Will had arrived in Paris.
It was the morning after Ewan’s assassination, and the city was covered with frost rather than snow. Will pulled out a pad and checked his handwritten notes again. Via telephone, Alistair had provided him with an address and a concise biography of the person he wanted to meet. Will closed the pad and placed it back in his coat pocket. He stepped out of the Charles de Gaulle International Airport terminal and hailed a taxi.
Within thirty-five minutes, he was in the Marais district of the city. He paid the taxi driver and walked northwest along rue Sainte-Croix-de-la-Bretonnerie before turning right onto a narrow side street. Moments later the small terraced house was before him. Will checked the time on his watch. It was nearly 8:00 A.M., and he hoped that the occupant had not yet left for work or other duties. He knocked.
The woman who opened the door was tall, with silky teak hair that she had gathered and rested over one shoulder and breast. She was beautiful, and it was obvious to Will that beneath her thigh-length sweater and jeans she had an excellent figure. However, it was her face that interested him. She was stunning, but she also looked as though her nerves had been visibly fraying over several years, and as a result she had a hunted look.
“Miss Lana Beseisu?” Will smiled as unthreateningly as he could.
“Yes.” The woman frowned and looked cautious.
“No need to worry. My name is Nicholas Cree. I’m with the British embassy here in Paris, and I need to update our records of your residency in this country. May I come in?”
The woman retained her frown. “I filled in some new forms only a few months ago. You should have everything you need.”
Will rubbed his hands together to make it look as though he were cold. “We should, but unfortunately our database has crashed, and as a result our records are a mess. It’s caused chaos, and the only way we can try to get out of this muddle is to update our records manually. If we don’t get it done, there will be all sorts of bureaucratic problems for British residents living here in France.” Will folded his arms and squeezed them tight against his chest. “I could come back later, but it would be great if we could do this now. I’ve got another eleven people to see today who are in exactly the same position as you.”
Lana stood still for a moment and then nodded. “My mother’s at the health clinic. I need to be around for her when she gets back, so it’s better for me if we deal with it now.” She glanced quickly up the street and then back at Will. “All right, come in.”
Will followed her through a small hallway into a cluttered living area. The place was strewn with books and newspapers. Lana grabbed an armful of journals and papers from a chair and dumped them next to an open laptop on a small table. “Please, sit.”
Will removed his overcoat to reveal his suit and sat down. He took out a pen and his small notepad as Lana pulled out and perched on a dining chair.
Lana smiled. “I did not know that the British embassy had such handsome men working there. What do you want to know?”
Will sighed. “I do apologize in advance. We’re in a thorough mess, so I’m afraid I’m going to have to confirm with you some of the basics.” He looked down at his notepad and spoke quickly. “Half Jordanian, half Saudi. But you’ve had a British passport for nearly twenty years.”
“That’s correct.” Lana lit a cigarette. “My mother managed to get me one when she was living in London.” She looked worried. “We only moved to France a few years ago because of her health and so that she could be close to a particular specialist. She has chronic anemia, and they have to keep running tests. We intend to return to the U.K. as soon as she’s better.”
Will held up a hand. “Rest assured we have no problem with you and your mother having British passports. The only problem the embassy has is with an IT database system that was supposed to make our lives easier but instead has made them hellish.” He looked down at his supposed notes again. “Now, it says here that your father is deceased, and your mother is obviously living with you. You’re single. Your vocation is journalism.”
Lana grimaced. “When I can get the work.”
Will tried to look sympathetic as he wrote nothing in particular on his notepad. “And besides your mother you have no other dependents with you in France?”
“None.”
Will nodded and scanned the tip of his pen across notes. “I can see that you’ve regularly checked in with our embassy—that’s good, as it normally makes our lives a lot easier.”
Lana tapped ash. “Anything else?”
“It’s just a formality, but can I see your passport?” He checked his watch as if he were in a hurry, then smiled. “I always have to confirm the identity of people I interview.”
“Sure.” Lana stood and looked around the untidy room, frowning. She walked to a spilling-over wall bookshelf on the opposite wall, rummaged among some loose papers, and returned with the passport. She handed it to Will and sat down.
