Darcey swallowed, waking up fast. ‘You again.’
‘Where are you?’
Darcey paused a beat. Maybe she ought to hang up right now, but what the hell. ‘Spain,’ she said.
‘I’m leaving for Paris in an hour,’ he said. ‘Can you make it there this afternoon?’
‘All right.’
‘Cafe de la Paix, three o’clock. Come alone.’
Darcey sat alone at a table on the terrace of the famous cafe, watching the traffic shoot by on the Boulevard des Capucines and the people around her eating brioche and drinking coffee and
Until he did, there was nothing much for her to do except sip on her Orangina and enjoy the Paris atmosphere. There had been just enough time to book into a hotel, take a shower and change into a white blouse, crisp blue jeans and a denim jacket, and she now felt refreshed and alert.
At exactly five minutes past three, a grey Renault Laguna pulled up abruptly at the kerbside a few metres from her table, and a young guy with soft brown eyes and dark hair leaned nervously out of the driver’s window. He glanced up and down the cafe terrace, then his gaze landed on her.
‘Get in,’ he said in a jittery voice.
Darcey got up and climbed into the front passenger seat next to him. ‘So you’re Borg,’ she said. ‘What happened to the headband?’
‘Very funny,’ he said, waiting for a gap in the traffic. He was just about to pull out when Paolo Buitoni appeared as if out of nowhere, wrenched open the back door and got in.
‘My associate, Mr McEnroe,’ Darcey said.
‘Jesus Christ, I said come alone.’
‘My mother taught me not to get in cars with strange men,’ Darcey said. ‘Especially ones who won’t tell me who the fuck they really are.’ She slipped out her Beretta from under her denim jacket and shoved it in his side. ‘Now drive, and start talking.’
They pulled into the traffic and headed up Boulevard des Capucines.
‘I’m listening,’ Darcey said.
‘OK, first things first. My name’s Jamie. Jamie Lister.’ Lister glanced down at the gun. ‘Listen, would you mind not pointing that thing at me? It makes me feel very uncomfortable.’
Darcey put the Beretta away. ‘Just remember it’s there. So who exactly are you, Jamie Lister?’
‘I’m with MI6. Or was, until yesterday. This isn’t exactly the greatest career move for me.’
She raised her eyebrows at him. ‘You don’t believe me?’ As he drove, Lister reached into his jacket pocket, took out a laminated ID card and tossed it to her.
She inspected it, held it up for Buitoni to see, then skimmed it onto the dashboard. ‘Where did that come from, inside of a Christmas cracker?’
Lister looked pained. ‘It’s vital that you believe me. I’m MI6, all right? How else would I have known about Operation Jericho?’
‘I don’t like all this furtive crap,’ she said. ‘There are channels.’
‘It’s necessary. If they knew I was talking to you, they’d kill us all.’
‘Forget the them-and-us stuff. Who d’you think it is you’re talking to here?’
‘Don’t kid yourself, Agent Kane. You’re not one of them, because if you were, they wouldn’t have you raking through a load of falsified evidence. You’re just a pawn in a game you don’t even know exists. This whole thing with Tassoni is fucked up. They’ve sent you after an innocent man.’
Darcey exchanged glances with Buitoni. ‘Why would they do that?’ she asked Lister.
‘To get to Shikov,’ Lister replied, steering past the Madeleine church and heading southwest towards Place de la Concorde.
‘Who’s Shikov?’ Buitoni asked from the back seat.
‘Grigori Shikov,’ Lister said. ‘He’s a Russian mafia boss. High up. They call him “the Tsar”.’
Darcey shook her head. ‘Never heard of him.’
‘You wouldn’t have,’ Lister told her. ‘He’s well connected. And very careful. Even his fronts have fronts. For decades, agents have been prying around the edges of his business empire looking for the smallest chink in his armour. Nothing. They can’t even get him on tax evasion. He’s smarter than Al Capone.’
‘Why are M16 going after Russian mafia? That’s SOCA’s territory.’
‘Not since Shikov branched out into a new line of business. Drugs and prostitution and people trafficking aren’t enough for him any more. He’s dealing in arms. A very specific class of weaponry, destined for a very specific client.’ Lister gave her a sideways look. ‘The Taliban.’
Darcey shook her head. ‘Unlikely. The Taliban already have more weapons than the entire Russian mafia put together.’
‘Not like these, they don’t,’ Lister said. ‘What do you know about the Ka-50?’
‘Russian military attack helicopter. Their answer to our Apache Mk1, maybe even more advanced in some ways. Known as the Black Shark.’
Lister nodded. ‘Seven weeks ago, a pair of Russian air force Black Shark helicopters went missing from a base in the Ukraine. Inside job. Major bribery and corruption. When Russian military intelligence tracked down the personnel involved, all they found were dead bodies. At this moment, nobody knows where the helicopters went. According to our own sources, we have reason to believe that Shikov has them hidden somewhere. But Russia’s a pretty big place. Nobody knows where.’
‘And he’s planning to sell them to terrorists?’
‘That’s what the intelligence sources suggest. If it’s true, it could turn the tide of the war in Afghanistan against us. Forget hit-and-run RPG attacks, forget suicide bombers. We’re talking about a rise of the terrorist threat to a whole new unprecedented level.’
‘Hold on,’ Darcey said, raising her hands. ‘I’m lost here. What does all this have to do with Ben Hope murdering Urbano Tassoni?’
‘Ben Hope no more killed Tassoni than you did.’
‘So who did kill him?’ Darcey said, stunned.
Lister looked at her. ‘We did.’
Lister let out a humourless laugh at her expression. ‘That’s right. Us. The good guys.’
‘I don’t believe it,’ Buitoni said.
Lister glanced back at him in the mirror. ‘No? That’s just for openers.’
A million frantic questions crowded into Darcey’s mind at once. Lister had just shared a piece of information which, if it were even half true, could get them all killed. Part of her wished she’d never heard it; the other part wanted to hear more.
