Red Crystal (59 page)

Grabbing her belongings, she stumbled out of the box and walked rapidly away, looking over her shoulder. She crossed the A4, went past the petrol station, until she came to a residential road. She cut down it and lost herself in the network of roads beyond.

She came to another phone box. Someone was in it, a large homely woman who looked as though she was going to chat for hours. Gabriele paced up and down outside then beat on the glass. The woman gave her a withering look. Gabriele flung open the door. ‘It’s urgent!’ Using all her strength she pulled the woman out.

‘How dare you! Who do you think you are!’

Another squawker, like the woman in Chelsea. Gabriele had left that one tied up in the bath. To this one she merely snapped, ‘
Fuck off!
’ The woman retreated, looking outraged.

Gabriele pulled the door shut behind her. Fumbling, she found her list of numbers and getting through to the international operator, asked for a transfer charge call to Paris, person to person.

Asking for the number restored some of her confidence. Raymond would know what to do. He would send her papers and money. He would get her out of the country.

At last she heard the number ring and answer and the operator cut in, asking if they would accept the charge. With vast relief Gabriele heard Raymond’s voice.

In the fraction of a second before she spoke two dull clicks sounded on the line.

Nick got back to the office in a mood of rage and disbelief. They had missed her at the hideout in Chelsea and now they had missed her at the airport.

Unbelievable.

The airport had been the perfect place for a trap. She could have been lured in under the pretence that all was well, and then been caught. Somehow. But the plan had been vetoed. Too dangerous. Innocent people might have died.

Now the intention was to seek her out in the normal way: plaster her picture over every air and seaport, watch for her on the streets, offer a reward for information. But it wasn’t enough, not by a
long
way. They knew of two false passports she had used. She probably had others stashed away.

The more he thought about it the more convinced he was that she
would
escape. The idea filled him with bitter anger.

In a side room off the main incident room the items found near the scene of the shooting in Chelsea had been laid out. He recognized the jacket immediately. She’d worn it the evening they’d gone to dinner in Chelsea. It was strange to see it again now, familiar and harmless, beside the two chilling weapons. A machine pistol and a handgun. He didn’t recognize the types and looked at the tags tied to the butts. Skorpion. Makarov. Russian or Czech presumably.

Then there was money. New notes in sequence: the bank job.

Finally, there was a passport. Argentinian. He picked it up and flicked through the pages. A very good fake. He paused at the photograph. The sight of her still had the power to unsettle him. That look – so intense, so antagonistic; the small angry abandoned child.

He snapped the passport shut and put it back on the table.

Conway put his head in. ‘We’re wanted.’

‘The DST have been in touch,’ Kershaw said as soon as they reached his office. ‘They’ve just telexed a transcript of a phone conversation which took place half an hour ago.’

Nick grabbed the telex. Attached to it was an English translation. It read:

(
Conversation ends
.)

‘Have they got a tap on this other number?’ Nick asked excitedly.

‘How
can
they when they don’t know what the number is?’ Kershaw demanded shortly. He looked tired and irritable. He said more reasonably, ‘They
have
got a tap on this Raymond’s private number, so they say. But apparently he knows perfectly well that it’s tapped, so …’

So, Nick thought, there wasn’t a cat in hell’s chance of them using it. His excitement evaporated.

He asked, ‘Don’t the DST have any contacts inside this Aid and Solidarity place?’

Kershaw raised his eyebrows slightly. ‘We’ve requested all possible assistance. That’s all we can do—’

‘We might ask bloody Box 500 and the other lot what else they’ve been sitting on,’ Nick exclaimed hotly. ‘If the van incident is anything to go by, they’ve known about these people in Paris all along.’

Kershaw rubbed a hand over his face. ‘I’ve got their report in front of me, Ryder. It doesn’t add a great deal to what we already know.’ He regarded Nick thoughtfully. ‘Why don’t you go home and get some rest? You look as though you need it.’

Nick opened his mouth to speak but something in the commander’s face made him shut up.

He went up to his office and sat at his desk for a while. There was no question of his going home. Not while Gabriele was out there. Free. He couldn’t bear to think of her getting away. The idea made him so angry that he had to get up and move around.

There must be
something
he could do. Even if it was only to go out and search the streets.

Ridiculous.
Think
.

He sat up again and eyed the telephone, deep in thought. An idea came to him. He turned it over in his mind. It was worth a try.
Anything
was worth a try.

Picking up the receiver he dialled Paris and, after some discussion with Claude Desport’s office, not all of it amicable, managed to get Desport called away from his lunch.

‘Sorry to ruin your meal, Claude. Nothing special, I trust?’

‘Hah! With the time available? A sandwich, my friend.’

‘Do you owe me any favours, Claude?’

‘Well, I like to think we come out even, Nick. Fifty-fifty. Eh?’

‘I want to use them up all at once.’

‘Ah.’

‘We’ve asked the DST for assistance in the matter of this girl. Right? Where do you think that’s going to get us, Claude?’

‘We will of course do all we …’ There was a silence. ‘Not so very far perhaps. Not directly.’

‘Quite. That’s why I’m asking you. To do what you can. It means a lot to me. Maybe even my job, Claude.’ Nick mentioned the job as a weapon of persuasion, instinctively trying to add a touch of drama, but even as he said it he realized it was probably true. ‘I was thinking,’ he continued. ‘There must be something you could pressurize them with. Something you’ve got on them. They’ve been operating for quite some time. Surely—’

There was a sharp intake of breath. ‘Nick, these people are not just –
anything
. They’re not just a political group. They have contacts. Links. Perhaps all the way to Moscow. You ask more than I can give.’