He quickly glanced at the passport’s last pages. He nodded, handed it back to Lana, and made a small scrawl on his notebook. He was satisfied that the woman before him was Lana Beseisu rather than a protective housemate or friend. He decided to change the nature of the meeting.
“Let me just check if there’s anything else.” Will spent a few moments reading his notes again. He opened his eyes a little wider and tried to look impressed. “You were in Bosnia during the wars in the early nineties?”
Lana laughed. “That was another lifetime ago. I was barely out of school.”
He went on reading, even though he had memorized the notes before coming here. “You initially worked for a German media outlet in Sarajevo before they closed down their representative office there, but you then got approached to work with an Iranian-backed newspaper based in the city.” Will nodded. “Must have been terrifying times, working in a war zone?”
Lana shrugged. “I was young then. I was blasé to the danger.”
Will slowly closed his notepad and put it away. “The naïveté of youth.” He flashed a smile that cut off as quickly as it had appeared. “Still, you would not have been so naïve as to not know that the newspaper you worked for was in reality a front for the Iranian military intelligence services.”
“What?” Lana looked shocked.
“Maybe they got their hooks into you slowly and subtly, but pretty soon you would have known exactly whom you were working for and what you were doing for them. After all, journalists don’t secretly take Iranian money to Bosnian paramilitary units spread across the country. That’s a job for a spy.”
Lana’s shock seemed to turn into anger. Her eyes narrowed, and she spoke slowly. “Who are you?”
“Mind you”—Will ignored her question and grinned—“it would have been a logistical nightmare to work on your own in a besieged city without guidance and time-sensitive instructions. Which can only mean that you had someone with you in Sarajevo. Maybe even an Iranian intelligence officer.” He frowned. “More specifically, an IRGC Qods Force officer.” He smiled again. “But you would have been lonely as well. I’d say that it was probable your Qods Force man gave you comfort as well as orders.”
“Whoever you are, get out of my house!” Lana was standing.
Will did not move. His speech was sharp. “Whoever I am or am not, I am most certainly someone who can change your life for the worse. So I suggest you sit back down.”
Lana seemed to hesitate. She then reseated herself and picked up her cigarette with a shaking hand. “What do you want?”
Will leaned closer to her. “I need to know if you are still in contact with the Iranians. I need to know if you are still in contact with the Qods Force man.”
Lana stubbed out her cigarette, and a tear slid down her cheek. “Who are you?” she repeated.
Will leaned farther forward. “I work for MI6. And I will not leave this house until you tell me what I need to know.”
Lana shook her head, and tears were now freely spilling from both eyes. “Please don’t do this.”
Will made his voice stern. “Lana, look at me.”
She wiped the back of a hand against her face.
“I am a British intelligence officer. I have no desire to hurt you or get you in trouble. That’s not why I’m here. But you will clearly understand the implications of being a past or present Iranian spy who has a British passport. We call people like that traitors, so unless you help me, the alternative is prison. And the French authorities will not stand in our way to obtain such justice.” Will’s voice was now loud. “Are you still in contact with the Qods Force man or any of his friends?”
Lana shook her head vigorously. “No. No.”
“Anyone from Iran?”
“Nobody.” She was sobbing now.
“We can check. If we ask the French security services to analyze your phone calls over the last year or so and they find just one number dialed to Iran, you realize that all will be lost for you?”
“Then check!” Lana spat the words.
“Prison is not my objective—it does not serve my purpose in any way. I have another reason for needing to know if you are in contact with the Qods Force man.” Will leaned even closer. “Let me put this bluntly. If you are still in contact with the man or his colleagues, I can save you from prison. If not, then you are of no use to me and I will throw you to the British judicial system.”
“I’ve done nothing wrong. I’ve never spied on Britain. All I did was try to help stop some Bosnian Serb fanatics from being given carte blanche to commit genocide.”
