Shard said, “She’s anyone’s Achilles’ heel, is Annie.” He was pretty sure he hadn’t seen the last of her.
*
Hedge was near the end of his tether now. He ran on as the treadmill spun beneath his rapidly-moving feet. He had no breath even to repeat that he didn’t know anything. This was abominable torture, cruel and uncivilised. He was tormented. Sweat poured; his clothing was soaked. His heart thudded but so far had taken the strain. His face was like a beetroot.
The man Tex had watched for some while, grinning cynically, then he had called up the steps and another man had come down to take over. Tex had left. Tex had then crossed Paris to make a telephone call. The call was to the British Embassy. He spoke to Roberts-White. He said, “CAT.”
“Yes?” The call would be monitored automatically, but Roberts-White didn’t expect much. The conversation would be too brief.
“Agreement?”
“Yes. Full restoration.”
“Right.”
“What about our man?”
“He’ll be okay —”
“We want his immediate release.”
“You won’t get it. I said, he’ll be okay. But he stays till this thing’s over — just in case.” The call was cut. Roberts-White checked with the monitors. No luck. And already the caller would be legging it fast. He was. Tex went by Metro, back to Hedge’s revolving cage. As he came down the steps, Hedge was in extremis. An obvious case of imminent collapse, and Tex didn’t want him dead. Not just yet. He went across to the wall switch and flicked it and the treadmill stopped. Hedge lay inert on the treads, dripping sweat, speechless. Tex and the other man dragged him out. Gasping, he lay on the floor. No use questioning him; maybe, after all, he’d spoken the truth and didn’t know anything.
*
The international brass was assembled for the first of the series of meetings. These were taking place in the Foreign Ministry and the place swarmed with security men and uniformed police. Outside the security was heavy. The public was being kept well clear, no chances being taken. Official Paris was in something of a ferment; the British Prime Minister had thrown an enormous stone into the pool and the ripples would spread. President Ligot was in a bad mood when he opened the proceedings by making a lengthy speech of welcome to both east and west. He had been manoeuvred into a corner by Mrs Heffer and he was deeply regretting having caved in to her demands. The British were always a pestilential people, awkward, umbrageous over the smallest things, insular — almost more insular, if such were possible, ever since they had been admitted to the EEC. The words of President Ligot’s speech were impeccably friendly but were given the lie by his tone and his manner of delivery. He was off his stroke. Russian faces stared back at him, blank and formidable as if they had come — like the British on this occasion — to say no to everything and never mind the French willingness to be helpful and block any British opposition. And Madame Heffer kept catching his eye, making her feelings obvious, nodding sometimes her approval, at other times frowning and shaking her head and turning to whisper at her Foreign Secretary, who always agreed with everything she said.
She was very off-putting. President Ligot knew that this conference was going to turn sour, and he thanked God for the fact that his Prime Minister would be taking the brunt. As President of France he would not himself take part, but of course that didn’t mean he would escape later consultation and the necessity of making final decisions and giving the seal of his approval to the wretched mouthings and falsely friendly utterances that would rise like steam into the air of the Foreign Ministry … and so much depended upon what was to be decided. France was moving towards the Soviet Union, doing her best to increase EEC trade with Moscow, to reduce the arms build-up, to stop all testing of nuclear devices of a warlike nature, to share more and more their combined power resources — gas, electricity — all in the interest of world peace and prosperity. But the British took an opposite view, all on their own in the face of the views of the rest of the EEC countries. Madame Heffer had said so, making no bones about it.
In order to stress her position once again at the last moment she had insisted on what she called a working breakfast.
Breakfast! She had invited herself coolly to the Elysée Palace that very first morning of the conference, stealing a march on all the others, especially the Russians of course. For President Ligot breakfast, which he normally enjoyed in bed, had been ruined. The woman had gone on and on, making point after point, ticking them off on her fingers. Détente was one thing and was all very well up to a point; all-out trade and power sharing was quite another and would do no more than encourage and enrich the Soviet Union who would go on preparing for war behind the scenes and then attack the west with what the west had given them. On and on and on. It had been terrible — terrible.
