Briffaut and Marie Lafont arrived at the DGSI headquarters in Levallois just before 10 a.m.
‘What if Manturov won’t talk?’ asked Lafont, as they passed through security. ‘What if he doesn’t know?’
‘Then we’ll try something else,’ said Briffaut. ‘But for now, our Wagner mercenary is the best bet.’
The DGSI guards dragged the Russian up to the same interview room where they’d last met. The Wagner mercenary didn’t look as cocky or as physically fit as he had a week earlier. ‘You here to let me out?’ he asked Briffaut. ‘You got a deal for my family, right?’
‘I’m here to talk,’ Briffaut replied. ‘But you’re reaching the end of your useful life to me.’
Manturov tried to snarl but it looked desperate. ‘The deal has to be that you get my mother out of Russia, with French papers—I want papers, too.’
‘Really?’ replied Briffaut, placing a file on the tabletop. ‘Here’s another view of the same situation. That’s a file on you, your family and nine of your military colleagues.’
Manturov shrugged. ‘So what?’
‘So that’s going to Tartus base in Syria in a few minutes, addressed to Lenny Varnachev and Boris Orlevski. I will inform them that you have switched sides and that you are now working for the French government.’
The Russian paled. ‘You can’t do that.’
‘I can do what I want,’ said Briffaut. ‘Remember our chat about the legal status of mercenaries in France?’
‘I already told you I don’t know anything about anything. I was just a soldier when that lady was raped.’
‘You might know something. You’re just unaware.’
‘Ask me,’ said Manturov.
‘Have you ever operated in Israel?’
‘Yes, but I never bombed nobody.’
‘Good for you,’ said Briffaut. ‘Where did you work?’
‘Out of Haifa,’ said Manturov.
‘The port?’ asked Lafont, opening a window on her laptop.
‘Yes,’ said Manturov. ‘They have a building there. I think it was better to be doing some things from Israel than from Syria.’
‘Can you describe the building?’ asked Briffaut.
‘Um, I think it was something to do with the sea, the ocean …’ He frowned for a moment, then his face cleared. ‘Anchor!’ he said. ‘Anchor Holdings.’
Lafont’s fingers rattled across her laptop keyboard. ‘It’s in the Mifratz commercial centre, an industrial estate beside Haifa Port. That’s it?’
‘Yes,’ said Manturov. ‘That’s it.’
‘What did you do there?’ asked Briffaut.
‘It was a place to sleep and to store things,’ said Manturov. ‘Weapons, money, vehicles.’
‘What is Varnachev doing there right now?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Manturov. ‘Varnachev is like a boss of bosses.’
‘I’m aware of who he is,’ snapped Briffaut. ‘Why is he in Haifa?’
Manturov shrugged. ‘I only know that we were going there next.’
‘We?’
‘The crew down in Marseille. I told you about them.’
‘They’d gone when we went to the marina to find them. What was taking you to Haifa?’
‘They don’t tell us details,’ said Manturov, apologetic. ‘But the rumour was they were bringing a special machine in from Russia, and my friend Arky—who used to be an engineer in the Russian navy—he was going to make it into something.’
‘Something?’ Briffaut repeated, annoyed.
‘I think he said it had to look like a control box.’
‘I don’t know what that means,’ said Briffaut. ‘What is the machine?’
Manturov shrugged. ‘Perhaps it turns out all the lights? Maybe you can’t drive your car or use your phone? I don’t know exactly; like I said, it was just a rumour.’
‘Fuck,’ said Briffaut under his breath.
Manturov was oblivious. ‘I think he said it had to look like Siemens.’
Briffaut exchanged a look with Lafont, saw his own sense of alarm mirrored on her face; the Russian was describing an electromagnetic pulse machine. He rose abruptly; he had to call de Payns.
■
The Falcon 50 landed at Haifa Airport at 2.33 p.m. De Payns, Jéjé, Danny and Templar were met by Ben Adinsky and his Shin Bet crew. Adinsky was mid-thirties, six foot tall and athletic-looking. They adjourned to an administration office.
