‘I’m going to rest my voice for a while,’ he told the man. ‘Thirsty work, this.’ He took a long, gulping swig, using his palm to splash some water onto his face and the back of his neck.
On the ground, the man swallowed, the dryness of his throat turning it into a prolonged, sticky action.
Progress, thought Purkiss.
After a few minutes he began the cycle of questions again. Still, the man remained silent; but this time, during one of the pauses, he snapped his head to one side and back, perhaps to shake sweat from his eyes, perhaps in irritation.
Purkiss took note of the man’s breathing. It was becoming shallower, the body trying to conserve moisture in the form of water vapour.
The sun peaked, an incandescent overlord gazing down on the world. The heat shivered across the sand mercilessly, the hazy waves like vibrating strings.
On the ground, the man was making faint snuffling noises.
‘What was that?’ asked Purkiss, stooping, his ear turned. The man gave a half-snarl, half-hiss.
‘Oh,’ said Purkiss, straightening. ‘I thought you were going to tell me something.’
He stood looking down at the man, as if debating with himself.
‘Look,’ he said at last, ‘I suppose I’d better give you a drink so that you don’t expire on me.’
He crouched, tilting the five-litre bottle so that its open neck approached the man’s lips.
‘Just a sip, mind.’
The man lunged, his mouth groping like a fish’s. He toppled forward onto his knees, righted himself awkwardly, ducked his head towards the bottle again.
‘On second thoughts,’ said Purkiss, lifting the bottle away, ‘I reckon you can probably hold out a bit longer.’
The man gnashed his teeth, white flecks crusting the corners of his mouth, in stark contrast to the deep red of his face. His eyes rolled yellowly.
Purkiss checked the temperature reading on his phone.
‘Forty-two degrees,’ he said. ‘Not a record temperature for August. But it’s only eleven thirty. Early yet. Wait till three o’clock. Then we’ll be talking hot.’
He gave it half an hour, then repeated the cycle of questions. This time the man groaned loudly.
Purkiss studied him for a long moment. Then he stood, sighed.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘I was wrong. I thought you’d crack, but you didn’t. Congratulations.’
He shook his head, went round to the front of the car, raised the bonnet and filled the radiator with water. Then he hefted the water bottle back into the car, climbed into the driver’s seat and pulled the door shut.
Purkiss didn’t glance in the mirror until he’d driven a hundred yards down the track.
The man had staggered to his feet and was weaving after the Audi, his hands still tied behind him, his bare feet stepping gingerly on the scorching sand. His head was thrown back as if in supplication to the sun.
Purkiss waited till he was almost at the car, then pulled away again, edging forward almost at the man’s pace.
The man was in a bad way, his lips cracked and blistering, his eyes swollen. But he’d had the presence of mind to come after the car, his only link to another human being in this bleak, angry landscape.
Purkiss crawled forwards, occasionally speeding up and putting distance between the man and the Audi, always dropping back eventually to allow him to catch up.
The jerky, dance-like routine continued for forty-five minutes, during which time Purkiss estimated they’d covered less than two miles. Without warning, the man stopped.
Purkiss watched him in the mirror. He dabbed the brake and kept the Audi idling.
The man dropped to his knees, his head bowed once more. As Purkiss watched, he toppled forwards, face down in the sand.
Purkiss reversed until he reached the prone figure. He climbed out and squatted down beside the man, took his shoulder and turned him on his back.
The bloodshot eyes stared past him between blistered lids. The man’s lips were ragged, bleeding flaps, the tongue a desiccated insect flopping behind them.
The man’s lower jaw moved.
Purkiss bent and put his ear to the man’s lips.
‘Water.’ It was no louder than a rustling of leaves.
‘You’ll talk?’ said Purkiss.
‘Yes.’
Forty-two
‘What’s your name?’
All Purkiss had to do was raise the bottle to catch the glittering sunlight, and the man would answer. It was like a classically conditioned, Pavlovian response.
‘Ericson.’ The man’s voice was still parched, still harsh, but no longer a mere whisper. Purkiss had let him drink half a litre, no more. It wasn’t purely tactical; too much and he was likely to vomit.
‘Who do you work for?’
‘Scipio Rand Security. Please give me some more water.’
‘In a minute.’ Purkiss held the bottle by the neck behind his back. The man, Ericson, was slumped against the wheel of the Audi. His hands were still tied.
‘What were your orders in regard to me?’
‘We were — ’ The man broke off, swallowed. ‘Told to make sure you went from the airport to… to our headquarters, and to accost you if you… seemed to be going somewhere else. More water, please.’
Purkiss tipped the bottle. Ericson gulped like a dog at a trough. Purkiss splashed a little over the man’s face and shoulders.
‘How did you know I was coming to Riyadh?’
Ericson shook his head. ‘I don’t know. We were just given orders.’
Purkiss made to open the driver’s door. Ericson gave a strangled gasp.
‘It’s true. Oh, Christ, I swear to you. I don’t… know.’
‘All right.’ Purkiss swung the bottle idly. ‘Scipio Rand. What’s its business?’
‘Security.’
‘I know that’s what it calls itself. But what does it do that’s not above board? That would cause it to send armed men to the airport, potentially to kidnap a visitor?’
Ericson fell silent, and for a moment Purkiss thought he was going to clam up again, until he realised the man was struggling to find a way to convey his meaning in as few words as possible. He fed Ericson some more water, a little more generously this time.
‘Scipio Rand provides a halfway house,’ the man managed, after a few seconds’ choking.
‘Explain,’ said Purkiss.
‘Transit,’ said Ericson, then shook his head in frustration. ‘Governments, and intelligence agencies, use our facilities here in Riyadh, and… elsewhere, to keep prisoners. Usually… ones on their way to some destination in another country.’
‘Which agencies?’ Purkiss let a note of urgency creep into his voice.
‘CIA and SIS, mostly.’ Ericson ran a crackling tongue over his lips, winced. ‘But the German and French outfits as well. The Turks, sometimes, and the Kuwaitis. Even the Russians, from time to time. It’s a… business thing. The money’s what counts.’
‘What work are you doing for the British at the moment?’
Again Ericson shook his head. ‘Nothing. But there was…’
This time Purkiss knew he’d broken off not because of his physical discomfort, but because he was heading into dangerous territory. Purkiss shook the water bottle before the man’s face, saw the pathetic shine in his eyes as he stared at the plastic.
Ericson went on hastily: ‘There was a time, back in 2006, when we were at our busiest. Weekly consignments of prisoners coming through. I was working there already, back then, and I was involved in the process.’
‘Prisoners from where?’
‘Iraq.’
Purkiss gave him some more water, wanting to keep the words flowing.
Ericson went on: ‘For a while, we were receiving batches of prisoners from Basra and Baghdad on a weekly basis. Sometimes single prisoners, more often groups of them. Captured combatants, suspected orchestrators of terror attacks in the country. We received them, held them if necessary, and shipped them out.’