Текст книги "A Foreign Country"
Автор книги: Charles Cumming
сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 21 (всего у книги 24 страниц)
73
As Akim stepped into the lift, sweating beneath the heat and weight of the leather jacket, he heard a woman’s voice behind him and turned to find a dark-haired girl, speaking in Italian, running towards the lifts. If she had not been young he would have allowed the doors to close, but he pressed the button at the base of the panel and they parted just in time to allow her to squeeze into the cabin.
‘Grazie,’ she said, breathless and gratefully catching his eye, then corrected herself, remembering that she was in Paris: ‘Merci.’
He liked the naturalness of her, a raw girl from nothing who had made it to a place of money. She wasn’t a whore; maybe somebody’s mistress or a guest at a family reunion. Looked like she knew how to be around a man; looked like a woman of experience. He breathed in the smell of her, the way he sometimes walked into a woman’s perfume a second after she had passed him in the street.
‘Prego,’ he said, a little late, but he wanted to make a connection with her. Akim switched to French and said: ‘My pleasure.’
She was not exactly beautiful, but pretty enough and with that glint in her eye that made everything come together. He wished he could have more time to be with her. He had pressed the button for the fifth storey and she now pushed six.
‘We are almost going to the same floor,’ he said.
The lift climbed through the building. The Italian girl did not respond. Maybe the adrenalin of the job was making him seem pushy. As the doors opened on the fifth floor, Akim muttered ‘Bonsoir’ and this time she did respond, saying ‘Oui’ as he walked outside. He waited until the lift had closed, then turned left towards 508.
The corridor was deserted. He came to Vincent’s door and knocked quietly. He heard the soft padding of approaching footsteps, then the slight contact of Vincent’s head as it touched the door, staring through the fish-eye lens. The latch came off and he was invited inside.
‘Where’s Luc?’
Not: How are you, Akim? Not: What a nice surprise. Just: Where’s Luc? Like Akim was a third-class citizen. Vincent had always made him feel like that.
‘They’re coming later,’ he said.
The room was large and smelled of cigarettes with a breeze blowing through it. There was a window open, a plastic pole on the curtain tapping against the glass. Vincent was wearing a white Lutetia dressing-gown over blue denim jeans with bare feet and looked, for the first time in Akim’s memory, like he had lost control of himself.
‘What do you mean “coming later”?’
Akim sat in a chair facing the double bed. Vincent’s head had made a neat dent in one of the pillows on the left-hand side, like a kid had done a karate chop. There was a remote control on the bedcover, two miniature bottles of whisky beside the TV.
‘Are you going to answer me?’ Vincent placed himself between the bed and the chair, like it was Akim’s duty to tell him whatever he needed to know. ‘How did the British find out about me? Who told them? What’s happening with François?’
‘I thought you were François, Vincent?’ Akim replied, because he couldn’t resist it. They’d all laughed about how seriously Vincent had taken the job. ‘Brando’, Slimane called him, even to his face, because at the house he’d never once dropped out of character.
‘You making fun of me?’ Vincent said. He possessed some physical strength and his temper was quick, but he had no guts. Akim knew that about him. Nothing to respect.
‘Nobody would ever make fun of you, Vincent.’
Akim watched as Cévennes moved to the side of the bed and sat down. The Academy pin-up, the DGSE golden boy. Vincent had always had a high opinion of himself.
‘Where’s Luc?’ Vincent asked again.
Akim was already bored by the questions and decided to have more fun. ‘What about Valerie? Don’t you care about her, too?’
‘Luc’s the boss,’ Vincent replied quickly.
‘You reckon?’
There was silence between them now, time in which Vincent seemed to come to terms with the anomaly of Akim’s presence in his room.
‘What’s this about?’ he said. ‘You got a message for me?’
‘I do,’ Akim replied.
It was simple after that. Just a question of commitment. He unzipped the motorbike jacket, reached inside for the gun, moved it level with Vincent’s chest and fired a single silenced shot that lifted him back towards the wall. Akim stood up and stepped forward. Vincent’s eyes were drowning in the shock of what had been done to him; there were tears in his eyes. His face was white, blood gargling in his throat. Akim fired two further shots into his skull and heart; the first of them shutting Vincent down like a doll. He then picked up the spent cartridges, secured the gun inside the jacket and moved towards the door, checking that nothing had fallen out of his pockets when he had sat on the chair. He looked through the fish-eye lens, saw that the area outside was clear, and walked into the corridor.
74
Kell did not bother to call Amelia in London to get clearance for what he was about to do. He told Vigors to look for a security camera blind spot near the fifth-floor elevator and to wait for any sign of the Arab or other members of the DGSE team entering or leaving Vincent’s room. He instructed Aldrich to wait in the car outside and told Elsa to go to the room that Vigors had booked at the Lutetia.
