As he reached the road there was a loud boom. The van’s petrol tank had just exploded. He gave a small, satisfied nod. That should take care of the evidence for good.
20
O’Reilly was restless. That bastard Piggott was always on his mind, and he was going to get him one way or another. But how? The meeting with the MI5 man had gone well. O’Reilly was pleased that he had stayed in control and the Englishman had got no more out of him than he’d wanted to give. But what would the Brits do with the information? Would they do anything? You couldn’t rely on the spies any more than you could on Piggott.
He needed to be sure. He wanted to tie Piggott up in knots; to worry the cold American sod; have him looking over his shoulder, not knowing who he could trust. Then he’d start to make mistakes and that would be the end of him.
But Piggott was clever. And he wouldn’t listen to anything O’Reilly said to him – especially not now that he’d as good as sacked him. He’d have to find another way to unsettle him and wipe that sneer off his Yankee face. But what way? An anonymous phone call had worked with ‘Simon Willis’ (or whatever his real name was). But Willis didn’t know his voice; he’d never spoken to him before. If he tried an anonymous call with Piggott, he might recognise the voice. And there wasn’t anyone else he trusted enough to make the call for him.
Then an idea came to him – an old-fashioned solution, the kind he liked best. No computers, nothing technical. And it should work.
His wife caught him by surprise. She was supposed to be out having her hair done, but there she was, standing in the kitchen doorway. ‘What’s going on?’ she said, pointing to the mess on the table where in half an hour she’d be wanting to give him his dinner.
‘Just give us a few minutes, will you? I’ll clear it all up, but I need to be private now. It’s work.’
‘Work?’ she asked with disbelief.
He put a warning hand up, and she knew better than to argue. She shut the kitchen door, and he could hear her go upstairs.
On the table he had a week’s worth of newspapers, some scissors, a few sheets of A4 paper, and a glue stick. He examined his handiwork so far:
YouR Man Milraud is a tout. Seen with BritISH
INTELLIGENCE at rendezvous IN LigonieL PARK.
Wat ch you R Back…
Thanks to the News of the World and the Irish News, his message could hardly be more anonymous. With luck, Piggott should read it as it was intended – a warning from a Republican sympathiser that his new French ‘mate’ wasn’t what he said he was. Piggott would certainly take it seriously: it was just too likely to O’Reilly’s mind that Milraud, a foreigner, was a plant.
At the very least it would get Piggott thinking about the Frog. Which meant that sooner or later the two worlds would collide: with luck Simon Willis would be contacting the Frenchman before he left Northern Ireland, and when Piggott got the message he would be watching for him as well. The two strings O’Reilly had pulled would start winding round each other; if there was any justice in the world, they would leave Piggott trapped in the knot.
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.