Asher said, ‘The backup team came from that direction. South-west.’ He indicated a ridge to the north. ‘The helicopter must have come that way. And there are tracks, apparently, on the ground from due south. The land attack consisted of men on foot. They probably arrived by sea and landed somewhere along the Forth, then headed inland.
The ground of the clearing was stained erratically with mulberry-dark blotches. Purkiss recognised the chips and gouges in the rocks as caused by bullets.
The bodies had all been removed.
Purkiss closed his eyes. Tried to picture it. Rossiter, standing somewhere here, hooded and shackled. The meeting between the two parties. Perhaps a handshake.
Then: the sudden onslaught, carried out efficiently and mercilessly.
He said, ‘Rossiter’s people not only knew about the exchange, but knew precisely where it was taking place.’
‘Yeah,’ Asher said. ‘A leak somewhere.’ There was a trace of contempt in his voice. Purkiss wondered if he was expressing disdain at the British security measures.
‘Probably,’ said Purkiss. ‘But not necessarily where you think.’
Asher’s brow creased. ‘Come again?’
‘I mean, there may have been another way they identified the site of the exchange.’
He stepped away from Asher, far enough that he could be certain he was out of earshot. From the corner of his eye he saw the man watching him.
Purkiss took out his phone.
When Vale answered, he said, ‘Quentin. I need you to find out when and where Rossiter had that bug implanted in his arm. Which staff were present.’
After a moment, Vale said, ‘Ah. Yes, I see. I’ll see what I can dig up.’
‘Also,’ Purkiss said, before Vale could hang up. ‘Asher’s not one of us. He’s CIA.’
He explained tersely. When he had finished, Vale took a moment to reply.
‘That’s interesting.’
‘Keep it to yourself for now, all right?’ Purkiss sensed that Asher had taken a step or two closer. ‘I haven’t decided yet whether to confront Waring-Jones or not.’
‘Agreed.’
Purkiss put away his phone. He walked back to Asher, said: ‘Housekeeping.’
‘Uh-huh.’
They prowled around the site for half an hour, but Purkiss felt the frustration building. He hadn’t expected to spot any clue that the forensics team might have missed, but he’d been hoping for… something. Some flash of insight. Some intuitive hunch.
He felt nothing.
On the walk back to the Mercedes, Asher said, ‘So what are you going to do about me? Complain to Waring-Jones?’
‘I haven’t decided yet.’
Asher turned and gazed back at the ridge, as if he expected the helicopter to make a reappearance. ‘You know, I could still be of use to you. I could use the Company’s resources to help.’
They’d been driving for ten minutes when Purkiss said, ‘You can stay on board.’
‘Good.’ After a pause: ‘May I ask what made you decide that?’
‘Because the CIA are going to want to stay involved in the circumstances, regardless of whether or not you’re removed from the case,’ said Purkiss. ‘At least you’re the devil I know. Otherwise, they’ll forever be sending new people into the field, getting in my way.’
‘I like your thinking,’ said Asher.
Nine
The junior FSB officer saw the flicker of light on the monitor an instant before the faint, insistent tone started its pinging.
He wheeled his chair over and hit the key to freeze the image on the screen.
He was twenty-five years old, and was one of a group of neophytes in the service known not-altogether-affectionately as the kindergarteners. His ambition was to reach sufficient seniority that he’d be posted to one of the country’s foreign embassies, in Western Europe preferably, where the lifestyle appealed to him. But for now, he was assigned to shift work, monitoring the banks of international surveillance channels which were active twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.
It was work of the most mind-numbing tedium. Which was why it was considered essential training.
And, every once in a while, something truly significant came up.
The particular monitors he was in charge of showed a streaming feed from the airport surveillance cameras in London, England. There were a lot of them, not only in the major ports of Heathrow and Gatwick, but also in the capital’s lesser points of airborne entry and exit. That was why there were no fewer than ten personnel, all kindergarteners like him, manning the screens.
The monitor he was looking at now was one of those covering the arrivals area at London City Airport.
The footage came streaming in, a continuous feed, and local FSB software analysed it while running a cross-match with its databases of ‘people of interest’. In this manner, the movements of significant people into and out of Britain could be noted. The system wasn’t foolproof. It couldn’t be, and wasn’t expected to be. But on occasion, a match was made.
The image frozen on the screen was of a tall man with dark hair. He wasn’t looking directly at the hidden camera, and his face was turned slightly to one side. But his features were clear.
In a frame to one side of the monitor, the facial recognition software displayed its match. The same man’s face stared out, the image far crisper than the one on the airport camera.
The young kindergartener didn’t recognise the man. Didn’t recognise the name that came up.
But he saw the code in vivid letters alongside the matched image.
The priority code.
Escalate to senior officer with urgency.
The kindergartener picked up his phone. He’d send an electronic account of the match, but escalate with urgency meant there had to be immediate telephonic contact as well.
When the curt voice at the other end said, ‘Yes?’, he told his superior that a John Purkiss had just been identified arriving at London City Airport.
The message passed up the chain of command with smooth efficiency.
Within seven minutes of the match having been made by the facial recognition software, the Director of the FSB was informed.
Karl Borisovich Krupyev was in his office at the time, alone for once, taking a few minutes of respite between meetings. After he put the phone down, he sat for thirty seconds, allowing himself to savour the sensation of urgent, visceral excitement.
Then he picked up the phone once more.
Usually, when he made this call, he hesitated for an instant. He believed too-frequent calls to the number might make him seem weak, or too eager to please.
This time, he had no doubt the call would be welcomed.
As he waited for the connection to be made, he opened the attachment to the message which had just arrived on his computer monitor.
He looked at the face. And felt another thrill of triumph.
John Purkiss, the British agent, had aborted the attack on the President two autumns ago in Estonia. An attack that had been instigated by Richard Rossiter.
Now Rossiter was a fugitive. He’d slipped through their grasp, in circumstances nobody had yet begun to understand.
And Purkiss had surfaced.
It might mean nothing. It might be coincidence.
What might be, didn’t matter.
The ring tone ended in a click so abrupt that the Director caught his breath.
‘Yes?’ Even the single syllable was enough to capture the man’s voice. The voice which everybody was familiar with, which was heard nightly on the television news, and across the world as well.
It was a voice that could charm, and chill.
‘Mr President,’ the Director said, as neutrally as he was able. ‘We have a development. John Purkiss has been identified in London.’