It, the very recollection of it, was impeding President Ligot’s delivery. And it came to a dead stop when a person entered the chamber, clearly a person of some authority since he had been admitted by the security guards, and approached the British Prime Minister.
In the silence Mrs Heffer’s voice could be heard quite clearly. “What did you say, Mr Roberts-White?”
There was another whispered consultation. “Rubbish!” Mrs Heffer said. “I never go back on my word. I think everyone knows that. Of course, I can’t speak for others.” Suddenly she seemed to become aware that President Ligot had stopped. She rose to her feet, giving a charming smile. “I’m so sorry, M’sieur le President, I do apologise. Please go on.”
There was a stir among the delegates; Britain was not making herself popular, no bad thing for France perhaps. His face furious, President Ligot continued.
*
The Prefect of Police together with the head of the GIGN had called earlier upon the Ambassador. They had been polite but antagonistic behind the facade. The British were being a nuisance.
“It’s out of my hands, gentlemen,” the Ambassador said. “Yours too, I rather think. The order came from the President himself.”
“Under pressure, yes.”
The Ambassador shrugged. “It comes to the same thing, an order. Naturally, I back my Prime Minister —”
“Naturally, M’sieur. Also foolishly. The danger is so great. Your Superintendent Shard, he has spoken of a barge full of high explosive —”
“Yes. Not an unobtrusive weapon I would think. Easy to bowl out.”
“Possibly. And of course, as such, may not be intended. Superintendent Shard may be quite wrong. There are so many other possibilities than a barge. And we have found no such barge, despite a most thorough search.”
“Well, of course, they’ll be keeping it where it won’t easily be found,” the Ambassador murmured, adding quickly, “But I take your point. What else have you in mind?”
“As I said, so many things. The Ecole Militaire, perhaps —”
“Well guarded.”
“Yes, yes, M’sieur, but so is all Paris well guarded, all the relevant streets, the buildings … all except the river, which is guarded too, but is much more difficult to guard fully, do you not understand, M’sieur?”
The speaker, who was the GIGN man, was becoming almost hysterical, his voice rising with his busy shoulders. He went on, “I implore that you talk again with your Prime Minister. A change of heart —”
“No, that’s out,” the Ambassador answered briefly. “In any case, it’s not her who’s under threat, it’s the Russians. Frankly, I suggest you approach them. If they withdraw from the river, surely that solves the problem?”
“But no. No, no, no! That is to say, M’sieur, yes, they have been approached. They say, firmly, no. If the British are willing to take a risk by attending the night trip, then so are they, both then and in the afternoon. What the British Prime Minister does, so also will the Russian Foreign Minister. It is an impasse. Please, please to intercede … as a matter of the greatest urgency, at once!”
The Ambassador had had no choice but to agree to that, though he knew
very well what the answer would be. He had sent Roberts-White with his most urgent submission to the Prime Minister. After that initial meeting was over, Mrs Heffer was driven to the Embassy. The Ambassador diffidently tried to justify Roberts-White’s message, but was halted. Mrs Heffer was angry about Hedge.
She said, “My dear Stephen, don’t talk nonsense. I deprecate very strongly any suggestion that we should change the programme again, and of course if we did, then it certainly wouldn’t help Mr Hedge, you’ll agree —”
“Yes, I —”
“Thank you, Stephen. Not that I don’t think these people are absolutely dastardly. We must all do our best. But we simply can’t use poor Mr Hedge as a bargaining counter any further than he’s being used already by these wretched persons. I think that was your suggestion? Or one of your suggestions. That we should counter by not going along with them unless they released Mr Hedge as they’d promised?”
“Well —”
“Yes, it was your suggestion,” Mrs Heffer said accusingly, “and I don’t think it’s worthy of you, Stephen.”
