IN ANSWER to Asim’s startled look, Tallis explained. ‘What would happen if you went public?’
‘About the Russian security service killing its own civilians? It would be denied. The most we could hope for would be that the Kremlin admitted there was a rogue agency at work over which they had no jurisdiction.’
‘As in the Litvinenko case?’ It had been suggested that the Kremlin, although not exactly issuing the order to assassinate the former FSB officer, had turned a blind eye to some over-zealous former members. No surprises that the main suspect, whom the Russian authorities flatly refused to hand over for questioning by British police officers, had subsequently risen to an elevated seat in the state duma and had then been given a key security role.
Asim hiked an eyebrow, clearly uncomfortable with the comparison. ‘Your point?’
‘Who are the people who know about Numerov’s admission?’
‘What admission?’ Asim blinked.
Tallis felt a nerve pulse in his jaw. ‘The people in the know, how many? Ten? Twenty?’
‘Less. Aren’t you forgetting something? Who and why?’
‘I was coming to that. Fazan was a changed man the last time I saw him.’
‘Shocked, stunned, not changed,’ Asim snorted. ‘Don’t be too influenced by what I told you.’
‘I’m not. It’s what Numerov revealed on the CD. You said Fazan used Malika Motova, but what if it was more than that, what if he fell in love with her? It was bad enough that she got caught but now he discovers that Ivanov set her up and was personally behind her death. More critically, that Ivanov was onto him long before he knew it. That kind of thing dents a man’s pride.’
‘Paul, you’re speculating. It was over twenty years ago, for God’s sake.’
‘So what? Fazan went back to Moscow, didn’t he?’
‘Proves nothing.’
‘Did he ever marry?’
‘What’s that got to do—?’
‘So he doesn’t really like women?’
‘On the contrary, he—’
‘Guilt does strange things to people.’ He should know.
‘Guilt is not an emotion with which Fazan is familiar.’
Tallis wondered if the same applied to the man sitting in front of him. Did that come with the job description, too?
‘Look, Paul,’ Asim continued, ‘for Fazan to suddenly decide to have Ivanov killed now doesn’t make psychological sense. Fazan came to me asking for my help to avert an international crisis.’
‘Based on false information. Not only has he suffered personal injury, his professional expertise has been called into question. He fucked up, Asim. He should never have fallen for the information he was fed.’
‘Fazan is a proud man,’ Asim conceded, ‘but I don’t think he’d let something like this cloud his better judgement. He’ll settle into his post in Berlin, lie low and forget all about Russia and Ivanov.’
‘You’re right. You know him. I don’t,’ Tallis said, curt. ‘But I know Graham.’
‘Graham?’
‘You asked me how he’d adjust. The truth is I don’t know. If I’m honest, I don’t think slotting back into modern life is something that will come easily to him. And what’s he going to do now he’s back home, sit at a desk and push a pen around like Fazan?’
‘Not necessarily,’ Asim said, looking troubled.
‘One of the first criteria for being a spy is the fact you blend effortlessly into the landscape. You haven’t seen his face. He wouldn’t last five minutes out in the field. And remember, he’s spent years in the most basic of conditions, fighting, living on the edge, witnessing acts of extreme cruelty. What I do know is that he could swear black was white and have you believe it.’
‘Aren’t you forgetting something? Graham Darke is loyal to a fault.’
‘Making him the best man for the job.’
Asim pulled a face. ‘You’re seriously telling me that Darke would follow an order to kill a head of state?’
‘Not just any head of state.’
‘Alright, suppose he does it. Then what? Where is Darke supposed to go? What happens to him afterwards?’
‘Wherever the loner in him takes him. I’m sure Fazan could provide safe passage. It’s in both their interests for him to succeed.’
Asim thought for a moment, exploring the possibilities. ‘With careful handling, stories leaked in the right places, we could allow Ivanov to become a victim of his own policy.’
‘You mean what was supposed to be a bluff actually takes place?’ Asim was prepared to let it happen, Tallis thought, quietly appalled.
‘It wouldn’t be the first time someone screwed up, exchanging a blank for a live bullet.’
‘It won’t make the problem go away,’ Tallis said, insistent. ‘If Darke kills him, believe me, the story of an SIS officer fighting against Russian soldiers isn’t going to die with him. The Kremlin will see to that.’
