Nemesis Page 8

  ‘Hold on a moment.’ Still walking, Purkiss took out his phone again.

  Vale answered immediately. ‘John. Asher’s been calling. He said there was an attack. Are you operational?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Purkiss said. ‘I’ll debrief in due course. Can you find out if a man named Henry Spencer Donovan is an active Service asset?’

  Usually, when Vale paused in mid-conversation, it was because he was lighting a cigarette. This time the hesitation was one of surprise.

  ‘Henry Donovan is one of the names I’ve got for you,’ Vale said. ‘He’s deputy chief executive of HorizonTech. The firm that manufactured the device that was implanted in Rossiter’s arm.’

  Purkiss glanced involuntarily at Saburova. She returned his look, her eyes mildly quizzical.

  To Vale, he said: ‘Donovan is SIS?’

  ‘He was. Retired eighteen months ago, which is when he set up his firm. It’s one of the reasons the Service signed the contract with HorizonTech. Having one of your own former personnel at the helm lends a degree of reassurance.’ This time, Purkiss heard distinctly the rasp of a match being struck. ‘What have you found out, John?’

  ‘I’ll tell you in a bit.’ Purkiss wondered whether to tell Vale of his suspicions about Asher. About the possibility that he’d set them up to be surveilled. He decided against it. ‘Get Donovan’s address for me, if you can. And tell Asher I’ll be in touch.’

  He hung up.

  They’d started walking along the river, Purkiss and Saburova, merely so as to remain active while they talked. Now, Purkiss said, ‘Donovan is retired, and in business. There’s a strong link between what he’s doing now and Rossiter’s disappearance. We need to locate Donovan urgently.’

  He saw the gleam in her eyes. ‘You can find him?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  *

  Vale sent through the home address listed for Henry Spencer Donovan a minute later. It was in Richmond, on the other side of the river and to the south-west.

  Purkiss said, ‘We need a car.’

  Saburova looked out across the water. ‘I cannot risk summoning one from our pool,’ she said. ‘I am disconnected now.’

  She meant she was a fugitive.

  Purkiss said, ‘The man who was driving the car I was in. You know him?’

  She searched his eyes, as if genuinely intrigued by the question. ‘No. Why should I?’

  ‘His name’s Paul Asher. He’s CIA, though he was introduced to me as SIS.’ It was risky, imparting that kind of information to this woman whom he barely knew and trusted even less. But Purkiss wanted to see her reaction.

  There was wonder in her face. ‘CIA. Why?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, for now. But my first thought, when I picked up your FSB tag, was that Asher had set me up.’

  ‘Mr Purkiss, you have my word. I know nothing of this man.’

  She looked, and sounded, sincere. But then she would.

  ‘All right.’ Purkiss thumbed through the numbers on his phone until Asher’s came up.

  The man sounded as if he was in his car when he answered.

  ‘Purkiss. You okay?’ His English accent had completely gone.

  ‘Yes. The tag was FSB. The woman who pulled me out is FSB, too, but working with us. I’ll explain later.’ Before Asher had a chance to interject, Purkiss went on: ‘I need you to come and get us. I have a lead, a significant one, but time’s of the essence. We’re near St Katharine Docks. I’ll send you the GPS co-ordinates.’

  There was only the briefest pause before Asher said, ‘Okay. On my way. Ten minutes, fifteen tops.’

  Purkiss checked the GPS on his phone and texted the co-ordinates through.

  *

  They waited, the chill from the river becoming more insistent as the night drew in. She stood facing Purkiss, though her eyes roved constantly, evaluating the field.

  Purkiss said, ‘So what’s eating you?’

  ‘I don’t understand what that means.’

  ‘Come on. Your English is excellent. You get the idiom.’ He wasn’t making small talk. He genuinely needed to know. ‘You say you decided tonight, quite spontaneously, to ignore the orders of your superior and obstruct your comrades in the carrying out of their duty. If you’ve been telling me the truth, you’re officially persona non grata with Moscow now. Your career’s finished. You’ll certainly be arrested, and probably be charged with treason. I know how things work over there. You’re looking at the Lubyanka, and a lengthy jail sentence. To repeat my question: what’s eating you? Why is finding Rossiter so important to you, personally?’

