by Tim Stevens
‘You remember me?’ he said. He stopped a few feet away, as if he’d suddenly become intimidated by the three of them.
‘Come closer,’ said Purkiss.
The man had left the queue without buying his coffee. He took a few steps towards Purkiss, his empty hands hanging by his sides.
Purkiss said: ‘Yes. I remember you. April last year. Battery Park in New York.’
‘Correct.’ The man had seemed utterly nonplussed when Purkiss had said his name, but his confidence had returned rapidly. He pointed at a chair. ‘May I sit down?’
Kendrick was staring at him, Purkiss noticed, as he had done at Rebecca earlier.
After he’d settled himself in the seat, the man propped his elbows on the table and gazed at Purkiss. He seemed ill at ease, not just in the present circumstances but in his skin. Purkiss remembered that about him.
In April last year, they’d met on the southern tip of Manhattan when Purkiss had been pursuing a rogue operative named Darius Pope, during the Caliban mission. Delatour was an MI6 asset operating out of the Embassy in New York. He’d been one of Vale’s contacts, and he had furnished Purkiss with information about the CIA agent who’d recently been murdered in the city. The intelligence Delatour had provided was relatively minor; but he’d struck Purkiss as a competent, thorough agent.
Delatour said: ‘My presence here isn’t a coincidence.’
‘I didn’t think so,’ said Purkiss.
‘Vale’s been murdered. Assassinated.’ Delatour stated it as a fact rather than a question.
‘Yes.’
Purkiss was aware of Rebecca shifting in her chair beside him, as if he’d overstepped a mark. He said, ‘How did you find me?’
‘Facial recognition software,’ said Delatour. ‘I’ve been monitoring the cameras at the security points of all the UK airports, in case you passed through. The reason I’ve been looking for you is obvious. I worked with Vale. I want to know why he was killed. And you were a colleague of his.’
‘How did you find out he was on board the plane?’ Purkiss watched carefully, observing for any tells that the man was lying. There were none apparent.
Delatour said: ‘The same way you did, I suspect. I tried calling him. Got a dead line. Checked the passenger list and saw one of his aliases listed.’
Purkiss studied Delatour in silence for a moment. ‘What have you been able to find out so far?’
‘Nothing,’ said Delatour. ‘I’m based in Manhattan, as you know. I called Vale to update him on the staff composition of the Service’s New York network. Which is when I discovered his phone was dead. Once I’d established he was on the plane, I got on the first available flight to London. I’ve been looking for you ever since.’ He glanced at Rebecca and Kendrick as if seeing them for the first time. ‘Who are these people?’
‘Friends.’ Purkiss turned to Rebecca. ‘Delatour is Service, as you’ve probably worked out. He’s helped me before, at Vale’s request.’ To Delatour: ‘Have you involved anybody else?’
‘No.’ The pale man shrugged. ‘I’d like to help you, if you want. You’re going to Athens – I matched your face to the footage on the cameras at the check-in desk for Aegean Airlines.’
Impressive tradecraft, Purkiss thought.
‘I’ve booked myself on the same flight,’ Delatour continued. ‘Even if you don’t want me to join you, the fact that you’re heading there means you’ve found a lead or some kind. I’ll pursue it alone, if necessary. But I think it would be more productive if we pooled our resources.’
Again, Purkiss noted Rebecca shifting beside him.
Delatour stood up. ‘I’ll be back in ten minutes,’ he said. ‘Have a think about it.’
Purkiss watched him walk away.
‘Odd bugger,’ Kendrick remarked.
Rebecca said, ‘John. Are you going to trust him?’
‘Not fully,’ said Purkiss. ‘I don’t know him all that well. But his story’s plausible. He did know Vale, and Vale regarded him as above board. He’s an extra pair of hands. And he’s active SIS, which means he’s got access to them in a way that I haven’t. Databases and so on. It might come in useful.’
Rebecca was silent.
‘You have misgivings,’ said Purkiss.
‘Yes. I do.’ She looked at him. ‘But you’re in charge.’
