De Payns was kept at the pool deck bar and the main dining rooms for the evening shift, while the female crew were sent up to the owner’s bar. It meant de Payns was not entirely trusted, but it also gave him access to the best information gatherers: the escorts.
While serving the women drinks before they went upstairs to perform their roles, he got talking to an English brunette named Lucy. She was pretty and smart, and laughed about the Libyan who’d had to pray for forgiveness before having sex.
‘Faisal?’ asked de Payns. ‘The dashing one?’
‘If you like that sort of thing,’ she said, laughing. ‘One of those Arabs who can’t switch off the serious stuff, you know?’
‘Like what?’ asked de Payns. ‘What serious stuff would you speak about in the bedroom?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, you know, The Russians are screwing us, everything is an angle with Ivan—that kind of thing.’
‘It must be quite a meeting they have going on here,’ said de Payns. ‘It sounds like it’s all politics—talk about boring.’
‘Maybe something more than politics …’ Lucy said, sipping her champagne.
‘Oh yeah?’ replied de Payns, keeping his tone casual.
‘He kept muttering about this thing.’ She shrugged. ‘It’s probably not as big a deal as it sounded. He’s an intense dude.’
‘What kind of muttering?’
‘Can I smoke in here?’
‘Are you a guest or the help?’ asked de Payns, smiling.
‘A bit of both, actually. Shall we?’ She pointed outside.
De Payns lit up for both of them, sheltering the flame from the breeze off the sea. He guessed they were south of Sardinia and perhaps west of Sicily.
‘Sorry, I couldn’t speak in there,’ Lucy said. ‘You see Carrie? The big black girl?’
De Payns nodded. He’d noticed the tall African-American woman in a fuchsia dress.
‘Well, she runs us,’ said Lucy. ‘She doesn’t like us gossiping about the johns. Sorry, I mean the guests.’
De Payns chuckled. ‘So, what’s with Faisal and the muttering?’
‘Oh, he was annoyed about having to go to Europe,’ she said, trying to flick ash over the side without success. ‘Said the fucking Russians should do their own dirty work.’
‘Dirty work sounds like a good job for the Russians,’ said de Payns, deliberately steering her away from the information he craved. He had to massage Lucy’s communication, mindful of who else she was likely to talk to. One of those other people might be an interrogator, and when that happened, he didn’t want Lucy connecting the forbidden information with this conversation.
‘I don’t know the details,’ said Lucy, ‘but Faisal is very nervous about it.’
De Payns decided she needed to be shut down. ‘Well, I’d advise you to stay uninformed about Monsieur Faisal’s troubles. It’s dangerous to be too curious with this kind of guy.’
‘You think?’ she asked, lowering her voice.
‘Actually, it puts us in a situation, now you’ve shared this with me,’ said de Payns, looking around him. ‘Thank you very much.’
Her pretty face changed, concern creasing her forehead. ‘Sorry, Fred. I don’t want to get you in trouble.’
‘It’s fine,’ he replied, while making a face that said he was annoyed.
She moved closer and he could smell the Joy perfume. ‘Please don’t tell anyone that I spoke about him. I shouldn’t have. Can I trust you?’
‘Well, trust goes both ways, right?’ replied de Payns, flicking his butt over the side. ‘I’m happy not to mention it to anyone if you never admit you spoke to me. It would be our secret. Deal?’
‘Deal,’ said Lucy, her face relaxing. ‘I should go.’
‘You got your disco shoes on?’
Lucy laughed. ‘Faisal thinks the party’s at stateroom five—not much disco in there.’
■
Shortly after 8.30 p.m. the escorts left for the owner’s bar. De Payns worked with the other stewards to clear the tables and glasses, and then weaved through the internal maze of passageways that would take him to the crew’s section of Azzam. In the crew mess he found Gretel, nursing a cup of hot chocolate and watching an Italian game show that featured people in the grip of either manic happiness or hysterical disappointment with no twilight between.
