by Jon King
“They are names on the Diplomatic Service List,” the DST agent reminded him. “They are a matter of public record. The fact Tomlinson knows them is no cause for alarm.”
Mason didn’t agree. The look on his face said so.
“What is wrong?” the DST agent probed. “All is as it should be, is it not?”
Again Mason made no reply, but his expression told its own story.
“Are you telling me some of these names are covers?” the DST agent said, reading Mason’s expression, realizing what the MI6 man was refusing to say. His own expression was now one of mild panic. “Are you saying there were undeclared MI6 officers in Paris on the night the princess died?”
“Well if there were it appears the secret is safe,” Mason said, his eyes emotionless and glued to the computer screen, the list of names it displayed. “Fortunately no operational code names are included in Tomlinson’s list. All is good.”
The agent wanted to say: “Operational code names? You mean like Mason? Are you included on the Diplomatic Service List as well, under your real name?” But he knew better than to ask further questions. Instead he gazed back out the window and sucked anxiously on his cigarette, leaving Mason to complete his trawl of Tomlinson’s computer…
…In a different section of the building Richard Tomlinson sat upright on the cell’s single wooden bench, naked from the waist up but for the heavy adhesive strapping that kept his ribs from caving in. Even so, they throbbed. His head pounded. He was hungry and thirsty and wanted nothing more than to throw in the towel and walk away from this nightmare in which he found himself, self-inflicted though it was. But he knew he wouldn’t. Despite the discomfort he knew he would see this nightmare through and do what he’d come to Paris to do. He had his reasons for wanting to give evidence, after all, and they outdid any amount of pain the authorities could deal him. They couldn’t keep him here for very much longer anyway, he knew that. They would find nothing on his computer to warrant his extended detention, and so would be forced to release him without charge, sooner rather than later. In two days from now he would stand before the judge at the French Inquiry, and he would reveal everything he knew—even Mason’s name. Then he would get the hell out of France before MI6 terminated him.
CHAPTER 30
JB and I were sitting at a table outside a café somewhere in downtown Paris. In fact JB had slipped inside to use the bathroom, so I was sitting on my own, talking on my mobile phone to Jackie, the girl who’d joined our magazine straight from college and had since proved her weight in gold. She’d called me up with an update from England.
“Richard Tomlinson’s in the news over here,” she was saying. “He claims one of the paparazzi worked for MI6. Evidently he intends to name him at the inquiry.”
“So I heard. We think the paparazzo in question was a guy called Andanson. James Andanson.”
“Anderson…?”
“No, no, Andanson. Jackie…?” A strange crackle on the line kept threatening to interrupt us; our friends back at GCHQ, no doubt. “Hello? Jackie, did you get that…?”
“Ander…? Anderson?” Jackie said through the crackle and pop of MI5’s best eavesdropping endeavours. At which point the noise suddenly abated; the line cleared. “James Anderson?”
“No, not Anderson—Andanson. A-N-D-A-N-S-O-N. An-dan-son. We don’t think it was his Fiat Uno in the tunnel but it seems he was definitely in Paris on the night of the crash, involved in the operation in some way or other. We need to see what we can find out about him.”
“I’m on it.”
Just then, the waitress arrived at my table with pencil and note pad in hand.
“Ah, deux grand cafés noirs, s’il vous plait,” I said in my best schoolboy French. Then: “Jacks, are you still there?”
“Still here.”
The waitress scribbled on her pad and headed back inside.
“We also need to find out what’s happening with a character named Francois Levistre.”
“I can tell you that now,” Jackie said. “He was splashed all over the tabloids yesterday. They crucified him.”
“Levistre?”
“Francois Levistre, yes. The media seemed more interested in the fact that he has a criminal record than in what he had to say about the crash, even though he’s only ever been convicted for petty offences.”
“What does his criminal record have to do with what he saw in the tunnel?”
