George Jacobs had worked on the base for longer than anyone could remember. In fact, he was the longest-serving civilian staffer on Donaldson. He’d arrived there at the age of sixteen and now he was fifty-eight. He worked hard, kept out of trouble, had always been helpful. ‘No job too menial, that’s me,’ was his trademark response to any request. Always willing, always positive, he usually went about his work with a song on his lips, often the classics. He knew the whole of Cole Porter and everything Buddy Holly ever sang, and Sinatra too.
He had tended the gardens until his handlers decided that it would be more useful if he worked inside, so he got himself transferred to cleaner. But because he was so handy they upgraded him to maintenance. From then on, he toured the whole facility fixing window catches, sticking down sticking-up floor tiles, unblocking blocked air-conditioning ducts. And he went about his business with so little fuss that most times people didn’t even notice he was there. Exactly as he’d been told to do by the group of people he knew only as Cousin Hal.
Everything he’d done in his entire career was just so he could watch what was coming in and going out. Planes, hardware. He had an encyclopaedic knowledge of all forms of military transport. He could look at a Humvee fifty yards away and quote the chassis number to the nearest hundred. He could tell a Seattle-made C-130 from a Missouri-made C-130.Who wanted to know? He never asked. Don’t ask, just deliver. That was the deal. What made George so good at his job was that he never asked: he just did it.
So when the latest Hal called him and they met at the Taco Bell on 45 he wasn’t prepared for what was coming.
‘Something a little different’, said Hal. ‘You up for it?’
‘You know me,’ said George, tucking into caramel apple empanada, his favourite.
‘There’s a guy in the stockade. You ever go in there?’
‘Sure but I can’t see him. He’s in solitary.’
‘You pass by his cell?’
‘Sure.’
‘There anyone in the corridor when you pass?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘They pay you much attention?’
‘Nope.’
‘You like singing, yeah?’
When Hal said one of those things it creeped him out that they knew so much about him.
‘Sure I like to sing.’ He was about to list his top ten when Hal cut in.
‘Got a new song for you to sing.’
And Hal told him the words.
77
Blackburn lay on his pallet, listening to the sound of nothing. The only interruption came about every half an hour. There were footsteps but he never saw whose. The meal trolley was the most exciting sound of the day. Its squeaky wheels stopped only once as they progressed down the corridor: he was the only detainee.
The humming was different. So different, he decided it was just another voice in his head. Da de da de dad a. Dad de da de dad a. An old voice. It reminded him of his grandfather. It was accompanied by a scraping sound — and then steps — a stepladder. Da de da de dad a. Dad de da de dad a. Then some words.
I’m flying to Paris, I’m keeping my promise. I’ll be there tomorrow. Da de da. . Do not, repeat, do not despair.
George didn’t think it was much of a song. April in Paris, now that was a song. But he sang it like he was told, as he examined the aircon ducts that ran along the ceiling of the corridor. He was a bit unsure about cleaning them because he knew they’d not been touched in years and once he got started — well, it could be one of those jobs that went on and on. But that’s what Hal wanted. Reasons for him to be there more than once. He was due some overtime, so he told the site manager he’d try and get as much as he could done over the weekend.
78
Paris
It was two a.m. when Bulganov’s Lear descended through thick cloud into Paris airspace. The cloud was emptying its load on to Charles De Gaulle runway number two as they thumped on to the ground, and the pilot coaxed the brakes to bring them to a halt.
The airport VIP crew met them with umbrellas and escorted them to the waiting VIP coach. When you travelled with Bulganov it was VIP all the way. His first step on Parisian terra firma and Dima’s pulse shifted up a gear. The clock was really ticking now. He and Kroll were in matching black Hugo Boss suits, borrowed from Bulganov’s Moscow security detail. Dima’s fitted better than Kroll’s, which was a little short in the leg and with his loping gait made him look like a gangly, prematurely-aged adolescent.
They had their Iranian passports ready — there hadn’t been any time to prepare fresh ones, but such was Bulganov’s clout that they were greeted by the French immigration team like old friends. They weren’t even asked to remove their preposterous dark glasses.
‘For a minute there I thought they were going to kiss us on both cheeks,’ said Kroll.’
‘Don’t get too used to it,’ snapped Dima.
‘No need to snap,’ scolded Kroll.
For all the drive into Paris Dima said nothing. He sat staring out of the window into the rainy night, memories flooding back, mixed with anticipation about what was without doubt the assignment of his life. So much at stake, failure wasn’t an option. The photographs, tantalisingly thrust in front of him by Paliov. No name — just the place his son worked. And the cruellest irony of all, that it was Solomon’s target.
Bulganov’s apartment was just off the Champs Elysées. As the Rolls came to a stop Dima saw it. Parked up on the kerb, a dogeared Renault Espace people-mover with smoked glass windows and no hubcaps. Rossin might as well have had the words ‘Danger — Surveillance’ stencilled along the side.
‘So when do we start?’ said Bulganov, rubbing his hands.
‘You get some rest while we hook up with our local fixer.’
Bulganov looked a little disappointed, but given the late hour and the weather, it didn’t seem like a bad option.
‘There’s a keypad there,’ he pointed out. ‘Just tap in 7474 if you change your mind and want somewhere a bit more comfortable to stay.’
‘What does he think this is,’ said Kroll under his breath. ‘A weekend break?’
Bulganov disappeared into the building and the side door of the Espace slid open. Rossin leapt out and embraced his old friend, kissing him on both cheeks.
‘It’s been too long.’
‘That’s not what you said on the phone.’
In the ten years since Dima had seen him, Rossin had aged twenty. He had put on about thirty pounds. His dark French-Algerian features had shrivelled a little but the lively eyes suggested he hadn’t lost his appetite for the game.
‘Step into my office. I have interesting things to show you.’
The interior of the Espace smelled of coffee, garlic, cigarette ash and mildew.
‘First let me say I have been extremely careful, in view of your current status. Naturally, any whiff of our previous association could prejudice my investigations.’
Dima felt the same impatience he always experienced in his dealings with Rossin.
‘Let’s just cut to the chase, okay?’
‘There have been some significant developments but I must warn you — there is a great deal of danger associated with this mission.’
‘I think I’m aware of that,’ said Dima.
‘Your man is very, very clever. This you must know. As you are aware, I have the very best channels with which to access files of the DGSE, the DCRI, the DPSD. .’
Dima headed him off.
‘And all their files on him are wiped.’
Rossin nodded and wagged a finger.
‘In fact there’s no evidence any of themever had any record of him. He’s done an extremely good job of covering his tracks. However!’ A light came into his eyes. ‘The Service Central de la Sécurité des Systèmes d’Informations—.’ He interrupted himself to grab a quick breath. ‘They showed me a link to a North African extremist group, Force Noir, which he supposedly infiltrated in the late ‘90s up in Clichy-sous-Bois.’