Present Danger

21

Two days later, Liz woke up in a small hotel in the boulevard Malesherbes, just round the corner from the British Embassy. She had arrived late the previous evening to a wet and windy Paris, having eaten nothing since breakfast but a stodgy sandwich, purchased on her ‘no frills’ flight from Belfast. She had slept uneasily in the hot, noisy bedroom, dreams of Jimmy Fergus lying wounded on his drive all mixed up in her mind with the recorded voice of Brown Fox warning Dave of plots to kill policemen and MI5 officers. Now, as she contemplated a day to be spent in the company of Bruno Mackay, a black cloud of gloom descended.

Liz had crossed swords with Bruno Mackay several times during her career. With his public-school manner, his perfectly cut suits and his permanent tan, she would have liked to be able to treat him as a bit of a joke. But she had to admit to herself that for some reason, a reason she was not prepared to examine, he got under her skin. Even now, just thinking about him, she felt her throat tightening with irritation.

Determined not to be outdone by Bruno or Mme Florian, Liz had brought her smartest outfit, a designer suit bought in the sale at Brown’s in South Molton Street. The dark navy-blue put colour into her cool grey eyes and with its tight skirt and short jacket the suit emphasised her slim figure. To complete the picture she had a pair of black patent leather shoes with, for her, quite high heels. The whole outfit had actually been bought for Joanne’s funeral; as Liz dressed, she found herself wondering how Charles was coping on his own, and wishing she could see him.

It was clear from the hissing of the car tyres on the busy street outside her window that the rain of the night before was still falling heavily. Thank goodness she had brought a mac, though she realised with dismay that she had forgotten her umbrella.

Half an hour later, as she walked the short distance to the embassy, the rain had turned to a light drizzle, just enough to plaster her hair damply to her head. Sitting in the embassy waiting room, she mopped drips from her forehead with a handkerchief.

The door opened and in sauntered the familiar tall, lean figure of Bruno Mackay, wearing an impeccably cut grey flannel suit, dark blue shirt and a tie covered with large blue and yellow flowers.

‘Morning Liz,’ he said breezily and before she could prevent him, leaned down to plant a kiss on her cheek. He stood back and casting an eye over her bedraggled hair remarked, ‘Raining, I see. Never mind. We’ll dry you out and I’m sure you’ll come up a treat.’

Liz clamped her jaw shut. She wasn’t going to let Bruno annoy her. After a moment, pointing to his tie she asked lightly, ‘Are you moonlighting as a television newsreader?’

Bruno grinned, conceding a temporary draw.

He led her up the sweeping flight of stairs, then along a carpeted corridor lined with portraits of kings and statesmen.

He flung open an enormous mahogany door and showed her into a spacious, high-ceilinged room. Across from the door, a large antique desk faced inwards, centred between two wall-toceiling windows overlooking the back garden of the embassy, a sweep of lawn ending in a dense copse of trees. It was hard to believe they were a stone’s throw from the Champs Elysées.

Bruno turned and smiled at Liz, as if to say ‘not bad, eh?’

‘Do sit down,’ he said pointing to an Empire-style chair. ‘What can I get you to drink? Coffee, tea, or something stronger perhaps?’

Tea and bone china cups and saucers bearing the royal crest came in on a tray, brought by a young woman who had eyes only for Bruno. When she’d left, Liz took a sip of her tea, then said, ‘As you know Bruno, I have an appointment at the DCRI in an hour.’

‘Ah, the new Direction Centrale du Renseignement Intérieur,’ Bruno said rapidly, showing off his impeccable French accent. ‘Excellent. When you’ve finished your tea, let’s move into the station and we can talk about it.’

‘Isn’t this your office?’

‘Come, come, Liz. You’ve been in an MI6 station before. This is the head of chancery’s office. He’s away at present. Our premises are much more workmanlike.’ And getting up, he led her along the corridor to a blank door with a keypad beside it. Tapping in some numbers he pushed the door open and ushered her into a corridor, off which led a row of offices furnished with familiar grey steel desks and chairs and combination-locked cupboards. He ushered her into one of the offices, and they both sat down.

