Free Cronos Rising by Tim Stevens Page A

said. ‘Go back a bit. What’s your background? Who do you work for?’
    She glanced at him for the first time since they’d set out in the car. ‘I’m Service.’
    ‘SIS?’ But he knew that was what she meant. MI6 was the popular name. SIS was the official one. To operatives, it was simply the Service.
    ‘Yes,’ Deacon said. ‘I’m a cold asset. This is my first mission in three years.’
    A cold asset was an agent who’d been trained for a specific task, usually one of a troubleshooting nature. MI6 cultivated a number of these, subjecting them to the standard training  at the beginning, then deploying them in day jobs for most of their lives, with regular refresher courses in fieldwork and IT surveillance. Some of them would remain forever as sleepers, always on potential call but never actually summoned.
    Purkiss had always been sceptical of the idea. The notion that British Intelligence could rely upon a reserve force, as the military did, seemed faintly ludicrous to him. You were either an operative or you weren’t. Espionage skills weren’t something you could turn on and off every now and again. They needed constant honing through experience, or they’d wither and die. Much like those of a doctor, or a lawyer, or any professional.
    He said, ‘Who’s your handler? Your instructor , as you call him?’
    ‘You’ll meet him soon enough.’ Deacon swung down a slip road. An industrial estate loomed before them. ‘I need to show you something.’
    She pulled into a car park outside a vast supermarket depot. Reaching into the back seat of the car, she pulled a laptop from her bag and opened it. From her pocket she produced a flash drive.
    She turned the laptop to face Purkiss.
    A video was cued up, and began playing a few seconds later.
    *
    V ale sat behind a desk in a room so anonymous it might have been a prison cell.
    He gazed at the camera in silence for a full ten seconds, as if he wasn’t aware it was switched on. His elbows were on the desk, and between the fingers of his raised right hand a cigarette smouldered, its blue ribbon of smoke catching the dim artificial light above him.
    ‘John,’ he said. ‘You’ll hate me for this cliche, but if you’re watching this, I’m already dead.’
    He glanced off-camera, picked up a newspaper with his left hand, held it forward. It was a folded-over copy of The Times , its front page on display. The date on the masthead wasn’t difficult to read: Wednesday,  22 nd October .
    One week ago.
    Vale laid the paper on the desk and addressed the camera again. ‘Just to set the scene.’
    He took a contemplative drag on his cigarette, all the while watching the camera through the smoke.
    ‘I have reason to believe that an attempt will be made on my life. Imminently, possibly within the next few days. I’m going to try and meet you tomorrow, but I won’t tell you any of this.’
    Purkiss had received a phone call from Vale on the morning of Thursday the 23 rd of October. He’d met him on Waterloo Bridge in the middle of the early-morning commuter rush and they’d begun walking. Vale had briefed Purkiss about the Rome operation, about the need to garner evidence that Billson was selling information to Beijing. The next day, Purkiss had flown to Rome.
    On the laptop screen, Vale said, ‘The woman who’s showing you this video is Rebecca Deacon. She’s a cold asset under my indirect authority, though she doesn’t know me personally. She’s first class. You can trust her implicitly. I’ve cultivated her specifically for such an eventuality as this.’
    Vale hunched a little further over the table.
    ‘The fact that you’re watching this, John, means that I’ve been killed, and your life is in extreme danger. Rebecca has been activated to protect you. Listen to her.’ He lifted the cigarette to his lips again.
    Was there the hint of a tremor in his hand? Purkiss had witnessed it before. Vale was in his early sixties, but remained remarkably spry.