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international research team at Yarkovsky Station in North-Eastern Siberia. But he’s kept up his contacts with Russian Intelligence. SIS has been watching him ever since his so-called retirement. Sometimes he’s disappeared off the radar for a while, but there have been sightings of him in Morocco, in Kiev, even once in St Petersburg. And each time, there have been particular FSB operatives present as well. SIS believes he’s still working for the Russians, but his appearances so far have been too short-lived, too fleeting for anyone to get a handle on. Now, though, he’s stayed put for two months.’
    ‘And you want me to find out what he’s up to.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘When?’
    ‘The day after tomorrow, if possible.’
    Purkiss glanced at Vale. The older man had a knack for dry irony, but Purkiss had never known him to make actual jokes.
    ‘Quentin.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘This is going to require deep cover.’
    ‘Correct.’
    ‘I won’t be able to organise that in two days.’
    ‘It’s all been arranged. You’ll have credentials that will hold up under all but the most exhaustive scrutiny.’
    This was something new. In the past, Vale had left Purkiss to set up his own cover identities, something that had been increasingly difficult in the last year and a half since Purkiss had lost his friend Abby, who’d been a master at procuring forged documentation. For the first time, Vale himself had done the work, or someone associated with him.
    Purkiss found it disquieting. It tied him to Vale, and to SIS, in a way he didn’t like.
    Vale turned his melancholy eyes on Purkiss, and it was clear he understood.
    ‘You wouldn’t have been able to do this on your own, John,’ he said. ‘Not gain entry to a facility like Yarkovsky Station without connections at a higher level than, with respect, you have access to. But I know it takes control away from you to a certain extent. And I know how that feels.’
    Vale reached inside his greatcoat and produced a clear plastic folder. Inside was a manila packet, sealed and fat.
    Purkiss took it.
    Vale tipped his head. ‘We’ve some details to go over. Let’s walk.’
    *
    N ow, thousands of miles away in the crushing silence of his quarters, Purkiss reflected on the cover Vale had supplied him with. It really was very good indeed.
    John Farmer’s history had been elaborated in enough detail to encompass an authentic-sounding lifetime, but it left room for Purkiss to improvise and personalise it. Farmer’s date of birth was close to Purkiss’s own. Their upbringings were similar, as were their respective educational trajectories. Only in their subsequent career paths did they diverge. John Farmer had been a staff reporter on first local, then national British newspapers, before he’d gone freelance. He’d been a regular stringer with Reuters for five years, and had solid references from the agency. Purkiss knew the references had to be authentic, and wondered what kind of influence Vale, or somebody on his behalf, had exerted to acquire them.
    The credentials had been convincing enough to persuade the Russian authorities to allow John Farmer entry to Yarkovsky Station for a period of up to two months. The station was, as Vale had said, an international one, and the facilities were technically the joint property of Russia, the United States, Britain, Sweden and the Netherlands. Each of the five nations apart from Holland employed its own citizens currently as staff members on the site. But the station was on Russian soil, and final access was at the discretion of Moscow.
    Permission for John Farmer to conduct his interviews, to research his forthcoming article on the work being done at Yarkovsky Station, had been granted nine days before Purkiss had met Vale in Hyde Park.
    Purkiss stood up and went to the window. It was blacked out almost entirely by a heavy roller blind, a fine rim of external light marking the edges on either side. It’s essential during the summer months ,