Close Call (7 page)

‘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 their 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.’

‘Of course,’ said Liz, though there was resignation in her voice.

Isabelle said hesitantly, ‘Is he still so . . . obsessed with Milraud?’

Liz sighed, and Isabelle added gently, ‘It’s understand­able, Liz. The two of them worked closely together. That must make Milraud’s betrayal very painful.’

‘I know, but I had hoped he was getting over it. There’s been no real sign of Milraud for several years. Just rumours and false leads. Martin used to jump at each one, but the last time there’d been a possible sighting he didn’t seem to feel the need to go rushing off after it. I thought that was a good sign.’

‘This is different, alas.’  They looked through the sheaf of photographs. ‘I’m afraid there can be no doubt. It is Milraud. Which makes it especially galling that he got away.’

Liz shrugged. ‘These things happen.’

Isabelle admired her equanimity. Had their roles been reversed, she liked to think she would have stayed equally calm. But she wouldn’t have bet on it. ‘Anyway,’ she replied. ‘we will do our very best to find him. I’ll get these photographs out straightaway. We’ll check the airlines, the railway stations, the hotels. But I’m afraid he’ll be long gone by now.’

Liz nodded. ‘Unless you think there’s anything I can do here, I need to be getting back to London. I want to send the pictures out to Bruno Mackay. He’s gone out to Sana’a to join the CIA man there whose source gave us this lead. I’ll send the pictures of
Numéro Deux
too. Maybe someone out there can identify him, though it’s pretty unlikely. He could be absolutely anybody.’ Then, seeming to sense Isabelle’s gloom, Liz added, ‘Cheer up, Isabelle. You may get a break. If Milraud was stupid enough to show up in the Luxembourg Gardens, he may have made some other mistakes as well.’

Chapter 11

Three hours later Isabelle was still in the office, Liz having long gone. Isabelle would have liked her to stay longer, though she knew that there was nothing she could do by sticking around. She liked her English colleague, not least because she was a woman who seemed comfortable with herself. She was intelligent and very focused but she was also attractive and easy to get on with. Too many of Isabelle’s female colleagues seemed so intent on proving to their male colleagues that they were their equals that they lost all femininity.