“Very touching. But you were still a covert employee of an enemy of the West. And who knows what else would come out at a trial? What actions your Qods Force man may have taken based upon the secrets you fed him? Maybe you helped stop genocide, but maybe you wittingly or unwittingly helped fuel it. A British trial will be supported by United Nations evidence. They will no doubt be able, fairly or otherwise, to pin any number of atrocities on you.”
Lana dropped her head into her hands and pulled at her hair. “I understand, I understand, but I’ve not had any contact with him since 1995. And I’ve never had contact with his colleagues or anyone else from Iran.”
“Prove it to me.”
“Oh, come on!” Lana sounded exasperated. “How?”
Will leaned back in his chair and considered. He decided that for the moment he had been hard enough on her. Quietly, he said, “Tell me more about your time in Bosnia.”
Lana stared at him for a while and then pulled out another cigarette, lighting it with deliberation. She inhaled deeply and then spoke in a thin voice. “After I graduated from university, I took a job as a freelance journalist with the Düsseldorf-based media outlet you mentioned. They sent me to Sarajevo in 1991 to cover Bosnia and Herzegovina’s impending referendum for independence from Yugoslavia. Shortly after my arrival, all hell broke out in the Balkans, and one of my colleagues in Sarajevo was killed. Düsseldorf then lost its nerve and decided to cover the conflict from Germany.” Lana shrugged. “And I was therefore without work.”
“That’s when you were approached?”
“Not immediately.” She took another draw on her cigarette. “It was another two months before that happened. After I lost my job, I kept myself occupied helping in any way that I could: getting food parcels to the city from the airport, working in shelters, doing basic first aid—anything, really. They were terrible times. And then”—she studied the burning embers of her cigarette before returning her gaze to Will—“then he introduced himself to me.”
“His name?”
Lana shook her head slowly. “I never found out his name.”
“Age?”
“He was then in his late twenties.”
“Why did you agree to work with him?”
Lana’s smile faded, and she looked down at her feet. “The first time I met him, I was working in a makeshift hospital trying to care for victims of bombs and sniper bullets. He came up to me and told me that he worked for a special unit in the Iranian army. He told me that Bosnian Muslims were being slaughtered throughout the country and beyond. He told me that he’d been sent to Bosnia to try to help stop that from happening. He said he needed my help.”
“Why you?”
Lana slowly turned her gaze back up toward Will. “Maybe because I am a Muslim. Maybe because I looked young and impressionable. Maybe because he had few other options available to him.”
“Or maybe because you still had a media identity pass, which in theory offered you a bit of protection when traveling?”
Lana said nothing.
“What did you do for him?”
She coughed. “Initially it was mapmaking. Establishing secret routes in and out of the city, finding small ways to breach the siege. Then, after a few months and when the maps were ready, he started using me to take cash to the Muslim paramilitary groups beyond Sarajevo so that they could buy armaments, food, clothing, and medicine. I would make the journeys, then come back and report anything he needed to know, and then he would send me on new journeys. I did that for nearly four years.”
Will was silent for a moment and then said quietly, “Extremely dangerous work. If you had been caught on one of those trips, you could have been raped, tortured, and executed.”
“I know.” Lana’s face had grown stoical. Her tears had ceased.
Will tapped his fingers on a knee before bringing them to a stop. “Tell me about the man.”
Lana extinguished her cigarette and then immediately lit another. “I worked out recently that over the four-year period I saw him on fourteen occasions, and then only for a few hours or less at a time. It was only during the last three meetings that we became”—she shifted slightly in her chair—“better acquainted.”
“That’s still fourteen meetings. What can you tell me about them?”
Lana frowned. “To start with, he seemed inexperienced and headstrong, but nevertheless very clever. Toward the end of the war, though, he seemed totally in control of his work. In some ways he had also grown cold and extremely calculating. And it became clear to me that this unit he worked for, the Qods Force, was in some way testing him, encouraging him to prove himself to them.”
Will’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“He said to me once that he was the only Qods Force officer in the Balkans, that there were others from his unit but they were merely foot soldiers, that Bosnia was just an overseas school for him. He said that if he could demonstrate sufficient promise in the former Yugoslavia, his masters had significant plans for him beyond the war.”
“What plans?”
