The first hit on the Starkand burner phone occurred just after 10 a.m. Lolo got the call from the phone company and the spreadsheet was sent through, showing a twenty-second burst through a tower numbered 610491, in Les Halles. The associated number received the call through tower 1539. They displayed the tower locations on Lolo’s graphic simulator and it suggested Starkand had communicated with someone close to the Gare de Lyon.
‘Hang on,’ said de Payns, looking at the number Starkand had contacted. ‘That isn’t Zeitz’s phone?’
‘No, it’s one of the numbers Zeitz has called,’ said Tranh. ‘It’s an associated number, and now that number has called Starkand.’
‘We have a trio, and they’re in Paris,’ said de Payns. ‘Send it to the spinner teams and ask for a complete phone environment for each of them.’
Lolo got on the phone to Brent and Thierry, telling them the locations, while Tranh sent the information.
De Payns returned to his trombinoscope in the operations room and connected the phone number that was once associated with Zeitz to Starkand too.
Briffaut wandered into the room, coffee mug in hand.
‘What do we know about this mystery phone number?’ asked Briffaut, after he’d pondered the trombinoscope for a few seconds.
‘It was an associated number from the phone environment we had on Zeitz’s phone,’ said de Payns. ‘Now it’s being contacted by Starkand, and it’s in Paris.’
‘There’s three of them, not two?’
De Payns said, ‘At least three.’
‘Where?’ asked Briffaut. ‘Show me.’
De Payns handed over the printed phone tower maps.
‘This is the mystery phone?’ asked Briffaut, pointing to the area around Gare de Lyon.
‘Yes,’ said de Payns.
‘Could be the Red Lion hotel,’ said Briffaut.
De Payns looked at him. ‘That’s a fairly specific guess, boss.’
‘It was the Americans’ Paris antenna, ten years ago,’ said Briffaut, referring to a non-official HQ for the CIA, which they used as a safe house and meeting place. ‘They could be using it again.’
De Payns stared at his boss.
‘Okay, I have something to tell you,’ said Briffaut. ‘Walk with me.’
They walked to Briffaut’s bench in the park outside the Bunker and lit their smokes.
‘I had a meeting last night,’ said Briffaut. ‘Sidebar with an agent I know from BND. She worked with Christine Zeitz in the old days, before Zeitz was dumped by the German services.’
‘The Damascus thing?’
‘Yeah, that,’ said Briffaut. ‘I wanted to see the German reaction to the photo.’
‘And?’ asked de Payns.
‘Fifty-fifty,’ said Briffaut, ducking into his coat collar as a cold breeze drifted across the lawn. ‘My contact was surprised that we had the photo, but not surprised that we’d taken an interest in Zeitz.’
‘So how did we get to the Red Lion?’
‘I had her followed,’ said Briffaut.
‘Fuck, boss,’ said de Payns. The general rule of sidebar meetings was no tradecraft, no surveillance.
Briffaut shrugged. ‘I’m a spy, not a priest.’
‘And she went to the Red Lion?’
‘First thing this morning. And now I have Shrek on it, getting us images of everyone who walks out of that hotel.’
‘What’s your theory?’ asked de Payns, knowing that Briffaut wouldn’t assign a team without good reason.
Briffaut sucked on the smoke and looked across the walls of the old fort. ‘We might have the CIA tickling our balls. We’ll see what Shrek brings back.’
‘Interesting,’ said de Payns. ‘The Americans are the only service that hasn’t asked for a Maypole.’
‘I’m not jumping to that conclusion,’ said Briffaut. ‘The Red Lion is an old antenna. Could be that someone is misdirecting us.’
‘We okay for that five o’clock finish today?’ asked de Payns, determined to make the gala night a success for Romy.
‘You picked up those Keratine passports from Mattieu? You onboarded Jim?’
De Payns swore silently.
‘You get that sorted before five,’ said Briffaut, flicking his cigarette into the grass, ‘and you’re a free man.’
‘Can I get that in writing, for Romy?’
‘Of course not,’ said Briffaut, buttoning his coat and turning for the Bunker. ‘What would this job be without constant disappointment?’
■
De Payns’ feet hurt. He collapsed onto the sofa as the noise levels rose. Given that he was going to the gala dinner with Romy, and it was a Friday night, Oliver and Patrick were having a sleepover at the Homsis’ place, and the apartment rang with happy cries as the kids got their bags ready. Romy and Ana seemed oblivious to the racket, but de Payns felt beaten by the week. He was now chasing a misinformation ring that was luring the Occidental services into conflict with Russia. The Company was unable to ignore an assassination attempt, even if it was obvious that the information was a manipulation, possibly by the Americans. He was stressed by how much there was at stake, although at least he had the comfort of knowing that the DR had smoothly transmitted Jim Valley to de Payns’ management, and the passports and other French IDs were being prepared.
He lacked the energy for a cocktail party or a seated dinner with a politician or CEO. An anticipatory migraine threatened at the prospect of being lectured about the sins of carbon emissions or meat-eating.
