One of the great conveniences of the EU is that a person can travel between countries without any formalities so long as they stay on the road and avoid airports. Accordingly, Martin had adopted the habit of moving anonymously from country to country by car. It had the added benefit that it facilitated the transport of the tools of his trade for those times when he did not have the benefit of a drop.
The drive from the Rhine valley to Paris was easy enough with freeways all the way, but at legal speeds it would still take 7 or 8 hours, allowing for the odd pit stop. Martin enjoyed these drives across Europe. He rarely listened to the car radio, preferring instead to be alone with his thoughts. Once south of Frankfurt the traffic became lighter and, ignoring the maniacs in the outside lane, Martin was able to relax into his thoughts.
Since he had fallen in love with Susi, Martin had begun for the first time to contemplate retirement, although he was only 37 years old, or at least a change of vocation. These thoughts had, at the same time, prompted him to reflect more often on how he got started with his current career in the first place. It would have been nice to be able to tell his grandchildren that he had taken it up in pursuit of some high minded goal – defending his country, defending his faith or avenging a lost love perhaps. But unfortunately if he was being entirely frank with himself his primary motivations were personal – the incredible adrenaline rush he got when he was on a job and greed, for this profession paid very well indeed. It was these thoughts that returned now as Martin headed for Paris.
There was nothing in Martin's background or upbringing which would have given an analyst any hint of the murderous bent which his life would take. He grew up in a suburb of Melbourne, Australia, the third child of a successful, well adjusted middle class family. His two older brothers taught him the importance of being competitive and the rudiments of self defense. His grandfather taught him how to survive in the wild by living off the land and how to distinguish the edible from the poisonous. These were the skills of necessity for the unemployed during the great depression, but had often stood Martin in good stead in recent years. His father taught him flamboyance and ambition, his mother modesty and humility. Martin was educated in unpretentious state run schools and excelled in class. He ignored his mother's suggestions that he leave school after high school and become a bank teller since he "wasn't good with his hands" making the engineering careers of his brothers and father more difficult in her eyes to pursue, and went instead to law school on the recommendation of a high school teacher. At law school he again excelled and he had every intention of pursuing a legal career until one rainy day he sought the shelter of a lecture theatre that was being used by the Australian Foreign Service for a recruitment talk. He listened with even increasing interest to the speaker's description of his own career moving from country to country every three years or so. Martin, who had always believed he had a marked resemblance to Cary Grant, could see himself as a diplomat, cocktail in hand, conversing with a Countess on a terrace in Monte Carlo.
With this vision still in mind, when he eventually made in into the Foreign Service he immediately volunteered for a vacancy as Third Secretary in Mexico City. To his disappointment, he was pulled aside soon after by the Head of Personnel who explained to him that there were two types of people in the Foreign Service – those who would be sent to places like Mexico City, Paris, Ottawa and Wellington and those who were meant for the more serious business of the Service and would be sent to places like Vientiane, Saigon, Beijing and Jakarta. Martin, it seemed, had been recruited to fall into the second category. Martin was at once flattered and disappointed - flattered, because the high flyers were being sent on the more challenging assignments - disappointed, because he still hankered after the good life in some of the world's more salubrious cities.
Martin's Foreign Service career would last 10 years and include postings in Vientiane, Jakarta, Washington DC and Cairo. It was in Cairo that he would kill for the first time. Not because anyone asked him to, but in self defense when he was awakened in his room by an intruder. He killed that intruder exactly the same way he had killed Ursula Beck. He crept up behind him and snapped his neck – just as he had seen done in myriad action movies. And he had to admit he enjoyed it.
There were repercussions after the killing. The man he killed was a known felon and the Cairo police didn't care, but there were clearly concerns within the Foreign Service about whether this was correct behavior for a diplomat. Had Martin used proportional force? Was there a non-violent alternative? Could Martin be totally relied upon not to embarrass the Service in the future? It was evident to Martin that his career was at best likely to slow down and at worst become limited to a desk job in Canberra as a poorly paid civil servant. Martin was contemplating there risks when he was invited to coffee by a friend from the French Diplomatic Service during a visit to Paris on a leave break from Cairo. His friend, Jean Louis Trigaux, had served with him in Vientiane, although Martin was not really clear about Jean Louis' precise role in the French mission. Jean Louis had heard about the incident in Cairo and teased Martin about the efficiency of Martin's termination of the intruder. Martin told Jean Louis of the damage it seemed to have done to Martin's career and his own concerns about his future. Jean Louis told Martin that he might have some friends who could help.
The first contact had come about a month later in Cairo. Martin was shocked at first. He knew they were not joking. His initial reaction was "of course not'. But after a seven figure number was dangled in front of him for the first assignment, Martin promised to think it over. He asked them to contact him again a week later. When the contact came, Martin agreed.