“You tell me. And that’s not the end of it, either. They also made a point of highlighting the differences – the alleged differences, I might add – between his version of events and his wife’s, saying they contradicted each other.”
“Therefore their accounts are unreliable.”
“Correct. The article concluded that Levistre demonstrated ‘a complete lack of credibility’, and therefore his account should be ignored. Basically they implied he made it all up to gain notoriety.”
“Jesus.” I recalled to mind what Thierry had said earlier, that these days intelligence agencies were less likely to threaten witnesses, more likely to lampoon them, make them look stupid, discredit them in the eyes of the public so that their stories lost credibility, too. I was gobsmacked. “It seems Thierry was right, after all,” I heard myself say.
“Thierry?” Jackie questioned.
“Oh, someone we spoke to earlier. He said they would make Levistre out to be a clown. Looks like he was right.”
Just then, the waitress returned with two large black coffees. She placed them on the table with the bill.
“Merci bon.”
“Monsieur.”
I sugared my coffee and stirred it. “How are things coming along with the new magazine, by the way, Jacks?” I said, sipping my coffee, changing the subject. “Any developments?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact,” Jackie reported. “Mark met with the new distributor yesterday. We should have a nice new office for you when you get back.”
“Excellent, can’t wait to get back to it … Jackie? Hello…? Jacks…?”
The signal again, and this time it was terminal. Just before we were finally cut off, though, I thought I heard Jackie say: “Don’t forget Richard Tomlinson is due to testify in court today.” But I couldn’t be certain. For one thing the line was so bad. And for another, my attention had just been stolen by a wholly unexpected sight; indeed, it was a sight that would stay with me for the rest of my life. Because just then, as Jackie tried to remind me that the former MI6 officer was due in court later that day, I saw him, Richard Tomlinson, drive past me in a cab. And what’s more he saw me, too. I hadn’t yet met the man in person, of course, but I’d seen his face often enough – in the papers, on the news – enough that I could recognize him in a crowd. Sounds crazy, I know. Improbable, even. But if it wasn’t him then it was a spit, his absolute double, and that double was staring right back at me now from the back of a passing cab. It was a strangely out-of-time moment, one that caused the hairs on the back of my neck to stand up and take a look, as though to confirm the sighting. And they did. It was the reappearance of JB from inside the café that finally teased me back to reality.
“You all right, Jon? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he said, seating himself opposite and tipping his head at the grand café noir peering back up at him from the table. “I take it this one’s mine?”
I didn’t reply. Instead, as JB claimed his coffee and started to drink it I found myself glued to Richard Tomlinson’s cab, watching it disappear along the street and into the near distance, unable to remove my eyes until it had been swallowed entirely by the city traffic. It was an image I would never forget. Not ever. Not even in my sleep.
CHAPTER 31
Richard Tomlinson stood in the dock facing Hervé Stephan and Marie-Christine Devidal, the inquiry’s presiding magistrates. Other court officials were also present, but it was Stephan who was in charge of proceedings. And it was Stephan who was about to address Tomlinson.
Around forty years of age with h
awkish nose and sterile eyes, Stephan had of course been handpicked for the job. The eyes of the world were on France at this historic moment, and the inquiry’s outcome, the French authorities had soon enough realized, should be swift and unremarkable. If not inevitable. Stephan’s reputation as an investigating magistrate had been noted in this regard. He’d already studied Tomlinson’s affidavit, of course, had already noted the wild and dangerous claims it contained, and on this basis had decided that his cross-examination of the former MI6 man would be brutal. No agonies spared.
Glancing up he peered briefly across at the man looking back at him from the dock, then perched his reading glasses on the bridge of his nose as he looked back down and read purposefully from his notes. “D/813317,” he said. “Does this number mean anything to you, Monsieur Tomlinson?”
