by Alex Shaw
‘What if she fails?’
‘Racine is the best I have ever seen. If I were to assign another operator and the mission failed, well, that would be unforgivable.’
Grillot wet his lips before he replied. ‘The question I have is can she do it?’
‘Yes, and she will, without hesitation.’
Grillot pushed himself away from his desk and steepled his fingers. ‘In that case, Maurice, you have my full authority to liquidate the target.’
‘Thank you, Colonel.’ Jacob made no attempt to disguise his relief.
*
Jacob left his director’s office invigorated. The veteran intelligence officer took the stairs down to the ground floor of the nineteenth-century fort and found his DGSE driver outside standing next to the large, dark blue Citroën. He had a phone to his ear, which he hurriedly pocketed as Jacob stepped out into the cold Parisian air. Jacob looked questioningly at the man.
‘I apologise. It was my mother.’ His driver was embarrassed. ‘If I don’t pick up she presumes I’ve been abducted or involved in an accident.’
Jacob waved away the excuse with a friendly flourish of his hand as the rear door was opened for him. ‘And how is she?’
‘Old.’
Jacob paused, holding on to the Citroën’s roof. ‘Old?’
‘That is what she tells me. I ask her, “Mother, how are you?” and she always replies, “I am old.”’
Jacob smiled. ‘There are few worse things to be.’
Door shut, the driver got into his seat. ‘Where to: home, the bistro or the other place?’
‘The other place, please.’
‘Right.’ The engine started.
It had been twelve years, yet Jacob could not bring himself to think of the DGSE headquarters as his office rather than the Noisy-le-Sec facility. It was a constant reminder to him of the pariah he had become.
But now he could see an end to the indignity of his existence. With each successful operation his team undertook he felt as though he was regaining, bit by bit, the respect of those who mattered including the Director General of the DGSE, and of course the Minister of Defence, who had not even been a politician when the scandal had happened.
Without another word to his driver, Jacob pressed the button, raising the privacy panel between them. Once hidden, he retrieved his hip flask from his briefcase and took a long swig of cognac. Relishing the burn, he let himself relax into the soft, dark leather. He sincerely hoped he would soon be drinking to celebrate another positive result.
DGSE headquarters, Paris
Even though it wasn’t an old building his part of it always smelled musty. Maurice Jacob wondered what the office cleaners did each evening when he was gone. Through his open blinds the weak Parisian sun illuminated the dust as it wafted across the utilitarian space. His desk was devoid of any sentimental items that would have hinted at his life outside of the French Directorate-General for External Security. Jacob popped a breath mint and then tapped his desk with his forefinger.
‘I personally hold myself responsible for this man’s actions, for the deaths he has caused. I who employed him, I who trained him and I who eventually lost him …’
Jacob’s career in French intelligence had not been without distinction, but the repercussions from having one of his own prodigies, Sasha Vasilev, identified as a Russian sleeper, a sleeper who had then given up DGSE operatives, had turned Jacob into a pariah.
Following a full internal investigation, which had found him neither culpable nor guilty of any wrongdoing, it was agreed Jacob was to be removed from the Noisy-le-Sec facility. He would continue his duties, with somewhat reduced resources and limited influence in a nondescript office in the DGSE’s soulless headquarters. The main stipulation was Grillot would have the final say on all operations of Jacob’s ‘deniable department’. This mattered little to Jacob. He had never wanted to run the department; he was not a political beast. He was an intelligence officer.
Jacob wanted to savour this moment, his first step on the road to redemption. He kept Baptiste waiting whilst he crushed the remains of his mint in his mouth and slipped in another. He didn’t offer Baptiste one. ‘Colonel Grillot has given the mission the go-ahead. We have his full authority to liquidate Sasha Vasilev.’
Baptiste’s relief was evident to Jacob. ‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Don’t thank me, Baptiste. Taking a life must never be something we are thankful for.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I have made a few changes to your plan.’
‘Oh?’
‘We will use Racine.’
‘Even after her actions during the Tunis operation?’
‘Because of them.’
Baptiste’s brow furrowed. ‘And she operates alone.’
‘I am aware of that.’ Jacob hadn’t expected this level of opposition from his junior. ‘Is there a problem or something I should be aware of?’
‘My plan called for a team. Surely that would be more prudent? Is sending a lone woman into a conflict zone really a wise decision?’
‘I see.’ Jacob’s eyes glinted as he looked at the younger man. ‘You think of her as a woman, whereas I think of her as a weapon.’
‘That is not what I meant.’
‘Is it not? You know as well as I do that the French Republic, as a NATO member, cannot been seen in any way shape or form to be assisting either side of the Ukrainian conflict. Especially not by assassinating a man who is the holder of a Russian passport personally presented to him – I have been told – by the Russian President. The larger the number of personnel we use the greater the risk we run of compromising the mission. No. We must use a sole operator. Racine is the best deniable asset we have. She goes in. Alone.’
‘Yes, Director.’
‘Is there something you wish to say, Baptiste?’
‘No.’
‘That is all.’
*
After Baptiste had left the room, Jacob closed his eyes and sighed deeply. So much death, so many lives destroyed by the traitor, and all because he had been taken in, all because he had felt a duty to the man’s family and their shared religion.
