The Falklands Intercept (21 page)

‘Stay there. We are close by. Don't use a mobile phone. Not even your special one. Keep out of sight. Give us half an hour. We will be in a dark blue Mercedes with
diplomatic
plates.'

Jacot slipped into the cathedral. He was on the run and his initial exhilaration was giving way to fear. But entering one of England's greatest cathedrals was still a comforting experience and its recesses would provide a safe place to hide, at least for a short period. Unfortunately it was lighter inside than he remembered. There were no shadowy spaces or vast tombs in the nave that he could shelter behind. The Lady Chapel to his left was a blaze of light and too exposed – Cromwell's men had destroyed the stained glass in this their boss' home town. He was fairly sure his opponents had not followed him here but he still wanted to hide. Suddenly he was in the Choir. Slipping into the back row of the choir stalls, Jacot lay down on the floor. He couldn't be seen. The presence of others gave some safety as well. Shame there was no stained glass – it would have made it darker. Even the people he was up against would not want
to kill him in broad daylight – or that's what he hoped.

It was a long half an hour but at last it was time to move. He took a circuitous route leaving the cathedral through a small door on the south side that led to the old monastic buildings. Meandering his way unchallenged through these he got himself into a position from which he could observe the West front. Sure enough there was a dark blue Mercedes parked a few feet away. Monica was in the back. The driver got out and walked slowly towards Jacot. A second man got out of the car and stood by the passenger door. Neither man was wearing dark glasses or an earpiece but it was clear the type of men they were.

‘Bonjour Mon Colonel.' The tall Frenchman took Jacot's arm gently. Looking round all the time, he guided Jacot to the car and handed him firmly in. They drove slowly off north picking up speed once they left the town.

‘Monica! Nice of you to give me a lift.'

‘Daniel, give me your jacket. I need to check it. And let's look at your shoes. No mobile phone?'

‘No', replied Jacot.

She gave him his jacket back. She looked closely at each of the heels on his shoes. ‘No worries Mon Colonel, I think you are clean.' She then noticed his hands – the thin, taut grafted skin was bruised and bleeding. ‘Look at your hands. For God's sake what have you been doing?'

Jacot laughed. ‘Well, Monica, I had to leave pretty quickly and not exactly by the front door.'

‘They look very painful, I will sort them out as soon as we get to the house.'

The car was going very fast by now and the flat north Cambridgeshire countryside sped past. Jacot was relieved. He looked at the backs of the heads of the men in front. Their hair was cut extremely short with a square neck. They could only be French. To be specific they could only be French soldiers or French Rugby players. They were speaking to each other in broadly accented French, but not the broad twang of the south. Something different perhaps from the mountains. He had met ski guides who spoke the same way. Anyway, whoever they were or wherever they were from, he was relieved to be with them. The pair or possibly group of men who had tried to kill him in Cambridge knew what they were doing. It was the strangest feeling of all – being rescued in your own country by a group of foreigners.

Monica cut into his thoughts, ‘Daniel you must be wondering why it is us who have come to your rescue.'

‘Well, I was rather. I assumed you were in London. Last time we met I thought you had just got off the train at Cambridge Station.'

She laughed. ‘No, one of the back up team dropped me somewhere quiet and out of the way and I walked into the centre of Cambridge. For the first time. It was glorious.'

‘I know. I was watching you from the Pizza restaurant. But I still assumed you had
come from the station. Lady Nevinson made it clear that I could have a quick get out of jail card if I needed one but I assumed the whole thing would be British – some retired spooks or some SAS men working in private security – that sort of thing. Not the French Foreign Legion.'

Monica exchanged a few words with one of the men in front. ‘They are not Legionnaires but Chasseurs Alpins. Mountain troops. Back last year from a tour in Afghanistan. Some of them volunteered for special duties and have ended up in the UK.'

‘I am not sure I understand. French soldiers wandering around England?' He had seen some of the hardware barely concealed under the front seat. ‘Armed French soldiers wandering around England? It hasn't happened for a thousand years or so.'

