Close Call

by Stella Rimington

  He was beginning to feel desperately exposed but he didn’t want to call in either of the other two to take his place for fear of leaving the exits unmonitored. The black man was taking his time – or was he killing time? He had twice looked at his watch but he went on flipping through CDs.

  Then he moved, suddenly and quickly, heading straight for the atrium in the centre of the Mall. If he had clocked Anspach he didn’t show it; he walked fast, looking straight ahead, and by the time Anspach was out of the shop, he had crossed the atrium and was striding down the aisle leading to the rear exit.

  ‘Dimitz, target coming your way. He’s yours,’ he said into his mike. He was hanging back now to avoid detection if his target should look back. He gave it a good sixty seconds, then said into his mike, ‘Have you got him?’

  The reply was a grunt.

  ‘Which way is he going?’

  ‘He’s not “going”. The bastard’s just standing on the kerb.’

  ‘Any cabs around?’

  ‘No. If he wanted one there’s a taxi rank that he walked right past.’

  So what was he doing? Waiting to see if he was being tailed? Possibly, but there were better ways to shake off surveillance, or even just to see if it was there. Waiting in one spot wouldn’t do the trick, since the watchers didn’t have to show themselves.

  Anspach decided he should risk a closer look. He had reached the rear entrance and could see the black man now, across the street, staring into the window of a women’s shoe shop. It seemed contrived, unnatural. Was he using the window to spot surveillance? Anspach had a premonition. ‘Dimitz, quick get the car.’

  ‘I’m in it already. Just round the corner.’

  ‘Come and pick me up.’

  But it was too late. There was a whoosh of an approaching car – a black Mercedes limousine, with tinted windows – the screech of brakes, and in an instant the black man had disappeared into the back seat, slamming the door behind him. The Mercedes executed a three-point turn at the expert hands of an invisible driver, then accelerated away down the street.

  By then Anspach had his phone in his hand, and its camera snapped and snapped again. ‘Dimitz, where the hell are you?’ he shouted into his mike, not caring now if he was overheard.

  ‘I’m stuck. There’s a rubbish truck in front of me and I can’t get round.’

  Chapter 16

  Anspach strode round the corner into a caco­phony of car horns. Dimitz was sitting at the wheel of his car, at the head of a line of stationary cars, all blowing their horns at the garbage truck blocking their way.

  ‘What in heaven’s name is going on?’ shouted Anspach.

  ‘The driver’s in that café and he won’t come out.’

  ‘I’ll get him out fast enough,’ said Anspach, and headed into the café waving a card identifying him as on special government business. In seconds he was out again, shouting at a couple of men in yellow jackets who had come out of the café. They got into the rubbish truck and drove it off up the street. By then Beckerman had joined his colleagues in the car.

  ‘I’ve passed the registration number of the Mercedes to Control and he’s asking the traffic police to look out for it,’ said Anspach. ‘We’ve got no reason to stop him, unless Traffic can get them for exceeding the speed limit, but at least we should get a fix on where he’s going.’

  ‘I got some good photographs of both of them in the gallery,’ said Beckerman. ‘I swear that was no chance meeting. They were discussing something. It was an RV.’

  ‘Yeah. And I think that black fellow clocked us, at least by the end. That was a very smooth getaway,’ added Anspach.

  ‘Where to, boss?’ asked Dimitz.

  Anspach snorted. ‘God knows. We’ll join up with the other team and hope Traffic get lucky.’

  And they did – up to a point. Ten minutes later a report came in that a traffic patrol car had spotted the Mercedes heading north on the E26 near Westend. Unfortunately the patrol car had been going in the other direction.

  A quick conference with Control sent both teams off to Tegel airport, where the BfV officers and the police and immigration officials were all alerted to look out for a tall, elegantly dressed black man, and to note his passport details and where he was heading.

  Tegel was crowded when Anspach and his team arrived. They had to push past long queues of passengers at the departure desks in the hexagonal International Terminal A to reach the office where the airport team had their base. There was no news of their target. He had not been observed going through security or passport checks at Departure and no sightings of the Mercedes had been reported by police outside the terminal.

