Tim Stevens - Delivering Caliban

He picked up his holdall — they hadn’t searched it; hadn’t had probable cause — and followed Nakamura back down the corridor into the main concourse. Taking a moment to orientate himself, he headed towards the duty channels.

Once, he glanced back, and saw the two agents standing together, Nakamura half a head shorter than Berg. They were watching him.

*

Purkiss rode the escalator towards a ceiling-high clear glass wall, the exit to the subway system beyond it. At the top, the scruffy gum-chewing man from the plane was loitering. Purkiss ignored him and walked past, turning towards the subway entrance.

An hour later, having roved back and forth between Queens, Brooklyn and Manhattan on a subway system he found just as Byzantine as ever, he emerged at Whitehall Street. The early afternoon spring heat was more acute than it had been in Amsterdam and Hamburg and even London, and he felt the prickle of sweat at his shirt collar.

He was fairly confident he hadn’t been followed. Perhaps eighty per cent.

Purkiss thumbed a text message into his phone as he walked. Battery Park in ten minutes. Before entering the subway he’d sent another: I’m going to wander for a while. Head to Manhattan and stay above ground near the southern tip.

For a few minutes, with the salt breeze coming in from the harbour and the sky deep blue with the merest streak of cloud overhead, Purkiss allowed himself to enjoy the moment. Behind him the city towered, compact yet vast. He’d been there twice before, once as a student and again six years ago with Claire, the cityscape changed forever in between by the attacks on the Twin Towers.

Battery Park was strewn with office workers taking late lunch breaks, mothers with baby buggies, and tourists. Purkiss consulted a legend on a signpost and set off deeper into the park. Of all places in New York to choose for a meeting of espions, he thought, there couldn’t have been a more cliched one. It was like Waterloo Bridge or the Brandenburg Gate.

The man was alone on a bench, scattering the dregs from a paper bag to the assortment of pigeons and other birds strutting around his feet. Thirties, average size, fair hair. Purkiss sat beside him as though glad to rest his feet and said, ‘Catching the weather while it lasts.’

The other man said: ‘Storms by tomorrow morning, they reckon.’

The parole and countersign over, they sat in silence for ten seconds. Purkiss surveyed the lawn in front of him, the path stretching to either side. Nobody obvious.

He said, ‘So. Tell me.’

The other man — Vale had said his name was Delatour — glanced directly at Purkiss. It was less obvious than if he’d muttered from the side of his mouth. ‘I believe we have visual confirmation of Pope’s entry into the United States via JFK approximately two hours before the killing.’

He held up a smartphone, one of the larger brands that was almost a tablet computer. On the screen was a captured image from a black-and-white surveillance camera, taken from above and to the left of the same passport control area Purkiss himself had been stopped at earlier. Delatour tapped the screen to zoom in. Standing patiently in line was Pope. The image wasn’t in perfect focus but it was sharp enough.

‘I’ve checked the passenger manifest,’ said Delatour. ‘He was travelling under the name of Brian Sopwith.’

It made no difference. It was an alias he wouldn’t have used before, and wouldn’t use again. Purkiss gazed at a dog sprinting after a squirrel, its hapless owner in tow.

Delatour was Service, working out of the British Embassy. He was one of Vale’s contacts in the city and had both first notified Vale of Grosvenor’s murder and agreed to help with confirmation that Pope was responsible, as if there’d been much doubt otherwise.

The problem with New York, as Purkiss well knew, was that unlike Amsterdam or Hamburg or any of the big European cities, the Service couldn’t simply monitor CIA signals and operations. It was the Company’s home turf, and that meant foreign services were constantly on the back foot. Delatour had no leads on Grosvenor or many other Company operatives in the city, no access into their operations. And therefore no leads as to Grosvenor’s possible connection with Pope.

Nonetheless, Delatour touched the screen and another picture appeared. A mild-looking woman with dark, bobbed hair, in her late fifties or thereabouts.

‘Sylvia Grosvenor,’ he said. ‘Mostly winding down in her career, as far as we can tell. Passed over for promotion once too often, and by now too old to make it back up the greasy pole. Probably embittered. Still active, often out of the city. That’s what our sources have gleaned, anyway.’

‘Anything on her operations?’

Delatour took back the smartphone. ‘Virtually nothing. Some low-level work in Canada and in North Africa over the last twenty years, mainly looking at Islamist groups. Nothing spectacular, nothing to bring her to anybody’s attention.’

Purkiss’s own phone buzzed in his pocket. He fished it out. A text mesage read: You’re clean, far as I can tell. Bit difficult to tell about those trees straight in front of you. I’ve got wheels if you need them.

He put the phone away, scanning the treeline ahead. The foliage was dense with spring bloom, and yes, it was possible somebody was lurking there, but he couldn’t tell.

To Delatour he said, ‘What about extracurricular activities?’

‘Grosvenor? Again, not much. Single. Occasionally men round, but nothing serious.’

‘Any evidence of black ops links? Unofficial missions?’

‘No.’

Damn it, though Purkiss. Three dead agents with almost nothing to connect them. There was no evidence that Grosvenor had even known Taylor or Jablonsky.

He said: ‘Any chance you could get her financial records?’

‘Not much. They’re pretty tight on security over here when it comes to that sort of thing. A Company person would be exceptionally so. You’d need the FBI to get access to that sort of stuff, andeven they’d struggle.’ Purkiss was aware Delatour was watching him. ‘What have you got in mind?’

‘Money links people, more often that not. It’s a long shot, but it would be worth pursuing.’

Was that a glint in the trees, now? Brilliant early afternoon sun flashing off metal? Purkiss took out his phone again, thumbed in a text: You may have a point about those trees. Any chance you could get on the other side?

The reply came immediately. I’m on it.

Purkiss stood, stretched. Delatour rose after a moment.

‘Is there anything else I can provide?’

‘I don’t think so. Thanks for your help.’

‘Such as it’s been.’ The man looked embarrassed.

Purkiss said, ‘It’s a start.’

He manoeuvred so that he was facing the copse of trees, fifty yards away, and Delatour had his back to it. Purkiss held out his hand to shake, murmured, ‘Don’t turn round. There’s somebody watching us from those trees behind you.’

Delatour’s eyes held steady. He said: ‘Numbers?’

‘I don’t know. Light on metal or glass.’

Delatour stiffened. It could mean a camera, binoculars, or a firearm.

Purkiss said: ‘I’ve got a colleague here in the park. He’s going to be watching from the other side. We need to split up and walk away in opposite directions. You head out of the park. I’m going to head for the esplanade. Whoever it is, and however they got here — whether they followed me or you — it’s me they’ll be interested in.’

Delatour nodded with his eyes and began walking back along the pathway towards the entrance to the park through which Purkiss had come in. Breathing deeply, Purkiss strode south, towards the esplanade and its glitter of water beyond.