‘All we want is a lead to the girl, Claude.’

‘You ask too much.’ But there was a thoughtfulness in his voice. ‘But your job … You mean it?’

‘I mean it.’ Nick made a feeble attempt at humour. ‘I got everything ever so slightly disastrously wrong.’ He gave it a moment then pressed: ‘It will mean more than I can say.’

There was a deep sigh. ‘I promise nothing. You hear? Absolutely nothing.’

From the closed door of the darkroom in the Studio Vincenne came the occasional sound as the photographer worked at his task. He had promised to produce two passports in one hour. There really couldn’t be anyone better, not only for speed but for quality. From stolen blanks the man could produce a finished passport complete with personal details, photograph, embossing, and stamps so near perfect that only a real expert could tell the difference. He was the organization’s greatest asset.

Bernard Duteil waited, thoughtfully smoking his cigarette, and wondered which courier he should send to England. There were several young people who were glad to do little jobs for him in exchange for trips abroad. He never asked them to carry anything really compromising. No arms. Only money, papers – things that would never get them into serious trouble. Most of them enjoyed doing their little errands.

This time, however, he must choose carefully. There was quite a risk involved. It was possible he might be sending someone straight into the arms of the British police. When Gabriele had made her second call – to the priest’s number – she’d sworn that she’d take care not to be followed. But she was sounding nervous and frightened. Capable of error.

He had known she was in deep trouble. He had heard the radio news. The kidnapping idea had been quite clever, but she had obviously made some very basic mistakes. Two of her group dead. And the hostage discovered before she’d got away.

It could have been bad luck, of course, but he was beginning to believe otherwise. She had failed in both her tasks: in subverting British society and in forming a group capable of continuing the work. It had turned into a fiasco.

And after all his hard work arranging the welcome in Damascus. He felt justified in being irritated. He had used a few favours there.

But if the Damascus business was annoying, the interest in Gabriele’s telephone calls was worrying. The phone taps were back in full swing and, by the number of clicks on the line, they didn’t mind letting him know. It was a not-so-subtle warning. And yet he owed some sort of loyalty to the girl, if only to get her out and away before she did any damage. And, more importantly, to cheat the British government of total victory. He didn’t want them to gloat. If the entire group were imprisoned it would be a bad example to those who might one day follow in Gabriele’s footsteps.

So he would send her the passports and some money, with the suggestion that a ferry to the Irish Republic and a plane from Dublin to Stockholm might be the safest route out of the country.

He had already told Gabriele where to meet the courier and how to recognize him. Now he must choose the right person.

He finally decided on a bright young art student who, though very new to the organization, had a way with him: an apparent naïvety and endearing loquacity which could fool anyone into believing he knew nothing about the contents of the envelope.

As soon as the passports were ready, he would send a message to the student asking him if he wanted a trip to London. Duteil was confident he would agree. The only important thing was that he should wear a red scarf. A rather ridiculous device as a means of recognition, but serviceable enough.

Finally the photographer emerged. He was not a man to boast about his skills, but Duteil could see that he was satisfied with the results of his hour in the darkroom. Duteil did not need to inspect the finished products.

He made his way back to the Rue St Médard. It was necessary to get the details tidied up as soon as possible. The student had to be on the ten o’clock plane to London the next morning.

As he approached the door beside the newsagent’s shop a car door opened and a man emerged.

‘Monsieur Duteil?’

Duteil knew immediately. The man had authority written all over him. DST? Yes, he decided: DST.

He gave a small nod.

The man said, ‘There is something of interest I would like to bring to your notice. May we talk? In the car?’

Duteil considered. These people had absolutely nothing on him, nothing they could ever make stick. He could refuse point blank to talk either in the car, at the station or anywhere else. At the same time the man’s opening remark suggested there might be something in it for him.

‘Not in the car. In the café.’ He indicated a small place up the street. He preferred neutral territory.

They settled at a corner table.

‘Monsieur Duteil,’ the officer began carefully, ‘you have managed to live quietly in this country for some time. A visitor who has respected the laws of France and up until this moment has given us no reason to believe you will not continue to do so.’

Duteil stayed silent. He could guess where this was leading to.

‘However, we have reason to suspect that –
inadvertently
– you are about to transgress one of the more important rules. Which would be a great pity, as I’m sure you would agree.’

Duteil continued to stare. There was really no need for him to speak.

‘The thing is, we are quite
generous
about many things. But we do lose our – what should I say, ability to overlook matters? – when we are dealing with a person wanted on a serious charge. I refer to a certain foreigner who was active in the Troubles. We have been looking for her for some time.’

Duteil narrowed his eyes at the mention of a serious charge. It seemed unlikely. She had only done what all the other students had done. Lobbed a few cobblestones.

The DST man saw his doubt. ‘She is wanted for subversion against the state,’ he elaborated. ‘There was also another matter – she tried to kill a police officer. Took a knife to him. He was stabbed in the shoulder. This cannot be overlooked.’

Ah, now he was beginning to understand. Gabriele was perfectly capable of having stabbed someone. And yet why hadn’t he heard about it? Why hadn’t she told him?

‘The thing is,’ the officer continued smoothly, ‘we have good reason to believe you aided and abetted this person at that time. And may indeed be considering doing so again. As a peaceful organization dedicated to a worthwhile cause’ – he said it with only the faintest sarcasm – ‘you will not want to commit an offence which will have serious consequences for you.’

‘What exactly are you asking?’

‘Help us find the girl. We want her. The British want her. If you lead us to her you will be left in peace. On this matter at least.’