Alec de Payns walked in the morning sunlight across the Pont des Bergues, spanning the Rhone, aiming for Geneva’s rive droit. He’d been walking for sixteen minutes, which had given him time to relax into his legend of a design student named Guillaume Roger, while also checking for followers. Geneva gave the surface impression of a wealthy, civilised city, however it was also a historic crossroads of national interest and money, and de Payns was always careful in this city of spies.
He stepped onto the Quai des Bergues, turned right and walked along the river to where it opened into Lac de Geneve, a haven for cruise boats and waterside bars and restaurants. He crossed onto the Quai du Mont-Blanc, where the buildings became grand. One of them was the Ritz-Carlton Hotel, where he was due to meet his new friend Nikolai, a fellow student at the HEAD design academy, and his father.
De Payns walked past two black Mercedes-Benz SUVs parked on the Ritz-Carlton apron, and entered the impressive white marble foyer with its black-and-white marble-tiled floor. There were two military-looking men in the lobby, dressed in black suits and tactical boots. De Payns had been expecting to see them, just as he was expecting to see the tall blond student standing by the marble staircase, his red woollen scarf a raffish contrast to his expensive sand-coloured suit.
‘Guillaume!’ Nikolai waved flamboyantly, his Russian accent echoing around the huge room. ‘Over here.’
Nikolai moved in for a hug and de Payns could sense the security people watching them.
‘I hope you’re not freaked out by these apes,’ said Nikolai, cocky and rude and eminently likeable. ‘My father only visits once a year, and he travels with this zoo. Is it okay?’
‘I hardly noticed,’ said de Payns, with a smile. ‘Thought maybe Putin was in town.’
Nikolai laughed then, suddenly serious, said, ‘Dad has to have these people around him when he travels because of his work. Please don’t be scared.’
‘Thanks for the warning—I’ll try to look brave,’ said de Payns. He started to walk away, but Nikolai grasped his bicep to stop him.
‘Dad and I love each other,’ he explained earnestly, ‘but he thinks that the Russian climate is not good for me right now.’ Nikolai bit his lip and looked away. ‘It just doesn’t … agree with me.’
De Payns felt for him. Their friendship hadn’t touched on the subject of Nikolai’s sexuality. Now Nikolai was trying to find a way to warn his French friend that the Russian military and intelligence worlds did not accept gays. Even the sons and daughters of senior officers could find themselves sent to rehabilitation camps, to be physically and psychologically broken down, and turned into real Russians.
‘I understand, my friend,’ said de Payns. ‘I guess you are much better off in Geneva, especially for the arts.’
They moved into Fred by Fiskebar, a pricey bar favoured by Nikolai. De Payns usually avoided drinking there; Geneva had much better taverns. But his social manipulation had succeeded and Nikolai now wanted his father to meet his new friend. Nikolai was not aware that also dotted around the hotel was de Payns’ mission team, consisting of Templar, positioned in the hotel for threats, and Danny, who was in the van controlling the comms. They’d both cover de Payns when he left the hotel, doing counter-tailing, and if necessary they’d run a tourniquet. Aline, a petite blonde who worked for the Company, was sitting alone in the Fiskebar, drinking a Coke. She’d been recording audio and HD video of the bar with a hidden device for ten minutes before de Payns arrived, and she’d clandestinely record the meeting from her table.
Nikolai’s father was already seated at his table when the two students arrived. De Payns flashed his big smile, in keeping with the youthful student persona he’d cultivated. ‘So pleased to meet you, Mr Beshivsky,’ he said, using the surname assumed by Nikolai. ‘Welcome to Geneva.’
As they made small talk, de Payns assessed the man in front of him: he was around fifty, with pale, cold eyes, a full head of salt-and-pepper hair, and a strong body. De Payns could feel the other man’s eyes scrutinising him in return, the father trying to work out if Nikolai and de Payns were lovers. After all, that was why Nikolai had been exiled to Geneva under a false name.
When Nikolai rose to go to the bathroom, de Payns was left alone with his new acquaintance, whose real name was Lazar Suburov, a full colonel in the Russian FSB, the country’s federal security service. Suburov was the number two ranking officer in the Intelligence Directorate for Chechnya. The Company had codenamed him Keratine, and he was of value to France, which was why de Payns was going to try to turn a senior FSB officer while armed Russian henchmen stood guard outside.
‘So,’ said Keratine, ‘Nikolai tells me you share a passion for art and for partying? I’m glad to hear he has found a like-minded friend, given he doesn’t see his family much anymore.’
‘Well, actually,’ said de Payns, letting his expression harden, ‘I’m not your son’s friend. I work for the French services—and from now on you’ll work for us too.’
