Liz Carlyle - 05 - Present Danger (16 page)

Purnell was the child of two first-generation Irish émigrés, and eldest of two sons. Grew up in the working-class neighbourhood of Dorchester – his father was a clerk in a law firm. Educated at the prestigious Boston Latin School after winning a scholarship. Attended MIT and took a Bachelor of Science in a combined mathematics and physics degree, followed in 1974 by a PhD. A brilliant student but references from teachers describe him as headstrong.

In 1972 a Purnell was recorded as a member of the extremist group the Weather Underground, but no firm connection between our subject, James Purnell, and the Weathermen was ever firmly established.

Purnell’s advanced degree in mathematics and physics was of particular value in the military area of high grade missile technology. Purnell was offered a position with Arrow Systems, a Route 128 group specialising in missile control and retrieval software systems. Its contracts were predominantly with the US Defense Department. Accordingly Purnell was successfully positively vetted before being offered the post.

His name appears in lists compiled in the late 1980s by local fundraisers for the Northern Ireland Aid Committee (NORAID). Purnell visited England in June 1984 but he did not come to notice in contact with IRA sympathisers on the mainland.

In 1985 Purnell left Arrow Systems and established his own consultancy (The Purnell Group – or TPG), employing his younger brother Edwin as chief finance officer. Edwin was a trained
accountant, but also very active in IRA fundraising – his name appears in FBI files on NORAID activities, and he visited Northern Ireland on several occasions.

Where Arrow Systems had specialised in anti-radar aspects of large-scale missile systems, TPG focused on hand-held projectile weaponry (RPG), and surface-to-air missiles (SAMs). Until the late 1990s revenues were almost exclusively derived from Department of Defense contracts, but cuts in procurement at the end of the Clinton administration forced TPG to look for other clients. These included US government-approved customers, Israel, South Africa, and Pakistan, but an FBI file suggests Purnell may also have been doing business with a range of illegal clients, including Somalian rebels and both sides of the Rwanda civil war – Hutus and Tutsi. It was believed that revenues from these sales were deposited in off-shore banks, first in the Seychelles, then in banks in those former Soviet countries that had refused to sign international disclosure agreements (Estonia and Moldova in particular).

In 1999 at the instigation of MI5, the FBI investigated a gun-running scheme to smuggle arms, including hand-held missile launchers, by ship from the coast of Maine into Northern Ireland. Three men were arrested, including Edwin Purnell. The trial of the Mattapan Three (named by the press after the South Boston neighbourhood where all three lived) took place in 2001, though coverage of the trial was overshadowed by the events of 9/11.

All three men were convicted, and Edwin Purnell was sentenced to six years for his part in the plot. He was due for parole in 2004 but died of kidney failure in a federal prison in Louisiana in 2003. Despite our suspicion that James Purnell was involved, the FBI was unable to link him to any part of the conspiracy.

After his brother’s death, James Purnell closed down his company, changed his name, and moved to Northern Ireland.

When she had finished reading, Liz looked at the note Peggy had attached to the end of the document:

Liz,

The FBI special agent in charge of the Boston investigation of 1999/2000 was called Daryl T. Sulkey Jr and the same man is the new FBI legat in London. I phoned him and he could meet you first thing tomorrow – 8.15 a.m. at Grosvenor. Please let him know if you can’t make it; otherwise he will be expecting you.

PK

‘Interesting,’ said Bruno, when he saw that she had finished reading. ‘But what’s the connection with Milraud and this man Purnell? And why did Purnell move to Northern Ireland?’

Liz sighed. ‘Ask me no questions, Bruno, and I’ll tell you no lies.’ Not that Liz knew the answers to his questions. She was hoping that the FBI man rejoicing in the name of Daryl T. Sulkey Jr might supply them.

26

Back at his desk, Dave was feeling uncomfortable. In the calm aftermath of the meeting with Milraud his depression over the break-up with Lucy had returned. Judith had looked in to see how the meeting had gone and he’d assured her that it was all just fine and he was writing it up before deciding what to do next.

