Chameleon. Mark Burnell

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      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.

       1

      She’s eighteen months old. Two years ago, she was twenty-five years old.

      They made love slowly but it was a hot afternoon and soon their bodies were slick. Laurent Masson was a tall man with no fat on his sinewy frame; dark-haired, dark-skinned, dark dirt beneath his fingernails. When she’d first seen him, Stephanie had thought he looked slightly seedy, which she liked. She, by contrast, had never looked more wholesome, which she also liked. Plump breasts, the curved suggestion of a belly, a dimple in the soft flesh above each buttock. She’d allowed her hair to grow; thick and dark, it fell between her shoulders down half her spine. Summer sun had tanned her normally pale skin, a healthy diet had improved her complexion.

      The first-floor bedroom was small; a high ceiling, floorboards worn smooth, two tatty Yemeni rugs, a narrow double bed with a wrought-iron frame. On one wall, there was a mottled full-length mirror. On the opposite wall, there were six sepia photographs of Provence’s brutal beauty.

      Masson was on his back, Stephanie above him, his body between her thighs. Slowly, she rocked back and forth, trailing her fingertips across his chest and stomach. Neither of them spoke and there was no hint of a breeze to cool them. When she came, she closed her eyes, dropped her head back and bit her fleshy lower lip.

      Later, Masson smoked a cigarette, rolling his ash onto a dirty china saucer. Stephanie stood by the window, naked and damp. Her gaze followed the land, falling away from the farmhouse, across the vineyard and the dirt track that bisected it. The vines shimmered in the heat. Somewhere at the bottom of the valley, screened by emerald trees, there was the road. To the right, Entrecasteaux, to the left, Salernes. Beyond either, the real world.

      ‘Last night, the dogs were barking all down the valley.’

      Behind her, Masson shifted, the bed-springs creaking. ‘They kept you awake?’

      She nodded. ‘Some were howling.’

      ‘You should have spent the night with me.’

      ‘Actually, I liked it. It sounded … sad.’ She crossed her arms. ‘Sad but beautiful.’

      ‘Will I see you later?’

      ‘If you want to.’

      ‘Do you want to?’

      ‘What do you think?’

      ‘I don’t know. I never know what you think.’

      ‘Lucky you.’

       Laurent leaves. From the yard, I watch his old Fiat lurch along the track, kicking up clouds of golden dirt. When the dust has settled, I go inside and make tea. The kitchen is cool and dark; a stone floor, terracotta walls, a heavy oak table flanked by benches. Bees murmur by the small square window over the СКАЧАТЬ