But it was no good; the mood was gone. Motruk’s beaky face kept dragging his attention back to it like a papercut.
Purkiss climbed behind the wheel and followed the road back out though the city, heading towards Marsaxlokk.
They could have been of one of any number of nationalities — Greek, Turkish, Maltese itself — but Purkiss thought they were Italian. There were two of them, one older and portly, the other younger and leaner, both in beautifully tailored light suits and mirror sunglasses. They gripped Motruk’s hand one after the other, each turning the handshake into a back-clapping bearhug. Forming a semicircle a few paces behind the two men were the hoods: four thickset men in tighter, less well fitting clothes, their gazes similarly hidden by dark shades but clearly roving.
Purkiss had taken up the same position at the end of the street across from the bed and breakfast after doing a quick but thorough appraisal of the area. It was possible — unlikely, but possible — that Cass and Silverman had got surveillance into place already, and if that was the case Purkiss didn’t want to get in the way. But he thought they wouldn’t have acted that quickly.
Besides, he’d got the impression that they hadn’t been all that interested in what he’d had to tell them.
At two fifty p.m. Motruk had emerged from the guesthouse and begun walking quickly away. He hadn’t had the air of a man on the lookout for followers, and though Purkiss knew this could be deceptive, he was fairly sure both that Motruk was unaware of him as he set off in pursuit and that there was nobody else in the field, SIS or otherwise.
Purkiss tracked him in the direction of the sea. The boxy rows of a huge shipping container terminal stretched into the distance, cargo vessels hauling themselves mastodon-like into bays in the port. From his Marseille days Purkiss knew the Freeport Terminal was one of the busier ones on the Mediterranean.
As soon as Purkiss saw the knot of suited men standing waiting for Motruk he peeled away, wandering along one side of the terminal and gazing at the containers as though some kind of shipping aficionado. He took up a position behind the base of a large, inactive crane and watched from there. Snatches of the men’s voices reached his ears but he couldn’t make out any of the words, nor the language they were speaking in.
With his phone he took the best pictures he could, grimacing at the quality. But there was no way around it; whatever the subject of discussion, Purkiss couldn’t risk tipping Motruk and his companions off by trying to get closer.
After fifteen minutes or so, the group split up amid more handshakes and embraces. Purkiss watched Motruk set off on foot back the way he’d come. The six men piled into two cars, expensive executive models. Once they’d gone he set off after Motruk once more.
The ten mile car journey between Marsaxlokk and the town of Mdina was one of the most difficult Purkiss had undertaken.
There was nothing inherently problematic about the terrain. Purkiss had followed Motruk to a small public car park behind the bed and breakfast and, once he’d established the man was going to one of the cars, had quickly headed back down the street to his own rental vehicle. He’d waited until Motruk’s blue VW saloon emerged from the car park entrance and then fallen in behind, three cars back. Before long the village was behind them and the narrow single-lane road was winding to the north-west, the vineyards giving way to scrubby rock on either side.
After three miles, there was no traffic between Purkiss and Motruk’s car in front, and that was what made matters difficult. He didn’t want to approach too closely, but on the other hand dropping back too far would also arouse suspicion.
Purkiss’s rental, a Nissan, had no satellite navigation system. Instead he opened the map function on his phone and propped the handset on the dashboard. The multilingual road signs began to announce Mdina, a town Purkiss had been intending to visit at some point.
The town loomed ahead at the top of a hill, a medieval walled site stark against the deep blue afternoon sky. Traffic was beginning to thicken once more, buses and coaches predominating. Car parks started to appear, and a sign indicated that vehicular access to the town was restricted.
When Motruk pulled in at one of the car parks Purkiss drove on, choosing an area several hundred yards further on the other side of the road. He sat behind the wheel and watched Motruk appear behind a knot of backpackers trudging their way towards the arch of the main entrance gate. Purkiss slipped out, thankful to be on foot once more.
The town was a marvel, Purkiss couldn’t help noticing; a compact warren of Norman and Baroque splendour. The crowds made surreptitious surveillance relatively straightforward. Again Motruk walked with purpose, as though familiar with his surroundings.
The Ukrainian stopped by an archway beyond which a shadowed, narrow flight of stairs led upwards. He checked his watch, then headed up the steps. Once More Purkiss gave it three seconds, then crossed the street and peered up the steps. At the top was the faux-ancient oak door of a restaurant.
His options were limited. Either he watched the archway, taking note of everybody who came and went, in the hope of later identifying someone who might be meeting Motruk for purposes unknown. Or — the brazen approach — he could stroll into the restaurant himself, hoping Motruk wouldn’t somehow recognise him, and get a table as close as he could to Motruk’s.
No contest.
Purkiss mounted the steps and pushed the door open, the temporary cool of the stairway giving way to the kitchen heat beyond. The place was crowded with late lunchers. Waiters bustled about, none yet free to offer Purkiss a table, which gave him a chance to survey the room.
He stepped back as swiftly an surreptitiously as he could, back through the door, letting it swing shut behind him, his instincts driving him before his forebrain had time to process what he’d seen.
In a booth in the far corner of the restaurant, his profile visible, was Motruk. Across the table from him sat another man.
Leon Silverman, the SIS agent Purkiss had met in Valletta.
TWO
Purkiss had time to register that he’d been sloppy, unforgivably so, as the hand on his shoulder jerked him roughly forwards without letting go its grip.
There were two of them, so close he could smell aftershave and minty breath. The man on his right had hold of his shoulder. The one on the left pressed a hard metallic object into his flank. Purkiss didn’t need to glance down because all he’d gain was possibly to identify the make of the gun, and that was an irrelevance.
After descending the steps he’d stood in the bright afternoon street, considering. There was now no question of going into the restaurant and trying to get close to Motruk; Silverman would recognise him immediately. Purkiss couldn’t call Silverman’s colleague, Cass, because she too might have dealings with Motruk.
What was certain was that if Purkiss had been straying outside his jurisdiction earlier, this was most definitely his business now. An SIS agent fraternising with a known enemy.
He decided to set up watch outside the restaurant and resume his tagging of Motruk when he emerged. Silverman would be the harder man to follow because he was trained in countersurveillance. Purkiss walked down the street, looking for a suitable vantage point, when the two men moved in from behind him.
They marched him in the same direction he’d been heading. By turning his head a fraction he was able to make out some of the details of the man to his right. Dark hair, tanned. Young, probably in his twenties, and wearing a suit with no tie.