“And you said?”
“I said that I would.” He looked up at her in the mirror. “But I don’t have to do that.”
“Do you have the schematic?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Give it to me.”
She gave the pistol a little shove to remind him that it was there and waited as he took his left hand from the wheel so that he could reach into his jacket. He took out a piece of paper and held it up so that Nataliya could take it. She kept the gun where it was and took the paper in her left hand, unfolding it and taking a quick glimpse. She didn’t know anything about aviation, but she recognised that it was a cross-section of a piece of aeronautical equipment.
Geggel put his hand back on the wheel. They had reached the junction. He indicated, turned right and then joined the A12.
“What did he say about his daughter?”
“Not much.” He left it at that until she poked him with the gun again. “She used to love Russia and hate her father. Now she hates Russia and hopes he might be able to save her. He said something about her husband being murdered. Sounds like your people fucked up.”
The attitude was unexpected, and she saw that he was watching in the mirror as he delivered it. She didn’t know what he hoped it might achieve.
“You want to know where she is?” he suggested, still watching in the mirror.
“Did he say?”
“He did. What do I get if I tell you?”
“Perhaps you don’t get shot—”
Geggel took his left hand off the wheel and stabbed down for the gun. Nataliya had been distracted for a moment by the suggestion that Geggel might offer Anastasiya Romanova’s location, and what she could offer him to divulge it, and wasn’t able to move the gun away before he was able to grab her wrist. The gun jerked down, the sudden movement forcing her finger back on the trigger, and the weapon discharged. The Citroën swerved right and then left, narrowly missing oncoming traffic. There was a lay-by next to the road, a barbed wire fence marking its boundary along the lip of a slope that descended into the field below. The Citroën raced over the lay-by, crashed through the fence, continued over the lip and then bounced down the slope. Nataliya wasn’t wearing a belt, and braced herself against the seat, all thoughts of covering Geggel with the gun temporarily suspended. She caught a glimpse of the land ahead of them: a wide margin of scrubland, a fringe of trees and then an expanse of mudflats.
The car was still moving fast. It reached the bottom of the slope and now it was racing through a gap in the trees. It continued on, bumping and bouncing over the uneven ground until it reached the mudflats. Nataliya braced for a sudden stop. The back end jerked up as the bonnet plunged into the mud. Nataliya was thrown forward, her head cracking into Geggel’s headrest.
10
Mikhail returned to the house across the street, unlocked the front door of the house that they had been using and went inside. There was a mirror over the occasional table, and he turned to look into it. The disguise was one that he had used before: the unruly beard, wild hair and thin metal-framed spectacles had always reminded him of Molodtsov, the garrulous teacher who had taught both him and Nataliya English at the KGB Academy in Michurinsky Prospekt. The likeness was so similar that Mikhail referred to the disguise as ‘The Professor,’ and it had become something of a standing joke between him and his wife. The Professor had always been reliable, and it was with some regret that he had decided that he would have to retire him from now on.
He went into the downstairs bathroom and stood in front of the mirror above the sink. He reached up to behind his ear and found a loose edge where the beard had not adhered perfectly to his skin. He slid his fingers beneath the backing and pulled until the beard came away. He dropped it into the bin, removed the pins that held the wig in place and then put them and the wig into the bin, too. He took off the glasses and rinsed his face in the cold water, removing all traces of the adhesive. He took the bag out of the bin and carried it back to the kitchen. There was an open refuse sack on the counter; Nataliya had already emptied the fridge. He put the bag inside the sack, knotted it, and took it to the front door. They would take their rubbish with them.
He looked at his watch and set another timer, this one for ten minutes. He needed to move fast. He went into the front room and disconnected the cameras and computers. He unplugged the hard drives and slid them into a sports bag so that they were ready to be removed. He collected all the paper that he could find, dumped it in the grate and lit it. He hurried upstairs. They had unpacked only what they needed, and so he stuffed the used clothes back into the bags, bagged up and added their toiletries, zipped the bags up and slid them down the stairs. He checked each room, one by one, moving quickly but methodically, and satisfied himself that they were leaving nothing behind that might compromise them. He made his way back downstairs and, after checking that the road was quiet, he transferred all the bags into the back of his car. He locked up, got into the car, and checked his watch.
Eight minutes.
Time to go. He started the engine, pulled out, and left Wymering Road—with the dead traitor still undisturbed in the kitchen across the street—and headed north.
Nataliya touched her fingers to her forehead and looked at them: they were stained with blood. She must have cut herself on the edge of the headrest when she banged into it. Her neck felt sore and her back was stiff. She wiped the blood away and looked around: the car had come to rest at the edge of the estuary, left at an angle as the front had ploughed into the start of the mudflats. The back end was off the ground and the wheels were still spinning. The road was behind them, elevated above the flats, but it looked as if the car would be partially hidden by the line of trees.
She took out her phone and called Mikhail.
“Yes?”
“Where are you?”
She heard the sound of a car. “On my way,” he said. “Are you all right? You sound—”
“He crashed the car,” she said. The words were slurred, as if they were too large for her mouth.
“Are you hurt?”
“Banged my head.”
“I’ll come back. Where are you?”
“Just after the turn-off to the town.”
“I’ve got you,” he said. Nataliya knew that he would be able to find her with the GPS tracker on her phone. “I’ll be there in five minutes.”
Nataliya put the phone in her pocket and pushed herself upright. A bolt of pain radiated out from her neck. Whiplash. She found the piece of paper that Geggel had given her and stuffed it into her pocket. She slid across the cabin, opened the door and lowered herself down. The ground was boggy, her feet squelching as she went ahead and opened the passenger door. She climbed back inside and looked at Geggel. He was slumped against the deflating airbags, his breath wheezing in and out, shallow and faint. There was blood on his thigh; she pulled his jacket back and saw a wide patch of blood on his shirt. The shot that Nataliya had fired had hit him below the ribs and behind his belly, in the area of his left kidney. He was bleeding out.
“Help me.”
Geggel’s voice was weak, barely audible. He had turned his head to look at her; he mouthed the words again.
She reached down for his leg and yanked it, dragging his foot off the accelerator so that the engine’s hopeless whining ended. She reached inside his jacket pocket and found his wallet and phone, put them on the dash and, covering her fingers with her sleeve, opened the glovebox. It was full of junk: a box from an old satnav, a collection of phone charging cables, and the litter of crumpled-up receipts and empty crisp packets. She filtered through the mess but found nothing of interest.