Rogue Elements (29 page)

Shel Margrave’s ID gained them immediate access to the airside of Strasbourg airport. He drove the black SUV right up to a Learjet parked some way from the terminal building. One of the waiting Police nationale officers took charge of the vehicle as they stepped out. ‘Come on,’ he called back to Arkell, starting up the steps.

The freelance spy, who for nine years had survived on his wits, stayed on the tarmac. ‘I don’t get into strange men’s aeroplanes.’

Margrave looked round. ‘What are you afraid of? We’re Canadian: we don’t do rendition, for God’s sake.’

‘This may sound paranoid, but members of more than one intelligence service have tried to kill me.’

‘Join the club. Look, you’re more useful to me in Europe than Canada, which is where this plane is headed in about twelve minutes. I’ll kick you off in time, I promise.’

With that he continued up the steps and disappeared from view.

The SUV had driven off. Arkell gazed along the taciturn line of French police officers guarding the Canadian plane. He felt just a little foolish standing there on his own.

He took the steps at a run.

‘This is him?’ said a voice.

Arkell blinked quickly in the bright cabin lights. There were too many people; they blurred together. But he recognized the voice. He’d heard it at length that evening.

Margrave was the closest. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Different than I expected.’

The speaker stepped forward. Arkell allowed himself a quick inventory of the others present – PMPD, CSIS, chief of staff, press secretary, various harmless aides – before focusing his attention on the prime minister.

‘What do I call you?’

‘Might as well stick with Andrew Meredith for now.’

Mayhew glanced over his shoulder. ‘Where is that thing? Bring it here.’

A PMPD officer pushed through the aides, gingerly holding a clear plastic bag by one corner. Inside was a fine steel dart, bent out of shape.

‘Give it to me,’ said Mayhew impatiently. ‘I’m not going to prick my damn finger.’ He took the bag and held it up to Arkell. ‘Our people will analyse the contents back in Ottawa. Any idea what they’ll find?’

‘Something unusual,’ said Arkell. ‘Ya—’ He stopped himself, with a glance to Margrave. ‘TARQUIN went to a specialist for it. That’s a tiny dose. There aren’t many poisons that will kill you with a few drops.’

‘We might as well get it over with,’ said Mayhew gruffly. He extended a hand. ‘Thank you for saving my life.’

‘Thank me when I’ve eliminated the threat.’

The prime minister let his arm drop. ‘I’ll do that. What are your chances?’

‘Honestly? I’ve missed the best opportunities. Here, Cyprus . . .’

‘TARQUIN was in Cyprus?’ Mayhew turned to Margrave. ‘Did the Service know that?’

‘No, sir.’

‘The Dutch?’

‘If they did, they didn’t share it with us.’

‘You seem to be a step ahead of us, at least. Who’s behind it?’

Abruptly an image came to Arkell of three men in a police line-up: George Vine flanked by Tony Watchman and Martin de Vries, all dressed in prison fatigues. ‘I’m afraid we –’ He was interrupted by a ringing phone. ‘I’m sorry, do you mind?’ he said, reaching into his pocket. ‘It’s after midnight. No one calls this late unless it’s important.’

The prime minister shared a look with Margrave.

Arkell glanced at the screen. It was Danny. ‘What is it?’ he muttered, turning away from the others.

‘Hello to you too,’ came Danny’s excited voice.

‘Little busy, Danny, I’ll –’

‘No, no, don’t hang up! I found your guy.’

‘
What?
’

‘See, I was surfing a few travel systems, trying some back-door tricks, double-checking those names. I mean Strasbourg is boring
as shit
at night. So, anyways, one of them came up. José Cumes. He’s back in the air again.’

‘Where’s he going?’ breathed Arkell.

‘Wait a secondo, hombre. This one isn’t a scheduled flight. He booked a last-minute private charter out of Strasbourg. Cessna Citation. You want to know how much this baby set him back?’

‘Where, Danny? Where’s he gone?’

‘OK, hold on . . . here you go. It’s still France.’ He sounded disappointed. ‘Tarbes. Landed midnight-oh-five.’

Arkell lowered the phone. Tarbes? Where was Tarbes? It rang a bell, but why? He looked back at Mayhew. ‘You’re not planning any other events in Europe, are you?’