‘Hi, Gretel,’ he said, using his basic German. ‘I accidentally locked myself out of the cabin and I need my asthma inhaler. Could I borrow your key? I’ll just be a few minutes.’
Gretel barely took her eyes off the crazed game show host as she pulled her retractable keychain and unclipped the master key.
‘No one else touches this,’ she said. ‘I’m trusting you, Fred. Be quick.’
De Payns hurried to his cabin, dug his camera from the Lacoste bag and checked it for battery charge and a MicroSD. Master key in hand he moved quickly along the crew passageways and climbed forward and upwards until he was in the section of the yacht that contained the VIP staterooms. He reached a corner where the carpet turned to an azure blue colour, and knew that around it was the double-wide passageway that housed stateroom five—Faisal al-Mismari’s home away from home. Sticking his head around the corner for a peek, he pulled back quickly. ‘Shit,’ he hissed, his nostrils flaring with stress. At the end of the passageway was one of Faisal’s bodyguards, sitting on a chair. He had to hand it to the Libyans: he would have done the same thing if his boss was on a superyacht surrounded by Wagner thugs and Emirati arms dealers. But time was running out; Gretel would blow the whistle if he didn’t return her key in the next few minutes. He was scheduled to drop his product overboard at midnight if he had something, and he wanted the drop to include anything he could find in Faisal al-Mismari’s room—preferably something relating to Vulcan, the ‘false flag’ that the Libyan had mentioned the previous night, or this ‘dirty work’ Lucy had said he’d been asked to do for the Russians in Europe.
He dropped down to a lower level, where food and wine were stored, moved aft and ascended back to the stateroom level. He now approached the guard from the opposite direction. De Payns stuck his head around the corner. The guard was an athletic man in his late twenties, in the typical bodyguard dress of black polo shirt and grey ripstop pants. De Payns pulled back from the corner and looked for some props to work with. Behind him was a cleaner’s cupboard. And halfway down the passageway, just before a companionway entrance, was a glass-fronted cabinet containing a fire extinguisher and a fire blanket. He grabbed the red fire extinguisher, banged his cigarette lighter against it so it rang like a bell, and then threw the extinguisher down the passageway, where it bounced and skittled into a bulkhead with a dull bang. Slipping into the cleaner’s cupboard, he watched the guard come around the corner and head down the passageway, pistol in hand and eyes focused on the fire extinguisher. De Payns slipped out of the cupboard, retraced the guard’s footsteps, and let himself into stateroom five, shutting the door behind him as the guard returned. De Payns snibbed the lock and backed away from the door. The handle of the door moved and jiggled and then stopped; like any good guard, he was checking to see if the door was still locked and not forced.
Standing in the dimly lit room, de Payns felt like a rat in a trap. He turned his mind to the job lest he become lost in his fear. He looked around: there was nothing of interest on the bedside cabinet or anywhere conspicuous. He went through the main suitcase—the contents of which had largely been unpacked into the wardrobe—and then opened every cupboard and lifted up the bed mattress and all the cushions on the armchairs and sofas, working methodically; he couldn’t do it too quickly or Faisal al-Mismari would suspect his room had been tossed. There was no briefcase, no laptop and no files. Whatever Faisal al-Mismari had been asked to do by the Russians, de Payns suspected it would be written down. Wagner Group was a commercial enterprise working under a service contract with General Haftar’s LNA government, and there had to be a reference to it.
De Payns expelled a big breath. He’d been a clandestine OT for longer than most, and he wondered if his nerves were still up to this work. Perhaps Romy was right; maybe it was time to give up the field and move into management. He shook his head to clear his mind and focused on the question at hand: if he was Faisal, where would he hide his laptop?
He entered the glitzy bathroom—heavy in marble and gold plate—and kneeled to look in the commode cabinet beneath the marble countertop. As he did, bolts slid in the stateroom door and a man’s voice sounded—Faisal. De Payns froze: he was caught with nowhere to hide.
