by Tim Stevens
The woman looked genuinely frightened. Kendrick leered at her.
‘He’ll want to see us, love.’ His parody of her accent was grotesque. ‘Just tell us where his office is, and we’ll piss off out of your way.’
‘Along here.’ Asher pointed down a corridor. At the end, a plaque on a closed door read: Peter Otto, Managing Director.
Purkiss heard the receptionist speaking frantically on her phone behind them. He didn’t wait, just opened the door and strode in.
Otto had risen from his desk, the receiver in his hand. His eyes roved over the four of them, appraising swiftly, calculating. There was no fear in his expression.
Asher closed the door behind them and jammed a chair under the handle.
Purkiss said, ‘Pyotr Osip. Former KGB, and FSB. Now that you understand how much I know about you, don’t make any attempt to summon security. Hear me out.’
Osip said nothing. He watched Purkiss.
‘You’ve been in communication with Henry Donovan, of HorizonTech. Donovan is implicated in activities which pose a threat to national security. I need you to start talking. If you do so, now, it’ll be easier for you. If you refuse, we’ll get the information the hard way.’
Osip said, his voice low and steady, and only slightly accented: ‘I have never heard of Henry Donovan, or HorizonTech. Your intelligence is incorrect.’
Purkiss turned away slightly, his only signal to Kendrick a glance.
Kendrick moved fast, lurching across the desk and grabbing Osip by the hair and slamming his head down onto the table top. He put his face close to the other man’s.
‘I was all for roughing you up first, before we got to the questions,’ he hissed. ‘Except my namby-pamby friend here is too much of a fair player to allow that. Looks like he should have listened to me.’
Osip braced his hands on the edge of the desk but didn’t try to twist away. His voice still steady, the product of years of training, he murmured: ‘I will give you whatever co-operation you require. But I repeat: I have never heard of the man, or the company, you mention.’
Kendrick jerked his head up and banged it against the desk again. Out of sight of Osip, Purkiss raised a cautionary finger.
He said, ‘Why is it, then, that we found Donovan made seven calls to your office number in the last six days?’
Osip’s visible eye swam, unfocused, and Purkiss wondered if Kendrick had hit him too hard. His voice shook a little for the first time.
‘People telephone my company all the time. I have customers all over the country, current and prospective.’ He grimaced. ‘I would be happy to show you my company records, if you wish. Including logs of all the calls received, over whatever time period you require.’
Was it a bluff? Purkiss wondered. He gave another signal to Kendrick, who hauled Osip upright and dumped him back onto his chair. The man looked dazed, but on the right side of consciousness.
‘Do it,’ he said. ‘The call logs.’
Osip’s mouth worked, as if he was testing whether or not his teeth were intact. He picked up the phone and said, ‘I am not to be disturbed.’
He reached for the keyboard of his desktop computer. Asher and Saburova and Purkiss moved behind him to look over his shoulder. Kendrick remained on the other side of the desk, glaring down at the Russian.
‘You are SIS?’ said Osip.
‘Never mind,’ Purkiss said.
The Russian rolled his chair back a little. ‘Here. All the calls taken in the last seven days.’
Purkiss took out the phone Saburova had found on Donovan. He brought up the call log.
The times on the screen matched those on Donovan’s phone, as did the number.
‘As I said,’ Purkiss murmured. ‘Care to explain this?’
Osip glanced round at him, wincing as he did so. ‘May I speak with my receptionist? She might recall who telephoned.’
‘Yes.’
He picked up the phone again. Asked if the woman remembered seven calls from the same number.
Asher leaned in and pressed the speakerphone button.
The woman’s voice emerged in mid-sentence: ‘ - just dead air. No voice at all. I assumed it was a heavy breather. The calls stopped yesterday.’
Osip looked at Purkiss again.
Purkiss said, ‘It means nothing. Your receptionist is lying, just as you’ve instructed her.’
He looked at Asher. ‘Bring her in.’
The woman cringed as Asher pushed her through the door and barricaded it again. Her eyes were wide, her makeup cracked. The tremor in her hands was unforced.
