Traitors Read online

  Racine didn’t have the answer but all she knew was that she had neutralised the immediate threat. Holding a bag in each hand, forearms and shoulders straining, Racine jogged as well as she was able back around the square, parting the increasing crowd of onlookers who didn’t know whether to cheer or cower. Many gawped, and several – to her chagrin – held up smartphones. This included a man in a grey business suit, wearing a pair of bronze-lensed sunglasses. She glowered at him, trying to place him as she increased her pace and headed towards the French Embassy. All she had to do now was persuade them to let her back in before she was gunned down by overzealous local police.

  Chapter 1

  Three Months Later

  Centre Administratif des Tourelles (CAT), DGSE headquarters, Paris, France

  Jean Baptiste Moreau believed that in addition to hard work, much of any intelligence agency’s success was down to luck and coincidence. As he entered the interview room, Baptiste hoped the luck and coincidence he was now experiencing could be verified with tangible results. His guest was sitting on the far side of a table. Their eyes immediately met, and the man stood. Roman Magidov was a ‘walk-in’, an unsolicited and unexpected visitor who had arrived at the front desk with information he wanted to personally deliver to the DGSE. Just over an hour later, after having his identity verified and giving a brief outline of what he knew to a receiving officer he had been asked to sit and wait for a more senior member of staff to continue his interview.

  On reading the initial notes, both Baptiste’s pulse and his interest had started to rise as he realised the significance of what Magidov had relayed. The man seemingly had fresh intelligence on a target Baptiste’s department had been seeking for over a decade, and this had come less than twenty-four hours after a photograph of his target had surfaced on the internet. Luck and coincidence. The question was always the same – was it real?

  ‘My name is Ozanne,’ Baptiste said, using an alias. ‘I understand you have information you’d like to share with us?’

  ‘Do you work on the Ukrainian desk, Monsieur Ozanne?’

  ‘I do,’ Baptiste replied. He didn’t and the use of the word ‘desk’ wasn’t a French term, but then his guest wasn’t French. Roman Magidov was a Ukrainian lawyer from the city of Donetsk. Baptiste imagined the man was used to the process and techniques of cross-examination, but today it was he who was the subject of Baptiste’s line of inquiry. ‘Let’s sit and we can discuss what it is you would like to share with us, and why.’

  As they sat down, Baptiste poured them both a glass of water from a bottle on the table then switched on the recording equipment. He sat upright in his chair and looked Magidov in the eye. ‘Let me start by making you aware that anything you voluntarily offer the DGSE will be dealt with in the strictest confidence but that you may also be held criminally liable if it is proven what you tell me is an intentional fabrication.’

  ‘I understand.’ The Ukrainian’s left eye twitched and, as it did so, the red birthmark above it seemed to dance. ‘Do you think I fled Ukraine with the intent of sharing fairy tales, Monsieur Ozanne?’

  ‘I hope that is not the case.’

  ‘It is not.’

  ‘I’d like you to explain to me how this all started. I’ll interrupt you if I have any questions.’

  ‘OK.’ Magidov nodded and spoke slowly with the measured cadence of a non-native French speaker. ‘When the Russian-backed DNR militants took over the city, we attempted to continue with our lives, but the rule of law was ignored. These men were not freedom fighters, rather members of criminal gangs. To prevent the Ukrainian army from retaking Donetsk they relied on Russia shelling the Ukrainian army positions. But the Ukrainian troops fired back. Tens of thousands fled Donetsk, including three-quarters of my community – the city’s Jewish population. We who remained did so because we felt a duty, regardless of religion, language or nationality, to our hometown and to those who could not leave. As a lawyer, a defender of justice and truth, I tried to navigate the new laws and regulations the DNR introduced. So, life carried on in the new normal of the new republic, until suddenly it did not. I was abducted from my office and accused of conducting acts of espionage against the Donetsk People’s Republic.’

  ‘Where was your office located?’ Magidov gave the address and Baptiste made a note of this. ‘Who abducted you?’

  ‘Thugs in mismatched army uniforms.’

  So far Baptiste had learnt nothing new or anything of note. ‘OK, go on.’

  ‘Chronologically?’

  Baptiste tried not to let his impatience show. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Very well. They marched me out the building, pushed me into a Lada and put a sack over my head. They spoke not a word. It was hard to keep track of time, but I’d estimate after about half an hour or so we stopped. I was taken into a building and placed on a chair. When they removed the sack, I saw that I was in an empty garage.’

  ‘How did you know it was a garage?’ Baptiste asked.

  ‘It had a concrete floor covered in oil stains. It smelled of diesel.’

  ‘Did you see the outside of the building at all?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Continue, please,’ Baptiste urged.

  ‘They started to question me; actually, they interrogated me I … I …’ Magidov’s voice faltered. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath in and out before continuing. ‘I was punched, kicked, and they even put a wet cloth on my face and poured water over it. I don’t know the French term for it. In English they call it “waterboarding”.’

  ‘Waterboarding, I understand; they waterboarded you. And they interrogated you for two days?’

  ‘Yes.’ He took a gulp of water.

  ‘What did they want to know?’

