by Chris Ryan
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Leon nodded. 'And it wouldn't be possible to spike the Ondine deal by leaking it to the press?'
Manderson shook his head. 'Not without risking the lives of some of our most important agents-in-place, no. There must be no sign that we know about it.'
'Then what will those involved in the Ondine deal think that the motive was for killing FanonKhayat?' asked Leon.
'A couple of the least damaging of the Cambodia pictures will be found hidden in FanonKhayat's apartment. That'll send the right message to the right people.'
Leon nodded. His mind, Slater could see, was worrying away at every aspect of the case like a terrier. Terry, by contrast, presented a picture of almost Buddhist calm, and sat unmoving and without expression.
Slater found the atmosphere unsettling. He had been more shaken than he cared to admit to himself by the question of whether or not the hit was justified. He'd have preferred a direct order -- waste the fucker and then get the hell out. The soldier was carrying enough of a load without having to consider the moral justification of his actions at every turn. But then, of course, he wasn't a soldier any more. He was a civil servant.
'Will this operation save lives?' he found himself blurting out.
That had always been the question he'd asked himself in Northern Ireland. Would his trigger210
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jueeze save some unsuspecting squaddie from a bullet etween the shoulders, some housewife or child from smemberment by a nail-bomb? The answer - apart from that terrible night near Forkhill -- had been yes, fcvery time. And even the killing of poor, simple Joey )elaney had flushed out McGirk, sent the bastard ming from the hills of Armagh and back across the Atlantic.
'Yes it will,' said Manderson without hesitation, ecting the full force of his gaze at Slater. 'This is not : a matter of political advantage; the target has to be linated to avert widescale bloodshed. Without his iduits and underground networks there is no way it a system as sophisticated as Ondine would get trywhere near Serbia. This would mean that as far as |r defences are concerned, Milosevic would be stuck ith his Russian-made SA7s, which frankly don't ry us too much. The Ondine system is something though, and would really frighten us. If Fanonayat pushes this deal through the Serbs will know at they can re-annex Kosovo with impunity, and flen, I promise you, there will be a bloodbath. A loodbath we will be powerless to prevent. Does that swer your question?' Slater nodded.
'Anyone got anything else before I hand over to Ive?'
Silence. A slow shaking of heads. So, thought Slater. She's his deputy. Eve straightened a sheaf of papers in front of her.
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'Right. First things first. The name of the operation is "Firewall" and it is a sealed operation -- no one outside this department is involved in any capacity. Nor can we reveal our hand to the French. At best we could expect non-cooperation, at worst -- given the touchy feely relationship between certain of their secret service people and Milosevic -- active sabotage. The French, in short, are to be treated as hostiles. We will be on enemy territory.
'For the purposes of Firewall the team will divide into two groups. The forward team will consist of myself, Neil and Andreas; the back-up team will be Terry, Chris and Leon. Fanon-Khayat's apartment, which he's owned since his divorce from Solange, is in the Rue Molitor in the sixteenth arrondissement. This is a smart area, very "bon chic, bongenre" as the Parisians say -- imagine Knightsbridge on the edge of Hampstead Heath. Big money, big houses, big privacy.
'So we're going to have to look and behave right. Debbie's done some research on this and is acting as our wardrobe expert -- in fact she's buying the stuff as we speak. We're leaving this afternoon and we're booked into two hotels: the forward team are staying a kilometre to the north of Fanon-Khayat's apartment, at the Hotel Montmorency at Ranelagh; the backup team on the Rue Molitor itself at the Hotel Grand Exelmans.
'The Grand Exelmans overlooks FanonKhayat's apartment,' Eve continued. 'And tomorrow morning Terry, Chris and Leon will set up an OP there. From
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11.30 Andreas and myself will occupy a table Cafe Molitor, which is opposite the Grand Exej and next door to the block containing Fanon-KK , apartment. The apartment occupies the whole ^c . fourth floor. At midday Fanon-Khayat is expectj^ MI6 representative to arrive there to discu$s , Karadjic business and negotiate the handover q*- , pictures.'
