Close Call

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:

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.