Martin awoke later than was his habit. The sunlight which had rescued him from drowning – a recurrent theme in his dreams – predicted a pleasant Paris spring day. Martin showered and dressed and then entered his bank account online. He would never get used to the technology which enabled him to enter a ledger in the Bahamas anonymously and in less than a second. The money was there. He had been paid.
"Bonjour Susi" they always spoke in English but somehow the "bonjour" always seemed appropriate.
"So you are back at last" Susanti Soejarno's voice was as beautiful as her face.
"It wasn't so long. Are you free for lunch?"
"Yes, but only for lunch. I have a visitor arriving from Jakarta this afternoon and I will be tied up the rest of the week."
They agreed to meet at a Chinese restaurant they frequented not far from the Louvre. It was not exactly halal, but the food was genuine and the seafood fresh. It was a short walk for Martin and he set out in keen anticipation. He had missed Susi and found himself missing her more and more with each assignment.
When Susi entered the restaurant late as usual, Martin's heart gave the little leap it always did when he first saw her. He struggled against it at first. Ties of any kind were dangerous in his profession, not just for him but more importantly for the other party. But he could not help himself. He loved her in a way he had never felt before. He knew the situation could not continue much longer. It had to be resolved. But giving up Susi was no longer an option. He would have to find a way to retire from a profession where retirement is normally also not an option.
"Selamat siang, sayang" he greeted her.
"Your bahasa is so bad, darling. One day I will have to teach you to speak it properly."
"What's wrong with "Selamat siang, sayang?"
"Nothing," Its just the horrible way you say it. You sound like a text book."
Susi believed that only black, white and shades of brown and orange looked good against her skin. Today was no exception. She was wearing tailored brown wool slacks and a beige roll neck cashmere sweater. Although Susi was not a devout Muslim, she was a believer and always dressed modestly in public, never showing off her ample cleavage. But somehow the soft cashmere against her beautiful body was more exotic than any plunging neck line could ever be.
"How was your trip? Did the deal close?"
Martin's cover was that of an international lawyer involved in cross border mergers and acquisitions. As it happened it also wasn't far from his real background so he could adopt the persona seamlessly.
"Yes. All very smooth. Another satisfied client. I was hoping I had earned a few days off I could spend with you."
"Not this week darling. The Embassy has an important visitor arriving this afternoon from Jakarta and I have to look after him."
"A politician?"
"No. Oddly enough, a policeman. Some sort of anti-terrorism expert. By his name my guess is that he is a Christian. Quite unusual to have Christians in senior police positions."
Martin was deeply disappointed. He really needed to spend time with Susi and had envisaged a driving trip to the southwest where they could spend all the days exploring bastides and savouring the local cuisine and the nights exploring each other.
"When will you be free?"
"Not sure, but hopefully by the weekend."
The conversation turned to world events and the prospects of President Susilo's reelection. Martin found it hard to focus on anything other than Susi herself, but kept up his end of the discussion. Too soon lunch was over and Susi was rushing out to find the Embassy car that would take her to the airport.
Still wrestling with how he could "retire", Martin took the long way home through the Tuillerie Gardens. These gardens were the only memory he had of his first trip to Paris at age 8 with his parents. He remembered sailing remote controlled boats on the pond and the puppet show. The puppet show was still in operation and on an impulse he bought a ticket and went through the hedge to the little area of wooden benches in front of the stage. The man who sold him the ticket looked more like someone who had been sleeping in the streets for the last few years than the puppeteer, but puppeteer he was.
Martin quickly regretted buying a ticket. A beautiful memory evaporated in that tired, sordid presentation with decaying curtains, filthy puppets and unfunny dialogue. He was sure it wasn't like that thirty years ago or was his memory just the naive romantic dreams of an eight year old? He left after only a few minutes and headed quickly out of the park.
. . .
Susi made it to the airport on time and stood clutching a sign at the exit of customs. She need not have bothered with the sign. Major Darius was easy enough to spot since he had traveled in uniform. Before she could approach him, someone else stepped in front of her and greeted him.
"Major Darius? I am Inspector Alain Du Buys of the Surete. Welcome to France"
Susi introduced herself to them both and it was agreed she would take the Major to his hotel and bring him to the Inspector's office the following morning. With that Inspector Du Buys withdrew and Susi showed Darius to the car.
"I didn't tell the Surete I was coming. Did you?"