‘You’re seeing Isabelle Florian. She’s very good. We’ll go over in my car.’

‘No need to bother you, Bruno. I’m sure you’re very busy. I can take a cab.’

‘I insist.’ When she was about to object, he gave her his sweetest smile. ‘Good French, have you, Liz?’

She hesitated. Six years at school, O-level, a reasonable reading ability, the usual difficulty with understanding the language when spoken at speed. ‘Pretty rusty,’ she admitted at last. ‘But presumably they’ll have an interpreter.’

He shook his head. ‘They’ll expect you to bring an interpreter. It’s a courtesy.’

Liz ground her teeth. He was right, of course – and it was essential that she and Mme Florian understand each other. If Bruno was the only conduit for communication, then Bruno it must be. She would have to brief him about Milraud, though she decided to tell him only what he needed to know. Experience had taught her that Bruno was not only exceptionally annoying but also not entirely trustworthy. It did not seem to her that the MI6 station in Paris needed to be involved in the detail of the Piggott case; who knew what Bruno might do with any information she gave him? He had a habit of putting his fingers into every pie that came his way.

An hour later they both sat in an office high up in the headquarters of the old Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire, the DST, the French counterpart of MI5, which had recently been merged with other intelligence departments to form the new DCRI. The building was a stone’s throw from the Seine, and through the window the Eiffel Tower was just visible, emerging from behind some buildings. Isabelle Florian was not at all what Liz had expected. Far from the chic Parisienne in a sharp black suit of her imagination, Mme Florian turned out to be a businesslike woman in her forties, wearing jeans and a pullover, with a careworn face and her hair scraped back in a band. It was clear that both Liz and Bruno were definitely overdressed for this visit.

Liz began by explaining the background to the enquiry about Milraud. Her French was good enough for her to understand that Bruno, to his credit, was assiduously translating exactly what she said. When she had finished, Isabelle Florian replied in a torrent of French lasting several minutes, hardly taking breath and not pausing for a moment for Bruno to translate.

When at last she slowed down and finally stopped, Bruno turned to Liz and said, ‘Well, the gist of all that is that we are in the wrong place. She says that they do have a very considerable file on Milraud here. He was involved in some sort of operation involving her service, but the foreign service, the DGSE, were in the lead, and she is not at liberty to reveal any details to us without their agreement. She has spoken to the DGSE about our enquiry and they have agreed to talk to us. She says she also thinks he has been under some sort of investigation by that service recently.’

Liz sighed. She knew that the Headquarters of the Direction Générale de la Sécurité Extérieure were on the other side of Paris, far out near the north-eastern suburbs. ‘Can you ask her who I should speak to there?’ she asked, a little impatiently.

Mme Florian understood her, for she replied in English, looking directly at Liz. ‘Monsieur Martin Seurat. He iz expectant of you.’

‘Bon,’ said Liz.

Florian smiled. She went on, ‘Il parle anglais couramment. Vous n’aurez pas besoin d’un interprète.’

‘Bon,’ replied Liz again.

They shook hands and thanked Florian as she showed them out of the building. ‘Bit of a drive now, I’m afraid,’ said Bruno as they stood outside the building. ‘The DGSE’s halfway to ruddy Charles de Gaulle.’

‘Well really,’ said Liz, now thoroughly annoyed. ‘I can’t think why she couldn’t have said all that over the phone to Judith days ago and saved me the trouble of coming here.’

‘Of course, she wanted to know why you were interested in him,’ replied Bruno patronisingly. ‘She wasn’t born yesterday, you know.’

‘Well, at least I won’t need to trouble you anymore. I’ll take the Metro from here.’

‘But Liz,’ he protested, and his surprise was a pleasure to watch. ‘You’ll need me. None of these buggers speaks English, and you don’t understand French.’

‘I understand enough to know I won’t need an interpreter. Isabelle Florian said Seurat’s English is fluent,’ and she stalked off towards the Metro station, leaving Bruno standing on the pavement with his mouth open.