Nemesis (7 page)

‘Who proposed it?’ said Purkiss.

‘We did. Washington. And, like I say, we persuaded your government to hand over Rossiter in return.’

Purkiss ran through it in his mind, trying to establish if it added up. ‘Perhaps Mossberg really was CIA. And this is a way of bringing him back.’

‘Yeah,’ said Asher. ‘It’s a possibility. It’ll certainly convince the Russians that they were right all along. Why else would we be so eager to get our hands on a disgraced former academic who’s rotting in a Moscow cell?’

‘But you don’t believe that.’

Asher tilted his head. ‘Even if Mossberg was one of our assets, it still doesn’t explain why we’d be willing to sacrifice somebody like Rossiter to get the guy back.’

Purkiss looked out the window, at the thickening layers of pine forest. ‘Unless Mossberg knows something the Russians don’t know he knows,’ he said. ‘Unless there’s some crucial piece of intelligence we need to get hold of, and the Russians are unaware he has it.’

‘That’s my thinking,’ Asher said. ‘It’s plausible, at least.’

*

T
he security cordon around the site was as tight as if a live bomb had been discovered there and not yet disarmed. As soon as the Mercedes came within half a mile of the area, a line of military personnel appeared as if from nowhere, melting out of the trees, and halted the car.

Credentials presented and approved, Purkiss and Asher were escorted the rest of the way until they were directed to pull over near a rough gravel track. A small army of forensic technicians swarmed over some kind of clearing at the end.

Stepping carefully so as not to interrupt the forensics people, the two men picked their way across the ground.

Asher said, ‘The backup team came from that direction. South-west.’ He indicated a ridge to the north. ‘The helicopter must have come that way. And there are tracks, apparently, on the ground from due south. The land attack consisted of men on foot. They probably arrived by sea and landed somewhere along the Forth, then headed inland.

The ground of the clearing was stained erratically with mulberry-dark blotches. Purkiss recognised the chips and gouges in the rocks as caused by bullets.

The bodies had all been removed.

Purkiss closed his eyes. Tried to picture it. Rossiter, standing somewhere here, hooded and shackled. The meeting between the two parties. Perhaps a handshake.

Then: the sudden onslaught, carried out efficiently and mercilessly.

He said, ‘Rossiter’s people not only knew about the exchange, but knew precisely where it was taking place.’

‘Yeah,’ Asher said. ‘A leak somewhere.’ There was a trace of contempt in his voice. Purkiss wondered if he was expressing disdain at the British security measures.

‘Probably,’ said Purkiss. ‘But not necessarily where you think.’

Asher’s brow creased. ‘Come again?’

‘I mean, there may have been another way they identified the site of the exchange.’

He stepped away from Asher, far enough that he could be certain he was out of earshot. From the corner of his eye he saw the man watching him.

Purkiss took out his phone.

When Vale answered, he said, ‘Quentin. I need you to find out when and where Rossiter had that bug implanted in his arm. Which staff were present.’

After a moment, Vale said, ‘Ah. Yes, I see. I’ll see what I can dig up.’

‘Also,’ Purkiss said, before Vale could hang up. ‘Asher’s not one of us. He’s CIA.’

He explained tersely. When he had finished, Vale took a moment to reply.

‘That’s interesting.’

‘Keep it to yourself for now, all right?’ Purkiss sensed that Asher had taken a step or two closer. ‘I haven’t decided yet whether to confront Waring-Jones or not.’

‘Agreed.’

Purkiss put away his phone. He walked back to Asher, said: ‘Housekeeping.’

‘Uh-huh.’

They prowled around the site for half an hour, but Purkiss felt the frustration building. He hadn’t expected to spot any clue that the forensics team might have missed, but he’d been hoping for... something. Some flash of insight. Some intuitive hunch.

He felt nothing.

On the walk back to the Mercedes, Asher said, ‘So what are you going to do about me? Complain to Waring-Jones?’

‘I haven’t decided yet.’

