Present Danger

22

‘Enchanté,’ said the man, shaking Liz’s hand. ‘I am impressed you have found us all on your own. When I spoke with Isabelle Florian, she said you were accompanied by Monsieur Mackay.’

‘I decided I could manage without an escort,’ Liz said firmly. In fact it would have been much easier if she had allowed Bruno to drive her. The price of her irritation with him had been a rather complicated journey on the Metro involving two changes, and once she had had to use her fractured French to ask directions. But she had finally emerged successfully at Porte des Lilas to find the boulevard Mortier, a wide tree-lined avenue, bathed in sunshine.

The DGSE was an imposing compound of white stone buildings protected by a gatehouse manned by armed guards in military uniform, and by glittering razor wire running along the top of a high wall. A uniformed guard had led her to Seurat’s office, a small corner room with half windows overlooking a wide gravelled courtyard that looked as though it had once been a parade ground. Seurat was a man in his mid-forties, five or six years older than Liz. With his greying hair cut very short and his dark check tweed jacket and grey turtleneck, he had an indefinably military appearance. The office was furnished with well-used dark wood furniture and comfortable-looking brown leather chairs. Though Liz had felt overdressed in Mme Florian’s office, here she was glad she had taken trouble with her appearance.

‘I will see Bruno some other time, I’m sure,’ Seurat said now with a wide smile, motioning Liz to sit down. ‘He is much in evidence in our circles over here.’

I bet he is, thought Liz.

‘But Isabelle Florian tells me you are interested in Antoine Milraud. How can I help?’

‘I gather he is known to you?’

Seurat pursed his lips. ‘Yes. Bien connu. But what is your interest?’

‘We have recently come across him in Northern Ireland – in Belfast, where I’m based at present. You may have read that all is now peaceful in Northern Ireland and that terrorism and armed groups are a thing of the past, but that’s not entirely true. Though the IRA has declared a ceasefire, there are still some former members who want to continue the struggle. We call them breakaway groups and my service is responsible for intelligence work against these people. We’re looking at what we think may be one such group, led by a man we believe to be an American calling himself Seamus Piggott. He’s running a security business but we have recently been informed that it’s a cover for one of these breakaway terrorist cells. The same informant also told us that Antoine Milraud is in some way involved in all this. We traced him with the DCRI and my visit to you is the result.’

Liz spoke without interruption from Seurat, who was leaning forward in his chair, watching her face with close concentration. When she stopped talking there was a momentary silence, then he said, ‘Well, he’s a businessman who lives near Toulon.

Not to be confused with Toulouse – it’s a smaller town further west, along the coast towards Marseilles. He has an antiques business there, which is very successful; he also has a shop in London. And also, which of course is relevant to your story, one in Belfast.’

‘That’s an unusual trio of places. Are these businesses a front for something else?’

Seurat looked at her appraisingly. ‘You are very direct for an Englishwoman, Miss Carlyle.’

She smiled. ‘Not always. But I am finding this visit somewhat mysterious. When my colleague phoned, Isabelle Florian led her to believe this man Milraud was known to the DCRI, but she would only give us information face to face. When I arrived to talk to her, it turned out she had nothing to say, but she sent me to you. Now I’m here, but none the wiser. I cannot believe he is just an antique dealer.’

Seurat looked at his watch. ‘I don’t know about you, Miss Carlyle, but at this time of the day I am usually halfway through lunch. Why don’t you join me? It’s just around the corner.’

Her heart sank. She was getting nowhere. She was hungry, though. The breakfast in the hotel had been minimal – just a roll and coffee – and she’d had no dinner the night before. But she thought she could see what lay ahead – three courses, wine, a lot of small talk, and yet further run-around about the mysterious Milraud.

Seurat seemed to sense her frustration. ‘It will be possible to talk freely at lunch. And I am not trying to avoid your questions – well,’ he added with a grin, ‘I would like to but I will not. And in case you are wondering why I know about an antiques dealer from Toulon, Antoine Milraud has not always worked in that trade.’

‘No?’

‘No, he had a long career doing something different altogether.’

‘Is that how you know him?’

He seemed amused. ‘The last time I saw him, he was sitting in the very chair you are occupying.’

‘Oh, really?’ She wished this man would stop playing games and get on with it.

‘Yes, he used to come in for coffee and a chat almost every morning. You see, Antoine Milraud was once an officer of the DGSE. Perhaps now you can see why your enquiry is a little difficult for us. Shall we go to lunch?’

