which clung to it like an aura, and crammed them into a box within his head. He let the box drop, deep into the blackness of his mind, until it disappeared.
The waiter arrived once more and laid a steaming plate in front of Purkiss. He discovered he was ravenous, despite his tiredness. He pushed the pile of newspapers to one side and applied himself to the bratwurst.
The man seated at the counter a few feet to Purkiss’s right said, in German: ‘Would you mind if I had a look at the paper?’
Purkiss nodded. ‘Feel free.’
He reached to his left and handed the stack across to the man, who opened and folded the Allgemeine Zeitung and studied the front headlines.
Purkiss lifted his fork to his mouth and chewed, his eyes on the hubbub of the terminal, his thoughts on Vale, and the wild goose chase the man had sent him on in Rome.
Distraction. One of the essential tools in the espion’s kit. Vale had used it expertly.
Distraction...
Purkiss dropped his fork with a clatter.
He’d reached for the papers to his left...
The pain scored vertically down behind his breastbone, as if a clawed beast was trying to achieve purchase within his chest.
Before him, the terminal blurred, doubled.
His hands flailed, knocking his coffee cup over, the hot liquid burning his thighs. Down the counter, nearby, somebody shouted.
Purkiss dropped off the stool he was perched on, his feet hitting the floor one at a time and clumsily. The floor tilted and lurched upward towards him.
His throat felt as if it were puffing closed. Panic gripped his chest in a tight band.
The food he poisoned the food he poisoned
Through his swimming, telescoping vision, a woman recoiled. On the small round table before her stood a solitary bottle of water. Purkiss snatched at it, missed, stumbled into the table, tipping it. He grabbed the bottle through sheer luck and raised it and dumped the contents over his mouth, soaking his face and his head but getting some of it into his narrowing throat. He swallowed convulsively.
Dilute. And purge.
He coughed, violently, finding himself without warning on his hands and knees. Around him, gasps and yells were distorted as if by some electronic mechanism.
Purkiss rammed the fingers of his hand deep into his mouth, the tips probing for the pharynx. The gag reflex was triggered immediately and he felt the gorge rush up from deep within his belly and spew hotly over his hand and sleeve to rain across the floor.
It wasn’t cyanide. There was no bitter almond tang in his mouth.
He felt obscurely, pathetically grateful.
Purkiss crawled between the tables, seeing legs step aside for him as the hum of wonder and fear around him began to spread. His limbs functioned, after a fashion, arms and legs. He was making progress forwards. The absence of paralysis suggested there wasn’t a neurotoxin involved.
A stabbing, wrenching pain in his belly made him stop, hunch over, dry-heave with his face almost touching the floor.
Arsenic, perhaps. Or some seemingly innocuous plant toxin. Oleander?
He grabbed somebody’s arm, though it wasn’t an arm because it didn’t pull away, and its rigidity suggested it was a table leg. He hauled himself up so that he was on one knee.
Focus. Prioritise.
Purkiss turned, the movement sending a new ripple of nausea through his gut. His eyes somehow coordinated with one another and he stared at the counter he’d vacated.
The man who’d asked to borrow his newspapers was gone.
Hands, no longer fearful, were grasping at his arms and his shoulders now. In his ears, on both side, voices shouted: ‘Are you all right?’ and ‘What’s wrong?’
Purkiss rose fully to his feet, finding his balance. He shook his head, murmured something about a fear of flying.
Somehow he managed to extricate himself from the knot of people around him. He made his way unsteadily towards the entrance of the coffee shop, wiping his mouth, tasting the bile.
There’d be more of them. He needed to establish
The waiter arrived once more and laid a steaming plate in front of Purkiss. He discovered he was ravenous, despite his tiredness. He pushed the pile of newspapers to one side and applied himself to the bratwurst.
The man seated at the counter a few feet to Purkiss’s right said, in German: ‘Would you mind if I had a look at the paper?’
Purkiss nodded. ‘Feel free.’
He reached to his left and handed the stack across to the man, who opened and folded the Allgemeine Zeitung and studied the front headlines.
Purkiss lifted his fork to his mouth and chewed, his eyes on the hubbub of the terminal, his thoughts on Vale, and the wild goose chase the man had sent him on in Rome.
Distraction. One of the essential tools in the espion’s kit. Vale had used it expertly.
Distraction...
Purkiss dropped his fork with a clatter.
He’d reached for the papers to his left...
The pain scored vertically down behind his breastbone, as if a clawed beast was trying to achieve purchase within his chest.
Before him, the terminal blurred, doubled.
His hands flailed, knocking his coffee cup over, the hot liquid burning his thighs. Down the counter, nearby, somebody shouted.
Purkiss dropped off the stool he was perched on, his feet hitting the floor one at a time and clumsily. The floor tilted and lurched upward towards him.
His throat felt as if it were puffing closed. Panic gripped his chest in a tight band.
The food he poisoned the food he poisoned
Through his swimming, telescoping vision, a woman recoiled. On the small round table before her stood a solitary bottle of water. Purkiss snatched at it, missed, stumbled into the table, tipping it. He grabbed the bottle through sheer luck and raised it and dumped the contents over his mouth, soaking his face and his head but getting some of it into his narrowing throat. He swallowed convulsively.
Dilute. And purge.
He coughed, violently, finding himself without warning on his hands and knees. Around him, gasps and yells were distorted as if by some electronic mechanism.
Purkiss rammed the fingers of his hand deep into his mouth, the tips probing for the pharynx. The gag reflex was triggered immediately and he felt the gorge rush up from deep within his belly and spew hotly over his hand and sleeve to rain across the floor.
It wasn’t cyanide. There was no bitter almond tang in his mouth.
He felt obscurely, pathetically grateful.
Purkiss crawled between the tables, seeing legs step aside for him as the hum of wonder and fear around him began to spread. His limbs functioned, after a fashion, arms and legs. He was making progress forwards. The absence of paralysis suggested there wasn’t a neurotoxin involved.
A stabbing, wrenching pain in his belly made him stop, hunch over, dry-heave with his face almost touching the floor.
Arsenic, perhaps. Or some seemingly innocuous plant toxin. Oleander?
He grabbed somebody’s arm, though it wasn’t an arm because it didn’t pull away, and its rigidity suggested it was a table leg. He hauled himself up so that he was on one knee.
Focus. Prioritise.
Purkiss turned, the movement sending a new ripple of nausea through his gut. His eyes somehow coordinated with one another and he stared at the counter he’d vacated.
The man who’d asked to borrow his newspapers was gone.
Hands, no longer fearful, were grasping at his arms and his shoulders now. In his ears, on both side, voices shouted: ‘Are you all right?’ and ‘What’s wrong?’
Purkiss rose fully to his feet, finding his balance. He shook his head, murmured something about a fear of flying.
Somehow he managed to extricate himself from the knot of people around him. He made his way unsteadily towards the entrance of the coffee shop, wiping his mouth, tasting the bile.
There’d be more of them. He needed to establish
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