Not to be confused with Toulouse – it’s a smaller town further west, along the coast towards Marseilles. He has an antiques business there, which is very successful; he also has a shop in London. And also, which of course is relevant to your story, one in Belfast.’
‘That’s an unusual trio of places. Are these businesses a front for something else?’
Seurat looked at her appraisingly. ‘You are very direct for an Englishwoman, Miss Carlyle.’
She smiled. ‘Not always. But I am finding this visit somewhat mysterious. When my colleague phoned, Isabelle Florian led her to believe this man Milraud was known to the DCRI, but she would only give us information face to face. When I arrived to talk to her, it turned out she had nothing to say, but she sent me to you. Now I’m here, but none the wiser. I cannot believe he is just an antique dealer.’
Seurat looked at his watch. ‘I don’t know about you, Miss Carlyle, but at this time of the day I am usually halfway through lunch. Why don’t you join me? It’s just around the corner.’
Her heart sank. She was getting nowhere. She was hungry, though. The breakfast in the hotel had been minimal – just a roll and coffee – and she’d had no dinner the night before. But she thought she could see what lay ahead – three courses, wine, a lot of small talk, and yet further run-around about the mysterious Milraud.
Seurat seemed to sense her frustration. ‘It will be possible to talk freely at lunch. And I am not trying to avoid your questions – well,’ he added with a grin, ‘I would like to but I will not. And in case you are wondering why I know about an antiques dealer from Toulon, Antoine Milraud has not always worked in that trade.’
‘No?’
‘No, he had a long career doing something different altogether.’
‘Is that how you know him?’
He seemed amused. ‘The last time I saw him, he was sitting in the very chair you are occupying.’
‘Oh, really?’ She wished this man would stop playing games and get on with it.
‘Yes, he used to come in for coffee and a chat almost every morning. You see, Antoine Milraud was once an officer of the DGSE. Perhaps now you can see why your enquiry is a little difficult for us. Shall we go to lunch?’
The Vieux Canard was a small bistro near the Metro, on rue Haxo. It had a front room, with several tables already occupied by locals, but Seurat led her into a small, dark room in the back which had one scrubbed wooden table and looked like the room where the family ate. The table was set for two. They were greeted by a petite black-haired woman in an apron, who kissed Seurat warmly on both cheeks before shaking Liz’s hand.
As they sat down Seurat said, ‘We all have our vices; mine is having a proper lunch. I eat here almost every day. Now, there is a prix fixe set lunch, or if you prefer, I can ask for a menu—’
‘No, no. The set lunch is fine,’ said Liz, hoping frog’s legs were not the plat du jour.
‘Ah, good choice. Believe me, if you leave yourself in the hands of Madame Bouffet you will eat well.’
They did, starting with a wedge of smooth pâté with brioche – simple but delicious – and while she ate Liz listened as Seurat told her about Antoine Milraud.
‘Antoine was a good friend for many years, but he was also what I think you might call a troubled soul.’
Liz smiled at the phrase, and Seurat grinned back. And suddenly, for the first time since she had landed in France, Liz felt relaxed. She had begun to enjoy the company of this man, so different from the arrogant Mackay. He seemed comfortable with himself, self-assured but without the need to dominate. Thank goodness she had left Mackay on the pavement outside the DCRI.
‘As I say, Milraud was troubled, discontented, moody. So one day when he announced, quite matter of factly, ‘I am not happy, Martin. I am not sure how much longer I can stay in this job,’ – well, franchement, I thought nothing of it. I had heard the same before from him, though later, recollecting, I realised he had never said things so openly. I can see now that Milraud had perhaps grown fed up with his small salary, just enough to let him live in a suburb miles from the office. And his wife has always had expensive tastes. You know the type perhaps?’
Liz smiled as he filled her glass from the pichet of red wine. Seurat went on, ‘Knowing her, I should say that she shared his discontent. Antoine was my friend, and I was loyal to him; at his best, he was a very good officer.’ He gestured with his hand. ‘Other times he was perhaps not so good. I think he was right to sense that his prospects for promotion were slight. He lacked balance… judgement perhaps is a better word.
‘Then Milraud went on an operation and disappeared. It has taken me seven years to piece together what happened, but I think at last I know the full story.’
Liz waited while Madame Bouffet took away her plate, replacing it with a fresh one bearing a simple steak and frites. A bowl of béarnaise sauce and a green salad in a white crockery dish were placed between them.
‘Milraud was assigned to an operation near the Spanish border, helping to infiltrate the Basque extremists who were operating with impunity on our side of the border. The Spanish government’s protests about this had at last reached receptive ears, and both the DCRI and the DGSE were – in theory at any rate – working together to flush out these people who were using France as a sanctuary.
‘Milraud was posing as an arms dealer, a middleman between the Basque extremists and some vendors from the Eastern bloc. This was after the end of the Cold War, of course, but before order had been restored in Russia. Milraud made the arrangements for an arms transaction, which would take place on neutral ground in Switzerland, near the French border.’
He sighed, cutting into his steak, then chewed thoughtfully. ‘But then someone talked too freely: just as the deal was about to be done, thirty armed officers of the Swiss Federal Criminal Police, alerted by a phoned tip off, swooped in. You know the Swiss – quiet, cautious, but very efficient.
‘Unfortunately the raid was premature – neither the guns nor the cash to be paid for them were discovered. The Swiss were livid, so much so that they deported both the Russians and the Basques summarily.
‘In the aftermath, the Russians believed the Basques had taken possession of the weapons but not paid the cash; equally, the Basques were furious, thinking the Russians had taken their money without delivering the guns.’
He gave a wry smile at the thought of the two parties left fuming. ‘Possibly because they were embarrassed at the hash they’d made of things, the Swiss authorities told us that they had managed to confiscate both arms and money. And I have to say that this is what many of my colleagues were happy to believe. Milraud disappeared and it has taken me quite a while to work out what he had done.’
A thin sliver of tarte tatin came next. Liz declined more wine and Seurat, pouring the remaining contents of the pichet into his own glass, went on, ‘Milraud seems to have held on to the three hundred thousand euros he had been holding as the escrow agent, and the small arsenal of automatic weapons, which put him in an unparalleled position to become an arms dealer for real.’
He took a mouthful of tart, then put down his fork. ‘And that is what he has been doing ever since. He is an international dealer in arms. With the exception of the Arctic, I doubt there is a continent where he has not done business. He has many enemies, not least the Russians and the Basques whom he cheated, but most of them are now either dead or in prison.’