Present Danger

by Stella Rimington

  She sat down, and to her surprise a small ripple of applause came from the commandos. ‘Merci, mademoiselle,’ said Laval. ‘That is both well said, and most reassuring.’

  Another commando from the group around Laval raised his hand. He said to Seurat, ‘It can be chaotic in the confusion of an assault. If it turns out that there are more people in the house than we expect, will you be on hand to help identification?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Seurat. ‘Though only Milraud is known personally to me.’

  Liz spoke up. ‘I can identify these targets, and of course the hostage, too.’

  ‘You are landing as well?’ asked the commando with unfeigned astonishment.

  ‘Naturally,’ said Liz simply. ‘But don’t worry – I won’t get in the way.’

  The briefing concluded, Liz and Seurat withdrew, leaving the three teams to discuss the final details. As they went downstairs to the lounge Seurat said, ‘I have to say they were a little sceptical at first. But what you said about Dave changed all that. And they are most impressed that you’re coming with us. They had assumed you’d stay here or wait offshore in the frigate.’

  ‘I am sorry to shatter their preconceptions,’ she said a little tartly.

  Seurat looked embarrassed, and she immediately regretted her sharpness. He said, ‘I’m afraid this type of Frenchman is rather … traditional … Is that the word?’

  ‘Yes, though unreconstructed would also do. But don’t worry,’ Liz said, and she was smiling now, ‘we have plenty of them on our side of La Manche as well.’

  51

  They were running out of food. There was nothing fresh left –no vegetables, no bread or milk, just a few tins. Milraud reckoned they could hold out for another day and then they’d have to get supplies from somewhere. The only source of food on the island lay on the shelves of the Casino mini-market in Porquerolles village three kilometres away.

  That was where he had intended to get provisions, when he’d planned all this before they’d set off from County Down. Planned, he thought ironically. That was the trouble: nothing had been properly planned; it had all just been a panic reaction.

  He supposed it might still be safe to send Gonzales over to the village, but it was a risk, and in more ways than one – Gonzales, with his strong Spanish accent and his tendency to pull a gun at the slightest provocation was hardly unnoticeable. There was also always the chance that, stupid Spaniard though he seemed, Gonzales might simply get on the ferry with a oneway ticket, and never come back. That is, if he managed to get away. Milraud guessed that Gonzales’s description would have been as widely circulated in France as his own – and Piggott’s.

  As he thought of Seurat’s visit to Annette he became increasingly certain that time was running out. He was beginning to feel like an animal in a forest as a fire closed in from all sides. He had an intuitive sense that his former colleagues were circling ever closer, getting ready to move in for the kill.

  Food was not the only problem. James – Milraud simply couldn’t get used to the new name ‘Seamus’ – was growing increasingly volatile. He seemed a man very near the end of his rope. The night before he had lost his temper when his laptop computer had frozen, and he’d hurled it across the room. God knows if it was still working. Piggott was showing more and more signs of impatience; the man couldn’t seem to sit still, and three or four times a day he walked down the cliffside path to check that the dinghy, buried beneath bushes, was still there.

  More worrying still, he was ignoring Milraud’s advice not to use his mobile phone. Every few hours he enquired if there was any reply from the contacts Milraud said he had emailed with the offer to sell Dave. If something didn’t happen soon, Milraud feared he would snap, and that could mean very bad news for Willis in the cellar. And possibly for Milraud himself.

  There was no sign of a response from the contacts because Milraud had not actually sent any emails. His original idea instead had been to convince James that Annette was to be the intermediary with the purchasers. Then somehow she would get Willis off the island and Milraud would find a way of following her, leaving James and the Spaniard to fend for themselves. He and Annette would then lie low until the situation calmed down.

  That had been his plan, but for it to work he needed Annette’s calm brain to work out the details. And for that he needed to see her. But this was out of the question now, as the email he had received from Annette this morning made clear: I think it best to postpone my visit for a while. Too crowded, even at this time of year. She was under surveillance and had been unable to shake it off.

