They took Yedmenov’s cars to the deserted docks, weeds, workshops, and the rusting hulls of long-retired ships. Driver shivered at the chill of the night air as she climbed out of the back of the lead Mercedes. Wells opened the boot and dragged Yedmenov out. He and Pope carried him to the edge of the water.
Baptiste pulled a long, heavy chain from the boot of the second Mercedes. In the spill of the headlights, they wrapped it around the Russian’s waist.
‘You think you can get rid of me?’ Yedmenov said, as Driver, Lim and Rios gathered round. ‘There’ll be repercussions.’
Pope returned to the second car. He came back with a heavy kettle bell and a padlock, more items they’d found in the basement of Yedmenov’s club. He threw the padlock to Wells and looped the chain through the kettle bell handle. Wells secured the padlock so the kettle bell hung between Yedmemov’s legs.
‘We’re not going to kill you, Oleksandr,’ Baptiste said, ‘so long as you’re willing to cooperate.’
‘Cooperate how?’
Driver reached inside her handbag and took the bullet she’d prised from the safe house wall. She tossed it to Yedmenov.
He caught it and rolled it between his fingers. ‘What’s this?’
‘We want to know who fired it,’ she said.
‘Anyone could have fired it,’ Yedmenov replied.
‘Who are you selling arms to in Libya?’ Wells asked.
‘No one,’ Yedmenov insisted.
‘January Seven?’ Driver asked.
‘This is for the latest model of carbine rifles,’ Yedmenov said. ‘You think they have the finances? Please.’
‘Then who is buying them off you?’ Wells asked, tying the loose end of the chain off around a mooring post.
‘I’m not the only one selling these,’ Yedmenov replied.
Driver caught the bullet as the Russian threw it back. ‘I bet you’re the only one selling US-built MRAPs.’
‘Armoured vehicles?’ Yedmenov said. ‘I haven’t sold one of those in years.’
‘You sure about that?’ Baptiste asked.
‘Yeah, I’m pretty fucking sure.’
Pope looked at Driver. ‘You want us to tip him?’
‘Oh please,’ Yedmenov smirked. ‘You think I’m afraid of a little water?’
Driver gave the nod. ‘Take a deep breath, Oleksandr.’
Pope gave Yedmenov a hard shove. He fell backwards off the dock with a heavy splash, sinking out of sight in the deep, black water.
Wells set the timer on his watch. Considering Yedmenov’s age, body shape and lifestyle, Driver calculated forty seconds.
‘I have to hand it to you,’ Baptiste said to Lim. ‘I wasn’t sure the cannabis would work. Of course, I’d have preferred if they’d worked a bit sooner.’
Driver shrugged. ‘We needed time for him to make us.’
‘It was good planning,’ Wells said, checking his watch. ‘You did okay, Baptiste.’
‘Just okay?’ Baptiste asked.
‘You said seven guys,’ Wells replied, counting the seconds. ‘You didn’t tell us about Lurch.’
‘Sergei must be new,’ Baptiste said. ‘It used to be just Slavan and his grunts.’
‘Well now he’s got no guys,’ Pope added. ‘What was in the spliffs, anyway?’
‘Secret recipe,’ Lim said with a relaxed smile.
‘And you had to put cannabis in your joints?’ Driver asked.
Rios shrugged, soft and mellow. ‘Had to make it convincing.’
Pope turned to Lim. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve got any of the non-poisoned ones left?’
Wells’ watch beeped before she could reply.
‘Bring him up,’ said Driver.
Pope and Wells joined forces to pull on the chain.
‘Strewth, the bastard’s heavy,’ Pope moaned as they hauled the chain out of the water.
Yedmenov’s legs came out first. Then the rest of him – gasping, gulping, swallowing air. Water cascading off him as he slapped like a wet seal onto the dock. He shivered and whimpered, unable to speak. Pope and Wells dragged him to his feet. As they held him upright, Driver gave him a moment to catch his breath. He spat out a mouthful of dock water, followed by a splurge of vomit, splattering on the cobbled ground.
‘Ugh, watch the shoes, mate,’ Pope groaned, quickstepping out of the way.
Yedmenov looked up at Driver.
‘You ready to talk now?’ she asked.
The Russian’s teeth chattered, yet he steeled himself. He stood up straight. Puffed out his chest. ‘I’m a former SVR agent. You can torture me all you want, I won’t say shit.’
‘Dunk him,’ Driver said to Pope.
Pope pushed the Russian to the edge of the water.
‘Okay, okay!’ Yedmenov yelled in a panic.
Pope steadied him at a forty-five degree angle over the water, his heels rocking back on the edge of the dock.
‘I’ll ask you again,’ Driver said. ‘Who are you supplying current-issue US arms to?’
‘I don’t know his name,’ Yedmenov replied.
Driver nodded to Pope. ‘Let him drop.’
‘No, wait. He uses a code name.’
‘Go on,’ Wells said.
‘He calls himself Merlin,’ Yedmenov continued. ‘We message each other through a custom app. Dark web. Real fucking encrypted.’
‘Then what?’ Driver asked.
‘Then if it’s of interest to both parties, we meet.’
‘Where?’ Baptiste asked.
‘Wherever my clients happen to be,’ Yedmenov said. ‘It’s all part of the service. Gold standard, you know?’
Driver folded her goose-bumped arms to the cold. ‘And what’s this Merlin doing with the weapons you’re supplying?’
‘Invading Panama,’ Yedmenov replied. ‘How the fuck should I know?’
