The Geneva Trap

by Stella Rimington

  He knocked and a voice called out, ‘Entrez.’ As Martin stepped inside he was struck by the contrast with the shambles of the open-plan exterior. This office was tidy and well decorated, with a new thick carpet, a modern desk, two matching chairs and a small conference table.

  Its occupant, Maurice Fézard, was equally well turned out: tall, well dressed in a dark blue suit and tie, and polite, standing up to shake hands with him. Fézard had been notified of his visit by a call from Isobel in Paris, and judging by his helpful manner Martin guessed that a small bomb had been put under him. He lost no time in pleasantries, saying only, ‘Monsieur, it is a pleasure to meet you,’ before continuing, ‘I may have some news to report. I assure you that we have been most thorough.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Martin. ‘I hear you are known for your diligence.’

  Fézard waved the politesse away. ‘As I told Isobel Florian, we felt badly about losing this Russian, though mobile surveillance in this city is very difficult and to find him again after losing him was never going to be easy. Unfortunately the Swiss gave us very little notice and it was a particularly busy day. So I hope you will understand. Since Madame Florian phoned me, however, we have had some success.’

  ‘I’m most grateful. Tell me what you’ve found – or what you haven’t found.’ Martin was pleased to find the local man had not taken offence at the pressure that had been applied from Paris.

  Fézard lit a Gitane, after offering one to Martin who turned it down. He was pretty sure smoking was not allowed in the office, which suggested someone confident of his senior status. Blowing out a long plume of smoke, Fézard said, ‘Marseilles is a big town, as I’m sure you know.’

  ‘I was stationed here for six months in the nineties.’

  Fézard nodded. ‘Ah, then, you understand. Let us take a little stroll, Monsieur; I have something to show you.’

  Martin was beginning to grow impatient with how long it was taking Fézard to reveal what he had learned, but felt he had no choice but to go along. They left Police Headquarters and walked into the nearby area of the Old Port, crossing La Canebière, which was warming up under the noon sun. Fézard led the way through a maze of small interconnected streets, alleys and entries little wider than a Vespa scooter – which seemed to be the favoured mode of transport in this part of the city.

  Suddenly, ahead of them Martin could see the aquamarine of the Mediterranean, behind the walls that encircled the harbour. When they were still a street away, Fézard stopped. He pointed. ‘Do you see the tabac up there?’

  Looking ahead, Martin spotted the shop’s sign. Fézard said, ‘Yesterday one of my men spoke to the proprietor. I have had four teams on the case ever since Madame Florian rang. We have been combing every inch of the neighbourhood.’ Knowing Isobel Florian was tough as nails with anyone not adhering to the highest professional standards, Seurat could well believe this was the case.

  Fézard continued: ‘He thought he recognised the photo the Swiss sent us of this man Kubiak. He said the man came in every now and then to buy Russian cigarettes. This is a neighbourhood of very mixed nationalities, so the shop owner stocks all sorts of tobacco. He said there wasn’t any particular pattern to the man’s purchases – though he saw him at least every month or so. Sometimes he’d come in for a few days in a row; sometimes just once.’

  And? thought Martin impatiently. A stakeout of the shop might take weeks to get results.

  Fézard said, ‘You are wondering why we haven’t put men to watch the shop, Monsieur. We have – and we’ve also had a lucky break. The proprietor mentioned that he happened to see this Kubiak somewhere else one morning. The owner had left his shop in the care of his assistant while he went to meet a friend in a café round the corner. They were sitting at a table on the pavement when the Russian walked past and went into a building just opposite the café. Come.’

  He led Martin down the street to a corner with another road. Fézard said quietly, ‘It’s the second building on the right across the street.’

  Looking around casually, Martin noted the building, a large brick edifice that had once been a warehouse – with thick external pillars, wide sash windows, and a protruding hook on its top fifth floor that must have been used in earlier centuries to pulley goods up and down. The ground floor now had a plate-glass entrance, giving on to a foyer with two lifts at the back.

  ‘It’s been done up,’ said Fézard, ‘like a lot of the old buildings here. Inside there are twelve companies renting space – the building’s bigger than it looks. But let’s move on and I’ll tell you what we know about it.’