The Vieux Canard was a small bistro near the Metro, on rue Haxo. It had a front room, with several tables already occupied by locals, but Seurat led her into a small, dark room in the back which had one scrubbed wooden table and looked like the room where the family ate. The table was set for two. They were greeted by a petite black-haired woman in an apron, who kissed Seurat warmly on both cheeks before shaking Liz’s hand.

As they sat down Seurat said, ‘We all have our vices; mine is having a proper lunch. I eat here almost every day. Now, there is a prix fixe set lunch, or if you prefer, I can ask for a menu—’

‘No, no. The set lunch is fine,’ said Liz, hoping frog’s legs were not the plat du jour.

‘Ah, good choice. Believe me, if you leave yourself in the hands of Madame Bouffet you will eat well.’

They did, starting with a wedge of smooth pâté with brioche – simple but delicious – and while she ate Liz listened as Seurat told her about Antoine Milraud.

‘Antoine was a good friend for many years, but he was also what I think you might call a troubled soul.’

Liz smiled at the phrase, and Seurat grinned back. And suddenly, for the first time since she had landed in France, Liz felt relaxed. She had begun to enjoy the company of this man, so different from the arrogant Mackay. He seemed comfortable with himself, self-assured but without the need to dominate. Thank goodness she had left Mackay on the pavement outside the DCRI.

‘As I say, Milraud was troubled, discontented, moody. So one day when he announced, quite matter of factly, ‘I am not happy, Martin. I am not sure how much longer I can stay in this job,’ – well, franchement, I thought nothing of it. I had heard the same before from him, though later, recollecting, I realised he had never said things so openly. I can see now that Milraud had perhaps grown fed up with his small salary, just enough to let him live in a suburb miles from the office. And his wife has always had expensive tastes. You know the type perhaps?’

Liz smiled as he filled her glass from the pichet of red wine. Seurat went on, ‘Knowing her, I should say that she shared his discontent. Antoine was my friend, and I was loyal to him; at his best, he was a very good officer.’ He gestured with his hand. ‘Other times he was perhaps not so good. I think he was right to sense that his prospects for promotion were slight. He lacked balance… judgement perhaps is a better word.

‘Then Milraud went on an operation and disappeared. It has taken me seven years to piece together what happened, but I think at last I know the full story.’

Liz waited while Madame Bouffet took away her plate, replacing it with a fresh one bearing a simple steak and frites. A bowl of béarnaise sauce and a green salad in a white crockery dish were placed between them.

‘Milraud was assigned to an operation near the Spanish border, helping to infiltrate the Basque extremists who were operating with impunity on our side of the border. The Spanish government’s protests about this had at last reached receptive ears, and both the DCRI and the DGSE were – in theory at any rate – working together to flush out these people who were using France as a sanctuary.

‘Milraud was posing as an arms dealer, a middleman between the Basque extremists and some vendors from the Eastern bloc. This was after the end of the Cold War, of course, but before order had been restored in Russia. Milraud made the arrangements for an arms transaction, which would take place on neutral ground in Switzerland, near the French border.’

He sighed, cutting into his steak, then chewed thoughtfully. ‘But then someone talked too freely: just as the deal was about to be done, thirty armed officers of the Swiss Federal Criminal Police, alerted by a phoned tip off, swooped in. You know the Swiss – quiet, cautious, but very efficient.

‘Unfortunately the raid was premature – neither the guns nor the cash to be paid for them were discovered. The Swiss were livid, so much so that they deported both the Russians and the Basques summarily.

‘In the aftermath, the Russians believed the Basques had taken possession of the weapons but not paid the cash; equally, the Basques were furious, thinking the Russians had taken their money without delivering the guns.’

He gave a wry smile at the thought of the two parties left fuming. ‘Possibly because they were embarrassed at the hash they’d made of things, the Swiss authorities told us that they had managed to confiscate both arms and money. And I have to say that this is what many of my colleagues were happy to believe. Milraud disappeared and it has taken me quite a while to work out what he had done.’

A thin sliver of tarte tatin came next. Liz declined more wine and Seurat, pouring the remaining contents of the pichet into his own glass, went on, ‘Milraud seems to have held on to the three hundred thousand euros he had been holding as the escrow agent, and the small arsenal of automatic weapons, which put him in an unparalleled position to become an arms dealer for real.’

