further worldwide jihad. It was too much of a coincidence that Quentin Vale had been on board that flight.
Purkiss thought the downing of TA15 had been an act of assassination.
Yet again, he ran his mind over the possibilities. Vale had wanted Purkiss out of the way, which was why he’d organised the fake liaison between Billson and the Chinese national, Xing, in Rome. It suggested Vale thought Purkiss needed to be kept out of harm’s way. Did that mean Vale suspected or knew that he, too, was in danger?
It opened up all sorts of further questions. Where had Vale been heading when he’d boarded the flight? TA15 had been going to Istanbul, so it was reasonable to assume that whatever business Vale was involved in, it was taking place in Turkey. Had he been fleeing someone, or something?
Purkiss raised his head and gazed across the terminal. It was filling, gradually, as the mid-morning passengers began to make their nervous appearance.
His jaw clenched in frustration. Vale’s insistence on keeping almost every detail about himself and his background secret from Purkiss for “security reasons”, as he put it, was now a liability. Purkiss knew nothing about him. Nothing about the enemies he had, the political complexities of his life.
It was easy to understand how a man like Vale could make enemies. He’d dedicated his professional life to hunting down the bad apples within the British intelligence establishment. And he had, so far as Purkiss knew, a one hundred per cent success rate. There’d be plenty of grudges festering away within the jails of Britain and elsewhere in Europe, and plenty of potential future targets who might decide to pre-empt Vale before he turned his attention to them.
Purkiss was aware that all this applied to him, too.
His options were limited. He’d come to Frankfurt Airport not with any clear goal in mind, but rather to visit the scene of the crime, to absorb its atmosphere and allow the intuitive part of his mind to bask in the environment, in case it threw up any clues.
Before he’d boarded the flight from Rome to Frankfurt that morning, Purkiss had called Hannah again in London. He’d asked for another favour: that she obtain for him the names of all the known MI6 personnel in Istanbul, whether based in the embassy or outside. It was a long shot, but it might provide some idea as to why Vale had been heading there. Purkiss had bought a mobile phone at the airport and he gave her the number.
She hadn’t called back yet, but Purkiss knew it was a task that would take some time.
He felt himself drawn towards the Turkish Airlines check-in desk, which was just visible to his left from where he sat at the counter of the coffee shop. There was barely anybody queuing at the desk. The airline was tainted, cursed, and would remain so for a long while. He knew there was nothing he could ask the staff at the desk that would be of the remotest use, but he felt the urge to walk in Vale’s steps, to trace his exact path, as if that might give him some insight into what had happened.
It was stupid, superstitious, and Purkiss berated himself inwardly.
The waiter appeared to ask if he wanted anything else. Purkiss asked for more coffee, and, deciding he needed to load up on carbohydrate and protein, requested bratwurst and sauteed potatoes.
While he waited, Purkiss scanned the newspaper reports again. If the destruction of the plane had been for the sole purpose of killing Vale, it would have taken considerable planning. That suggested Vale had booked the flight some time in advance. Perhaps Purkiss could find a way to determine exactly when and how the flight had been booked. It wouldn’t tell him much, but it would add incrementally to the supply of information he was building up.
He needed a skilled hacker. But the greatest IT expert he’d ever known, Abby Holt, had been killed two years earlier, in Tallinn, because Purkiss had let her down.
He compressed the thought, and the emotions
Purkiss thought the downing of TA15 had been an act of assassination.
Yet again, he ran his mind over the possibilities. Vale had wanted Purkiss out of the way, which was why he’d organised the fake liaison between Billson and the Chinese national, Xing, in Rome. It suggested Vale thought Purkiss needed to be kept out of harm’s way. Did that mean Vale suspected or knew that he, too, was in danger?
It opened up all sorts of further questions. Where had Vale been heading when he’d boarded the flight? TA15 had been going to Istanbul, so it was reasonable to assume that whatever business Vale was involved in, it was taking place in Turkey. Had he been fleeing someone, or something?
Purkiss raised his head and gazed across the terminal. It was filling, gradually, as the mid-morning passengers began to make their nervous appearance.
His jaw clenched in frustration. Vale’s insistence on keeping almost every detail about himself and his background secret from Purkiss for “security reasons”, as he put it, was now a liability. Purkiss knew nothing about him. Nothing about the enemies he had, the political complexities of his life.
It was easy to understand how a man like Vale could make enemies. He’d dedicated his professional life to hunting down the bad apples within the British intelligence establishment. And he had, so far as Purkiss knew, a one hundred per cent success rate. There’d be plenty of grudges festering away within the jails of Britain and elsewhere in Europe, and plenty of potential future targets who might decide to pre-empt Vale before he turned his attention to them.
Purkiss was aware that all this applied to him, too.
His options were limited. He’d come to Frankfurt Airport not with any clear goal in mind, but rather to visit the scene of the crime, to absorb its atmosphere and allow the intuitive part of his mind to bask in the environment, in case it threw up any clues.
Before he’d boarded the flight from Rome to Frankfurt that morning, Purkiss had called Hannah again in London. He’d asked for another favour: that she obtain for him the names of all the known MI6 personnel in Istanbul, whether based in the embassy or outside. It was a long shot, but it might provide some idea as to why Vale had been heading there. Purkiss had bought a mobile phone at the airport and he gave her the number.
She hadn’t called back yet, but Purkiss knew it was a task that would take some time.
He felt himself drawn towards the Turkish Airlines check-in desk, which was just visible to his left from where he sat at the counter of the coffee shop. There was barely anybody queuing at the desk. The airline was tainted, cursed, and would remain so for a long while. He knew there was nothing he could ask the staff at the desk that would be of the remotest use, but he felt the urge to walk in Vale’s steps, to trace his exact path, as if that might give him some insight into what had happened.
It was stupid, superstitious, and Purkiss berated himself inwardly.
The waiter appeared to ask if he wanted anything else. Purkiss asked for more coffee, and, deciding he needed to load up on carbohydrate and protein, requested bratwurst and sauteed potatoes.
While he waited, Purkiss scanned the newspaper reports again. If the destruction of the plane had been for the sole purpose of killing Vale, it would have taken considerable planning. That suggested Vale had booked the flight some time in advance. Perhaps Purkiss could find a way to determine exactly when and how the flight had been booked. It wouldn’t tell him much, but it would add incrementally to the supply of information he was building up.
He needed a skilled hacker. But the greatest IT expert he’d ever known, Abby Holt, had been killed two years earlier, in Tallinn, because Purkiss had let her down.
He compressed the thought, and the emotions
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