The Frenchman, page 4
‘The passports,’ said Lambardi, breathless as he marched across Crispi.
De Payns accelerated and got alongside the Italian’s right shoulder, keeping his voice low as they passed sidewalk tables loaded with French and Austrian drinkers. ‘I don’t have them on me, Michael. They’re at the office.’
‘We’ll drop by,’ said Lambardi. Spying a gap between the taxis and minicabs, he darted across the road.
‘You’re slow for a Frenchman,’ Lambardi teased when de Payns joined him on the other side several seconds later, to the accompaniment of a loud dose of Sicilian horns. Lambardi set off again, veering left down a street on which waiters and accordion players smoked cigarettes outside cafes loud with tourists—he was heading for de Payns’ office.
De Payns carried no comms or tracking device. He would just have to follow where Lambardi led, trusting in his mission team to have his back.
‘We can settle this tonight,’ said Lambardi as they turned into the side street where de Payns’ office was located. This was not the way de Payns had planned to do the handover. The operation was intended to culminate at Lambardi’s apartment, where de Payns would deliver the passports and record the footage.
‘I thought we were going to the bar,’ said de Payns.
Lambardi kept walking. ‘We’ll get the passports and I’ll get the money for you.’
De Payns grabbed the Italian by the shoulder. ‘You know how it goes, Michael. We do it my way, or we don’t do it.’
Lambardi shrugged his hand away. ‘You’ll get three million euros for those passports, but I don’t carry that kind of money on me.’
‘So what’s the point in fetching the passports now?’ asked de Payns as they neared the suite of offices.
‘Murad will have the money,’ Lambardi told him. ‘He’ll love this deal.’
De Payns was startled. ‘Murad?!’ he hissed, not wanting to say the name of the Sayef Alber commander too loudly. ‘He’s in Palermo tonight?’
‘Sure,’ said Lambardi.
‘Where are you meeting him?’ asked de Payns.
‘You kidding me?’ the Italian slurred. ‘He finds me.’
Bar Luca was a bar-cafe in Palermo’s old town that had started life as a wine merchant’s warehouse six hundred years ago. It was dimly lit, low in the ceiling and heavy on the beams. But the lighting meant its sandstone walls glowed golden. Hanging from the ceiling beams were Knights Templar and Knights of St John paraphernalia, a tribute to the era when the fighting orders ruled the eastern Mediterranean. De Payns scanned the bar as he took a seat at Lambardi’s favourite table, in front of the 1960s Wurlitzer jukebox. When they’d first visited Bar Luca more than a month ago, de Payns had panicked slightly, thinking Lambardi knew his real name and its obvious connection to the Knights Templar—Hugh de Payns, founder and first Grand Master of the Order of the Knights Templar, back in the 1100s. But Lambardi wasn’t interested in Crusader lineage nor the de Payns family’s part in it. He was there for the table service—the owner, Luca, employed good-looking ladies and Lambardi liked one of them in particular.
Lambardi waved at the bar for two beers as De Payns put his Adidas pack between his feet. He was reassured by the presence of the CZ but not comfortable about the passports he was now carrying. He’d managed to keep Lambardi out of his office, insisting that they meet back at the bar. He’d collected the passports and returned to Bar Luca, but he felt vulnerable knowing Murad was around. Still, despite the risks, he was reluctant to call off tonight’s operation. The chance to trap Lambardi and lure Murad into the open was not to be missed. He would normally have used his time alone in the office to warn the support team with a visual signal—a light or something reflective—or ask for a physical contact with the chief of the support team, which would require an orange gommette or a hand in his hair. However, the stop at the office had not been planned and de Payns had to hope that the support team would understand something was wrong and provide him with what backup they could.
De Payns scanned the bar, looking for threats. The two Turks from the ferry bar had a table beside the door—they were most certainly Sayef Albar heavies. Margaux, the curvy waitress, was laughing at Lambardi’s attempts to charm her. She was way above Lambardi’s pay grade but de Payns hadn’t told him that yet. Neither had Margaux, who liked the big tips he gave her.
Keeping a smile on his face, de Payns walked to the jukebox, slapping the pockets of his Levi’s for change, which allowed him to turn back. ‘Any coins?’ he asked Lambardi, aware that in a sea of drinking tourists, two sets of dark, sober eyes were aimed at him.