*
At first Shard had no more luck than the police. There were a few river barges to be seen down towards Roilly; but the Paris section of the Seine had already been closed to all except essential traffic as a precautionary measure and almost the only movement was from police and military launches and the naval diving craft around the great supports of the bridges. None of the barges Shard found down river tallied with his knowledge of that used by Mikhail. Frankly, he was beginning to doubt his own hypothesis.
“Nothing would get through,” he said. “Not a hope!”
“What about the remote control idea?” Eve asked.
“Yes. I believed at first that would work and I suppose it still could.”
“Then why the doubt, sir?”
Shard shrugged. “It doesn’t quite tie up. Mikhail knows we’re all on the alert now, obviously. Even if, as I thought might be the case, he still means to go ahead on the basis that we’ll assume he won’t — if you follow — I doubt if he could get a barge through far enough. It could be blown by gunfire long before it got anywhere near the closed area. And in fact I imagine that’s what the French will have in mind to do.”
They moved on, back for the car that the Paris police had provided. They looked like any tourists anywhere, strung with expensive cameras, binoculars, transistor radios, taking an interest in all they saw. Shard looked and felt baffled, the only thing to do being to wait and see — which meant they would probably be too late. As ever, so many possibilities apart from the river, but it was the river that still nagged away at Shard’s mind. And Mikhail, naturally, had gone right to ground; the police hadn’t picked up a thing, no leads at all. Likewise Tex, who would himself be trying to get a line on the Russian. It was the same as it had been from the beginning: find one and in time you were likely to find the other.
They drove back into Paris.
It was afternoon now: just about twenty-four hours to go before the Russian delegation embarked near the Eiffel Tower. “We’ll just take a look around there,” Shard said. By luck he found a parking space and they left the car. They went down some steps, drifted along the quay, past where one of the pleasure craft was embarking passengers. There was an ice-cream stall, a hot dog stall, and children playing, French children. They climbed back to the upper level, walked beneath the immensity of the Eiffel Tower; looking up, Shard had a curious sensation of falling backwards. On down towards the Ecole Militaire past August-dry gardens, feet scuffing over sandy paths. At the Ecole Militaire Shard studied the facade, walked down the sides, round the back. Big buildings, a very large area to cover — and already a lot of obvious security men around.
Mikhail was going to have his work cut out. But there was still the river. Really, the Prime Minister was being bloody obstinate. Eve seemed to sense his thought. She said, “I wonder if she’s considered the Russians …”
“How?”
“That she’s putting them at risk, sir.”
“Only because they’re just as obstinate. It’s their choice as much as hers.”
“Yes, I suppose so. One thing, she’s got guts.”
“Her strong point. And I admit that for all we know she may be playing this right. By which I mean we’re very far from sure about the river, it’s just a hunch. On the face of it, as we’ve seen, it’s virtually impossible.”
“So are the buildings. As long as no-one’s been infiltrated.”
They went back to the car. They drove to the Embassy. Shard went up for a word with the First Secretary and found Roberts-White on the security line. He was waved to a seat.
Ringing off Roberts-White said, “That was the police. You asked for a check on someone called Stolnik.”
“Right.”
“They’ve found a Stolnik. Russian, not unexpectedly. Member of a dissident group, exiled around twenty years ago. Lived in Paris ever since — quite well-known in toddlers’ circles.” Roberts-White grinned. “Ivan Stolnik, Russian toymaker.”
“Toymaker?”
“It’s over his shop front, apparently. Little place with workshop — he makes the things — in the Rue Gaspard.” Roberts-White added, “I don’t get the toy part, but the rest fits — doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” Shard said. “It does. Toys — he’d need to make a living, that’s irrelevant.”
“So what d’you suggest? Have him brought in and put under the grill?”
“I don’t think so. Not yet. I’ll just carry out a recce first. Where’s the Rue Gaspard?”
“Montmartre. Not far from the Sacré Coeur.”
“I’ll go along and buy a toy,” Shard said. “I’ve a feeling we could be getting warmer.”
