Close Call

Chapter 27

When the all-clear came through from the A4 team looking for counter-surveillance, Milraud was let out of the car. He walked along Regent’s Park Road, and turned left through the open gate of Primrose Hill Park. Eight pairs of eyes watched him go.

The light was fading now after a bright late-autumn day. It was 3.45 in the afternoon and it would be practically dark by 4.30 at this time of the year. Maureen Hayes, sitting in an apparently closed up and deserted park­-keepers’ shed, was observing Milraud’s progress across the park. His light-coloured raincoat made him easy to spot as he sat down on a bench at the top of the hill. She didn’t envy him sitting out there on this chilly evening.

His was the only bench occupied; the wind was getting up and everyone else in the park seemed to be hurrying home. A woman in a fake fur coat was dawdling along, holding a little plastic bag in one hand and apparently urging the terrier she had on an extending lead to do his business so they could leave. Three small boys in school uniform went out of the gate chattering, one holding a football under his arm. A faint aroma of burning leaves seeped through the wooden slats of Maureen’s hut.

For a second the setting sun caught a window of one of the tall glass buildings somewhere in the City to the south, and a flash of brilliance lit up Milraud’s figure, sitting alone at the top of the hill, and momentarily blinded Maureen as she peered at him through her binoculars.

When she could see again, she noticed several people were walking into the park through the same gate Milraud had used. Perhaps an underground train had just come in or maybe they’d got off a bus. Then, as she watched, a young man separated from the others and turned up the path that led to the seat where Milraud still waited.

Could this be Zara, as Milraud’s Arab contact was now codenamed? She had been told to expect a tall, thin young Arab, dressed scruffily like a student. But this young man was wearing a dark business suit and carrying a briefcase and a rolled-up copy of the Evening Standard. He was tall and thin all right, and dark-skinned, but he looked more like a City worker returning to his flat in this expensive part of London than a student or a jihadi.

The man was passing Milraud without a glance, when he suddenly stopped, and seemed to be admiring the view. To Maureen’s practised eye he was looking for signs of surveillance. Then he stepped behind Milraud’s bench and seemed to be rubbing his hands up and down the Frenchman’s back. Maureen stared at them through her binoculars, thinking that in other circumstances this would look like some kind of gay encounter.

The newcomer slowly circled around the bench and sat down at the far end from Milraud. There was a pause and the two men seemed to be talking. Then Milraud got up and took off his raincoat, folding it and laying it on the bench. Again the smart young man appeared to be stroking Milraud’s body, his chest this time. Whatever was going on? After a short time, Milraud got up, put his raincoat on again and the two men conversed, apparently calmly. After a further ten minutes, the young man stood up and walked away down the hill, in the opposite direction from which he had come, and Milraud retraced his steps to the waiting car.

As Zara headed for the far gate, Maureen alerted the Ops Room, and as he left the park six of Maureen’s colleagues were on his tail.