  But Anspach wasn’t going to give up; he found a ticketing supervisor, and with the man by his side, slowly worked his way along the lines of checkin desks – British Airways, Lufthansa, Delta and all the other airlines running international flights from the airport, showing the desk clerks the clearest picture he had of the dozens taken by Beckerman in the Schweiber Museum. As each desk clerk peered at the tiny image on the mobile phone’s screen they responded with a shake of the head.

  As he was working his way along the desks he heard Beckerman’s voice through his earpiece say, ‘They’ve seen the car at Terminal D.’

  ‘What’s Terminal D?’ he asked the supervisor, who was still with him.

  ‘It’s Air Berlin – domestic flights.’

  He looked at the man, puzzled. ‘Domestic flights?’ Surely their target wasn’t going somewhere else in Germany.

  The man added, ‘Private jets use it as well.’

  ‘How do I get there?’

  ‘Not easily. There’s a bus …’ the man started to explain, but Anspach was already racing for the terminal doors, shouting into his mike for Beckerman to pick him up.

  At Terminal D they were directed to the far end of the departures hall. There they found one small counter manned by a middle-aged woman in a blue suit and forage cap who greeted them with a smile.

  ‘Guten Tag,’ she said, ‘and how may I help you today?’

  ‘Have you seen this man?’ asked Anspach, thrusting the mobile phone in front of her face.

  Taken aback, the woman paused. ‘Our clients expect confidentiality, Herr …?’

  ‘Anspach.’ He brought out his card – official-looking, special government business, it breathed authority.

  The woman’s eyes widened. ‘Yes, I have seen this gentleman.’

  ‘Where is he flying to?’

  ‘Rotterdam.’

  ‘When is he leaving?’

  She looked at Anspach with mild surprise. ‘His plane took off ten minutes ago.’

  Chapter 17

  Martin Seurat knew he had to work fast. He’d been waiting, hidden from view by a pillar in the lobby of the hotel, and as soon as he’d seen Milraud leave he had come upstairs. But if Milraud had only gone out for a paper or to get some fresh air, then he would be back soon, and before that Seurat had to make his pitch.

  He had no idea how Annette would react when he turned up at the door of her room. Once, they had known each other very well. In the DGSE, officers worked in small teams, often abroad and in stressful circumstances, and they got to know each other intimately. He and Milraud had worked together on and off for over a decade, and despite some fundamental differences in personality – Martin was quieter, more analytical, focused on getting the job done; Milraud was flamboyant, sometimes inspired, sometimes simply erratic – they had grown to trust each other. Whenever they could, they liked to socialise together and to include their wives, who could easily feel ignored and left out because of the secret nature of the work their husbands did.

  Annette Milraud had been a lively young woman then, apparently carefree, without any children. She loved the good things of life: the Milraud apartment was beautifully furnished, her clothes expensive and stylish – enough so that Seurat’s wife used to wonder enviously how she could afford it all on the salary of a DGSE officer. Once a week Annette ran a li
ttle market stall in the Marais where she sold jewellery, some antique, some that she’d made herself and some just rather pretty junk that she had picked up for practically nothing. She was always wearing three or four of the more flamboyant rings from her stock when they met. It was difficult to believe that the stall brought in enough extra money to finance her lifestyle.

  When the four of them got together for an evening, Annette drank more than any of them, smoked incessantly, and liked to dance. She had the kind of loud, extravagant joie de vivre that hinted at dissatisfaction or even desperation lying not far beneath. Seurat’s wife had got on with her well enough, though she’d never trusted her in the way her husband trusted Antoine Milraud, and she had made it clear that she didn’t want to see the Milrauds too often.

  Now Seurat knocked on the door of Room 403, taking care that he could not be seen through the spyhole. He heard nothing at first, then there were steps inside the room. ‘Oui?’ a woman’s voice called out.

  He replied in accented English, hoping she would think he was a concierge. ‘I have a message for you, Madame.’