Asim’s expression darkened. He said nothing. ‘Wait,’ he said sternly, getting up, taking out his phone. Punching in a number, he asked for a status report on Darke and Fazan. Tallis watched Asim as he waited and was given an answer. Asim nodded, his expression indecipherable.
‘Fazan is in Berlin, Darke has been released, destination unknown.’ He went to make another call.
‘You won’t find him, if that’s what you’re doing,’ Tallis said.
A pulse tensed in Asim’s jaw. He closed the phone. ‘If, and it’s a big if,’ he warned, ‘there was an intention to strike the Prime Minister, where would it be?’
‘France. He has a home there and my guess is that’s where he’s fictionally taken refuge, except, of course, the threat to his well-being is entirely real.’
‘And the last thing he’d expect would be an attack.’
‘You’re getting the picture.’ Tallis smiled. ‘Having said that, he’s a high-risk target whatever his current threat level, and high-risk targets are rarely caught in ambushes. If he’s going to be taken out, it will be when he’s at home.’
‘Impossible. The Russians are meticulous. They’ll have the place locked down—dogs, state-of-the-art technology, armoured doors, armed security. For Darke to even attempt to get inside would be suicidal.’
‘Who said anything about attempting to get inside?’
Asim raised one eyebrow, thought for a moment, let out a long slow breath. ‘Go on.’
‘Darke will do what he’s best at. He’s a sniper. If we can find the layout of the house we have an advantage, we’ll discover the target area. If I know the target area I can work out where Darke will position himself for the hit.’
‘It will take time.’
‘No, it won’t. One phone call should do it.’ Tallis swallowed. Would Orlov play ball? Would he give him the information he needed? Could he trust him? Had Kumarin been using Orlov, or, like Kumarin, had Orlov been in on it from the start? Tallis briefly closed his eyes. This was his call, his decision. If he got it wrong, the consequences were unthinkable.
‘I know the bloke who constructed Ivanov’s house. He’d have the plans.’
‘And he’ll just calmly hand them over to you?’ Asim’s tone was as incredulous as it was cynical.
‘Doesn’t need to. I simply need him to talk. Served up in the right way, saving the nation blah-di-blah, I think he might crack.’
‘And what if you’re wrong about this? It won’t look good for you to be stalking about the French countryside with a gun in your hand.’
‘Certainly won’t do much for the entente cordiale even if the French aren’t too keen on the Russians.’
‘Not too keen on anyone at the moment, but I’d like to think they’d stop short of having a head of state assassinated on their soil,’ Asim said dryly. ‘I don’t need to point out that if you’re caught…’
I’m on my own, Tallis knew. ‘What if I’m right?’
Asim gave him a long hard look. ‘Do you realise what you’re saying?’
Tallis met Asim’s eyes. ‘I have to stop Darke before he gets to Ivanov.’
‘Are you out of your mind?’ Orlov wasn’t playing ball.
‘I wish I was. Look, Grigori, I’m not asking you to disclose the security arrangements.’
‘I don’t know the security arrangements,’ Orlov bellowed, his voice reverberating down the line like a trumpeting elephant.
‘But you know the layout.’
‘Which I’m not going to tell you. You want me to be sentenced to thirty years’ hard labour?’
‘Look, I wouldn’t ask, you know that, but I think Ivanov is going to become the next victim.’
‘Absurd. You see how the man is protected.’
‘Any killer only has to get lucky once. We live in strange times, Grigori.’
‘Certainly since I made your acquaintance,’ Orlov muttered. ‘And how the hell do I know I can trust you? That Chechen girl might have turned your head. Maybe it is you who wants to hurt our Prime Minister.’
‘I assure you that isn’t the case.’
‘Assurances come cheap.’
‘Alright, how are you going to feel if Ivanov is assassinated?’
Orlov said nothing. Maybe he didn’t give a damn, Tallis thought. Time to apply some pressure. ‘Heard from Boris Kumarin lately?’
‘What has Boris to do with all this?’ Orlov said, testy.
‘He worked for the FSB.’
‘That’s ridiculous. He—’
‘Used you.’
There was a brief, stunned silence. Tallis could almost hear Orlov’s brain making the connections. ‘Worked, you said? You mean he is no longer with us?’ Orlov spluttered.
‘Sadly, he took a bit of a fall.’
