by Mark Burnell
Cyril Bradfield’s bushy white eyebrows arched. ‘You?’
‘Yes. Me.’
‘Were you the one who sent me the note?’
Petra nodded. The previous afternoon she had slipped an envelope through the letter-box in the front door of Bradfield’s house in Longmoore Street. Inside, there had been a single sheet of paper. The message had been short and simple: I’d like to talk to you. Tomorrow, the Victoria Arcade, at eleven in the morning. Yours, a friend. At ten-to-eleven, he’d left his house in Longmoore Street and walked up Wilton Road. Petra had followed at a discreet distance. Once Bradfield was in the arcade, she’d kept one eye on him and one eye on anybody else who might be looking out for him. She didn’t spot anyone. At quarter-past-eleven, he decided he’d had enough and stepped out of the arcade, which was when Petra called his name.
Bradfield was wearing an old jacket with leather patches on the elbows. To keep the chilly air at bay, his coat was buttoned to the throat, the collar upturned. His hands were thrust deep into age-worn bottle-green corduroy trousers.
‘What do you want?’
‘I want you to do some work for me.’
At first he seemed surprised, then relieved, then suspicious. ‘What kind of work?’
Petra looked around, anxious not to be overheard. ‘The kind that you do best. How about a cup of coffee? It’s freezing out here.’
They settled at a table in a warm café, where condensation streamed down the window and where the petals on the plastic flowers were losing their colour after too many years in sunlight. Cyril Bradfield stirred two spoons of sugar into grey milky tea.
‘What would you want?’ he asked.
‘Driving licences. Identity cards, too, where necessary.’
Bradfield opened his rusty tin of tobacco and peeled a paper from a packet of Rizlas. ‘What nationality?’
Their voices were low, murmurs that were inaudible to anyone else over the radio that was on the Formica counter by the cash-register.
‘I want three complete identities, not British. They can be English-speaking, though, or French-speaking, or German-speaking.’
‘And all three require passports? Or just national documents?’
‘Each one must have a passport. That’s the most important thing.’
‘What about your appearance? As you are now, or something different?’
‘Basically, something close to how I am now.’
He peered over the top of his half-moons at her. ‘In other words, something that can be used in a hurry?’
Petra held his gaze. This was not, she quickly realized, a devious moment. It was more an issue of trust. ‘Yes. If I want something radically different, I’ll ask for it later.’
Bradfield nodded, appreciating her candour and the fact that she had understood him. He licked the paper and sealed the cigarette. ‘Do you want completely fresh identities or can they be stolen?’
‘What are the pros and cons?’
‘Well, with identity theft you assume a real person’s identity. For one thing, it makes it possible for you to use their credit-rating to get bank accounts, loans and credit cards, which means you have money at your disposal. You can apply for a legitimate driving licence rather than buying a forged one.’ Bradfield lit the cigarette and then examined the glowing tip. ‘These days, identity theft is a growth industry in this country.’
If Petra ever needed to use one of the identities, there wouldn’t be time to arrange bank loans. She would be using cash. ‘I think fresh identities would be better.’
‘Are you going to provide the blank documents or do you want me to do that?’
‘I want you to do it.’
‘Do you want stamps in the passports?’
‘A few might be good.’
‘Then you’ll have to provide me with a list of the places I can include and the ones I can’t.’
‘Okay.’
Petra sipped some coffee. It was disgusting. Bradfield seemed happy with his tea. He said, ‘I remember you now. Bit by bit, it’s coming back. You’ve changed.’
If only you knew. She said, ‘A little, maybe.’
Bradfield shook his head. ‘A lot. I look at you now—the way you move, the way your eyes move—and I see someone new.’
‘I’m the same person on the inside.’
‘I doubt it. From where I’m sitting, you look empty.’
* * *
She stood on Boulevard Haussmann, a rapier wind cutting through her woollen coat and all the clothes beneath. She had goose-bumps on her skin. In Rio, early winter had burned. In Paris, it froze.