  ‘They wanted to know who I really worked for. Who was paying me to spy for the Kyiv government. Who my contacts were.’

  ‘What did you tell them?’

  Anger flashed across Magidov’s face. ‘What could I tell them? I am not a spy. I was a lawyer serving the people of Donetsk.’

  Baptiste noted the man’s quick temper. ‘I understand this is difficult for you, and I apologise, but I need to hear everything.’

  Magidov took a deep breath and continued. ‘On the third day they let me go.’

  ‘Just like that?’

  ‘Yes. Looking back now, I realise it was odd but at the time I was just relieved.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘They put the hood back on my head, drove me to a part of the city I didn’t know well, and left me outside a church.’

  ‘A church?’

  ‘I think they were trying to be funny or make a point.’

  ‘Make a point?’

  Magidov’s left eye twitched. ‘Where are you from?’

  Baptiste’s brow furrowed. ‘I was born in Paris.’

  ‘Where were your parents born?’

  The furrows deepened. ‘Senegal. Why?’

  ‘You are first-generation French, but you are undoubtedly French. Without question. Personally, I can trace my family back for generations and I am Ukrainian. Yet because I am also Jewish, the militants did not accept I could be Ukrainian. That is the difference between our two nations; that is the difference between East and West.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘I went home, had a few drinks. I went back to work the next day. At work my director told me I no longer worked there. So, I went home. An hour later my phone rang. It was my boss’s wife screaming at me.’

  ‘Screaming?’

  ‘Her husband had been – because of me she insisted – taken by the militants. This was unthinkable as he was “connected” – if you understand what I mean – he had a “roof”. If they could take him with impunity, they could take anyone.’

  ‘Was he Jewish too?’

  ‘No. He was an idiot. I decided that I had to get out of Donetsk. I had to report what had happened to me, but also what my interrogator had boasted about.’

  ‘So you reported
all this to the Ukrainian authorities?’

  ‘I did not. What could they do? No. I wanted to come to Paris to escape Ukraine and to inform your authorities. It is your country that he said he was going to attack.’

  Baptiste looked back at the notes. So far Magidov had been merely mentally clearing his throat and Baptiste had let him do so. The more he talked the more he’d relax. ‘Let’s circle back a bit. Tell me about the other man the militants were holding.’

  Magidov sipped his water before he replied. ‘He was a foreign student, British, but his family was originally from Pakistan.’

  This tallied with what Baptiste knew. ‘Tell me more about the man who interrogated you?’

  ‘Men. At first it was the locals who asked me questions; although, they seemed more concerned with beating me.’ Magidov closed his eyes again, this time screwing them shut momentarily. ‘Then a new interrogator arrived. He used different methods, worse methods, psychological methods. He was not a local either. He was Russian Jew. He told me so.’

  ‘What did he ask you?’

  ‘He probed into my background. When he found out I’d studied French and law at university, not English, he became very interested indeed.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘He switched to French. He spoke French. Fluent French.’ Magidov shook his head slowly. ‘He became suddenly very aggressive. He asked me if I was a spy for the DGSE.’

  ‘He specifically used the acronym DGSE?’

  ‘Sorry you are not as famous as the CIA—’ the Ukrainian shrugged ‘—so he angrily explained to me what each letter stood for.’

  Baptiste battled his growing sense of excitement. ‘And you told him what?’

  ‘I told him the truth. I am not a spy.’

  ‘Why did you learn French?’

  ‘I love languages. During soviet times we were suppressed so much that I decided the more languages I spoke the more opportunities I would have. I watched American movies to improve my English, and I listened to anything I could in French. Then the realities of life got in the way. I graduated and found myself back in Donetsk, not even speaking my mother tongue but forced to use Russian.’

  Baptiste needed to focus his guest. ‘Did you learn the name of this interrogator?’

  ‘We did not swap business cards, but I did hear one of the men call him “Raduga”.’

  ‘Raduga?’

  ‘It was a nickname maybe.’

  ‘Why do you think so?’

  ‘Raduga is the Russian for “Rainbow”.’

  Baptiste made a mental note of the word and its usage. He’d add it to the ‘keywords’ their monitoring stations listened out for. ‘You said he boasted about his plans. What did he say?’

  ‘He said Donetsk was too small for him, that he had larger projects. He talked about a foiled attack in Tunis. He told me that he had learnt even from that mistake and adapted. He liked to talk a lot to me, perhaps because we were both Jewish and also because we could both speak French.’

  Magidov was rambling again. For a lawyer he was not concise, which probably had worked in his own favour if he was paid by the hour, Baptiste surmised. ‘You said he had plans. What were these?’

  ‘He told me he was going to attack Paris.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘He said within the next two weeks.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘He didn’t say. I am sorry that is all I have. Apart from his face. That I have in my mind. That I will never forget.’

  ‘I’m going to show you a few photographs. I’d like you to tell me if you recognise any of the people in them.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Baptiste shuffled the papers he had brought into the room until what he wanted was on top. He fanned out several 10 X 8 photographic prints to face the lawyer.

  Magidov’s eyes showed instant recognition; his left eye twitching again and his index finger stabbed at one of the photos. ‘That is the man who tortured me!’