‘We leave for Canada soon as you and I are done.’

‘And President Andrade?’

‘Back to Brazil tonight. Why, what’s up?’

‘Nothing, I . . .’
Why Tarbes?

One of the aides leaned forward timidly. ‘Actually, sir? I think Mr Andrade is making an extra stop before he heads home.’

‘He didn’t mention anything to me.’

‘Sir, I could be wrong, but I was sharing ideas for the next Think Again conference with one of his speech-writers and he happened to mention that one of the things the president has always wanted to –’

‘Christ, where’s he going?’ demanded Arkell.

‘L-Lourdes,’ said the aide. ‘He wants to celebrate Mass in Lourdes.’

Right after wheels-up, Mayhew went to bed in the private cabin at the back of the jet, but Simon Arkell remained locked in discussion with the RCMP and CSIS officers. It had taken a matter of seconds to confirm on his smartphone map what he already knew: Lourdes, one of the pre-eminent pilgrimage sites in the Roman Catholic galaxy, lies just a few miles south of the provincial town of Tarbes, in the foothills of the Pyrenees. The other end of France.

It had taken even less time for the prime minister to agree to a small detour.

‘This was not planned – we agree about that?’ Nathaniel Henderson was the Assistant Commissioner in charge of Protective Policing for the RCMP. ‘This is a last-minute move. Go after Andrade to make good his failure tonight?’

‘Doesn’t mean he’ll be any less effective,’ Arkell assured him.

‘What do Andrade’s people say?’ asked Margrave of the young woman beside him. It had been Sergeant Sarah Winter’s job, as inter-services liaison officer, to make the call to her opposite number in the Brazilian camp. ‘Not a lot yet. Roberto was asleep already. Pretty unhappy to be woken. They thank us for the information.’

Arkell leaned forward. ‘Andrade’s schedule in Lourdes?’

‘He has to check with his boss, who’s also asleep, whether he can share that data. Definitely Mass in the morning. Definitely departing for Brasilia before midday. The rest is currently need-to-know. They’re already settled in a hotel round the corner from the Sanctuary, with full security in place. Andrade will have a gendarme escort from the moment they leave the hotel to the steps of their plane. Roberto is confident there are no vulnerabilities.’

‘Does anyone here know Lourdes?’ asked Arkell.

‘I do,’ said one of the CSIS officers. ‘I volunteered there before college. Spent a summer as hospitalier, welcoming pilgrims, wheeling the sick to services, stuff like that.’

‘Describe it.’

‘I have to say, it’s kind of ideal assassin territory. Big open square Andrade’s bound to walk across, forested hills all around with commanding views over the basilicas and grotto. A sniper could hide anywhere in those hills and fire as many rounds as he wanted. No danger he’d be caught.’

‘There’s a grotto?’ sighed Henderson.

‘It won’t happen like that,’ said Arkell. ‘TARQUIN’s weapon is chemical. A poison. He’ll want to get close. The question is how he’ll deliver it.’

‘That’s a no-brainer,’ said the CSIS officer straightaway. ‘Andrade’s going to Mass, right?’

‘Right.’

‘Then it’s the Eucharist.’

‘The
what
?’ demanded Henderson.

‘Of course,’ said Arkell. ‘The body and the blood.’ When Henderson still looked blank, he added, ‘Communion bread and wine.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ swore Henderson.

‘Well, yes, exactly. At least to Catholics.’

The Assistant Commissioner missed Margrave’s smile. ‘It won’t just be Andrade taking communion.’

‘No,’ agreed Arkell, ‘and TARQUIN won’t want collateral deaths. At least not in public. He’ll look for a way of spiking only the wine or the wafer that Andrade takes.’

‘An accomplice in the clergy?’

‘An altar boy?’

‘A single doctored wafer, kept aside for the president?’

‘Something on the rim of the cup, one side only? The priest turns the cup for Andrade?’

The ideas and theories kept coming until Sarah Winter, scrolling through a document on her satellite-linked tablet, interrupted. ‘Um, excuse me? It might not be the Eucharist. I mean, there are other possibilities. I have the president’s schedule.’

