by Scott, Manda
Inside are only the murmurs of the professionally quiet. The carpets are not particularly thick, but there’s a resilience to them that sucks in sound. There is no traffic noise, and nobody is so crass as to let a mobile phone ring aloud.
Nobody wears a name badge, either. Here, if you don’t know who you’re speaking to, you don’t belong. Picaut, of course, knows nobody. She stands to one side and scans the room. Men built like Martin Gillard hover at the edges with their hands free and their weapons bulging. There are some women, too: armed, fluid, dangerous, which shouldn’t surprise her, but does. The irony of this leaves her smiling and she has no time to wipe the look off her face when a bulky, square-cut figure pushes out of the crowd towards her. ‘Inspector Picaut?’
He’s a big man, with a square all-American jaw and short, straw-coloured all-American hair, but it’s his face that draws her attention. His nose has been broken and left to set with a strong leftward list and there’s a thick, white scar across the bridge as if someone, long ago, has smashed his face with an iron bar and nobody was on hand to straighten things up afterwards.
She has to fight not to stare. He seems to be having the same problem with her jaw because his gaze clashes with hers and there is a frozen moment when each is not-staring at the other’s scars and the effort of that is too great to let them erect the usual shields that keep first meetings bland.
Thus, she sees him unguarded, and he her. He breaks away first. ‘Sorry. That was rude.’
‘Then we were both rude. But actually, I think it was quite refreshing.’
‘It was, wasn’t it?’ When he smiles, it seems the iron bar affected more than his nose because his lips are crooked, reaching higher on the left than the right. She offers her hand and he grasps it in a double-bear-paw grip. ‘Conrad Lakoff at your service, Inspector.’
He’s fifty, or thereabouts, with pale grey eyes lodged deep in the same been-to-hot-war-zones tan as Martin Gillard. His grip is firm and dry. He’s fit, but not in the same league as the security men, and he’s not carrying a weapon. Despite all of this, there’s an air about him that speaks of power, even in this place where power is the common currency. In the short time since she passed through the so-silent, utterly unassuming front door, Picaut has watched for the centre of gravity in the crowded foyer and she thinks it hovers nearest to this man.
She says, ‘Captain, not Inspector. Am I allowed to know your rank?’
His lopsided smile stretches. ‘I’m the Strategic Operations Director of my research group, but the acronym for that is so unfortunate that I’d be grateful if it was never mentioned aloud. I answer well enough to Conrad. Or Lakoff if you’re desperate for formality, but I think we’ve progressed beyond that by now.’
‘I’d say so.’ She feels cheerful, which she wasn’t expecting. ‘In that case, do you have a name yet for the woman who called herself Sophie Destivelle?’
He laughs aloud, which in this place is enough to cause the murmuring silence to trip on itself and fall into the carpet. ‘They said you were fast.’ He looks over her shoulder, checks left and right, all with an effortless subterfuge that makes it look as if he is adding her contact details to his phone.
Evidently there are too many people nearby because, looking up, he says, ‘Perhaps you’d like to see some of the memorial display? It’s in the second-floor suite. I imagine it will be empty at this time in the morning.’
If it wasn’t before, it is by the time they reach it. The second-floor suite is a good-sized room, with high ceilings and careful lighting. The window looks out over a formal garden, with espaliered apple, pear and cherry trees trained in rows along red-brick walls and herbs planted in horological designs.
The room has been transformed into a temporary museum. Every wall is covered in the sort of sepia-toned photographs Clinton McKinney showed Picaut at the Radical Mind studio.
On the left as Picaut walks in are black-and-white images of young men in army fatigues, grinning for the camera. The caption above the first says, SARPEDON RAID: DECEMBER 1941. The images below are aerial shots and computer-generated mock-ups of a hydroelectric dam. Running beneath are teleprinter outputs of text in five-letter cipher blocks.
Picaut says, ‘What’s special about this?’
‘It was the first big raid of the Special Operations Executive behind enemy lines,’ says Lakoff. ‘They were sent to destroy a hydroelectric dam in the east of France, near Saint-Cybard.’