Lambardi leaned back in his chair and tried to get his fingers into the pocket of his shorts. As he pulled out a handful of coins, de Payns saw movement to his left—the tall Turk was on his feet and walking towards the toilets. With his gaze focused on Lambardi, de Payns watched from the corner of his eye as the tall Turk, his burgundy shirt worn untucked to hide his handgun, paused at the start of the corridor where the toilets were and spoke with someone concealed in the shadows. De Payns moved back to his seat and the tall Turk broke away from his conversation, turned to face Lambardi and cocked his head. Michael Lambardi had been summoned.
De Payns’ heart rate jumped slightly. This was the first open contact between Lambardi and his handlers—the Italian knew who they were.
Lambardi stood and leaned in to de Payns. ‘Got those passports, Alain?’
De Payns breathed out, keeping an unconcerned look on his face while his mind did cartwheels. The operation that would see the passports handed over and the transaction videotaped at Lambardi’s apartment was not going to happen. It was going down now, at Bar Luca, and it was being run by the Turks and someone hiding in the corridor. The CZ was an option for de Payns, but only ever in self-defence. The French secret services didn’t do shoot-outs. The DGSE’s trademark was cool, ruthless, untraceable.
De Payns lifted the Adidas bag onto his lap and patted it. ‘Right here.’
Lambardi’s tone was apologetic. ‘I have to go alone.’
De Payns looked over at the tall Turk.
‘Come on,’ the migration agent urged. ‘By the time this is over, we’ll have three million euros, my friend. I promise.’
De Payns didn’t like it. He shook his head slowly, wondering how to turn the situation around without revealing himself. As he paused, the main door of the bar opened and Shrek, his face hidden by a blue cap pulled low, entered. He was not a tall or handsome man and was very good at seeming innocuous.
De Payns avoided looking at his colleague and kept his eyes on Lambardi. ‘You really want to do this, Michael?’ he asked. ‘You’re a little drunk.’
‘Pfft!’ said Lambardi. ‘You French are so serious.’
In his peripheral vision, de Payns could see Shrek leaning on the bar and ordering a drink. To Lambardi he said, ‘It has to be tonight? It feels rushed.’
‘It’s okay for you, Alain, but I need the money.’
‘You need it this badly?’
Lambardi reached for the backpack. ‘Try getting divorced in Italy. They nail you to a fucking cross, amico.’
De Payns pulled back slightly and unzipped his pack, revealing the yellow manila envelope with the French passports. His training emphasised that an officier traitant—an ‘OT’—always kept control. No target ever led a DGSE operative around by the nose.
‘We do this together,’ said de Payns in a low voice, ‘or I don’t do it at all. Tell your friends I’m an arrogant French bastard.’
The tall Turk bristled with impatience. Lambardi, looking desperate, said, ‘Please, Alain. I need this, or you and I are in big trouble.’
De Payns drew Lambardi’s small leather waist pack towards him across the table, folded the manila envelope and pushed it into the bag. But he didn’t return the waist pack.
‘Once they have what they want, you have no leverage,’ said de Payns. ‘You tell them I don’t do business in bar urinals with people I don’t know. They can give you the money, and you and I can do our deal at your flat. I know and trust you, Michael. But this Murad? He’s your problem, mon pote.’
Lambardi chewed his lip. The tall Turk edged forward.
‘I’m telling you, Michael, if they are serious, they’ll respect what you’re saying. Unless you want me to have a word?’
As de Payns made to stand, Lambardi looked like he was going to shit himself.
‘No, no,’ said the Italian. ‘I’ll handle it! You stay there.’
Lambardi walked into the hallway with his minder and de Payns felt the shorter Turk eyeballing him from his perch by the main door. By the way he was seated, de Payns assumed there was a handgun in the small of his back. De Payns sensed movement from Shrek at the bar, his right hand moving to his right eye and scratching once beneath it. Then he took off his cap and placed it on the bar. The hair on de Payns’ neck stood on end. Shrek had just given the escape and evade signal—the eye scratch meant, ‘I see you’, and the cap off the head simply translated as ‘no more cover’. In other words: This is over, get the fuck out.