‘You guys armed?’ asked Adinsky.
‘No,’ said de Payns.
‘Luka will fix you up.’
A heavy-set bald man in ripstop pants and a hiking shirt nodded.
‘I suggest we split up,’ said de Payns. ‘We’re looking at a crew in Hadera and one in Haifa, we think.’
‘Where does Salah fit into this?’ asked Adinsky.
De Payns disclosed most of what he knew but stayed vague on the shipment of Javelins. If the UAE were selling them, they could easily be stolen French inventory and he’d been warned by the Bunker not to embarrass France.
Adinsky looked at de Payns. ‘Manu, you can come with me to Haifa. Luka will lead the Hadera group.’
‘Okay,’ said de Payns, nodding at Templar and Danny to accompany Luka.
As Jéjé and de Payns walked towards the Shin Bet’s Toyota LandCruiser, their new Jericho 9mm pistols on their belts, Briffaut called on de Payns’ burner.
‘Varnachev’s Haifa address is Anchor Holdings, repeat Anchor,’ said Briffaut. ‘It’s in the Mifratz commercial zone. Our Wagner mercenary friend believes an EMP machine from Russia was brought there and then disguised as some sort of electrical box, maybe Siemens. You getting this?’
‘Yes, boss,’ said de Payns.
‘The tech people here say the EMP can disable every circuit on that rig, which means the safety systems won’t work and a gas explosion can’t be contained—a device called the blowout preventer will be disabled.’
‘Don’t they have mechanical safety nets for that system?’ asked de Payns, who had done a training exercise on a North Sea rig.
‘Yes, but our engineers here say that those mechanical overrides still need sensors and monitors to trigger them. If the circuits are dead, the safety system doesn’t activate.’
They sped to the Mifratz commercial area, excited Hebrew spewing from the Shin Bet comms system.
‘Tel Aviv wants to dispatch an IDF helicopter overhead,’ said Adinsky, from the front seat, ‘but I’ve said no. Let’s use our brains before we start shooting, yes?’
‘That suits me,’ said de Payns, adrenaline rising and the weight of fatigue and expectation resting heavily on him.
They swept into a lane with warehouses and light industrial buildings on either side, the driver of the LandCruiser dodging trucks and vans before pulling to a stop in front of a large white roller door, above which was a sign that read anchor holdings.
They slipped from the car and advanced towards the building; de Payns noticed that the driver was toting a black submachine gun with a short barrel. The place looked deserted, and a few kicks at the main door revealed a steel-reinforced frame.
‘Let’s have a look,’ said Adinsky.
De Payns was about to put his lock-picking skills to work, but Adinsky gestured to the Shin Bet driver, who returned to the Toyota, revved the engine and charged at the roller door, which flew off its guides and was left flapping like a sail in the breeze.
They walked in, guns raised, as workers from the neighbouring businesses formed a nosy mob on the concrete apron. The drive-in warehouse area was empty, except for steel filings and loose screws lying on the concrete. Two wooden pallets lay empty and a Nissan forklift was parked against the far wall.
‘What are we looking for?’ asked Adinsky.
‘An EMP machine,’ said de Payns. ‘The size of a small fridge but disguised inside electrical controller hardware. I believe the cabinet will be Siemens—it’s five or six metres long and two metres high.’
They moved upstairs and looked around the abandoned administration suites.
‘Nothing in the fridge,’ said Jéjé.
Adinsky walked to the kitchenette and eyed the coffee machine, putting his hand on it. ‘Still warm. Someone’s been here maybe half an hour ago.’
They spread around the estate, asking questions about who had been at the Anchor Holdings building and the consensus was that a white ten-tonne truck with a covered bed had backed in maybe forty-five minutes earlier and driven off shortly after. There were no markings on the truck, they said, but the driver had a logo on a blue shirt.
De Payns sensed that Varnachev was only half an hour in front of them, but he hoped it wasn’t the head start the Russian needed.