And this is the second time today she has heard the name of Saint-Cybard. She doesn’t believe in coincidences. Carefully, she says, ‘So it either went textbook right, or spectacularly wrong, or it wouldn’t be worth your attention.’
His gaze rests on her face. ‘If you’d ever like a job as an operations instructor, please do let me know.’
‘Which was it?’
‘Both, after a fashion. The Sarpedon raid itself turned ugly soon after the dam blew. Only one man survived, and he went on to be the patron of the Maquis operating out of Saint-Cybard, from where the Brits ran one of the most important double agents in the whole war.’
Her jaw itches, savagely. ‘Sophie Destivelle?’
‘No. At least, not that we know of. This one had the code name Icarus. He came over to us eventually and went on to be useful in the Cold War against Soviet Russia, but actually …’ Lakoff pauses and Picaut watches him redact the things that still cannot be spoken. ‘There have always been rumours of a second agent, a double. One of ours who became one of theirs, or perhaps the other way around. The code name was Diem. His handler was Carpe.’
‘So together, they seized the day?’
‘Indeed.’
‘Why is he interesting?’
‘Because we’re not sure he existed. Like with the Mary Celeste, or Bigfoot, there were rumours – some of them really compelling – but no proof. Which is the thing, you see?’ His lopsided smile stretches with enthusiasm. ‘The disinformation and double disinformation surrounding the Diem operations have become the stuff of espionage textbooks and legends. That’s the real story here. Our younger, more technocratic, colleagues tend to live in a world where everyone gathers everything about everyone else and keeps it for ever. Once in a while, it’s useful to remind them that sometimes one individual in the right place at the right time can change the course of history.’
Picaut walks down the line, and learns of ciphers and radios and very little about the ghost called Diem.
She crosses to the far wall, where the real people are. ‘Is this Paul Rey?’ She taps a photograph on the adjacent wall. ‘Standing next to Sophie?’
‘I’m sorry?’ Lakoff fishes spectacles from his pocket and leans in to peer at the image. ‘You’re right. I’d forgotten he was here. I should have remembered when we got the news of his death this morning.’ He steps back, tugging on one ear lobe thoughtfully. ‘I suppose I should take that down. Your countrymen will be most upset: Rey’s something of a hero here.’ He turns to her, frowning. ‘I am surprised you recognized him. Knowledge of the local war is something of a specialist subject.’
‘I was shown his picture at the Radical Mind TV studio earlier. You know of it?’
‘Hard not to.’ He views her askance over the ruined crest of his nose. ‘My daughter is McKinney’s intern. Martha. You may have met?’
‘I thought Martha was French?’
‘Did you?’ He looks pleased. ‘My mother was French. We spent a lot of time visiting with my grandparents. Still do, as a matter of fact.’ His pager bleeps. Lakoff hisses a sigh. ‘I’m sorry, I have to go. In answer to your original question, we are certain, as you are, that Sophie Destivelle was a cover name, but I have no alternative to give you. We also have no idea of who might have shot her and then enacted on her such specific mutilations. If we find anything relevant, I will let you know.’
‘Thank you. I will share what we can. All we have so far is that she was driving a car owned by Pierre Fayette, Elodie Duval’s brother.’
‘You
have the registration?’ He makes notes with a fountain pen on a small notepad. In the world where everyone gathers everything electronically, this may well be the only sane way to protect information. ‘Is there a number I can reach you on?’
She is tempted to tell him to ask his young technocrats who doubtless have it on file, but that one probably ran out of steam about a decade ago. She gives him her business card, the first time she’s handed it to anyone since she came back to work. It feels good that it’s him.
He escorts her back to the front doors. Out in the weak spring sun, his angled nose casts a mountainous shadow across his face. Picaut shakes his hand under the gaze of a dozen discreetly armed guards. One of them fetches her car and parks it at the foot of the steps.
‘Enjoy France,’ she says, as they hold open the door.
Conrad Lakoff gives a dry laugh. ‘I was planning to. Let’s see if we can still make that happen, shall we?’
11.15
The last time Picaut ran a case, her office was a glass fish bowl in an otherwise open-plan space.
