Delivering Caliban (4 page)

Six

Hamburg

Sunday 19 May, 3.17 pm

Purkiss spotted the first tag two rows ahead of him on the plane. The second one he identified on the walk from the runway to the terminal building.

They were good, there was no question about that. The plane was a quarter empty so Purkiss had a range of seats to choose from, which meant the tags had the same; but instead of positioning themselves behind or beside him, at least one of them had sat in front. Not an obvious position for surveillance. But although the man never once glanced overtly across at Purkiss, never did anything to arouse the slightest suspicion, Purkiss sensed his otherness. He didn’t belong among the rest of the passengers. Again, there was nothing obvious about his appearance to suggest this: in his middle thirties, dressed in a navy suit and perusing the
International Herald Tribune
, he looked like just another cosmopolitan businessman on a mid-afternoon trans-European trip. But his aura of toughness, of centred wariness, gave him away to somebody with Purkiss’s sensitivity to such things.

The second man must have been sitting behind Purkiss. Walking across the tarmac in the light, cold rain that had greeted the Lufthansa flight, Purkiss stopped and turned as if to peer up at the plane he’d just left. Several people behind him glanced at him as they passed, but the tag – this one younger, shorter, his dark narrow looks more intense than those of the first man – avoided his gaze in a way that was deliberate.

Purkiss strode past the man towards the terminal, wanting to maintain the pretence that he was unaware of the surveillance. He felt the familiar cold burn between his shoulder blades, a primal reaction to the experience of exposing one’s back to an enemy. Ahead, on the escalator rising into the terminal building, he saw the first man.

He wasn’t sure, but they felt like Americans. CIA men.

*

Purkiss was travelling under his own name – there hadn’t been time to organise a cover passport before catching the flight out of Schiphol, and in any case there didn’t appear to be any need for a covert identity at this point – and experienced a flicker of tension when the woman at passport control glanced at his picture and then at his face. It was an old Service mantra: the longer you worked in the field, the more databases your details were likely to appear on. He hadn’t done much work in Germany before but the country’s intelligence service would have picked him up on their radar at some point, he was certain of it.

Nonetheless he was nodded through. He made his way past the baggage hall and through the EU arrivals channel. The first tag was lost from sight in the crowds milling in the arrivals hall. Purkiss slowed once he’d run the gauntlet of card-wielding greeters and pretended to rummage in the briefcase he was carrying. The second tag didn’t pass him, and was therefore hanging back, probably as the rear half of a box formation.

If they were Company, it suggested Jablonsky and Taylor had made their colleagues aware of Pope, and somehow the link had been made to Purkiss. Perhaps they’d had Pope’s flat under surveillance and had followed Purkiss from there to Jablonsky’s house. Purkiss didn’t think so; he was almost always aware when he was being tagged, as now.

And if the men were Company, it meant there’d be reinforcements here in Hamburg. Perhaps waiting outside the airport at that very moment.

Purkiss had two options. He could either make a break for the exit, running the risk of being taken down by whomever was waiting for him outside but with a chance of getting entirely clear; or stay inside the terminal and draw the surveillance in, man by man, in the hope of getting one of them under control and gleaning information from him.

He made his decision.

*

Purkiss could crack locks, and the one on the door was an uncomplicated Yale; but the trick was to do it quickly enough to avoid attracting attention. He’d walked the length of the terminal until he’d spotted the corridor leading in the direction of staff offices. Halfway down was the door bearing the legend
Mitarbeiter Nur
.
Staff Only
.

He fumbled with his keys as he worked the lock, making out that he was having difficulty fitting the correct one. Two people passed behind his back, seeming not to pay him any attention.

The door yielded and he stepped inside. Yes, as he’d though: a storage room, little more than a large walk-in closet, its shelves laden mainly with cleaning materials. And his sense of the geography of the building had been correct. A fan window near the ceiling let the daylight in.

He hauled himself up the rack of shelves beneath the window and wrestled with the handle, which was stiff with disuse. Pushing the window open, he forced his head and shoulders through. It was tight, but a man could fit through it. Purkiss withdrew, leaving the window as far open as he could force it.

The ceiling above him was panelled with fibreglass squares laid loose on a metal framework. He pushed one of the panels up and peered through the gap. A narrow crawlspace stretched off in all directions into darkness. Gripping the metal bars, Purkiss pulled himself through the gap and balanced on the framework, taking care not to let his weight bear down directly on the panels, which didn’t look as if they’d hole. He slid the panel back into place.

