But as they walked back to Isabelle’s office Liz couldn’t help remarking on the change in Isabelle’s appearance. Today she looked far more as Liz had originally imagined her. The jeans and sweater had been replaced by a black skirt and tights and a silk blouse the colour of ripe cherries. The ponytail had gone and her hair had been cut stylishly short.
When she complimented Isabelle, the Frenchwoman said, ‘I never feel quite comfortable dressed up like this, but I’ve been promoted and they told me I had to dress the part. I have to go to more meetings and talk to government ministers and my bosses thought I looked too workmanlike.’
‘Well. It suits you. Not that the other didn’t,’ added Liz hastily.
Isabelle smiled. ‘And you, Liz. You look flourishing. How is our friend Martin?’
‘Well, thank you. We’ve just been on holiday. The curious yellow shade of my face is the remains of a tan.’
Liz had first met Martin Seurat when she had been working with Isabelle on the case of a dissident Irish Republican group. The leader of the group had kidnapped one of Liz’s colleagues, Dave Armstrong, and taken him to the South of France, where Martin Seurat had been instrumental in saving his life.
Liz now stood by the window in Isabelle’s office, admiring the glimpse of the Eiffel Tower, which was just visible from the corner of the window. A girl came in clutching a sheaf of A4-sized photographs that she put down on Isabelle’s desk, saying cheerfully, ‘I think you’ll be pleased with these.’
As she went out Isabelle said, ‘Come and have a look, Liz. Let’s hope they are some use.’
The two women leaned over the desk, their heads close together, looking at the picture on top of the pile. It was of Numéro Un, the European, as he walked towards the rendezvous with the Arab. At the same moment, Isabelle exclaimed, ‘It can’t be,’ and Liz said, ‘Isn’t that…’
They were both staring at the picture in astonishment.
Isabelle nodded. ‘Yes, it’s Antoine Milraud.’ A former officer of the DGSE, and a former friend and colleague of Martin Seurat, Milraud had been dismissed from the DGSE after an operation had gone disastrously wrong. Milraud was suspected of taking money that had gone missing from an arms deal, but he had disappeared before he could be prosecuted.
Martin Seurat had made it his mission to capture Milraud; he blamed him for having betrayed both their friendship and the Service they both worked for. It later became apparent that Milraud had used the money he’d stolen to launch his own career as an arms dealer, where he skirted the border of legality until he crossed it with a vengeance. The Irish Republican who had kidnapped Dave Armstrong had been one of his customers and Milraud had assisted in the kidnap.
That was several years ago, and Milraud hadn’t been seen in France since – though there had been a host of rumoured sightings, including one of his wife, Annette. Reliable reports had come in that Milraud had continued acting as a middleman for arms sales; he had been linked to major transactions in a range of conflict-torn territories from Central Africa to Chechnya.
‘Why would he resurface in Paris now?’ asked Liz. ‘He’s taking a hell of a risk.’
Isabelle pursed her lips, and started to push her hair back on one side, until she remembered that she no longer had long hair. Her hairdresser had told her that the style was chic for a woman of a certain age. Isabelle had liked the result, though she had bristled at being called ‘a woman of a certain age’. She said to Liz, ‘It must mean this is a big transaction. Only a lot of money would get Milraud to take such a risk.’
‘Mmm,’ said Liz, unconvinced. ‘It still seems very strange to choose Paris when they could have met in any city in the world.’
Isabelle looked at Liz. She found her English colleague’s habit of looking for hidden meanings unsettling. She added, ‘I’ll need to tell Martin.’
‘Of course,’ said Liz, though there was resignation in her voice.
Isabelle said hesitantly, ‘Is he still so… obsessed with Milraud?’
Liz sighed, and Isabelle added gently, ‘It’s understandable, Liz. The two of them worked closely together. That must make Milraud’s betrayal very painful.’
‘I know, but I had hoped he was getting over it. There’s been no real sign of Milraud for several years. Just rumours and false leads. Martin used to jump at each one, but the last time there’d been a possible sighting he didn’t seem to feel the need to go rushing off after it. I thought that was a good sign.’
‘This is different, alas.’ They looked through the sheaf of photographs. ‘I’m afraid there can be no doubt. It is Milraud. Which makes it especially galling that he got away.’
Liz shrugged. ‘These things happen.’
Isabelle admired her equanimity. Had their roles been reversed, she liked to think she would have stayed equally calm. But she wouldn’t have bet on it. ‘Anyway,’ she replied. ‘we will do our very best to find him. I’ll get these photographs out straightaway. We’ll check the airlines, the railway stations, the hotels. But I’m afraid he’ll be long gone by now.’
Liz nodded. ‘Unless you think there’s anything I can do here, I need to be getting back to London. I want to send the pictures out to Bruno Mackay. He’s gone out to Sana’a to join the CIA man there whose source gave us this lead. I’ll send the pictures of Numéro Deux too. Maybe someone out there can identify him, though it’s pretty unlikely. He could be absolutely anybody.’ Then, seeming to sense Isabelle’s gloom, Liz added, ‘Cheer up, Isabelle. You may get a break. If Milraud was stupid enough to show up in the Luxembourg Gardens, he may have made some other mistakes as well.’
Chapter 11
Three hours later Isabelle was still in the office, Liz having long gone. Isabelle would have liked her to stay longer, though she knew that there was nothing she could do by sticking around. She liked her English colleague, not least because she was a woman who seemed comfortable with herself. She was intelligent and very focused but she was also attractive and easy to get on with. Too many of Isabelle’s female colleagues seemed so intent on proving to their male colleagues that they were their equals that they lost all femininity.
It also pleased her to see Liz so happy in her relationship with Martin Seurat, even if inevitably it made her a little jealous. Isabelle was divorced. Her former husband was a diplomat; their two careers just hadn’t fitted together and Isabelle had not been prepared to give up hers for her marriage. And nowadays she worked such long and irregular hours that there didn’t seem much prospect that she’d find a successor to him.
She was married to her work, she thought to herself, imagining her own obituary. How ghoulish – she decided to stop feeling sorry for herself and get on with finding Milraud.
Ten minutes later, as she was wishing for the hundredth time she hadn’t given up her beloved Gitanes Blondes, there was a knock on her door.
‘Entrez,’ said Isabelle mildly, thinking it was time she went home. Her young son was at her mother’s apartment; he often spent the night there when Isabelle was working late. So often in fact that Isabelle sometimes wondered guiltily if he would grow up thinking he had two mothers. But it wasn’t too late to collect him now.
Her assistant Madeline came in, looking unusually excited. ‘I think we’ve found something. They have been checking the hotels of the inner arrondissements and they’ve discovered where Milraud was staying.’