De Payns wrote a two-page preliminary report on Operation Alamut and the dinner meeting. He was about to shut down his system when he saw an internal phone call on his console—it said Briffaut, D.
‘Yes?’ he answered.
‘I need you in my office—now.’
Briffaut and Brent Clercq were looking at Briffaut’s computer screen when de Payns arrived.
‘Look at this,’ said Briffaut, pointing at an image. ‘Is this Murad?’
‘Étienne got it from the ferry company,’ said Brent, referring to a young operative from the Y Division. ‘Is it him, Alec?’
De Payns brought his face in close and squinted. It was grainy, shot from an oldish CCTV system, screen-grabbed and emailed. It appeared to be from footage outside the WCs on the ferry, taken on the afternoon that Commodore and de Payns had arrived in Palermo from Cagliari.
‘I believe that’s him, but how did Étienne know who to look for?’ asked de Payns, reaching for the mouse to see if he could enlarge the image.
‘Your report was very specific about where you saw the man you thought was Murad—outside the toilets, as Commodore emerged, around ten minutes before docking.’
‘Okay, well I think that’s him,’ said de Payns. ‘Although we can’t really see his face, so I’m going off my memory of his shape and clothes.’
The man was clearly looking at Commodore as the Italian emerged from the WCs, and their body language suggested some words were being exchanged.
‘No one knows who he is?’ asked de Payns.
Briffaut shook his head. ‘The Arabic desk is going over it, but it basically can’t be used. We have that and the sketch that was made from your description, which is more useful right now. That’s all we have.’
‘We don’t even know if it is Murad,’ said de Payns.
‘By the way, we’ve had a small breakthrough on the Palermo situation,’ said Briffaut. ‘Shrek’s main find was traces of epsilon toxin in the warehouse, but he also discovered that Michael Lambardi used his brother David’s real estate firm in Palermo for some back office matters such as billing and accounts. And phones.’
De Payns raised his eyebrows. ‘He mentioned David but I never met him.’
‘This is Commodore’s phone,’ said Briffaut, pulling a sheaf of printed papers from beside his PC. ‘Brent’s guys have been working on his telecoms.’
De Payns looked down the spreadsheets where they’d isolated two Michael Lambardi numbers—one seemed to be business and local and they went to a spray of Italian numbers without much pattern. But there was another IMSI—a démarqué phone—and the pattern was immediately obvious. The secondary phone only called one number, once a day.
‘We’ve had some work done on that recipient number, and it has used cell towers in northern Pakistan, probably Islamabad, and Europe, Italy and Spain. But the most common area it’s been used has been in France.’
‘Fuck,’ said de Payns. ‘What was Palermo really about?’
Briffaut pointed at the spreadsheet. ‘Look at the dates. There’s a week of those calls terminating at northern French towers—probably Paris—and then, two days before Operation Falcon goes bad, Commodore’s daily calls are terminating at Italian locations.’
‘We know Commodore was taking his orders from Sayef Albar and Murad,’ said de Payns. ‘But what’s Murad doing in Paris?’
‘Sayef Albar has been trying to move into Europe, and maybe Sicily is their staging point?’
‘Staging point for what?’ asked de Payns. ‘That gangrene shit?’
Briffaut shrugged. ‘I need more information.’
De Payns was driven in a Company Audi north into Paris, stopping at an underground car park in Muette Nord, where they switched cars before driving across town to the neighbourhood of the safe house just after midnight.
He let himself in and went to the bedroom, where he changed out of the George-the-journalist clothing into his Alec de Payns clothes and emptied his collateral onto the bureau in his locker. Having slipped on his watch and put his wallet and keys in his pocket, he suddenly felt the fatigue and paranoia. He grabbed the bureau to steady himself. Dr Death’s eyes were seared in his brain. He didn’t know if he could go home, but he knew he had to. He needed grounding.