To Slater, knowing what she was going to say t the moment seemed to go into slow motion. The f ' of his new colleagues, polite and solicitous, bli^
j They were throwing him in at the deep end.
'That MI6 representative,' Eve continued, 'viji .
I reality be Neil. Neil will enter the apartment, djs ,
I the two bodyguards, and take out FanonKhayat.1
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'Right. First things first. The name of the operation is "Firewall" and it is a sealed operation - no one outside this department is involved in any capacity. Nor can we reveal our hand to the French. At best we could expect non-cooperation, at worst -- given the touchy feely relationship between certain of their secret service people and Milosevic - active sabotage. The French, in short, are to be treated as hostiles. We will be on enemy territory.
'For the purposes of Firewall the team will divide into two groups. The forward team will consist of myself, Neil and Andreas; the back-up team will be Terry, Chris and Leon. Fanon-Khayat's apartment, which he's owned since his divorce from Solange, is in the Rue Molitor in the sixteenth arrondissement. This is a smart area, very "bon chic, bongenre" as the Parisians say - imagine Kmghtsbndge on the edge of Hampstead Heath. Big money, big houses, big privacy.
'So we're going to have to look and behave right. Debbie's done some research on this and is acting as our wardrobe expert -- in fact she's buying the stuff as we speak. We're leaving this afternoon and we're booked into two hotels: the forward team are staying a kilometre to the north of Fanon-Khayat's apartment, at the Hotel Montmorency at Ranelagh; the backup team on the Rue Molitor itself at the Hotel Grand Exelmans.
'The Grand Exelmans overlooks FanonKhayat's apartment,' Eve continued. 'And tomorrow morning Terry, Chris and Leon will set up an OP there. From
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111.30 Andreas and myself will occupy a table at the Cafe Molitor, which is opposite the Grand Exelmans |#id next door to the block containing FanonKhayat's lapartment. The apartment occupies the whole of the llburth floor. At midday Fanon-Khayat is expecting an |MI6 representative to arrive there to discuss the jradjic business and negotiate the handover of the pictures.'
To Slater, knowing what she was going to say next, ie moment seemed to go into slow motion. The faces if his new colleagues, polite and solicitous, blurred, icy were throwing him in at the deep end. 'That MI6 representative,' Eve continued, 'will in lity be Neil. Neil will enter the apartment, disable ie two bodyguards, and take out FanonKhayat.'
213
NINE
Slater woke shortly before 7am, showered, dressed and left the Hotel Montmorency. The deserted streets shone with the night's rain, and the morning smell of the city -- wet grass, fresh bread, petrol -- rose from the pavement to meet him.
He walked for ten minutes through the streets before he found a cafe that was open, and installed himself at an outside table. Beside him, a woman was setting up a stall selling chrysanthemums, tulips and roses, and the scent of flowers drifted towards him on the damp air. Slater's French had never been up to much but he could manage 'cafe creme', and when the steaming tray was laid before him it occurred to him that he could not remember a more perfect beginning to a day.
A pity, really, that he had to spoil it.
The day before had been knackering. After the briefing, in the course of which he and the team had covered every possible eventuality and factored in every possible fuck-up, they had been dispatched to the Nine Elm
s safe house for outfitting. Slater had walked home with a battered Louis Vuitton suitcase
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Mitaining several changes of clothes, all of them rictly conforming to the dictates of Paris weekend ion. There was no question of his pretending to be ench - merely of blending in, of looking icmorably prosperous. In truth, he thought, as he jjwsed his heavy coffee-cup and looked at his reflection the cafe window, he had rarely felt more fortable.
i He and Andreas had travelled together on the arostar. Sitting in the first-class compartment with adreas's laptop computer on the table between them, had looked like a couple of well-off businessmen ^veiling to a weekend seminar. The train was jwded, and they had discussed neither the hit nor department's business as a whole. Instead they linisced about old times and Slater asked Andreas if �had a girlfriend.
