A Long Night in Paris: The must-read thriller from the new master of spy fiction

by Dov Alfon

  But the Military Secretary opted for the second answer, and stuck to Aluf Rotelmann’s text.

  “General, we were in possession of information that led us to believe that the Chinese official, alongside his formal role as the regulator in Macau, was involved in brokering deals for nuclear equipment for the Iranians. This information turned out to be false. Israel obviously has no interest in intelligence about casinos.”

  “Obviously,” the Director of the N.S.A. said with a blank expression. The Military Secretary reached for the water and tried to drink without choking.

  Chapter 117

  Oriana stood by the statue, a white stone monument representing a nude goddess in flight, and observed the tarmac.

  She had passed through security without any problem and had been directed to F.B.O. 05. Each plane taxied to the runway from its own fixed base, and the largest of them was allocated to Ming. His plane was not big; it was huge. It was certainly on a larger scale than the El Al aircraft that had brought her here that morning.

  How was she supposed to find Yerminski’s reel in this behemoth? This was a job better suited for the Mossad, who would have planned the operation in detail for weeks; they would also have sent forty people, minimum. But the Mossad was controlled directly by the Prime Minister’s Office, and the commander of 8200 apparently preferred to solve his unit’s little internal problem in-house.

  The only in-house solution seemed to be to send her into the lion’s den, because time and again her Navran informed her that her direct commander, owner of Navran 008 – surely he was vexed to be one digit too many – had no intention of helping her: his location had been updated from a nightclub on the Left Bank to a hotel near Notre-Dame.

  She searched the device for more helpful information. According to its database, the plane was a 747-8, the biggest Boeing ever made, it could seat 467 passengers and only seven planes of this model had been customised for private clients. The interiors were designed by different independent contractors, but the plans had to be sent to Boeing for approval. Oriana guessed this mandatory correspondence was the source of the Navran’s information and asked herself how many of the world’s secret services had intercepted the documents.

  She studied the customised aircrafts one by one, uncertain how many people were on the plane with Ming, waiting for Capitaine Menard. The airstair was in place, the front door open and she could make out general movement in the cockpit.

  She opened the suitcase and took out the leather jacket, placing Yermi’s Samsung in the external pocket, at the ready. She then took out all her identity papers, including her Israeli passport, and buried them among the daffodils surrounding the statue she had been leaning against. L’Oiseau Blanc, “The White Bird”, had been dedicated to two French pilots who had taken off from Le Bourget in 1927 in an attempt to cross the Atlantic Ocean and who had disappeared without trace. Oriana read the original dedication etched in the stone above her as she patted the soil into place. “In honour of those who tried,” the plaque said. When Charles Lindbergh successfully crossed the ocean in the opposite direction, the dedication had been amended to read “In honour of those who tried, and the one who succeeded.”

  In honour of those who tried, and the one who succeeded, as simple as that. The victor had bulldozed himself into the dedication, depriving the two unfortunate men who had preceded him of their small consolatory gesture. Winner takes all.

  Oriana looked at the nude goddess, then looked at the plane. She took hold of her suitcase and crossed the tarmac towards the airstair.

  When she was about halfway up, two men in dark suits and sunglasses stepped out of the aircraft and onto the upper podium, blocking her access. She continued to climb nonchalantly, and when she was in front of them, greeted them in exuberant English.

  “Hello, this is your captain speaking! Let’s get this bird up and off to Macau, shall we?”

  The men did not move. A deep voice called out from behind them, “Who the hell are you?”

  It belonged to a tall middle-aged Chinese man in a blue suit who was leaning on the cockpit door. Without sunglasses he squinted as he approached, looking at her as though she were a menu.

  “I’m Capitaine Menard, the co-pilot you requested. And where is the first pilot, Captain Ming, may I ask?”

  The man was now very close, shouldering through the space between the two gatekeepers. “I am Captain Ming.”

  “No,” Oriana said. “You’re not Ming.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me. You’re not Ming. Ming has a light musical voice and his English accent is much better than yours.”

  The three men exchanged glances. The question in their eyes was clear and it was the man from the cockpit who voiced it.

  “You mean to say Ming spoke to you?”

  “Oh, we’re on excellent speaking terms,” replied Oriana. She preferred convoluted wording to the truth – which was along the lines of “On my flight here I listened to his phone conversations, you know, the ones that had been recorded against all regulations by an Israeli soldier.”

  The man in the middle looked lost. “There must be some misunderstanding, Captain Menard. You see, I don’t think Ming would ever let a woman fly his airplane. He would not have approved it.”

  “Then let’s ask him, shall we?” Oriana said with forced joviality. “In the meantime, I’ll get on with the mandatory pre-flight check.”

  “I’ve already done the system checks,” the false Ming said, surprised. So, he was one of the regular pilots, she thought. The two men in sunglasses descended the airstair, which suggested they were the bodyguards. Was the real Ming in his limo? It gave her, what, six minutes?

  “Oh, but I run a complete check, more than just the system,” Oriana said, forcing her way inside. “The cabin, the doors, the air masks, so many things to check, so little time. I’ll begin with the rear door.”

