by Tim Stevens
‘That doesn’t surprise me.’
‘He was shot yesterday. I was there.’
Rossiter waited.
‘What was your connection with him?’
‘Now, now, John.’ Rossiter wagged a finger. ‘You’re going to have to give me a little more.’
‘Before he died,’ said Purkiss, slowing down for emphasis, ‘Arkwright revealed he was hired as a torturer by the current head of the Security Service, Sir Guy Strang.’
And there it was, definitely this time. The force behind the eyes. The roiling, almost feral energy.
Rossiter leaned in.
‘Now you’re being interesting,’ he said.
Thirty-five
‘Istanbul, in early 2007, it would have been. You were in Marseille at the time, weren’t you? Yes. My brief was to investigate the flow of Turkish drug money which was suspected to be helping fund the insurgency in Iraq.’
Rossiter’s gaze was in the distance as he remembered.
‘Our relationship, the Service’s relationship, with the Turkish authorities, was – how can I put it? – complex. Nominally we were allies, and still are. But there was a strong element within the Turkish services which bitterly resented our presence there, even though various pacts and accords enshrined our rights to be involved. So although we were reliant to some extent from the intelligence shared with us by our Turkish counterparts, we couldn’t always fully trust either its accuracy or its completeness.
‘I decided this wasn’t good enough, and developed my own intelligence-gathering network within the city. Off the books, of course. The official SIS line, even internally, was that we were to engage in no underhand operations that didn’t have the approval of the authorities.
‘I used local people for the gathering of intelligence, but outside sources for the extraction of information. I’d tried Turkish interrogators before, but I’d found them either too soft on their compatriots, or by contrast too zealous. One has to strike a balance. So I hand-picked a number of people, mostly Europeans, to carry out the questioning of individuals I’d identified as being involved in the local drug business.’
‘One of them being Arkwright,’ said Purkiss.
‘Yes. He came recommended to me through a complicated series of links, none of which probably have any bearing on the matter at hand. I learned of his background as a Royal Marine Commando, and of his dishonourable discharge. At the time I recruited him, he was working for a low-rent security firm in Saudi Arabia.’
‘Did you discover anything about his involvement with the Security Service?’
‘No. That part was carefully covered up. No doubt he’d had professional assistance in doing so. His CV was a list of short-term contracts with assorted mercenary and security outfits. I looked into one or two of them, they held up, so I didn’t bother vetting him further.’
‘Sloppy,’ remarked Purkiss.
Rossiter turned a palm upwards. ‘Perhaps. But you have to remember, John, I wasn’t hiring an agent to do sensitive, complicated undercover work. I was hiring a torturer. A flavour of the background of such a person is usually all that’s necessary.’
Purkiss thought about it. ‘You recruited Arkwright in early 2007.’
‘March, I believe.’
‘He told me he’d left Iraq in February 2005, after the car bombs at Al Hillah. He returned to Britain to have his injuries seen to. And then, as he was about to go back to Iraq, he was approached by the Security Service.’
‘When was that, exactly?’ said Rossiter.
‘I don’t know. I didn’t get a chance to clarify that point.’ Purkiss counted off on his fingers. ‘But let’s say he was undergoing medical treatment for three months. That’s probably an underestimate, given the apparent extent of his injuries, but we’ll say three months. He’s recruited by the Security Service in May 2005. He told me he worked for them for two years. Till May 2007, that would be. It doesn’t tally with when you say you hired him.’
‘It’s close, though’ said Rossiter. ‘When he told you two years, it might have been an estimate.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘But I take your point. And if he did come to work for me immediately after the Security Service work, it means the last job on his CV – the one in Saudi – was fake.’
Purkiss drew a long breath, released it through his nose. He sifted through the information, trying to find something of use.
‘Why would Arkwright have mentioned you with his dying breath?’ he asked.
‘I’ve been wondering that myself,’ Rossiter said, sounding genuinely intrigued. ‘He obviously wanted you to speak to me, but it’s hard to fathom why.’
