The Audi SUV disappeared into the parking building at Charles de Gaulle airport in northern Paris and Templar told the van driver, Jean-Michel Legrand, to pull over.
‘We can’t spook him now,’ he said, watching Manerie’s vehicle move out of sight. It was just past 2 a.m. and the airport precinct was becoming busy. Templar had one job—to find Aguilar’s family and return them safely. It would have a complication, because the mother and two children thought it was an exercise and Aguilar wanted them to continue to believe that, if possible. If Romy ever got wind of the fact her children really had been abducted, she would not stay married to the Company.
Behind him in the working area of the van, he could hear Brent Clercq making another call to the DT section back at the Cat. He asked yet again if there was a terminating tower for the call they’d logged from Manerie’s phone. The DT was talking to a cooperative phone company but it was taking time.
Templar had been trained to wait, to conserve his energy and then to execute his orders with ruthless accuracy. It was what he’d done as a special forces paratrooper in Iraq and Afghanistan, and as a long-range recon man in Africa. It was the role he played for the Company, the forgettable man, the face in the crowd, the person you don’t give a second’s thought to—until the time was right, and then he acted. He was an expert at waiting but he wasn’t enjoying this wait. He probably shouldn’t have taken the assignment. He was friends with Aguilar and Romy, he’d been around when the kids were babies. So he had to consciously contain his ferocity. In the Angolan bush he would have caught Philippe Manerie and hurt him so badly that the traitor would have begged to take him to Romy, Patrick and Oliver. He would have pleaded for Templar to take them. But this wasn’t Africa, and it was delicately poised; Manerie had the upper hand and Templar had to wait for the information.
After almost two hours of waiting, the phone trilled in the back and Brent took the call. He spoke for thirty seconds and then leaned through, ‘Attigny, north-east of Dijon Tower thirteen twenty-eight. I have the coordinates.’
Templar tweaked the phone and called Briffaut, told him the news.
Briffaut replied, ‘We have a Caracal at the military annexe. When you’re at the tower, let me know and we’ll call Valley.’
The army Caracal helicopter took them north in the pre-dawn over the sprawling farmlands of northern France, and when they were in the neighbourhood of the tower coordinates, Templar elected to put down in a farm paddock. The landscape was visible when they stepped off the helicopter beside a river. The pilot shut it down. ‘We’ll be two hours,’ said Templar, hauling the assault rifles, binoculars and comms gear from their duffel bags. Templar was sure they’d arrived undetected. The pilot had flown downwind of the target area, and at less than 100 feet altitude.
The three of them—Templar, Brent and Jean-Michel—crossed the countryside towards the white cell tower that stood on a low ridge between stands of trees. There were two farmhouses to the east of the tower, and one to the north-west. Templar found a hide in the undergrowth and took his military binoculars from his pack. He sat, resting his wrists on the top of his knees. Jean-Michel did the same.
‘Southern farmhouse, white with tiled roof,’ said Templar.
‘Copy,’ said Jean-Michel.
‘I see tractor, farm truck, motorbike and I think that’s a harvester in the shed.’
‘Copy that. Looks legit.’
Templar shifted his sights to the second farmhouse, which was further north. ‘Northern farmhouse, white tiled roof,’ said Templar. ‘Is that a van?’
Jean-Michel responded, ‘I make a black Renault van, parked at the rear of the dwelling; there’s a late-model Audi parked behind it.’
Both vehicle types were used by the Company. There were no farm vehicles evident.
‘Keep your eyes on it,’ said Templar. He swung away to look at the farmhouse on the other side of the spur, and saw another legit farm.
They waited for another ninety minutes, monitoring the farm houses, and then Jean-Michel piped up. ‘Okay, boss, we have persons outside the northern house. Looks like they’re in the game.’
Templar swung his glasses back to the second farm. Three hundred metres away, a man walked to the front of the farmhouse, while another man—larger than the first and wearing a black cap—walked towards him.
‘That’s Valley—the big one, black cap. Brent, tell the boss we’re in place, ready for that call,’ said Templar, eyes steady on the two men outside the farmhouse.
Brent made the call. ‘Standing by,’ he said.
The men in Templar’s binoculars shared a smoke; Jim Valley seemed to be making a point to the other, giving an order.
‘Here we go,’ said Brent, who was monitoring his laptop. ‘There’s an incoming call. It’s to our IMSI.’
Templar peered through his binoculars: Valley fished a phone from his jacket pocket, hit the screen and put it to his ear.
‘That’s a lock,’ said Brent. ‘Jim Valley just answered a call from Philippe Manerie.’
‘Unload,’ Templar said, standing and shrugging his backpack to the ground. ‘And remember—don’t scare the kids.’
The three of them moved down from their position shortly after 7 o’clock, but on the other side of a small ridge, which gave them cover from the farmhouse. They were each armed with a Heckler & Koch 416, an assault rifle that Templar didn’t mind, although he preferred its predecessor, the FAMAS Bugle, which had proven itself in Africa. They each had a waist bag of wrist ties and duct tape, given they didn’t know how many adversaries they’d have to deal with. There were some outbuildings around the farm, and Templar sent Jean-Michel further to the west, to enter from the other flank. He crept up behind the main barn—which was empty—and surveyed the farmhouse. The first, smaller guard had gone back inside, while Valley had taken a seat in the cab of the van, messing around on his phone while he finished his cigarette. It created a blind spot for Manerie’s man. If Templar approached down the side of the van, he wouldn’t be seen from the farmhouse.
