The Alamut team went to lunch early. Briffaut wanted them to go and eat, regroup and come back with a solution.
Dominic Briffaut hit a four-numeral code on the landline console on his desk. Frasier picked up quickly and Briffaut told him that France could be a target, given the bioweapon was in Italy, and therefore DGSI—the Company’s domestic counterpart—should be briefed. Frasier accepted this, and Briffaut continued. ‘In about ten minutes you’ll be asked for authorisation on a transaction we’re making. I’d like you to say yes.’
‘What am I okaying?’ the director wanted to know.
‘I’d like to thank Manerie in my own way.’
There was a long pause.
‘The answer’s yes,’ said Frasier finally. ‘Make it happen. I’ll bring in DGSI.’
Briffaut rang the financial operations officer and dictated the details. Then he scrolled through the contacts in an old Nokia and hit a number. It was answered by a PA and Briffaut said, ‘Please tell Monsieur Sharif that Monsieur Roche will see him at twelve-thirty.’
Briffaut hung up before the woman could answer. Then he stood up, adjusted his tie, and walked out into the sunshine, passing through the side security gates and heading north to the greenery of the Stade Huvier. He bought a baguette with salami and cheese and a cup of coffee, and sat at a table with an umbrella. Six minutes later a portly subcontinental man in an expensive suit and dark sunglasses wandered over to the coffee cart, bought a cup and sat at Briffaut’s table. They pretended they didn’t know one another.
‘Monsieur Roche,’ said the man in an undertone, stirring his coffee. ‘It’s been a while.’
‘Thanks for joining me, Monsieur Sharif,’ said Briffaut, as a woman with three dogs walked past. ‘We had a high-level defection this morning.’
‘Who?’ asked Sharif.
‘Philippe Manerie.’
Sharif stopped stirring and looked over the top of his sunglasses at Briffaut. ‘That’s a little higher than just high level.’
‘He’s been playing both ends against the middle for a number of years,’ said Briffaut.
‘France and Pakistan?’
‘Yes,’ said Briffaut, biting into the baguette. ‘But we think he sells out both of us to the Israelis. He’s disappeared as of this morning and we assume he’s in Islamabad. That’s certainly where all his best material has come from recently.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes,’ said Briffaut, finishing the baguette and sipping the coffee. ‘We want you to know that even as he feeds us intelligence from Pakistan, we consider it damaged goods. Just so we’re clear.’
‘Understood,’ said Sharif.
‘You might find this interesting,’ said Briffaut, pushing a bank account number across the table.
Sharif took the paper and slipped it into his jacket.
‘Have a good day,’ said Briffaut, and he left, taking his coffee with him.