‘There’s nothing more you can do,’ he told her. ‘Get some sleep. I may need you in the morning.’
Then he waited outside the hotel. He smoked a cigarette and paced the pavement. It was past one o’clock on a Monday morning in Paris, still warm and humid. A man in his mid-fifties came past Kell and walked up the steps of the hotel. Everybody a stranger, everybody a threat. Kell turned and looked at Aldrich, still as alert and as reliable as he had been all day long. The best of the best. They nodded at one another. A police car with yellowed headlights moved disinterestedly north along Raspail.
The Arab had been inside for less than ten minutes when Kell’s phone began to pulse in his pocket. It was Vigors.
‘He’s already leaving. Just took the stairs. I’m in the lift.’
‘You sure it was him?’
‘Same guy. Red-and-white motorcycle jacket, heading down. He’ll be there …’
The signal cut out. Kell motioned to Aldrich who started the engine on the Peugeot. He looked up the steps of the hotel and in the glass of the revolving door caught the movement of someone walking towards the entrance. He knew that Vigors would be ten seconds behind him. Eye contact with Aldrich. This was it.
The Arab came down the steps of the hotel, saw Kell to his right, did not appear to recognize him from Marseille but moved left, as if to avoid contact. This took him towards the Peugeot. Vigors had got out of the lift, run across the lobby and was already through the revolving doors. Kell waited until the Arab was two metres from the car, then ran at his back, driving his right hand into the upper section of his skull and steering him with his left as Vigors came past them, opened the rear door of the Peugeot and turned to help. Kell remembered the Arab’s weight, his wiry cunning, but Vigors was far stronger and with the element of surprise had forced him into the back seat of the car within seconds. Aldrich lurched out on to Boulevard Raspail as the door slammed shut behind him. Vigors pushed the boy’s head back as Kell encircled his body, trapping his arms against his chest. The Arab was shouting, struggling to get free, spit hitting Kell’s neck and face.
‘Shut the fuck up or I will break your arm,’ he hissed in Arabic, and then was pushed against the door as Aldrich made a fast-right down Rue Saint-Sulpice. Kell had no idea where they could take him, no idea what they would do with him afterwards. He was not even sure that the kidnapping had passed unnoticed on a quiet Paris thoroughfare in the small hours of the morning.
‘Head south-west,’ he said. ‘Pantheon. Place d’Italie.’
Beneath the thick leather of the motorcycle jacket Kell could feel the hard outline of a weapon.
‘Kev, take his arms.’
Kell loosened his grip on the Arab and Vigors wrenched the arms backwards so that they were pinned behind the Arab’s back. He had stopped struggling, but there was thick white spittle, like wet chalk, in the grooves of his mouth. Kell reached for the zip on the jacket and the Arab tried to bite at his hand, lowering his chin. Kell said: ‘Don’t be a baby’ and tugged his head back. He lowered the zip, reached inside the jacket and immediately felt the butt of the gun. He pulled it out.
‘Why are you carrying a silenced automatic?’ he asked in French. All of them could smell the cordite. ‘More to the point, why have you just fired it?’
Vigors recognized the gun as a SIG Sauer 9mm. Kell removed the silencer. There were eight rounds still in the magazine. He leaned forward and placed the gun in the footwell of the passenger seat, then continued searching the jacket. He pulled out a wallet, a mobile phone, a packet of cigarettes. He told the Arab to pitch forward so that he could search his back pockets. Aldrich, a block east of the Pantheon, removed his own belt and passed it to Vigors, who fashioned a basic wrist restraint around the Arab’s hands. Kell then took out his phone and sent a text to Amelia.
Going to need a safe house ASAP. CUCKOO probably down. Suspect in car. One of two from Marseille attack.
75
The message forced Amelia to involve SIS Station in Paris, a move that she had always been reluctant to make. Widening the circle of knowledge, even in a secret organization, increased the chances that word of the DGSE operation would spread through the Service. So she chose somebody young and ambitious, a fast-stream bachelor of twenty-seven who would be only too happy to help out the Chief-designate in the hope of seeing his skill and discretion rewarded further along the line.
Mike Drummond was woken from his bed just before three o’clock. By four, he had dressed and driven twenty-five minutes south of Invalides to Orsay, a commuter town where SIS rented a detached, two-bedroom house in a quiet suburban neighbourhood a few minutes from the railway station. Kell waited until Drummond confirmed that he was inside the property, then asked Aldrich to proceed to the address. By four fifteen, he was showing Akim into a modestly furnished living room with a small, flat-screen television in front of the window, vases of dried flowers above a gas fireplace, a half-finished bottle of Stolichnaya standing alone on a tray near the door.
‘Drink?’ he said.
