The Colours: A spy thriller packed with intrigue and deception Read online

  “Such as?” He sounded bored.

  “That their hackers are better than ours.”

  That woke him up.

  “And that they’re not afraid of using other powers of coercion,” she said. “Any interests they find that are held by Sutherland’s former associates within Russia – accounts set up in the names of friends and supposed relatives – that’s gone. Those people are under the power of the state. He’ll have lost all of that now he’s in exile. The Kremlin is quite happy to apply the same techniques internationally. Sutherland’s resources are thinning down to a smaller and smaller pool that matters more and more to him. But this is only taking us so far. We need to be ahead of the Russians, not behind them. We need to get there first. That’s why we have to change direction. Encryption and firewalls can’t all be hacked. You can’t do everything from behind a desk. The big leaks, Panama Papers and so on, came from people working inside.”

  Salisbury paused long enough for the silence to turn awkward, then idly opened a file in front of him and lifted some papers out. He’d already read the proposal, but seemed to want to spin this out for as long as possible.

  “And why the French Riviera?” he asked.

  “We think Sutherland has holdings in Monaco. Some correspondence we’ve seen relating to a Swiss account mentions another account at a Monaco bank offering private banking services. To be a customer there, you need Monaco residency. But we can’t find an identity that matches any of our aliases. He must be using a different name, a completely separate identity. He could have had that put together in Russia using the FSB. But we don’t think the FSB knows what it is either. If we go in on the ground, we have an opportunity to get ahead of the Russians. We can gain some kind of insight into his operations before the Kremlin sends in their bad boys and scares everyone away. They’re not after insights. They just want the money back.”

  “I see.”

  Rose hoped the idea of getting ahead of the Russians appealed. It might be something he could use to bolster the reputation of the Service – if it worked, of course.

  Salisbury was thumbing through the papers again. “You’ve also requested an art specialist,” he said, with a hint of incredulity.

  “We think some of his money is in art. As you know, it’s an attractive route for money laundering. One of the pieces we’re watching may be in Monaco. We picked up a rumour that it was in storage there.” She cleared her throat. “I’d like to request Alastair Greenwood from Hong Kong Station. We trained together. He’s always had a strong interest in art. There isn’t much he doesn’t know about it, especially Van Gogh and his contemporaries. As you’ll have seen, that might be particularly—”

  “Yes, I see you’ve asked for your friend,” said Salisbury. “I’m not sure how Hong Kong is supposed to manage without him.”

  “We lend and borrow people on secondment all the time. It’s only for a few weeks, if that. He could really help.”

  She hoped it didn’t show how keen she was personally to work with Alastair. He’d been her friend since university, before they both independently joined MI6 and found themselves on the same graduate programme. At times in this job, she’d have given a lot to be able to discuss things with Alastair over a glass of wine, like they used to. In a profession of secrecy, friends you could really talk to were valuable.

  “We’ll see.” Salisbury closed the file. Clearly she couldn’t rely on him to be persuasive with Hong Kong on her behalf. But there was always Walter.

  Salisbury gave her a bland look. “I don’t think I’m making a secret of the fact that I have some doubts about the importance of this operation.” He held up his hand to stop her coming in. “With respect, Clarke, you don’t know what else comes across this desk, and juggling priorities isn’t your job. It’s mine. I’ve heard your arguments, I’ve heard Walter’s and I’ve taken into account the work you’ve done over the past six months, which the FININT analysts seem to think has been of some use.”

  Rose retained a neutral expression, though his mealy-mouthed admission was gratifying.

  “So I’m going to approve this,” said Salisbury. “But reluctantly. I will be watching. I need regular reports and concrete progress, and if I don’t see it, I pull the plug. I won’t pay for a jaunt, Clarke.”

  “It’s not a jaunt.” Rose tried, and almost succeeded, to keep the vigour out of her voice. Christ, was Salisbury a difficult Chief to please. “We need someone on the inside, who can get behind the firewall and give us the name. Someone who has access and can be discreet. Who may be motivated by what we can offer. And we’ve already identified a target.”

