Nemesis (13 page)

Also, the exercise forced his mind away from the thoughts which had been demanding his attention ever since they’d brought him here.

The MI6 deputy director, Rupesh Gar, had conducted the initial interrogation. Vodovos thought he had held up well. Name, rank and serial number, or the modern equivalent thereof. That was all he’d offered. Plus, the assurance that he’d speak more freely if and when he was granted a visit by a representative of the Russian government.

So far, they’d stood firm.

Gar had returned with the other man, the tall, unreadable Englishman whom Vodovos didn’t recognise, but who was clearly also MI6. Vodovos found the newcomer unsettling. He appeared affable enough, and was never overtly threatening in his tone. But he’d exuded a subtle air of menace, at odds with his demeanour. And it was after he’d left that Vodovos had understood: he was not going to win this one. He would not be granted his audience with a representative of his own government.

There was no clock in the room in which Vodovos was being held captive. There were no windows through which daylight might give an indication of the time. The effect was disorientating, as it was intended to be. Vodovos had arrived in London at two-fifteen in the morning - he’d glimpsed the time on a digital display at the military airfield through which he’d been rushed - and he estimated that nearly twenty-four hours had passed since then. He’d slept, on and off, partly lulled by painkillers, so an exact assessment was impossible; but his body clock told him he was correct.

So: it was a whole day since the ambush at the prisoner exchange site. A day since Rossiter, the prize Moscow had been seeking for almost three years, had flown the coop.

Vodovos began to wonder if his principled silence, his discipline in refusing to co-operate without the involvement of his own people, was a terrible mistake.

He made it to the wall and slammed against the cold concrete, gasping, his face slick with sweat. His wounded leg pounded as though nails were being driven into it.

He used the wall to manoeuvre himself round.

The two guards, he decided, must have some kind of medical or nursing expertise - this was an infirmary, after all, and he was a patient - but their role was primarily that of a jailer. They would, of course, be under strict instruction to note anything Vodovos said or did, and to convey such data to their superiors.

Vodovos started out on the return journey to the bed. The distance was no more than eight or ten feet, but might as well have been a mile. It would take him the best part of a minute to reach the bed.

A minute in which to weigh up his options, and make his decision.

By the time he collapsed on the bed, the pain in his leg giving way to an intense, seizing cramp, he knew what he must do.

Vodovos twisted his face on the bedspread so that one eye caught the gaze of the guard nearest him, a burly black man with an expression like stone.

‘Bring Rupesh Gar in here,’ Vodovos said, his voice slightly muffled against the blanket but nonetheless audible in the near silence. ‘I wish to tell him something.’

*

G
ar appeared ten minutes later. He had lost his tie, and his hair was a little rumpled, but he appeared alert.

Vodovos was propped up against the pillows once more, his injured leg raised to ease the throbbing. He looked pointedly at the two guards.

With a flick of his fingers, Gar dismissed the two men.

After the door had closed behind them, Vodovos said, ‘Who was that man with you earlier? The one asking the questions? The one who threatened my family?’

Gar watched him. There was no depth to the man’s eyes, and at the same time an infinite emptiness.

‘You probably know.’

‘I do not,’ said Vodovos.

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Because I believe I was
supposed
to recognise him. I believe you brought him in to...
rattle
me? Is that the word?’

The pause was so long, and Gar so motionless, that for an instant Vodovos wondered if he was talking to a human being, rather than some new and radical form of artificial intelligence.

Gar said, ‘His name is John Purkiss.’

Yes. The name was known to Vodovos.

It was, in fact, legendary.

Purkiss was the man who had intervened in Tallinn to save the life of the President. He was also now considered to be dangerous, a threat to the Russian State, because of something that had occurred in the late winter of last year, in the Siberian tundra near Yakutsk. Vodovos cursed himself inwardly for not getting up to speed. He’d read the briefings, but hadn’t delved into them in any depth. If he had, he would have seen photographs, and would have recognised Purkiss immediately.

But he knew this much: Purkiss had opposed Rossiter in Tallinn.

And that was all that mattered now.

He heaved himself more upright. The pain howled in his leg, but he controlled it, controlled his reaction to it so that he didn’t even wince.

He said, ‘I have some information I am willing to impart.’

His mouth barely moving, Gar said: ‘Your conditions remain unacceptable. We won’t permit the presence of a representative of your government.’

‘My conditions have changed.’

Gar waited.

‘That man,’ said Vodovos. ‘Purkiss. I will talk to him. Face to face. Nobody else.’

––––––––

D
awn broke at a few minutes before six o’clock, and the sudden emergence of sunlight over the rooftops made Purkiss squeeze his eyes shut. He felt the grit of sleeplessness, and blinked to clear it.

The offices of Arrowhead Shipping were on an industrial estate near the docks to the west of Liverpool’s Toxteth district. They’d arrived an hour earlier and had settled down to wait. Asher had left his car and gone to find refreshments. He’d reappeared twenty minutes later with a cardboard holder containing cups of hot coffee and a sack of pastries.