He took a mouthful of tart, then put down his fork. ‘And that is what he has been doing ever since. He is an international dealer in arms. With the exception of the Arctic, I doubt there is a continent where he has not done business. He has many enemies, not least the Russians and the Basques whom he cheated, but most of them are now either dead or in prison.’

‘And you can’t stop him?’

He gave a rueful smile, then said with sudden intensity, ‘We are investigating his activities. We are working with the authorities in Spain; in Colombia we liaise with the Americans and in Africa we work on our own. Now he has crossed your sights in the UK, I hope we will be able to work with you too. One day we will have enough to arrest him. But he was always clever, and he has lost none of his cleverness in his new profession.’

Dessert was cleared, and Liz pondered all this over coffee. It was an intriguing story, and she had no reason to doubt any of it. She sensed in Seurat’s account a feeling of betrayal, which she well understood.

‘So tell me, are you very often in France?’ he asked.

She shook her head. ‘Sadly not. I like your country very much – and I love Paris. But…’ and she waved a hand helplessly.

He laughed, a low chuckle she was coming to like. His looks would make him attractive to any woman, but it was his mix of the urbane and the unaffected that appealed to Liz. ‘And your husband? He likes Paris as well?’

He knows full well I’m single, thought Liz. He had greeted her as Mlle Carlyle when she first arrived and in any case she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. But she was flattered more than annoyed by the unsubtle query. ‘If I ever have a husband, he will be required to love Paris,’ she declared firmly.

‘Ha! That’s excellent. My wife cannot stand the place.’

‘Oh, really?’ said Liz, disappointed in spite of herself.

‘Yes, perhaps that is why she took herself off to her mother’s house in Alsace. I believe she is living there still,’ he said, flashing his infectious grin. Then he said more seriously, ‘It is funny that you should be here asking about Antoine. I was thinking of him just the other day.’

‘Why was that?’

He shrugged, nodding at Madame Bouffet as she plonked the bill down on the table. ‘How long have you been with your service?’

‘Long enough,’ she said, ducking the question, but it was in fact almost fifteen years now.

‘Then you’ll understand me when I say that sometimes we all have our Antoine days. That’s what I call them. The kind of day when everything seems… would the word be thankless? Yes. You work hard, the money seems very small, your personal life is absolument zero, n’est-ce-pas? Does that make sense?’

‘Of course,’ she said at once. She didn’t have a name for what he was describing, but it was familiar enough. Her remedy was to take an hour off and walk along the Thames as far as the Tate Gallery. Sometimes she joined the tourists and went inside and stood in the Pre-Raphaelite room, contemplating one or other of the paintings – by which time her mood had lifted, and she was keen to get back to Thames House.

‘It never lasts, and please do not misunderstand me – I like my work and there is not another job I would prefer.’ He added jokingly, ‘Not even selling arms. My point is, au fond, that in those moments I can see what came over Antoine, only for him it was a much more fundamental thing.’

‘You can empathise then?’

‘You mean “share” his feelings? Non!’ He was suddenly emphatic. ‘I can sympathise, perhaps, but that’s all. And not for long. For his so-called freedom, Antoine has helped many people to be killed. None of them he knew; none of them he ever saw. But it is killing just the same.’

Again there was that bitterness, which suggested a personal as much as professional resentment. Liz said nothing as Seurat paid the bill, then they walked slowly towards the Metro.

When they reached the station, she held out her hand. ‘That was a wonderful lunch. Thank you very much. And you have been extremely helpful.’

‘Excellent.’ He seemed genuinely pleased. ‘Now perhaps you can help me with two requests. The first is to please keep in touch as you investigate what Milraud is up to in Belfast. It goes without saying that if we can be of any assistance, you must not hesitate to say so.’

‘Of course,’ Liz said simply, wondering what the second request would be.

Seurat looked hesitant and for the first time less than completely self-assured. ‘The other is not perhaps not quite so professional. Would you have dinner with me this evening?’

‘Oh Martin,’ she said, suddenly realising they had slipped into first names during the course of their lunch, ‘I would love to. But I have to get back.’ An image of Jimmy Fergus flickered briefly in her mind.

‘Another time then,’ said Seurat mildly.

For all his good looks, there was something disappointed in this gallant acceptance of her rejection; it made Liz want to reassure him. She touched him lightly on the arm.

‘There will be another time, I’m sure,’ she said. ‘I have a feeling Monsieur Milraud will see to that.’