Ratcatcher by Tim Stevens

from the nightclub had been part of a ruse. Either way, there was little point withholding his reasons for being in the city.
    He glanced at Klavan, who was leaning forward, elbows resting on her knees, watching him levelly; at Teague, who sat back with his arms spread across the back of his chair and his ankle propped on his knee, expansive as Rossiter was shut in and controlled.
    ‘I’m here on personal business,’ he said. ‘Donal Fallon was photographed in Tallinn yesterday morning. He was released early from gaol, amnestied, and he’s gone to ground.’
    In Klavan’s case it was the slightest hint of an exhalation, in Teague’s a tilting back of the head. Rossiter blinked, once. Each of them, professionals though they were, betrayed their surprise. Now that was interesting, he thought.
    Rossiter said: ‘Personal business.’
    ‘Yes. You know why I want Fallon.’
    ‘You’re not Service.’
    ‘No. As you mentioned, I’ve left.’ He took out his phone and brought up the photo of Fallon, watching their faces as they handed it round.
    ‘Who took this picture?’ It was Teague, sounding amicably interested.
    ‘A contact of mine. I’ve kept some links going since I left.’
    ‘Seppo,’ said Klavan. ‘And he wasn’t there when you went to his flat.’
    ‘Correct. Though I did find him later. In the deep freeze, with his neck broken.’ Purkiss took the phone back and pocketed it. ‘Now. Your turn’.
    Rossiter’s face worked. In a moment he said: ‘We’re here because of the summit. The Service’s Embassy presence has been stepped up, of course, but there was felt to be a need for additional covert work, given the significance of the event.’ He looked as if he wanted to stand and pace but was compressing himself into his seat. ‘And perhaps your reasons for being here and ours aren’t unconnected.’
    ‘No.’
    Another pause, then: ‘So. In less than thirty-one hours’ time, the Russian President is going to meet his Estonian counterpart here in the city in an historic gesture of reconciliation. We have to assume Fallon plans to scupper that.’
     
    *
     
    Coffee had been passed round. Rossiter stood at the flip chart like an incongruously fierce facilitator at a corporate away day.
    ‘The Russian president arrives ten p.m. tomorrow at a private airfield, the whereabouts of which are unknown. There’s a formal banquet with his Estonian opposite number, then an overnight stay at the official residence in Kadriorg. A working breakfast, then at seven a.m. both parties and their entourages set off to the Soviet War Memorial on the coast road. The handshake and the speeches are to take place there at eight.’
    He moved over to a laminated map on the wall. ‘The route is demarcated in red. Needless to say, we’ve gone over it countless times, looking for vantage points that might conceal a sniper. As have the local security forces. There’s very little to find. A sniper would have to be armed with something more powerful than an ordinary rifle, in any case, because the cars are armour plated.’
    ‘What about at the War Memorial itself?’ said Purkiss. 
    ‘Again, not many places for a man with a gun to hide, and those there are will be heavily guarded. The crowds – and they’ll be huge – will be kept well back, with sniffer dogs deployed in case anyone’s planning to try the suicide bomb thing.’ He paused for a beat. ‘We’re assuming Fallon plans to scupper the meeting. He might try to do that by other means – a terrorist outrage elsewhere in the city, for instance – but he’ll know how much is riding on this summit, that it will go ahead anyway in defiance of any attempts to stop it, so we don’t think that’s a likely scenario.’
    ‘The airfield where the Russian president’s arriving?’
    ‘As I said –’ an edge crept into Rossiter’s voice – ‘it’s a secret. But even if Fallon or anyone else has somehow found out where it is, the security there is likely