Delivering Caliban

by Tim Stevens

  DELIVERING CALIBAN

  Tim Stevens

  Kindle Edition

  Copyright 2012 Tim Stevens

  ***~~~***

  Kindle Edition, Licence Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. If you would like to share it with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

  One

  Amsterdam,

  Sunday 19 May, 9.45 am

  The woman in the beret looked back over her shoulder and John Purkiss registered two things simultaneously.

  She was blonde and attractive.

  And she was his dead fiancée.

  He felt the familiar surge in his chest propelling him forwards, as though he was connected physically with her and needed to be in direct contact with her. Countering this was a voice that screamed in his mind, told him to get a grip.

  Purkiss stepped on to the road and wove between the trams and the clangour of the bicycle bells. Amsterdam was a gentle bustle of primitive transport around him, seeming to wash around him like a stream around a rock. He disregarded it, eyes fixed on the woman who had turned away again and was striding with purpose in the direction of the Central Station. Claire wore a mauve beret perched at an angle above her short fair hair, a suede coat tight across her shoulders. He didn’t recognise the clothes, but the gait was hers, there was no question about that: taut, fast, sexy.

  The voice in his mind jabbered at him, its words beyond his hearing.

  Overhead the iron cast of the sky threatened rain. The Dutch spring morning was as ambiguous as they ever were. Purkiss watched Claire pass a stall where among the usual Amsterdam tourist tat – motifs of tulips and cannabis leaves, Van Gogh and Rembrandt prints – sat a number of incongruous Roman Catholic items. A particularly kitsch row of tea towels portrayed the crucifixion, the Vatican, the Pope with hands clasped.

  The Pope...

  The voice broke through into his consciousness. Purkiss lurched to one side out of the path of a blaring taxi, spun to view the road he’d just crossed. He pivoted on his heel, scanning the environment in a sweeping motion that took in the spread of the city south of the station.

  Damn it. He’d lost him.

  As if the thought had somehow sharpened his vision he picked out the tiniest shape in the distance, heading straight for the station’s grand and massive concourse. The head was bowed, the gait almost a sprint.

  It was Pope.

  Purkiss broke into a run.

  *

  The man seemed to sense him approaching at the last minute and turned his shoulder a fraction. For an instant Purkiss thought he’d be someone else, another illusion like the one of Claire that had taken him in a few moments ago. But there was no doubt this was Pope, even in the brief glimpse Purkiss caught of his profile. The thin, prominent nose, the high cheekbones that marked him out even in this city of young and good-looking people, the hint of a grey eye not quite catching Purkiss’s: all were unmistakable.

  Purkiss was a tall man, two inches or so above Pope’s height. He had the advantage of momentum; Pope had been slowing when he’d noticed Purkiss bearing down. But he couldn’t simply drop Pope by diving on him or aiming a blow at the back of his neck. It was broad daylight outside the largest train station in the largest city in the Netherlands.

  Purkiss would have to get close enough to take the man down unobtrusively.

  Pope seemed to sense this and turned fully to face Purkiss, adopting the stance of someone preparing for combat: slightly bent knees, head lowered, arms raised at waist height. He stood at the centre of one of the entrances to the station concourse and people bustled past him, occasionally barging him. His eyes were locked on Purkiss’s. Purkiss assumed Pope would want to avoid drawing attention to them just as much as he himself did.

  Pope’s hand moved inside his leather jacket as Purkiss closed the final few metres between them, and emerged flashing.

  Purkiss stepped aside at the last minute as the blade flashed in an arc across his abdomen, the point catching the edge of his own linen coat; even in the noise of the crowd he heard fabric tear. Pope was right-handed but had swept the blade in a counter-instinctive forehand gesture so that at the end of the movement his arm was across his body, protecting it. Purkiss grabbed for his wrist and caught it and pulled it on, continuing the movement. Pope had been anticipating this and wrenched his arm back, failing to free himself from Purkiss’s grip but keeping his balance.

