Johnny Congo had not been the only interested party calling the Cabinda Foundation in the aftermath of Jack Fontineau’s death. Nastiya knew that a man like da Cunha needed to be challenged, taken by surprise and kept a little off-balance. So, having watched his stellar appearances on the world’s news networks she called his office and informed his secretary that she had made a booking for them both at Sur Mesure, the Mandarin Oriental’s own restaurant, famed for the avant-garde “molecular cooking” of its head chef Thierry Marx. Da Cunha kept the appointment, but soon tried to reassert control by suggesting that he was already entirely familiar with his surroundings.
“Monsieur Marx is a great enthusiast for Japan,” da Cunha said when they had been seated in the extraordinary, cocoon-like dining room, whose walls were swathed in loosely draped, cream-colored fabric, piled and gathered like crumpled paper. “He takes a holiday every year in a Buddhist monastery there, and holds a third dan in judo and a fourth in ju-jitsu.”
“Really?” said Nastiya, putting down the champagne glass from which she’d been sipping. “Then I advise him not to fight me. He would lose.”
Da Cunha laughed. “I’m sure! Women never fight fair!”
“Oh, but I was being quite serious. He would have to be much, much better than that to stand any chance of winning.” She gave da Cunha a sweet, innocent smile and, almost girlishly said, “I could kill you, too, right now, before you even had a chance to get up from the table. But don’t worry, I would have to be very upset indeed before I became that violent, and I’m feeling great, right now. This Krug is delicious! It really is the best of all the great champagnes, wouldn’t you say? And it goes so well with this starter.”
The starter, consisting of a single, immaculate quail’s egg wrapped in spinach and a disc of foie gras, surrounded by a ring of spinach jelly, had been placed in front of them. Nastiya attacked it with great enthusiasm, but da Cunha just picked at his dish.
“I hope I haven’t ruined your appetite,” she said.
“No, but I admit my mind is not giving the food the attention it deserves.”
“Why not?”
“Because I am trying to decide whether you are the most intriguing, intoxicating, dangerous woman I have ever met, or the biggest bullshitter of all time.”
Nastiya smiled. “Maybe I’m both. Maybe it’s my bullshit that makes me so dangerous.”
“Ha! Time to stop talking and eat.”
For the next ninety minutes, as the nine courses of the tasting menu followed one another—each a small, perfect experiment in the art of capturing flavor at its most intense in a myriad different forms and textures—they talked about their lives. Nastiya worked on the principle that the best covers are those that contain as much truth as they can fit, so she spoke about her former life as an FSB agent. “Though I sometimes tell civilians I was trained by the KGB,” she said. “No one knows what ‘FSB’ is, so it’s easier to use a name that everyone has heard before.”
“Then it’s true, what you said about being able to fight and kill?”
“Yes, but honestly”—she reached out and delicately laid the tips of her fingers on his arm—“. . . I’m really not going to try and prove it tonight.”
“That’s a pity,” da Cunha said. “It might add a touch of excitement. After dinner, perhaps . . .”
“We’ll see . . .” She left the merest suggestion of an invitation hanging in the air. Da Cunha’s expression showed that he had taken the hint, but he was smart enough not to push the point. Instead, he got down to business.
“So, what qualifies you to seek out interesting investment opportunities and why on earth should wealthy clients take your advice?”
“I don’t know . . . What qualifies you to set yourself up as the first leader of an independent Cabinda? Please, I know you had to answer the way you did in public. But you don’t want to be Franklin. You want to be Washington—without the possibility of ever losing an election.”
“Did I say that? Answer my question . . .”
“Well, apart from my combat skills”—she had not mentioned the word “sex,” but somehow they both knew that was what she meant—“I speak a number of languages fluently, I’m trained to gather and assess intelligence, I have contacts around the world who alert me to possible opportunities and as a woman I have advantages that a man does not. If I were male, you would not have been so willing to let me ask you a question, nor so keen to approach me immediately afterward, nor so ready to extend an invitation to dinner.”
“I can’t deny it,” said da Cunha with a smile.
“Finally, I am Russian and do not have the pathetic western obsession with human rights and non-violence. So why don’t you tell me what you really intend to do, how much money you need to do it, and what you will give in return for that money?”
“Well, Miss Trained Russian Agent, if you were in my situation, what would you do?”
There was a pause as a new course was brought to them, accompanied by a fresh glass of wine. Nastiya waited until they were undisturbed again and then replied, “I would create instability. I would do everything I could to make western oil companies and western governments believe that they can’t be safe in Cabinda as long as it is a province of Angola. So I might start by, say, attacking the offices of an American company that supplies oil rigs.”
“Ah yes, that was a very unfortunate incident. I believe that an American executive was among the casualties. You understand, of course, that I was not involved in any way.”
“Pah!” Nastiya gave a flick of her hand to wave his weasel words aside. “Weren’t you listening? I told you I’m not squeamish. But perhaps I didn’t make myself clear. I work for oligarchs, and you know how they made their money, every single one of them? Crime. Sure, they weren’t all Russian mafia, though some were. But they stole state assets, or bribed someone to sell them at a fraction of their real value, or forced the original owner out of the business. Men like that will not think you are a bad guy if you fight to get what you want. But they will think you are a pussy if you stand on the sidelines, wringing your hands and telling the world that you are frightened by a drop of blood.”