‘Okay,’ said a woman’s voice, which de Payns recognised as Lucy’s. ‘Where’s the Charlie?’
‘Let’s not hurry,’ said Faisal, in the unmistakable tone of a man who finds himself irresistible. ‘Join me.’
‘I was joining you for a line,’ said Lucy. ‘And then we’re hitting the dancefloor, remember?’
‘We can dance here,’ said Faisal, and there was a respite from talk while something else started.
De Payns felt cold sweat on his forehead, his neck overheating. He stuck his head out of the bathroom, where he was unsighted from the bedroom. He saw the walk-in wardrobe in the passage to the main stateroom and slipped quietly into its darkness. There was no way out of the cabin except by seriously harming Faisal al-Mismari, which would set off more than a spy hunt. The lovers came up for breath and Lucy said, ‘Come on, let’s do some Charlie and go back to the party.’
‘Okay, okay,’ said the Libyan. ‘Wait here.’
De Payns stood, his back to the side bulkhead of the walk-in, beside al-Mismari’s hangered clothes, praying the man wouldn’t decide to change his shirt. But Faisal walked past the wardrobe into the bathroom and emerged again, talking as he went. De Payns listened to the sound of people snorting, and then Lucy said, ‘Come on, take me dancing,’ and Faisal made a comment about bossy Englishwomen.
The door to the stateroom opened and then closed, and de Payns released his breath. He could feel the fatigue in his bones and he knew it was time to get out of there.
Walking to the windows of the stateroom, he unlocked the door that led onto the VIPs’ promenade deck and stuck his head out. The sea whooshed by below and the breeze was cold. The deck was partially lit but empty and the sounds of a disco could be heard. De Payns slipped through the door and moved down the promenade deck, aware it was a no-go zone for the crew. At the aft end of the deck, there was a security gate, locked. He climbed onto the railing and eased around the gate, the sea foaming thirty metres below him. Landing on the other side, he saw the rear helicopter deck and descended a companionway to the level of the hangar and the speedboats.
‘You lost?’ The voice was South African, and de Payns smiled as Josey, a mechanic he’d met in the mess, walked out of the hangar.
‘Actually, I am,’ said de Payns. ‘I’m trying to get back to the crew mess.’
Josey sniggered. ‘You’re two levels too high, mate. Above your station.’
‘I’m working on knowing my place,’ said de Payns, and the Saffa laughed.
De Payns descended two flights of the crew companionway, and walked into the mess, where Gretel was still glued to the Italian game show.
‘I’m sorry, Gretel—’ he started, but she cut him off.
‘Sshh,’ said the Austrian, as a contestant yelled with what could have been pain or joy. ‘This is the good bit.’
De Payns dropped the key in front of her and made to go.
‘Ahmed wants you,’ she said, without looking up. ‘They’re at the disco.’
■
The disco dancefloor was in the covered section that led on to the pool deck, and it was pumping with Rod Stewart’s ‘Da Ya Think I’m Sexy?’, the Russians and Libyans swamped for choice of dance partners.
Ahmed walked towards de Payns, carrying a walkie-talkie.
‘You’re on this deck tonight,’ said Ahmed, giving him a suspicious look. ‘But you’re being paid to serve drinks, not to get chatty with the guests. Got it?’
De Payns nodded and turned to the bar.
‘Champagne and vodka shots,’ said Otis, clicking his fingers and pointing at a silver tray.
‘Where’s Simone and Claire?’ asked de Payns.
‘VIPs couldn’t control their hands,’ said Otis, shaking his head. ‘Susan sent them downstairs.’
‘What, there’s not enough women to hit on?’ asked de Payns, nodding at the dancefloor, which was thronged with shapely females in skimpy dresses.
‘Some dudes only want what they can’t have,’ said Otis. ‘Start with the champagne.’
