Cronos Rising (11 page)

Vale.
Purkiss felt a sudden anger clutch at his innards. He’d always believed his employer and mentor would die eventually of a heart attack, or of a stroke, or cancer. Vale would have accepted any one of these verdicts philosophically, fully acknowledging that he’d brought it upon himself through his forty-a-day cigarette habit. He’d have passed over with a gloomy wryness, and Purkiss would have saluted him.

Instead, the man had boarded a passenger plane, and had been smashed to pieces on the unforgiving ground at high speed. Despite his level-headedness, his professionalism, he must have been terrified in the last seconds, either hurtling down in the wrecked shell of the aircraft or sucked out through the ripped fuselage to plummet alone. He may even have screamed. Soiled himself.

The lack of dignity bothered Purkiss the most.

Vale hadn’t deserved that.

*

R
ebecca and Purkiss had neatened Kendrick up in his flat, casting aside his ratty overcoat and persuading him to put on a shirt and leather jacket and a clean if musty pair of cargo trousers Purkiss had found buried in the bottom of a wardrobe. The airlines were on heightened alert since the TA15 attack, and any passenger looking like a down-and-out would be given short shrift.

Purkiss felt his back tense as they walked through the terminal to the check-in desk. For a moment his gut twisted, and he wondered if he’d ever be able to visit an airport again without his somatic memory reminding him of the poisoning in Frankfurt. But they breezed through the procedure without incident, and even made it past the security scanner unmolested, although Kendrick had to point out to the staff that he had a metal plate in his head which might set off the alarm.

‘I’m a cyborg, really,’ he said cheerfully to the female security guard, before whipping a pair of plastic sunglasses from his pocket and intoning robotically:
‘I’ll be back.’

The woman smiled tolerantly. Purkiss was relieved. In the United States Kendrick’s behaviour might have provoked a major incident, and got them all arrested. Over here, his quip was seen as just another wearying example of the British propensity for stupid, childish jokiness in every conceivable situation.

Purkiss studied the flight information screen. He noted the departure gate, and the expected boarding time. Fifty minutes from now.

‘We have a bit of a wait,’ he said. ‘Let’s get a coffee.’

They found a seating area outside a row of competing shops. Rebecca rose automatically.

‘No,’ said Purkiss. ‘I’ll go.’

He walked to the counter of the nearest outlet and stood in the queue. He’d wanted to watch Rebecca and Kendrick on their own. See if she responded differently to him when Purkiss wasn’t there.

But Kendrick sat with his legs outstretched, staring at the floor, his lips pursed, while Rebecca  rested an arm on the back of her chair and gazed out over the departure lounge. There was no interaction whatsoever.

That in itself might be significant,
Purkiss thought.

He reached the counter, ordered three coffees. Turned away with the paper cups secured in a cardboard holder.

His glance snagged on a face in the queue behind him.

The man looked straight back. His eyes followed Purkiss even as Purkiss broke contact and  walked away.

Purkiss processed the data on the way back to the table.

White man. Pale. Late thirties. Spectacles. Thinning, fair hair, receding up the forehead. Inexpensive shirt and blazer. Looks like a middle manager, or a literary agent.

He focused on the face. Applied his internal memory grid, linking the features with the words and letters to which he’d applied them.

Domed forehead.
First letter: D.

Glasses. They reminded Purkiss of a pair worn by David Letterman, the talk-show host, on one of the shows he’d watched on a visit to the US as a younger man.
Letter.

D-letter.

He had the name.

Purkiss reached Kendrick and Rebecca and laid the cup-holder down on the table. He saw Rebecca look past his shoulder, watched her posture tense.

Kendrick said: ‘Hey. We’ve got company.’

Purkiss turned. The man from the queue was walking over.

‘Delatour,’ said Purkiss.

*

T
he man blinked, once.

‘You remember me?’ he said. He stopped a few feet away, as if he’d suddenly become intimidated by the three of them.

‘Come closer,’ said Purkiss.

The man had left the queue without buying his coffee. He took a few steps towards Purkiss, his empty hands hanging by his sides.

Purkiss said: ‘Yes. I remember you. April last year. Battery Park in New York.’

