‘They were CIA, but rogue ones. Possibly part of a black ops cell.’ Purkiss gave Vale a brief rundown, including the fact that four more men had been killed up at Crosby’s cabin. He didn’t mention the two FBI officers, merely that he was receiving help with his research.
Vale said, ‘I can get a search done myself on Holtzmann Solar, see if the Service or Security have anything on them.’
‘There’s something in particular I’m calling about.’
Vale waited.
‘Remind me what the Amsterdam spook, Gifford, said about Pope. I have the gist, but run through what you remember of what he told us.’
‘Pope’s early life? Grammar school, political science at Bristol — ’
‘Later than that. What sort of work has he done in the Service, that kind of thing.’
‘Surveillance, data analysis…’
‘Interrogation work?’
‘Let’s see. No, not that I remember. A people person, but not in that way. Good at charming people in social situations, but as far as I know not the persuasive type that would be much use during forced debriefings.’
Purkiss shook his head at the euphemism. ‘In that case, was Pope himself interrogated? Did Gifford mention anything about that?’
Vale rustled paper for a few moments — his cigarettes, Purkiss knew — and said: ‘I’m working from memory here, and I’m an old man. But no, I can’t remember anything like that — ’
‘Hang on.’ An old man. Pope’s old man…
‘His father.’
Vale said, after a beat, ‘Ah, yes. You’re right. His father, Geoffrey, was something of an expert on interrogation.’
Purkiss felt a fist of hope clench in his chest.
*
‘This might take a while.’
Berg’s hands were blurring over the keyboard. On the monitor streams of data were flooding by. Personnel files with introductory biographies, histories of drug development, political connections and donations. As per standard operating procedure with all big corporations, Berg said, the FBI had done routine and extensive background checks on Holtzmann Solar. Nothing even remotely underhand had emerged.
Purkiss didn’t expect the search to reveal much. He’d suggested Berg carry it out because he needed something to distract them while he waited for Vale to ring back.
The café owner put his head round the door at one point, caught Nakamura’s expression and withdrew back into whatever den he had set up in the back.
Purkiss paced some more, ignoring the looks of irritation he got from Kendrick and Nakamura. He, Vale, Gifford… none of them had considered the personal angle when trying to find a link between Pope and the people he’d killed. They’d been blinded by the political dimension to the killings: spy murdering spy, and from a nominally allied agency to boot.
Purkiss’s phone buzzed. He stepped away. It was Vale.
‘John. I’ve emailed you Geoffrey Pope’s dossier, but here’s the gist. He was semi-freelance for the last couple of years of his life. Senior enough that he was given a free rein to investigate what he liked, as long as he didn’t bring the Service into disrepute. The last record of his work was when he went undercover in the US in early 1997. There are no details of the cover he assumed, but he’d dropped hints that he was investigating something in the field of interrogation science.’
‘Any connection with Holtzmann Solar?’
‘No. Nor with the CIA, that we can find. But the circumstances of his death are relevant.’
Gifford had said Pope senior had been killed in a flying accident.
Vale went on: ‘His body was found in the wreckage of a light aircraft in the sea off the Atlantic coast of Guatemala, on November the fifth, 1998. Days after the region was hit by the worst hurricane on record.’
Twenty-Five
Langley, Virginia
Monday 20 May, 4.45 pm
‘Give it to me.’
Giordano had been on the way back from the canteen when his phone rang: Naomi, saying there’d been developments. Adrienne had packed him a tuna salad for a mid-afternoon snack in a Tupperware container. He’d eaten it dutifully, then told himself he needed extra fuel for what was proving to be a stressful time, and had gulped down spare ribs and fries standing up at a counter in the canteen, feeling like an office worker sneaking a cigarette in the rain. Adrienne would understand, if she ever found out. Not that she would.
Naomi and Kenny were already in his office.
‘Two of our agents, involved in a fender bender in Lower Manhattan. One injured slightly, the other okay.’
‘Names?’
‘Melvin Barker and Louis Campbell,’ said Kenny, trying to keep his oar in the conversation.
‘Don’t know them.’ Giordano held out his hand. ‘Give me that.’
Naomi handed him the printed pages. Less-than-focused photos showed the two agents’ faces, the Crown Vic with its side smashed in, sitting like a rock around which the river of traffic flowed.
‘We’re in a wrangle with local law enforcement, trying to get them to back off and leave this to us,’ said Naomi. ‘They’re muttering about us overstepping our mark. It doesn’t help that Barker and Campbell are claiming this is nothing more than a hit-and-run, an accident. The NYPD Commissioner in Manhattan is saying, if that’s the case, why not let the boys in blue handle it?’
‘It’s not an accident.’ Giordano made it half sound like a question.
‘Probably not, because several witnesses claim a guy was dragged out of the backseat of the car just after the crash happened. Tall, dark hair, hands cuffed behind his back. Two of the witnesses positively IDed the guy as the Brit, John Purkiss, when they were shown a selection of identikit pictures.’
‘God damn.’ Giordano thought for a moment. ‘Any of these witnesses see who dragged him out?’
‘None that can keep their stories straight.’
‘All right. Get me a car to New York. Like, yesterday.’
‘Sir.’
Kenny disappeared. When Giordano saw Naomi lingering he said, ‘What?’
‘What are you planning, boss?’
‘To talk to those two goons. Barker and Campbell. Find out why they’re lying about Purkiss. If they’re embarrassed about having lost him, why the hell don’t they just own up and say so? Their car was rammed. Could have happened to anyone.’
After a beat she said, ‘Come with you?’
‘No.’ When he saw her expression, Giordano said, ‘Look. You’d be a great help. But I need you here, co-ordinating things. In case any new intel comes in.’
‘Sure, boss.’ He waited for her to say whatever, an expression the young seemed to use like punctuation these days and one that never failed to set his teeth on edge. But she didn’t.
*
Giordano heaved himself into the leather backseat of the car, a Pontiac with bulletproof glass and body armour. He always felt faintly ridiculous travelling in a vehicle that seemed designed more to protect a president than a Company officer, even one of Giordano’s seniority. The driver was some guy named Dave or Mike whom Giordano had seen before and usually made pleasant small talk with. Not this time.
He checked his watch. Five thirty p.m. He’d be in Manhattan by nine forty-five if Dave-or-Mike put his foot down and there were no unforeseen traffic snarlups. The New York office was under strict instructions to keep Campbell and Barker there until he arrived.
Four and a quarter hours. Purkiss could be long gone by then.
But Giordano thought he knew what the Brit was doing in New York; and if he was right, Purkiss would still be there.
*
Giordano called Adrienne. Didn’t look as if he’d be home tonight. No, he wouldn’t be bunking down at Langley. He’d find somewhere comfortable in Midtown, maybe with a view of Central Park, on the Company’s dime. Yes, the tuna salad had been delicious, as had the fat-free yogurt snacks. No, no cholesterol-laden treats in between.
He hated to lie to her.