Tim Stevens - Delivering Caliban

‘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.

‘Got an ID on this Brit guy. You’re not going to believe it.’

‘Who?’

‘Darius Pope.’

A pause, then an explosion of static, and: ‘Jesus Christ.’

‘Yeah.’

‘You mean, like — ’

‘Exactly, Yeah.’

Static again.

‘Ah, shit. Ah, god damn it.’

‘He’s based here, in the city. He’s an agent.’

‘You’re kidding me.’

‘No. Right under our noses.’

‘He’s an agent?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Six?’

‘Yes.’

‘Jesus — ’

‘Here’s what we do.’

‘We’ve got to tell the chief.’

‘Not yet.’ More static. ‘- check him out. Follow him see what he does. Catch him in something so we can be hundred per cent sure. Or as near as damn it, anyhow.’

This was followed by five seconds’ worth of white noise. The New Yorker’s voice came back, patchily.

‘- surveillance detail, but it’s the best I can do at short notice… turn him in.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Got to go.’

A click. Vale thumbed off the recording.

From the driver’s seat Gifford’s voice was a dry rasp, as though he was in the habit of shouting a lot. ‘That was, as you’ll have gathered, a recording of a mobile phone conversation. One or other of the parties was driving at the time, hence the disruption to the signal. The man with the more distinct voice, the one whose phone was being tapped, is called Andrew Jablonsky. The other one’s Gregory Taylor. Both are Company operatives based here in Amsterdam. The recording was made at around nine yesterday evening.’

Gifford paused to ease into the correct lane for the off-ramp. Purkiss didn’t ask the obvious question because he knew the answer was coming anyway.

‘Darius Pope is one of ours, a Service operative at my station. Recently moved here, four months ago. Backup and odd-job work, for the moment.’

‘A rookie?’ said Purkiss.

‘No. An experienced field agent, if undistinguished. Solid. Did two years in Hamburg before the transfer.’

‘What’s he done?’

‘We’ve no idea.’ Gifford’s voice had taken on an edge, as if to say: that’s your job to find out . ‘But Jablonsky and Taylor clearly know him, and want to keep him under surveillance. They talk about obtaining proof of something, and possibly turning him in.’

Purkiss understood why he and Vale had been called. For over four years their remit had been to investigate suspected and confirmed rogue elements within British Intelligence, and to deal with them without public fuss as far as that was possible. Set traps for the rats, and spring them.

Claire. Her face rose without warning in Purkiss’s mind’s eye. He clenched his teeth, stared out the window at the bright morning.

Now it appeared the Americans, the Company, might themselves have discovered something illicit about a Service agent.

Vale was watching him in the mirror. As if reading his thoughts he said: ‘We need to deal with this ourselves. Exposure of one of ours by the Cousins would be an enormous embarrassment. God knows there’s enough one-upmanship already.’

To Gifford, Purkiss said: ‘Have you set up surveillance on Pope yourselves?’

‘That’s the problem.’ This time it was Gifford’s eyes he saw in the glass. ‘Pope’s disappeared.’

Instead of taking Purkiss and Vale to the Service headquarters, Gifford had set up a temporary base in a suite on the fourth floor of a nondescript chain hotel south of the Leidseplein. Purkiss didn’t ask, but assumed his technical status as an outsider meant that he had to be kept away from the ‘official’ Service HQ, which was itself unofficial as its personnel were operating without Embassy protection.

On the way to the hotel, Purkiss asked, ‘Why did you have this Jablonsky under surveillance?’

‘Routine.’ Gifford sounded surprised. ‘We always have the Cousins tapped. It helps to rotate the targets from time to time, makes it less likely we’ll be discovered.’

‘Presumably they do the same to you.’

Gifford gave a tight laugh. ‘They try. We catch them at it. We’re too good. Had years of practice before they got in on the game.’

Or perhaps that was what the Company wanted Gifford and the rest of the Service to think, thought Purkiss.

In the suite’s living room Gifford seated them before a portable screen on which was amplified the display from a laptop.

‘Darius Pope. Born fourth of February, 1981. Grammar school boy in Aylesbury, Bucks — bit of a rebel, came close to expulsion — then political science at Bristol. Bright, but not dazzling. Joined the Service September 2005. Here’s the thing. His father was Geoffrey Pope, a Service veteran. Master interrogator… you might have read some of his writings on the subject?’

Purkiss hadn’t.

Gifford went on: ‘All our intel indicates the teenaged Darius hated the old man. Geoffrey was killed in a flying accident when the boy was 17. So perhaps Darius joined the Service to prove a point to his late dad.’

The rest of Pope’s story was, as Gifford had said earlier, undistinguished. He’d built up a decent reputation as an intel gatherer and later as a patterns analyst. Good looking and with obvious self assurance, he’d been rather too obtrusive for undercover work. His transfer to Amsterdam from Hamburg had been based on nothing more than a personal request, as he said he felt he wanted a change of scene.