This has changed in recent months, and today, for the first time, her team convenes in the department’s new, windowless incident room in the basement of the police department. The paintwork is magnolia-boring and the air conditioning is set too high, but they have privacy, superfast broadband that doesn’t drop out every ten minutes, and office chairs that have the full complement of castors.
One wall has a tall, touch-sensitive screen that links directly to Eric’s lab. Already the images of Sophie Destivelle are spread across it, with the black-and-white shot that Picaut took in Pierre Fayette’s living room. The wall by the door has an interactive white board that stores everything written on it to a central server, and screens that link to Interpol and other national agencies. There’s a hook for her jacket, a station for her phone and her iPad, and when she docks these last two, the notes she has made are added to the screen.
Her team is here ahead of her: Rollo, Sylvie, Petit-Evard. On a table is a plate of hot croissants. Croissants. Really, the world has changed out of all recognition, but they are warm and Picaut is hungry and there is coffee in the filter and Rollo is perched on the edge of a chair with his jacket hooked over his shoulder in a way that radiates good cheer.
As she sits down he passes her a Post-it note from Eric.
Picaut folds it in four and slides it into her pocket. ‘OK, so Sophie Destivelle in 2018 is the same Sophie Destivelle from 1944. So far so good. And you have even better news,’ she says to Rollo. ‘I recognize that look.’
And he has. ‘Sophie Destivelle worked for the DGSE when it was still the Deuxième Bureau. She used at least two other aliases: Lisette Thomas, Céline Vivier—’
Picaut says, ‘There was a Céline in the Maquis picture. And Lisette Fayette was Pierre’s mother.’
‘Exactly.’
‘How come the Americans don’t know this?’
‘Maybe they do.’
She doesn’t want to think that Conrad Lakoff might have lied to her. Or rather, she doesn’t want to think he could lie to her easily without her noticing. She says, ‘What do we know about Strategic Operations Director Lakoff? I met him for the first time today and he acted like he owned the place.’
The smile falls from Rollo’s face. ‘If he’s harassing you …’
‘He was the soul of courtesy. I just need to know who he is.’
Rollo fixes his gaze somewhere in the middle distance and she can see him unpacking an internal file. ‘He’s a legend, a genetically engineered spook. His parents were both CIA from back in the sixties when it was at permanent war with the KGB. Young Conrad was their only child and they gave him everything they could. He went to MIT and then Caltech and then straight into the CIA where he cut his teeth in Europe in the year before the wall came down. He did some pretty wild stuff behind the lines in the chaos of those last few months, then stayed on at the Soviet desk when it wasn’t fashionable any more, but still turned up useful stuff. Eight years ago, he stepped sideways into the Joint Tactical Analysis Research Group, which is a private hideout for ex-CIA operatives who want more money than their government is prepared to pay them, but he’s slated to come back into government service as the new Deputy Director of the NSA, which is about as high up the tree as it gets. We’d be well advised to keep on the right side of him.’
Picaut says, ‘I’m doing my best.’ And then, to Sylvie, ‘Anything on Pierre Fayette?’
‘Am I looking for anything in particular?’
‘I want to know if he had a phone call from the US earlier today. Either he can’t count, or he already knew that Paul Rey was dead.’
‘He’s an accountant. He can probably count.’
‘Exactly. So find out if Sophie Destivelle ever wore a dark-red scarf in watered silk, because there’s one hanging on Pierre’s back door and he didn’t look the type for silk scarves. And we need to find out how Sophie got to his place to steal his car. She might have taken a taxi, in which case, I want to know where she picked it up and what time she got there.’
Picaut turns to Petit-Evard: ‘You’re on that. See if you can trace Sophie’s movements yesterday before she “borrowed” his car. Take a picture with you, but be subtle about it. I don’t want to read Facebook posts about a dead woman from some bored taxi driver.’
‘On it.’ He is learning the Teamspeak. ‘Do I go now?’
‘No.’ Sylvie catches his arm. ‘Wait until we’re done.’
