Nemesis

by Tim Stevens

  ‘There’s a hitch with that idea, John.’ It was the first time Vale had spoken since they’d entered the room. He stood, half-turned towards Purkiss, the cigarette burning between his fingers. ‘Moscow deals in provocation. No doubt about that. We’ve seen it in Ukraine, and in their air force manoeuvres over the Arctic and off our own coasts over the last few months. But this is in a different league. This is sabre-rattling taken a step further. With the prospect of hot, all-out conflict a likelihood rather than a possibility. It isn’t the way Moscow plays.’

  ‘All right,’ Purkiss said. ‘Then a rogue faction inside the Kremlin.’

  ‘Possible,’ said Gar, from the sofa. ‘It’s currently our second-favourite hypothesis. A disaffected clique of generals, perhaps, or political rivals of the President.’

  Purkiss said, ‘I assume your prime hypothesis is that Rossiter himself is behind this. That he had people on the outside, all along, biding their time. Waiting for their opportunity.’

  Gar looked swiftly at Waring-Jones, then back to Purkiss. ‘Yes. That would appear to be the most likely explanation.’

  From the moment in the car when Vale had said Rossiter was no longer in British hands, Purkiss had assumed the man had arranged his own rescue. The inevitability of it had been a constant itch in Purkiss’s psyche, for the last thirty months.

  He said, addressing Waring-Jones, though he was really talking to Vale: ‘Did he ever reveal anything?’

  ‘Rossiter? No.’ Waring-Jones moved away from the window towards the middle of the office. ‘Nothing at all. We tried everything, I assure you. Everything in keeping with the letter of the law, if not its spirit. Sleep deprivation. Trickery. Threats. Bogus offers of clemency. Rossiter always maintained he was acting alone in Tallinn, and before that. He insisted he had no accomplices. No network.’

  ‘And you believed him.’

  ‘Good Lord, no.’ Waring-Jones looked appalled. ‘Of course there were others. We’re certain of it. Which makes it all the more disquieting that Rossiter kept his mouth shut. The only reason he could have had for refusing to betray his network was that he was planning to use them at some point in the future. Last night’s events suggest that he has done precisely that.’

  ‘Who knew about the exchange?’ asked Purkiss.

  ‘The PM, and the Home and Foreign Secretaries, as I’ve said. Rupesh and I. The Service operatives involved in the exchange, all of whom were killed last night. And, of course, the Russians. We’ve no way of knowing how widely the information was distributed at their end, of course. But fewer than ten people on this side.’

  ‘Ten people, plus those in their immediate circle,’ said Purkiss. ‘Their spouses. Their lovers. Their administrative staff.’

  Gar was on his feet. Purkiss didn’t look at him, but he could feel the fury ebbing off the man in waves.

  Waring-Jones appeared unruffled. He said, quietly: ‘I know your history with the Service, Mr Purkiss. I’m well aware that you have your... misgivings about us. You believe that an organisation which could allow a man like Richard Rossiter to rise within its ranks to such a senior position, is fundamentally – what’s the phrase? – unfit for purpose. But on this matter, you’re wrong. The individuals entrusted with the knowledge of this operation were each and every one of them fully aware of its importance. One hundred per cent discretion was a given. Nobody shared the smallest scrap of data about the exchange. Nobody.’

  ‘Then one or more of these individuals leaked the information themselves,’ Purkiss said. ‘One or more of them – of you – is working with Rossiter.’

  Gar made a move forward, but Waring-Jones stopped him with a gesture that was invisible to Purkiss.

  ‘A most serious allegation, Mr Purkiss,’ Waring-Jones said, his voice as even as before. ‘But you have a point, notwithstanding your deliberately confrontational manner. We have to consider the possibility of a security breach at a high level. And I’ve already put measures in place to investigate.’

  The questions jostled for dominance in Purkiss’s head. He allowed one to fight its way to the fore.

  ‘You must have tagged Rossiter.’

