ponytail.
But as they walked back to Isabelle’s office Liz couldn’t help remarking on the change in Isabelle’s appearance. Today she looked far more as Liz had originally imagined her. The jeans and sweater had been replaced by a black skirt and tights and a silk blouse the colour of ripe cherries. The ponytail had gone and her hair had been cut stylishly short.
When she complimented Isabelle, the Frenchwoman said, ‘I never feel quite comfortable dressed up like this, but I’ve been promoted and they told me I had to dress the part. I have to go to more meetings and talk to government ministers and my bosses thought I looked too workmanlike.’
‘Well. It suits you. Not that the other didn’t,’ added Liz hastily.
Isabelle smiled. ‘And you, Liz. You look flourishing. How is our friend Martin?’
‘Well, thank you. We’ve just been on holiday. The curious yellow shade of my face is the remains of a tan.’
Liz had first met Martin Seurat when she had been working with Isabelle on the case of a dissident Irish Republican group. The leader of the group had kidnapped one of Liz’s colleagues, Dave Armstrong, and taken him to the South of France, where Martin Seurat had been instrumental in saving his life.
Liz now stood by the window in Isabelle’s office, admiring the glimpse of the Eiffel Tower, which was just visible from the corner of the window. A girl came in clutching a sheaf of A4-sized photographs that she put down on Isabelle’s desk, saying cheerfully, ‘I think you’ll be pleased with these.’
As she went out Isabelle said, ‘Come and have a look, Liz. Let’s hope they are some use.’
The two women leaned over the desk, their heads close together, looking at the picture on top of the pile. It was of Numéro Un , the European, as he walked towards the rendezvous with the Arab. At the same moment, Isabelle exclaimed, ‘It can’t be,’ and Liz said, ‘Isn’t that . . .’
They were both staring at the picture in astonishment.
Isabelle nodded. ‘Yes, it’s Antoine Milraud.’ A former officer of the DGSE, and a former friend and colleague of Martin Seurat, Milraud had been dismissed from the DGSE after an operation had gone disastrously wrong. Milraud was suspected of taking money that had gone missing from an arms deal, but he had disappeared before he could be prosecuted.
Martin Seurat had made it his mission to capture Milraud; he blamed him for having betrayed both their friendship and the Service they both worked for. It later became apparent that Milraud had used the money he’d stolen to launch his own career as an arms dealer, where he skirted the border of legality until he crossed it with a vengeance. The Irish Republican who had kidnapped Dave Armstrong had been one of his customers and Milraud had assisted in the kidnap.
That was several years ago, and Milraud hadn’t been seen in France since – though there had been a host of rumoured sightings, including one of his wife, Annette. Reliable reports had come in that Milraud had continued acting as a middleman for arms sales; he had been linked to major transactions in a range of conflict-torn territories from Central Africa to Chechnya.
‘Why would he resurface in Paris now?’ asked Liz. ‘He’s taking a hell of a risk.’
Isabelle pursed her lips, and started to push her hair back on one side, until she remembered that she no longer had long hair. Her hairdresser had told her that the style was chic for a woman of a certain age. Isabelle had liked the result, though she had bristled at being called ‘a woman of a certain age’. She said to Liz, ‘It must mean this is a big transaction. Only a lot of money would get Milraud to take such a risk.’
‘Mmm,’ said Liz, unconvinced. ‘It still seems very strange to choose Paris when they could have met in any city in the world.’
Isabelle looked at Liz. She found her English colleague’s habit of looking for hidden meanings unsettling. She added,
But as they walked back to Isabelle’s office Liz couldn’t help remarking on the change in Isabelle’s appearance. Today she looked far more as Liz had originally imagined her. The jeans and sweater had been replaced by a black skirt and tights and a silk blouse the colour of ripe cherries. The ponytail had gone and her hair had been cut stylishly short.
When she complimented Isabelle, the Frenchwoman said, ‘I never feel quite comfortable dressed up like this, but I’ve been promoted and they told me I had to dress the part. I have to go to more meetings and talk to government ministers and my bosses thought I looked too workmanlike.’
‘Well. It suits you. Not that the other didn’t,’ added Liz hastily.
Isabelle smiled. ‘And you, Liz. You look flourishing. How is our friend Martin?’
‘Well, thank you. We’ve just been on holiday. The curious yellow shade of my face is the remains of a tan.’
Liz had first met Martin Seurat when she had been working with Isabelle on the case of a dissident Irish Republican group. The leader of the group had kidnapped one of Liz’s colleagues, Dave Armstrong, and taken him to the South of France, where Martin Seurat had been instrumental in saving his life.
Liz now stood by the window in Isabelle’s office, admiring the glimpse of the Eiffel Tower, which was just visible from the corner of the window. A girl came in clutching a sheaf of A4-sized photographs that she put down on Isabelle’s desk, saying cheerfully, ‘I think you’ll be pleased with these.’
As she went out Isabelle said, ‘Come and have a look, Liz. Let’s hope they are some use.’
The two women leaned over the desk, their heads close together, looking at the picture on top of the pile. It was of Numéro Un , the European, as he walked towards the rendezvous with the Arab. At the same moment, Isabelle exclaimed, ‘It can’t be,’ and Liz said, ‘Isn’t that . . .’
They were both staring at the picture in astonishment.
Isabelle nodded. ‘Yes, it’s Antoine Milraud.’ A former officer of the DGSE, and a former friend and colleague of Martin Seurat, Milraud had been dismissed from the DGSE after an operation had gone disastrously wrong. Milraud was suspected of taking money that had gone missing from an arms deal, but he had disappeared before he could be prosecuted.
Martin Seurat had made it his mission to capture Milraud; he blamed him for having betrayed both their friendship and the Service they both worked for. It later became apparent that Milraud had used the money he’d stolen to launch his own career as an arms dealer, where he skirted the border of legality until he crossed it with a vengeance. The Irish Republican who had kidnapped Dave Armstrong had been one of his customers and Milraud had assisted in the kidnap.
That was several years ago, and Milraud hadn’t been seen in France since – though there had been a host of rumoured sightings, including one of his wife, Annette. Reliable reports had come in that Milraud had continued acting as a middleman for arms sales; he had been linked to major transactions in a range of conflict-torn territories from Central Africa to Chechnya.
‘Why would he resurface in Paris now?’ asked Liz. ‘He’s taking a hell of a risk.’
Isabelle pursed her lips, and started to push her hair back on one side, until she remembered that she no longer had long hair. Her hairdresser had told her that the style was chic for a woman of a certain age. Isabelle had liked the result, though she had bristled at being called ‘a woman of a certain age’. She said to Liz, ‘It must mean this is a big transaction. Only a lot of money would get Milraud to take such a risk.’
‘Mmm,’ said Liz, unconvinced. ‘It still seems very strange to choose Paris when they could have met in any city in the world.’
Isabelle looked at Liz. She found her English colleague’s habit of looking for hidden meanings unsettling. She added,
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