Nemesis

by Tim Stevens

  Inside, two staff members, one female and one male - they might have been nurses, or security personnel, or both, but it was difficult to tell from their plain cream-coloured scrub outfits - rose from their chairs and walked out past Purkiss and Gar without a word or a sideways glance. Purkiss followed Gar into the room, hearing the door slide shut behind them.

  The man in the single bed against one wall of the windowless room was perhaps thirty-five years old. He had the fair hair and the vaguely melancholy face of a lot of Russians Purkiss had encountered.

  He lay on top of the covers, in an outfit comprising a long-sleeved top and loose trousers that wasn’t quite hospital pyjamas and wasn’t quite prison garb. One leg was propped on some kind of support at the foot of the bed.

  He wasn’t cuffed to the bed, or restrained in any other visible way. He didn’t need to be. He was an FSB officer in the heart of the British Secret Intelligence Service’s headquarters. He would know he had no chance of escape.

  His eyes watched Purkiss’s, expressionless. He’d barely glanced at Gar, as though he’d already had enough contact with him to gain the measure of him.

  ‘Stepan Vodovos,’ Purkiss said.

  There was no twitch of recognition in the man’s face. Purkiss didn’t know what that meant. His own identity was well known to the FSB. Two and a half years ago, Purkiss had saved the Russian President’s life, and he’d been accorded untouchable status by Moscow. One year ago, out in Siberia, all that had changed, and the Russian state had tried to kill Purkiss. He didn’t think he was on any kind of Kremlin hit list now, but he suspected his identity had been even more widely circulated.

  But he had no clear knowledge of this man’s rank within the organisation, and he might be junior enough that Purkiss’s face meant nothing to him. On the other hand, he was more than likely trained not to give anything away in his expression.

  Vodovos said, ‘Who are you?’

  He spoke English, though with a moderately strong accent. That told Purkiss the man wasn’t accustomed to undercover field work in Britain.

  ‘We can speak Russian,’ Purkiss said fluently.

  ‘That will not be necessary.’ Vodovos responded in English again.

  Purkiss ignored the man’s original question. ‘It’s been fourteen hours now,’ he said. ‘Fourteen hours since you were attacked, and your men were killed, and the prisoners were taken. I understand you’ve refused to talk so far. That has to end. Now.’

  Vodovos shifted on the bed a little, winced as he moved the propped-up leg. A bullet had chipped the tibial bone, apparently. It wasn’t a serious injury, but it would make weight bearing painful for a while yet.

  He said, ‘I repeat: I will give a full account of what happened in the presence of a representative of my government. Not before then.’

  Beside Purkiss, Gar stayed silent. He’d escorted Purkiss down into the hospital wing, leaving Waring-Jones and Vale in the office. On the way, he’d given a clipped account of what was known about Vodovos. The Russian had immediately identified himself to the backup team which had arrived on the scene a few minutes after the attack. His name and picture had been run through the database SIS kept of known and suspected FSB personnel, and a match had been found. Apart from that, Vodovos had volunteered nothing, other than the conditions under which he would be willing to speak.

  Gar was allowing Purkiss to take the lead now.

  Purkiss took a step nearer to the bed. He gazed down at the injured man, noting how haggard he looked at close quarters.

  ‘Your government doesn’t know you’re here,’ Purkiss said. ‘Doesn’t know, even, that you’re alive. We haven’t permitted them access to the site of the attack, and we’ve let it be known that there were no survivors. Moscow may, in fact, never learn that you survived.’

  ‘Moscow will find out.’ There was no defiance in Vodovos’s tone, just a quiet certainty. ‘You cannot conceal something like this.’

  ‘Why not?’ Purkiss began to stroll round the end of the bed, forcing its occupant to twist a little to look at him. ‘What can your government possibly do? They can’t raise a public fuss, because London will deny all knowledge of any prisoner exchange. This episode is highly embarrassing to both our countries. So, it all stays hush-hush. And that means Moscow has no leverage at all.’

