The Geneva Trap

by Stella Rimington

While Woods relayed the new instructions to the team, Peggy went back to her desk to set about identifying the minicab company and driver.

  Ten minutes later the new arrival stood up, leaving Park Woo-jin sitting on the bench, and walked back to the waiting minicab. The Peugeot saloon drove away from the park, unaware that the innocuous builder’s van a hundred yards behind, which now contained all three of the surveillance team, was following it. The minicab made its way to the Hogarth roundabout where it joined the A4 heading west.

  Traffic was heavy, but Marcus Washington managed to stay close, though he had to cut up a dawdling commuter near Hounslow and drew a horn blast from an irate lorry driver as he speeded past him just as he was about to overtake. When the Peugeot turned off at the Heathrow exit, Washington was two cars behind it and he managed to stay in that position all the way in through the tunnel. But as they emerged into the airport proper, he was caught by a red light, which he wasn’t able to jump. He could see the Peugeot ahead as it moved into the left lane for Terminal Two. He waited impatiently until the light turned green then shot ahead, but suddenly had to jam on his brakes for a little saloon car that had stalled at the very beginning of the entrance road to the terminal.

  The air in the van turned blue as the three occupants cursed in unison. Duff Wells leaped out and ran to the car where he found a near-hysterical young woman at the wheel. She seemed to have run out of petrol. With the help of a policeman, who had come to investigate, he pushed the little car over to one side. Leaving them to sort out the problem, Wells leaped back into the van, which was now blocking a long line of hooting cars.

  Washington drove fast along the drop-off lane, hoping to catch a glimpse of the man getting out of the minicab. But there was no sign of him or the blue Peugeot, which must have dropped him and driven straight off. There was little chance of finding the man in the crowded terminal, especially as they had no idea what flight he was catching.

  Just as they were preparing to admit defeat and sign off the job, a further instruction came through from Wally Woods. Peggy had traced the owner of the Peugeot and found out that he was employed by a minicab company based in Chiswick.

  Trees Taxis occupied a small basement underneath a hairdresser’s shop in Chiswick High Road. A hand-painted sign hung on the railings outside. Maureen Hayes climbed out of the van a hundred yards past the premises and walked back. Down a short flight of concrete steps she found an open door and a very small room with a counter barring the entrance. A fat Sikh in a blue turban was leaning his elbows on an open appointments book on the counter, while behind him a much younger counterpart, sitting at a switchboard, was talking into a microphone.

  ‘Yes?’ said the Sikh.

  ‘I’m from the Home Office,’ announced Hayes, waving a pass. ‘I would like to speak to the owner.’

  ‘That’s me,’ said the Sikh, ‘and him,’ he added, indicating the young man behind him. ‘He’s my son.’

  ‘Are you Mr Tree?’ asked Hayes doubtfully.

  ‘No, ma’am. I bought the business off Mr Tree five years ago when he retired. How can I help the Home Office? You’ll find all our drivers are fully registered and licensed to drive public carriage vehicles. We are all British citizens. No illegal immigrants here.’ He laughed at the very idea.

  ‘Do you have an office where we could talk privately, Mr . . .?’

  ‘Gurpal Singh. No, I don’t. This is our entire premises. But I have no secrets from my son.’

  ‘One of your drivers, in a blue Peugeot, took a fare to Acton Green about two hours ago. He waited for him and then drove him to Heathrow. Terminal Two, I believe.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. It was Charlie did that job. For the Chinese bloke. What’s he call himself, Mo?’ He threw the question over his shoulder to his son.

  ‘Mr Dong,’ replied Mo. ‘He rang last night. Same as before. Pick up at Heathrow, drive to his hotel in town, maybe drive here and there. Then, after a day or so, drive him back to Heathrow.’

  ‘How long has he been a customer?’ asked Maureen.

  ‘He first booked us about six months ago. Could be a bit longer. Comes every now and then. Is there something wrong with him?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet. One of my colleagues may want to come and talk to you further. Perhaps ask you to let us know next time he rings – and please don’t tell him we’ve been asking about him. We’ll be in touch. Thanks for your help.’

