by Chris Ryan
‘And all this in twenty-four hours?’ asked Andreas dubiously.
‘We have no choice,’ said Chris. ‘Manderson says there’s no question of handing over that disc on Tuesday. Even in return for Eve.’
‘That’s fucking outrageous!’ Slater exploded. ‘They could kill her. They probably will kill her.’ Grabbing the room-service menu from a table, he hurled it against the wall.
The others regarded him in silence.
‘Look,’ Slater continued angrily, ‘I may be just a thick ex-squaddie, but are the pictures on that disc really such a big fucking deal? I mean I know chopped-off ears and heads don’t look good, but that Cambodia stuff is old history. Nobody’s admitted that guys from the Regiment were training the Khmer Rouge, but nobody’s exactly denied it either. It’s certainly not going to come as a shock to anyone in the know.’
One by one the others turned away. Only Christ met his eyes. ‘I’m afraid it’s a question of “ours is not to reason why”,’ she said quietly. ‘For whatever reason we have to hold on to the disc and get it to Manderson. That’s non-negotiable.’
Slowly, and with an effort, Slater brought himself under control. ‘So how do we play it?’ he asked.
‘Leon gets on the phone to suppliers – we’re going to need some automatic weaponry in case it comes to an assault. You and Andreas sleep. If anything comes in from Terry, I’ll wake you. There’s nothing else we can do.’
Slater nodded. Chris was right. He glanced at her. Even close up there was a kind of deliberately cultivated ordinariness about her. But Chris was not, Slater knew, an ordinary person. She could hardly have slept over the last couple of days, but continued to dispense good sense and cool judgement. When they had returned, stunned by their reversal from the forest of La Roche-Guyon, it had been to find that the wheels had continued to turn, that contingency plans had been made. Every group, Slater had learnt, needed a figure like this – a co-ordinator who held things together by attending to the details that fell outside the remit of the specialists.
Her early career, Leon had told him, had been spent in MI5, as had Terry’s. Their shared speciality had been the tracking of terrorists in mainland Britain, and their surveillance skills had been legendary, as more than one PIRA active service unit had discovered to its cost. Their great gift was for self-effacement – for making themselves invisible. You could probably spend an hour with them in a station waiting-room, Slater mused, and then climb on to your train convinced that you’d been alone all along. It was a rare skill.
Slater took Terry’s room. For a long while he lay awake, thinking of Eve and how different she had looked and sounded the night before.
‘Sometimes I just need to escape and be human again,’ she had whispered as she settled herself against him. ‘Will you be my escape route?’
‘I will,’ he promised her. ‘I’ll be anything you want me to be. But what about our working together? Isn’t that going to be a problem?’
‘Not if we don’t make it one. We’re just going to have to be very cool about it all. Keep all . . . all of this outside of the Cadre. Because if it touches on the way we work, people won’t like it. It’ll unbalance the team. So we don’t let it touch on the way we work. The moment we walk out this door tomorrow morning the whole thing snap-freezes.’
‘And how will I know when you next . . . need to escape?’ he asked.
‘You’ll know,’ she answered, her voice a dreamy smile. ‘I promise you, you’ll know.’
He woke to Andreas’s urgent shaking of his shoulder. For a moment he had no idea where he was, and then the room took shape around him. He glanced at his watch; it was 4am.
‘The drug-guy’s turned up,’ said Andreas, stuffing Eve’s Glock 9mm into the waistband of his trousers and handing Slater the silenced Sig Sauer rescued from the Hotel Inter-Lux. ‘We’re going to go and shake him down.’
Slater was still wearing his outdoor clothes from the day before, and quickly pulled on the walking boots he had bought in the Mammouth supermarket. They weren’t ideal, but if there was going to be a fight he didn’t want to be caught in a pair of thin-soled loafers. The Sig Sauer went into a pocket of the hiking jacket.
‘We’ll take the Peugeot,’ said Leon. ‘I’ll drive.’
They exited by the hotel’s side-entrance, knowing that they were being watched by RDB agents and quite possibly by the French DGSE too, and made their way to the car.
