"Keiran."
"Keiran?" She blinks. "What do you want?"
"Is Laurent there?"
"No."
"Good," Keiran says. "You should come meet me. Right this minute."
"What? Why?"
"Come alone," Keiran says. "It's about Laurent. I've found out who he really is and what he's doing. What he's really doing. I have to tell you. It's…appalling."
Chapter
24
< Keiran arrives fifteen minutes early at their agreed destination, a Starbucks on the south side of the Thames, between Blackfriars Bridge and the ominous tower of the Tate Modern. He feels nervous. Not just because he is exhausted, has been at his computer nonstop since hearing the news of the bomb. Keiran doesn't want to let his cloak of invisibility slip like this. This is a public place, it should be easy to get away and lose himselef if he needs to, but that doesn't make him feel safe. Not with what he now knows about Laurent. Danielle is in love with him, she might have told him. This isn't safe. But it's necessary. He knows her well enough to know this has to be done in person.
He orders a black coffee and sits with his back to the wall. He sees Danielle approach, on the pedestrian thoroughfare perpetually buzzing with hundreds of people that is the south bank of the Thames. She looks pale and weak. Her smile when she sees him does not reach her eyes, and when she enters, she pauses for a fraction of a second to look around the Starbucks. Her nervousness alleviates his; an equality of fear.
She orders a chai latte and sits across from him.
"Thanks for coming," he says.
She nods acknowledgment.
He reaches into his leather jacket, draws out a manila envelope, and gives it to her. "Have a look."
Danielle opens the envelope and spills its sheaf of A4 paper onto the wooden, coffee-stained table. The first page contains two black-and-white pictures of a young Laurent, height markers behind him. Mug shots. His hair is up in a black mohawk but he is recognizable, staring angrily into the camera, then looking to the side, his jaw clenched. The name on the small chalkboard he holds reads 'SYLVAIN BRISEBOIS'. She stares at it for a moment, then starts on the next three pages, his criminal record. She reads intently. Her hands begin to shake.
"He probably told you his real name was Patrice," Keiran says.
Danielle doesn't react.
"After what he did he had to get two false names. One from stealing a dead child's birth certificate. Security in Quebec was nonexistent until 2001, anyone could walk into a church registry and steal an identity. Just like Day of the Jackal. The Foreign Legion demands a government ID when you join them, before they give you a new name, and he couldn't give them his real one. Not when he was wanted for rape and murder. From what I can gather he was associated with a biker gang in Montreal, the Rock Machine. But never actually a member. There's been a war on between them and the Hell's Angels for years now. Hundreds dead, bombs, shootings, bars burned, people disappeared. Sylvain disappeared too. Age twenty-two. Then Patrice appeared, for maybe a month. Then Laurent turned up at the Foreign Legion office."
"I knew all this already," Danielle says. He knows she is lying. "So he grew up fucked up. That was years ago. He's different now."
"If you say so."
"What do you care about what he used to be?"
Keiran says, "I don't know if you've been reading the news, but Kishkinda and Terre have been going through some interesting times lately."
"Very funny."
"We had quite an amazing run of bad luck as soon as Laurent appeared on the scene, didn't we? We get run out of India moments after he turns up, we smash and grab their Paris office and watch him torture a man for no gain, then a bomb goes off and kills Angus and Estelle. Look at the next report."
The next document is highly technical, carefully formatted, full of numbers and medical-sounding terminology. It is twenty-three pages long. Some of the jawbreaking words are grouped under headings with Indian-sounding names.
"It may not mean anything to you," Keiran says, "but –"
"No, it does," she says slowly. "It's like some of the documents they processed in the Bangalore office when I worked there. One of our clients was this big Hartford insurance company. It looks like an analysis of medical claim reports. Is that it? What does this have to do with anything?"
"Not quite. The people in this study were receiving medicine, not making claims. A drug study. A human trial."
"Where did you get this? Some pharmaceutical company?"
"Almost. Drugs tested on humans, yes. But not by a pharmaceutical company. No. By Laurent's outfit. By Justice International."
"Justice –" Danielle stares at Keiran for a long moment, eyes wide. Then she shakes her head. "That doesn't make any sense. Where did you get this?"
