Close Call

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.’