‘Did you ever have anything to do with Mohammed Al-Bayati?’
‘No. I hadn’t heard of him until you mentioned his name. I didn’t have a great deal of involvement in the Iraq arena.’
Purkiss ran through the sequence in his mind again. Al-Bayati gets killed. Arkwright, when confronted with Al-Bayati’s name, confesses to torturing him and dozens of others. After being shot, and presumably knowing he’s dying, Arkwright mentions the name of Rossiter, a man he was hired by only after doing the torture work for the Security Service.
It didn’t add up.
Purkiss transferred his gaze to Rossiter across the table.
‘You haven’t told me why you’re interested in this, by the way.’
‘Because it’s a puzzle, and I always like those,’ Rossiter said.
Purkiss shook his head. ‘That’s not the only reason.’
‘No. It isn’t.’ Once more, the cold blaze behind the eyes. ‘The mention of Sir Guy Strang is what got me.’
Purkiss waited.
‘Strang represents everything that’s wrong with the Security Service.’
‘How would you know?’ said Purkiss. ‘You were SIS. You had nothing to do with them.’
Rossiter smiled faintly. ‘Not wanting to boast, John, but an SIS operative of my seniority starts to get roped into interdepartmental liaison more and more. Particularly since the start of the new terror threat, Five and Six have been forging closer links, even as they’ve come to detest one another increasingly. I’ve seen the workings of the Security Service up close.’
‘So what’s wrong with Sir Guy?’
‘Strang is, on the surface, a Churchillian figure. A big, bluff, no-nonsense ox of a man who enjoys a drink and a cigar and has little time for the oily corporatism and middle-management mentality which seems to be suffusing both our services at the moment. He’s a clichéd hate figure, a privileged white middle-class male with High Tory political views and no sensitive feminine side whatsoever.
‘The immense irony is, he’s exactly the same as the careerists and opportunists he affects to despise. He’s all image. All style and no substance. His image is a rebellious, snook-cocking one… but it’s an image, ultimately, and that’s all it is. He’s not serious about the job. He has no principles. He’s easily led. And at a time when the head of Britain’s Security Service cannot afford to be weak, or even show weakness… he’s exactly the wrong person for the job.’
‘It sounds as though he was decisive enough, supervising the torture of prisoners.’
Rossiter wagged his finger again. ‘Don’t confuse ambition with suitability, John. Plenty of ferociously ambitious people have clawed their way into jobs they were eminently unfit for. Look at most of the Cabinets of the last couple of decades. Strang was ruthless enough when he was bulldozing his way to the top job. But now that he’s there… he’s achieved his goal. All his efforts are now focused not on getting the job done, but on staying where he is.’
‘Have you ever met him?’ asked Purkiss.
‘I have, as a matter of fact. Three years ago, about six months before he was appointed as his service’s head. Some joint policy meeting or other. He was both a boor and a bore. I listened to his stupid quips and his pig-ignorant opinions and I thought, my God, we’re doomed.’ Rossiter tilted his head as though realising something for the first t
ime. ‘In fact, that may have partly influenced my decision to do what I did in Tallinn. I came to understand that if Britain was destined to have a third-rate Security Service, it had better have an absolutely top-notch foreign intelligence agency.’
‘Really,’ said Purkiss. ‘I thought you told everyone the reason you tried to murder the Russian president was to avert a nuclear war.’
Rossiter tipped his head in acknowledgement. ‘Ultimately, yes. Nuclear destruction is the only issue that matters in the end. All else is fluff. And nobody’s willing to face up to the fact.’
Purkiss glanced where his watch should be, remembered he’d handed it in at the front. ‘We’re digressing.’
‘Indeed. But I just wanted to answer your question, as to why I’m cooperating with you. You’re unearthing evidence which could well bring Strang down. I’m all for that, in the interests of the body politic.’ Rossiter clapped his hands together. ‘So. Your man Morrow discovers, through his links with Al-Bayati, that Arkwright was a torturer who not only tortured Al-Bayati himself, but did so at the behest of Strang, the head of Five. He –’
‘We don’t know that,’ said Purkiss.
