The Frenchman, page 26
‘Let’s get the old ID off you,’ said Templar.
They went through his wheelie cabin case and tore up the Sébastien Duboscq passport, and destroyed boarding passes, receipts and baggage barcode stickers from his flights, and a tourist map from New Delhi. Then Templar made him turn out his pockets and consigned to the rubbish bin every piece of paper that de Payns was carrying. He took his shirt and windbreaker and dumped them, and gave him a black sweatshirt and a brown leather jacket that was badly aged.
‘The Company has a Facebook account for you, and apparently if you search Georges Morel on the internet, Google has you at the fourth ranking. You’re listed as a journalist who is interested in social justice and climate action.’
‘I like me already,’ said de Payns.
‘You came across the border yesterday from Turkmenistan, and you were travelling with me. I’m the photographer,’ said Templar. ‘You’re a freelance journalist who is currently researching the effects of climate change around the region.’
‘Okay.’
‘If anyone asks, northern Pakistan and eastern Afghanistan have some problems with aquifer mismanagement. There’s salt coming to the surface and the livestock don’t like the groundwater.’
De Payns was always surprised by what his friend could pull out of a hat.
Templar asked, ‘Does it sound plausible?’
‘You had me at hello,’ said de Payns. ‘What magazine are we writing for?’
‘A webzine called Socialist Climate Action,’ said Templar. ‘You’ll fit right in.’
De Payns laughed. ‘Have they run our stuff?’
‘Brent did a thing back at the Bunker,’ said Templar. ‘When you search the SCA webzine, you’re sent to a mirror site where our photos and stories are featured. It won’t last longer than a week, but that’s all we need.’
‘Who wrote the stories?’
‘Remember how Thierry put together our script for Lake Forgiveness?’
De Payns nodded.
‘Well, he did his AI trick again and he came up with a story on plastic bottles in the ocean, saving the whales and how great Cuba is.’
‘You’ve got some photos?’ asked de Payns.
‘Back there in the camera,’ said Templar. ‘Charlie’s taken care of it.’
‘Who’s Charlie?’ asked de Payns.
‘The man who delivered this car,’ said Templar. ‘He works out of Kabul.’
‘What are the photos of?’
‘Sick-looking cattle,’ said Templar, ‘and video interviews of farmers saying the aquifer is fucked.’
‘Charlie just rolled up and starting shooting?’ asked de Payns. ‘And they started talking?’
‘Seems to be how it works,’ said Templar, starting the engine of the Passat. ‘Who knew journalism was so easy?’
‘So we have footage. What about notes?’
‘Grab that notebook I gave you and start writing about poison aquifers and low-yielding farms. And date it yesterday.’
They smoked cigarettes and drove across a landscape that was arid in some parts, verdant in others. It was physically beautiful and very rural, yet marked by burned-out trucks and piles of steel wreckage on the roadside.
De Payns let the kinks work out of his neck and back. ‘So where are we? And where are we going?’
‘We’re south of Kabul,’ said Templar, passing him a road map. ‘And we’re going to Zahedan, over the Iranian border, to the west.’
Zahedan was a large town in Iran. It looked like a twenty-hour drive, and they’d cross the border at Afghanistan’s western boundary.
‘We’ll pick up a flight at six-thirty tonight, booked and paid for in Paris, and we’ll fly home via Istanbul.’
De Payns needed information. ‘What happened back there? At the Timberwolf meet?’
Templar shook his head, his big neck showing piano string beneath the skin. ‘I think you and I have used up all our dumb luck.’
‘That bad?’
Templar sighed. ‘We have to talk.’
De Payns caught a new tone. ‘About what?’
‘We were compromised,’ said Templar.
‘Fuck!’ said de Payns, pushing back in his seat and looking for something to punch. ‘Fuck!’
‘Thankfully, not before the meeting. We managed to get a couple of wireless mics around the entry to Raven’s apartment,’ said Templar. ‘When you said goodnight and started walking, Timberwolf walked out behind you. You aware of that?’
