Judith’s eyes widened. ‘Where?’
‘At his shop.’ He looked at her. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘Who’s watching your back?’
‘No one. It’s just a social call,’ he added. When she didn’t smile, he said, ‘It’s not a big deal, Judith. I’ve told him I’m a collector of antique derringers wanting to look at what he’s got. That’s all. He has no reason to suspect anything else.’
‘What on earth do you know about derringers?’
‘I’ve got all the guff on them from the internet. I reckon I can pass as a collector.’
‘Don’t you think you should check with Liz first?’
‘That’s why I was looking for her, but I’ll have to go ahead without her. Nothing’s going to happen – it’s a first meet. I’m just trying to get a handle on the guy and see if there’s anything in it for us.’
‘I think you should wait. Liz might have learned something useful about Milraud in Paris.’
‘Yeah, but he’s here now and he might not be for long. I don’t want to miss him.’
Judith hesitated, looking at Dave’s drawn face. She could see that he needed to be active to take his mind off his troubles, and active for Dave meant something that got the adrenalin flowing. But she felt uneasy. He was in the mood to take risks.
‘Shouldn’t you at least talk to Michael Binding?’
‘Binding’s virtually living at Stormont these days,’ he replied impatiently. ‘It’ll be okay, Judith. Stop worrying.’ And he walked off.
Later that day Dave drove into Belfast, parked in the car park at the Castlecourt shopping centre, then walked towards the University of Ulster. Milraud’s shop was halfway down a narrow side street full of coffee shops and clothes boutiques.
The shop was on a terrace of two-storey Georgian buildings of yellowing stone, once houses, now all shops. Miraud’s establishment was fronted by a long low window, in which a beautiful antique pistol was lying on a red velvet cushion, flanked by a pair of wooden-handled eighteenth-century derringers propped decoratively against each other. Looking through the window, Dave could see a large glass cabinet against a far wall, where more antique pistols hung from iron hooks.
Putting his hand on the highly polished brass handle, he took a deep breath and pushed. A bell rang, triggered by the opening of the door, and a woman looked up from behind a display counter at the far end of the shop. She smiled as she came out to meet him. This was obviously no ordinary shop and she no ordinary shop assistant. She was a slim middle-aged woman with beautifully cut grey hair, dressed in a plain black suit of some sort of rough silk, a thin gold necklace her only jewellery. Everything about the place murmured wealth and good taste.
Dave was glad he had dressed up a bit – no parka this morning, but a navy-blue blazer he had dusted off, a woollen v-necked jersey, an open-neck white shirt and sparklingly clean chinos. His shoes, a pair of black slip-ons, looked highly polished only because he so rarely wore them.
‘Can I help you?’ the elegant lady asked with a smile at once formal and genteel.
‘Good afternoon. I’m Simon Willis. I have an appointment with Mr Milraud.’
‘Good afternoon, Mr Willis. Please follow me,’ the woman said, and led him through a door marked ‘Private’ into an office where a man sat at a small mahogany desk, leafing through a saleroom catalogue.
Milraud’s face beneath his short hair was Gallic, with dark questioning eyes, and olive-tinted skin. He wore a maroon turtleneck sweater under a grey plaid jacket. He could have been anything from a Foreign Legion officer to a lecturer in philosophy at the Sorbonne. When he rose to shake hands, though he was much shorter than Dave, his body was more muscular, and there was an icy element Dave sensed behind the facade.
‘Would you like coffee, Mr Willis?’ Milraud asked as they both sat down.
Dave shook his head. ‘Thanks, but I’m fine. It’s good of you to see me.’
Milraud shrugged, as if to say this was his business after all.
‘You said on the telephone that you have an interest in antique arms.’
‘Among other things,’ said Dave. He wanted to put down a marker that Milraud could pick up at any time.
‘What sort of arms are you looking for?’
‘Derringers, at least to begin with. Eighteenth and nineteenth century. Continental ones especially.’
‘Belfast is not perhaps the ideal place to look for French and German weapons,’ Milraud said with a mild inquiring tone.