  ‘Naturally,’ said Waring-Jones. ‘A few months after his initial incarceration, he had to undergo a gastroscopy for a suspected stomach ulcer. While he was under anaesthetic, we inserted a tracker in his left forearm. A precautionary measure, of course; this was long before any kind of exchange was proposed. The bruising on his arm, we let him believe, was a result of the intravenous drip. The tracking device was found at the site of the attack last night. It had been cut out of Rossiter’s arm.’

  He knew about it all along, thought Purkiss. Ever since they installed it.

  ‘Who’s the other man?’ Purkiss said. ‘The missing scientist?’

  ‘As I said. Professor Valeriy Mossberg. Formerly at Moscow University. His field of expertise is particle physics.’

  ‘So Rossiter has him,’ Purkiss said. ‘And I suspect you know why.’

  Was there the briefest hesitation before Waring-Jones answered? ‘Yes. I have a good idea why.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I cannot,’ Waring-Jones said, this time with no pause.

  ‘Then I’m not doing this.’

  Purkiss glanced at Vale. Then he turned to the door.

  Gar stepped in front of him, up close, almost but not quite breaching the invisible barrier demarcating personal space. ‘Excuse me?’

  Purkiss studied his eyes. The blankness was still there, absolute, unwavering. Purkiss wondered if the man had cultivated it or whether it was part of his natural makeup.

  ‘You’ve summoned me here to ask me to find Rossiter for you,’ Purkiss said. ‘But you’re explicitly keeping me in the dark about crucial information. I don’t work that way.’

  ‘Turn around.’

  Waring-Jones had barely raised his voice. But the two words whiplashed across the room, snaring Purkiss.

  He half-turned.

  Waring-Jones had taken several strides forward on his long legs and now stood close to Purkiss. His face was neutral. Controlled. But his voice was like cold acid.

  ‘You will assist us in this matter, Mr Purkiss. Not because you’re a former employee of the Service, and therefore bound to it for life, as you well know. Not because your very job exists only because I permit it. You’ll assist us, because you cannot walk away. The man you had the opportunity to kill on that boat two and a half years ago, the man who recruited the woman you loved and used her to his corrupt ends, is now walking free. You can no more ignore that, no more refrain from addressing the problem, than a hound might resist bolting after a hare. You know it. All of us in this room know it.’

  He moved round Purkiss so that he was facing him.

  ‘So let’s stop playing these silly, childish games, Mr Purkiss. We haven’t time. Richard Rossiter is laughing at us. He’s in possession of a man who was considered vital enough to British security interests that the Prime Minister was willing to hand over a traitor of Rossiter’s status in order to obtain him. Rossiter has, to put it coarsely, stuffed us. He has to be found. He will be found. And you’re the man to do it.’

  Purkiss stared at Waring-Jones. He searched his eyes. He was looking for a sign that this was some kind of trap. Some test, the purpose of which was obscure.

  He saw nothing. Nothing but the fastidiously layered gaze of a professional who’d learned, over decades, to reveal precisely what he wished to reveal, and nothing more.

  Purkiss said, ‘The Russian. The FSB man. Take me to him.’

  Five

  The Åland Islands comprise an archipelago off the coast of Finland. Technically part of Finland itself, Åland holds a degree of autonomy, with its own parliament and police force. The archipelago is strictly demilitarised.

  Rossiter watched the pinprick heaps of rock and vegetation separate out as the helicopter dipped towards them.

  The Eurocopter Tiger was, he knew, one of the most advanced craft of its kind w
hen it came to stealth technology. Even so, the noise within the cockpit was alarming, the clatter of the rotor seeming to broadcast the chopper’s presence so glaringly that it was hard to believe it could possibly go undetected.

  Beside Rossiter, the pilot pointed downwards and to the left.

  Rossiter saw the tiny lights, winking steadily, on a mass of solid ground that was impossible to distinguish from the surrounding blackness of the water.

  He felt wetness below his elbow, and saw the seepage through the bandage which had been wrapped quickly and expertly around his forearm. The tracker hadn’t been implanted particularly deeply, but there were crucial tendons and nerves there, and the removal had been tricky. He’d considered taking the device with him, abandoning it elsewhere in order to create a false trail, but decided in the end that it wasn’t worth the risk.

