‘You’re seeing Isabelle Florian. She’s very good. We’ll go over in my car.’
‘No need to bother you, Bruno. I’m sure you’re very busy. I can take a cab.’
‘I insist.’ When she was about to object, he gave her his sweetest smile. ‘Good French, have you, Liz?’
She hesitated. Six years at school, O-level, a reasonable reading ability, the usual difficulty with understanding the language when spoken at speed. ‘Pretty rusty,’ she admitted at last. ‘But presumably they’ll have an interpreter.’
He shook his head. ‘They’ll expect you to bring an interpreter. It’s a courtesy.’
Liz ground her teeth. He was right, of course – and it was essential that she and Mme Florian understand each other. If Bruno was the only conduit for communication, then Bruno it must be. She would have to brief him about Milraud, though she decided to tell him only what he needed to know. Experience had taught her that Bruno was not only exceptionally annoying but also not entirely trustworthy. It did not seem to her that the MI6 station in Paris needed to be involved in the detail of the Piggott case; who knew what Bruno might do with any information she gave him? He had a habit of putting his fingers into every pie that came his way.
An hour later they both sat in an office high up in the headquarters of the old Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire, the DST, the French counterpart of MI5, which had recently been merged with other intelligence departments to form the new DCRI. The building was a stone’s throw from the Seine, and through the window the Eiffel Tower was just visible, emerging from behind some buildings. Isabelle Florian was not at all what Liz had expected. Far from the chic Parisienne in a sharp black suit of her imagination, Mme Florian turned out to be a businesslike woman in her forties, wearing jeans and a pullover, with a careworn face and her hair scraped back in a band. It was clear that both Liz and Bruno were definitely overdressed for this visit.
Liz began by explaining the background to the enquiry about Milraud. Her French was good enough for her to understand that Bruno, to his credit, was assiduously translating exactly what she said. When she had finished, Isabelle Florian replied in a torrent of French lasting several minutes, hardly taking breath and not pausing for a moment for Bruno to translate.
When at last she slowed down and finally stopped, Bruno turned to Liz and said, ‘Well, the gist of all that is that we are in the wrong place. She says that they do have a very considerable file on Milraud here. He was involved in some sort of operation involving her service, but the foreign service, the DGSE, were in the lead, and she is not at liberty to reveal any details to us without their agreement. She has spoken to the DGSE about our enquiry and they have agreed to talk to us. She says she also thinks he has been under some sort of investigation by that service recently.’
Liz sighed. She knew that the Headquarters of the Direction Générale de la Sécurité Extérieure were on the other side of Paris, far out near the north-eastern suburbs. ‘Can you ask her who I should speak to there?’ she asked, a little impatiently.
Mme Florian understood her, for she replied in English, looking directly at Liz. ‘Monsieur Martin Seurat. He iz expectant of you.’
‘Bon,’ said Liz.
Florian smiled. She went on, ‘Il parle anglais couramment. Vous n’aurez pas besoin d’un interprète.’
‘Bon,’ replied Liz again.
They shook hands and thanked Florian as she showed them out of the building. ‘Bit of a drive now, I’m afraid,’ said Bruno as they stood outside the building. ‘The DGSE’s halfway to ruddy Charles de Gaulle.’
‘Well really,’ said Liz, now thoroughly annoyed. ‘I can’t think why she couldn’t have said all that over the phone to Judith days ago and saved me the trouble of coming here.’
‘Of course, she wanted to know why you were interested in him,’ replied Bruno patronisingly. ‘She wasn’t born yesterday, you know.’
‘Well, at least I won’t need to trouble you anymore. I’ll take the Metro from here.’
‘But Liz,’ he protested, and his surprise was a pleasure to watch. ‘You’ll need me. None of these buggers speaks English, and you don’t understand French.’
‘I understand enough to know I won’t need an interpreter. Isabelle Florian said Seurat’s English is fluent,’ and she stalked off towards the Metro station, leaving Bruno standing on the pavement with his mouth open.
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.