It was Dave’s turn to shrug. ‘You never know where things will turn up these days. Thanks to the internet.’
Milraud smiled in agreement, then said, ‘Yes, but the internet cannot magically transport a piece that’s residing in my warehouse to this shop. Not yet anyway.’
‘True enough,’ said Dave, then shifted in his chair to show he wanted to get to business. ‘Have you anything at all of that sort here that you can show me?’
‘Of course,’ said Milraud, giving a faint smile. ‘Even some continental items.’
He stood up and motioning for Dave to stay where he was, left the room, returning a minute later with a cherry wood box, which he put down on his desk. Lifting the lid, he exposed a small derringer sitting on a cushion of black velvet. He carefully took the gun out with both hands and handed it to Dave.
‘It is made by Sabayone,’ Milraud declared. Dave stared at the trigger intently and looked down the barrel, doing his best to act like a true aficionado.
Milraud chuckled lightly. ‘Probably the only one to be found in this part of the United Kingdom. Are you an admirer of his pistols?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Dave. ‘A master craftsman.’ He handed back the pistol carefully. ‘What would you ask for such a piece?’ he said, hoping that was the right sort of thing to say.
A shadow of a frown flitted across Milraud’s face, as if the intrusion of money into their conversation had a soiling effect. He said quietly without looking at Dave, ‘Seventeen thousand pounds.’
‘I see,’ said Dave, his eyes widening with surprise.
‘That is open to negotiation, of course,’ Milraud conceded.
‘Excellent,’ said Dave, smiling inwardly at the thought of Michael Binding’s face if he actually bought the gun.
‘You’re interested then?’ asked Milraud, no longer quite so diffident.
‘I might well be,’ Dave said with conviction. ‘It is certainly a lovely example. Do you guarantee its authenticity?’
‘Of course,’ said Milraud with a tolerant air, as if Dave’s hesitation was of no real importance.
‘I’d like to think about it. When could we meet again?’ asked Dave.
‘Well, tomorrow would be possible, I suppose. After that I will be back in France. Although Mrs Carson,’ and he gestured towards the front room and the lady in the silk suit, ‘can always negotiate on my behalf.’
Dave shook his head to show a surrogate wouldn’t do. ‘I’ll come back in the morning if that’s convenient.’
‘A demain, then.’ They both stood up and shook hands.
Dave said, ‘And perhaps then we could talk about more modern armaments.’
Milraud raised his eyebrows a fraction. ‘Why not?’ he said with an almost imperceptible shrug. ‘If you wish.’
That afternoon Milraud’s mobile rang and he answered it cautiously. ‘Oui?’
‘It’s me.’
‘James.’ He continued to use Piggott’s old names.
‘Listen, my friend, I’ve had a communication.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes.’ Piggott gave a dry laugh. ‘Someone’s suggested you’ve been talking to my old British friends.’
‘How interesting,’ Milraud said non-committally. Milraud had done business with Piggott for many years, and they trusted each other – as much as anyone could in their kind of business. But Milraud was always cautious, and this was a lethal accusation if it were believed.
Piggott said, ‘I was wondering w
hether anyone unusual had crossed your path lately. I mean, if I’m supposed to believe this message, someone should be making an appearance, if they haven’t already.’
‘Mmm. I think we should meet.’
Half an hour later the two men sat down at a table in a nearby cafe.
‘I had a man in the shop just before you rang. He phoned me out of the blue, claiming to be interested in antique pistols. Derringers in particular. I didn’t altogether like the look of him. I showed him a lovely example, and he made all the right noises, except for one.’
‘What was that?’
‘I told him the gun was made by someone called Sabayone. He agreed that Sabayone was a brilliant gunsmith.’
‘And?’
‘There wasn’t a gunsmith called Sabayone. I made him up just to test him.’
Piggott gave a laugh that suddenly stopped – humour was like rationed food to him, allowed only in carefully measured portions. ‘That sounds like our man.’
‘It’s possible.’
‘What was he really after?’
