was.
She’d appeared in a timely manner; there was no doubt about that. If she hadn’t intervened when she had, Purkiss would most likely be dead by now. Her background story seemed plausible, and the fact that she’d shown him the video-clip message from Vale bolstered her credibility, not least because Vale had vouched for her explicitly during his monologue.
And yet. And yet... Purkiss supposed it made sense that Vale had other people he turned to, other assets like Purkiss. But it seemed odd that Deacon had never been brought in to help Purkiss before. During the Jokerman job, for instance, or the Caliban business in New York the previous spring.
Plus, there was Rebecca’s caginess about her handler. Gareth Myles, she and Vale had called him. Why, if the situation was now as fraught as it seemed to be, was this Myles remaining so aloof? Uncontactable by even Rebecca herself, who had to rely on his contacting her before she could communicate with him? Surely it made sense for him to be as available as possible, in order to provide whatever logistical support she and Purkiss needed?
And then there was Kendrick, and his reaction to Rebecca. His conviction that he’d met her before. Despite his oddness, the lingering damage his injury had done to his brain, his memory had always seemed to Purkiss to have remained intact. It was something he’d discussed with the neuropsychiatrist who’d assessed Kendrick in the hospital, during the long weeks of rehabilitation. The doctor had told Purkiss that lesions which were confined to the frontal cortex typically left the long-term memory unimpaired. His tests of Kendrick had confirmed this to be the case.
Kendrick seemed so sure Rebecca was familiar to him.
Purkiss eyed Rebecca’s profile beside him, her face alternately lit and obscured as the streetlights lining the motorway strobed by.
Trust.
It was something he had a problem with. He’d learned the art of mistrust early on in his career in intelligence, when he’d realised it was an adaptive, not to say life-saving, strategy. But it was only in the last couple of years, since he’d discovered the truth about his late fiancee Claire, that Purkiss had come to understand just how corrosive mistrust could be when those closest to you came within its orbit. He’d doubted Hannah, his former girlfriend; and even, once, Vale himself.
Vale. Purkiss felt a sudden anger clutch at his innards. He’d always believed his employer and mentor would die eventually of a heart attack, or of a stroke, or cancer. Vale would have accepted any one of these verdicts philosophically, fully acknowledging that he’d brought it upon himself through his forty-a-day cigarette habit. He’d have passed over with a gloomy wryness, and Purkiss would have saluted him.
Instead, the man had boarded a passenger plane, and had been smashed to pieces on the unforgiving ground at high speed. Despite his level-headedness, his professionalism, he must have been terrified in the last seconds, either hurtling down in the wrecked shell of the aircraft or sucked out through the ripped fuselage to plummet alone. He may even have screamed. Soiled himself.
The lack of dignity bothered Purkiss the most.
Vale hadn’t deserved that.
*
R ebecca and Purkiss had neatened Kendrick up in his flat, casting aside his ratty overcoat and persuading him to put on a shirt and leather jacket and a clean if musty pair of cargo trousers Purkiss had found buried in the bottom of a wardrobe. The airlines were on heightened alert since the TA15 attack, and any passenger looking like a down-and-out would be given short shrift.
Purkiss felt his back tense as they walked through the terminal to the check-in desk. For a moment his gut twisted, and he wondered if he’d ever be able to visit an airport again without his somatic memory reminding him of the poisoning in Frankfurt. But they breezed through the procedure without incident, and even made it past the security
She’d appeared in a timely manner; there was no doubt about that. If she hadn’t intervened when she had, Purkiss would most likely be dead by now. Her background story seemed plausible, and the fact that she’d shown him the video-clip message from Vale bolstered her credibility, not least because Vale had vouched for her explicitly during his monologue.
And yet. And yet... Purkiss supposed it made sense that Vale had other people he turned to, other assets like Purkiss. But it seemed odd that Deacon had never been brought in to help Purkiss before. During the Jokerman job, for instance, or the Caliban business in New York the previous spring.
Plus, there was Rebecca’s caginess about her handler. Gareth Myles, she and Vale had called him. Why, if the situation was now as fraught as it seemed to be, was this Myles remaining so aloof? Uncontactable by even Rebecca herself, who had to rely on his contacting her before she could communicate with him? Surely it made sense for him to be as available as possible, in order to provide whatever logistical support she and Purkiss needed?
And then there was Kendrick, and his reaction to Rebecca. His conviction that he’d met her before. Despite his oddness, the lingering damage his injury had done to his brain, his memory had always seemed to Purkiss to have remained intact. It was something he’d discussed with the neuropsychiatrist who’d assessed Kendrick in the hospital, during the long weeks of rehabilitation. The doctor had told Purkiss that lesions which were confined to the frontal cortex typically left the long-term memory unimpaired. His tests of Kendrick had confirmed this to be the case.
Kendrick seemed so sure Rebecca was familiar to him.
Purkiss eyed Rebecca’s profile beside him, her face alternately lit and obscured as the streetlights lining the motorway strobed by.
Trust.
It was something he had a problem with. He’d learned the art of mistrust early on in his career in intelligence, when he’d realised it was an adaptive, not to say life-saving, strategy. But it was only in the last couple of years, since he’d discovered the truth about his late fiancee Claire, that Purkiss had come to understand just how corrosive mistrust could be when those closest to you came within its orbit. He’d doubted Hannah, his former girlfriend; and even, once, Vale himself.
Vale. Purkiss felt a sudden anger clutch at his innards. He’d always believed his employer and mentor would die eventually of a heart attack, or of a stroke, or cancer. Vale would have accepted any one of these verdicts philosophically, fully acknowledging that he’d brought it upon himself through his forty-a-day cigarette habit. He’d have passed over with a gloomy wryness, and Purkiss would have saluted him.
Instead, the man had boarded a passenger plane, and had been smashed to pieces on the unforgiving ground at high speed. Despite his level-headedness, his professionalism, he must have been terrified in the last seconds, either hurtling down in the wrecked shell of the aircraft or sucked out through the ripped fuselage to plummet alone. He may even have screamed. Soiled himself.
The lack of dignity bothered Purkiss the most.
Vale hadn’t deserved that.
*
R ebecca and Purkiss had neatened Kendrick up in his flat, casting aside his ratty overcoat and persuading him to put on a shirt and leather jacket and a clean if musty pair of cargo trousers Purkiss had found buried in the bottom of a wardrobe. The airlines were on heightened alert since the TA15 attack, and any passenger looking like a down-and-out would be given short shrift.
Purkiss felt his back tense as they walked through the terminal to the check-in desk. For a moment his gut twisted, and he wondered if he’d ever be able to visit an airport again without his somatic memory reminding him of the poisoning in Frankfurt. But they breezed through the procedure without incident, and even made it past the security
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