The Croix de Rosey wasn’t a bar that Paris guidebooks recommended to tourists. It was in Le Marais district on the right bank, but it was off the main boulevards, set back in a small street that ran north–south from the Seine—no outdoor tables, no cute umbrellas advertising Campari. As he walked down the cobbled street towards a glowing Kronenbourg sign, de Payns was reminded of what inner Paris must have looked like before various kings and emperors cleared the slums. There were smells and sounds in these streets that had taken centuries to create.
He pushed through the heavy mahogany door at 9.01 p.m. and took in the scene—a bar that might have been built in the 1700s and perhaps updated two or three times, the last of which was probably 1972. Low beams, a combo of accordion player and guitarist in the corner and a series of round tables spread around in the dimness. Framed photographs on the walls—black-and-whites of Catherine Deneuve, Charles de Gaulle, Jean-Luc Godard and Alain Prost. An eclectic mix of French heroes for a bar that didn’t have a brand or an image.
‘Ah, Alec,’ said Tomas, the thick-set Austro-Frenchman who ran the Croix. He was in his seventies and wore the full apron that had been the barman’s uniform in Paris until beards and neck tattoos took over. He’d fought for France in Zaire and kept a length of steel pipe under his bar for the drunks, and a cut-down shotgun alongside it for evictees who returned with reinforcements. His big face supported a big nose, but his patrons kept that to themselves.
‘One,’ said de Payns, pointing at the Kronenbourg lever. ‘And a shot of Goose, thanks, Tomas.’
Tomas put a glass on the bar and poured Grey Goose vodka into it, before turning to the beer handles. ‘I’ll have what he’s having,’ said a voice from behind de Payns’ left shoulder.
De Payns turned and found himself face to face with Shrek.
‘You’re too quiet when you walk,’ said de Payns, shaking his friend’s hand and slapping an arm around his back. ‘I swear to God, you’ll give me a heart attack doing that.’
‘Is that three?’ asked Tomas, nodding past Shrek. They turned and saw Templar, taking off his windbreaker and sitting at their usual table—close to the main door but with a view down the hallway to the WCs.
‘That’s three beers, two vodkas and one Jack Daniel’s,’ said de Payns.
Tomas chuckled, showing a couple of broken teeth. ‘You boys are serious tonight?’
‘You’re lucky Rocket and Renan aren’t here,’ Shrek chuckled.
They sat at the table and threw in their coins that bore the Templar knight seal. As long as the coins sat on the table the clan were bound never to discuss what was said between them with another soul. De Payns raised his glass and said, ‘Patriam servando, victoriam tulit.’ The other two repeated the motto and they all drank. The phrase was inscribed on the back of the Order of Liberation medal, commissioned by the Free French in London in 1940. The Free French were conceived as a secret society and were infused with influence from that most famous secret society, the Order of the Knights Templar. The head of the Free French Order—Charles de Gaulle—held the title of Grand Master. De Payns was now a sworn officer of the DGSE, another secret society with pledges that could not be disavowed.
They swapped stories, Templar’s coarse, blunt appraisal of people in stark contrast to Shrek’s quiet and intelligent observations. Templar had a full-bore energy while Shrek came out of his shell to make a joke or a comment, but then pulled back. One of his friends was plucked from university and the other from the paratroopers. But each was excellent at their job. Shrek could read anyone and manipulate them into anything, and his mastery of kung fu and sword disciplines made his small stature one of the great traps for macho men. Templar was stronger than ten men and looked it. He was like a cyborg, and was hell to drink with.
‘What happened down there?’ Templar asked, when they were halfway into their second beers. They’d all given their Falcon debriefings and written reports, but the official finding—with all the stories woven into one—would come from Frasier’s office.
De Payns looked around and saw only locals. ‘We were on-mission until Commodore told me he wanted the passports with us when we went drinking.’
‘Why?’ asked Shrek, keeping his voice low.
‘He said Murad was in town and would pay three million euros for the passports,’ said de Payns.
Templar whistled low.
‘Fuck,’ said Shrek, shaking his head. ‘Murad, as in the Sayef Albar commander?’
De Payns nodded and his friends leaned in. ‘I thought it was worth the risk to get a look at him.’
‘Of course it was,’ said Templar, throwing the Jack Daniel’s down his throat without taking his eyes off de Payns. ‘So, which one was he?’
‘Shrek, you remember on the ferry, the last time Commodore took a piss?’
‘You poured your beer into the carpet,’ Shrek recalled.
‘Yes, that was the one,’ said de Payns. ‘I don’t know if you had the right angle to the WCs, but a tall guy—well dressed, maybe Pakistani—was at the WC door when Commodore came out.’
‘I didn’t see him. Was it contact?’ asked Shrek.
