by Tim Stevens
Purkiss raced back to the living room, entered at a crouch again. Kendrick was to one side of the window, using the wall for cover, firing awkwardly through the ruined glass.
A shot cracked through the window, jolting the sofa as it impacted, sending a billow of upholstery blooming. Purkiss saw a blur of movement in the front garden as a man’s shape sprinted and dodged, zig-zagging closer down the slope.
Kendrick, who’d jerked back behind the wall again, took a breath and once more aimed through the window.
The two shots came so close together that their respective sounds were impossible to separate. Kendrick’s gun-arm jerked high, and Purkiss found himself thinking in a detached way: bad control of recoil, there.
Kendrick leaped backwards. Except it wasn’t a leap. Wasn’t a voluntary movement at all.
He landed on his back on a coffee table, the heavy wood splintering and folding under his weight.
Purkiss saw the mess that was Kendrick’s forehead.
He dived for Kendrick’s outstretched arm, caught the pistol before it skittered away across the floor.
Came up on one knee, aiming at the window.
The silhouette bobbed into view, limned by the brightness of the evening sky, and Purkiss fired, getting two shots off in quick succession.
The silhouette disappeared.
Purkiss glanced down at Kendrick, then back up at the window.
He shuffled across, peered over the sill.
The man was sprinting back across the lawn, rifle in hand. Was almost at the road.
Purkiss tensed, gripped the window frame.
Looked back down at Kendrick.
Made his decision.
He knelt beside Kendrick. One of Kendrick’s feet was jerking spasmodically. His head was misshapen, the forehead cratered. In the bog of gore that stretched across his scalp and down over his right eye, white chips of bone glistened.
Purkiss slipped his hands round the back of the stubbled scalp, probing carefully. No exit wound. But then there wasn’t likely to be one in any case. A direct hit from a rifle of this type would destroy the head completely.
Which meant Kendrick hadn’t taken a direct hit. Either the shot had sheared across his forehead, or he’d been struck by a ricochet.
In the side of Kendrick’s neck, a listless pulse rose and fell slowly, irregularly, against Purkiss’s fingertips.
Purkiss pulled out his phone, dialled 999.
Then he dialled Vale’s number.
As the distant sirens began to coalesce, alerted already by the gunfire, Kendrick lay on Purkiss’s living room floor, his head violated, his life ebbing.
Seven
Tullivant had never believed emotions were something to be cauterised out of one’s psyche. Numbness wasn’t a state to be aspired to; it slowed your reflexes, made you less responsive. Which could end up being fatal.
But he did accept there were suitable times for experiencing emotions, and others when they needed to be put aside temporarily.
Tullivant was at the wheel of a Toyota Corolla. The balaclava and gloves he’d worn were stuffed beside the spare wheel under the boot. The Timberwolf rifle was in a holdall on the back seat. He drove neither slowly nor quickly, showing a natural mild curiosity at the screaming emergency vehicles hurtling past in the opposite direction as he headed down Highgate Hill.
Later, he would experience rage, and guilt, and self-doubt. He would indulge them, wallow in them, even, and gradually come to an appreciation of how justified or otherwise they were, and of what they could teach him.
Now, he had to evaluate the extent of his failure, and the implications.
He reached Camden Town, abandoned the Corolla, and transferred to his usual and equally nondescript car, a Mazda. This one had custom-built compartments above the chassis for his gun and other accessories.
Before starting the engine, Tullivant sat behind the wheel, preparing himself for the phone call he had to make.
He’d missed. It was as simple as that. Bad luck had played a part, but bad luck had no place in a sniper’s list of excuses. And once you’d missed the first time, the chances of a successful kill were almost non-existent. Especially when your target was a fellow professional.
Had he made matters worse by approaching Purkiss’s house, rather than hanging back? Tullivant wasn’t sure. He was confident Purkiss wouldn’t be able to describe him except in the most generic way; his face and hair had been hidden by the balaclava, and his build and gait were unremarkable. Nevertheless, the sloppiness of the ensuing carnage troubled Tullivant. Mass destruction was sometimes necessary, but for this type of job, precision was key.