‘Correct.’ The man had seemed utterly nonplussed when Purkiss had said his name, but his confidence had returned rapidly. He pointed at a chair. ‘May I sit down?’

Kendrick was staring at him, Purkiss noticed, as he had done at Rebecca earlier.

After he’d settled himself in the seat, the man propped his elbows on the table and gazed at Purkiss. He seemed ill at ease, not just in the present circumstances but in his skin. Purkiss remembered that about him.

In April last year, they’d met on the southern tip of Manhattan when Purkiss had been pursuing a rogue operative named Darius Pope, during the Caliban mission. Delatour was an MI6 asset operating out of the Embassy in New York. He’d been one of Vale’s contacts, and he had furnished Purkiss with information about the CIA agent who’d recently been murdered in the city. The intelligence Delatour had provided was relatively minor; but he’d struck Purkiss as a competent, thorough agent.

Delatour said: ‘My presence here isn’t a coincidence.’

‘I didn’t think so,’ said Purkiss.

‘Vale’s been murdered. Assassinated.’ Delatour stated it as a fact rather than a question.

‘Yes.’

Purkiss was aware of Rebecca shifting in her chair beside him, as if he’d overstepped a mark. He said, ‘How did you find me?’

‘Facial recognition software,’ said Delatour. ‘I’ve been monitoring the cameras at the security points of all the UK airports, in case you passed through. The reason I’ve been looking for you is obvious. I worked with Vale. I want to know why he was killed. And you were a colleague of his.’

‘How did you find out he was on board the plane?’ Purkiss watched carefully, observing for any tells that the man was lying. There were none apparent.

Delatour said: ‘The same way you did, I suspect. I tried calling him. Got a dead line. Checked the passenger list and saw one of his aliases listed.’

Purkiss studied Delatour in silence for a moment. ‘What have you been able to find out so far?’

‘Nothing,’ said Delatour. ‘I’m based in Manhattan, as you know. I called Vale to update him on the staff composition of the Service’s New York network. Which is when I discovered his phone was dead. Once I’d established he was on the plane, I got on the first available flight to London. I’ve been looking for you ever since.’ He glanced at Rebecca and Kendrick as if seeing them for the first time. ‘Who are these people?’

‘Friends.’ Purkiss turned to Rebecca. ‘Delatour is Service, as you’ve probably worked out. He’s helped me before, at Vale’s request.’ To Delatour: ‘Have you involved anybody else?’

‘No.’ The pale man shrugged. ‘I’d like to help you, if you want. You’re going to Athens – I matched your face to the footage on the cameras at the check-in desk for Aegean Airlines.’

Impressive tradecraft,
Purkiss thought.

‘I’ve booked myself on the same flight,’ Delatour continued. ‘Even if you don’t want me to join you, the fact that you’re heading there means you’ve found a lead or some kind. I’ll pursue it alone, if necessary. But I think it would be more productive if we pooled our resources.’

Again, Purkiss noted Rebecca shifting beside him.

Delatour stood up. ‘I’ll be back in ten minutes,’ he said. ‘Have a think about it.’

Purkiss watched him walk away.

‘Odd bugger,’ Kendrick remarked.

Rebecca said, ‘John. Are you going to trust him?’

‘Not fully,’ said Purkiss. ‘I don’t know him all that well. But his story’s plausible. He
did
know Vale, and Vale regarded him as above board. He’s an extra pair of hands. And he’s active SIS, which means he’s got access to them in a way that I haven’t. Databases and so on. It might come in useful.’

Rebecca was silent.

‘You have misgivings,’ said Purkiss.

‘Yes. I do.’ She looked at him. ‘But you’re in charge.’

––––––––

T
hey’d booked seats apart from each other on the plane, partly because of the lateness of the booking but also because it allowed them a broader view of the cabin. Purkiss was near the front, while Kendrick had a window seat in the mid-section and Rebecca found herself at the rear near the toilets.

She’d seen Delatour board after them and settle himself near Kendrick.

As soon as they were seated, ten minute or so before the plane began taxiing, Rebecca took out her phone and sent a text message.

Request intel on a man named Delatour. Late 30s, pallid, fair hair, five-nine. He’s made contact offering assistance.

While she waited for a response, Rebecca peered over the rows of heads in front of her, locating Purkiss’s, his dark hair barely visible over the back of the seat.

