Ratcatcher

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 good news, then. They were both alive, Elle and Kendrick, and they had access to tracking technology, which meant the chopper would be easier to locate.

He typed back: Fallon apparently also trying to stop Kuznetsov. One missile that I could see, five to six feet long, wings, no markings. I suspect of Israeli origin, non-line-of-sight. He hesitated, added: Any sign of Teague? before deciding this was irrelevant for the moment. He deleted it and wrote instead, Have you alerted the security forces?

An age passed, during which he heard nothing more than the steady drone of the Black Hawk’s twin engines. He checked his watch. Seven thirty-eight. At the very least they might be able to evacuate the area around the War Memorial in time.

The screen lit up, silently this time. Kendrick says probably right about the missile, if so it’ll have a tank- or bunker-busting warhead, v. messy. Got a fix on you with the tracker.

He waited for a follow-up message. When one didn’t come, he thumbed in: Have you told the security forces?

In a moment: No. We’re coming to get you ourselves.

Purkiss closed his eyes, hard, until the stars began to flare redly behind the lids. He sent a reply.

There’s no time. This chopper has to be shot down.

And immediately back: No.

God damn them, both of them. He resisted the urge to crush the handset in his fist.

The signal on his phone was struggling to stay alive. It didn’t matter any more, because the Jacobin saw it, distant enough that it seemed to be hovering but actually moving away from him, several knots away to the northeast.

He kept up the speed, but eased the wheel to the left so that he was heading due north in parallel with the course of the helicopter, the sharp stern of the boat slicing a thin furrow through the water’s flesh. Far on the horizon to the west was a large ship, a freighter of some sort, making its early morning way towards Helsinki. Otherwise there was no traffic, the sea brooding alone under the brightening sky. In another six weeks the sea would go to sleep for the winter, frozen over until as late as next April.

It was time to make his decision. If Purkiss was hidden on board the Black Hawk, the Jacobin had to alert Kuznetsov in some way, and the only way to do so would be to approach and try to attract his attention and hope he was recognised from up in the air. If on the other hand Kuznetsov had Purkiss captive, then all the Jacobin could do was to wait for the hit to proceed, then try to persuade Kuznetsov not to use Purkiss’s and Fallon’s bodies as means to scapegoat SIS. Or perhaps retrieve the bodies from the wreckage himself.

The Jacobin was fairly certain Kuznetsov wouldn’t try to kill him. The man knew the Jacobin had insurance, in the form of a document to be opened by lawyers in the event of his death or disappearance, spilling the beans on the whole operation, which would negate any use of Purkiss and Fallon as scapegoats.

The Black Hawk was tilting slightly to the right, eastwards, drifting inwards at the beginning of the circling movement that would wheel it to face the shore at the beginning of the final phase. Its crew would be looking out for the backup boat — and, yes, there it was, a bigger and noisier craft than the Jacobin’s, steaming from the southeast some distance behind the Jacobin.

The backup crew. They would be able to provide access to Kuznetsov. The Jacobin began his own turn, to bring his boat across the path of the larger vessel.

Dobrynin tapped Venedikt’s arm and nodded at the window. Venedikt turned and craned, saw the boat approaching far below, its occupants unidentifiable at this distance. Venedikt knew them to be Raskov and two of the other men. There would be additional room on board for the four of them: himself, Dobrynin, Lyuba and Leok, assuming they all made it out alive.

It was going to be impossible to land the helicopter on the water. They had agreed that Leok and Lyuba would bring them as close to the surface as they dared, and then Venedikt and Dobrynin would leave the craft, with pilot and copilot following. The Black Hawk would rapidly spin out of control and would hit the surface. It was then that they would be in the most danger from the rotor blades and the wild bulk of the machine. Once aboard the boat, they would leave the Black Hawk and its remaining passenger — Fallon — to the mercies of the sea and of the fighter jets that would descend on it like wasps.

Venedikt strained his eyes. A smaller vessel, a speed boat, was veering towards Raskov’s, not heading