  ‘It was not so much the attempt he made on the life of our President,’ she said. ‘It was the consequences such an act would have entailed. Rossiter was prepared to trigger the greatest conflict the century has yet seen. Perhaps the greatest conflict the world has ever suffered. He has unfinished business. Nothing must get in the way of his being stopped. Nothing. And if I judge my own organisation to be obstructing his capture, even unintentionally... then my own organisation must take second place. Whatever the implications for me and for my career.’

  She spoke without a zealot’s passion, which would have sounded false coming from an FSB operative of her experience. But as Purkiss gazed out over the water at the South Bank, he wondered what she was concealing from him.

  Fourteen

  Asher arrived within the promised fifteen minutes, his face set and grim. He peered at Saburova, evaluating her in the few brief seconds before she climbed in the back seat behind him.

  To Purkiss, he said, ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘Get going,’ Purkiss said. ‘I’ll fill you in.’

  Now he was appraising Purkiss. ‘You hurt?’

  ‘No. Go.’

  Purkiss gave Asher a concise, wholly accurate account of what had happened. The only time he saw a reaction in the man’s face was when he mentioned that Saburova was FSB. He thought that if they’d been alone in the car, Asher would have interjected at that point. But he didn’t, and Purkiss thought that was professional of him.

  When Purkiss had finished, Asher took out a smartphone and, still driving, scrolled through something on the screen. He dropped the phone on the dashboard.

  ‘Yes. She’s on our database of Russian personnel working in London. And on the suspected FSB list.’

  Purkiss noticed that Asher’s English accent was back, flawless and secure. He said, ‘She knows you’re CIA. I told her.’

  If Asher was angered by this, he didn’t show it.

  ‘So now you know I didn’t set you up,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t me who got us tagged back there.’

  ‘I never suggested anything of the kind,’ Purkiss said.

  ‘But it’s what you thought.’

  Asher had crossed at Tower Bridge and they were south of the Thames now, heading through Lambeth. Purkiss had looked up Donovan’s address on Google Earth. It was a large, stand-alone house on what appeared to be gated grounds.

  ‘I can get Company resources in place,’ Asher said. ‘Personnel for backup. Heat-detecting equipment to determine how many bodies are inside.’

  ‘No,’ said Purkiss. ‘Keep it simple. We go in on the pretext that we need information about the tracking device implanted in Rossiter. We don’t give an indication that we suspect Donovan of anything.’

  ‘How will you explain me?’ said Saburova. It was the first time she’d spoken since getting into the car.

  ‘We won’t.’ Purkiss turned to look at her. ‘You’ll wait outside.’

  As with Asher before, Purkiss couldn’t tell if she was put out by this.

  ‘The guy may not even be home,’ Asher remarked.

  ‘It’s a chance we’ll have to take.’

  The Georgian terraces of Wandsworth began to give way to more bohemian streets. Purkiss said, ‘What do you know about Professor Mossberg?’

  There was a shrug in Saburova’s voice. ‘As much as I suspect you do. A fraudulent researcher, serving a prison sentence unt
il yesterday. I do not know why your government wants him, and why they are willing to exchange him for a man of Rossiter’s significance.’

  ‘You believe Mossberg is one of ours? An SIS asset?’

  ‘Most likely,’ she said. ‘Or CIA. It does not matter. It still does not explain why the exchange was agreed.’

  Perhaps she was telling the truth, Purkiss thought, and genuinely didn’t know. Perhaps not.

  *

  Donovan’s address was on the side of Richmond Park, a vast stretch of forested green in which deer ran free. The property was surrounded by a high wall, and as they passed the gates Purkiss saw the house itself, a large Victorian structure in red brick.

  Asher parked in a lay by, thirty yards from the gates. He killed the engine and turned his head to Purkiss.

  ‘I should go in alone.’

  ‘No.’ They’d been over this already.

  ‘He sees you, he’ll spook.’