He jogged into the open, and ran on tiptoe down the side of the van, swinging the butt of his Heckler at the side of Jim Valley’s head as he reached the open door. Out of instinct, Valley bent his head away and deflected the full impact, which was still forceful enough to half tear his left ear from his head.
As Templar went for him, Valley’s leg straightened into a ram, catching Templar in the solar plexus. Templar staggered back and Valley was on him with a left hook that failed to connect properly, followed by a fast elbow. Templar took it on the left cheek and was knocked onto his back. Valley leaped on him, trying for a jujitsu chokehold to the neck, which Templar countered by throwing an uppercut with his right elbow that connected so well it sounded like it broke some of Valley’s teeth. They rolled from one another, Templar’s rifle now lying in the grass. Valley threw a sweep kick from his prone position, catching Templar on the side of the nose, ejecting blood and snot into the air. He shook it off and caught a boot in the mouth, knocking him onto his back. Now Valley was on him, with a hand on Templar’s larynx and a right hand descending fast at his face. Templar got a hand free and deflected the punch with his bicep as he punctured Valley’s left eye with a claw strike. Valley recoiled, moaning in pain, releasing his larynx grip, allowing Templar to throw him off with his hips and roll into a rear-naked chokehold. He tightened his arms around Valley’s neck, positioned his legs against his back and pulled back hard. He felt Valley’s taps on the ground get softer as the blood stopped flowing to his head. Valley was a big, fit man but he finally went soft and Templar immediately cuffed him at the wrists and ankles and slapped a length of duct tape across his mouth.
Templar got on the radio net, telling the team Valley down, and asking for situation reports. Jean-Michel whispered he was approaching the house from the west, no resistance; Brent didn’t answer.
Templar rose, looked around and picked up his rifle. Blood poured from his busted nose. He wiped it on his sleeve and walked to the north of the house. No one. To the west of the empty barn was a disused piggery. He padded around it and found the smaller guard holding a handgun to Brent’s head, who’s rifle was in the grass. As he came into sight, the guard swung to point his handgun at Templar and as he did Brent threw a fast backhand punch into the guard’s face then let his legs go, dropping straight to the ground. Templar moved two paces, threw a low roundhouse kick at the guard’s right knee, shattering the joint and dropping the guard like a rock. Brent seized him, stamping on his wrist and recovering the handgun.
‘Cuff and gag him,’ said Templar. ‘I want to see who’s around.’
He stalked to the west of the farmhouse, rifle held on his sightline, and keyed the radio. ‘Jean-Michel, you there?’
Jean-Michel replied, ‘Another guard just walked out the front of the house with a mug of coffee, he’s lighting a cigarette.’
‘Armed?’
‘Handgun, in his holster.’
‘You come in from the west, I’ll approach from the other side.’
Templar circled back and ran along the eastern side of the house. From inside he could hear morning TV cartoons. At the front of the farmhouse, he paused and looked around the corner as blood dripped onto the concrete path beneath him. The guard sat on a wooden chair on the front porch, coffee in one hand, smoke in the other. Jean-Michel emerged from the other end of the porch, swiftly swinging a rifle butt into the man’s head. Teeth rattled on the wooden boards, and the coffee cup bounced and broke. The guard tried to get up but Templar trod on his wrist and put a hand over the man’s mouth.
‘Who else is in there?’ asked Templar.
The man shook his head, wide-eyed. Templar knew he had a reputation, but this was ridiculous. ‘One?’
The man nodded.
‘More than one?’
The man shook his head. Templar made the international gesture of silence, as Jean-Michel moved in to cuff him. Templar wiped the blood from his face and walked in the door, handgun raised. He could smell omelette and coffee. His stomach rumbled. To his right was a door, which he pushed open gently to find a bedroom, recently slept in. Across the corridor was another bedroom—two single beds, also recently slept in. He checked the bathroom, ducked in and grabbed a fistful of toilet paper, held it to his broken nose and wiped his face. He moved into another room, the living area which opened into a kitchen. To his right, two boys watched SpongeBob on the TV. He lowered his gun, hid it behind his back. The younger boy—Oliver—looked up. ‘Hi, Gael,’ he said, then turned back to the screen.
Patrick deigned to look away from the screen for two seconds, long enough to say, ‘Hi.’
‘Hi, boys,’ said Templar, scoping the room and walking towards the kitchen. He walked around the corner and in front of him, standing at the stove, was Romy de Payns, all blonde hair, green eyes and athletic. Always so glamorous, even in jeans and a T-shirt. She looked up from the pan and smiled. ‘Gael!’
He smiled at the greeting, but behind her, the fourth guard was spooked and reached for his handgun. As he did, Brent materialised at his side and held his gun arm, while Jean-Michel appeared at his other side.
‘Exercise complete,’ said Templar, nodding to his team, who walked the guard out the kitchen door. By Templar’s calculation, Romy and the boys should have no idea what just happened or how much danger they’d been in.
She came to him and gave him a hug and double kiss. ‘That’s a lot of blood,’ she said, reaching for a roll of paper towel.
‘I walked into a door,’ said Templar.
‘Hold that,’ she said, as she positioned the paper towel under his nostrils. ‘Well, the exercise was all a bit of a pain, but the boys thought it was fun,’ she said.
And then Romy de Payns moved back to the stovetop. ‘Sausage in your omelette?’