‘It's a long story. The DCRI has safe houses in certain parts of England. The ones in East Anglia are used to rest and brief any agents we have in London or the Midlands. It's convenient for both areas. Most of our people are involved with keeping track of Islamist extremists. You seem to have a lot and you have not always been so good at keeping tabs on them. Remember the jibe of “Londonistan” – it originally came from us. Anyway, the houses also act as bases for immediate back-up – immediate reaction force in the British Army jargon, I think. Obviously, such intelligence installations are not declared to your government and if any of our people were to run into trouble then we would have to rescue them on our own. We could not expect your intelligence services to become involved and we would not wish to place an additional burden on your police forces. Lady Nevinson understands our system. Something alarmed Madame La Baronesse a few days ago and you were added to our list. It's no problem.'

Jacot did not know what to say. He mumbled something on the lines of these
arrangements
being most irregular.

Monica said, ‘Before you get English and angry Lady Nevinson will be here this evening. It's a Friday if you have forgotten. She will explain what has been going on I hope. Let's just get you to a safe place, sort out your hands maybe give you a drink and then I will explain what I know so far. Lady Nevinson can do the rest. And then we all need to have a serious think about what we are going to do next. We'll be there in half an hour. Now you have got your breath back let me update you on the little plan we cooked up in the pizza restaurant.'

The car turned down a muddy lane which seemed to go on forever. At the end was a nondescript and rather dirty looking farmhouse. Only the windows were clean. They got out and walked towards the house.

Jacot felt a depression of spirits. The prospect of being holed up in such a place was unappealing, even with alcohol and the company of the lissom Monica. But once through the peeling but stout front door the inside could not have been more different from his expectations. It was decorated like a modernised French farm-house in pastel shades. French hunting scenes hung on the wall and the furniture looked comfortable. The kitchen was a revelation – the latest equipment and a vast array of the most expensive pots and pans were piled neatly and high on smart fitted wooden shelves.

‘Don't be surprised Daniel. You have a tradition of victory and discomfort. We were defeated in 1940 and humiliated. Those that fought on in France had to hide for much of the war. So we understand what it is to hide. In modern times at least we try to do it in comfort.'

She poured him a large glass of brandy and placed a medical kit on the table. He downed it in one. And then took a couple of painkillers. His hands were hurting seriously now. It was an intense pain made worse by the remembered pain of the past.

Taking his hands gently, she smiled. ‘You've managed to scrape off small pieces from your various grafts. I can sort them out here but it is going to need some stitches and it will hurt. Let the brandy and the pills take effect first.'

It was excruciating but Monica worked quickly and the hands were not badly damaged. After a further glass of brandy Jacot lay down on the kitchen sofa and slept. When his eyes opened Monica was still sitting at the table.

‘You have slept a while.'

‘Well it's only the third time in my life that anyone has tried to kill me', replied Jacot laughing. Looking out of the window he could tell he was in England. And from the short car journey of the night before, admittedly at high speed, he knew he was still near Cambridge. But inside everything looked and smelled French. An Englishman just after his failed assassination would tuck into a proper breakfast – best thing in the British Army (apart from the people of course) thought Jacot. But when under the protection of French Intelligence it looked as though it would be coffee and croissants.

Monica poured the coffee and put a plate in front of him.

‘Where are we?'

The door into the kitchen opened and out came an extremely tall Frenchman wearing a long mackintosh and carrying a weapon. He smiled at Jacot but said nothing and placed his FAMAS rifle on the sideboard. He took a cup of coffee and disappeared into the rest
of the house taking his weapon with him. Jacot noticed the safety catch was on, meaning that the rifle was loaded and made ready with a round in the chamber. It looked as though they were expecting trouble. Jacot was amazed but relieved. They were being guarded by French soldiers – not in uniform but military nevertheless.

He was still in his bath when he heard a car pull up to the front door. It must be Lady Nevinson. He hurriedly got dressed and went down the stairs into the sitting room. The fire was blazing. Both Monica and Celia Nevinson were smartly but informally dressed. They both smelt wonderful the way women do after a long lazy bath and the application of various expensive and seductive scents. A young man came in with a tray of glasses and a bottle of champagne.

‘I didn't think we had anything to celebrate', said Jacot half in jest.

‘We don't, Colonel, yet. But things are not so bad that we cannot have a civilized dinner on a Friday evening while we plot our next move and while I brief you both on our last moves in which you have both been involved.'

It was never a good sign when Celia Nevinson addressed him by his rank. But she smiled and asked Monica to put some music on. ‘Preferably happy and preferably Mozart. It relaxes the good colonel.'