  ‘A message?’ She sounded suspicious. ‘Put it under the door.’

  He sighed – it had never been easy to hoodwink Annette. He said quite loudly, in French now, ‘Come on, Annette, open the door.’

  ‘Who is that?’ He could hear the surprise in her voice.

  ‘It’s Martin Seurat.’

  There was no reply for a moment. Then the door opened a crack, held on its chain. Annette stared out at him, surprise replaced by hostility.

  ‘What the hell do you want?’ she demanded.

  ‘If you let me in, I’ll explain.’ When she hesitated he added, ‘I need to talk to you alone, Annette. Before Monsieur Pliska gets back.’ He could see her flinch at the name. ‘We know what name you’re using, and the one Antoine used in Paris – Pigot. If need be we can even find out the one you used before that.’

  ‘If you know so much, why do you want to talk to me?’

  ‘Because you can help us. And help Antoine. You don’t need me to tell you how much trouble he’s in.’

  Annette stared at him, as if considering what to do, then she suddenly closed the door. For a moment Seurat thought that would be it. But the door opened again, and she stood there, looking angry. ‘I suppose you’d better come in,’ she said.

  Annette had obviously been packing. Two suitcases lay open on the floor and a smaller Vuitton bag was on the bed.

  ‘Going already?’ asked Seurat. ‘You’ve only just arrived.’

  Annette shrugged. ‘That was the plan,’ she said.

  ‘Mind if I sit down?’ said Seurat, taking one of the two armchairs. ‘Whether you go and where you go is going to be up to you, Annette. If you help me you at least may be able to go wherever you like. Don’t cooperate and you’ll be seeing the inside of a French prison before long.’

  ‘The Germans may have something to say about that.’

  Seurat shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. They’ll accept a European arrest warrant, and there’s more than enough evidence behind it. You have aided and abetted your husband, a man who’s facing charges on everything from illegal arms dealing to kidnapping.’

  ‘What do you want me to do? You know I would never betray Antoine,’ she said defiantly, gesturing to emphasise the point. Seurat noticed that nowadays she limited herself to two rings – but both looked a good deal more valuable than in the days of the market stall.

  ‘I’m not asking you to betray him; I’m asking you to help him. And you can do that by helping me.’

  She looked at him sardonically. ‘That sounds unlikely. How does it work?’

  ‘He listens to you, Annette. You know he does. He thinks all the rest of us are fools and you and he are the only clever ones.’

  Annette grimaced. ‘I’m not sure he’d include me, not these days. He’d tell you I’m always whining. Anyway, I don’t see how I can help you. I don’t know the details of Antoine’s business. I never have. He’s an old-fashioned Frenchman that way.’

  Seurat eyed her sceptically but she returned his look with a stare of her own, as if daring him not to believe her. He was confident she knew more than she was letting on, but her true value lay in her influence over Milraud, not in any information she might have about his activities. He said, ‘I believe you. But a judge might not – you’re in this up to your neck, as I’m sure you know. But if you cooperate – and more importantly if you get Antoine to cooperate – there’s still a chance you can lead a normal life again.’

  It was her turn to look sceptical, so he went on: ‘I mean it. I’m not saying Antoine won’t have to serve time in prison, he will – and you may too – but perhaps for less time than otherwise. To be quite clear, what I’m saying is that Antoine can help himself by cooperating and you can help him and yourself by persuading him. Life in prison won’t be pleasant, but I can’t imagine life on the run is much fun either.’

  ‘It’s had its moments.’

  ‘Where do you call home these days?’

  She shrugged. He said, ‘Come on, Annette, we’re already checking with the airlines for passengers called Pliska. I’ll know all your recent movements soon enough.’

  She hesitated, then said sourly, ‘Caracas. We have a flat there.’

  ‘Good God. I don’t imagine that’s the safest place for a woman left on her own a lot of the time, as I imagine you are.’

  ‘Venezuela’s a very beautiful country,’ she replied defensively.

  ‘I should think it needs to be – to compensate for all the other disadvantages.’