"Not in so far as I am aware" replied Susi. "But they keep track of all visas issued and flight bookings so they probably didn't need to be informed."
"It's no matter. I will need their help and I planned to contact them at some stage."
"What is this all about?"
"Well a murder for a start. But a murder with certain aspects which make us curious about whether it has wider implications. Do you know the Karanganyar area outside of Solo? I suppose it is now most famous as the burial place of President Soeharto. Paradoxically it was also the heartland of PKI when it attempted to overthrow Soekarno and was put down by Soeharto and its members systematically massacred. Today communism has given way to radical Islam for all the same reasons – rampant unemployment, millions of young people with no prospect of a decent education or a job. So when a body turns up in a remote creek bed with its face disfigured, its hands cut off and all identification removed from its clothing. We take an interest."
"But why Paris?"
"I said that all identification was removed. But the killer missed one label. 'Capel'. The victim was a short very fat man of swarthy complexion – not Indonesian and certainly not Javanese. When I did a Google search of 'Capel' I came up with a clothing store in Paris which specializes in fat people. So here I am."
"I've never heard of it but I will look it up so we can visit tomorrow."
Susi was quite looking forward to all this. It made an interesting change from her job as a Second Secretary in the Embassy preparing reports on French politics and policies which might affect Indonesia. She installed Darius in the Hotel Bristol and headed back to the chancery to do some research.
Martin's Blackberry told him there was mail waiting for him in his drop box. Martin hated having to collect mail. He knew every time he did so the risk of being compromised increased. But there was no alternative. As risky as physical collection was, cyber delivery was even more risky.
Three hours after Martin begun the process of retrieving the envelope he sat in the Bistro Volnay with it open in his lap. He knew this day would come eventually, maybe even hoped it would. He stared down again at the photograph and the description of the target. His first instinct had been to send a message declining the job. But that would only have resulted in someone else being hired to do the job and no doubt eliminate him too. There could be no doubt that it was the same man - a young handsome Major in the Indonesian police force visiting Paris to be terminated immediately.
Martin had spoken to Susi by telephone that morning and she had told him of her admiration for Major Darius and the work he was doing and her own excitement at being able to play a small part in it. Martin was now certain something had gone wrong. His anonymous employer had become corrupted some how. They were no longer on the side of the angels. It was time to retire and the only way to retire would be to find his erstwhile employers and eliminate them before they could get him.
It was time to go to war.
. . .
Susi's research had established that there were several Capel shops, the largest of which appeared to be on the Left Bank. It seemed the logical place to start. When she arrived at the Bristol to collect Major Darius she found Alain Du Buys waiting in the foyer.
"You won't mind if I join you"
Darius reply was genuine
"Of course not, I am sure we will need your help."
In the back seat of the Embassy car as they sped through Paris, Darius briefed Alain on the murder and the label that had brought him to Paris. Alain was silent and showed no sign of surprise interest or anything else. Darius could not decide whether he was telling Alain something which he already well knew or whether Alain was practicing for the Texas Hold'Em world championship.
They arrived at Capel and introduced themselves to the Manager.
"How can I help you?"
"We are trying to trace someone who may have been your customer - a short, very fat, swarthy man about 35 years of age."
"That describes about 60% of my customers. The other 40% are tall, fat swarthy men in their thirties. Have you something else to go on?"
"Only this shirt" Darius produced the lurid Hawaiian number from his briefcase."
"Normally I would not have expected that to help me either, but in this case it does. I do remember the fellow. He came in to the shop in November looking for summer clothes for a trip to Asia. It was of course, off season but I found this item and a few others out the back. He had a funny name which began with Haj. I asked him what it meant and he said it meant that he had been on the annual pilgrimage to Mecca."
"Do you remember the rest of his name?"
"Haj Mohammed bin something – sorry no."
"Did he speak French" Alain asked.
"Yes – perfect colloquial Parisien French. My guess would be Algerian parents but spent all his life in Paris."
"Did he use a credit card?"
"No, he paid cash."
As they reached the door of the shop Alain, who was leading, hesitated and then stepped aside and motioned Darius to go first. Darius assumed it was driven by politesse or protocol. Susi was simply surprised.
Once outside Alain excused himself and promised to research the name and contact Darius as soon as he had any news. After Alain had left, Darius told Susi that he could see little more to achieve in Paris and accordingly he proposed to take the SIA flight that evening to Singapore to pursue another line of enquiry there.