The energy he had earlier was no more; it had been replaced by a creeping fear, the realisation about what a monumental mission lay ahead of them. Was sending in Racine really the best course of action? There was a high possibility that she could be killed, or worse captured – and then what would happen? Was it his own vanity that demanded she be the tool of his vengeance? He grimaced. No. The vengeance was theirs; they shared it, Racine and he. This was not the time to start questioning his decisions and his course of action, not now.
Jacob gingerly pushed himself up from the desk and shuffled wearily to the window. The DGSE headquarters, where he was forced to work, were located on the eastern edge of Paris in the 20th arrondissement and as such there was very little of note to see. The ornate architecture of central Paris was replaced here by mostly red-bricked, utilitarian, low-rise apartment buildings. There were plenty of trees, but it wasn’t the picture-postcard Paris favoured by foreign tourists. And today the sky was grey. But to Jacob the entire city was magnificent, and he loved her just as much as ever.
He was a patriot. He’d spent his entire life defending the country of his birth. He was born after the war, and his parents would tell him of the horrors they had endured in the concentration camps after being rounded up and sent there by the noxious Vichy government. Seventy-five per cent of the French Jewish population had survived the war and with the influx of Sephardi and Mizrahi North African Jews from former French colonies, France boasted the third largest Jewish population after Israel and the United States. And boast they should. Jacob was proud to be French, and he was proud to be Jewish. He had never blamed the French people for his parents’ forced deportation, but he had blamed the French government and had vowed to do all in his power to ensure that nothing of the sort ever happened again. That no more citizens of France would be betrayed.
Sasha Vasilev was a Russian Jew whose scientist parents had fled Russia when he was a teenager and been granted asylum in Paris. The boy was a talented linguist and after graduating joined the DGSE, on Jacob’s recommendation, and proceeded to work his way up through the ranks. It was only after his disappearance that his treachery and the body of his lover had been discovered. Sasha Vasilev had been a malevolent mole for Russian military intelligence. The operational details and names he had passed on to his true masters in the Kremlin had caused the deaths of officers and operatives and dealt the DGSE’s Division Action a devastating blow.
Sasha Vasilev had betrayed him, betrayed France. The blood of French patriots was on Vasilev’s hands. If Jacob had not admitted the man to the service, and had not taught him his trade, those victims would still be alive and serving their country.
Finding and finishing Vasilev would not bring any of those fine, noble people back, nor would it bring peace, but it would prevent the man from betraying France and its citizens any further. It would also be a stark warning to any pernicious foreign agencies: there is nowhere to hide.
Jacob’s rage caused a tremor in his right hand as he thrust it into his trouser pocket to retrieve his hip flask. It was almost empty. He swigged the remains. The mints had ruined the taste of the cognac but he welcomed the fiery liquid as it burned his insides. He noticed he’d been drinking far more than usual recently. He thought about the personnel file he kept locked in his desk, and the legacy of its subject: Sophie Racine.
Chapter 2
Eight Years Ago
Central Paris
With her small backpack weighed down by her legal textbooks, and left hand holding up a collapsible umbrella, Sophie headed home. It was a twenty-five-minute brisk walk from the lecture hall to the three-bedroom apartment she shared with two other students: Gaspard – another law student and Saskia, her crazy British best friend she’d met at sixth form in England who’d opted to join her in Paris to study French literature.
Sophie was an only child and sharing a flat for her was still a novelty. She got on well with her flatmates; that was, once both she and Saskia had explained to Gaspard nothing romantic was ever going to happen between them. Sophie had taken the opportunity to casually mention her training in self-defence. Gaspard had raised his eyebrows and said no more. After this he had brought back a procession of women, as if to subconsciously prove to them that he wasn’t a gargoyle (a nickname Saskia had coined).
On nights when the two women were not studying or hitting the town, they’d share bottles of red wine, with Saskia constantly exclaiming how cheap it was. Her father was ‘something in city’ – after knowing Saskia for almost three years, Sophie still had no idea what that meant. Sophie took every opportunity to perfect her already fluent English, even picking up ‘posh slang’. Sophie smirked and wondered if she should stop by Monoprix to get some ‘plonk’?
Looking left and right before stepping off the pavement she noticed a man at her shoulder. They crossed at the same time and he hurried ahead, carrying his briefcase over his head. Partly curious as to why someone would wear a raincoat but neglect to pack an umbrella, Sophie crossed the road, now several steps behind, and watched him turn right into an alleyway. Moments later two men, dressed in jeans with rain dripping from their leather jackets, followed him at an even faster pace. Sophie shrugged and carried on walking, still with thoughts of wine in her head, and then she drew level with the alley and glanced right.
The two men had slowed their pace; one held out an object in his right hand. Briefcase-man had his back to them and had paused to search for something.
She saw it start in slow motion and knew exactly what was about to happen. Two white thugs attacking an African immigrant. Sophie knew it was wrong, and knew she had to react.