  He followed her, undecided, while she entered the plane and tried to understand what she was seeing. Fortunately, the radio in the cockpit fired call after call, and he vanished inside, closing the secure door behind him. She was alone.

  She recognised the plane’s layout immediately, with its unique design of several customised planes in one. There was a huge bedroom, then an austere conference room, and beyond that four suites, each including a bed, shelves and a curtain but no windows; a master bathroom followed, with a standard bathroom after that, and then, at the end of the aisle, there was an open bar in red and black, complete with a karaoke machine and four pinball machines.

  Oriana checked the file containing the original plans. It belonged to client number 5 of the seven private buyers. The plane had first been customised by a specialist company near Seattle, then modified by an anonymous contractor in China, and subsequently sent to Hamburg for completion before coming back to Washington for approval by Boeing Jets.

  The plane looked remarkably like the approved plans – the colours, the furniture, the space. The only part that looked slightly different was the drinks bar: in the pictures sent to Boeing, the bottles were placed on four long shelves behind the counter. On the plane itself, Oriana saw in front of her three shelves only.

  She switched the Navran to X-ray mode and approached the wall. The missing shelf had been replaced by a long white panel that was in keeping with the surrounding decor – but was also hiding an entire weapons arsenal according to the Navran. She searched for the opening mechanism and found it under a heavy bottle of Cognac.

  Oriana heard footsteps on the airstair and imagined Ming and his bodyguards closing in. She clicked on the hidden button and the panel glided open to reveal several weapons, including two of her favourite rifles: an M.16 exactly like the one her father had used as his service gun, and a brand-new Kalashnikov she felt immediately attracted to, if only because she had never come across this particular model previously.

  She scanned the rifle with the Navran, which gave her an instant read-out: A.K.-15K, a special version of
the Kalashnikov that used

  7.62 × 39mm cartridges. Oriana found a box of cartridges in the cache. And below it, in a plastic bag from an Israeli supermarket chain, was the Uher reel.

  The lights went out.

  For a moment she thought that maybe she had activated some kind of remote function, but then the doors began to close and she heard the airstair move away. The engine roared.

  Oriana buried Yerminski’s magnetic reel in her suitcase. By now the doors were sealed, and she could feel the wheels setting the plane in motion when the internal speaker system above her suddenly came alive. This time it was undeniably the voice of Ming.

  “Bonjour, Captain Menard! So nice of you to join us, especially in view of the urgent message we received from the control tower saying you had experienced some serious health problems.”

  That would teach her a lesson. She should have killed the bastard, but it was too late to think about that now. If (a) she emerged from this mission alive, then (b) the next time she found herself neck-deep she’d be sure to remember the cost of her soft heart.

  Ming’s joyful announcement didn’t leave her much hope of (a).

  “You’ll be happy to learn it is already noon so our original flight plan to Macau has now been approved. When we get there, you and I will have a serious conversation in the comfort of my regular place of work, or at least in the basement. We can have a little chat once we’re in the air, but first let me taxi this magnificent eagle to the runway so I can engage the autopilot. I suppose you might like to say something at this juncture, but unfortunately passengers are required to keep quiet during take-off.”

  Oriana opened the cartridge box and began to load the A.K.-15K. It had the same mechanism as her beloved Kalatch at Glilot, but this one was brand new and short-barrelled. She was curious to try the 39mm bullets, because she had heard so much about their effectiveness from Tzahal veterans who had faced their fire in Lebanon. Sadly, if she were to use them now, she probably wouldn’t live to tell them about her experience.

  The plane turned left, beginning its short journey to the runway. Oriana could hear the flaps open. She lay down on the floor, pointing the muzzle in the direction of the cockpit and lined her finger along the trigger box, resting her thumbnail on the safety lock. Only when she felt the position was assumed and that opening fire was within reach in less than two seconds did she switch her Navran to telephone mode.

  The ringing went on for several seconds before Ming picked up.

  “You clever little bitch. Of course, your friend the blackmailer gave you the number for this phone. What are you? American? Israeli?”

  “Russian, in fact,” Oriana said, affecting nonchalance. “Skól’ko let, skól’ko zim! Long time no see! President Putin would like to extend his deepest apologies for the troubles Yerminski has caused you. Let’s put this behind us. Vsevo nailychshevo!”

  Ming hesitated for only a moment.

  “You are a clever bitch and of course you’re lying. It will be diverting to find creative ways to check your nationality. We’ll see if your Russian is still as polite in an hour or so. In the meantime it seems we have clearance for take-off. Stand by, two minutes to go.”

  “I have a question for you about that take-off.”

  “You have a question, clever bitch? You appear to know all the answers without any help from me.”

  “Don’t get too fond of me too quickly, Ming, our relationship is going to end very soon.”

  “Oh yes, you’re so good at telephone conversations. We’ll see soon enough which of us gets attached. Now what was your question?”

  “How much does a plane like this cost? We’re talking what, one hundred million dollars? 120 million?”

  “Are you trying to wind me up? A plane like this costs 350 million, and mine cost much more. I paid more than five hundred million dollars.”

