‘Who the hell are —’ Billson began. Purkiss held up a warning finger.
‘Who else is here? In the apartment?’
‘What? Nobody.’ Outrage was beginning to wrestle with alarm on Billson’s face.
‘The woman. Where is she? I know about her, Billson. Don’t bluff me.’ Purkiss turned slightly so that he could keep the bedroom door, which stood slightly ajar, in the periphery of his vision.
Billson said flatly: ‘She’s not here. There’s no-one else in the apartment.’
Purkiss thought the man was telling the truth.
When Billson started to edge towards the end of the bed, Purkiss said: ‘Stay where you are.’ He didn’t want Billson getting dressed. Sitting there in his undergarments put him at a psychological disadvantage.
Purkiss folded his arms. ‘Do you know who I am?’
Billson returned his gaze, his confidence starting to come back. ‘You’re the man who attacked me by the river. Stole my briefcase.’
‘Except it wasn’t your briefcase. You were handed it by an asset of the Chinese government.’
Billson’s expression gave away nothing. That was odd, Purkiss decided. Most people, confronted with an accusation like that, would betray something in their eyes. Most likely fear.
Billson said, quietly: ‘Why are you here?’
A man who’d had a briefcase stolen from him just hours earlier, a briefcase containing what he believed to be either cash or clandestine material from an enemy government, wouldn’t be lying in bed at home, either. He’d be driven mad with terror, or anger, or both, and would most likely have fled rather than linger in his own apartment.
Purkiss said, only half to Billson: ‘It was a set up. All of it.’
‘Yes,’ said Billson.
Billson had thrown on a dressing gown and sat on the edge of the bed, the chilly night air coming in through the smashed balcony door. He fished a cigarette out of a packet on the bedside table, raised his eyebrows at Purkiss and, when Purkiss shook his head, lit up and took a deep drag.
‘Who was the man in the gallery?’ said Purkiss. ‘The one you took the briefcase from.’
‘You know who he is, presumably,’ said Billson. ‘Xing Ho Lee.’
‘I mean, who is he? What’s his role?’
Billson exhaled a jet of smoke, blue in the dim light. ‘He’s an asset of ours. SIS.’
‘Not working for Beijing.’
‘No.’
Purkiss was surprised at how forthcoming Billson was, so quickly. But he thought he understood why. Billson would know he was outmatched, and that Purkiss would know if he was lying. Rather than hold out, and risk physical coercion, he was telling Purkiss what he’d eventually find out anyway.
‘So what’s this all about?’ said Purkiss.
Billson shrugged. ‘To be honest, I don’t know. My instructions were to meet Xing at the gallery, pick up the briefcase he left there, and then wait for somebody to accost me and take the case. I was to put up enough of a struggle to make it seem like I was resisting, but not enough that I overcame my attacker.’ He glanced at Purkiss, and went on wryly: ‘In the event, that wasn’t an issue.’
‘And you didn’t know what was in the briefcase.’
‘Not a clue. Could have been bricks, for all I knew.’
Purkiss didn’t answer for a moment. Then: ‘Who gave you these instructions?’
For the first time, Billson hesitated, concentrating on his cigarette. The way he applied himself to it, as if performing a task which required intense focus, reminded Purkiss of Vale, who was — who had been — one of the most dedicated smokers Purkiss had ever known.
‘My superior officer at SIS,’ Billson said at last.
He was good, thought Purkiss. There was barely anything in the man’s body language to suggest that he wasn’t telling the truth. But the way he raised his cigarette to his lips immediately after speaking — that was the equivalent of the classic tell, touching one’s mouth after a lie as if trying to force it back in.
Purkiss said, softly: ‘We’ve got all night, Billson. And it’ll be a long one. Trust me on that.’
Billson glanced at Purkiss again, as if evaluating him. He ground the cigarette out in an ashtray and said: ‘My orders came from a man named Smith. I don’t know his first name, and I suspect Smith is an alias.’
‘Describe him,’ said Purkiss.
‘Thirtyish, fair hair, stocky. Five foot eight or so. He —’
‘Don’t you mean tall, thin, black and in his sixties?’
For the first time since Purkiss’s unexpected arrival through the balcony doors, Billson looked startled. And Purkiss knew he’d hit home.
Vale. Vale had ordered the set up.
Billson’s shoulders slumped a little in resignation. He reached for another cigarette. ‘You know him, then.’
The story came out quickly and succinctly. Smith — Billson genuinely didn’t seem to know his real name — had recruited Billson a couple of years earlier, using him for infrequent and minor work here in Rome while he continued in his normal role as an SIS operative. Smith had convinced Billson that he was responsible for policing SIS activities and trapping those agents who broke the rules, which as perfectly true. Billson didn’t know Xing Ho Lee, but he assumed Smith was running him in a similar way.
Smith had arranged a rendezvous with Billson a week earlier, here in Rome, and had given him his instructions. They were simple: receive the briefcase from Xing in the gallery, then wait to be accosted. Nothing more.
When Billson had finished, Purkiss said: ‘Are you to report to this Smith now?’
‘He didn’t say,’ said Billson. ‘I don’t ask questions. I just carry out the tasks he gives me, and then don’t hear from him for months until the next time.’ Once again he gazed at Purkiss. ‘What happens now?’
There was a fatalism in the man’s eyes, something Purkiss had seen before in people who were about to encounter death and were beyond fear. Purkiss said: ‘You think I’m going to kill you.’
‘Yes.’
‘Because you assume I’m one of these rogue agents Smith is after.’
‘It’s the only thing that makes sense.’
Purkiss wasn’t a sentimental man, especially where intelligence operatives were concerned. But he felt a certain admiration for Billson, for his composure, his lack of self-pity.
He looked at the shattered balcony doors. ‘This your apartment? Or did the Service provide it for you?’
Billson blinked, puzzled by the change in topic. ‘It’s my own.’
Purkiss reached into the pocket of his jacket — Billson tensed a fraction — and brought out his wallet. He counted out several fifty-euro notes and tossed them on the bed. ‘This should cover it.’
Billson stared down at the money, his forehead knitted in confusion.
Purkiss said, ‘The man you know as Smith is a friend of mine. Was, I should say. He’s dead.’
When Billson opened his mouth, Purkiss shook his head. ‘No questions. I’m leaving now.’
He let himself out downstairs. He hadn’t told Billson not to say a word to anybody about all this, because it wasn’t necessary.
On his way back to his new hotel, Purkiss tried to fit the pieces together.
Vale had arranged the bogus handover of intelligence between Xing and Billson, then sent Purkiss to witness it and procure the briefcase. Which meant one of two things.
Either Vale had wanted Purkiss to be in Rome, and for some reason needed a pretext to get him there.
Or, Rome itself had nothing to do with it, and Vale had simply needed Purkiss out of the way.
Six
Kyrill Grabasov thought there were probably four weeks left before Moscow became unbearable.