  ‘Let him,’ said Purkiss. ‘What’s he going to do? Attack me? His cover will be blown, and he’ll lose any advantage he has.’

  Asher’s objection was that if Donovan was working with Rossiter, he’d know who Purkiss was, even if Purkiss presented a false name. Asher was at least an unknown quantity.

  ‘Rossiter knows I’ll be coming after him,’ Purkiss said. ‘It makes sense that I’d be on the case. We go in, and give no hint that we suspect Donovan of anything, and we try and sniff out something that will help us.’

  They climbed out the car, all three of them. Saburova settled behind the wheel. She had the numbers of both men, in case she needed to call them, and they had hers.

  Purkiss and Asher walked back to the gates, which were set in a deep recess in the wall. Purkiss saw the cameras mounted on the gateposts on either side.

  He pressed the buzzer.

  Ahead, down the curved gravel driveway, the house blazed with light. It didn’t mean anybody was home, necessarily. Vale had sent Purkiss further information about Donovan. He was divorced with two adult children, and was believed to live alone, though he had domestic staff who possibly slept on the premises.

  A voice came from the speaker, distorted by static: ‘Yes?’

  ‘Mr Donovan? My name is John Purkiss. I need to speak to you urgently on a matter of national security.’

  Donovan was former Service. He wouldn’t bluster, or feign incomprehension.

  After a second, the voice said: ‘Who’s with you?’

  ‘Paul Asher. SIS.’

  The speaker was silent.

  Purkiss heard footsteps a moment before a torch shone full in his face. He raised an arm against the brightness, saw Asher do the same as a second beam transfixed him.

  Two men, no more than silhouettes, had appeared on the other side of the gate.

  ‘Where’s your car?’ said one of them.

  ‘We came by taxi,’ Purkiss said.

  The torch beams dropped a fraction. Purkiss could make out uniformed figures. Security guards.

  They had no dogs with them, but that didn’t mean there weren’t any on the premises.

  The gates eased open, and the guards beckoned Purkiss and Asher through. On the other side, they were motioned to stand with their arms outstretched. The guards ran their hands over the contours of their torsos and limbs.

  ‘ID,’ said one of the men.

  Purkiss produced his driving licence. Asher did likewise. There was no official SIS identification card, at least not one for public use.

  One of the guards muttered into his phone. They nodded at Asher and Purkiss to precede them.

  Spotlights blazed into life as the group approached the front door. One of the guards stepped in front at the last minute and pushed the door open. Beyond, a hallway gave off several doors, and a spiral staircase at the end wound out of sight.

  A man of about sixty stood in the hallway. Casually dressed in shirtsleeves and chinos, his face was thin and grooved. Purkiss recognised him from the photo Saburova had shown him.

  ‘Donovan,’ said the man. He didn’t offer his hand. ‘What can I do for you?’

  *

  ‘Yes. Of course I remember the device.’

  They’d moved into a living room off the hall, and were seated in modern, slightly uncomfortable armchairs. Donovan had shut the door behind them, but although the two security men hadn’t come in with them, Purkiss sensed their presence close by.

  Donovan said, ‘I helped design it.’

  Purkiss had said, without preamble, that they were making enquiries about the implant supplied by HorizonTech which had been used to tag Richard Rossiter. Donovan had given away nothing in his eyes, or his expression.

  ‘You know who Rossiter is, of course,’ Purkiss said.

  ‘Yes.’

  Donovan looked from Purkiss to Asher, then back.

  ‘Has he escaped?’

  ‘Why would you ask that?’ said Asher.

  ‘Because why else would you be enquiring about the tracking device, unless he’d flown the coop?’ Donovan didn’t sound scornful.

  ‘Yes,’ said Purkiss. ‘He’s escaped. And the device was removed from his arm shortly afterwards.’

  ‘Surgically?’

  ‘Probably not. I mean it was removed really shortly afterwards. Within minutes.’

  ‘That would have been painful.’ Again, there was no emotion in Donovan’s tone, no wryness. He was stating a simple fact. ‘I still don’t understand what you want from me.’

