The SD printouts and research packets from Genoa were dropped at de Payns’ office at 9.16 a.m., as he sat down with his coffee and started his computer. He was planning to bury himself in his work; he owed Briffaut those reports and he had to be at a steward training session at the George V Hotel at 2 p.m. Mostly, though, he was trying to shake the previous evening from his mind. The looks on the faces of his family haunted him. It was enough to make de Payns wonder about resigning. Which he would, if he wasn’t so busy, as the joke went among his colleagues.
Reaching for his coffee he saw the skinned knuckles of his right hand and could feel the small cut on his face tightening as he pursed his lips to drink. The violence was a blur, but he remembered hitting the first assailant with a straight right in the mouth and the sickening crunching sound when he judo-threw the second man onto the concrete. He should have left it when the second man hit the deck, but no: instead, he’d escalated. If Romy hadn’t broken through the haze, de Payns would probably be in a police cell now, picking lice out of his hair. He didn’t know what he was going to do. For the first time in their relationship, Romy had insisted he sleep in the guest bedroom, while the boys had slept in their bed with her. He felt so alone and scared that if he didn’t manage to distract himself with work, he’d probably have to find a bar and start with whisky.
Opening the packet from the Y-9 people in the basement, he found a set of colour prints with a white sticker on the bottom right of each with a location and date. He sifted through them, looking at the shots of Starkand walking towards Genoa airport terminal, the photograph he’d taken in Portofino of the woman in the orange silk top, and the shots of the Melissa speedboat and superyacht. There were no ‘hits’ on Starkand or the woman in the orange top; their identities remained a mystery.
The phone environment had picked up two ‘possibles’ for Orange Top: one a number registered on Telecom Italia, and the other a Netherlands Vodafone number which looked like a burner phone. Neither of them showed much activity, and they’d called no numbers that were of interest to the Company.
The first research sheet from the DR team covered the Liguria Institute, but de Payns couldn’t see Starkand’s picture listed among the employees or consultants. Included in the pack was economic modelling work the Institute had completed on the benefit of Nord Stream 2, the natural gas pipeline running from Russia into Germany, versus the proposed EastMed pipeline that would pipe gas from the Israeli and Egyptian gas fields, through Cyprus and Greece and into Europe via Italy. The gas fields closest to Israel were named Leviathan and Tamar, the fields closer to Cyprus’s southern economic zone were Aphrodite and Calypso, and the Egyptian blocks were Noor and Zohr. According to the Ligurian Institute, Nord Stream 2 meant Russian control and German benefits, whereas EastMed gave control to Israel, Egypt and southern Europe through a governmental framework called the East Mediterranean Gas Forum. The Institute’s report—written in early 2020—labelled EastMed ‘politically challenged’ because Turkey, which was not included in the forum, opposed it.
The second sheet covered Melissa, owned by Red Ocean Holdings with its home port being Larnaca in Cyprus. The only attachments to the file were pictures of the vessel in various Mediterranean marinas.
De Payns finished his O and R reports on Operation Bellbird and wrote a memo to Briffaut on the Johnny meeting. By now it was 11.48, which meant he’d have time to eat before he travelled across the city for his steward training.
‘You’re still here,’ came Briffaut’s voice. He was standing in the doorway, wallet in his hand. ‘You hungry?’
They walked to the cafeteria, bought sandwiches and sat at a table in the adjacent park inside the Bunker grounds.
‘You going on a superyacht with a face like that?’ asked Briffaut, mouth filled with bread and salami.
‘It’s healing,’ said de Payns, tearing the tab off his Coke. ‘Just a scratch.’
‘Want to talk about it?’
‘No.’
‘How about a simple statement: It’s okay, boss, I’m not falling apart and I’m fit for the field.’
De Payns watched an OT jogging across the park. ‘I got in a fight last night at Saint-Lazare station. A couple of drunks were giving Romy a hard time and I didn’t exactly use my verbal skills.’
‘Someone fought back?’
‘A dude who didn’t want his head held over the edge of the platform as a train approached,’ said de Payns, knowing from experience not to bullshit this man.
Briffaut nodded. ‘Cops?’
‘Well, the train arrived two seconds after I pulled his head back, so we jumped on and went home,’ said de Payns. ‘No cops.’
‘Romy?’
‘Hates me,’ said de Payns, the words catching in his throat.
‘She’s a strong one.’
‘Yeah, I know,’ said de Payns. ‘But it’s more than she bargained for. The boys are getting older and now Romy’s got a real job, a career.’
‘And you’re dealing with the boys but Romy’s really managing them, right?’
De Payns shrugged. For security reasons, OTs were supposed to avoid hiring au pairs, and Romy’s parents weren’t in Paris. Wives were expected to pick up the slack, and de Payns noted that female DGSE careerists such as Marie Lafont remained steadfastly unmarried.
‘It’s bad enough when your wife’s not working,’ said Briffaut. ‘But when she is, and needs support in the home, you’re trapped here with work you can’t walk away from.’
De Payns shook his head. ‘So, it doesn’t get any easier?’
‘Only a handful of people have done our job, mon cher,’ said Briffaut. ‘We don’t look for easy.’
‘You’re twice divorced,’ de Payns observed mildly. ‘But you’re still here.’
‘Married to the Company now,’ said Briffaut, his eyes suddenly narrowing. ‘I want you to see Dr Marlene.’
‘No,’ said de Payns.
‘Somehow you heard a question?’
‘Okay, it’s your call,’ said de Payns, knowing that arguments with Briffaut always ended in the older man’s favour. ‘But look at me, boss—she’ll put me on medical leave.’
‘No, she won’t.’
‘She will,’ de Payns said. ‘Last time I saw her I was a smart-arse.’
‘She won’t,’ said Briffaut, standing and draining his coffee. ‘Do this for Romy.’
‘If I do it for Romy, I’ll have to resign.’
‘I don’t want you on medical—I want you well.’ Briffaut’s phone sounded and he made a face as he saw the screen. ‘Go see the doctor. That’s an order,’ he said, and took the call as he turned away.