‘Mother of God, Paul!’ Orlov exclaimed, clearly shocked. ‘And now you expect my help?’ His astonishment bordered on awe. If there were two things Tallis had learnt about Orlov, he was a man of inconsistency, a man who always had an eye to the main chance. Bugger loyalty.
‘Think of it as doing your bit for the motherland,’ Tallis persisted. ‘There might even be a medal in it for you,’ he said, appealing to Orlov’s sizeable ego and ignoring the ferocious warning look Asim was giving him.
The silence that followed was for so long Tallis thought Orlov had gone off the line. He imagined him puffing away, sitting in a fug of cigar smoke, jewellery jangling. ‘What would I get for this information, apart from the honour of serving my country?’ Orlov said, his voice a low burr.
That’s my boy. Tallis beamed inside. He looked at Asim who slowly but firmly shook his head.
‘It’s not the agency’s style to reward Russian gangsters,’ Asim murmured in his ear.
‘Businessman,’ Tallis hissed back. ‘Let’s see, Grigori, apart from the Agusta—’ Tallis began.
‘Which I bought fair and square,’ Orlov cut in.
‘And which is being flown back to Moscow even as we speak.’
‘And my Robinson 22?’
‘Delivered any day now.’
‘Why the hell are we horse-trading when there are matters of international security at stake?’ Asim barked in his ear.
‘I’m sure we could come to a mutually agreeable arrangement,’ Tallis said to Orlov, smiling. ‘What would you be looking for?’
‘A house, Queen Anne, anywhere in Britain.’
‘Done,’ Tallis said, ignoring Asim’s shocked expression. ‘Now tell me what I need to know.’
Early the next morning, after Asim called in a favour from the French and secured safe passage, Tallis was flown to Hyères in a Cessna Citation 501. From there he travelled by helicopter.
It was a beautiful spring day, high cloud, little wind, and the sun shining bright and clear. The light was every bit as intense and luminous as he’d been led to believe, which was why, he guessed, the Côte D’Azur was such a hit with artists. From his vantage point, Tallis had a fantastic view of contrasting terrain—beach and palm trees, forest with sprinklings of eucalyptus and acacia, and hard rocky peaks. Down below he could see the Massif des Maures, extending over sixty-five kilometres, a compressed, entangled wilderness of pine and oak, dark and forbidding, and a strange reminder of the mountainous regions of Chechnya.
Sidestepping the flowering hilltop village of Gassin, and its near neighbour Ramatuelle with its winding streets and ancient-looking houses and ruined windmills, they travelled north over a profusion of lavender fields so dense and vivid he could almost smell the scent. Minutes later, losing altitude, they cleared the small and unspoilt agricultural town of Aups and tracked the road north, touching down near the western end of the Gorges du Verdon.
Tallis thanked the pilot, and got out, walking clear and turning only briefly as the helicopter ascended and flew off in the direction of Nice. If Tallis made it, the pilot would be back at 15.15 at the planned pick-up point on the outskirts of the town of Castellane. If he didn’t, no doubt a clean-up squad would be dropped in to bag and remove his body.
He was standing on a sheer slab of rock, deeply hewn into a rugged rust-red valley, the holly-coloured river Verdon flowing from the top of the gorge and disappearing into fathomless tunnels below. Lifting the telescope to his eyes, he saw a mass of hairpin bends and largely uninhabited countryside that in a couple of months’ time would be packed solid with traffic and holiday makers. Using the zoom facility on the scope, he scrutinised the surrounding area in more detail—the mountain villages, the Pont de l’ Artuby, a magnificent curved bridge that spanned the gorge with its hairraising drops to lake and river—but it was of no intrinsic interest. He was looking for one man only: Graham Darke.
He began to climb, ignoring the designated walking routes, carefully calculating which path Darke had taken. Each step taking him higher than the last, the land was a mixture of twisted rock and heath. Automatically he searched the ground, looking for proof of Darke’s existence, but the hardened stone obscured any trace of a trail. The only give-aways would be some movement, a noise, or silhouette in the late morning sun. That Darke had travelled that way was almost of no consequence to him. He sensed he was there, knew it.
On he walked, boots hitting the stubbled earth, travelling light, no backpack, no compass, his binoculars and the holstered Glock his only weapons. He’d insisted on it. How much firepower do you need to stop a man? he’d said. How much to prevent an old friend from committing a criminal act of calamitous proportions? That he could not stop him had never occurred to Tallis. Failure was not an option. He, too, had his loyalties. If that meant that one of them had to die, so be it. Beyond all doubt, he knew that Darke was not a man to give in or give up; along with his pride, it was the essence of his character.