There was no humor or flirtation in da Cunha now. His eyes bored into hers and his jaw was set as he leaned toward her and lowered his voice to a rumbling growl. “Then go back to these men and tell them that I wouldn’t be frightened by an ocean of blood. Tell them that I need money for personnel, weapons, training, housing and supplies. I must also fund a major international public relations and lobbying campaign that will win over media opinion-formers, buy the support of key politicians and force governments to recognize Cabinda. And I need to do just enough for the people that they, and the outside world, think that their lives will improve in an independent Cabinda.”
“What about the Angolan government?”
“Simple. I will make it hell for them to keep Cabinda, and very worthwhile for them to let it go. Everyone has their price, and if we have to put ten million, or a hundred million, or even a billion dollars into the bank accounts of the President and his key military and political allies, then that is what we will do because the prize is worth so much more.”
Nastiya sensed that this was the real Mateus da Cunha: a man of limitless ambition, naked greed and an absolutely ruthless will. Her professional self now saw him as an enemy to be taken seriously and even feared. Her moral compass told her that he had the potential to commit acts of great evil to achieve what he wanted.
She had anticipated the evening ending in some kind of sexual advance from him, so it came as no surprise when, at the end of the meal, he did not so much ask as tell her, “Come back to my apartment. We can finish our discussion in comfort.”
At this point she had planned to reply, “No, I can’t wait that long. My room is much closer.” She had a well-stocked bar from which to pour him a drink and the powdered Rohypnol to slip into it. The hidden camera was pointed at the bed, waiting to capture whatever humiliating pose
she could draw him into. But now she realized that it simply was not safe for her to invite him up. For once in her life she could not count on her ability to remain in total control of any sexual situation and she was not prepared to risk her marriage, her job and the faith that Cross had placed in her. So she smiled as she declined: “That’s a very tempting invitation, but no. Another time, perhaps.”
Da Cunha shook his head with a sigh. “So, you’ve led me on and then you disappoint me. I must be losing my touch.” He paused, looked at her and then gave a very Gallic shrug. “Ah well, perhaps we have both deceived one another. You see, the truth is, I don’t need any money from your investors, not at this moment. I’ve found a backer who can fund the first stage of my campaign. But I don’t want your people to lose interest because there may be opportunities for more investment later. So I’ll tell you something that will make them all a great deal of money. They must do nothing for a month. Then go short on Bannock Oil. Tell them that whatever the price of Bannock stock is, they must bet on it going lower. Start slowly, but build their positions: tens, even hundreds of millions of dollars, all staked on Bannock dropping. Tell them from me, they won’t regret it.”
Nastiya could hardly believe her luck. He had just given her as much information voluntarily as she could have hoped to extract from him by blackmail. Perhaps it was true and good deeds really were rewarded: that truly would be a surprise.
They walked together out of the restaurant and into the hotel foyer. “You’re quite sure I can’t tempt you?” da Cunha said before he took his leave.
“On the contrary, I’m sure you can tempt me,” Nastiya replied. “But I am equally sure that I can resist temptation.”
He looked at her and nodded, a half-smile playing around the corners of his mouth as he said, “Tonight, perhaps. But there will be another night. And then we will see just how strong our resistance really is.”
While Nastiya was in Paris, Cross had taken a brief break from his work preparing Cross Bow’s deployment at the Magna Grande field to visit an old friend and comrade-in-arms, Dr. Rob Noble. He was a former Army medic and Hector had met him when they were both serving members of the SAS. Rob now had a flourishing practice in Harley Street, providing all manner of health-boosting, anti-aging, sex-life-enhancing treatments to rich patients, who were very rarely ill, but almost always in need of the latest, most fashionable prescription drugs. He made a great deal of money doing a job he realized was of no social benefit whatever, which explained why the bulk of his profits went to fund free clinics for mothers and children in conflict zones around the world.
Noble’s experience, both in the Army and out of it, had led him to the view that there were people walking the planet who did so much harm to others that they needed culling. When Hector Cross gave him a brief introduction to Johnny Congo’s CV, Noble readily agreed that this was a man who perfectly fitted his criteria for swift and terminal removal from the scene. “Though I’d rather not supply you with the poison to do it, if that’s all right,” he added. “I’ve taken the Hippocratic Oath, after all, promised not to give anyone deadly medicine and all that.”
“Don’t worry,” Cross reassured him. “I’m just looking for something that’ll knock someone out quickly and painlessly, then leave them with as little recollection as possible of what happened to them when they wake up.”
“Hmm . . .” Noble considered the problem. “You do know, of course, that there’s no such stuff—outside of an operating theater—as an instant knock-out drop. Still, I should be able to put something together for you. Come back in a couple of days and I’ll have it ready for collection. Half a dozen doses should be enough for you, I hope?”
“More than enough. And I could use a few morphine ampoules, too, in case anyone gets hurt who’s not meant to be.”
“Consider it done.”