Susi dropped Darius at the Bistol and then asked the driver to drop her at Rue Volnay. Finally free of her duties she wanted to surprise Martin and catch up in lost time.
Martin had never in his life before experienced orgasms like those he experienced with Susi. He was sure that it was due in part to the fact that he was so totally in love with her. But it was also due to the way she made love to him. It seemed like she had a dozen different ways to kiss him and knew precisely the right moment to kiss in a certain way. The way she held him, the way she used her legs, the spontaneity of her little initiatives all drove him to new heights of ecstasy. They would spend literally hours in foreplay just hugging and kissing before he would start to explore her body with his tongue. She tasted like nothing he had ever known before and without constraint he would come on that taste and the smell of her alone. He loved the way she would hold him inside after he had come and continue to take her own pleasure. He loved the way he would awake in the morning to find her straddling him and guiding him inside her. He knew he couldn't live without her and he no longer wanted to only see her several nights a week. He wanted to posses her totally and utterly.
While Susi made coffee and toast the next morning Martin checked his Blackberry.
Inbox : Why is Major Darius still around?"
Sent items : Don't tell me how to do my business?
Inbox : There is no time. Get on with it. And include the person who escorted him from the Embassy.
Sent items : If anyone touches her I will find them and I will find you.
Inbox : I don't like being threatened by the hired help.
Sent items : I never make threats, only promises.
"What's wrong Martin you looked worried?"
Susi brought the breakfast to the table.
"Do you have your passport with you?"
"Yes, it's in my purse."
"You will have to trust me. I will explain later. But you are leaving now for Singapore. I will take you to the airport and join you as soon as I can. When you get to Singapore call this number and ask for Mr. Siddique. He will look after you."
"I can't just drop everything and go to Singapore."
"Susi, you must and must trust me."
"Can't I least go home and pack a bag?"
"No. here is $5,000. Buy what you need in Singapore. If you love me Susi do this for me."
After he had watched Susi safely through Immigration, Martin took a taxi to an anonymous address on the Boulevard Malsherbes. He was let in by a disheveled refugee from the Woodstock festival.
"I need a favor Rudy"
"Your wish is my command."
"You have to trace this message and tell me where it originated."
"That won't be easy."
"I know, but can you do it?"
"Probably! Leave it with me I will call when I have a result."
"Ok, but when you call do not mention the result over the phone. Just invite me to coffee."
"Got it."
Alain Du Buys was frantic. He had been trying for over an hour to contact his wife but there was no answer at home and her mobile was switched off. He left the office and drove rapidly north to Aulnay-sous-Bois. As he pulled up in front of the house his wife arrived jogging.
"What are you doing home?"
"I don't have time to explain. Please just listen and do exactly as I say. Pack a bag with some clothes for yourself and the children. As soon as they get home from school go to the railway station and buy tickets to Bordeaux. Pay cash. When you arrive in Bordeaux use a public phone to call your aunt in Montpezat d'Agenais. Ask her to collect you at the station. Whatever you do, do not take a taxi to Montpezat. I will call you in a few days and let you know when to come home."
"Can't you tell me what is going on? Will you be safe? I have never seen you like this before. You are terrifying me."
"If you do what I say we will all be fine. There is a terrorist on the loose who is threatening all of us and our families. Will we catch him soon. Meanwhile please trust me and do as I say."
Mme Du Buys would not learn for several days that her husband had died 40 minutes after this conversation. Shot dead in the garage of the Surete as he alighted from his car. His superior officer, Pierre Tremblay would also die the following evening as he walked his dog near his suburban home. Rudy had given Martin the name Alain Du Buys, sealing his fate. But Martin doubted Alain had the balls or the seniority to be the real decision maker. That Tremblay had been contacting him for the past several years, however, made a great deal of sense. Martin had met Tremblay years ago in Indochina when he was still in government service, before he went freelance.
Martin wasn't finished yet. Tremblay had gone bad but he was being paid by someone. He had spent the thirty odd hours between the execution of Du Buys and his visit to the suburbs watching Tremblay's every move. Most of the time Tremblay had spent at the office, leaving only to lunch alone at a nearby bistro and for a visit to a building on Boulevard Haussman. It was to that building that Martin now turned his attention.
Like most of the buildings along the Boulevard, the building had an entrance at the center wide enough to drive a car through, protected by high wrought iron gates. A courtyard with two black Mercedes parked on it was visible from the sidewalk. There were no clues outside the building as to its occupants, although it clearly was not a multiple tenancy. Just one bell. No name. As Martin walked by he could see two men with the physique of guards chatting in the glass cage office just inside the entrance. Martin memorized the license plates of the Mercedes and walked on.