  Oriana began to understand Yerminski better.

  “Well, that’s a pity, Ming. You see, the moment we reach our cruising altitude, I intend to try out the superb Kalashnikov I found here in the bar. I’ve never used 39mm ammunition before, certainly not through a plane window, but I’m told the results can be quite severe.”

  “What? You’re bluffing.”

  “I thought you might say that. Your people told me that you wouldn’t allow a woman to fly your plane, so how about allowing her to blow it up in mid-air? Of course, we’ll all die . . . but at least I’ll have tried out a short-barrel A.K.-15K, one of our national treasures.”

  “Listen, you fucking little cunt . . . ”

  “Tsk, tsk, what kind of talk is that, Ming? Russian women believe in gender equality. Do you want me to prove my rapid-fire skills while we’re on the ground? At the bottles here on the shelves, say? Or would you prefer it if I shot a single bullet at the cockpit door, to give you a nice little souvenir of our meeting?”

  She heard the tower calling the plane on the cockpit radio.

  “Time is running out. You have a choice. Do you want your bitcoins back or do you want to go down with your plane, Ming? That was my question.”

  Ming sounded faint. “How can I get my twenty million back?”

  “You will have noticed the payment has been successfully transferred, but it has not left the wallet. The bitcoins have not been spent. Russia awaits proof of your goodwill. First of all you need to tell the tower that you’re taxying back to F.B.O. 05 because a passenger on board is ill. Tell them to send an ambulance.”

  He hesitated. She heard the tower call him on the radio, and for a moment he was silent. Then she heard him say he had to postpone take-off and return to base.

  “Good. Now, for the payment . . . President Putin gives you his word that if I return safely to Moscow with the reel you’ll receive your money within a week, directly from Yerminski’s private key. Don’t change your phone number, and don’t try to cross me.”

  The giant Boeing taxied back to F.B.O. 05 and the airport ambulance when it arrived was a little red and white van, its vintage lines almost reassuring. The plane’s wings quivered and the engine died. Oriana got up, unloaded the rifle and put it in her suitcase. Short-barrel guns were cool.

  “Tell your men to open the rear door after the airstairs have docked, Ming, and in five minutes you can request a new take-off. Don’t be tempted to hang around here. You do remember the last rule of your organisation, don’t you? You quoted it in several e-mails.”

  Ming watched on his screen as the aircraft stairs aligned to adjust to the rear door, allowing two paramedics to carry the Russian operator and her suitcase from his pride and joy. She was a clever bitch and on a good day he would have opened fire on the ambulance that drove her away, but this had not been a good day. “????, ????” he said, quoting to himself the final rule from the Book of Qi. “Of the thirty-six stratagems, fleeing is best.”

  Chapter 118

  The name of the game was “Avert and Divert”, and they were the best two players in Paris, i.e. in France, i.e. in the world.

  The minister stood on a stool next to the police car at the Odéon intersection, waiting for the cue to go live. His media advisor checked the monitor again and issued instructions to the T.V. crew. The make-up artist touched up the shadows under his eyes, the lighting technician adjusted the spotlight, and the cameraman shifted angles to achieve the most flattering frame possible. It was a cinematic production under the guise of a news report, and all major T.V. channels and websites were expected to open with it.

  Behind the cameras, outside the frame, the head of counter-intelligence went over the statement, correcting a word here, a phrase there. The minister needed friends like him in moments like these, when the Élysée suddenly seemed a distant pipe dream.

  The lighting and sound checks had been completed. “Seven minutes until air!” the producer called out. The minister stepped off the stool and went over the statement handed to him by his friend.

  On the face of it, the event was catastrophic. The Chinese commando unit con
tinued to operate in Paris unabated, under the nose of dozens of police officers. The juge d’instruction had issued dubious warrants, compromising the secrecy of the operation, and had even been injured himself in the shooting. A vital witness had been assassinated apparently after turning himself in to the police, and the main suspect (together with two other commandos) had been taken out by an Israeli intelligence officer before the authorities could even wrap their head around events.

  But they had been through worse situations, and this time would be no different. The minister had a deep bass voice and a thick head of hair, and a lot of luck to go with it. He did not need more: even the most clear-cut events could be given a different spin if the story was bold enough, fast enough, had enough edge. People will always prefer stories, improbable as they may be, to everyday reality, even when said reality has taken place before their eyes.

  The minister stood in front of his friend and started reading.

  “I called Commissaire Léger this morning to thank him personally for the heroic operation to eliminate the criminal organisation threatening to flood France with the largest cache of drugs seized in Paris in the twenty-first century. The commissaire and his men risked their lives in the final, devastating confrontation. Two of them, the Chinese gang leader and his junior partner, as well as a young Israeli of Russian descent, were shot by the armed forces while threatening to seize hostages from the club in which they were hiding. Juge d’instruction, Philippe du Monticole, was injured in the crossfire, having courageously insisted on accompanying the forces during the operation. I would like to take this opportunity to extend my gratitude to Juge du Monticole for his outstanding dedication, and wish him a speedy recovery.”