Kendrick seemed so sure Rebecca was familiar to him.
Purkiss eyed Rebecca’s profile beside him, her face alternately lit and obscured as the streetlights lining the motorway strobed by.
Trust.
It was something he had a problem with. He’d learned the art of mistrust early on in his career in intelligence, when he’d realised it was an adaptive, not to say life-saving, strategy. But it was only in the last couple of years, since he’d discovered the truth about his late fiancee Claire, that Purkiss had come to understand just how corrosive mistrust could be when those closest to you came within its orbit. He’d doubted Hannah, his former girlfriend; and even, once, Vale himself.
Vale. Purkiss felt a sudden anger clutch at his innards. He’d always believed his employer and mentor would die eventually of a heart attack, or of a stroke, or cancer. Vale would have accepted any one of these verdicts philosophically, fully acknowledging that he’d brought it upon himself through his forty-a-day cigarette habit. He’d have passed over with a gloomy wryness, and Purkiss would have saluted him.
Instead, the man had boarded a passenger plane, and had been smashed to pieces on the unforgiving ground at high speed. Despite his level-headedness, his professionalism, he must have been terrified in the last seconds, either hurtling down in the wrecked shell of the aircraft or sucked out through the ripped fuselage to plummet alone. He may even have screamed. Soiled himself.
The lack of dignity bothered Purkiss the most.
Vale hadn’t deserved that.
Rebecca and Purkiss had neatened Kendrick up in his flat, casting aside his ratty overcoat and persuading him to put on a shirt and leather jacket and a clean if musty pair of cargo trousers Purkiss had found buried in the bottom of a wardrobe. The airlines were on heightened alert since the TA15 attack, and any passenger looking like a down-and-out would be given short shrift.
Purkiss felt his back tense as they walked through the terminal to the check-in desk. For a moment his gut twisted, and he wondered if he’d ever be able to visit an airport again without his somatic memory reminding him of the poisoning in Frankfurt. But they breezed through the procedure without incident, and even made it past the security scanner unmolested, although Kendrick had to point out to the staff that he had a metal plate in his head which might set off the alarm.
‘I’m a cyborg, really,’ he said cheerfully to the female security guard, before whipping a pair of plastic sunglasses from his pocket and intoning robotically: ‘I’ll be back.’
The woman smiled tolerantly. Purkiss was relieved. In the United States Kendrick’s behaviour might have provoked a major incident, and got them all arrested. Over here, his quip was seen as just another wearying example of the British propensity for stupid, childish jokiness in every conceivable situation.
Purkiss studied the flight information screen. He noted the departure gate, and the expected boarding time. Fifty minutes from now.
‘We have a bit of a wait,’ he said. ‘Let’s get a coffee.’
They found a seating area outside a row of competing shops. Rebecca rose automatically.
‘No,’ said Purkiss. ‘I’ll go.’
He walked to the counter of the nearest outlet and stood in the queue. He’d wanted to watch Rebecca and Kendrick on their own. See if she responded differently to him when Purkiss wasn’t there.
But Kendrick sat with his legs outstretched, staring at the floor, his lips pursed, while Rebecca rested an arm on the back of her chair and gazed out over the departure lounge. There was no interaction whatsoever.
That in itself might be significant, Purkiss thought.
He reached the counter, ordered three coffees. Turned away with the paper cups secured in a cardboard holder.
His glance snagged on a face in the queue behind him.
The man looked straight back. His eyes followed Purkiss even as Purkiss broke contact and walked away.
Purkiss processed the data on the way back to the table.
White man. Pale. Late thirties. Spectacles. Thinning, fair hair, receding up the forehead. Inexpensive shirt and blazer. Looks like a middle manager, or a literary agent.
He focused on the face. Applied his internal memory grid, linking the features with the words and letters to which he’d applied them.
Domed forehead. First letter: D.
Glasses. They reminded Purkiss of a pair worn by David Letterman, the talk-show host, on one of the shows he’d watched on a visit to the US as a younger man. Letter.
D-letter.
He had the name.
Purkiss reached Kendrick and Rebecca and laid the cup-holder down on the table. He saw Rebecca look past his shoulder, watched her posture tense.
Kendrick said: ‘Hey. We’ve got company.’
Purkiss turned. The man from the queue was walking over.
‘Delatour,’ said Purkiss.
The man blinked, once.
‘You remember me?’ he said. He stopped a few feet away, as if he’d suddenly become intimidated by the three of them.
‘Come closer,’ said Purkiss.
The man had left the queue without buying his coffee. He took a few steps towards Purkiss, his empty hands hanging by his sides.
Purkiss said: ‘Yes. I remember you. April last year. Battery Park in New York.’
‘Correct.’ The man had seemed utterly nonplussed when Purkiss had said his name, but his confidence had returned rapidly. He pointed at a chair. ‘May I sit down?’
Kendrick was staring at him, Purkiss noticed, as he had done at Rebecca earlier.
After he’d settled himself in the seat, the man propped his elbows on the table and gazed at Purkiss. He seemed ill at ease, not just in the present circumstances but in his skin. Purkiss remembered that about him.
In April last year, they’d met on the southern tip of Manhattan when Purkiss had been pursuing a rogue operative named Darius Pope, during the Caliban mission. Delatour was an MI6 asset operating out of the Embassy in New York. He’d been one of Vale’s contacts, and he had furnished Purkiss with information about the CIA agent who’d recently been murdered in the city. The intelligence Delatour had provided was relatively minor; but he’d struck Purkiss as a competent, thorough agent.
Delatour said: ‘My presence here isn’t a coincidence.’
‘I didn’t think so,’ said Purkiss.
‘Vale’s been murdered. Assassinated.’ Delatour stated it as a fact rather than a question.
‘Yes.’
Purkiss was aware of Rebecca shifting in her chair beside him, as if he’d overstepped a mark. He said, ‘How did you find me?’
‘Facial recognition software,’ said Delatour. ‘I’ve been monitoring the cameras at the security points of all the UK airports, in case you passed through. The reason I’ve been looking for you is obvious. I worked with Vale. I want to know why he was killed. And you were a colleague of his.’
‘How did you find out he was on board the plane?’ Purkiss watched carefully, observing for any tells that the man was lying. There were none apparent.
Delatour said: ‘The same way you did, I suspect. I tried calling him. Got a dead line. Checked the passenger list and saw one of his aliases listed.’
Purkiss studied Delatour in silence for a moment. ‘What have you been able to find out so far?’
‘Nothing,’ said Delatour. ‘I’m based in Manhattan, as you know. I called Vale to update him on the staff composition of the Service’s New York network. Which is when I discovered his phone was dead. Once I’d established he was on the plane, I got on the first available flight to London. I’ve been looking for you ever since.’ He glanced at Rebecca and Kendrick as if seeing them for the first time. ‘Who are these people?’