The countermeasure to Vulcan was dubbed Operation Ellipse. It required a plan to be drawn up and authorised by Anthony Frasier, however it would first be constructed by the chef de mission, Alec de Payns, alongside Mattieu Garrat, the deputy to Briffaut who managed operational resourcing at the Bunker.
‘Can you get me something tomorrow?’ asked Briffaut as they sped across Paris in the black Viano transporter.
‘Ask me after I’ve had a shower,’ said de Payns.
‘Give me broad strokes,’ said Briffaut. ‘Mattieu can start a budget, and I’ll have it signed off. I have to manage Frasier. You see what he’s up against with Sturt. My God, so political. He should have been a minister.’
De Payns laughed, the tension of the meeting leaving him. ‘Did you see how Sturt shut down Marie when she mentioned China and Iran?’
‘Politicians find it easier to claim they didn’t know about an outcome,’ said Briffaut. ‘Sturt will not be transmitting Marie’s observations to the Élysée, you can bet on that.’
‘What’s Sturt really worried about? When Magnus was explaining the EastMed commercial dealings …’
‘I suspect France is working politically on EastMed, and Sturt doesn’t want a bunch of knuckle-draggers like us frightening the horses. It puts Sturt in a position with us, but screw him—men who divide their loyalties multiply their enemies.’
‘Is that Julius Caesar?’
‘No, it’s my mother,’ said Briffaut. ‘Luckily we work to Frasier.’
‘I’ll get a plan together,’ said de Payns. ‘What are you thinking?’
‘We need more intelligence. We have to squeeze Lotus and Keratine, even if they are owned and handled by the DR. Fortunately, Jim owes us …’
‘And we have Starkand and Orange Top,’ said de Payns. ‘We can start with those four.’
The Viano driver raised his voice at a windshield washer who wouldn’t get out of his way when the light went green. Briffaut spun to eyeball the nuisance, and when he turned back his expression had changed. ‘What about that other matter?’
De Payns had been waiting for it. ‘I don’t want to be put on medical leave.’
‘You won’t,’ said Briffaut. ‘Do you trust me?’
‘With my life, but not with your career.’
Briffaut burst into laughter, clearly tickled by the insult.
De Payns didn’t see the humour. ‘I’m not going on medical leave.’
Briffaut leaned forward, facing de Payns. ‘I give you my personal guarantee. I just want you well, and I want Romy onside with the Company.’
De Payns looked out the window. ‘I’ll start with Starkand’s phone, see if it’s burned.’
‘Get the boys in the basement on it immediately,’ said Briffaut, as the van entered the security box at the Bunker. ‘I want to see where he gets his product, and why he’s sending it to us.’
■
De Payns rinsed plates and handed them to Patrick, who placed them in the dishwasher, a little too loudly.
‘You object?’ asked de Payns, handing his oldest son a rinsed bowl that had recently been filled with mussels.
‘I’m tired. Why do I have to do this?’
De Payns smiled at him. His son was starting to grow tall and was using his body more on the soccer pitch. ‘So, you think your mother should have to do all the shopping, and then make a beautiful dinner for you and your brother, and then she should have to do the washing-up as well?’
Patrick shook his head, his sandy blond hair glinting in the kitchen lights. ‘No, I guess not.’
‘Maybe she should take out the garbage, too?’ de Payns continued. ‘Although that would defeat the whole purpose of having sons.’
Patrick managed a small smile. ‘Don’t worry, Dad. I do it all when you’re away.’
De Payns handed him another plate. ‘I’m glad to hear it. So, what’s up?’
Patrick peered through the servery gap in the kitchen to where his mother was looking through Oliver’s school readers. Then he lowered his voice. ‘I want to get my hair cut at Tulips, and Mum won’t let me.’
‘What’s—’ started de Payns, but Romy’s voice cut through from the dining table.
‘The answer’s no, Patrick,’ she said. ‘Nothing you say to your father will change that.’
‘Mum!’ whined Patrick. Then, turning to de Payns, ‘Dad!’