Leon drove slowly at first – sedately almost, as if unaware he was being observed. Andreas and Slater quickly identified the twin black Citroëns that were following them – no great achievement given the sparseness of the traffic at that time of night.
From the Boulevard Exelmans Leon swung south-east on to the Avenue de Versailles, and from there, still maintaining a decorous speed, turned right across the Pont Mirabeau. Once across the bridge, however, he put his foot down hard. They screamed up the Rue de la Convention, swung hard left, and entered a warren of tiny interconnecting streets, at which point Leon turned off the headlights. After throwing the Peugeot down a dozen streets so narrow that Slater would have reckoned them non-negotiable, Leon swung the passenger side of the car up on to the pavement and came to an abrupt halt. They were in a small, unlit square, one of several cars grouped around an equestrian statue.
‘Down!’ hissed Leon.
The three of them crouched on the floor of the car for fifteen minutes, during which time no other cars entered the square. Eventually, cautiously, Leon restarted the Peugeot and they made their way to the broad and still comparatively busy Boulevard St Germain. Five minutes later, certain that they had lost their earlier pursuers, they recrossed the river by the Pont de Sully. Soon they were in the eleventh arrondissement, parking a couple of hundred metres down the street and round the corner from the building containing Miko Pasquale’s apartment.
Materialising from the shadows, Terry climbed into the back seat, carrying a crumpled salami sandwich and an open bottle of wine in a paper bag. He looked vaguely disreputable — a borderline alcoholic, perhaps, who had taken to drinking in the streets.
‘Pasquale came back in about half an hour ago, alone. The lights went on in the second-floor flat for about ten minutes and then went out. I think we can assume he’s asleep. I’ve watched half a dozen people going in and out of the place, and I’ve got the keypad code for the gate . . .’
‘Have you tested it?’ asked Andreas.
‘No, but from where I was on the bench back there I was able to see people punching it in. I couldn’t see the actual numbers, but I could see that the code went top row, bottom row, and then middle row twice. When I walked past you could see the finger marks around the one, the nine, the four and the five. So it’s either 1945 or 1954.’
Quickly he fitted on one of the Motorola comms kits. Leon put on the other.
‘OK, give me five minutes to get back in place, and I’ll give you the go-ahead. You all three going in?’
Leon nodded. ‘Yes we are. And we’re going to need you to stay out here in case we have any visitors. It’s not impossible Branca might show up.’
‘OK. Wait for my word.’
Slater checked the Sig Sauer, ensured that he had a spare clip of ammunition.
‘Clear to go,’ came Terry’s message. ‘Over.’
The three men climbed from the car and sauntered unhurriedly up the street, as if returning home from a long weekend. When they got to the gate they pulled on gloves and Slater punched 1954 into the keypad. Nothing. He keyed in 1945, and with a muted click the gate unlocked and the three pushed their way into the small courtyard.
Pasquale’s name and flat number were on one of the letter-boxes. Slater led up the stairs and waited outside the second-floor flat. The bell-push was grimy; drug-dealers, Slater thought, must get quite used to late-night visitors. Even so, 4.30 in the morning was stretching a point.
‘Why don’t you ring the bell?’ Andreas suggested to Leon. ‘You look the druggiest of all of us.�
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‘You mean the blackest?’ whispered Leon. ‘Thanks a lot!’
‘White boys in hiking jackets don’t buy smack at 4.30 in the morning,’ hissed Andreas.
‘And black ones do? Man, just where have you been hiding your sweet ass?’
‘Guys,’ intervened Slater. ‘Wind your necks in, OK?’
Leaning forward, he pressed the bell. From within, they heard slowly approaching footfalls and a protesting mutter. To conceal themselves, Leon and Andreas took a couple of steps up the staircase.
The spyhole briefly went dark, and the door opened a couple of inches on a brass chain.
‘Oui?’
As the door opened a couple of inches, Slater slammed his heel against it, hard. The chain snapped off and the door flew backwards into the face of the man opening it, who sank to his knees with a groan, head in hands.
The three men barged in, kicking the door shut behind them, and Pasquale raised his head. Blood was pouring from his nose. He was a tall man, not unhandsome, with pale scars showing in his cropped hair. His night-time attire was a Paris St Germain football strip. He looked more puzzled than afraid.
