Nemesis

by Tim Stevens

  Purkiss said, ‘I have Vodovos with me. I’ll pick you up in front of the station in half an hour. A grey Volvo.’ He recited the licence plate number.

  ‘Half an hour.’

  Twenty-four

  She got in as Purkiss was crawling past the great Victorian façade of St Pancras, adjacent to King’s Cross. One moment he was peering at the pavements, trying to spot her. The next, she was in the passenger seat beside him.

  Saburova’s eyes roved clinically over Vodovos in the back seat.

  ‘They allowed you to take him?’

  ‘I spun them a yarn,’ Purkiss said. ‘We haven’t got long, though.’

  ‘What has he told you so far?’ She spoke as if Vodovos wasn’t there.

  ‘That Mossberg was in on it. He knew the exchange was going to be sabotaged and he was going to be freed. Vodovos believes Moscow set the whole thing up.’

  After a moment, she said, ‘No. I do not believe that.’

  ‘Neither do I, as it happens,’ said Purkiss.

  Over the last twenty years, King’s Cross had been cleaned up. While it wasn’t exactly gentrified, it had changed to accommodate the ever-increasing flow of tourists through its station, and the drug dealers and prostitutes had largely been forced north into Camden Town and its environs. But the back streets behind the station retained a lot of their traditional seediness.

  Purkiss pulled into an alley off one such street and turned off the engine.

  Saburova looked at him, then at Vodovos.

  Purkiss said, ‘I know, Saburova.’

  *

  Her eyes were watchful.

  ‘Give me your gun,’ Purkiss said.

  ‘What?’

  He held out his hand. ‘You heard.’

  ‘I need protection,’ she said. ‘I am still a fugitive.’

  ‘You are, yes,’ said Purkiss. ‘That part I believe, though I didn’t at first.’ He flicked his fingers. ‘The gun.’

  Without taking her eyes off his face, she reached into her coat and produced her pistol. Purkiss took it and dropped it into the pocket of his door.

  ‘Vodovos was bait,’ he said. ‘I had to bring him along, because if you’d seen he wasn’t with me, you’d have disappeared.’

  She said, ‘I do not understand.’

  ‘It threw you, didn’t it?’ Purkiss murmured. ‘When I got the call to say that Vodovos wanted to speak to me. Because I was supposed to stay up there, in Merseyside. Stay out of the way. While whatever you’ve got planned here in London followed its course.’

  On the periphery of his vision, he watched her hands. Watched them, in case they strayed towards her coat or her sleeves or her ankles.

  ‘And then you had to get back down to London as soon as you could,’ he continued. ‘Because you hadn’t know Vodovos was alive, and you didn’t know what he was going to reveal. You had to get to him urgently.’

  Her expression was as warily watchful as before. But she swallowed, once, a tell-tale sign she was unable to suppress.

  ‘It was all to get me out of the way, wasn’t it? Rossiter knew as soon as I learned he was free, I’d be after him, whether anyone wanted me to or not. He needed time to set up whatever he had planned, and he couldn’t risk my finding him before then. So you were the tool he used. You told me that bogus story about Donovan having associated with Rossiter in the past, when in all probability they’ve never met. You claimed the guards outside Donovan’s house attacked you, when there were no guards, just the ones inside. And you planted that phone on Donovan when you were pretending to search his body. A phone from which you’d made several blank calls to Arrowhead Shipping, to make it seem like Donovan had been in frequent contact with Osip.’

  He noticed that her respiratory rate had quickened just a touch.

  ‘Pyotr Osip is a fall guy in all this. Rossiter arranged for his shipping company to be used to import the dirty bomb. The idea was that the bomb would be intercepted, and Osip fingered as an associate of Rossiter’s. And, while I was tied up helping foil the plot on Merseyside, Rossiter would pursue his real objective here in London.’

  In the back seat, Vodovos shifted to ease his leg. The sudden movement caused Saburova to turn her head sharply.

  ‘A little jumpy,’ observed Purkiss.