He made fast time to Port-Royal and walked the long way to the apartment. It was almost 1 a.m. when he let himself in and tiptoed to the kitchen. The light in the extractor fan had been left on, something Romy was always telling him not to do. He smiled as he switched it off, plunging the kitchen into semi-darkness. He turned slowly, aware of a new scent. Very slight, familiar … and male. It smelled like Old Spice, which he didn’t wear. He walked to the living room and the main window in front of the Juliet balcony, then looked down to the street out of habit.
He turned for the bedrooms and, in the half-light created by the city, saw a small pile on the coffee table—Romy’s wallet and keys. He stared at it. He knew he was tired and paranoid, but it still didn’t seem right. Romy’s stuff was always piled on the hall table near the front door and it was a running joke between them, because to de Payns that was just asking for an opportunistic thief to stick his head in the door and take your stuff. And where was her phone? Romy was organised and her iPhone always accompanied her wallet and keys.
He pushed off his sneakers and padded quietly down the dark hall. The city’s ambient light didn’t reach here and he moved by muscle memory. At Patrick and Oliver’s door, he paused and stuck his head around the jamb. Oliver had a Buzz Lightyear quilt and Patrick’s was Paris Saint-Germain.
He crept into the room. No boys.
They’d probably be with their mother, a common sleep pattern when he was away. He went to the next room, and as soon as he stuck his head inside, he knew it was empty. No sleep noises, no sleep warmth or smell. He flipped the lights and his mind went to white noise. The bed was empty—it hadn’t been slept in.
Snatching his phone from his pocket, he tried Romy’s number.
It went straight to voicemail. He left a greeting and followed it up with a text. He tried to stay calm but he was flipping out.
His breath rasped as he walked the room, checked the wardrobes and under the bed. He ran through the apartment, swearing to himself, panicking, his skin crawling and his brain squawking like an old field radio. He jumped from Dr Death to Islamabad, from weaponised gas gangrene to power drills and children as he grabbed the car keys, put on his shoes and burst out of the apartment door.
He took the fire stairs down to the underground garage two at a time and headed to the family VW, which was parked in its usual spot. He walked around the car, looked under it, and then unlocked it and opened the door. There was nothing amiss—a Buzz Lightyear toy on the back seat and a book list for school on the passenger seat. He turned on the power and scrolled through Romy’s recent map directions—nothing unusual. He scrolled the recent calls on the screen. She’d received a call from Ana at 3.49 p.m. the day before; Romy had missed the call and rang her back at 4.02. They spoke for six minutes.
He returned to the apartment and sat on the sofa, cycling his breathing to calm himself. He scrolled through his own personal phone, found Ana’s number and texted, Are you awake?
The reply came twenty seconds later: Am now.
De Payns called her and Ana picked up immediately. He apologised for the hour and explained that he’d come home to an empty apartment. ‘Do you know where Romy and the boys are? Have you seen them today?’
Ana was sleepy. ‘I rang her to ask about regulation school shoes for when the boys start next week,’ said Ana. ‘We ran through it and agreed we should meet up at the park in the next couple of days. Surely they haven’t just disappeared? Could they be at Romy’s parents’ house?’
‘Not without Romy’s wallet and car keys,’ said de Payns. ‘Oliver’s teddy bear is still here. He wouldn’t sleep over without it.’
He knew what he had to do—the personal security of the Company’s operatives was handled by the DGS, and the protocol, when there was a breach, was to contact the emergency number and report it. Ending the call with Ana, he dialled the number which all operatives had to memorise. He was asked for his OT number by the male voice on the end of the line, who paused. ‘I can’t respond to you,’ said the DGS man.
‘What?!’ replied de Payns. ‘You can’t—’
‘There’s a note; I’ll connect you now,’ said the man, and the line clicked and buzzed, as if he was calling a new number.
‘Hello, Alec?’ answered a man.
De Payns knew the voice. ‘Manerie? Christ, is that you?’