Traitors Page 29

  ‘Can you tell me and our viewers this spy’s name?’

  ‘Yes I can, but not at this time. Once I’m safely back in Moscow and have spoken to the Russian authorities, there will be a full, official investigation and then a press conference.’

  Machin nodded. ‘Let’s talk, if we can, a little about how these interrogators treated you.’

  ‘They used what the Americans call “enhanced interrogation” techniques. They waterboarded me.’ Weller’s hand shook as he reached for a glass of water. There was silence for a few seconds whilst the studio cameras showed Machin’s reaction, and then the shot returned to show both Weller and the woman in the studio. ‘They kept telling me I was working for Russian terrorists. I kept telling them the Ukrainian army was not fighting Russians in Donetsk, but people from Donetsk. They wouldn’t listen to me. The SBU took my computer and demanded my passwords.’

  ‘As you would imagine, ON has reached out to the British Foreign Office and the SBU for a statement on their involvement in this incident. Neither have answered our questions. Darren, tell me about how you escaped.’

  Weller cleared his throat before he spoke. ‘There was shelling outside, the door to my room burst open, someone came in and removed my cuffs. I was too afraid to move. I just sat there until the shelling stopped. When I removed my hood, the Ukrainians had gone. I was in a village outside Donetsk. I must have walked about sixteen kilometres before I found someone who’d let me use their phone.’

  ‘I also understand that the Ukrainians stole your car and equipment?’

  ‘That’s right, they drove my car away when they abducted me. Then today I’ve just discovered I’ve been cyber-hacked!’ Weller shook his head in disbelief. ‘They busted open my entire system and changed my passwords. All my accounts have been hacked, my Twitter account, my Facebook account, my VKontakte account, my email account, my YouTube account. They’ve deleted two thousand videos I uploaded. Videos that showed the truth on the ground for real people. I’ve been cyber-attacked and I’m fighting to get my life back.’ Weller paused to calm down. ‘They called me an enemy of Ukraine, but four years ago I was the only foreign journalist defending Ukraine, saying “come to Ukraine”.’

  The interview then became circular, reiterating the same points again. Racine watched until the segment finished before switching off her TV. She emptied her glass of wine and closed her eyes. If nothing before had persuaded her that ON purveyed fake news, Darren Weller’s interview just had. She was amazed and amused at how easily the lies had flown from his mouth, but more than this, reading his face it seemed that Weller believed every word he was saying.

  Her phone pinged to inform her she’d received another text message. It was again from Baptiste. Who interrogated him? The DNR? The Russians?

  All of the above? she replied and wondered who in reality had actually attacked Weller? It made little difference to her. But Vadim was alive, apparently. She should have kicked him harder, the bastard, she mused.

  Another message arrived. OK. We will discuss the implications of his interview. How they knew someone was coming for Vasilev. Goodnight.

  Racine didn’t reply. She refilled her glass, raised it in mock salute at the blank screen and then finished her bottle.

  Chapter 26

  DGSE Headquarters, Paris

  A paper copy of Racine’s after-action report lay on Jacob’s desk. He stared at it for a long moment and crunched on his breath mint before addressing Baptiste. ‘How exposed are we?’

  ‘We are of course the prime suspect,’ Baptiste stated. ‘Vasilev was a traitor to France. He was assassinated hence it must automatically be the French who did it.’

  ‘There is no evidence of our involvement?’

  ‘With the exception of the British operative knowing that Racine works directly for you, none. There is no evidence to prove Racine pulled the trigger.’

  ‘Good. This Aidan Snow is one of Jack Patchem’s men. Of course SIS won’t say anything.’

  ‘Racine should not have let Weller go.’

  ‘Do you imagine Aidan Snow would have been happy if Racine had killed one British national in front of him, whilst aiding him in the rescue of another?’

  ‘It was not his choice. It was our mission,’ Baptiste said.

  ‘Would he then have offered to help her?’

  ‘I concede, he was useful.’

  ‘So what of Weller’s assertions that he was abducted by “MI6”?’ Jacob asked. ‘We know this is a fabrication but what purpose does it serve?’