  A silence. “You already have someone in mind?”

  “Yes,” said Rose. “We do.”

  Chapter 3

  Zoe Tapoko stood in her brother Noah’s bedroom staring out at the huge white blocks of flats that were everywhere you looked in these quartiers nords of Marseille. Ten floors below, people crossing the open square walked fast, heads down, from the Metro to the shops, to their homes or back again. A group of young men leaned against a concrete bench, arms folded, legs wide, like they owned the place. In a way maybe they did.

  Outside was bright, a clear September sky and sunlight making the distant windows glitter, but inside was gloomy, stuffy with the smell of deodorant and clothes that needed a wash. Noah lay on the single bed, his feet sticking off the end, only seventeen years old, ten years younger than Zoe and half a metre taller at least. On the wall above his head a giant poster of Marseille’s most famous footballer Zinedine Zidane stared down. Zoe watched the guys on the bench.

  “Is that them?” she asked, breaking a long silence.

  “Who?” Noah was gazing at the ceiling.

  “Down there. Look out of the window, bro!”

  Her bossy tone got him moving like it usually did, but it was like wading through treacle sometimes. He sat up and peered out.

  “No, that’s not them. Epée and his crowd hang out in that park place.” He pointed vaguely. “The school kids go past there.”

  “They sell drugs to school children?”

  He looked at her as if she’d just arrived from a different planet.

  “So how exactly did you get involved with this Epée and his crowd?” she asked.

  “I didn’t get involved. Not exactly.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, really.” He was only being defensive, but sometimes Zoe could slap the boy. “They asked me to do a favour, help someone out. I didn’t realise it would end up…”

  Zoe bit her tongue. He could be so naïve. But that was what those gang leaders did, preyed on people’s natural niceness and goodwill. Sucked it all away so there was nothing left. It explained a lot about how things were on the estates these days, the suspicion in people’s eyes.

  “So this favour involved carrying money around?” she asked.

  “Yeah, but I didn’t know how much. I just thought it was a few Euros. Someone needed cash to get home or something. I didn’t think—”

  “You didn’t think it was drug money? Noah!”

  “All right, so I’m a fool, okay? Next time someone asks a favour I’ll tell them to shove off. That’s how you want it, Zo?”

  “If it keeps you out of those people’s hair, then sure! So who was it who mugged you, then?”

  “How should I know? They just jumped me. They didn’t introduce themselves first. One of them had a knife. I just handed everything over. What else was I supposed to do?”

  “Yeah, okay, fair enough. It seems a hell of a coincidence that it happens when you’re carrying a couple of thousand Euros on you.”

  “That’s what I said to Epée. He said yeah, it’s really unlucky.”

  “He didn’t believe you, basically. He accused you of stealing it.”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “And now he’s saying he wants it back.”

  And this was the problem. Somehow, her trusting fool of a little brother was in hock to a local gangster
for two thousand Euros. Two thousand Euros none of them had, not Noah, not Zoe, and certainly not their aunt Lilian whose flat Noah was living in. It was a problem. A problem? No – a disaster.

  “And Lily knows nothing about this, right?”

  Noah nodded.

  “Well, let’s keep it that way. We’ll sort it out between us, somehow.”

  When their parents died within months of each other four years ago, the two of them became even closer than they were before. But Zoe had to move away from Marseille to find work, and Noah was desperate to stay, to keep his place at the Olympique Marseille youth academy. Football was his life, kept him keen and eager even when their parents’ passing devastated them both. Noah missed his dad, Zoe saw it in him every time they met. But the discipline of the youth squad kept him going, and their aunt Lily took him in, even though her shifts as a hospital cleaner barely covered the rent. She was at work or asleep most of the time, and didn’t need the hassle. Zoe had to wait for weekends to come over. And here she was now, promising to sort things out somehow.

