FORTY
Keeping the speedboat circling, the Jacobin watched the sky, saw Purkiss dangling from the doorway like a marionette with all but one of its strings cut, saw the chopper tip nose-up in the firing position, then watched Purkiss haul himself back inside the aircraft. An instant later a woman’s body tumbled flailing, cracked against the water’s surface.
The smaller speed boat was veering away. The small-arms fire had stopped and one of the men in the larger boat was levelling something heavy propped across his shoulder.
The grenade left the launcher with a sucking sound. A second later the rear of the speed boat exploded, a black and orange ball splitting the grey of the water, the roar eclipsing even the after-effect of the gunfire. The Jacobin saw the man, Kendrick, lifted cartwheeling into the air to plunge amongst the debris. He couldn’t see Elle. The fibreglass front of the speedboat spun drunkenly before the waves claimed it.
From above, layered on top of the bulky sound of the explosion, came a whoosh and a prolonged hiss. The Black Hawk rocked slightly as the missile erupted from its cylinder on the stub wing.
The Jacobin stared off in the direction of the city, imagining he could see the small, deadly tube winging its way.
*
From where he lay, Venedikt could see Fallon trying to stand by shuffling his back up against the wall, every slight change in position of the helicopter thwarting his efforts and sending him sliding to the floor again. Venedikt’s hand drifted in front of his face. He was surprised to see it spade-like with gore. He raised his head, looked down himself. Something was on his chest. Bloodied rags. No, they were his chest. Ah, yes. The other Englishman, Purkiss, had shot him. After he had launched the missile.
After. Not before. It meant he had triumphed.
Beyond the wound that was his chest, beyond his splayed feet, he saw movement in the cockpit: Leok, keeping control of the craft, unsure what to do now, and someone else – Purkiss – squatting in the copilot’s seat. Venedikt felt no pain, so he was surprised at the rage that soared within him, having believed all strong feeling to be lost to him now.
He called a command to Leok but it went unheard. Venedikt’s other hand came up to his face, clenching his phone. He punched at a number, missed, tried again.
‘Raskov.’
Venedikt said: ‘It’s done. You –’
‘We saw it, sir. My heartfelt congratulations –’
‘Shut up. Shoot the helicopter down.’
‘But you –’
‘Do it. I’m dead anyway.’
‘Sir –’
‘Now.’
*
The tremor in his hands was threatening to spread to his whole body. He gripped the two curved handles on either side of the launcher to suppress it. Beside him the pilot was pulling the machine into a turn, glancing across at him.
Purkiss stared at the screen. It showed a point-of-view moving image of the surface of the sea, the quality slightly grainy and with the occasional split-second freeze and jerk of imperfect reception. In the centre of the image was a set of crosshairs.
Purkiss knew he was seeing the view from the nose of the missile in flight, relayed back to the launcher by optical fibre. Because of the movement over the sea, the missile seemed to be travelling slowly, until an aircraft of some sort disappeared with shocking speed above and to the left of the field of vision. The crosshairs dropped slightly and the spread of the city came into view. Purkiss understood that the trajectory had adjusted downwards like that of a plane coming in to land. In the corner of the screen separate sets of figures flashed by. Distance to target: 5000 metres, dropping at the rate of 150 metres per second. Time until impact: thirty seconds. Twenty-nine. Twenty-eight.
He seized the handles and twisted. Incredibly, the image changed, the shore on the horizon tilting away vertiginously as the missile swooped.
Then something hit the helicopter, a great fist out of the sky, and the handles were wrenched out of his grasp. He was thrown against the cockpit door. Across from him the pilot was yelling and hauling desperately at the controls.
Through the windows the world was spinning, the Black Hawk turning in a drunken pirouette, trailing black smoke from its tail, part of which, Purkiss noticed, had disappeared. Something hit the back, something big. He ignored it and lunged for the handles of the launcher. The missile had righted its course once more and the shore was rushing at the screen, terrifyingly close. As the chopper spun he pulled at the handles once more. Again the image changed.
One thousand metres to target.
Time to impact nine seconds. Eight.
The screen showed a stretch of the shore wild with rocks, spume geysering up over it, no shapes resembling human beings. As if it would help his aim, Purkiss roared through gritted teeth.
