They pulled into a truck layover on a rise just east of Cannes. It was late afternoon and the sun was low in the sky. Lolo fished the sealed packet from the spare tyre well of the Megane. He replaced the Paris ‘75’ numberplates with ‘06’ plates that indicated a vehicle registered in the Nice area. De Payns watched his junior partner work smoothly, switching the rego papers in the glove box for the ones matched to the Nice numberplates, and then sealing the Paris plates and papers in the plastic bag which he then replaced in the tyre well. The entire procedure took him around eighty seconds.
They continued on the A8 freeway around Nice, taking the Monaco off-ramp and pulling into the streets of Monte Carlo as the sun hit the horizon. They cruised along the Avenue de Monte-Carlo, the sight of women in fur coats emerging from Bentleys, and playboys leaping out of Lamborghinis eliciting a torrent of comments from Lolo.
‘I need one of them,’ he said as they slid past a gullwing Mercedes. ‘That Merc would change everything.’
De Payns pulled up to the kerb and checked the time: 6.14 p.m. ‘Leave the gear here, and that includes the biker jacket.’
Lolo exited the car and de Payns drove further east, where he parked, slipped on a dark sports jacket and walked for several blocks, past jewellery stores and lavish apartment buildings.
He did some basic hygiene routes to see if he had watchers and paused at a D&G storefront window, checking in the reflection. Turning left on the Avenue de Monte-Carlo he walked a block south to the front steps of the Hotel de Paris, passing through the foyer and heading upstairs to the Bar Américain. Checking his watch as he entered the lush tribute to 1920s American speakeasies de Payns saw it was 6.29, inside the –1/+2 margin for the 6.30 p.m. meeting. He leaned against the leather-padded bar and waited for a middle-aged English couple to give their orders. Turning slowly to the room, he spied the view to the bar’s terrace and clocked Lolo at a corner table but didn’t look at him.
‘I think the fish is good today,’ came a voice close to de Payns’ right ear. The gravelly whisper spoke in Corsican-accented French.
De Payns turned to face the source of the comment, a tanned, bald man who looked to be in his late sixties, although his shoulders and chest still filled out his brown leather sports coat and his neck was bullish. He had all-knowing eyes and a weathered face that looked like it had been carved from granite. The bio on Johnny had mentioned his black belt in judo and his stint instructing unarmed combat in the SAC. Despite his age, he stood like a man who wasn’t about to fall over.
‘The morning catch is always the best,’ said de Payns.
The man held his gaze. ‘Alec?’
‘Johnny?’
Johnny nodded and smiled. ‘What would you like to drink? It’s on me.’
De Payns glanced into his Perrier, the only thing he could afford in the Bar Américain. ‘I’ll have a Jack Daniel’s.’
Johnny turned to the waitress. ‘Give me a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and three glasses.’
Johnny turned to the room. ‘Let’s find a quiet place to have a chat and tell your young friend to join us.’
De Payns followed and nodded to Lolo as he passed him.
Lolo looked petrified at the change in plans but joined de Payns and Johnny at their table, remaining silent after the introductions.
Having poured the whisky, Johnny leaned back in his chair with the air of a man who controlled the city. ‘So, what can I do for you?’
De Payns explained what the Company needed: access to Azzam.
‘Is this an infiltration?’ asked Johnny. ‘You want people on the boat or are we inserting electronic surveillance?’
‘Aim for infiltration but settle for audio and video,’ said de Payns. ‘We’ll take what we can get. We want to see who’s in the meetings and what they talk about.’
Johnny nodded slowly and looked into his drink. ‘Superyachts mean heavy security on the boat, and if the Company is so interested, I’d say there’ll be overwatch around it.’
De Payns couldn’t argue with his reasoning. ‘It’s not an easy one,’ he conceded.
‘It might be impossible,’ said Johnny, chuckling. ‘But I guess that’s why the Company wants to do it.’
When Johnny had the details he needed, he told de Payns that he’d look into it and suggested they meet for lunch on Thursday at the Monkey in Kimono cafe, on the secondary road from Nice to Cannes. Then he produced a hotel swipe card and placed it in front of de Payns.
‘You know, I miss those days with the Service,’ said Johnny. ‘You’re doing a hell of a job—and I know what I’m talking about.’
‘I don’t doubt it,’ said de Payns, eyeing the swipe card.
Johnny said, ‘I know the Company doesn’t always look after you guys, so that’s the key to a room upstairs. Have a good night in Monaco, on the house. Enjoy yourselves.’
Before de Payns could respond, the Corsican stood, adding, ‘See you on Thursday at the Monkey.’