‘Gemma,’ Osip said. ‘Would you please repeat to these people what you told me on the phone just now?’
She could barely get her words out through the stuttering. But the story was the same: seven calls, all yielding silence at the other end. None since yesterday.
Purkiss believed her.
He met Saburova’s eyes, then Asher’s.
‘You’re staying in here,’ he said to her. To Osip: ‘I need details of your company’s schedules. What kind of freight you’re hauling, where it’s coming from, where it’s going to. The names of your customers.’
‘It is a lot of data.’ Osip rolled back to the computer. ‘But if it is what you want... I have nothing to hide.’
Purkiss watched the lists and figures scroll down the screen. He felt as though he was fishing in the ocean, trying to catch one particular specimen he’d never seen before with a stick and a piece of string.
‘Talk me through your business,’ Purkiss said. ‘Give me the gist of what you do.’
‘The majority of our business is shipping.’ Osip’s matter-of-fact tone had returned. Purkiss suspected he’d been roughed up a few times in his life, and bounced back quickly. ‘We have a small fleet of six cargo ships, based here in Merseyside. Most of the trade is between here and Ireland. Some of it heads further north, to Scotland.’
‘What kind of freight?’
‘Anything, within reason. Perishable goods, consumer items mainly. We do not have the facilities to transport large quantities of machinery or vehicles. Our clients include small businesses, private individuals. Sometimes UK or Irish government contracts come our way.’
‘You said, mostly shipping.’ This was Asher.
‘Yes. We also operate a fleet of heavy-duty trucks for transportation on the mainland. Our routes extend all across the British Isles.’
Purkiss felt the germ of an idea twitch in his mind.
He nodded at the screen. ‘Narrow it down. Show us the schedules for the last twenty-four hours, and the next.’
Asher touched Purkiss’s elbow. ‘A word?’
Purkiss beckoned Saburova. To Kendrick, he said, ‘Watch them both.’
He led Asher and Saburova to the far end of the office.
Asher said, ‘You think he’s telling the truth?’
‘No way of knowing. He’s FSB, or was once. He’ll be able to conceal it if he’s lying, and we won’t know otherwise unless we apply extreme pressure. Perhaps not even then.’
‘Let me call my people,’ Asher said. ‘Seriously. We can crack him.’
‘We need to move quicker than that.’ Purkiss glanced across at Osip at the computer. ‘In any case, we’ll hand him over to SIS when we’re finished here. But in the mean time, let’s assume he’s telling the truth. That he hasn’t had any dealings with Donovan. The fact is, Donovan’s been calling here. We know that. Why he’s been ringing without saying anything, is anybody’s guess. But he’s connected to this place somehow.’ Purkiss paused to gather this thoughts. ‘He’s linked to Rossiter, and he’s linked to a shipping company. It suggests Rossiter is planning to transport someone, or something. Either out of the country, or into it.’
‘He may not be planning it,’ said Saburova. ‘He may have already done it.’
‘Which is why I’ve asked for the schedules for the previous twenty-four hours as well as the next. There might be a lead there. Something that
will give us a clue.’
Purkiss’s phone rang, startling him. He stepped away.
It wasn’t Vale, as he’d expected.
Rupesh Gar, the SIS Deputy Director, said, ‘Purkiss. Where are you?’
‘Why?’
‘You need to get back here. Urgently.’
‘What’s going on?’ Purkiss noticed Asher and Saburova gazing at him.
‘Vodovos wants to talk.’ Gar paused. ‘But he’ll talk only to you.’
Twenty
Purkiss strode back to the desk, leaving Asher and Saburova to follow.
‘I have collated the schedules,’ said Osip. ‘Times of collection and delivery, customers involved. Prices as well, if this is of any interest.’ He clicked the mouse and a printer whirred into life.
Purkiss grabbed the sheaf of papers, which showed a series of spreadsheets. He scanned them quickly.
It would take time, and close attention, to read any meaning into them.
