So: it was a whole day since the ambush at the prisoner exchange site. A day since Rossiter, the prize Moscow had been seeking for almost three years, had flown the coop.
Vodovos began to wonder if his principled silence, his discipline in refusing to co-operate without the involvement of his own people, was a terrible mistake.
He made it to the wall and slammed against the cold concrete, gasping, his face slick with sweat. His wounded leg pounded as though nails were being driven into it.
He used the wall to manoeuvre himself round.
The two guards, he decided, must have some kind of medical or nursing expertise — this was an infirmary, after all, and he was a patient — but their role was primarily that of a jailer. They would, of course, be under strict instruction to note anything Vodovos said or did, and to convey such data to their superiors.
Vodovos started out on the return journey to the bed. The distance was no more than eight or ten feet, but might as well have been a mile. It would take him the best part of a minute to reach the bed.
A minute in which to weigh up his options, and make his decision.
By the time he collapsed on the bed, the pain in his leg giving way to an intense, seizing cramp, he knew what he must do.
Vodovos twisted his face on the bedspread so that one eye caught the gaze of the guard nearest him, a burly black man with an expression like stone.
‘Bring Rupesh Gar in here,’ Vodovos said, his voice slightly muffled against the blanket but nonetheless audible in the near silence. ‘I wish to tell him something.’
Gar appeared ten minutes later. He had lost his tie, and his hair was a little rumpled, but he appeared alert.
Vodovos was propped up against the pillows once more, his injured leg raised to ease the throbbing. He looked pointedly at the two guards.
With a flick of his fingers, Gar dismissed the two men.
After the door had closed behind them, Vodovos said, ‘Who was that man with you earlier? The one asking the questions? The one who threatened my family?’
Gar watched him. There was no depth to the man’s eyes, and at the same time an infinite emptiness.
‘You probably know.’
‘I do not,’ said Vodovos.
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because I believe I was supposed to recognise him. I believe you brought him in to… rattle me? Is that the word?’
The pause was so long, and Gar so motionless, that for an instant Vodovos wondered if he was talking to a human being, rather than some new and radical form of artificial intelligence.
Gar said, ‘His name is John Purkiss.’
Yes. The name was known to Vodovos.
It was, in fact, legendary.
Purkiss was the man who had intervened in Tallinn to save the life of the President. He was also now considered to be dangerous, a threat to the Russian State, because of something that had occurred in the late winter of last year, in the Siberian tundra near Yakutsk. Vodovos cursed himself inwardly for not getting up to speed. He’d read the briefings, but hadn’t delved into them in any depth. If he had, he would have seen photographs, and would have recognised Purkiss immediately.
But he knew this much: Purkiss had opposed Rossiter in Tallinn.
And that was all that mattered now.
He heaved himself more upright. The pain howled in his leg, but he controlled it, controlled his reaction to it so that he didn’t even wince.
He said, ‘I have some information I am willing to impart.’
His mouth barely moving, Gar said: ‘Your conditions remain unacceptable. We won’t permit the presence of a representative of your government.’
‘My conditions have changed.’
Gar waited.
‘That man,’ said Vodovos. ‘Purkiss. I will talk to him. Face to face. Nobody else.’
Nineteen
Dawn broke at a few minutes before six o’clock, and the sudden emergence of sunlight over the rooftops made Purkiss squeeze his eyes shut. He felt the grit of sleeplessness, and blinked to clear it.
The offices of Arrowhead Shipping were on an industrial estate near the docks to the west of Liverpool’s Toxteth district. They’d arrived an hour earlier and had settled down to wait. Asher had left his car and gone to find refreshments. He’d reappeared twenty minutes later with a cardboard holder containing cups of hot coffee and a sack of pastries.
The journey up from London would take under four hours, and Purkiss had decided it was pointless to set off immediately. The four of them — Purkiss, Asher, Saburova, and Kendrick — had lounged around the Pimlico hotel room for a while, trying to rest but struggling.
At half past one Purkiss had gathered them together and they’d slipped out via different exits. Kendrick had stopped at a Land Rover and unlocked it with a press of a button.
‘Didn’t know you were driving again,’ Purkiss said.
‘Last few months.’ Kendrick ran a hand over the roof with a lover’s caress.
‘You got your licence back, then?’
‘Mind your own business.’ Kendrick climbed behind the wheel.
Two vehicles were a better idea, anyway, Purkiss thought. It provided greater flexibility.
He got in beside Kendrick, while Asher and Saburova drove ahead.
Purkiss wondered if it was the best arrangement. He didn’t trust either Asher or Saburova, and he was a believer in the dictum that it was wise to keep your enemies, actual or potential, close. Perhaps a combination of him and either Asher or Saburova would have been more prudent.
But he could speak more freely with Kendrick.
‘Who’s the babe?’ said Kendrick, after they’d been driving ten minutes and the river was in sight.
‘FSB. Russian Intelligence. She says she’s a renegade, defying her own people to help bring down Rossiter. She thinks they’re reacting too slowly.’
‘And you believe her?’ In profile, Kendrick looked like a seedy demon. ‘These Russians. We think we’re a clever lot, us Brits, but they’re way more devious than we are. She’s playing you, Purkiss. She’s no renegade. She’s FSB. Their way of getting involved in the hunt, without doing so officially.’
‘Perhaps.’ Purkiss had noticed this about Kendrick. Despite his crassness, his overt disdain for the business Purkiss was in, he’d always displayed an uncommon perceptiveness, something his head injury hadn’t dimmed.
‘What about the fella? The Yank git?’
‘Asher’s CIA. He was sold to me as SIS, but it was thin cover. The Company has an interest in tracking Rossiter down, and the missing scientist, Mossberg, as well.’
‘It’s like a crap joke,’ Kendrick said. ‘An Englishman, a Russian and an American go into a bar.’
‘What’s your impression of Asher?’ said Purkiss.
‘A bit cocky, underneath the dull front.’ Kendrick swerved to cut in front of a car ahead and made an obscene gesture when the other driver tooted his horn. ‘But if he’s CIA, you can’t trust him either. He’ll be looking out for American interests above all else. I saw it in Iraq. They’re friendly, helpful and all that shit, but at the end of the day they’ll throw you to the wolves if it suits their purposes.’
While Kendrick dozed behind the wheel of the parked land Rover, Purkiss watched the squat office building. There were no signs of life yet, apart from a uniformed security guard who ambled past from time to time, engrossed in something on his phone.