Now he thumbed the receive key on his cell phone.
‘Semyon Vladimirovich.’ It was General Tsarev. ‘I have the go-ahead from the President.’ His gravel tone was hard to read, but Lenilko thought he detected there a trace of admiration, even awe.
The General said: ‘The force is airborne.’
Lenilko closed his eyes.
Twenty-one
Purkiss blinked, shook his head, the double vision slowly resolving. His head felt as if it had been run over, and he felt stickiness in the hair above his right ear.
He was propped up in a high-backed chair in the mess, his hands secured behind with what felt like plastic ties. His body didn’t ache as though he’d been dragged, and he suspected he’d stumbled along the corridors half-conscious.
They were all there. Medievsky and Haglund stood directly before him, their rifles in their hands with the barrels lowered. Montrose was at Medievsky’s side.
Budian and Clement watched Purkiss from the sofa, further back. Only Avner wasn’t looking at him, slouched as he was in an armchair, his head tipped back so that the peak of his cap was aimed at the ceiling.
The details of what the Russian at the other end of the phone had told him swam in Purkiss’s consciousness. He grappled for them, trying to hold on to them before they escaped entirely.
‘Look at him,’ said Montrose. ‘Thinking of what the hell kind of bullshit story he can concoct to get himself out of this.’
Medievsky took a step forward. ‘Farmer. Can you hear me?’
Purkiss frowned, concentrating on the date he’d been given. Nineteen eighty-eight, yes. Was it April? Or was his mind filling in that particular detail because it fitted with his idea?’
‘Farmer.’ Medievsky was now six feet away. He lifted the barrel of the Ruger a fraction. ‘Pay attention. Can you hear me?’
‘Yes,’ said Purkiss. ‘I hear you.’
‘Look at me.’
Purkiss raised his head, triggering a roiling snake of pain through his neck. He wondered for a moment if he was going to vomit.
Medievsky’s face was impassive. ‘Who were you talking to?’
Purkiss stared at him, part of his mind cackling at the irony of it. I don’t know.
‘An FSB operative in Moscow. He was warning me, before you forced me to drop the phone, about an imminent terrorist action here at Yarkovsky Station.’
Montrose strode forward, pushing past Medievsky, and slapped Purkiss’s face, a hard backhand swipe that cracked his head sideways and sent a flare of agony through his jaw.
Budian stood up, her fists clenched, her arms shaking. ‘Stop it. Don’t do that. Don’t hit him.’ Her voice rose with each imprecation.
Montrose turned. ‘Why? Why shouldn’t I? He deserves it. He deserves anything we decide to do to him, the murdering, lying scumbag.’
Medievsky said, his tone solid with authority: ‘Ryan, back off. Oleksandra, sit down.’
Montrose glared down at Purkiss, rubbing the hand he’d used to hit him. Medievsky shifted closer.
‘I said back off. Don’t make me tell you again.’
For the briefest instant Montrose’s glasses flashed at Medievsky. He moved a few paces away.
Medievsky squatted before Purkiss. Behind him, Haglund hefted his rifle as if to warn Purkiss: don’t even think about making a move on him.
Medievsky’s eyes searched Purkiss’s. ‘How would you come to have contact with the FSB? Are you working for them?’
‘No.’ Purkiss hadn’t had much time to decide on his approach, on what to tell them and what to leave out. ‘Frank Wyatt. He was an FSB agent, placed here to investigate some sort of threat. That’s why someone killed him. He — ’
‘You killed him.’ This from Haglund.
Medievsky didn’t turn. ‘Gunnar,’ he said sharply. To Purkiss, ‘Can we use the satellite phone?’
‘To summon help? You can try, but I doubt you’ll have any luck. It’ll probably be network-specific, and the FSB will have its own network. The only connections you’ll be able to make will be with the Lubyanka.’ Purkiss coughed, tasting blood in his mouth, and wondered if one of his back teeth was loose.
‘Ah, for God’s sake.’ Avner sprang up from the armchair, his fists clenched in his hair, his cap knocked askew. He stalked over to Purkiss in the chair, ignoring Haglund’s warning growl, and crouched down beside Medievsky. ‘What does it mean, man? Imminent terrorist action, the fuckin’ FSB… what the hell is going on? I mean, are we all about to be killed?’ He leaned in close. Purkiss saw that his eyes were grey-rimmed and bloodshot, his beard unkempt. ‘Listen to this guy, man. He knows stuff. Let him talk.’ He stood erect, grabbed his hair again. ‘Damn. Shit.’
Behind him, Clement said quietly, ‘Efraim. Come.’
Avner whirled. ‘What?’
‘Come over here. Listen to me.’ Her voice was as low and as calm as a windless lake.
Avner muttered, ‘Shit,’ again, but walked over to her. She didn’t get up, didn’t make physical contact, but began talking to him in tones too quiet to be heard.
Montrose had advanced a few paces again so he was standing at Medievsky’s left shoulder. He said, ‘Let’s call, Oleg. Let’s make contact with whoever it is on the other end, FSB or whatever. They’ll send troops. Meantime, we sit tight right here, keeping this asshole covered.’
‘Yes, you could do that,’ said Purkiss. ‘But there’d be little point. Troops are already on their way. They’re headed here. But the place they should really be aiming for is the mammoth graveyard, the Nekropolis.’
That got the attention of everyone in the room. Even Avner, murmuring to Clement over at the couch, turned his head, snagged by the word.
Purkiss said: ‘In April 1988 a bomber jet went down over this region. It was eventually located near the site of the Nekropolis. The research work there was shut down in short order. Because although the cost of salvaging the aircraft was prohibitive, there was a problem. It was loaded with six nuclear-armed missiles. And there was a real danger of somebody from the research team stumbling across the wreckage, and the missiles. Anything might have happened. Ice-breaking equipment could have triggered a nuclear detonation, a new Chernobyl at precisely the time when the moribund Soviet Union could least afford the embarrassment, when its relations with the West were improving dramatically. So they pulled the plug on the Nekropolis project, and the site has lain abandoned ever since.’
He paused, not for effect so much as because his voice was faltering, his mouth as parched as dry wood. Nobody said anything, all of them staring at him, rapt.
‘Some terrorist cell has been looking for the plane, and the missiles. One of you in this room is working with this outfit, and was planted here to pinpoint the exact location. For the last few months, that person has been searching for it, under the guise of conducting scientific research. I believe whoever it is has confirmed the location, possibly in the last few days. And somehow, the missiles are about to be extracted. The person in question has got word out to the rest of the cell, and they’re moving in on the plane. Which explains the sabotaging of our communications with the outside. It’s a temporary measure, intended to buy time while the missiles are removed.’
Purkiss had been talking to the room in general, but now he focused on Medievsky who crouched before him. ‘You have to cut me loose,’ he said. ‘Keep your guns on me if you must, but give me the phone. I’ve spoken to the FSB man before, he knows my voice. It’ll save time if I do it. I need to let him know to send manpower to the Nekropolis.’