The undercover man, November, was isolated — might be lost, might be taken beyond eyeball capability, might be beyond reach — but anything was better than a show blown away. Reputations didn’t survive failure.
She attacked. ‘Have you done, Mr Lawson, any sort of risk assessment on this?’
His eyes were on her, clear and unwavering in their gaze.
The absence of response stoked her anger. ‘Don’t you know there’s legislation on health and safety that applies to him as much as to a roofer on your house?’
He seemed to smile, cold, and little cracks appeared at the edge of the thin lips.
Katie Jennings’s voice rose, battered the interior of the car. ‘So, no risk assessment, no acknowledgement of health and safety, and you reckon that satisfactory. Not where I’m coming from, it isn’t.’
He tilted his head and stared out through the windscreen, looked down the length of the bridge.
‘Has this gone through the Office of Surveillance Commissioners? Does it have their approval?’
A quick frown had nudged on to his forehead, as if she was a fly that annoyed him and needed swatting away.
She persisted, ‘What about duty of care? Does duty of care to an undercover not exist in your bloody games?’
‘Before your tone develops to hysteria, understand, please, you are now operating in a different world. Learn that, and quickly.’
He had jerked upright. Now she was ignored. He was out of the car, went to the bonnet and settled his weight on it. She looked past him. They were coming back across the bridge. She saw Johnny Carrick and he seemed to walk slowly, leaden, behind Josef Goldmann. The Russian minder was ahead … There was no tag in the car. If the eyeball was lost, he was alone. They had no bloody right to ask it of him — but it was a different world, the man had said. The nice guy, the best of all of them, Luke, was a clear fifty yards in front of the little group on the pavement of the Glienicker bridge and strode fast, had a good athletic walk, and never looked behind. She saw Bugsy come sharply out of the minibus and trot forward to intercept him at the point where the bridge met the bank, and he seemed to point to a distant part of the lake, in an innocent way, and was talking. Would have been telling Luke there was to be no tag in the car. She swore, and felt no better for it.
‘Excuse me, Mr Goldmann, I need to use the toilet.’
‘What, Johnny?’
‘There’s one down there.’ Carrick pointed to a concrete block beside a café complex. ‘Be as quick as I can.’
The toilets were next to the walkway that led alongside the lakeshore. Couldn’t think of anywhere better. He had been aware of the tall guy, codename Delta, on the bridge in front of him. Just had to hope … Carrick had gone two days, or three, since he’d been on the plot and in the Goldmann household without contact with his cover officer, and it hadn’t seemed to matter. Once he had gone a full week without filling in the Book with the log of events — so bloody much to report. Would only have confessed it to himself, but he had felt lifted by the sight of the man ahead of him on the bridge. Also, would not have confessed, except to himself, that the associate — Reuven Weissberg — oozed threat. Thought he had come through the trick played on him. Hadn’t slept on his breaks in the guard roster, was damn near knackered. Knew he was under a new level of scrutiny.
There were steps down to the toilet and they had a railing for older people. He had to hold it. Could remember former certainties — at the interview board, and saying he had believed he could cope well with the stress of going undercover.
He pushed open the door. Had no change in his pocket, so dropped a five-euro note into the saucer on the table in front of the attendant. It won no gratitude from the old guy sitting there. Went inside and into the Herren section, then to a stall, unzipped and tried to piss. Could not. A man was beside him and a child. The man eyed him. He had opened his fly but couldn’t do it. Stood there. Willed himself. The man left with the child. He looked at the cubicles, saw the three doors were ajar, that he was alone. It came in a dribble. The door opened behind him but Carrick didn’t turn.
He heard — soft Yorkshire accent and quietspoken, ‘Don’t know how long you have … As much as anything to let you know we’re here and close.’
‘Fuck that — try something important.’
‘Easy, friend. We have you on eyeball, and—’
‘I don’t have time now — has the car a tag?’
A hesitation. ‘No.’
‘Why the fuck not?’
‘Absence of time and opportunity. What are you learning?’
‘What am I learning? That’s good. I’m learning that I’m regarded here with the fondness, and trust, of a live rat. Weissberg and his hood are suspicious — suspicious times ten — and—’
‘We’re staying close, guaranteed.’
‘That’s a fucking comfort. I’m not a Russian speaker, not a German speaker. I don’t know where I’m being led. It’s like I’m blindfolded.’
‘You lead, we follow.’
‘Great — how far behind?
He heard the footsteps, then the squeal of the door. He lost the whisper. Spoke loudly, ‘Sorry, can’t help you, don’t speak German.’
Carrick pulled up his zip. Viktor was in the doorway. He tapped his wristwatch. Carrick said, ‘Apologies if I’ve kept you waiting.’
He followed Viktor out of the public lavatory.
Yashkin peered over the wheel, eyes never off the centre of the road as he spoke: ‘As we are now in the Bryansk oblast there are things about this place you should know. The total number of hectares is three and a half million, of which half is agricultural land, a third is forested—’
‘Do you talk this crap because you think I’m interested, or so that you stay awake?’ Molenkov yawned, and did not hold up his hand to shield his mouth. His teeth were exposed, the gaps in the upper and lower sets.
‘It’s education. Education is an important part of our lives. Even at the end we should strive to learn. I’ve read a great deal about the economy and history of the Bryansk oblast. Did you know, my friend, that a monk, his name was Peresvet, challenged and defeated the giant enemy, Chelubey, at Kulikovo? I learned that.’
‘Was it raining that day?’
‘How should I know? You should demonstrate greater respect. We’re near now to Borodino where Napoleon vanquished the Tsarist army but weakened himself so much that he failed in his march on Moscow. That was in 1812, on September the seventh, and he won only half a victory, which contributed to a whole defeat.’
‘And was it raining on September the seventh, 1812?’
‘What’s your problem, Molenkov?’
They were crossing a land of flat fields and forests. The Bryansk oblast, cut by swollen rivers, was featureless as far as Yashkin’s vision reached. A mist was brought down by the rain, not falling hard but with the blurring persistence sufficient to make every pothole a small lake. Yashkin did not dare go fast, and his speedometer showed a constant forty kilometres per hour; had he driven faster he would have risked plunging any of his tyres into a rainwater pool that had formed above a pothole and he would not have known its depth. Greater speed risked the tyres.
‘It’s like you merely recite pages from a book.’
‘I’ll ask again, what’s your problem?’