by Tim Stevens
Beside Purkiss, Asher murmured: ‘You see it?’
‘Yes,’ said Purkiss.
The lights had caught his attention even before his conscious mind had registered them. They were a single pair, hovering in his wing mirror, disappearing as the traffic interposed itself before emerging again at exactly the same distance behind.
He’d noticed that Asher had tried a slight diversion, turning up a side street unnecessarily and rejoining the original route. The car behind had hung on to them.
Purkiss said, ‘Any others?’
‘Just the one.’ Asher’s face in profile was hawkish, his eyes scanning the road through the windscreen. ‘They may have another car ahead. Hard to tell.’
It would be a classic box tag: at least one vehicle behind, and another ahead. The car in front was the vulnerable one, of course, because a sudden change in direction would throw it off course. Which was why there were usually a minimum of two tags ahead, in this kind of tactic, to allow for greater flexibility.
So Purkiss had to assume there were at least three opposition vehicles in the field.
Asher said: ‘You want me to lose them?’
Purkiss had been in this type of situation before, as a junior SIS officer in the early years of the last decade. It had been Basra, in the aftermath of the Iraq invasion, and while on a reconnaissance operation in the centre of the city he’d found himself boxed in by a total of four enemy cars. The nature of his mission was such that the people tagging him had one goal in mind, and one only. Namely, to isolate Purkiss and kill him.
On that occasion, his objective had been to get away. To break out of the box, and lose the tags. He’d done so, successfully.
Now, in London, with a target whose whereabouts were a mystery, and with almost nothing to go on, the presence of surveillance offered an opportunity rather than a threat.
‘No,’ Purkiss said. ‘Draw them in.’
‘I thought so.’
Purkiss had said draw them in rather than draw them out for a specific reason. Drawing out entailed the luring of the tag to a more isolated environment. Drawing in forced the follower to show his hand in a more public place.
The green signs ahead indicated a left turn into the Rotherhithe Tunnel, which would take them beneath the river and southwards. Purkiss heard the ticking of the indicator as Asher flicked it on, saw the winking of the light on his own wing mirror.
The car behind closed in a little.
Asher began to take the Toyota into the turn that would put them on course for the tunnel. He swung the wheel rightwards in a second, pointing them straight ahead, extinguishing the indicator.
Then he jerked the wheel left again.
The lights behind them tilted in their direction.
And Asher spun the wheel, the tyres squealing, and aimed ahead once more, leaving the tunnel approach behind and to their left.
Horns blared furiously around them.
It was a triple feint, twice creating the impression of a left turn, and its purpose was to sow confusion in the tag. Asher pulled it off expertly. The car behind arced after them, thrown by the sudden alteration of direction.
The car exposed itself. Left no doubt that it was following them.
Sometimes, the manoeuvre was used to flush out a suspected tag you weren’t quite sure about.
In this case, the purpose of the move was psychological. Its intention was to embarrass the followers. To make it clear to them that you were aware of their presence, and to force them to drop all pretence of secrecy.
Purkiss watched the lights in his mirror. The next stage was difficult to predict.
If the followers were part of a classic surveillance detail, intent solely on tracking the Toyota, then they’d do one of two things. Either they would stay put, continuing the surveillance in full knowledge that their cover had been blown; or, they’d peel away, abandoning the exercise.
On the other hand, their objective might be to close in for the kill.
Asher put his foot down, just a little. It was a Friday night in Central London, at a little before nine o’clock, and the traffic was only just beginning to thin out from its rush-hour peak. A bank of vehicles ahead was stopped at a red light. Purkiss saw Asher check the side streets on either side, then ease back on the accelerator. They slowed, then stopped, the engine idling.
The tag behind them was three cars back.
Purkiss peered at the wing mirror, trying to make out details. But the car was too far back, and the blur above the headlights too vague, for him to be able to tell how many people were in the vehicle. He assumed at least two: the driver, and another. Probably more.