Lana raised her palms. “I’ll never know. Because NATO joined the war in 1995 and fighting ended almost overnight. He disappeared, and I’ve not heard from or seen him since.”
Will exhaled deeply. He glanced away toward the far side of the room and began tapping his fingers again. He looked back at Lana. “It benefits me to believe you.”
Lana breathed heavily. “I’m glad. I have told you the truth.”
Will held up a palm. “I told you that it benefited me to believe you, not that I do believe you—or certainly not that I believe you have told me the entire truth.” Will patted his hand against the breast pocket holding his notebook. “For example, when the war ended, why would you then fly to Rome and present yourself to the British embassy there? Why would you plead to them that you had information about the Iranians’ intentions to use their experience from the wars in Yugoslavia to strike Western targets and Arabian Gulf targets? Why would a noble heroine, who was concerned only about saving Muslim lives during the war, ask the embassy to pay her money in exchange for the information she claimed she had, information that was inconsistent and clearly fabricated?”
Lana sighed. “I was desperate.”
“That is certainly possible. There are also a number of other possibilities. One such is that you felt rejected by your former agent handler, the Qods Force officer who was also your lover. You wanted revenge against him and therefore concocted some rubbish about Iranian terrorist plans. You did so purely out of spite.”
“I was fucking desperate and alone.” Lana stood suddenly, and her chair fell backward. “Even though he would never deign to give me his name, I still shared my bed with the man. And then one day he was gone and I was penniless. Yes, I asked your embassy for money, and when they turned me away with a sneer, I did not stop there.” Lana’s voice had grown loud and frenzied. “I got on the next available flight to Abu Dhabi. I told the Emiratis a similar story. You know what they did?”
Will said nothing. As he was listening to her words, he was also rapidly processing and calculating the implications of what she was saying. He was starting to feel a sense of optimism about Harry’s lead.
“They put me in a prison in their desert for forty days and beat me because they, too, said I was lying.” Lana kicked the prone chair away and then took a step closer to Will. “I’ll show you, Nicholas Cree.”
She swung her arms up to remove her sweater. She wore nothing beneath it. Her upper body showed multiple old scars, each at least six inches long. She turned, and he could see that her back was covered with more of the same.
Will sprang up and grabbed her sweater, which he held out to her. He said softly, “Here, get dressed. There was no need to show me your wounds.”
Lana frowned at him, and fresh tears emerged. She pulled on her sweater with shaking hands and said, “Bamboo canes. And they did worse than that. My back teeth and toenails were removed with pliers. I was drowned and then revived at least five times.”
For the briefest of moments, Will wanted to hold her, to comfort her and tell her she would never suffer like that again. But he knew he had to continue to appear threatening. It was a part of his job he detested. He nodded and sat back down. “And I bet that during that horrible forty-day period your anger against your former lover must have intensified significantly.”
Lana sat and lit herself yet another cigarette. She seemed to be calming down. “I tried to tell myself that my anger was futile. I tried to tell myself that he must have been killed by the Serbs or maybe captured by the UN or NATO.”
“Either is a strong possibility.”
She shook her head and smiled. “I was merely fooling myself. He took my maps. He got out of the country alive. I’m certain.”
Will sat quietly for a moment. Then he said, “How do you feel about this man now?”
Lana waved a hand dismissively. “I was a young girl then, full of energy and purpose. But since the end of the war and my experience in Abu Dhabi, I’ve spent the rest of my life feeling hollow and frightened. I’m approaching middle age now, and all I have to show for my life is four years of doing the right thing in Sarajevo. But even that”—she raised a finger toward Will—“was discarded by him. He used me for what he needed, cast me aside, and sullied the only good memory I have.” She looked around her and then directly at Will. “How do I feel? I feel that he has stolen my life.”
Will nodded slowly. He kept his eyes locked on Lana. When he next spoke, it was with a firm and deliberate voice. “I can give you your life back.”
She frowned. “How?”
He rose from his chair and picked up his overcoat, then turned and looked down at Lana. “I’m going to try to lure him out into the open. And when he’s there, you can watch me steal his life.”