  Purkiss decided to push a little. ‘Rossiter was assisted in his escape by someone who was able to pinpoint his whereabouts with precision,’ he said. ‘We suspect they tracked him through the device.’

  Donovan gave a small nod. ‘And you believe this someone is me. Or one of my personnel. Yes, that makes sense.’

  ‘You’re former Service,’ said Purkiss. ‘You’re an obvious possibility.’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t me.’ Donovan looked unfazed. ‘As for my personnel... it’s feasible. There’s nobody I can think of in particular, but I can certainly supply you with the names of those who might have access to the required software.’

  He went over to a desk, which was kitted out as an elaborate workstation, and picked up a laptop. He keyed something in. A few seconds later, a printer whirred into life. Donovan handed the sheaf of papers to Purkiss.

  ‘My vetting documents on the relevant employees. You may find something there. And I’ve included specifications for the device in question, in case that helps.’

  Purkiss glanced over the latter pages.

  ‘What’s this?’ he said.

  A series of diagrams portrayed the device, a thin, flat object that resembled a match from a matchbook. The tip had a slightly bulbous head, also like a match’s. It was to the tip Purkiss pointed.

  Donovan said, ‘The toxin compartment.’ He studied Purkiss’s face. ‘Ah. You weren’t aware. This device isn’t standard. The modification was my contribution, made to order. It allows the addition of a neurotoxin. One whose release can be triggered remotely.’

  ‘This was implanted on Rossiter?’

  ‘Yes. A combined tracker and, if needed, execution agent. I suppose the reasoning was that if Rossiter ever escaped, he could not only be located but stopped in his tracks.’ Donovan’s face touched on ruefulness. ‘From what you’re saying, it sounds as if he removed the device before either of its functions could be of any use.’

  Pieces were slotting into place in Purkiss’s mind more quickly than he could keep up with them.

  His phone buzzed in his pocket and, his eyes on Donovan, he took it out.

  It was Saburova. Her voice was sharp.

  ‘There are armed men moving towards the house. I see two of them.’

  Fifteen

  Purkiss murmured, ‘Where?’ and Saburova said the front door and he said, ‘Stay back.’

  He rose to his feet, Asher moving swiftly in tandem and staring at him.

  Donovan returned Purkiss’s stare.

  Purki
ss said, ‘Two men at the door.’

  He was at Donovan in two strides and barrelling into him and sending him backwards into the armchair he’d risen from. He felt Donovan’s sinews tense, his arms come up and his torso twist in the automatic defensive posture that had been drilled into him over gruelling years of training. But the momentum had carried him back and the chair tipped over and Purkiss was on him with his forearm across his throat.

  ‘How many out there?’

  He relaxed the pressure just enough that Donovan could speak.

  The man’s voice emerged as a throaty hiss: ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  Purkiss had tried to bring down Donovan with the minimum of noise but it evidently hadn’t been enough, because the door to the living room swung open and the two guards from earlier came through with handguns drawn, shouting, ‘Back off, back off.’

  Purkiss rolled off Donovan and dragged the older man across him where he crouched and slid an arm across his throat once more, this time from behind. He kept the man’s head in front of his so that just his eye peered past.

  One of the guards was advancing on Asher, the other towards Purkiss and Donovan on the floor behind the overturned chair. Both were professionals, walking side-on with their firearms held in the Weaver stance.

  The window behind Asher exploded in a screeching cavalcade of glass an instant before the sound of the shot rang through the room.

  Purkiss saw Asher dive and roll and come up, fragments of glass glittering in his hair and on the shoulders of his suit jacket, and he saw Asher too had a gun, not the .22 Purkiss had taken off him but a spare he must have had in the car somewhere, a 9 mm pistol of some make. Asher pressed himself against the wall beside the window, out of range of whoever was outside.

  Asher had his gun trained on the security guard nearest to him. He shouted: ‘Drop it. Drop it and tell your friends outside to back off.’

  The double thump and crack of two shots in quick succession came through the broken window. Purkiss braced himself, but the shots seemed to be confined to outside.