Jim Valley eyed the second round of vodkas being placed on the table in front of him and considered his position. He was at a sensitive point with the Russian FSB asset they were calling Keratine. The man was reluctant to give himself totally to the Company, even as he knew Paris had compromising information: Keratine’s son was gay, and Keratine was concealing it. The fact that the Russian hadn’t reported the DGSE approach to his masters was a jailable offence. Keratine was screwed, but he was pushing back.
‘A second round?’ Jim asked Keratine.
They were in the main bar of the Baku Marriott, looking over the Caspian Sea, having enjoyed a lunch that had finished with a shot of vodka. The meeting had failed to progress their arrangement. Paris wanted Keratine to start producing, while Keratine was still weighing up two evils: he could be hanged by Russia for spying for the French, or the French could expose his son, who would then be subject to the military’s brutal ‘conversion therapy’ if the Russians could catch him.
Keratine smiled wryly. ‘You’re going to lure me into some dangerous and treacherous places,’ he said, raising a shot glass. ‘I need to trust you.’
‘So, we drink vodka for lunch, and then I’m okay?’ replied Valley. ‘Sounds very Russian to me.’
Keratine laughed and pushed the other shot glass towards the Frenchman. ‘You have placed me and my family in a terrible situation. I’m sure a few drinks won’t alter your dominant position.’
‘You made a cryptic comment to me the last time we met,’ said Valley, picking up the glass. ‘You said the Russian services knew about a traitor, and you were on to him.’
‘Yes, I did,’ said Keratine, throwing down the vodka. ‘That situation has largely been cleaned up. The rats have been caught.’
Valley drained his glass, and Keratine raised his hand for the waitress.
‘What about that other matter?’ asked Valley. ‘You were going to get me more details.’
Keratine issued a request to the waitress and they watched her line up glasses on a tray and commence pouring.
‘I have an extra detail, but we have to agree on the depth of our trust,’ said Keratine, his eyes boring into Valley’s. ‘You see, the Russian services have rules and procedures, but Lenny Varnachev can act any way he sees fit.’
Valley nodded as the waitress arrived with the vodkas.
‘Given that several European services are aware of a possible assassination,’ said Valley, as the waitress left, ‘I’d say Wagner Group is a bit leaky about the plot.’
‘Certainly,’ said Keratine, lifting a shot glass and nodding for Valley to do the same. ‘But none of those services has the name Lazar Suburov attached to its intel, and I’d like it to stay that way.’
Valley raised his glass, and they both drank.
‘And what of you, Monsieur Guy?’ asked Keratine, eying another vodka. ‘Who else are you dealing with in my corner of the world?’
Valley smiled. ‘It’s better if you talk, and I listen.’
‘I mean,’ said Keratine, reaching for another glass, ‘we’ve just shut down a ring of traitors who were supplying to the West, so I wonder who else you might be running?’
Valley chuckled as he too reached for a glass. ‘You were saying? About the assassination?’
They drank.
‘You tell me something about yourself, Guy, and then we talk,’ said Keratine. ‘I can’t talk to a ghost.’
‘You’ve probably already worked it out,’ said Valley. ‘You FSB guys are pretty smart.’
‘Okay,’ said Keratine, taking another vodka. ‘I guess you’re French special forces, served in Africa or the Middle East, and you’ve also got some brains so they pushed you sideways into the Company before you started failing your Marines physicals.’
Valley roared with laughter and grabbed a shot glass. ‘You’re a funny guy, Lazar,’ he said, and downed the vodka. ‘Pity you’re not a chatty guy.’
Keratine took his final glass and raised it at Valley, who picked up his own. ‘Libyans,’ said Keratine, sculling the vodka, and raising his hand to summon the waitress. ‘The thing will be carried out by Libyans. That’s all I have.’
‘Wagner’s hitters are from Libya?’ asked Valley.
Keratine shrugged. ‘Varnachev recently met with Haftar’s people on a superyacht, I’m told. I’m assuming he’s tied up with Libya.’
‘That’ll do for now,’ said Valley. ‘And by the way, I’ve never failed a physical.’
■
Valley finally got away from Keratine at around 8 p.m. and headed for his suite. He could outdrink most people, but he was close to passing out as he hit the bed. He’d managed to vomit a couple of times in the restaurant toilets, to maintain some sobriety, but he was still very drunk. As his face sunk into the pillow, a knock came at the door. He staggered over to it, his head swirling. He wasn’t armed and he wondered if Keratine had been spinning him along, his FSB henchmen just waiting until he was alone in a room. Through the peephole he saw a beautiful woman in the hallway. He opened the door, and saw she was tall and blonde and wearing a black fur coat. When she opened the coat, she was wearing nothing but her high heels.
‘Lazar sent me,’ she said with a smile. ‘May I come in?’
Valley immediately sensed a trap but he had no choice. If he said no, he risked alienating his new friend, but to sleep with her could lead to blackmail, since the major hotels in this part of the world were infiltrated by the Russian services and the room was most certainly filled with FSB cameras.
Valley put on a smile, called her in, gave her a kiss and asked if she could have a shower first. When the woman had left for the bathroom, Valley leaned into the sofa back so the cameras could not see what came next: he put his fingers down his throat and vomited, a painful experience given his throat was already raw from the vomits he’d forced during the afternoon. When the naked woman emerged five minutes later, she found the Frenchman lying in a pool of vomit, asleep on the sofa, and when she couldn’t wake him, she left.
Keratine found Valley at the breakfast buffet the following morning, and laughed at the Frenchie who couldn’t handle his drink.
‘And I thought about making you an honorary Russian,’ said Keratine, handing Valley a foil of Advils. ‘If you can’t rally for a woman like that, you’re no countryman of mine.’
As Valley nursed a hangover and sipped strong coffee, he wondered what the Company was going to do with Lazar Suburov.