The blood drained from Keratine’s face. De Payns recognised real fear in his eyes.
‘You could refuse,’ continued de Payns, ‘but I guess you know what happens if your colleagues discover that your son is not dead, like you told them, but hiding out in Switzerland because he’s gay?’
Keratine cleared his throat, his pupils dilating. ‘Exiling a gay son isn’t so unusual …’
‘Even if he’s in contact with a foreign intelligence service?’
‘Fuck,’ mumbled Keratine. He slumped in his seat, rubbing his face as if trying to make the conversation go away.
‘I understand the Russians like to re-educate homosexuals,’ said de Payns, keeping his voice flat but strong. ‘The Chechens in particular. It’s not pretty, but highly effective, I hear.’
Keratine winced. ‘Look, I love my son. He’s not here because I’m ashamed.’
‘I don’t doubt it,’ said de Payns, seeing that Nikolai had moved to the bar and was ordering drinks. ‘Nikolai is an impressive young man.’
Keratine sat up, seeming unsure whether to be sad or angry. ‘I knew this moment would come one day. Please don’t do this. There is no need.’
De Payns kept talking, knowing the entire interaction was being recorded by Aline from the bag on her table. ‘You will be contacted in Russia by a man named Guy. He’ll introduce himself as a friend from Geneva. I suggest you respond positively to his requests, for the survival of your son—and perhaps to also stop your career from submerging?’
Nikolai returned with the drinks and resumed his seat. ‘So, have you got acquainted?’ he asked, a boyish quality evident now he was less nervous. ‘How do you like my friend, Dad? I told you he was fun.’
‘Your friend is very nice,’ said Keratine, eyeballing the Frenchman.
De Payns stood. ‘Well, I know how much you have missed each other, so I’ll leave you to have some quality family time.’ He turned to Keratine. ‘Sir, it was very nice meeting you. Maybe we’ll meet again?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Keratine, with a brief hate-filled glance, ‘but you never know.’
■
De Payns passed the Russian thugs in the lobby and stepped out into the street. He crossed the road and walked north along the Quai de Mont-Blanc, finding some shade from the trees that separated the famous street from the lake. He now had to conduct a tourniquet overseen by the three-person mission team, ending at a plan de support—an advertising poster at a bus stop on the Rue des Pâquis, which would feature a sticker, or gommette. If the sticker was red, he was being followed and he’d move to an exfiltration plan.
The route took sixteen minutes, his team detecting if he had followers and communicating with one another over the radio net. He walked to a Coca-Cola ad on a bus stop and saw the red gommette. Yet just because there was a tail, it didn’t mean he could break from his legend and start acting like a spy.
He kept walking and entered Geneva’s central railway station, walking to a magazine stand where he pretended to be interested in a publication. He waited for a train to arrive and, when there was a crowd pouring down the main concourse, he joined them. After ten seconds, he took a sudden turn to the right and walked out a side passage into the sunshine and onto the grounds of the art and design school. He walked out the other side of the campus, leaped onto a tram and rode it four blocks west before jumping off and treating himself to a browse through a three-storey department store. When de Payns was sure he no longer had a follower, he moved to the dead mailbox that had been set up along with the tourniquet and had now been ‘armed’ with a white gommette at the end of a street called Rue Jean-Gutenberg. He followed the street for twenty seconds before seeing a red bicycle with a wicker basket parked outside a bakery. From the basket he grabbed a white envelope—left there by Aline—and quickly dropped his French ID card in the name of Guillaume Roger in another envelope in the basket. De Payns kept walking and at the end of the street put the sticker he was carrying on a concrete lamppost, which told Aline he’d made the exchange and she could return for the envelope.
De Payns walked to the Crowne Plaza, where a room had been booked under the name on the new ID card he’d just picked up, Benoît Droulez. The booking had been made by Renan, an infrastructure Honourable Correspondent—HC—working in the hotel. An HC arranged important matériel and services for visiting OTs. Renan worked in the Crowne Plaza and would ensure no bank details were needed and there was no trace for the Russians.
In his room, de Payns lay on the hotel bed, cycling his breathing. He felt safe in this hotel because Renan was a clan member, one of a secret group that included Shrek, Templar, Rocket and himself, who were sworn to support one another. That’s how de Payns worked and it was what he relied on for his sanity. He visualised every step of the morning and the tourniquet. He thought about faces he’d seen in the hotel and on the tram, and what he might have missed. He thought about Nikolai, and about Nikolai’s father’s face when de Payns had given him the facts, the dévoilement. He thought about how the scenario could be turned on his own family, and quickly pushed that thought down as far as it would go.