There was noise in the crawlspace, the amplified sounds of the colossal building all around him, and he had to strain to listen for any sounds from below. The tags would have seen him head off in the direction of the corridor.

After perhaps a minute, the airport noises became louder below him, and he realised the door to the storage room had opened. He dared not shift one of the panels aside to look down, so he relied on his hearing. Somebody was in the room below. A low voice muttered something; Purkiss couldn’t catch what was said, or even the language.

The quiet from below resumed. Purkiss gave it five minutes, breathing through his mouth, not stirring. Then he edged one of the ceiling panels aside and peered down. The room was empty. His ruse had worked, and they’d assumed he’d escaped through the window.

He hung from the metal rafters and dropped straight down to the floor, and at that moment the man charged forward and barrelled into his torso.

Purkiss was knocked back against a rack of shelves, the hard steel against his back nothing compared with the pain in his abdomen where the man’s shoulder had connected. Winded, he doubled over and the man pressed a forearm across his throat. Purkiss brought his knee up but the man blocked it with his leg and rammed his free fist below Purkiss’s sternum. Purkiss tensed his abdomen in time to absorb the worst of the blow, but not all of it.

It was the narrow-faced man, the second of the two tags, his strength feral and sinewy as he drove his arm against Purkiss’s neck, pressing down on the carotid arteries, causing the first lightheadedness. He pinned Purkiss’s right arm against the shelves with his own left hand. Purkiss’s free arm flailed beside him, useless, out of range of the man’s head.

His vision was blurring now, events around him taking on a distant, disconnected quality. Purkiss seized something in his hand, an aerosol by the feel of it. His thumb flicked off the plastic lid and he brought the can as far forward as he could and pressed the plunger on the top.

His aim was slightly off but enough of the spray hissed into the man’s face to make him cry out and recoil, his arm slackening across Purkiss’s throat. Purkiss shoved the aerosol closer and gave the man another blast, straight into his eyes. The man reeled against the shelves opposite, hands clamped over his face, trying to suppress gasps of agony that were slipping out as tiny screams.

Purkiss dropped the man with a hammer-fist to the forehead, caught him as he crumpled and lowered him to the floor. Time was short, and in any case he wasn’t fit to answer questions. His passport identified him as Henry Vasquez, U.S. citizen. Purkiss memorised the details – it was false ID, of course, but worth a check – and, wincing at the pain beneath his breastbone, stepped out into the corridor.

There was nobody there. In the main concourse he scanned the crowds. There was no sign of the other tag, who was most likely outside: they’d kept their options open in case Purkiss had escaped through the window after all.

*

He left the terminal quickly but unhurriedly, bracing himself for the swoop of men descending on him or cars braking up on the pavement before him. There was no sign of anybody watching or closing in, just a frantic press for the available taxis as the drizzle thickened to hard rain.

Nonetheless, when a cab driver beckoned, Purkiss ducked his head into the taxi closest to him, thrust a handful of Euro notes at the couple squeezing in the back and asked if they’d swap with the other one on offer. They agreed, startled at first and then amused. The last thing he needed was a Company-paid cabbie delivering him straight into enemy hands.

As the driver plunged into dense traffic, Purkiss pondered. The surveillance had ended with one man down. There was no welcoming committee. That meant there’d probably been only the two men after all.

It wasn’t the way the Company worked.

Seven

Charlottesville, Virginia

Monday 20 May, 4.15 pm

Nina managed to take the mug and bring it to her lips without a tremble, surprising herself.

‘
Need something a little stronger?’

Rachel perched on the arm of the couch, unfeigned concern knitting her forehead. Nina had known her since college; Rachel had majored in chemistry but shared her love of music. She was probably the person Nina was closest to, Nina realised with a dismayed start. They saw each other every three or four weeks.

Nina shook her head. ‘Tea’s good.’

Rachel gave it thirty seconds, then said: ‘Tell me.’

Nina felt the old dread haul itself tiredly to its feet. They did various things, the people she spoke to about her fears. Some frowned in sympathy, others snorted with derision. The occasional person even backed away. But what they all did, each and every one of them, was
not believe her
.

‘
I’m being followed.’

After a beat Rachel said, ‘You mean, like, stalked?’

Behind her voice, her expression, Nina hunted for the unspoken thought:
here we go again
.

‘
No. Several men. Three, four so far. I don’t know.’
Spoken like a true crazy person
.

‘
Where? On campus?’

‘
Yes, and in the streets.’ Nina breathed deeply, keeping her voice under control. Jabbering wouldn’t do her any favours. ‘I don’t want you to believe me, Rach, and I don’t want you to call the doctor. I’m fine. Fine… in that way, I mean. I just want to stay here a little while, if that’s okay.’

