Two hours after being taken into custody, the Jordanian had died. The details were sketchy, but officials said he had probably taken his own life by means of a cyanide capsule he’d managed to keep hidden from his captors.
Hanahneh was, the newspapers speculated, probably part of a double act with whomever had carried the bomb aboard the Turkish Airlines flight; the intention had been to destroy two passenger aircraft simultaneously.
Purkiss believed otherwise. There was no mention of any explosive material having been found in Hanahneh’s possession. He thought the Jordanian was probably a decoy, and his so-called suspicious behaviour a ruse intended to divert security attention away from the Turkish Airlines flight.
In any event, he didn’t believe the purpose of the attack had been to further worldwide jihad. It was too much of a coincidence that Quentin Vale had been on board that flight.
Purkiss thought the downing of TA15 had been an act of assassination.
Yet again, he ran his mind over the possibilities. Vale had wanted Purkiss out of the way, which was why he’d organised the fake liaison between Billson and the Chinese national, Xing, in Rome. It suggested Vale thought Purkiss needed to be kept out of harm’s way. Did that mean Vale suspected or knew that he, too, was in danger?
It opened up all sorts of further questions. Where had Vale been heading when he’d boarded the flight? TA15 had been going to Istanbul, so it was reasonable to assume that whatever business Vale was involved in, it was taking place in Turkey. Had he been fleeing someone, or something?
Purkiss raised his head and gazed across the terminal. It was filling, gradually, as the mid-morning passengers began to make their nervous appearance.
His jaw clenched in frustration. Vale’s insistence on keeping almost every detail about himself and his background secret from Purkiss for “security reasons”, as he put it, was now a liability. Purkiss knew nothing about him. Nothing about the enemies he had, the political complexities of his life.
It was easy to understand how a man like Vale could make enemies. He’d dedicated his professional life to hunting down the bad apples within the British intelligence establishment. And he had, so far as Purkiss knew, a one hundred per cent success rate. There’d be plenty of grudges festering away within the jails of Britain and elsewhere in Europe, and plenty of potential future targets who might decide to pre-empt Vale before he turned his attention to them.
Purkiss was aware that all this applied to him, too.
His options were limited. He’d come to Frankfurt Airport not with any clear goal in mind, but rather to visit the scene of the crime, to absorb its atmosphere and allow the intuitive part of his mind to bask in the environment, in case it threw up any clues.
Before he’d boarded the flight from Rome to Frankfurt that morning, Purkiss had called Hannah again in London. He’d asked for another favour: that she obtain for him the names of all the known MI6 personnel in Istanbul, whether based in the embassy or outside. It was a long shot, but it might provide some idea as to why Vale had been heading there. Purkiss had bought a mobile phone at the airport and he gave her the number.
She hadn’t called back yet, but Purkiss knew it was a task that would take some time.
He felt himself drawn towards the Turkish Airlines check-in desk, which was just visible to his left from where he sat at the counter of the coffee shop. There was barely anybody queuing at the desk. The airline was tainted, cursed, and would remain so for a long while. He knew there was nothing he could ask the staff at the desk that would be of the remotest use, but he felt the urge to walk in Vale’s steps, to trace his exact path, as if that might give him some insight into what had happened.
It was stupid, superstitious, and Purkiss berated himself inwardly.
The waiter appeared to ask if he wanted anything else. Purkiss asked for more coffee, and, deciding he needed to load up on carbohydrate and protein, requested bratwurst and sauteed potatoes.
While he waited, Purkiss scanned the newspaper reports again. If the destruction of the plane had been for the sole purpose of killing Vale, it would have taken considerable planning. That suggested Vale had booked the flight some time in advance. Perhaps Purkiss could find a way to determine exactly when and how the flight had been booked. It wouldn’t tell him much, but it would add incrementally to the supply of information he was building up.
He needed a skilled hacker. But the greatest IT expert he’d ever known, Abby Holt, had been killed two years earlier, in Tallinn, because Purkiss had let her down.
He compressed the thought, and the emotions which clung to it like an aura, and crammed them into a box within his head. He let the box drop, deep into the blackness of his mind, until it disappeared.
The waiter arrived once more and laid a steaming plate in front of Purkiss. He discovered he was ravenous, despite his tiredness. He pushed the pile of newspapers to one side and applied himself to the bratwurst.
The man seated at the counter a few feet to Purkiss’s right said, in German: ‘Would you mind if I had a look at the paper?’
Purkiss nodded. ‘Feel free.’
He reached to his left and handed the stack across to the man, who opened and folded the Allgemeine Zeitung and studied the front headlines.
Purkiss lifted his fork to his mouth and chewed, his eyes on the hubbub of the terminal, his thoughts on Vale, and the wild goose chase the man had sent him on in Rome.
Distraction. One of the essential tools in the espion’s kit. Vale had used it expertly.
Distraction…
Purkiss dropped his fork with a clatter.
He’d reached for the papers to his left…
The pain scored vertically down behind his breastbone, as if a clawed beast was trying to achieve purchase within his chest.
Before him, the terminal blurred, doubled.
His hands flailed, knocking his coffee cup over, the hot liquid burning his thighs. Down the counter, nearby, somebody shouted.
Purkiss dropped off the stool he was perched on, his feet hitting the floor one at a time and clumsily. The floor tilted and lurched upward towards him.
His throat felt as if it were puffing closed. Panic gripped his chest in a tight band.
The food he poisoned the food he poisoned
Through his swimming, telescoping vision, a woman recoiled. On the small round table before her stood a solitary bottle of water. Purkiss snatched at it, missed, stumbled into the table, tipping it. He grabbed the bottle through sheer luck and raised it and dumped the contents over his mouth, soaking his face and his head but getting some of it into his narrowing throat. He swallowed convulsively.
Dilute. And purge.
He coughed, violently, finding himself without warning on his hands and knees. Around him, gasps and yells were distorted as if by some electronic mechanism.
Purkiss rammed the fingers of his hand deep into his mouth, the tips probing for the pharynx. The gag reflex was triggered immediately and he felt the gorge rush up from deep within his belly and spew hotly over his hand and sleeve to rain across the floor.
It wasn’t cyanide. There was no bitter almond tang in his mouth.
He felt obscurely, pathetically grateful.
Purkiss crawled between the tables, seeing legs step aside for him as the hum of wonder and fear around him began to spread. His limbs functioned, after a fashion, arms and legs. He was making progress forwards. The absence of paralysis suggested there wasn’t a neurotoxin involved.