‘I said no,’ yelled Romy from the other room. ‘And your father agrees.’
De Payns looked through to the living area, where Romy’s face was a mask of annoyance. ‘What’s Tulips?’
‘A barber shop where they do mullets,’ she snapped. ‘And he’s not going there.’
‘Charles did,’ said Patrick.
‘Yes, and Aunty Ana is furious,’ said Romy. ‘You’re not getting your hair done by Blanche.’
‘Who’s Blanche?’ asked de Payns, lost.
‘She’s the barber at Tulips,’ said Patrick.
‘And you want Blanche to give you a mullet? Why?’
Romy appeared in the kitchen. ‘Nice try,’ she said to her son. ‘But the answer’s still no.’
Patrick slumped. ‘Why not? The school allows it.’
‘Because I don’t allow it,’ said Romy. ‘Now go and get your stuff ready for tomorrow.’
When Patrick had left, Romy grabbed a bottle of riesling from the fridge and poured two glasses. ‘Blanche is a cool Jamaican. The boys love her because she listens to what they want and she ignores the mothers. If you’ve noticed a whole lot of unauthorised mullets walking around, that’s Blanche.’
De Payns smiled and sipped the wine. ‘Aunty Ana?’
Romy shrugged. ‘The boys have been getting closer to her, and she started referring to herself as Aunty. It’s a Syrian thing, apparently.’
De Payns let it go. His own sister lived in New York and didn’t have much to do with the family, and Romy only had a brother. If the boys were happy to call their mother’s friend Aunty, then he wouldn’t argue.
‘By the way,’ said Romy, ‘what’s happening in Ukraine?’
‘It’s on the TV,’ said de Payns, noncommittal. ‘Putin is threatening to go into Donetsk and Lugansk to protect Russian-speaking Ukrainians.’
Romy gave him a look that said don’t bullshit me. ‘You know what I mean, Alec: I’m talking about the energy part of it.’
De Payns heard small alarm bells going off. ‘Why do you ask about energy?’
‘I was at lunch with David today, and he said that no one cares about the Ukrainians. The Russians and Americans just want to control Europe’s gas supply, that’s all.’
‘Well,’ said de Payns, trying to keep it light, ‘I guess David is the expert, non?’
‘Don’t be like that,’ she snapped, leaning on the kitchen counter. ‘He created the energy program at Tirol Council, so he has some ideas about the politics of gas.’
‘Does he ask you about it?’ asked de Payns, trying to keep suspicion out of his voice.
‘No,’ said Romy, shifting her weight onto one leg. ‘I was talking about the potential shift in Western Europe if Putin annexes the Donbas, like he did Crimea, and David had another way of looking at it.’
‘Which was?’ asked de Payns.
‘David thinks Putin was relaxed when Poroshenko was in the presidential palace, because Poroshenko was reluctant to push Ukraine membership of NATO. But when Zelenskyy became president in 2019, the whole NATO thing became too aggressive, and Russia could claim America was on the doorstep. He says Russia overplayed its control of Europe’s gas and the Americans have overplayed their control of Ukraine.’
‘This David sounds quite smart,’ said de Payns, a modest amount of jealousy coming into play. ‘He’s—what—former government, now retired?’
Romy looked at her feet. ‘No, he’s our age. He was at McKinsey after leaving the Sorbonne. He was made the program director at Tirol three years ago.’
‘I see,’ said de Payns, the trickle of jealousy gaining speed. ‘He’s a pointy-head.’
Romy smirked.
‘What?’ asked de Payns.
‘Well, he’s certainly an intellectual, but there’s another side to him. He races in a thing called the Career Cup, or something like that.’
‘Races?’ asked de Payns. ‘Like, running?’
‘No, no,’ said Romy. ‘He races Porsches.’
‘Porsche Carrera Cup?’ exclaimed de Payns, jealousy now running rampant.
‘That’s it,’ said Romy, smiling. ‘He’s got a trophy in his office. Apparently he came first.’