The Frenchman, page 24
This, thought de Payns, could be my last beer … So he finished the Heineken, raised his finger at the barman and got another.
As the barman took his euros, Roxette’s ‘Listen to Your Heart’ started pumping out of the speakers.
‘Never worked out what year this was from,’ said a voice, very close to him. ‘Was it eighties, nineties, noughts? Could be any of them, know what I mean?’
De Payns snapped out of his reverie. There was a man in his early forties—American by the sound of him—standing at the bar, a fifty-euro note held between his fingertips. ‘I’ll have what he’s having,’ said the man.
The barman opened a Heineken and took the money. The American continued. ‘I think it’s nineties, but is this Berlin or Roxette?’
De Payns laughed. He also confused the two bands occasionally, and the timeless nature of the song made it very hard to nail down to a year.
‘Definitely Roxette,’ said de Payns. ‘But I don’t know what decade it’s from.’
The barman slapped down the American’s change. ‘Narek,’ said the American, ‘what year is this song from?’
The barman gave a quick nod of thanks as the American pushed his tip towards him. ‘I don’t know,’ said Narek, who was maybe twenty-five. ‘It’s, like, classic rock. It’s, like, old.’
The American turned, and for a second de Payns saw a flash of himself. The same professional openness, the practised ease of meeting new people, the conservation of movement in public that makes a person less conspicuous. He was slightly shorter than de Payns, and he wore a pair of chinos and a dark blue polo shirt. He was groomed to be forgettable, right down to the suburban haircut and fresh shaving. Like de Payns, here was a man who shaved twice a day so he was always unremarkable, always in the background. De Payns would bet his pension on this American having no tattoos, no jewellery and no piercings. De Payns couldn’t even smell him—there was no aftershave or cologne, and unlike most Americans, his polo shirt was logo-free.
‘Peter, from the US,’ said the man. ‘Sales.’
‘Sébastien, from Paris,’ said de Payns. ‘Consulting.’
They raised beers in the direction of each other but didn’t touch.
‘Roxette are strange,’ said de Payns. ‘They wrote and sang in English, even though they’re Swedish.’
‘Like ABBA,’ said Peter.
‘Yeah, but ABBA recorded in Swedish. I think Roxette only recorded in English and Spanish …’
‘And Portuguese,’ said Peter. ‘I heard them once in a taxi in Rio. Least, I think it was them. Could have been Berlin.’
‘Ha!’ said de Payns, liking this guy’s humour. ‘Rio? Nice down there.’
‘I sold a bunch of data switches to a Brazilian company and they comped me for a few days in Rio during the Olympics. Saw some boxing and high jump. A bit of javelin. It’s a very cool city.’
‘I’ve never been to Brazil,’ said de Payns.
‘First time in Pakistan?’ asked Peter.
‘Fourth or fifth,’ said de Payns, actually relaxing. ‘But the first time I’ve drunk a beer outside my hotel.’
Peter chuckled. ‘The owner is Narek’s dad. The police leave him alone if he’s only selling to Westerners.’
‘American Karaoke?’ added de Payns. ‘That’s a bit harsh. I thought it was the French who were labelled as drunks?’
‘He wanted to call this place The Speakeasy, but he thought he’d better not invite the cops to his door. So, the Yanks get tarred as drinkers. We’ve been called worse.’
‘You sell telecoms gear?’ asked de Payns, assuming it wasn’t true.
‘Yep. Boring as bat shit, and you?’
‘I’m a consultant in the pharma and chemicals industries, currently working on translations,’ said de Payns, sure that Peter didn’t believe him.
‘Translations for their brochures?’
‘For everything,’ said de Payns. ‘If you’re a French or American chemicals maker and you want to be selling in the Stans, you want your websites and your marketing materials to be in Farsi or Urdu or Pashto, or whatever your customers are fluent in.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Peter, raising two fingers at the barman. ‘How’s business?’