  With a sharp twist of Pope’s wrist Purkiss popped the knife out of his hand and heard it clatter to the pavement even as Pope’s free hand came jabbing at his midsection. Pope’s stiffened fingers caught him beneath the sternum and even though Purkiss managed to tense his abdominal muscles in time the pain was immense, as though a skewer had been rammed into his belly. He bent forward involuntarily which was a mistake because Pope’s forehead connected with his cheekbone.

  Light and agony exploded in Purkiss’s head. Dimly he was aware that he’d let go of Pope’s wrist. Blinded by nausea he closed up with his arms, covering himself in anticipation of the next blow, but in an instant he realised Pope hadn’t pressed home his advantage but had instead chosen to run.

  Purkiss plunged into the teeming, tilting surge of the crowd ahead of him, shoving people aside crudely, feeling as though he were wading through sludge. He kept sight of Pope’s head, maddeningly close yet separated from him by bodies that were starting to turn and react to him with surprise and outrage. He broke through the mass, sending suitcases spinning. Pope was sprinting down the concourse to the right, all attempts at unobtrusiveness abandoned.

  The yelling behind Purkiss echoed off the great arched ceiling as he gave chase. Pope was heading along a platform towards the semicircle of daylight at the end of the station, veering close to the edge. Two uniformed, shouting men – station personnel, or police – hove into Purkiss’s field of vision and he dodged them smartly. Pope was nearly at the concrete barrier blocking the way between the end of the station concourse and what was presumably some sort of freight platform on the outside. A burly man, another member of staff, had planted himself at the barrier in Pope’s way.

  Purkiss didn’t see exactly what happened next but as he reached the barrier himself he saw the large man sprawled on the platform, hands clasped at his throat, a high-pitched gargling piping from his mouth. There was blood, too, a lot of it. Purkiss vaulted the barrier without breaking his stride. Pope had got across it even more quickly and was well along the platform outside.

  It was as Purkiss had guessed a loading area for freight. Personnel in orange jackets were clustered in a group, staring in astonishment, one or two stepping towards Pope with their hands raised in warning. None of them made a grab at him. By the time Purkiss passed them they had got over their initial bewilderment and looked more willing to confront this second interloper. Something in Purkiss’s face seemed to discourage them.

  A train was at rest on the track to the left. Purkiss watched Pope draw level with the last carriage ahead, then hesitate, looking back. Pope leaped from the edge of the platform, disappearing behind the train.

  Purkiss reached the end of the train. Four tracks ran in parallel, and Pope was on the island between the middle two tracks, sprinting again in the same direction as before. Instead of crossing behind the stationary train and following Pope, Purkiss continued running along the platform, parallel now to the other man. Ahead, the outer two tracks merged into one so that Purkiss and Pope were now separated by a single track.

  Even as he ran, Purkiss knew the other man had the edge: in stamina and in speed. Not an enormous advantage, but enough to make a difference. Pope was pulling ahead so that they were no
longer level.

  When you’ve lost one advantage, create another.

  Scattered on the platform ahead of Purkiss was an assortment of bits of metal. He spotted what he wanted while he was still running, so the delay when he reached the pile was minimal. Slowing only a fraction he ducked and grasped a wheel of some sort, orange with rust, the size of a dinner plate. It had a good heft as he swung it up, enough to give it the momentum needed.

  Purkiss put a last burst of effort into his running, nothing sustainable but enough to bring him back level with Pope. For an instant Pope glanced across the track at him. Purkiss slowed a touch and gripped the wheel like a discus in his left hand and, more awkwardly than he’d have liked because he was using his non-dominant arm, sent the circular block of steel arcing across the track.

  For a moment he thought he’d got the trajectory wrong, but his move evidently surprised Pope and broke his stride and that brought him directly into the path of the wheel. It caught him in the side of the head with a solid noise Purkiss could hear on the other side of the track. Pope dropped, thrown off his feet.

