Haven by Tim Stevens Page B

and he debated going into the rococo building for an hour or two. There were further megaliths to be explored inland, and towns to be reached by means of a leisurely trek.
    But it was no good; the mood was gone. Motruk’s beaky face kept dragging his attention back to it like a papercut.
    Purkiss climbed behind the wheel and followed the road back out though the city, heading towards Marsaxlokk.
     
    *
     
    They could have been of one of any number of nationalities – Greek, Turkish, Maltese itself – but Purkiss thought they were Italian. There were two of them, one older and portly, the other younger and leaner, both in beautifully tailored light suits and mirror sunglasses. They gripped Motruk’s hand one after the other, each turning the handshake into a back-clapping bearhug. Forming a semicircle a few paces behind the two men were the hoods: four thickset men in tighter, less well fitting clothes, their gazes similarly hidden by dark shades but clearly roving.
    Purkiss had taken up the same position at the end of the street across from the bed and breakfast after doing a quick but thorough appraisal of the area. It was possible – unlikely, but possible – that Cass and Silverman had got surveillance into place already, and if that was the case Purkiss didn’t want to get in the way. But he thought they wouldn’t have acted that quickly.
    Besides, he’d got the impression that they hadn’t been all that interested in what he’d had to tell them.
    At two fifty p.m. Motruk had emerged from the guesthouse and begun walking quickly away. He hadn’t had the air of a man on the lookout for followers, and though Purkiss knew this could be deceptive, he was fairly sure both that Motruk was unaware of him as he set off in pursuit and that there was nobody else in the field, SIS or otherwise.
    Purkiss tracked him in the direction of the sea. The boxy rows of a huge shipping container terminal stretched into the distance, cargo vessels hauling themselves mastodon-like into bays in the port. From his Marseille days Purkiss knew the Freeport Terminal was one of the busier ones on the Mediterranean.
    As soon as Purkiss saw the knot of suited men standing waiting for Motruk he peeled away, wandering along one side of the terminal and gazing at the containers as though some kind of shipping aficionado. He took up a position behind the base of a large, inactive crane and watched from there. Snatches of the men’s voices reached his ears but he couldn’t make out any of the words, nor the language they were speaking in.
    With his phone he took the best pictures he could, grimacing at the quality. But there was no way around it; whatever the subject of discussion, Purkiss couldn’t risk tipping Motruk and his companions off by trying to get closer.
    After fifteen minutes or so, the group split up amid more handshakes and embraces. Purkiss watched Motruk set off on foot back the way he’d come. The six men piled into two cars, expensive executive models. Once they’d gone he set off after Motruk once more.
     
    *
     
    The ten mile car journey between Marsaxlokk and the town of Mdina was one of the most difficult Purkiss had undertaken.
    There was nothing inherently problematic about the terrain. Purkiss had followed Motruk to a small public car park behind the bed and breakfast and, once he’d established the man was going to one of the cars, had quickly headed back down the street to his own rental vehicle. He’d waited until Motruk’s blue VW saloon emerged from the car park entrance and then fallen in behind, three cars back. Before long the village was behind them and the narrow single-lane road was winding to the north-west, the vineyards giving way to scrubby rock on either side.
    After three miles, there was no traffic between Purkiss and Motruk’s car in front, and that was what made matters difficult. He didn’t want to approach too closely, but on the other hand dropping back too far would also arouse