by Ray Christie
SEVEN
London, England
The black and gold décor of the Beaufort Bar inside the Savoy serves to complement Émilie in a Roland Mouret cocktail dress, her rich black hair tied up in a top knot and Gianvito Rossi heels caught the eye of all the men as she breezed through the room. A couple of hours earlier she received and unravelled the coded message on her phone, with nervous energy she quickly made her way across London. The suddenness of this also built up a degree of excitement deep inside her, a feeling that this would be a lucrative meeting. She had her car drop her off at Covent Garden then caught a taxi the short distance to the hotel. From a young age, Émilie LaVoisin became a professional pianist, growing up in Passy within the 16th arrondissement of Paris, her talents were quickly recognised by the established elite. She later went on to perform live in places such as Zagreb and Maastricht. Despite her affluent upbringing and lifestyle, she found a more exciting way to make money, which also introduced two missing elements in her life, danger, and love.
Nestled in a large armchair at the back of the room sat the imposing figure, a man whom Émilie had worked with a few times before. A man she did not trust yet felt easy in his presence. His plate of eaten Irish rock oysters sat to one side of the table, a dish of fresh crayfish and red mullet was now placed down by the impeccable waiter. “Can you return with a glass of Knappogue Castle young man? and please bring a menu for my good friend.” The waiter helped Émilie into her seat, laid a napkin across her thighs then gently excused himself.
“Thanks for coming at such a short notice Miss LaVoisin, and please forgive my urgency on this.” He was calm and quite likeable when he was surrounded by fine food and good company she thought.
She hated Trevor using her real name, especially when she never volunteered such information “That’s fine, I understand you wouldn’t have requested my time if it wasn’t important to you, how have you been? it has been a few months Trevor.”
Trevor looked at Émilie for a moment, taking in her glamourous appearance and how she presented herself, her make-up and elegant demeanour before nodding and offering a brief smile. “You know why you are here?”
Émilie, settled herself in her chair and did not respond, she did not need to, she had figured Trevor needed her help and was not going to allow him to waste more of her time.
Trevor decided to cut out his usual and somewhat annoying way of talking in riddles or dancing around what he requires. Usually allowing enough information for the other party to have an idea of what he wants and then for it to be expertly regurgitated back. This little system allows Trevor to calculate the intelligence of his opponent. Émilie grew tired of dealing with this style, grew tired of listening to the awful poems that he wrote or his attempts to impress upon her his recital of Shakespeare, just a ‘pompous arse’ she would think to herself. In her line of work, she is well used to it, smiling when required and laughing at sick jokes all allows the currency to flow to her selected accounts.
Trevor composed himself, moved his crayfish around the plate and then sat back and let his eyes wander around the room before returning to Émilie.
Her gaze, he thought, could bring a man to his knees. Trevor often wondered how she was recruited for this line of work, highly intelligent, trusted, a true professional but cut from a completely different cloth to the men he regularly deals with. He considers the fact that she may be as intelligent and calculated as him, and at times he feels briefly exposed.
The waiter returns with the menu and his 1951-year-old whiskey. Trevor takes a sip and allows it to settle in his mouth then swallowing it slowly as the waiter retreats. “I have a contract open and I wanted to offer it to you first.”
Émilie thought it would either be a request for unofficial French intelligence or perhaps a heads up on an upcoming attack given the nature of their previous meetings. Occasionally there would be a darker element to their business arrangements, this was one of those times. A lucrative opportunity awaits, gold and diamonds later, cryptocurrency and bundles of mixed cash for now. The first thing she would do is finish the renovations in her Parisian apartment and seek a villa in Croatia, a quiet retreat. Her eyes were floating over the Champagne section of the menu, judging on how this evening is heading she decides to take something a bit stronger. She beckons the waiter and promptly orders a double Ramsbury Vodka on the rocks. When his back is turned, she looks towards Trevor, catches his stare and nods, “ok, that means your usual assets don’t want the job.”
