House of Spies Page 22

  “And if I do?”

  “We’re going to make a video,” said Keller.

  “And if I don’t?”

  “You’re going to get the JLM treatment. And I’m not talking about a nice dinner or a night in a luxury hotel suite.”

  Devereaux managed a smile. Then, from deep within his throat, he produced a rich, gelatinous ball of phlegm and spat it into Keller’s face. With a corner of the bedding, Keller calmly wiped away the mess before going out to retrieve the hammer from the Corsican. He struck Devereaux with it several times, concentrating his efforts on the right shoulder and avoiding the head and face entirely. Then he went up the companionway to the main salon, where he found Don Orsati watching the football match.

  “Was it something he said or didn’t say?”

  “It was something he did,” answered Keller.

  “Was there blood?”

  “A little.”

  “I’m glad you waited until I left. I can’t stand the sight of blood.”

  A thunderous cheer spilled from the television.

  “It’s a rout,” said the don gloomily.

  “Yes,” answered Keller. “Let us hope.”

  37

  The Mediterranean Sea

  Christopher Keller made three more trips to the smallest of Celine’s cabins—one at eleven, a second shortly after midnight, and a lengthy visit beginning at half past one that left René Devereaux, a hardened Marseilles criminal with much blood on his hands, weeping uncontrollably and begging for mercy. Keller bestowed it, but only on one condition. Devereaux was going to tell him everything, on camera. Otherwise, Keller was going to break every bone in Devereaux’s body, slowly, with care and forethought and pauses for refreshment and reflection.

  He had made a great deal of progress toward that eventuality already. Devereaux’s right shoulder, in which a bullet was lodged, had suffered numerous fractures. Additionally, the right elbow was fractured, as was the left. Both hands were in deplorable condition, and the injury to the right knee, were it allowed to heal properly, would likely have left Devereaux with a permanent limp to match Saladin’s.

  Moving him to the salon, where a camera had been mounted atop a tripod, proved to be a challenge. Giancomo pulled him up the companionway while Keller pushed from beneath, giving much-needed support to the ruined leg. Cognac was provided, along with a powerful over-the-counter French pain medication that could make one forget a missing limb. Keller helped Devereaux into a bright yellow watch jacket and with a comb tidied up his lank, thinning hair. Then he switched on the camera and, after scrutinizing the shot carefully, posed his first question.

  “What is your name?”

  “René Devereaux.”

  “What do you do for a living?”

  “I own an electronics shop on the Place Jean Jaurès.”

  “What is the real nature of your work?”

  “Drugs.”

  “Where did you first meet Jean-Luc Martel?”

  “At a restaurant in Marseilles.”

  “Who owned the restaurant?”

  “Philippe Renard.”

  “What was Renard’s real business?”

  “Drugs.”

  “Where is Philippe Renard now?”

  “Dead.”

  “Who killed him?”

  “Jean-Luc Martel.”

  “How did he kill him?”

  “With a hammer.”

  “What does Jean-Luc Martel do now?”

  “He owns several restaurants, hotels, and retail businesses.”

  “What is his real business?”

  “Drugs,” said René Devereaux.

  They put in at Ajaccio at half past nine. From there it was only a pleasant walk around the curving shoreline of the gulf to the airport. The next flight for Marseilles departed at noon. Keller arrived at eleven fifteen, having stopped for a late breakfast and to purchase a change of clothing. He dressed in an airport washroom and then cleared security with no possessions other than his wallet, a British passport, and his MI6 mobile. On it was a compressed and heavily encrypted video of René Devereaux’s interrogation. At that moment it was perhaps the most important single piece of intelligence in the global war on terrorism.

  Keller switched off the phone before takeoff and did not turn it on again until he was walking through the terminal in Marseilles. Mikhail was waiting outside, in the back of Dmitri Antonov’s Maybach. Yaakov Rossman was behind the wheel. They listened to the interrogation through the car’s magnificent sound system while heading eastward on the Autoroute.