‘Busy.’
‘I get exhausted,’ said the American, looking at the pile of money in front of him.
‘They overworking you?’
The American shrugged. ‘It’s the constant travelling, always meeting people but never really knowing them.’
‘It gets tiring,’ said de Payns, now convinced they were talking about the same thing. ‘Getting close to someone, but always for an ulterior motive.’
The beers landed and the barman took a note from Peter’s pile of cash, obviously used to American bar etiquette. De Payns remembered the first time he’d sat at an American bar, in New York, and the barmaid’s hand reached out to his friend’s pile of money and his first reaction was to stop her.
‘Lonely too,’ said Peter. ‘You might have loved ones back home, but you’re putting all this energy into people you don’t know.’
‘And it’s false energy,’ said de Payns, sipping. ‘But your loved ones back home aren’t getting any of your attention.’
They looked at one another. Were they going to discuss family? Tell each other lies about their loved ones?
Peter’s face closed. ‘Hear that?’ he asked, raising a finger, as ‘Hungry Like the Wolf’ started playing. ‘That’s Duran Duran. Genuine eighties.’
CHAPTER
FORTY-NINE
The walk to Raven’s flat was deliberately slow. He stopped at a shop and bought a bunch of blue flowers, and saw a selection of Turkish delight in a deli service area. He bought a cardboard tray of the white-dusted sweet, paler in colour than the European version, then continued on to the flat along streets lively with cafes and restaurants.
The building was a three-storey apartment block with two units on each level. Raven was on the first floor.
At exactly 6 p.m. he pressed the security buzzer.
‘Hi, Sébastien,’ came Raven’s voice. ‘I’m up the stairs, in number four.’
There was a buzz and the sound of a bolt sliding and de Payns pushed through the door. He’d managed to turn his nerves into excitement, and he felt pretty good as he bounded up the stairs. Before he knocked on the door of number four, he checked his palms—they were dry, a good sign.
Raven opened the door and greeted him with a kiss on each cheek. He was glad of his dry palms because she was wearing a sleeveless purple chiffon top, and he touched her briefly on the bicep.
‘Ooh, for me?’ She smiled as he presented the flowers and the cardboard box.
‘I hope you like Turkish delight,’ he said.
‘I love it,’ she replied, walking to her kitchen, from which a delicious smell was emanating. ‘And by the way, it’s not Turkish, it’s Persian.’
It was a clean and tidy two-bedroom flat, about twenty years old. There was no sign of her kids, nor of a husband, which made him think that this was one of those gifts that Middle Eastern fathers give to their daughters, so they have some independence and their own asset. A bolthole for Muslim girls.
She emerged with a bottle of riesling, fresh from the fridge.
‘I thought there was no drinking in Pakistan,’ said de Payns.
‘You mean like there’s no pot-smoking in Belgium?’
She poured and he took a glass.
‘So, what have you told your brother about me?’ asked de Payns. ‘Anything I should know?’
‘I just told him the industry you’re in and what I’m doing for you. He was happy for you to join us for dinner.’
They drank and Raven asked him about his sightseeing. He also told her about his clients in New Delhi and the hassle of trying to remember all the languages that were spoken in this part of the world. She suddenly remembered the flowers, and walked into the kitchen to get a vase. He followed her and saw the rear exit that Templar had briefed him on. The kitchens of these apartments had a door leading onto fire escape gantries and stairs. He looked down and saw that the fire stairs dropped into a concrete car park, just as the team had briefed him.
Raven placed the flowers in a vase, opened the oven and stirred the contents of a ceramic pot.
There was a movement below, and de Payns looked down and saw a black LandCruiser with large aerials pull into the parking area. Two heavies in outdoor leisurewear emerged from the vehicle, leaving the driver in his seat. The larger of the two heavies wore a black windbreaker and slate-coloured hiking pants, and his 9mm handgun was evident on his hip. He looked up and straight at de Payns.