14
It was a grimy little shop in a grimy little street, and the fascia board with its message IVAN STOLNIK RUSSIAN TOYMAKER was faded almost into illegibility but perhaps it was a case of good wine needing no bush: there were three children with three adults in the congested premises. Shard went in with Eve; it was safe enough — Stolnik hadn’t seen him back in the boathouse any more than he’d seen Stolnik. Behind a counter was a thickset man somewhere in his fifties, wearing a grey moustache beneath a big nose and hard, flinty eyes. He looked what he evidently was: an old-fashioned craftsman. Behind him was his workroom, a litter of wood and leather and stuffing and dye and paint and so on, all the ingredients for making rocking-horses, dolls’ houses, arks, you name it, Stolnik made it and made it solidly, no modern trashy methods, no modern toys either.
One of the adults was an obvious grandmother complete with two poodles on leads. They were being a nuisance to everybody else but the grandmother was unperturbed; she was old France and haughty, scorning the canaille. Stolnik was being deferential. The old dame bought a rocking-horse for a rather uninterested small girl, paid for it as though throwing money to the poor, and Stolnik carried it out to an immense, hearse-like car waiting outside his shop on double yellow lines. There was a chauffeur, who got out to take delivery of the rocking-horse. Shard looked around: Stolnik was clearly a genuine toymaker whatever else he might be. Some of the toys were intriguing: boats for use in the bath, or on a pond … boats of all sorts, liners, sailing ships beautifully rigged — some of them were in bottles — warships with French colours, tiny rowing-boats, Chinese junks, even what seemed to be a US Coastguard cutter of pre-war vintage. And so many other examples of Stolnik’s skill: the dolls’ houses were exquisitely furnished with beds, wash-stands, dressing-tables, chairs, bedside cabinets and so on.
Stolnik came back. He said something in French to the other customers and went through to the rear of his premises, opening a door into a back yard. Shard looked through; then he stiffened and put a hand on Eve Brett’s arm.
“Let’s go,” he said.
“Not buying?”
“Not today,” he said. They left the shop, not too fast, with backward glances at the stock.
“What was it?” Eve asked a
s they walked along the street.
He said, “Little fat Annie. In the back yard.”
She drew a quick breath. “Did she see you?”
“No. I’m pretty sure not.”
“So what now?”
“Full police surveillance,” Shard said. “We won’t go in — not yet. But from now on out, they won’t move without being seen.”
*
The French co-operation was as expected: one hundred per cent. It was efficient, too. Stolnik’s premises were overlooked both back and front and surveillance could be carried out from the bedrooms of small hotels. Four plain clothes officers, two male and two female, booked into handy accommodation, as did Shard and his WDC. A strong squad of GIGN operatives was on close location and in radio touch with all the watchers and with HQ, and the latter was ready to send in reinforcements when necessary. Other agents were in the area, unobtrusively ready to put on tails when they got the word.
To Shard, it looked as though the net was closing. Or was about to. Just a question of time. Once Mikhail showed — if he did — then the moment would have come to go in. Meanwhile the first consideration was not to scare the birds away.
In position, the surveillance teams settled down for the watch. Shard and Eve were in a ground floor bedroom in one of the sleazy hotels facing the back of Stolnik’s premises, watching from behind net curtains, aided by powerful binoculars. It could be a long business, boring until something happened. All that afternoon nothing did.
As the day began to drift into evening, at 1930 hours, little fat Annie left from the exit from the back yard. That was a surprise; little fat Annie wasn’t the sort of girl any villain would let loose at such a late stage in the game. Shard, watching, saw one of the police tails latch onto her and saunter away behind. Three long hours later little fat Annie came back, this time with a different tail. The tail came into the hotel and was sent up. He reported that the girl had attended a disco, near the Champs Elysées. He couldn’t be sure there hadn’t been any contact. M’sieur, he said, would know discos. Noise and flickering colour, a press of bodies, all of them close. Shard knew, all right. And he made a fair guess that Mikhail was not on Stolnik’s premises. If he’d been around, little fat Annie wouldn’t have attended any discos, or anything else either, on her own. As he’d remarked earlier, the girl was a universal Achilles’ heel …
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