He said, ‘I need to get back to London.’
‘Why?’ Asher had moved in close.
Purkiss hesitated. Then he beckoned Asher and Saburova aside once again.
‘You won’t know this,’ he said to Saburova, keeping his voice low. ‘But one person survived the attack at the prisoner exchange site. His name’s Stepan Vodovos. He’s one of yours. FSB.’
She stared at Purkiss. ‘You did not tell me.’
‘Because I wasn’t convinced you weren’t really still acting in an official FSB capacity. To be honest, I’m still not. Anyway. Vodovos has so far refused to say anything about what happened up there. Which leads us to believe he noted something of significance, something he doesn’t want to share with us alone.’ He stopped to make sure she was following. ‘It seems he’s changed his mind. He wants to meet me to tell me something.’
‘What about a phone call?’ said Asher. ‘A video link-up?’
‘He insists on a meeting in person,’ said Purkiss. ‘I’m going to have to leave.’
‘I will come with you,’ said Saburova.
‘No. I need you and Asher to stay here and work on those schedules.’ He continued before she could interrupt. ‘Check the deliveries and exports. Look out for any discrepancies in travelling time. Anything. I’ll notify SIS, get them to send up any assistance you need. Manpower, whatever.’
Saburova looked uncomfortable.
Purkiss said, ‘I’ll keep your identity out of it. As far as SIS needs to know, Asher’s working this by himself.’
Asher too looked disgruntled. But he nodded.
‘Okay. Let’s get to work.’
Back at the desk, Purkiss said, ‘Tony, I want you to stay here. I’m heading back to London.’
‘Really?’ Kendrick looked at Asher and Saburova with distaste.
Purkiss was already at the door. He said, ‘Keys,’ and Asher threw them to him.
*
He was heading for the on-ramp onto the M1 when his phone rang.
Saburova said: ‘We have found something.’
‘Tell me.’ Purkiss pulled over onto the hard shoulder, prompting a flare of horns. He’d hit the rush hour traffic and progress had been slow so far.
‘One of Osip’s cargo vessels set off from Dublin this morning at six. Its scheduled time of arrival here on Merseyside is noon today, according to the spreadsheet.’
Purkiss said, ‘Six hours.’
‘It is too long. Osip says there must be a mistake. He has tried to call the captain of the vessel but is unable to get through.’
Purkiss watched the cars streaming by onto the motorway.
‘Might be something. What’s the ship carrying?’
‘Alcohol. Crates of beer and whiskey. Osip believes the crew of the vessel may be involved in a scam, to steal the cargo. He thinks they may have somehow falsified the arrival time to avoid detection in the short term. He wants to call the police.’
‘Don’t let him.’
‘Of course not.’ She didn’t sound offended.
‘All right,’ said Purkiss. ‘Give me the details of the vessel. I’ll inform SIS and make arrangements for the vessel to be intercepted. Stay put.’
Before she could reply, he hung up.
Another long shot. Osip might well be correct, and this could be nothing more than a minor local crime.
But it wasn’t worth taking any chances.
*
He called Vale as he drove. Told him about developments.
‘I’ll get onto it,’ said Vale. ‘John...’
‘Yes.’
‘You believe Rossiter is behind this?’
Purkiss took a long breath, exhaled. ‘I don’t know. It seems... a little off. Not his style.’
He reached London in just over three hours, and took another thirty minutes to traverse the city to SIS headquarters at Vauxhall Cross. It was eleven thirty by his watch when he was ushered through the security measures at the entrance. The handgun, the SIG P226 Kendrick had given him, was removed without comment.
Gar met him in front. His blank eyes appraised Purkiss quickly.
‘So what happened?’ Purkiss said, as they walked towards the lifts.
‘Vodovos called me in. He said he’d talk, but only to you. No need for a fellow Russian to be present.’
‘And that’s it?’
‘Yes. He seemed... on edge. More so than before.’
They stepped into the infirmary, its silence like a morgue’s. Once again Purkiss found himself outside the door to the bedroom-cum-cell.
