Though their faces were partially hidden, the two men at Hammond’s side had the demeanor of military personnel, probably tier-one operators. The kind of men who wouldn’t think twice about putting a bullet in Pierre’s brain if given the order to do so.
Pierre shook his head.
“What does that tell you, Pierre?”
“That I’m not under arrest,” he replied, taking an extralong sip from his glass.
Hammond’s lips curled into what could be loosely interpreted as a smile.
“Sure thing. But it should tell you something else too,” Hammond replied, his tone serious but nonthreatening.
Pierre didn’t feel the need to elaborate any further on the meaning of the men’s presence. They all knew what would happen if he didn’t cooperate. Pierre understood that if an arrest was an option, it would have been the FBI knocking at his door, not the JSOC commanding officer flanked by two Special Forces guys. The way he saw it at the time, three options were in play. The first was the morgue. He guessed that his second option wasn’t much more joyful. Being kept in a secret prison for decades wasn’t on his list of things to do. Because he was a member of an ally’s intelligence service, he feared he’d be considered an extrajudicial prisoner with no right to a fair trial. The third option, the one he had hoped Hammond would suggest, was worth considering.
Pierre willingly opened the door. “What can I do for you, General?”
This time there was no misunderstanding. Hammond smiled at him.
Pierre’s oysters sat untouched in front of him, but his wineglass was empty.
He had been employed by Oxley Vineyards for a little over three months, and he hated it. The winery employees were competent enough, and the wine could actually become drinkable in a few years, but Roy Oxley scared him shitless.
He wasn’t sure if it was because he’d been in the game for too long, or because his previous assignments in Europe and in the United States had been so much less risky, but he was seriously considering retiring. He didn’t think the DGSE would mind. Of course, they’d offer him a bonus of some sort to keep him on, but they would ultimately let him go. His pension wasn’t a fat one, but he’d saved enough to live comfortably. His handlers at the DGSE had initially been startled when Pierre told them he was moving to South Africa to work in a vineyard. But at the mention of Roy Oxley, they had suddenly become quite eager for him to start in his new position and had even congratulated him for his initiative in seeking employment at one of Oxley’s businesses. The financial transaction between Oxley International Shipping Lines and Le Groupe Avanti was something the French government was apparently very interested in.
Pierre’s deal with Hammond was simple. From day one, he had been allowed to continue whatever he’d been doing for the French government, with the exception of spying on American citizens. Foreign nationals were, of course, fair game as long as Pierre forwarded to Hammond all the material he uploaded to his masters at the DGSE. In exchange for Pierre gaining Oxley’s trust, Hammond had promised not to kill him—and a fat bonus. It had seemed like a fair deal to Pierre.
Since his arrival at Oxley Vineyards, Pierre had had limited contact with Oxley, but the few times they had talked, his gut had told him Oxley was suspicious of him. Oxley wasn’t one to give his trust to anyone, and Pierre had a feeling he was already walking on eggshells. Both the DGSE and Hammond had provided him with files on Oxley. Oxley wasn’t someone to take lightly. And neither was his henchman, Abelard Krantz, another former SAS operator turned “businessman.” Krantz might be wearing expensive suits during board meetings, but Pierre had a feeling the man was a murdering psychopath. His steady, never-wavering voice that seemed always stuck on the same note did nothing to change Pierre’s assessment of him.
While he could understand the DGSE’s interest in Oxley, particularly due to the upcoming sale of Oxley’s shipping line to a French shipping company, he wondered what Oxley meant to Hammond. He’d spent quite a bit of his free time during his first two weeks in South Africa trying to figure out the link between the men, but it had been a dead end. Then, two days ago, Hammond had contacted him. His request wasn’t difficult, but it was certainly unusual.
Pierre unlocked his phone and scrolled down to the picture he had saved in a special folder. He zoomed in on the man’s face. He’d never seen him before, nor had he any idea who Clayton White was, or even why he was coming to Kommetjie.
What he did know was that Hammond had already deposited a large sum of money in his Cayman Islands bank account. He’d asked Pierre to acquire a weapon.