‘No,’ said de Payns, tired. ‘I didn’t look back.’
‘So he’s standing on the street with his minders around him, and I was about to pull back and loop into the candles but his phone goes off.’
‘Dr Death’s?’
‘Yeah,’ said Templar. ‘He pulls a phone out of that horrible jacket of his, and answers it. And guess what he says?’
‘What?’
‘Bonjour,’ said Templar.
‘No!’ said de Payns. ‘No!’
‘He’s taking a call from a fucking Frenchman!’ Templar confirmed.
De Payns swallowed sandpaper. It was too much. ‘What did he say?’
‘He says, Aguilar? This playboy is Aguilar?!’
De Payns slumped. He was blown. Betrayed. Only a handful of people in the world knew—or were authorised to use—that name. ‘Anything else?’
‘He said something like, I’d rather have known that an hour ago, and then he hangs up and tells his bodyguards to follow you. That’s when I knew we’d be doing an emergency exfil tonight.’
De Payns’ brain roared. Not just with the possibilities of who in Paris had sold them out in the middle of an operation, but the probabilities of the ISI going after Romy, Oliver and Patrick. He couldn’t contact them to tell them to get out of the apartment. And where would they run? And who could he ask at the Company to keep them safe? He could ask Shrek but that just begged the question—who was the mole?
Another thing occurred to him. ‘If the operation is blown, maybe the exfil is too?’
Templar nodded. ‘I booked the flight in cash, but I did it in Paris.’
‘We have to change it,’ said de Payns. ‘We have to go back into Paris separately.’
‘You want the car?’ asked Templar.
‘What will you do?’
‘Don’t ask, don’t tell,’ said Templar. ‘There’s a town up ahead—about two hours’ drive—called Gardez. I’ll get out there, you keep driving.’
They smoked in the dark as they closed on Gardez, through a zone that had been bombed, judging by the craters alongside the road.
‘Tell me about Dr Death,’ said Templar. ‘What happened in there?’
‘He’s a nutter,’ said de Payns. ‘Said there was something off about me …’
‘Imagine that.’
‘Accused me of dishonouring his sister, cuckolding his best friend.’
‘So we’ve got our guy? We had eyes.’
‘Timberwolf is confirmed. He’s the head scientist at the MERC and he’s evil.’
Templar looked at him sideways. ‘What else?’
‘Don’t worry,’ said de Payns, annoyed that someone could know him so well.
‘Tell me. What did else did he say?’
De Payns took a breath. He was feeling very anxious about his kids. ‘The reason he doesn’t have kids is he wouldn’t want them to live in a world where he’s making his bioweapons, is basically what he said.’
Templar laughed. ‘Oh shit. Now I really need a drink.’
CHAPTER
FIFTY-FIVE
They stopped to relieve themselves and de Payns gasped as he twisted out of the car.
‘You injured?’ asked Templar.
‘Still have shoulder pain since I sparred with Shrek.’
‘Everyone gets beaten up by Shrek.’ Templar laughed. ‘How is he, by the way?’
De Payns shrugged, zipped and sat on the Passat bonnet while Templar finished.
Templar said over his shoulder, ‘I mean, you and him—I don’t see you together anymore.’
‘He’s working on something,’ said de Payns, unsure if Templar was indoctrinated in Shrek’s trip to Palermo.
‘With Frasier?’
De Payns pricked up his ears. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘I saw them together at the Cat.’
De Payns mulled on that.
‘You okay?’ asked Templar.
‘Falcon,’ he said. ‘Ever wonder why it went like that?’
‘Only forty times a day,’ said Templar, zipping up and fishing a pack of smokes from his pocket as he walked to the car. He paused as he realised what de Payns was saying. ‘Oh, man. It wasn’t Shrek. No way!’
‘You know I was approached by Manerie?’ asked de Payns. ‘He wanted information on what happened in Palermo. Lots of talk about a mole.’
‘Manerie’s investigating Falcon? I thought they’d throw it to someone under him?’
‘I know—so Manerie tries to implicate Shrek, and now Shrek has been acting strange.’