‘He dropped a heavy hint about modern weapons. I’ve arranged to see him again tomorrow morning and then I should find out. I’m sure he’ll come.’
‘Oh so am I,’ said Piggott. ‘You should see him, by all means. That’ll give us a chance to see him too.’
Piggott walked away from the cafe, relieved. He hadn’t ever really thought Milraud would double-cross him, but was glad to have that confirmed.
Yet he hadn’t come entirely clean with his old associate, for he’d avoided telling Milraud that Danny Ryan had reported back to him an hour before.
‘We did our best, Mr P.’
‘Meaning?’
‘We watched the shop, just like you said. There was only one customer this afternoon; he was inside for about twenty minutes. We got a good photo when he left. I followed him as best I could – you said it was better to lose him than get spotted.’
‘So you lost him?’
‘Not there. He was parked at the Castlecourt shopping centre. I picked him up as he left and trailed him as far as the harbour. He was heading towards the A2 when he got away from me.’
‘M2 or A2?’ The difference was important.
‘A2, Mr P.’
And Piggott nodded to himself. The A2 went north. Towards Holywood and Palace Barracks, he thought. He’d have put money on it.
25
Bruno was waiting for Liz when she got back to the embassy. He made a show of looking at his watch. ‘I was getting worried that you might have succumbed to Monsieur Seurat’s charms. From the time you took, it would seem you did.’
She laughed. ‘Bruno, I didn’t know you cared.’
He was not amused. ‘So how did you get on?’
‘Very well. He was most helpful.’
He extended a fistful of paper. ‘This came in while you were gone.’
She cast a quick eye at the pages. It was a long message from Peggy Kinsolving in London, marked Strictly Confidential. ‘Anything urgent in this?’ she asked dryly, as he had obviously read it.
‘Not that I can tell. Though this chap Piggott sounds a handful. You’d better come into my office, Liz.’
Upstairs she went through the document carefully while Bruno pretended to attend to some paperwork. Peggy had been her usual thorough self, going through old files that were inaccessible to Judith Spratt in Belfast. She had unearthed a goldmine of information on Piggott. Liz, a prefatory note declared, the following summary is based on our own files, which have drawn heavily on information from the FBI. Please also see the note I’ve attached at the end.
PK.
Piggott born James Purnell in 1954 in Boston Massachusetts. Changed his name to Piggott by deed poll six months before moving to Ireland three years ago.
Purnell was the child of two first-generation Irish émigrés, and eldest of two sons. Grew up in the working-class neighbourhood of Dorchester – his father was a clerk in a law firm. Educated at the prestigious Boston Latin School after winning a scholarship. Attended MIT and took a Bachelor of Science in a combined mathematics and physics degree, followed in 1974 by a PhD. A brilliant student but references from teachers describe him as headstrong.
In 1972 a Purnell was recorded as a member of the extremist group the Weather Underground, but no firm connection between our subject, James Purnell, and the Weathermen was ever firmly established.
Purnell’s advanced degree in mathematics and physics was of particular value in the military area of high grade missile technology. Purnell was offered a position with Arrow Systems, a Route 128 group specialising in missile control and retrieval software systems. Its contracts were predominantly with the US Defense Department. Accordingly Purnell was successfully positively vetted before being offered the post.
His name appears in lists compiled in the late 1980s by local fundraisers for the Northern Ireland Aid Committee (NORAID). Purnell visited England in June 1984 but he did not come to notice in contact with IRA sympathisers on the mainland.
In 1985 Purnell left Arrow Systems and established his own consultancy (The Purnell Group – or TPG), employing his younger brother Edwin as chief finance officer. Edwin was a trained accountant, but also very active in IRA fundraising – his name appears in FBI files on NORAID activities, and he visited Northern Ireland on several occasions.
