It was disappointing that her interview with Park Woo-jin hadn’t provided more information. He had seemed to her, by the end, to be telling the truth, but the trouble was that he didn’t know much beyond his own story.
Bokus had rung her the previous day about the man they knew as Mr Dong. South Korean Intelligence had identified him from the photographs as a senior North Korean intelligence officer, Dong Shin-soo, which made complete sense of Park Woo-jin’s story. Searches of the flight manifests for the arrivals from Marseilles that the Singhs’ taxi firm had met indicated that he travelled on a French passport. But why he was based in Marseilles remained a mystery, and her conviction that Kubiak’s trips there were connected in some way to Park Woo-jin’s spying at the MOD was still not backed by any hard evidence. Liz knew Marseilles was a cosmopolitan port, full of immigrants from North Africa and further afield, where no doubt the answers to many mysteries could be found. But would it provide the answers she was looking for?
She caught the airport train to the centre of the city. By now it was almost eleven o’clock in the morning and the streets around the port were buzzing with activity. She had rung Martin the night before to arrange a meeting place and to tell him the news about Antoine. Now an extradition request was being sent to the British authorities.
Martin was waiting for her at the bar of a café in the old port, halfway along a cul-de-sac of small shops.
‘It’s good to see you,’ he said, kissing her on the cheek. ‘Is Cathy really all right? And how is Edward now?’
‘They’re both OK, thanks. Though pretty shaken up. Edward was very brave – he’s not exactly a spring chicken.’
‘No, but once a soldier, always a soldier.’
Liz suppressed a smile. Edward and Martin not only shared a military background but a fierce pride in it as well.
Martin said, ‘I feel very badly about Antoine.’
‘You mean that he slipped through the net? You’re not to blame. By the time René told you he’d sent him to Marseilles, Antoine was already at Cathy’s. We were supposed to stop him at the border, but he used a false passport. It must have been stolen, they think. It’s nobody’s fault – there’s not much Immigration can do when someone travels under a false name. Anyway,’ she said, ‘what are the plans for the Korean firm?’
‘We’ll go in first thing tomorrow morning. The local DCRI have had surveillance on the place for a few days now and they’ve got a pretty good idea of who goes in and out. They start work early – everyone should be in there by eight o’clock.’
‘Have there been any more sightings of Kubiak?’
‘None. So we considered waiting another day or so, to try and get him as well; he hasn’t been seen in Geneva for almost a week. But if he’s not here now, there’s no reason to think he’ll show up any time soon.’
‘Okay. The mystery for me is what the link is between him and this man Dong Shin-soo. We don’t know if Dong has anything to do with this office here – it’s a South Korean company after all, so if he were connected, it wouldn’t make much sense. And I still don’t understand the Russian involvement with the place.’ Martin looked down at his coffee. ‘Too many unanswered questions,’ he said. ‘I have to agree: it doesn’t make any sense.’
‘If you set out all the pieces in this little puzzle, you’re left with the choice of believing that there is a South Korean-North Korean-Russian plot, which is absurd, or . . .’ And Liz paused as she thought about the unspoken alternative.
‘Or?’ Martin asked gently.
‘One of the three isn’t who or what we think they are. Or – don’t say it isn’t complicated – they are who they say they are, but they’re also something else.’
Martin laughed. ‘Well, let’s hope we’ll know a lot more after tomorrow.’
‘What are you doing until then?’ asked Liz
‘I have to make some calls to Paris. Fézard has offered me the use of an office in the Préfecture. You’re welcome to come with me, but otherwise I thought we could meet up in an hour or so for lunch. There’s a bistro just down the street that I’m told is very good.’
Liz looked at Martin fondly, thinking how very French he was. In less than twenty-four hours they’d be going in with armed police to try and solve this mystery, but for now, his lunch was what mattered most. There was actually something very sensible in this approach, she reflected. What was the point of sitting around, tensely eating soggy sandwiches and drinking instant coffee – the usual refreshment when A4 and Special Branch were waiting for an operation to begin?
