Traitors

by Alex Shaw

  The assassin fired two more rounds. In the right circumstances, Baptiste knew the Ruger could be as quiet as someone snapping their fingers loudly.

  Twin needles of ice stabbed him in the chest. He felt his eyes closing, but a hand grabbed him and heaved him back up against the railing. Summoning every ounce of his draining strength, Baptiste swung his fist at his attacker. The man ducked his head, and the punch missed his chin, landing weakly on his temple. As Baptiste’s fist started to fall it brought with it the sunglasses. Baptiste stared at the face underneath. He saw the red birth mark above the attacker’s left eye and time seemed to slow. The assassin smiled. Baptiste recognised him as the Ukrainian lawyer, Magidov.

  ‘You,’ Baptiste gasped.

  ‘Me.’ Magidov sneered.

  Vision dimming, Baptiste furiously attempted to understand what was happening. What had gone wrong? Magidov’s identity as a Jewish lawyer had been confirmed, hadn’t it? But he was a Russian agent. The man was part of Vasilev’s plan, and not just the intel he had delivered. It was back to luck and coincidence, but bad luck and fabricated coincidence.

  Unable to fight anymore, Baptiste felt himself being lifted up and over the guardrail. Rushing air told him he was plummeting towards the dark water some sixty-five metres below.

  *

  The sign on the bistro door read closed, and it was to all but the two customers who sat at a table inside. Francois approached the table and deposited a bottle of red wine and a pair of wineglasses. ‘In all the time Maurice has been coming in here, you are the only woman who has ever accompanied him.’

  Racine asked, ‘Is that true?’

  ‘It is not.’ Jacob cleared his throat. ‘Thank you, Francois.’

  ‘It is.’ Francois winked at Racine, then withdrew to the bar, where he switched on a thick, wall-mounted television, the bistro’s only visible concession to modernity, and continued to polish his glasses.

  ‘Have you heard from Baptiste today?’ Jacob asked.

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘I had wanted him to be here, but I’d forgotten he had the day off, and of course he is not answering his phone. I could fire him for that.’ Her boss’s face crinkled as he grinned. ‘Never mind, you and I shall drink for the three of us.’ He poured the wine, then raised his glass. His eyes had become moist. ‘I want to thank you for righting a wrong that I have caused, for destroying a monster that I created. In my long career there has never been another person whom I have appreciated nor valued more than you.’

  ‘I’m sure there must be.’

  ‘No, and this is not the wine talking. No one else is like you. Your career will eclipse mine.’ They drank then lapsed into silence, neither Racine nor Jacob knowing quite what to say. Jacob eventually broke the uneasy quiet. ‘Sasha Vasilev is dead, which is excellent. There is no evidence that it was us – excellent again – and, Racine, you are alive.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Racine said flatly, her face emotionless, and emptied her glass. ‘I’m glad.’

  Jacob shut his eyes as waves of relief and remorse in equal measure washed over him. He had set Racine up for this journey, trained her for it, but he knew that now it was finished she would not find the closure she needed. Yet he felt free, liberated from the cold shadow of Sasha Vasilev, but he knew that nothing would mitigate for the loss of life Vasilev had caused. The families of the agents he had given up, the agents who over the course of Vasilev’s twelve-year tenure with the DGSE had been lost. There was nothing more Maurice Jacob could do to honour their names but continue the fight for France and her people. And his protégée – Racine – was the tool with which to do this. He regarded her sitting opposite him and knew that she had weathered a storm of emotion. He knew for him his journey was close to the end, but for her it had just started.

  ‘A toast, to Celine Durand!’ Jacob noticed a catch in his voice as he said her name.

  ‘Celine.’ Racine’s own voice sounded suddenly reedy.

  Jacob emptied his glass.

  ‘Maurice, I think you may want to see this,’ Francois called over from the bar.

  Jacob craned his neck, peered at the screen, then clambered to his feet and joined Francois in order to get a better view. It was showing a live report from ON.