She checked her watch. The car appeared from Avenue Matignon, a black Volkswagen Golf with a battered passenger door. Petra had expected something smarter. She had also expected Serra to be travelling with protection but he was alone. He leaned across and opened the passenger door.
‘Fräulein Libensky?’
His tone was gently mocking. Hers was harsher. ‘Herr Julius?’
She got in and Serra pulled out into the stream of traffic without checking his mirrors. A car horn blared behind them.
‘Lights in the sky over Hamburg?’ he said.
‘It was the first thing that came to mind.’
‘I thought we could talk over lunch. Would that be okay?’
‘I’ve already eaten but I’ll watch you.’
‘Well, we’ll just get coffee, then. Are you staying in Paris?’
‘No. I’ll be leaving today.’
Petra had taken the Eurostar from Waterloo. The credit cards she was carrying had been issued in London to the name of Susan Branch. Her passport was in the same name but it was not the American one that had admitted her to Brazil. This one was Canadian.
They drove to Montmartre. Serra forced the Golf off the partially cobbled street and on to a crumbling pavement, ignoring the protests of a spindly, steel-haired woman who was loitering in a nearby doorway. She spat on the ground and cursed them. Serra led Petra down some steps to a café on the corner of a narrow street. It was gloomy inside; the walls were painted dark green, the floorboards were naked and worn smooth, the ceiling was stained by years of nicotine. Serra chose a table near the back, sat down and lit a cigarette.
‘Are you sure you don’t want anything to eat?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Would you like a drink? Some wine, maybe? Or coffee?’
‘I’ll have a can of Coke.’ She looked up at the waiter who had shuffled over to their table. ‘And I’ll have it unopened.’
Serra smiled. ‘No cigarettes, no food? Only drinking from unopened cans? You don’t have to be so cautious, you know.’
Petra had already identified three potential escape routes from the café. As for weapons, there were knives and forks, cheap tumblers, an ashtray and the book of matches that was in it, a two-pronged candlestick, salt and pepper pots, toothpicks in a glass dispenser, the pencil wedged behind the waiter’s ear and the corkscrew hanging on a cord from his belt. She looked around. The staff looked diffident in a typically Parisian fashion, as though they would sooner boil their customers than serve them.
Petra was keen to start and finish. ‘So, what is this meeting for?’
‘It’s partly curiosity. I wanted to meet you. To be face to face with the woman without a face.’
‘Just so you know, I’m allergic to small-talk and flattery.’
‘And it’s partly business. I wanted to meet the woman who’s cost me so much money. Marin and I did a lot of mutually lucrative business together. When he died, that died.’
‘I’m sorry about that.’
‘Not as sorry as me.’
Petra shrugged in an off-hand way. ‘This arrangement you had with Marin was purely business?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well so was mine. From one to another, I’m sure you can understand that. It was nothing personal.’
The waiter returned with coffee and Coke. There was an uneasy silence until he had retreated. Then
Serra said, ‘You should know that I’m talking to you on behalf of a client.’
‘Who?’
‘I can’t say. You know how it is.’
‘Go on.’
‘He wishes to retain your services.’
‘What services?’
‘He’s heard about you, about what you did to Marin—not from me, I might add—and he’s also heard that you are—how shall I say it?—available?’
Available? Petra had a history of availability. Especially for clients who wished to remain anonymous.
‘There is a man in New York,’ Serra continued. ‘A prominent man who has become a problem for my client.’
Petra opened the Coke can. ‘I don’t think so.’
Serra looked surprised, which she found strange. What had he realistically expected? ‘You won’t even hear the offer?’
‘It’s not a question of money. Besides, I never negotiate. I fix a price and that’s it.’
‘Okay, so what is your price?’
‘I don’t work for anonymous clients.’
‘He’d be generous.’
‘I told you, it’s not a question of money. I’m sure you’ll find someone else to take care of it. Now if you don’t have anything else to say, we’re finished.’
Anxious to keep her, Serra said, ‘Why don’t I speak to my client and see if I can get him to change his mind?’