  They walked around the corner and headed back towards headquarters. Martin asked, ‘Do you know which company Kubiak was visiting?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid we only know that he went into the building. We’ve checked out all the companies. None is Russian, and most of them are local, well-established companies trading in fairly unexciting things – olive oil, a shipping company, a wine middleman, that sort of thing. There’s one Parisian company who have taken space – they sell specialised insurance for corporations. The firm’s fifteen years old and privately owned by Frenchmen, and it seems completely reputable. Then there’s a Serbian company, who interest us – but not for reasons that will interest you.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘At first we thought they might fit the bill – except for not being Russian. A new office, cash down for the lease.’

  ‘But . . .?’

  ‘They don’t seem to have any clients, at least not in the normal meaning of business. Their staff turnover in the last six months has been extraordinary – all women, who come from Serbia to work and then . . . disappear.’

  ‘Not a straight enterprise?’

  ‘No – they’re crooks all right. But not spies. It’s pretty clear they’re trafficking in women. Distasteful, but more our problem than yours.’

  Fézard continued: ‘We also found two hi-tech new arrivals. One is a database specialist company with three employees – a Belgian, a German, and a Frenchman. They have money from Oracle behind them and are doing R&D which our own boffins say is legitimate.’ He shrugged.

  ‘And the other?’ asked Martin, more out of politeness than real interest. It was Russians he was looking for.

  ‘Some South Koreans. Not surprising – there are substantial Far Eastern interests here.’

  ‘What do they do?’

  ‘It’s a consultancy. They’re advising Far Eastern enterprises on business opportunities in France and other parts of Europe. It seems quite above board. There’s a South Korean Trade Office here and they had references from them when they took the offices.’

  Martin sighed. He knew Liz would be disappointed, and having spent time on the case, he felt deflated himself. But there must be something going on that they hadn’t yet discovered. Kubiak was not coming repeatedly to Marseilles for the benefit of his health.

  Fézard said apologetically, ‘I am sorry if your trip has been a waste of time, Monsieur.’

  Martin shrugged and smiled wanly. ‘Well, it is good to see Marseilles again,’ he said, wondering if it would be another ten years before he returned.

  Chapter 31

  It was a long drive to Cahors but Martin’s spirits rose as he drove, and by the time he reached the ancient town, sitting as it did in a hollow with the River Lot surrounding it on three sides, he was feeling cheerful. He knew the town well – he and his ex-wife had once owned a small gîte about fifteen kilometres away, where they spent the occasional weekend (occasional because it was a long way from Paris) and their longer holidays. On Saturdays they would come to shop in the outdoor market here, though in later years Martin usually found himself going there alone, since his wife had seemed less and less interested in his company. Later he discovered it was because she preferred the company of someone else.

  He walked up one of the narrow side streets to Boulevard Léon Gambetta, a tree-lined street full of chemists and parfumeries and expensive clothes sho
ps. Even in late morning it was crowded, with shoppers on the pavements and cars moving at a snail’s pace up the steep slope. A few hundred yards along he came to a large open square on the side of which was a café with tables set outside, their umbrellas up against the sun. This far south, it was warm even in early spring.

  Isobel was sitting at a table inside, sipping a cappuccino and reading a paper. She was dressed for the part in jeans and a fisherman’s sweater, with sturdy hiking boots. Though she had a handsome face and a good figure, unusually for a Parisienne she seemed never to give a fig about her clothes.

  ‘Bonjour,’ he said, sitting down beside her and beckoning the waiter. Martin ordered his coffee and sat back comfortably.

  ‘Any luck in Toulon?’ asked Isobel, aware of his ongoing search for Antoine Milraud.

  ‘Nothing doing,’ he said with a shrug. ‘Not that I expected to find him. But there is a bit to report from Marseilles.’

  ‘So old Fézard has pulled his finger out.’ But before Martin could go on, a young man approached their table.

  ‘Ah, here’s Philippe,’ she said. Martin stood up and shook hands, as Isobel explained that Philippe was a DCRI officer stationed in Toulouse, an hour’s drive away. It was he who had been looking into the anarchist communards, and had managed to plant an informant in their ranks.