And did Tallis feel regret? He’d once fondly thought of them as blood brothers. Now, in his heart, he thought they were different creatures. Events and circumstances had seen to that. If he could stop Darke without killing him, if he could somehow win him over, he would. If he couldn’t…
The rock had given way to hills and woodland, thick, dense and unkempt. From the sky it would look like a massive sea of dark green. Heat from the midday sun fastened like a dark spot in the middle of his shoulderblades, moderated only by the sudden approach of a bitter mistral wind blowing cold through the trees. The narrow streets of the town of Castellane beckoned from less than nine kilometres away. Maybe Darke was already on its outskirts, already in position. As a seasoned sniper, he’d wait for days, if necessary, to get the perfect shot. Patience was key and another of Darke’s more recently acquired attributes, but Darke didn’t have days. If Orlov’s information proved correct, he only had one window of opportunity.
Tallis had already worked out that there were two possible vantage points for a sniper: the fourteenthcentury clock tower and the massive rock that rose abruptly above the town and had once served as a natural lookout. He discounted both. Apart from being blatantly obvious and checked by the Russians regularly, from his conversation with Orlov, neither presented a view of the outdoor pool in which Ivanov was so fond of swimming come summer or winter or spring.
With the smell of tree in leaf heavy in his nostrils, he forged a way through the woods then, taking a sharp left turn at a pile of white stones, exactly as Orlov had described, dropped down a little into a valley. Below lay the remains of Hôtel de la Fôret, now a Jacobean-styled residence belonging to Andrei Ivanov.
Tallis lowered himself to the ground and crawled through the undergrowth to where the earth shifted and fell away. Lifting his binoculars to his eyes, he smiled. Orlov hadn’t been joking, Tallis thought in amazement. With its gargoyled figures over the entry gates, leadedlight mullioned windows, enormous oak doors and beams, the house could have been lifted straight out of the county of Hereford and Worcestershire. Given a free rein, Orlov had indulged his obsession with British architecture to the full. Tallis was too far away to glimpse an inside view, but it was easy enough to picture the oak panelling, stone fireplaces, the great hall that Orlov had described and the gallery overlooking it.
Satisfied that he was where he ought to be, he got up, kept low, moving forward in a high crawl, conscious that every step on twig and leaf would create a sound distinct from the blanket of birdsong. By moving in a radius of almost ninety degrees, he reckoned to be in direct line with Ivanov’s outdoor pool. Along that same continuum, Darke would be holed up lower down the valley, tracks concealed, probably in a hide, his view of the target narrow and limited. It would be a difficult shot but doable. Tallis wondered on the choice of weapon. If it were his decision to make, he’d go for a Swiss-made SSG550, a heavy-duty gun with bi-pod and telescope and anti-reflective screen to cut down air disturbance, but it would be a bastard to carry so maybe Darke had selected something lighter and more portable. Tallis estimated that whatever weapon Darke was using, he’d need to be within a range of five hundred metres.
Tallis arced swiftly round then dropped right down onto his hands and knees, slowing the pace, moving with extreme caution and in silence. A quick glance at his watch told him he had twenty minutes to make the deadline. Painfully slow and covering only a short distance, he took the Glock from his holster and, keeping his eyes fixed ahead, saw a silhouette on the ground. Either it was a bird spotter or Darke had broken an elementary rule: he hadn’t factored in the sun’s movement or the change of light behind him.
Tallis edged forward again, a mental clock ticking in his head like the countdown to a bomb going off. Sweat was pouring off him, even though a biting wind blistered through his body, a definite disadvantage for the sniper. He was on the point of taking another look through his binoculars when he sensed a presence and froze. As the chill of cold steel connected with the base of his skull, he knew that his fortunes had been reversed.
‘Graham,’ he said, without moving. ‘This isn’t a good idea.’
‘What? Killing you, or killing Ivanov?’
‘Both.’
‘You’re right,’ Darke said calmly. ‘Put down your gun and crawl slowly to the left.’
Tallis did.