‘
Girl.’ Rachel slid on to the couch beside her. ‘You stay as long as you want. And listen. Let’s get this straight, right now. Do I believe there are three or four guys following you? I don’t. But I believe you did notice someone staring at you – a creep, or a nice guy, who knows? You’re a pretty girl – and it’s freaked you out. That I can understand, and that’s enough for me.’

Nina nodded. She didn’t say
thanks for being honest
, which was what she wanted to say, because the next thing she’d blurt out would be
but what if they come looking for me here
.

Rachel put a hand on her back. ‘Haven’t seen you in a month. You been okay?’

‘Till this morning, yes.’

Rachel lived with her boyfriend Kyle, a games designer, in a two-bedroom apartment in Greenbrier. Nina had spent the better part of two hours crossing and recrossing the city, on foot and by bus. Every time she thought she was clear there’d be a glimpse again: a suited man in silhouette against a window, a human shape ducking back out of sight behind a corner. In the last quarter hour the glimpses had gone.

Rachel was between jobs and, luckily for Nina, was home. Her eyes had flared in alarm when she’d opened the door to Nina’s knocking. She’d seen Nina once before like this, after her grandmother’s death when the Watchers had reappeared and crowded closer than ever against the invisible glass enclosing Nina’s life. On that occasion Rachel had taken her in for a week, nursed her back, persuaded her to see the doctor and accept meds, at least in the short term. The doctor had wanted to refer her for follow up, had urged her to start on a regular course of antipsychotics, but as always she’d refused.

In the kitchen now, Nina helped Rachel prepare the evening meal, tossing salads and chopping vegetables. Rachel glanced at her from time to time, not often enough to make her feel uncomfortable. At one point she said, ‘Are  the voices back?’

‘No. Not this time.’ Nina managed a smile. But she wondered if it was only a matter of time. Usually the voices came first, warning her she was being watched, before the fear set in. Sometimes it was one voice, a woman’s; sometimes a man’s voice would join in. They never addressed Nina directly, but always spoke about her as though she wasn’t there.

Through the kitchen door came the sound of keys in a lock and a man’s voice: ‘Hey, babe.’ Nina gasped and dropped the colander she was holding, leaves and tomatoes exploding across the floor. Rachel hurried to her, wrapped her in her arms.

Kyle came into the kitchen, loose-limbed and rangy, his pony tail swinging. ‘Nina! Great to –’

He caught Nina’s eye across Rachel’s shoulder, grimaced in concern.

Rachel gave him a swift, undramatic summary. Kyle nodded throughout, watching Rachel and Nina in turn, with none of the embarrassment others might have shown.

Supper was at six, burritos loaded with everything Rachel could find in the refrigerator. Nina’s appetite was huge, as it often was to her surprise at times like this. It was as though her body was preparing itself for a fight. Kyle cracked open bottles of Mexican beer. Nina declined. Booze never helped: the fear only expanded and her ability to cope with it diminished.

Afterwards they lounged on the eclectic sprawl of beanbags and couches that made up the living room furniture and chatted about Kyle’s work, Nina’s playing, Rachel’s as yet unsuccessful attempts to find a new job. For a while it was as though circumstances were normal, as if they were a trio of old friends simply catching up after a long separation. The evening drew in, the daylight contracting and the shadows spreading across the room as the sun worked its way behind the apartment block.

Nina realised suddenly that she didn’t have any extra clothes, or a toothbrush. Nor did she have a plan. She could stay with Rachel and Kyle one night, two, a week – and then what? Home again, alone, each creak on the landing outside her door, each glance from a stranger in the street sending her running in terror?

Maybe it was time, at last, to consider meds. She hadn’t done any research in the area for over a year; there might be new products available, ones that didn’t impair your dexterity, make your hands shake. She’d have that talk with Rachel tomorrow, perhaps, when they were on their way to Rachel’s latest interview. Tonight was for burrowing down, feeling comfortable and comforted, protected from the darkness.

Kyle asked her opinion on a selection of soundtrack options for a new role-playing game he was developing. One of the pieces in particular unnerved her: it sounded like a sample of Penderecki’s
Threnody For The Victims Of Hiroshima
laid over a grinding industrial beat.

Rachel seemed to sense her discomfort because she sighed, ‘Jesus, Kyle, turn that shit off.’

He rolled his eyes at Nina and clicked  on to another track.

The knock came at the door, four raps, firm but polite.

