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  Eyes sweeping left to right, all senses on alert she saw and heard nothing – no footfall, no firing from hidden gunmen. She stared back up at the bistro and then watched down the street towards the river. On the larger road traffic trundled past, unaware of the firefight that had just happened. And then a car turned off, and its headlights threw the street into a high contrast of shadow and light. Racine fell to one knee, pressed herself into the wall of the building and took aim. The car was a large saloon, but it wasn’t until it swept past a streetlight that she saw it was a dark Citroën. The next lamppost gave her the number plate; it tallied to that of Jacob’s DGSE car. It was a clone. Jacob’s driver had been too prompt for the attacker’s plan.

  Without hesitation Racine opened fire. Her first two rounds hit the windscreen, causing the shatterproof glass to craze and then the next two took out one of the front tyres. The car slewed sideways, mounted the kerb and struck a lamppost. Racine sprinted for the car, Glock held out in front, firing as she ran – taking the attack to the enemy. Airbags, having momentarily inflated, now lay limp across the dashboard and interior panels. The driver’s side window was open. She fired through it at the man who sat stunned behind the wheel. Hands held up uselessly he jerked as each round hit him. He was the only occupant, and she recognised him. The Asian man who’d been peering in the ballet shop window. She ceased firing and he slumped lifelessly sideways as the car slowly started to roll backwards down the hill.

  Jacob’s driver was in the bistro doorway, his own handgun in a two-handed grip. He nodded at Racine, deferring to her as she came to a crouch behind his car. ‘Do we stay, or do we go?’

  ‘We go. Get Jacob and the barman into the car – I’ll cover you.’ She changed her magazine.

  ‘Right.’ He turned to wave his boss through the door, but then Racine saw him raise his Glock a moment before a volley of semi-automatic rounds exploded through the front window of the bistro.

  Racine went prone behind the Citroën. Her mind flashed back to earlier that day at the riverside. The American couple, the Asian couple, and their driver, who she had not seen leave the car. A team of five. She’d taken out three … The other two were inside the bistro … They’d somehow flanked her and entered from the back … There was a second burst of gunfire and then the bistro went quiet. Ears ringing, she almost missed the footsteps as they crunched on the broken glass. Someone was exiting the building. Knowing that she was about to make herself a very large target at a very short range, but also that she had no other choice, Racine sprung to her feet.

  She came face to face with Francois. His eyes were wide, and the right arm of his white shirt was crimson. He stumbled forward, as though pushed. It was then Racine knew he was being used as a shield. He started to fall towards her, she dived right, away from him, away from the back of the Citroën.

  Landing on her back, she was winded but unloaded half her magazine into the fourth team member, the small, Asian woman who was holding an HK MP5. The assassin convulsed as the fusillade hit her. Four down, but where was the other one? Still inside the bistro or outside acting as overwatch, and ready to kill her with a single well-placed high-velocity round?

  ‘Is there anyone else inside?’ she shouted, to get his attention and to compensate for her damaged sense of hearing.

  Francois opened his mouth, said nothing and shook his head.

  Not convinced, Racine knew she had no need to check the woman as half her head was missing, so she moved in to cover next to Francois. He was slumped against the car cradling his right arm.

  He looked at her and something in his eyes made Racine stop dead.

  ‘They killed Maurice,’ he said.

  Chapter 27

  Gare du Nord, Paris

  Hat pulled down, scarf pulled up, the man responsible for shooting Baptiste boarded the last express train of the day from Paris’s Gare du Nord to Amsterdam’s central station. In just under three hours and twenty minutes the American assassin who had pretended to be Ukrainian would be two hundred and seventy miles away from Paris.

  The carriage was not full. The American’s seat was by the window and as the train glided out of the station the seat next to him and those across the aisle remained empty. The row in front was occupied by a pair of backpackers and their paraphernalia, but as their seats faced away from the American there was no chance for them to study his face. As the train slipped further and further away from the French capital, his chances of being challenged lessened. The American doubted the body would be found until daybreak, which gave him a minimum of ten hours before the authorities had any inkling a contract had been enacted. A crime committed.

  Beneath his scarf, he smirked. The line between crime and contract was, in his case, a thin and bloody one. He was a professional undertaking a professional task but one that stipulated he break the law and commit the crime of murder. Since joining the commercial ‘circuit’ he found himself no longer shielded from this. His smirk turned into a yawn as he started to relax in the stuffy carriage.

  The American gazed out of the window. His own ghostly reflection glared back at him like a spectre, the red birthmark seemingly winking at him. He had faced his inner demons many years ago. He’d come to an agreement with them, an understanding of their needs and how his work would fulfil these. Their hunger had grown as he had. First they nibbled on the pain he inflicted upon himself. A bruise here, a cut there. This, however, had been too little for their tastes, too bland for their palate. He graduated to breaking the bones of others, and with every snap a jolt of joy surged from within. Even this soon became insufficient for them and so the American had had to find something more to satiate their desires. Something that could not be surpassed. But how to offer this without raising the suspicions of those around him, of those who could stop him?