‘Manerie is investigating Shrek? For Falcon? Why?’
De Payns lit a smoke. ‘I don’t know. He keeps cornering me with that gorilla Jim Valley.’
Templar nodded. ‘He has something over you?’
‘Yes, and it’s not money. I failed to declare a meeting.’
‘And he has photos?’
De Payns laughed. ‘Sure does. Gotta love those DGS guys.’
‘So how does Shrek get into this?’
De Payns thought about it. ‘He insinuates that maybe I don’t know him as well as I think. He reminds me that Shrek was the one with me on the ferry from Sardinia, and the one with me at Bar Luca. Shrek was around the passports, and he was close to the money.’
‘So were you,’ Templar pointed out.
‘I know. But Manerie is most interested in the Company’s conclusions on Falcon.’
‘And you told him?’
‘No, I deflect. I tell him that Briffaut has my report and the support team’s briefing, but Briffaut hasn’t shown me his report, which has gone to Frasier, and Frasier hasn’t finalised.’
‘Why doesn’t Manerie just ask Briffaut?’
They looked at each other for a second too long. Templar was the first to break. ‘Don’t you dare. Not Briffaut!’
De Payns jumped off the car’s bonnet and walked in a circle. ‘I know it can’t be Briffaut—yet there we were in Islamabad, in the mouth of the wolf, and Dr Death gets a phone call talking about Aguilar and the Company.’
Templar nodded. ‘So if it’s not me or you, not Shrek and not Briffaut …’
‘Brent knew some of the details,’ said de Payns.
Templar shook his head and a convoy of two trucks motored past. ‘Brent’s one of us. His grandmother’s sister was tortured to death by the Gestapo for feeding Allied airmen. He’s solid.’
De Payns kept pacing, a thought forming.
‘What’s up?’ asked Templar, his tone changing. ‘Your face tells me trouble.’
‘We thought the tourniquet would be timed for between eight-thirty and nine,’ said de Payns. ‘The end of the dinner date.’
‘And that’s what we were set up for, but you came out early,’ said Templar. ‘Very early.’
‘I know. When I was coming down those stairs I was praying your team was ready.’
‘So?’
‘So whoever made that call to Dr Death knew my schedule.’
Templar completed the thought. ‘They timed the call thinking you’d still be sitting there at dinner with Timberwolf. What are we dealing with?’
‘Someone who wants the Falcon team wiped off the board,’ said de Payns.
They came over a hill and the pale lights of Gardez lay in front of them. Afghan towns didn’t leave their electricity running all night like they did in Europe. There was a small camp of Afghan soldiers and armoured four-wheeler military vehicles on a spur to the side of the road, but they weren’t running a checkpoint and the Frenchmen drove through.
‘There’s a twenty-four-hour service station on the other side of the town,’ said Templar. ‘Tank there and I’ll get moving.’
‘You got money?’
‘Enough.’
De Payns pulled a swag of US notes and euros from his pocket and gave five hundred US dollars to his friend.
‘You haven’t told me about the ISI,’ said de Payns. ‘Who came for me?’
‘Two professionals on foot, one sub and a car,’ said Templar. ‘Timberwolf took the call and was straight on to you. We were fucked.’
‘Why didn’t they grab me off the street?’
‘Maybe he didn’t want to lose face in front of his sister? Or maybe he was going to scare you, and just bank the favour.’
‘Bank it?’
‘You know what these people are like,’ said Templar. ‘At some point he’ll want to be rescued by France; you’ll be called out to Évreux one day and he’ll be sitting in a cell saying, Remember me? I did you a favour once, now you do me one.’
De Payns smiled at the assumption of French goodwill. In his first year at the Company, he’d been part of a team that brought a Syrian opposition politician to Paris. The Syrian was going to give the Company all the inside information on the Assad regime, and France would get his family out, give them citizenship and donate eight hundred thousand euros to his party. When it became apparent that the politician was just jockeying for position and trying to destroy his rivals with unfounded gossip, the Cat decided to cut him loose and de Payns was instructed to deal with him. He drove the Syrian to a busy intersection in Paris, handed him the attaché case with the promised money, and told him to get out.