Nina felt her abdominal contents squeeze upwards, compressing her chest. Kyle and Rachel glanced at each other.

‘
Damn Bobby’s forgotten his keys again.’ Their neighbour across the hall. Rachel rose, went down the tiny entrance hall to the door.

Nina sat frozen while Kyle noodled about with his laptop, though she could tell he was listening hard.

Rachel appeared at the door again, a slight frown around her eyes. Quietly she said, ‘There’s three men out there.’

Nina’s innards were forcing their way up through her throat now.

The knock came again. ‘Ms Rachel Carver?’

The apartment was in her name, Nina recalled distantly.

She was aware she’d said something but wasn’t sure Rachel had heard, so she repeated it: ‘What do they look like?’

Rachel stepped into the room, her voice low. ‘Hard to see through the fisheye, but one’s tall, tan, dark hair. They’re all in suits.’

‘That’s him.’ Nina was on her feet now, swaying with the suddenness. ‘The guy from campus.’

For the first time, ever, Nina saw doubt in Rachel’s face. Not quite belief, yet.

The knocking was harder now, less patient.

‘
Ms Carver, please open the door. Federal agents.’

‘
Jesus Christ.’ Kyle stared at them in turn, then strode out of the room. He turned not towards the front door but the bedroom.

Rachel called after him, ‘Whoah, hold on, Kyle.’

Nina swallowed, her throat raw and crackling.

Five seconds later Kyle emerged, right arm raised, a gun gripped in his knuckly fist. Rachel hissed, ‘Oh God, Kyle, no.’

His jaw was clenched, his eyes scared. He jerked his head at them.

‘
Stay back.’

Nina wondered if there was marijuana in the apartment. It wouldn’t be the first time.

From out of sight she heard Kyle at the door: ‘Show me some ID.’

More distantly still came an older man’s voice. ‘Who are you?’

‘None of your god damn business. Hold up some ID.’

‘
Sir, this would be a whole lot easier if you opened the door –’

‘
This conversation’s over.’

‘
All right.’

There was silence for a beat. Kyle came back into the living room.

‘Looks like FBI. Guy’s name’s Claymore.’

His eyes were still frightened. Nina wondered if he’d ever fired the gun before. He didn’t look as if he knew where to point it.

‘Ask him what he wants,’ murmured Rachel. She grabbed Nina’s hand, squeezed it.

Nina pulled away, stepped over to the doorway and peered round to hear better. Kyle had his eye against the lens in the front door again. 

He said, ‘What’s your business? I’m not opening the door till you say.’

‘
We have a warrant for the arrest of Ms Nina Ramirez. We believe she’s in the apartment with you.’

From behind her in the living room, Nina heard Rachel give a little cry.

Kyle said, his voice faltering, ‘What’s the charge?’

Nina winced. It was the wrong response. Effectively, it was an admission that she was in the apartment.

From beyond the door the voice was louder, an edge to it. ‘Sir, I’ve already shown you ID and answered your question. Either you open this door right now, or you and Ms Carver will be charged with aiding and abetting a felon.’

Nina watched Kyle’s back. His breathing was faster, and uneven.

After a moment he said, ‘Hey, fuck you, pal,’ and backed down the passage, gun arm raised, almost colliding with Nina in the living room doorway. Rachel was just behind her, gripping her shoulder.

Kyle said, ‘The fire escape.’

It ran past the bathroom; Nina remembered seeing it through the clouded glass. Rachel jerked at her arm.

‘
Go,’ she whispered.

‘
You’ve got to come.’

‘
No way. I need to speak to these guys before Dirty Harry here gets himself killed.’ She gave Nina a small shove in the direction of the bathroom. ‘You were never here.’ To Kyle she muttered through clenched teeth: ‘Put the gun away, for God’s sake.’

The first blow against the front door splintered the wood around the lock and one hinge, the sound reaching Nina’s ears a fraction of a second after the door bulged at them. The second came before any of them had a chance to yell. This one was accompanied by a crack as the safety chain was yanked taut.

Rachel pushed Nina so hard she stumbled. Nina made it to the end of the passage and stopped. At her feet was her violin in its case, where she’d propped it against the wall on her arrival. She lifted it. Kyle’s stance was one of dynamic indecision, the gun raised and aimed but his posture suggesting imminent flight. Rachel clung to his other arm.

Over her shoulder Rachel shrieked, ‘
Go
,’ and the command was like a blow knocking Nina through the doorway and into not the bathroom, but Rachel and Kyle’s bedroom. Behind her the front door gave way in a roar of tearing timber that was drowned by yells.