  Annette laughed out loud. A good sign, thought Seurat; he had always been able to make her laugh in the past. He went on, ‘The good news is that you won’t be going back there for a while. The bad news is that it could be a long, long while. That’s up to you.’

  ‘So what do you want me to do?’

  ‘Encourage Antoine to work with us. That’s all.’

  She was still thinking about this when there was the sound of footsteps in the corridor, then a card was inserted in the lock and the door swung open. Antoine Milraud walked into the room. When he saw Seurat he didn’t seem surprised.

  ‘So it’s you on my tail, is it? I wondered who had stirred up the Germans. I knew we’d meet again one day.’

  Seurat had to admire the man’s sangfroid: Milraud had always been nerveless, even in the most hair-raising situations. But then Seurat supposed you had to be if you were going to live on the run. He looked at his former colleague, the man who had been his trusted friend and had become his nemesis, haunting his dreams, filling his head with thoughts of revenge, and said, ‘I doubt this is how you envisaged our meeting.’

  Milraud shrugged, and sat down heavily. ‘Some days life is a bowl of cherries; some days the bowl holds only a few stones. I knew someone was onto me, but I congratulate you on your efficiency. I was hoping I was a few hours ahead.’

  He started to reach into his jacket pocket, but Seurat put up a warning hand. ‘Don’t even think of doing something stupid. I’m armed and downstairs in the lobby there are two members of the local police and an officer of the BfV.’

  ‘I was going for a cigarette actually,’ said Milraud, bringing out a pack of Disque Bleus and a gold lighter. He inhaled greedily, then blew out a long funnelling plume of smoke. ‘So, what happens now?’

  Seurat outlined the position. If Milraud cooperated Seurat would do everything he could to get a reduction in his sentence. There was no point in pretending that Milraud wouldn’t be serving time, and some hefty time at that, but equally, his assistance, if it led to other convictions, would be taken into account by the court. If he didn’t cooperate, then he could expect the maximum sentence. Seurat said softly, ‘I think we’re talking twenty years.’

  Milraud nodded and stubbed out his cigarette. ‘That was very well put, Martin. You haven’t lost your touch for clarity. But I have to say I doubt there’s much really that you will be able to d
o for me. I’ve rubbed too many noses in the dirt. Even if your offer is sincere – and I have no reason to doubt that it is,’ he said with a wry smile, ‘I have to question your ability to see it through. I’m cooked, as the Americans like to say, though if I take my punishment like a man I will have a chance of breathing free air again some day. If I squeal, then I have very little chance at all.’

  ‘So you won’t cooperate?’

  ‘Regretfully, no. Believe me, the sort of people I work with are not the kind one wishes to annoy.’

  ‘What a pity,’ said Seurat. It was clear to him that Milraud was far more scared of his arms-dealing associates than he was of the French authorities. Seurat decided it was time to play his trump card, and hoped that Annette would play her role. He said firmly, ‘In that case you leave me no choice. I will have you placed under arrest … and Annette as well.’

  ‘Annette?’ Milraud’s voice rose in alarm. ‘Why Annette? She’s done nothing.’

  ‘On the contrary, she’s helped you virtually every step of the way. Beginning with your escape from France. It’s a serious offence and she will do serious time.’ He paused to let this sink in, then added, ‘I think I can guarantee ten years minimum.’

  Milraud stared at him, his eyes widening in shock. There was a loud gasp. Annette had her hand over her mouth and she was shaking her head almost theatrically in disbelief.

  Whether the appalled look on her face was genuine or not, it was doing the trick. Milraud stood up and rushed to her, throwing a comforting arm around her shoulders. ‘It’s all right, chérie.’

  Annette started to cry, tears the size of raindrops rolling down both cheeks, her sobs growing louder despite her husband’s efforts to console her. ‘Ten years,’ she wailed, as Seurat watched, mentally giving her performance five stars.

  His arm still around Annette, Milraud looked at Seurat with undisguised hatred. ‘I tell you, she has nothing to do with my affairs, and I don’t believe you have any evidence that she has. So leave her out of this.’