‘It’s your business to know,’ Baptiste said.
‘It’s my business not to,’ insisted Yedmenov.
Finally, they were getting somewhere. Driver sensed an opportunity. ‘You think Merlin would be interested in an EMP weapon?’
‘Does a dog lick its asshole?’ Yedmenov answered.
‘Then that’s what you’re selling,’ she continued.
Yedmenov shook his head. ‘Wait. That’s not… I’m not—’
‘You’re gonna set up a meeting,’ Driver said.
‘Or what?’ Yedmenov replied. ‘You’re not going to kill me. I’m no good to you dead.’
‘You’re no good to us alive either,’ Wells said. ‘Not unless you’re useful.’
The usually cocky Yedmenov appeared scared. ‘You don’t know these people.’
‘You don’t know us,’ Rios said.
‘If I die, you’re as good as dead,’ Yedmenov continued. ‘Your governments rely on people like me. They won’t be happy.’
‘Lucky for us, we’re already dead,’ Baptiste said, getting in Yedmenov’s face. ‘So what’s it to be, old friend?’
Wells drove at speed through the St Petersburg night. Rain lashed down in the beam of the headlights. To Driver, there was something soothing about the rush of tyres over slick asphalt and wipers beating the hell out of the windscreen. Baptiste stayed in communication with the tail car – Pope, Lim and Rios keeping close behind. They weren’t out of Yedmenov’s territory yet. And as Tripoli had taught them, until they were on the plane and up in the air, nothing was certain.
Driver sat in the back seat alongside Yedmenov. A rapid stop at the hotel had seen the team pick up their bags and check out in five minutes flat. Now they were on the M-11 highway out of the city and she felt comfortable calling home. Gilmore answered the video call from the operations room in Geneva. He looked tired and tense on the screen of Driver’s tablet. ‘Tell me you’ve got something.’
‘A juicy morsel,’ Driver smiled, angling the tablet towards Yedmenov. ‘Say hello to Oleksandr.’
‘Hello, comrade,’ Gilmore said.
Yedmenov looked surprised. ‘Gilmore? You’re behind this? I thought you were retired.’
‘Yeah, me too,’ Gilmore sighed.
Driver turned the screen to face her.
‘So what’s the deal?’ Gilmore asked. ‘We got a name?’
‘A code name,’ Driver said. ‘You heard of someone called Merlin?’
‘Uh-uh,’ Gilmore replied, taking a mug of coffee off Anna. He took a sip and recoiled in disgust. He muttered and stared at the mug. ‘The girl’s a genius at everything except pouring the milk.’ He set the mug aside. ‘What’s your next move?’
‘Oleksandr has kindly agreed to help us set up a meet,’ Driver said. ‘Baptiste, how are we getting on with that?’
Baptiste tapped on the screen of Yedmenov’s phone. ‘I’m in contact now.’
Driver looked across at Yedmenov. The damp and miserable arms dealer shook his head and stared out of the window. ‘You’re gonna get me killed.’
‘Here we go,’ Baptiste said. ‘Merlin’s in Rome. He says he can meet there. Tomorrow at noon.’
‘Set it up,’ Driver ordered, returning her attention to Gilmore. ‘How are you getting on with those eyes and ears we asked for?’
‘We’re still limited on the tech front,’ Gilmore said, dragging a diminutive, olive-skinned young man into the picture. With a mess of curly hair and stubble, he looked into the camera, bleary-eyed and hunched in a dark-green T-shirt.
Gilmore put a hand on the man’s shoulder. ‘This is Mohammed.’
‘It’s Mo,’ the man replied in a quiet German accent. ‘Only my mother calls me Mohammed.’
‘Mo here is a former black hat,’ Gilmore continued. ‘He turned white hat for the German FIS. One of those computer hackers, am I right?’
‘A dramatic oversimplification. But yes, I suppose you could say that.’
‘Mo was caught hacking into various private bank accounts in Switzerland,’ Gilmore added. ‘Lucky for us, the UN secretary general is Swiss. He and one of our esteemed benefactors have what they call a special relationship. The sec gen pulled some strings. Got him released. On the same deal as the rest of you.’
‘Some deal,’ Mo muttered.
Gilmore shot Mo a look and returned his attention to the camera. ‘You want him to have a crack at tracing that message? We might be able to track Merlin’s current location.’
‘If it’s high-level custom encryption, it’ll take time,’ Mo grumbled.
‘Mo’s right,’ Driver said. ‘Plus we don’t want to spook the guy and have him go dark.’
‘Meeting confirmed,’ Baptiste said from the passenger seat. ‘Twelve p.m., Piazza del Popolo.’
Gilmore consulted his watch. ‘That gives us… Ah shit, I can’t work out these time differences. How far are you from the airstrip?’
‘We’re forty minutes out,’ Wells interjected from behind the wheel.
‘I’ll have the jet ready to go,’ Gilmore said. ‘I’ll see you when you land.’
‘Retired, huh?’ Driver smiled.
‘Don’t push it,’ Gilmore said, signing off.
Driver tucked her phone away and spoke into the comms piece in her ear. ‘Mobile Two, this is Mobile One.’
‘Go ahead, Mobile One,’ Pope said.
‘You like pasta?’ she asked.
‘I love the stuff,’ Pope replied.
‘Good, ’cause we’re going to Rome.’
‘Sounds all right to me,’ the Australian said. ‘But can we stop off somewhere first? The girls have got the munchies.’