‘Actually, I may leave you to it for now. I’d like to get a feel for the neighbourhood.’
He nodded. ‘Of course. The South Korean office is very close by . . . just round the corner. You’ll easily recognise it – an old warehouse that’s been renovated. Be careful though, just in case Kubiak is around. We still don’t know whether he saw you in Geneva meeting Sorsky, and we don’t want to alert him.’
Martin signalled for the bill, and Liz waited while he paid. As they left the little cul-de-sac, he pointed down the street at the awning of the bistro. ‘I’ll see you there at one,’ he said, and suddenly reached for her arm. ‘I’m glad you’re here, Liz. But keep your eyes open.’
‘I will,’ she said, surprised by his sudden solemnity. It wasn’t like him to worry.
Chapter 52
Martin Seurat was always punctual. Throughout his marriage he had endured (sometimes patiently, towards the end mostly not) his wife’s casual indifference to time. Fortunately, Liz was a good timekeeper, which meant her lateness for lunch was unusual. And a little frustrating, since he had much to tell her. When he’d got to the Préfecture he had expected to hole up in the cubicle Fézard had commandeered for him, but a young detective had found him and said the boss would like to speak to him.
He’d found Fézard in high spirits, almost jubilant. ‘Ah, Monsieur Seurat,’ he’d exclaimed as Martin walked into his elegant office, ‘I have some news. Good news, I’d say. This man Dong whom MI5 have been following has made an appearance here. Guess where?’
‘I assume at the airport,’ said Martin lightly.
Fézard began to frown, then stopped and laughed. ‘Like all Parisians, you employ a subtle humour, Monsieur. But seriously, you should know that this man Dong has been seen by my men this very morning, entering the same office block as our South Korean friends. Not only that, one of my men had a word with the building’s receptionist, and she says she has seen the man before. He takes the elevator to the fifth floor, moreover, which is where our Eastern friends work.’
Now Martin sat at the bistro table, thinking that Liz had been right: there were three parties to this odd drama. But confirmation of her hunch merely heightened the mystery, unless it turned out that this Dong character was working for the South Koreans – in that fraught peninsula, the two Koreas were constantly trying to turn the agents of the other side. But if Dong had been turned, why didn’t the British and Americans know about it? Surely they would have been told by the KCIA.
His puzzlement persisted as he sat waiting for Liz. She was only twenty minutes late but it was making him nervous just the same. He told himself to calm down, and remembered when his daughter, fresh at college in Paris, had shown up an hour late for lunch, explaining that she had just been window shopping and had lost track of time. But Liz wasn’t a young girl, and in Seurat’s experience she was never late.
So after half an hour had passed he rang her mobile. It was switched off – another thing that was odd. She never turned it off when she was away from her office; she needed to be available for calls from Thames House in London. By now, his mild anxiety had turned to full-blown worry, and after another half-hour of fruitless waiting he called Fézard, explaining the situation. Fézard understood the gravity of her non-show at once, and immediately came to join him in the bistro to discuss what to do.
Martin said, ‘I think I’d better call her office in London and see if they’ve he
ard from her. Isobel Florian is arriving any minute; I’ll let her know as well. Maybe Liz called her for some reason.’ Not that that seemed in the least likely.
‘All right.’ Fézard pointed to three men standing on the pavement outside the bistro. ‘Those are my officers. They’ll be combing the area – there’s always a chance she’s got lost. Easy to do in Marseilles. And I’ll alert the local police as well – they’ll check with all the hospitals in case she’s had an accident.’
‘Good,’ said Martin. He hesitated momentarily, then said, ‘I was thinking about the raid.’
Fézard nodded. ‘Me too.’
‘If something’s happened to Liz, then it might be connected to the Korean office. She might have been seen and even taken there. Which means we should move in sooner rather than later.’
