How much of all this psychological drama Bruno was following Liz didn’t know. He was contentedly munching a bagel, seemingly oblivious. But she knew that you could never tell with Bruno.
‘Well, I’ve got things you folks need to know,’ said Bokus. ‘We’ll go down to the Bubble.’ The Bubble was the secure room in the bowels of the basement, purpose-built to foil any attempt at eavesdropping. It always struck Liz as strange and illogical that, as the main threat of eavesdropping in London must come from the British intelligence services, the Agency conducted its most sensitive conversations with the British in their most secure room.
The door of the windowless room closed with a pneumatic hiss behind them and they sat down on padded benches around a central table. The faint hum of the high-frequency-wave baffler had a rather soporific effect on Liz and she hoped that the hastily convened meeting was going to produce something worthwhile.
‘Geoffrey, you and Bruno know something of what I’m going to say, but I’ll just recap for Liz here. We recently sent an officer to Sana’a. He had one objective, to make a quick pitch to a highly placed official who’d been making it pretty obvious to the Commercial Counsellor – a State Department man – both that he was in the arms business and that he could be bought. So we sent young Miles Brookhaven. You all know him from his time here.’ He grinned at Liz; she pretended not to notice. ‘He made a quick pitch and it came good. The guy is now signed up. He’s going to give us stuff on arms supplies going through Yemen, to rebels and jihadis. As you know we’re particularly looking for anything coming out of Europe and the States.’
Fane shifted in his seat, unwrapping his long legs and crossing an ankle over a knee. He clearly found the narrow benches uncomfortable but, more importantly, he couldn’t bear to let Andy Bokus talk for more than a few minutes without interrupting. ‘I mentioned to Elizabeth that you thought young Brookhaven was making progress,’ he said.
‘Yes. He’s done quite well.’ He looked at Liz, ‘You heard he had a rough time in his last posting? Quite badly injured.’
‘Yes. I heard.’ Liz was wondering when he was going to get on to whatever had brought them here.
‘So,’ said Bokus. ‘What he’s got from this new source – we’re calling him Donation – is that there is a European arms dealer who is arranging supplies from somewhere in Eastern Europe, the old Soviet Union probably.’ He paused for effect. No one spoke; they all knew there was more to come. ‘We don’t know what nationality the arms dealer is. They call him Calibre. But Donation says that he’s using someone to help him ship the arms – a transport expert, I guess. And this expert is a Brit.’
‘Are you sure this Donation isn’t just telling Miles what he thinks he wants to hear?’ said Liz after a moment. ‘It all sounds a bit too pat.’
‘Wait till you hear the rest,’ said Bokus. ‘He says that there’s a meeting arranged between Calibre and a jihadi leader, tomorrow in Paris.’
‘Big city, Paris,’ said Bruno dreamily.
‘In the Luxembourg Gardens,’ Bokus went on. ‘At twelve noon.’
‘So that’s where we’re going,’ said Liz, turning to Bruno.
‘That’s where you’re going,’ he replied with a grin. ‘I’m going to Sana’a.’
Chapter 9
Jean Perlue was excited. He had been in the DCRI, the French equivalent of MI5, for just eighteen months and this was his first real surveillance operation. At the briefing the team had been told that an international arms dealer was going to meet a dangerous jihadi in the Luxembourg Gardens, and that it was vital that both of them were photographed and followed.
So at the age of only twenty-four Jean was engaged in counter-terrorist work of international importance. His instructions were to hang around, just inside the park gates on the Boulevard St Michel, looking natural and merging into the surroundings until he heard the controller, speaking through his earpiece, telling him to move.
But it was a frosty morning and his feet were very cold and he had been in place for more than an hour. He was running out of things to do to look natural. He’d bought a crêpe from the mobile cart parked outside the gates and eaten it slowly; he’d read a copy of Le Monde standing up until he knew the front page virtually by heart. Now he was stamping his feet and looking angrily at his watch, for the fourth time, as if he was waiting for a girlfriend who was late. Just as he was wondering what to do next, conscious that the crêpe seller was staring at him, he heard a voice in his ear.