  ‘It’s always a pleasure to help the Home Office,’ replied Gurpal Singh with a grin.

  Hayes turned to climb back up the steps. Then something occurred to her.

  ‘When you pick him up at the airport, does he give you the flight number?’

  ‘Yes – in case the flight’s delayed.’

  ‘So where’s he fly in from?’

  Mo answered, ‘It’s always the same. Air France from Marseilles.’

  Chapter 43

  Mrs Milner liked to rise early and walk her dog before too many people were about. She lived in a mansion flat off Victoria Street, and had done so for more than three decades – so long that she could ignore the new owner’s edict against pets. Milly wasn’t any trouble anyway. Her barking could be insistent, but except for Wednesdays when the rubbish collection men were just below Mrs Milner’s window, Milly confined her yaps to her daily walks outside.

  Most of which were in nearby St James’s Park, which she loved – Milly that was, since Mrs Milner had always thought it slightly overrated. Too many tourists and flowerbeds and not enough open space; to her way of thinking the park was too neat. It was really just an adjunct to Buckingham Palace at one end, and all those Government Departments in Whitehall at the other. She often recognised well-known people on its paths, but this did not impress Mrs Milner. As she and Clemency Robinson, her oldest friend, often remarked to each other, they had been brought up in an era when to appear in the newspapers – except on the occasion of one’s birth, marriage, and death – was not a desirable state of affairs.

  This morning Mrs Milner had set out with Milly for their daily constitutional slightly later than their normal time – it was ten-past eight, she’d noted as she left her flat. Crossing Birdcage Walk she had seen nothing unusual, and as she slowly made her way towards Horse Guards there was the usual collection of MPs and civil servants on the paths. Not many tourists around yet, though she noticed a diminutive Chinese-looking man.

  At the east side of the park she carefully crossed Horse Guards Road, but only after first stopping furtively to allow Milly to do her business. Not for Mrs Milner the new practice of bringing a plastic bag along for collection purposes – Heaven forbid – but at least she was selective about where Milly was allowed to go. And who would think seriously of fining a woman in her mid-eighties for the indiscretion of her dog?

  It was as she entered the Horse Guards parade ground that she saw the unusual event ahead of her. The small Chinese-looking gentleman she’d noted earlier was twenty yards in front. It was funny seeing him striding through the park – not like a tourist, more like a civil servant on his way to work. Not that Mrs Milner thought there was anything wrong with that. She liked people from the Far East, having lived for five years in Hong Kong with Mr Milner. There was a courtesy about them she approved of. Call it old-fashioned, but Mrs Milner liked it just the same.

  Nearing the arch at the far end of Horse Guards Parade, the man quickened his pace slightly – and it was then that Mrs Milner saw the two other men appear, as if from nowhere. Neither of them looked as though they belonged in this part of London – they were both wearing weatherproof jackets and to Mrs Milner’s mind looked like toughs. They seemed to be working in tandem, making a beeline for their target from either side of him.

  What were they going to do to him? Maybe they were part of one of the pick-pocketing gangs she was always reading about. In any case, the Chinese-looking fellow seemed utterly unaware of their approach. Or of the woman dawdling by the arch – Mrs Milner had seen her before, walking her dog, whi
ch Mrs Milner had avoided since Milly had never got on with Schnauzers. This woman was looking at the little man as well. Surely the two toughs weren’t going to harm the fellow here in broad daylight. Though in London these days, who could be sure? Maybe she should call out to warn him.

  Then the little man seemed to sense the presence of the other two. He turned around, and when he saw them he started visibly. He tried to make a break for it, sprinting off back across the parade ground, but they were too quick for him – far too quick. In seconds each of them had grabbed an arm, and they held the little fellow between them. One of them was speaking as they began leading him across the parade ground towards a car parked, quite illegally, on the roadside.

  The odd trio passed within spitting distance of Mrs Milner, and in the eyes of the Chinese gentleman all she could see was fear. She wanted to stop them all, ask the men just what they thought they were doing, perhaps threaten to call the police. But there was something in their eyes that said no one should interfere with them. Least of all an old lady walking her dog.

