Tim Stevens - Ratcatcher

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.’

‘I’m not joking, Fallon.’

‘I know you’re not.’ A beat. ‘We need to come up with a plan.’

‘I’ve got one already.’

Thumb poised over the green “call” key, the Jacobin stared at the number on the display. It was one he’d never used before, that of the Kaitsepolitsei , the Security Police.

He’d be assumed to be a crank, so confident would the KaPo be about its security arrangements, until he revealed how the assassination was going to be carried out; then he’d be taken seriously, and although he wouldn’t stay on the phone long enough to be traced, there was no question the summit would be aborted. Then what? It would be a victory of sorts, a major summit derailed by a terrorist threat, but a Pyrrhic one, as the intelligence services of both Estonia and Russia would spin it as a successful example of international cooperation. The summit would simply be rescheduled. And, there was a real risk of Kuznetsov’s being tracked down and captured, in which case he, the Jacobin, would be named, and SIS would be implicated after all.

After a long moment the Jacobin hit “cancel” and put the phone away.

Purkiss paused, the muscles burning in his thighs and his belly, sweat slicking his hair to his forehead. Six inches, he estimated. Half a foot of progress after five minutes of struggle.

If his arms had been fastened behind the back of the chair it would have been easier. He could have used them to give him forward momentum. Instead, his wrists were pressed between the small of his back and the back of the chair, secured to each other with plastic ties, the toughest bonds of all. He was able to achieve forward motion only by bracing the balls of his feet on the concrete floor of the basement, and thrusting his pelvis forwards using all the strength in his abdominal and anterior thigh muscles and those of his hamstrings. Each such thrust caused the feet of the chair to scrape a fraction of an inch forward, an almost comically poor return on his efforts.

Facing him, Fallon urged him on, silently. They would have reached each other more quickly if Fallon had been inching forward similarly, but Fallon’s ankles were tied to the legs of the chair and no amount of rocking would budge him.

In between surges of exertion, Purkiss felt the blood hammering in his ears. He tried not to listen out for footsteps coming down the stairs, because if he heard them there’d be nothing he could do about them. Whoever came through the door would notice the progress he’d made, however meagre, and would move him and Fallon so far apart that all bets would be off.

Purkiss squeezed his eyelids shut against the sweat sting once again. He visualised the run-up to a long jump. Not just any long jump, but one that traversed a ravine, dark and bottomless. In his mind’s eye he was loping up a grassy verge towards a small peak, the air cool and rarefied about him. As he approached the peak he picked up speed so that the lope turned into a sprint, and the nub of rock was coming on fast. He put everything into the final push, embracing the terror that leapt at him as his feet left the rock and cycled in the empty space over the terrible yawn of the chasm. Impossibly, defying the laws of physics, he was across and rolling and clear.

Fallon grunted something. Purkiss opened his eyes, disorientated for a moment. Looking down and around he saw he’d progressed an entire foot. Not bad.

‘ Bastard .’

‘ Die , damn you. Die now .’

It wasn’t difficult for Purkiss to make his share of the shouting sound heartfelt.

They’d waited till Purkiss had got within two feet, his chair slightly to the side of Fallon’s, before letting rip: nonsensical bellows alternating with profane curses. In the midst of it Fallon leaned forward as far as he could and tried an experimental butt. His forehead nudged Purkiss’s nose.

The bootsteps came, then, at a dash, more than one pair, and in counterpoint to their rhythm the frantic jangling of keys. Purkiss glared into Fallon’s eyes and gave a nod.

Fallon tilted his head back as if to sneeze and brought his face forward so that the frontal bones of his skull smashed into Purkiss’s nose, snapping his head back against the chair. White light exploded up beneath his eyes, crowding out all sound and sight. Apart from the blood: there was a lot of blood, he was gratified to see. He flailed his head from side to side, flinging cords of gore-streaked mucus against the nearest wall and against the opening door. As the first man stepped through, Purkiss threw his head back and arched his spine and rolled his eyes up and bit down on his tongue hard enough to draw more blood. He began to jerk his legs assymetrically.