‘What?’
‘We don’t know Morrow found out about Strang. He may have learned from Al-Bayati only that Arkwright was carrying out the torture on behalf of Five.’
‘Fair point. In either case, Morrow decides to blow the whistle. He requests a clandestine meeting with the Home Secretary. Strang finds out about the meeting – he could have done so in any number of ways, the simplest being that the Home Secretary told him – and arranges to have Morrow killed.’
‘That makes sense so far,’ said Purkiss. ‘But it doesn’t explain how the gunman got on to me, and tried to kill me at my home.’
‘You’re sure Mo Kasabian didn’t send him?’
‘Yes,’ said Purkiss. ‘There’s the evidence of the polygraph, and my own eyes. She was telling the truth.’
‘Then her security’s been breached,’ said Rossiter. ‘Somehow Strang’s found out that you’ve become involved.’
Purkiss sighed. ‘Rossiter, this is all stuff I’ve already figured out. Is there anything you can give me that might help?’
Rossiter thought for a moment. Then: ‘The security firm Arkwright said he was working for at the time I recruited him. The one in Saudi.’
‘What about it?’
‘It exists. I checked it when I hired Arkwright. Even got a reference for him. But if he was really doing Strang’s dirty work at the time, then the firm might be a front. A shell company, designed to provide cover for other activities.’
Purkiss considered it. ‘Yes. It’s a possibility.’
‘The firm’s called Scipio Rand Security. It’s based in Riyadh. I can’t recall its address or contact details but you should be able to find it without difficulty.’
‘All right.’ Purkiss couldn’t bring himself to say thanks.
He studied Rossiter. There really wasn’t anything more to ask, or say.
Purkiss stood. Rossiter gave it a second and then rose too.
Behind Purkiss, the door opened and he felt the warder’s presence.
Quietly, so as not to be overheard, Rossiter said: ‘Get him, John. Get Strang.’
Purkiss turned his back and went out.
Vale was waiting near the entrance, in a small office they’d lent him. He stood when he saw Purkiss.
‘Anything?’ he asked.
‘Maybe,’ said Purkiss. ‘I need a flight to Riyadh.’
Thirty-six
In the Poetry and Dream room, its walls weaving and shimmering with Surrealism, Emma opened her hand. Nestled in her palm was the tiny bead she’d found in the lining of her handbag.
James, close by her side, glanced down at it.
She looked at his profile but it revealed nothing.
James picked the bead out of her hand and peered at it, rolling it between thumb and forefinger.
‘What is it?’ Emma whispered, both out of reverence for the gallery’s atmosphere and because she was reluctant for anyone else to hear.
‘Difficult to say,’ murmured James. ‘Probably nothing. A flaw in the bag.’
‘But it wasn’t there before,’ she said. Before I came home from being with you, she managed to stop herself from saying.
He made a wry mouth. ‘Can you be sure?’
‘It’s part of my training as a doctor to spot things out of the ordinary,’ Emma said. ‘This is definitely something new.’
‘Okay.’
‘Might it be a bug? Some sort of transmitter?’
He sighed. ‘It’s possible. I’ll take it back to the office and have it examined. But more likely you’re reading too much into this.’
Emma gazed at the picture on the wall before her, a nightmarish vision of distorted screaming faces on blurred bodies. She should feel reassured, she knew. But instead she felt uneasy.
‘James.’ She turned to look up at him.
His brow furrowed. ‘Yes.’
‘Did you plant this in my bag? Are you… monitoring me? Spying on me?’
Something changed in his eyes.
He placed a hand on each of her shoulders, drew her nearer. His face grave, his eyes warm again, he said: ‘No. I promise you.’
After a few seconds she said: ‘Okay. I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be.’
They walked hand in hand for fifteen minutes, pretending to look at the exhibits. Emma registered none of them.
There’d been something in his eyes. Something dark, just for an instant.