Picaut is already writing on the white board, trying for neatness now that the software stores everything for posterity. It occurs to her that if she were Conrad Lakoff, she’d probably use a flip chart and burn the pages in an incinerator every evening. Still, there’s nothing she knows that he or the NSA can’t safely know, as long as they don’t broadcast it.
Combining Pierre Fayette’s list with the images McKinney showed her, she writes:
Rollo blinks. ‘The JJ Crotteau?’
Picaut laughs. Before he can ask, she says, ‘I’m going to see him. You can go later if we need a follow-up. If you’re good.’
‘Then you need to know that he’s Conrad Lakoff’s grandfather.’
‘What?’ It’s her turn to gape. ‘How?’
‘JJ Crotteau had a daughter who moved to the US, joined the CIA and married a senator, except he wasn’t a senator when she married him – he was on the staff at Langley working on the Soviet desk. This is the couple who produced the infant prodigy, Conrad Lakoff.’
My mother was French. We spent a lot of time visiting with my grandparents … Picaut sketches a quick family tree on the white board.
‘In which case,’ she says, writing it in, ‘Martha the intern at Radical Mind is JJ’s great-granddaughter.’
Rollo chews the edge of his thumb. ‘That’s a bit close to home.’
‘I’d say so.’ She adds Conrad Lakoff to her list of relevant individuals and stands back, tapping the end of the pen to her teeth. ‘What do you know about the Sarpedon raid on the hydro plant at Saint-Cybard?’
‘Not much. It’s used as an example of how to turn disaster to your advantage. There’s a kind of hero worship of the men who died on it: that sense of doomed courage shown in the face of overwhelming odds.’
‘That’s what Lakoff said.’ She writes a question mark beside Conrad Lakoff’s name. ‘Do you think the NSA reads this in real time?’
‘Probably.’ Rollo leans over and writes, Colonel Paul Rey? ‘He could do with a closer look, too.’
‘He’s dead.’
‘Yes, but under the circumstances, I think we ought to check whether he died of natural causes, don’t you? Because otherwise, the last person to see him alive was Elodie Duval.’
Picaut writes, Paul Rey? Murder? (Ask Elodie Duval.)
She lifts her jacket from the hook and her phone from its cradle. ‘Petit-Evard, I need you to check on Pierre Fayette’s gun. I’m pretty sure it’s registered, but it’s older than he is: see if you can find
out who had it before him. Rollo, I need you to touch up your contacts on the dark side and get me more background on Martin Gillard. Anything he is, was or ever has been. Sylvie, get to the airport. Immigration is already primed, but I want Elodie Duval in a car on her way here before the wheels of her plane hit the ground.’
‘Where are you going?’ Sylvie asks.
‘To talk to Laurence Vaughan-Thomas. He said he was a Jedburgh, but Pierre Fayette put him on the list of Maquisards who used to know his parents and McKinney said he was MI6. He has his fingers in a lot of pies. One way or another, he has to know more.’
‘He went home soon after you left the studio,’ says Petit-Evard. ‘He looked pretty wrecked.’
‘Then I’ll visit him at home. Let me know when you’ve got something else useful.’
7 December 1941: Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor ends US neutrality.
8 December: The United Kingdom, Australia, New Zealand, the Netherlands and the United States declare war on Japan.
SOE, F-Section, 12 December: Alain Remplin, codename Oberon, arrested while making a radio transmission to London. Whereabouts thereafter unknown.
CHAPTER EIGHT
BAKER STREET, LONDON
27 December 1941
LAURENCE’S OFFICE IS small, badly lit and windowless, and any oxygen has largely been replaced by tobacco smoke. Since coming here, he has taken to smoking a pipe of Navy Cut, a habit of his father’s that he had previously sworn never to emulate. It is not the only one of his personal oaths he has broken in the past six months, but it is the most outwardly evident.
It is also the most trivial. There are entire days when he can’t remember filling his pipe or lighting it, only that at the end of the day, the pouch is empty and it’s time to touch one of Uncle Jeremy’s shadier contacts for a refill. In between, he has drunk over-sugared tea, eaten sandwiches whose component parts it is safer not to identify – and he has stared at line after line of teleprinted characters and endeavoured to make sense of them.
