Tim Stevens - Delivering Caliban

If they were Company, it suggested Jablonsky and Taylor had made their colleagues aware of Pope, and somehow the link had been made to Purkiss. Perhaps they’d had Pope’s flat under surveillance and had followed Purkiss from there to Jablonsky’s house. Purkiss didn’t think so; he was almost always aware when he was being tagged, as now.

And if the men were Company, it meant there’d be reinforcements here in Hamburg. Perhaps waiting outside the airport at that very moment.

Purkiss had two options. He could either make a break for the exit, running the risk of being taken down by whomever was waiting for him outside but with a chance of getting entirely clear; or stay inside the terminal and draw the surveillance in, man by man, in the hope of getting one of them under control and gleaning information from him.

He made his decision.

*

Purkiss could crack locks, and the one on the door was an uncomplicated Yale; but the trick was to do it quickly enough to avoid attracting attention. He’d walked the length of the terminal until he’d spotted the corridor leading in the direction of staff offices. Halfway down was the door bearing the legend Mitarbeiter Nur. Staff Only .

He fumbled with his keys as he worked the lock, making out that he was having difficulty fitting the correct one. Two people passed behind his back, seeming not to pay him any attention.

The door yielded and he stepped inside. Yes, as he’d though: a storage room, little more than a large walk-in closet, its shelves laden mainly with cleaning materials. And his sense of the geography of the building had been correct. A fan window near the ceiling let the daylight in.

He hauled himself up the rack of shelves beneath the window and wrestled with the handle, which was stiff with disuse. Pushing the window open, he forced his head and shoulders through. It was tight, but a man could fit through it. Purkiss withdrew, leaving the window as far open as he could force it.

The ceiling above him was panelled with fibreglass squares laid loose on a metal framework. He pushed one of the panels up and peered through the gap. A narrow crawlspace stretched off in all directions into darkness. Gripping the metal bars, Purkiss pulled himself through the gap and balanced on the framework, taking care not to let his weight bear down directly on the panels, which didn’t look as if they’d hole. He slid the panel back into place.

There was noise in the crawlspace, the amplified sounds of the colossal building all around him, and he had to strain to listen for any sounds from below. The tags would have seen him head off in the direction of the corridor.

After perhaps a minute, the airport noises became louder below him, and he realised the door to the storage room had opened. He dared not shift one of the panels aside to look down, so he relied on his hearing. Somebody was in the room below. A low voice muttered something; Purkiss couldn’t catch what was said, or even the language.

The quiet from below resumed. Purkiss gave it five minutes, breathing through his mouth, not stirring. Then he edged one of the ceiling panels aside and peered down. The room was empty. His ruse had worked, and they’d assumed he’d escaped through the window.

He hung from the metal rafters and dropped straight down to the floor, and at that moment the man charged forward and barrelled into his torso.

Purkiss was knocked back against a rack of shelves, the hard steel against his back nothing compared with the pain in his abdomen where the man’s shoulder had connected. Winded, he doubled over and the man pressed a forearm across his throat. Purkiss brought his knee up but the man blocked it with his leg and rammed his free fist below Purkiss’s sternum. Purkiss tensed his abdomen in time to absorb the worst of the blow, but not all of it.

It was the narrow-faced man, the second of the two tags, his strength feral and sinewy as he drove his arm against Purkiss’s neck, pressing down on the carotid arteries, causing the first lightheadedness. He pinned Purkiss’s right arm against the shelves with his own left hand. Purkiss’s free arm flailed beside him, useless, out of range of the man’s head.

His vision was blurring now, events around him taking on a distant, disconnected quality. Purkiss seized something in his hand, an aerosol by the feel of it. His thumb flicked off the plastic lid and he brought the can as far forward as he could and pressed the plunger on the top.

His aim was slightly off but enough of the spray hissed into the man’s face to make him cry out and recoil, his arm slackening across Purkiss’s throat. Purkiss shoved the aerosol closer and gave the man another blast, straight into his eyes. The man reeled against the shelves opposite, hands clamped over his face, trying to suppress gasps of agony that were slipping out as tiny screams.

Purkiss dropped the man with a hammer-fist to the forehead, caught him as he crumpled and lowered him to the floor. Time was short, and in any case he wasn’t fit to answer questions. His passport identified him as Henry Vasquez, U.S. citizen. Purkiss memorised the details — it was false ID, of course, but worth a check — and, wincing at the pain beneath his breastbone, stepped out into the corridor.

There was nobody there. In the main concourse he scanned the crowds. There was no sign of the other tag, who was most likely outside: they’d kept their options open in case Purkiss had escaped through the window after all.

*

He left the terminal quickly but unhurriedly, bracing himself for the swoop of men descending on him or cars braking up on the pavement before him. There was no sign of anybody watching or closing in, just a frantic press for the available taxis as the drizzle thickened to hard rain.

Nonetheless, when a cab driver beckoned, Purkiss ducked his head into the taxi closest to him, thrust a handful of Euro notes at the couple squeezing in the back and asked if they’d swap with the other one on offer. They agreed, startled at first and then amused. The last thing he needed was a Company-paid cabbie delivering him straight into enemy hands.

As the driver plunged into dense traffic, Purkiss pondered. The surveillance had ended with one man down. There was no welcoming committee. That meant there’d probably been only the two men after all.

It wasn’t the way the Company worked.

Charlottesville, Virginia

Monday 20 May, 4.15 pm

Nina managed to take the mug and bring it to her lips without a tremble, surprising herself.

‘Need something a little stronger?’

Rachel perched on the arm of the couch, unfeigned concern knitting her forehead. Nina had known her since college; Rachel had majored in chemistry but shared her love of music. She was probably the person Nina was closest to, Nina realised with a dismayed start. They saw each other every three or four weeks.

Nina shook her head. ‘Tea’s good.’

Rachel gave it thirty seconds, then said: ‘Tell me.’

Nina felt the old dread haul itself tiredly to its feet. They did various things, the people she spoke to about her fears. Some frowned in sympathy, others snorted with derision. The occasional person even backed away. But what they all did, each and every one of them, was not believe her .

‘I’m being followed.’

After a beat Rachel said, ‘You mean, like, stalked?’

Behind her voice, her expression, Nina hunted for the unspoken thought: here we go again .

‘No. Several men. Three, four so far. I don’t know.’ Spoken like a true crazy person .

‘Where? On campus?’

‘Yes, and in the streets.’ Nina breathed deeply, keeping her voice under control. Jabbering wouldn’t do her any favours. ‘I don’t want you to believe me, Rach, and I don’t want you to call the doctor. I’m fine. Fine… in that way, I mean. I just want to stay here a little while, if that’s okay.’