Inside Enemy (26 page)

‘What could he be doing in there?’ whispered Jeremy loudly.

She held up her hand to quieten him. ‘If it is him. He may not be alone. Maybe Tew and Mrs Thoroughgood are in there. It’s probably the place where Charles has got to meet
them.’

‘But where is he? What the hell’s he doing?’

‘I’ll text to tell him what we can see. Then we’d better pull back.’

‘Better than that, stop what you’re doing and stand up, hands above your heads.’

The voice was behind them, low but with no attempt at concealment. ‘Now.’ The word was emphasised.

A spasm seized Louise’s shoulders at the first words and at the word ‘now’ the skin on her neck tightened. She felt Jeremy flinch beside her. He turned his head.

‘Do what I say and don’t look round or I’ll take your head off.’ It was louder and rougher this time. Jeremy obeyed. They got up awkwardly, hands above their heads. She
was holding her phone and could think only of Tilly; whatever happened she must get back to Tilly, Tilly mustn’t be left motherless, she would agree to anything to make sure Tilly was all
right. She could feel tears welling behind her eyes, almost as if it were Tilly being taken prisoner.

‘Walk towards the barn,’ the voice said. ‘Keep your hands up.’

It was difficult to get through the undergrowth and in the field, with their hands raised high, they stumbled on tussocks. When they reached the pond it occurred to her that he might be
bluffing, might not have a gun at all. But she daren’t look round.

‘Stop.’

They stopped, facing the brick steps.

‘You – fatso – lie down where you are, face down.’

At least he hadn’t meant her. Jeremy knelt. With his hands above his head he had to roll half onto his side to get onto his belly. She had a glimpse of his face, which showed no hint of a
message or even of recognition; he seemed wholly concentrated on manoeuvring his body.

‘Now you, go over to the table, turn and face me and empty your pockets. I want everything on the table.’

The man she saw was close enough to the photograph of Michael Swavesy: average height, forty-something, greying brown hair, jeans and trainers, a black biking jacket. He was not bluffing about
the gun, a sawn-off shotgun pointing at her. Jeremy was on the ground between them. There wasn’t much to empty from her pockets as her handbag was in the car, just handkerchief, keys, purse
and warrant card from the pockets of her gilet. Too late, she thought she should have kept the warrant card back. He told her to lie down beside Jeremy, then walked over and examined what
she’d left.

‘Copper, eh?’ he said, smiling. ‘Let’s have a look at your boyfriend. Come on, fatso.’ Jeremy got awkwardly to his feet and went to the table. His sports jacket and
cavalry twills seemed to have many pockets, with something in each.

When he had finished he stood facing their captor, his podgy hands hanging limp. ‘You should know that I am a member of parliament. You’ll see my Palace of Westminster pass
here.’

‘Are you now.’ The voice was flat. ‘Get back down with your girlfriend. Any funny business and they’ll be calling a by-election.’

Louise lay with her head facing away from Jeremy, the grass damp on her cheek. She could see Swavesy at the table again, facing them, the gun in his right hand and resting on his thigh while
with his left he picked through their belongings. He took a mobile from his bike jacket, put it on the table and pressed once with his left forefinger. He picked it up and after a pause said
quietly, ‘You’re breaking up. You must be down there, are you? Yeah, that’s better. We got two visitors, lying down before me. Not very innocent visitors. One’s a bitch
copper, the other’s a fat-slob member of parliament. They look like friends of your friend, the one you’re meeting, both got notes of his name and number. What do you want me to do with
them?’

Louise tried to think of any bargaining chips she could conceivably hold, threats she could credibly make. Perhaps she should break down and weep, throw herself on his mercy, tell him about
Tilly. Perhaps Jeremy was planning something. She could hear his breathing beside her, like an unwanted intimacy. Perhaps she could persuade him to offer himself instead of her. But if Swavesy were
to kill either he would need to kill both.

Michael Swavesy chuckled into the phone. ‘Could – yeah – could do that. Wouldn’t say no. Depends what your plans are now – does this alter anything?’ There
was another pause, and then, ‘Sure. Will do. Give me twenty minutes.’

She could say she wanted to go to the loo and escape while doing it. But maybe he’d make her do it in front of him and Jeremy.