"Both cars are registered to one Boris Karpov" Elaine said. In Martin's profession he needed a number of resources like Elaine and he rewarded all of them handsomely.
"Thanks Elaine. This is very helpful."
Martin decided the walk back to Rue Volnay would give him the time and opportunity to order his thoughts. He was near the top of Boulevard Haussman so even though it was in a sense going backwards he continued up to the Arc de Triomphe, intending to walk back along the Champs Elyesse. When he reached the Champs he found himself in the middle of huge and restive crowd. It was a demonstration against Sarkozy led by a left wing Union agitator whom Martin knew for a fact to be under the influence of the Russians. Since the economic collapse of 2008 demonstrations like this had been building across the country and the mood was increasingly ugly. There had been a riot in Marsailles the previous weekend which had only been quelled when the Member of Defense brought in French troops. There was no sign of troops here in Paris but two solid lines of French Police in riot gear were seeking to channel the protestors away from the storefronts into the main roadway which had long since been emptied of any traffic. There were banners accusing Sarkozy of supporting big business over workers and doing too little to restart the French economy.
Martin narrowly avoided getting swept up in the tide and fought his way behind the police lines to the relative calm of the sidewalk. As he walked down the Champs towards the Louvre he reflected on his own knowledge of Boris Karpov. Russian entrepreneur. Emerged suddenly and from nowhere. Not the investment banker Chelsea Football Club type – more likely ex KGB. Close to Putin. Investments across North Africa. Able to deal with equal success with such diverse types as the King of Morocco and Qadaffi. Strong Putin supporter and equally close to Medvedev. Martin also remembered a rumour he had heard from the political experts at the Bistro Volnay a couple of years ago – that Karpov was the bankroll behind the now Minister of Defense's unsuccessful run against Sarkozy for the party leadership and thus the Presidency. Not an easy target. But all loose ends had to be tidied if his retirement was to stick.
. . .
Martin didn't like second story work at the best of times. But as he sat on the roof of the building next door to Karpov's looking through his might glasses he was doubly uneasy. There had been no time for any research. No building plans, no established patterns of behavior. He had not had time to understand the alarm system, he wasn't even sure how many people he would encounter inside. Time was of the essence so he had no choice. But it was going to be messy and he didn't like leaving a mess.
Two conclusions he had reached. One was that the building did not appear to be a fortress. There were two very relaxed guards always in the office area or around the entry but no signs of dogs or guards on other levels. The second was that in so far as there were alarms, they were on the outer perimeter, not internal. From the roof he could see the guards moving freely through the doors into the house with no sign of passcode pads or electronic keys. In addition to enough firepower to cover most contingencies he had brought with him 5 incenderies with 15 minute fuses to cover what he hoped would be his retreat.
Dressed all in black and with his face hooded and his hands in surgical gloves which would not hamper his feel and speed, Martin moved slowly and silently across the roof onto to the roof of Karpov's building. There was a skylight which, as Martin expected, was indeed alarmed, and he ignored it. When he reached the perimeter of the internal courtyard he secured the nylon rope around a chimney and clipped it on to his belt. He was on the same side of the courtyard as the office and to be seen of the guards would have to leave the office and come into the courtyard itself. At 2.45am that seemed unlikely. Slowly, carefully and quietly Martin abseiled down the side of the building into the courtyard. So far so good. He unclipped the rope and left it in place for his exit. With his back flat against the wall, Martin edged his way to the windows of the office. Both guards were there, their backs to the window watching something pornographic on TV. There were security monitors which showed the front entrance, the street outside, and the internal hallways of the building. All were clear. Martin crawled below the windows until he reached the door. This was the first major gamble – that the door would be unlocked. Logic said yes. He hoped they were logical. He took the door handle in his left hand and the Colt 45 ACP in his right. He turned the handle and it gave way. In one fluid and athletic move he was inside the office. As the startled guards turned around he shot them each in turn and each in the mouth with the silenced Colt. Plop. Plop. They had no time to even call out, let alone set off any alarms. Martin stood still for several minutes to ensure that his assumptions that the guards had not had time to react were correct. Satisfied he moved to the console. Each of the monitors was clearly served by several cameras in addition to those in the hallways. He flicked each of them in turn through their full menus. The cameras from inside the room revealed only three were occupied. Two small bedrooms each had a single man sleeping in bed -presumably the relief guards – and an opulent bedroom with Karpov and a woman unlikely to be his wife lying nude and somewhat extravagantly across the sheets. Satisfied, Martin switched off the recording mechanism. He would prefer not to be caught on video, even masked as he was.