‘Go on,’ muttered Henderson.

‘The Mass will be held in the Rosary Basilica at 9 a.m. But before that, Andrade visits the Grotto of the Virgin, and before that . . .’ Winter looked up almost apologetically. ‘He’s taking a bath.’

Madeleine Wraye could see that the three men standing in the lay-by beside the Eurotunnel exit road were armed. It was 3 a.m., still dark, and they were deliberately positioned behind a parked Austrian camper van, out of view of the CCTV camera. Few people would have noticed, but Wraye knew what to look for and with the passing headlights the slight bulges formed by their handguns were just visible.

Stepping out of her rental car, Wraye felt suddenly drained. Five hours’ hard driving from Strasbourg to Calais, with the added strain of wondering how soon ASH would come for her. Because Arkell was right: ASH must know by now. Joyce had had plenty of information to give up under Yadin’s blade: her name, her CSIS contract, a dangerous interest in GRIEVANCE and Ellington’s death, a shortlist of suspects. What Vine, de Vries or Watchman might have guessed from her questions, ASH now had confirmed courtesy of an idiot analyst who thought he could play with the big boys.

It had become a straightforward race: unmask ASH before he eliminated her.

As the three men in suits and shoulder holsters approached, she straightened, determined not to show her exhaustion. The last stragglers from the shuttle were driving past. In a moment it would be dark again, save for the nearby glow of a hundred Terminal lamps. No witnesses, other than a couple of sleeping Austrians in a camper van.

Which would be worse? Murdered on the orders of the father figure who had recruited her, the partner who’d taken his first SIS steps alongside her, or the unloved exile whose career she’d fought so hard to defend. Vine, Watchman, de Vries. Which would hurt more?

‘This car needs to be returned to France,’ she said. She wasn’t sure why she had begun that way. Perhaps it was the lack of sleep: she hadn’t seen a bed for three nights. Perhaps it was fear. ‘Can one of you take care of it?’

Were they in fact Austrian tourists in that camper? It had a large aerial, mirrored windows – a perfect surveillance vehicle. She pushed the thought aside. The three men were glancing from one to another. A decision was reached and the tallest stepped forward.

‘There’ll be an Avis office in Calais by the ferry terminal. You have your passport?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘My case is in the boot. Would you mind?’ She turned her attention to the two cars parked at the end of the lay-by. Both were sleek black Vauxhall saloons. ‘Which am I taking?’

One of the other men held out a key. ‘The forward vehicle, ma’am.’

She nodded. ‘Stay with me as far as Guildford. If you spot a tail or any kind of threat other than uniformed police, take it out. On no account use your weapons unless you’re fired upon – just crash the fuckers into a ditch, understood?’

Now that she had protection she drove at a more leisurely pace, conscious that she was tired enough to be a danger to herself even on the largely empty M20. Traffic was heavier on the M25, where she kept to the inside lane and concentrated on working out what to say. She watched the sun rise on the A3; minutes later the other Vauxhall flashed its lights twice and exited via a slip road. By the time she reached the silent village just outside Godalming, a beautiful summer morning had developed.

Pulling into the driveway of the stone cottage, Wraye parked beside a bright green Mini and turned off her engine. There was a good-sized lawn with a scattering of fruit trees, a paddling pool and a crooked wooden platform on which stood a half-built Wendy house. Pink crayon faces decorated the stilts and sides of the platform. She closed her eyes and allowed herself precisely one minute to damn Edward Joyce for his unutterably imbecilic and moronic stupidity. Then she removed her jewellery, cleaned off her Strasbourg make-up, and filled her mind with all the good and clever and admirable things he had done, the competent work, the brightness and hopefulness and loyalty of the man.

Madeleine Wraye pulled her stiff body out of the car and went to wake up his widow.

It was many years since Murilo Hernandez Andrade had felt this good. Good in the moral sense. In the pure sense. He was not, he had long accepted, a good man. He knew he was going to Hell. That did not mean he could not do good things. With Think Again he was trying, really trying, to do a good thing. But he could not stand before St Peter and say, ‘I have not stolen, I have not coveted, I have not committed adultery. I have not killed.’

