Briffaut shoved a packet of papers across his desk. ‘That’s the mail-drop you witnessed in Bern yesterday. It arrived at our consulate in Geneva this morning.’
De Payns looked at the five pages: each one was a reconnaissance report raised for Russia’s ‘Syria Directorate’, the Kremlin’s code for FSB. The reconnaissance material covered Libya’s major oil and gas production locations, its export terminals and the Italian terminus for the Greenstream gas pipeline that brought gas from Libya and pumped it into Europe.
‘Aside from Gela,’ said Briffaut, ‘all of the Russian recon sites are in western Libya, under the control of the GNA.’
The Government of National Accord was the US-backed government that General Haftar was so determined to overthrow with the help of the Russians.
‘It’s not news that the Kremlin has its eyes on Libyan gas, but I still want to know who’s feeding it to us,’ said Briffaut, pushing a file towards de Payns. ‘Now you’re here, have a look at what we learned from the Brits.’
De Payns went back to his office and sorted through the Maypole material. The British had received the same documents that Starkand had dropped to the French, and SIS had concluded they were being steered towards a view of Russia’s intentions generally, and more specifically a Wagner-supported energy strategy. The British were wary, said the external liaison officer’s notes. There was also pressure from the Foreign Office warning SIS not to concern itself with Russia’s cornering of European gas given the UK’s intention to move to green energy.
It was clear the Company had moved faster than SIS on Starkand, capturing him on camera, along with the woman he’d been seen with in Portofino and Bern; she was thought to be his handler. It put the Company in the ascendant when it came to information sharing, except for one small detail: SIS believed a person who looked like Starkand had been in the official party of a photo opportunity organised by the South African energy minister’s office two years earlier, to publicise a commitment to offshore wind turbines on their southern coast. The man in the photo was Raymond Quinette, a Belgian clean energy consultant with a mandate from some of the biggest investment banks in Europe.
De Payns flipped the page in Briffaut’s file and found a photograph lifted from a newspaper. It wasn’t exactly a crisp image, and de Payns fished in his second drawer for his magnifying glass. In the foreground of the picture were two smiling South African politicians and two Danish engineers; in the background was a windswept headland, overlooking the Southern Ocean. At the back of the group stood a middle-aged man wearing a cap and sunglasses. His jaw and mouth looked familiar. Could be Starkand, but inconclusive.
De Payns looked at his watch: just past four, giving him an hour before he was supposed to clock off. He reached for his secure landline phone and hit two buttons.
‘Lars,’ he said, when the BER–E Lars Magnus picked up on the other end. ‘Is someone working on this Raymond Quinette name?’
‘Yes, but it doesn’t lead anywhere.’
‘Is he from a service? Is it industrial espionage?’
Magnus paused. ‘Hard to tell. The South Africans are trying to attract a billion US dollars of investment into their green energy program, and we think there was Russian money in the wind turbines.’
‘Was?’
‘Some negative press was leaked about Putin’s designs on Africa’s energy system, and the use of Wagner mercenaries in Sudan and Mali. Suddenly, the banks were pulling out.’
‘Quinette is Belgian apparently, from an energy consultancy. What was the firm called?’
‘Neptune Energy, incorporated in Brussels but no longer around.’
‘If this is our guy, he’s dropping energy prod that implicates Putin,’ said de Payns. ‘Have we considered that he works for a company that competes with the Russian energy companies, Gazprom and Rosneft?’
‘We’re considering everything, but we need a name. The material he’s dropping is very serious, and while it’s unlikely that Putin will invade Ukraine, if he does we’re looking at a real stranglehold on gas into Europe. We’re assuming that’s what these drops hint at.’
De Payns thanked him. ‘I know you’re answering to the boss, but can you at least let me know if you find a name or any known aliases for Quinette?’
‘Sure thing,’ said Magnus.
■
De Payns was preparing to leave for the day, stacking his files in his safe and twirling the combination wheel, when there was a rap at the door.
‘Yes?’