‘Give Dad a hug,’ said Romy, and Oliver made a flying leap onto his father’s stomach, causing de Payns to flinch at the impact. He wrestled his six-year-old to the side and could feel him vibrating with joy; this was his youngest son’s first sleepover.
As he lifted his boy sideways, he noticed Ana handing a plastic bag to Romy.
‘Okay, you be good tonight,’ said de Payns, wondering at the bag. ‘Both of you.’
He headed to the shower, thinking about Ollie’s excitement and wondering how many of his kids’ milestones he was missing. He dried off and tried talking himself into a higher level of energy and away from his gnawing anxiety about al-Kaniyat and the Wagner Group, assassinations and information wars. This was Romy’s night, and he wanted her to be proud when she presented her husband to the Tirol folks.
Romy hurried into the bedroom in her underwear, looking flustered.
‘What was in the bag Ana gave you?’ he asked, brushing his damp hair.
She paused. ‘Ollie’s jacket.’
‘Oh,’ he said.
‘Um, yes. He—he left it at Ana’s.’
‘Really?’ de Payns asked. ‘He was wearing it yesterday morning.’
‘Yes, he was,’ she said. ‘But she took the boys yesterday after school—I had an evening meeting.’
‘Your office must stay open late …’
‘No,’ she said, ‘I grabbed a bite to eat after work—with David.’
There was silence between them. De Payns let it hang.
‘We were going over a white paper I have to do for the OECD,’ she said, sounding defiant.
‘Okay,’ he said, with a smile. ‘I thought you were doing lunches.’
She looked at her feet and then attempted a smile in response. ‘It was a convenient time to talk over my paper.’
‘I understand,’ said de Payns, keeping his tone light despite the jealousy gnawing at him. ‘I have dinner with all sorts of people; it doesn’t mean anything. Anyway, I’m looking forward to tonight. It’ll be great.’
Romy left the room and de Payns felt terrible for her. He spent his life in restaurants and bars, with people he had no intention of declaring to his wife, and yet he’d cornered her into admitting something just because he could. He’d used silence as a weapon on his own wife, a professional technique—something he’d vowed he’d never do.
He found the dinner suit on the bed along with a new shirt, still in its box.
‘Honey,’ he said over his shoulder, as Romy reappeared in the bedroom. ‘Um … about the shirt.’
‘Yes?’ she prompted.
‘It’s blue, and it’s got a frilly front.’
‘So?’ He could see her stiffen.
‘I’m sorry, but I don’t—’
‘Stop the military family bullshit,’ she snapped. ‘This is my night, and this is what the men wear at these events.’
‘Blue?’ he repeated, incredulous. ‘I’m a guest tonight, not the waiter.’
‘Fuck, Alec!’ She stormed from the room, returning several seconds later with her phone in hand.
‘There,’ she said, thrusting it at him. ‘That’s David on the left, at the OECD symposium three weeks ago. Look at his shirt!’
De Payns squinted at the screen and saw a group of three people: on the left was Romy’s boss, the slightly too-good-looking David, who indeed wore a blue frilled shirt with his dinner suit.
‘Okay for David, the racing-car driver,’ said de Payns. ‘But I’m sure Tony Blair wears white, no frill.’
‘That’s not the point,’ Romy said, but de Payns was no longer listening. He took the phone from her hand and looked at the photo more closely. Beside David was Romy, looking fantastic in a burgundy strapless dress. But it was the third person in the photograph who had caught de Payns’ eye.
‘Who’s that on your other side?’
She peered at the fifty-something, well-groomed man he was pointing to. ‘That’s Henry—Henry Krause.’
‘Ah,’ said de Payns. ‘Is he a colleague from the Tirol Council?’
‘Henry’s our energy expert,’ she said, like he was an idiot. ‘I’ve told you about him. He’s amazing. He helped me put together the fiscal equalisation work we’re doing on the energy transition. You know: the project with the IMF?’
‘Interesting,’ said de Payns, looking at the picture again and seeing a cigarette in Starkand’s hand. ‘Will he be there tonight?’
‘Yes, but not on our table.’
‘That’s a shame.’
‘He’ll be looking after our VIP,’ said Romy, smirking.
‘Sounds intriguing,’ said de Payns.
‘It was confirmed this afternoon. I was helping David with his speech notes, and he told me.’
‘Who is it?’
‘Bill Gates,’ said Romy proudly.
De Payns whistled. ‘What’s a computer magnate doing at a European clean energy conference?’
‘Bill’s really into renewables and hydrogen,’ said Romy, ‘He’s focused on the future. Henry has been working with him.’
‘Oh, really?’ replied de Payns.
‘Yes, they’ve become very close. It’s quite a coup to have him at the dinner and involved in our programs.’
As Romy headed for the shower, de Payns took a picture of her phone screen with his burner phone and sent it to Briffaut. He typed out an accompanying message: STARKAND identified—man at right of group. Works at Tirol Council. Will be at tonight’s clean energy dinner.