  Still she said nothing, her silence more damning for every moment it was drawn out.

  ‘But I started thinking,’ Purkiss went on. ‘Why choose Osip in particular as the dupe? A former KGB man? And then I realised. It was supposed to look to us as if a Russian intelligence officer was responsible for a dirty bomb attack on Britain. The repercussions for relations between our country and yours would be profound. Which is exactly what Rossiter wants to achieve.’

  In actual fact, Purkiss had only just begun to consider this. He spoke slowly, organising his thoughts for his own benefit as well as hers.

  ‘So, if the decoy operation involved the faking of Russian complicity in a terrorist attack... what about the genuine operation? Could it be that an attack of some kind in London is pending, and that the Russians are to be blamed for that one as well? And if so, which particular Russian is going to be the poster boy? Or - girl?’

  ‘You are deluded.’ Her voice was more than a whisper, but she barely moved her lips.

  ‘The Liverpool bomb contained a small amount of caesium,’ said Purkiss. ‘It’s early days yet, but it seems unlikely that it would have had catastrophic effects if it had gone off. Serious, yes, but containable, depending on where the blast occurred. But I know Rossiter. He doesn’t do things on a small scale. It isn’t his style. I have to assume that if he can hold of a small amount of caesium, he can get his hands on a large quantity as well.’

  Purkiss twisted his torso so that he was facing Saburova fully.

  ‘Here’s what I think. I think there’s a dirty bomb in this city. A big one, perhaps with enough explosive to produce a blast effect, which will multiply the harm caused by the radiation significantly. I believe you have had access to this bomb, or will have, and there’ll be some way of linking you to it. At some point, after the atrocity, you’ll allow yourself to be captured. And the wheels will be set in motion. An active - not retired - an active member of the Russian FSB is found to be responsible for a nuclear attack in London. Rossiter will achieve what he almost pulled off in Tallinn. He’ll trigger outright war between Russia and the UK, or if not that, then something so close to it the difference won’t matter.’

  The alley was shadowed, but there was enough light that her pupils wouldn’t need to dilate to adjust. But they were large within the brown irises.

  That meant alertness. Or fear. Or both.

  ‘What have you been doing, Yulia, since you left Asher and drove down here? Have you been wandering about, waiting for me to call? Or have you been liaising with someone else? Perhaps collecting a delivery?’

  Still watching her, Purkiss picked up his phone.

  Vale answered.

  ‘Tell Gar to access the closed circuit cameras at King’s Cross Station,’ Purkiss said. ‘Look at the footage for the last two hours or so. Watch out for a woman named Yulia Saburova. She’s FSB at the Russian Embassy, so SIS will have her photo on record. On the off chance that they don’t, I’ll send one in a moment.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Vale.

  ‘In particular, look for any package or rucksack or suitcase she might be toting. Try and see where she’s left it. There’s likely to be a device inside, similar to the one on Merseyside but bigger.’

  The tension from Vale’s end was palpable, even though he remained silent.

  ‘And get Gar to send techs to King’s Cross with Geiger counters. Post haste.’

  Purkiss raised the phone and took a photo of Saburova’s face. He texted it to Vale.

  He put the phone away.

  ‘The big question is: how is the bomb going to be set off? By remote control? Or is it on a timer?’

  He watched her right hand shift a fraction. It wasn’t an overt ge
sture, but it was noteworthy nonetheless.

  ‘If it’s by remote control, then life is easier for all of us. I assume you’d have the detonator. If you’ve planted the bomb, it makes sense for you to be the one who activates it. In which case, all I need to do is search you, and I should find the trigger.’

  Her lips parted a couple of millimetres. Purkiss heard the tiny dry sound.

  ‘On the other hand... if it’s set to go off at a specified time, then we have a slight problem. I certainly do, because I suspect you’ll be less than forthcoming about when exactly the blast is scheduled to happen. But you have a problem, too, Yulia. I know this because there’s a tiny bead of sweat creeping down your right temple, just below the hairline. I’m sure you can feel it.’

  She didn’t react.