Petra shrugged. ‘If you want. Who’s the target?’
‘I think that should wait, don’t you?’
‘If I have an objection to the target there will be no deal anyway. In which case, going back to your client will be a waste of everyone’s time.’
Serra ground out his cigarette while he considered this. Then he nodded in agreement. ‘Okay. The man’s name is Giler. Leon Giler.’
18
Margaret, Alexander’s secretary, was wrapping a small box in pink paper. In silence, Petra watched her fasten the box with green ribbon. When Margaret looked up, she blushed, her cheeks turning the same colour as her blouse.
‘It’s for my niece,’ she explained. ‘A birthday present. It’s her first watch.’
Through a pair of binoculars was how Petra had last seen her own niece. Standing on the verge of the road overlooking Falstone, she had watched her family mourn her. She remembered now that Alexander had said that Jane was pregnant again. The sudden lurch in the pit of her stomach was surely guilt; she had forgotten about the pregnancy. Now she wondered whether she was, at twenty-three, an aunt again. And if so, to what? A boy or a girl? Or twins, perhaps?
Margaret was leaning across her desk. She seemed to sense the turmoil and took hold of Petra’s hand and squeezed it. ‘You take care of yourself, Stephanie.’
The look in her eyes said more than that. Petra thanked her and entered Alexander’s office.
It was three days since her trip to Paris and it had been a relaxing time. She had exercised her body and eased her mind. With no phone calls to wait for, the days had been hers. She’d read two books for pleasure, which was a long-lost pastime, and, on a morning of persistent drizzle, she’d walked through Regent’s Park before visiting the British Museum and the Tate Gallery, neither of which was familiar to her. She was a tourist in her home town and she liked it.
When Alexander finally managed to look at her, he winced. Petra supposed it was the clothes she was wearing. Beneath her tatty, corduroy jacket, which was far too large for her, she wore a black sweatshirt with a day-glo green slogan across the chest:
WOMEN WHO SEEK EQUALITY WITH MEN LACK AMBITION
Or perhaps it was the black boots he didn’t like. Or the khaki combat trousers. It was hard to tell. Alexander himself looked dapper enough in a Paul Smith suit and a chocolate polo-neck.
‘We have a problem,’ he said. ‘Do you want to sit down?’
‘Am I going to need to?’
Alexander sat down himself. ‘Two weeks ago, a Mossad team lifted a young Muslim—an Iranian—off the streets in Rome. Within forty-eight hours, they had him back in Israel ready for interrogation.’
‘That sounds nasty. Who is he?’
‘Abbas Karim Kassir. He’s part of Hizb’allah’s military wing, operating just beneath the military command council. For the last two years, he’s been stationed in Rome as a representative of the Islamic Cultural Association at the Islamic Republic’s embassy. Last month, though, he flew to Zurich and guess who he met there?’
Petra shrugged. ‘You tell me.’
‘Gustavo Marin. Just before Marin went back to Brazil for his winter break. Needless to say, the Israelis were keen to find out what they had discussed and, in this at least, they were successful. Kassir had placed an order with Marin for a delivery of SAM-7 anti-aircraft missiles. Their problem was that they were unable to discover where and when the order was to be delivered, or how large it was. So they decided to snatch Kassir and ask him in person. He’d been a thorn in their sides for years, so they figured they’d be doing themselves and the rest of the world a favour. And once their specialists got to work on him, he turned out to be quite productive.’
‘You’ve started talking about Kassir in the past tense.’
Alexander opened his hands to her. ‘Well, it’s no secret that Israeli methods of interrogation can sometimes be a little … vigorous.’
‘I like a bit of understatement.’
‘Mossad is pleased that Marin has also been removed from the equation but they have not been especially forthcoming with the results of their interrogation of Kassir. Nevertheless, we have learned that he had connections with Khalil. He never met him personally, but Kassir was under the command of Sheikh Ismail Mahmud Hussayn who also controlled Khalil, until Khalil decided that he didn’t want to be controlled at all. Despite that, lines of communication continued to exist between Khalil and Hussayn, as they did between Hussayn and Kassir. Shortly before his death, Kassir revealed that Khalil is currently planning a spectacular terrorist assault on the West but he didn’t know what it involved or when it was going to happen.’
