‘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.’
Chapter 10
There was silence in the Control Room in the headquarters of the DCRI where Liz was sitting with her opposite number Isabelle Florian. They had just heard that not only had Numéro Un disappeared but Rabinac, Marcel and the others had also lost Numéro Deux in the crowd.
Isabelle ran her hands through her hair. ‘I’m sorry, Liz,’ she said. Her English was fluent. ‘We should never have had that young man on the team.’
The control officer broke in: ‘The trouble was that we had too many operations going on today and this one came in at short notice. Perlue passed all the training courses but it looks as though his temperament let him down in the excitement. I shall be sending him for retraining.’
‘Never mind,’ said Liz. ‘It happens to us all sometimes.’ Thank God Bruno wasn’t here, she thought. He’d certainly have made some scathing remark that would have ruined Anglo/French cooperation for good.
Isabelle sighed and said, ‘Well, let’s hope we’ve got some decent photographs. They’re just being printed up; let’s go back to my office where we can have a cup of coffee and look at them.’
Liz had been working with Isabelle Florian on and off for several years now. When she had first heard that her opposite number in the French Service was a woman, she had expected to encounter an epitome of Parisian style. She had been pleasantly surprised to find that Isabelle, a woman a little older than Liz, was more given to wearing jeans, a sweater and flat shoes than high heels and an elegant black number. Her pleasantly weathered face was normally bare of make-up and her hair was usually tied back in a ponytail.