‘Water,’ Akim replied.
In the car, things had calmed down between them. Akim had told them his name, denied killing CUCKOO, denied any involvement in the kidnapping of François Malot and issued a threat that his ‘friends’ in Paris would come looking for him if he didn’t get home by noon. But the rage and physical aggression in his behaviour had subsided. It had been replaced by a more sanguine attitude that Kell believed he could exploit.
‘What about food? Are you hungry?’ He looked at Drummond, a ginger-haired Brummie with freckles and a snub nose who seemed to have taken a decision only to speak when spoken to. ‘There’s food in the fridge, right?’
‘’Course,’ Drummond replied.
Vigors had been to the bathroom, fixed three cups of instant coffee and taken one of them out to Aldrich in the car. The street was black and still, not a twitch of curtain, not a stray cat or dog. Vigors offered to switch places with Aldrich, who had been driving for the better part of two hours. He sat in the vehicle on watch while Aldrich went inside.
‘Here’s the situation,’ Kell said, welcoming him into the room as he directed his words at Akim. ‘We are all of us officers with the Secret Intelligence Service, better known to you, I suppose, as MI6. We have a twelve-man team in Paris on standby and a larger operation in London monitoring this conversation from our headquarters on the Thames. You are perfectly safe. We used force against you at the Lutetia because we had no choice, but our discussion now is not going to be as uncomfortable as you think. As I said in the car, I remember you from Marseille, I know that you were just doing your job. I am not in the business of revenge, Akim. I’m not interested in seeing that justice is done for the murder of Vincent Cévennes.’
The young Arab looked up, confused by his interrogator’s strategy. Drummond had been into the kitchen and now wordlessly passed the prisoner a glass of water before retreating into a chair. Akim’s hand shook as he drank it.
‘I looked through your phone in the car,’ Kell continued. It occurred to him that Drummond would be taking mental notes, both with a view to improving his own interview technique and to see how far the infamous Witness X would pursue the softer lines of enquiry before resorting to threat and malice.
‘I need to make a call,’ Akim replied. They were speaking in French. ‘Like I told you, if I don’t tell them I am coming back, they will take action.’
‘What kind of action? Who are the people you want us to contact?’
Kell was gambling everything on a calculation he had made about Akim’s personality. He was a thug, yes, a man who would kill on orders, but he was not without decency. His phone had been full of photographs: of smiling girlfriends, of family members, children, even landscapes and buildings that had caught the young Arab’s eye. There were text messages full of humour; messages of concern for a sick grandparent in Toulon; expressions of devotion to a benevolent God. Kell was certain that Akim was just a street kid who had been plucked from prison by French Intelligence and turned into what a long-ago colleague in Ireland had described as ‘a useful idiot of violence’. He possessed the self-improving drive of a survivor born into no money, no education, no hope. But there was something sentimental about him, as though he had promised himself better things.
‘I can’t tell you that,’ Akim replied, but Kell had not expected an answer without sugaring the pill.
‘Then maybe I should tell you,’ he said. He went towards the door and opened the bottle of vodka, wanting a couple of fingers to jolt his senses and carry him into the morning. ‘I think their names are Luc Javeau and Valerie de Serres. I think they hired you to kill Phillippe and Jeannine Malot in Egypt earlier this year.’ To Kell’s surprise, Akim did not rebut the accusation. ‘We know that François Malot was kidnapped shortly after his parents’ funeral and that a DGSE officer named Vincent Cévennes impersonated him in an influence operation against a senior figure within our organization.’
Drummond crossed and uncrossed his legs, realizing that Kell was referring to Amelia Levene. Aldrich flashed him a cold, appraising glance, an experienced old hand quietly telling the young pup to take that secret to his grave.
‘I don’t know,’ Akim replied, shaking his head. ‘Maybe this is true, maybe it isn’t.’ He had been wearing a tight black vest under the motorcycle jacket and raised his hands in defence, the nylon fabric accentuating the long muscles in his arms.
‘We know it’s true,’ Kell said firmly. There was a sofa in the room and two armchairs. He rose from the sofa and crouched in front of Akim, glass of vodka in hand. ‘When Vincent was exposed by MI6, I think Luc and Valerie panicked, yes? The operation was now a failure and they told you to kill him. But what should they do about François? Kill him, too, or ransom the boy to his mother?’ Akim looked away, but Aldrich and Drummond offered no solace. ‘Did you know that Valerie telephoned my boss this morning requesting five million euros for the safe return of her son?’ The sum brought Akim’s gaze directly back to Kell, as though something had stuck in his throat. ‘How much of that money have you been promised? Five per cent? Ten? What about your other friend, the one who did this to my eye?’ Kell pointed to the scar on his face and smiled. ‘Does he get more than you or the same?’
