Execution

FORTY

Votrukhin and Serkhov were beginning to get rattled. None of this was going the way they wanted. The girl had escaped — twice. And now they had failed to get the two men helping her. Worse, they had only just missed them, the knowledge of how close they had come to regaining some credit with Gorelkin taunting them like a dying laugh. Serkhov had picked the lock to Ferris’s flat within seconds, and it was immediately apparent by the condensation from the shower and the remains of breakfast that the flat had been vacated in a rush not long before.

‘They had a warning,’ he muttered sourly as they hurried along the street. For the present they were without a car until a replacement was sourced, and having to rely on public transport and taxis to get around. Yet another reason to be anxious; every second they spent on buses, in taxis and on the Underground, quite apart from using the streets on foot, risked them being spotted and recorded. By now their descriptions would have been issued city-wide, and only luck would continue to keep them out of the hands of the British security authorities.

‘Who else would have known, though?’ Serkhov shouldered through a group of immigrant workers waiting for a work bus, oblivious to their protests. ‘Nobody but us knew we were going there.’

‘The Englishman. He knew.’

‘Sure. But why would he risk playing games with us? Gorelkin has him by the nuts.’ He mimed crushing something with a powerful fist. ‘One phone call and he goes to prison for treason, or whatever it is they charge them with here.’ He spotted a cafe and nodded at the steamy window. ‘Wait. I need some tea. Even the vile mixture they serve here is more than we’ll get from the colonel. And I don’t think I can face his temper on an empty belly.’ He swerved across the street, reaching for some money.

Votrukhin was forced to follow. The last thing he wanted was an argument with the sergeant; right now they needed to be acting as one and focussing on what to do next, not squabbling over food and drink.

They sat inside and sipped strong tea and ate a sandwich each, surrounded by a mixed clientele of building workers and student types. Accustomed to short, sharp breaks and no guarantees when the next one would come along, they knew the value of keeping their physical energy levels high. Eating also kept their mental faculties alert, especially when in the field as they were now and having to rely on split-second decisions to cope with an ever-changing situation.

Votrukhin stared out at the passing traffic. His expression was grim. For the first time in a long while he was feeling uncertain of himself. And Serkhov’s touch of insubordination wasn’t helping. In fact he should have slapped him down for it, but he hadn’t the heart.

‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ Serkhov had tuned into him, the way close colleagues do in operational situations. He took a large bite of his sandwich and fished out a segment of gristle, flicking it onto his plate.

‘I’ve no idea. Tell me what you’re thinking apart from filling your belly and I’ll let you know.’

Serkhov swallowed some tea. ‘This assignment’s going to hell in a bucket, is my opinion. And we’re stuck like a couple of tarts right in the middle of it.’ He hesitated as if suddenly remembering that he was merely a sergeant talking out of turn to an officer, then ploughed on hastily. ‘I know we have to work to orders and in isolation so we can’t spill our guts if we get caught, but what happened to briefings, backup and some help? In any case, I’m not sure the colonel’s being entirely open with us.’

‘How do you mean?’

Serkhov shrugged. ‘The way he’s not allowing us any contact with the embassy or anyone else.’

‘So what? It’s standard operational rules. We’ve worked like this plenty of times before.’

‘Yes, but we’ve always had fall-back positions available. Lose a car and we know immediately from pre-briefs where to go for another one. Here we are in the busiest city in the western world, with more Russians outside Moscow than most places on earth, and we can’t even do that straight away. And we’re now using one-time-only meeting places, like that dump of an office we were in last time.’

‘So you’re getting choosy about where we meet, now? Have you forgotten those places we used in Beirut? Or Athens? They were toilets compared with this.’

‘You know what I mean. It’s like we’re right off the grid all of a sudden and having to survive on our wits, with no chance of backup. But where’s Gorelkin while we’re running our arses off around London?’

‘He’ll be somewhere near, waiting for us to report. It has to be that way, you know it.’ Votrukhin sounded uncertain, even to himself, and felt instantly guilty. Team leaders weren’t supposed to show doubt to those beneath them, no matter how desperate things were. The problem was, he was under exclusive orders from Gorelkin, a senior officer, and those orders included a no-contact rule with anyone outside of their three-man cell. It also precluded any practical displays of initiative, such as getting the hell out of here on the first flight while they still could.

‘And there’s the Englishman,’ Serkhov muttered. ‘What the hell is that all about? He’s ex-MI5 and therefore a sworn enemy. If he betrayed his country and his service, he certainly won’t think twice about dropping us in the shit if it suits him. Has he been cleared through central command to work with us?’

‘I’ve no idea. Why — would you like me to call them up and check?’

‘I bet he hasn’t. The thing is, how do we even know for sure he’s not still employed by MI5, huh?’

Votrukhin shifted in his seat, a worm of doubt in his mind. He’d been having the same thoughts ever since meeting Paulton. It wouldn’t be the first time a team had been sold a fake pony. ‘Don’t even think that, you idiot. Gorelkin’s not an amateur at this game; he’ll have checked him out very carefully. Anyway, I think they know each other from way back. Haven’t you sensed the atmosphere between them? They’ve worked together before, I’m certain.’

‘Big deal. Once turned, a man can be turned again in my opinion. Paulton now knows our faces, full descriptions — even our mobile phone numbers. Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.’

Votrukhin said nothing. He was supposed to be above such rebellious considerations. And as an officer in the Special Purpose Centre, he should by rights be reporting Serkhov for his words and having him shipped home on the next flight out to face an unpleasant investigation and a period of retraining. Yet much of what the sergeant had said was correct. Something in the way Gorelkin had been acting was like a man waging his own private war, not trusting his men to know any of the background details. All they knew was that after dealing with Tobinskiy, the situation had been going steadily to hell, as Serkhov had phrased it so acidly, in a bucket. And now they were in pursuit of not only a former female member of MI6, but two former members of the Security Services, MI5, who were guarding her.

‘So what are you suggesting?’ Votrukhin said finally. ‘That we tell Gorelkin that we’re withholding our labour? That we don’t want to play anymore? He’d have our balls on a stick inside the hour.’

Serkhov looked depressed. ‘I don’t know, do I? I’m just saying. It doesn’t feel right.’ He pushed his mug and plate away and stared out into the street through the condensation on the window. ‘Give me a gun and a bunch of terrorists and I’d be happy. Not this game of round-the-houses.’