  ‘Propaganda masquerading as news?’ Baptiste shrugged. ‘Weller was beaten by someone and doesn’t want his bruises to go to waste.’

  ‘That makes sense,’ Jacob allowed.

  ‘I don’t understand why Weller didn’t mention the DGSE. He had every chance to do so?’

  ‘Ah, that is political,’ Jacob said. ‘It would say nothing for Russia’s ability to protect one of its own if it came to light that the DGSE assassinated Vasilev in Donetsk. That would make the Kremlin strongman look like a weakened fool. That is the reason why Weller is making the most of the SIS involvement and kidnap story. This is why he is going to hold his news conference.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Why hold a news conference unless there is more news? We know he can’t give Racine up, but he is giving up Snow.’

  Jacob tapped the report. ‘Aidan Snow was known to Weller, which was an unfortunate coincidence but what do the Russians actually have? The words of a stooge versus that of the British Foreign Office? Of course, the general public will believe the British did indeed kidnap Weller and interrogate him. But will they care, and what of it in the grand scale of things?’ He paused and looked down at the report again. ‘Can the Russians positively ID Snow? Do they have photographs, CCTV footage?’

  ‘Vasilev told Racine there was footage, yet knowing how clumsy the DNR is, they would have surely posted it on social media. Racine states that she destroyed possible recording equipment at Vasilev’s address.’

  ‘So the question I really should have asked was, what can we expect from this ON news conference when it happens?’

  ‘Nothing new,’ Baptiste stated.

  ‘Nothing news,’ Jacob quipped.

  Tverskaya Street, Moscow, Russia

  Tverskaya was one of Darren Weller’s favourite streets. He appreciated the scale of the huge baroque granite buildings on each side and the view of the Kremlin and Red Square at the bottom. Taking Tverskaya wasn’t the quickest way to the ON offices, but it was the route he liked the best. He felt like he was in a spy film, outwitting the KGB, always one step ahead of them. He smirked. Now of course the KGB had changed their name to the FSB and his own government’s intelligence service was his enemy. So what did that make him, a traitor outwitting MI6? No. He was no traitor, he was the voice of truth. So was he a defector? That was it. He was an economic defector who had forsaken the west to work in the cold east to uncover secrets. Whatever he was it made him feel good.

  In fact Darren felt extremely good because he had just spent the night with a twenty-one-year-old ON news intern named Vera. He’d wowed her with the story of his heroics in Donetsk, but he left out any mention of having fallen for the tricks of Racine and Snow, who almost cost him his career. Still, no matter. He was to have the last laugh now. Weller was on his way to meet with colleagues at the ON offices to discuss the final details of the afternoon’s news conference, which would make him a household name the world over. As a journalist this was his moment: he was going to shove two fingers up at Aidan Snow, the British government and all of those who didn’t believe in him. How dare they disrespect him the way they had in Donetsk? It was annoying, he thought, that he wasn’t eligible for a Pulitzer Prize. Surely his heroic reporting from the front line would have put him in the running for one?

  As he bounded along the wide pavement, with the crisp mid-morning air reddening his cheeks, he wondered when the first snows of winter would fall. Some forec
asts said this week; others not for a while yet. Moscow in fresh snow was special. The rough edges were removed, and it reminded him of childhood Christmases. Yes, he loved Moscow and there was nowhere else he would rather be. He grinned and shook his head, and spoke aloud, ‘I love you Moscow!’ He ignored the odd looks from the passing pedestrians.

  Traffic was heavy but moving freely now that Moscow’s extended rush hour was over. He drew level with the swanky Ritz-Carlton Moscow. Several large men in long, dark coats were exiting the hotel and ushering a smaller man towards a Mercedes limousine, which stood trailing mist from its large exhaust pipes. Weller paused to let them pass as unseen to his immediate left a brown UPS van pulled up.

  As he watched the scene in front of him, hoping to perhaps recognise a Russian celebrity, he felt a sharp pain in his neck. He blinked and raised his right hand to rub it, but it was grabbed by a gloved hand and twisted behind his back. Before Weller had time to resist or voice his distress, his legs buckled. His gaze dropped to the pavement and he felt himself being dragged towards the van. A moment later he landed heavily on his back and was afforded a view of the Moscow morning sky for a second before the UPS van’s door was shut. Weller felt his eyes starting to close but just before they did a bearded male face appeared. A Chechen?

