EIGHTEEN
The word silencer was a misnomer when it came to guns. Nothing currently in existence would produce the tidy quip sound heard in the movies. Suppressor was more accurate: at best, the shot would be muffled so that the sound resembled a heavy book being slammed down on to a table.
The basement was almost empty and echoes were likely to carry, but with the car doors closed Purkiss didn’t think a suppressed shot would be noticeable by Rossiter and Teague, two floors above. Which meant that she might risk one.
He stared past the muzzle at her eyes. They were steady, unreadable. Hazel, he decided, though he was generally hopeless at distinguishing shades of colour.
She was a trained agent and no doubt a fighter but the right side of her throat was exposed, the pulse beating steadily beneath the skin. He could immobilise her in less than a second, except that her index finger was tight across the trigger and he didn’t think he’d have long enough.
A second passed. Two. She said nothing, made no gesture for him to get out. It was to be an execution, which meant there was nothing to lose by making a move.
Purkiss’s instincts took over. He turned his head a fraction to the right because a shot to the face was likely to take out his frontal lobes. A shot to the head from the side would almost certainly kill him, too, but there was the minutest chance that the bullet would pass through another part of the brain, the occipital lobe perhaps, and blind him but allow him to continue functioning for long enough to take her down. The long muscles of his limbs tensed in readiness for action and to reduce the amount of his body available as a target. The trick was to act before the breathing rate increased, as it inevitably would, because that was a giveaway to one’s opponent.
He brought the side of his left fist across in a hammer blow at Klavan’s face while his right arm reached across to grip the wrist of her gun arm. It was a two-pronged attack intended both to incapacitate and to get the gun pointing elsewhere, because even in death the trigger finger was liable to twitch, and it would be embarrassing to go down in the annals as having been shot by a dead person. The gun arm was already gone and her right arm was up and his fist caught the side of her wrist. She gave a cry but managed to gasp, ‘Wait,’ and pointed the gun at the roof of the car . She jacked the magazine out into the footwell and ratcheted the remaining bullet out of the chamber so that it bounced off the dashboard.
He waited, tense, a moment longer. She was rubbing her wrist where his fist had connected. He sagged back into his seat, staring at her.
‘I had to know,’ she said.
‘Know what?’
‘That you didn’t suspect me.’
He let the silence play out, his breathing slowing.
She raised her eyes. ‘Of course I know what’s going on. The woman, Ilkun, didn’t get rid of her SIM card because of some vague suspicions about the delicacy of our interrogation. She did it because somebody tipped her off about it, alerted her beforehand about the interrogation and everything else. I knew you’d worked that out after you called me in the car. And assuming you yourself aren’t the one who tipped off Ilkun –’
‘Because that would make no sense at all –’
‘It must be one of us. Richard, Chris or me. I assumed I was under suspicion just as much as the other two. But when you saw the gun just now you were genuinely surprised.’
He had been, she was right. The realisation unsettled him. Ruling her out entirely was dangerous, especially if he’d done it unconsciously.
‘That wasn’t very clever. I could have killed you.’
‘No, you couldn’t. You wouldn’t have seen the shot coming.’
He pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. Too many shocks, too many adrenaline spikes. He’d read that repeated surges of stress hormones might contribute to the development of dementia in the long run. Perhaps it would come as a relief, no more memories.
‘Your arm okay?’
‘I’ll live.’ But she gripped the wheel more gingerly with the hand on the affected side. She hadn’t started the engine yet.
‘So if it’s not you, which one is it?’
She shut her eyes. ‘I’ve been thinking about that ever since I made the connection.’
‘Naturally. And?’
She sighed. ‘It must be Rossiter.’
‘Why?’
‘Mostly by elimination. Because it can’t be Chris Teague.’
‘You had a thing together.’
‘You noticed. For a year. It’s been over for six, seven months. We decided to keep sharing the same flat for convenience’s sake.’
