Nemesis (12 page)

Now, gazing south-west from this spot at the very edge of the Arctic, Rossiter was almost overwhelmed by the weight of the life his country had lived.

It was, perhaps, the reason he had such strong feelings about Russia. She, too, was a land steeped in ancient stories, a nation which had the scarred and battered character of one of mankind’s original habitations on earth.

Russia and Britannia: two old, weary titans, preparing to do battle once again while other, lesser entities scurried and peeped about between their feet.

Rossiter raised his head to the sky. The cloud had thinned to a skein, and he could make out the North Star. Hundreds of miles to the south, dawn would be breaking soon over his country. Here, the sun would be later in making its appearance.

It occurred to Rossiter, at moments like this, that he was perhaps deranged. At the same time, he wasn’t troubled by the realisation. History required men who were not like others. Sometimes it took the upheaval of madness to change the world.

He saw a figure approaching up the slope: his second-in-command, McCammon. The man had done well, coordinating the operation from outside and now keeping it running.

Rossiter knew McCammon disagreed with much of what his superior was doing. Not with the goals, but with Rossiter’s methods. McCammon believed the operation could be carried out far more easily, and of course he was right. Rossiter’s way introduced a level of complexity which added to the risk. But Rossiter had explained his reasons to McCammon, and the other man appeared to understand, and to accept that this was how it was going to be.

‘Fifteen minutes,’ McCammon called, while he was still ten yards away.

Rossiter checked his watch. They were running ahead of time.

It was good.

‘You’ve done first-class work,’ Rossiter said, as McCammon reached him. ‘Thank you.’

He extended his hand, and McCammon shook.

‘The weather’s looking rough,’ said McCammon. ‘It may delay us an hour or two along the way.’

‘That’s an acceptable margin.’

They discussed final points, but it was really a matter of checking that the screws were all fully tightened, the moving parts properly oiled.

Rossiter walked down the slope with McCammon, back to the base. The rooms had been cut deep into the rock of the island many years earlier, building on caves which had already been in use during the Iron Age. The people of that era, too, had shaped the world.

In the distance, the Eurocopter sat idle. It had been refuelled from reserves kept within the underground caverns, but it wouldn’t need to be used for a while yet.

In the opposite direction, on the edge of the island in a small, shallow cove, the outline of the boat was just visible against the still-black skyline. Men moved around the boat, carrying out last-minute checks.

In fifteen minutes – less than that, now – the boat would launch, and with it would go McCammon and two others. Plus their cargo.

The boat would travel around the northern coast of Scotland, through the Atlantic waters and down past the western shore. At some point – a number of factors would influence when this was, including the weather conditions that McCammon had mentioned – the boat would be met by a cargo ship. McCammon and one of the men would transfer across to the ship, along with their cargo.

And the ship would head for its destination, to the south. The penultimate part of the operation would be completed.

While in parallel, a second expedition would be launched.

For what he promised himself would be the last time in a while, Rossiter consulted his watch.

Five twenty in the morning.

In a little more than twelve hours, history – and the world – would be changed forever.

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T
he hotel was in Pimlico. Asher had suggested a safe house nearby, but Purkiss said, ‘No,’ without explanation, and Asher seemed to understand.

Purkiss didn’t need the CIA listening in on them.

Asher reserved the room, Purkiss and Saburova slipping upstairs separately afterwards. The hotel was part of a Georgian terrace, with a quiet residential street in front.

In the car on the way, Purkiss had called Vale. He’d told him about the events at Donovan’s house.

‘A mess,’ Vale said matter-of-factly.

‘Yes. I need you to throw smoke over it.’

‘Waring-Jones will need to be informed.’

‘Of course,’ said Purkiss. ‘But keep him off my back, Quentin. I need to maintain the momentum. No obstructions.’

‘Understood.’

Vale hesitated, and Purkiss could tell he was waiting for Purkiss to say more. He would have been thinking about the implications, just as Purkiss had.

About Asher, and the fact that he’d killed Donovan. In obvious self-defence, yes, but there was a certain... convenience about the whole business.

About the second armed man outside, whom Saburova had driven away and who hadn’t reappeared.

And about the nature of the device which had been implanted in Rossiter’s arm.