Impulsively, with little thought for her own safety and without warning, she dropped her umbrella and slipped her pack from her back, took a deep breath and sprinted up the alley – the footfall of her trainers dampened by the sound of the rushing rain. She drew within ten feet of the second man, the one without the weapon, and swung her rucksack as hard as she could. It shot the short distance through the dank air and collided with the back of the man’s head. He was already off balance, and the full weight of the law books caused him to crash sideways into the wall, his head hitting the wet brickwork, before he slid down to the ground. Briefcase-man faced the remaining attacker but then a millisecond later his eyes widened as he spotted Sophie.
The man with the weapon, Sophie could now see it was some type of military baton, raised his arm. Briefcase-man, momentarily mesmerised by her presence, moved too late and it hit him on the shoulder. He dropped his briefcase and lurched forward. Sophie was three steps away, she took two then sprung from her left leg and struck a downward blow, an axe kick, to the back of the assailant’s knee with the heel of her right foot. The man folded to the ground, grabbed his knee with both hands, and rolled to one side – his face contorted with pain. Sophie steadied herself. The first attacker was still dazed and the second wouldn’t be jogging for a while. But then Briefcase-man aimed a fist at her. Instinctively Sophie blocked it with crossed arms, deflecting the blow to her right as she stepped left. Briefcase-man spun and a launched a kick at her. This she attempted to sidestep but it hit her in the thigh. Her eyes watered as a cold, dead pain engulfed her leg.
‘Stop! I was trying to help you!’ she shouted. But he sent a second fist and then a quick third towards her. Sophie realised that she was now cornered in the alley, with Briefcase-man blocking her exit one way and two dumpsters shoring up the other. She didn’t understand what was happening but knew he was continuing the attack. She adopted a fighting stance, raised her fists and looked him in the eyes. ‘Go now or I’ll kill you.’
‘And your colleagues will attack me later? I don’t think so.’ Briefcase-man spat, and then he lunged at her. Sophie noticed his stance, recognised his fighting style and knew how to counter it. She feigned a jab with her right, telegraphed a straight kick and as he reached for her leg, she delivered a sickening left elbow to the side of his head. His grip relaxed and he fell. Not waiting to understand what had happened she collected her rucksack and ran back the way she had come.
‘ENDEX!’ a man in a long, camel-coloured coat shouted as he stepped between her and the safety of the street. Sophie skidded to a halt six feet in front of him. ‘And who are you?’ His wizened face was quizzical.
‘I … they … I was attacked!’ Sophie managed to say as her chest heaved.
‘That is not what I asked you, young woman.’
She heard noises from behind and whirled round. The three men were now walking towards her, slowly. The first attacker had a large graze on his cheek and was helping the second, who was limping, and Briefcase-man was holding his head and seemed very unsteady on his feet. ‘But they … I was trying to …’
The man blocking the exit switched to English. ‘Don’t you speak French? Is that your problem?’
She glared at him, and also switched languages. ‘My name is Sophie Racine, and I demand to know who the hell you are.’
‘You demand?’ The man let a broad smile split his lined face, and continued in English. ‘I am Deputy Director Jacob of the French Directorate-General for External Security, and you, Racine, have interrupted a training exercise!’
‘Wait what? She wasn’t part of this?’ Briefcase-man asked.
‘No, Baptiste, she was not. Which is all the worse for you as she handed you your backside on a silver platter.’
Sophie was indignant. ‘Your men attacked me. I wish to press charges!’
‘Oh, do grow up, you attacked them. And from what I can see it is they who should be charging you. In fact I should be charging you! But I won’t.’
Sophie bristled.
‘Tell me, who taught you to fight like that?’
‘My father,’ Sophie replied, hating the fact that it was he who again would define her. ‘My father was
a Legionnaire.’
‘Was? What is he now?’
‘A successful defence lawyer.’
The man raised his eyebrows, then spoke over her head. ‘Noah, Yann, Baptiste, go and get whatever medical treatment you need.’ His gaze moved back to her. His features seemed to have softened. ‘Racine, you look familiar. Have we met before?’
‘No.’
‘Very well. I’d like to buy you a coffee. I think we should have a chat.’
Chapter 3
Present Day
Central Paris
Racine stared out of the apartment at the wet street below. It always rained at this time of year in Paris. Whilst unprepared tourists hid under boutique awnings, locals sported chic, black umbrellas and carried on as usual. She envied them, the people below with normal lives and everyday hopes and fears. The biggest decision most of them would have to make would be to decide what to have for dinner, what colour scarf to wear or whom to sleep with. They didn’t make life-or-death decisions, well apart from the doctors, she conceded, but even they didn’t get ordered to take lives. The people of Paris, like civilians everywhere, were civil. She was not. The life she had chosen was decidedly uncivilised and at the age of twenty-nine she had potentially many decades of incivility ahead of her. What had driven her to become so adept at hastening the death of enemies of the state, she did not know, but what had forced her to act in the first instance – to take her first step into the world she now lived in – was to right a wrong. She believed in justice and always had.
Racine turned away from the window of her DGSE Paris apartment. In her hand she held an envelope containing her briefing notes. She felt an odd sense of calm determination that she had finally arrived at this point in her journey. She would read and memorise its contents before returning it to her controller – the man who now looked at her from across her kitchen table.