He’d noticed that Asher had tried a slight diversion, turning up a side street unnecessarily and rejoining the original route. The car behind had hung on to them.
Purkiss said, ‘Any others?’
‘Just the one.’ Asher’s face in profile was hawkish, his eyes scanning the road through the windscreen. ‘They may have another car ahead. Hard to tell.’
It would be a classic box tag: at least one vehicle behind, and another ahead. The car in front was the vulnerable one, of course, because a sudden change in direction would throw it off course. Which was why there were usually a minimum of two tags ahead, in this kind of tactic, to allow for greater flexibility.
So Purkiss had to assume there were at least three opposition vehicles in the field.
Asher said: ‘You want me to lose them?’
Purkiss had been in this type of situation before, as a junior SIS officer in the early years of the last decade. It had been Basra, in the aftermath of the Iraq invasion, and while on a reconnaissance operation in the centre of the city he’d found himself boxed in by a total of four enemy cars. The nature of his mission was such that the people tagging him had one goal in mind, and one only. Namely, to isolate Purkiss and kill him.
On that occasion, his objective had been to get away. To break out of the box, and lose the tags. He’d done so, successfully.
Now, in London, with a target whose whereabouts were a mystery, and with almost nothing to go on, the presence of surveillance offered an opportunity rather than a threat.
‘No,’ Purkiss said. ‘Draw them in.’
‘I thought so.’
Purkiss had said draw them in rather than draw them out for a specific reason. Drawing out entailed the luring of the tag to a more isolated environment. Drawing in forced the follower to show his hand in a more public place.
The green signs ahead indicated a left turn into the Rotherhithe Tunnel, which would take them beneath the river and southwards. Purkiss heard the ticking of the indicator as Asher flicked it on, saw the winking of the light on his own wing mirror.
The car behind closed in a little.
Asher began to take the Toyota into the turn that would put them on course for the tunnel. He swung the wheel rightwards in a second, pointing them straight ahead, extinguishing the indicator.
Then he jerked the wheel left again.
The lights behind them tilted in their direction.
And Asher spun the wheel, the tyres squealing, and aimed ahead once more, leaving the tunnel approach behind and to their left.
Horns blared furiously around them.
It was a triple feint, twice creating the impression of a left turn, and its purpose was to sow confusion in the tag. Asher pulled it off expertly. The car behind arced after them, thrown by the sudden alteration of direction.
The car exposed itself. Left no doubt that it was following them.
Sometimes, the manoeuvre was used to flush out a suspected tag you weren’t quite sure about.
In this case, the purpose of the move was psychological. Its intention was to embarrass the followers. To make it clear to them that you were aware of their presence, and to force them to drop all pretence of secrecy.
Purkiss watched the lights in his mirror. The next stage was difficult to predict.
If the followers were part of a classic surveillance detail, intent solely on tracking the Toyota, then they’d do one of two things. Either they would stay put, continuing the surveillance in full knowledge that their cover had been blown; or, they’d peel away, abandoning the exercise.
On the other hand, their objective might be to close in for the kill.
Asher put his foot down, just a little. It was a Friday night in Central London, at a little before nine o’clock, and the traffic was only just beginning to thin out from its rush-hour peak. A bank of vehicles ahead was stopped at a red light. Purkiss saw Asher check the side streets on either side, then ease back on the accelerator. They slowed, then stopped, the engine idling.
The tag behind them was three cars back.
Purkiss peered at the wing mirror, trying to make out details. But the car was too far back, and the blur above the headlights too vague, for him to be able to tell how many people were in the vehicle. He assumed at least two: the driver, and another. Probably more.
The lights ahead had turned green, but for some reason the traffic wasn’t moving. Purkiss stared through the windscreen. There didn’t appear to be roadworks obstructing the way.
Around and ahead of them, the drivers began leaning on the horns.
Beside Purkiss, Asher said, quietly, ‘God dammit.’
Purkiss felt his pulse quicken, his respiratory rate ratchet up a notch. Any number of obstacles could delay a pull-away at a traffic light, especially in a city like this.
But context was everything. He’d identified a tag behind him, and assumed there’d be accomplices in front. And now, something was preventing movement ahead.
It suggested the snapping shut of a trap.
Asher said, ‘What did you do with my gun?’
He meant the .22 Purkiss had taken off his ankle back in Scotland.
Purkiss had secreted the pistol in the pocket of his jacket.
He said, ‘I threw it away.’
He looked at Asher.
Was the trap one that Asher had helped spring? Was that why they’d been followed so immediately?
The noise of car horns, the rippling sea of lights from every direction, even the smells of city air and exhaust fumes, crowded in.
Asher turned his head to stare at Purkiss. One of his eyes caught a wink of light from outside, so that it flashed, as if made of glass.
Purkiss reached inside his jacket, his fingers finding the stubby grip of the pistol.
He felt the door sag away behind him and twisted, drawing the gun as he braced himself so as to avoid toppling backwards.
He felt the chilly rush of air through the open door. Felt cold, metallic hardness press against the side of his head.
A woman’s voice said: ‘Out. Get out of the car.’
Twelve
Purkiss brought the .22 up but she was fast, the edge of her hand chopping at his wrist, numbing the nerves so that his fingers slackened around the grip of the pistol and her sweeping hand was able to knock it from his grasp. She was tall, he registered, but slender, and she accommodated the difference in size between them by keeping back, her arm extended side-on so that the gun pressed against his head.
‘If you don’t come with me now, you will be killed,’ she said, her voice low and urgent.
Purkiss noticed the Russian accent. He didn’t think she was threatening him, but issuing a warning.
He heard Asher shout something but Purkiss complied, stepping from the car with his hands held away from his body. Around them, cars were continuing to sound their horns, the pack mentality kicking in.
Up ahead, Purkiss could now see the cause of the obstruction. A car had pulled across the road beyond the lights, blocking two lanes.
He glanced back over the row of vehicles behind them.
Saw two silhouettes rising from one of the cars.
‘Come. Now.’ This time she raised her voice. Grabbed his arm and pulled, hard.
Although she wasn’t pointing the gun at him any longer — she held it down by her side, to conceal it — Purkiss followed her across the lane alongside, weaving between the backed-up cars, until they reached the pavement. He looked back, saw the two men from the car behind sprinting towards them.
Purkiss ran with the woman, his long strides allowing him easily to keep pace even though she was leading the way. The pavement was crowded with late-evening shoppers and diners on their way to and from their chosen eating places, and Purkiss felt the jarring of shoulders and elbows as he barged his way through.