Keiran sips his coffee before answering. "I hacked in. And it wasn't fucking easy." It would have been impossible without Shazam. Justice International's network security is invulnerable but for the single instance of Shazam one of their employees uses to steal music from the Internet. "I couldn't figure out why they ran such a tight ship. Until I got inside and saw P2's name on the firewall. Justice International is performing drug trials on the people sickened by Kishkinda. Is that clear enough? They're not trying to help them. They're not trying to shut down Kishkinda. What they do is test experimental drugs. Which, judging from that report, are often counterproductive. Sometimes lethal."
"Why would they do that?" Danielle asks.
"Because they're being paid. Quite a lot. Six hundred thousand dollars materializes in their bank account on the first of every month. Not bad for a virtually unknown volunteer organization."
"Who would pay them? What for?"
"Any drug company who wants to avoid petty little ethical concerns about drug testing. They spend lorryloads of money every year on research that never goes anywhere because it fails human trials ten years down the road. If they test out their drugs on the quiet like this, as soon as they get out of the lab, before they've done any animal testing, if they secretly know in advance which drugs in their pipeline will be winners – that's worth billions to them. Billions every year. They're much bigger than Kishkinda or Terre. Kishkinda is a pimple on the face of a major pharmaceutical, that's how big they are. So they pay off Justice International with petty cash to find populations of sick people, cut off from civilization enough that the rest of the world will never know, and test a whole fucking cornucopia of new drugs on them. There's dozens of reports like that one. Most of them encrypted, I rescued that one from an automatic backup that didn't get cleaned up, but from the filenames, we're talking a lot of drugs here."
"This is crazy. Laurent works for them."
"That's my point."
"No," Danielle says. "No."
"Yes. He didn't join Angus and company to help. He joined to infiltrate and sabotage. To make sure they didn't find out the truth. And he used you to get in. First he led them to us in India, made sure they scared us out of the country, then he probably made sure we didn't find anything in Paris, and now every police force in the world is looking for you. From the moment he turned up, it's been nothing but disaster."
"I'm sorry. No. You don't know him like I do. That's not possible."
Keiran shakes his head. "Look at the last report."
* * *
DEBRIEFING: 2 MAY
Met with Voice at tertiary time/location. He arrived late and was eager to leave. Had many aggressive questions about his remuneration and demanded that it be doubled and its schedule accelerated. Refused to speak to me at first until I agreed. Eventually accepted I had no authority to do so. I feel Voice has become erratic, untrustworthy, and excessively motivated by immediate gain. Furthermore, I believe Voice has become emotionally involved with his entry point to an extent that has clouded his judgment. While she remains ignorant of his real activities, at least to date, he actually threatened my own personal security (and that of the board) in the event that any action, physical or legal, were taken against DL. I strongly recommend against further utilization of Voice without some means of securing intensified loyalty.
That said, Voice has been as effective as ever. Has located home address of foundation member Philip Tasker, and photographed two other believed members who met with Tasker. DNA samples and fingerprints have been acquired and dispatched for analysis. Initial working hypothesis seems likely but not yet confirmed. Have received word from P2 that this new information should lead to sound evidence of foundation's true identity. Voice also suggested am extreme course of action which, though it would likely result in a near-term cessation of foundation activites, I vetoed. Viz. the 'accidental' detonation of a powerful explosive device. While of course you may overturn my veto I very strongly recommend against it.
* * *
"A smoking gun," Keiran says.
Danielle's world is swimming around her. "A fake. It has to be fake." It's a setup. It must be. Despite the logic, the supporting documentation, the way it all makes a sickening, dizzying sense, Keiran must be lying to her. Or fooled. Except Keiran doesn't get fooled, not by things like this.
"It seemed too convenient at first," Keiran admits, "but I think, from where I found it and how, that it's real. Some idiot took an encrypted message, copied its text into a Word document so it would look nicer for his boss, and foolishly trusted Word's password protection. Some idiot named Vijay. Probably the same bloke we met in Goa. Before Laurent got us out of that mess oh so conveniently. When P2 finds out he'll probably have Vijay's head. All the security in the world doesn't help when your people are careless and stupid. And people always are."
Danielle can hardly hear him. "It's not possible," she says, clutching at straws. "You didn't see what they did to him at the hut, where they locked me up. They beat the shit out of him."
"Convenient how it happened in front of the window. Convenient how there were lots of little cuts and bruises but nothing serious. Convenient how easily you got away after that. And it certainly happened to a man who we both know wouldn't let little things like pain and suffering stand between him and what he wants."
Danielle can't find any words.
"I'm sorry," Keiran says. "I would have been convinced too. I was convinced. I liked him. I respected him. Justice International does enough real antiglobalization work that Angus and the foundation fell for it too. And he's a fine actor. But I don't have to tell you that. I'm sorry."