But had it really gone fine? The more he thought about it, the more he wondered if Milraud had been playing him along. He was worried about Sabayone. He’d pretended to know all about him but he’d never heard of him and when he got back to the office he’d looked him up on the internet and found no trace of a gunsmith of that name. Whatever game Milraud had been playing, Dave was now convinced that he was not merely a prosperous dealer in antiques. There had been no puzzlement and equally no umbrage taken at Dave’s clear desire to discuss more modern armaments.

He ought to talk to Liz about it before he went back for another interview. She would want to discuss with Michael Binding just how far out on a limb Dave the Derringer Collector should go. If there was information about Piggott and arms dealing to be got out of Milraud, how much were they prepared to pay? It was clear that at the next stage he would need to suggest that cash would be forthcoming in return for information.

But yet again Liz wasn’t in her office. She was coming back via London, Judith told him, because of something she’d learned in Paris. He ought to wait. She might have found out something relevant. But it would be another day before she was back and with Milraud’s departure imminent, there was no time to lose. The investigation of the attempt on Jimmy Fergus meant that there would be no spare A4 resources available at such short notice to provide adequate support for a meeting with Milraud the next morning. And if he requested it as a priority, and Michael Binding had to arbitrate, he would certainly give it to the Fergus investigation and order Dave not to go ahead without full back-up. By which time Milraud would be back in France, leaving the shop in the charge of the woman in the silk suit, who would profess to know nothing about anything except antique weapons.

And that would be that; all the hard work he’d done since the initial call from Brown Fox would go down the drain. No way, thought Dave. He couldn’t bear the thought of his investigation joining his private life in ruins. Besides, Milraud had been receptive so far.

‘The derringer is very appealing, but—’

‘But?’ asked Milraud with a knowing smile. ‘I can move on the price to fifteen thousand, but no more, I am afraid. One reaches a point …’ he gave a vague movement of his hands.

They were in the back office again, and small talk had been kept to a minimum. Milraud wore a tie today, and a suitcase in the corner suggested he would leave for the airport immediately after seeing Dave.

‘I understand,’ Dave said. ‘The price is not the issue.’

‘Ah. Then if I may ask, what is your position? Do you wish to buy?’

Dave hesitated. It crossed his mind that he should have found out more about the man before he embarked on a recruitment approach. But then ‘nothing ventured, nothing gained’, he said to himself. Milraud hadn’t exactly thrown him out of the shop yesterday when he’d mentioned modern weapons. So he said, ‘Perhaps other things might be included too.’

The Frenchman looked thoughtfully at him. He raised his eyebrows a fraction. ‘Well, of course, Mr Willis, I deal in a wide range of weapons. But what have you in mind? I assume we are no longer talking about derringers?’

‘No. Modern weapons as well.’

Milraud seemed to consider this, clasping both hands, elbows on the desk in front of him. ‘It’s conceivable. What kinds of weapons?’

‘All kinds. Automatic weapons. Handguns and larger items. Possibly associated ordnance too. Grenades, mortars, RPGs.’

Milraud narrowed his eyes, and his hand wandered beneath the edge of the desk top; Dave tensed. Then it re-emerged, apparently from the upper drawer of the desk. Milraud popped something in his mouth.

‘I assume, Mr Willis, that you are talking about legitimate weaponry? I don’t have many enquiries from amateurs for the sort of things you mention. Of course, what my clients want, I try to find, that is true. But I would need to know more about who they are, and their reasons for making such enquiries. Particularly, if I may say so, in this town.’

Dave was beginning to feel uncomfortable. He had a suspicion that Milraud was playing with him. So he said, ‘To be more precise, what I’m interested in is information. And we may well be talking about sums greater than fifteen thousand pounds.’

‘I should think so,
mon ami
,’ said Milraud, staring levelly at Dave. ‘I should think so.’

There was a tap on the door. When it opened Mrs Carson stood there. ‘Monsieur Milraud, I beg your pardon for interrupting. But could I see you for a moment please?’ She threw a small smile in Dave’s direction. ‘I’m so sorry. A rather awkward customer in the shop.’