‘We have a possible for Numéro Un. Male, Caucasian, about forty-five to fifty, one hundred eighty centimetres, grey/brown hair, brown leather knee-length jacket.’ The voice was Gustave Dolet’s. Jean Perlue knew he was sitting with Michel Vallon in a Renault car parked in the Rue Gay-Lussac with a view of one of the other gates of the Gardens. ‘He’s heading into the Gardens now. Michel is going with him.’
Jean felt his throat constrict as his excitement rose. His cold feet were forgotten, as was the cover of waiting for a girlfriend. He peered eagerly in the direction of the action, hoping desperately that the target would come his way. This was better than a training exercise.
The thought had hardly entered his head when he heard, ‘We have an Arab at the gates. He’s nervous, looking around. I think he may be Numéro Deux. Thin, about twenty-five to thirty, white trainers, jeans, navy-blue sweater. He’s in the Gardens now, heading west.’
‘I have him,’ came the hoarse voice of Rabinac. Rabinac had been one of his teachers on the course and had been known by all the students as Mr Croaky. ‘They’re walking towards each other and slowing down. I’ll have to pass them.’
At that moment Jean Perlue, from his post by the Boulevard St Michel gates, saw them. They were walking together now, approaching a park bench. He saw Rabinac walk past as they sat down. Rabinac came on towards Jean and, without giving any sign of recognition, went through the gates, passed the crêpe seller and walked off along the Boulevard.
‘I have eyeball,’ said Perlue into his microphone, his voice rising in excitement. ‘They’re talking. The Arab has a piece of paper and the European is shaking his head. They’re too far away for my camera to get a clear picture. I’ll go closer.’
‘Stay where you are,’ came the urgent voice of the controller. ‘Michel has photographed the targets.’
‘I might be able to see the paper he’s holding if I walk slowly.’
‘On no account approach them,’ ordered the controller, but Perlue was already on the move, heading diagonally across the grass towards the bench where the two men were sitting.
His headphones were silent now, but even if anyone had spoken he wouldn’t have heard. He was sure he could get a perfect photograph of the men and the paper that was still in the Arab’s hand. As he approached the bench, he was making a show of consulting his wristwatch, muttering, tapping it and shaking his wrist. When he reached the bench he smiled at the two men and leaning over them asked them if they had the right time. The European replied and Perlue thanked him and continued on down the path.
When he was a little distance away from the bench he heard the voice of Rabinac in his ear. ‘You’ve blown it Perlue, you idiot. They’re leaving.’
Suddenly the Luxembourg Gardens were full of movement and the headphones were busy as the surveillance team tried to get into position to follow the two men as they went off quickly in different directions. Now that it was pretty certain that Perlue had blown the surveillance operation, the controller was less concerned with the team being seen, more with keeping in contact with the targets.
Rabinac got up from the bench where he had been sitting, stretching and yawning as if still dozy from a good nap. The Arab was a good fifty metres past him now, heading down the avenue of trees towards the palace. Marcel Laperrière would be waiting there, ready to chuck away his newspaper and walk as a front tail, while Rabinac followed from behind.
But what about the other man? Perlue knew that if he had stayed at his post the European would
be passing right in front of him now, but instead he was far away on the wrong side of the Gardens. He felt mortified at what he had done; he knew that in all likelihood he would be back on the training course the next day. That is if he wasn’t sacked. He prayed that Gustave and Michel had had time to move their car closer to the entrance gate.
‘Get back to your position, Perlue,’ came the instruction from Control, and he walked quickly towards the Boulevard Saint Michel, seeing as he approached the gates that a large crowd had gathered on the pavement just outside the gardens. There must have been close to 200 people there. What was this about? Surely nothing he’d done had caused this. Then he saw that some kind of performance was under way just outside the gates. A juggler perhaps, or a mime. Someone good enough to capture the attention of a large audience.
