They were waiting for him at the kitchenette when he went looking for a glass of water—Alain Portmann, a DGS straight-shooter, and his sidekick, Julien Laval.
‘Hi, Alec,’ said Portmann in that awkward tone between authority and collegiality. ‘Can you join us for a chat?’
De Payns smiled. Portmann was what they called ‘very FBI’—dark suit, plain white shirt, unremarkable tie and a taupe trench coat, even in the middle of summer. They’d been in the same intake year for French intelligence, and had done a number of rotations together at Cercottes, including firearms proficiency and locks. Portmann had taken the DGS route and de Payns was where he was.
‘Sure,’ said de Payns.
They adjourned to an interview room which featured a white rectangular laminated table, two fabric-covered office chairs on either side and a mirror down one wall. There was a glass dome in the ceiling for the cameras and every word was being recorded.
Portmann started straight in, reading from a page in his folder rather than looking at de Payns. ‘Are you aware of the national security waiver you signed in relation to legal counsel?’
‘Yes,’ said de Payns. If you worked in the French secret services you did not have the right to an attorney and you did not have the right to remain silent. You got to sit in a room and have your colleagues throw accusations at you. It wasn’t personal and it certainly wasn’t open to lawyers.
Portmann recited his first few questions in a robotic tone. ‘Have you told the truth in regards to the destruction of five French passports in Palermo?’ ‘Is there any reason why you cannot speak honestly?’ ‘Have you discussed this matter with any person outside of the DGSE?’
It was a standard opening, but then Portmann got to the point. ‘Three million euros is a lot of money for a commander at the Company, n’est ce pas? Could you do with that kind of pay-day?’
De Payns shrugged.
‘You were offered three million euros for five French passports,’ said Portmann, holding up a printout of de Payns’ report on Operation Falcon. ‘And you declared them destroyed.’
‘I did destroy—’
‘They were real French passports, Alec,’ said Laval, his slab-sided face making him look like a farmer without a tan. ‘They had to be good enough to pass muster with Sayef Albar …’
‘… and to keep your head on your body,’ Portmann finished, with an unnecessary flourish.
‘I know what Falcon was all about, thanks, gentlemen,’ said de Payns.
‘Good to hear,’ said Portmann. ‘So when Falcon was a bust, what did you do?’
‘I destroyed the passports at the wharf adjacent to the Palermo ferry terminal.’
‘How?’ asked Portmann.
‘Tore the pages and the covers into thirty or forty pieces, ensured they went into different garbage bins.’
‘Who was with you?’
‘No one.’
‘Who saw you?’
‘No one.’
‘You can confirm that?’
‘No.’
‘You didn’t sell them to this Murad?’ asked Laval, blue eyes narrowing with suspicion as he looked down at de Payns’ report. ‘Three million euros. Pas dégueulasse!’
‘I don’t need three million euros,’ said de Payns, instantly realising the conversation had been herding him there.
‘Really?’ snapped Laval. ‘What about that apartment of yours?’
De Payns sighed. ‘What about it?’
Laval sneered. ‘You don’t have a Ministry-subsidised apartment.’
‘No, I don’t,’ said de Payns, suppressing his desire to say, Because cocktail-sipping cocksuckers like you spend your careers jockeying for the best government-owned Paris apartments.
‘Paris is expensive,’ Laval remarked. ‘Especially when your wife wants to live in the fourteenth.’
De Payns said nothing.
‘Three-quarters of your income goes on housing,’ Portmann said. ‘Your wife doesn’t work.’
‘And she spent the last year doing a doctorate at the Sorbonne,’ Laval added.
De Payns knew what they were saying. ‘My wife’s smarter than all the IQs in this room added together, and she’s got a piece of paper from the Sorbonne to prove it. So what’s your point?’
‘My point, Alec,’ said Laval, ‘is that you have one government income, you’re living in Montparnasse and your wife’s tuition fees must hurt.’
‘And then an Italian migration agent offers you three million euros for a packet of genuine French passports,’ said Portmann. ‘Passports that you conveniently have to throw away anyway because an operation went sour.’
De Payns levelled a flat, dangerous gaze at Portmann. ‘Two people died that night—“convenient” might be the wrong word to describe what happened.’
Portmann broke the eye contact and cleared his throat.
De Payns continued. ‘I know what Commodore offered and I declared it.’
‘Who pays for the Montparnasse apartment?’ asked Laval.
‘I have a living-in-Paris allowance,’ said de Payns.
The DGS men chuckled at that. The Paris living allowance was two hundred and eighty euros per month. Some agents called it the ‘Grigny allowance’—referring to a far-flung suburb south of the city—because you sure as shit couldn’t live on it in Paris.
Laval grinned. ‘So how does it work? Wifey has a rich daddy?’
De Payns stood, the scraping chair legs seeming very loud. He could feel himself flexing into an assault stance.
There was a knock on the door and it opened to reveal Philippe Manerie. He smiled at a wide-eyed Laval, then turned to Portmann. ‘I’ll take it from here, thanks.’
When the two DGS agents had left the interview room, carefully avoiding de Payns, Manerie inclined his head and they walked, without talking, down one flight of stairs and through the doors that opened onto the lawns around the old fort.
‘I heard you were overseas,’ said Manerie as they strolled east. ‘Anything you’d like to share?’
‘Jim needs to stand back. I don’t shit where I sleep.’
‘Okay,’ said Manerie. ‘I’ll have a word. So, where were you? Turkey? Syria?’
‘You know I can’t talk about that. By the way, have you shared that photo of me and Moran?’
‘No, but you are the one answering my questions at the moment. Did Shrek see where you disposed of the passports? Are you protecting him?’
De Payns shook his head. ‘What is it with DGS and the fucking passports?’
‘Three million euros is a lot of money, Alec. I’ve seen with my own eyes what some OTs will do if they can get away with it.’
They stopped at the old copse of trees by the fort’s eastern wall.
‘Forget the passports,’ said Manerie, lighting a cigarette. ‘I want to know who sold us out in Sicily.’
‘It wasn’t Shrek,’ said de Payns reflexively.
‘You know that for a fact?’
‘I know that better than I trust you,’ said de Payns.
‘If I put a red flag on you, it’s desk duties,’ said Manerie. ‘And by the way, you owe me for stopping all that shit with Laval. If you’d punched him you’d be on weekly head checks. So no more dodging me, Alec. I want to know who Briffaut and Frasier are fingering for the mole. There’s a bigger game being played and I need to be in front of it.’
When Manerie had left, de Payns walked quickly to the foyer of the Bunker, his head spinning with Operation Falcon, the unsolved leak and the three million euros.
He used his swipe card to go to the top floor, Briffaut’s office. He had to head off any attempt by Manerie, Portmann or Laval to sabotage him and eject him from Operation Alamut. The MERC investigation was important and he had to keep up the momentum, no distractions. As he rounded the corner into a wood-panelled area he paused. Briffaut was in the antechamber, where the executive assistants sat, talking to Frasier and a second man. De Payns stayed hidden behind a credenza and watched as the three men nodded, as if agreeing on something. A few seconds later, Briffaut returned to his office with Frasier, and the other man walked away. Shrek.