. His Russian was impeccable, down to the Muscovite accent, but he didn’t look Slavic: his black hair and black eyes and burnished complexion suggested southern European or Middle Eastern origins. Yet he was said to speak English like an American.
Venedikt glanced about without moving his head. They were in a grassy depression half a kilometre across, lined on two sides by rocks, on one by the sea, in a peninsula jutting finger-like into the Baltic. A bank of clouds had dragged across the sun and from the rocks there came no tell-tale glints on metal. Venedikt’s own snipers, two of them, were in position, invisible even to him. He assumed the same for the other man.
Venedikt stopped ten paces from the other man, refusing to do all the work. As if he sensed this the man gave a slight nod and stepped forward, his men keeping perfect time on either side. He extended his hand. Venedikt shook: it was dry, firm but not bone crushing.
‘Let me show you.’ The man’s tone was pleasant, conversational. No names, no hello, you must bes. He gestured behind and to his left, towards the rocks.
Venedikt walked alongside the man up the slope, their respective people massing discreetly around and behind them. The man, the dealer, stepped up to the rocks first and offered down his hand. Venedikt accepted and was surprised at the strength with which the smaller man hauled at his arm.
He stood staring at what rested beyond for a long time. He felt the urge, overwhelming, immediate, to walk around it, touch it, but he had to maintain dignity. His elation squirmed as he fought it down.
‘I’ll need to check it. Verify its authenticity.’
‘But of course.’ The man called back over his shoulder and said to Venedikt, ‘Come down. We’ll bring it out for you.’
Dobrynin, the man with the nose for deception, stood by as the dealer’s men brought the second part of the product down the slope. The authenticity of the larger component wasn’t in doubt; it was visibly what it was. But when the second part was hefted down, exposed in its box, the frisson of excitement that rippled through Venedikt’s group was unmistakeable. Dobrynin squatted beside the container and with eyes and hands began his examination.
Waiting in the van for the signal from Venedikt were two more of his people, their wrists chained to steel suitcases. Once Dobrynin was satisfied it would be the dealer’s turn to carry out his own inspection. Perhaps he would demand a full count, in which case it would take a while, even though the money had been laundered from krooni into large-denomination euros.
Dobrynin muttered for assistance and two of the dealer’s own men knelt and prised and lifted so that he could peer underneath. Venedikt tried not to hold his breath, tried to keep his back and neck from tensing in anticipation of the sign of a double cross, a movement on the part of the dealer or his men. Equally he tried to banish from his imagination the cry from the watchers, the massing of police cars and helicopters above the lip of the depression, the bullhorn commands to surrender. Beside him the dealer stood, feet slightly apart, hands folded neatly before him, almost prim, watching Dobrynin with something that looked like genuine appreciation of his thoroughness.
Dobrynin straightened and brushed off his trousers and hands. He paused in front of Venedikt, looking up into his face, before giving a nod of triumph. Venedikt felt the tension leave him in a great funnelling o
f breath.
He glanced at his watch, then up at the sky, allowing his neck to flex luxuriously. Step two was complete.
Two o’clock. Eighteen hours to go.
Seventeen
‘Boss.’ The relief in the syllable was almost comical. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Bit of a scrape.’
‘I heard gunshots.’
He thought about saying it had been a car backfiring, but couldn’t do it. He slumped, weary, his forehead against the cool glass of the booth. ‘It was a trap. The man chucked the bug out, then lay in wait. He’s dead. I’m okay, but I’m without a car or a phone. I’m calling from a public box.’
‘Where are you? I’ll come and pick you up.’
‘Too dangerous. They’ll be looking for me. No point letting them catch us both. I’m making my way back to town.’ A face appeared through the grimy glass inches from his own. Purkiss recoiled, but it was only a backpacker peering in. The adrenaline was dissipating but was still there, rendering him jumpy. He held up an index finger and the man stepped away, looking disgruntled.
‘Can you look up an address for me? It’s from the satnav in the man’s car. It comes up time and again as the starting point of his journey.’ He read it out, spelling each word, then said, ‘I’ll call you once I get a new phone.’
‘One more thing. Kendrick’s confirmed and is on his way. Same flight as you took yesterday. He should be here sevenish.’
He had made his way back towards the city with difficulty, keeping amongst the trees as much as possible to stay out of view of any search parties, but being forced back on to the road when the forest became impassable. He’d emerged at a bus stop just as a bus had come down the hill and had held up his hand hopefully. The driver hadn’t even slowed. The knees of Purkiss’s trousers were ripped and his face was pallid, and he supposed he would have been reluctant himself. Eventually a pick-up truck had stopped and the driver, with a good-humoured face beneath a peaked cap, had jerked his head at the back. Purkiss had climbed in and wedged himself between bundles of metal piping. When he’d spotted the phone booth on the outskirts he’d tapped the rear window of the cab and hopped off.
After his call to Abby he dialled again.
‘Vale.’
‘It’s me.’
‘Pay phone?’
‘Lost my own.’
He brought Vale up to date, leaving one detail until last. He’d wondered whether to reveal it at all, then decided.