‘What do you need?’ he asked in heavily accented French, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and holding it to his nose. ‘Smack? Crack? Ecstasy?’
‘We need to talk,’ Leon answered in English, quickly frisking him. ‘Let’s go inside and sit down. Any fucking around and these two men will shoot you.’
The drug-dealer looked at the faces of the three men standing in front of him, and then led them through to a spacious lounge containing an acre of white carpet, a giant widescreen TV and several tons of furniture upholstered in black leather.
‘OK,’ he said, indicating the sofas and armchairs. ‘Tell me what is it you want.’
Slater positioned himself so that he could cover both Pasquale and the door.
‘We want Branca,’ said Leon simply.
‘So you are who, police?’
‘Why should we be police?’
Pasquale shrugged. ‘Because of the Branca business.’
‘Which is?’
Pasquale shrugged again.
‘She deals drugs?’ asked Leon.
Pasquale smiled and said nothing.
Slater strode over. Grabbing Pasquale’s left hand, he wrenched the little finger back until there was a snap of breaking bone. Pasquale screamed – a long, high keen of terror and shock, and fell white-faced to the carpet. For a moment he lay there, gasping.
‘Tell us,’ Slater ordered him. ‘Does Branca deal drugs?’
And still Pasquale hesitated. Casually, Slater stamped down hard on the dealer’s wounded hand. For a full minute, blank-faced, he watched the other man’s agonised writhings on the carpet.
‘Does Branca deal drugs?’ he repeated.
Pasquale’s face was grey with pain. Still disbelieving, he stared at his broken hand.
‘She buy into my operation,’ he managed eventually. ‘We partners.’
‘How did that work out? Take your time. We’ve got several hours.’
‘Several hours? What you mean several hours?’
‘We’re going to be here until tomorrow morning.’
‘Fuck, man! Please. I need a doctor.’
Slater aimed the Sig Sauer at the dealer’s face.
‘You’ll need a fucking undertaker if you don’t answer my questions!’
‘OK,’ Pasquale gasped. ‘She pay me cash. Five hundred thousand francs. In return she get fifty per cent share of profits for one year. And contact list.’
Slater frowned at Andreas. Why were the Serbian secret service buying into the Parisian drugs trade? It didn’t make sense.
‘How did you meet her?’ asked Leon.
‘She was at all the parties. The music parties, the fashion parties, the film parties, the TV parties, the porno parties – all the parties where my clients go.’
‘And she became your lover.’
‘Me and some others, I think. I was not . . . in exclusivity.’
‘Did you meet her husband?’
‘Yes.’
‘And was he involved in this . . . deal?’
‘Non, shit, pas du tout. He was not into all that scene.’
‘So tell me about your clientele.’
‘The usual. Models, designers, actors, business . . .’
‘Politicians? Journalists?’
Pasquale regarded Leon warily. ‘A few.’
‘Give me names.’
Silence.
Stepping briskly forward, aiming with care, Slater shot Pasquale through the top of the arch of his right foot. The pain, he knew, would be extreme – all those tiny bones smashing through sensitive tissue – and the shock would be sufficient to break any resistance immediately.
The effect was the intended one. Arching his back in agony, the drug-dealer began to shake and babble as if electrified. His eyes rolled back and his tongue danced crazily in his mouth.
‘The names,’ said Slater, jamming the muzzle of the silenced Sig Sauer into Pasquale’s eye. ‘Comprenez?’
Pasquale understood. It took him a little time to form the words, but he understood.
There were the inevitable socialites, footballers and models, but there was also a prominent female broadcaster on current affairs, a columnist on Le Monde, the wife of the chef de protocole at the Elysée Palace, and a Nato liaison officer from the defence ministry.
Leon looked at Slater and Andreas. The RDB’s interest in Miko Pasquale was suddenly very easy to understand. Five hundred thousand francs had been a very small price to pay for access to this kind of influence, and probably an excellent investment as well, given the scale of Pasquale’s business.
‘Why did you agree to Branca’s terms?’ asked Leon. ‘Half a million wasn’t much to pay for half your profits.’
