A few seconds later, a second man seated himself beside Purkiss.
Grabasov became very still, so that he was more aware of the blood pulsing in his head than of his breathing.
It was Quentin Vale. There was no doubt about it. No possibility that this was a decoy, or some clever trick of cinematography.
‘Oliver,’ Vale intoned. Clay had heard the voice on telephone recordings over the last few weeks. He’d seen pictures of the man, aged compared with when they had last met, fifteen years earlier. But it was as if the years had fallen away, and the relatively youthful and vigorous man Clay had known and worked with for more than two decades was sitting there in the room with him.
Grabasov watched Vale, expecting him to take over. But it was Purkiss who did the talking.
‘You realise, of course, that you’re finished,’ said Purkiss. ‘The fact that we know who and where you are means that your future is entirely in our hands. We know that you’re reviving the Cronos operation, and why you’re doing so. It stops, right now. No more killings. No more empire building. We’re the gods. The titans have been supplanted by their sons. There’s no going back.’
Throughout, Vale gazed at the camera, almost motionless. He wasn’t even smoking.
Purkiss continued: ‘When I said you’re finished, I was referring to your private operation. The Cronos business. As regards your work for the Service… we’ve decided you’re too useful an asset to be cast aside. So you continue as before.’
He leaned forward a fraction. His eyes, normally mild, took on an intensity that captivated the attention like a master actor’s.
‘But understand this, Clay. If there’s the remotest hint that you’re continuing with your current course of action — that you’re coming after me, or Quentin, or anybody else, or that you’re recruiting others to your cause — then we’ll blow you sky high. We’ll tip off the FSB with unambiguous evidence. They’ll have you inside the Lubyanka before you know it. And I’ll leave the rest to your imagination. We’ll do this without official sanction, by the way. The wishes of SIS be damned. And you’ll be no use to Moscow as a double agent, because they’ll know we’ve fed you to them. You’ll be wrung out like a sodden rag, and thrown on the rubbish tip.’
Again Purkiss left a pregnant pause. Vale’s expression never changed.
As if recalling something he’d genuinely overlooked, Purkiss said, ‘Oh. There’s a quid pro quo, by the way. You get to keep your freedom, such as it is, and your exalted positions both as a captain of Russian finance and as British Intelligence’s premier agent. In return, you give us Delatour.’
Purkiss had said most of it with his usual amiability, his reasonableness. As he mentioned Delatour, his expression darkened.
‘You need to be kept in place, for obvious reasons. Delatour has no such protection. He’s a traitor, and he deserves a traitor’s fate. You have no more use for him, Clay. So arrange for him to board the rearmost carriage of the Green Line on the Athens Metro at Attiki, in the direction of Kifisia, at one-fifty p.m. on Saturday the first of November. That’s the day after tomorrow. Wherever in the world he is at the moment, it gives him time to get there, if you act quickly. I’ll allow half an hour’s leeway. If he’s not on the train, the Director of the FSB in Moscow will receive an email at two-thirty p.m., Athens time, containing evidence that Kyrill Grabasov, the CEO of the Rosvolgabank, is a British asset named Oliver Clay.’
For the first time, the shadow of a smile played at the corners of Purkiss’s mouth. It didn’t reach his eyes.
‘And if that makes you consider cutting and running right now, I’d advise against it. The moment we detect that you’ve disappeared, we’ll notify Moscow in a similar fashion.’ Purkiss blinked, the old affability returning. ‘Just do it, Clay. Give us Delatour. You once hunted down people just like him. You understand what motivates us. Put him on that train, and we’ll silence him.’
Purkiss gazed at the camera, as did Vale. Grabasov waited for more.
After a full twenty seconds, the picture snapped off.
Grabasov turned off the computer and sat back in his chair.
He thought: Quentin. You clever, devious bastard.
But you’re not clever enough.
He smiled into the darkness.
Twenty-five
The Ferryman took up a position next to a group of young women laden with bags from what looked like designer clothes shops. They were locals, the women, and they chattered with the spirited abandon of close friends enjoying a Saturday post-payday spree.
He was dressed in an unthreatening suit with a collar and no tie. A middle manager, perhaps, who’d finished a weekend morning shift and was heading home, cheap briefcase hanging from his hand.
The digital display above the platform gave the time as 13:48, and the arrival time of the next train as three minutes from now.
The train pulled in on time, hissing to a halt. Delatour allowed the women to step in ahead of him, before entering and choosing a seat next to the aisle. It left a seat free beside him, adjacent to the window. He placed the briefcase on this second seat.
Across from him were a middle-aged couple, the man gazing out the window at the wall of the tunnel, the woman engrossed in a paperback book.
Inside Delatour’s briefcase was a folder containing sales reports. Behind the lining was a network of wires, attached to a slim cylindrical object at the tip of which a soft red light pulsed at the rate of once every second.
The doors of the carriage closed, and the train wheezed into motion.
He’d presented his idea to the Oracle, Grabasov, when he’d called him after leaving the islet on Thursday, after it had become apparent that Purkiss and his associates had got the better of Artemis’s men and would be heading back to confront Delatour. Grabasov had approved the idea, Delatour knew, even though the man’s tone had been as inexpressive as ever.
Delatour’s hypothesis was simple: Purkiss was a hypocrite. He moved and worked in a world in which the concept of moral absolutism was nonsensical, and he accepted this axiom. Yet he balked at actions which entailed collateral damage, the deaths of civilians, regardless of the context.
This hypocrisy could be exploited.
Delatour proposed the organising of a significant attack, one which he could arrange within a few days using his contacts in the Islamic Caliphate group. An event in London or Washington or New York would be the most potent, but any European or American city would serve. Delatour would set it up, and a message would be sent to Purkiss to inform him about it. The message would be conveyed through the MI5 woman, Hannah Holley, with whom Purkiss was known to have had a relationship. She wouldn’t be informed about the content of the message, but would simply be contacted anonymously and told that her former lover was to phone a specified number. Delatour had no doubt she would pass on the message, and that Purkiss would respond.
Purkiss would be instructed to present himself at a specific location at a designated hour, in order to avert the planned mass attack. He’d do so, and he’d attempt a trick of some kind; but the Ferryman would kill him then and there, the moment he was in sight.
And that would be the end of it.
Everything had changed since the revelation that Vale had survived. Now, Purkiss had apparently turned the tables. It was he who was dictating locations and times. He who seemed poised to take down the Ferryman, rather than the other way round.
But Grabasov had identified a way to implement the Ferryman’s original idea. And Delatour, upon hearing it, had immediately concurred.
Delatour had arrived early at the station. Nine hours early, in fact.