‘Good God. I don’t imagine that’s the safest place for a woman left on her own a lot of the time, as I imagine you are.’
‘Venezuela’s a very beautiful country,’ she replied defensively.
‘I should think it needs to be – to compensate for all the other disadvantages.’
Annette laughed out loud. A good sign, thought Seurat; he had always been able to make her laugh in the past. He went on, ‘The good news is that you won’t be going back there for a while. The bad news is that it could be a long, long while. That’s up to you.’
‘So what do you want me to do?’
‘Encourage Antoine to work with us. That’s all.’
She was still thinking about this when there was the sound of footsteps in the corridor, then a card was inserted in the lock and the door swung open. Antoine Milraud walked into the room. When he saw Seurat he didn’t seem surprised.
‘So it’s you on my tail, is it? I wondered who had stirred up the Germans. I knew we’d meet again one day.’
Seurat had to admire the man’s sangfroid: Milraud had always been nerveless, even in the most hair-raising situations. But then Seurat supposed you had to be if you were going to live on the run. He looked at his former colleague, the man who had been his trusted friend and had become his nemesis, haunting his dreams, filling his head with thoughts of revenge, and said, ‘I doubt this is how you envisaged our meeting.’
Milraud shrugged, and sat down heavily. ‘Some days life is a bowl of cherries; some days the bowl holds only a few stones. I knew someone was onto me, but I congratulate you on your efficiency. I was hoping I was a few hours ahead.’
He started to reach into his jacket pocket, but Seurat put up a warning hand. ‘Don’t even think of doing something stupid. I’m armed and downstairs in the lobby there are two members of the local police and an officer of the BfV.’
‘I was going for a cigarette actually,’ said Milraud, bringing out a pack of Disque Bleus and a gold lighter. He inhaled greedily, then blew out a long funnelling plume of smoke. ‘So, what happens now?’
Seurat outlined the position. If Milraud cooperated Seurat would do everything he could to get a reduction in his sentence. There was no point in pretending that Milraud wouldn’t be serving time, and some hefty time at that, but equally, his assistance, if it led to other convictions, would be taken into account by the court. If he didn’t cooperate, then he could expect the maximum sentence. Seurat said softly, ‘I think we’re talking twenty years.’
Milraud nodded and stubbed out his cigarette. ‘That was very well put, Martin. You haven’t lost your touch for clarity. But I have to say I doubt there’s much really that you will be able to do for me. I’ve rubbed too many noses in the dirt. Even if your offer is sincere – and I have no reason to doubt that it is,’ he said with a wry smile, ‘I have to question your ability to see it through. I’m cooked, as the Americans like to say, though if I take my punishment like a man I will have a chance of breathing free air again some day. If I squeal, then I have very little chance at all.’
‘So you won’t cooperate?’
‘Regretfully, no. Believe me, the sort of people I work with are not the kind one wishes to annoy.’
‘What a pity,’ said Seurat. It was clear to him that Milraud was far more scared of his arms-dealing associates than he was of the French authorities. Seurat decided it was time to play his trump card, and hoped that Annette would play her role. He said firmly, ‘In that case you leave me no choice. I will have you placed under arrest… and Annette as well.’
‘Annette?’ Milraud’s voice rose in alarm. ‘Why Annette? She’s done nothing.’
‘On the contrary, she’s helped you virtually every step of the way. Beginning with your escape from France. It’s a serious offence and she will do serious time.’ He paused to let this sink in, then added, ‘I think I can guarantee ten years minimum.’
Milraud stared at him, his eyes widening in shock. There was a loud gasp. Annette had her hand over her mouth and she was shaking her head almost theatrically in disbelief.
Whether the appalled look on her face was genuine or not, it was doing the trick. Milraud stood up and rushed to her, throwing a comforting arm around her shoulders. ‘It’s all right, chérie.’
Annette started to cry, tears the size of raindrops rolling down both cheeks, her sobs growing louder despite her husband’s efforts to console her. ‘Ten years,’ she wailed, as Seurat watched, mentally giving her performance five stars.
His arm still around Annette, Milraud looked at Seurat with undisguised hatred. ‘I tell you, she has nothing to do with my affairs, and I don’t believe you have any evidence that she has. So leave her out of this.’
‘It’s too late for that, Antoine. As for evidence, don’t worry: we have a strong case – for starters, just travelling on a false passport will get her behind bars. You should have thought of that before you had her fly from Caracas.’
Annette had moved away from her husband’s embrace and sat down on the bed, where she began to rock backwards and forwards, still sobbing heavily. When Milraud moved towards her she pushed him away, and Milraud’s face fell.
He turned to Seurat angrily. ‘What would it take for you to drop charges against her?’
‘The truth. All of it. Let’s start with why you came to Berlin.’
Chapter 18
Back in Thames House in London Liz Carlyle was feeling out of sorts. An investigation with which she was vitally concerned was unravelling without her and she didn’t like it. She was happiest when she was at the centre of events; watching other people take the decisions and viewing the action from far away was not how she liked things to be.
She had been unimpressed by the surveillance efforts of the French, and from what she had heard of the Berlin operation it hadn’t been much better. ‘A4 could knock that lot into a cocked hat,’ she’d said to Peggy Kinsolving.
Geoffrey Fane had been unusually quiet too, and there had been no response from Bruno Mackay in Sana’a, after she’d sent him the French surveillance pictures of the young Arab in the Luxembourg Gardens. She wondered if MI6 were doing something they were not telling her about.
To make matters worse, she was anxious about Martin Seurat. She knew how obsessed he was with Antoine Milraud. She knew how personally he had taken the betrayal, and she was worried that he might not be able to keep his cool when faced with Milraud again.
In spite of all her frustration, some progress had been made in London. Peggy had managed to put together details of the route taken by the private jet boarded by Milraud’s contact, the elegant black man, at Tegel airport in Berlin. The Germans had not asked for any special monitoring of the flight as they had no case against the passenger, so Peggy had worked from the records, something she loved doing.
‘Smart plane,’ she observed. ‘Pilatus PC-12, registered in Russia. Even hiring that costs a bomb. We’re dealing with real money here.’
The plane had landed in Rotterdam to refuel and taken off straight away, heading for Prestwick Airport. No one had disembarked at Rotterdam. Twenty minutes into the flight, the pilot had requested permission to divert to a small private airfield in North Wales. Inquiries at the airfield afterwards by the local Special Branch had established that the plane had indeed landed there; that one passenger had got out and had been picked up by a private car. No one had asked to see his passport. The duty desk clerk had been confused and had thought that the plane had flown from Prestwick, and yes, the manager of the airport thought that the passenger might have been a tall black man, and no, nobody had noted the registration number of the car.