Later Isabelle could only dimly recall the sequence of events that followed the shootings. Looking back she realised that she had acted automatically to try to prevent a public furore. She had sent the officers in their GAZ jackets outside to explain to interested bystanders, attracted by the ambulance and the presence of the police, that there had been a gas emergency, and that an old lady had had a heart attack, but the emergency was over and the old lady was still alive and was going to hospital.
She had insisted that the bodies of Martin and the young man, presumably Ramdani, once they had been formally declared dead, be left where they were until the middle of the night, when they could be taken out secretly.
She had stayed, at first sitting on the floor beside Martin, tears running down her cheeks, then sitting in the kitchen making the dreadful but necessary phone calls. Throughout this, some of her colleagues had thoroughly searched the old lady’s flat. It was obvious how Ramdani had got in. The grating in the bedroom was off and there was a gaping hole in the ceiling. Why he had chosen her flat no one could explain, unless he had gone into the ducting when he heard the knocking on his door and thought he could hide there. Or perhaps he had heard Seurat come up into the crawl space, and panicked. He might have thought it would be safe to hide in the old lady’s flat, or possibly he’d thought he could escape through her front door, until he’d realised that the officers were outside in the corridor. When they’d broken in, he must have intended to use her as a shield for his escape.
By the time the medical team returned to remove the bodies, Isabelle was back in the living room sitting beside Martin. Before Ramdani was taken out, she ordered a policeman to search his body thoroughly. She was glad she did – in a trouser pocket they found a folded train schedule. It was for the Eurostar from Paris’s Gare du Nord to London.
Watching as Martin was zipped into a bag and taken away, Isabelle thought how unnecessary his death was, and cursed herself for letting him push ahead of her as they came into the flat. Like the grandmother he had been telling her about, and like the old lady who had now been taken despite her protests to hospital, Martin had been absolutely fearless. And curious, fatally curious.
The only good thing to come out of this whole dreadful night, she told herself, was that it was now pretty certain that the terrorists were heading for England.
Chapter 48
At the safe flat in Paris, Annette Milraud was in the kitchen making a late supper. Her husband Antoine was with her. Martin Seurat had decided to move Antoine from the Montreuil house to share the flat, judging that he was likely to cooperate more if he was with his wife than if they were kept separated. As well as the guards, Jacques Thibault was there this evening too. He was monitoring Milraud’s laptop and phone for any messages from Zara or the contact in Dagestan – any communication at all that might throw light on what might happen next. If need be, he could immediately ask Milraud to explain.
Annette poked her head round the sitting-room door. ‘Would you like to join us for supper?’
‘No, thanks,’ said Thibault. ‘I’ll stay here.’
As well as Milraud’s laptop, he kept checking his own for any news of the operation at Ramdani’s flat. From the kitchen he could hear the low murmur of the Milrauds’ conversation. Once Annette gave out a loud groan, and he heard Antoine say, ‘It will be all right, I promise.’
It was about eleven o’clock when the landline phone rang. Thibault picked it up, thinking with relief it must be Isabelle at last. But it was a man’s voice. He identified himself as a senior police officer. ‘Am I speaking to Monsieur Thibault?’
‘Yes,’ said Jacques, warily, wondering why on earth a police officer had his name and this number.
‘I have been asked to ring you by Madame Isabelle Florian.’
‘Is she all right?’ asked Thibault.
‘Yes. But she wished me to tell you that there has been some shooting at a flat in Seine-Saint-Denis. The occupant of an apartment has been shot dead.’
The policeman seemed to hesitate and Thibault sensed that there was more to come. ‘Is he the only casualty?’
The policeman said slowly, ‘One other person was shot. He is also dead, alas.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Thibault, thinking it must be some poor policeman who had gone first into the flat. Thibault barely registered what the caller said next – ‘A Monsieur Martin Seurat from your Service, I believe’ – but then the words sank in.
‘Martin Seurat? Are you sure?’
‘Positive, Monsieur. He was dead when he reached the hospital. I am so very sorry.’
