‘That’s an unusual trio of places. Are these businesses a front for something else?’
Seurat looked at her appraisingly. ‘You are very direct for an Englishwoman, Miss Carlyle.’
She smiled. ‘Not always. But I am finding this visit somewhat mysterious. When my colleague phoned, Isabelle Florian led her to believe this man Milraud was known to the DCRI, but she would only give us information face to face. When I arrived to talk to her, it turned out she had nothing to say, but she sent me to you. Now I’m here, but none the wiser. I cannot believe he is just an antique dealer.’
Seurat looked at his watch. ‘I don’t know about you, Miss Carlyle, but at this time of the day I am usually halfway through lunch. Why don’t you join me? It’s just around the corner.’
Her heart sank. She was getting nowhere. She was hungry, though. The breakfast in the hotel had been minimal – just a roll and coffee – and she’d had no dinner the night before. But she thought she could see what lay ahead – three courses, wine, a lot of small talk, and yet further run-around about the mysterious Milraud.
Seurat seemed to sense her frustration. ‘It will be possible to talk freely at lunch. And I am not trying to avoid your questions – well,’ he added with a grin, ‘I would like to but I will not. And in case you are wondering why I know about an antiques dealer from Toulon, Antoine Milraud has not always worked in that trade.’
‘No?’
‘No, he had a long career doing something different altogether.’
‘Is that how you know him?’
He seemed amused. ‘The last time I saw him, he was sitting in the very chair you are occupying.’
‘Oh, really?’ She wished this man would stop playing games and get on with it.
‘Yes, he used to come in for coffee and a chat almost every morning. You see, Antoine Milraud was once an officer of the DGSE. Perhaps now you can see why your enquiry is a little difficult for us. Shall we go to lunch?’
The Vieux Canard was a small bistro near the Metro, on rue Haxo. It had a front room, with several tables already occupied by locals, but Seurat led her into a small, dark room in the back which had one scrubbed wooden table and looked like the room where the family ate. The table was set for two. They were greeted by a petite black-haired woman in an apron, who kissed Seurat warmly on both cheeks before shaking Liz’s hand.
As they sat down Seurat said, ‘We all have our vices; mine is having a proper lunch. I eat here almost every day. Now, there is a prix fixe set lunch, or if you prefer, I can ask for a menu—’
‘No, no. The set lunch is fine,’ said Liz, hoping frog’s legs were not the plat du jour.
‘Ah, good choice. Believe me, if you leave yourself in the hands of Madame Bouffet you will eat well.’
They did, starting with a wedge of smooth pâté with brioche – simple but delicious – and while she ate Liz listened as Seurat told her about Antoine Milraud.
‘Antoine was a good friend for many years, but he was also what I think you might call a troubled soul.’
Liz smiled at the phrase, and Seurat grinned back. And suddenly, for the first time since she had landed in France, Liz felt relaxed. She had begun to enjoy the company of this man, so different from the arrogant Mackay. He seemed comfortable with himself, self-assured but without the need to dominate. Thank goodness she had left Mackay on the pavement outside the DCRI.
‘As I say, Milraud was troubled, discontented, moody. So one day when he announced, quite matter of factly, ‘I am not happy, Martin. I am not sure how much longer I can stay in this job,’ – well, franchement, I thought nothing of it. I had heard the same before from him, though later, recollecting, I realised he had never said things so openly. I can see now that Milraud had perhaps grown fed up with his small salary, just enough to let him live in a suburb miles from the office. And his wife has always had expensive tastes. You know the type perhaps?’
Liz smiled as he filled her glass from the pichet of red wine. Seurat went on, ‘Knowing her, I should say that she shared his discontent. Antoine was my friend, and I was loyal to him; at his best, he was a very good officer.’ He gestured with his hand. ‘Other times he was perhaps not so good. I think he was right to sense that his prospects for promotion were slight. He lacked balance … judgement perhaps is a better word.
