Tim Stevens - Delivering Caliban

There were downsides. She was being pursued by a group of men, number unknown, who had murdered her friends when they tried to intervene, and who were either government agents or able to pass themselves off as such and therefore had considerable influence and possibly resources at their disposal. She was in a highly fragile state of mind. And she was alone.

She dared not head for the homes of any of the other few friends she had; Rachel’s and Kyle’s deaths were already her fault, and the understanding of this was yet to hit her fully. She had no surviving relatives, not now that her grandmother had passed. She couldn’t approach the police, because either they were in on it or they were seeking her in connection with her friends’ deaths.

Nina stopped dead. She was back on Main Street, the Mall ahead of her. Over to the left was the Greyhound bus station, though it wasn’t the sight of the familiar building that had made her pause.

What was she thinking? She did have a living relative after all.

The recollection both triggered a surge of hope within her and repelled her. She stood, balanced on the dilemma like a highrise act.

The footsteps came behind her, running; and although she had no idea if they were a follower’s or belonged to somebody incidental, she made her decision and strode towards the bus station.

New York City

Monday 20 May, 2.15 pm

They closed in on Purkiss a minute or so after he’d presented his passport at the desk. A tall woman in a grey trouser suit with short, highlighted blonde hair, and a beefy Asian man, also besuited. They’d appeared out of nowhere.

‘Sir, you need to come with us.’ The woman spoke, her voice firm, confident. The man touched his elbow lightly.

Purkiss let them steer him between them away from the queue at passport control and down a side corridor. He was aware of the curious and thrilled stares prying at his back.

In a square room with walls painted an institutional pastel they sat him behind a table that was bolted to the floor. He half-expected to see an overflowing ashtray on it until he remembered New York was smoke free.

After the experience flying to Hamburg and in the airport afterwards, his senses had been tuned to fever pitch, both on the plane from Hamburg back to Heathrow and on the connecting flight to JFK. There’d been no-one suspicious, he was certain of it. If you excluded the wiry man with unshaven, sallow cheeks and dirty jeans across the aisle a few rows behind him. The man had sat through the entire seven-hour flight with headphones on, jaw working a piece of gum.

The woman pulled up a chair and sat across from Purkiss. The man remained standing, his hands in his pockets, his head lowered.

Purkiss didn’t feign outrage, or the normal nervousness a civilian would feel when pulled aside by what was obviously a pair of federal agents. He held the woman’s gaze, calmly, without challenge. She studied his face.

‘Mr Purkiss, I’m Special Agent Berg. This is Special Agent Nakamura. Federal Bureau of Investigation.’

Purkiss said nothing.

She drew a tablet computer from her bag and touched the screen. ‘John Purkiss. Secret Intelligence Service.’ She turned the tablet to show him his mug shot.

So that was it. He was on the database from back when he’d been a Service agent, and his appearance at Immigration had tripped their radar.

‘I used to be. I no longer work for them.’

This was both true and untrue. Technically he was employed solely by Vale, who was registered as a limited company. But Vale was funded at least in part by the Service. Purkiss suspected the Home Office contributed as well.

She gave him a deadpan look of utter scepticism. He raised his eyebrows.

‘Check with London, if you like, or with the embassy here in New York. I left the Service in 2008.’

Behind her shoulder Nakamura gave a tiny snort. Purkiss ignored him.

Berg said: ‘In which case, Mr Purkiss, what’s your business in the United States?’

‘Road trip.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘I intend to rent a car and take a trip across country. Explore the mythic American landscape. It’s something I’ve always wanted to do, but I never got a chance when I was with the Service.’

‘Jack Kerouac.’ This from the other agent.

‘If you like. Not following in Kerouac’s footsteps, though. I just want to go where the road takes me.’

It was an absurd story. Purkiss didn’t blame them for what they were doing. A foreign spook on your turf… their suspiciousness was natural. But he felt irritated and frustrated; this was something he should have anticipated. At worst, they’d make up some excuse and deport him, Vale would smooth things over, and he’d return. But probably in a day or two’s time, at the earliest, and by then Pope would be even further out of reach than he was now.

‘You’re here how long?’ Berg.

‘Ninety days. Just like anyone else. Then I’ll be heading back. I’m not looking to immigrate.’

They watched him. He had time, so he looked back levelly. At Berg, not Nakamura. He suspected the man was going to start cutting up rough in a moment and he wanted to give the impression he wasn’t prepared for him. If he maintained eye contact with him he’d betray his intentions.

After a full twenty seconds Purkiss said: ‘How long is this going to go on for?’

‘Why?’ Nakamura spoke up. ‘Got someplace you need to be?’

Purkiss raised his palms. ‘Getting hungry, that’s all. And I don’t know if you’re going to wait till I confess to being on some mission in your country. If so, we’ll be here a long time. Forever, actually.’

The two agents didn’t look at each other but something passed between them, invisible communication that ends to develop between working cops paired together for several years. Purkiss began to wonder. Had they got anything else on him? Had they somehow linked him to the killings in Amsterdam or here in New York? It didn’t make sense. If anyone had connected him with the investigation into the killings it would be the CIA. And they’d hardly share the intelligence with the FBI, even though it was properly the Feds’ business if somebody linked to a crime against American citizens arrived on US soil. The rivalry between the two agencies was too great for that.

Berg said, ‘Where do you intend to head after this?’

Purkiss shrugged. ‘I was going to take a cheap hotel in Manhattan. Greenwich Village, maybe. Soak up the city for a day or two, while I make some plans. Then head west.’ He closed his eyes for a second, sighed. ‘Look. I know how you feel. I’m unwanted here. But seriously, I’m on holiday. I’m no threat to you or your country. If you’re going to deport me, please call London first. They’ll vouch for me. And they’re not going to lie to you, not about this.’ He was telling the truth. London was cosying up to the newly reelected President with renewed vigour, and wouldn’t want to scupper things. It was one of the reasons Pope’s responsibility for the killings couldn’t be shared with the Company.

Berg glanced back at Nakamura, who nodded. Purkiss realised for the first time that they were on a more-or-less equal footing, though he’d assumed before that Berg was the senior partner. She stood, stepped towards Nakamura and conferred with him in murmurs.

Nakamura rolled his eyes. Berg turned back to Purkiss and said, ‘Okay. You can go.’

‘That’s it?’ He rose.

‘Go. I won’t even warn you what’ll happen if you’re caught doing anything wrong.’ Her face was suddenly in his personal space. ‘And I mean anything. A parking violation. Public spitting. Jaywalking.’

‘Understood.’