Fourteen
They’d booked seats apart from each other on the plane, partly because of the lateness of the booking but also because it allowed them a broader view of the cabin. Purkiss was near the front, while Kendrick had a window seat in the mid-section and Rebecca found herself at the rear near the toilets.
She’d seen Delatour board after them and settle himself near Kendrick.
As soon as they were seated, ten minute or so before the plane began taxiing, Rebecca took out her phone and sent a text message.
Request intel on a man named Delatour. Late 30s, pallid, fair hair, five-nine. He’s made contact offering assistance.
While she waited for a response, Rebecca peered over the rows of heads in front of her, locating Purkiss’s, his dark hair barely visible over the back of the seat.
She felt a prickle of unease. Delatour’s appearance had been a surprise, and she ought to have dissuaded Purkiss more strongly from agreeing to let him accompany them. But she knew Purkiss would have followed his own instincts, whatever she’d said.
It was one of the things she was beginning to understand about Purkiss. His implacability. His stubbornness.
There was a vulnerability there, too, she sensed, though she hadn’t worked out quite what his weak point was. He gave little away, though he wasn’t by any means an unemotional man.
Did he trust her? Rebecca wasn’t sure. Overtly, he seemed to; and he’d appeared genuinely grateful that she’d helped him in the airport in Frankfurt. But a man of his experience, in his field of work, didn’t survive long by being naïve. Were there aspects of her story he doubted?
Had he realised she was lying to him?
And there was the other man. Kendrick. Purkiss had told her what had happened to him, about the injury. Rebecca had known and cared for people with similar afflictions in the nursing home in Sussex. She recognised the lability, the disinhibition, though Kendrick was far more highly functioning than the invalids she’d nursed. She knew Purkiss wouldn’t have included him if he thought the man was likely to be a liability.
But it was his insistence that he recognised her that bothered Rebecca. She had a good memory for faces, and even taking into account the fact that Kendrick’s appearance had been altered by his wound and the subsequent surgery – his eyelid drooped, and the right upper part of his face was subtly lopsided and distorted – she didn’t think she’d ever seen him before.
Her phone buzzed softly in her lap. Rebecca looked at the screen.
Delatour known SIS. Advise cautious cooperation. Notify me if any suspicious behaviour.
Only mildly reassured, she put the phone away.
Fifteen
It wasn’t a great deal warmer in Athens than it had been in London, especially at almost six in the morning local time, but the humidity that hit Purkiss made it seem so.
They cleared the airport quickly, the crowds thin at this time of day. None of them carried more than a single bag, allowing them to bypass the luggage carousel. Purkiss had lost sight of Delatour but the man was waiting for them in the main terminal.
‘Where now?’ said Delatour.
During the three-and-a-half-hour flight, Purkiss had deliberated how much to tell the SIS man. As yet, he’d shared nothing: not the video clip Vale had left, not the attacks at Frankfurt Airport. And he hadn’t mentioned anything about the man they were looking for, Saul Gideon.
His plan had coalesced in his mind in the hour before they landed.
‘We find a base first,’ said Purkiss. ‘After that, I’ll tell you a little.’
The cabs outside were numerous, the drivers vying for their attention with sharp blasts fr
om their horns. The humidity was greater out here, and Purkiss felt the cloying in his throat which always took him some time to get used to when he visited this part of the world. Already the dawn was beginning to make its presence felt in a soft red glow at the horizon.
They took two cabs, and drove around until Purkiss spotted a hotel that look suitable, in the XXXX district. He wasn’t overly familiar with Athens, and had last been there over three years ago. Its dilapidation struck him, many of the shops he’d remembered from before now boarded up, the public housing looking more dejected than he recalled it.
They checked in, each taking a single room. Purkiss wasn’t surprised that the place had vacancies. Tourism in Greece was on the wane, and October was a slow month. His room and Delatour’s were on the same floor, the third, while Rebecca occupied one a storey below and Kendrick’s was on the ground. Again, it suited their purposes to be spread out, in case of attack.