That last point was one Purkiss felt safe discussing with Asher and Saburova in earshot. He said, ‘It makes sense now. We were going to hand over Rossiter, and then kill him by activating the neurotoxin once we had Mossberg. A win-win situation.’

‘It looks that way,’ said Vale.

‘Maybe the Russians had similar plans for Mossberg,’ said Purkiss. ‘Maybe he’s already dead.’

‘Do you believe that?’

‘No.’

Vale said, ‘I’d better get to work.’

Purkiss put away the phone and concentrated on driving. He saw Asher’s face, reflected in the windscreen, blurred by a light rain.

In the rear view mirror, he caught Saburova’s dark eyes.

He picked up the phone again. Thumbed a speed-dial key he didn’t use very often.

Asher turned his head to glance curiously at Purkiss.

The ringing tone at the other end was cut off abruptly: ‘Yeah.’

‘Tony, it’s me.’

‘Shit, Purkiss.’ He heard rustling in the background, as if bedsheets were being tossed aside. ‘It’s the middle of the night.’

‘No it isn’t. It’s half past ten.’

‘Yeah?’ The word was swallowed in a yawn. ‘Body clock’s all screwed up these days. What you want?’

‘I need you for backup.’

‘Where?’ The voice was more alert now. ‘Tell me it’s somewhere warm. Spain, maybe.’

‘Here in London. Can you meet me in an hour?’

‘Pissing down out there.’ But it didn’t sound like a refusal. ‘What’s up?’

‘Rossiter.’

Beside Purkiss, he sensed Asher stiffen. Saburova’s eyes widened a fraction in the mirror.

At the other end of the line, Kendrick said: ‘You’re shitting me.’

‘He’s on the loose.’

‘Purkiss, tell me you’re not joking –’

‘Get yourself together, get mobile, and I’ll give you a ring when I know exactly where we’re meeting. Okay?’

Purkiss put the phone down once more.

Asher said, ‘Who was that?’

‘A colleague.’

Tony Kendrick was former military, a paratrooper whom Purkiss had met in Iraq and had employed on a freelance basis over the last few years. Kendrick had been there in Tallinn, three autumns ago, and had seen Abby Holt, his friend and Purkiss’s, gunned down by Rossiter’s associates.

And, since then, Kendrick had never let Purkiss forget that he’d had a chance to kill Rossiter, and had chosen not to take it.

From the back seat, Saburova said, ‘Bringing others in is unwise.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Purkiss. ‘On the other hand, I don’t trust either of you. Call it insurance.’

The silence was broken only by the soft rumble of the car’s engine, the hissing of the tyres on the wet road.

*

T
he hotel room had a free-standing dressing table which Purkiss cleared of its trappings and moved away from the wall so that they could all sit round it.

He opened the laptop. As he’d expected, it was password protected.

Another situation in which Abby’s assistance would have been invaluable.

He glanced at the others. They shook their heads.

‘It’ll have to go in for the experts to have a crack at,’ he said.

Saburova placed the phone she’d found on Donovan’s body on the table. There was no password required this time.

She flicked through the call log. Unfamiliar numbers were listed, with no names attached to any of them.

Purkiss glanced through the list. Most of the numbers were those of mobiles, but one suggested a landline, with a 0151 dialling code.

He recognised it as Liverpool’s.

Asher noted the number. ‘Worth a shot.’ He took out his own phone and called a directory line.

After a moment he said, ‘It’s a company called Arrowhead Shipping.’ He thumbed the title into a search engine.

Purkiss stepped away from the table and rang Vale’s number.

‘Donovan’s home is locked down,’ Vale said. ‘Waring-Jones isn’t best pleased.’

‘They find anyone else there?’

‘No. Just the unconscious guard, and the two bodies. The guard’s been taken to hospital under a security detail.’

‘I’ve a few numbers I’d like you to check.’ Purkiss read out the numbers on the call log on Donovan’s phone. ‘Also this firm: Arrowhead Shipping in Merseyside.’

He rang off, took a walk around the room. He felt despondent, cheated. What had he discovered, really? That Donovan, who was now deceased, had helped Rossiter escape. That the intention had been to execute Rossiter remotely once the prisoner exchange had been effected. Neither brought him a step closer to finding the man.

