‘It sounds as though he was decisive enough, supervising the torture of prisoners.’
Rossiter wagged his finger again. ‘Don’t confuse ambition with suitability, John. Plenty of ferociously ambitious people have clawed their way into jobs they were eminently unfit for. Look at most of the Cabinets of the last couple of decades. Strang was ruthless enough when he was bulldozing his way to the top job. But now that he’s there… he’s achieved his goal. All his efforts are now focused not on getting the job done, but on staying where he is.’
‘Have you ever met him?’ asked Purkiss.
‘I have, as a matter of fact. Three years ago, about six months before he was appointed as his service’s head. Some joint policy meeting or other. He was both a boor and a bore. I listened to his stupid quips and his pig-ignorant opinions and I thought, my God, we’re doomed.’ Rossiter tilted his head as though realising something for the first time. ‘In fact, that may have partly influenced my decision to do what I did in Tallinn. I came to understand that if Britain was destined to have a third-rate Security Service, it had better have an absolutely top-notch foreign intelligence agency.’
‘Really,’ said Purkiss. ‘I thought you told everyone the reason you tried to murder the Russian president was to avert a nuclear war.’
Rossiter tipped his head in acknowledgement. ‘Ultimately, yes. Nuclear destruction is the only issue that matters in the end. All else is fluff. And nobody’s willing to face up to the fact.’
Purkiss glanced where his watch should be, remembered he’d handed it in at the front. ‘We’re digressing.’
‘Indeed. But I just wanted to answer your question, as to why I’m cooperating with you. You’re unearthing evidence which could well bring Strang down. I’m all for that, in the interests of the body politic.’ Rossiter clapped his hands together. ‘So. Your man Morrow discovers, through his links with Al-Bayati, that Arkwright was a torturer who not only tortured Al-Bayati himself, but did so at the behest of Strang, the head of Five. He — ’
‘We don’t know that,’ said Purkiss.
‘What?’
‘We don’t know Morrow found out about Strang. He may have learned from Al-Bayati only that Arkwright was carrying out the torture on behalf of Five.’
‘Fair point. In either case, Morrow decides to blow the whistle. He requests a clandestine meeting with the Home Secretary. Strang finds out about the meeting — he could have done so in any number of ways, the simplest being that the Home Secretary told him — and arranges to have Morrow killed.’
‘That makes sense so far,’ said Purkiss. ‘But it doesn’t explain how the gunman got on to me, and tried to kill me at my home.’
‘You’re sure Mo Kasabian didn’t send him?’
‘Yes,’ said Purkiss. ‘There’s the evidence of the polygraph, and my own eyes. She was telling the truth.’
‘Then her security’s been breached,’ said Rossiter. ‘Somehow Strang’s found out that you’ve become involved.’
Purkiss sighed. ‘Rossiter, this is all stuff I’ve already figured out. Is there anything you can give me that might help?’
Rossiter thought for a moment. Then: ‘The security firm Arkwright said he was working for at the time I recruited him. The one in Saudi.’
‘What about it?’
‘It exists. I checked it when I hired Arkwright. Even got a reference for him. But if he was really doing Strang’s dirty work at the time, then the firm might be a front. A shell company, designed to provide cover for other activities.’
Purkiss considered it. ‘Yes. It’s a possibility.’
‘The firm’s called Scipio Rand Security. It’s based in Riyadh. I can’t recall its address or contact details but you should be able to find it without difficulty.’
‘All right.’ Purkiss couldn’t bring himself to say thanks.
He studied Rossiter. There really wasn’t anything more to ask, or say.
Purkiss stood. Rossiter gave it a second and then rose too.
Behind Purkiss, the door opened and he felt the warder’s presence.
Quietly, so as not to be overheard, Rossiter said: ‘Get him, John. Get Strang.’
Purkiss turned his back and went out.
Vale was waiting near the entrance, in a small office they’d lent him. He stood when he saw Purkiss.
‘Anything?’ he asked.
‘Maybe,’ said Purkiss. ‘I need a flight to Riyadh.’
Thirty-six
In the Poetry and Dream room, its walls weaving and shimmering with Surrealism, Emma opened her hand. Nestled in her palm was the tiny bead she’d found in the lining of her handbag.
James, close by her side, glanced down at it.
She looked at his profile but it revealed nothing.
James picked the bead out of her hand and peered at it, rolling it between thumb and forefinger.
‘What is it?’ Emma whispered, both out of reverence for the gallery’s atmosphere and because she was reluctant for anyone else to hear.
‘Difficult to say,’ murmured James. ‘Probably nothing. A flaw in the bag.’
‘But it wasn’t there before,’ she said. Before I came home from being with you, she managed to stop herself from saying.
He made a wry mouth. ‘Can you be sure?’
‘It’s part of my training as a doctor to spot things out of the ordinary,’ Emma said. ‘This is definitely something new.’
‘Okay.’
‘Might it be a bug? Some sort of transmitter?’
He sighed. ‘It’s possible. I’ll take it back to the office and have it examined. But more likely you’re reading too much into this.’
Emma gazed at the picture on the wall before her, a nightmarish vision of distorted screaming faces on blurred bodies. She should feel reassured, she knew. But instead she felt uneasy.
‘James.’ She turned to look up at him.
His brow furrowed. ‘Yes.’
‘Did you plant this in my bag? Are you… monitoring me? Spying on me?’
Something changed in his eyes.
He placed a hand on each of her shoulders, drew her nearer. His face grave, his eyes warm again, he said: ‘No. I promise you.’
After a few seconds she said: ‘Okay. I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be.’
They walked hand in hand for fifteen minutes, pretending to look at the exhibits. Emma registered none of them.
There’d been something in his eyes. Something dark, just for an instant.
James’s hand tightened on hers and he stopped.
‘I have to get back now,’ he said.
‘Of course. Sorry to have called you away.’
He kissed her forehead. ‘No problem.’ Pulling away, he raised an eyebrow. ‘Still on for tomorrow?’
‘Wouldn’t miss it.’
He left first, disappearing into the milling visitors at the entrance. Emma watched him go.
She gave it five minutes.
Then she set off, walking rapidly back along the south bank. The afternoon heat cloyed at her, trying to plug her mouth and nose. The crowds felt similarly oppressive.
At Victoria she unlocked her car. Driven by something she couldn’t identify, she began searching. She rummaged in the glove compartment and side pockets, ran her fingers under the seat and dashboard, lifted up the carpets to look underneath.
Nothing. Emma straightened beside the car, wondering at herself.
She got in and drove home. Hurrying inside, she went through to the bedroom and began ransacking her clothes, groping in the pockets, feeling the hems.
She moved on to the bathroom next. Pill bottles, overnight toiletry bags, towels. None of them yielded anything.