From behind him, he heard Waring-Jones’s voice, not yet shot through with an old man’s quaver: ‘Yes. We were releasing him. Handing him over to a captor from whom his chances of escape were even more remote, but… yes. We were letting him go.’
Purkiss raised his head, his back still to the others. He needed fresh air. He needed the smells, the raw and dirty and impure aromas of the city. He needed anything but this dry, quiet, controlled atmosphere that was threatening to stifle him.
‘Why?’ he said softly.
Waring-Jones’s reply came after a few seconds’ delay. ‘You have a personal investment in Rossiter and his fate. I fully understand that.’
‘No.’ Purkiss turned.
The training week in Belgium had sharpened his ability to keep his feelings well away from his face. Even so, it was a struggle.
Gar had risen, too. Purkiss ignored him.
To Waring-Jones, he said, ‘I mean: why? Why did the PM sanction it? The handing over to the Kremlin of a senior SIS operative? You know how much Rossiter has locked in his skull. Decades’ worth of minute detail. The networks along the Mediterranean coast. Our work in the Baltics.’ Purkiss’s mind raced through the catalogue. ‘For God’s sake. He was in Minsk in the early nineties. He’ll have knowledge of the sleepers we left there.’
Purkiss stopped. He knew that if he continued, he’d start climbing the curve towards hysteria.
Hysteria meant loss of control.
Waring-Jones gazed at him. His expression was sombre.
‘I know, Mr Purkiss,’ he murmured. ‘I know it all. The notion of delivering Rossiter to the Russians is as agonising to me as would be the ripping off of one of my limbs.’
He paused, to let his words sink in.
‘So you’ll appreciate that the quid pro quo, the asset which Moscow was giving us in return, was of significantly greater value to us.’
Purkiss said: ‘How?’
There was genuine regret in Waring-Jones’s voice when he said, ‘I can’t tell you. You aren’t authorised to know.’
Four
The tableau had shifted.
Waring-Jones now stood at the picture window, his head bowed but not quite pressed against the glass. Gar had sat down again.
Vale was pacing the floor in long, slow strides, his back to the rest of them.
Purkiss stood in the centre of the carpet, watching Waring-Jones.
The Director said, over his shoulder: ‘Quentin, you may smoke if you wish.’
Gar glanced sharply at his superior, and then at Vale.
Purkiss expected Vale to decline. But the older man reached into the pocket of his coat and brought out a battered pack and pushed a cigarette between his lips and fired up.
Involuntarily, Purkiss looked at Gar. He saw the tensing of the features, the slight moue of disapproval at the mouth. Vale was committing an illegal act, lighting a cigarette inside a workplace, and the Director of SIS was conniving.
Waring-Jones said, ‘You appreciate the problem we face. Russian intelligence agents and military personnel have been killed on British soil. So have their British counterparts. Two prisoners of the highest importance have disappeared. The Russian government is incandescent with rage. The President has been in almost continuous telephone communication with the Prime Minister since the early hours of this morning. The PM is being accused of sabotaging the prisoner exchange, of behaving in a deliberately provocative manner in order to goad Russia into an aggressive response which will bring the world closer to a conflict which will have dreadful and far-reaching consequences.’
He turned from the window.
‘My question stands.’ He made sure to glance at Vale as well as Purkiss. ‘What happened last night?’
Purkiss said, ‘The Russians.’
Waring-Jones waited a moment. Then he said, ‘Please elaborate.’
‘You’ll have considered it yourself.’ Purkiss felt a flicker of irritation. ‘The Kremlin is behind the attack. They massacred their own people in order both to get Rossiter and to hang on to their scientist, Mossberg. They’re feigning outrage now, just as they did after the Litvinenko murder, but it’s purely for show.’
‘There’s a hitch with that idea, John.’ It was the first time Vale had spoken since they’d entered the room. He stood, half-turned towards Purkiss, the cigarette burning between his fingers. ‘Moscow deals in provocation. No doubt about that. We’ve seen it in Ukraine, and in their air force manoeuvres over the Arctic and off our own coasts over the last few months. But this is in a different league. This is sabre-rattling taken a step further. With the prospect of hot, all-out conflict a likelihood rather than a possibility. It isn’t the way Moscow plays.’
‘All right,’ Purkiss said. ‘Then a rogue faction inside the Kremlin.’
‘Possible,’ said Gar, from the sofa. ‘It’s currently our second-favourite hypothesis. A disaffected clique of generals, perhaps, or political rivals of the President.’
Purkiss said, ‘I assume your prime hypothesis is that Rossiter himself is behind this. That he had people on the outside, all along, biding their time. Waiting for their opportunity.’
Gar looked swiftly at Waring-Jones, then back to Purkiss. ‘Yes. That would appear to be the most likely explanation.’
From the moment in the car when Vale had said Rossiter was no longer in British hands, Purkiss had assumed the man had arranged his own rescue. The inevitability of it had been a constant itch in Purkiss’s psyche, for the last thirty months.
He said, addressing Waring-Jones, though he was really talking to Vale: ‘Did he ever reveal anything?’
‘Rossiter? No.’ Waring-Jones moved away from the window towards the middle of the office. ‘Nothing at all. We tried everything, I assure you. Everything in keeping with the letter of the law, if not its spirit. Sleep deprivation. Trickery. Threats. Bogus offers of clemency. Rossiter always maintained he was acting alone in Tallinn, and before that. He insisted he had no accomplices. No network.’
‘And you believed him.’
‘Good Lord, no.’ Waring-Jones looked appalled. ‘Of course there were others. We’re certain of it. Which makes it all the more disquieting that Rossiter kept his mouth shut. The only reason he could have had for refusing to betray his network was that he was planning to use them at some point in the future. Last night’s events suggest that he has done precisely that.’
‘Who knew about the exchange?’ asked Purkiss.
‘The PM, and the Home and Foreign Secretaries, as I’ve said. Rupesh and I. The Service operatives involved in the exchange, all of whom were killed last night. And, of course, the Russians. We’ve no way of knowing how widely the information was distributed at their end, of course. But fewer than ten people on this side.’
‘Ten people, plus those in their immediate circle,’ said Purkiss. ‘Their spouses. Their lovers. Their administrative staff.’
Gar was on his feet. Purkiss didn’t look at him, but he could feel the fury ebbing off the man in waves.
Waring-Jones appeared unruffled. He said, quietly: ‘I know your history with the Service, Mr Purkiss. I’m well aware that you have your… misgivings about us. You believe that an organisation which could allow a man like Richard Rossiter to rise within its ranks to such a senior position, is fundamentally — what’s the phrase? — unfit for purpose. But on this matter, you’re wrong. The individuals entrusted with the knowledge of this operation were each and every one of them fully aware of its importance. One hundred per cent discretion was a given. Nobody shared the smallest scrap of data about the exchange. Nobody.’
‘Then one or more of these individuals leaked the information themselves,’ Purkiss said. ‘One or more of them — of you — is working with Rossiter.’