Nemesis Read Free Page A

Service, or employed by them in some capacity. But, as the man responsible for rooting out rogue and criminal elements within SIS, Vale’s troubles often overlapped with those of the organisation.
    Vale headed for the exit. Stansted Airport was small, and easy to escape, unlike the tangled nightmare that was Heathrow to the west. Purkiss’s own car was parked here, but he assumed it would find its way back to him in due course.
    ‘The Service, yes,’ Vale said. ‘But you and I, personally, John. We have a problem.’
    So this was it, Purkiss thought. The money had run out. The economic situation dictated that Britain could no longer afford to fund an outfit whose sole responsibility it was to keep the intelligence service clean.
    But that didn’t fit, because Vale wouldn’t have taken the unusual step of meeting Purkiss at the airport.
    Purkiss sensed that, however much Vale had thought about how he was going to brief Purkiss, he was struggling to choose the best approach.
    ‘Where are we going?’ Purkiss said.
    ‘Vauxhall Cross.’
    SIS headquarters. Purkiss hadn’t set foot inside the building in more than half a decade.
    It was in Central London on the Thames. An hour’s drive away, at least.
    Purkiss said, ‘Give me the bare bones. Otherwise we’ll sit like this in silence until I won’t be able to take it any more.’
    Without taking his eyes off the motorway ahead, Vale said: ‘Fair enough.’
    He paused.
    ‘Rossiter’s escaped.’

Three
    ––––––––
    S ir Peter Waring-Jones had been in post for three years. He’d worked his way up the ranks, and served as Deputy Director of the Secret Intelligence Service for a full decade before at last assuming the top job. It served as a neat illustration of his legendary patience.
    Purkiss had never met him before. He looked older than he appeared in the few photographs Purkiss had seen of him, and must be past seventy by now. His suit was smart but he wasn’t fussily dapper, and to Purkiss’s relief he wasn’t wearing a bow tie.
    Waring-Jones had been a contemporary of Vale’s in SIS, both of them active agents in the nineteen-seventies and -eighties. Nonetheless, Vale never expressed any opinions to Purkiss about the man. Purkiss had always liked that. It suggested discretion on Vale’s part.
    Loyalty.
    Waring-Jones was already standing when Purkiss and Vale entered. His office was large, and tastefully but not extravagantly appointed. An enormous picture window gave out onto a magnificent late-morning view of the Thames. The double-glazing was deceptively normal looking, but Purkiss assumed it could withstand any onslaught short of a rocket attack.
    Another, younger, man rose as they came in. He was Asian, third generation if Purkiss’s memory served him. Rupesh Gar. Thin, intense and bespectacled, as Deputy Director he was the yin to Waring-Jones’s yang, a contrast in age and ethnic background and personality.
    ‘Quentin,’ said Waring-Jones. His voice was friendly without the overt jocularity Purkiss had been expecting. ‘And Mr Purkiss. Thank you for coming.’
    He extended his hand. Both men shook.
    Gar stepped forward and they repeated the ritual with him. His intensity was unusual, Purkiss decided. It came from his bearing, his aura. His eyes themselves were so neutral they were almost blank.
    Waring-Jones indicated for them all to sit. His desk was vast, and occupied most of one end of the room. But there was a coffee table nearer the door, with easy chairs arranged around it, and it was to these that he directed Vale and Purkiss.
    There must have been five hundred books on the shelves lining the walls. Purkiss appraised them quickly. He noted a preponderance of volumes about China. Waring-Jones was a Sinophile, Purkiss knew, and one of the reasons for his rapid rise to the Deputy Directorship had been his extensive knowledge of the country, at a time when it was ascending to world prominence itself.
    Tea and coffee were already