“Not at all,” Trevor laughs off her comment with a wave of the hand, “I have a number of men that would love what I am offering, that’s not the issue.” Without going further Trevor leans back in his armchair calmly rubbing the rim of the whiskey glass with his fingers.
“Then, if you don’t mind, explain the issue, spell it out to me Trevor, give me the ABC,” Émilie wants to probe him for everything he is worth, she wants to wring him for knowledge like a wet towel, knowing it’s almost impossible to do this on a man like Trevor, this won’t be easy.
“The issue is something you can deal with easier than I can, I have many things on my desk and if I can pass this one contract to a trusted friend then I have jobs for the others,” Trevor pauses for another sip of whiskey, allowing Émilie to digest what he said.
“If you are so busy why don’t you hire more men?” she enquires.
“I have tried, no one is biting, and one of my best crew became greedy, they tried to double-cross us all and have absconded, left the country with vital intelligence for sale, a bunch of murderous traitors.” Trevor doubts the capabilities of French Intelligence, after all, he is privy to their information. He is certain they would not know the unit was compromised and they themselves are technically innocent.
He studies Émilie’s face, looking for hesitation to his questions, watching for eye focus, swallowing, observing psychological discomfort and various little techniques he has used over the years. Ever careful as not to appear distrustful. Lining up one of the best special operations unit in Britain as a bunch of criminals on the run is a path Trevor did not want to venture towards. Noting how the stolen Russian cash and gold retrieved and stored by this small group of men is upwards of nine hundred million he is willing to sell out everyone he has ever known.
Émilie maintains a cool expression, waiting for more information before probing again.
The atmosphere is tense, like a warm blanket to Trevor, a situation he harnesses and thrives on. “If you don’t have the guts to take on a big job, we leave it here, you walk out that door and this is the last time you will ever be considered by the British establishment as an important ally.” Turning the screws on Émilie, knowing if she refuses this job she can walk, sure she can walk, only as far as the road. Trevor knows that the crew waiting outside will pick her up, her slender body will be wrapped up, choked out, injected with a high amount of heroin, or strangled with a piece of wire in the back of the van. Something left to those in the Albanian underworld to take care off, their fees are high, always available, their tactics work, and secrecy is part of their family honour. The worthless body of a glamourous short-lived French DGSE officer will be dumped in deep waters far off the coast in the North East of Scotland. The Direction Générale De La Sécurité Extérieure (DGSE) will be provided with the standard line from MI6, claiming no information on her whereabouts and will provide any assistance required.
Turning the screws didn’t work, Émilie simply smiled, leaning forward and with a pretend frown she mocked Trevor and his tough business mannerism. “Oh, my Trevor, you didn’t sleep well last night did you, poor boy, you must have found yourself in quite a conundrum to try and force us to help you, what just have you walked into.” With a cheeky smile, she took a long sip of her fresh creamy vodka and turned her head in the direction of the Thames Foyer. Just located next to the Beaufort Bar the sound of the solo cellist flows seamlessly towards their table. The evening’s entertainment consists of a classical arrangement by
Dmitri Shostakovich, a piece Émilie knows well, soothing her and breathing confidence into her toned body.
Trying a different approach Trevor joins Émilie’s gaze towards the music, “You are right, I must apologise, you caught me red-handed, in my haste to get results and maintain operational security I drifted over some important details.” With a deep sigh, Trevor shifts himself in the seat to a more relaxed position, trying to show an open side, an exhausted mind with limited options he expertly acts the part of a trouble intelligence officer. If there is an Oscar to be won, he will claim it. Trevor’s voice lowers somewhat matching the pitch of the cello “For years my dear I always worked in the dark, worked with people with whom I despised yet routinely funded and supported all of them in support of British interests.” Holding his empty glass up to the waiter Trevor speaks softly. “I have personally handed over bags of money to warlords in tribal regions in various shitholes around the world, hoping one day the guns wouldn’t be turned back on me.” Holding his gaze Émilie feels the notes of the deep C String fill her body with strength. Trevor believing, he has captured his audience leans in further to add weight to his story, “I fear a major attack is in the planning stages and is being financed by one of our own.”