De Payns attempted a smile. ‘I think your brother’s arrived,’ he said, a voice in the back of his head asking, What the fuck am I doing here?
Raven joined him at the window and rolled her eyes. ‘He’s such a drama queen.’
They returned to the living room and de Payns peered over the windowsill. On the street, there was another black LandCruiser and the black S-Class Mercedes that he’d got to know pretty well. Men who looked similar to the ones out the back walked routes up and down the street, talking into their lapels.
The buzzer sounded in the flat and it gave de Payns a start.
‘Ha ha, it got you too!’ said Raven, pressing on the door release. ‘That ringer is heart-attack material.’
A few seconds later there was a knock at the door and Raven opened it. The doorway was filled with a male shape that instantly reminded de Payns of Templar—large but athletic; trained and dangerous. The heavy walked into the room, leaving a small figure standing just outside the doorway—Dr Death, codename Timberwolf.
The scientist was as small-featured and bespectacled as any stereotypical professor. He wore a brown sports coat, khaki slacks and a mustard-coloured cardigan under the jacket, confirming that scientists had the same sartorial elegance wherever they lived. The first bodyguard walked past de Payns and did a check of the flat while Timberwolf stood beside a second bodyguard. The bodyguard at the door stared at de Payns while the first guy made a commotion opening wardrobes and pulling back the shower curtain.
‘We just have to wait,’ Raven said to him apologetically. ‘Sorry, I forgot to tell you.’
‘At least I didn’t bring that whisky,’ said de Payns, aiming for a joke. He smiled at Timberwolf, but the scientist showed no sign of having heard. The minder at the door simply glared.
The fire stairs banged and clattered, as one of the people from the car park checked the back exits, and they could hear the first bodyguard talking loudly somewhere in the flat, meaning he was probably communicating with the guy on the fire stairs. De Payns couldn’t pick it, but it would be something like clear or, Check out this French pansy—let’s put a hood on him right now.
When the minder came back from searching the flat, he motioned for Timberwolf to enter and touched de Payns on the arm, asking him to follow. They stood in the spare room—with one single bed and some storage boxes—and the minder searched him thoroughly, looking for weapons and electronic devices. He found the Nokia and, having looked at it, asked de Payns in halting French, ‘You need this for to eat the meal?’
De Payns shook his head, and the minder broke down the phone very expertly and handed de Payns the pieces.
When they returned to the living room the second minder left to stand in the hallway, and the bodyguard who had searched de Payns stood post at the door. De Payns turned to Timberwolf and greeted him with his best smile. But the scientist offered only a reluctant handshake and a glowering face. ‘So,’ he said, dark-eyed and humourless, ‘you are the Frenchman.’
CHAPTER
FIFTY
Dr Death took a seat at the table. ‘You are a friend of Anoush, visiting Islamabad?’
‘Yes,’ said de Payns. ‘I’m interested in the old trade routes and ancient cities between the Middle East and the subcontinent, so since I’ve come all this way for forty-eight hours of work, I thought I’d take the opportunity to visit the ruins at Taxila.’
‘That’s interesting. And you and Anoush work together, yes?’
De Payns shrugged. ‘More or less. I’m a consultant and Anoush is a translator for one of my clients. That’s how we met.’
Seeing that the discussion had started and was about her, Anoush went back to the kitchen. Alec played his role of innocent guest.
‘And you, Doctor—are you married? Do you have children?’
The scientist made a surprised face. ‘I’m afraid not. Given how I intend to influence the world, I prefer not to have children.’
De Payns could have killed him where he sat, but he had to laugh at the atrocious sentiment, to create empathy. It occurred to him that Dr Death was playing with him, and as soon as Anoush was out of earshot, the scientist leaned forward and said in his slow, sibilant voice, ‘You know that Anoush’s husband is one of my best friends? We did part of our studies together and it was I who introduced them.’