No, with certainty, he could not say that.

He had lived well. Recently, very well. He had taken commercial and social advantage of his position at various levels of government. He had drunk some of the best whisky in the world, in quantities and mixes that made a mockery of the meticulous efforts of its distillers. He had snorted cocaine off the buttocks of Brazil’s finest prostitutes. It had made him feel super-good.

But he had not felt
good
until today.

Standing alone in the modest grotto of Massabielle, hand pressed to the hallowed rock, Murilo Andrade looked up at the statue of the Virgin and marvelled at the wonder of St Bernadette’s visions. How he envied her. (Envy! Even here, he was sinning.) At fourteen, Bernadette Soubirous had witnessed divinity and brought the good news to millions. At fourteen, Murilo Andrade had started down a path that would condemn his soul to everlasting damnation.

It had begun as a thing of beauty. Tall and unusually developed for his age, the boy who would one day rule a BRIC powerhouse did that simple and wonderful thing: he made love. It was not his first time; his father, as was common practice in the north-east of Brazil, had taken him to a whorehouse a few months earlier to initiate him. What more natural thing could there be than to share what he had been taught with his consenting girlfriend?

If fathers in Pernambuco are overly permissive with respect to their sons’ sexual adventures, the very opposite is true for their daughters. It is quite simply not acceptable, amongst a certain class of north-eastern family, for a daughter to be anything other than a virgin on her wedding day. They must flirt, of course, wear provocative clothes and dance like Venus crossed with Catwoman. But they must not go to bed with a man. So seriously is the matter taken that boyfriends are not infrequently shot dead by vengeful fathers.

In some ways, Murilo Andrade was lucky to be alive.

When he found out, Livia’s industrialist father chose a different form of punishment. With the regretful acquiescence of Andrade’s parents, who were appalled at the prospect of this rich and powerful man pursuing a vendetta against them, he beat the young Romeo with a cane until his bare flesh had split open in a hundred places.

The scars had been a concern this morning. At the baths, after an extraordinary delay caused by his protection team insisting on a last-second switch of bath in case the water was poisoned (the sacred, healing water of Lourdes, my
God
!), he had been introduced to the two priests who would bathe him.

‘You will see things,’ he told them in bad French, ‘that I do not wish to be known.’

They replied in fluent – if European – Portuguese, that nothing seen in the baths would ever be discussed. And so, once the curtain was drawn on his entourage, he allowed them to lower his great naked, disfigured body into the water that had welled from Bernadette’s spring. It touched him, that water, as nothing in his life. The cool, clean essence of the Virgin soaked through his skin and into his bones, his brain, his burdened heart. It was the beginning of letting go.

He would not have done it for the caning alone. At fourteen, in that culture, he believed he deserved it. But that was just the start of his punishment. Senhor Pereira insisted that the boy who had defiled his daughter must now marry her. They were minors; with both sets of parents in a kind of collusion, the young couple had no choice. Murilo was taken out of school and sent to work in the Pereira shoe factory, two hundred kilometres away, cutting leather in a fusty workshop. He was forbidden physical access to Livia until his sixteenth birthday, when he met her again on the steps of an altar. Denied his education, bound for life before God to a woman he no longer knew, Murilo Andrade was allowed one night to make love to his distraught wife before being sent back to the factory.

Something in the young Andrade just snapped. And one scalding day, during a visit to the shoe factory, something in the neck of Senhor Pereira also snapped. There were no witnesses. In the end the police called it an accidental death.

No witnesses but God. Yes, Andrade knew he was going to Hell.

Thanks to his wife’s considerable inherited wealth, Andrade had been able to begin afresh. He went back to school, then college, then law school. And with Livia’s share of the Pereira fortune he funded his political campaigns, first at the municipal level while he pursued a career as a patent lawyer, and then at state and federal level when his charisma, intelligence and determination began to draw a following.

There had been corruption, yes, of course, and debauchery and excess. But really, why not? He was condemned anyway. And yet he did feel good now, washed almost clean of his sins in the chill waters of Lourdes. Almost pure enough to stand here, in this revered spot, and share a little of the sanctity of Bernadette.

For the first time since he’d broken Pereira’s neck, he felt righteous.