In the background Thibault heard Annette clearing the table in the kitchen. He thanked the policeman for calling and hung up. He would learn the details later on; right now, he was too stunned to take in much more than the death of a senior officer of the DGSE.
‘What’s wrong?’ Milraud was in the doorway to the kitchen, eyeing him suspiciously.
Thibault stared back at him. ‘There’s been a shooting.’
‘Where?’ Milraud asked, bewildered. Milraud had not been told anything about Ramdani or the anticipated arrival in Paris of the group of jihadis, but that didn’t stop Thibault’s mounting anger.
‘In a tower block The wrong man got shot. Martin Seurat is dead.’
‘What?’
‘I said Seurat is dead.’
A plate shattered on the floor in the kitchen. A moment later Annette appeared in the doorway. ‘What did you say?’
‘I think you heard me.’
She looked at Thibault with disbelief, her arms outstretched. For once Antoine didn’t try to comfort her but sat down heavily in one of the sitting-room chairs. He was clearly stunned, one hand on his forehead, his head bowed.
‘But why?’ asked Annette, as tears began to trickle from her eyes.
Thibault sensed that she must have had feelings for Seurat. He said, ‘I don’t know the details. Obviously something went badly wrong.’ He stared angrily at Milraud.
Annette was crying openly now. ‘But this is too dreadful.’
‘I know,’ said Thibault in a cold voice.
Milraud looked up. ‘How can that have happened? I never imagined anything like this.’
‘Oh no?’ said Thibault. ‘What did you think was going to happen when you met that Arab in the Luxembourg Gardens? What did you think would result from your meeting in Berlin? Did you think it was all just a harmless game?’
Milraud said, ‘Martin was my colleague for years. Whatever our later differences, he and I were once very close.’
Thibault looked at him incredulously. ‘You talk as if you were old pals who sadly no longer saw each other. We all know your story – they use you as a case history of betrayal in the Ethics lecture when we join the Service. So don’t try to whitewash your past; it just dirties the name of a man who was widely admired. One who died trying to prevent the harm you were encouraging.’
Milraud sat up. ‘You are blaming me for his death? I’ve told you everything I know.’
‘No doubt.’ Thibault shook his head in contempt. ‘What a pity you couldn’t have done it earlier.’
Ten minutes later Thibault sat gazing at the screen of his laptop but not seeing it. He could not have tolerated any more talking with either Milraud, but thankfully they had withdrawn to their bedroom. There was no one for him to phone: Isabelle would be busy for hours now, or she wouldn’t have asked a police officer to break the news.
Then his mobile phone bleeped and the screen lit up. It was a text message from Peggy in London:
Charlie has just unzipped message: expected party in Paris cancelled. Group delayed leaving Yemen, now going straight on to UK. Ramdani to make own way and join them there. Sorry so late in letting you know. Problem with decoding. Peggy.
He stared blankly at the screen now, trying to still a surge of nausea. Perhaps if there hadn’t been a decoding problem and the message had come through earlier, Martin Seurat would still be alive.
Chapter 49
Liz was lying on her bed in her Kentish Town flat, shoes off but still fully dressed. Isabelle had promised to let her know as soon as there was news of the group of jihadis, due to arrive at four o’clock at the flat in Paris. But she had heard nothing before she left work at seven and still nothing three hours later, by which time she had stretched out on her bed, with both her phones beside her. She was half asleep when her landline started ringing. She sat up and grabbed the handset.
‘Hello.’
‘Liz, it’s Peggy.’
‘Oh, Peggy. I thought you might be Isabelle. Have you heard anything from Paris?’
‘No. But it will have been a no-show. That’s probably why they haven’t rung. I’ve just heard from Charlie Simmons. There’s been a message in the cooking code. It was sent this morning but it’s taken him ages to decrypt because it was full of mistakes. He thinks whoever sent it didn’t properly understand the rules and it was badly encoded. Anyway he’s managed to get into it and apparently it says that they’re not going to Paris after all. They’re coming straight on to Britain. I’m just about to text Jacques Thibault. They must all have been wondering why no one turned up at the flat. They were probably hanging on, hoping they were just late.’
