A Foreign Country

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 It had been replaced by a more sanguine attitude that Kell believed he could exploit.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.’