  “So, who are these people?” she asked. “This Epée?”

  Noah shrugged. “What do you mean, who? It’s a gang, the Pirats.”

  “Well, are they black, white, Arab?”

  “All of them, Zo. The big guys are on Corsica. Epée’s white but all the guys are just local. Marseillais. It’s not about that.”

  Yeah, well maybe she was too taken up with race sometimes. Their parents were of Cameroon descent though she and Noah were born in France. From early on, she’d always felt the colour of her skin held her back, made it even more difficult to break out of the mould. But often the people around her seemed to want to deny that. She didn’t know why. What are you complaining about? she sometimes thought people were thinking. You’re doing okay, aren’t you? You’ve got a job in a bank! In Monaco! You should be grateful. You got out, didn’t you? But she hadn’t got out, not really. They were both here now, for sure.

  She looked up at the sky, deep blue above all the concrete roofs and the household clutter of hundreds of balconies. She used to love life in Marseille when she was growing up, when everything was okay, when Mum and Dad were still around. They lived in the Centre-Ville, near the Old Port. Out here you couldn’t even see the sea. Back then Zoe used to crew on the yachts that went out. Day sails, sometimes longer if school and college allowed. No chance of that now with a full time job. It seemed cruel to be so close to the ocean and have nothing to do with it. But she had to commute to work from her place in Nice – who could afford to live in Monaco? – and that sucked away all her time, and all her money too, it felt. And rents in Nice weren’t cheap, either. At lunchtime she’d walk down by Port Hercule and check out the sailboats there. At times she thought of packing it in and going for a crewing career, but the money just wasn’t good enough, the work not steady enough. Yachts were getting more automated all the time and crews were getting smaller, proper sailing crews anyway. Zoe contributed to Noah’s upkeep – Lily couldn’t afford it all – and teenage boys, wow, they ate a lot! So the bank it was, and she had to make do with some windsurfing every now and then. And now, with all this going on, it was time to stop dreaming once and for all, Zoe.

  She’d have to borrow it, she supposed. How much would that be over a year? Two years? What’s that per month? Over a year, one hundred and sixty-six Euros sixty-seven cents a month. Plus interest. Could she get an evening job or work weekends? In a bar, maybe? Could she save on the rent? Probably not, because if she moved she’d end up paying more for the commute. Sharing with Stella kept the rent down anyway. Should she ask her boss? He was a banker after all. She’d been his loyal assistant for years now. But he kept his distance, did M. Bernard. He was very formal, very proper. To admit to having a need, that she was in trouble? It didn’t appeal. He liked everything to run smoothly, to be just so. And she couldn’t risk this job.

  No, she’d say nothing. She’d find another way.

  She changed the subject and asked Noah about the football. It took a while but eventually she got him talking. Noah was their best goalkeeper. He and his friends there could be the names of the future, their faces on posters in the bedrooms of the boys of Marseille, and the girls too, hopefully. You had to have a dream to get out of a place like this, to rise above what everyone expected of you. Noah was Zoe’s dream as well. It made the rest of it bearable. And bear it she would, because somehow, big sis would always manage things for both of them. Even though, right now, she had no idea how.

  Chapter 4

  Pippin slipped silently through the streets of the old town. He liked to be invisible. Small and slight, little-boy face, neat hair, round glasses, the gazes of passers by slid over him without registering. That was generally the way, unless he wanted people to see him, of course. Right now he was happy to trot along, looking up, admiring the tall yellow houses with their narrow green shutters, the deep blue sky of Nice filling the gap above his head.

  The colours. The colours! That was why so many artists came here to the south of France, why Vincent came here. Something in the light made the colours more intense, more moving. The contrasts resonated and lifted the soul. Vincent would analyse what he saw when he went on his long walks. In his letters to Theo he would describe the landscapes he’d seen, muse on the difference between colour and tone, consider how he would paint what he saw. A small amount of yellow in a colour makes it very yellow, but a blond woman can be shown in a drab grey. Sunlight on a red roof doesn’t need vermilion or chrome, but touches of red-ochre on top of a muted shade. Shadows aren’t black or brown. They’re violet, say the Impressionists. Violet next to yellow makes both sing; they’re opposites.