‘Okay, ten,’ Swavesy said into the phone.

‘
S
top. Stay where you are.’

The voice was clear, somewhere behind and to his left. Charles lowered the Winchester into the ferns, straightened and put his hands on his head. He hadn’t been told to do that but it
might put Peter – assuming it was Peter – at his ease.

He could hear movement in the brambles behind, a large clump occupying much of the clearing. According to his map and his phone, this was as close as he could get to the site of Peter’s
last transmission. The clearing was almost on a ridge in the wood and when he entered it he could see across to where the barn must be, shielded by trees bordering its field. He had planned to
surprise Peter in his lair.

He stood waiting but heard no more. Hands still on his head, he turned, very slowly.

‘Don’t move,’ said the voice. There was no-one. But there was movement in the brambles downhill to his right. The voice said something he couldn’t catch, then quietly but
still clearly, ‘You’ll have to do them both, get rid of them … No, quicker, ten minutes, they must be on to us. Then pull out and go home.’

He recognised Peter’s voice after all this time but Peter wasn’t talking to him. He took a chance and lowered his arms. There was no response. He stooped to pick up the rifle but as
he did so found himself staring into Peter’s face at about waist height in the brambles. Charles froze, his knees still bent, the rifle not yet to hand. Peter was quicker. He pushed himself
free of the brambles and straightened up, pistol in hand.

‘Stay where you are,’ he said loudly, half turning his head to speak behind him.

There was a log just by Charles. He lowered himself onto it, keeping his hands at shoulder height. He was closer to the rifle now, which Peter, downhill of him, could not have seen in the ferns
at his feet. He crossed his legs and then slowly lowered his hands and hooked his arms around his knees as if for a chat by a camp-fire. ‘Hello, Peter.’

‘All right, come out now. Slowly,’ said Peter.

The brambles rustled and shook. Sarah crawled out, awkwardly, head down because of the handcuffs. She did not see Charles until she straightened, still kneeling.

‘Over there, where I can see you.’ Peter pointed to a spot in the bracken between him and Charles.

Sarah bent again and crawled forward, using her forearms. She knelt upright and faced Charles. She looked pale and tired, a strand of hair had fallen in front of her face and she had to raise
both hands to move it. She tried a smile. Charles tried one back. Neither spoke. She was all right, that was what mattered. So far.

‘Turn and face me,’ said Peter. She inched round on her knees. Peter looked back at Charles. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Come to do a deal with you, I thought.’

‘I told you to go to the barn. How did you find out about this place?’

‘Your Russian friends told me. They’d worked it out.’

‘Why should they tell you?’

‘They want you back. We did a deal. They’re offering you a home.’

‘If I give myself up, you mean? Come quietly with you, back into the British justice system, so-called. Very likely. You’ll have to do better than that, Charles.’

It was, and was not, the Peter he knew. He was gaunt, unshaven, older, with a pallor, but it was his manner that had most changed. The younger Peter’s charm and flexibility, his desire to
please and accommodate, had been worn down by prison and age – also perhaps by illness – to a spare and hardened core, like the remnants of a broken jetty.

‘Why are you doing this, Peter?’

‘You know why. You don’t need to ask.’

‘First Viktor, then Frank, now me. That’s it, I assume? Or is there anyone else?’ It would take a fraction of a second for Peter to pull that trigger; he had to engage him,
keep him talking.

‘I can’t wipe out the whole Service, or a whole governmental culture. You’ll have to do.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Sarah, her voice sharp in the stillness. ‘You don’t have to do anything of the sort. There’s no point. Better do nothing at
all.’

Charles kept his eyes on the squat black pistol. The barrel’s small mouth was unwavering.

‘Why now, Peter?’ he asked gently. ‘Is it only because you’re ill?’

‘Always did your homework, didn’t you? Knew that already? Thoroughly good Thoroughgood.’ He nodded. ‘I haven’t got long so it’s now or never.’

‘But what’s the point? You can’t undo the past.’

‘I can tie a knot in it, staunch it, that’s the point. It’s all I’ve thought about for years now. Every day. You have no idea what that’s like.’

‘Because you think we let you down?’

‘Because you betrayed me. You, Matthew, Frank, Viktor, the Service, the government, the Americans, everyone. I cooperated because I believed I was saving Igor. But once you’d got
what you wanted you told the Americans and they told the world and the Russians did what they did to him.’