She felt a prickle of unease. Delatour’s appearance had been a surprise, and she ought to have dissuaded Purkiss more strongly from agreeing to let him accompany them. But she knew Purkiss would have followed his own instincts, whatever she’d said.

It was one of the things she was beginning to understand about Purkiss. His implacability. His stubbornness.

There was a vulnerability there, too, she sensed, though she hadn’t worked out quite what his weak point was. He gave little away, though he wasn’t by any means an unemotional man.

Did he trust her? Rebecca wasn’t sure. Overtly, he seemed to; and he’d appeared genuinely grateful that she’d helped him in the airport in Frankfurt. But a man of his experience, in his field of work, didn’t survive long by being naïve. Were there aspects of her story he doubted?

Had he realised she was lying to him?

And there was the other man. Kendrick. Purkiss had told her what had happened to him, about the injury. Rebecca had known and cared for people with similar afflictions in the nursing home in Sussex. She recognised the lability, the disinhibition, though Kendrick was far more highly functioning than the invalids she’d nursed. She knew Purkiss wouldn’t have included him if he thought the man was likely to be a liability.

But it was his insistence that he recognised her that bothered Rebecca. She had a good memory for faces, and even taking into account the fact that Kendrick’s appearance had been altered by his wound and the subsequent surgery – his eyelid drooped, and the right upper part of his face was subtly lopsided and distorted – she didn’t think she’d ever seen him before.

Her phone buzzed softly in her lap. Rebecca looked at the screen.

Delatour known SIS. Advise cautious cooperation. Notify me if any suspicious behaviour.

Only mildly reassured, she put the phone away.

––––––––

I
t wasn’t a great deal warmer in Athens than it had been in London, especially at almost six in the morning local time, but the humidity that hit Purkiss made it seem so.

They cleared the airport quickly, the crowds thin at this time of day. None of them carried more than a single bag, allowing them to bypass the luggage carousel. Purkiss had lost sight of Delatour but the man was waiting for them in the main terminal.

‘Where now?’ said Delatour.

During the three-and-a-half-hour flight, Purkiss had deliberated how much to tell the SIS man. As yet, he’d shared nothing: not the video clip Vale had left, not the attacks at Frankfurt Airport. And he hadn’t mentioned anything about the man they were looking for, Saul Gideon.

His plan had coalesced in his mind in the hour before they landed.

‘We find a base first,’ said Purkiss. ‘After that, I’ll tell you a little.’

The cabs outside were numerous, the drivers vying for their attention with sharp blasts from their horns. The humidity was greater out here, and Purkiss felt the cloying in his throat which always took him some time to get used to when he visited this part of the world. Already the dawn was beginning to make its presence felt in a soft red glow at the horizon.

They took two cabs, and drove around until Purkiss spotted a hotel that look suitable, in the XXXX district. He wasn’t overly familiar with Athens, and had last been there over three years ago. Its dilapidation struck him, many of the shops he’d remembered from before now boarded up, the public housing looking more dejected than he recalled it.

They checked in, each taking a single room. Purkiss wasn’t surprised that the place had vacancies. Tourism in Greece was on the wane, and October was a slow month. His room and Delatour’s were on the same floor, the third, while Rebecca occupied one a storey below and Kendrick’s was on the ground. Again, it suited their purposes to be spread out, in case of attack.

They headed for their rooms, having agreed to meet in half an hour downstairs to discuss strategy. Purkiss had caught an hour’s sleep on the plane, enough to take the edge off his tiredness. He’d need more later that morning if he was to keep himself in top form. The delay it would entail would be offset by the advantages.

He watched Delatour disappear into his room. Then, instead of heading for his own, Purkiss went back downstairs to Rebecca’s. He knocked on the door and she opened it immediately, as if she’d been expecting him.

Quickly, he explained his plan.

Afterwards he located Kendrick, who was lying on his bed already, his feet up.

‘Tony. Rebecca and I are going to leave here together in a while, on a pretext. I want you to wait downstairs and watch the entrance. If Delatour leaves, or if anybody arrives that you think is worth noting, ring me.’

Kendrick gazed at him so long that Purkiss wondered at first if he’d heard. At last he nodded.