‘Then Milraud went on an operation and disappeared. It has taken me seven years to piece together what happened, but I think at last I know the full story.’
Liz waited while Madame Bouffet took away her plate, replacing it with a fresh one bearing a simple steak and frites. A bowl of béarnaise sauce and a green salad in a white crockery dish were placed between them.
‘Milraud was assigned to an operation near the Spanish border, helping to infiltrate the Basque extremists who were operating with impunity on our side of the border. The Spanish government’s protests about this had at last reached receptive ears, and both the DCRI and the DGSE were – in theory at any rate – working together to flush out these people who were using France as a sanctuary.
‘Milraud was posing as an arms dealer, a middleman between the Basque extremists and some vendors from the Eastern bloc. This was after the end of the Cold War, of course, but before order had been restored in Russia. Milraud made the arrangements for an arms transaction, which would take place on neutral ground in Switzerland, near the French border.’
He sighed, cutting into his steak, then chewed thoughtfully. ‘But then someone talked too freely: just as the deal was about to be done, thirty armed officers of the Swiss Federal Criminal Police, alerted by a phoned tip off, swooped in. You know the Swiss – quiet, cautious, but very efficient.
‘Unfortunately the raid was premature – neither the guns nor the cash to be paid for them were discovered. The Swiss were livid, so much so that they deported both the Russians and the Basques summarily.
‘In the aftermath, the Russians believed the Basques had taken possession of the weapons but not paid the cash; equally, the Basques were furious, thinking the Russians had taken their money without delivering the guns.’
He gave a wry smile at the thought of the two parties left fuming. ‘Possibly because they were embarrassed at the hash they’d made of things, the Swiss authorities told us that they had managed to confiscate both arms and money. And I have to say that this is what many of my colleagues were happy to believe. Milraud disappeared and it has taken me quite a while to work out what he had done.’
A thin sliver of tarte tatin came next. Liz declined more wine and Seurat, pouring the remaining contents of the pichet into his own glass, went on, ‘Milraud seems to have held on to the three hundred thousand euros he had been holding as the escrow agent, and the small arsenal of automatic weapons, which put him in an unparalleled position to become an arms dealer for real.’
He took a mouthful of tart, then put down his fork. ‘And that is what he has been doing ever since. He is an international dealer in arms. With the exception of the Arctic, I doubt there is a continent where he has not done business. He has many enemies, not least the Russians and the Basques whom he cheated, but most of them are now either dead or in prison.’
‘And you can’t stop him?’
He gave a rueful smile, then said with sudden intensity, ‘We are investigating his activities. We are working with the authorities in Spain; in Colombia we liaise with the Americans and in Africa we work on our own. Now he has crossed your sights in the UK, I hope we will be able to work with you too. One day we will have enough to arrest him. But he was always clever, and he has lost none of his cleverness in his new profession.’
Dessert was cleared, and Liz pondered all this over coffee. It was an intriguing story, and she had no reason to doubt any of it. She sensed in Seurat’s account a feeling of betrayal, which she well understood.
‘So tell me, are you very often in France?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘Sadly not. I like your country very much – and I love Paris. But …’
and she waved a hand helplessly.
He laughed, a low chuckle she was coming to like. His looks would make him attractive to any woman, but it was his mix of the urbane and the unaffected that appealed to Liz. ‘And your husband? He likes Paris as well?’
He knows full well I’m single, thought Liz. He had greeted her as Mlle Carlyle when she first arrived and in any case she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. But she was flattered more than annoyed by the unsubtle query. ‘If I ever have a husband, he will be required to love Paris,’ she declared firmly.
‘Ha! That’s excellent. My wife cannot stand the place.’
‘Oh, really?’ said Liz, disappointed in spite of herself.
‘Yes, perhaps that is why she took herself off to her mother’s house in Alsace. I believe she is living there still,’ he said, flashing his infectious grin. Then he said more seriously, ‘It is funny that you should be here asking about Antoine. I was thinking of him just the other day.’
