He extended his hand. Both men shook.
Gar stepped forward and they repeated the ritual with him. His intensity was unusual, Purkiss decided. It came from his bearing, his aura. His eyes themselves were so neutral they were almost blank.
Waring-Jones indicated for them all to sit. His desk was vast, and occupied most of one end of the room. But there was a coffee table nearer the door, with easy chairs arranged around it, and it was to these that he directed Vale and Purkiss.
There must have been five hundred books on the shelves lining the walls. Purkiss appraised them quickly. He noted a preponderance of volumes about China. Waring-Jones was a Sinophile, Purkiss knew, and one of the reasons for his rapid rise to the Deputy Directorship had been his extensive knowledge of the country, at a time when it was ascending to world prominence itself.
Tea and coffee were already arranged on the table. Waring-Jones helped himself, gestured to Purkiss and Vale to do the same.
Without preamble, Waring-Jones said: ‘Quentin will have briefed you on the situation. But to save time, I’m going to assume you know nothing.’
He glanced at Gar, nodded.
Gar fixed his gaze on Purkiss. He said, ‘Last night, at a location up in the Highlands, on the Moray Forth approximately thirty miles from Inverness, an incident occurred which has triggered the highest level of alert this country has seen since the London bombings on July seventh, 2005.’
Gar’s accent was cut-glass. He’d been educated at Harrow and then taken a Master’s degree in politics at Oxford, Purkiss knew. But he’d come from unprepossessing beginnings, the grandson of an immigrant shopkeeper from Delhi. His voice was more aristocratic even than Waring-Jones’s.
Which meant it had to be an affectation.
‘During a prisoner exchange, one involving our Service and operatives of the Russian FSB, an attack was launched by an unknown party. Both prisoners involved in the exchange disappeared. All of the personnel facilitating the exchange, on both sides, intelligence operatives and military alike, were killed. All but one. An FSB agent named Stepan Vodovos. He’s at present in our custody.’
As if they’d rehearsed this, Gar glanced at Waring-Jones, who continued: ‘The prisoner exchange was a clandestine one. They always are, of course — they’re not the sort of thing you read about in the paper — but in this case, it was given the green light by the Prime Minister himself, without the approval of the Cabinet.’
Purkiss processed this quickly. For the Prime Minister to sanction an operation of this kind and not seek Cabinet approval first, or at least not inform them, was highly unusual. It hinted at something of a significance Purkiss couldn’t guess at.
‘The parties involved in the exchange,’ said Waring-Jones — he’d been a schoolmaster, briefly, as a young man, and the cadences of his speech gave the impression of a demagogue delivering an address — ‘were on the one hand a Russian scientist, Valeriy Mossberg, a professor of physics, and on the other a British national. Richard Rossiter.’
He paused, as if expecting a reaction from Purkiss.
When Purkiss showed nothing, Waring-Jones gave a tiny nod. Purkiss thought he saw approval in the action.
‘As I don’t need to remind you, Rossiter is a convicted traitor. He was instrumental in the attempted assassination of the Russian president in Estonia in October, two and a half years ago, when his stated aim was to trigger a war between Russia and the NATO countries. He has been in solitary custody at a secret location ever since then. One month ago, it was decided — and I emphasise, gentlemen, that this was agreed at Prime Ministerial level — that Rossiter would be handed over to Moscow in exchange for their scientist, Mossberg.’
Purkiss felt the squirming, howling tangle of thoughts and emotions rising once more from the deeper regions of his psyche, just as they had in the car with Vale. He forced them down once more, slammed them behind a heavy, soundproofed door and locked it.
Waring-Jones said drily, ‘Needless to say, such an exchange of assets is… controversial. It could never be allowed to come anywhere near public awareness. Hence the decision by the PM to bypass Cabinet and sanction the operation alone. The Home Secretary was kept in the loop, as was the Foreign Secretary. But apart from those ministers, only Rupesh and I were privy. Plus, of course, the operatives actually involved in the swap, on the ground.’
He paused again. Purkiss thought he saw the patrician features tighten a fraction, the effortless composure waver for an instant. The man’s knuckles, he noticed for the first time, were distorted by arthritis, and must have been remarkably painful. The fingertips of the right hand massaged the bony protuberances of the left.
As if taking his cue, Rupesh Gar picked up: ‘We transported Rossiter to an airfield near Inverness last night, with an escort of three Service personnel and ten members of the armed forces, hand-picked from a variety of outfits — Marine Commandos, the Parachute Regiments, the Royal Engineers. The arrangement was that the Russian detachment would arrive by similar means, namely a light aircraft. Vodovos, the FSB man we have in custody, was the official contact person from Moscow. He would of course bring along a military escort himself. The exchange was to take place over a handshake — there’s been no paperwork at any stage of this process — and the Russians would return to Moscow with Rossiter.’
Gar broke off. Though his eyes remained blank, it seemed to Purkiss that the enormity of what had happened had struck him anew.
Waring-Jones said, ‘There was a back-up plan, naturally. We had a military detachment waiting half a mile away from the rendezvous point. They heard gunfire, and the sound of a helicopter, and they responded immediately. By the time they reached the site it was too late. The prisoners were gone, and the personnel had been killed.’
He frowned, as if his thoughts were gathering behind the knot of his brow.
‘It’s conjecture at this early stage, but we believe the helicopter employed stealth technology to evade the radar systems and to mask the sound of its approach until it was too close to be intercepted in time. The preliminary forensic reports indicate that the men on the ground were shot by a combination of machine-gun projectiles and small-arms fire. Which suggests either that the helicopter contained gunmen who fired their own weapons, in addition to the hardware integral to the helicopter itself, or that there was a two-pronged attack, with a ground assault as well. Ballistic impressions suggest that some of the men were shot at close range, which would tend to favour the latter scenario.’
Abruptly, Waring-Jones stood up. He clasped his hands together, looked down at Purkiss, and Vale, and back to Purkiss. He was a man who could clearly handle his tension internally, for the most part. But now he needed the release of movement.
‘So,’ he said. ‘We have a clandestine exchange of assets, between Great Britain and Russia. On British soil. The exchange is sabotaged, to devastating effect. Both assets are now missing.’
Through the picture window, the crisp morning sunlight, balanced as it was on the cusp of the winter’s dying bite and the promise of spring, illuminated a police speedboat arrowing down the river under Vauxhall Bridge. The total silence, despite the flashing blue light on the boat’s roof, brought home to Purkiss how insulated they were from the world beyond.
Waring-Jones said, ‘Gentlemen, I’d appreciate your opinions. What, exactly, happened last night?’
Purkiss got up and walked towards the window — he was aware of Gar shifting in his chair as he passed — and gazed out at the river and the South Bank beyond.
Without turning, he said: ‘You let Rossiter go.’