A search of the office revealed a floor plan of the building with the numbered cameras indicated on the plan. Martin quickly memorized it. The guards were sleeping at opposite ends of the 2nd floor. Karpov's room was in the center of the wing across the rear of the courtyard on the third floor.
Martin moved swiftly and silently up the central staircase to the second floor. He visited each of the guard's bedrooms and the two relief guards died without even awakening. With Karpov it was a little more messy. The ancient hinges on the bedroom door had not recently been oiled and the sound of the door opening woke both the occupants. Although the golden rule was to shoot the most likely armed person first, in this case the girl died first on the assumption that would minimize screaming but it took two shots and by the time Martin turned to Karpov he was scrambling for a weapon on the bedside table. Martin and Karpov fired simultaneously. Martin felt the sting of a Glock G17 9mm in his left shoulder before he was able to fire a second bullet into the already dead body of Karpov, slumped beside the bed.
The wound meant a change of plan. There would be no time for extensive searches and he would not be strong enough to climb back onto the roof. Unfortunately the equipment he left up there would have to be left behind. Martin entered the room adjacent to the Karpov's bedroom and ransacked the desk drawers. He found a folder labeled "The Bishop's Tunic" in Russian, but there was nothing it. There was a lap top on the desk which he took with him.
Martin set an incendiary in Karpov's bedroom, one in the middle of the second floor, one in the guard's office and one under each car. Should be quite a fire and hopefully enough to destroy the equipment on the roof and any DNA from his shoulder wound in Karpov's bedroom. Martin slipped out of his black outfit and dressed in a shirt and jacket of roughly the right size provided by one of the guards. He had disabled the alarm from the office and now he opened the front door and stepped quickly into the street, closing the door behind himself. He walked slowly and calmly away.
. . .
The fire and the apparent death of Karpov was the banner headline in the morning. The police were certain there was foul play but by whom and for what reason they had no idea. The Russian Ambassador expressed outrage and demanded the right for Russia to conduct its own enquiry on French soil, something the Member of the Interior felt unnecessary but understandable.
Martin was not sure he had dug out all the roots. But he was sure he had put it out of action for the time being, whatever it was, and he and Susi were safe for now. It was time to join her in Singapore.
. . .
Jean-Louis Trigaux knew he was dying. "I shouldn't be surprised" he thought, in a moment of clarity through the pain. His left arm was gone and something was sticking out of chest. He was losing blood fast and there was no sign of anyone coming to his rescue.
Two days earlier Jean-Louis had been visiting his lover, a beautiful young boy he had met at the Department's Christmas Party three months before, during his lunch break when he received an urgent' SMS to return immediately to his desk at the Foreign Office.
The two men who were waiting in Jean-Louis' office struck him immediately as an odd couple. The small rather mousy looking man in the ill fitting and unpressed suit introduced himself as Inspector Alain Du Buys of the Surete and produced the appropriate identification. His colleague was as large and forceful as Alain was mousy and his two meter frame was draped in a well tailored suit of quality cloth. He introduced himself as Pierre de Crespiny from the private staff of Georges Simony, the Minister of Defense. But it wasn't just their appearance which made the coupling odd. Why would the Surete and a Ministerial Staff Member come together to see me so urgently' wondered Jean-Louis.
"You are no doubt wondering why we are here." anticipated Alain. "Five years ago you were responsible for the recruitment of Martin Pilades were you not?"
"Yes. You say 'recruitment' but of course I do not believe Martin has ever been aware of precisely for whom he works."
"Yes, understood. Have you had any recent contact with him?"
"No. In accordance with operational rules I had no further contact with him after he was recruited. Why?"
"It is not important." Alain clearly lied. "So it follows you have no idea of where he lives or his present whereabouts?"
"No."
And that was it. The two men left his office as abruptly as they had come. Yet Jean-Louis knew it wasn't over and he knew it wasn't the practice of anyone in this business to leave loose ends.
So when he heard the second click when he depressed the button on his car door, he wasn't surprised and wasn't really even afraid. He knew he was dead.