  Our News anchor, Sharron Machin, stood at her well-rehearsed spot to the right of the gigantic plasma screen in the ON television broadcast newsroom. Darren Weller’s face filled a large portion of the display to her left and was accompanied by the headline ‘Kidnapped?’ Machin addressed the camera. ‘British journalist Darren Weller has been kidnapped on the streets of central Moscow hours before he was due to speak at a news conference regarding the involvement of the British Secret Intelligence Service in his illegal interrogation in Donetsk. We can now go live to ON’s Anna Chepura who is at the scene of Weller’s abduction.’

  The word ‘LIVE’ whooshed across the screen, giving way to the feed from Moscow. The plasma display became a split-screen. It showed Chepura standing on a busy Moscow street on one side and a feed of Darren Weller’s reports on the other. Chepura started to speak, her American-accented English seemingly out of place in the Russian capital. ‘It was here on Tverskaya Street outside the iconic Ritz-Carlton Moscow, earlier today that ON journalist, Darren Weller was abducted in broad daylight. Eyewitnesses report seeing at eleven-twenty-five this morning a brown UPS delivery van stop here, just outside the hotel. Two men dressed as UPS employees got out of the van and then reportedly grabbed Darren Weller as he passed. And against his will, they proceeded to bundle him into the van, before pulling back out into traffic.’

  ‘Anna, do we have any idea who these men were who kidnapped Darren?’

  ‘None at this stage, but the Moscow politsiya have confirmed the van was reported stolen from the maintenance department of the UPS depot an hour before and has now been found abandoned, just a kilometre or so away from here.’

  The footage of the studio was now replaced with that of a politsiya cordon around a brown, UPS van, parked haphazardly on the pavement under a granite-faced bridge. Two politsiya Ford Focus saloons blocked the underpass on the side nearest to the van, whilst a politsiya officer funnelled traffic through the remaining lane opposite.

  ‘Thank you, Anna.’ Machin in the studio wore a grim expression as the camera returned to her now sitting at a desk.

  ‘Ha! They did it!’ exclaimed Jacob and immediately drained his glass.

  Francois eyed him warily. ‘You want another bottle?’

  ‘Of course.’ Jacob toddled back to their table and sat heavily. ‘We are celebrating!’

  ‘You knew about this?’ Racine asked.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Are we responsible?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who is?’

  ‘A-ha.’ Jacob tapped his nose in a conspiratorial manner, then leant forward a little. When he spoke, his voice was a whisper. ‘The British.’

  Racine said nothing.

  Francois deposited the second bottle, looked at his old friend then rolled his eyes at Racine before getting back to the TV.

  Jacob continued talking now in his usual tone. ‘Of course, it’s interesting to see how ON, and by definition the Russian authorities, are spinning this.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘I have it on good authority that the men chosen to undertake this for the British were ethnic Chechens. Yet no mention has been made of this, because of course it does not fit in with the Kremlin narrative that there is no longer a threat of terrorism from Chechnya.’ He raised the bottle. ‘More wine?’

  Racine inclined her head and he poured. ‘So where is Weller?’

  ‘He’s made his own prison bed and now he must lie in it.’

  ‘I don’t follow you.’

  Jacob smirked. The lines in his face had seemed to lessen and there was a twinkle in his eye. ‘I believe by openly broadcasting footage of himself in a conflict zone, with an illegal foreign militia, in which he wore a military uniform and fired an as
sault rifle – albeit at practice targets – Weller contravened the UK’s strict anti-terrorism laws.’ He paused to take a mouthful of wine and closed his eyes as though he was savouring the taste and the victory. ‘Apparently Interpol will be issuing a “red notice” for him tomorrow. Of course, as an Interpol signatory country, if Weller were to suddenly appear in Ukraine, the Kyiv authorities would have no choice but to immediately arrest him and extradite him to the UK.’

  Racine laughed. It was harsh treatment, but in her opinion, Weller deserved it and what was more he would now be unable to call out Aidan Snow at his news conference.

  *

  As late afternoon became early evening and the lights were switched on, Racine had stopped drinking and Jacob had not. Several potential customers were turned away from the bistro causing Francois to half-heartedly complain. But it was an unwritten rule that Jacob had the place for as long as he required it and today, he really had required it.