De Payns raised his beer and scanned the bar—who was in the game and who wasn’t? His body was coiled, Creedence Clearwater Revival asked, Have you ever seen … and Margaux approached the table with a cloth. De Payns stood and, with Margaux as cover, lifted his pack and placed Lambardi’s leather bag inside it. As he turned towards the main entrance, the shorter Turk rose and blocked his way, torso angled for quick access to his handgun.
De Payns turned and headed instead for the restroom hallway, holding his pack in front him, keeping the 9mm CZ in easy reach. As he moved into the hallway he could hear the rustling of the Turk’s footsteps directly behind him. There were two toilet doors on his left, but it was the glass door at the end of the corridor that had de Payns’ attention—through it, in the shadows of the rear loading area, there was movement. And in the door’s reflection he could see the Turk’s hand going to the small of his back. De Payns turned to deal with it, but as he did a hand gripped the Turk’s jawbone from behind and a fist slammed into the man’s neck. The Turk dropped to the floor and Shrek turned and walked straight back into the bar, as if returning from a quick visit to the toilet. Blood pumped from a pen-sized hole in the Turk’s neck as he went through his death throes.
De Payns turned and quickly walked to the end of the hallway, his heart thumping and his hand inside the pack, still unsure what the mission team had seen. Why was the operation being called off? He pushed through the glass door and into a small loading area. A silver-grey Mercedes SUV was parked side on, wheels on the kerb, its dark windows obscuring the occupants. Was that Lambardi in the back seat? De Payns couldn’t confirm it. As he approached the Mercedes it rocked. There was a popping sound and then the rear window of the car darkened. Someone on the inside had lost a lot of blood and tissue. De Payns’ hand went instinctively to the CZ as the Mercedes revved and accelerated out of the car park, a face staring from the front passenger window as it sped away.
De Payns was stunned, the adrenaline pumping, breaths coming short and sharp. He looked back through the bar door to where the Turk was flat on his back in the hallway, as yet undiscovered. He threw the pack over his shoulder and set off quickly into the night, joining the throng of tourists in the early summer evening. He was dressed for it, in jeans, polo shirt and a pack, his black cap reducing silhouette recognition that watchers might pick up. His heart pounded as crickets chirped and accordion music drifted on the sweet evening breeze, with the smell of marinara and cigarettes. He scanned parked vans and glanced at reflections in plate-glass windows, watching for the watchers. His spatial awareness was finely honed as he aimed for a landmark a few blocks inland, where he could sanitise himself with an IS, an itinéraire de sécurité. This would clear him from the mission zone and let him know if he was being followed. Having quit his mission zone, he would head straight to his exfiltration, planned back in Paris. Just before leaving Sicily, he would put his gommette at the emergency exfiltration plan de support—usually a public display such as a bus stop advertisement—which would be checked later by the support team to make sure he’d left the country. Only when they sighted de Payns’ gommette would the team also leave. No gommette would mean something happened to him, and they would stay to find out what. If he could get off this island in one piece, his next port of call would be the debriefing in Paris.
As he walked south on the Via Principe di Scordia, an image dominated his thoughts—the face that had peered from the front window of the Mercedes. De Payns was pretty sure it was the polite Pakistani man who’d waited for Lambardi to leave the WC on the ferry from Sardinia. He’d been on that ferry, and therefore he’d been in Cagliari. And he was clearly the boss.
As he calmed his breathing, two things became clear. Michael Lambardi was dead. And de Payns had just survived a run-in with Murad.
CHAPTER
THREE
De Payns walked south of the restaurant precinct and past a car dealership on Via Roma. He took his Nokia from inside his pack, removed the battery and put the SIM in his back pocket. Via Roma suited him because it was one-way for traffic, making it hard for cars to follow him and allowing him to focus on pedestrians.
He walked a zigzag route that would eventually bring him to the Church of St Peter and St Paul three blocks west. The ramifications of the night’s events were serious—two people dead in a popular public place. One of them was face down on the floor outside the toilets of a bar. That would bring the police and, because Sicily was an island, the airports and ports could be shut down if the police thought it was a professional job. And what about Sayef Albar? If they had the two Turkish thugs on foot and a vehicle waiting out the back of Bar Luca, then they had at least five people in the field, probably six including Murad. De Payns reckoned that translated to at least two vehicles doing the rounds of the streets and checking out hotels and bars.