He went in with Gar, and as before, the two guards - different ones this time - left silently.
Vodovos was sitting up, massaging his leg. His face was flushed and damp, and Purkiss supposed he had been exercising.
He looked at Purkiss with something new in his gaze. There was recognition there, now.
His eyes shifted to Gar. ‘Only him. You leave.’
Gar stayed put. Purkiss could feel anger radiating from him, even though his expression didn’t change.
Purkiss nodded.
Just before Gar reached the door, Vodovos said, ‘I want pen and paper.’
Purkiss pulled a notebook and a ballpoint pen from his jacket pocket. ‘This do?’
When Gar had gone and they were alone, Vodovos said, ‘The pen and paper is because I assume this room contains audio surveillance.’
‘I thought as much.’ Purkiss handed him the pad.
‘You read Russian?’
‘Yes.’
Vodovos hesitated before starting to write. He tore off the page and gave it to Purkiss.
Purkiss read the crabbed, Cyrillic script.
Mossberg is complicit with Rossiter. I saw them shake hands after the attack.
Purkiss read it again.
He looked at Vodovos. ‘You’re absolutely certain?’
Vodovos gave a single, almost imperceptible nod, as if he was afraid that hidden watchers might correctly interpret even the mildest gesture.
Purkiss took a walk around the room.
If it was true, it could mean one of several things.
Rossiter had somehow, from custody, co-ordinated the exchange with Mossberg. That was hardly feasible.
The Russians had masterminded the exchange, had persuaded the British government to hand over Rossiter in return for a high-value asset, while knowing that Rossiter and Mossberg had a history together.
The British had done the same.
Or, one or the other side had set up the exchange and then deliberately sabotaged it, freeing both men.
This was the scenario Purkiss least wanted to consider. But it was, he thought, perhaps the most plausible.
He looked at Vodovos. The man had his back to Purkiss, and made no attempt to turn and face him.
Yes, Purkiss understood the Russian’s reluctance to divulge this information earlier. And he understood why the man insisted on secrecy now, without an official member of SIS present.
Vodovos had realised, or had been told, who Pur
kiss was. And he saw in him the only ally he could hope to find at present.
Purkiss walked back round the bed until he was in Vodovos’s line of sight. He screwed the slip of paper into a tight ball and put it in his mouth and swallowed it.
He tore a second sheet off his notepad - if he wrote on it while it was still attached, it would leave a faint impression on the page below - and scribbled quickly.
He handed the note to the Russian.
It read: Which side do you believe is responsible?
Vodovos took the pen and wrote underneath. He passed it back.
Mine.
Twenty-one
The swapping of notes proceeded with quickening pace, like some bizarre ritual between two people who were electively mute.
Purkiss: Why?
Vodovos: I’ve had time to think about it, and it makes sense. If Rossiter has an atrocity planned, my government can allow it to happen in full knowledge that he will be blamed.
Purkiss: That doesn’t make sense. The atrocity may be directed against your own people.
Vodovos: In that case, we would have leverage over you. We would forever be able to say that your government allowed him to escape, and to commit violence against the Russian people. If he takes action against your country, you will be weakened in all kinds of ways, and Moscow will not be blamed.
Purkiss: If you suspected this before, why did you insist on a representative of your government being present?
Vodovos: As I said, I’ve had time to think about it. I believe this is the most likely explanation, that Moscow is behind the sabotage of the exchange. And I believe you can be trusted to find and stop Rossiter.
Purkiss: Where does Mossberg fit into this?
Vodovos: He’s a minor scientist. Perhaps someone who once worked for MI6, or the CIA, and whom the UK and US governments believe to be useful still. In reality, he’s a tool. Perhaps my government offered him clemency in exchange for going thorough with this charade. Perhaps Rossiter has handed him back to Moscow and he’s been quietly disposed of.
Purkiss: Unlikely. They might as well have killed him on the spot.
He handed the paper to Vodovos, but the man had no reply to give.
Purkiss: There’s also the possibility that my own government engineered this.