  “You missed your true calling,” said Mikhail. “You should have been a television interviewer. Or a grand inquisitor.”

  “Repent, my son.”

  “Think he will?”

  “Martel? Not without a fight.”

  “There’s no way he can hide from this video. He’s ours now.”

  “We’ll see,” said Keller.

  It was approaching four in the afternoon by the time the Maybach turned through the gate of the safe house in Ramatuelle. Entering, Keller transferred the video file into the main operational computer network. A moment later René Devereaux’s face appeared on the monitors.

  “Where is Philippe Renard now?”

  “Dead.”

  “Who killed him?”

  “Jean-Luc Martel.”

  “How did he kill him?”

  “With a hammer.”

  And on it went for the better part of two hours. Names, dates, places, routes, methods, money . . . It all came down to money. Under Keller’s relentless questioning—and the threat, unseen on the video, of the hammer—René Devereaux surrendered the network’s most precious secrets. How the money was collected from the street-level dealers. How the money was loaded into the laundry that was JLM Enterprises. And how, once it was cleaned and pressed, it was dispersed. The detail was granular, high resolution. There was no hiding from it. Jean-Luc Martel was in their sights. But who would be the one to offer a lifeline? Paul Rousseau declared it would be him. Martel, he said, was a French problem. Only a French solution would do.

  And so, with Gabriel’s help, Rousseau prepared an edited clip of the interrogation, thirty-three seconds in length. It was a teaser, an appetizer. “A love tap,” as Gabriel called it. Martel was holding court in the bar of his restaurant in the Old Port when it appeared on his phone via an anonymous text. The phone itself was thoroughly compromised, allowing Gabriel and Rousseau and the rest of the team to watch the many shades of Martel’s rising alarm as he viewed it. A second video appeared a few seconds later, just for good measure. It depicted a brief sexual encounter between Martel and Monique, Olivia’s receptionist at the gallery. It had been shot with the same phone Martel now held in his hand, which, from the team’s unique perspective, appeared to be shaking uncontrollably.

  It was at this point that Rousseau dialed Martel directly. Not surprisingly, he did not answer, leaving Rousseau no option but to offer his terms in a voice message. They were the equivalent of unconditional surrender. Jean-Luc Martel was to present himself forthwith at Villa Soleil, alone, with no bodyguards. Any attempt to escape, warned Rousseau, would be thwarted. His planes and helicopters would be grounded, his 142-foot motor yacht would be stranded in port. “Obviously,” said Rousseau, “your movements and communications are being monitored. You have one opportunity to avoid arrest and ruin. I’d advise you to take it.”

  With that, Rousseau terminated the call. Five minutes elapsed before Martel listened to the message. At which point the wait began. Gabriel stood before the monitors, a hand to his chin, his head tilted slightly to one side, while in the garden Christopher Keller smashed his MI6 phone to bits with a hammer. Rousseau watched from the French doors. He would give Martel one chance to save himself. He only hoped he was wise enough to take it.

  38

  Côte d’Azur, France

  This time they left the gate open for him, though at Gabriel’s suggestion they blocked the road beyond Villa So
leil, lest he have a change of heart and try to make a run for it westward along the Côte d’Azur. He arrived, alone, at nine fifteen that same night, after a series of tense phone calls with Paul Rousseau. His appearance at the villa, he claimed, was by no means an admission of anything. He did not know the man in the video, his claims were ludicrous. His business was hospitality and luxury retail, not drugs, and anyone who claimed otherwise would face serious legal consequences. In response, Rousseau made it clear that this was not a legal question but a matter involving French national security. Martel, during a final tense exchange, actually sounded intrigued. He demanded to bring a lawyer. “No lawyers,” said Rousseau. “They only get in the way.”

  Once again it was Roland Girard of Alpha Group who awaited him in the forecourt. His greeting was decidedly less cordial.

  “Are you carrying a weapon?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Raise your arms.”

  Reluctantly, Martel complied. Girard searched him thoroughly, beginning with the back of the neck and ending with the ankles. Rising, the Alpha Group operative found himself staring into a pair of furious dark eyes.

