Rogue Elements (32 page)

Simon Arkell lay on his back, bleeding into the Pyrenean soil, and watched the man he was supposed to have killed fly the short distance out of French territory. As the helicopter disappeared behind the great snow-capped crest, and the silence settled once more over the cirque, he started to wonder just how much it was going to hurt to get off that mountain.

The answer, he discovered, was a great deal. Hobbling across the meadow, testing that wrecked leg, was murderous. He paused to bind both wounds with pieces of his shirt, buying himself a little respite before trying again. The second round had torn through one of the muscles in his thigh but he could still extend his knee somewhat. He could walk, after a fashion. It was just going to be agony every step of the way.

His arm was less functional. Yadin’s first round had passed straight through his forearm; he couldn’t tell if it had clipped a bone on the way. He could move his fingers a little, but when he tried to take hold of a rock to ease himself into a gully, his grip gave way. Something fairly important was clearly compromised.

So . . . one arm and one and a half legs for the descent. At least he didn’t have to shoot anybody. And he didn’t have to go through the waterfall this time.

From the edge of the meadow, Arkell had been able to plot an alternative route that would lead him via a stream where he could drink, and then well away from anything else aquatic. With a maximum of three points of contact, one of them very weak, above all he needed dry surfaces.

For the most part, his route turned out to be sound. He teetered alarmingly on some of the narrower ledges, and half-expected his left leg to give way completely on a critical hold. The muscles in his left arm were worn out with the strain of taking all his weight, and his left fingers struggled to straighten after some of the crimps. Yet he was descending – slowly and painfully, but with measurable progress.

Only twice did he wonder if he would make it. The first doubts came when a punishing wall descent led him to a ledge from which there was no onward route. It was past 5 p.m., he was shattered, he’d lost a good deal of blood, and he felt like sitting down on that ledge and staying down. It took him several minutes to summon the strength to get back on the wall and retrace his holds until he found a navigable line.

The second crisis of faith came when he looked down and saw the rows of gendarmes massing at the base of the cirque. Had they responded to reports of gunshots? Or had Yadin summoned more than a helicopter with that satellite phone? Either way, Simon Arkell found it very hard to call up the will to complete his treacherous descent. Because now he was picturing the crashed motorcycles just a few kilometres from here, and the officers who had witnessed him ride off on one of those motorcycles, fleeing the scene of a triple murder. And he knew that whatever story he came up with as he fought his way down those last two hundred metres – even if it was the absolute truth – there was no way he would be spending tonight anywhere other than a particularly secure French jail.

Forget the quality of the food and the level of decorum in political debating chambers, Arkell decided, the measure of a civilized country was the way it dealt with presumed cop killers. If it treated their wounds
before
allowing enraged officers to beat them up, then it was truly civilized. Simon Arkell still had a lingering love of France. It was hard to shake off entirely the gruff loyalty to the tricolour instilled by the codes and songs of the Legion. So he was glad that the behaviour of the authorities in this case lived up to the faithful view of La Patrie that he and his comrades had once held.

The doctors did not speak to him at all, did not offer the slightest word of reassurance as to the long-term prospects for his damaged arm and leg. Yet he could see that they were taking care to do the job right – putting him on a drip, cleaning the wounds meticulously, sewing with perfect stitches that would leave no scar, bandaging his forearm and his thigh with close attention – whatever they believed him to be.

He thanked them courteously in English. At no point did he utter a word of French to anyone.

There was little point at this stage making protestations of his innocence. As soon as he was seized at the base of the cirque, two officers of the Police nationale were called forward to examine him. He recognized them both from Rosary Square, and it was obvious they recognized him too. Both gave an unambiguous nod to the arresting gendarmes.

It was possible Margrave – even Mayhew – might be willing to vouch for him, but they were en route to Canada when the shooting occurred and could not have testified that he
hadn’t
murdered anyone. The Brazilian team were probably already on their way home, and with their president dead they would have little time or inclination to help a foreign spy. They might even wonder if he was implicated, this unknown figure thrust upon them just before Andrade was assassinated.

Only one person could sort out this mess. As the gendarmes escorted him from the Toulouse University Hospital to the Gendarmerie Commissariat; as they placed him in a cell and removed his shoes and personal effects; as they beat him about the face and stomach with their fists; as they summoned colleagues to pummel him until he was on the floor; as they did all of this, he said only one word, over and over: ‘Telephone.’