He dialled. It was answered on the third ring.
‘I was unsuccessful,’ Tullivant said.
He gave a concise account of events, answered questions. He didn’t expect an explosion of fury, and he didn’t receive one.
‘Am I to move in again on the target tonight?’ he asked.
No, he was told. But there were further instructions, for another, different target.
Tullivant listened, memorised the details.
Still stationary, he turned on the car radio and listened to the news. There was nothing yet about the episode. Although a veil would be thrown over the whole business, it would be impossible to keep it entirely secret; the genteel burghers of Hampstead would be asking questions about the eruption of gunfire which had disturbed their Friday evening’s peace. Some story would be concocted about terrorist suspects, or perhaps drug dealers, but the police would keep the details under wraps.
Tullivant pulled out. He decided to head to the area where the next target was located. The hit would have to wait until tomorrow, for various reasons, but Tullivant liked to scout out the terrain beforehand where possible.
He headed southeast, avoiding the worst of the Friday evening congestion, and reached the chaotic streets of Lewisham on the other side of the river. All the while, he had a sense of the London crowds gravitating inexorably towards the centre of the city and the West End, like a gently advancing tide.
Locating the street he was looking for, he drove down it at a speed that wouldn’t arouse suspicion. There was the address. Tullivant took pains not to stare too pointedly at the terraced house. There was light behind the drawn curtains, and movement.
Tullivant found a spot to park further along the road, and he watched the entrance to the terraced house in his rear-view mirror. He wanted to get some idea of numbers, and of security arrangements.
Three hours later, having counted the people coming and going, having observed the tottering pile of pizzas delivered by the boy on the moped, Tullivant estimated at least six guards.
The rifle wouldn’t do, this time, then. He’d have to use an altogether… messier method tomorrow.
Eight
‘It’s her,’ said Purkiss. ‘Kasabian. She set me up.’
They were in an office of some sort, which Vale had procured in his usual efficient and mysterious way. Purkiss stood, bouncing on the balls of his feet, restless, wanting to move about. Vale too ignored the chairs in the room, but was quite still, watching Purkiss.
He’d responded immediately, had Vale, reaching the hospital at the bottom of Highgate Hill minutes after Purkiss and the ambulance ferrying Kendrick had got there. The paramedics had stabilised his neck on a stretcher and set up an IV line and assorted monitors. His blood pressure was adequate, but his pulse rate was alarmingly low. And he wasn’t responding to a row of knuckles rubbed sharply down his breastbone, an ominous sign.
The duty surgeon in the Accident and Emergency department took a look at Kendrick and said, ‘Christ. He needs the neurosurgeons.’ He gave orders for Kendrick’s transfer to the National Hospital for Neurology and Neurosurgery in Bloomsbury.
Purkiss was shooed out of the examination room. He met Vale in the reception area of the casualty department. The police presence which had dogged Purkiss from the scene of the shooting at his house right up to the hos
pital, had evaporated. Vale’s doing, he thought. He knows it’s not a straightforward police matter and he’s pulled strings.
‘Kasabian,’ Purkiss repeated.
To Vale’s credit, he didn’t argue, didn’t try to placate or humour Purkiss, or even ask what he meant. Instead he frowned faintly and said, ‘It’s a possibility, yes.’
‘It’s more than that.’ Purkiss picked up the polystyrene cup of coffee someone had handed him, found it was empty, and tossed it aside. He was quietly furious to notice a fine tremor in his hand. ‘I turn down a job to find the sniper who shot a Five agent. Hours later, a sniper takes a potshot at me, in my own home. Either someone knows I spoke to Kasabian and is assuming I accepted the job, in which case her security is woeful. Or, more likely, she’s set this up herself. To try to scare me into taking on the job, by making it seem as though I’m in danger too and have a personal stake in this.’
Vale raised his hand to his mouth before seeming to remember he didn’t have a cigarette between his fingers. He closed his eyes briefly, then said: ‘Let’s have a full debrief.’