Perlue was at the gate now, puffing a little. Breathlessly, he started to offer excuses for what he’d done, but the controller cut him short. There would be time for that later but now he wanted only to find the European. Perlue stared at the crowd, hoping that Gustave and Michel were across the street, also watching for him.
Control asked tersely, ‘Anyone got sight of Numéro Un?’
‘Can’t spot him,’ Gustave replied.
‘Negative,’ said Michel.
Perlue went out of the gates into the boulevard and saw that the performance was by a couple of mimes, one male, one female. Numéro Un must be somewhere in the crowd. It was a motley mix of tourists, families, local residents, small children with their minders, and businessmen stopping to see what was going on. Jean Perlue looked for anyone whose face was turned away from the mimes, watching for a figure who was not interested in the performance but merely using it as cover.
He was desperate now to make up for his mistake and wanted above everything to be the one who found Numéro Un. He must be here somewhere – he couldn’t have got past Gustave and Michel, could he? But everyone he could see had their eyes fixed intently on the two performers, though there were so many spectators that he couldn’t properly inspect even half of them. It would have been easy for Numéro Un to insinuate himself into the middle of the crowd, and put himself out of sight of any of the watchers.
After five minutes, movement began in the crowd. Some of those on the edges started to drift off. The performance was coming to an end. The mimes came out among the spectators, each holding out a hat, bowing exaggeratedly when anyone dropped money in. They moved quickly, trying to catch people before they left. Perlue followed on behind them into the middle of the onlookers, but there was still no sign of Numéro Un.
On the other side of the boulevard he could see Gustave scanning the dispersing crowd; there was a strained look on his face, and it was obvious he was getting nowhere. But then neither was anyone else.
He looked behind him, in case Numéro Un had somehow slipped back into the park, but there was only a woman holding the hand of a small child, who was holding in his other hand the string of a fat pink pig balloon, which bobbed in the air above his head.
Jean Perlue turned back and saw that the crowd was getting smaller and smaller. He stared at each departing spectator, hoping against hope that he’d find Numéro Un among them. Some of them stared back, clearly wondering what was wrong with the young man with the drawn and anxious face. Like the sand seeping through an hourglass, his chances were inexorably running out, and finally only three or four people remained, chatting idly as the mimes picked up their props and pooled the money they had collected.
Suddenly the radio silence was broken and in his ear he heard the voice of Rabinac. ‘We have Numéro Deux, just ahead of us. He’s leaving the park. Do we pick him up?’
There was a pause. Control was consulting. ‘No. Keep with him but if you think there’s any danger of losing him, then pick him up. Gustave and Michel, get over there and help Rabinac and Marcel. There’s nothing more to be done where you are. Numéro Un has given us the slip.’ Then came the words Jean Perlue did not want to hear. ‘Perlue. You come straight back to base.’
Chapter 10
There was silence in the Control Room in the headquarters of the DCRI where Liz was sitting with her opposite number Isabelle Florian. They had just heard that not only had Numéro Un disappeared but Rabinac, Marcel and the others had also lost Numéro Deux in the crowd.
Isabelle ran her hands through her hair. ‘I’m sorry, Liz,’ she said. Her English was fluent. ‘We should never have had that young man on the team.’
The control officer broke in: ‘The trouble was that we had too many operations going on today and this one came in at short notice. Perlue passed all the training courses but it looks as though his temperament let him down in the excitement. I shall be sending him for retraining.’
‘Never mind,’ said Liz. ‘It happens to us all sometimes.’ Thank God Bruno wasn’t here, she thought. He’d certainly have made some scathing remark that would have ruined Anglo/French cooperation for good.
Isabelle sighed and said, ‘Well, let’s hope we’ve got some decent photographs. They’re just being printed up; let’s go back to my office where we can have a cup of coffee and look at them.’