  “Is there something you wish to say to me, Jean-Luc?”

  Martel was silent, a first.

  “This way,” said Girard.

  He took Martel by the elbow and led him into the villa. Christopher Keller waited in the entrance hall.

  “Jean-Luc! So sorry about the circumstances of the invitation, but we needed to get your attention.” They were the last French words Keller spoke. The rest flowed in British-accented English. “Lives are at stake, you see, and we haven’t much time. This way, please.”

  Martel remained frozen in place.

  “Something wrong, Jean-Luc?”

  “You’re—”

  “Not French,” interjected Keller. “And I’m not from the island of Corsica, either. All that was for your benefit. I’m afraid you’ve been the target of a rather elaborate deception.”

  Dazed, Martel followed Keller into the grandest of Villa Soleil’s sitting rooms, where long white curtains billowed and snapped like mainsails in the night wind. Natalie sat at one end of a couch, dressed in a tracksuit and her neon-green trainers. Mikhail sat opposite in a pair of jeans and a V-neck cotton pullover. Paul Rousseau was scrutinizing one of the paintings. And in the far corner of the room, alone on his own private island, Gabriel was scrutinizing Jean-Luc Martel.

  It was Rousseau, turning, who spoke next.

  “I wish we could say it is a pleasure to meet you, but it is not. When we look at you, we wonder why it is we do what we do. Why we make the sacrifices. Why we take the risks. Quite honestly, your life is not worth protecting. But that’s neither here nor there. We need your help, and so we have no choice but to welcome you, however grudgingly, into our midst.”

  Martel’s eyes moved from face to face—the man he knew as Monsieur Carnot, the Antonovs, the silent figure watching him from his lonely outpost in the corner of the room—before settling once more on Rousseau.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “My name,” replied Rousseau, “is not important. Indeed, in our line of work, names don’t really mean much, as I’m sure you realize by now.”

  “Who do you work for?”

  “A department of the Interior Ministry.”

  “The DGSI?”

  “It’s not relevant. In fact,” Rousseau added, “the only salient aspect of my employment is that I’m not a police officer.”

  “And the rest?” asked Martel, glancing around the room.

  “They are associates of mine.”

  He looked at Gabriel. “What about him?”

  “Think of him as an observer.”

  Martel frowned. “Why am I here? What is this about?”

  “Drugs,” answered Rousseau.

  “I told you, I’m not involved in drugs.”

  Rousseau exhaled slowly. “Let’s skip this part, shall we? You know what you do for a living, and so do we. In a perfect world, you would be in handcuffs right now. But needless to say, this world of ours is far from perfect. It’s a chaotic, dangerous mess. But your work,” said Rousseau disdainfully, “has left you uniquely positioned to do something about it. We’re prepared to be generous if you help us. And equally unforgiving if you refuse.”

  Martel squared his shoulders and stood a little taller. “That video,” he said, “proves nothing.”

  “You’ve only heard a small portion of it. The entire video is nearly two hours in length and quite extraordinary in detail. In short, it lays bare all your dirty secrets. Were such a document to fall into the hands of the police, you would certainly spend your remaining years behind bars. Which is where,” Rousseau added pointedly, “you belong. And if the tape were given to an enterprising reporter who’s never bought into the JLM fairy tale, the impact on your business empire would be catastrophic. All your powerful friends, the ones you bribe with food and drink and luxury accommodations, would abandon you like rats fleeing a sinking ship. No one would protect you.”

  Martel opened his mouth to answer, but Rousseau plowed on.

  “And then there is the matter of Galerie Olivia Watson. We’ve had the opportunity to review several of its transactions. They’re questionable, to say the least. Especially those forty-eight blank canvases that were shipped to the Geneva Freeport. You’ve placed Madame Watson in an untenable situation. Her art gallery, like the rest of your empire, is a criminal enterprise. Oh, I suppose it’s possible you might wriggle out of the noose, but your wife—”

  “She’s not my wife.”