  ‘Then it is in your country’s interest that we cooperate,’ Vodovos said. ‘As I have said, I will provide full disclosure if you –’

  ‘Yes, yes, if we provide you with an FSB chaperone.’ Purkiss paused. He leaned over the end of the bed, gripping the metal frame, so that Vodovos’s wounded leg was just below him. ‘Here’s the problem, though. We don’t have any reason to trust you. You were the only survivor of the massacre, apart from the two prisoners. You must see that there’s something highly suspicious about that. A token injury to your leg, for authenticity’s sake.’

  Purkiss gestured at the leg, not quite touching it. He thought he saw the hint of a flinch.

  ‘So we have to consider that you were instrumental in the attack. That you were planted on the scene, to provide us with disinformation afterwards.’

  A muscle jumped in Vodovos’s right cheek. He said, ‘Even if that were true... what is to be gained by preventing me from having one of my compatriots present?’

  ‘Because you’re either acting on official instructions from Moscow,’ said Purkiss, ‘or you’re a rogue agent. In the first instance, you might give some signal to whomever we allowed to be with you. Some message. On the other hand, if you’re a renegade, you’d feed lies to both of us. London and Moscow.’

  Purkiss laid a palm gently on the man’s propped-up ankle. He felt it twitch a fraction beneath the covering sheet.

  ‘So it’s better that we find the truth out now, without getting the Kremlin involved.’

  He kept his hand where it was. The seconds passed. The room was absolutely soundproof so that the only noise Purkiss heard was his own, soft breathing.

  And, once, a tiny click as the man on the bed swallowed.

  Abruptly, Purkiss lifted his hand away. In a brisker voice, he said: ‘Do you have family?’

  Vodovos watched him.

  ‘Sorry, yes.’ Purkiss frowned, shaking his head. ‘Stupid of me. You’ve already made it clear you won’t say anything until we get a Russian in here.’ He began walking round the bed again, on the other side this time. ‘We can get that information from the database, anyway.’

  He circled the bed until he was back where he’d started. He didn’t glance at Gar, who stood motionless, off to one side.

  With his back to Vodovos, Purkiss said: ‘Of course, we could always just hand you back.’

  He waited a few seconds, his words hanging in the air.

  He turned.

  ‘Because if we’re suspicious of you, can you imagine what the Kremlin will think when we tell them we have one of their men, who survived the attack with only minor injuries? You’re FSB, Vodovos. You know exactly what’s in store when they get you down there in the Lubyanka, in the underground cells. They’ll subject you to the most extreme form of interrogation they can think up. Even if they satisfy themselves that you had nothing to do with the attack, you’ll be forever tainted. Your career will be at a dead end, if not over entirely.’

  The man stared back at him flatly.

  ‘So as I see it, your options are limited,’ Purkiss continued. ‘You can talk to us now. If it turns out that you saw or heard anything that might give us a clue as to what happened, we’ll look very favourably upon your cooperation. We’ll work out a way to square things with Moscow so that you’re in the clear. Or –’ Purkiss hooked a forefinger around the thumb of his other hand, ‘or, you can keep your mouth shut, maintain this wall of dignified silence, and we may get fed up and make a phone call to the Kremlin, asking them to come and pick you up.’

  The soundproofing in the room wasn’t quite one hundred per cent, Purkiss realised. Somewhere, deep within the bowels of the building,
a heating pipe creaked.

  Vodovos said, enunciating very clearly, very quietly: ‘I will say nothing without a representative of my country’s government present.’

  Purkiss held his gaze for a full ten seconds.

  He said, ‘Suit yourself,’ and turned to the door.

  Gar opened it for him and they went out. The two nurses, or security personnel, disappeared back inside immediately.

  In the empty corridor, Purkiss said, ‘He had nothing to do with it.’

  *

  Gar said: ‘We can’t be sure of that. He knew you were bluffing. About handing him back.’ His tone was curt.

  ‘The threat I made to his family,’ said Purkiss. ‘He showed no reaction to that. And he wouldn’t have taken that as a bluff, necessarily.’ Purkiss had skimmed the dossier on Vodovos on the way down to the hospital area. The man was married with one daughter.

  ‘Then why isn’t he talking?’ said Gar, as they began to head back towards the lifts. ‘If he’s got nothing to hide, what does he have to lose by cooperating?’