^ Andreas looked uncomfortable, and then self Slnsciously admitted that he had been 'seeing' -- as he
: it - Debbie. pSlater absorbed this information. 'Do you know her
ie?'
I'f'Debbie's her real name. I don't know the other, id I've never asked.'
;< 'No envelopes around? No name on her flat?' fk'Nope.'
. 'What about Eve? What do you know about her?' |/Nothmg. Why, are you harbouring ambitions in It direction, by any chance?' I'Slater pictured the wry smile, the sea-grey eyes and
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the feminine curves that no amount of nondescript dressing could quite disguise. 'I'm not stupid,' he said.
'And what exactly does that mean?'
'It means that we've got to work together. Plus she's not my type. Plus she certainly doesn't fancy me. She's probably got some guy who works in the city and thinks she's got a job in PR. They probably go on holiday together in ... where's that place all the Sloanes go?'
'Tuscany,' said Andreas morosely.
'That's right. Fucking Tuscany. And they probably go to that restaurant, what's it called?'
'River Cafe.'
'Right. River Fucking Cafe. And they probably go to the opera together, and shooting in Scotland with people called Piers and Annabel.'
'Well, look at us,' said Andreas. 'We're not doing so badly. We're going shooting in Paris with people called Terry and Chris.'
Slater ordered a second cup of the cafe's high-voltage coffee. The morning sunshine was lifting the moisture from the streets and pavements, patching them with paler grey. A faint haze still hung over the Bois de Boulogne.
He had been chosen as the trigger-man, Andreas had told him, because of his known expertise in CQB -- close-quarter battle. Fanon-Khayat would almost certainly have his bodyguards around, and one way and another they would have to be dealt with.
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Slater doubted the truth of this flattering analysis. I'They were sending him in because it was bloody Idangerous, and as the newest member of the team he Was the most expendable. He hoped he'd get the |i^eapon he had asked for - a silenced Sig Sauer P239G. Leon had been given the job of arming the team. In twenties, according to Andreas, the Mauritian had ent five years as a Foreign Legion paratrooper and a icr three in a French jail for acting as a driver in an tied robbery. Since that time he had made a point of etaining his contacts in the Paris underworld. All well, he would be providing the team with a principal and a back-up weapon when they RVed at lie Hotel Grand Exelmans at 9.30. Under other circumstances the Cadre would have [niggled their own weapons into France with them, had told them that she had considered driving in. Given that Firewall was a sealed operation, uwever, and an operation to which elements of the ich security forces might well be hostile, the very it risk of detection had been thought too great. : advantage of a local weapon was that it might well ase things, especially if it had been used before for linal purposes. On the grounds that they were ch cheaper than 'clean' firearms, Leon would be ively soliciting such weapons.
. Regretfully savouring the last of his morning's Ititude, Slater climbed to his feet and placed sixty tics in the saucer holding the bill. The pavements : no longer empty - the sixteenth arrondissement's
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the feminine curves that no amount of nondescript dressing could quite disguise. 'I'm not stupid,' he said.
'And what exactly does that mean?'
'It means that we've got to work together. Plus she's not my type. Plus she certainly doesn't fancy me. She's probably got some guy who works in the city and thinks she's got a job in PR. They probably go on holiday together in ... where's that place all the Sloanes go?'
'Tuscany,' said Andreas morosely.
'That's right. Fucking Tuscany. And they probably go to that restaurant, what's it called?'
'River Cafe.'
'Right. River Fucking Cafe. And they probably go to the opera 'together, and shooting in Scodand with people called Piers and Annabel.'
'Well, look at us,' said Andreas. 'We're not doing so badly. We're going shooting in Paris with people called Terry and Chris.'
Slater ordered a second cup of the cafe's high-voltage coffee. The morning sunshine was lifting the moisture from the streets and pavements, patching them with paler grey. A faint haze still hung over the Bois de Boulogne.
He had been chosen as the trigger-man, Andreas had told him, because of his known expertise in CQB - close-quarter battle. Fanon-Khayat would almost certainly have his bodyguards around, and one way and another they would have to be dealt with.
