Ratcatcher

fingerprints would indeed be found.

The fingerprints of the British Secret Service.

Thirty-Three

Ventilation in the basement was poor, and the sweat was moulding Purkiss’s clothes to his body, adding to the sense of restriction imposed by the bonds. He blinked, tried to flick the stinging droplets from the corners of his eyes.

‘So, you see,’ he said, ‘things don’t add up.’

Fallon’s story had been a masterclass in the art of the debriefing: rapid, clipped, not a word wasted. Released early from Belmarsh with an unconditional pardon, sent to Tallinn because of preliminary intelligence suggesting activity potentially detrimental to the forthcoming summit visit, he’d picked up the Kuznetsov link through old-fashioned legwork, haunting bars and clubs frequented by ex-military types. At the same time he had learned of the unofficial cell of SIS agents, the trio working without Embassy cover. Pillow talk from Lyuba had confirmed that Kuznetsov’s operation, whatever it was, was being assisted by a British intelligence agent, and that this person wasn’t connected with the Embassy. Fallon didn’t think Lyuba knew herself who the agent was.

And he’d been sharing a flat with an SIS agent-in-place called Jaak Seppo. It was the part that didn’t make sense.

Purkiss listened without comment, then relayed his own story, less succinctly, leaving out any mention of Vale, saying only that “a contact” in London had passed on to him the picture of Fallon that Seppo had sent him.

Now he said, ‘Why would Seppo shop you to my contact, knowing he’d get in touch with me?’

‘I don’t know.’

Had there been the slightest hesitation there?

‘You’re not telling me everything, Fallon.’

This time the pause was definite.

‘No, I’m not.’

Purkiss waited. When Fallon stayed silent he said, ‘A full debrief. We agreed.’

‘There’s something I can’t tell you now.’

‘Damn it, Fallon.’

‘I can’t explain why. It doesn’t affect the position we’re in.’

‘For the love of God — ’

‘I will explain. I promise. Once we’re out of here, once we’ve stopped Kuznetsov.’

And so it had come to be, without being made explicit by either of them before. They were allies, working together towards a common goal. Old buddies again.

Purkiss hadn’t breathed in but he felt his chest swelling, the agony in his ribs so intense it became almost pleasurable. He stared at this man, battered, bloodied, teeth smashed. Pitiable.

‘You killed Claire.’

Fallon’s head had been hanging forward, his gaze downcast. Now he lifted his eyes.

‘Yes,’ he said.

Understanding came fully formed, not in stealthy increments. The Jacobin sat down under the enormity of it.

He was in the kitchen, forcing himself to take food despite having no appetite. Beyond the window the city napped through the darkest hours, as reluctant to rest as he was.

Kuznetsov had had Fallon, all along. Had taken him captive while he was courting the Ilkun woman, and had found out somehow that he was SIS. Now he had Purkiss, another former SIS operative. Two British agents.

He was going to use them to implicate the Service in the attack.

Fury at oneself was never productive, never ever, and the Jacobin struggled to suppress it. If you’d worked it out earlier, you’d have taken care of Purkiss yourself rather than deliver him to the Russian. Kuznetsov might still have used Fallon, but a single agent could have been attributed to coincidence. With two, the hand of SIS would be unmistakeable.

My Service. Destroyed, utterly. Because that would be the result. Conflict on a global scale, and attributable squarely to the British intelligence service. Whatever the eventual outcome, SIS would cease to exist, both in fact and in legend. All the good it had done, all the noble achievements of the previous hundred years, would be dissolved in the acid of its treachery. A treachery not only towards Britain, but towards humanity as a whole.

It was the outcome exactly, diametrically opposed to the one the Jacobin had set out to achieve.

He sat staring at the wet city on the other side of the glass, and wondered if it was time to pull the plug.

‘There are things we need to talk about.’

‘We’ve nothing to talk about. There’s nothing I want to say to you, or to hear from you.’

It was true. During Fallon’s trial Purkiss had rehearsed in obsessive detail the possible ways a conversation would go between the two of them. He’d never been permitted to communicate with Fallon, and afterwards, after the conviction and sentencing, he’d avoided visiting him in prison. Now he knew why. Words seemed utterly trivial, a form of non-communication between them.

Fallon’s eyes were almost closed. ‘It’s difficult to explain. There are things you don’t know about what went on.’

‘Excuses? Is that what you’re talking about? And you think it would do me good to hear them, would help me to achieve closure by understanding your point of view and defusing some of the hate?’ Despite himself Purkiss laughed, a guttural sound. ‘Thanks for the concern, but if I go to my grave hating you that’ll suit me fine.’

‘No. Not excuses.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry. Is that too value-laden a word?’ He fought to stop his voice rising. ‘Justifications, then. Justifications for murder.’

‘I didn’t murder her.’

‘You just said you did.’

‘I said I killed her.’

‘That’s — ’ Purkiss drew a deep breath, all the way in, ignoring the pain flaring in protest. ‘Don’t split hairs with me now, Fallon. Don’t you dare do that.’

‘Or what?’ It was Fallon’s turn to laugh, without mirth. ‘You’ll hit me? Kill me? Go ahead, give it a try.’

Purkiss’s pulse was up. It wasn’t good. The adrenaline would be wasted.

More quietly Fallon said, ‘I’m not goading you. It’s a serious point. We’re trapped here. If we cooperate, you’ll be able to kill me. If we don’t, we’ll both die. As will countless others.’

For the first time Purkiss shut his eyes, not wanting to see the man’s face, wishing he could shut his ears as well.

Fallon went on: ‘I’m being cryptic because if I tell you everything I need to tell you, we won’t be able to cooperate — ’

‘Nothing more you could say would make me less willing to cooperate with you — ’

‘Trust me. When I tell you eventually, you’ll understand. But I promise you, John. Full disclosure. Nothing held back. After we get out of this.’

Purkiss opened his eyes and stared at the man, taking in every detail of his face, inoculating himself against his presence.

‘And then I’m going to kill you.’

‘Fair enough.’