But what was on Milraud’s mind now was how to get out of this situation where he was party to the abduction of a British intelligence officer. And possibly to something worse than abduction, if he could not control Piggott/Purnell.
It was nearly dark now and getting colder. As Milraud turned to go back inside, he saw the American coming towards him from the direction of the house. His leather jacket could not have given him much protection from the wind but he walked upright, with his long strides, tall and lean, apparently impervious to the cold. It struck Milraud that the man seemed indifferent to so many things: clothes, food, women – all the aspects of life that Milraud enjoyed most. He knew there were things his associate cared about – there had to be, since nothing else could explain some of his actions. But the Frenchman did not know what those passions were, so buried were they beneath an almost perversely cold demeanour.
Nor did he think of trying to find out. Milraud was in a business where you did not enquire about your clients’ motives or even their actions. You supplied them with the goods they requested and what they did with them was their own business. But now, through no fault of his, he found himself in a situation he had so far successfully avoided – involved in someone else’s affairs.
Piggott said, ‘There’s a simple way of dealing with this, you know.’
Nothing was simple anymore, thought Milraud, but he made a show of being willing to consider this. ‘What’s that, James?’
‘Let Gonzales take care of the problem. There’s no danger then of Willis ever talking. And we don’t have to worry about what to do with him.’
Milraud looked out to sea, rough enough that day to keep most craft firmly on shore. He thought he saw a tanker chugging south and east towards England, but in the evening light he could not be sure.
‘Too late for that,’ he said tersely, though just the idea of killing Willis made him feel sick. Milraud had a large, successful business which was now in peril; the last thing he needed was the prospect of a life sentence for murder. He said to Piggott, ‘Listen James, it’s bad enough as it is, thanks to Gonzales. Willis’s people will soon find out that he came to see me, if they didn’t know beforehand, which I expect they did. It won’t take them long to get onto you too, once they start investigating, and then they’ll be swarming over this place. Even as things stand I have to get out of here and I suggest you do too.’
He wondered how long he could count on Mrs Carson back at the shop to play dumb. Probably longer than he feared, but not long enough – for his business at any rate. He’d have to write off the shop and stay out of Northern Ireland. Otherwise, the authorities here would be all over him. Whereas if he could get back to France, slipping under their guard, it would be a while before they caught up with him. Eventually, the British would find him in Toulon and send someone over. But they had no evidence of anything substantial, certainly not enough even to try to extradite him.
He should be all right. Unless he listened to Piggott. The man had drawn him into some vendetta of his own, and Milraud resented that. Phoning him with that preposterous accusation that Milraud was working with MI5, and now suggesting a course of action that would have the British authorities down on them both like a ton of bricks. Because if the British could connect him with the murder of Willis they would never let the matter go: Milraud would be looking around corners for the rest of his life. The British were tenacious bastards. Especially if you hurt one of their own.
But recriminations had been pointless then and were pointless now, as well as potentially dangerous – Milraud sensed an only half-submerged menace in the American which he was wary of. If they were ever to cross swords, Milraud wanted it to be on his home ground. Another good reason for his plan.
‘We should make Plymouth on the first day and I reckon we’ll be through the Straits of Gibraltar in five days and in Toulon within a week. It gives us some breathing space.’
‘But why take this extra baggage with us?’ asked Piggott. ‘Wouldn’t it be simpler if we just left it behind? Especially since it couldn’t tell any tales.’ His voice was soft but insistent.
‘Listen,’ Milraud said sharply, realising he was betraying his own agitation. ‘If we kill an MI5 man, we’ll put everything at risk.’ He looked at Piggott and what he saw chilled him. The man was completely unmoved, undeterred. Something was driving him that Milraud hadn’t understood.
Piggott went on: ‘What are we going to do with him in France, then? You can’t exactly put him to work in your shop. And are we going to keep him drugged for six days on the boat?’
‘We may not need to. We can lock him up. He can’t go far at sea. Think of him as a commodity,’ said Milraud, sticking to business. ‘This particular commodity has considerable value.’
‘To MI5? You think we can ransom him to his own people?’
‘That’s possible, but I wouldn’t advise trying. Much better to sell him off to the highest bidder. Let someone else hold him. That will take the heat off us soon enough.’ Milraud had contacts in several countries who might well be pleased to buy Willis. He’d make an attractive hostage. ‘But meanwhile, we need to move our commodity to a safe place.’
‘When do you want to leave?’
‘We need to move fast. The next high tide is just after midnight. We should go then.’
Piggott thought about this, but his face showed no expression. Finally he gave a curt nod in agreement. ‘I’ve some business to finish up before we leave. I’ll go with Malone back into town to bring down another “commodity”. But this one will be staying here. Permanently.’
And seeing the set expression on the other man’s face, Milraud decided not to argue. At some point he would have to find a way of betraying Piggott to the authorities, or else Piggott would drag him down with him. But Milraud was going to pick the time and place for that. Meanwhile he was looking forward to being back in France.
31
Paddy O’Brien was pulling him a second pint of stout. Normally Dermot would have contented himself with a single glass, since there might have been more work to be done that evening. But now it wasn’t clear there was any work to do at all, whatever the hour. He’d been by the office of Fraternal Holdings twice in the last three days, but there was no sign of Piggott, and no instructions left for Dermot either. He’d caught sight of Terry Malone, but when he’d asked where the boss was, Malone had shrugged and said he had no idea, though Dermot didn’t believe him. There was something going on, he was sure of that, but whatever it was he, Dermot, wasn’t part of it. At least there was no sign of that bloody Frenchman, Milrow or whatever his name was. Dermot hoped his letter had had its intended effect.
He looked around him at the half-dozen regulars in the pub, chatting quietly or reading the papers, and wondered if this was going to be his new office. He hoped not, but for the time being he had to sit tight, and if only to pass the hours a second pint had seemed advisable.
He’d had the first sip when ‘Danny Boy’ suddenly blared out from his trouser pocket. Paddy O’Brien looked startled, then chuckled as he realised the source of the sound. Dermot extracted his mobile and answered with a voice he hoped sounded stone cold sober.