Tomlinson shifted his weight to one side to ease the stabbing pain he still felt from his fractured ribs, but did so in such a manner that no one would readily notice. If what he had to say was to cut through the court’s stark, hostile atmosphere, he realized, he would need to be as strong in his character as he was clear in his testimony. Unflinching, he looked straight ahead at Judge Stephan when he made his reply.
“It was the code I was designated when I worked for MI6,” he said.
“By MI6 you mean the British Secret Intelligence Service?”
“Yes.”
“And why did you leave the Secret Intelligence Service, Monsieur Tomlinson?”
“I was dismissed.”
Judge Stephan made a laboured point of noting the fact. Then: “I see you spent some time in Serbia,” he said, referring to his notes. “And also Moscow?”
“I was assigned deep-cover operational duties in those countries, yes. It was in Serbia that I learned of the MI6 plot to assassinate President Milosevic, by road traffic accident.”
“It’s also where you witnessed a particularly unpleasant incident. Is that correct?”
“I witnessed a civilian lose their life, if that’s what you’re referring to. They were blown up in front of me.”
“So I understand.” Judge Stephan looked up from his notes and peered enquiringly at Tomlinson, as though to assess his response. “The experience affected you deeply, would you say?”
“Of course…”
“And the subsequent loss of your girlfriend to cancer … these experiences, they affected you deeply. Yes?—”
“Well, I…”
“—You suffered severe psychological trauma as a result—”
“Look, what are you trying to…?”
“—So much so your superiors deemed you no longer fit to be an MI6 officer.”
“That’s not true! I was dismissed because I spoke out about accountability and protocol, about how too many MI6 officers do as they damn well please!”
Tomlinson’s mouth immediately tightened over his clenched teeth. Damn! First blood to Stephan, he knew. Inwardly he chastised himself. He should have seen it coming, should have seen where Stephan was heading, that the magistrate was contriving to discredit him to make what he had to say less believable. He breathed, took a moment to regain his composure.
Then: “Monsieur Stephan,” he said. “I came here because I have valuable information that may well help prevent a miscarriage of justice. I came here to inform you that the crash in which the Princess of Wales died was no ordinary accident. It bore all the hallmarks of an MI6 operation.”
“That doesn’t mean MI6 were involved.”
“But it does mean they might have been.”
“Might have been is not sufficient grounds for prosecution, Monsieur Tomlinson. If we truly wish to prevent a miscarriage of justice we must adhere to the facts.” Judge Stephan left a lengthy pause, as though to allow his comments to percolate, then turned briefly to confer with the magistrate at his side. Marie-Christine Devidal was a fraught-looking woman in her early forties, tight and officious, her hair so heavily lacquered it scarcely moved as she turned her head to confer with her fellow magistrate. Stephan mouthed his concerns; the two of them nodded their agreement. When finally Stephan turned back to face Tomlinson he initiated a new line of questioning. “Do you resent being sacked by MI6?” he said with a breath of cynicism in his voice. “Is that really why you’re here today, to get back at your former employers?”
Tomlinson was visibly incensed. “That’s preposterous!” he retorted.
“Is it?” Stephan removed his reading glasses, as though to emphasize his point. “You tell me MI6 formulated a plot to assassinate a foreign leader in a car crash. You expect me to take this as evidence that MI6 assassinated Princess Diana. Do you have anything of any real substance to say?”
“What I’ve told you already, as stated in my affidavit, is easily sufficient for you to initiate proceedings against the British Secret Intelligence Service. But for the avoidance of doubt, let me reiterate. There were at least two undeclared MI6 officers based at the British Embassy on the night of the crash. I have both their names. One of them was a very senior officer.”
“That doesn’t mean he was here as part of an MI6 plot.”
“Well he wasn’t here for the summer sales,” Tomlinson fired back. “He was an illegal, Monsieur Stephan. We do not post illegals to friendly countries without very good reason. Why else would he have been here?”
“It is not for us to speculate—”
“Are you aware that MI6 officers are immune from prosecution for crimes committed on foreign soil?”