‘Good,’ Darke said, squatting down next to him. He was wearing full camouflage, with a soft green cap on his head to give a blurred outline of his head. The dark glasses on his face gave him a sinister appearance. ‘How did you know I’d be here?’ There was no challenge in his voice, no animosity. It sounded more like a friend talking. Except a friend doesn’t normally address you with a pistol in his hand.
‘Something happened to you out in the mountains. One moment you were hell bent on staying, the next you wanted to come back. I think you knew then that you wanted to exact revenge, and when you found out about what was really going on, how you’d been betrayed, and then, of course, there was Fazan and his damned order.’
‘He told you?’ Darke frowned.
‘Didn’t need to,’ Tallis said, eyeing the gun, a SIG-Sauer with, using firearms speak, a moderator. Using layman’s language, a silencer. ‘I worked it out from Numerov’s account.’
‘Always were the smart one,’ Darke said almost fondly.
‘Strange. You always called me a fool.’
Darke’s smile was chill, as if it were of no consequence. ‘This isn’t personal, you understand?’ Killing Ivanov, or me? Tallis thought. He said nothing. ‘I’ve got my orders,’ Darke insisted.
‘From a man who has intimate reasons to have Ivanov removed,’ Tallis pointed out.
‘You know Fazan was the British agent in the Motova case?’
‘The Chechen journalist who happened to be Ivanov’s lover? Yes, I know, and crime passionel is as old as these hills, Graham,’ Tallis said, glancing around, ‘but usually the aggrieved party carries out the killing. The job isn’t normally handed out for someone else to fulfil.’ Unless you worked for the security services. He supposed that’s what spies were really all about.
‘That’s not why I’m doing this,’ Darke protested, sounding mightily offended. ‘And you, of all people, should understand. You saw those FSB guys in action, how they behave—like animals.’
‘And the Chechens? What about Akhmet and his men, their treatment of Russian soldiers, teenage lads, their cruelty?’ And yours, he wanted to say.
But Darke was not to be persuaded. ‘Don’t you get it? Throughout Ivanov’s reign of terror, twenty-five thousand Chechens have either lost their lives or gone missing. As for native Russians, the State has eliminated any number of journalists and even detectives, to say nothing of ordinary people who get a knock at their door in the middle of the night.’
‘And the State has waged a silent war on its own people in order to create hatred and distrust,’ Tallis cut in. ‘Come on, Graham, that’s no reason for you to take the law into your own hands. What are you going to do next, turn your attention to the despots of failed African states?’
‘If I have my orders,’ Darke said, glacial, a resistant look in his eye.
Orders were all Darke had left, Tallis realised. ‘You never used to do as you were told.’
‘I do now.’
‘Because of your loyalty, or because you’re a washed-up nobody without prospects?’ Tallis ground his jaw, watched as Darke’s expression flared with anger, half expecting a bullet in the head. Recovering with mercurial speed, Darke flickered a smile.
‘Seeing as you’re here, I have an idea.’
Let’s hope it means I get to stay alive, Tallis thought.
‘I’m prepared to spare you, to give you a sporting chance,’ Darke said, a glittering light in his eyes. ‘In the spy game you have to be constantly flexible and ready to adapt plans on the hoof.’
‘I didn’t think being merciful was part of the strategy.’
‘It isn’t usually.’
‘So is this for old times’ sake?’
‘It’s because you’re a better shot.’
Tallis felt the colour bleed from his face.
‘Your call,’ Darke said, indicating for Tallis to move. ‘Either you kill Ivanov, or I kill you.’
Tallis stared at him, half-stunned, seconds ticking by like a slow drum-roll in his head. What sort of a choice was that? Kill or be killed? Except he doubted that Darke would spare him and even if he did, what future would he have after carrying out such a monstrous act? ‘Alright, fair trade,’ he said, sounding eminently reasonable. ‘I guess I didn’t much like the bloke anyway.’
‘Thought you’d see it my way.’
Darke motioned Tallis forward to where he’d set himself up. Tallis crawled slowly along on his belly, Darke’s gun trained on him, his mind racing. There was a sheet of green scrim netting on the ground designed to break up any physical outline. The gun was the deadly Soviet Dragunov, effective to a thousand metres. ‘Fitting, isn’t it? From Russia with love,’ Darke said with an icy smile. ‘Ivanov is due to take the air in roughly three minutes. The range isn’t great but, with luck, you should be able to slot him.’