  Which meant there was now only one way out.

  It took Milraud ten minutes to compose the email. He sat on a cane chair at the old pine table in the sitting room, keeping several windows open on his screen as he typed – ready to switch over at a click of his mouse if anyone came in and tried to look over his shoulder. But Gonzales was in his bedroom, smoking cigarettes and listening to tapes of Spanish pop music, while Piggott was pacing the porch outside. Each time his steps stopped, Milraud waited nervously. Finally he finished, and hit the Send button.

  Greetings Martin

  I have in my possession something of value to you and your

  colleagues across the channel. I can deliver this package and

  those responsible for taking it, and I will do so and help to

  bring the perpetrators to justice on one condition.

  I need assurance that I have official immunity from prosecution

  from both the French and British authorities.

  I have kept the package unharmed but may not be able to do

  so much longer.

  I await your response. Time is running out.

  Antoine

  52

  ‘The wind’s getting up,’ said Liz. She was watching the yachts in the marina through the window of the restaurant where they were having an early supper. ‘It won’t stop us going, will it?’ she enquired anxiously.

  ‘It’s the mistral. It comes and goes at this time of the year. But don’t worry,’ said Martin Seurat with a smile. ‘It would take a hurricane force ten to stop Laval and his colleagues. It may mean they’ll change the plan and load the rigid inflatables onto a frigate rather than sailing them out from the base. But that’ll be a lot more comfortable, I can tell you. Have you ever been in one of those inflatables? They’re not pleasant, especially if the sea is rough.’

  ‘When will they decide?’

  ‘Some time in the next few hours. The weather is very uncertain on this coast at this time of the year. The wind may drop again.’

  ‘I thought down here in the south of France it was always warm and sunny. Shows how much I know.’

  There was silence as they drank their coffee. Then Liz said, ‘The waiting is always the worst part. I feel far more nervous in the run-up to an operation than when it’s actually under way. And this one isn’t even in our hands – there’s nothing for us to do but wait.’

  ‘You’re right. Wait, and hope that it will all go well. But I think we have every reason to expect that it will.’

  She smiled at him. ‘You are an optimist, Martin. I just hope you’re right.’

  ‘In our line of work you have to be optimistic. You expect to succeed, or you’d never do anything. It’s what drives us on. Don’t you agree?’

  ‘That’s true. But there’s always in the back of your mind the thought that things might go wrong – and the consequences if they did.’ She thought of Dave and the consequences for him if things didn’t work out in the next few hours.

  ‘That’s what this job is all about: the excitement, and the fear. But there’s also the satisfaction when things do go right. Whatever happens, at least it’s never boring. That’s a great help when other things aren’t going so well.’

  Liz looked at him, sensing that he wanted to say more. ‘Is there something in your life that hasn’t gone well?’ she asked gently.

  He gave a small shrug. ‘Recently there was
.’ He sighed, then seemed to decide he wanted to tell her about it. ‘One Friday, last year, my wife suddenly announced that she was going to Alsace for the weekend. I was surprised because she hadn’t mentioned it before. I was even more surprised when the weekend ended and she hadn’t come back.’ He gave Liz a wry look. ‘She never did come back. She had neglected to tell me that she was still in love with her first boyfriend.’

  ‘That’s awful. I’m so sorry.’

  Seurat shrugged. ‘I was sorry too at first. Very sorry. But it’s history now. We’ve been divorced for six months. And that’s where the job came in. However bad I felt at the time, I always felt better the moment I got to work.’

  Liz said nothing, but she knew what he meant. When her personal life had seemed especially bleak (there’d been Mark the married Guardian journalist, Piet the Dutch banker who’d dropped her, and always, the tantalisingly unavailable Charles Wetherby), she had always found one consolation. The job. As a cure for heartache it was unbeatable.

