From experience, he knew the lift would wheeze back into life after thirty seconds or so. While he watched the digital floor display above the doors, Grabasov thought about John Purkiss.
Two years earlier, to the month, the Englishman Purkiss had saved the life of the Russian President in the Baltic coastal city of Tallinn. The name John Purkiss appeared in no news report, although the event had made international headlines for weeks afterward. But the Kremlin identified Purkiss quickly, and negotiated a deal with the British government. It would be an embarrassment to the Russian state if it were to become public knowledge that a Briton had prevented an assassination attempt on the Russian leader. Therefore, Whitehall was cordially requested to keep this detail secret. In return, Purkiss would enjoy a degree of protection from the Russian intelligence services. It was assumed that Purkiss worked for MI6, and although any activities he might conduct within the Russian sphere of influence could never be condoned by the Kremlin, he would not be harmed by any operative in the employ of Moscow.
All that had changed eight months ago, in February. John Purkiss had been discovered conducting a mission at Yarkovsky Station, a scientific research facility in north-east Siberia just south of the Arctic Circle. Grabasov didn’t know exactly what had happened at the station — the details were so tightly classified that even he wasn’t privy to them — but for one reason or another, Purkiss had lost his protected status, and was now considered a potential threat to the Russian state. Not one to be proactively hunted down, but certainly one to be neutralised should he ever again trespass on Moscow’s turf.
Grabasov had taken a close interest in Purkiss and his career since the episode in Estonia two years earlier. He’d traced him to New York City, to Singapore, to various locations in the Middle East including Karachi and Riyadh. And along the way, he’d pieced together enough evidence to confirm what he had suspected from the outset.
Purkiss was working for Vale. He was, rather than an official agent of MI6, a policeman. One who sought out and neutralised British intelligence operatives who betrayed their country, or committed crimes for their own personal benefit or that of an enemy power.
As such, Grabasov needed Purkiss to be liquidated. Not as a matter of first-rank priority — such a status was reserved for Vale, and one other person — but as a second-tier project.
Grabasov knew Vale must have suspected that he himself was being targeted, which was why he’d taken the precaution of planting a bogus message providing details about Purkiss’s whereabouts. But Vale hadn’t known he was going to be killed on board Turkish Airlines Flight TA15, otherwise he wouldn’t have boarded. Grabasov had no way of knowing if Vale had informed Purkiss of the threat they both were under. But whether he had or he hadn’t, Grabasov believed Purkiss’s priority now would be to find out exactly who had killed Vale. And his starting point, quite likely, would be Frankfurt Airport. Which was why Grabasov had ordered Artemis to place it under surveillance. Purkiss was likely to arrive at the airport as soon as possible, while the trail was hot, and almost certainly within the next forty-eight hours.
Artemis controlled his own small group of personnel who would assist him with the operation. They were people Artemis had recruited himself but whom Grabasov didn’t know. He trusted Artemis to use his judgment in choosing his men wisely, and he didn’t doubt they’d be skilled at what they did.
Nonetheless, this was John Purkiss they were targeting. Grabasov knew enough about the man and his history to understand that he was an extraordinary individual. As such, Artemis and his people would need to tread carefully, and to act swiftly and decisively.
There was, of course, the possibility that they’d fail. That Purkiss would get away from them, or turn the tables on them. Which was why Grabasov had insurance in place. A back-up plan.
The elevator doors parted almost noiselessly and he stepped out into a corridor so plushly carpeted he felt, as always, as though he was walking on moss. A secretary stood aside, that same look of awe and deference in her eyes as he’d seen in the security guards downstairs.
He went through the glass doors into his office and set about the day’s work.
Seven
Rebecca Deacon stepped off the Lufthansa flight into a fine but soaking drizzle. She’d never been to Rome before, but had expected balmy Southern European weather, even at this hour of the night.
The train journey from Fiumicino Airport into the centre of the city took thirty minutes. At some point she might need to hire a car, but the hotel address she’d been given was near the station and so she’d decided to take public transport rather than wrestle with the vagaries of traffic in an unfamiliar city. On the way, she ran through the contents of the note she’d memorised before destroying it.
Do the necessary, had been the concluding phrase. It was ambiguous, but not much.
At Gatwick Airport, while she’d been waiting to board the Lufthansa flight — it had been the 22.13 departure, which left her with over two frustrating hours to kill — Rebecca had bought a small laptop computer. She’d seated herself on a rack of chairs with her back to a wall and had inserted the flash drive which had been in the packet along with the passport and the note.
The drive contained a short video. She watched it, listening through ear buds to the audio content.
There hadn’t been any instruction in the note for her to inspect the contents of the flash drive, but there’d been no order not to, either, and Rebecca assumed she’d be expected to open it. She watched the video once, listening to the words. Then she ran it through a second time, with the sound muted, examining the almost static picture for visual clues. There weren’t any.
She’d bought a shoulder bag to carry the laptop in, and stowed it away. Otherwise she had no luggage, not even toiletries. She didn’t know how long she’d be in Rome, but she’d have to kit herself out once she was there if any delays arose.
The hotel was in an unpretentious building part of the way up a crowded shopping street which was now almost deserted. Rebecca didn’t think Purkiss would be waiting for her, but out of habit she carried out a basic counter-surveillance manoeuvre, encompassing two blocks in every direction. Then she went through the doors into the lobby of the hotel.
A brisk, efficient-looking pair of uniformed attendants sat behind the reception desk. Rebecca didn’t speak Italian, but their English was flawless.
Yes, Mr Purkiss was still registered as a guest at the hotel.
Rebecca explained that she had an urgent message for him regarding his sister. She thought he’d want to be informed, even though it was after two in the morning.
The young man behind the desk considered for a moment, then glanced at his colleague. She seemed to be his senior, in experience if not otherwise, and nodded.
He picked up the phone and dialled.
After thirty seconds, and a second attempt, the man replaced the receiver.
Mr Purkiss was not answering. He might not be in.
Rebecca didn’t ask if she might be allowed to go up and knock on his door. It would have aroused immediate suspicion. Instead, she thanked the two concierges for their help, and gave them a cell phone number she made up on the spot, as well as an invented name, asking them to call her as soon as John Purkiss appeared. She also asked for a piece of hotel paper and an envelope, and scribbled a nonsensical message which she sealed and handed to the woman, who placed it in a rack of trays on the wall.
The number below the particular tray was 331.