The rocks flung themselves to fill the screen. Then the screen went blank.
As the cockpit windows reached the part of the arc that took them past the shore, he saw for an instant the eruption, water soaring skyward like the pictures he’d seen of World War Two naval battles in the Pacific. By the time the heavy crump reached them the chopper had already spun through a hundred and eighty degrees.
Beside him the pilot was shouting, some sort of prayer or hymn in Estonian, his hands no longer attempting to control the aircraft. Purkiss left him and clambered back into the cabin. He stepped over Kuznetsov who lay glassy-eyed, dead.
On the floor Fallon slumped against the bench. ‘What…’
‘It missed.’
Fallon closed his eyes. Purkiss squatted to hook his arm around his back. He saw the blood: not the old, semi-dried stuff from his beatings but fresh, bright gouts, pulsing through a ragged tear in Fallon’s trousers near his groin.
The stray bullet, the one Kuznetsov had fired at Purkiss just before he’d got him away from the launcher. It looked like it had hit the femoral artery.
‘Get out,’ rasped Fallon.
‘You’re coming with me –’
‘For God’s sake… it’s about to go down.’
His lips were moving and Purkiss wanted to shake speech out of him but all he heard was something like ‘Ask v –’. Then Fallon lolled forward.
Through the cabin window Purkiss saw the sea in an impossible place, standing parallel to the glass. He rolled and scrabbled at the release handle of the door beneath him, dropped out like a hanged man through a trapdoor and managed to turn himself into a diving position so that when he hit the water it wasn’t side-on.
The shock of the impact, the cold, stoppered his breath. He plunged and crawled, kicking frantically, staying as deep as he dared while putting as much distance as he could between him and what was going to happen. When he found himself surfacing again, his head broke free into a terrific wall of sound as, behind him, the Black Hawk smashed into the boat. Almost before he had time to duck his head under again, the engines of both craft went up.
Beneath the water the explosions punched his body. Looking up, he saw a sheet of flame soar across the surface, black spinning fragments of debris swoop like bats. He crawled about, compressed by the cold, not wanting to emerge in the middle of a slick of burning fuel, until the blurred surface took on a grey hue once more. He burst clear, sucking in chestfuls of oily air.
From his position just above the surface the surrounding sea was barely recognisable as such. Wreckage, much of it still aflame, was strewn as far as he could see, like the contents of a night’s ashtrays dumped in a toilet bowl. Coils of dark yellow smoke rose and flattened shroud-like overhead.
Ten feet away, one arm hooked around a remnant of hull, his face streaked with smoke, drifted the bull-necked man from so many earlier encounters. His free arm was extended across the fragment from the boat, and he was sighting down a handgun, teeth clenched.
Purkiss had jammed the gun he’d taken from Kuznetsov into his belt. He felt for it now, treading water, and got hold of the grip. It was too late, the man’s finger was already bearing down on the trigger. At such close range he couldn’t miss.
The man’s face burst outwards, so unexpectedly that it took Purkiss an instant to realise he had to duck, head beneath the water again, because the man had been shot from behind by something high-velocity and his entire face had become an exit wound. When it sounded safe he lifted his face to the air again. The bull-necked man had rolled off the piece of hull, his head trailing a bloody slick.
Beyond him, Kendrick sprawled belly-down on his own makeshift raft of hull, looking absurdly like an armed body boarder..
‘Told you,’ he called. ‘These Soviet guns. Reliable as hell in all weather.’
Purkiss turned his head, feeling groggy with the movement. A short distance behind Kendrick, also buoyed by a scrap of debris, was Elle, hair plastered across her white face. He wanted to swim over to them – they were fifty feet away, no more – but suddenly he lacked the strength.
In the far distance, towards the shore, sound was rising. Purkiss thought he could see airborne shapes through the smoke and the gloom.
All he could do was tread water and call across one word: ‘Done.’
‘Better be,’ Kendrick answered. ‘Ammo’s out.’
Because of the ringing in his ears from the cacophony of the last half hour, Purkiss didn’t hear the engine until the speed boat was up close, and he turned and saw the keel hurtling across the water straight at his head.