Purkiss told him everything, including as much as he thought was necessary. Vale listened in silence. At the end, he said, ‘One man.’
‘Yes. And he ran, when I fired on him. He had the sense to know he was outclassed, up close. His rifle would have been no use.’
‘Describe him.’
Purkiss’s mind scrabbled for details. ‘Five ten or -eleven. Perhaps twelve, twelve and a half stone. Solid but not musclebound. As I said, he was wearing a balaclava.’
‘Race?’
‘White.’ Purkiss had seen a flash of the skin around the eyes.
‘Any sense of his age?’
‘From the way he moved, I’d guess anywhere between late twenties and late forties. Fast, agile, but more surefooted than you’d see in a younger man.’
‘Military?’
‘Probably. But then most snipers are.’
Someone tapped on the door and a nurse put her head in. To Purkiss she said, ‘Your friend’s being transferred now.’
‘I’ll give you a lift,’ said Vale.
In the car, which still smelt of old, stale smoke, Vale said, ‘How does it look for him?’
‘He’ll probably die,’ said Purkiss.
The surgeon who’d given Kendrick the once over said it looked as though a low-velocity bullet, which Purkiss knew meant most likely a ricochet, had sheared away part of the right frontal bone and part of the underlying frontal lobe of the brain as well. In addition, it looked as if there were bone fragments in the brain tissue. Apart from the injury itself, there were complications to be considered, including swelling of the brain with compression on vital centres such as the ones controlling breathing, and infection. The likelihood of survival was small. The chances of Kendrick’s escaping without long-term consequences were almost nonexistent.
Vale didn’t say I’m sorry, but his silence implied it. Purkiss remembered he’d met Kendrick once, after the business in Tallinn last autumn when Vale had coordinated the operation to extract Purkiss and Kendrick from Estonia and the enquiries of the local intelligence services. Purkiss also suspected Vale knew everything there was to know about Kendrick’s background, that he quietly vetted all Purkiss’s associates, even though he gave Purkiss a free hand in hiring whomever he wanted.
Thinking aloud, Purkiss said, ‘I’d like to be able to say that bullet was meant for me. But it probably wasn’t. No-one was supposed to get killed. It was Kasabian, scaring me. It feels right.’
At the wheel, Vale said, ‘I’m not so sure. That’s starting to look less and less likely.’
‘Why?’
‘Because of the very fact that Kendrick was shot. A professional wouldn’t have let that happen, if he was simply there to put the frighteners on you.’
‘Kendrick was firing back at him,’ said Purkiss. ‘He might have reacted in self-defence.’
Vale gave a slight shake of his head. ‘Sorry, John. I’m not convinced.’
Purkiss gazed back through the windscreen, at the bustle of Camden High Street, its thronging crowds. The ambulance carrying Kendrick had sped ahead long ago.
‘There’s a quick way to find out.’
‘How’s that?’
Purkiss told him.
For once, Purkiss thought he saw the twitch of a smile at the corner of Vale’s mouth.
‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’ said Vale.
‘Completely.’
Vale drove in silence, considering. Then he said: ‘All right. I’ll set it up first thing in the morning.’
‘No,’ said Purkiss. ‘Tonight.’
‘Ms Kasabian might not be prepared –’
‘That’s just it,’ said Purkiss. ‘I don’t want her to be prepared.’
Nine
‘A polygraph,’ said Kasabian.
It was just after midnight. The three of them, Kasabian, Vale and Purkiss, were in a second-floor flat near Covent Garden, a venue Kasabian had specified when Vale called her.
Kendrick had gone into the operating theatre an hour earlier. Purkiss hung around outside, talking to an assortment of doctors and nurses none of whom seemed quite sure who he was. He noticed a small squad of armed police in the vicinity, and felt an odd relief, even though getting shot again wasn’t something Kendrick had to worry about in the immediate future. He wondered what the police had been told. Was Kendrick the suspected victim of a drug deal gone wrong, or of a gangland attack?