It wasn't just the women who smelt good. There was something that smelled quite impressive happening in the kitchen as well. And then the wonderful sound of Mozart filled the room. It was “Soave sia il vento” – a duet from
Cosi Fan Tutte
. Appropriate for a safe house thought Jacot. They were, after all, in hiding because things were not quite what they seemed.

Monica introduced the young man as Alphonse. ‘He is a chef at the embassy in London and from time to time helps us with our work. Sometimes he is just a very good chef, at others he is just pretending to be a chef. As you might expect his speciality is North African cuisine.' The young man poured the champagne cheerfully and went back to the kitchen.

Trust the French to have a chef in their safe house. Actually the young man seemed to be a hybrid – a kind of chef-spook combination, useful in the dingy North African suburbs of Paris. But thank God he was here. If he had been hiding out with the British it would be warm sugary tea and corned beef sandwiches, or endless curries and Coronation Street and even then the expenses would not be admissible.

Celia Nevinson stood up in a swirl of silk and cashmere and sat on the fire seat. ‘I think I had better update you both on what has been going on – particularly you Jacot, since you came very close to being murdered last night. But also you Monica. We are hugely grateful that you have been able to help us out at short notice. To be honest it was something of a desperate throw. I have been both appalled and pleasantly surprised at the extent of your intelligence set up here. But that's for another time. We have been watching various things all day since the attempted murder and we are not sure who was behind it – but we do know the men who came to Cambridge last night. Six Bosnian Serbs who
used to be involved with Arkan, the Bosnian Serb war criminal and ethnic cleanser. They were former Special Forces types who, when not running prostitutes and drugs,
undertook
occasional assassinations. They were good but not that good, thank God. They had come to our notice a few months ago – as you probably know there are some Serb
families
that take a dim view of Tony Blair for his part in the bombing of Belgrade in 1998 but we do not know yet who was paying the bill. I hope we will find out today.'

‘Perhaps we should try to find the Serbs and get the information from them?'
suggested
Jacot.

Nevinson looked away and said quietly ‘I am afraid our Serb assassins won't be able to help us and they won't be able to take their case to the European Court of Human Rights either. They were victims in a way, but there are limits to what we will tolerate. They can't have been surprised when we came for them – not that they would have
realized
until too late. By the way', she continued ‘only a very few people know what
happened
in Cambridge last night. I called the Master of St James' College this morning to say that you Jacot had been called suddenly to London. I fluttered my eyelashes or
whatever
the telephone equivalent is and he was happy enough. Another peerage I will have to lobby for I expect.'

The hairs on Jacot's neck stood up. He had long suspected it to be the case but this was the first time he had actually seen it. There it was in front of him, the iron fist of British Intelligence encased not in velvet but in cashmere and silk. It did not kill often – not in this country anyway. But it would if it had to. Given that Lady Nevinson had serious doubts about the loyalty and reliability of some elements of our intelligence
agencies
it seemed unlikely that she would have turned to them to dispose of a half dozen troublesome Serb assassins. He wondered who she had used for the killings. It would have been a decision taken by her alone without any political authorisation. How could there have been any? Strange, wonderful and mysterious things were discussed in the tastefully lit recesses of Downing Street, but not murder.

It was strangely reassuring in a world of so much equivocation and regulation. This handsome, beautifully dressed woman in her early sixties was answering every day the age-old question “Who Guards the Guardians?” It was almost a whiff of the 18th century. Individuals could act decisively in defence of the national interest or just plain common sense and everyone pretty much agreed what those interests were. We used to hang pirates then. Now we give them asylum. In the last minutes of their lives perhaps the six Serbs thought they would be arrested and given a cup of tea. Their bodies would never be found. It was partly good security house-keeping, partly a warning to others. The British State still had fangs.

Jacot knew better than to ask any more about the men, but felt another question was appropriate. ‘Any idea who commissioned the hit?'

Her pale blue eyes met his. ‘Who do you think?' There was anger in them – a blazing anger. But there was also fear. ‘I will have proof soon. And once we have it we will act.
For now let's enjoy being with our French allies in the most comfortable safe house I have ever seen.'

