A Hostile State
Page 21
It was this last one that caught his attention. With one in his hand he walked along to Lindsay’s office and opened the door. He looked around for a moment, taking in her in-tray. It held very little that hadn’t been left there by her. It included the note he’d given her showing Portman’s locators in France. That now lay to one side of her desk, with three copies of the security reminder lying in the centre.
Dumped because they were no longer needed?
He went outside and showed the reminder to a section supervisor. ‘Do you get much of this stuff from the Support Directorate?’ he asked.
She glanced at the paper and shook her head. ‘Not usually. The internal email system deals with security issues. And there’s already a copy on every bulletin board in the building. In fact I don’t think it’s changed in a week or more. It’s like they think we’re kids in the schoolroom, constantly needing telling more than once.’
Interesting, thought Callahan. Why distribute a security notice around the building that was already posted on the bulletin boards?
More importantly, why would a person on Carly Ledhoffen’s pay grade be chosen to do it?
THIRTY-SEVEN
Seeing the man standing there gave me a chill deep in my gut. I’d seen the look many times before, and on faces exactly like this one.
I’d been on a mission in and around the Somali capital, Mogadishu, on behalf of the French General Directorate of External Security or DGSE. The city was probably one of the most dangerous places on the planet and the memory of being hunted there was still vivid. This man’s stance and look was familiar; fight or flight, it said, but more than likely the former because that was the way of things in that troubled part of the world.
I opened my mouth to call for Lindsay to step aside, and reached into my backpack for one of the guns. I sure as hell didn’t want a confrontation here and now, but I might not have a choice. If he was on the side of the ungodly he wasn’t going to let us go without trying to stop us.
Then he looked back at Lindsay and smiled, a genuine look of pleasure, and revealed his hand to be empty. I figured he’d just dismissed me as a potential client in favour of her.
I can’t say I blamed him.
I looked at the Mégane. It was tired looking, with a few dings in the bodywork here and there, but was spotlessly clean. A Libre sign was propped up in the front window. A freelance cab operator hoping for a fare. The driver stopped smiling when I moved up alongside Lindsay, his look of disappointment palpable. Even so he recovered quickly and nodded at me.
He spoke good if heavily-accented English in a soft voice, and informed us that his name was Djamel and he would be happy to escort us wherever we wished to go. As he spoke I saw his eyes flicking over my shoulder towards the station building, and I wondered how much he had seen. If he was about to shout for help it could be a problem.
‘It’s nice to meet you, Djamel,’ Lindsay said, giving him her most winning smile. ‘Is there a car rental place in town?’
Djamel looked as if he was about to melt on the spot and nodded enthusiastically. He told us he had a cousin nearby who would be happy to rent us a car, no questions asked. I didn’t know if that was his usual line, and we’d end up with a wreck that would let us down after a few miles, but we were short of options and the risk was worthwhile.
He ushered us urgently into the car as if we might vanish in a puff of smoke, then drove out of the station. It was a small town and the journey took all of five minutes, with Djamel pointing out a few landmarks on the way such as a lycée, a few shops, a supermarket and a burger bar. I think he’d slipped into tourist-guide role out of habit and was giving us the benefit of his knowledge just in case, you know, we wanted to stay a while.
The garage was located on the edge of a small industrial park consisting of half a dozen large metal-clad units and one smaller one, all surrounded by a chain-link fence. Djamel stopped just inside the entrance to the park and turned in his seat with the engine still running. His eyes looked grave, like large black pebbles, and there was something very knowing in his gaze. I had my hand resting on the backpack, wondering if I hadn’t made a huge mistake.
‘You have no cause to be concerned,’ he said seriously, interpreting my thoughts. ‘Where I come from I have seen many people like you.’
‘What do you mean,’ Lindsay asked. ‘Like us?’
‘People being … pursued. There is a look in the eyes … and the way they move. I am willing to help if I can because I have been there also. And one day it could be me again. Only God can tell.’ He looked saddened by the thought and looked at me, lifting his chin. ‘You know Somalia.’ It wasn’t a question.
‘I do. It was a while ago, though.’ There really wasn’t much more I could say. There were too many factions over there and I had no idea to which one Djamel might have been allied, if at all.
He nodded. ‘I have been here two years. I have a good life now. I am safe. But the shadows of my memories follow me wherever I go.’ Then he turned and drove us up to the smallest unit and stopped outside. The roller shutter was down and there were no signs indicating what lay inside. He asked us to wait then hopped out and banged on a side door.
I was already reaching inside my backpack and fingering one of the guns. If this was a set-up by an entrepreneurial man with a good line of patter, I wanted to be prepared.
The door opened and there was a brief discussion, followed by a man in soiled overalls and a vest coming out to give us the once-over. He had welding goggles perched on his head and hands like claws. He was overweight, unshaven and very white, and came over for a closer look.
‘I am Rémi,’ he said in French, politely extending his two cleanest fingers to greet us.
‘My cousin,’ said Djamel, and smiled broadly.
