Nemesis by Tim Stevens

be coming after him,’ Purkiss said. ‘It makes sense that I’d be on the case. We go in, and give no hint that we suspect Donovan of anything, and we try and sniff out something that will help us.’
    They climbed out the car, all three of them. Saburova settled behind the wheel. She had the numbers of both men, in case she needed to call them, and they had hers.
    Purkiss and Asher walked back to the gates, which were set in a deep recess in the wall. Purkiss saw the cameras mounted on the gateposts on either side.
    He pressed the buzzer.
    Ahead, down the curved gravel driveway, the house blazed with light. It didn’t mean anybody was home, necessarily. Vale had sent Purkiss further information about Donovan. He was divorced with two adult children, and was believed to live alone, though he had domestic staff who possibly slept on the premises.
    A voice came from the speaker, distorted by static: ‘Yes?’
    ‘Mr Donovan? My name is John Purkiss. I need to speak to you urgently on a matter of national security.’
    Donovan was former Service. He wouldn’t bluster, or feign incomprehension.
    After a second, the voice said: ‘Who’s with you?’
    ‘Paul Asher. SIS.’
    The speaker was silent.
    Purkiss heard footsteps a moment before a torch shone full in his face. He raised an arm against the brightness, saw Asher do the same as a second beam transfixed him.
    Two men, no more than silhouettes, had appeared on the other side of the gate.
    ‘Where’s your car?’ said one of them.
    ‘We came by taxi,’ Purkiss said.
    The torch beams dropped a fraction. Purkiss could make out uniformed figures. Security guards.
    They had no dogs with them, but that didn’t mean there weren’t any on the premises.
    The gates eased open, and the guards beckoned Purkiss and Asher through. On the other side, they were motioned to stand with their arms outstretched. The guards ran their hands over the contours of their torsos and limbs.
    ‘ID,’ said one of the men.
    Purkiss produced his driving licence. Asher did likewise. There was no official SIS identification card, at least not one for public use.
    One of the guards muttered into his phone. They nodded at Asher and Purkiss to precede them.
    Spotlights blazed into life as the group approached the front door. One of the guards stepped in front at the last minute and pushed the door open. Beyond, a hallway gave off several doors, and a spiral staircase at the end wound out of sight.
    A man of about sixty stood in the hallway. Casually dressed in shirtsleeves and chinos, his face was thin and grooved. Purkiss recognised him from the photo Saburova had shown him.
    ‘Donovan,’ said the man. He didn’t offer his hand. ‘What can I do for you?’
    *
    ‘Y es. Of course I remember the device.’
    They’d moved into a living room off the hall, and were seated in modern, slightly uncomfortable armchairs. Donovan had shut the door behind them, but although the two security men hadn’t come in with them, Purkiss sensed their presence close by.
    Donovan said, ‘I helped design it.’
    Purkiss had said, without preamble, that they were making enquiries about the implant supplied by HorizonTech which had been used to tag Richard Rossiter. Donovan had given away nothing in his eyes, or his expression.
    ‘You know who Rossiter is, of course,’ Purkiss said.
    ‘Yes.’
    Donovan looked from Purkiss to Asher, then back.
    ‘Has he escaped?’
    ‘Why would you ask that?’ said Asher.
    ‘Because why else would you be enquiring about the tracking device, unless he’d flown the coop?’ Donovan didn’t sound scornful.
    ‘Yes,’ said Purkiss. ‘He’s escaped. And the device was removed from his arm shortly afterwards.’
    ‘Surgically?’
    ‘Probably not. I mean it was removed really shortly afterwards. Within minutes.’
    ‘That would have been painful.’ Again, there was no emotion in Donovan’s tone, no wryness. He was stating a simple fact. ‘I still don’t understand what