  Purkiss leaped off the platform, his shoes meeting gravel, fear thrilling him as for an instant he was sure he was going to touch the rails. He picked his way between the metal bars and sprang up on to the other side, seeing Pope stagger to his feet and reel about, disorientated.

  Purkiss was at him in two strides, grabbing his shoulders and spinning him round and swinging a punch that would have floored Pope if the younger man hadn’t snapped his head to one side at the last instant and driven a kick into Purkiss’s abdomen, knocking him back. As Purkiss stumbled Pope seized his right arm and rolled on his back, legs drawn up. Purkiss felt himself lifted, pulled along by his arm and across the fulcrum Pope had created with his own balled-up body. The edge of the platform loomed large. Purkiss shot out his left arm and broke his fall awkwardly, his face slamming against the edge.

  He felt Pope twist his right arm up between his shoulderblades and force his knee into the small of Purkiss’s back. Purkiss’s neck was twisted so that he was staring down the track to his right, his head hanging over the edge of the platform.

  A train was approaching the station, curving down the track towards him, the rumble of its wheels and the screech of its braking mechanism amplified through the concrete pressed against Purkiss’s left ear.

  It wasn’t going to manage to stop in time.

  Behind him Purkiss felt Pope twist his arm higher and drive his knee deeper into his back, inching Purkiss forward so that his head protruded further over the lip of the platform.

  The brakes of the train were screaming now. Through the expanding front window the driver’s mouth stretched silently.

  Blindly, Purkiss seized the lip of the platform with his free left hand, ignoring the blaze of pain in his right shoulder where it felt his arm was being wrenched free from the socket. With his hand anchored and using his left elbow as a pivot, he turned slightly on to his left side and heaved.

  Pope toppled forward over Purkiss, releasing his arm to flail reflexively with his hands. As the nose of the train hurtled into the station and Purkiss hauled himself back, he saw Pope drop on to the track feet first, between the live rails, and turn his landing into the first movement of a springing action that shot him up to grab on to the opposite platform. He was pulling his feet clear when the length of the train juddered past, hiding him from Purkiss.

  Purkiss was up on his feet, running through the pain that burned his shoulder and his face and his belly, back down the length of the train. He reached the end and, heart hammering, stared across at the opposite platform, scanning its length.

  Pope was gone.

  Two

  Purkiss cranked the window as much to bathe his head in the cool spring afternoon air as to disperse the nicotine fug. Beside him Vale’s hand on the wheel held a smouldering dog-end between the index and middle fingers.

  He was aware Vale was looking across at him but he stared straight ahead. Images coalesced and dispersed, a surreal kaleidoscope: garish neon above as yet curtained windows in the Walletjes, laughing stoned faces, and everywhere the bicycles, looking in many cases too rickety to be roadworthy.

  Vale said, not for the first time: ‘Are you operational?’

  Purkiss didn’t answer; once was enough. He’d rung once his fingers were steady enough to dial. He could have made his way back to the temporary base Vale had set up but he’d decided to conserve some energy.

  A last burst of speed had taken him away from the station, not this time in pursuit of Pope but out of the reach of whatever authorities were massing and descending on the scene of the fight. Once he’d cleared the canal to the south and lost himself among the shopping arcades he’d slumped against a wall and rung the number. He’d been mildly surprised that Vale had arrived in the car on his own.

  ‘How is he?’ Vale meant Pope.

  ‘In better shape than I am.’ He’d caught Pope hard on the side of the head with the rusty chunk of metal he’d thrown, but up close it didn’t look as if there was any serious damage. ‘Fit enough to be far away by now, and have left no trace.’

  ‘We’ve been over the flat.’ Now he turned to look at Vale. ‘Bit of a mess, as you said.’

  Vale was a rarity, if not unique: a black man in his sixties who’d held a senior position in the British intelligence establishment. Nowadays there were plenty of younger people from minority ethnic backgrounds. Vale on the other hand was a veteran of over three decades’ standing. He looked older than his years, hunched over the wheel, the cowl of his oversized coat like the rim of a tortoise’s shell across his neck. His face was seamed from years of tension and tobacco.