The lights ahead had turned green, but for some reason the traffic wasn’t moving. Purkiss stared through the windscreen. There didn’t appear to be roadworks obstructing the way.
Around and ahead of them, the drivers began leaning on the horns.
Beside Purkiss, Asher said, quietly, ‘God dammit.’
Purkiss felt his pulse quicken, his respiratory rate ratchet up a notch. Any number of obstacles could delay a pull-away at a traffic light, especially in a city like this.
But context was everything. He’d identified a tag behind him, and assumed there’d be accomplices in front. And now, something was preventing movement ahead.
It suggested the snapping shut of a trap.
Asher said, ‘What did you do with my gun?’
He meant the .22 Purkiss had taken off his ankle back in Scotland.
Purkiss had secreted the pistol in the pocket of his jacket.
He said, ‘I threw it away.’
He looked at Asher.
Was the trap one that Asher had helped spring? Was that why they’d been followed so immediately?
The noise of car horns, the rippling sea of lights from every direction, even the smells of city air and exhaust fumes, crowded in.
Asher turned his head to stare at Purkiss. One of his eyes caught a wink of light from outside, so that it flashed, as if made of glass.
Purkiss reached inside his jacket, his fingers finding the stubby grip of the pistol.
He felt the door sag away behind him and twisted, drawing the gun as he braced himself so as to avoid toppling backwards.
He felt the chilly rush of air through the open door. Felt cold, metallic hardness press against the side of his head.
A woman’s voice said: ‘Out. Get out of the car.’
Twelve
Purkiss brought the .22 up but she was fast, the edge of her hand chopping at his wrist, numbing the nerves so that his fingers slackened around the grip of the pistol and her sweeping hand was able to knock it from his grasp. She was tall, he registered, but slender, and she accommodated the difference in size between them by keeping back, her arm extended side-on so that the gun pressed against his head.
‘If you don’t come with me now, you will be killed,’ she said, her voice low and urgent.
Purkiss noticed the Russian accent. He didn’t think she was threatening him, but issuing a warning.
He heard Asher shout something but Purkiss complied, stepping from the car with his hands held away from his body. Around them, cars were continuing to sound their horns, the pack mentality kicking in.
Up ahead, Purkiss could now see the cause of the obstruction. A car had pulled across the road beyond the lights, blocking two lanes.
He glanced back over the row of vehicles behind them.
Saw two silhouettes rising from one of the cars.
‘Come. Now.’ This time she raised her voice. Grabbed his arm and pulled, hard.
Although she wasn’t pointing the gun at him any longer – she held it down by her side, to conceal it – Purkiss followed her across the lane alongside, weaving between the backed-up cars, until they reached the pavement. He looked back, saw the two men from the car behind sprinting towards them.
Purkiss ran with the woman, his long strides allowing him easily to keep pace even though she was leading the way. The pa
vement was crowded with late-evening shoppers and diners on their way to and from their chosen eating places, and Purkiss felt the jarring of shoulders and elbows as he barged his way through.
He thought about Asher. Wondered if he was fleeing the man, or abandoning him to an attack.
Shouts on the pavement behind Purkiss almost caused him to turn, but he kept going, because to turn would be to slow them both down, and he sensed the pursuers gaining ground.
‘Hey.’
The man stepped in front of Purkiss from nowhere, a large man, beefy rather than honed. Purkiss tried to side step but his momentum was too great and he cannoned into the large belly.
‘What you doing, mate?’
He smelled beer on the man’s breath, had a vague impression of a belligerent, twisted mouth. The woman was several paces ahead and Purkiss realised it appeared as if he was chasing her. This man was her knight in shining armour, his bravado fuelled by alcohol.
Purkiss dropped the man with a moderately forceful sword hand to the side of the throat, hard enough to hurt and to stun the carotid plexus but insufficient to cause any lasting damage. As he went down, the fat man flailed blindly and a ham-like fist caught Purkiss in the belly.