"I want you to leave," Danielle says savagely. "Get out. Get the fuck out."
"You don't believe me yet? I can take you to a computer, show you the files."
"You could have faked them."
Keiran nods. "True. I could have forged all of this. Almost all. I don't know near enough about medicine to forge that drug trial document. But even supposing I could, why would I? If for some reason I wanted to make trouble I could just go to the police, tell them I thought he built that bomb. I don't need to go through this kind of charade. But more than that. It makes sense. You're smart. You know that. It makes too much sense not to be true."
"Get out."
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry I had to be the one to tell you. If you need anything, anything at all, call me, anytime."
* * *
On the way back to their flat, through London streets warped by tears, the way back to Laurent who is also Patrice and may also be Sylvain, her knight who may also be a traitor, Danielle tries to consider her options, to make sense of what she has just heard. It doesn't really matter whether she believes it or not. It will haunt her, gnaw at her gut, until she knows for sure. She has to know. And there is only one way./p>
Chapter
25
< Laurent is back in the flat when she returns, packing with military efficiency, folding his clothes so neatly the creases could draw blood, assembling his possessions so they inhabit the minimum possible volume in his pack.
"Where have you been?" she asks.
"A long walk down the Embankment. You?"
"The other side. South Bank."
"We probably passed each other."
"Are you going to take me to visit Montreal after we get settled in New York?"
He shrugs. "If you like."
"Visit your family?"
"Montreal's nice in summer. But the winters are brutal."
"It's Sylvain, isn't it?"
He drops a shirt, and in that moment she knows it's all true.
"What's Sylvain?" he asks.
"Your old name. Your real old name."
"It says Patrice on the birth certificate."
"But it says Sylvain on your birth certificate, doesn't it?"
"Where have you been?" he demands. "Who have you been talking to?"
"Why do they call you Voice? Is that your other name?"
He looks at her, this time genuinely puzzled. "What? Who?"
"You don't know, do you? Justice International. That's what they call you in the reports they send back about you. Voice. I guess it's a code name. I don't know why they bother. They didn't give me a code name."
"I don't understand what you are saying," Laurent says, he says, approaching her, his expression gentle and concerned.
"But why did you make the bomb? So it went off, I mean. They didn't want you to. Did you hate Angus and Estelle that much? Or did they change their mind?"
He puts his hands on her shoulders and shakes her gently. "Start making sense. Please."
"I don't understand how you could do it," she says. "I'm impressed, I mean, to live a lie like that, for such a long time, to betray all the people who trusted you, who," she starts to cry, "who loved you, that can't be easy. I guess you're real tough, huh? I guess you're so tough it doesn't mean anything to you."
"I don't know what you're talking about," he says. Convincingly. But not near convincingly enough.
"I know what you did." She has to fight to get the words out of her sob-clogged throat. "I know what you're doing. Drug tests at Kishkinda. Scaring us out of India. Setting us up. Tracking down the foundation. The bomb, you killed, you murdered Angus and Estelle. Cold blood murder. How could you? How could you?"
"Who have you been talking to?"
"What does it matter?"
"Danielle. Who told you all this? It's not true. Who told you?"
"Don't lie to me. Don't you think you've lied to me enough? You might as well stop now. Start telling the truth just for a little fucking variety, why don't you?"
Laurent grabs her by the arms, turns, making her spin with him, and pushes her back, forcibly sitting Danielle down on the couch. He releases her, pulls a chair up, and sits very close to her, his legs inside hers, their knees touching, and waits for her cries to subside. He looks intensely worried, for her, not himself. She feels an urge to lean forward, throw her arms around him and weep on his shoulder, and the wave of shame and rage she feels at this, realizing that even now some part of her wants this liar, traitor and murderer to console her, helps strengthen her, moves her from despair to cold fury.
"Tell me who told you this," he says quietly.
"I'll tell you the truth when you tell me the truth," she says, biting out each word.
He studies her for some time. Then he nods. "That's fair," he says, his voice low. "The truth is I do owe it to you to be fair."
"That's so fucking big of you."
"You're going to be safe. I made sure of that. I won't let anything happen to you."
She thinks of the debriefing report. Voice has become emotionally involved with his entry point to an extent that has clouded his judgment. He does care for her. At least a little. But not enough to outweigh the awful things he has done, not even close.