They headed for their rooms, having agreed to meet in half an hour downstairs to discuss strategy. Purkiss had caught an hour’s sleep on the plane, enough to take the edge off his tiredness. He’d need more later that morning if he was to keep himself in top form. The delay it would entail would be offset by the advantages.
He watched Delatour disappear into his room. Then, instead of heading for his own, Purkiss went back downstairs to Rebecca’s. He knocked on the door and she opened it immediately, as if she’d been expecting him.
Quickly, he explained his plan.
Afterwards he located Kendrick, who was lying on his bed already, his feet up.
‘Tony. Rebecca and I are going to leave here together in a while, on a pretext. I want you to wait downstairs and watch the entrance. If Delatour leaves, or if anybody arrives that you think is worth noting, ring me.’
Kendrick gazed at him so long that Purkiss wondered at first if he’d heard. At last he nodded.
‘You want me to follow him if he leaves?’
‘No,’ said Purkiss. ‘I’ll be nearby. Just let me know.’
Purkiss had bought Kendrick a mobile phone at Heathrow and given him his own number.
As Purkiss was about to go up to his room, Kendrick said: ‘Hey. Purkiss.’
‘Yes.’
‘You and Rebecca?’ He leered.
Purkiss shook his head. ‘No, Tony.’
‘Suit yourself.’
*
Downstairs, half an hour later, they crowded around a table in the breakfast room. It was at one end, and the place was only a third full, so privacy was easy to obtain.
‘Here’s what we know,’ Purkiss said to Delatour. ‘Vale left a posthumous message for me, telling me to locate a man named Gideon. Saul Gideon. He said he was one of us, whatever that meant. And that he might be dangerous.’
‘One of us,’ repeated Delatour. ‘As in, SIS?’
‘Maybe. The fact that he said he might be dangerous suggests Gideon may have flipped. Turned, in some way.’ Purkiss watched Delatour’s eyes. If he knew anything about this already, he was concealing it expertly. ‘Vale said a starting point would be an island in the Cyclades. An islet, he said. Its name is Ressos.’
That was the first lie. Purkiss had learned from experience that the most effective ones were those that clove most closely to the truth.
Again, there was no reaction from Delatour. Purkiss continued: ‘We need to find a way to Ressos. I suspect it’ll be by chartered boat, since the place doesn’t sound like a tourist trap. Rebecca and I will go out after this and scout around, try and establish access.’
Delatour nodded.
They finished breakfast in silence. As he’d often been in the past, Purkiss was astounded by the amount of food Kendrick put away. He didn’t think it was a lack of restraint resulting from his head injury: Kendrick simply had a huge, soldier’s appetite.
Purkiss went up to his room to make final preparations before going out. From habit, he’d already done a basic security sweep for audio surveillance equipment, even though the chances of the room being bugged were close to zero since they hadn’t pre-booked it. But such a sweep wasn’t just for existing bugs. It was also useful in spotting places where surveillance equipment might later be installed.
He set a dozen small traps: the room service menu angled in a certain way on top of the complimentary writing paper on the dressing table, the towel hung apparently haphazardly on the rail in the bathroom. They were a combination of the obvious and the subtle, and a skilled agent might be expected to pick up some of them but by no means all.
He met Rebecca on the stairs between the second and first floors. She’d changed her clothes and looked fresher than he suspected he did, as if she’d compressed her tiredness into a five-minute power nap and come out fully recharged.
On the way to the hotel, Purkiss had noticed a row of desultory travel agents on a shopping street, a kilometre or so away. They might not be open yet at this time of day, especially if business was slow, but Purkiss was prepared to wait. In any case, it would be Rebecca making the enquiries. Purkiss had other plans.
Three blocks from the hotel, he said: ‘Okay. I’m heading back.’
She nodded.
He reached the entrance to the hotel ten minutes after they’d left it, and made his way across the lobby to the stairs. On the periphery of his vision he saw Kendrick lounging in an armchair next to a potted palm. He didn’t acknowledge him. Purkiss climbed the stairs quickly, pausing at each floor to check the corridor before continuing.
From the top of the stairs on the third floor, he watched the door to his room. Delatour’s own room was on the other side of the building around a turn in the corridor.