De Payns did the rounds, keeping the guests and the escorts topped up. He was on his way back to the bar when he was intercepted by Carrie, the striking American woman in the fuchsia dress.
‘Fred, is it?’ she asked, with a winning smile.
‘Madame Carrie,’ he said, affecting a short bow. ‘How is your drink?’
‘Tide is out,’ she said, holding up her glass. ‘Wanna hear the secret of my success?’
‘Please tell me,’ said de Payns, pouring.
‘When we’re working, we’re working,’ she said, steely but friendly. ‘We don’t fuck the help.’
De Payns smiled with relief. ‘I totally agree.’
‘Good,’ said Carrie. ‘I don’t want my girls getting distracted, you understand me?’
De Payns nodded. ‘Sure.’
‘So, we’re agreed.’ She smiled. ‘No more charming Frenchman.’
■
De Payns stood on the aft part of the helicopter deck, the breeze off Sicily having died down to a cool but still night, the stars shining. Azzam was anchored off the western side of the island, and he imagined the view would wow the guests in the morning. He pulled a cigarette from the cigar tube and went to light it.
‘Got one for me?’ came a South African voice.
He turned and saw Josey, now out of his red overalls and wearing a grey tracksuit and sports slides.
They lit their cigarettes. ‘Amazing how geography is so important,’ said the South African. ‘Every empire has made a point of controlling Sicily, because from a maritime point of view, it divides the western and eastern Mediterranean.’
De Payns nodded. He’d been on a class trip to Syracuse when he was at boarding school, and it was obvious that the Greeks thought a foothold on Sicily was important. As did the Phoenicians, Romans, Normans, Ottomans and the various Catholic military orders, such as the Templar Knights, who’d held commanderies on the island.
‘Never understood how the Italians held on to it,’ said Josey with a shrug. ‘Strikes me as the kind of place that a superpower would like, know what I mean?’
When the mechanic had departed, de Payns opened the cigar tube and dropped in the MicroSD card from his watch then added the USB key that contained Boris’s laptop hard drive. He screwed down the cap of the cigar tube and turned an inner cap a quarter turn, activating a tiny beacon that would only be visible to observers with night-vision goggles. He looked around briefly—double-checking he was in a zone not covered by security cameras—then threw the canister into the water. It sank slightly and then bobbed up. Drawing the key ring from his pocket, he activated the infrared torch and pointed it aft of Azzam, clicking a series of three long dashes into the darkness. This, too, would only be seen by people wearing night-vision goggles. It was now up to the dive team on the boat following the yacht to find the canister and get the prod back to Paris.
De Payns dragged on his smoke and looked over the transom of Azzam, clicking his laser torch three more times for good measure, then he turned and headed for his cabin. He felt lighter, knowing he no longer had compromising material on him and that the Cat would have everything he’d gathered, even if something happened to him between Azzam and Paris. He just wished he’d been able to find something in Faisal’s room. All he had at the moment was an overheard conversation and the gossip of an escort; Briffaut would want more than that.
Lying in his bunk, he went over every step he’d made during the day, auditing himself for mistakes or oversights. He mentally stepped through the infiltration of Faisal al-Mismari’s stateroom and the download of Boris’s MacBook. Would Ahmed or Boris pick up on something? Would the Wagner Group security people? He had limited control over that. He’d stayed as clean as he could, but there were cameras all over Azzam and he hoped that the fact he couldn’t see any in the passageways and staterooms meant there were none to be seen.
As he drifted off, his mind wandered to Jacques. Susan had told the crew that he’d been flown back to Nice for a medical emergency. Given the people on this boat, de Payns knew that the medical emergency would be broken fingers and missing teeth, but it was just as likely the randy ski instructor was learning to swim with concrete flippers. Again de Payns regretted that he’d had to use Jacques as a decoy—it wasn’t fair. But he stopped the train of thought. As Carrie had said at the disco, when you’re working, you’re working.