Eventually, when parts of his body had started to jerk spasmodically, and he was clinging to consciousness only out of a bloody-minded determination not to let them see him faint, they gave it to him.

‘It’s me. I’m not in Strasbourg any more.’

He did not use her name or his own. It was the middle of the night and she had been asleep, but she immediately grasped the need for obscurity. ‘So I gathered from our Canadian friend. Are you still where he left you?’

‘Unfortunately the gendarmes have me. They think I killed two of their number.’

She paused. ‘That
is
unfortunate. Particularly for you.’

‘Quite.’

‘So you didn’t get him, then?’

‘No.’

‘Two down, one left.’

‘I’m sorry. I realize you must have lost confidence in me.’

‘I wouldn’t say that.’

He glanced at the blood seeping through the bandage on his forearm. No doubt, the thigh wound had been similarly reopened by the gendarmes’ boots. ‘I know him now. I’ve spoken to him. Believe me, I
am
going to get him.’

‘I’m counting on it.’

‘Are you able to straighten this out with the French?’

‘Actually, it occurs to me that it might be quite useful to leave you in their custody.’

He tensed. ‘Meaning?’

‘You’re in the system now. First time in nine years. It’s an opportunity.’

‘Hard to see from where I’m standing.’

She ignored the tone. ‘I haven’t managed to identify ASH. I have an idea who he is, but I’ve got no proof. Three contenders, all with possible motives and opportunities, and no other line of inquiry to pursue. We need to make ASH show his hand.’

‘I don’t see how I can help from a Gendarmerie cell.’

‘It’s simple.’ He could hear the smile in her voice. ‘Tell them who you are.’

‘
What?
’

‘If ASH ordered your death, don’t you think he’d be intrigued, to say the least, to hear of your resurrection?’

Arkell’s fingers gripped the receiver. ‘Don’t
you
think,’ he said, managing to keep his voice even, ‘that’s a dangerous play? The first thing ASH will do is demand my extradition. He’s bound to have a million strings he can pull with Paris. I’ll be handed over in chains. How long do you think I’ll last then?’

‘Extradition takes time. He’ll be impatient to see you.’

‘That doesn’t help me when eventually I end up in that windowless vehicle headed for some remote corner of Yorkshire.’

‘It won’t come to that,’ she told him confidently.

‘What makes you so sure?’

‘Because as soon as you have ASH’s identity, you’re going to tell the gendarmes who you
really
are.’

Silence between them. The two corporals watching him saw a great smile break out on his face.

‘It’s your Get Out of Jail Free card. Gendarme jail, anyway. The rest is up to you.’

‘All right,’ he said. ‘One last thing. The woman in Strasbourg.
His
woman. Is she still there?’

‘As far as I know.’

‘Can you check?’

‘Of course. What’s up?’

‘Just make sure she’s OK.’

The interrogators were in full uniform. Their epaulettes identified them as a major and a captain. They sat in frosty silence before a steel table, and made no gesture when Arkell was brought in. He was placed opposite them and his manacled hands were secured to a ring on the table.

The captain spoke first, eyeing his bruises and cuts and the dried blood on his forehead. ‘You have not been ill-treated.’ It was not a question.

Arkell admired his effrontery. ‘No.’

The major produced a passport. ‘You are Andrew Meredith?’

‘No.’

Taken aback, he opened the passport and examined the photograph. ‘This is you, yes?’

‘It’s a false passport.’

The two interrogators exchanged a look.

‘You are travelling illegally in France for what purpose?’

‘I’d rather not go into that.’

A thin, unfriendly smile. ‘Would you prefer to explain why you killed two gendarmes?’

‘Wasn’t me.’

‘And President Andrade of Brazil?’

‘Again, not me.’

‘We have plenty of witnesses who saw you, Mr Mered—’ He stopped. ‘What is your real name?’

The suspect smiled. ‘My name is Simon Arkell. I am an officer of the British Secret Intelligence Service. I am sorry, but I cannot answer any more questions until you have notified my superiors of this arrest.’ The smile broadened. ‘Would you like the telephone number?’

Madeleine Wraye made a single call that morning, to Linus Marshall.