Dinner was magnificent. The French had clearly made an effort to produce food which they felt their English allies would enjoy. It's what the spooks at the Rue de Nélaton thought would go down well and they were right. The starter was inevitably a prawn cocktail; a little joke, no doubt, by Gilles Navarre. But with just a hint of garlic in the dressing. The brown bread and butter was perfect, thinly cut in a way Jacot could never manage in his flat. Quite how the physics of cutting bread translucently thin worked Jacot wasn't sure. The only places that seemed to achieve the required thinness were the best London Clubs. The wine was a Chablis, flinty dry and ice cold. French spooks had a lot in common with the fellows of St James' College, Cambridge. The main course was a Lamb Tagine meltingly, sweetly tender served with couscous and a salad accompanied by the DCRI's excellent house red Burgundy.

Once again they were in front of the fire. Monica was regaling them with accounts of her time as an undercover agent in the northern Paris suburb of Saint Denis, burial place of French kings from Louis Capet to poor old Louis XVI. But amid the gothic splendours it was almost as if the battle of Poitiers had never been won. Much of the banlieue had now been taken over by Muslim fundamentalists.

In the corner of the room was a small steel briefcase containing a blue telephone. Nevinson glanced at it from time to time during dinner. The conversation was jolly enough but the dinner party had the slightly forced jollity of a family waiting for exam results they expected to be bad.

In the end, much to Jacot's surprise, the blue phone purred rather than rang. Nevinson started at the noise.

‘Madame la Baronesse', said Monica. ‘I am sure it's for you.'

Nevinson walked slowly, almost reluctantly, over to the phone and picked it up.

‘Hallo Gilles', was all she said. And then she listened. It wasn't like a social conversation. It was pure business. Everyone knew in the room what kind of information was being passed. There were no “are you sures” or “is this definite?” All she said at the end was thank you and then she put the phone down. She was a beautiful woman and lucky to have a slightly olive skin. But as she walked back to the table she was sheet white. She moved slowly, sat down at the table, took a long slow sip of her wine and turned to Jacot. She smiled and said very softly ‘I'm afraid Colonel that it was an American hit. Probably not officially sanctioned. The operatives, I think they call them, were Serbs, but the money was courtesy of some sort of secret offshore fund. It is clear who was behind this but needless to say there won't be any fingerprints so we can prove it. Proving it probably wouldn't help in any case.'

‘For sure?'

‘For sure.'

‘How do we know?'

‘Most of the six lost their families in Kosovo – murdered by Albanian militants. Usually it was the other way round, but not always. So they were victims too. The world forgot that the Serbs were ethnically cleansed as well. They came to the attention of the Americans and were recruited by their Black Ops people to help out in Afghanistan. Mountain men with a strong grudge against Muslims. Ideal fodder for the CIA Black Ops people.

‘Some loose talk about Tony Blair brought them to our attention. The money and the man-hours spent on that man's security would bring tears to your eyes Jacot. It was odd though that we could not get anything about them from their Afghan days. GCHQ drew a blank. We didn't think they were that serious about Blair – it's the kind of thing Serbian militia men say after too much slivovitz. All the children in Kosovo are called Toniblair. All the hard men in Serbia want to imitate Lee Harvey Oswald.'

‘Not just Serbian militia men Lady Nevinson.'

She laughed. ‘It does cause NSA and GCHQ a few problems. So many people seem to hate the man it's hard to tell the wood from the trees. But the guys after you were the real thing and capable of killing both Blair and you.'

How flattering thought Jacot – to share an assassin with the great man himself.

‘Anyway, after last night I asked the French to check up on the men. They had been trained at some point in America. In exchange for disposing of you Jacot they were promised new identities and US citizenship for themselves and some additional family members. Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness as you might say. And on a mobile phone found on one of the men guess what?'

‘Don't tell me. The suspense is too much. Dixwell's number.'

‘Well we thought it likely. So we rang it. Our friend answered and will be meeting us here tomorrow. He was I think surprised and very rude.'

‘No cut-outs. No false trails. Just a plain vanilla telephone number?'

‘Yes, Jacot. I can see why. There is no need for caution or secrecy. Why bother with it if you are in a country where you believe you can behave with impunity? And if they had got you that would have been it. Our Serbian militiamen would have been spirited out of the country to new lives on a trailer park out west. And even now there doesn't look as though we can do much to John Dixwell the Third.'