Looking back now it was hard to decide whether the money was more important or the sense of excitement and adventure. He liked the money. It would not do to live in a flash apartment or drive a Ferrari. But Martin could live in a comfortable, large, if discreet apartment, and he could afford the best tailors, Brioni ties, Ferragamo shoes and 1982 Chateau Palmer with his favourite pizza. But he also liked the excitement. It was truly addictive. Every sense and nerve in his body was on heightened alert from the time he received an assignment until it was executed and the climax was almost sexual.
Martin had spent the ten years since Cairo training himself to be the best that he could be. He had become an expert in all forms of firearms and an excellent marksman. He held a black belt in Tae Kwon Do and was continually at peak fitness. He had read every manual there was to read on the trade craft of the clandestine services and had requested and received specific training from his new employers. Martin had also spent the five years saving money and investing it conservatively. His aim had been to build up at least $10 million and then retire. Until 3 months ago, markets had been very kind to him and had actually accumulated closer to $20 million. With the global financial collapse he was now back down to $12 million, but he was confident that the remainder was both secure and well poised to benefit when the inevitable recovery came.
His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden stoppage of the traffic on the freeway as the police diverted the flow into two lanes to pass a broken down truck, Martin's thoughts switched from himself back to Ursula Beck.
What had troubled him so much about Ms. Beck? In the stress and immediacy of the Dusseldorf job he had not had time of reflect and evaluate his reactions, but now he went over the events more carefully, seeking the triggers of his concern. One was her voice, he concluded. She spoke impeccable German, too impeccable. No trace of any regional accent. No trace of contemporary slang. And then had been a hint of something else – something almost French?
The second trigger had been her underwear. There was a disconnect between the outerwear and the underwear. The outerwear was American – St John – but in the beautifully tailored way characteristic of German culture. The underwear was feminine to the point of discomfort. Of course, such underwear could not doubt be bought in any city in the world but it wasn't its origin that troubled him. It was that the same woman would wear she superb, classic outwear and the cheap tarts lingerie beneath.
If Ms. Beck was indeed French and sent to keep an eye on him that was a very worrying turn of events. Martin was not aware it had ever happened before and it was not a good sign in terms of his longevity in his trade.
Martin had reached the border and pulled off the freeway into one of the roadside truck stops. He purchased a beef sandwich and a coffee and ate them quietly in his car. He had kept careful watch since he begun his journey and he was confident he had not been followed. He also carried a beacon detector with him and he was confident none was attached to his car.
Back on the road Martin wrestled with the other issue that was nagging him about the Dusseldorf contract. As he looked down the telescope sight he recognized his target, just as he had when he first received the instructions – a prominent French banker rumored to be the primary financial supporter of President Sarkozy. About two thirds of the time Martin recognized his quarry and they had invariably been known bad guys or at least explicable targets of the French Government. M. Frey was inexplicable. Impeccable Government career, transition to investment banking, enormously wealthy and the pride of the French banking community as the proof that France did not need Wall Street. Martin's employers were the good guys, although he did not know precisely with whom he was dealing and they must have their reasons, but it was curious and Martin did not like curiosities in his line of business.
The signs began to promise Eurodisney and Charles de Gaulle. Martin negotiated the exit to Charles de Gaulle and followed the sign to Sixt Rent a Car, where he surrendered the Mercedes after a careful wipe down. From there he took an airport bus to central Paris and, by indirect route, the Metro to Place Vendome. The trade craft was ingrained although Martin had no reason to believe he would be followed. He had attempted to ensure that his employers would not be aware of address just as he was not aware of theirs. But he was not sanguine about his success in that endeavor. At Place Vendome Martin walked past Cartier and walked around to the rear of the Ritz to Rue Volnay. His landlady was, as always, seated in her little front office with its lace curtains. They greeted each other and he walked up the two floors to his modest apartment. There was no evidence his door had been opened – the hairs he left across the gate were all in place.
Martin always felt relaxed when he entered his apartment and the feeling of relief served to underline the tension he had been under throughout every minute of the execution of the contract and the journey home. He showered and changed into slacks and a polo shirt and then left the apartment again. He did not bother with any tradecraft because he was not going far and he would be in position to keep an eye on the building while he ate dinner.
Martin had come to love the Bistro Volnay. Over the years he had became friends with the owners. It was the ideal type of friendship. A congenial welcome, an enjoyable conversation about Les Blues or the latest political corruption scandal, but nothing personal, no probing about jobs, girlfriends or where he came from or where he was going. He loved it too for the food. Unreconstructed traditional fare from le Coeur de la France. No cuisine minceur, no cuisine de soleil, no fusions here. Just Beouf Bourgogne, Rognons, Rilletes, Steak Pommes Frit and Loup de Mere, all washed down with a bottle of the Volnay which gave the street and the restaurant its name. The only danger at Bistro Volnay was the Eaux de Vie, and Martin had learned early on the to resist his hosts' offers of a free tipple at the end of the meal. He would sleep well enough tonight without booze.