He turned and found Shrek in the doorway. ‘Boss is waiting for us at Levallois,’ said Shrek, referring to the headquarters of the DGSI, the internal intelligence service, also known as the Cousins.
Shrek and de Payns made good time considering it was the beginning of the rush hour and to get to Levallois in the west of Paris meant using the commuter freeways and crossing the Boulevard Périphérique that encircled the city.
‘What’s this all about?’ asked de Payns, blowing cigarette smoke out the window as Shrek drove.
‘I’m thinking we have a breakthrough on the Degarde situation,’ said Shrek, as cagey as ever.
‘The boss had you working on that?’
‘Yep,’ said Shrek. ‘I worked on a video of the Russians, but that’s about it.’
‘I identified one of them,’ said de Payns. ‘His name was Mikhail, a bodyguard on the superyacht.’
‘Wagner Group?’ asked Shrek.
‘He was guarding a senior Wagner guy,’ said de Payns, ‘so I assume yes.’
They stopped at the DGSI security gates and were directed to the intelligence section. Inside the secure area of the building, Briffaut was sitting beside Marie Lafont at a kitchen table, talking into a phone.
Marie Lafont stood. ‘DGSI picked him up in Saint-Denis,’ she said.
‘Who?’ asked de Payns.
‘Mikhail Manturov,’ she said. ‘You spoke to him on Azzam apparently.’
They waited for Briffaut to finish on the phone, then the four of them walked the hallway to a guarded checkpoint and descended a flight of stairs that led them to a set of doors. ‘I’ll go in with Aguilar,’ said Briffaut, handing an earpiece to de Payns before turning to Shrek and Lafont. ‘You two observe and feed us if anything occurs to you.’
The interrogation cell featured a steel table and a bolted-down chair on one side, two normal chairs on the other. Mikhail Manturov was wearing a pale green tracksuit, his muscular frame squeezing out through the shoulders and arms of his sweatshirt. His feet were bare.
‘Quite the night,’ said Briffaut, sitting.
‘Who are you?’ snarled the Russian in good French.
‘I’m not confused,’ said Briffaut, his tone light. ‘But I believe you were when the cops picked you up staggering around in Square Alex-Biscarre?’
The Russian shrugged. ‘I’d had a few drinks. Not like a Frenchman to worry about that.’
‘When you threaten a cop, we take notice,’ said Briffaut. ‘Even more so when you suggest that bad luck will come to the police officer’s family unless you’re released.’
Manturov raised an eyebrow and nodded, but he was looking at de Payns. ‘I know you?’
‘I doubt it,’ said de Payns. ‘What’s your occupation, Mikhail?’
‘Backpacker,’ he said. ‘From Rostov.’
‘That’s a good haircut for a backpacker,’ de Payns commented, nodding at the army crew cut. ‘What happened to the man bun?’
Manturov shook his head, confused by the term. ‘What is that?’
‘What do you do in Rostov, Mikhail?’
Manturov chewed on the inside of his mouth. ‘I’m a barman, work on fishing boats, that sort of thing.’
‘What are you doing in Paris?’ asked Briffaut.
‘Just living on savings, staying in the hostels. You know: going to bars, doing Paris.’
Lafont’s voice crackled in de Payns’ ear: ‘He doesn’t live in a hostel—it’s a Russian-owned private hotel. We’ve found paramilitary clothes in his room.’
Briffaut pulled a Camel from his coat. ‘Rostov …’ he mused, lighting the smoke. ‘Means you speak Ukrainian, as well as Russian.’
Manturov’s face hardened, his pale eyes squinting. ‘I guess you’re not a cop.’
‘I guess you’re not a backpacker,’ said Briffaut, looking around for an ashtray. ‘Backpackers don’t need paramilitary clothing or stupid haircuts.’
‘In that case, I guess you’re not a backpacker either,’ said Manturov, smiling.
‘No,’ said Briffaut, going along with the joke. ‘I’m not. Where were you on February second?’
‘I’ve been in Paris for a month,’ said Manturov, shifting his weight.