  The pursuit would come swiftly, and he needed to shake it off at once.

  Besides Rossiter and Mellows, the pilot, the helicopter carried five passengers. Four of the men in the rear remained masked. The fifth, the old man, Mossberg, had been hooded with a canvas sack much like the one Rossiter had been forced to wear. Unbound, he sat wedged between two of Rossiter’s men, though there was hardly much risk of his trying to break free.

  Rossiter felt no elation. No sense of triumph.

  He’d been under what was effectively house arrest for the last two years, having initially been detained in a secret facility which was much more like a traditional prison. Following the extensive early period of interrogation, when it was clear that he’d given up all the intelligence he was likely to – which was virtually nothing – he was moved to the Box, an isolated house in the Berkshire countryside, west of London. He’d been permitted to take walks outside, and had access to books and music, though not to internet facilities or other forms of electronic communication, of course. Nor had he been allowed to send or receive mail.

  So it wasn’t as though he was breathing the air of freedom for the first time now.

  His escape meant little to him personally. If he could have somehow proceeded with his work while still in the Box, he would have willingly done so.

  The work was the crucial part. It just so happened that the only way he could carry it through was on the outside. Once it was done, it didn’t matter what happened to him. He would hardly seek to be captured again, but if he was apprehended - or even killed - then that was of secondary importance.

  A head wind had sprung up, scouring the water, and Rossiter felt its pressure as the helicopter slowed and began its descent.

  The land mass beneath them started to take shape. It was an islet, a skerry more accurately, approximately oblong and two kilometres across its longest axis. The light was provided by a pair of arc lamps which had been rigged up temporarily in the islet’s widest expanse of flat ground. Rossiter made out the shape of a boat moored along one shore.

  He felt the tension rise in him as the chopper’s wheels touched the rock with the faintest of jars.

  Men surrounded the helicopter immediately, approaching as closely as they dared to its still-whirling rotor blades. Their faces hovered in the air, their black-clad bodies invisible in the shadows. What light there was glinted off the weapons across their chests.

  Rossiter opened his door and stepped out, the cold striking him instantly, making him catch his breath. He’d been provided with an overcoat by his captors, but he’d ditched it back at the escape point in case it too was fitted with a tracker. His men had thought to bring along a new set of clothes for him, and he’d wrestled his way out of his prisoner’s garb and jettisoned that, too. But the sheepskin jacket he wore filed to protect his neck and his face from the cutting wind.

  He ducked and strode towards the ring of men, though the rotor was winding down.

  A man stepped up to meet him. A narrow face, clean shaven. Hooded eyes, like a predator’s. This man wasn’t visibly armed.

  Rossiter recognised the face, though he hadn’t met the man before.

  The Locksmith.

  They shook hands.

  Without a word, the Locksmith nodded at the helicopter behind Rossiter. Rossiter turned slightly and raised a hand.

  The men poured out of the helicopter’s rear, hustling the captive, Mossberg, between them. He stumbled a little, his legs unaccustomed to solid ground after the long flight, and two of them caught him under the arms and righted him.

  Rossiter felt the group of men draw nearer, the anticipation in their postures unmistakeable.

  The Locksmith watched Mossberg as he was brought forward. His hawk-like eyes didn’t waver.

  With a flick of his fingers he motioned for the hood to be removed.

  One of Rossiter’s people pulled back the hood, just as the SIS contingent had done with Rossiter himself two hours earlier.

  There was a reaction this time, in the Locksmith’s face. Nothing tangible, just a shadow that passed across the thin features and was gone.

  He gave a single nod, and transferred his gaze to Rossiter once more.

  ‘Your turn,’ Rossiter said.

  The Locksmith tilted his head a fraction. From behind him, out of the shadows thrown by the arc lights, two men strode forwards. Carbines were slung across their chests.

  Between them, they held a flat, rectangular case. Carrying it required considerable effort, Rossiter noted.