When it became clear there wasn’t much more he could do to help, or much more information he could glean about Kendrick’s condition, Purkiss left the theatre and went in search of Vale. He found him where he’d left him, in the reception area.
‘Done,’ said Vale. ‘Ms Kasabian will meet us within the hour. And I’m having the equipment delivered here in a few minutes.’
A quarter of an hour later, a silent, stone-faced young man came through the hospital doors, spotted Vale and nodded, and handed over a small suitcase. Purkiss could tell from the way Vale hefted it that its contents were heavy.
To Kasabian now, Purkiss said, ‘That’s right.’
She stared at him, her eyes trying to probe behind his as they’d done at the earlier meeting. Slowly she nodded in understanding.
‘Yes,’ she murmured. ‘You think I set up the shooting.’
‘I do, yes.’
‘All right.’ She was in the same trouser suit as earlier that day, which led Purkiss to suspect she hadn’t been home yet. She slipped off her jacket and began to roll up her sleeves. ‘Let’s do it.’
The flat was sparsely furnished, and was clearly a safe house of some kind, one of countless similar places across the city. A rectangular dining table stood at one end of the living room. Vale placed the suitcase on the table and opened it, and began to unpack the equipment within.
Few countries used the polygraph as part of law enforcement procedures, and even in the United States, where polygraph evidence was admissible in court in nearly half the states and at the discretion of the judge in federal cases, its validity was highly questionable. Purkiss knew this, and knew Kasabian knew it. But he wasn’t looking to achieve a criminal conviction. He just wanted to satisfy himself that she was lying.
And he’d know. So would Vale.
Purkiss stood by while Kasabian seated herself on one of the chairs next to the dining table and Vale attached the cuff round her left upper arm, the straps across her chest, the sensors on the fingers of her right hand. The leads ran to a box on the table which was in turn connected to a laptop computer.
Purkiss and Vale had discussed beforehand how they would conduct the questioning. Vale was the more experienced interrogator, and Purkiss wanted to observe Kasabian’s responses to the questions as they occurred. At a nod from Vale, Purkiss sat down at the table, the laptop open before him. Vale pulled one of the chairs over to the other side of Kasabian and sat facing her, a comfortable distance away.
On
the monitor, separate channels displayed Kasabian’s respiratory and pulse rates, blood pressure, and skin conductivity, the latter a measure of the amount of sweat she was exuding. Respiration was fourteen breaths per minute, pulse sixty-six beats over the same time period. Blood pressure was an unremarkable one hundred and twenty-two over seventy-eight. All told, they were the physiological measurements of a relaxed, fit adult. Only the skin conductivity was a little higher than normal. But the night was warm, the flat stuffy despite the air conditioning which Kasabian had switched on when they’d arrived.
Purkiss nodded to Vale, and they began.
‘Please state your name,’ said Vale, in his unhurried voice.
‘Maureen Agnes Kasabian.’
‘Your date of birth, please.’
‘Fourth of April, nineteen fifty-one.’
‘Are you at present the deputy director of the Security Service?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you own a dog?’
‘No.’
‘Have you ever been arrested?’
‘Yes.’
Vale continued in the same vein. These were the control questions, the ones they’d use to establish Kasabian’s normal physiological response when she answered truthfully. Purkiss watched the figures on the screen. A very slight increase in pulse and respiratory rate. Blood pressure held steady, as did skin conductance.
‘Were you born in Britain?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you ever been to Antarctica?’
‘No.’
‘Do you have any children?’
There was the faintest hesitation, enough to make Purkiss look up from the screen at Kasabian. Her face was impassive. She wasn’t looking at either of them, was just gazing straight ahead as she had been since the start of the test.
‘Yes,’ she said.
On the monitor, pulse and respiration were up, and blood pressure had risen to one twenty-eight over seventy-nine. Skin conductance was unchanged.
Interesting, thought Purkiss. She’s telling the truth. But the question threw her.
He wondered if Vale knew she had children. Purkiss hadn’t been aware.