When Johnny had gone, leaving the bottle of Jack Daniel’s, Lolo was almost jumping out of his skin with enthusiasm.
‘Look at this,’ he said with a smile, picking up the swipe card. ‘A free night at the Hotel de Paris!’
The Company’s financial comptrollers were notoriously tight and demanded receipts for even the smallest claim, which they often challenged. Now Lolo was seeing the land of Aston Martins opening up to him.
De Payns smiled. ‘You think anything is really for free?’
Lolo wasn’t listening. ‘We’ve got the whisky, we’ve got the room. Let’s get some girls and party!’
De Payns pushed his glass away. ‘Go and have a look at the room, tell me what you see up there.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Lolo.
De Payns gave him a cold look. ‘I mean, put down your glass and shift your brain into work mode, then go up to the room, check it out, and come back down to describe it to me precisely.’
When Lolo was gone, de Payns helped himself to a glass of the complimentary water and thought about the next stop on their tour. They would be in Genoa the next morning and looking for Starkand, their person of interest. Not the most exciting gig, but the job was often like that. Even though de Payns was trained for the most difficult and dangerous type of spy work—personal infiltration, where he pretended to be someone else—most of his operations hinged on surveillance and reconnaissance: the collection of information at a distance with the POI never being aware of it. Recruits at the DGSE were sometimes frustrated when they saw how much of their training was in following, photography and audio recording. That’s what constituted A-level product at the Company. When intelligence was being graded for its strength, personal contact could only ever achieve a B ranking, no matter how explosive the revelations.
Lolo re-entered the bar, smiling like a child. ‘My God, we hit the jackpot.’
‘Tell me.’
Lolo was wide-eyed. ‘It’s the Princess Grace Suite. It must take up most of the top floor. My monthly pay cheque wouldn’t cover even a night up there.’
‘Views?’
‘Across the harbour and marina.’
‘And let me guess,’ said de Payns, ‘a bottle of champagne on ice?’
‘Yes!’ said Lolo. ‘It’s amazing.’
‘I’m sure it is,’ said de Payns. ‘You know the corner I dropped you on?’
‘Yes.’
‘Be there in fifteen minutes.’
Lolo frowned. ‘What, outside?’
‘Yes.’
‘But we have a room for the night. We can stay here and go to Genoa tomorrow. It’s perfect.’
‘Fifteen minutes,’ said de Payns.
Lolo looked at de Payns to check he wasn’t joking and then slowly stood. ‘Okay. But can we keep the whisky, at least?’
‘Of course,’ said de Payns, as he watched his colleague get back into character and walk out of the bar.
■
They sat at a picnic table at one of the entries to the Parco del Beigua, drinking the Jack Daniel’s and putting Italian plates on the car. The lights of Genoa twinkled in the distance and they both wore jackets against the cold breeze whistling down from the Alps. Lolo had recovered from his disappointment and now wanted to know why they’d had to leave the hotel.
‘It doesn’t matter what they teach you at Cercottes,’ said de Payns. ‘Your first job is to stay alive.’
‘Okay,’ said Lolo.
‘That’s fairly simple when you’re single, but when you have a family, and you want to stay in the field, your job is to ensure that no one ever connects you back to your life zone.’
‘What’s that got to do with the hotel? Johnny’s on our side, non?’
‘Says who?’ growled de Payns, lighting a cigarette.
‘Well, the Company. The boss.’
De Payns smiled. ‘Let me give you the rule for all spies, throughout all of history: it’s your life, so the responsibility for its security is yours too. If you bring the wolf to your door, it’s your fault. So, you live by this rule: la confiance n’exclut-pas le contrôle. Trust doesn’t exclude checking.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Lolo. ‘So what did you see at the hotel?’
‘A man I’ve never met, who offers me a bottle of whisky when I asked for a glass, and who offers me a suite at the Hotel de Paris, accommodation he knows I can’t afford. He’s probably looking for leverage.’
‘But how?’
‘We’d be up there drinking our whisky, and then there’d be a knock at the door around midnight, and she’d be tall and blonde, and her friend would be pretty with big tits, and maybe there’d be drugs, and maybe there’s recording equipment somewhere in the suite … you get the picture?’
Lolo nodded. ‘Okay, it’s a set-up. But what does Johnny do with the pictures?’
‘Maybe nothing, or maybe he works out I’m married and one day I get some very interesting pictures in the mail, and I have a choice: do some favours for Johnny or blow up my marriage. Or: I can walk away from the Princess Grace Suite at the Hotel de Paris, and sleep in the car with my colleague.’
Lolo laughed out loud. ‘So, it’s not like it is in the movies?’
‘Only the paranoia about getting caught.’