"How could you do it?" she asks. "The children in that village. You never wanted to shut down Kishkinda at all, did you? You wanted them to keep going. So they could keep poisoning children for you to test drugs on. For money. Was that it? You did it for money? That was all?"
Laurent relaxes slightly. "It was a deal with the devil. We sacrificed that one place so we could help many more of them, all over the world, with the money we got. JI got millions of dollars a year. Above the costs of the trials. We've saved many more people with that money than Kishkinda ever killed."
"You're talking about children's lives like they're poker chips. How much money did you get? You personally."
Laurent tilts his head uncomfortably. "Eighty thousand a year. US dollars."
"Pretty good for a rapist and murderer." She is angry now, almost blinded by rage. "Who were you working for? What company?"
"It isn't a company."
"Then what is it?"
"I'll show you. In just a moment."
"Show me? Show me what? Stop dancing around and just tell me the truth or I'll –" She doesn't know what she'll do. But she knows it will be awful.
"Who told you all this?" Laurent asks. "Keiran?"
Danielle shakes her head. "I'm not going to tell you."
"Yes, you are. It must be Keiran. Who else knows? The foundation?"
"We've got proof. We'll go to the newspapers. We can shut you down."
"But you won't," Laurent says.
"Why not?"
"Who else knows?"
"Fuck you."
"Danielle," Laurent says, his voice raw, "you have to tell me who else knows. Please. It's important. I don't want to have to hurt you."
Danielle's mouth slowly opens but no words escape.
"Please don't make it necessary. Please tell me. Don't lie. I'll know if you're lying."
"Hurt me? What do you mean, hurt me?" It had never even crossed her mind that Laurent might threaten her, that the repercussions of confronting him might include danger. They are lovers. They have lived together, struggled together, enjoyed countless hours of whispered intimacy in one another's arms.
"I have to know who else knows. And exactly what they know."
"Or what? You'll break my nose? Tie me up and stick my face in a bowl of water?"
Laurent does not speak.
"My God," Danielle says. "You would, wouldn't you?"
"We can't be together," he says rapidly, his Quebecois accent more pronounced than usual. "Maybe I wish we could but we can't. Not in this world. Maybe in some parallel dimension we're perfect for one another. In this world we're impossible. That's the reality. We both have to live with it. Understand? I have to live in the real world. Not fantasyland. And you do too. So answer the fucking question. Who else knows?"
Danielle looks at him wide-eyed. Then she says, "Keiran. I think just him."
"Yes. Good," Laurent says. "Do you know where Keiran lives?"
"No."
"Well. P2 better fucking find out fast. Stay where you are." Laurent stands and walks into their bedroom. For a moment she thinks of running for it, fleeing the room, down the hall and down the stairs, he will pursue but on the streets, in public, surely she will be safe, and they are only a few minutes' run from Euston Station, she can lose herself in those crowds. The idea feels crazy. But she is suddenly certain that it is the only way to save her life, that if she doesn't run, and now, she is a dead woman. She stands – and Laurent re-enters the room, wearing his jacket, holding a cell phone she has never seen before.
"I said
stay where you are
," he says sharply.
Numbly, she sits again. Laurent selects a number on this phone and speaks to the recipient at some length in French. Then he sits again on the chair across from the couch, watching her carefully. She wonders if she might ambush him, a quick kick to the groin – but no, that's insane, he's a soldier and a black belt in three martial arts, she doesn't have a ghost of a chance. A scream for help would last all of half a second before he silenced her. Her fate, one way or another, is sealed.
"What's going on?" she dares to ask.
"I can't answer that. I can only show you."
"Show me how?"
"Wait," he says.
"But –"
"Wait
quietly
."
It is an order, a calm one, but phrased in a military voice she has never heard from him before. She swallows tries to remain perfectly still, as if this will keep him from deciding to do her harm. She understands now that she knows too much. Melodramatic as it sounds.
Eventually a knock comes on the door: two short, three long, two short. Laurent stands. "Downstairs," he says.
He escorts her outside with a firm hand on the small of her back. There is a limousine waiting outside, its windows tinted. The light inside is dim and it takes her a moment after sitting on the plush leather seats to recognize the figure splayed on the seat opposite her, beneath the opaque partition that separates the passenger compartment from the driver. Keiran, swaying in his seat, looks straight through her; no spark of recognition seems to fire. His pupils are so dilated that they occupy most of his eyes.
Laurent sits next to her and closes the door. She looks at him.
"Where are we going?" she whispers.
"Far."/p>