‘Which part of Paris were you in on that date?’ asked de Payns.
Manturov shrugged. ‘Who did you say you were?’
‘I didn’t,’ said de Payns. ‘You don’t remember that night?’
Manturov turned up his palms. ‘Maybe I was drinking. Remind me.’
‘You’d remember raping a woman, non? Especially if it was in front of her young daughter?’
Manturov transformed, the backpacker smirk giving way to a military stone face. ‘That’s a very specific detail.’
‘It was a very specific night,’ said de Payns.
‘I guess I need a lawyer.’
‘I guess you’re out of luck,’ said Briffaut.
‘This is France,’ said Manturov, trying to engage in a staring contest with Briffaut. ‘I have my rights.’
‘Who said we’re in France?’ replied Briffaut, winning the contest.
‘You have to charge me,’ said the Russian, still heavy but with a slight whine in his voice.
‘With what?’ asked Briffaut, sucking on his smoke.
‘This murder …’
‘I didn’t accuse you of murder.’
‘I mean rape,’ said Manturov, slightly too quickly. ‘Excuse my French.’
‘You haven’t admitted to anything,’ said Briffaut, ‘so who’s talking about a crime?’
Manturov nodded slowly. ‘Can I have a smoke?’
‘No,’ said Briffaut. ‘Perhaps we can move on from the crime and talk about other things.’
Manturov’s nostrils flared and de Payns could see him trying to breathe without using his mouth, a technique used by military people to stay mentally acute. ‘Other things? We back to being drunk in a park?’
‘You seem to be a fan of French law, so you’d be aware of how we treat mercenaries?’ said Briffaut.
Manturov gulped. ‘Mercenaries?’
‘If you’re a soldier being paid by anyone except a government, you have no legal protections in France,’ said Briffaut. ‘You’re not a combatant and you’re not a prisoner of war. You aware of that?’
Manturov tried to stay defiant, but his pupils dilated.
‘Under French law, you’re a hostile military alien, meaning no trial, no rights, no Geneva Convention. You’re just a non-person locked up in a French internal security cell.’
Manturov held up his right hand, the manacle chain clanking. ‘Let’s stop for a second.’
‘I doubt the embassy is coming for you,’ said Briffaut. ‘Because the whole point of mercenaries is that the embassy is never invoked.’
Manturov looked at his hands.
‘And I can assure you,’ said Briffaut, ‘that our location is the last place your employers will ever attack.’
‘I can make a phone call,’ spluttered the Russian.
‘Your hearing is good,’ said Briffaut, standing. ‘But your comprehension is shit.’
‘Wait,’ said Manturov, struggling for something more to say. ‘Look, I—’
‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do,’ said Briffaut, leaning on the table, balanced on two sets of boxer’s knuckles. ‘There’s been a misunderstanding, obviously, so what I might do is have a chat to some Russians I know …’
‘Don’t do that,’ said Manturov hastily. ‘There’s no need.’
Briffaut turned to de Payns, affecting concern. ‘I think we know someone at that private military group … What are they called again?’
‘Wagner Group, I think,’ said de Payns. ‘And you’re right: there was that really nice fellow who asked us to call if we ever needed help.’
‘Yes,’ said Briffaut. ‘Boris, I think.’
‘Boris Orlevski,’ said de Payns, clicking his fingers.
‘We should contact him—what do you say, Mikhail?’
Manturov’s large, squarish head sagged slightly and he fixed his gaze on the wall. ‘I don’t know who you’re talking about,’ he said mechanically.
‘Not to worry,’ said Briffaut. ‘We’ll see if he knows you.’
Manturov turned to him. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t.’
‘Don’t be modest. Boris should hear how helpful you’ve been to the French services, and I want you to get the credit.’
Manturov stretched his neck and looked at the ceiling. ‘This is France, and I have my rights, even in a cell.’
‘Okay,’ said Briffaut, heading for the door. ‘I’ll get Boris down here. Might even release you into his custody.’
As the Russian stood and struggled against his chains, Briffaut and de Payns left the room.