‘Shut the fuck up or I will break your arm,’ he hissed in Arabic, and then was pushed against the door as Aldrich made a fast-right down Rue Saint-Sulpice. Kell had no idea where they could take him, no idea what they would do with him afterwards. He was not even sure that the kidnapping had passed unnoticed on a quiet Paris thoroughfare in the small hours of the morning.

‘Head south-west,’ he said. ‘Pantheon. Place d’Italie.’

Beneath the thick leather of the motorcycle jacket Kell could feel the hard outline of a weapon.

‘Kev, take his arms.’

Kell loosened his grip on the Arab and Vigors wrenched the arms backwards so that they were pinned behind the Arab’s back. He had stopped struggling, but there was thick white spittle, like wet chalk, in the grooves of his mouth. Kell reached for the zip on the jacket and the Arab tried to bite at his hand, lowering his chin. Kell said: ‘Don’t be a baby’ and tugged his head back. He lowered the zip, reached inside the jacket and immediately felt the butt of the gun. He pulled it out.

‘Why are you carrying a silenced automatic?’ he asked in French. All of them could smell the cordite. ‘More to the point, why have you just fired it?’

Vigors recognized the gun as a SIG Sauer 9mm. Kell removed the silencer. There were eight rounds still in the magazine. He leaned forward and placed the gun in the footwell of the passenger seat, then continued searching the jacket. He pulled out a wallet, a mobile phone, a packet of cigarettes. He told the Arab to pitch forward so that he could search his back pockets. Aldrich, a block east of the Pantheon, removed his own belt and passed it to Vigors, who fashioned a basic wrist restraint around the Arab’s hands. Kell then took out his phone and sent a text to Amelia.

Going to need a safe house ASAP. CUCKOO probably down. Suspect in car. One of two from Marseille attack.

75

The message forced Amelia to involve SIS Station in Paris, a move that she had always been reluctant to make. Widening the circle of knowledge, even in a secret organization, increased the chances that word of the DGSE operation would spread through the Service. So she chose somebody young and ambitious, a fast-stream bachelor of twenty-seven who would be only too happy to help out the Chief-designate in the hope of seeing his skill and discretion rewarded further along the line.

Mike Drummond was woken from his bed just before three o’clock. By four, he had dressed and driven twenty-five minutes south of Invalides to Orsay, a commuter town where SIS rented a detached, two-bedroom house in a quiet suburban neighbourhood a few minutes from the railway station. Kell waited until Drummond confirmed that he was inside the property, then asked Aldrich to proceed to the address. By four fifteen, he was showing Akim into a modestly furnished living room with a small, flat-screen television in front of the window, vases of dried flowers above a gas fireplace, a half-finished bottle of Stolichnaya standing alone on a tray near the door.

‘Drink?’ he said.

‘Water,’ Akim replied.

In the car, things had calmed down between them. Akim had told them his name, denied killing CUCKOO, denied any involvement in the kidnapping of François Malot and issued a threat that his ‘friends’ in Paris would come looking for him if he didn’t get home by noon. But the rage and physical aggression in his behaviour had subsided. It had been replaced by a more sanguine attitude that Kell believed he could exploit.

‘What about food? Are you hungry?’ He looked at Drummond, a ginger-haired Brummie with freckles and a snub nose who seemed to have taken a decision only to speak when spoken to. ‘There’s food in the fridge, right?’

‘’Course,’ Drummond replied.

Vigors had been to the bathroom, fixed three cups of instant coffee and taken one of them out to Aldrich in the car. The street was black and still, not a twitch of curtain, not a stray cat or dog. Vigors offered to switch places with Aldrich, who had been driving for the better part of two hours. He sat in the vehicle on watch while Aldrich went inside.

‘Here’s the situation,’ Kell said, welcoming him into the room as he directed his words at Akim. ‘We are all of us officers with the Secret Intelligence Service, better known to you, I suppose, as MI6. We have a twelve-man team in Paris on standby and a larger operation in London monitoring this conversation from our headquarters on the Thames. You are perfectly safe. We used force against you at the Lutetia because we had no choice, but our discussion now is not going to be as uncomfortable as you think. As I said in the car, I remember you from Marseille, I know that you were just doing your job. I am not in the business of revenge, Akim. I’m not interested in seeing that justice is done for the murder of Vincent Cévennes.’

The young Arab looked up, confused by his interrogator’s strategy. Drummond had been into the kitchen and now wordlessly passed the prisoner a glass of water before retreating into a chair. Akim’s hand shook as he drank it.

‘I looked through your phone in the car,’ Kell continued. It occurred to him that Drummond would be taking mental notes, both with a view to improving his own interview technique and to see how far the infamous Witness X would pursue the softer lines of enquiry before resorting to threat and malice.

‘I need to make a call,’ Akim replied. They were speaking in French. ‘Like I told you, if I don’t tell them I am coming back, they will take action.’

‘What kind of action? Who are the people you want us to contact?’

Kell was gambling everything on a calculation he had made about Akim’s personality. He was a thug, yes, a man who would kill on orders, but he was not without decency. His phone had been full of photographs: of smiling girlfriends, of family members, children, even landscapes and buildings that had caught the young Arab’s eye. There were text messages full of humour; messages of concern for a sick grandparent in Toulon; expressions of devotion to a benevolent God. Kell was certain that Akim was just a street kid who had been plucked from prison by French Intelligence and turned into what a long-ago colleague in Ireland had described as ‘a useful idiot of violence’. He possessed the self-improving drive of a survivor born into no money, no education, no hope. But there was something sentimental about him, as though he had promised himself better things.

‘I can’t tell you that,’ Akim replied, but Kell had not expected an answer without sugaring the pill.

‘Then maybe I should tell you,’ he said. He went towards the door and opened the bottle of vodka, wanting a couple of fingers to jolt his senses and carry him into the morning. ‘I think their names are Luc Javeau and Valerie de Serres. I think they hired you to kill Phillippe and Jeannine Malot in Egypt earlier this year.’ To Kell’s surprise, Akim did not rebut the accusation. ‘We know that François Malot was kidnapped shortly after his parents’ funeral and that a DGSE officer named Vincent Cévennes impersonated him in an influence operation against a senior figure within our organization.’

Drummond crossed and uncrossed his legs, realizing that Kell was referring to Amelia Levene. Aldrich flashed him a cold, appraising glance, an experienced old hand quietly telling the young pup to take that secret to his grave.

‘I don’t know,’ Akim replied, shaking his head. ‘Maybe this is true, maybe it isn’t.’ He had been wearing a tight black vest under the motorcycle jacket and raised his hands in defence, the nylon fabric accentuating the long muscles in his arms.

‘We know it’s true,’ Kell said firmly. There was a sofa in the room and two armchairs. He rose from the sofa and crouched in front of Akim, glass of vodka in hand. ‘When Vincent was exposed by MI6, I think Luc and Valerie panicked, yes? The operation was now a failure and they told you to kill him. But what should they do about François? Kill him, too, or ransom the boy to his mother?’ Akim looked away, but Aldrich and Drummond offered no solace. ‘Did you know that Valerie telephoned my boss this morning requesting five million euros for the safe return of her son?’ The sum brought Akim’s gaze directly back to Kell, as though something had stuck in his throat. ‘How much of that money have you been promised? Five per cent? Ten? What about your other friend, the one who did this to my eye?’ Kell pointed to the scar on his face and smiled. ‘Does he get more than you or the same?’