‘Why was that?’
He shrugged, nodding at Madame Bouffet as she plonked the bill down on the table. ‘How long have you been with your service?’
‘Long enough,’ she said, ducking the question, but it was in fact almost fifteen years now.
‘Then you’ll understand me when I say that sometimes we all have our Antoine days. That’s what I call them. The kind of day when everything seems … would the word be thankless? Yes. You work hard, the money seems very small, your personal life is absolument zero, n’est-ce-pas? Does that make sense?’
‘Of course,’ she said at once. She didn’t have a name for what he was describing, but it was familiar enough. Her remedy was to take an hour off and walk along the Thames as far as the Tate Gallery. Sometimes she joined the tourists and went inside and stood in the Pre-Raphaelite room, contemplating one or other of the paintings – by which time her mood had lifted, and she was keen to get back to Thames House.
‘It never lasts, and please do not misunderstand me – I like my work and there is not another job I would prefer.’ He added jokingly, ‘Not even selling arms. My point is, au fond, that in those moments I can see what came over Antoine, only for him it was a much more fundamental thing.’
‘You can empathise then?’
‘You mean “share” his feelings? Non !’ He was suddenly emphatic. ‘I can sympathise, perhaps, but that’s all. And not for long. For his so-called freedom, Antoine has helped many people to be killed. None of them he knew; none of them he ever saw. But it is killing just the same.’
Again there was that bitterness, which suggested a personal as much as professional resentment. Liz said nothing as Seurat paid the bill, then they walked slowly towards the Metro.
When they reached the station, she held out her hand. ‘That was a wonderful lunch. Thank you very much. And you have been extremely helpful.’
‘Excellent.’ He seemed genuinely pleased. ‘Now perhaps you can help me with two requests. The first is to please keep in touch as you investigate what Milraud is up to in Belfast. It goes without saying that if we can be of any assistance, you must not hesitate to say so.’
‘Of course,’ Liz said simply, wondering what the second request would be.
Seurat looked hesitant and for the first time less than completely self-assured. ‘The other is not perhaps not quite so professional. Would you have dinner with me this evening?’
‘Oh Martin,’ she said, suddenly realising they had slipped into first names during the course of their lunch, ‘I would love to. But I have to get back.’ An image of Jimmy Fergus flickered briefly in her mind.
‘Another time then,’ said Seurat mildly.
For all his good looks, there was something disappointed in this gallant acceptance of her rejection; it made Liz want to reassure him. She touched him lightly on the arm.
‘There will be another time, I’m sure,’ she said. ‘I have a feeling Monsieur Milraud will see to that.’
23
He was suspicious of the letter from the start. Block capitals on the envelope – SEAMUS PIGGOTT – and the office address, then at the bottom: PRIVATE. His secretary had obeyed the instruction, and placed it unopened with the rest of the morning’s post in his in-tray.
He slit the envelope cautiously. Letter bombs were bulkier than this, but it paid to be careful. A man with his background had many enemies, and he knew they were out there, just waiting for him to drop his guard and give them the opportunity to have a go. The Feds and their British stooges would love to be able to stick something on him, and there were others, people here in Northern Ireland, who resented the success of the Fraternity’s activities. It was inevitable that a clever and determined man like him aroused the envy and resentment of weaker specimens.
There was no bomb inside the envelope, just a folded piece of A4 paper. He extracted it slowly and carefully, holding the corner with his fingertips and flicking it open with the point of a pencil. He was startled by the bizarre appearance of the message, and surprised by what it said.
Watch your back. Well, he’d spent thirty years doing that. Yes, he took risks, but only necessary ones; he had never been impetuous, and every step he took was carefully calculated beforehand. He cast his mind back with satisfaction to the boy Aidan, sitting trembling and terrified in his office in County Down. Before Malone had brought the boy in, he had already decided to have two of his fingers broken. That was the appropriate punishment for blabbing and complaining. Not three (that would have been excessive), but not just one either – that wouldn’t have been enough. He was a fine judge of these things, he thought with pleasure.