  The choice had been his only one. He enlisted. He went to war. War fed the demons more than they had ever dared hope for. And then abruptly it ended. Yet they continued to demand death, a regular sacrifice in order to leave him sane. Else they would hound him, tell him, and compel him to kill. The death of the French intelligence officer would be sacrifice enough, he hoped, for a while. His reflection glowered, the port wine stain above his left eye a constant reminder to him of the blood the demons within demanded.

  The American screwed his eyes shut, took a deep breath and when he opened them again it was his own face he saw reflected, without emotion. Becoming the professional he was once again, he scoped out his fellow passengers, not making eye contact but assessing their distorted reflections in the double-thick glass. The backpacking couple in the row in front, and a solitary woman seated two rows behind, were still the only other occupants. He imagined their lives served no purpose and that they would be ultimately forgotten. Each was caught in their own little, pathetic worlds, leaving Paris on a wintry November evening.

  But not him. Not the American. He would be remembered for being at the top of his game and all those who had ever doubted him would be forced to deferentially apologise. Inner needs notwithstanding, he was motivated to stay in the business to prove himself, to prove that he was darn good at what he had been trained to do and could continue to operate even without the help of his supposed overlords, who hid in offices bearing seals on the doors. Undertaking the contract on the French intelligence team had hardly been testing for the American. He didn’t need to demonstrate that he was an operator to be trusted with high-value targets, although what value the agent named Baptiste had, seemed minimal to him. It was a disappointment, in his mind, that he had not taken out those he viewed as the salient targets – Jacob the DGSE Director and his pet female assassin – but as the team leader he understood enough about leadership to distribute the jobs fairly.

  Besides, he was the only one with the necessary skills to pose as Magidov, the Ukrainian lawyer he had left dead in a garage in Donetsk. He had completed his part of the contract and would now await payment, safe in the knowledge that the other four were doing the same in t
heir boltholes. He would observe with interest in the morning how the French and international news networks reported on the attacks. The American liked shaping headlines, and it wouldn’t be the first time it had happened.

  DGSE headquarters, Paris, France

  In the age of social media and smartphones it was virtually impossible to keep the news of the attack on the DGSE unit from the general public. Grillot had faced pointed questions from his boss, the director of the DGSE, and of course the Minister of Defence, Tristan Ignace, which had led to a heated debate. Eventually the minister had decided to stage a press conference emphasising the French government’s outrage at the attack.

  The sizeable conference room at DGSE headquarters in Paris had been chosen as the most appropriate venue, and the international reporters and journalists admitted had been carefully vetted not to exclude those with known links to the Russian government. Whilst Minister Ignace was not going to directly implicate Russia, at this stage, he wanted to deliver a blunt warning to them. An aide had informed the assembled members of the press that the minister was prepared to answer questions only after he had given a short statement.

  Minister Ignace entered the conference room with a determined stride and stood at a lectern emblazoned with the seal of the French Republic. Ignace assessed the amassed reporters and briefly acknowledged a couple of them before he started to speak. ‘At approximately 18:00 yesterday an armed group entered a bistro in central Paris where Maurice Jacob, a Deputy Director of the General Directorate for External Security, was enjoying an after-work meal.’ Ignace paused for effect. There were murmurs around the room and several camera flashes. ‘They opened fire on Deputy Director Jacob and his driver, Henri Labon. A firefight ensued as Labon engaged them with his service firearm. A highly trained intelligence officer, Labon was able to neutralise all four of the attackers; however, not before both he and Deputy Director Jacob were fatally wounded. The attackers, I do not use the word “gunmen”, consisted of two men and two women, all of whom we have now identified as foreign nationals.

  ‘Let me be clear, whilst the effects of this attack are undoubtedly terrifying, this was not an act of terrorism. The four members of the group were known contract killers. This was a paid-for assassination of a valued servant of both the Republic of France and her people.’ Ignace now looked at one of his preferred journalists and nodded, the signal that the press was now free to ask their questions.

  ‘Minister,’ the reporter from France’s major state television news programme addressed Ignace, ‘do you know who was responsible for this assassination plot?’

  Ignace nodded slowly. ‘At this current time, it is too soon to categorically state who we believe the orchestrator to be, but let this be known: once our investigation is complete we will not keep any secrets from the people of the republic.’

  The same reporter posed a follow-up question. ‘Were there any survivors of the attack?’

  ‘The owner of the bistro, Francois Fournier, who also received gunshot wounds, is the sole survivor of this outrageous attack.’

  *

  In Amsterdam the American drained his beer glass and placed it slowly on the bar. Outwardly his emotions were in check but inside his anger was rising. The barman, oblivious to his turmoil, gave the American the universal raised-eyebrow nod.

  ‘I’ll take another, thanks,’ the American said, with forced joviality.