  Central Paris, France

  Racine felt comfortable in this part of the city. It had retained its last-century charm, there were no gaudy chain stores or overtly gauche boutiques and it was not thronged with tourists, especially at this time of year – too late for falling autumnal leaves and too early for Christmas. It had been a place she had often walked during her student years, a time before her eyes had been opened to the true nature of the modern world. Ironically it was also where the bistro was that Jacob had first taken her, and where she was today eventually heading.

  Carrying out counter-surveillance measures was second nature to Racine, and she was good at it. She approached the promenade seemingly without a care in the world, before leaning against the guardrail to ostensibly gaze at the opposite side of the river Seine.

  The art of counter-surveillance was not just looking for watchers but forcing them to show themselves. This meant exposing herself too. Racine breathed deeply and fought the urge to move. She retrieved her work iPhone from her coat pocket and touched the screen, mimicking the mindless actions of social media devotees. She grinned and then shook her head, as if she were an idiot reacting to a post – probably some pathetic meme about cats. She wasn’t a fan.

  And then there was movement. A couple casually walking hand in hand towards her. She stole a photograph of them before pretending again to be enchanted by what was on her screen. The couple were tall, white, in either their late forties or early fifties. Their brightly coloured down jackets glowed beacon-like on the overcast Parisian promenade. Racine assumed they had to be American. They closed to a distance of fifteen metres and then the woman abruptly stopped, turned her back on Racine and kissed the man. It lasted a while and then, carried on the wind, Racine caught a few of the words spoken between the lovers. She learnt his name was Clint and that the excited accent was indeed American, probably from one of the mid-west states, which went with their corn-fed appearance. The woman held up her own phone, leant against him, stuck her arm out and posed for a selfie. She struck several different stances, like a woman half her age, to make sure that the background showed both her and Paris off in the best light.

  Racine felt uncomfortable. She wasn’t a fan of outward shows of affection, probably she mused due to the way her parents had behaved. They undoubtedly loved each other but her father’s military background made him somewhat remote. ‘Like father, like daughter,’ Jacob had said to her all those years ago, during her recruitment phase. They’d both killed for France, so at least her father and she had that in common. She realised she’d better call him, just to say she was still alive.

  Racine started to walk away from the couple and crossed the road. Up ahead, she noticed an Asian man looking in the window of a shop. It was a place, Jacob had once told her, which sold the best ballet dresses in Paris. How he knew this fact she had never asked. As she drew nearer to the man his phone rang. He answered it and spoke animatedly. She didn’t recognise the language, but from his intonation suspected it was Korean. He turned to face her, still talking, and at that moment Racine felt her internal threat radar ‘ping’.

  In her peripheral vision she saw a car swoosh around the corner. She slowed her breathing, changed course, altering the angle between herself and the man on the phone, and headed for an alleyway three doors along. The large, low-slung, BMW saloon came to a stop, Racine inhaled, and her body readied itself for action – fight or flight … and then an Asian woman stepped out of the car and hugged the man on the phone. He untangled himself and pointed at the window display of the ballet shop. Without breaking her stride Racine entered the alley.

  Buttes-Chaumont Park, Paris

  Baptiste left his Renault in the Saemes Robert Debré car park. It wasn’t the nearest one to his destination, but it had twenty-four-hour CCTV and was a place from which he could walk a meandering route and carry out counter-surveillance techniques, certain of spotting anyone who chose to follow him. It wasn’t that he thought he was being followed rather it was an act that had been drummed into him so much that it became routine. The streets were quieter than usual and although it wasn’t raining, grey storm clouds scudded across the sky. He was glad he’d decided to go out for a walk sooner, rather than later. Later he would be at home with a pack or two of Pelforth Brune. He’d first tried it as a teen because he liked the brewery’s Pelican mascot. Taking a walk or drinking a beer were his preferred methods for clearing his head, and now he really needed it cleared.

