The two brothers stood, damaged face to damaged face, eyeball to eyeball.
‘Feel better, Sam?’ Jacob whispered. His words were arrogant; but his eyes were disturbed.
Fury still burned through Sam’s veins. He pressed the Browning against the side of Jacob’s head. ‘You’re going to tell me about the hit,’ he said.
Jacob jutted his chin out, but didn’t say anything.
‘Dolohov told me one of the red-light runners is planning a hit,’ Sam persisted. ‘He didn’t know where or when. You’re going to tell me who it is, Jacob, otherwise I swear to God I’ll kill you.’
The two brothers stared at each other. Then, slowly, Jacob stepped backwards. In the background Sam heard the sound of sirens. Somewhere deep down he supposed it should worry him; but it didn’t.
‘You won’t kill me, Sam,’ Jacob said. A calmness appeared to have descended over him. ‘I’m your brother.’
He turned his back on Sam and started walking away. No hurry. In fact, there was a slowness to his gait. A heaviness.
The sirens grew louder.
Sam’s body went cold. Once more he felt himself in the grip of some other power, as though he were a puppet being controlled by invisible strings from above. He raised his gun hand.
‘You’re not my brother,’ he heard himself say.
Jacob stopped. He was five or six metres away now. When he turned again, there was an animal expression in his eyes.
The brothers stared at each other.
And then, Jacob came at him.
It happened so quickly. Jacob launched himself at Sam with his arms outstretched, going for his throat. It was a clumsy movement, the result of rage, not training. But Jacob was a big guy, and the impact knocked Sam backwards. He fell to the ground and Jacob fell on top of him with the barrel of Sam’s gun awkwardly pressed into the hard flesh of his stomach. The elbow of Sam’s gun hand crashed against the grass.
Sam never felt his trigger finger move. He heard the shot, though. It rang out across the graveyard, scaring the birds in the trees and causing them to rise up in flocks. He pushed Jacob away from him, but already he was spattered with the blood that had exploded from his brother’s stomach.
‘Jesus, J.,’ he whispered. And then louder: ‘Jesus!’
Jacob lay on his back. His breaths were short and irregular. Blood flowed from his abdomen.
His body was shaking and his skin was white. He looked up at Sam and for the first time ever, Sam saw fear in his brother’s eyes. Jacob started to say something, but all that came out was a weak cough and a trickle of blood that spilled over his lower lip.
Another cough and another gush of blood. In the distance, the sirens became louder and suddenly stopped. The crying of the disturbed birds dissolved into nothing and silence surrounded them.
Jacob closed his eyes. His skin became a greyer shade of pale and Sam knew what that meant.
‘Dad never forgot about you, Jacob,’ he breathed. ‘Not for a single second of a single day.’ Jacob winced and Sam sensed it was nothing to do with the pain. It was as if that one fact was too much for him to bear.
His chest started to rattle.
‘You have to tell me,’ Sam urged. ‘Tell me what you’ve set up. Who’s the target, Jacob? Who do the Russians want dead?’
The sound of shouting from the edges of the cemetery. Sam looked over his shoulder. Movement in the distance. He turned back to his brother. ‘For Mac’s sake, Jacob. And for Dad’s. If he thought you were a traitor, it would ruin the rest of what life he has left…’
Jacob’s eyes were rolling in their sockets. Fresh blood spewed from his mouth. He choked on it as he spoke. ‘You can’t stop it. It’s in motion.’
‘Who?’ Sam urged. ‘Just tell me who?’
The shouting grew louder. Half of Sam wanted to shake his dying brother; the other half wanted to hug him. ‘Who?’
A pause. It lasted forever. When Jacob spoke again, his voice was so weak Sam had to strain to hear it. ‘Beridze…’ he said.
He heaved again.
‘Kakha Beridze.’ Sam wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. The words were meaningless to him. A deep breath from his brother. Jacob gained control of his vision and stared him straight in the eye. ‘His assistant… tomorrow night…’ His body jerked, as though an electric shock had passed through it. On the edge of his consciousness, Sam became aware that he was surrounded. A harsh voice shouted at him. ‘Drop your weapon and put your hands on your head.’ Sam ignored them. He grabbed his brother’s arm. ‘Don’t tell him,’ Jacob whispered, and Sam knew what he meant. ‘For God’s sake, Sam, don’t tell him…’
Jacob struggled to draw another breath, but it stopped suddenly. There was a horrific silence. And then, with a gruesome, aching slowness, the sound of his lungs deflating. Jacob’s eyes glazed over; his body stopped shaking and relaxed on to the grass like ice beginning to melt.
Sam stared at him in lone shock.
‘Drop your weapon and put your hands on your head. You’re surrounded by armed police.’
He was numb. Out of the corner of his eye he saw his mother’s tombstone. He felt as though her eyes were upon him.
‘This is your last warning. Drop your weapon and put your hands on your head. If you do not drop your weapon, we will shoot.’
Slowly, Sam laid the Browning on Jacob’s chest. He raised his arms in the air and placed them, fingers clasped together, on his head. Before he knew it, he became aware of three flak-jacketed police officers with MP5s trained directly at him. He barely gave them a second glance; Sam could not take his eyes off the body of the brother he had just killed.
He spoke. His voice sounded separate from his body. Monotone. Emotionless.
‘You need to contact MI6,’ he said. ‘Gabriel Bland. Tell him that Sam Redman has some information for him.’
The armed response unit closed in. With their black body armour and grim faces, they looked for all the world like an army of shadows gathering round his brother’s corpse.
TWENTY-SIX
The cell in the basement of the Hereford police station was tiny. A single bunk with a thin mattress and a yellow-and-brown-stained toilet without any seat were all the comfort it offered, but that didn’t matter to Sam Redman. There were no comforts that would ease what he felt inside.
He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the yellowing wall opposite. How long he had been in there he couldn’t have said. An hour? A day? They were both equally likely. His head was filled with ghosts. Memories of his brother when they were kids, which were unavoidably chased away by the one image that he knew would haunt him for the rest of his life. The image of Jacob, motionless on that cemetery ground, dead by Sam’s hand. It didn’t feel like it could possibly be true.
A policeman brought in some food. Sam didn’t even look at it. ‘Where’s Bland?’ Sam demanded. The policeman – a young guy – gave him a look of contempt. He didn’t answer.
Sam continued to stare. Continued to think. He supposed he should weep, but tears wouldn’t come. Perhaps he didn’t deserve them. Every now and then his guilt would be replaced by something else. Anger. Anger at his brother. Anger so deep and so hot that it felt as if it would consume him. And with it a desire – no, a need – to put everything right. He couldn’t undo everything Jacob had done, but if he could stop things getting worse, maybe the anger would go. Or at least subside.
The peephole of the cell door opened. ‘I’m not talking to you,’ he called. ‘I’ll only speak to Gabriel Bland.’
The peephole slid shut, then the door opened. A familiar voice. ‘Leave us alone.’
Sam turned to look at his visitor. He was accompanied by the young police officer. ‘I should stay, sir. He’s dangerous…’