Two days later, Cross returned to Harley Street to be given two small plastic cases, each containing six ampoules. One box had a small red cross on it, the other did not. Each ampoule bore a prescription label, describing it as insulin, with instructions for use.
“You’ve just developed a case of diabetes,” Rob Noble told Hector. “The first ampoule in each box really does contain insulin, just in case any customs man is minded to test it. The other ampoules in the Red Cross box are morphine, as requested. The ones in the plain box contain a subtle blend of party drugs, funnily enough. I’ve combined a four-thousand-milligram dose of gamma-hydroxybutyric acid, otherwise known as GHB Juice or Liquid G, which should induce unconsciousness about as fast as anything around, and mixed it with ketamine, a tranquillizer much prized by blithering idiots who like to mess with their brains for its ability to create a dissociative, otherworldly effect—like a less extreme version of an LSD trip, I suppose. It also induces amnesia, so it should do the trick for your purposes. As a combination they should leave the recipient feeling very, very strange, but providing their general health is all right, the dose shouldn’t prove fatal.”
“Thanks, Rob, you’re a genius,” Cross told him.
“I would agree with you wholeheartedly. But does the Nobel Prize Committee ever give me a call?”
Cross returned to his office to find Nastiya returned from Paris. “So, did you get anything out of da Cunha?”
Nastiya nodded. “Yes.”
“And . . . ?”
“Da Cunha says that he is trying to achieve freedom for Cabinda by peaceful means, but he is lying. He will do whatever it takes to control the country and its oil revenues and he is looking for backers to fund his military and PR campaigns and pay the bribes he needs to persuade politicians to do what he wants. At first he was very interested in the possibility of using Russian money, but when we met for the second time he made it clear that he already has someone who has enough money to pay for the early stages of the struggle.”
“Did he say who it was?”
“No, but he did say who his next target would be. He was worried that my clients would feel snubbed by his refusal of their money now. So as a gesture of good faith he asked me to pass on a message to them, telling them to invest heavily in short positions, against Bannock Oil.”
“You’re sure it was Bannock Oil?”
“Absolutely, he was very insistent that Bannock stock would plummet in value.”
“Did he say when?”
“Yes. He told me to tell my people not to do anything for a month, but then to attack Bannock with as much money as possible.”
“That’s great work, Nastiya. You’ve delivered the goods once again. It’s just a pity the package stinks.”
Cross told Agatha to put him on the next available flight out of Heathrow to Washington DC. He called Bobbi Franklin and invited her to dinner at Marcel’s, on Pennsylvania Avenue, just a five-minute cab ride from the State Department.
“This is very short notice,” Franklin said, though she sounded as though it was a pleasant surprise. “Business or pleasure?”
“Both.”
“I’m intrigued. I’ll see you there.”
Congo’s bomb-making buddy Chico Torres was as good as his word. Within days, he’d produced a detailed plan of attack; a quantified list of all the materials Congo would have to supply so that Torres could assemble the ordnance that the job would require; and the specifications of the delivery system and personnel needed to convey the right package to the right place at the right time to produce the effect that Congo desired. “If you want, man, I can see the whole operation through from planning to execution. If I get the Benjamins, you’ll get the bang, you know what I mean?”
Congo and Torres concluded their financial negotiations satisfactorily. The price and the time-schedule were set. Over the next few days, Congo started the recruitment process for the men who would work with Torres on his side of what was swiftly becoming a much bigger, more intricate and potentially devastating scheme than even Congo had initially envisioned. Further discussions with Babacar Matemba and Mateus da Cunha put flesh on t
he bones of their half of the deal. Now Congo just needed to sort out the financial pay-off that his military actions were designed to create. So he put in a call to Aram Bendick, worked his way through the army of gatekeepers Bendick employed to keep casual callers off his back and finally got through to the financier himself.
“I like your work, dog,” Congo said, having introduced himself as Juan Tumbo. “Badmouthing the CEOs, driving the stock down, picking up assets for a song—gotta love that, right? So I looked you up on that Forbes list of billionaires, saw you at eight-point-two bill, ranked hundred and sixtieth. Man, that’s gotta hurt, don’t it? Y’know, not even being in the top one fifty.”
“Those figures are wildly inaccurate,” Bendick said testily.
“Yeah, well, reporters, right, what do they know? But let me ask you something: however many billions you got, you can always use a few more, am I right?”
“Where are you going with this, Mr. Tumbo? I’m just online now, looking at the exact same list as you; only difference is, I don’t see your goddamn name anywhere. So you better tell me why I should listen to any more of your shit, or this call ends now.”
“You don’t see me on no list because I don’t wanna be there. I keep my business to myself. But now I’m telling you, Mr. Bendick, I can double your money. So now you’re going to say, bullshit, how can I do that? I’ll tell you that, too, when we meet, but first I’m assuming you can follow the money going in and out of your Seventh Wave Funds, yeah?”
“Of course.”
“So check out your U.S. Special Situations Fund. You seeing that on your screen?”
“Yeah, what of it?”
“In about ten seconds the amount invested in that fund is gonna rise by fifty million dollars. Wait for it . . .”