  He looked at the Locksmith. Looked into his half-hidden eyes.

  ‘I trust you’re giving me what was agreed,’ he said. ‘Of course, I have no way of knowing at this moment whether you are or not. But if that case turns out to be filled with bricks, or pieces of scrap metal, or even gold ingots – if it contains anything other than what was agreed – then your prisoner will be killed. Along with everybody in his immediate vicinity.’

  The Locksmith’s eyes searched Rossiter’s. There was wonder in them.

  Rossiter said, ‘I’ll be in a position to analyse the contents of that case within ninety minutes from now. The man I am handing over to you has an explosive device hidden on his person which will detonate in precisely two hours. If I satisfy myself that you’ve honoured your end of the deal, that you’ve given me what I requested, I’ll send you the instructions for deactivating the device immediately. But if I find you’ve tricked me, or if I have any reason at all to be suspicious about what’s inside the case, the explosive will go off. You’ll lose the prisoner, as well as whichever analysts and torturers and surgeons are working on him, desperate to locate the device and remove it.’

  The Locksmith’s upper eyelids had retracted a couple of millimetres, which made his stare even more piercing.

  ‘You won’t find the device beforehand, by the way. Not that that will stop you from trying. And even if you did, it’s primed to detonate if any attempt is made to remove it by force. Oh,’ he said, as if an afterthought had struck him, ‘and don’t waste your energy asking Mossberg where the device is. He doesn’t know. I gave him a short-acting anaesthetic agent as soon as we took him aboard the helicopter. He’s awake now, but he has no recollection of what happened on the journey.’

  Rossiter peered off into the darkness.

  ‘I saw your boat out there,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t see what kind of hardware you had aboard. But I have to assume you’re packing anti-aircraft firepower. You’ll understand now when I advise that any plans you may have had to shoot us out of the sky as we were leaving, are to be abandoned. If you kill us, you lose your prisoner. In two hours from now.’ He made a show of checking the watch he’d been given in the helicopter, along with his new clothes. ‘One hour and fifty-eight minutes, in fact.’

  Behind him, he heard the sounds of his men loading the case onto the Eurocopter.

  The Locksmith eased closer to Rossiter. He managed the feat without taking a step forward.

  He said, very quietly, very carefully: ‘If you destroy our asset before the time you have specified, before two hours are up... I will find you. And you will be subjected to a torment
beyond anything you are capable of imagining.’

  Rossiter didn’t laugh in his face. He said, in the same tone of solemnity, ‘I won’t do something like that. You have my word. I owe you a debt already. Without your assistance, I wouldn’t be standing here now.’

  They held one another’s stare for a full ten seconds.

  Rossiter broke it, because there was nothing more to be said. He raised his hand, made a quick gesture.

  The engine of the Eurocopter growled into life. He felt the sweep of air against his back as the rotor blades began their circuits.

  Rossiter ducked and trotted back to the chopper.

  He was aware that his turned back might be taken as a mark of disrespect, but he didn’t think the Locksmith would see it that way. The Locksmith was an intelligent man, from a sophisticated culture.

  This was nothing other than a business deal.

  The helicopter rose, swinging slightly in the growing wind. Below, Rossiter watched the assembled party making its rapid way towards the moored boat.

  Only the Locksmith lingered, his form dwindling as he stared up at the receding aircraft.

  Six

  It was a facility the popular imagination had already given form to in countless television programmes, though few people probably really believed in its existence.

  The hospital wing was deep below the superstructure of the Vauxhall Cross building, beneath the level of the adjacent Thames River. Purkiss had been down there a couple of times before, during his time with SIS. He was struck by how it had changed in the last nine or ten years. Gone was the slightly makeshift appearance, the drabness, which had made it resemble a typical ageing National Health Service facility. Now it was all sleek chrome and glass, the offices he passed kitted out with huge flatscreen televisions and computer monitors, the lighting softer and more akin to that of a high-end hotel.

  Rupesh Gar touched his palm against a featureless square panel on the wall. A door opened silently, sliding back into its frame.