Akim’s answer lay in his silence. He did not reply to Kell’s questions because he could not do so without losing face.
‘What’s that?’ Kell stood up, went back to the sofa. ‘They haven’t promised you a share of the money?’
‘No. Only a fee.’
Akim answered in Arabic, as though to hide his shame from Aldrich and Drummond. Kell did not know if either man could understand as he said:
‘How much?’
‘Seventy thousand.’
‘Seventy thousand euros? That’s it?’
‘It was a lot of money.’
‘It was a lot of money when you started, but it’s not a lot of money now, is it? Luc and Valerie take off with five million euros sometime next week, making it impossible for you to work for the DGSE ever again. You’re being used. Tell me about them. Tell me about their relationship. They’ve already put three deaths on your conscience, maybe four if they make you shoot François as well.’
Akim sneered. Suddenly he had been handed a chance to retaliate.
‘I won’t be shooting François,’ he said. ‘Slimane, he wants to do it.’
76
François heard the noise of the key at eight fifteen. Sometimes they woke him earlier, sometimes – like when Akim was on duty – they let him sleep.
The first day he was there Luc had told him to remain on the bed whenever somebody knocked on the door. If he wasn’t sitting down when they came in, if François didn’t have his hands raised in the air, palms open to show that they were empty, they would throw his food across the floor and then there would be nothing to eat for the rest of the day. So François did what he had always done and remained on the bed and raised his arms above his head, like a soldier in the act of surrender.
It was Valerie this morning. That was unusual. Behind her, Luc. No sign of Slimane, no sign of Akim. In the middle of the night he had heard a car pulling up outside the house and thought that he recognized the voice of the man who came inside and was greeted by Luc in the hall. One of the temporary guards the weekend when Slimane and Akim had gone to Marseille; ex-Foreign Legion, a macho, stubble-headed Aryan named Jacques who couldn’t cook like the others, had a kind of lazy, ruthless stupidity. François assumed that he was coming back on duty. He prayed that Slimane had been given a few days off. He prayed that he had seen the last of him.
‘We need to make a film,’ Valerie said, indicating that François should remain on the bed. She was carrying a newspaper. Luc had an iPhone in his hand.
‘What kind of film?’
‘The kind that proves you’re alive,’ Luc replied bluntly. Their attitude towards him was brusque, even nervous. François had always tried to read his captors’ behaviour, feeling that it would bring him to a better understanding of their motives and designs. Whenever they were curt like this, whenever he felt that he was being treated badly, he feared it was because they were planning to kill him.
‘Hold this,’ said Valerie, handing him a copy of Le Figaro. It was that morning’s edition. There was a lead story about Sarkozy, an advertisement for holidays in Mexico, something on the right-hand side about Obama and funding in Washington. Luc dragged a wooden chair from the hall into the cell and sat on it, facing François and pointing the back of the iPhone at his bed.
‘Say who you are,’ he said. Valerie was standing over him and moved slightly to the left when Luc told her that she was blocking the light.
‘My name is François Malot.’ Inexplicably, François felt as though he had done something like this many times before. He looked up at Valerie. She was staring at the blank wall behind him.
‘What is the date today?’ Luc asked.
François turned the paper around and recited the date, then showed the front page to the lens.
‘This is fine,’ Valerie said and indicated to Luc that he should stop filming. ‘What else does she need to know?’
François looked at them, trying to ascertain what they were thinking. He knew that he was being ransomed; he had been told that his ‘mother’ would pay. He knew nothing of her, only what Slimane had whispered to him night after night through the door. He had not wanted to believe any of that. In the first few hours of his captivity, François had thought that he was a victim of false identity, that they had taken the wrong man, killed the wrong family. Now, less than a month after his parents’ murder, he had begun to feel free of them in a way that made him feel shameful and guilty. Surely he should still be grieving, even though they had grown so much apart? What sort of a son cared only for his own survival and felt relief that his mother and father had been killed? He wanted to speak to someone about it, to Christophe and Maria; he believed that he might be going slightly mad. They never tried to judge him. They always understood what he was trying to say.
‘Tonight will be our last night in the house,’ Valerie announced. ‘This time tomorrow, we move.’
‘Why?’ François asked.
‘Why?’ Luc repeated, imitating François’ voice and dragging the chair back out into the hall. François looked out beyond the open door and glimpsed Slimane in the living room. He had a lurching premonition that he would never see the morning.
‘Because too many people have been to this house, too many people know you were here,’ Valerie replied. Slimane turned and smiled at François, as if he had been listening to the conversation all along. ‘We are in the process of making everything very simple.’ Valerie crouched down and ran a hand through François’ hair. ‘Don’t worry, little boy. Mummy will soon be coming to get you.’
