weary and badly damaged—which he was, past everything there ever was. But that would never do. He poured himself another whisky, reached for his Codex mobile and went in search of Daniel Holley.
PARIS
ALGIERS
2
Daniel Holley was running alongside the Seine, darkness beginning to take over, the heat of the day lingering ominously as if a storm was brewing. He’d purchased a furnished barge a few months earlier, convenient for business trips for both him and his partner, Hamid Malik. He wore a black track suit, looked younger than forty-nine, his hair still brown. Of medium height, fit and well, he had the permanent slight smile of a man who found life a little absurd most of the time. The Irish in him, as his mother used to say. The other half was from the city of his birth, Leeds, which meant pure Yorkshire. His mobile sounded and he took it out. It was a Codex of advanced design, only available to Ferguson’s people, which his previous masters at Russian Military Intelligence, the GRU, had stolen.
‘Hello, Roper,’ he said, ‘what a surprise. What can I do for you?’ He paused, leaning on a convenient wall.
‘Tell me where you are, for a start.’
‘Paris, and running beside the Seine. It’s been a lovely day, but rain threatens. But you didn’t call for a weather report.’
‘No. To be brief, Ferguson, Dillon and Harry Miller have just been meeting with the President in Washington. They were discussing the Taliban’s use of British-born Muslims in their army—and there seems to be an Irish dimension emerging.’
‘Is there, by God?’ Holley’s voice was serious, the Yorkshire accent more pronounced.
‘The General would like your opinion. After all, you were trained at one of those camps yourself in the middle of the Algerian desert. All those years ago, and paid for by Colonel Gaddafi.’
‘So was Sean Dillon.’
‘A good point. You’ve got extra credentials, though. You’re joint owner of one of the biggest shipping firms out of Algiers, with Algerian nationality, and—thanks to that diplomatic passport from their Foreign Minister—you get waved through security at airports all over the world.’
‘It’s even better when I fly privately,’ Holley told him. ‘I get diplomatic immunity.’
‘I’m so happy for you,’ Roper teased. ‘So Ferguson has asked me to send you the full details of the meeting at the Oval Office. I think you’ll find it pretty grim. Will you look?’
‘Of course I will, you daft bastard; I wouldn’t miss it. You’ve got my email address from when we met at the Dorchester. Do the others know about that yet, by the way?’
‘They’ve just been told on the Gulfstream at thirty-five thousand feet over the Atlantic. Miller was completely pragmatic about it; Dillon was mortified, more than anything else. He doesn’t like being kept in the dark.’
‘Well, that’s just too bloody bad. Send that material and I’ll read it when I get back to the barge. I must go now. I’ve got a business transaction waiting.’
‘Straightforward, I hope?’
‘When I say Albanian, what would you think?’
‘God help you, my friend. Watch your back.’
Holley put his Codex in his pocket, thoroughly stimulated by the entire conversation. Heady stuff. As it started to rain, he ran through the gathering darkness towards Notre Dame, floodlit, incomparably beautiful in the night, and came to Quai de Montebello, illuminated by lamps, where barges were moored together. He boarded his own by a roped gangplank and went below.
The barge’s previous owner had been a well-known fashion designer and it was extremely comfortable: panelled state room with comfortable sofas, shelves of books, a television, a long table in the centre. A small alcove at one end held the computer. The kitchen was opposite, small, but with everything he needed. The sleeping quarters and shower room were at the end of a passage in the bow of the barge.
The computer-linked phone system was flashing, so he took a half-full bottle of champagne from the fridge, poured a glass, pressed a replay button and quickly found himself talking to Hamid Malik at the villa in Algiers.
‘I was worried,’ Malik said. ‘What’s happening?’
‘Not much. The meeting with Ali Kupu is on. Eleven o’clock, about fifteen minutes from here.’
‘So late?’ Malik sighed. ‘I don’t know, Daniel. Do we really have to deal with people like Ali Kupu still? These Albanians are pigs. Bastards of the first order. Completely untrustworthy. Most of them would sell their sisters on the streets.’
‘A great many do,’ Holley said. ‘Since we spoke, I had another message from him. He wanted to change our