  ‘Anyway,’ Seurat said, ‘that’s enough of that. If you’ve finished, I’ll get the bill. I propose we walk back to the base through the town and I’ll show you Milraud’s shop. It’ll be shut by now so no chance of meeting the so-discreet Madame Dipeau. She’s given nothing away since Isabelle and I called in there. No phone calls except strictly business ones, and she hasn’t been out in the evenings at all.’

  Half an hour later they were back at the gates of the naval base. Liz was hoping to catch a few hours’ sleep before the three-thirty a.m. rendezvous. But she had not been in her room for more than ten minutes when the telephone on the desk rang. It was Seurat. ‘Liz. I’m sorry to disturb you but there’s something I need to show you.’

  Her stomach lurched. Was it some bad news about Dave? At the bottom of the stairs Seurat was standing, clutching a sheet of paper and his face had lost its usual calm expression. As soon as she was within earshot he said, ‘I’ve had an email from Antoine.’ He handed her the paper, and as she read it, he said, ‘He says he can hand over your colleague.’

  Liz read the email carefully, making sure she completely understood the French. She looked at Seurat, mystified. ‘I don’t get it. This can’t be what he’s been planning all along or he would have been in touch before. What do you think’s going on, Martin?’

  ‘There must have been a different plan that hasn’t worked out. I think he knows we’re getting close; Annette’s been sending him emails and she’ll have told him the noose is tightening. Milraud’s trying to leave Piggott and his Spanish hit man to face the music, while he cuts a deal to save his own skin. That’s typical of him.’

  Liz thought for a moment. ‘You know Milraud – I don’t. But I don’t see how he can deliver on this offer.’ She waved the printout with one hand. ‘I can’t believe Piggott would ever let it happen. He’s too astute for that, and suspicious to the point of paranoia. And don’t forget, Gonzales works for Piggott, not Milraud – I think if Piggott knew about this email he wouldn’t hesitate to order Gonzales to kill him.’

  ‘I would think Antoine’s getting desperate. He’s caught between a rock and a – how do you say it?’

  Liz just smiled, for she was thinking hard. Seurat waited, then he said, ‘How would you like to proceed? It is after all your colleague who’s at risk.’

  She said, ‘I need to consult my head office. But I also need your view – do you think Milraud can deliver what he’s promising?’

  Seurat thought for a moment. ‘I think he wants to, in part to redeem himself. But whether he can depends on the situation on the island, and that we don’t know.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Liz.

  ‘One thing I do know is that Antoine can look after himself. I would be surprised if even this Piggott could easily get the better of him. But that doesn’t help us with your problem – in the end, Milraud will look after his own interests, and your colleague will come second, whatever he’s promised us.’

  Which would leave Dave at the mercy of the psychopath Piggott and his hit man Gonzales. No thanks, thought Liz. ‘I’m going to recommend we go ahead as planned. Can I use the communications on the base?’

  Twenty minutes later, Binding’s reply proved noncommittal. He would need to consult Thames House. But Liz had copied her message to DG’s office and five minutes after this an answer came back. DG agrees with your recommendation. Please go ahead as planned and good luck.

  53

  Dave was shivering. The more he moved around to try to keep warm, the colder he got. When he was first locked in the cellar, it hadn’t seemed particularly cold. But now it felt chilly and dank. His ribs hurt a lot and his head was still throbbing. He must be running a temperature. If someone didn’t rescue him soon, it would turn to pneumonia and he’d die in this miserable place, without ever knowing where he was or why he was here.

  That was if the Spaniard didn’t kill him first. There was real hatred in the man’s voice now. If Dave gave him the slightest excuse he’d put a bullet in him. Each time Gonzales unlocked the door to shove in a tray of food, he looked at him with real venom. Food, thought Dave – you could hardly call it that. He was getting less and less of it, too, hardly enough to keep a bird alive, and more and more disgusting. They must be running out, which was another reason why something had to happen soon.