‘Couldn’t confirm it,’ said de Payns, not wanting to overreach. One of the first disciplines in the intelligence world was learning to identify things as they actually were rather than how you wanted them to be. He wasn’t going to let a couple of beers ruin that. ‘They may have swapped words but the tall Pakistani looked at me very briefly.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ said Shrek, leaning back and pushing his brown hair off his forehead. ‘So maybe they had us in Cagliari?’
‘Shit,’ said Templar, knowing a lot of that fell on him. ‘No fucking way.’
‘Don’t get carried away,’ said de Payns. ‘By the way, why did we call it off?’
‘Jerome was around the back of the bar, saw two Mercedes pulling up,’ said Templar. ‘It didn’t look friendly.’
‘Two?’ asked de Payns.
‘That’s what he said. They looked professional and armed. It looked like an ambush.’
De Payns nodded. ‘I made it one vehicle.’
Shrek said, ‘I only saw one.’
‘The one Commodore got into?’ Templar asked.
De Payns nodded and drank.
Templar seemed distracted. ‘Tell me about Commodore and this person outside the ferry toilet.’
‘It might have been an opportunity that came up on the ferry,’ said de Payns. ‘They saw it and took it.’
‘Opportunity?’ echoed Templar. ‘You mean the passports?’
De Payns nodded.
‘But if Murad was outside the toilet—’
‘I don’t know if it was Murad,’ de Payns reminded him.
‘Then how did he know that you had passports?’ Templar finished. ‘That was a surprise, non?’
‘When did you reveal you had passports for Commodore?’ asked Shrek.
‘Right before he went to the WC,’ de Payns said slowly.
‘So?’ replied Shrek, looking from de Payns to Templar. ‘Murad knew about the passports before the contact with Commodore. He moved to the toilet door to tell his asset something, give him instructions.’
‘His instruction was, Get those passports and we’ll find you in Palermo,’ said Templar with a nasty smile. ‘But that doesn’t answer the question—how did Murad know about the passports?’
De Payns almost whispered, ‘How would we know?’
The obvious answer—that Sayef Albar had Michael Lambardi wired—hung unspoken between them. The three operatives had already leaped to their next question. If Sayef Albar and Murad were running a wire on their guy against the DGSE, they were confident about who they were targeting. And if it was as bad as they were guessing, the terrorists had planned to shoot de Payns behind Bar Luca along with Lambardi. Planned, professional, targeted and reliably informed. The Sayef Albar organisation had inside knowledge.
The beer mirror behind the bar had the windmill of Brasserie de Saint Sylvestre etched into it, although the mirror was so old and distressed that you’d have to know the brewery to understand what was being advertised. De Payns stared into it as he ordered another round, squinting through the whisky bottles and mirror flaws to get a proper glimpse of himself. What stared back was a patchwork of a man: part husband, part father, all spy. He wanted to be with Romy, Patrick and Oliver, but he also needed to be with people who wouldn’t scold him for his occupation. He needed to unwind with the people who kept him alive. It might be contributing to the slow death of his marriage, but he needed to be with his crew—his clan—like a shark needed to keep moving. And somehow he needed to work out what he and Shrek were going to do about Manerie and the DGS. He wasn’t going to spy on his friend, a person who had saved him from certain death in Sicily. But he was holding back for some reason, and it was eating at him.
He turned with the tray of drinks and the middle-aged woman on the guitar muttered something into her microphone and smiled when a drunk further down the bar yelled his approval. The accordion player squeezed out the opening bars of ‘Idées Noires’, the classic Bernard Lavilliers song about a depressed guy who just wants to run away from his life and wife. When the woman started singing, others in the bar joined her in a drunks’ choir. Templar stretched back in his chair, eyes closed, waving his hands like a conductor as he sang.
As Templar lost himself in a haze of French accordion and American whiskey, de Payns realised Shrek was staring at him with those hypnotist’s eyes.
‘You okay?’ asked Shrek. ‘You look tired.’
‘I’m drunk—is that what you mean?’
‘No, I mean exhausted and worried,’ said Shrek, his gaze shrewd.
‘Fuck,’ said de Payns, leaning back and running his hands down his face. ‘Manerie came to me.’
‘The DGS guy?’
‘Yeah,’ said de Payns. ‘He had a photo of me and Mike Moran, from SIS.’
‘Shit,’ said Shrek. ‘And?’
‘I didn’t register a CRE,’ said de Payns, referring to the compte rendu d’entretien. ‘I don’t know what he wants to do with it, but he’s a sleazy prick.’
‘Yeah, he is,’ said Shrek. ‘I saw Mike a couple of months ago at Twickenham.’
‘You know Mike?’ asked de Payns. He hadn’t been aware of the connection.
‘Sure,’ said Shrek. ‘You know how it is.’
‘Yep,’ said de Payns, reminded of how tricky it was for spies to drink together. ‘I know how it is.’