‘Not wanting to sound cynical, but don’t you think your judgement of him might be a bit clouded as a result?’
For the first time she looked at him. ‘That’s not it. For him to be involved with these people – this Kuznetsov, Fallon, whatever’s going on – and not to let something slip, given how close we were and are, I mean literally, physically close… it’s not possible. I’d have noticed something. And after I came to realise about the tipping off of the woman, obviously I started trawling through the events of the last year, trying to think of clues that weren’t apparent at the time. There’s nothing, John. It’s impossible that Chris is the one.’
‘Improbable, perhaps. Not impossible.’
*
Once they were clear of the exit ramp Purkiss said, ‘Have you ever used it? The gun?’
‘Fired it plenty of times.’
‘That wasn’t what I asked.’
‘A question like that is like asking a lady’s age. Downright rude.’ She half smiled. ‘As a matter of fact, no, I’ve never fired it in the line of duty.’
When he didn’t respond she said, ‘Why did you ask?’
‘Just curious. As I am about a lot of things about you. All three of you, before you start getting any ideas.’
She shrugged. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘Your surname, for starters.’
‘Klavan’s an Estonian name. My father was born and bred in Tallinn, my mother’s from darkest Buckinghamshire.’
‘And you’re English.’
‘Grew up there, but I’ve been visiting Estonia since I was a child, since before the Soviets left. Joined the Security Service after university.’
‘And then you were headhunted?’
‘In a manner of speaking. Someone in Little Sister thought fluency in a Baltic language was wasted at home. I’ve been with them three years now.’
‘This someone. Was it Rossiter?’
She glanced across. ‘No. He was already here, an agent in place. Chris and I both worked from the Embassy until the summit was announced a year ago; then we were introduced to Richard. Good boss.’
‘He strikes me as a bit tightly wrapped. Volatile.’
‘He’s like a lot of us. He becomes calmer, and functions most effectively, when the stress is extreme. You might have started to notice that with him.’
Purkiss nodded.
They had left the Old Town and were threading now through downtown streets populated with highrises and shopping malls. Something was different from before and in a moment Purkiss realised several streets were cordoned off and the traffic was being herded into more restricted routes. Behind the cordons police vehicles were backed up and uniformed officers were congregating and conferring. Overhead helicopters hung and flitted, their rotors like distant drills. All part of the security preparations for the summit, he assumed.
Elle said, ‘I don’t understand why.’
‘Why what?’
‘Why Richard would be working with Fallon. Assuming Fallon’s planning on derailing the summit somehow, assassinating one or more of the parties involved.’
‘Nobody really knows why anyone does anything, in my experience.’
‘It’s just –’ She shook her head. ‘Any bad blood between Estonia and Russia... it isn’t Richard’s fight. Richard is one of the most patriotic people I know. Not in some bigoted, jingoistic sense, but in that quiet way you sometimes see in the very best civil servants, you know? He loves his country with a commitment I’ve never seen in anyone else. Britain stands only to gain from good relations between Estonia and Russia. It’s in all our interests, Richard’s included, that the summit works.’
‘The fallacy of motive,’ said Purkiss.
‘What?’
‘In every crime novel you read, the detective invests heavily in trying to work out what motive each suspect might have had, and more often than not solves the crime based on his deductions in this regard. Speak to any real detective and they’ll tell you that’s not how they work. They go by evidence, pure and simple. There’s less chance of being misled by wild speculation that way.’
‘But you can’t mean that people’s motives are irrelevant.’
‘Of course I don’t. It’s just that those motives can be figured out afterwards. All that matters when you’re trying to find a perpetrator is evidence of his or her guilt.’
His or her. It hung between them like a trace of smoke from an illicit cigarette.
After a pause that seemed to last aeons Purkiss said, ‘He’ll have forewarned Rodina Security and Kuznetsov that we’re coming. Rossiter, if he’s the one.’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re not worried.’