  Chapter 44

  The mas where the communards lived, twenty kilometres south-west of Cahors, must originally have been the residence of a minor aristocrat. There was still an ancient orchard in the walled garden next to the residence, and the house itself, though almost derelict when they had first taken it over, would once have bordered on the grand.

  Marcel and Pascale, as a couple, had been allocated one of the large rooms on the first floor. It might once have been a grand salon, with its high ceiling and two tall shuttered windows that faced south towards the kitchen garden and the pretty meadow beyond. But like the rest of the house, it had suffered from years of neglect: the ornate cornice that ran around the ceiling was cracked and bits were missing where the damp had come through; the parquet floor had lost some of its pieces and the upright metal rods that held the shutters in place were brown with rust. But young and in love, Marcel and Pascale saw the beauty not the rot. They ignored the missing bits of cornice, they’d covered the holes in the floor with cardboard, and Marcel had put enough oil on the shutter bolts to mute all but the mildest squeaks.

  Even this late in spring the evenings in the Quercy could be very cool, and with only one blanket for their rusty bedstead, the couple had made a ritual of jumping into bed together, huddling under the solitary blanket, and cuddling each other for warmth. But tonight when Pascale was ready to get into bed, Marcel remained standing, looking moodily out of the window, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked, shivering in the bed.

  ‘We have a problem, I fear.’

  ‘We do indeed,’ said Pascale. ‘I’m freezing! And standing out there, you must be, too.’

  Marcel took a last drag on his cigarette and chucked it out of the open window. It was not something one would do in August, when the grass lay parched and white under the scorching sun, but the spring had been unusually wet. He turned and looked at Pascale. ‘I’m afraid it’s not a joking matter,’ he said soberly. ‘I’m worried.’

  ‘Why?’

  He looked at her. ‘Why do you think?’

  Both were well trained enough not to speak carelessly, even though the chances of being bugged in this huge relic of a room seemed remote. So Pascale just nodded, indicating that she understood. Both of them had been on edge since Marcel had returned from Marseilles. He had told her all about the meeting with the North Africans, Antoine’s violence, and how they had brought back two Uzis.

  Marcel came over to the bed and climbed in under the blanket. When he spoke it was in a whisper in Pascale’s ear. ‘I was in the walled garden, sharpening the blades on the mower. René and Antoine were talking by the garden shed. They knew I was there; that’s what I found odd. Because René was saying that delivery of “the package” had been advanced – it would happen tomorrow instead of next week.’

  ‘What package?’

  ‘I think it must be the explosives he was hoping to get from another source.’

  ‘Christ!’ Pascale exclaimed. ‘But why talk like this in front of you if they suspected you? And I still don’t know why they took you to Marseilles.’

  Marcel laid his hand on her thigh and squeezed gently. ‘It was a test – like this business in the garden.’

  ‘How are they testing you?’

  ‘René knows that if I’m an informant, I’ll want to communicate the news of the package’s early arrival. Can’t you see – it’s the perfect trap? If I don’t try and contact Philippe then the explosives will go undetected once they’re here. But if I do make a move to contact him, René will know I’m a traitor.’

  ‘So what are you going to do?’

  Marcel gave a wry smile. ‘It’s more what I have done, my darling. Or tried to do. I didn’t think I had a choice. Philippe warned us, as you know, never to use the mobile phone to contact him. But I decided it was worth the risk, and I could also tell him about the two machine-guns we got in Marseilles. When I came up here, though, I couldn’t find my phone. It was there –’ He pointed to the small pine cabinet on the far side of the bed. ‘But it was gone when I came up to look for it after lunch. I am sure someone has taken it.’

  ‘René?’

  ‘Perhaps. Or someone else under his orders.’

  ‘So you couldn’t alert Philippe. But why should René be suspicious now? It’s not as if you actually did phone Philippe; you didn’t have a phone.’

  ‘Yes, but I didn’t stop there.’

  Pascale looked alarmed, and Marcel explained, ‘You remember how Philippe said that in an emergency we should leave a chalk mark on the big boulder by the main road?’

  ‘Yes. He said he would drive by at least once every twenty-four hours. If we left a mark he’d know the DCRI should move in at once.’