‘At least one of the Service agents is working with Fallon.’ He explained. Vale listened in silence. After Purkiss had finished the silence continued to the point at which he wondered if the connection had been lost.
Vale said: ‘I’m pulling you out.’
‘No.’
‘You’re compromised beyond anything I could reasonably expect you to cope with.’
‘No.’
‘John. Listen to me. This has gone beyond tracking down Fallon. An operation involving numerous locals, some with military backgrounds, as well as not one but two or even more rogue Service personnel – it’s too big.’
‘So what do you propose?’
‘I’m going to make it official. Alert Century House.’
‘Fallon and his people will just go underground.’
‘If it means averting a disaster tomorrow –’
‘By cancelling the summit? That’s the point, isn’t it? That’s what Fallon wants.’
‘We can’t know that.’
‘I’ve told you. The answer’s no.’
‘For God’s sake, John. This is bigger than you and Fallon.’
‘Nothing’s bigger than that.’ Purkiss touched the bar, about to cut off the call. He said: ‘And if you bring the Service on board anyway, I’ll certainly be dead. Whichever of the agents it is that’s helping Fallon will panic and get rid of me post-haste.’ He pressed down, listened to the dial tone, then hung up.
At a little after three thirty Purkiss found a tired-looking department store in the outer suburbs, where he replaced his torn and filthy clothes and bought a new smartphone. He’d memorised Klavan’s number and those of the other two agents and added them to the contact list, then went outside and stood part-way down an alley where he could watch the street. He phoned Abby.
‘Got a fix on that satnav address,’ she said. ‘It looks like some sort of farm. East of Tallinn, about fifty kilometres.’
East: that was approximately the direction the driver had been heading when Purkiss had followed him. Abby continued: ‘You can see it for yourself on Google Earth, though you’ll get a better view on my monitor.’
‘Okay, thanks.’
‘And that memory stick you gave me.’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s proving really hard to crack. Sorry.’
‘I have absolute faith in you, Abby.’
He punched in Teague’s number. When the man answered he said, ‘It’s Purkiss. Are you with Elle?’
‘Yes. Where are –’
‘I’m on the outskirts of town. Fallon’s people tried to run me off the road. I’ll explain later.’
‘Need us to pick you up?’
‘If you would.’ He gave the address. Teague rang off without comment. Purkiss pocketed his phone and stepped out into the sunlight.
He’d crossed a boundary, had never cut himself loose from Vale before. He wondered what the man would do. Vale would know there’d be no way of tracking Purkiss now, and wouldn’t waste time and whatever resources he had trying to do so. Instead, he might make good on his threat and alert Service headquarters and the Embassy. And then what? A police dragnet, which would uncover nothing that the months of extensive footwork by the Estonian intelligence services and SIS itself in preparation for the summit hadn’t already. Meanwhile, Rossiter and Teague and Klavan would be tipped off by the increased activity, and whichever of them was working with Fallon would either go to ground, as Purkiss had predicted, or would sit tighter than ever, not betraying themselves. Meanwhile the media would get hold of the story, no question. You couldn’t shut down a city without someone noticing. Panic would be stoked. And even if the summit went ahead regardless, the hysteria would be a propaganda coup for those who were opposed to the whole thing.
Vale knew this, which was why Purkiss was banking on his holding back. He’d be exasperated, furious even, but he might give Purkiss the breathing space to find a way in.
*
‘Sixteen hours left.’ Rossiter paced, terse choppy steps in a stereotyped route across the office carpet. ‘And nothing. No leads.’
Teague was perched languidly on the corner of a desk. Klavan stood, arms folded. Purkiss was the only one of them to have taken a chair.
He’d told them everything about his tracking of the car into the forest, the ambush and subsequent chase, and the death of the man over the edge. He left out the part about the satellite navigation unit. This time Rossiter hadn’t reacted with fury at his independent action.
‘I wouldn’t say no leads,’ said Purkiss. ‘We have what you’ve discovered.’
In the car on the way back, after Purkiss had finished his account, Klavan and Teague filled him in on what they had unearthed in the mean time. Klavan’s contact at the Ministry of Defence had told her that Abram Zhilin, the dead man from the toilet cubicle in the nightclub, had served in the same unit of the Scouts Battalion, part of the Estonian Maävagi or Ground Force, as Lyuba Ilkun. Ilkun and Zhilin hadn’t been exact contemporaries – he was six years older than her – but their time in the unit had overlapped by a year or so. Neither of them had been especially distinguished soldiers but neither had attracted negative attention, there were no disciplinary offences on record. Interestingly, both had left at the same time, five years earlier.
‘Of Ilkun there’s no subsequent trace until she turned up in the club,’ said Elle. ‘But Zhilin went to work for a private security firm here in the city. My contact found a reference request. Not an uncommon career move after the army. The
firm still exists.’ She turned in her seat to face Purkiss. ‘Here’s where it gets interesting. The name of the firm is Rodina Security. Rodina is Russian for motherland. Their website is entirely in 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.’
