Present Danger

by Stella Rimington

  An hour later Danny was driving through County Armagh. This was border country, traditionally sympathetic to the IRA. He took a spur, halfway between Portadown and Armagh, that led to the old Moy Road and stopped a mile short of a farm, where he’d been taught how to fire a pistol by three veteran Provos. That one didn’t jam, he thought bitterly, wondering how Sean was getting on. If they’d been given a decent weapon, they’d have done the RUC bastard properly – he’d never have had the chance to fire himself.

  He turned now onto an old cart track, half overgrown and muddy from the winter rains. It wound up a tree-lined hill, ending suddenly in a small sandy lay-by sheltered from the wind by the side of the hill; more importantly, it was sheltered from view by a small copse of young oaks.

  Once it had been the site of a crofter’s cottage, but the remaining structure was crumbling and decrepit now, more like a cairn of loosely piled stones than a cottage – only a few tiles and some bare timbers hinted that it had once had a roof. Behind it the ground tilted sharply downward. Locals had used the slope as a tip, dumping old refrigerators and broken bikes, even a sofa, its stuffing billowing out through a tear in the fabric. Wedged halfway down, against the trunk of an ancient tree were the charred, skeletal remains of a burned-out car.

  Danny parked the van at the top of the slope. He was anxious to get the whole business over with, and to get away before anyone came. He checked the inside before getting out, to make sure he’d left nothing important in there. His fingerprints and Sean’s would be all over it – as well as their DNA, which the forensic wizards would find, given half a chance.

  But they wouldn’t have that chance. He took a full can of petrol out of the van and sloshed half of it over the floor at the back, then over the cab, making sure the vinyl seats were soaked. Standing back he struck a match from a box of Swan Vestas, and tossed it onto the driver’s seat. It went out as he threw it. Anxious now, he took a dirty handkerchief out of his trouser pocket and dangled the corner into a pool of petrol lying on the cab floor. Then, retreating a little, he lit the handkerchief and tossed it into the open window of the cab. Flames jumped up with a sudden whoosh, and he backed off a good twenty yards, and watched as the fire spread. Soon the whole van was ablaze.

  He set off down the winding path, heading for the old Moy Road, where he’d hitch a lift into Moy itself. No fear of anyone who might pick him up in this area talking to the PSNI. From there a minicab could take him to Portadown, where he’d catch a train for Belfast and home. A long roundabout journey, but necessary if the evidence of the botched assassination was to disappear for good. Thank God he’d booked the whole day off; no one at work would be wondering where he was. His mother would be worried, but he didn’t dare ring her. Not after that rocket from Piggott. She’d known he was up to confidential business anyway.

  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, wear
ing 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.

  ‘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 gl
ad 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.

  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.’