Purkiss had a sense of time passing, rolling by with the gathering force of an avalanche.

His phone rang.

‘I’m downstairs.’

It was Kendrick.

*

H
e was dressed all in black, with an outsized windcheater over a sweater and cargo pants. Shorter than Purkiss, his hair was cropped close, which served to emphasize the roughly ring-shaped scar over the right side of his forehead, the discoloured skin in the middle. His right eye was slightly out of kilter with the left at times.

Kendrick bared his teeth in something that didn’t bother to try to be a grin.

‘Where’s the bastard?’ was his opening comment.

He pushed past Purkiss into the room. Took in Asher and Saburova. His stare lingered on Saburova, embarrassingly prolonged.

‘Oi, Purkiss,’ he leered. ‘I don’t do foursomes, but if you and this fella can make yourselves scarce for an hour...’

Kendrick had caught a ricocheting rifle bullet in the right frontal area of his head two summers earlier. He’d survived more or less physically intact, and he was still quick thinking. But his natural boorishness had been exaggerated by the injury. Purkiss had employed him just once since the injury, during the Cronos affair five months earlier, and despite his misgivings about the man’s suitability for this kind of work, he’d been relieved to find Kendrick’s performance solid, if a little rough around the edges.

Purkiss made introductions. He gave Asher’s and Saburova’s names, but didn’t say who they were. Asher shook hands. Saburova gazed at Kendrick as if appraising a zoo animal.

‘So we just wait,’ Asher said. It was partly a question.

‘Not much else we can do.’ Purkiss felt the frustration building within him. ‘Saburova has to lie low. If we go back to Service HQ, we’ll get bogged down in questions about what’s been happening.’

‘I can check in on my side,’ said Asher.

‘No.’ If the CIA became involved, they’d just get in the way.

Purkiss’s phone sounded again.

Vale.

‘Possibly something, John.’ Vale never showed excitement in his voice, but over the years, Purkiss thought he’d learned to tell when the older man was intrigued. ‘Arrowhead Shipping is a small firm handling mainly sea freight, as the name suggests, but also long-distance road haulage. It’s run by a man named Peter Otto.’

Purkiss ran the name through his memory. He drew a blank.

Vale: ‘Peter Otto was formerly known as Pyotr Osip. Until 2001, he was a senior officer in the FSB, and KGB prior to that.’

Purkiss kept his expression neutral, for the benefit of the others. But his pulse ticked upward.

‘Otto – Osip – was a field agent during the 1980s and 90s,’ Vale continued. ‘Our side of Germany during the Cold War, and later in the Levant, Greece and Turkey. He came to Britain in 2003 and became a naturalised citizen four years ago. Set up the shipping business in 2009.’

Purkiss turned away and took a few steps towards the bathroom. ‘Sleeper?’ he murmured.

‘That’s what was suspected, of course. But the surveillance on him revealed absolutely nothing, and after a few years the Service lost interest in him, especially after he moved up to Merseyside. His wife’s from there, apparently. The conclusion was that he was exactly what he claimed to be: a Russian former intelligence officer who’d genuinely retired, and was now enjoying a second career in business.’

‘Worth checking out. Thanks, Quentin.’ Purkiss thought for a moment. ‘Can you persuade Waring-Jones to authorise tapping the shipping firm’s phone line? And Osip’s personal mobile?’

‘I dare say he’ll agree, in the circumstances.’

Purkiss rang off. He walked back to the others.

‘We’re going.’

Asher said, ‘Where to?’

‘Liverpool.’

‘Christ,’ said Kendrick.

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V
odovos gritted his teeth against the pain and took another step.

The nurses, or orderlies, or guards, or whoever they were, had watched impassively as he’d swung his legs over the side of the bed. He’d half-expected them to stop him, but apparently they were under instructions to allow the prisoner a little exercise.

Although the agony bolted up his shin and thigh like flame, he forced himself to bear down.

They’d told him it was a glancing wound, a chipping of the tibial bone, but it felt as if his leg had sustained a direct hit. He knew immobility was the enemy. He needed to get back on his feet as quickly as possible, to prevent the stiffening that would inevitably ensue otherwise, the contraction of the ligaments and the sinews which would herald permanent disability.