‘But where is my family?’ asked the man.
‘That’s your problem,’ said de Payns.
‘But I’m a dead man without protection,’ said the panicking politician. ‘I’ve just betrayed half the politicians and generals in Assad’s regime.’
‘That’s your problem,’ de Payns had repeated, leaning across him and opening the door.
The Syrian was found floating in the Seine ten days later. The Company was testing de Payns and he passed. There would be no quid pro quo for Timberwolf if he ever turned up asking for favours. France didn’t work that way.
After the call from his associate, the Doctor nodded at his henchmen. ‘Follow him to the hotel, but wait,’ he said. ‘Let’s see who is working with him. No point in removing the cheese when we can also catch the mice.’
As he got into the Mercedes, his sister ran out from the building. ‘How dare you, Yousef! How dare you come into my home and talk to my friend like that! And you wonder why I live in Europe?’
‘Go back inside,’ said Yousef, as kindly as he could. ‘It’s not your fault.’
‘I know it’s not my fault,’ said Anoush, her pretty face flushing with indignation. ‘It’s your fault.’
As the Frenchman disappeared into the darkness of the evening, Yousef explained, ‘You weren’t to know that this man is no good. These Westerners see a married woman without her husband, and’—he shrugged—‘for them it’s a game.’
He willed her to go back inside, to avoid saying anything that would require him to escalate the situation. He’d suspected something was amiss before meeting the Frank but he’d wanted to deal with Anoush’s indiscretion without making it the business of the state.
‘It’s time you were in bed,’ he suggested, but he could see immediately it was the wrong thing to say.
‘I’m not yours to order around, Yousef Bijar!’ she shrieked. ‘I’m my father’s daughter, remember that.’
‘How could I forget?’ replied the Doctor. ‘Still, it’s best you were inside right now rather than out on the street.’
He could see her anger rising, and even though most members of his security detail were now following the spy, his driver and bodyguard were looking at his loud-mouthed sister.
‘If anyone is to blame, it’s me, not him,’ she said.
‘Inside. Now!’ he ordered.
‘I told him about your work and your position, building you up as a great man even though the world is disgusted by what you do.’
A young family scuttled past on the other side of the street, trying to pretend they’d heard nothing.
The Doctor lowered his voice. ‘Last chance, sister. Get inside.’
‘You could have been a great man, Yousef, but you can’t talk about what you do in that place, can you? Now why is that exactly?’
He wanted to have it out with her, to damn her for adopting the soft Western ways of their father, while their mother and aunt were forced to endure the lonely hell of their forgotten history. He wanted to tell her that the maternal side of their family contained greatness and perseverance, and the French corporation had taken that from them. It was an injury that they all should have borne together, but Anoush and their father were too busy with their decadent boats and secret drinking. But he held back—his sister already knew what he thought.
He climbed into the Mercedes and shut the door. Anoush had done it again—had put him in the situation of having to choose between Pakistan’s security and the welfare of his own sister. He breathed deeply, aware of the ISI man watching him in the rear-view mirror. The decision he had to make now was easier given the decision he’d made seven years ago, when his father had asked too many questions and made the mistake of judging him. His father had subsequently died from an unexpected ‘heart attack’. Now Yousef had to decide about Anoush.
He thought of his youth, growing up alongside his gregarious little sister. The holidays in which Anoush and their father had skied and sailed, while Yousef looked for a quiet place to read a book. Being the clever one of the family wasn’t easy. Being the one to uphold the honour of his family—to avenge the losses they had suffered—was never going to make him popular. But that was his role.
He keyed his phone and watched the number connect as Anoush stormed back into her apartment building.
‘Colonel,’ he said into the phone, ‘we have a security situation.’
CHAPTER
FIFTY-SIX
Between them they had one firearm, which de Payns insisted Templar take. And then Templar threw a small backpack over his shoulder and walked into the shadows without even a backward look.
