Free Cronos Rising by Tim Stevens Page B

Under stress, however, the shakiness was noticeable. Purkiss had seen it during the Jokerman business last year.
    ‘Rebecca’s handler is a man called Myles. Gareth Myles. He’s an associate of mine, and you can trust him, too.’ Yet another pull on the cigarette.
    Vale ground the stub out into a makeshift foil ashtray and drew another expertly from a pack in his breast pocket.
    ‘John,’ he said. ‘I can’t tell you exactly what this is all about, for reasons which you may or may not discover in the course of time. But you need to find a man called Saul Gideon. He’s the key to all this.’ Vale paused. ‘Gideon may be dangerous. But he may be one of us. I simply don’t know, and that’s why you need to proceed with the utmost caution.’
    One of us. Purkiss thought about it. Filed it away for later consideration, so that he could concentrate on what Vale was saying.
    ‘It’s a matter of supreme urgency that you find Gideon,’ Vale continued. ‘I myself am going to try to, but you’re watching this, which means I’ve failed. If you discover that Gideon is the one who has had me killed, you need to take him down.’
    Purkiss resisted the urge to stop the video and rewind it. The cryptic remarks, the obliqueness, were threatening to overwhelm him. Rebecca Deacon sat in the driver’s seat, gazing impassively through the windscreen. She’d evidently watched the clip before.
    The picture jerked a little, as if it had been edited. Vale resumed: ‘Gideon’s last known location was the islet of Iora in the Aegean. It’s part of the Cyclades group. He may no longer be there, but it’s a good starting point in the search for him.’
    Purkiss thought Vale looked drawn. Ill, even, his face more lined than usual, and gaunter. Perhaps that explained the jump in the picture a moment earlier. He might have needed to take a break, rest his tobacco-coarsened voice.
    More quietly, Vale said, ‘Whatever happens, John, know that it’s been an honour working with you over the years. I hope, and trust, that you’ll continue to live a worthy life. Go well, my friend.’
    He reached forward, his hand looming into the foreground, and the clip ended abruptly.
    Deacon turned her head to look at Purkiss.
    ‘Again,’ he said, and clicked the play icon.

Ten
    ––––––––
    S he drove at moderate speed along the autobahn, heading west towards Bonn. After Purkiss had watched the clip a second time, he’d closed the laptop and said: ‘Get us out of here.’
    ‘Where, in particular?’ she’d said. Purkiss understood that the dynamic between them had shifted. Until now, she’d been in charge. But she seemed to have tacitly accepted that he was to take the lead now.
    ‘What’s the nearest major airport?’ he said, half to himself. ‘Excluding Frankfurt.’
    ‘Cologne and Bonn. About ninety miles from here.’
    Purkiss nodded.
    They rode in silence to begin with, Purkiss running over Vale’s clip in his head. Deacon left it a few minutes before she said: ‘Do you need medical attention?’
    ‘No. I’m fine.’
    He couldn’t risk going to a hospital, and the delays it would entail. The cramps in his belly were intermittent now, and his head was clearer. He glanced across at her.
    ‘Thanks, by the way. For earlier.’
    She shrugged, unsmiling. ‘My job.’
    Ninety miles to the airport gave Purkiss an hour to collect his thoughts, ask the questions he needed, formulate a strategy. It was difficult to know where to begin.
    ‘What do you know about all this?’ he said.
    ‘No more than you do. Less, probably.’
    ‘Vale said your handler is Gareth Myles.’
    ‘That’s right,’ she said.
    ‘And he’s Service.’
    ‘Yes. He’s mentioned Quentin Vale a few times in the past. Says he has an unusual relationship with the mainstream Service. That he’s an outsider of sorts. Which presumably makes you one, as well.’
    ‘Never presume,’ said Purkiss.
    She raised her eyebrows. ‘Myles sent me a text