Читать книгу Chameleon - Mark Burnell - Страница 8

The rhythm of the windscreen wipers was hypnotic. The rubber blades squeaked against the glass, smearing rain left and right. James Marshall leaned forward and peered at the brasserie on the other side of the street. The clock on the dashboard said it was five to two. He checked his own watch – it was marginally fast – and lit a cigarette. The caller had given him the address, the time – two o’clock – and a reminder not to be late. That had been half an hour ago at a pay-phone at the Gare du Nord.

The other phone call – the one that had caught him at home the day before yesterday – had come out of the blue. And out of the past. He’d recognized the voice instantly. A simple job that paid cash in hand; that had been the offer. Good cash, too, considering how little work was involved. He wouldn’t even have to leave Paris. At first, that had made the proposal all the more attractive.

Would he consider acting as a courier? Nothing fancy, naturally, just a fetch-and-drop, as a favour from one seasoned veteran to another.

Of course, he’d said, he’d be delighted. There had been times in the not-so-distant past when he would have considered such a job beneath him, when he would have been offended by the offer. James Marshall, the courier? The errand boy? Now, he was as grateful for the opportunity as he was for the money.

He instructed his Tunisian taxi driver to drop him on avenue de Friedland, from where he walked back to rue du Faubourg Saint Honoré. The rain was growing stronger. And colder. A lead sky darkened everything. The driver of a delivery van attempted a U-turn in front of the brasserie. The vehicle stalled. He tried the ignition twice. Nothing. He slapped the steering wheel and tried again. Still nothing. A woman in a navy Mercedes saloon held open her hands in exasperation. The van driver shrugged. The traffic staggered to a halt. Headlights sparkled, exhausts wheezed.

Marshall tried to ignore the tightness in his stomach, the tightness that suggested it would have been better to ignore the money. He wished he was home. His chilly, damp, single-room apartment in Saint Denis had rarely seemed so appealing. He crossed the street, meandering through stationary vehicles, and entered the brasserie.

Half a dozen customers congregated around a curve of copper bar. A waiter took his damp raincoat and asked if he was alone but he was already moving into the dining room. Oleg Rogachev was in the far corner, at a table by the window. Marshall recognized him from the photographs he’d studied; built like a bull, a moustache like a slug, silver hair cropped to a spike. His collars and cuffs were tight to the skin, accentuating fat hands and a fat face. He wore a charcoal silk double-breasted suit.

Rogachev looked up from his plate – pig’s trotters and spinach – and nodded towards the seat opposite. The man sitting next to him was a stranger but not a surprise; a translator, Marshall assumed. Rogachev spoke no English and had no reason to expect Marshall to speak Russian. As it happened, he’d been fluent for thirty years.

With only a slight accent, he said, ‘In Britain, we have a saying. Two’s company, three’s a crowd.’

Rogachev raised an eyebrow. ‘This is Anatoli.’

‘I hope neither of you will be offended if I ask him to leave.’

There was a frosty pause. Then Rogachev said, ‘I’ll see you back at the hotel.’

Anatoli rose from the table and left. Marshall sat down. Rogachev pushed his plate to one side, hailed a waiter and gesticulated with chubby fingers. A clean glass arrived. Rogachev waited until the wine had been poured.

‘I hope your people recognize the risk I’m taking.’

‘They do.’

‘Then I hope they’ll show their appreciation.’

‘They will. But only unofficially. They’re keen to stress this and they’re sure you’ll understand their reasons.’

Marshall looked out of the window. Gridlock, a crescendo of car horns, teeming rain. When he looked back, he noticed the small device next to Rogachev’s glass. It resembled a travel radio but had no aerial or display. The Russian felt for a switch on the side. He saw Marshall’s expression and said, ‘It jams directional radio microphones. It emits violent electronic signals, casting a five-metre protective shield. Anybody trying to listen to us will hear only static.’ He smiled slyly. ‘Even though I’m not here, it’s better to be careful.’

Hence the delay in naming the rendezvous, Marshall supposed. In the old days – in his day – these types of precaution had been routine. Naively, he’d imagined things would be different now. He wondered where Rogachev’s friends and enemies thought he was. Moscow? Yekaterinburg? Miami?

‘What have you come to offer me?’