De Payns was careful in his reply. ‘No, I did not know that. Unfortunately I have never had the chance to meet him.’
Timberwolf held a long silence, staring into de Payns’ eyes, before resuming. ‘I do not understand who you are. I do not understand what you are doing here. I do not understand your relationship with my sister,’ he said. ‘I find it very dishonourable for her and our family, and I feel that something is wrong.’
Alec could feel the rope tightening around his neck. Timberwolf was being deliberately ambiguous, fishing for a reaction rather than accusing. The lack of urgency in the Doctor’s tone was actually more dangerous to de Payns’ ears than an outright denouncement. The man was skilled—he thought he was playing with this Frenchman and de Payns knew he had to get out of there, and quickly. Quickly, but without being arrested. He had to disrupt Timberwolf’s rhythm and the best defence might be attack.
‘Excuse me?!’ de Payns retorted, feigning outrage. ‘What exactly are you insinuating? I’m here at the invitation of a friend and colleague. I gather you are someone important, but that does not give you the right to speak to me that way.’
Hearing that the tone of the conversation had changed, Anoush emerged from the kitchen to see what was happening. De Payns leaped in quickly.
‘Listen, Anoush, your brother has accused me of behaving dishonourably and I don’t appreciate it. I’m sorry, but I’m going to leave you now. I’m not here to create a scene. I hope you enjoy your dinner—we can catch up some other time.’ He rose from the table. ‘Goodbye, Doctor,’ he said stiffly. ‘Please accept my best wishes. It wasn’t my intention to intrude.’
De Payns headed for the front door under the amused gaze of Dr Death, who obviously appreciated the situation. Moving deliberately, avoiding any jerky actions that would cause the bodyguard to react, he collected his windbreaker from the coat hook beside the kitchen door. For now he had only one play—act embarrassed and get onto the street. His palms had turned clammy as he put on his jacket, the pieces of the phone rattling in the pocket.
On the other side of the door the second bodyguard stood his ground, not moving when de Payns passed him. De Payns tracked his movements without staring at him. If the bodyguard went for a weapon, de Payns would crush his throat, take the pistol and deal with the man in the hallway. His heart was not racing yet, but the room was feeling very small and he could feel his pulse jerking in his throat. He was ready for violence, yet he had to avoid a confrontation at all costs. Just get onto the street without mishap, he reminded himself. Once his team had eyes on him, he trusted Templar’s guys against the ISI. Templar had once exfiltrated a blown agent from Cairo, keeping her safe for thirty-six hours while the secret police searched every corner of the city. He’d got her back to Paris at the cost of a bullet in one French operative’s leg, and a lost finger when an operative’s hand was slammed in a car door, which was a pretty good result.
He turned to say goodbye, rotating into the bodyguard, not away, so he could keep tabs on him. Raven stood in front of him, tears on her cheeks, her great head of hair suddenly flat and limp. She wanted to hug him but de Payns reached out a hand and offered a handshake.
‘Thanks for a wonderful evening, Anoush,’ he said. Over her shoulder, a man who could kill millions with his bioweapon looked at de Payns and smiled.
‘Good evening, Dr Bijar,’ said de Payns.
The other man didn’t reply.
De Payns headed towards the stairwell—to get down the stairs and into the street would take forty-three steps—if he wasn’t stopped by a hood over his head or a bullet in his back. He was at their mercy. The sweat on his scalp was ice cold.
He took the first of what would be the longest forty-three steps of his life.
CHAPTER
FIFTY-ONE
In the Cercottes training they’d been taught to regulate their breathing when fear made the breaths shallow. If you let fear take over your physical self, oxygen in the brain dropped and decision-making capacity reduced. They’d undergone similar simulations in the air force, to show the pilot trainees what happened to cognitive function when the brain was deprived of oxygen. The lower the oxygen intake, the worse they’d become at breaking down a pistol or doing basic multiplication.