  ‘Exactement. So that’s what I planned to do. Late this afternoon I thought I would take a walk – and quite by chance it would take me by the main road . . .’

  ‘So did you?’ asked Pascale anxiously.

  ‘I was not allowed to.’

  ‘René stopped you?’

  Marcel shook his head. ‘It was subtler than that. I started to take my walk, thinking I’d go through the woods and cross to the road under cover of them. Then little Fabrice came running out. “Come back,” he shouted, and when I turned round he said René needed me right away. When I got back here, René said he wanted me to clear space in the cellar for the delivery the day after tomorrow. So I went downstairs and moved all of two empty suitcases and a small box of books – it hardly required me to do that. Yet he’d sent Fabrice to make sure I came back to do the job. Why?’

  ‘All right, so he may suspect you. But he has no proof of anything.’

  ‘No, he doesn’t. So tomorrow I plan–– ’

  Pascale was already shaking her head. ‘Forget it. Tomorrow you mustn’t do anything. René will be hyper-alert. Let’s wait until the package arrives, then we can try and contact Philippe again.’

  ‘It may be too late by then,’ he protested.

  But Pascale was adamant. ‘We’ll just have to take that chance.’

  Chapter 45

  The message from Toulon was the last thing Martin Seurat needed. Frantically busy with a terrorist case involving an Algerian cell in the Paris suburbs, he simply didn’t believe what it said – that his former colleague Antoine Milraud had been sighted at an antiques fair in a small town in the hills north of Toulon. It seemed most unlikely that he would revisit his old base of operations where he was well known. But the antiques business had been the cover for his less savoury operations and, Seurat supposed, given Milraud’s arrogance, it was just possible. And there had been an earlier sighting . . .

  Six months ago, he would have been down to Toulon like a shot. He couldn’t have explained his fixation with Milraud, except that the man’s betrayal had hit him hard personally. He had once been such a good and honest officer, as well as Seurat’s closest friend in the ranks of the French Secret S
ervice. Martin Seurat was usually able to keep emotion out of his work; he had only scorn for most of the people he found himself pitted against, though it was a professional aversion he felt rather than a personal one. But Milraud was different. Milraud had been trusted by the people he worked with. Milraud had been ‘one of us’. And he had taken the trust of his colleagues and smashed it as if it were worthless.

  Yet Martin realised that his own fixation with nailing his ex-friend was beginning to subside – otherwise he would already be looking at airline schedules for the short hop south to Toulon. What accounted for this slackening of his fervour? Was it Liz’s influence? She seemed to understand his desire to catch his nemesis, but she didn’t encourage it. He admired the way she could feel intensely about her own work, without ever letting her emotions interfere with her professional judgement. He’d like to think that he was equally dispassionate, but knew that, for a time at least, he had been almost obsessed with catching Milraud.

  When his phone rang he was still trying to decide if he should perhaps go down to Toulon, just to make sure this was another false lead. He was still in two minds about it when he said hello.

  ‘Bonjour, Martin, it’s Isobel. Something seems to be developing with these communards down at Cahors.’

  ‘Has something happened?’

  ‘No. But Philippe rang me to say that he was supposed to hear from his source Marcel, but he hasn’t. He says it’s the first time Marcel has missed a fixed contact.’

  ‘Could he be away?’

  ‘No, he’s there all right. So’s his partner. Philippe walked the boundary of the place, and with his binoculars he saw both Marcel and Pascale outside the mas. But he can’t contact them. It’s not safe to ring or text in case someone else has access to the phone. But Philippe’s worried, and he’s not the worrying type. He thinks we should go in sooner rather than later.’

  ‘And you agree?’

  ‘I do. We know they were trying to acquire firearms and possibly explosives. They seem to have succeeded: the shipment was supposed to arrive next week, but there’s some indication from our people in Marseilles that it’s showing up sooner. I’m worried that once they’ve got the stuff they may move it somewhere, ready for the G20 in Avignon. It starts in two weeks, but the Minister is very anxious that we try to close off any threats now. Just shut things down, he says, and worry about evidence later.