He’d tensed his abdominal muscles at the last moment but the pain flared, dull and nauseating, and his stride faltered.
The woman was now ten paces in front, the back of her head visible between those of the interposed crowd. People were milling about in confusion, vaguely aware that some kind of commotion had started up.
Purkiss understood that he’d lost ground, and that whoever was behind him would be upon him at any moment.
He made his decision, and turned.
The first man bore down, startlingly quickly, closing in with his empty hands ready. Purkiss jabbed the stiffened fingers of his right hand upwards and under the man’s breastbone, pivoting from the hip for maximum force. The man jackknifed and Purkiss brought his fist down on the back of the man’s neck, stepping back to allow him to hit the pavement hard.
A woman screamed, shrill and primal.
A second man was struggling with the crowd, his face peering at Purkiss.
Purkiss turned and continued after the woman. There was no point hanging around.
*
She stepped out from a doorway and was at Purkiss’s side and walking swiftly, keeping close.
‘What happened?’ she said, not looking at him.
‘Two men, at least,’ he said. ‘I put one of them down.’
‘They are FSB.’
Without warning she took his arm and tugged him down a side alley. It was too narrow for them to move abreast. At the far end, it opened into a bright street, blaring with music.
They kept going, crossing the road and heading down a second alley, Purkiss following her lead, aware that they were heading towards the river.
The embankment sloped to the water on the other side of its iron railing. The crowds were thinner here, less raucous. Purkiss and the woman had slowed to a walk, and nobody gave them a glance.
At a bench on a stretch of grass near the railing, she stopped. She knelt on the bench with her back to the river. Purkiss understood: she was keeping the area behind them in view. He sat beside her, facing the riverside.
‘I am Yulia Saburova,’ she said without preamble. ‘FSB.’
Purkiss waited, every muscle taut and primed.
‘I am based here at the Embassy.’ Her voice was flat, declaratory. ‘You were observed arriving at London City Airport this evening, and instructions were issued to place you under surveillance. If you detected us, and attempted to evade us, we were to close in and apprehend you. As you have discovered.’
When she fell silent, Purkiss said, ‘So why are we here now?’
‘You are looking for the fugitive, Rossiter. Apprehending you would be a disastrous action on our part. You have a better chance of locating Rossiter than we do. To remove you from the field, even temporarily, would be to waste precious time.’
Purkiss watched the strolling couples on the embankment, the joggers, the dog walkers.
‘You’re saying you’re disobeying orders?’ he said. ‘Helping me evade capture by your own people?’
‘Yes.’ For the first time, her tone of neutral confidence wavered a fraction. ‘I argued with my head of station that you should not be taken into custody. He disagreed, telling me the orders had come from the President himself. I chose to follow my own judgement. In the interests of my country’s security.’
Again there was a slight pause, as if the implications of what she’d said were beginning to sink in. Purkiss glanced at her. Her hair was short and dark, her cheekbones sharp above a wide mouth. She was perhaps thirty, or a little older.
‘How did you find me?’ said Purkiss.
‘My unit at the Embassy coordinates FSB surveillance activity here in London. It was a simple matter to locate the vehicle which followed you, and track it remotely. I patched into the communications system and learned the details of the car you were in. I located you, and the surveillance car, with relative ease. When it became clear you were taking evasive action, I intervened. Perhaps you would have succeeded in escaping. Perhaps not. I decided not to take the chance. It was I who obstructed the traffic, with my own car, in order to get you out.’
Watching her eyes, Purkiss said: ‘The Embassy’s in Kensington Palace Gardens. Miles away from the airport. You couldn’t have got there in time.’
She didn’t hesitate, didn’t betray anything in her eyes or her posture or her voice that might suggest she’d been caught out in a lie. ‘I was not at the Embassy. We have offices further east, too. In St Paul’s. From there, the distance was not so great.’