  The bar was small, quiet and just out of the city centre. The American had chosen it specifically because if forced to leave in a hurry it had both a front and rear exit, which led into a maze of streets. It also had a large television, which currently was showing live footage of the French press conference, courtesy of BBC World. As he continued to watch, a chill hit him as he heard, in response to a pointed question by a reporter, the French minister give the full names of the rest of the kill team. Ignace truly was not holding back. The American was secure in the knowledge that on the French side only Baptiste knew his part in the mission, and of course Baptiste had been permanently silenced.

  Still the team had gone in sterile so how had they been identified? Fingerprints, facial recognition software? He was certain he personally had left no trace when he had dealt with Baptiste, and the others had not known his name and believed him to be Canadian. A question niggled him: why had the minister not mentioned either the woman or Baptiste? Unless it strengthened the French narrative, or unless they had survived? But how could a professional team of four not have taken out the woman? Was she really that highly skilled or were they really that bad? He remembered watching her work in Tunis and a chill ran down his spine. If she was still alive, things would not be easy for him.

  And what of Baptiste? He’d pumped three rounds into the man before hurling him from a bridge. He must be dead. Was it that his body had not been discovered, or as yet remained unidentified? The American ordered a whisky chaser and gulped it down, the burn he hoped suppressing his nerves. As he continued to watch, more journalists posed questions. Ignace was asked about the victims, the implications of the assassination and what France would do next. The conference ended and the live feed switched back to the presenters in the BBC studio, where a British security expert gave his thoughts. The American finished his beer, paid and left the bar.

  It was twenty hours since the attack, and following rules set by the broker, he and the rest of the team were not to check in for another four. That was also the time when their fees would be sent to their specified bank accounts. The American did not trust digital technology and for this very purpose did not own a cell phone or any other electronic device. His favoured means of communication was via internet-based email draft folders. He and the broker had the password for an email account. He would log in, open the draft folder, compose a message and leave it there, unsent in the folder. The broker, via a virtual private network which masked his internet IP address, would then do the same. Once read, each draft was deleted. It was as slow and foolproof as possible. Unless the broker’s keystrokes were being monitored, there was no evidence of the account’s existence. However, in a world where mobile internet was now the norm, the American was denied the luxury of the anonymous internet café, and those who now chose to frequent such places did so for social reasons and were usually known to the owners.

  The American stumbled out of the bar and headed directly for the nearest busy street. His gait was rolling and his expression whimsical, but it was all an act. He bumped into a man in a suit as he exited a chocolate shop and momentarily grabbed hold of his shoulder to apologise before he carried on around the corner. Once clear, the American straightened up and lengthened his stride pattern – putting distance and several more turns between him and the man. He entered a square, removed his right hand from his coat pocket and looked at the stolen iPhone it now held. He touched the screen and let himself relax slightly as he noted it was not passcode protected. Accessing the internet, he logged on to the email account supplied by the broker, opened the draft folder and composed a message.

  Check in. Contract complete. Awaiting payment.

  He had no idea how long it would take for the broker to reply but decided to keep hold of the iPhone for the next hour. If it was reported lost before then it would send its location to whoever was looking for it. Either way he’d leave it on the sidewalk.

  Fifteen minutes and a mile later, the American found himself outside a hotel. He casually checked the iPhone and saw that another message had replaced his own.

  No payment due. Contract not complete. Complete the contract. You have one month.

  Shaking with inner rage, the American deleted the message, and signed out of the email account. He turned sharply, dropped the iPhone into the canal and then headed for Amsterdam Central Station.

  Epilogue

  Cercottes, North-Central France, one week later

  Colonel Christophe Grillot removed his reading glasses and put them back into their case. The after-action report on the contact with the kill team lay on
the desk in front of him. He knew most of it by heart; nevertheless it did not make Maurice Jacob’s death any more believable.

  Two DGSE officers had been lost. Deputy Director Maurice Jacob and his driver, Henri Lebon were slain at the bistro. Agent Jean Baptiste Moreau, however, had survived the attempt on his life. His would-be assassin had vanished without trace. Baptiste had been discovered by an amorous couple on the banks of the lake at Buttes-Chaumont Park. He’d sustained three small-calibre gunshot wounds, in addition to a list of other injuries to internal organs and bones, consistent with falling from a height of sixty-five metres onto concrete-like water. Baptiste had been placed in a medically induced coma, and the doctors were still unsure if he would ever be revived.

  Neither Jacob nor Baptiste had any relatives to ask questions or cause potential problems and the driver had been an unmarried, only child. At least that was something, Grillot thought, then felt sickened by himself. A life taken was a life taken regardless of who it was. He’d lost people before, both on the battlefield and on intelligence operations, but this time it hit him hard.

  He looked again at the photographs of the four members of the kill team who had been identified, and willed their images to talk to him, to tell him who their broker was. To tell him who the fifth assassin had been. Otto Linus and Teresa Jana were both former East German Stasi operatives who after the Berlin wall had come down worked on the circuit as a married couple. Hwan Jun Gim and Min Jeong Lee were former members of the North Korean State Security Department, who had allegedly defected for commercial reasons. Racine had eliminated them all.