  ‘Your problem, I think, is that you were intending to be far away from here by the time the bomb went off. You’ll be captured eventually, of course. That’s all part of the plan. And your experience in custody won’t be a pleasant one. But you’re prepared for that, because the fanaticism that’s driven you to throw in your lot with a man like Rossiter has inured you to fear.’

  The droplet of sweat, winking in a sheaf of light that slanted in through the windscreen, traversed her cheekbone and picked up speed as it travelled towards her jaw.

  ‘Getting caught in a blast from a radioactive bomb isn’t what you had in mind, though. We’re behind the station, behind multiple layers of wall. I don’t know how much force the explosion will carry, but I’m assuming it won’t necessarily kill us outright. But the damage from radiation, at this distance, will be significant. You’re a Russian. You’re aware of the effects the Chernobyl meltdown had on the local population. You know they’re not pretty. And that was a straightforward meltdown. There was no blast effect, no explosion to fling the isotopes far and wide, penetrating everything for miles around.’

  Her right hand opened and closed.

  ‘There’s acute radiation poisoning, which kills within hours. A step lower, there’s radiation sickness, which will cause the scalp to shed its hair like October leaves, and blister the skin, and erode the lining of the gastrointestinal tract so that the sufferer expels bloody fluids from both ends. And, of course, there are the longer-term effects. Blindness from cataracts. Leukaemia. The warping of your reproductive cells, so that your offspring are born horribly mutated. But you know all this. You were fully aware of it when you entered into your devil’s pact with Rossiter.’

  Purkiss leaned back in his seat, arching his back just enough that his jacket stretched across his chest and the bulge of the pistol was clearly visible.

  She continued to watch him. He thought he saw a ridge of muscle twitch beneath her ear, near the angle of her jaw, but he couldn’t be sure.

  ‘So we’ll sit here for a while, Yulia. Sit here, and give you a chance to do some thinking. It’s over for you. Please understand that, first and foremost. Whatever happens, your role in all of this is finished. You’re no longer the catalyst for a war between the superpowers. All you are is a woman who planted a radioactive bomb in a major city. If you choose silence, inertia, then presumably the bomb goes off. Thousands of people die. But to what end? You’ll be remembered as just another rogue agent, and the world will keep on turning.’

  A hand slapped against the windscreen and Purkiss tensed. But it was just a drunk, ambling past, and he already seemed to have forgotten them as he disappeared down the alley.

  ‘You can salvage this, though,’ Purkiss said. ‘You can stop the bomb from going off, stop the pointless murder of innocents. And you can tell me how to find Rossiter. If you do those things, you’ll be afforded clemency. Not unconditional freedom, of course. But your punishment will be diminished. More importantly, you’ll earn peace of mind, to some extent. And that, God knows, is something few of us in this trade ever get a shot at.’

  She made her move.

  *

  He’d been expecting an attack - had been trying to provoke it - but she’d done it in classic fashion, launching it before he’d finished speaking, and in the split second before the impact came he found himself both appreciating her craft and excoriating himself for having failed to anticipate it.

  Her left hand darted into her coat and emerged just as quickly. The light glinted off the blade.

  His eyes were drawn to the flash.

  And she hammered the side of her right fist, the one closest to him, into his forehead.

  The blow rocked his head backwards. He didn’t see stars, or lose consciousness, but the effect was momentarily paralysing.

  He registered, dimly, Vodovos’s shout from the back seat.

  The knife flickered within an inch of his face and he swiped the edge of his hand against her wrist and felt it connect, less accurately than he’d intended and against her forearm instead. He saw the steel swing wide, across the dashboard, and he groped for the wrist and found it and twisted.

  Her other hand, the knuckles extended, stabbed at his throat.

  Purkiss managed to duck his chin at the last instant but although the half-fist didn’t slam into his neck with full killing force, crushing the larynx and triggering a haemorrhage that would flood his lungs, the shock of the blow was acute. He recoiled back against the door, his free hand coming up to clutch at his throat.