  ‘I think we can say, we made up for the absence of Baptiste with our alcohol consumption,’ Jacob said. ‘And it was not plonk.’

  Racine smirked. ‘Plonk.’

  ‘Yes, you see, I use that word you used, all those years ago when we first met, and I first brought you here. You were a surprise, an explosion. And you still are, Racine, like your famous namesake, renowned for your “elegance, purity, speed, and fury”.’

  Racine frowned. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Ha, ha! Wikipedia, I stole that line from Wikipedia – look it up. But I dare say it is as befitting to you as it was to his prose.’ Jacob reached for his glass raised it then peered into its bottom. ‘Ah, it appears that either my glass is faulty, or we have finished another bottle.’

  ‘We have.’ It was their fourth and just under three of those had disappeared into Jacob. ‘I think it’s time we left.’

  Jacob closed his eyes. ‘I think I agree.’

  ‘You need to call your car.’

  ‘I do.’ He slowly stood. ‘And I shall do so on my way to the little boys’ room.’

  Racine watched him go, then stretched and yawned. It wasn’t the wine that had tired her per se, but the combination of the wine and the company. She was fond of her boss in moderation; she realised what a momentous time it was for him. She sincerely hoped he had achieved closure on the issue of Sasha Vasilev. But had she? She had been sent to Donetsk to kill a man in cold blood. A man who had taken in her aunt and then taken her life. What did she now feel about that? Did she feel anything? She’d thought revenge would have been more satisfying than this.

  The truth was she felt no different and nothing had changed. Celine was still dead. Her tears had run dry and the emptiness had expanded. She was an assassin for the French Republic but was she also a killer, a murderer? Was she any better than the wretches languishing in La Santé or any of the nation’s prisons for taking a human life? Yes, she stated categorically to herself, she was. Vasilev had been evil. He had caused the deaths of good people, loyal people, noble people – fellow intelligence officers, and a woman she loved like no other. He’d answered for his crimes, and she had been the chosen instrument of French justice.

  It wasn’t the first time she had questioned herself, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. She remembered her father telling her: ‘If you think too hard, you go mad’. She allowed herself a sad smile. She was mad all right. Racine realised she still hadn’t called him and made the resolute decision that she would in the morning. But not too early; she couldn’t be cordial with a hangover.

  Racine raised her own glass and finished the sip that had been sitting collecting dust for the last ten minutes. She wanted to drink more, and would do so at home, with Netflix. She idly wondered if anything worth watching had been added and retrieved her iPhone, to check the app, but then remembered this was her work phone. Her finger hovered over the photos icon. She touched the screen.

  The last image was of the American couple by the river, ‘Clint’ and whatever the woman’s name was. It was not the clearest of photographs. She pinched to enlarge it. She frowned. There was something about it that did not seem right. The woman was holding his left hand and looking intently at his face, but Clint was looking intently at Racine, and the way his right hand was held by his side, fingers splayed like a cowboy, like a gunslinger, like someone who had a gun. She let out a breath through pursed lips. Perhaps she was being paranoid, but it still didn’t mean that Clint wasn’t out to get her. She selected the photograph and sent it to a DGSE email address with the subject line ‘ID Request’. She then tapped out a text message to Baptiste:

  You’ve missed all the fun! X

  She frowned, not understanding why she’d added a kiss at the end.

  ‘He’s on his way.’ Jacob announced as he ambled back to their table. His movements had become slower and his words were slurring. ‘Any moment now. You know it amazes me how my driver is never far away … like a bird of prey … no … like a drone … circling high above … forever watching and awaiting his orders.’

  ‘We all have our jobs to do.’ Racine slipped her phone back into her pocket.

  ‘True, Sophie, very true.’

  Her name sounded alien on his lips. It was the first time she could remember him using it, but this was also the first time she had seen him this drunk.

  ‘I insist that he delivers you to your door too. It’s far easier than you taking your usual roundabout route home. He’ll carry out the safety checks for us.’