I said hello back, even though thinking if he was Djamel’s cousin I was Santa Claus. But he seemed happy enough to meet us and beckoned us inside, closing the door behind us.
The interior was surprisingly clean and efficiently racked out with all manner of tools and a lift … and no suspicious heavyweights ready to jump us. The air smelled of burned metal and oil. Most of the space was taken up by three vehicles, one of which was basically a chassis on wheels surrounded by equipment and car parts which had either been cut off or were in the process of being welded on, I couldn’t tell which.
Rémi muttered something dismissive about that one and showed us over to the other two. They were an old Renault 19 and a white Citroën van, both of which had seen better days.
He climbed into each one in turn and turned over the engines, which sounded a little clacky but worked readily enough. Then he rummaged in a tray on a workbench and produced papers for both cars, followed by a brief conversation with Djamel who shook his head a couple of times in a mildly disapproving manner.
That’s when I discovered Rémi must have been distantly related to the guy in Tripoli who’d sold me the Land Cruiser. It turned out he didn’t do rentals either. It was buy or no deal. He shrugged and scribbled down a price on a piece of cardboard, which Djamel checked and seemed to think was acceptable. It was slightly eye-watering but I had no desire or room to argue. Three minutes later we were driving away in the Citroën van leaving Djamel and Rémi waving us off, deal done and all parties satisfied.
‘I bet he’s got some history,’ Lindsay commented, as we headed out of town. It was a keen observation and one I’d made myself many times in the past. We can never know everyone’s past, but nor should we enquire; their past belongs uniquely to them. But if you had any kind of imagination and human interest, you couldn’t help wondering.
‘Everyone has, over there,’ I said. ‘But you know a little of that.’ Lindsay had been my back-up and eye-in-the-sky a few years back, and I knew she had got to know the dangers of the country through our shared comms experience.
THIRTY-EIGHT
‘Where are we going?’ Lindsay asked, as we headed away from Courcelle on a quiet back road. I was avoidin
g hooking up with any of the motorways leading to Paris, but cutting straight across-country on a northwesterly heading. I was still formulating a plan but one that did not include any danger for Lindsay. That said, I was pretty sure she wouldn’t accept the plan without argument.
As I’d learned very quickly, she had courage enough and more, but there comes a point at which courage leads to one too many risks and you have to use the basic practicality of staying away from anything that might get you killed because it doesn’t help the overall plan.
‘I need you to stay in Paris,’ I said, and reached into my pocket for two cards. ‘These are hotels where I booked a room. One is near the Parmentier métro and other near the Place de la République.’ I handed them over and said, ‘Choose whichever one you like and text me when you get there. They’re both paid up for three days, although I doubt it’ll take me that long.’
‘Forget it. I’m staying with you.’ She sounded mad, which I’d kind of expected. But mad didn’t make it sensible. I needed to be by myself for the next phase if I was to get anywhere, and having to worry about Lindsay at the same time was likely to get us both killed.
I explained what I was going to do. ‘I have to get this over and done with. To do that I’ve got to have a free hand to draw the opposition to an area where I have some kind of advantage.’
‘You’re going to fight them?’
‘It’s what I do. If I don’t they won’t stop.’
‘But surely Paris would be somewhere we could hide until we can get out of the country.’
‘That’s just the point,’ I countered. ‘Getting out is the hardest thing to do. They’ll be watching every port and airport, every route out of France that we could possibly take. Even if we got out they’d wait for one of us to surface in the US.’
She looked at me. ‘You mean me, don’t you? They’ll get to you through me.’
‘Yes. I can’t risk that.’ A big city like Paris was the logical choice but logic wasn’t going to cut it this time. I had a feeling the opposition might be running short of people or patience, and either way it was time for me to take control – or, at least as much control as they would allow me. I also didn’t want Lindsay to get hurt because I’d never forgive myself. That would be a burden I simply could not carry.
‘What about the embassy – can’t they help?’
‘It’s not an option. It has to be this way.’
She didn’t say anything for a long while and I let her think it through. Whatever else she had learned working in the CIA, she knew that there was a way of doing things that might seem counter-intuitive to all normal folk, but which worked for the operative on the ground.
‘All right,’ she said at last. ‘Get me on a train … but you’d better make sure you join me in Paris or I’ll never forgive you.’
That threw me for reasons I couldn’t explain, but I recovered and said, ‘Agreed. I suppose there’s no point me asking you to get on a flight to Washington? They don’t know your name and I doubt the spotter back in Épernon got a good look at you.’
‘I think I’ve conceded enough. Don’t push it.’
When I glanced across at her she had a faint smile on her face.
I turned off the road into the town of Meulan and followed directions to the local train station. I pulled up in front of the red and cream painted building and noticed signs for a bus service to the city. I pointed it out to her. ‘Whichever leaves first,’ I said, ‘take it. The sooner you’re on your way the better. Have you ever been to Paris?’
‘No. I’ve always wanted to. I just never expected to do it this way.’ She smiled. ‘It kind of takes the edge off it, somewhat, although it’s exciting at the same time.’ She picked up her bag and said, ‘Don’t worry, I’m a big girl. I can handle this.’ Then she surprised me by leaning forward and brushing my ear with a kiss. ‘Please be careful.’