‘There’s going to be some news for the Firm today from France. Rather surprising news, concerning a deceased officer of ours. It might come via the DGSE or DCRI, or it might come directly from the Gendarmerie. Do me a favour, Linus, make sure three of your colleagues get to hear the news immediately. Call them up, sound shocked, amazed, whatever comes naturally – just make sure they get the message. Ready with a pencil? George Vine, Tony Watchman . . . and Martin de Vries.’

Alone in his cell – he was left unmolested now – Arkell wondered if ASH would simply pull one of those many strings and have him killed right away. It seemed unlikely the gendarmes would do anything that couldn’t be covered up. Shooting and stabbing were out. But poison was a distinct possibility. He had drunk plenty of water before the interrogation, having determined to consume nothing at all once he’d given up his identity. Then there was always the trip on the stairs and the broken neck. He flexed his one good arm. Let them try.

Food was brought on a tray, and removed untouched an hour later. Otherwise, there was no contact with anyone. Those gendarmes he did glimpse looked distinctly uneasy. No one spoke to him.

In the end, Arkell was surprised how quickly ASH came. He must have used the Hercules, or requisitioned one of the government’s few private jets. When he was led back into the interrogation room and once again manacled to the steel table, Arkell looked into the familiar eyes of the SIS director and found himself wondering what story the man had devised to explain this unscheduled trip.

Perhaps he no longer needed to explain himself.

‘So you really are alive,’ marvelled the man from the Secret Intelligence Service, when the gendarmes had left.

‘I’m sorry to disappoint you.’

‘On the contrary, you’ve impressed me.’ Tony Watchman leaned back in the stiff institutional chair, eyes generous with admiration. ‘I haven’t heard a whisper all this time. Talk about deep cover. You should give a lecture at the Fort one of these days. I know I’d learn something.’

‘I may not be available.’ He raised his manacled hands.

‘Don’t worry about that,’ Watchman said, folding his arms, the picture of relaxed satisfaction. ‘We’ll sort out the French. They’re being very helpful. Falling over themselves to apologize for beating you up. We’ll get you back to London in no time.’

‘And then?’

‘Then? Sorry, mate, your employment was terminated. These things happen when you’re dead. But if you want back in, I’m sure it won’t be a problem.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Simon.
Simon
. You were always a good officer. This makes you a star. It would be an honour to welcome you back into the fold.’

‘And Ellington? My wife? Saeed Bin –’

Watchman had swiftly raised his hand, and Arkell found himself obeying its authority. The Director of Counter-Terrorism gazed around the drab room. ‘Where would you place your microphones?’ he mused. In a whisper so low Arkell barely caught it, he added, ‘I regret your wife’s death. Sincerely. I liked her.’ After a pause that might have been intended to feel commemorative, he resumed with his normal cocksure voice: ‘You and I have a lot to discuss. Let’s not share it with our French friends. When last I heard, you were in possession of some interesting intelligence from Saudi. Given that you have not, in fact, been dead all this time, I ask myself why that intelligence has never come out. I conclude it is because you understand the considerable sensitivity of that intelligence, and are too responsible and mindful of your duties to the Firm to discuss it. That makes me think you and I can work together. That makes me think you have a bright future in the Firm, in my section. Or, if you prefer the freelance lifestyle, there are lucrative options. I employ capable men to do difficult things.’ He glanced pointedly at Arkell’s bandaged forearm. ‘I believe you met one of them in the mountains yesterday. You may feel you have other loyalties, but whatever your history with the lady, the brutal truth is she’s a spent force. Out in the cold. The really interesting work – the really interesting rewards – only I can offer.’

Arkell let him finish. He had once respected Tony Watchman for his blunt efficiency and straight talking. But had it actually ever been straight talking? Was it all just artfully presented bullshit, as hollow and self-serving as this transparently bogus proposition?

‘Here’s an idea,’ said Arkell, leaning forward and lowering his voice to a whisper. ‘The French are looking for the killer of a visiting head of state. You’re sitting here, right under their noses. Suppose I was to point them towards a possible connection . . .’

Watchman stood up, a tight smile giving him the look of an animal baring its teeth. ‘Simon. It’s not going to happen. You’re not going to tell them anything.’ He walked to the door and rapped it sharply. ‘We’re finished, thank you.’ He glanced back at Arkell, straightening the line of his suit. ‘I’ll see you in London.’