Asher turned and gazed back at the ridge, as if he expected the helicopter to make a reappearance. ‘You know, I could still be of use to you. I could use the Company’s resources to help.’

They’d been driving for ten minutes when Purkiss said, ‘You can stay on board.’

‘Good.’ After a pause: ‘May I ask what made you decide that?’

‘Because the CIA are going to want to stay involved in the circumstances, regardless of whether or not you’re removed from the case,’ said Purkiss. ‘At least you’re the devil I know. Otherwise, they’ll forever be sending new people into the field, getting in my way.’

‘I like your thinking,’ said Asher.

––––––––

T
he junior FSB officer saw the flicker of light on the monitor an instant before the faint, insistent tone started its pinging.

He wheeled his chair over and hit the key to freeze the image on the screen.

He was twenty-five years old, and was one of a group of neophytes in the service known not-altogether-affectionately as the
kindergarteners
. His ambition was to reach sufficient seniority that he’d be posted to one of the country’s foreign embassies, in Western Europe preferably, where the lifestyle appealed to him. But for now, he was assigned to shift work, monitoring the banks of international surveillance channels which were active twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.

It was work of the most mind-numbing tedium. Which was why it was considered essential training.

And, every once in a while, something truly significant came up.

The particular monitors he was in charge of showed a streaming feed from the airport surveillance cameras in London, England. There were a lot of them, not only in the major ports of Heathrow and Gatwick, but also in the capital’s lesser points of airborne entry and exit. That was why there were no fewer than ten personnel, all kindergarteners like him, manning the screens.

The monitor he was looking at now was one of those covering the arrivals area at London City Airport.

The footage came streaming in, a continuous feed, and local FSB software analysed it while running a cross-match with its databases of ‘people of interest’. In this manner, the movements of significant people into and out of Britain could be noted. The system wasn’t foolproof. It couldn’t be, and wasn’t expected to be. But on occasion, a match was made.

The image frozen on the screen was of a tall man with dark hair. He wasn’t looking directly at the hidden camera, and his face was turned slightly to one side. But his features were clear.

In a frame to one side of the monitor, the facial recognition software displayed its match. The same man’s face stared out, the image far crisper than the one on the airport camera.

The young kindergartener didn’t recognise the man. Didn’t recognise the name that came up.

But he saw the code in vivid letters alongside the matched image.

The
priority
code.

Escalate to senior officer with urgency.

The kindergartener picked up his phone. He’d send an electronic account of the match, but
escalate with urgency
meant there had to be immediate telephonic contact as well.

When the curt voice at the other end said, ‘Yes?’, he told his superior that a John Purkiss had just been identified arriving at London City Airport.

*

T
he message passed up the chain of command with smooth efficiency.

Within seven minutes of the match having been made by the facial recognition software, the Director of the FSB was informed.

Karl Borisovich Krupyev was in his office at the time, alone for once, taking a few minutes of respite between meetings. After he put the phone down, he sat for thirty seconds, allowing himself to savour the sensation of urgent, visceral excitement.

Then he picked up the phone once more.

Usually, when he made this call, he hesitated for an instant. He believed too-frequent calls to the number might make him seem weak, or too eager to please.

This time, he had no doubt the call would be welcomed.

As he waited for the connection to be made, he opened the attachment to the message which had just arrived on his computer monitor.

He looked at the face. And felt another thrill of triumph.

John Purkiss, the British agent, had aborted the attack on the President two autumns ago in Estonia. An attack that had been instigated by Richard Rossiter.

Now Rossiter was a fugitive. He’d slipped through their grasp, in circumstances nobody had yet begun to understand.

And Purkiss had surfaced.

It might mean nothing. It might be coincidence.

What
might be
, didn’t matter.

The ring tone ended in a click so abrupt that the Director caught his breath.

‘Yes?’ Even the single syllable was enough to capture the man’s voice. The voice which everybody was familiar with, which was heard nightly on the television news, and across the world as well.

It was a voice that could charm, and chill.

‘Mr President,’ the Director said, as neutrally as he was able. ‘We have a development. John Purkiss has been identified in London.’

