asked Anspach, thrusting the mobile phone in front of her face.
Taken aback, the woman paused. ‘Our clients expect confidentiality, Herr . . .?’
‘Anspach.’ He brought out his card – official-looking, special government business, it breathed authority.
The woman’s eyes widened. ‘Yes, I have seen this gentleman.’
‘Where is he flying to?’
‘Rotterdam.’
‘When is he leaving?’
She looked at Anspach with mild surprise. ‘His plane took off ten minutes ago.’
Chapter 17
Martin Seurat knew he had to work fast. He’d been waiting, hidden from view by a pillar in the lobby of the hotel, and as soon as he’d seen Milraud leave he had come upstairs. But if Milraud had only gone out for a paper or to get some fresh air, then he would be back soon, and before that Seurat had to make his pitch.
He had no idea how Annette would react when he turned up at the door of her room. Once, they had known each other very well. In the DGSE, officers worked in small teams, often abroad and in stressful circumstances, and they got to know each other intimately. He and Milraud had worked together on and off for over a decade, and despite some fundamental differences in personality – Martin was quieter, more analytical, focused on getting the job done; Milraud was flamboyant, sometimes inspired, sometimes simply erratic – they had grown to trust each other. Whenever they could, they liked to socialise together and to include their wives, who could easily feel ignored and left out because of the secret nature of the work their husbands did.
Annette Milraud had been a lively young woman then, apparently carefree, without any children. She loved the good things of life: the Milraud apartment was beautifully furnished, her clothes expensive and stylish – enough so that Seurat’s wife used to wonder enviously how she could afford it all on the salary of a DGSE officer. Once a week Annette ran a little market stall in the Marais where she sold jewellery, some antique, some that she’d made herself and some just rather pretty junk that she had picked up for practically nothing. She was always wearing three or four of the more flamboyant rings from her stock when they met. It was difficult to believe that the stall brought in enough extra money to finance her lifestyle.
When the four of them got together for an evening, Annette drank more than any of them, smoked incessantly, and liked to dance. She had the kind of loud, extravagant joie de vivre that hinted at dissatisfaction or even desperation lying not far beneath. Seurat’s wife had got on with her well enough, though she’d never trusted her in the way her husband trusted Antoine Milraud, and she had made it clear that she didn’t want to see the Milrauds too often.
Now Seurat knocked on the door of Room 403, taking care that he could not be seen through the spyhole. He heard nothing at first, then there were steps inside the room. ‘ Oui ?’ a woman’s voice called out.
He replied in accented English, hoping she would think he was a concierge. ‘I have a message for you, Madame.’
‘A message?’ She sounded suspicious. ‘Put it under the door.’
He sighed – it had never been easy to hoodwink Annette. He said quite loudly, in French now, ‘Come on, Annette, open the door.’
‘Who is that?’ He could hear the surprise in her voice.
‘It’s Martin Seurat.’
There was no reply for a moment. Then the door opened a crack, held on its chain. Annette stared out at him, surprise replaced by hostility.
‘What the hell do you want?’ she demanded.
‘If you let me in, I’ll explain.’ When she hesitated he added, ‘I need to talk to you alone, Annette. Before Monsieur Pliska gets back.’ He could see her flinch at the name. ‘We know what name you’re using, and the one Antoine used in Paris – Pigot. If need be we can even find out the one you used before that.’
‘If you know so much, why do you want to talk to
Taken aback, the woman paused. ‘Our clients expect confidentiality, Herr . . .?’
‘Anspach.’ He brought out his card – official-looking, special government business, it breathed authority.
The woman’s eyes widened. ‘Yes, I have seen this gentleman.’
‘Where is he flying to?’
‘Rotterdam.’
‘When is he leaving?’
She looked at Anspach with mild surprise. ‘His plane took off ten minutes ago.’
Chapter 17
Martin Seurat knew he had to work fast. He’d been waiting, hidden from view by a pillar in the lobby of the hotel, and as soon as he’d seen Milraud leave he had come upstairs. But if Milraud had only gone out for a paper or to get some fresh air, then he would be back soon, and before that Seurat had to make his pitch.
He had no idea how Annette would react when he turned up at the door of her room. Once, they had known each other very well. In the DGSE, officers worked in small teams, often abroad and in stressful circumstances, and they got to know each other intimately. He and Milraud had worked together on and off for over a decade, and despite some fundamental differences in personality – Martin was quieter, more analytical, focused on getting the job done; Milraud was flamboyant, sometimes inspired, sometimes simply erratic – they had grown to trust each other. Whenever they could, they liked to socialise together and to include their wives, who could easily feel ignored and left out because of the secret nature of the work their husbands did.
Annette Milraud had been a lively young woman then, apparently carefree, without any children. She loved the good things of life: the Milraud apartment was beautifully furnished, her clothes expensive and stylish – enough so that Seurat’s wife used to wonder enviously how she could afford it all on the salary of a DGSE officer. Once a week Annette ran a little market stall in the Marais where she sold jewellery, some antique, some that she’d made herself and some just rather pretty junk that she had picked up for practically nothing. She was always wearing three or four of the more flamboyant rings from her stock when they met. It was difficult to believe that the stall brought in enough extra money to finance her lifestyle.
When the four of them got together for an evening, Annette drank more than any of them, smoked incessantly, and liked to dance. She had the kind of loud, extravagant joie de vivre that hinted at dissatisfaction or even desperation lying not far beneath. Seurat’s wife had got on with her well enough, though she’d never trusted her in the way her husband trusted Antoine Milraud, and she had made it clear that she didn’t want to see the Milrauds too often.
Now Seurat knocked on the door of Room 403, taking care that he could not be seen through the spyhole. He heard nothing at first, then there were steps inside the room. ‘ Oui ?’ a woman’s voice called out.
He replied in accented English, hoping she would think he was a concierge. ‘I have a message for you, Madame.’
‘A message?’ She sounded suspicious. ‘Put it under the door.’
He sighed – it had never been easy to hoodwink Annette. He said quite loudly, in French now, ‘Come on, Annette, open the door.’
‘Who is that?’ He could hear the surprise in her voice.
‘It’s Martin Seurat.’
There was no reply for a moment. Then the door opened a crack, held on its chain. Annette stared out at him, surprise replaced by hostility.
‘What the hell do you want?’ she demanded.
‘If you let me in, I’ll explain.’ When she hesitated he added, ‘I need to talk to you alone, Annette. Before Monsieur Pliska gets back.’ He could see her flinch at the name. ‘We know what name you’re using, and the one Antoine used in Paris – Pigot. If need be we can even find out the one you used before that.’
‘If you know so much, why do you want to talk to
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