Tim Stevens - Delivering Caliban

‘She’s wondering if she should shoot them both.’

‘She doesn’t think she can shoot either of them.’

‘How could she ever use a gun?’

‘She must be mad.’

Laughter from both.

‘Which one will she choose?’

‘Pope or the other?’

‘The other or Pope?’

‘ Pope will take her away and free her.’

‘The other man’s working for Daddy.’

‘She needs to decide.’

‘Pope’s going for his gun.’

‘The other man’s going for her.’

The gun roared and bucked in her hands, flinging itself upwards and driving backwards painfully against her palm like a horse being broken in. The shock of the noise and the force from the gun sent her staggering back against the hard stone wall.

The dark-haired man dropped.

*

Later the scene would play itself out again and again in her memory:

The dark-haired man sprawling prone at her feet.

Pope coming forward, his own gun emerging from his jacket.

The dark-haired man grabbing the violin case by her legs and swivelling and bringing it up.

The flash from Pope’s gun followed by the blast, and the jerking of the violin case.

The dark-haired man rising to his feet and meeting Pope and swinging the violin down and across and down again, wood splintering and the strings shrieking their agony.

*

No , she thought, falling to her knees on the hard surface.

Purkiss flung the wrecked instrument to one side, the contents of the leather case flopping about like broken bones within an outer skin.

Pope faced him, clutching his upper arm. Purkiss thought it was probably broken. Pope’s gun lay six feet away where it had spun after the blows from the violin had knocked it free.

With his good hand Pope reached inside his jacket once more, wincing. He held up a phone.

‘Back off.’

The link to the detonator.

Purkiss stepped back. Behind him and off to one side, Ramirez crouched, rocking. She’d dropped the Glock.

Purkiss’s own phone buzzed. Keeping his eyes on Pope, who was backing round and sideways towards the balcony wall, he fished out the handset. Risked a quick glance at it.

He put it away.

At the wall, Pope squatted and picked up the phone he’d been holding when Purkiss had dropped on him from above, wielding it awkwardly in the same hand as the other phone. He thumbed it and spoke into it.

‘Giordano? It’s time.’

Pope turned his back on Purkiss for the first time, staring across at the Loomis Building. He held the first phone high and pressed.

Pressed again.

He turned back to look at Purkiss. Purkiss shook his head.

The text from Berg had read: You’re right, it was in the truck. Bomb guys have disabled it. What’s going on up there?

Pope dropped both phones.

‘Come on, then,’ he said. ‘Let’s finish this.’

*

Pope moved with the speed and ferocity of the terminally wounded animal with nothing to lose.

His right arm was useless so he used his legs, spinning towards Purkiss with a reverse kick that would have broken Purkiss’s neck if he hadn’t been ready for it. Purkiss ducked forward into the blow, blocking the kick with his forearm and wrapping the arm under Pope’s raised leg and running him forward so that he lost his balance and crashed back against the glass panels that formed the top half of the outer balcony wall.

The panels gave way, slowing Pope’s momentum so that he didn’t pass straight through them but was caught on the edge, slumped across the low wall, half hanging out over the drop below. Purkiss followed him, grabbing his ankles and heaving him further over the rim. Pope’s good hand grappled at the top of the wall and caught it as he swung over.

Purkiss leaned over the rail. Pope hung by one hand from the wall, his feet scrabbling at the sheer wall below the balcony. The street loomed and spun, nineteen floors below. Police cars were massed there, uniforms pressed against them like barnacles.

Purkiss looked at Pope’s upturned face. He didn’t register the expression there.

Instead, he saw the terrified face of the girl, Nina. He saw Nakamura, the FBI man.

He saw Abby, his friend, whom he’d let down.

He saw a man last seen on a boat in the Baltic, a man who’d just told him the truth about his fiancée Claire’s death, and life. A man Purkiss had allowed to live, but shouldn’t have.

Purkiss propped his foot on the wall and ground his boot against Pope’s fingers in a twisting motion.

Pope released his grip, and dropped in silence.

*

‘We have to go now.’

He’d given her five minutes. The police would be on their way up and he’d wanted to spare her the chaos of their arrival.

She’d tried to go over to the rail and look down. Gently but firmly he’d held her back, but when he realised how insistent she was he let her go. There wouldn’t be much to see by now, anyway; the body would have been covered.

He stood by her at the rail, close but not touching, and repeated himself: ‘Nina. We need to go.’

When she again didn’t respond, Purkiss said, ‘Thank you. I know you missed me on purpose.’

She raised her face to him. Her eyes were bright with wonder.

‘When you fired the gun.’ The range had been too close for even an amateur to miss, unless they did so deliberately. The bullet had ricocheted off the wall behind him.

Still staring at him, she whispered: ‘Why?’

His phone sounded and he raised a hand, stepped away. It was Berg.

‘You okay?’

‘Yes. What’s happening?’

‘I’ve got Giordano. He came quietly, and it wasn’t the sight of Kendrick that scared him. The son of a bitch was just waiting there for us.’

‘Congratulations.’

‘Yeah. I’ll either get a commendation or go to jail. Maybe both. You coming down?’

‘In a moment.’

‘I’ve given the cops your description so they don’t shoot you. The girl okay?’

‘Yes.’ Physically, anyway. ‘Berg, thanks.’

‘Yeah.’

He put the phone away. Nina was still watching him.

‘You asked why,’ he said. ‘Why did this happen? Pope let his need for revenge take over his personality. He let it blot out all else, including his humanity.’

This time he took her by the arm and drew her away. He didn’t look at her face, because he was aware he hadn’t answered her question. That by why , she’d been asking something else.

London

Tuesday 28 May, 2.00 pm

‘The supreme irony,’ said Vale, ‘is that he’s done us a favour.’

They were walking the steep slope of Greenwich Park, the Royal Observatory on the skyline ahead. The day was mild, the lunchtime crowds out enjoying the sun.

It was their final debriefing. The formal meetings had taken place in assorted offices across the capital — none of them Vale’s; Purkiss didn’t know if the man had one — and the paperwork had been taken care of. One last meeting of minds, always outdoors somewhere, and then Purkiss wouldn’t see or hear from Vale until the next operation.

‘Pope’s uncovered one of the most extensive and indefensible black ops cells within the CIA, and eliminated several of the rotten apples into the bargain,’ Vale said. ‘Of course, you and the FBI agent exposed it, ultimately. But none of it would have come to light if not for Pope’s involvement.’

‘How widespread’s the rot?’ asked Purkiss, stepping away from Vale who was pausing to light up.

‘Giordano’s the most senior figure, of course. The most senior one in the Company, that is. Obviously it’s out of our hands now, and I’ve no knowledge of what more they’ve unearthed. But it’s rumoured that even more high-profile figures might have known about Caliban. Congressmen, perhaps.’ He took a deep drag. ‘As for the numbers involved, Giordano was running at least twelve agents that we know of. That figure includes the ones who jumped you in Hamburg — we presume he sent them after you because you’d been seen leaving or entering Jablonsky’s flat and Giordano suspected you of the killing — as well as the ones you encountered in the US. There are likely to be more of them.’