  “Oh, yes, forgive me,” said Rousseau. “How should I refer to her?”

  Martel ignored the question. “Have you involved her in this?”

  “Madame Watson knows nothing, and we would prefer to keep it that way. There’s no need to drag her into this. At least not yet.” Rousseau paused, then asked, “How did you explain the fact that you were coming here tonight?”

  “I told her I had a business meeting.”

  “And she believed you?”

  “Why wouldn’t she?”

  “Because you have a bit of a track record.” Rousseau gave a confiding smile. “What you do in your spare time is none of my business. We’re French, you and I. Men of the world. My point is, it would not be altogether troubling to us if Madame Watson were left with the impression you were with another woman tonight.”

  “Not troubling for you,” said Martel, “but for me . . .”

  “I’m sure you’ll think of something to say to her. You always do. But back to the matter at hand,” said Rousseau. “It should be obvious by this point that you have been the target of a carefully planned operation. Now it’s time to move to the next phase.”

  “The next phase?”

  “The prize,” said Rousseau. “You’re going to help us find him. And if you don’t, I’m going to make it my life’s work to destroy you. And Madame Watson.” After a silence, Rousseau added, “Or perhaps the thought of Madame Watson suffering for your crimes doesn’t bother you. Perhaps you find such sentiments old-fashioned. Perhaps you’re not that sort of man.”

  Martel returned Rousseau’s gaze calmly. But when his eyes settled once more on Gabriel, his confidence appeared to waver.

  “In any case,” Rousseau was saying, “now might be a good time to listen to the rest of René Devereaux’s interrogation. Not the entire thing, that would take too long. Just the relevant portion.”

  He glanced at Mikhail, who tapped a key on a laptop computer. Instantly, the room swelled with the sound of two men speaking in French, one with a distinct Corsican accent, the other as though he were in physical pain.

  “Where do the drugs come from?”

  “We get them from all over. Turkey, Lebanon, Afghanistan, everywhere.”

  “And the hash?”

  “The hash comes from Morocco.”

  “Who’s your supplier?”

  “We used to have several. Now w
e work with one man. He’s the largest producer in the country.”

  “His name?”

  “Mohammad.”

  “Mohammad what?”

  “Bakkar.”

  Mikhail paused the recording. Rousseau looked at Jean-Luc Martel and smiled.

  “Why don’t we start there,” he said. “With Mohammad Bakkar.”

  39

  Côte d’Azur, France

  There are many reasons why an individual might agree to work on behalf of an intelligence service, few of them admirable. Some do it out of avarice, some for love or political conviction. And some do it because they are bored or disgruntled or vengeful at having been passed over for promotion while colleagues, whom they invariably regard as inferior, are pushed up the ladder of success. With a bit of flattery and a pot of money, these contemptible souls can be convinced to betray the secrets that pass between their fingertips or through the computer networks they are hired to maintain. Professional intelligence officers are more than happy to take advantage of such men, but secretly they despise them. Almost as much as the man who betrays his country for reasons of conscience. These are the useful idiots of the trade. For the professional, there is no lower form of life.

  Nor does the professional trust those who volunteer their services, for oftentimes it is difficult to assess their true motives. Instead, he prefers to identify a potential recruit and then make the first move. Usually, he comes bearing gifts, but occasionally he finds it necessary to employ less savory methods. Consequently, the professional is always on the lookout for failings and weakness—an extramarital affair, a predilection for pornography, a financial indiscretion. These are the master keys of the trade. They unlock any door. Moreover, coercion is a great clarifier of intentions. It illuminates the dark corners of the human heart. The man who spies because he has no other choice is less of a mystery than one who walks into an embassy with a briefcase full of stolen documents. Still, the coerced asset can never be fully trusted. Inevitably, he will attempt to find some way to repay the injustice visited upon him, and he can be controlled only so long as his original sin remains a threat to him. Therefore, asset and handler invariably find themselves entangled in a love affair of the damned.