Emilie’s frame has tightened, her attention is directly focused on Trevor’s words, finally, she thinks, ‘we are getting somewhere, this is juicy.’ “Go on” she encourages with a gentle narrowing of her eyes.
“Not just a lone wolf but a whole goddammed team has gone off the grid, we feel this has been well planned and the execution of the attack is in the early stages, but the closer to zero-day the more vigilant they will become.”
“Where and when?” she asks.
“When!... in a few days, where!…. Paris,” Trevor says softly, hoping she takes the bait. It is all playing perfectly as planned for the strategist. Offering the story of his rogue men to Émilie as criminals then being ‘honest’ when his deception was easily scraped off. Her home city was going to be attacked, she was going to help, she was going to lead the team to wipe out the whole team on French soil. No longer a British problem, the headlines in the Le Parisien will read ‘British citizens killed aiding the Islamic State.’
Trevor receives his whiskey and enjoys the sound of Shostakovich flowing through the Bar, the Celloist expertly produces the sonorous, mellow, and eloquent sounds which add the dark passion to the discourse around the table.
“Are you serious?”
“This is not something I would joke with Emilie,” Trevor leans further forward. “These are a pack of cunning foxes, ones who know every play in the book, we fear they have reached out to a terror organisation, IS in Europe, they are hoping to advance their Brexit solution once and for all.”
Emilie gathers her thoughts, “Why is this on my desk? I mean if this was a rogue individual, well, yes we can be of assistance and neutralise the threat as usual, in France or our select countries of operation.” Trevor abruptly holds up his hand to avoid unnecessary doubts, he needs to act quick. “This is a highly sensitive nature, one that requires the utmost secrecy, yes we can use our own, but we want to avoid that altogether.” “Why,” Emilie growing cautious interjects.
“We cannot simply be found to take out our own citizens, can you imagine the outcry from that, we have enough problems with Brexit, by killing our own people on French soil it would be scandalous.” Trever offers a wider political view hoping to satisfy Emilie’s every curious mind.
Taking a larger swig of vodka and glancing around she retorts, “If the French do your dirty work, and this leaked then your government can use this scandal as a Brexit strategy, is that what this is about, those ‘horrible French people’ reads the headline, cut all ties with Europe! dam you.” Émilie feels a wave of deep anger inside, used by the rich and powerful to clean up their dirty work, once again, she leans back in her chair, head tilted towards the ceiling softly shaking her head.
“Émilie, listen to me carefully and think critically, this is why you are sitting in front of me, why the hell would you be here if the DGSE could handle this, no one in your Ministry of Defence has knowledge of this other than René Descartes. Think about this, I spoke with Director Descartes only this morning, the DGSE can’t get involved, he advised that I should execute sensitive tactics on my own, as long as no French citizens are hurt he promised to report any attacks as a joint war on terror program.”
“So, let us speak bluntly Trevor, you mean to tell me the DGSE won’t take out suspected IS members to prevent an attack on their home soil, all because they are simply British!”
Feeling Émilie is not taking the bait he offers her a darker reason. “We don’t share much intelligence with your ministry Émilie, quite frankly we don’t trust certain elements working within it. Descartes knows this, the argument is too weak for him to present to the Ministry to lawfully execute ‘British Special Forces’, he does, in fact, know more than he should.”
“How so?” Émilie interrupts.
“Within his own Ministry there are a group of people intent on allowing an attack to happen, they feel this would renew their budget, it could provide higher positions for them, but more importantly, more significantly I should say, they themselves are sick of the European Union and hope for a united France stepping out of Europe and rising up once again as a powerful nation.”