  At the same time his right hand clamped down on her wrist and he felt the bones shift. Heard the knife clatter onto the dashboard.

  Her elbow connected with the side of his head in a roundhouse hook and this time the starburst exploded behind his eyes.

  Something rammed into his belly. A boot heel.

  He saw the door behind her fly open, saw her disappear as though sucked out through a rent in the fuselage of an airborne plane.

  He weaved upright, trying to focus on the figure that was sprinting away down the alley.

  Vodovos shouted something behind him, but Purkiss ignored it.

  He gave it five seconds.

  Five seconds in which to allow her to put some distance between them, and in which to carry out a rapid inventory of his condition.

  He was conscious.

  He could breathe.

  He was moving all his limbs.

  His throat felt as if a steel bar was being pressed across it, and his belly and the left side of head screamed in agony. But those were minor details, and to be discounted.

  Purkiss threw open the door and lurched out and began to follow Saburova at a loping run.

  Twenty-five

  He caught sight of her after ten seconds, sprinting towards the station entrance.

  Purkiss grabbed his phone from his pocket and hit the key for Vale’s number.

  ‘She’s on the run,’ he said. ‘Heading into the station. Get Service people, local police, whoever you can in here.’

  Keeping the line open, he wove among the crowds thronging in front of the entrance. A suitcase appeared in his way and he kicked it aside and sent the contents spilling and left a shouted rebuke in his wake.

  The high-ceilinged concourse of the station echoed with a multitude of voices and the chiming announcements from the public address system of arrivals and departures. Here, the crowds were even more densely packed. Saburova was a tall woman, but she was keeping her head low, and it would be all too easy to lose her.

  Purkiss tracked her as she aimed towards the stairs leading down to the Underground.

  King’s Cross was one of London’s major hubs, for both overground trains and the Tube network. If he lost her now, in the bowels of the city, he’d never find her again.

  He cannoned down the stairs, heaving against the surge of bodies that were bustling in both directions, and triggered more angry cries. A hand tried to grab at his collar and he twitched away.

  At the bottom of the stairs, the ticket hall teemed with commuters, many of them tourists peering about in confusion as they tried to orientate themselves. He slowed for a second to pinpoint Saburova. Saw her passing through the automat
ed barrier and head for the escalators towards the Victoria Line.

  Purkiss ran to the barrier and vaulted over and reached the top of the escalator. He saw Saburova pushing her way down. Custom required passengers to stand on the right, to allow those in more of a hurry to pass, but not everybody knew about that. It meant that several rucksack-laden bodies blocked the left side. She shoved them aside.

  Next to the escalator was another one, travelling upwards.

  Purkiss considered forcing his way down that one. It was crowded with people ascending from below, but he could probably do it. It would bring him level with Saburova, and perhaps allow him to cross between the escalators and grab her.

  But he didn’t know yet whether she was fleeing, or whether she had something else in mind, and he needed to find out.

  He joined her escalator at the top and descended on the left, though at a slower pace than hers. When she stepped off at the bottom and began striding to the right, he increased his speed.

  He leapt the last few steps and hurried to the right. A tunnel curved away towards the platforms.

  Purkiss moved swiftly along, peering down the side-passages as he went. The southbound Victoria Line platform lay ahead. He could see the crush of bodies on the platform, typical for a Saturday afternoon.

  On the platform, it was more difficult to push through the crowd. The passengers were packed together so closely that there was little room for them to be pushed aside. Purkiss had emerged approximately halfway down the platform. He craned his neck to peer left and right, but could see no sign of Saburova.

  He looked at his watch.

  Four thirty-seven.

  If the explosive was on a timer, then it was probably set to go off at some kind of landmark time. On the hour seemed the most obvious. So, if five o’clock was the scheduled time of detonation, perhaps Saburova was trying to put enough distance between her and the explosion before then to escape injury.

  It was rampant conjecture, and didn’t help him.

  He had a sense of events slipping out of his grasp. He’d been a fool to let her run, even though his hope had been that she’d lead him to the bomb.