Cronos Rising by Tim Stevens Page B

scanner unmolested, although Kendrick had to point out to the staff that he had a metal plate in his head which might set off the alarm.
    ‘I’m a cyborg, really,’ he said cheerfully to the female security guard, before whipping a pair of plastic sunglasses from his pocket and intoning robotically: ‘I’ll be back.’
    The woman smiled tolerantly. Purkiss was relieved. In the United States Kendrick’s behaviour might have provoked a major incident, and got them all arrested. Over here, his quip was seen as just another wearying example of the British propensity for stupid, childish jokiness in every conceivable situation.
    Purkiss studied the flight information screen. He noted the departure gate, and the expected boarding time. Fifty minutes from now.
    ‘We have a bit of a wait,’ he said. ‘Let’s get a coffee.’
    They found a seating area outside a row of competing shops. Rebecca rose automatically.
    ‘No,’ said Purkiss. ‘I’ll go.’
    He walked to the counter of the nearest outlet and stood in the queue. He’d wanted to watch Rebecca and Kendrick on their own. See if she responded differently to him when Purkiss wasn’t there.
    But Kendrick sat with his legs outstretched, staring at the floor, his lips pursed, while Rebecca  rested an arm on the back of her chair and gazed out over the departure lounge. There was no interaction whatsoever.
    That in itself might be significant, Purkiss thought.
    He reached the counter, ordered three coffees. Turned away with the paper cups secured in a cardboard holder.
    His glance snagged on a face in the queue behind him.
    The man looked straight back. His eyes followed Purkiss even as Purkiss broke contact and  walked away.
    Purkiss processed the data on the way back to the table.
    White man. Pale. Late thirties. Spectacles. Thinning, fair hair, receding up the forehead. Inexpensive shirt and blazer. Looks like a middle manager, or a literary agent.
    He focused on the face. Applied his internal memory grid, linking the features with the words and letters to which he’d applied them.
    Domed forehead. First letter: D.
    Glasses. They reminded Purkiss of a pair worn by David Letterman, the talk-show host, on one of the shows he’d watched on a visit to the US as a younger man. Letter.
    D-letter.
    He had the name.
    Purkiss reached Kendrick and Rebecca and laid the cup-holder down on the table. He saw Rebecca look past his shoulder, watched her posture tense.
    Kendrick said: ‘Hey. We’ve got company.’
    Purkiss turned. The man from the queue was walking over.
    ‘Delatour,’ said Purkiss.
    *
    T he man blinked, once.
    ‘You remember me?’ he said. He stopped a few feet away, as if he’d suddenly become intimidated by the three of them.
    ‘Come closer,’ said Purkiss.
    The man had left the queue without buying his coffee. He took a few steps towards Purkiss, his empty hands hanging by his sides.
    Purkiss said: ‘Yes. I remember you. April last year. Battery Park in New York.’
    ‘Correct.’ The man had seemed utterly nonplussed when Purkiss had said his name, but his confidence had returned rapidly. He pointed at a chair. ‘May I sit down?’
    Kendrick was staring at him, Purkiss noticed, as he had done at Rebecca earlier.
    After he’d settled himself in the seat, the man propped his elbows on the table and gazed at Purkiss. He seemed ill at ease, not just in the present circumstances but in his skin. Purkiss remembered that about him.
    In April last year, they’d met on the southern tip of Manhattan when Purkiss had been pursuing a rogue operative named Darius Pope, during the Caliban mission. Delatour was an MI6 asset operating out of the Embassy in New York. He’d been one of Vale’s contacts, and he had furnished Purkiss with information about the CIA agent who’d recently been murdered in the city. The intelligence Delatour had provided was relatively minor; but he’d struck Purkiss as a competent, thorough agent.
    Delatour said: ‘My presence