  Purkiss had rung Vale’s number the first time after Pope had fled the flat, not saying anything except: ‘He’s done it. I’m after him.’ He’d trusted the older man to scour the flat and seal it, which he’d done. The police would need to find it eventually.

  So would the CIA. They’d probably get there first.

  ‘Three shots.’ Vale made it a statement, one that sounded obvious, except that Purkiss knew he was fishing for further impressions.

  Purkiss said: ‘Nine millimetre. A Glock, possibly. I didn’t get a good look. I made him drop it. That’s when he made a run for it.’

  There had indeed been three shots, a double tap to the head after an initial belly hit to bring Jablonsky down. There was a significance in that sequence which danced on the periphery of Purkiss’s thoughts. He left it for the time being.

  Something else was clamouring for his attention. When he focused on it, it became a klaxon exploding in his head.

  ‘You have to warn Taylor.’

  ‘Too late.’ Vale was staring ahead now, navigating knots of tourists spilling across the road. ‘We went to his flat as soon as we got your call. Same method. Probably the same weapon.’

  *

  Purkiss had arrived at Schiphol Airport at six that morning. It always seemed to him faintly absurd to fly to Amsterdam when the total time in the air was usually less than that spent journeying to one of London’s airports and checking in; but Vale had ensured he was fast-tracked through the boarding process.

  Vale’s call had come at midnight.

  ‘I need you in Amsterdam.’

  Purkiss had been reading in his study at the time. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘On my way there from Paris.’

  Purkiss closed his book and sat up, alert.

  Vale went on: ‘I’ve booked the five a.m. London City flight. Meet you this side.’

  ‘I’ll be there.’ Purkiss was already striding to pack. ‘Anything you can give me at this point?’

  ‘It involves the Cousins.’

  The Cousins were the Americans, specifically the CIA. The Company, in the organisation’s own parlance. Purkiss didn’t press for more; there was a limit to the information that could be safely conveyed over the phone.

  The KLM flight had touched down in a cool red dawn. Schiphol,
a major hub, was already bustling. Vale was easy to spot, standing by himself in the arrivals hall, stooped and impassive but inwardly itching for a cigarette, Purkiss knew. A nod was the only greeting they exchanged.

  Purkiss had known Vale a little under five years, since shortly before Purkiss had quit the Service. Indeed, Vale had been instrumental in persuading Purkiss to leave and work for him. Their relationship had changed six months ago when Purkiss had discovered that Vale had lied to him: about Purkiss’s dead fiancée, Claire, and about the man who’d killed her. They’d continued to work together, and Purkiss continued to respect the older man’s professionalism and commitment. He had to admit that he even liked Vale, sometimes.

  But he no longer fully trusted him.

  When they reached what Purkiss had assumed would be Vale’s rental car, Purkiss was surprised to see another man behind the wheel, somebody he didn’t recognise. Forties, thin and balding, with wire-rimmed glasses. Purkiss slid in behind him, Vale taking the front passenger seat.

  ‘John Purkiss, Kevin Gifford,’ said Vale. The man, Gifford, reached back awkwardly to proffer his hand. Purkiss shook it.

  ‘Mr Gifford is head of the Service’s local station here.’

  It struck Purkiss how long he’d been away. There’d been a time when he knew the names of all the Service station heads in western Europe. He said nothing, sat back waiting as Gifford steered the car out into the daylight. Purkiss assumed the man had waited in the car in case he was too conspicuous in the arrivals hall. Which meant he and Vale were wary of surveillance. The CIA?

  They drove in silence until the car reached the motorway leading into the city. Gifford glanced across at Vale, and Vale produced a small digital recorder from his pocket, held it up and thumbed the play button.

  Two male voices, one louder than the other, were in conversation. The accents were US. Purkiss thought the louder one sounded New York, possibly Jersey. Bursts of distortion interrupted the speech periodically.