  ‘Are you certain?’ Baptiste hoped his voice sounded calm.

  Magidov nodded. ‘Without a doubt. That is Raduga.’

  Baptiste took a moment to compose himself. Luck and coincidence. ‘This is extremely helpful.’

  Magidov looked up, anger once again in his eyes. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘He is a traitor.’

  Noisy-le-Sec, Paris

  The fort at Noisy-le-Sec was one of sixteen forts that originally formed the enclosure of Thiers, the nineteenth-century fortified ring encircling the city of Paris. It was decommissioned in 1919 and now a hundred years later the fort housed the clandestine operations division of France’s General Directorate for External Security, the DGSE.

  Known as the Division Action, its mandate included the design and delivery of clandestine and covert operations. The DA specialised in the black arts of sabotage, assassination, detention and kidnapping, and the infiltration and exfiltration of agents into and out of hostile territory.

  Its deputy director, Maurice Jacob, looked at his boss, Colonel Christophe Grillot. Jacob was a decade senior to Grillot but a grade lower within the DGSE. ‘So?’

  Grillot wet his lips. ‘The minister is still pleased with you due to the result of the Tunis operation, even if he did have to smooth out a few ruffled Tunisian feathers.’

  Maurice Jacob concurred. ‘I’m sure the prevention of a mass shooting of tourists was greatly appreciated.’

  ‘Did we know what Yotte had planned?’

  ‘No. There was no intelligence to suggest it at all, which is a worry. It was a simple kill mission. Our operative used her initiative to achieve the best possible result.’

  ‘That part the minister does not need to know.’

  ‘Quite.’ Jacob knew Grillot understood the real reason why he’d scheduled the meeting.

  ‘You have finally found him?’

  ‘Yes,’ Maurice Jacob replied, ‘we have.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Eastern Ukraine.’

  ‘Where, exactly?’

  ‘Donetsk.’

  Grillot seemed surprised. ‘In the territory controlled by terrorists?’

  ‘Russian-backed insurgents.’

  Grillot shuffled in his seat. ‘Vasilev is now overtly working for the Russians?’

  ‘In a covert capacity. If we believe the Russian foreign ministry, there are no Russians in Eastern Ukraine.’

  ‘How did you find him?’

  Jacob explained. The intelligence business had changed since he’d been a young man. New technology had made intelligence gathering quicker and easier than ever, but it had also made it harder to hide; and the fundamentals remained the same – greed, pride and opportunity were the downfall of most.

  ‘And now you’ve found a link between him and the failed Tunis attack?’ Grillot asked.

  ‘I have.’

  ‘So, you are seeking my authorisation to take action against him?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Then, Maurice, you had better present your plan.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Jacob lifted his attaché case from the floor, fished into it and retrieved an A4 manila envelope. He pushed it across the desk to Grillot. ‘Voila.’

  ‘Merci.’

  Jacob felt like a schoolboy desperately awaiting his master’s assessment of his latest essay, but of course this was far more important than any previous operation he had undertaken.

  Grillot took his wireframe reading glasses from their case and popped them on his nose. Jacob mused that the man was as physically fit as the young soldier he once was, but alas the one thing he could not exercise were his eyes.

  Without looking up Grillot asked, ‘Would you like a glass of water or anything, Maurice?’

  ‘No. I’m fine.’

  Grillot turned his attention to the intelligence report. Eight minutes later he looked up. ‘My initial concern is that of verification. How do we know that this Magidov is telling the truth?’

  ‘He picked our man from a pile of photographs. We know our
target was in Donetsk at the time. I agree it is coincidental, but then you know the old saying about luck and coincidence.’

  Grillot inclined his head slightly, his eyes flicking up and right. ‘I think you need more time to gather verified intel before you attempt this mission.’

  Jacob sighed. ‘In an ideal world yes, but we do not live in one. Our target has appeared for the first time in eight years; he may very well disappear if we do not strike now. We cannot lose him like before.’

  ‘Why has he appeared?’

  ‘He believes he is entirely safe in the epicentre of a Russian-backed puppet state. It’s the perfect base of operations for him.’

  ‘You believe he intends to launch terror attacks on the Republic of France?’

  ‘That is what our walk-in stated, but it could just be an idle threat? You and I both know our target is a very troubled and dangerous individual. Direct threat or not, we can’t let him slip away again.’

  Grillot removed his glasses. ‘Do you think your choice of personnel is prudent?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘In Tunis, she disobeyed a direct order to abort. Her actions could have so easily not gone in our favour. It could be argued she is a liability, a loose cannon rolling around on a sinking ship.’

  ‘I’m sinking?’

  Grillot waved his hand. ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘I never took you for a poet.’

  ‘The fact remains, she did not follow orders.’

  ‘But she saved lives.’

  ‘The ends justify the means? Is that the excuse?’

  Jacob shook his head. ‘No excuse. She was on the ground. She used her instincts. She was resourceful. She saved lives.’

  Grillot sighed. ‘I know. But she was hardly discreet.’

  ‘Look, I made a promise to her. This target is after all the reason why she joined our service.’