‘You know as well as me that I’m not going to be able to take the shot if I think the next second you’re going to blow my head off.’ It was critical he have a steady reliable yet relaxed shooting position, and he needed to be able to breathe without hyperventilating.
‘I’d love to say fair point but, frankly, not my problem.’
‘Your problem if I miss.’
Darke gave him a hard-edged look. ‘What do you suggest?’
‘Lower your weapon, shut up, and don’t sit on my tail.’
‘Two out of three, best I can do. You’ll have to put up with me standing behind you. I could spot for you, if you like.’
Tallis hesitated fractionally. With Darke guiding him, the shot would be more accurate. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m alright.’
Rather than using the netting, Tallis pulled it away. The last thing he needed was to get entangled in the weave.
He took the gun, lay prone and spread his feet comfortably apart then rolled down slightly on his left side, putting his elbow forward and placing his left hand well forward, the rifle resting in the natural V formed by his left thumb and forefinger. With his right hand, he grasped the stock, thumb over the top, his right elbow lowered to the ground so that his shoulders were in line. Next, he adjusted the setting of the sight. This was when he was at his most vulnerable. Any hint of the Dragunov’s barrel and exposure to the Russians, and it would all be over.
He looked through the sight again. The distance between him and the swimming pool was roughly six hundred metres. A body viewed by the naked eye at that distance appeared wedge-shaped, but to Tallis it would seem as if the target was up close and very personal. But that didn’t mean emotions came into play. It was important to be focused, determined and without fear—in sniper-speak, in the zone.
The aquamarine-coloured modern fence around the perimeter, although transparent, was made of bulletproof material, unlike the gap through which the bullet was to pass. Narrow in the extreme, it was double the width of a slit in a medieval castle. To target Ivanov, Tallis needed him to be near the pool’s edge, or about to get in, a shot in the water too difficult to pull off.
Seconds ticked, Tallis aware of Graham Darke standing right behind him, within easy reach of a weapon should he decide to change his mind or trick him. Bang on cue, two thick-set men, part of Ivanov’s close-protection team, judging from the earpieces, stepped outside, fully dressed, followed by Ivanov who was wearing an open towelling robe over a pair of skimpy, skin-tight white swimming trunks. Tallis took a deep breath, ensured the cross-hairs were level, that the butt of the rifle was close in, resting in the hollow of his shoulder, his body ready to absorb any recoil, and that his right cheek was fixed on the spot formed by his right thumb. Around Ivanov’s neck was a thick gold chain with a St. Christopher hanging from it, the medallion lying against his breastbone, presumably to protect him yet in reality providing the perfect bull’seye. Ivanov was sharing some joke with the others then another man stepped out of the house bearing a bright green inflatable, already blown up in the shape of a chair with a holder for a drink. He rested it down on the water, holding it while Ivanov disrobed, exposing his muscled torso, and climbed aboard like a Chinese emperor mounting an eighteenth-century sedan. Beads of sweat broke out on Tallis’s brow as he zeroed in—the further a bullet had to travel, the higher the trajectory.
Ivanov pushed off a little from the side of the pool, floating silently towards the killing zone. As Tallis watched, a roll-call of the damaged and the dead drummed through his head—Ruslan, Asya, their father, Dmitri, the countless numbers of Chechen and Russian soldiers, the Vladimirs and Viktors, the Lenas and Katyas, the children made orphans, the wives made widows, and all the people in between. It would be so easy to kill him, he thought, this man with blood on his hands. He took a breath, released it a little, holding the rest while he took aim, knowing that in less than ten seconds it would be finished.
With the cross-hairs over the target, he touched the trigger and fired, Ivanov toppling down into the water at the same time as Tallis rolled and instinctively grabbed the netting, literally pulling the ground from underneath Darke so that his premeditated shot missed him by millimetres. That’s when he recognised the true nature of the man, the emptiness in the eyes, the moral detachment, the dreadful toll the mountains had taken on him. As Darke lifted the Sig to fire another round, as fast as a viper Tallis shot Graham Darke in the face at point-blank range.
As Tallis got up to run, he could hear all hell unleashed behind him as the Russians dragged their prime minister, cursing and shouting orders, out of the pool, the tattered remains of the inflatable already sinking to the bottom.
When, fifteen minutes later, an RAF helicopter swooped low, Andrei Ivanov had no idea that the man who’d rescued him was on board, or that the man had shot his oldest friend in order to save him.