Pasquale took a deep breath, struggled to control himself. Tears streaked his face now. ‘Branca is very chouette – very sweet – but many of her friends are not so chouette.’
‘They’re like us?’
‘C’est ça. They’re like you. Can I get something to put on this . . . my foot?’
‘No,’ said Slater. ‘Bleed. I don’t like drug-dealers.’
‘What time do you guys think we should wake Branca?’ mused Leon.
‘Early,’ said Slater. ‘Get her when she’s not thinking too clearly.’
‘But not too early,’ Andreas intervened. ‘She’ll just get pissed off and tell Smacko Jacko here to ring her later. And then we’ll be stuck here for fucking ages.’
‘Seven o’clock?’ ventured Leon.
‘I agree with seven,’ said Slater. ‘We’re just going to have to inject a little urgency into the phone call.’
‘Agreed?’ Leon asked Andreas.
‘Agreed.’
For clarity’s sake, Leon explained the plan in French. At seven o’clock, Leon told the dealer, he – Pasquale – was going to ring Branca on her mobile. He was going to say that something of vital importance had come up, that someone had just given him a message which had to be passed on to her in person, and that he had to see her within the hour. He was to divulge no more than this, and he was not to take no for an answer.
‘Just this?’ asked Pasquale, pathetically grateful. ‘This is all you want from me? You don’t want some shit? Some Es?’
‘For the moment,’ said Leon ominously, ‘this is all that we want. But be sure of one thing: if you try and communicate anything else to Branca, we will shoot you in the face. Now where does she stay?’
‘Rue Exelmans,’ said Pasquale. ‘In the seizième. With her husband.’
‘And where else?’
‘I don’t know about anywhere else. I promise you.’
Slater pressed the muzzle of his silencer against the side of Pasquale’s temple, and thumbed down the safety catch.
‘Non!’ screamed the dealer, his eyes bulging with fear. ‘Je vous prie – non . . . Attendez . . . I tell you’ – his
voice was shaking now – ‘There is another place that she goes, but I never go there with her. I think it’s somewhere in Barbès – in the dix-huitième.’
‘What makes you think that if you haven’t been there?’ asked Slater.
‘I hear her talking with one of . . . the others. She was speaking some East Europe language, I think, but I hear her say “Eau de Javel” and “Prisunic” and “Boulevard Barbès”. She was speaking in a low voice so I am not supposed to hear her, but I have good ears.’
‘What’s—’ began Andreas.
‘Prisunic’s a cut-price supermarket chain,’ replied Leon. ‘And Eau de Javel is Jeyes fluid. Barbès is in north Paris, just east of the mainline railway track from the Gare du Nord, where you come in on Eurostar. It used to be very run-down, with a lot of immigrants’ hostels and so on, but recently it’s become quite hip. It’s where middle-class white kids go to get their fix of black African culture. There’s still a lot of crime there, though, and it’s still one of the easiest places to buy weapons – especially since the Eastern European influx.’
‘You’re sure she said Barbès?’ he asked.
Pasquale shrugged. ‘That’s what I heard.’
To Slater, his jaw clenched with the effort not to yawn, the affair was taking on an air of profound unreality. First light was beginning to stain the sky beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, and he wondered if Eve was awake, or if she had managed to sleep. How were they treating her? While he knew from experience that she was more than capable of looking after herself, he still revolted from the idea of her being afraid, or confused, or hurt. More than anything he wanted to save her, as she — with such despatch and skill – had saved him.
They waited for two hours. Leon went out into the corridor in order to make a report to Chris and Terry. After a time, so pliant seemed Pasquale, they turned on the giant TV and watched the rerun of a football game in which Marseilles managed to snatch victory from Liverpool.
As the players exchanged shirts, Andreas turned to Leon. ‘Why don’t we make that call now?’
Leon looked at his watch, and nodded. For ten minutes he rehearsed Pasquale, taking him through every contingency, every possible variation on the conversation. ‘Tell her,’ he kept repeating, ‘that you can come to her. That it’s urgent. That it’s political. That you can’t discuss it on an open line.’