  Racine’s mission had been a setup. He’d been fed the intel on Vasilev specifically to draw Racine to him. The Department, eager for any leads, had believed themselves the hunters, but Baptiste had made Racine the hunted. Yet the intel had been real, genuine, verified. And that was the beauty of Vasilev’s plan, as Baptiste understood it. Baptiste had placed the woman he loved in danger, mortal danger and knew that he could never forgive himself for that. The issue was, however, could she? If he ever had hopes before about them getting back together those dreams were now as dead as Vasilev. He sighed heavily. He was a fool. A fool in and out of love.

  Satisfied that he wasn’t being tailed he finally took one of the many entrances into the Buttes-Chaumont Park. The park was unlike any other in Paris. Inaugurated in 1867 by Napoleon III, it was built to disguise an old network of quarries. As such it had hills, streams, a waterfall, a lake with an island and its most impressive feature a sixty-five-metre suspension bridge over the lake. Given its proximity to central Paris in the 19th arrondissement it was favoured by locals who wanted to escape into countryside without leaving the city. It was a place Baptiste often went to unwind and to forget about his work.

  The mission had been a success. Vasilev was dead, but far more importantly to him, Racine had returned. He saw the suspension bridge in the distance and remembered walking across it with her. Although he never told her this, that had been one of the happiest moments of his life. He’d known it was wrong to start a relationship with an officer junior to him, but their mutual attraction was too strong to ignore. The problem wasn’t the difference in age or culture; it was their chosen profession. Neither could allow themselves to have a relationship that could be used as leverage against them. They were to use Jacob, a lifelong bachelor, as an example. So whatever they had, ended before it really was given a chance to start.

  He slowed and then stopped, pretending to massage his left calf. He had the sudden sensation that he was being watched. He looked around. The park was all but deserted; in fact the only movement came from the rustling trees. Baptiste started to move again and took the winding path up the hill to the bridge. He stopped halfway across and leant against the guardrail. It was the same spot he had stood, when Racine had ended it with him.
He had felt a piece of himself die that day, right there. He stared into the distance, not really noticing the view. He got the urge to hear her voice, even if it was cold.

  Baptiste pulled out his iPhone and was puzzled to see that he didn’t have a signal. He checked his settings, and all seemed normal, except for the fact that there was no signal whatsoever. He’d read a book once about visualisation; visualise your dreams and they will come true was the belief. He visualised himself calling Racine and telling her his true feelings. He visualised her telling him that she loved him back. Maybe she would forgive him, and they could leave France and have a different life together. He closed his eyes to fully visualise this. There was a freshness to the air; the wind started to build and he could smell the rain. Baptiste took in a deep breath and let it out. Yes, he was going to talk to Racine, he was adamant, and he’d tell her how he felt.

  The sound of approaching footsteps reached his ears. They seemed so close. How had he not noticed them until now? He turned away from the railings.

  A tall man was striding towards him, already a good distance across the bridge. There was a black bag in his left hand but his right hand was rising and it held something that made Baptiste’s breath catch in his chest – a handgun. Baptiste was in danger – the man had crept up on him. He’d made an amateur mistake. He had done what Jacob had always told him not to do: he had let down his guard. The narrow bridge was the perfect kill box. It was too late to run, yet unarmed it was his only option. Baptiste turned and started to sprint away, his feet slapping loudly. But then in the eerily quiet park there was another sound, a suppressed gunshot.

  The round struck Baptiste in the back, propelling him forwards. He thrust his hands out and slid across the bridge. An instant wave of cold washed over him, quickly rising from his lower back. He tasted blood in his mouth. His hands grabbed at and attempted to grip the cold, metal railings beside him, but he couldn’t seem to make his fingers work properly. He managed to turn and his eyes looked back the way he had come. A pair of polished black shoes approached. They stopped beside him. Baptiste raised his head. The man was dressed in a long, dark overcoat, undone and flapping against his legs. Even though the sunlight was weak he wore a pair of sunglasses with bronze lenses. His face seemed somehow familiar to Baptiste. The man’s right hand gripped a suppressed Ruger Mark IV .22 semi-automatic.