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,
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 Securite des Systemes 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.’
‘Nice part of town.’
Dima remembered it: grim anonymous towers of substandard housing decked in graffiti and satellite dishes. And no white faces.
Rossin nodded, his mouth turned downwards in a Gallic show of distaste.
‘One of the worst — on fire through most of the summer of ’05. Not so bad now since Sarkozy cracked down on them.’ He opened his laptop. ‘So we did a little surveillance of a couple of blocks where we knew they were active.’ He struck a key like a concert pianist at the start of a concerto. ‘Et — voila!’
Dima peered at the screen: Solomon. Exactly as he remembered him and exactly how Marine Sergeant Henry Blackburn had described him. A tall figure, heavy brow, high cheekbones and dark empty eyes. Hard to put an age or nationality to. The perfect twenty-first century triple agent turned terrorist. He felt his pulse accelerate again and the muscles in his chest tighten.
‘That’s him.’
He turned the laptop towards Kroll, who bent his head close to the screen. Rossin eased it back towards him.
‘There’s more.’
Rossin scrolled slowly through shots of three more men coming either in or out of the same block.
‘Bernard, Syco, Ramon. They don’t seem to have surnames. They’re all on file.’
‘Syco’s my favourite,’ said Kroll, looking at the biggest and ugliest of the three.
‘When were these taken?’
‘Yesterday.’
‘Good work. You have a log?’
Rossin opened another window and read off the times.
‘Solomon — enters at three-thirty, shortly after the other three have arrived. They are all believed to be inhabiting an apartment on the ninth floor. Solomon leaves at eight. We followed him to a small hotel in the Rue Marcellin Berthelot, about four ks from there. He’s registered there as Zayed Trahore, good Algerian name. But he goes back to the apartment an hour later and I’m betting he is still there.’
Rossin allowed himself a small triumphant smirk before he ploughed on. There’s a man, thought Dima, who loves his work.
‘Now comes the most interesting part. A Citroen van with the livery of an air freight company called Cargotrak made a delivery there at nine-thirty last night. Not a good time to be out on the streets there, I might add. Syco and Ramon carried a box about the size of a small fridge into the building.’
Dima looked at Kroll. ‘Jesus. He flew it in on a cargo plane.’
Kroll let a slow breath out.
‘Better bet than excess baggage, if you grease the right palms.’
Rossin raised a finger.
‘Cargotrak has a long standing contract with the CIA for shipments to Afghanistan and neighbouring destinations. As I say, your man is a clever one.’
Kroll booted up Shenk’s scanner.
‘What’s that?’ Rossin looked suddenly worried.
‘Just our insurance.’
Kroll compared the co-ordinates with the map of Paris on the iPad he’d borrowed from Omorova.
‘Looks good.’
Dima frowned into space.
‘Right. Better get on with it. Where’s Vladimir?’
‘At the hotel.’
‘I hope it’s near Clichy.’
Rossin smiled. ‘Three blocks from Solomon’s. And full of local atmosphere.’
‘Has he got the necessary?’
‘All sorted.’
79
‘Do you never sleep?’
Vladimir gave a good look through the spy hole before he let them in.
‘I put my head on the pillow forty-five minutes ago.’
Dima gave his comrade a brotherly hug. ‘What’s a pillow?’
He looked round the room. A small lightweight arsenal awaited them: three Glock 9 mm machine pistols, a pack of stun grenades, three high-power torches, night vision goggles, Vladimir’s favourite rappelling kit.
Dima lifted the ropes.
‘Did you need these to get out of Iran?’
‘Amara persuaded me to stay for the funeral. I needed them to get out of her bedroom.’
‘So she’s coming to terms with her loss.’
‘She was quite pissed off that she couldn’t come to Paris with me.’
‘You didn’t tell her anything, did you?’
‘I’m Siberian, not stupid.’
‘You sober enough for this next bit?’
‘If I have to be.’
Dima turned to Rossin. ‘If we need you—.’
Rossin shook his head. ‘I’m out of town the next couple of days.’
‘I thought you said you’d retired.’
Rossin shrugged. ‘It’s as you said: none of us retire.’