He relayed the details into the silence at the other end.

When he’d finished, after the briefest of pauses, the voice came quietly, ‘You’ve taken further action?’

‘Yes, sir. Of course.’
Further action
meant putting immediate surveillance in place. Every airport in Britain had FSB personnel on constant, round-the-clock standby. The greatest numbers were at Heathrow and Gatwick, the two biggest sites. But the Director had four of his staff at London City.

On his monitor, the update had already arrived.
Target identified entering vehicle. Licence plate captured.

The Director thought to himself:
Excellent
work. The noting of a car licence plate opened up all sorts of possibilities. The FSB had access to Britain’s Driver and Vehicle Licensing Agency databases.

He said, ‘Your instructions, sir.’

Usually, the request for further orders tended to trigger annoyance. The President expected his most senior intelligence officer to come up with ideas, not pleas for guidance.

But this was different.

The voice on the other end of the line said, as quietly as before, ‘The closest surveillance. But he is not to be lost. You understand? If there’s the remotest chance that he is about to evade us, we close in. And apprehend.’

‘Understood, sir.’

The Director waited. You never hung up first in a circumstance like this.

‘Karl Borisovich.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The President seldom used the Director’s patronymic.

‘Make this work.’

It was said gently. But it wasn’t a request.

‘Sir.’

The click was followed by a hum.

Krupyev allowed himself a second interval of inactivity.

He relished the excitement. The adrenaline crest of the incipient chase.

And, he acknowledged, there was the thrill of fear in his blood, too.

He picked up the phone once more.

––––––––

R
ossiter had always been intrigued by Friesland.

Of the twelve provinces of the Netherlands, it was the one with the most distinctive character. Its people were legendarily tall. It had its own language, West Frisian, which was closer to English than almost any other in the world.

And - the feature that suited Rossiter’s purposes most immediately - it included a chain of fourteen islands in the North Sea, none of which featured to any significant degree on any Western intelligence radar.

The Eurocopter had landed into a moderate headwind an hour earlier. Lars Dokkuma met Rossiter on the runway, his shoulders stooped against the currents thrown up by the beating of the rotor blades. At four in the morning, the wind scouring the fields from the sea was raw and punishing, and Rossiter felt the sharp bite of the cold against his neck once again as he stepped out of the cabin.

Dokkuma reinforced the Frisian stereotype. At six feet six, and lanky with it, he towered over Rossiter despite his hunch. His thin lips and nose were thrown into prominence between the bulky layers of his wool hat and scarf.

‘Lars,’ Rossiter said, raising his voice over the helicopter’s clatter while managing not to shout.

‘Jacobin.’ The Frisian shook hands. Once, back in Tallinn, two and a half years ago, Rossiter had been labelled
the Jacobin
by somebody who’d been hunting him. It amused him to keep the moniker, and that was the only name he’d given Dokkuma.

Beyond Dokkuma, a large, ugly lorry squatted like a prehistoric creature. Rossiter raised his hand without looking behind him. He heard his men climbing off the chopper.

Rossiter didn’t make small talk, as a rule, but even he was struck by the taciturnity of the tall man as they made their way towards the truck. He appreciated it. There were no queries about how things had gone so far, whether there’d been any setbacks, or anything of that kind. The helicopter had arrived at the appointed time, and that meant the plan was following its course.

Dokkuma’s car was parked a short distance away from the lorry. He took the wheel himself  rather than using a driver. In the wing mirror, Rossiter saw the truck lumbering after them. Four of his men had climbed on board, the suitcase they’d picked up in Åland handcuffed to the wrists of two of them.

Rossiter didn’t think Dokkuma would pull a trick, but it never hurt to be cautious.

Dokkuma didn’t say anything until they’d travelled perhaps a mile. The island was shrouded in blackness, with no streetlights to be seen, and no sign of human habitation either. The building loomed ahead of them with a startling suddenness. It was flat and broad, and resembled nothing so much as a wartime artillery shelter.