  ‘Because he saw, or heard, something that will have value to Moscow.’ Purkiss was taller than Gar, and his strides forced the other man to quicken his pace to keep up, something he seemed to find annoying. ‘Or, he doesn’t trust us. Which is a perfectly reasonable reaction on his part.’

  They stood alone in the lift as it hissed smoothly upwards. They were shoulder-to-shoulder, gazing at the doors, in the manner of two strangers purposefully avoiding any interaction.

  Gar said, ‘You’ve probably gathered that I disagree with Sir Peter. About involving you in this.’

  ‘The thought crossed my mind.’ Purkiss didn’t look at him.

  ‘You’re too close to Rossiter,’ said Gar. ‘Your objectivity, and therefore your judgement, can’t be trusted.’

  ‘Your boss clearly believes otherwise.’ Purkiss felt the lift slowing.

  Gar said, ‘I just thought it would be best to clear the air about this from the outset.’

  ‘I appreciate that.’ This time Purkiss did glance at Gar. The shorter man’s eyes were as blank as ever.

  *

  Gar led Purkiss not back to Waring-Jones’s office, but to a smaller room on the same floor, one on the other side of the building and away from the Thames. The windows looked out onto a courtyard that plunged into shadows.

  Waring-Jones was there, and Vale as well. They stood from their seats around a rectangular conference table as Gar and Purkiss entered.

  A third man rose with them. Late thirties, blocky in build, he was functionally dressed in a navy suit and white shirt, his short fair hair combed to create a schoolboy’s parting. His blue eyes were small and shrewd.

  Waring-Jones said: ‘John Purkiss, Paul Asher.’

  He didn’t offer any explanation for the man’s presence. Purkiss shook hands with the newcomer.

  To Gar, Waring-Jones said, ‘Anything?’

  Gar shook his head once.

  Purkiss said, looking at Asher, ‘I assume I can speak freely?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Waring-Jones.

  ‘The man downstairs is playing things cautiously. But he’s not with Rossiter. He may have some useful intelligence to impart, or he may have noted nothing in all the confusion. I suggest we sweat him. Don’t interrogate him further, but make it clear that you won’t accede to his request to have a Moscow representative present. If he knows something, he’ll come out with it sooner or later.’

  Waring-Jones nodded as if satisfied. He gestured at the new man, Asher.

  ‘Paul will be working with you on this, Mr Purkiss.’

  Purkiss’s eyes moved to Asher. Then to Vale.

  Vale gazed back impassively.

  Purkiss said, ‘It’s not how I do things.’

  ‘Say again?’ Waring-Jones sounded genuinely surprised.

  ‘I don’t work with active SIS agents. I choose my own help.’

  ‘Ah.’ Waring-Jones turned slightly away. ‘This time, it’s different. As the Director of SIS, I get to have a say in the matter.’ There was a finality about his words, as though any disagreement would be not so much overridden as utterly ignored. ‘Paul is one of our most skilled operatives in the Russian field. His expertise will serve you well, John. I trust I may call you that?’

  ‘In the Russian field?’ Purkiss had the sense he was an interloper in the room. A naïf, among a group of people who were in the know about something he couldn’t grasp. ‘Rossiter’s disappeared. We’re assuming he organised his own escape. The Russians are involved, yes, but probably only in so far as Rossiter killed some of their people. And took their prisoner, this Mossberg.’

  Asher spoke for the first time. ‘Rossiter’s hatred and mistrust of Moscow are well known, Mr Purkiss. Not least to you.’ His accent was bland, upper-middle-class London. ‘His whole operation in Tallinn two years ago was geared towards triggering conflict between Russia and us. He believed the West had gone soft on Moscow, and he sought a return to the certainties of the Cold War. We have to assume Rossiter has unfinished business. That he’s looking for a new way to ramp things up between the two sides.’

  Purkiss thought back to the last time he’d met Rossiter, two summers ago, in the prison-for-one known as The Box. Rossiter had said: Nuclear destruction is the only issue that matters in the end. All else is fluff. And nobody’s willing to face up to the fact.

  Rossiter had, two and a half years ago in Tallinn, attempted to provoke a war in order to prevent an even more devastating one. Or such was his twisted reasoning.

