39
Bill Selsey, a twenty-two-year veteran at MI6, a man whose chief ambitions were a steady career and a solid pension at the end of it, sidled up to Jack Grantham’s glass-fronted office at the far end of one of the open-plan offices that lent MI6 headquarters a deceptive appearance of corporate normality.
“Busy, Jack?”
Grantham looked up from the screen where he was checking files on the world’s professional hit men and wondering why so many of their whereabouts were listed as “Unknown.” What was the point of knowing about the bad guys if you didn’t have the resources to keep proper tabs on them?
“Nothing urgent. What can I do for you?”
Selsey parked his ample backside on the edge of Grantham’s desk, ignoring his colleague’s disapproving frown.
“There’s an interesting development in the Paris investigation,” he said. “We just received a call from one of our European partners—Papin, one of the more interesting characters in the French intelligence community. He seems to float around without any formal job title, but he has a habit of popping up in unexpected places.”
“So?”
“So, he says he knows where to find the people responsible for the crash in the Alma Tunnel.”
Grantham sat up in his chair, his mood changing in an instant from polite indifference to total concentration. “Really? Where does he say they are?”
“Well, that’s the catch. He wants us to pay for the information. Says he won’t consider anything under half a million dollars.”
“He wants us to pay? Bloody hell, even by French standards that’s a bit steep. Whatever happened to interservice cooperation?”
“He’s not doing this for his service, Jack. This one’s strictly off the books.”
“Do we trust him?”
“Of course not, he’s French. Which means he’s self-centered, unscrupulous, and couldn’t give a monkey’s about anything except his own immediate advantage.”
“But is he any good?”
“Not bad. Yeah. If he says he knows where these people are, I believe him.”
“All right, but if he thinks we’ve got half a million dollars to chuck his way, he’s obviously not been informed about our budget cuts. Can we get to him for free?”
Selsey’s hangdog face brightened. “Ah, that’s the good news. Not only is he working off the books, he’s sending his message from a humble payphone rather than one of DGSE’s secure lines—presumably doesn’t want any record of his communications with us and the other bidders appearing on their logs.”
“Bit amateur. We’ll have much less trouble tracking that.”
“Perhaps greed is getting the better of him. It’s amazing what the prospect of easy money does to the human brain. And he probably underestimates our ability to track him. We only let the Frogs see a fraction of our signals intelligence, after all. Their officers won’t necessarily realize just how powerful Echelon and GCHQ really are.”
“Working back to the site of his call is tricky but not impossible. We may manage it. But our real chance will come when he calls back. We’ve got to conduct some sort of negotiation. If we keep him talking, we’ll get an exact position.”
“He’s not going to be that daft, surely?”
“He stands to make half a mill. He might take a risk for that.”
Grantham frowned. “I can see why he’s not worried about us. Even if we don’t shell out any cash, we’re hardly going to hurt a fellow professional from a country that’s one of our allies.”
“Even if he is French?”
“No, not even then. But there’ll be other people out there who are a lot less scrupulous. Papin’s got to get his money, take his clients to the killers’ location, then get out in one piece himself. Tell you what, Bill, you said this guy’s not bad.”
“Yeah?”
“Well, he’s going to have to be a hell of a lot better than that to pull this one off.”