‘Yes, but I’m surprised they didn’t let us know that no one had appeared. I wonder what they’ve been doing. I’m going to ring Isabelle now to see what’s going on.’
‘OK. While you do that I’ll text Jacques. Then I think we need to warn A4 that Zara might be on the move soon. Because if his friends are on the way here, they may arrive tonight, and he’s the only angle we’ve got on them.’
‘Yes, and when I’ve spoken to Isabelle, or Martin if I can’t get her, I’ll warn the Manchester Counter-Terrorist Group that we may have some action for them soon. Our friends may well be heading for one of those warehouses.’
Liz put the phone down and was just about to pick it up again to ring Isabelle when her mobile suddenly came to life.
‘Liz, it’s Isabelle.’
‘Hello. We’ve been wondering where you were. I gather no one turned up. You’ve must have had a rather boring evening.’
There was a pause. Then Isabelle said, ‘Well, actually that’s not quite true.’
‘Why? What happened?’
‘It’s true the people we expected didn’t show – but we were puzzled why and we decided to search the flat to see if there were any clues to what was going on, and our man didn’t seem to be there. But he was there – he was hiding in the next-door flat and, Liz, I’m so sorry …’ Her voice crumpled.
‘What is it? What’s happened?’
She could hear Isabelle sucking her breath in, trying to pull herself together. Then she managed to say, ‘Martin, he was shot.’
‘Shot?’
‘Liz, I am so sorry. Martin is dead.’
Liz went ice-cold. She didn’t want to believe what she’d heard. She took a deep breath, trying to control herself, and said as calmly as she could, ‘What happened?’
While Isabelle explained, Liz tried to focus, to listen. But the words ran like noisy flowing water in the background while one brutal fact kept occupying the foreground – Martin was dead. Isabelle was explaining that when the jihadis hadn’t shown up, she and Martin had taken a gamble and gone in, hoping to find evidence of what was being plotted. Martin had been curious, Isabelle explained – and Liz thought, damn Martin, he was always curious.
And it was here Liz completely tuned out, not wanting to hear the details of the death of the man she loved. Isabelle was still talking as a thousand images flashed through Liz’s head: of her first meeting with Martin at the DGSE’s old-fashioned headquarters on the outskirts of Paris; of Martin down at Bowerbridge, her family home, and the way he had taken to the place – so quintessentially English, he’d said; and of how Martin had chuckled when he’d seen the childhood relics Liz still kept in her bedroom there – the rosettes from gymkhanas, the watercolours she had liked to paint as a girl, and the photograph taken by her father as she stood gap-toothed and beaming and no more than nine years old, holding perhaps the titchiest fish ever to be yanked (and that with some grownup help) from the waters of the river Nadder.
All this came at her in a concentrated rush, which made her smile momentarily – though each time she had a loving image of him the grim news of his death intervened, and her memories fell away like waves hitting an unexpected reef.
She became aware that Isabelle was no longer talking. Liz did her best to pull herself together. She said mechanically, ‘Thanks, Isabelle, for letting me know.’
‘Liz, did you hear what I said? I said I thought you would want to come over.’
‘Of course. Should I be arranging things?’
There was an awkward pause, and Liz suddenly realised that she had no real position in this. She hadn’t been Martin’s wife, not even legally his partner; officially, she had no real status in Martin’s life at all.
She asked Isabelle, ‘Have you told Mimi?’ Martin’s daughter.
‘Not yet.’
‘Or Claudette?’ Martin’s ex-wife, who lived in the Brittany countryside. It had not been a happy divorce – she had left Martin for an old boyfriend – but lately they had re-established speaking terms and could discuss their daughter civilly enough. Martin’s bitterness at his wife’s desertion had obviously been intense, but she remembered now how once as they were having coffee after dinner, he’d explained that since Liz had come into his life, his anger with his ex-wife had evaporated.