  Racine opened her mouth to refuse but changed her mind. She slipped into her coat and then felt her phone vibrate. She expected to see a cringeworthy text from Baptiste.

  There was a knock at the door. Francois quickly went to see who it was. A man and a woman, a couple, were peering into the bistro and looking perplexed. ‘We’re closed, I’m sorry.’ Francois cut him a curt smile and repeated the phrase in English, the most popular foreign language.

  ‘We were just about to leave. Please do not let us stand in the way of your livelihood!’ Jacob called out.

  Francois turned to his old friend, mouthed ‘merci’ and then unlocked the door.

  In the shadows, Racine couldn’t see their faces but noted they were tall and well dressed, wearing long, dark wool coats over suits. Businesspeople perhaps after a quick drink following a successful meeting or perhaps having an illicit affair in the city of love? As long as they had money, she doubted Francois minded either way.

  Racine looked back at the screen of her iPhone. It was a reply to her ‘ID Request’. She opened the email. Her snatched photograph had been a 74.2 per cent match to a known former East German Stasi operative named Otto Linus.

  She looked up, and now saw that for the second time that day Otto Linus was looking directly at her. His right hand was held by his side, fingers splayed like a cowboy, like a gunslinger, like someone who had a gun. The woman from earlier was standing next to him, her right hand holding a black briefcase, and Francois was smiling and gesturing to one of his many empty tables.

  ‘Racine.’ Jacob was on his feet gently swaying. ‘Are we going, or are we not?’

  Linus’s hand started to move.

  The woman’s hand started to move and so did Racine.

  With her left arm she swung at Jacob, knocking him off his feet. Dropping to her knees, and using both hands, she flipped the table over onto its side, so that the heavy top acted as a shield.

  Linus’s hand was moving across his body to an underarm holster and it was costing him valuable time. The woman was raising the briefcase with her right hand, as her left came around to support the base.

  Racine instinctively ducked a millisecond before a burst of 9mm rounds flew from the concealed sub-machine gun within the briefcase and ripped into the wooden panelling behind her. Racine drew her Glock 26 from its holster and immediately returned fire over the table. Her first round hit the woman in the forehead and her second in her chest as she was already falling backwards into oblivion.

  Linus threw himself over the
top of the bar as Racine tracked his progress with her Glock. In the second it would take him to recover, she moved. Running forwards, affording Linus no time to respond, she vaulted the bar top, firing blindly as she did. Glasses and bottles exploded and then she saw Linus, scrabbling on all fours. He dropped his right shoulder, rolled, and thrust his arms up. He and Racine fired at the same time, two, three, four rounds until Linus abruptly stopped. The two-handed grip on his handgun faltered and then his arms fell by either side of his dying body. Racine watched his eyes flicker for several seconds and then go still.

  Racine pushed herself away from the dead German and using the bar for support hauled herself to her feet. Francois was standing stock-still in the exact same spot he had been, only now his skin was grey.

  ‘We need to get out of here,’ Jacob ordered as he gingerly pushed himself to his feet.

  ‘Are you hit?’ Racine checked him over.

  ‘No. You?’

  A trickle of blood ran into her mouth and she felt her face. ‘Just a cut, flying glass.’

  Jacob peered at the corpse behind the bar. ‘I’ve seen this man before. He was looking in a shop window just before my meeting with Jack Patchem.’

  Racine was about to reply when there was a sudden movement at the door. She spun, alert, weapon up. Jacob’s DGSE driver entered and on seeing the carnage and Racine’s weapon, raised his hands.

  ‘Take us home,’ Jacob ordered and headed for the door.

  Racine stopped him and pushed past through the entrance and out onto the moonlit Parisian street. She couldn’t see anyone else, but that didn’t mean they were alone. She darted left and immediately ducked past the DGSE Citroën into the doorway of the next shop. She drew arcs with her sidearm left and right. The street was deserted. She studied the parked cars, none of the windows were cracked open or appeared to be misty. She took a deep breath to force more oxygen into her lungs then sprinted diagonally across the street to another shop entrance; it was an action she hoped would elicit a response from any backup team.