‘Which was?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I do.’ It was a lie. He spoke without knowing what to follow it with but it achieved its end. Peter was engaged, his attention now on what was being said. ‘But that
wasn’t really the point, was it, Peter? It wasn’t our betrayal, as you call it, that got to you.’

A pheasant called and faintly, distantly came the throbbing of a helicopter. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Peter.

‘I’m talking about Igor. It was Igor who betrayed you. That’s what you can’t accept, that’s why you’re so bitter with us.’

‘Bollocks.’

‘Think about it, Peter.’ Charles continued to speak gently. ‘What you couldn’t bear was the idea that Igor targeted and recruited you, that it was all a ploy, that he was
an SVR officer all along and that they sent him after you, trading on his homosexuality which would otherwise have got him sacked. And did when the case collapsed. You fell for him, as they hoped
you would. But you couldn’t bear the thought that he never really loved you, that he was using you, doing what we were all trained to do.’

Peter shook his head. ‘I told you, you don’t know what you’re talking about. There’s no point trying to make out it wasn’t your fault. I trusted you and you let me
down. That’s what happened.’

‘We weren’t to know the Americans would leak it.’

‘But you told them.’

‘They’d have worked it out anyway. And we owed them.’

‘What’s happened to Igor, then?’

‘He was allowed to leave the SVR and was given a job with a bank, a Russian bank.’

In Charles’s perception the movement of Peter’s arm and the sound of the shot were simultaneous, as were Sarah’s gasp and the convulsion in his breast as the sound passed
through him. But nothing else did, the bullet thudding into the earth by Sarah’s knee. Peter was grinning, his gun still pointed almost at her but his eyes on Charles. ‘You’re
lying. Igor’s dead. They kicked him out and abandoned him and he took to drink. That’s why death is the only answer now. For all of us. Death the great equaliser. You don’t seem
to get it, Charles. This is not a negotiation. There’s no solution to be had, only an end.’ He looked at Sarah. ‘But not for you, if you do what you’re told and don’t
make a fuss. Stand up.’ She got awkwardly to her feet, facing him. ‘Turn to your right and start walking. Keep going and you’ll come to the lane eventually. There are some
cottages down there. You’ll find someone to help you.’ She didn’t move. After a few seconds he added, in a kindlier tone, ‘Don’t be silly, Sarah. Off you
go.’

Still she didn’t move. ‘You don’t need to do this, Peter. There’s no point. Walk away. Go and live in Russia. Do something for Igor’s family.’

Charles couldn’t see her face but her voice was controlled. Peter shook his head. ‘After having two people murdered and then kidnapping you? They’re never going to let me go to
Russia, Sarah, but thanks for the thought. Now, you can walk away or stay here and watch. It’s up to you.’

Charles edged his feet forward until he was nudging the Winchester. He knew where it was without having to look down. He had cocked it after leaving the car a mile or so away and making his way
across country, keeping to hedgerows and woods. There was a round in the breech, the hammer was back, he had only to pick it up and point it, pushing the safety catch with his thumb and squeezing
the under-lever, the secondary safety catch, as he fired. Between two and three seconds, he reckoned. But that was long enough for Peter to get the same number of aimed shots off. They had to keep
talking.

‘It’s better you go, Sarah,’ he said.

She turned her head. ‘I’m not going, I’m not going anywhere. I think this is completely ridiculous and unnecessary.’ She looked back at Peter. ‘You’ll have to
shoot me too, I’m afraid.’

Charles was exasperated, fearful and grateful. Anything to keep the conversation going. ‘Sarah, please go. The only reason I’m here is so that you can go.’

‘I know and I’m not going.’

She looked from one to the other. Perhaps she realised it too – anything, including a marital tiff, to keep Peter from his purpose.

It didn’t work. Peter Tew pointed the gun at Charles, straightened his arm and fired.

‘All right, stand up. Hands on your heads.’

Michael Swavesy’s voice was flat, as if weary of repetition. He was still at the table, shotgun on his lap, mobile at his elbow, cigarette in his left hand. He watched them get up, raise
their hands, hesitate as to which way to face, then turn towards him. ‘Cigarette?’ he asked.