Dave waved an arm in understanding, relieved at the opportunity to gather his thoughts. As Milraud left the room, he wondered what to say next. Money seemed the object, pure and simple; he supposed in Milraud’s world loyalty was always a function of the highest price. He was pondering his next move when he heard the door behind him open. ‘Everything all right?’ he asked.

‘Could not be better, my friend,’ said a foreign-sounding voice. It didn’t belong to Milraud.

27

Liz opened the door of her basement flat in Kentish Town with a sinking feeling. After being away for several weeks she wondered what she would find. She remembered how she had left in a hurry without the rigorous clearing up and cleaning that she had intended to do. But apart from a musty smell, a layer of dust and a carton of milk in the fridge that had separated into curds and whey, all was well, though in contrast to the bright flat in Belfast, kept in sparkling order by Mrs Ryan, the place seemed dark and unwelcoming. With all its disadvantages, Liz loved this flat, the first property she had ever owned, but now she found herself wondering whether she would settle happily back here again.

It was late and she was tired after the day in Paris and the flight home, but her answer phone was flashing demandingly. When she pressed the button to listen to her messages, it informed her that it was full, so telling herself that all the messages would be out of date, she deleted everything without bothering to listen. Then she went to bed.

She slept uneasily and woke to a grey drizzle and nothing more than black instant coffee for breakfast. Something about being back in her home environment caused her to remember guiltily that she hadn’t phoned her mother for days.

Susan Carlyle lived in Wiltshire in the gatehouse of a large estate, part of which was now a nursery garden which she managed. Liz’s father had been the estate manager and Liz had been brought up in the beautiful surroundings of Bowerbridge. But her father had died shortly after Liz had come to work in London, and ever since then she had felt responsible for her mother. She had dutifully made the slow, awkward drive from London down to Bowerbridge on Friday evenings at least one weekend a month.

But in the last year her mother had acquired a boyfriend, or partner (Liz was never quite sure which was the correct term for their relationship), and in spite of Liz’s fears that Edward Treglown would be a pipe-smoking, tweed-jacketed ex-military bore whom she would dislike on sight, he had turned out to be an excellent thing. Having been a Ghurkha officer for thirty years he was now director of a charity working to relieve blindness in developing countries – a charming and discreet man who seemed to be making her mother very happy. As well as liking him, Liz was grateful to him for that.

There was no answer from the phone at the house, but Liz knew that at Edward’s insistence her mother had recently taken the (to her) daring step of acquiring a mobile phone, so she now dialled that.

Susan Carlyle answered on the third ring. ‘Oh hello, dear.

How is beautiful Belfast?’

‘I hope it’s a lot nicer than here. I’m in London.’

‘London? So am I. We came up last night. How long are you here for?’

‘I’ll have to fly back later today. I was actually on business in Paris but I’ve had to stop off here on my way back.’

‘What an exciting life you lead! Any chance of seeing you before you leave?’

Liz hadn’t expected her mother to be in London. She thought about her day. ‘Well, I might be able to do a quick lunch. My flight’s not till six.’

‘Lunch it is then. I’ll bring Edward too, shall I?’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Liz. ‘I’d love to see him,’ she added truthfully.

At five foot eight inches Liz thought of herself as tall for a woman; even so she was used to having to look up at American men. But Daryl Sulkey was huge, probably a foot taller than Liz and far and away the tallest man she had ever encountered. She could see him waiting for her on the far side of the daunting security post at the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square. After her bag and jacket had gone through the X-ray machine and she had been patted down by an unsmiling uniformed female guard, she emerged on the other side to a warm welcome. Sulkey’s arms matched the length of the rest of him and ended in enormous hands, on one finger of which he wore a heavy gold ring, set with an appropriately large blue stone. Liz was thankful that the power of his grip, as his right hand engulfed hers, did not match the size of his hands, and she managed to escape with her fingers uncrushed.

As she followed him to his office, she noticed that he moved his right leg awkwardly and that his right foot was crooked, and she wondered if his size and the length of his back and his legs had affected his movement. She was relieved when he finally sat down behind his desk and she was able to see his face on something like a level with hers for the first time. It was a thinner, more lined face than she had expected from his vast size and she wondered whether whatever caused his awkward walk also gave him pain.