  ‘Tell Martin about your source,’ she said.

  ‘Well, it’s a couple actually. I recruited them about a year or so ago when they were picked up on a minor drugs charge in Paris. I intervened and pointed them at the commune. We were getting increasingly concerned about the activities of this bunch. My two were accepted quite easily – they had the right background to make them convincing. They’ve worked their way in now. Done very well.’

  ‘Yes,’ Isobel broke in, ‘you’ve done a good job with them.’

  Philippe smiled at the compliment but then more soberly said, ‘Only one of them is coming today; his girlfriend’s staying at the commune. He may be quite nervous, though I’ve warned him that a couple of colleagues are coming to this meeting. He’s desperately afraid of their cover being blown. He thinks the commune members would hurt them badly if they found out he was working for us. Now, before we go to see him, is there anything in particular you want to know? If you don’t mind, I think I’d better ask the questions. He’ll be anxious enough as it is.’

  Martin said, ‘There’s an English woman who left the commune recently and went back to Britain. Her name is Cathy – she has a little boy, though the father disappeared some years ago. Someone from the commune has been to see her – we know his name, René, though I haven’t got a surname. Apparently, he tried to get money from her. I’d like you to ask Marcel about this René.’

  ‘I know about René. He’s become the leader of the commune, even though their anarchist principles mean they shouldn’t have a leader – so much for ideological consistency. He’s a veteran of left-wing movements; I bet he knew more about Marxist dogma when he was twelve than the average French boy knows about football.’

  ‘A lifer,’ said Isobel.

  ‘That’s right, and it’s in the family. His father’s a politics lecturer with Maoist tendencies.’

  ‘That sounds very dated,’ observed Martin.

  ‘That’s because it is. The father was involved in the Paris student protests in ’68, and got caught up in a demo in the Latin Quarter. He was hit by a CRS van and has been in a wheelchair ever since.’ Philippe shrugged. ‘It seems that he lived his politics after that only vicariously – through his son René.’ Philippe looked at his watch. ‘We’d better be going. I’ve arranged to meet Marcel in a safe house near the cathedral. There’s a market today in the square, so no one’s going to notice us.’

  They paid and left the café, then crossed the boulevard and walked down a cobbled side street towards the cathedral square. A child straddled a bicycle in front of them, and overhead a woman leaned out of a window, shaking out a tablecloth. Reaching the square, they found the market at the height of its activity. Long trestle tables laid with coloured cloths displayed the wares of the region: cheeses, cured meats, olives, breads, patisserie, and bottles of the local ink-black wine. The aisles were packed with customers – local housewives with their woven willow baskets, tourists holding cameras – all of them tasting, haggling, paying, then moving on to the next row of stalls.

  In a corner of the square a pizzeria was open for early lunch business. Martin and Isobel followed Philippe across the market throng and through the restaurant’s open door. The owner stood behind a zinc bar, wearing a white shirt and apron and polishing a wine glass with a tea towel. Seeing Philippe, he gave a nod, and raised his head almost imperceptibly towards the upper floors of the building.

  The staircase was at the back of the restaurant next to the toilets. At the top, across the landing, was a closed door. Without knocking, Philippe opened the door and went in, Martin and Isobel right behind. A young man in corduroys and a blue denim jacket was standing by the window on the far side of the room, which was dominated by a round table in the centre. Turning around as he heard them come in, he looked alarmed.

  ‘These are the colleagues I mentioned,’ said Philippe. ‘It’s all right. They are friends. It’s quite safe.’

  He motioned Martin and Isobel to sit down. The young man, Marcel, hesitated then joined them, though he kept his chair back from the table – as if he wanted to be able to escape at any moment.

  ‘So,’ said Philippe, ‘you said last time that things were stirring at the commune. What’s happened?’

  Marcel breathed out noisily. ‘It’s all quite tense. The G20 are meeting next month in Avignon, and we had made plans to protest. Half of Europe should be there,’ he added, with a mixture of defiance and pride. ‘But we’ve been having arguments about what exactly we should do.’