  There had been no further sound of helicopters since the one he’d heard the day before, but this must be a good sign. If the French were onto this bunch, they’d want to be sure not to alert them. He told himself that Liz and the team would be scouring the earth for him, helped by every foreign service they were in touch with. Sooner or later they’d find out where he was, and help would be on its way. It must be just a matter of time.

  Meanwhile, he had to stay alive until they came, and be ready to help them if he could. For he had no doubt that Piggott and the Spaniard would do everything to resist the rescuers – including shooting him. It would be the worst kind of luck, Dave thought bitterly, if on the very point of liberation he were to be murdered.

  Well, he wasn’t going to wait around to see that happen, and if only to keep his spirits high he decided to act. Which meant finding some sort of weapon – any sort, however primitive – which would increase his chances if the shooting started. The problem was, the cellar had been stripped clean: there was his mattress, a bucket that functioned as a disgusting toilet, two large empty wine barrels, propped on their sides on stands, and a wall of empty wine racks. That was it – except for another rack, really just a long slab of pine on the wall, with hooks that must once have been used for hanging tools. But the tools were long gone, and when Dave tried to extricate one of the hooks – a feeble weapon, but better than nothing – he found they were all immovably lodged deep in the plank.

  Don’t give up, he told himself. Moving slowly, and wincing each time he took more than a tiny shallow breath, Dave systematically explored the rest of the cellar. The thin shaft of light from the slit window didn’t reach into the corners, so he had to stick his hand in and feel around, sending spiders scuttling.

  After ten minutes he was exhausted and ready to give up; he’d found nothing at all. He leaned against one of the two empty barrels for support, and suddenly whatever was propping it up gave way. The barrel rolled off its stand, crashing onto the floor, and Dave fell down, landing on his damaged ribs.

  The pain was colossal, and he lay on the floor winded and in agony. After a time, the agony retreated into pain and he dragged himself up onto his knees and looked at the damaged barrel. It had split apart, its ribs fanning out like an opening flower. Could he use one of the wooden ribs as a weapon? No, they were too big to conceal. What about the circular metal bands? Again they were far too big, and anyway, he had nothing to cut them with.

  But as he looked at the pile of wood lying on the cellar floor, Dave saw something small and metallic glinting among the wooden staves. Ignoring the pain, he crawled over and reached out to where he’d seen the glint, only to be rewarded
with a sharp prick on his finger. He’d cut himself, but he didn’t care. He gingerly felt around again for whatever it was. Got it! He looked at the object in his hand. It was some kind of blade.

  Lifting it up to the light, he saw that he was holding a small knife, no more than four inches long, with a worm-eaten wooden handle and a thin rusty blade with a wickedly sharp point – blood was dripping from his finger now. The blade was sliverthin and wobbled precariously in the ancient handle. But if it had been made of the finest steel, Dave could not have admired it more. It felt wonderful in his hand and he held it lovingly. It was a weapon. He could only use it once and he’d choose his moment carefully.

  54

  Liz was wide awake when the alarm on her phone went off. It was three a.m. She’d dozed rather than slept for three hours, troubled by muddled dreams of Dave, Piggott, Milraud’s shop, and boats rocking in the wind.

  She’d only just got into bed after helping Martin compose a stalling reply to Milraud, when the communications officer had rung her room. There was a message for her from Belfast. So she’d had to get dressed again. The message was from Peggy – Liz could picture her in the office, refusing to go home while there was anything to be done to help Dave.

  Peggy reported that Malone, the local thug who’d worked for Piggott in Belfast, had cracked during questioning. He’d told the police everything he knew about Piggott’s activities, including the murders of Dermot O’Reilly and Sean McCarthy, and about the plan to kill Jimmy Fergus. Peggy wanted Liz to know that warrants had been issued for the arrest of both Piggott and Gonzales on murder charges; extradition requests would be filed the minute they were captured. Let’s hope they’re needed, Liz had thought, since she was sceptical those two would ever be taken alive.