Tim Stevens - Ratcatcher

Purkiss said nothing, his thoughts churning. Was it possible? He’d had a vague notion Abby admired what he did, that her loyalty wasn’t just due to the money he paid her, but… that ? Comments, snatches of conversation, nonverbal signs began to play themselves again in his head.

Elle emerged again, dressed and glancing from one man to the other, aware that something had passed between them. Kendrick chuckled softly, and the moment was gone.

They did an inventory. Elle’s Glock 19, a lighter version of the Glock 17 with which Purkiss was more familiar. The SIG Sauer he’d taken off the man Braginsky in the hotel. Kendrick’s AK-74. Elle had six rounds left as well as a spare 15-round magazine, while the SIG Sauer still had all ten of its rounds but no spare clip. The assault rifle had one spare magazine holding 30 rounds. And that was it.

The priority, Purkiss had made them agree, was to see Abby to safety before revealing themselves. Any appearance by the two of them before Abby was home and dry, and they would likely all be cut down. Kendrick in particular had to stay hidden. As the one whose weapon gave him sniping capacity, he was their wild card, the guardian in the shadows. Purkiss had no idea how many people they would be facing, but had to assume they would be vastly outnumbered. Priority one was to get Abby out. Lesser priorities were to retrieve Purkiss himself at the same time, which was unlikely to be possible, and to take one or more of the opposition alive.

Twenty past three. It was time to go.

Kiek in de Kok was, Elle explained, a fifteenth century artillery tower on a hill to the west of the Old Town’s centre. The tower was home to a museum showcasing mediaeval weapons. The name was Low German for ‘peep in the kitchen’ and referred to the ability of soldiers manning it to peer into the houses in the Old Town below. Fallon hadn’t said where they were to meet. Purkiss assumed it was to be at the base of the tower, that the location had been chosen because of its position on a hill with the advantages this conferred on whomever got there first.

Although the tower was within walking distance of the safe house, they decided to take Elle’s car in case a quick getaway was needed. By now the streets were mostly silent, the cobbles slick, street lights often absent so that the turrets rose blackly against the rain.

Elle parked up on the kerb of a narrow street that was part of a tightly woven warren of cobbled passageways, which together with the tiny top-heavy cottages and quaintly lettered shop signs that lined them gave the impression of a village for some kind of mythical folk. She led them round a bend through an arch, and pointed upwards where a steep flight of steps twisted in a gap between two houses. Beyond rose a hill at the top of which Purkiss could see in silhouette a cylindrical tower with a coned roof.

Twenty to four.

‘You and I go first,’ said Purkiss. ‘Tony, you keep back. At the top of the steps you move away, approach the tower by a separate route.’

‘Got it.’ Kendrick fitted the night-vision goggles in place.

They began to climb the steps.

Kuznetsov stepped forward and popped the catch on the boot — it was the Jacobin’s car but Kuznetsov always had to be the man doing things, the one in control, and the Jacobin let him. They stood gazing down.

The woman was tiny, made even more so by the bindings that narrowed her arms against her sides and her legs together. Above the gag her face was yellow in the light from the streetlamp, her eyes huge. The Jacobin couldn’t read them because of the light, and so couldn’t see if they held fear or defiance or even contempt. He hoped it wasn’t the last. It wouldn’t bother him, but Kuznetsov’s ego wouldn’t take kindly to it and he might snap and get rough.

Two of Kuznetsov’s men, one of them Dobrynin, his second in command with the damaged hand, took hold of the girl under her arms, hauled her out, and deposited her on the pavement of the car park. She lay trussed, not struggling or whimpering. In the dim light the Jacobin could see a thread of blood from the corner of her mouth where the gag had cut into the skin.

‘Untie her legs,’ said Kuznetsov. The men cut the cords at her knees and ankles and dragged her to her feet, dwarfing her between them.

One of them reached for the gag. The Jacobin said, ‘No. Leave that.’

The man glanced at Kuznetsov, looking almost astonished that the Englishman had given him an instruction. The Jacobin said: ‘She won’t run, but she will call out, try to warn him.’

Kuznetsov nodded at his man and turned away. They pulled the girl along after him. Beyond him four more of his people waited, all wearing overcoats to conceal their weapons more than to protect them from the rain. They too began to move up the slope towards the tower.

Kuznetsov stopped, half-turned as if surprised to see the Jacobin keeping pace with him. ‘You’ll want to keep out of the way.’

‘Just the opposite. I want to be right there when he appears.’ And to see that you don’t balls it up.

Kuznetsov raised his eyebrows in a shrug. He continued after his men and the stumbling girl.

The tower was in darkness, sodium lamps throwing a fringe of brightness across the small lawns and paved pathways around its base. Purkiss and Elle stopped at the edge of one of the lawns between a small clump of trees, watching and listening. No movement in the shadows. From somewhere, low voices murmured, but it was impossible to tell how distant they were. The rain was steady, soft, its drumming setting up low-grade interference both visually and aurally.

Purkiss glanced behind him. Kendrick was already gone, invisible somewhere in the shadows.

They moved forwards, closer to the tower. Purkiss had one hand in his pocket, his fingertips touching his phone.

‘There,’ breathed Elle. He crouched as she did, arm coming up with the SIG Sauer extended. It was a man’s shape, emerging from the shadows and standing at the foot of the tower, perhaps sixty feet away.

‘Purkiss.’

The voice was quiet but carried against the rain. He recognised it: Dobrynin, the man they’d met at the offices of Rodina Security.

‘Where is she?’

‘Your friend’s here. Is it just the two of you?’

‘Of course not.’

Because of the rain it was difficult to tell if the man laughed. ‘Point taken. I have back up myself.’

‘Where’s Fallon?’

‘You’re here to trade yourself for the woman. It doesn’t matter where Fallon is.’

‘Bring her out, then.’

Dobrynin looked to one side, over to the trees. Two men stepped out, sandwiching a smaller figure as though in a rugby scrum.

‘Her?’ Elle murmured. He nodded.

The men gave Abby a push. She staggered but kept her footing. One of the men said something harsh. Over to the right Dobrynin made motions with his good hand: go on, walk . Behind her, the men had handguns drawn.

Purkiss looked up and off to the left and the right, making a show of it, as if he had an army hidden in the darkness waiting for their orders. He had no idea where Kendrick had positioned himself. With his hand still in his pocket Purkiss used his fingernails to prise the SIM card from his phone and wrap the plastic around it. He brought it up to his mouth and swallowed, wincing at the hardness, feeling it scrape as it went down.

Abby began to take slow steps in his direction. He realised her wrists were bound together behind her back and she had some sort of gag in her mouth. She was too far away for him to be sure, but she didn’t look marked.

Dobrynin called out, in English, ‘Stop.’ She did. Her eyes were on Purkiss.

Dobrynin said, ‘Now Purkiss. Gun on the ground, hands raised, and approach those two men.’