“Monsieur Tomlinson—”
“Would you care to know why illegals were posted to Paris at the time in question? Would you care to know their names…?”
“Monsieur Tomlinson, please!” Judge Stephan’s clenched fist thumped the top of the bench. “This is not the place to speculate on the business of foreign diplomats. Now if you have finished...”
“I have not.” Again Tomlinson shifted his weight in an attempt to ease the discomfort of his throbbing ribs. “I have information regarding Henri Paul. He was an MI6 agent. He had worked for MI6 for at least five years.”
“And you can substantiate this claim?”
“I have seen his personal file. It was shown to me when I was working undercover in the former Soviet Union.”
“And Henri Paul’s name appears in this file?”
“No. Assets are designated by code-number, not by name.”
“Then how can you be sure this particular code-number you say you saw belonged to Henri Paul?”
“If you’ll let me explain—”
“I repeat—did Henri Paul’s name appear in this file?”
“No, for the reason I gave you. But—”
“Evidence, Monsieur Tomlinson. I need evidence. At this time there is no evidence that Henri Paul was a secret agent.”
“That’s because it’s being withheld by MI6. If you subpoena the file you will find all the evidence you need.”
“But you say Henri Paul’s name does not appear in the file.”
“The code-number will be associated with a name via the asset’s handler. I can tell you the name of Henri Paul’s handler—”
“Is there anything else, Monsieur Tomlinson?” Stephan said, dismissively, waving away Tomlinson’s offer of a name.
Tomlinson bristled. “Yes. I can also tell you that one of the paparazzi who followed Princess Diana was a member of UKN.”
“UKN?”
“It’s a small corps of part-time MI6 agents who provide surveillance and photographic expertise. I can confirm that one of these agents is a French paparazzo who was here in Paris on the night in question. Examination of UKN records would reveal his identity.”
“And then what, Monsieur Tomlinson?”
“And then you can question him.”
“On what grounds? Providing information to a foreign intelligence service isn’t necessarily a crime.”
“It is when the intelligence service in question is responsible for murder.”
“Monsieur Tomlinson!
”
“If you would just order MI6 to produce the records for the court you could at least question the man and eliminate him from your enquiries.”
Visibly infuriated now, Stephan’s eyes turned to fire. “We’ll decide who is to be eliminated, Monsieur Tomlinson,” he said, and the fire in his eyes all but ignited.
There was another fire burning in a carved out acre of secluded woodland just north of Montpellier in southern France, this one more deadly. It was 9:45 pm.
Almost twelve hours earlier James Andanson had set out from his home in Lignières for a meeting in Paris with the Deputy Editor of Paris Match magazine, Christophe Lafaille. Andanson was a close friend of Lafaille, and an even closer friend of Lafaille’s boss, Tony Comiti, who once made a documentary about Andanson working the patch in St Torpez during the ‘paparazzi season’. But it wasn’t a film Andanson wanted Comiti to make on this occasion. On this occasion a very different deal was in the offing. Paris Match was arguably France’s most successful magazine, and James Andanson had targeted its million-selling circulation as the ideal vehicle in which to serialize his forthcoming book based on the contents of his diary: Rapport sur le Voyage de Lady Di—Report on the Voyage of Lady Di. Which is why he’d set out for Paris that morning, for his meeting with Christophe Lafaille, scheduled for 1.45 pm. And for a further meeting at the SIPA press agency offices with Sophie Deniau, scheduled for 4 pm.
But he never made it to either of those planned meetings. He never got to within 100 miles of Paris that day. He’d only travelled as far as the A71 intersection at Bourges, in fact, when the phone call came—the phone call that persuaded him to head south on the A71 towards Clermont-Ferrand and Montpellier instead of north towards Orleans and Paris. It was the phone call that not only changed his life, but effectively ended it.
“Head south, James,” the caller had instructed. “Meet me at the Hotel Campanile in Millau, in the car park. Meet me there at four o’clock.”