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ei doubted the truth of this flattering analysis, were sending him in because it was bloody 3us, and as the newest member of the team he ; the most expendable. He hoped he'd get the an he had asked for - a silenced Sig Sauer P239G. mi had been given the job of arming the team. In ities, according to Andreas, the Mauritian had i five years as a Foreign Legion paratrooper and a ; three in a French jail for acting as a driver in an [ robbery. Since that time he had made a point of his contacts in the Paris underworld. All well, he would be providing the team with a and a back-up weapon when they RVed at jtel Grand Exelmans at 9.30. er other circumstances the Cadre would have Jed their own weapons into France with them, told them that she had considered driving iin. Given that Firewall was a sealed operation, er, and an operation to which elements of the security forces might well be hostile, the very risk of detection had been thought too great, itage of a local weapon was that it might well : things, especially if it had been used before for purposes. On the grounds that they were cheaper than 'clean' firearms, Leon would be
soliciting such weapons, ^gretfully savouring the last of his morning's Slater climbed to his feet and placed sixty in the saucer holding the bill. The pavements ino longer empty -- the sixteenth arrondissement's
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dog-walkers seemed to have mobilised en masse, and large Citroens and Peugeots were hissing past on the Boulevard Montmorency.
Slater found the other two in the dining room. Eve had hired a Peugeot 406 the day before in case a quick getaway was needed, and she and Andreas had just returned from a practice drive around the Bois de Boulogne.
'Are you hungry?' she asked Slater hesitantly.
'Starving,' he answered truthfully. He always ate well before an operation. The nerves would kick in soon, but for the time being he was content to fill his stomach.
After breakfast, they packed their bags, took the lift down to the underground car-park, and locked them in the boot of the car. They were booked into the Montmorency for the coming night, but were taking no chances - if something went wrong they might be unable to return.
In order to get the feel of the Peugeot, Slater took the car out of the park, tooled around the local streets for ten minutes, and then ran the other two south to the Rue Molitor. The car was a dream and the journey short -- Slater had memorised the route from a Paris Eclair guide-book the night before.
They parked in front of the hotel. Chris was in t
he lobby. Shaking hands with each of them as if this were a meeting of old friends, she led them to the lift. On the third floor she gave a light double knock at a door half-way along the corridor. 'Terry's room gives the
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sight-line on the apartment,' she explained. |Ve had all three made up already. We aren't g interrupted by any chambermaids.' an and Terry were in their shirtsleeves, corned the rest of the team with quick smiles, was a good size, with tall net-curta lows, but felt crowded with all six of thei
t�
f$>id you get a car?' Eve asked Terry all liately.
nodded. 'Silver Mercedes Cabriolet. I've g ; side of the hotel.'
yd. We're the Peugeot you can see down th< it. Are you ready to go through the rest of
the queen-size bed lay a combination-1 se and six covert-fit Motorola transmitters vets.
e've tested it,' said Terry. 'It all seems to b< ; order. And we've gpt the briefcase-Ned as! jpFhe combination is 1471 and it's a button-p lie system -- none of that old wheel-spinni want to give it a go?'
handed the aluminium briefcase to Slater, w in the code. The case sprung open -- em] ; for its foam lining.
reached beneath the bed and pulled oui duffel-bag. From this he withdrew seve jr-looking bubble-wrapped objects which 1 on the bed. 'One Sig Sauer P239G plus silenc
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one Clock 17, two boxes nine-millimetre ammunition,' he announced. 'Both weapons almost certainly known to the police.'
Slater unwrapped the handguns and checked their actions. Both appeared to be in good working order. He attached the silencer to the Sig Sauer, then loaded the magazine and snapped it home.
'That's great,' he told Leon. 'Thanks.'
'No problem, man.'
The feel and smell of the weapons started Slater's heart pounding and he stood there motionless for a moment. He was aware, at the edges of his vision, of Eve and Chris watching him. The nerves would stay with him now - right up to the moment when he pressed the bell of Fanon-Khayat's apartment.