The Russian smiled, a lopsided and sad smile, and reached inside his coat. Montgomery caught a glint of grey steel in the moonlight, the semi-fist of the Russian’s hand as he drew it back out, and knew he was done for. He imagined himself jumping back into his car, slamming the door closed, ducking down behind it while bullets slammed into the metal. The engine would start with a growl and he’d reverse at high speed, throwing up gravel and dust, speeding out into the trees. He’d drive all night, through to Paris, crash into the barriers outside the British embassy and demand protection, throwing himself on a diplomat’s mercy. He’d be sent home, interrogated, tried for treason, imprisoned for life. But he’d be alive.
It was absurd. The Russian would shoot him before he reached the car, bundle his body into the boot, drive him to the Marne, and dump his body in the river. He would die here, in this godforsaken car park, and his body would never be found.
As Montgomery thought through these events, the pistol cleared the Russian’s coat. He closed his eyes and waited for the impact, wondering how it would feel to be shot, or if he’d feel anything at all. Would that be better, or worse?
“Stupid amateur,” said the Russian, and Montgomery heard the sound of the trigger pulling closed.
Followed by that cruel laughter again.
He cautiously opened one eye and realised he hadn’t been shot. The gun wasn’t loaded. The Russian turned it around and held it by the barrel, butt-first, for him to take. Montgomery was too surprised to argue, but as soon as his hand closed around the cold and surprisingly heavy metal, he regretted it. “I’ve never fired a gun in my life,” he said.
“And unless you find someone to give you bullets, you will not. But as you have demonstrated so well, to fire a weapon is not always necessary for it to be effective. If you need to scare a British woman…” Montgomery stared down at the gun as the Russian’s heavy hands sank into his shoulders. He assumed the gesture was supposed to be reassuring, but their sheer weight distracted him. They, and the whole world, were an impossible weight. “Now to business,” said the Russian. “Your debt is almost repaid…but not yet. You must finish taking the photographs.”
“You can’t be serious. I told you, Short is here to look for exactly this sort of thing. I mean, I steered her towards Voclaine, instead, and I even tried to blow her cover, but she didn’t seem to care. She’s still there; she hasn’t packed up and gone home yet.”
The Russian shrugged, and lit one of his cheap German cigarettes. “So she is a mole hunter, and you have given her a…” he pondered over the correct word, “a ‘patsy’ to take the fall. That is good. Now she thinks you are an ally, not a suspect. Has she altered the security protocol?”
Smoke from the cigarette drifted across Montgomery’s face, and he forced himself to swallow a cough. “No, not at all.”
“Then proceed as before.”
“But how can I? How am I going to take pictures of Voclaine’s terminal when he’s locked up?”
The Russian looked amused. “This is what you give us? Pictures of another man’s computer?”
“He takes ten smoke breaks a day. How else do you think I have chance to take the photos? But that’s all gone, now.”
“Then photograph your own computer, instead.”
“But I’m not a geek. How, how can I justify looking at code I know nothing about?”
The Russian leaned in and held his cigarette close to Montgomery’s face. The Englishman coughed, to cover up tears from the smoke. “You will think of something,” he said. “Only one more week and you can return home to England and celebrate, yes? Do not worry about the woman. I will take care of her if it is necessary.”
Starlight glinted off the Russian’s teeth as he grinned. Unbidden, an image of just what ‘taking care’ of Ms Short might mean flashed in Montgomery’s mind. He tried to suppress it, not least because he had a terrible premonition that he might see it first-hand before he was ever allowed to return to England. But it haunted him all the way during the drive back to his apartment on the edge of town, and as he lay awake praying for sleep, the thought hung in the blind void, refusing to fade.
46
They told her she’d been in the hospital for two weeks. Or was it three?
Bridge couldn’t remember. They told her a lot of things she had difficulty remembering afterwards, as her mind slowly pieced itself back together. Like how Dr Nayar had started visiting before she left the secure ward. Bridge didn’t remember that. The first time she remembered seeing the doctor was at her flat, after they discharged her and put her on leave. She remembered thinking Dr Nayar was polite not to comment on the state of her flat, which grew ever more unkempt with each visit, because Bridge was going stir-crazy cooped up in there.
Eventually, after six weeks that seemed like a year, Giles gave in to her begging and allowed her to return to her desk. But nothing more; her OIT status was rescinded, her duties strictly office-bound, and every moment of every day she felt the eyes of everyone in the building on her, chipping away at her fragile façade of control.
There she is. The one who got Adrian Radović killed. The one who cracked under pressure, who tried to run before she could walk, who wasn’t ready for the big time, wasn’t ready for theatre.
Ciaran was very supportive. Monica said nothing either way. That was fine.
Dr Nayar said she was mistaken, that everyone in the Service understood the perils and challenges of going OIT. That nobody blamed her for Adrian’s death, she’d done all she could. But she hadn’t, had she? She’d