‘No, I haven’t called her yet. Listen, Liz, give me half an hour and I will phone you back. But remember one thing. You were the most important person in Martin’s life.’
‘It’s kind of you to say that, Isabelle.’ She was doing her very best not to sob but her eyes filled with tears.
‘I’m not just saying it to be kind – he told me often enough.’
It was long after midnight when Isabelle called again. In the intervening time Liz had got up and made coffee, checked her diary for appointments the next day, rung Peggy and told her the news and that she’d be in Paris tomorrow, then asked her to tell DG about Martin. She went online and booked a ticket on the Eurostar, then put a few things in an overnight bag, just in case. Finally, having run out of diversions, she collapsed in an armchair in her sitting room. She sat still for several minutes, slowly composing herself. She didn’t actually want to think any more about Martin just now – it was too painful. But quite unbidden, the memory of their last meeting came back to her, and she thought of his words – Because I love you very much, Miss Liz Carlyle. And suddenly she started to cry, then cried and cried until she could cry no more.
When her tears were utterly exhausted, she got up and went to the bathroom and washed her face. As she dried it the phone rang.
It was Isabelle again. ‘I have reached Mimi and Claudette, Liz.’
‘I hope they are all right.’ She had little sense of Claudette. Early on in their relationship it had been clear that Martin didn’t want to talk about his ex in any detail, something that Liz had always been grateful for, since it meant there were no shadows hanging over them.
‘Well, Claudette was shocked, of course. I don’t know if you ever met her.’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘She likes to control things in her life, Liz, so the unexpected tends to throw her at first, then she reasserts control, if you understand.’
‘Yes,’ said Liz, but she wasn’t sure what Isabelle was getting at.
‘At first she decided there must be a funeral right away. I explained that couldn’t happen. Because of the circumstances there will have to be a post-mortem and there may be an inquiry, though it will be secret of course. Everything is being done to make sure there is no publicity – at present anyway – as we don’t want to alert Zara and his friends. And I told Claudette you should be consulted.’
‘Thank you,’ Liz said mechanically. She didn’t really feel abl
e to cope with all this at present.
‘She didn’t like that – not because it was you, Liz; she has no axe to grind, but because she always wants to decide everything herself. But she did say she would be happy to have you attend the service.’
‘That’s big of her,’ said Liz. Then she took a deep breath and forced herself to focus. ‘I don’t think there’s much family, Isabelle. Martin’s parents are both dead and he was an only child. My real concern is what Mimi wants. It’s her wishes we should follow here.’
Liz had only met the girl once. Martin’s relations with his daughter had been strained after the divorce; living with her mother, Mimi had not surprisingly sided with her in what had been an angry parental split. But since coming to Paris to attend the Sorbonne, she had begun to see her father regularly, and relations had improved immeasurably. When Liz had met her, not in Martin’s flat but on the neutral ground of a café, conversation had been polite but strained at first.
Then Martin had excused himself to make a phone call and Liz had admired Mimi’s new pair of boots, and suddenly they had begun to talk freely about all sorts of things – clothes, films, and why they hated cigarette smoke and were glad Martin had given up, and whether Paris was rainier than London – and their conversation was so spontaneous and friendly that when Martin had come back from making his call, he felt (as he said affectionately to Liz later that evening) that he was almost surplus to requirements.
Now Isabelle said, ‘Actually, I have just come off the phone to Mimi – that’s why I am so late ringing you again. Her mother broke the news to her, and of course she is distraught. I’d given Claudette my number and Mimi must have got it from her. At first, she wanted all the details of her father’s death. To tell you the truth, I ducked that, Liz. I hope you think that was the right thing to do.’
‘Yes,’ said Liz, thinking that she didn’t know the details either. She hadn’t been listening when Isabelle was telling her what had happened. ‘She’ll learn all about it in due course,’ she said, thinking, So will I.
Close Call Page 22