Marshall took a sip from his glass. The red tasted bitter but the effect was welcome. ‘It’s possible that the investigation into Weaver Financial Services will come to nothing.’

Rogachev pulled a face, unimpressed. ‘That is possible anyway.’

Marshall shook his head. ‘There’s something you don’t know. Weaver’s links to Calmex in Lausanne have been established. Arrest warrants are being prepared as we speak.’

The small, piggy eyes narrowed slightly. ‘Go on.’

‘If you accept our offer, the Weaver directors will still have to be replaced. That is non-negotiable. The company would also have to pay a small fine for a lesser misdemeanour. It’s better if the investigation comes up with something.’

‘What else?’

‘On the plus side, your assets would cease to be frozen. Also, your status as persona non grata would be revoked on the understanding that you do not try to enter the United Kingdom for a period of six months.’

A waiter came to clear plates and refill glasses. Rogachev ordered two espressos and the bill. ‘You should know that the reason I’ve decided to come to an arrangement with you is not for my own advantage. That is merely – how would you put it? – a bonus.’ He reached into his pocket and produced a gold Sony Mini-Disc which he placed on the table between them. ‘I’m a wheat trader, not a criminal. The people who are exploiting my commercial network are renegades. They are a threat to everyone.’

‘Of course.’

‘I want that distinction understood.’

‘Naturally.’

He tapped the Mini-Disc. ‘It’s essential they never discover the origin of this information …’

‘I understand.’

‘… because that could lead to complications. The kind of complications where everybody suffers.’

Marshall tried to ignore the threat. The espressos arrived. The Russian added sugar. Outside, the congestion caused by the delivery van had escalated. The driver was now standing next to his vehicle, arguing with half a dozen people. Some of those inside the brasserie had turned to watch the commotion.

Rogachev spoke softly. ‘The courier will arrive at Heathrow Terminal Two from Budapest on the third of April. Malev flight MA610.’

Marshall took a propelling pencil from his jacket and began to write notes on a small pad. ‘What’s the name?’

‘You get the name when the flight leaves Budapest. I don’t want him intercepted in Hungary.’

‘What’s he bringing?’

‘Plutonium-239.’

‘From where?’

‘MINATOM. I can’t be more specific.’

MINATOM was the Russian Atomic Energy Ministry, a vast department which had a history of not being specific.

‘How much?’

‘One thousand five hundred grammes.’

‘What’s he bringing it in?’

‘A suitcase with a shielded canister inside.’

‘Concealed or loose?’

‘Loose, we think.’

‘How pure is it?’

‘Ninety-four per cent.’

‘Anything else?’

‘He may be carrying quantities of Lithium-6.’

‘How much?’

‘We don’t know. Probably two to four kilos. Maybe nothing.’

‘Do you know the target?’

‘No.’

‘What about the end user?’

‘Unidentified.’

Rogachev glanced at the notes Marshall was taking. Bread, sugar, bacon, olive oil, kilos and grammes, pounds and ounces; it appeared to be a conventional shopping list. When they were finished, Rogachev paid in cash, leaving an extravagant tip. They collected their coats and stepped outside. The rain was heavier; there was a flash of lightning, a five-second pause and a rumble of thunder that was almost inaudible over the chorus of screeching horns. The soaked van driver was shouting. Rogachev erected an umbrella. He seemed amused by the scene in front of him.

Marshall was thinking ahead. The disk, the drop in Montmartre, then back to the Gare du Nord. From a public pay-phone, the London number that he’d memorized, the message relayed, then back to Saint Denis, perhaps stopping off at a café for a cup of coffee. Or something stronger. Then tomorrow, the delivery. A plain brown envelope, he expected. Full of francs …

It wasn’t thunder. It was louder than that. And sharper. The liquid that splattered across his face wasn’t rain, either. It was hot.

The umbrella slipped from Rogachev’s grasp. A gust of wind carried it away. Another deafening crack and he was spinning. Marshall didn’t move. Shock insulated him from what was happening around him. Time slowed to a standstill. He had no idea where the source of the noise was. He saw faces turning in the rain, hands rising to mouths, eyes widening. Nobody was paying attention to the van driver any more. Rogachev fell forward, smacking against the car at the kerb before collapsing to the ground. He left blood across the white bonnet. Rain diluted it pink.

Curiously, Marshall found himself thinking about the good old days.