  ‘Do?’

  Marcel shrugged. ‘René is not content with merely demonstrating. He wants some action.’

  ‘What kind of action?’ asked Philippe.

  ‘He wants something more explosive,’ said Marcel, and grinned at his little joke until he saw the stony expression on Isobel’s face. He said hastily, ‘René has been trying to buy guns in Marseilles, and I think explosives too.’

  ‘Why Marseilles?’ asked Philippe.

  Marcel raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you serious? You can buy anything in Marseilles – from a kilo of coke to a Vietnamese girl with one leg.’

  Philippe asked, ‘Are the others happy about this?’

  ‘Of course not. Marguerite told me all the girls are worried sick and I know that many of the men have doubts. But they’re keeping their doubts to themselves.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They’re scared.’

  Philippe scoffed. ‘Of René? You told me he’s no bigger than a flea.’

  ‘But Antoine is,’ said Marcel, and it was obvious that he was scared too.

  ‘Tell us about this Antoine. Who is he?’

  ‘That’s a good question. From things he’s said, I’m sure he’s done time in prison. His politics are positively primeval – but he’s not there to discuss Bakunin with the rest of us.’ Marcel shook his head. ‘He’s violent. One of the girls criticised something he said, and he gave her a slap. When Jean – that’s one of the older guys – objected, Antoine punched him in the gut so hard he couldn’t breathe for over a minute. Jean’s face was blue.’

  Martin caught Philippe’s eye, and he gave a tiny nod. He said to Marcel, ‘Was there a woman called Cathy living in the commune when you arrived? An English woman.’

  Marcel gave a knowing smile. ‘Funny you should ask. She left before I came, but René and Antoine are going to see her next week.’

  ‘Why?’

  Marcel gave his little smile again. He didn’t say anything, but rubbed his first two fingers against his thumb meaningfully, in the universal sign for money.

  ‘Why would this woman give them any money?’

  This time there was nothing s
mall about Marcel’s smile, and he laughed out loud. ‘For the same reason we do what René tells us to do. Because if she doesn’t, Antoine will knock her teeth out.’

  Chapter 32

  ‘Your favourite Englishman has just rung, Andy. He’s coming over.’

  ‘Oh, hell. What does he want?’ growled Andy Bokus. It was a wet, windy Thursday morning. Just the kind of day that made him resent all the more being stuck in London for another year.

  ‘Said it’s urgent,’ Bokus’s assistant replied. ‘I think it’s about those traces you sent to Langley. The guys on secondment to the MOD. And he’s bringing Liz Carlyle.’

  ‘Oh, make my day, why don’t you? Her I can stand – just. But not when she hunts with Geoffrey Fane.’

  ‘Well, they’re on their way. I’ve put the files down in the Bubble.’

  He’d already told Liz Carlyle on the phone that Langley had chased up the vetting and found nothing out of the ordinary. They’d also been looking closely at their end of the Clarity programme, but without more information about what they were looking for, they hadn’t unearthed anything suspicious. So what was this new flap about? Maybe the Brits had discovered something else.

  Twenty minutes later, with the courtesies over (which always took time with Geoffrey Fane), they repaired to the Bubble in the basement of the Embassy. Bokus sat down across the table from Liz Carlyle, with Fane at the end. Carlyle had said nothing during the initial banter between the two men, and Bokus thought she looked tired, which also made her look younger and more vulnerable. He might have found her attractive if she hadn’t been such a pain in the ass.

  ‘Well, what can I do for you two this time?’ he asked.

  Carlyle replied, ‘It’s about the Clarity programme and my Russian source Bravado.’

  ‘I’ve had the vetting checked like you asked,’ Bokus cut in, ‘and Langley are happy with it. I’ve got the files here; you’re welcome to look at them. There was a high-level briefing for the Joint Chiefs of Staff last week about the progress of the Clarity programme. It’s going pretty well – there’s been the odd technical hitch but I suppose that’s not surprising with an experimental system. Your information got a mention too, and believe me, it was taken very seriously. But without more detail there’s not much that can be done at our end, since your source said the mole was in the British MOD. Can’t he be more specific?’