Purkiss said again: ‘Who are you?’
He studied her profile. She was probably a little older than he’d initially thought, maybe thirty-two or — three. Her features were strong, the lines of the nose and chin straight, the eyes dark. Not a conventionally pretty face, but an attractive one nonetheless.
‘My name’s Rebecca Deacon,’ she said. ‘I was given instructions yesterday to find you and protect you. I went to Rome, but you weren’t in the hotel. So I was pointed in the direction of a man named David Billson. He told me you’d been to visit him earlier that night, and that you were asking about Quentin Vale.’
The mention of the name jolted Purkiss, as if the seat beneath him was wired. ‘You know Vale?’
She shook her head, once. ‘I know of him. The person giving me my instructions is a former associate of his. I say former, because Vale was killed on board Flight TA15. As you already know.’ She paused, as the traffic ahead slowed in the approach to a roundabout. ‘My instructor asked me to go to Frankfurt, because that was where TA15 took off from. He believed you’d head for the airport in search of clues.’
The four hours in the police room, during which he’d been supplied with coffee and water and a sandwich, had helped clear Purkiss’s head. The nausea, the abdominal cramps, were also much diminished. But this new overload of information took him a while to process.
‘Hang on,’ he said. ‘Go back a bit. What’s your background? Who do you work for?’
She glanced at him for the first time since they’d set out in the car. ‘I’m Service.’
‘SIS?’ But he knew that was what she meant. MI6 was the popular name. SIS was the official one. To operatives, it was simply the Service.
‘Yes,’ Deacon said. ‘I’m a cold asset. This is my first mission in three years.’
A cold asset was an agent who’d been trained for a specific task, usually one of a troubleshooting nature. MI6 cultivated a number of these, subjecting them to the standard training at the beginning, then deploying them in day jobs for most of their lives, with regular refresher courses in fieldwork and IT surveillance. Some of them would remain forever as sleepers, always on potential call but never actually summoned.
Purkiss had always been sceptical of the idea. The notion that British Intelligence could rely upon a reserve force, as the military did, seemed faintly ludicrous to him. You were either an operative or you weren’t. Espionage skills weren’t something you could turn on and off every now and again. They needed constant honing through experience, or they’d wither and die. Much like those of a doctor, or a lawyer, or any professional.
He said, ‘Who’s your handler? Your instructor, as you call him?’
‘You’ll meet him soon enough.’ Deacon swung down a slip road. An industrial estate loomed before them. ‘I need to show you something.’
She pulled into a car park outside a vast supermarket depot. Reaching into the back seat of the car, she pulled a laptop from her bag and opened it. From her pocket she produced a flash drive.
She turned the laptop to face Purkiss.
A video was cued up, and began playing a few seconds later.
Vale sat behind a desk in a room so anonymous it might have been a prison cell.
He gazed at the camera in silence for a full ten seconds, as if he wasn’t aware it was switched on. His elbows were on the desk, and between the fingers of his raised right hand a cigarette smouldered, its blue ribbon of smoke catching the dim artificial light above him.
‘John,’ he said. ‘You’ll hate me for this cliche, but if you’re watching this, I’m already dead.’
He glanced off-camera, picked up a newspaper with his left hand, held it forward. It was a folded-over copy of The Times, its front page on display. The date on the masthead wasn’t difficult to read: Wednesday, 22nd October.
One week ago.
Vale laid the paper on the desk and addressed the camera again. ‘Just to set the scene.’
He took a contemplative drag on his cigarette, all the while watching the camera through the smoke.
‘I have reason to believe that an attempt will be made on my life. Imminently, possibly within the next few days. I’m going to try and meet you tomorrow, but I won’t tell you any of this.’
Purkiss had received a phone call from Vale on the morning of Thursday the 23rd of October. He’d met him on Waterloo Bridge in the middle of the early-morning commuter rush and they’d begun walking. Vale had briefed Purkiss about the Rome operation, about the need to garner evidence that Billson was selling information to Beijing. The next day, Purkiss had flown to Rome.
On the laptop screen, Vale said, ‘The woman who’s showing you this video is Rebecca Deacon. She’s a cold asset under my indirect authority, though she doesn’t know me personally. She’s first class. You can trust her implicitly. I’ve cultivated her specifically for such an eventuality as this.’
Vale hunched a little further over the table.
‘The fact that you’re watching this, John, means that I’ve been killed, and your life is in extreme danger. Rebecca has been activated to protect you. Listen to her.’ He lifted the cigarette to his lips again.
Was there the hint of a tremor in his hand? Purkiss had witnessed it before. Vale was in his early sixties, but remained remarkably spry. Under stress, however, the shakiness was noticeable. Purkiss had seen it during the Jokerman business last year.
‘Rebecca’s handler is a man called Myles. Gareth Myles. He’s an associate of mine, and you can trust him, too.’ Yet another pull on the cigarette.
Vale ground the stub out into a makeshift foil ashtray and drew another expertly from a pack in his breast pocket.
‘John,’ he said. ‘I can’t tell you exactly what this is all about, for reasons which you may or may not discover in the course of time. But you need to find a man called Saul Gideon. He’s the key to all this.’ Vale paused. ‘Gideon may be dangerous. But he may be one of us. I simply don’t know, and that’s why you need to proceed with the utmost caution.’
One of us. Purkiss thought about it. Filed it away for later consideration, so that he could concentrate on what Vale was saying.
‘It’s a matter of supreme urgency that you find Gideon,’ Vale continued. ‘I myself am going to try to, but you’re watching this, which means I’ve failed. If you discover that Gideon is the one who has had me killed, you need to take him down.’
Purkiss resisted the urge to stop the video and rewind it. The cryptic remarks, the obliqueness, were threatening to overwhelm him. Rebecca Deacon sat in the driver’s seat, gazing impassively through the windscreen. She’d evidently watched the clip before.
The picture jerked a little, as if it had been edited. Vale resumed: ‘Gideon’s last known location was the islet of Iora in the Aegean. It’s part of the Cyclades group. He may no longer be there, but it’s a good starting point in the search for him.’
Purkiss thought Vale looked drawn. Ill, even, his face more lined than usual, and gaunter. Perhaps that explained the jump in the picture a moment earlier. He might have needed to take a break, rest his tobacco-coarsened voice.
More quietly, Vale said, ‘Whatever happens, John, know that it’s been an honour working with you over the years. I hope, and trust, that you’ll continue to live a worthy life. Go well, my friend.’
He reached forward, his hand looming into the foreground, and the clip ended abruptly.