Where Arrow Systems had specialised in anti-radar aspects of large-scale missile systems, TPG focused on hand-held projectile weaponry (RPG), and surface-to-air missiles (SAMs). Until the late 1990s revenues were almost exclusively derived from Department of Defense contracts, but cuts in procurement at the end of the Clinton administration forced TPG to look for other clients. These included US government-approved customers, Israel, South Africa, and Pakistan, but an FBI file suggests Purnell may also have been doing business with a range of illegal clients, including Somalian rebels and both sides of the Rwanda civil war – Hutus and Tutsi. It was believed that revenues from these sales were deposited in off-shore banks, first in the Seychelles, then in banks in those former Soviet countries that had refused to sign international disclosure agreements (Estonia and Moldova in particular).
In 1999 at the instigation of MI5, the FBI investigated a gun-running scheme to smuggle arms, including hand-held missile launchers, by ship from the coast of Maine into Northern Ireland. Three men were arrested, including Edwin Purnell. The trial of the Mattapan Three (named by the press after the South Boston neighbourhood where all three lived) took place in 2001, though coverage of the trial was overshadowed by the events of 9/11.
All three men were convicted, and Edwin Purnell was sentenced to six years for his part in the plot. He was due for parole in 2004 but died of kidney failure in a federal prison in Louisiana in 2003. Despite our suspicion that James Purnell was involved, the FBI was unable to link him to any part of the conspiracy.
After his brother’s death, James Purnell closed down his company, changed his name, and moved to Northern Ireland.
When she had finished reading, Liz looked at the note Peggy had attached to the end of the document:
Liz,
The FBI special agent in charge of the Boston investigation of 1999/2000 was called Daryl T. Sulkey Jr and the same man is the new FBI legat in London. I phoned him and he could meet you first thing tomorrow – 8.15 a.m. at Grosvenor. Please let him know if you can’t make it; otherwise he will be expecting you.
PK
‘Interesting,’ said Bruno, when he saw that she had finished reading. ‘But what’s the connection with Milraud and this man Purnell? And why did Purnell move to Northern Ireland?’
Liz sighed. ‘Ask me no questions, Bruno, and I’ll tell you no lies.’ Not that Liz knew the answers to his questions. She was hoping that the FBI man rejoicing in the name of Daryl T. Sulkey Jr might supply them.
26
Back at his desk, Dave was feeling uncomfortable. In the calm aftermath of the meeting with Milraud his depression over the break-up wit
h Lucy had returned. Judith had looked in to see how the meeting had gone and he’d assured her that it was all just fine and he was writing it up before deciding what to do next.
But had it really gone fine? The more he thought about it, the more he wondered if Milraud had been playing him along. He was worried about Sabayone. He’d pretended to know all about him but he’d never heard of him and when he got back to the office he’d looked him up on the internet and found no trace of a gunsmith of that name. Whatever game Milraud had been playing, Dave was now convinced that he was not merely a prosperous dealer in antiques. There had been no puzzlement and equally no umbrage taken at Dave’s clear desire to discuss more modern armaments.
He ought to talk to Liz about it before he went back for another interview. She would want to discuss with Michael Binding just how far out on a limb Dave the Derringer Collector should go. If there was information about Piggott and arms dealing to be got out of Milraud, how much were they prepared to pay? It was clear that at the next stage he would need to suggest that cash would be forthcoming in return for information.
But yet again Liz wasn’t in her office. She was coming back via London, Judith told him, because of something she’d learned in Paris. He ought to wait. She might have found out something relevant. But it would be another day before she was back and with Milraud’s departure imminent, there was no time to lose. The investigation of the attempt on Jimmy Fergus meant that there would be no spare A4 resources available at such short notice to provide adequate support for a meeting with Milraud the next morning. And if he requested it as a priority, and Michael Binding had to arbitrate, he would certainly give it to the Fergus investigation and order Dave not to go ahead without full back-up. By which time Milraud would be back in France, leaving the shop in the charge of the woman in the silk suit, who would profess to know nothing about anything except antique weapons.
And that would be that; all the hard work he’d done since the initial call from Brown Fox would go down the drain. No way, thought Dave. He couldn’t bear the thought of his investigation joining his private life in ruins. Besides, Milraud had been receptive so far.
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