Vale spread his hands. ‘And that’s the long and the short of it.’ He paused. ‘John, you have to understand that I couldn’t tell you any of this before. It might have affected your judgement. If you’d known that I, the man you’ve worked with for over five years, was a former KGB asset — again, I emphasise an unwitting one — you might have walked away. And Clay would have found me, and killed me, and eventually you as well.’
He lit a cigarette, his first since Purkiss had got him alone.
‘I don’t know what you intend now, John. I hope you’ll continue to work with me. But I’ll fully understand if you choose not to.’
Instead of responding directly, Purkiss said, ‘Another question.’
Vale waited.
‘What happened to Cronos?’
Purkiss pulled the armchair to the side of the bed and sat down. He felt Rebecca’s presence at his side.
The old man’s rheumy eyes roamed over Purkiss’s. There was no human connection there. No comprehension.
‘Dementia?’ Purkiss murmured, without looking at Rebecca.
‘Yes. Alzheimer’s.’
This time Purkiss turned his head. Rebecca looked as Vale had: resigned, calm, as if this moment had been inevitable.
‘You grandfather?’ It was a guess on Purkiss’s part, but an educated one. There was a tenuous resemblance in the old man’s creased, slack features, a thread carried down the generations.
Rebecca said, ‘Yes.’
It explained her day job, Purkiss thought. A nursing home assistant was an odd cover for an SIS agent, even a sleeper. But he understood that part of her responsibility was as the old man’s guard.
Vale had told him, in answer to his last question back in the Athens hoteclass="underline" ‘We kept Cronos under house arrest. Just the four of us, without involving any official SIS channels. Helen Marchand was his daughter. She organised most of it, ensuring that he was provided with all the comforts he required. He was an old man by then, pushing eighty, and his absent-mindedness progressed until the signs of something more serious became apparent. Eight years ago he was transferred to a nursing home.’
‘Where?’
Vale shook his head. ‘I’m not going to tell you that, John. I don’t need to.’
Vale’s last sentence had a double meaning, Purkiss reflected.
Purkiss said, ‘So you kept him alive out of compassion for Helen?’
‘Not just her.’ Vale’s tone was soft. ‘He might have been a KGB agent, but Cronos — Ashington, Fyodorov, call him what you will — was a good man. He did good work for the Service, even if his ultimate motives were hostile. He was, in a sense, father to all of us, not just Helen. And we owed him. As did our country. There was never any question of murdering him.’
Purkiss gazed at the ancient face for a full two minutes, noting every line, every fold, every mottle.
At last he straightened. Beside him, Rebecca stared up into his face and he studied hers.
For the first time, he saw a defiance there, a slipping of the mask of calm.
Purkiss said, simply, ‘Carry on.’
He turned and walked out, a weight bearing down upon him, weariness dogging his every step.
FROM THE AUTHOR
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