James’s hand tightened on hers and he stopped.
‘I have to get back now,’ he said.
‘Of course. Sorry to have called you away.’
He kissed her forehead. ‘No problem.’ Pulling away, he raised an eyebrow. ‘Still on for tomorrow?’
‘Wouldn’t miss it.’
He left first, disappearing into the milling visitors at the entrance. Emma watched him go.
She gave it five minutes.
Then she set off, walking rapidly back along the south bank. The afternoon heat cloyed at her, trying to plug her mouth and nose. The crowds felt similarly oppressive.
At Victoria she unlocked her car. Driven by something she couldn’t identify, she began searching. She rummaged in the glove compartment and side pockets, ran her fingers under the seat and dashboard, lifted up the carpets to look underneath.
Nothing. Emma straightened beside the car, wondering at herself.
She got in and drove home. Hurrying inside, she went through to the bedroom and began ransacking her clothes, groping in the pockets, feeling the hems.
She moved on to the bathroom next. Pill bottles, overnight toiletry bags, towels. None of them yielded anything.
It was by chance that she found it. Emma was about to replace the cap of a lipstick tube when she twisted the end the wrong way in her haste.
The end came off. There, affixed to the disc of metal, was another tiny bead, identical to the one from her handbag.
The lipstick was from her overnight bag, a spare. She hadn’t taken it two nights ago, but she had when she’d spent the night with James before. The last time had been about a month ago.
Emma sat heavily on the toilet seat, staring at the floor. She felt lost, and cold.
And afraid.
Thirty-seven
Tullivant walked at a fast clip across the Millennium Bridge towards the north bank, thumbing the speed-dial key.
‘It’s confirmed,’ he said tersely. ‘They’re on to me.’
He explained. There was a silence at the other end.
Then: ‘Not good.’
‘I know.’ A tourist jostled him, wheeling angrily, but Tullivant kept moving. ‘I need to take him down.’
‘No. Not at this point. It’ll just get in the way.’ Another pause. ‘Take precautions. But stay focused on the main game.’
‘So what’s the next move?’ he asked. A busker step
ped into his path playing a ukelele and Tullivant veered away.
‘I’m waiting for Purkiss’s next step. That’ll determine ours. But be prepared to move in at short notice. Cancel whatever plans you’ve got for tomorrow.’
‘That’s going to be tricky.’
‘Cancel them. This should soon be over.’
‘Understood.’
Tullivant put his phone away. He cut north-west towards the Strand, burning off adrenaline with each stride. It had been a tough forty-eight hours, all told. First the bungling at Purkiss’s house, then the mess up in Cambridgeshire, and now... this.
At least the targets had been neutralised. At least Arkwright was dead. And by the way things were playing out, Tullivant had got him at just about the right time. But his failure in his battle with Purkiss bothered him. The man had been blinded by teargas, and already weakened by earlier brawling. For Tullivant barely to get away unscathed was shameful. Perhaps he was getting too old; or perhaps Purkiss was simply more than a match for him.
Shame was good, he reflected. Used correctly, and not wallowed in, it stiffened the resolve. He’d learned that during his Army days. If you survived your blunders, you learned from them, did better next time. His next encounter with Purkiss would not result in failure on his part.
His more immediate problem was Emma. She was a loose cannon now, he could tell. Unpredictable, in a different way from Purkiss. And he couldn’t address anything with her directly. Couldn’t confront her.
The charade – yes, that was what it was, even if the word and the concept were distasteful – had to be maintained. The final outcome, however, was going to be most traumatic for all concerned. For Tullivant himself, too; he couldn’t pretend otherwise.
He’d done the odds and ends he needed to do, and was on his way to his destination, when his phone rang.
‘An update.’ Tullivant detected a note of tension that fell just short of urgency. ‘Purkiss is no longer part of the game. You don’t need to concern yourself with him any more.’
Tullivant was intrigued. ‘He’s been taken out?’
‘As good as.’
Thirty-eight