A second later she was out of the car and walking away fast.
I continued driving north, winding my way into the rural region of Hauts-de-France. I had no specific plan or destination, but I’d know it when I saw it. First I had to make a couple of calls. As soon as I spotted a roadside café I parked nearby and headed inside, where I ordered a coffee and a ficelle jambon-beurre, or ham sandwich, from the lady behind the bar. I hadn’t given much thought about eating but when I saw the size of the sandwich I realized how hungry I was.
There were only two other customers, which was good. They were middle-aged and dressed identically in blue overalls and boots, with an official-looking logo on the breast pocket. Other than a polite nod of greeting, they barely gave me a look. Also good. I took a table at the back of the room and ate, drank my coffee, then ordered a refill. I was going to have to be on full alert for the next twenty-four hours at least and a caffeine boost would do that just fine. While the lady was doing her thing with the coffee machine I looked for a phone and saw a blue plastic head-booth down the corridor to the rear.
I ducked inside and checked my cellphone, then dialled a number I hadn’t used in a while. It rang five times before being picked up. I recognized the gravelly tones immediately.
‘Fabien,’ I said. ‘You got time for a chat?’
There was a pause, then he chuckled and said, ‘Marc? It’s been a long time.’ Cool as always, but friendly.
‘Yeah, sorry about that. I’ve been busy. I need some stuff.’
He laughed. ‘Of course you do. Where are you?’
I told him and he said, ‘Get your ass to Beauvais and I’ll be waiting.’ He gave me an address on the outskirts of the town, then rang off. Cool and cautious.
I’d met Fabien in the Foreign Legion, and we’d hit it off pretty quickly. He wasn’t on the run or any of that romantic nonsense, but simply had a thirst for adventure. He was a few years older than me and had already served ten years in the French military by then but had found civilian life too dull.
He’d done a stint as an armourer in the Legion, learning the skills in one of the toughest, most demanding businesses going. If a military unit can’t get weapons as and when it wants them, serviced and fully reliable for battlefield conditions, an armourer doesn’t last long. And Fabien had done the job for five years.
I’d used him a couple of times since then, when he’d retired to give civilian life another go, running an engineering workshop on a remote farm which served as a front for a below-the-counter gunsmith’s business. I never asked who he supplied and never would. He didn’t have much respect for authority, so I guess he got his trade wherever he could. All I knew was, he was reliable, secure and would never give away client names no matter who asked.
By the time I rolled up to the farm where he lived it was early evening and the light was taking on a soft hue. I climbed out of the van with my backpack and Fabien met me at the door with a wide grin.
‘Marc,’ he said, giving my hand a fierce tug before grabbing me round the shoulders, then threw a squinty look at my wheels. ‘Have you gone all native on me? I expected something a bit more classy.’
‘I’m keeping a low profile,’ I explained. ‘The van does that in spades.’
He led me inside and produced two beers, and we sat down. ‘Like that, hein?’ We chinked bottles. ‘Are you in trouble?’
‘No. Well, a little bit – but nothing official, I promise. I need some protection.’ I opened the backpacks and showed him the Beretta and the Sig. ‘These are fine for close work, but I need something longer.’
He took both guns from me, checking the actions and peering closely at the mechanisms for dirt and damage. ‘They’re good. Serviceable, anyway.’ He returned the guns and finished his beer in a couple of swallows. ‘What do you want, an automatic or something with spread?’
He meant did I need something for general distance work or a shotgun for close-up protection, the kind useful for clearing buildings. Since I didn’t expect to be doing any of the latter, I opted for an assault rifle, which gave me distance and a decent rate of fire.
I told him I’d planned on using the van but he wouldn’t hear of it. ‘Stay here. I have plenty of room and nobody will bother you.’ He gave me a look and said, ‘Where are you thinking of using this?’
‘Somewhere away from housing, like a wooded area where I can watch my perimeter and have a fast exit route.’
‘How many chasing you?’
‘So far there have been teams of two or three.’
‘So far?’ He looked surprised. ‘Is this an on-going thing?’ He waved his forefinger in a rolling motion.
‘You could say that. But I’m hoping to put a stop to it.’
‘What the hell have you got yourself into? That’s heavy duty.’
I didn’t want to burden him with details so I gave him the basics; that my position was now pretty much blown and I was on my own. He listened without interrupting, and I guessed it was a story he’d heard before. We both knew guys who’d left the forces and moved into the private sector or become contracted to work with government departments. Guys like me. It didn’t always end well because that was the nature of the work; it might be good for a while but not many contractors retired rich.
‘You really think you can get them to leave you alone?’ he asked, when I finished.
‘I have to.’ At least I had to give myself time to disappear, but I didn’t tell him that. Whatever happened from here on in had to be done with as few outsiders knowing about it as possible. I trusted Fabien more than most, but he could also come under intense pressure if the wrong people became aware that we’d spoken.