Murad had known about those passports and had accelerated the timeline to avoid the trap de Payns had set. If de Payns and his team were worried about walking into a trap, that’s what they would have done—change the meet, change the parameters, change the time, take control and see what happens. But why was Lambardi killed? Either Murad had been spooked when de Payns walked into the loading zone, or they were always going to kill the migration agent. And if they were always going to kill him, did that mean the Company’s mission was blown?
The exit plan was to cleanse himself and put his sticker on the plan de support—a noticeboard at the ferry terminal—before the ferry departed. But if there was a leak from inside the Company, as he now suspected, the plan de support was compromised. To go ahead with it would bring the watchers and hinder his exit. Instead, he decided, he’d move through an IS to clear himself of tails. If he still wasn’t satisfied, he’d go into hiding and ask the Company in Paris to exfiltrate him.
A group of Dutch tourists strolled past him and a slightly intoxicated straggler smiled and said something in English. De Payns smiled back and answered in French. The Dutchman went straight into perfect French, telling de Payns about the bars they’d just visited and the seafood restaurant they were heading for. They made small talk, de Payns walking on the building side of the footpath, giving him a view of the approaching traffic. No Mercedes, no tall Turkish thug.
The group closed on the crossroads of Roma and Cavour, and de Payns turned left onto a four-lane, leafy boulevard with two-hundred-year-old buildings on each side. The older ones didn’t exceed four storeys, while some of the newer apartment buildings were higher. American jazz floated from an old apartment above him while Algerian rap bellowed from a passing car. Via Roma was bathed in a golden glow, the last embers of the Mediterranean sunset illuminating the street. Ahead he saw a silver Mercedes 4x4 flashing across the street, but it didn’t slow. There were thousands of silver SUVs driving around Europe in the dusk, de Payns reminded himself; it could have belonged to anyone.
He walked north for twenty minutes and ducked into one of Old Palermo’s medieval lanes, which became narrower and more winding as he progressed. Vespas and Japanese scooters were parked against ancient apartment walls, and he pricked his ears for the echo of footsteps behind him, but all he could hear was the blaring of a television and women raising their voices.
At the end of the lane was a small square with a narrow church fronting it. He’d discovered this place during a walk he’d taken six weeks earlier, when familiarising himself with the city and looking for a good place to do an IS. It was perfect for what he wanted—the front door was ajar and he walked into a candlelit church. A priest in short sleeves spoke with two elderly women off to his right, and de Payns kept walking along the left of the pews, through a side door and down the corridor to another door. He opened it and looked out to a street on the next block. Many old churches in European cities covered one block, but they’d been built around over the centuries. Once you’d passed through and were out the other side, you could disappear into the surrounding streets while the followers in vehicles had to go the long way around the block. If walking followers really wanted to stick with you, they were walking through a point de passage obligé—a choke point they had to move through—and were hence declaring themselves.
Palermo was in darkness as de Payns emerged onto the street and immediately crossed the road to enter another small street. His IS validated that he was not being followed, and he walked eastwards for ten minutes, towards the port. The bars became louder, the footpath patrons drunker as he neared the bay. He veered south slightly to a ‘rupture’ route at the Palermo Centrale. De Payns had discovered the 1870s railway station as he’d walked to the Botanical Gardens to assess a huge Moreton Bay fig tree used as a dead drop. He liked the Centrale because there was an entry that passed through a post office—creating another passage obligé.
The post office was lit up although the services booths seemed to be closed. De Payns pushed through the doors and walked across the lino floor towards the exit. As he did, he kept his peripheral vision alert for followers and parking cars. He seemed clean. The exit took him directly onto the Centrale platforms and he walked down one towards the police station in the main building. There were no more than thirty people milling around but it was enough to create a distraction for a follower, when you factored in the alignment of the pillars. He stuck with the flow of people and, having passed the police station entry, turned hard left into the main entrance foyer. From there he skipped down the main steps and disappeared into the dark streets, heading east for the ferry terminal and for home.