She shook her head. ‘They won’t harm us, not there. Richard – as you say, if it is him – knows you have another contact in the city, the person you met at the airport. He knows you’ll have told them where you’re going. If you disappeared on the premises of Rodina Security your contact would raise the alarm immediately.’
‘Right.’ He had in fact sent Abby a text message shortly before they’d set off, telling her where he was heading and asking her to dig up whatever she could on the security firm.
She said, ‘But it also means we’re not likely to get much out of them. They’ll be shut up tighter than a clam.’
‘Still worth a visit. It’ll give us a feel for them. Numbers, whether or not the whole firm’s involved, how jumpy they are.’
*
The offices of Rodina Security occupied the entire second floor of a block near what Elle informed Purkiss was the Central Bus Station. Behind the desk in the lobby the security guard looked bored beyond endurance.
Purkiss said in Russian: ‘Second floor. Rodina.’
The guard pushed across a book with removable slips of paper. They filled in their names, Purkiss using the Martin Hughes alias from his passport. The guard tore out the slips, folded each into a plastic badge holder with a metal clasp on the back, and handed them across.
The lift opened on to a corridor with marble-effect walls and a maroon carpet. Glass doors led into a waiting room and a young woman behind a reception desk looked up: austere, hair pulled sharply back, pale lipstick.
‘Good afternoon.’ Purkiss took the lead. ‘We’re here to see Mr Kuznetsov.’
‘Do you have an appointment?’ Her Russian was that of a native speaker.
‘No. But he’d want to see us. We have a business proposal he’d be very interested in.’
Her eyes and mouth were sceptical. ‘Mr Kuznetsov isn’t here now.’
‘Where might he be contacted, please?’
‘He’s out of the country on business.’
Elle spoke: ‘Is Mr Dobrynin available?’ Dobrynin was named on the website as the deputy director of the company.
The receptionist hesitated a second and Purkiss pressed the advantage, leaning in a little. ‘Please. Do us a big favour and bend the rules for us. Fifteen minutes of his time. He’ll be grateful to you once he’s heard what we’re offering, believe me. Very grateful.’
She held his gaze and he was glad he hadn’t offered a bribe. She looked as if she would take serious offence. He said, his voice low: ‘Tell Mr Dobrynin it’s about tomorrow.’
The receptionist sat back a little, her face betraying nothing. Keeping her eyes on him she picked up her phone and pressed a button and a man’s voice came in a tinny syllable through the receiver: ‘Da?’
She turned away and, still maintaining eye contact with him, murmured quietly enough that Purkiss couldn’t make out the words. After ten seconds she replaced the receiver and said, ‘Please take a seat. Mr Dobrynin will see you shortly.’
They didn’t sit, moving instead back towards the glass doors and out of earshot of the receptionist. Elle stepped in close and looked up at him, eyes taut. ‘What’s the plan?’
‘Direct confrontation. There’s no point p-ssyfooting. He knows who we are and that we know who he is. He’ll deny it all, of course, but it’ll spook him. It might shake them enough to make them slip up somewhere.’
‘What if he doesn’t deny it?’
‘Then we won’t walk out of here. But as you said before, that’s unlikely to happen.’
A man appeared at the reception desk, mid-fifties, trim in a tailored but plain charcoal suit. ‘Mr Hughes and Ms Klavan.’
They approached. In his gaze Purkiss saw a mild curiosity but otherwise almost friendliness. The man shook his hand. ‘Anton Dobrynin.’
The hand felt odd, knuckly and too narrow, and as it was withdrawn Purkiss glanced at it and saw its deformity, one third of it missing including the ring and little fingers.
Dobrynin gestured for them to precede him down a corridor at the end of which a door stood ajar. Purkiss went through first, saw a medium-sized conference table, windows darkened by drawn blinds, a connecting door opposite the one by which they had entered. It wasn’t until Dobrynin had closed the door behind them that the connecting one opened and two men in shirtsleeves came through, handguns drawn but held pointing down at their sides.
Dobrynin said, ‘Sit.’