‘I agree and I would be surprised if Madame Florian didn’t agree too.’ Fézard looked at his watch. ‘If we’ve had no news of Ms Carlyle by four o’clock, then I would suggest we enter the offices at four-thirty. I have constant surveillance on the building, and they have seen nothing suspicious since the appearance of Dong. There’s an entrance at the back – a loading bay for large items and furniture; I will make sure they are watching that as well. If she is in the building, then no one will be able to take her anywhere else without our seeing it.’ He left unspoken what Martin feared most – that anyone taking Liz out of the building might be transporting a corpse.
Peggy Kinsolving usually ate lunch in the Thames House canteen, then took a short walk along the Embankment – usually only as far as Tate Britain – to stretch her legs and get some fresh air before starting work again. But today a persistent drizzle made the prospect of a stroll seem uninviting, and besides she had a lot on at the moment, so she was at her desk when the call came in from France. ‘Hello,’ she said tentatively.
‘This is Martin Seurat of the French DGSE. I’m calling from Marseilles.’
Peggy had never actually met him, but they’d spoken on the phone before, since this was the second case that he and Liz had worked on together. And though Liz had never mentioned it, everyone knew that she and Martin Seurat had become an item. ‘Hello, Martin. It’s Peggy. How can I help?’ she asked, slightly puzzled to find him on the phone.
‘Have you heard from Liz?’
‘Not today. I thought she’d be with you. She was catching a flight early this morning to Marseilles.’
‘She was here this morning – we met for coffee. Then we were supposed to meet up at lunchtime, but she hasn’t appeared. She’s almost two hours late.’
‘That’s not like her.’
‘I know, and I’m concerned. Her mobile is switched off – which isn’t like her either.’
‘Could she have got lost?’
‘That was my first thought – the Old Port here is a bit of a rabbit warren. But in that case I’m sure she would have phoned me. I hate to say it,’ he said, then paused before continuing, ‘but I think something may have happened to her. Everyone’s been alerted over here, and we’ve got people looking all over the city for her. But you had better tell your people that Liz is missing. They can call me direct if they need to speak to me. You should also tell them that we’ve brought forward the scheduled raid on the Korean office – instead of waiting until tomorrow, we’re going to go in at four-thirty. Unless Liz shows up before then.’
He gave Peggy his mobile number, then rang off. She sat for a moment, thinking what to do next. There was no mistaking the urgency in his voice; he did not seem to believe that some small misunderstanding could have occurred to account for Liz’s failure to show.
Their boss was on holiday, most of her colleagues were out at lunch or on business, so there was no one for Peggy to consult. There was only one thing for it. She might look silly if ten minutes from now Seurat rang her to say Liz had reappeared, though Peggy would far prefer that – any embarrassment was worth knowing Liz was safe. But in the meantime it would be irresponsible to delay. She picked up her phone and dialled DG’s private office.
She was answered by the near-legendary Private Secretary, Anne Whitestone, who’d seen four Director Generals come and go. ‘This is Peggy Kinsolving in Counter-Espionage. I have an emergency. I’ve just heard that Liz Carlyle is missing in France. Martin Seurat from the DGSE rang me from Marseilles. They are worried that something’s happened to her.’
‘Come up straight away, Peggy,’ said Anne Whiteside calmly. ‘DG is here and he’ll want to talk to you.’
Four o’clock was usually a fairly placid time at the venerable Préfecture in Marseilles. The public desk closed at four and the police shifts changed at five; the DCRI officers were still out in the field; and inside the building the only noises to be heard were of afternoon coffee being brewed.
But now the building seemed to hum with activity as Martin Seurat was waved in by the guard and directed straight upstairs. In the open-plan office, Fézard stood next to a large whiteboard on wheels, a pointer in his hand. Half of the board was covered by a plan of the Korean office building, and he was pointing out the access and exit points on the fifth floor. He looked up questioningly as Martin entered. When he saw the slight shake of his head, Fézard’s expression darkened.
