‘So you finally worked out what’s going on,’ he said, his voice pure condescension.
‘You killed Bianchi and Moretti,’ Knox said. ‘Sold out Pipistrelle to the Russians, and now you’re delivering Valera to them.’
‘Oh dear,’ Peterson replied. ‘Only one out of three. What on earth did Holland see in you all these years? It can’t have been your powers of deduction.’
Knox faked a leap round the right-hand side of the table, forcing Peterson back towards the desk and away from the sofa the gun was under.
‘Why did you do it?’ Knox demanded. ‘Wasn’t being Manning’s lapdog enough?’
‘That’s rich, coming from Holland’s favourite pet,’ Peterson replied.
‘I’m no one’s pet,’ he shot back.
‘Holland handed you everything you’ve ever wanted on a plate. You’re the golden child who doesn’t have to follow the rules.’ Peterson took another step round towards the desk, mirroring every step Knox made towards him. ‘I’m just taking the advantages I wasn’t given.’
‘You’re a traitor,’ Knox said.
‘And you’re a hypocrite,’ Peterson spat at him. ‘You play the part of the poor child from the East End but you live in a penthouse on top of a block of council flats, just to remind everyone how much better than them you are.’
Knox couldn’t control himself any more. He hurled himself at Peterson. But Peterson was ready for him. He sidestepped out of the way and let Knox crash straight into the desk.
‘A predictable hypocrite.’
Knox, doubled over on the desk, took a second to compose and quickly berate himself for underestimating Peterson. He guessed Peterson expected him to come back up swinging. So instead he let out a groan, slumped down to his side, and used the tulip chair to steady himself. Then, when he did stand back up, he brought Peterson’s briefcase with him, throwing it at his head.
Peterson jerked out of its way, catching his foot on the corner of the coffee table and falling onto it again, this time smashing through the onyx and crashing onto the floor.
‘At least I’m not betraying my country so the KGB can spy on the whole world,’ Knox said, as he stepped over Peterson and started raining punches down on him.
Instead of trying to protect himself Peterson started to laugh again. ‘A predictable, small-minded hypocrite,’ he said between blows.
Knox was so confused by Peterson’s reaction to the battering he was taking that he didn’t notice his hands reaching out under him, searching across the smashed shards of onyx.
‘Are you here to defend Dear Old Blighty?’ Peterson asked. ‘Britannia’s long dead. This is just a sad little island trapped in a fantasy of self-importance.’
‘Is that the line Moscow sold you?’
Peterson’s laughter finally ran out. ‘Oh Richard, this isn’t about anything as trivial as ideology,’ he said. His voice was quiet, mournful, like he was explaining to a child that their dog had run away and wasn’t coming back. Then he suddenly sat up, and slashed at Knox’s leg with a razor-sharp onyx shard. ‘This is business.’
The pain knocked Knox off balance and he fell onto a sofa. As he did, Peterson sprang to his feet and plunged the shard into his thigh.
‘The future isn’t anything as small as politics or patriotism,’ Peterson said. ‘It’s about private enterprise. Finding something to sell and selling it to the highest bidder.’
‘And damn everyone else to a life of fear and oppression,’ Knox said through gritted teeth.
‘Maybe. Maybe they’ll fall into line like scared sheep. Or maybe they’ll finally realise all the promises of rewards for good behaviour are just lies to keep them in their place.’
It all finally, crashingly, hit Knox. He hadn’t been hunting the long machinations of a regime but the petty opportunism of someone caught up in them.
‘You’re a real hero of the revolution,’ Knox said, mustering some sarcasm.
‘I don’t really care what happens,’ Peterson said, leaning over Knox and driving the onyx shard deeper into his leg. ‘The only thing I need everyone to do, including you, is stay out of my way.’
‘Sorry about that,’ Knox said, between groans.
‘I tried to warn you, but you wouldn’t take the hint. I thought you might when I burned down your flat, but you really are quite stupid.’
‘Was Holland in your way too?’
‘Well, I don’t have anything against him personally, but I couldn’t have him sniffing round, asking questions. And he wasn’t the only one who knew about your dirty little parental secret.’
Peterson stepped out of the remnants of the table and towards the sofa on top of the Beretta, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on Knox.
‘My Russian friends were happy to help me arrange his unfortunate medical problem.’ Peterson kneeled down and reached under the sofa, this time wrapping his fist around the barrel of the Beretta. ‘They’ll be less than thrilled when they realise it’s only got them a halfwit as a new DG, but they tend to take a long view at the Lubyanka, so it won’t be a total disappointment.’
Knox couldn’t move. The pain in his leg was too intense. But he needed to stall Peterson, keep him talking. ‘Aren’t you worried about them coming after you?’ Knox asked.
‘They can try. But by tomorrow I’ll be untouchable.’ Peterson stood up, levelling the gun at Knox. ‘Now, I’m afraid I’ve got a schedule to keep.’
In the split second it took Peterson to steady himself before shooting, Knox pulled the shard from his thigh and lunged at Peterson, driving the onyx into his stomach as he shoved the gun away from him with his other hand. Peterson’s finger pulled the trigger, sending a bullet into the carpet as he doubled over. Then Knox pulled the makeshift dagger out of Peterson’s side and plunged it into his neck.
Peterson tried to say something as he fell to the floor, but whatever it was just came out as a bloody gurgle. He landed first on his knees, then on his side. By the time his head hit the suite’s deep-pile carpet he was dead.
Knox stumbled over to Bennett. She didn’t look good. Her shoulders had dropped, her hands had fallen into her lap, and her eyes were half closed. Her breathing was shallow. He pressed his hands against the large red stains on her side. The fresh pressure brought her round, and she stared at him. A thin smile curled her mouth.
‘Looks like we got there in the end,’ she said in a whisper.
‘Who said anything about the end?’ Knox replied, matching her smile.
He heard the click of a lock. The door to Valera’s bedroom opened and she cautiously stepped out. She looked down at Knox and Bennett, then walked slowly over to where Peterson’s body lay.
‘Is he dead?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ Knox replied. ‘You’re safe now.’
Valera looked at the folder that was still on the desk, then at Peterson again.
‘Who are you?’
‘MI5.’
Knox could tell Valera’s mind was racing to understand what was happening.
‘So was he,’ she said, after a pause. She nudged the Beretta out of Peterson’s mortis grip with her foot. ‘What will happen now?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Knox said, turning back to Bennett to check that she hadn’t passed out again. ‘But there’s plenty of time to work that out.’
‘No,’ Valera said, her voice suddenly very hard, ‘there isn’t.’
Knox twisted round just in time to see her lean down, pick up the Beretta, and shoot him in the chest.
As Knox slumped down next to Bennett, a fresh blood bloom staining his front, Valera dropped the gun next to Peterson, picked up the folder, and walked out of the suite.