But now, he felt the urge to minimise further the risk of being overheard. So he let his cell phone ring in his pocket while he made his way swiftly down to the lobby.
He found a relatively quiet street corner and took the phone out and dialled.
The Ferryman answered at once.
‘Gideon is terminated,’ he said.
Once more, that punch of triumph in Grabasov’s chest.
He said, ‘Good.’
‘Purkiss is still at large. And Artemis is dead.’
The Ferryman gave a concise account. Grabasov felt a mild frustration set his nerves on edge, but not the overpowering anger he’d experienced before, when Gideon had hoodwinked him in Ankara. The loss of Artemis — he’d been among his men on the island — was of little consequence.
‘You have any leads as to Purkiss’s whereabouts?’ he said.
‘No.’ The Ferryman paused. ‘But Gideon told Purkiss about Clay, and about his belief that Clay is responsible for events.’
Grabasov watched a pedestrian crossing the road remonstrate with a driver who’d braked sharply to avoid colliding with her. He considered what the Ferryman had said.
The Ferryman continued: ‘I think I know a way to make Purkiss come to me.’
Grabasov took a walk after the call ended, to stretch his legs and think.
He’d known the Ferryman, Delatour, more than four years. In that time, he’d been impressed. Delatour was an efficient killer, with an ultimate success rate of one hundred per cent. He was shrewd, adaptable, and resourceful.
But he’d been outmanoeuvred by Purkiss this time. And while that didn’t mean he wouldn’t get him eventually — indeed, he’d up his game in order to do so — his idea sounded to Grabasov a fanciful one. It made assumptions about Purkiss’s mindset, his character, which were largely speculative.
Then again, there was Purkiss’s track record to consider. Grabasov wasn’t privy to the finer details of the missions Purkiss had pulled off, but his methods portrayed a man with certain convictions.
In any case, Grabasov couldn’t think of a more obviously workable plan. And the longer they took to locate Purkiss, the more likely it was that he’d disappear forever.
Grabasov looked at his watch. Ninety minutes until his meeting at the Kremlin, with the President.
He set off back to the office to prepare himself.
Twenty-three
The hotel was a quiet one, elegant rather than overtly commercial. The coolness of the lobby was matched by the muted whites and blues of the décor, and there appeared to be few guests about.
They’d flown in to the private Alexion Airport in Portocheli on a chartered plane from Kythnos. Heading straight back to Athens was too much of a risk. Rebecca had organised the flight, while Purkiss had done a surveillance check and Kendrick had paced the airport terminal restlessly. Purkiss had made him leave the Armalite behind, dumped in the sea with the magazine removed, near where they’d abandoned the dinghy on the shore of Kythnos island. He’d told Kendrick to do the same with the Walther pistol. Kendrick hadn’t been happy.
‘What if he’s waiting for us?’ he said, sounding like a thwarted adolescent.
‘He won’t be,’ said Purkiss. ‘And we’re going flying. You’d never get those things through.’
Rebecca hadn’t said any more about her phone call earlier, and Purkiss hadn’t asked. She’d murmured softly into the phone, saying that Saul Gideon was dead and asking for a rendezvous.
‘He’ll meet us in Portocheli,’ she said simply after hanging up.
It might be a trap, Purkiss thought. But that was unlikely. She was too open about it.
After their arrival in the town, Rebecca paid cash for a rental car. She took the wheel, as was her custom, and the three of them rode in silence to the hotel.
They took the stairs to the second floor. Rebecca led the way to a door numbered 27. She hesitated outside, then knocked softly.
‘Come in.’ A man’s voice.
Purkiss stepped past Rebecca, pushed the door open himself.
The smell registered with him first. Acrid and thick, it was immediately familiar, triggering Purkiss’s olfactory cortex and sparking instantaneous connections with memories.
A man sat on the edge of the room’s single bed. His height and his stoop were both noticeable even though he was seated. His dark skin was offset by his grey hair, still remarkably thick despite his age.
Between his ochre fingers a cigarette burned.
‘John,’ said Vale.
Rebecca closed the door behind them. Vale might have given her a signal to do so, but Purkiss hadn’t noticed.
His disorientation was so intense he felt his consciousness threaten to shut down.
Vale’s yellow eyes shifted past Purkiss’s shoulder. ‘And Mr Kendrick.’
Kendrick stepped forward. ‘You’re that black fella,’ he said, his tone almost accusing. ‘Purkiss’s boss.’
‘Correct,’ said Vale gravely.
‘You’re supposed to be dead.’
‘Yes.’ Vale rose stiffly to his feet. He pressed his cigarette out in the ashtray which lay on the bedspread beside him, and walked over to the dressing table. ‘Water?’ A bottle stood beside several glasses.
Purkiss ignored the question. He said: ‘Quentin. What the hell.’
It wasn’t just relief that was tightening his chest. It was anger, too.
Vale poured himself a glass, drank, and began lighting a new cigarette. After the first inhale, he said: ‘I’m Gareth Myles. Rebecca’s contact. Or, I’ve taken his name, at least.’ He paused, his face sombre. ‘The real Gareth Myles is dead. He boarded flight TA15 instead of me. He was a similar age to me, and of a similar racial background. It was relatively straightforward to produce a passport with a picture that resembled both of us.’
‘You sent someone else to killed in your stead,’ said Purkiss. The anger was coming to the fore now.
Vale shook his head once. He looked unoffended. ‘No. I didn’t know the plane was going to be brought down. Myles was retired CIA, an old friend of mine. I was aware I was being hunted, so I asked him for a favour. He was to travel to Istanbul under my guise. I was waiting there, and intended to identify whomever was following him. I had no idea they would try to kill me in that manner, by bringing down the plane.’
Purkiss tried to process it. He looked at Rebecca.
She said, ‘Everything I’ve told you is true, apart from this part. Quentin summoned me to Rome to protect you. He said he was in hiding, that he was presumed dead on the plane, and that I was to be his proxy, helping you in the search for Saul Gideon.’
‘You understand why I did it, John,’ said Vale, before Purkiss could speak. ‘I couldn’t make contact with you directly for two reasons. First, my enemies thought me dead. That was an advantage I held, and I couldn’t risk losing it. I knew they’d be after you, and as long as you were unaware I was still alive, I’d still be protected even if they caught you. The second reason was for your protection, John. If somehow the opposition did know I was still alive, any contact between the two of us would put you in danger.’
The data was flooding in too quickly for Purkiss to make complete sense of it all. He said, ‘You knew Gideon was holed up on the island.’
‘Yes. I told you that myself, on the video I made you.’
‘Didn’t you think to warn him that he was in danger?’
‘He knew it already,’ said Vale. ‘As soon as he heard the plane had gone down, supposedly with me on board.’
‘But you didn’t warn him beforehand,’ said Purkiss. ‘You knew there was a threat to you at least a week earlier, or so you said on the clip.’