  Pippin thought about these things as he walked. Pippin couldn’t paint, though. In his hand the brush remained leaden, had never transformed into a conductor of his soul. His strokes never came to life, never spoke for themselves, never became more than simply oil on canvas. No, Pippin wasn’t an artist. But he knew what he liked.

  He’d seen the antique shop before, dusty windows, wooden furniture piled up outside in the street. No signs, no name, just the product itself, good quality if sometimes worn, retrieved mainly from house clearances, but a hand-written note in the window indicated Offers considered. He saw that note when he passed by a few days ago. Now he stopped outside, hesitated, took a long, slow breath, and went in.

  A conversation stopped as he entered, two men behind the counter. One of them was short and grizzled with spectacles, the other tall, younger, long nose, high cheekbones, eyes proud, or maybe accusing. The tall one was wearing a waistcoat and a hat, a kind of trilby. The proud eyes followed Pippin as he started to browse, then turned back to the other fellow. They resumed their conversation in a mutter.

  Pippin squeezed himself between the clutter to look around. The shop smelled pleasingly of furniture polish. The stock was mixed. Mostly small items, low-value, to tempt the passing tourists, but all a certain quality. Silverware: candlesticks, bowls, jewellery. Tableware, porcelain, sitting on scratched leather-topped tables with carved legs. Glassware, brassware, paintings and prints, clocks, watches, mirrors and toys. Vases, one or two. Nothing special. For the tourists. He looked round. The tall one was still talking to the short one, who was looking at Pippin.

  “Are you interested in something in particular?” he asked, bringing the other man’s conversation to a halt.

  Pippin approached. “I have something...” He reached for his backpack, but paused as the man gave a shrug that shouted indifference. “I don’t know if it’s the kind of thing…”

  “No, no,” The man made a grudging beckoning sign. “Let’s see what you have. I can’t take anything, you know, I have stock, we’re full, really. But let’s see.”

  Pippin looked at them both. The younger man was watching, his arms folded. Pippin put his backpack on the counter, unfastened it and drew out an object just under a foot long, wrapped in a towel. He unwrapped it, stood it on the counter and took a
step back. He chewed his lip while the old man leaned in for a closer look.

  Silence fell in the shop. Outside, a group passed by, their voices echoing in the narrow street. Not much light penetrated the dirty windows, but there was enough for Pippin to see the expression on the old man’s face change from indifference to curiosity to disbelief, then, finally, suspicion.

  “What is it, Max?” The younger man had seen it too.

  Max turned to look at Pippin. Pippin didn’t want that. He wanted to be invisible today. But he needed to do this. Max’s sharp eyes examined him.

  “Where did you get this?”

  Inside his pocket, Pippin clenched a fist. “It’s been in the family for years. It was passed to me. I don’t want to sell it, but – I need the money.”

  “Max, what is it?”

  “Quiet, Gustave!” He waved his hand dismissively at the young man. He kept staring at Pippin. “How long has it been in your family?”

  Pippin’s turn to shrug. “Many years. I don’t know.”

  “Can you prove that?”

  “Prove what?”

  “That it belongs to you! You have a receipt, some paperwork? Something that says where it came from?”

  Pippin shook his head. “My grandparents had some old files, but most of it was destroyed in a fire.”

  “Oh, a fire, of course.” His voice had a little sharpness to it.

  Pippin’s fist clenched some more. “Well, if you’d like to make an offer, whatever might be appropriate…I really do need the money.”

  Max’s gaze fell to the object again. His eyes roamed the thin stem and the detailed geometric carvings, then rose up its widening black sides. He reached out and gently turned it on its base, examining all angles. His face was intense, lips pressed together, but finally he sighed and shook his head.