He looked down again with disdain at the paper and its cutout letters. He didn’t need some anonymous coward to instruct him to take care.
But the real thrust of the message – its warning about Milraud – was more puzzling. He didn’t believe for a moment that Milraud was talking to British Intelligence. He and the Frenchman went back a long way. He knew something of Milraud’s background; he knew what his previous profession had been and why he’d changed it. It was inconceivable that Milraud would betray him to MI5.
Still, never take anything for granted. He’d learned that long ago. Enduring loyalty was a contradiction in terms. Any allegiance was vulnerable; everyone could be seduced by something: money, women, power, fear or an ideology. There were many people in this little island whose lives were governed by ideology – be it Irish Republicanism or so-called Loyalism to the British crown. But of all people, Milraud was the least likely to have become attached to a political cause. He was far too cool-headed a businessman for that.
Piggott himself was happy to pay lip service to the ideology of Irish Republicanism. His credentials as a long-standing IRA supporter had helped to establish him in the Belfast underworld almost overnight. But his only true ideology nowadays, the only thing he really cared about, was revenge. He’d made the money he had once craved, growing up poor in South Boston. Women had never mattered to him at all – it seemed inexplicable why so many men met their downfall chasing a skirt. And as for power, it was enough that people feared him; the people working for him did what he said, and everyone else gave him a wide berth.
So he had only one desire now: the burning urge, fuelled by anger, to get even with the people who had hurt him. To injure them as they’d injured him. That was what was driving him on.
He turned his attention back to the letter. Watch your back. He certainly would, as he always did. He picked up his mobile and thumbed the auto-dial.
After three rings a reedy, youthful voice answered. ‘Hello,’ it said shakily.
He knew Danny Ryan was terrified of him. Good – he was going to keep it that way. ‘Danny, listen carefully. I’ve got a job for you.’
‘Yes, Mr P,’ he said, like a junior mobster speaking to el capo.
‘Here’s what I want you to do,’ said Piggott with deceptive mildness. Then he added in a voice of steel, ‘And this time you’d better not screw it up.’
24
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‘Where’s Liz?’
Judith turned from her cupboard clutching a pile of papers to find Dave standing beside her.
‘She’s not back from Paris yet,’ she said, dumping the papers on her desk and looking up at Dave. Judith had known Dave for years and they’d worked together often before they both came to Northern Ireland. His cheerful, breezy approach to life had buoyed her up through some difficult times at work and when her family life had fallen to pieces. But now she stared at him, shocked by his appearance. His round, boyish face looked thinner, drawn and tired. There was no sign of the ever-present smile.
‘Dave. Are you OK?’
‘Yes, I’m fine,’ he replied flatly, sitting down suddenly in her visitors’ chair.
‘Well, you don’t look it. What’s happened?’
He rubbed a hand over his face, brushing back his hair. ‘I expect you’ll hear on the grapevine, so I might as well tell you. I’ve broken up with Lucy.’
Lucy was a second lieutenant in the Intelligence Corps stationed outside London. Judith knew that she and Dave had been an item for two years or so and Dave had even hinted that they might get married.
‘It’s not been easy being apart, but I thought everything was essentially fine, but then last night I phoned her and she suddenly said that she wasn’t sure about us. She was thinking of leaving the army, she didn’t want to be hitched to my job, she needed time to think and she didn’t want to see me again until she knew her own mind.’ He looked at Judith glumly. ‘I think it’s the end for us. She’s probably met someone else and is trying to let me down lightly.’
‘Oh Dave. I’m so sorry. I thought you were both so happy.’
‘We were,’ said Dave. ‘But I think I’d better get used to the idea of life without her now. Anyway,’ he said, shaking his head and standing up suddenly. ‘I was looking for Liz to tell her that I’m seeing this bloke Milraud this afternoon.’
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