The journey up from London would take under four hours, and Purkiss had decided it was pointless to set off immediately. The four of them - Purkiss, Asher, Saburova, and Kendrick - had lounged around the Pimlico hotel room for a while, trying to rest but struggling.

At half past one Purkiss had gathered them together and they’d slipped out via different exits. Kendrick had stopped at a Land Rover and unlocked it with a press of a button.

‘Didn’t know you were driving again,’ Purkiss said.

‘Last few months.’ Kendrick ran a hand over the roof with a lover’s caress.

‘You got your licence back, then?’

‘Mind your own business.’ Kendrick climbed behind the wheel.

Two vehicles were a better idea, anyway, Purkiss thought. It provided greater flexibility.

He got in beside Kendrick, while Asher and Saburova drove ahead.

Purkiss wondered if it was the best arrangement. He didn’t trust either Asher or Saburova, and he was a believer in the dictum that it was wise to keep your enemies, actual or potential, close. Perhaps a combination of him and either Asher or Saburova would have been more prudent.

But he could speak more freely with Kendrick.

‘Who’s the babe?’ said Kendrick, after they’d been driving ten minutes and the river was in sight.

‘FSB. Russian Intelligence. She says she’s a renegade, defying her own people to help bring down Rossiter. She thinks they’re reacting too slowly.’

‘And you believe her?’ In profile, Kendrick looked like a seedy demon. ‘These Russians. We think we’re a clever lot, us Brits, but they’re
way
more devious than we are. She’s playing you, Purkiss. She’s no renegade. She’s FSB. Their way of getting involved in the hunt, without doing so officially.’

‘Perhaps.’ Purkiss had noticed this about Kendrick. Despite his crassness, his overt disdain for the business Purkiss was in, he’d always displayed an uncommon perceptiveness, something his head injury hadn’t dimmed.

‘What about the fella? The Yank git?’

‘Asher’s CIA. He was sold to me as SIS, but it was thin cover. The Company has an interest in tracking Rossiter down, and the missing scientist, Mossberg, as well.’

‘It’s like a crap joke,’ Kendrick said. ‘An Englishman, a Russian and an American go into a bar.’

‘What’s your impression of Asher?’ said Purkiss.

‘A bit cocky, underneath the dull front.’ Kendrick swerved to cut in front of a car ahead and made an obscene gesture when the other driver tooted his horn. ‘But if he’s CIA, you can’t trust him either. He’ll be looking out for American interests above all else. I saw it in Iraq. They’re friendly, helpful and all that shit, but at the end of the day they’ll throw you to the wolves if it suits their purposes.’

*

W
hile Kendrick dozed behind the wheel of the parked land Rover, Purkiss watched the squat office building. There were no signs of life yet, apart from a uniformed security guard who ambled past from time to time, engrossed in something on his phone.

On the journey up, Vale had called. ‘Waring-Jones has approved the tap on Osip’s personal phone, as well as the land line for the firm. They’re being monitored this end.’

Purkiss had considered breaking in to the office before anyone arrived there, but he decided against it. It was unlikely that they’d find anything of interest, even if they knew what they were looking for.

The Land Rover was parked across the street from the industrial estate, with a clear view of the car park in front. Asher’s car was also in sight, fifty yards away along the street.

At a few minutes before seven o’clock, cars began to pull into the forecourt of the estate. Purkiss watched the occupants as they got out. Vale had sent him a picture of Pyotr Osip, AKA Peter Otto. Osip was in his late fifties, a little jowly, with white hair. None of the first arrivals resembled him; most of them seemed to be clerical staff.

At seven forty-five, a black BMW eased through the gates. The man who got out of the driver’s side was portlier than the one in the photo, but otherwise matched.

Purkiss called Asher. ‘You see him?’

‘Yes.’

‘Let’s go.’

Purkiss had debated leaving Kendrick in the car, but decided that his presence might help unsettle Osip. He saw Kendrick go round to the back of the Land Rover and open the boot.

‘Take your pick.’

Purkiss looked. In a compartment beneath the floor of the boot, a small arsenal gleamed. Three handguns, a Heckler & Koch rifle, and a range of magazine clips.

Purkiss selected a SIG Sauer P226, a pistol he was familiar with, checked the slide, and pushed it into his jacket pocket. He doubted he’d need to use it on this occasion. Purkiss’s intention was to frighten Osip, and then see if the phone tap yielded anything afterwards. Then again, he hadn’t been expecting the shoot-out at Donovan’s house either.

They headed towards the front door of the office building, drawing glances from the staff members still congregating in the car park. Inside, a stark lobby was overseen by a receptionist who appeared to be settling in at her station, and not at all prepared for visitors.

‘Excuse me,’ she said, her accent broad Merseyside. ‘We don’t open till eight –’

‘Mr Otto,’ said Purkiss. ‘We need to speak to him.’

‘He’s not –’

‘Yes, he is here. We saw him arrive.’

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.