‘That could’ve been a bluff.’
‘The Israelis don’t think so. Apart from employing some rather crude and destructive chemical processes on Kassir, they’ve also had elements of his claim confirmed by independent sources, including something that Kassir revealed right at the last. There is a phrase that is associated with Khalil’s plan. We don’t know whether it refers to the operatives who will be used, or whether it is the name of the plan itself. But the phrase is: Sons of Sabah.’
‘Sons of Sabah?’
Alexander rose from his desk and led Petra out of his office. They passed Margaret, who smiled at them, and then walked down the narrow corridor to the landing. Alexander pressed the brass button on the panel and the ancient cage-lift coughed into life.
‘The Sons of Sabah,’ he said, ‘are named after Hassan Sabah, who is considered by many to have been the man who developed political murder as a crucial element in the acquisition and maintenance of political power.’
‘I don’t think I’ve heard of him.’
‘Unless you’re a student of Islamic history, that’s not entirely surprising. He lived in the eleventh century.’
The lift arrived. Alexander opened the door and drew the brass cables to one side. They both stepped in. He pressed the button marked ‘five’—there wasn’t a fifth floor—and, rather than rising, the lift began to descend.
‘Hassan Sabah has a special place in our hearts,’ Alexander said, ‘since he gave us the word “assassin”.’
‘How?’
‘Assassin comes from the word hashasheen, which means, literally, smokers of hashish. Sabah’s followers—the Fedayeen—used to smoke hashish. Not understanding the chemical properties involved, they mistook their hallucinations for glimpses of Paradise, which made it a lot easier to kill in the name of Allah.’
The lift halted at a subterranean level. Alexander led Petra along another narrow corridor but this one retained none of the creaking cha
racter of the one above. The floor was stone, the walls were painted matt cream. They went through a door at the end into a small conference room with an oval table at its centre. There was a screen at one end of the room and a bank of nine television monitors on the left. An Indian woman whom Petra knew only as Rosie was waiting for them. She wore black pleated trousers, a purple shirt and a silk wrap. Her glasses were the same Calvin Klein design that Petra had worn as Marina on the night she left Rio.
Rosie dimmed the lights and, on the large screen at the end of the room, an image of a man appeared. It was a head-and-shoulders shot. He was heavy-featured and hirsute. Despite thinning on the crown and despite the rest of his scalp being neatly clipped, thick, black hair was exploding out of the top of his shirt. He looked like a man who needed to shave hourly.
Petra peered at Alexander through the partial darkness. ‘Abbas Karim Kassir?’
‘No. Leon Giler.’
‘I don’t get it.’
Alexander was lighting a Rothmans. ‘Kassir had links with Marc Serra but Mossad don’t know that. They’re looking for a Dane named Preben Olsen. Kassir revealed that he’d learned about Sons of Sabah from Sheikh Ismail Mahmud Hussayn. Mossad tried to find out who else knew about it. Kassir could only come up with one name. Preben Olsen. Kassir knew that Olsen had visited Hussayn twice in Tehran and that he was something to do with Sons of Sabah.’
‘How?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe Hussayn told him. Or maybe Olsen actually met Kassir and told him himself. Who can say? The point is, we know that Preben Olsen is, in fact, Marc Serra. It’s one of the identities that he uses. Mossad do not know this. No one does apart from us.’
Petra looked back at the picture on the screen. ‘I still don’t get it.’
‘You’re going to have to take the contract for Leon Giler.’
She stared at him and a stalemate of silence ensued until she eventually broke it. ‘You’re not serious.’
He said, ‘You should know me better by now.’
‘I was supposed to get close to Serra to see if it was going to lead somewhere. I was supposed to agree to consider taking a job from him—which is what I did—and then to reject it on the grounds of prior commitment. Or something equally vague.’