  As if able to peer behind Purkiss’s eyes and read the thoughts there, Waring-Jones said, ‘Rossiter is convinced the Russians intend to use nuclear force to dominate the world. He always has been. Even now, with relations cooling between us and them, he believes we’re being too soft on Moscow. He views the West’s disarmament in the face of Russia’s dubious own decommissioning of much of its nuclear arsenal as capitulation.’

  ‘And he’s taken as a prisoner a leading physicist,’ Asher added.

  Purkiss said, ‘You suspect he’ll use the professor to assist him in producing a nuclear weapon of his own?’

  ‘We don’t know.’ It was Asher who answered. ‘But it’s a possibility. It would fit with Rossiter’s warped logic.’

  To Waring-Jones, Purkiss said: ‘Yet you still won’t tell me what’s so special about this Professor Mossberg. Why the Prime Minister was willing to trade him for Rossiter.’

  ‘No,’ said Waring-Jones smoothly. ‘I won’t, because I can’t. I could do so only on Prime Ministerial authority, which is something I do not have. And cannot obtain. Believe me, I’ve tried, all this morning.’

  ‘For what it’s worth,’ said Asher, ‘I’m not privy to that information either.’ He studied Purkiss for a moment.

  Then: ‘You’ll be in charge, of course. Of our investigation. I’ll be along as a colleague. No more than that.’

  Again, Purkiss had the sense of being an intruder.

  He said, ‘All right. First, I need to view the site of the attack.’

  ‘Yes,’ Waring-Jones said. ‘I’ll have a flight arranged for within the hour.’

  Purkiss indicated Vale. ‘Before that, I want a word. In private.’

  Seven

  Almost six hundred miles north, the temperature felt at least ten degrees colder than it had been in London. The airfield was a simple strip of runway with a control tower and terminal, but the security presence lent it an importance which belied its size. Armed soldiers flanked the runway and formed a line in front of the terminal doors.

  Purkiss and Asher were escorted wordlessly into the building, where a man in civilian clothes handed Asher a clipboard. He signed and returned it. As before, the exchange was conducted in silence.

  The airfield was just outside Inverness, and was one used mainly by the military and the intelligence services. A Mercedes saloon sat in front. Asher had said the site of the ill-fated prisoner exchange was some thirty miles away t
o the north-east.

  The two men hadn’t spoken on the flight up from London. There wasn’t hostility in their silence; the presence of the pilot had prevented them from saying much to one another.

  Asher opened the driver’s door and got in, Purkiss joining him in the passenger seat. A chilly late-afternoon wind scoured the slopes of the surrounding hills, rocky and purple with heather.

  As if there’d been no break in their conversation back in Waring-Jones’s office, Asher said: ‘I’m not here to keep an eye on you. If that’s what you think.’

  He pulled away through the gates of the airfield and turned onto a desolate grey road.

  Purkiss said, ‘Of course you are. Which is rather ironic.’

  He saw Asher tip his head in acknowledgement. Purkiss’s job was to bring rogue elements of SIS to heel. This was a turnaround.

  ‘Nonetheless,’ Asher said. ‘I’m aware – and Waring-Jones is aware – that if I tread on your toes too much, I’ll lose whatever cooperation you’re willing to give me. That isn’t in our interests. So I’ll try to be helpful.’

  On the flight up, Purkiss had used his phone to read the dossier Vale had emailed him. He’d requested it when he and Vale were alone in the room after the others had left.

  ‘He seems above board, John,’ Vale had said, referring to Asher. ‘But I’ll send you what I can find about him.’

  The dossier gave a potted biography of Paul Asher. Aged thirty-seven, unmarried, he’d been with SIS twelve years. Cryptography was an especial strength of his. And, as Waring-Jones had said, Asher had an excellent track record in the Russian arena. He’d done some good work last year during the Crimean invasion, sending back detailed intelligence about the various factions within Ukraine and their relationships with each other and with Moscow.

  Purkiss read the dossier twice. By the end, he still didn’t grasp why Asher had been chosen to accompany him. He understood that Waring-Jones would want one of his own people to be involved. But why Asher, in particular?