Nemesis (16 page)

Purkiss reached the door, put his fingers on the handle.

‘Don’t go to Sir Peter,’ Gar said, without looking at him.

Purkiss paused.

‘There’ll be a car ready for you in five minutes.’

Purkiss said: ‘No driver. No escort of any kind.’

‘Agreed.’

‘And I mean
no
escort, Gar. No surveillance, human or electronic. If Vodovos, or the person we’re meeting, has the slightest suspicion that they’re being tagged – and they’re both skilled professionals, they’ll have a nose for such things – then the whole thing’s scuppered. And our chance is blown.’

‘You have my word.’

‘And you have mine, that I’ll provide full disclosure afterwards.’

‘
Afterwards.
Yes.’ The bitterness was in Gar’s emphasis rather than his tone.

*

V
ale walked with Purkiss down the corridor towards the lifts. Gar had said the car would be waiting outside a hidden exit from the infirmary.

‘I appreciate the need for secrecy,’ Vale said. ‘But is there anything you can tell me?’

‘Strictest confidence?’

‘Yes, of course.’ With Vale, strictest confidence was an absolute. Vale wouldn’t divulge anything to the Prime Minister himself if asked.

‘The bomb on Merseyside was a decoy,’ said Purkiss. ‘We were meant to intercept and neutralise it.’

Vale’s expression didn’t change. ‘A decoy for what?’

‘Something bigger.’ The picture was taking focus in Purkiss’s mind. Much of it was still hazy, but the overall image was there. ‘I’m speculating, but London’s likely to be the flashpoint.’

‘And your meeting now? With Vodovos, and this other person? Assuming they exist.’

‘They exist.’ Purkiss considered telling Vale. He decided it was unnecessary. ‘If things go according to plan, the meeting might give me a way in.’

*

P
urkiss watched Vodovos hobble down the corridor, flanked by two escorts. He’d been given a greatcoat to throw over his pyjamas, and a pair of steel crutches.

He stared at Purkiss, his eyes intense and questioning.

Gar pressed his hand against a sensor in the wall and a door slid open. Beyond, a tunnel lit with harsh fluorescent light curved into shadow.

The door closed behind Purkiss and Vodovos and they were alone.

Neither man said anything as they made their way along the tunnel. At the far end, it terminated in a door. Purkiss used a swipe card he’d been given to open it.

He saw Vodovos blink at the sudden glare of afternoon sunlight, saw him recoil slightly at the breeze.

The car, a nondescript Volvo saloon, was parked on the kerb directly opposite the exit. Purkiss helped Vodovos into the back seat and climbed behind the wheel. He found the keys in the ignition. Normally he’d have done a sweep for tracking devices beneath the bonnet or attached to the chassis. But he knew there was no point. The vehicle had been provided for him by the Deputy Director of SIS. If there was a bug on board, he’d never find it.

He would just have to take Gar at his word.

Purkiss pulled out. Vodovos turned his head to look at him. The question was implicit in his gaze.

‘We’re going to meet someone,’ said Purkiss, in Russian. ‘She can’t come here.’

‘
She.
You mean the FSB operative you mentioned? Saburova?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

Purkiss ignored the question. ‘You said back there you knew of her. Do you know her personally?’

‘No. I’ve never met her. But I know the names of all our London assets. It’s part of my job.’

Purkiss took out his phone. In his jacket, he felt the heft of the SIG pistol. He’d asked for it to be returned before he left the headquarters.

Saburova picked up on the second ring. Purkiss said, ‘Where are you?’

‘King’s Cross.’

‘On foot?’

‘Yes. But my car is outside. I have been waiting here for your call.’

It made sense. Late on a Saturday afternoon, the quickest way to get to an impromptu rendezvous in London was often via public transport, rather than struggling through the chaotic and congested streets.

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.’

––––––––

S
he 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.’

*

H
er 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 gesture, 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.’