She took the pistol and pressed the muzzle of the suppressor against his head.
“Where is Anastasiya Romanova?”
He tried to speak, but all she could hear was the wheezing of his breath.
Her head pounded and she felt blood running down into her brow. “Where is Anastasiya Romanova?”
“I…”
She shoved the pistol, bending Geggel’s neck away, forcing his head over onto his shoulder. “Where is she?”
“I… don’t… know.”
Nataliya pushed the door open with her foot and stepped out again. Geggel turned his head, resting it against the wheel. He looked back at her with desperation in his eyes; it looked as if he didn’t have the strength to speak again.
Nataliya aimed into the cabin and shot him again. The report, although muffled by the suppressor, still rang out over the estuary; a flock of black-headed gulls clattered out of the reeds and took to the air. Geggel’s head jerked to the side, jerked back again and finally slumped forward against the wheel.
Nataliya followed the track that the car had left through the damp ground and clambered up the slope. Purchase was difficult and she was unsteady on her feet; she drove the heels of her boots into the scree to stop herself from slipping back down again. She reached the top. A car sped away to the north. It didn’t stop; there was no reason why it would. Even if the driver had noticed her as she struggled over the lip of the slope, he or she would have concluded that she had just been caught short and had gone to relieve herself.
A car approached from the south. Nataliya recognised it, and as it drew nearer, she saw Mikhail. He went by, braked, indicated right, and then used the Southwold turning to loop around. He drew up in the lay-by and reached across to open the passenger door. Nataliya dropped inside.
“Your head,” he said.
Her thoughts were cloudy. “Banged it. Might be concussed.”
“Geggel?” he asked her.
“Dead.”
“Anything?”
“He doesn’t know,” she said.
Mikhail put the car into first, checked the mirror, and pulled out onto the road. Nataliya opened the glovebox and took out a bottle of painkillers. She shook out two, put them in her mouth and then washed them down with water from the bottle that Mikhail had left in the cupholder. If it was a concussion, it was a mild one, but it wouldn’t have made a difference; a doctor was out of the question. She reclined the seat and leaned back against it. She knew the drilclass="underline" Mikhail would conduct a careful dry-cleaning run to shake out any tails. She had a few hours to relax before they got home.
Mikhail took out his phone and made a call to Vincent to report the outcome of their afternoon’s work. Nataliya closed her eyes and let the sound of the tyres on the rough tarmac lull her to sleep.
London
11
Vincent Beck had a flat on the twelfth floor of the Lannoy Point tower block in Fulham. He had lived here for fifteen years, ever since his wife had passed away. He had made it his own in that time: it was comfortably furnished, nothing too expensive, with his one extravagance being his Rega turntable. He loved classical music, and there was nothing he enjoyed more than to put a record on, sit at his small dining table and look out and enjoy the view over west London.
The flat was pleasant and there was a strong sense of community in the building, but neither of those benefits had influenced Beck’s decision to purchase it. His one requirement, when he had been looking at the sixties tower blocks that dominated this part of the city, had been that the flat that he settled on be on the top floor. The reason was simple: his burst transmitter had a clear line of sight to the satellite right out of the windows.
He went into his bedroom and dropped down to his hands and knees. He kept his encoder hidden in the false bottom of a suitcase that was, in turn, hidden away beneath his bed. He opened the case, prised back the panel, and took out the encoder. It was the DKM-S model; twenty years old, but it had always been reliable and—even though he generally had no time for superstition—Beck was loath to ask for a replacement. The DKM-S was a compact device that was about the size of a small paperback book, its electronics housed within a lightweight grey Hammerite aluminium case. There was a sixteen-button keypad on the front panel; Beck composed his classified zapiska and checked the output via the LED display. The burst transmission allowed for only a limited amount of characters, and so he had to be brief.
Both neutralised. House closed down. Assets left area safely. Meeting assets tonight. Will report.
The encoder would compress the message and then broadcast it at a high data signalling rate, reducing the chances of it being intercepted. He pressed the button to send the message, waited until it had gone and then imagined Nikolai Primakov’s reaction. The message would be translated and delivered to him at his desk in his expansive office overlooking the forest at Yasenevo. Beck knew that Primakov would be pleased. This assignment, more than any of the others that he had overseen for the deputy director, had clearly been weighing on his mind. Its flawless execution would be a relief.
Beck switched off the encoder and replaced it in its hiding place. He stood up, stretching out the kinks in his back, and went through to the sitting room. He had a journey to make later tonight, and he needed to start the preparations.
12
John Milton sat on a wooden bench in the gardens outside the hospital building. He was too afraid to go inside. It was more than just fear, though: there was guilt and shame, too. The numbing hangover didn’t help, either.
Milton had taken the Tube to Mile End station, and then walked the rest of the way. It was just before seven on a sunny Sunday evening, and the Mile End Road had been quieter than would have been the case during the rest of the week. Milton had followed the details he had written down on the back of his hand, turning onto Bancroft Road and then making his way through the grounds of the hospital to the Burdett Centre. It was a new building, single storey and surrounded by a pleasant and well-tended garden. There was a lawn and a fountain and a row of tall elms that swayed in the gentle breeze. Milton had found the bench and sat down; it offered a vantage point to watch the other men and women as they arrived and made their way inside. He had counted a dozen, three of whom had returned outside to smoke. He didn’t know how many people would attend a meeting. He had never been to one before, and, save what he had been able to read on the internet that morning, he had no idea what to expect.
Milton wanted to join them. He had made his way here because he knew now, beyond any doubt, that he needed help. But that was all well and good; knowing that something was wrong was one thing, but admitting to himself that he was out of control and helpless to his compulsion was something else entirely. He didn’t know if he would be able to do that.
There was another reason for his reticence. Control would not look kindly on him if he knew that he was here. It would speak of weakness, for one thing, a feebleness that would have him suspended and fast-tracked to an appointment with the Group psychiatrists who would prod and poke him until they had diagnosed the cause of his mental ailment. More than that, Control would know—as Milton knew—that the meetings that Milton was considering encouraged a frank and open sharing of the reasons why the attendees resorted to the bottle. Milton’s particular profession required the utmost discretion, and even a hint of negligence in that regard would have him placed under house arrest, at best.