Purkiss moved swiftly down the passage to his door and paused outside.
The building had come to life some time ago, the pipes groaning in the walls, the guests already on the move, and the background noises obscured any sounds that might be coming from inside his room. He put his hand on the door handle. The locking mechanism was the old-fashioned kind: a simple mortise lock and key. The key was in Purkiss’s pocket.
The door moved a fraction when Purkiss applied slight pressure. It was unlocked. He’d hung the do not disturb sign on the handle, so it wouldn’t be the maid service in there.
He had seconds, he knew, before the movement of the door was noticed. As was so often the case, surprise was the best weapon.
Purkiss threw the door open and was inside even as he surveyed the interior. He registered the open drawer in the bedside table and the open bathroom door which he’d left closed. At the same time he sensed the shape to his right and turned that way but it was a pillow propped on the window sill, a crude but simple trick to give the fleeting illusion of a human silhouette.
The blow came from his left, a hard jab much like the one he’d used on Billson in Rome beside the river, aimed at the nape of his neck. Purkiss tensed his shoulder muscles an instant before it struck and felt the overwhelming, almost paralysing shock of pain in his trapezius. He swung his left arm as he pivoted round, but the blow had numbed it and he couldn’t put his full force into it.
Delatour grasped Purkiss’s arm in one hand and jerked it aside, exposing his torso, and brought up a claw hand into Purkiss’s face. Purkiss turned his head aside and felt the tip of Delatour’s little finger against his lips and opened his teeth and bit down, hard.
Delatour gave a tiny howl of pain and pulled his hand back. Purkiss pressed home his advantage, slamming his forehead into Delatour’s face, connecting with the bridge of the man’s nose.
Delatour dropped to his knees, his arms sagging by his side. Purkiss raised his foot, ready for a kick, but he saw the man was dazed, his eyes swimming unfocused in his slack face.
Purkiss closed the door and locked it, after a quick look out into the corridor to see if anyone had heard the struggle. He hauled Delatour up and sat him on the bed. The head butt hadn’t been a hard one; Purkiss’s intention hadn’t been to kill the man or even render him unconscious. The bleeding fro
m the nose was minimal.
Purkiss slapped the man’s face, sharply but gently, several times. Delatour put his hands up in a vague warding-off gesture. He shook his head as if to free it from the fug inside.
‘Delatour,’ said Purkiss. ‘Can you understand me?’
Delatour’s eyes swivelled in the direction of Purkiss’s. They appeared to register him. His hand fumbled in his breast pocket, found his glasses, placed them shakily on his nose.
‘Water,’ he said thickly.
Purkiss grabbed a sealed bottle off the bedside table and shook some of it over Delatour’s face, before raising it to his lips. The man sipped, rather than gulping. It showed presence of mind, suggested he was almost fully conscious.
Purkiss had already run his hands over the outline of the man’s torso and limbs, checking for a concealed weapon of some kind. He said: ‘Talk to me.’
Delatour didn’t try to obfuscate or bluster. He said, simply: ‘Self-defence. That was all.’
‘What?’
‘The way I attacked you just then.’ He swigged more water. ‘I realised it was you rather than someone else after I’d already primed myself to act.’
‘What were you doing in my room?’ said Purkiss.
‘Searching it.’
‘For what?’
Delatour moved his mouth, twitched his nose, as if testing whether his facial muscles were in working order. ‘You’ve been cagey with me. Understandably so. I want to find out what happened to Vale. I can’t be sure you’re keeping me entirely in the loop, can’t assume you’re telling me everything. So I decided to see if there was anything else I could learn from you.’ He peered at Purkiss, a shrewdness creeping into his look. ‘You’d have done the same.’
‘Probably.’ Purkiss gazed around the room. A few drawers were open, his small suitcase agape. ‘Did you find what you were looking for?’
Delatour said, ‘No. Why did you come back?’
‘Because I didn’t entirely trust you. Still don’t.’
‘At least we know where we stand.’ Delatour tried to rise to his feet, dropped back, made it on the second attempt. ‘Where’s the woman? Deacon?’