Émilie considers if this could be possible, her eyes glaze over Trevor’s face, his clothes and then down onto his assortment of phones on the table before adding her argument. “Why are these people not arrested, if they are aiding terror groups, why not take them out, bang bang, goodnight Irene as you British would say, simple!”
The glass of whiskey once more reaches Trevor’s lips, an early celebration, knowing in his blood Émilie is about to be snared. As a child growing up in the school holidays Trevor took pleasure in checking his snares in the early morning dew. Designed to snare the trapped fox or rabbit, keeping it alive long enough until he arrives to kill without mercy. Running through the wet woodlands and over the back fields, his heart would pump harder the closer he got knowing another terrified wild animal will be waiting for him to deliver the fatal blow. Émilie would be returned to the wild today once more.
“These people are my dear untouchable, there isn’t a court in the land that could find them guilty, without credible witnesses, verifiable information, proof of such actions will mean your prosecutors have no lead in their short pencil.” Biting back a strong retort Émilie pursued Trevor further wanting to dig deeper “I don’t get it Trevor; how can such people allow such acts to occur for political reasons?”
Trevor looks across the room and beckons the waiter once more before replying. “I think you asked an important question and within your question, you will find your own answer Émilie.” Looking confused and irritated Trevor tried to bring this young, intelligent bright officer down to earth. “Political and nationalist reasons my dear, look this is less complicated than it needs to be, if your people in your own Ministry or any arm of government simply turn a blind eye to threats, dismiss reports of suspects, delete data, send their surveillance teams on timewasting operations following random individuals then nothing will eventuate. It will be reported to the director that France has no foreseeable threats.” Trevor adds a few words to seal the deal so he can move on and get much-needed work in motion and sharply, in this world Trevor knows a few hours can change the whole ballgame. “Émilie, these people in your own Ministry are no better than those about to attack it, they have their own personal agendas and have little regards for others, how is it your countrymen and woman might say this? Chacun voit midi à sa porte.”
Émilie catches Trevor’s eye and slightly nods, remembering how many leads she has provided to the agency in the past only to find the same excuse as to why no action has been ordered. Either a lack of resources, funding, a sudden change of objectives or at times she was warned that the operations have been handed to international partners and she w
as to dissolve herself from further inquiries. All the time frustrating Émilie that much of her work never gets finalised. She sits there recalling how only a week ago she watched al-Qaeda's Deputy Emir board an international flight from Orly airport departing to d'Alger Houari Boumédiène.
Slowly filling her lungs with much-needed air, allowing the cello to return her breathing to a more relaxed state she closes her eyes in a moment of peaceful reflection. Trevor takes this opportunity to observe the beauty of this deeply attractive lissom woman, her long slender forearms show a hint of muscle which Trevor did not notice before, her hands look to be freshly manicured hiding any signs of physical activity. No bruises or signs of muscle fatigue, little to no body fat, he can see the muscle fibres through her tight skin despite the low lighting. He ponders to himself that she may well play a physical role in this dangerous task.
As if a light is flicked on and a new person has entered Émilie she opens her eyes with a look of a strong leader, she begins with a strong confident remark “Who knows about this? who else is involved completely from start to finish? and don’t bullshit me Trevor, and who is holding the intelligence on these men?”
‘Game on’ thinks Trevor, “Ok, we have five men in or about to be in Paris, that I’m sure off as I offered the team leader my car with installed tracking devices, hidden camera and microphone, he should be in one of his safe houses by the morning after his usual recce of the place. There he will likely call in his team.”
“Right, that’s five men, but what about those here in England, they would have a large support team who would most likely be doing their own search, I don’t want to be involved in something with others next to me.”
Trevor replies confidently, “Great thinking, but don’t worry about this side of the water, I will, of course, have other assets to deal with that, I will shut down the intelligence floating across the water and stop any interested parties, be sure of that Émilie, action has begun so don’t be swayed or hesitant if there are headlines in the next few hours and days.”