Martin had spent the last hour on the phone. He’d squared the bistro owner by showing him his identity card, then commandeered a table by the front window in case Liz should appear and made his calls from there. First, Isobel Florian after she landed at Marseilles airport – she’d understood his fear for Liz’s safety at once, and agreed that the time of the raid should be moved forward. Then he’d rung his own superiors in Paris and explained the situation.
London had rung soon after, and he’d talked to the Director General, assuring him they were doing everything they could to find his officer. The Englishman had been calm and decisive. He had obviously been well briefed by Peggy and didn’t waste time asking for the background to the operation in Marseilles. He offered to send out an officer to liaise and give any help he could. Martin said that he would certainly accept the offer if it would help, but for now the police and the DCRI were doing all they could to find Liz Carlyle.
Finally there had been another call from England. ‘Seurat,’ said a frosty voice, ‘It’s Geoffrey Fane. What on earth has happened?’
He explained the situation, but it had been an awkward conversation. Each man knew the other had strong personal feelings for Liz, and each of them struggled to sound purely professional. He had discouraged Fane from catching the next flight out or from sending his Station Chief down from Paris. ‘Thanks for the offer, Geoffrey, but we’re doing all we can – we don’t need any more people on the ground. Please just activate any sources you have who might hear anything relevant.’
So he hadn’t had time to draw breath, much less worry, and it was only now, as Fézard wrapped up the briefing, that Martin felt again the extent of his own fear. It was four o’clock; in half an hour they’d know whether Liz had been taken to the office of the South Koreans; in half an hour he’d know whether this uncertain agony was over, or would continue. Who could have kidnapped her? This man Dong had never seen her; neither, as far as he knew, had the Russians. But how exactly had they found out about Sorsky’s treachery? Could they have monitored his meetings with Liz in Geneva?
He wondered if they’d find her inside the building. Part of him fervently hoped so, but part of him was frightened. If they found her, what state would she be in? If she weren’t there, then at least he could hope that she was somewhere else – and alive.
Chapter 53
For a few minutes Liz thought she was lost. She couldn’t be more than a quarter of a mile from the bistro where she was supposed to meet Martin for lunch, but so dense and confusing was the geography of the Old Port that she might as well have been in Mexico. Streets were too grand a name for the little lanes and alleyways that twisted like the Minotaur’s maze, and all the sinuous pathways seemed to lie in the shade of tenement buildings that block
ed out the sun – Liz couldn’t even locate its position in the sky to establish where south lay.
Then suddenly she emerged into a street she recognised – it ran past the Koreans’ office building. Not wanting to pass that again, she decided to risk a shortcut down a narrow side road that seemed to head in the right direction. The alley was lined on both sides by the backs of old stone houses, and the smells of midday meals cooking wafted out of windows. The street itself was deserted.
She heard a vehicle turn into the alley behind her. When she looked back she saw a battered blue van, driving slowly. She continued walking and as the van drove past her it struck her as odd that it had no name stencilled on its side. Thirty feet or so in front of her the van stopped, the driver’s door opened, and a heavy-set man in a bulky leather jacket and a cloth cap got out, leaving the engine running. Without looking at Liz, he went to the rear and wrenched open the van’s double doors. She noticed that the back of the van was empty and at the same time felt there was something familiar about the driver. As she came level with him, the man turned towards her. ‘Excusez-moi, Madame,’ he said with a smile, and Liz stopped.
A big mistake: he stepped forward and grabbed her coat with his left arm, then before she could try and pull away he hit her, hard with a clenched fist, smack on the jaw. The cliché was true – Liz literally saw stars, and would have fallen down had the man not been holding her so tightly with his other hand. He turned her halfway round, circling her chest with both arms, squeezing the breath out of her as she tried to wriggle free. Then in one swift motion he lifted her up into the air and dumped her like a side of beef into the back of the van.
The Geneva Trap Page 23