Purkiss let the silence hang, like a drop of water swelling on the tip of a leaf before plunging.
‘A serving FSB officer, in a good post abroad, defies the orders of not only her head of station but also the President himself, to help a foreign agent evade capture by her own side.’
He stood up. Saw her tense on the bench.
‘Forgive for pointing out that it stretches plausibility beyond breaking point.’
‘Sit down, Mr Purkiss.’ There was steel in her voice, though she spoke quietly.
‘Or else?’ He didn’t move. ‘What, you’ll shoot me? There’s a contradiction there which you’ll appreciate, I’m sure.’
‘You believe this is a ploy,’ she said coolly. ‘That this is some orchestrated FSB plan to gain your trust, and thereby to allow us to use you to find Rossiter.’ She tilted her head. ‘It’s the way I would have run it, had I been in charge. But I am not.’
‘It doesn’t matter, in any case,’ Purkiss said. ‘I have no reason, or desire, to work with the FSB on this.’
Somewhere, nearby, her colleagues would be waiting for a signal from her. Waiting for the indication that the plan had failed, and they were to move in and take Purkiss down after all. He let his gaze slip through two hundred and seventy degrees, back and forth. Felt his heart rate begin to rise, in preparation for flight.
She stood up. He waited for her to put her hand inside her jacket, take hold of the gun.
She said, ‘I can help you.’
‘I already told you, I don’t need –’
‘I have the name for a contact of Rossiter’s,’ she said. ‘Within MI6.’
Thirteen
A wind had risen from the river and Purkiss turned his collar up. They were walking along the stone path that ran along the bank, leaving the Docklands behind and heading towards the heart of the city. Every jogger that slipped past them, every strolling couple, represented a momentary threat.
‘Again,’ Purkiss said.
The woman, Saburova, if that was her real name, had shown him the photo on her phone. It was a standard Service personnel file mug shot. Purkiss didn’t recognise the face: a white man of perhaps fifty-five, with level black eyes and cropped-back hair and sharp grooves on either side of his mouth.
‘Henry Spencer Donovan,’ she said. ‘We identified him as a member of your service in 2003. The photograph I showed you is more up to date, from four or five years ago. He was, back when we first noticed him, posted in Tunisia. How we identified him does not really matter: a surveillance operation we were conducting on another established MI6 asset picked him up by accident. We added him to our database, and largely forgot about him.’
Purkiss’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He looked at it, saw it was Asher calling. There were six missed calls from the same number which he hadn’t noticed before. He put the phone away again.
‘In 2006, one of our teams in Beirut caught Donovan on camera once again. This was at the time of the Israeli campaign against Hezbollah in Lebanon. Donovan was seen meeting a man in a hotel lobby. The man was Rossiter.’
She said the name with an intonation Purkiss couldn’t quite characterise. It wasn’t contempt. It was something approaching awe.
‘We did not know Rossiter then, or his significance. But, after the Tallinn attack in 2012 - the one you succeeded in aborting - the FSB carried out an exhaustive review of its database. Every picture, every piece of video footage, every sound recording from the last twenty years was analysed to see if Rossiter featured in it. We became obsessed with the man. With the man who had tried to murder our President. And we found the pictures of Rossiter with Donovan, in the Beirut hotel.’
‘You started looking for Donovan,’ Purkiss said.
‘Yes. Your government had Rossiter in its custody, and was refusing to hand him to us. But Moscow was determined to find out who he truly was. Who his associates were, then and previously. We had been cheated of our revenge, and we would not let it rest.’
‘Did you find him?’ said Purkiss. ‘Donovan?’
They were between one streetlamp and the next, and her face was in darkness.
‘No,’ she said. ‘We could find no trace of him. I myself co-ordinated the search here in London. There was nothing. He did not exist, as far as any official records were concerned. Of course, we do not have full access to the MI6 apparatus, so it is perfectly possible he continued to operate as an intelligence asset.’