Liz had been working with Isabelle Florian on and off for several years now. When she had first heard that her opposite number in the French Service was a woman, she had expected to encounter an epitome of Parisian style. She had been pleasantly surprised to find that Isabelle, a woman a little older than Liz, was more given to wearing jeans, a sweater and flat shoes than high heels and an elegant black number. Her pleasantly weathered face was normally bare of make-up and her hair was usually tied back in a ponytail.
But as they walked back to Isabelle’s office Liz couldn’t help remarking on the change in Isabelle’s appearance. Today she looked far more as Liz had originally imagined her. The jeans and sweater had been replaced by a black skirt and tights and a silk blouse the colour of ripe cherries. The ponytail had gone and her hair had been cut stylishly short.
When she complimented Isabelle, the Frenchwoman said, ‘I never feel quite comfortable dressed up like this, but I’ve been promoted and they told me I had to dress the part. I have to go to more meetings and talk to government ministers and my bosses thought I looked too workmanlike.’
‘Well. It suits you. Not that the other didn’t,’ added Liz hastily.
Isabelle smiled. ‘And you, Liz. You look flourishing. How is our friend Martin?’
‘Well, thank you. We’ve just been on holiday. The curious yellow shade of my face is the remains of a tan.’
Liz had first met Martin Seurat when she had been working with Isabelle on the case of a dissident Irish Republican group. The leader of the group had kidnapped one of Liz’s colleagues, Dave Armstrong, and taken him to the South of France, where Martin Seurat had been instrumental in saving his life.
Liz now stood by the window in Isabelle’s office, admiring the glimpse of the Eiffel Tower, which was just visible from the corner of the window. A girl came in clutching a sheaf of A4-sized photographs that she put down on Isabelle’s desk, saying cheerfully, ‘I think you’ll be pleased with these.’
As she went out Isabelle said, ‘Come and have a look, Liz. Let’s hope they are some use.’
The two women leaned over the desk, their heads close together, looking at the picture on top of the pile. It was of Numéro Un, the European, as he walked towards the rendezvous with the Arab. At the same moment, Isabelle exclaimed, ‘It can’t be,’ and Liz said, ‘Isn’t that …’
They were both staring at the picture in astonishment.
Isabelle nodded. ‘Yes, it’s Antoine Milraud.’ A former officer of the DGSE, and a former friend and colleague of Martin Seurat, Milraud had been dismissed from the DGSE after an operation had gone disastrously wrong. Milraud was suspected of taking money that had gone missing from an arms deal, but he had disappeared before he could be prosecuted.
Martin Seurat had made it his mission to capture Milraud; he blamed him for having betrayed both t
heir friendship and the Service they both worked for. It later became apparent that Milraud had used the money he’d stolen to launch his own career as an arms dealer, where he skirted the border of legality until he crossed it with a vengeance. The Irish Republican who had kidnapped Dave Armstrong had been one of his customers and Milraud had assisted in the kidnap.
That was several years ago, and Milraud hadn’t been seen in France since – though there had been a host of rumoured sightings, including one of his wife, Annette. Reliable reports had come in that Milraud had continued acting as a middleman for arms sales; he had been linked to major transactions in a range of conflict-torn territories from Central Africa to Chechnya.
‘Why would he resurface in Paris now?’ asked Liz. ‘He’s taking a hell of a risk.’
Isabelle pursed her lips, and started to push her hair back on one side, until she remembered that she no longer had long hair. Her hairdresser had told her that the style was chic for a woman of a certain age. Isabelle had liked the result, though she had bristled at being called ‘a woman of a certain age’. She said to Liz, ‘It must mean this is a big transaction. Only a lot of money would get Milraud to take such a risk.’
‘Mmm,’ said Liz, unconvinced. ‘It still seems very strange to choose Paris when they could have met in any city in the world.’
Isabelle looked at Liz. She found her English colleague’s habit of looking for hidden meanings unsettling. She added, ‘I’ll need to tell Martin.’
Close Call Page 5
