‘Yes, I do. The most interesting was when the drone seemed to ignore the ground controller’s natural language command and do something different. Fortunately, it got back on course in the end.’
‘Could that mean external interference?’
‘Too early to say. The assumption at the moment is that it was some sort of technical failure. It’s not impossible it was something external, but if it was interference it would indicate a very advanced infiltration of the system.’
Henry Pennington looked as if he were about to faint. ‘Why don’t I know about this?’ he asked. ‘Why wasn’t I told?’
‘Oh, you will be, Henry,’ said Liz. ‘If it turns out to be anything serious.’
Chapter 30
On Tuesday, Martin Seurat left Toulon feeling disappointed but unsurprised to have found no trace of his former colleague Antoine Milraud. When he’d first known him he had rather admired Milraud, thinking him clever and resourceful. But those qualities had eventually turned to shiftiness and cunning, driven by the relentless greed that had finally made him into a crook. Martin felt glad to leave Toulon and its neighbourhood and was looking forward to visiting Marseilles again.
He hadn’t been there for ten years, but he remembered its notorious traffic jams. They were even worse now that the town had become the second largest city in France. He left his rental car in a car park in an area of the city where multinational corporations occupied grimly modern office blocks, surrounded by the even grimmer towers of public housing built for the large immigrant population.
A short taxi ride took him to the old quarter of the town, with its narrow slanting streets, small neighbourhood bars full of tough-looking North Africans, and alleyways festooned with clothes lines and smelly overflowing gutters. He walked through Le Panier, then joined the crowds shopping on La Canebière, the city’s main commercial thoroughfare, where every shop seemed to be holding a sale, and nothing was undiscounted.
Tough times, but these were tough people, as he knew to his cost. During his six-month secondment here, tracking an Algerian extremist cell, he had been shot at twice, and once had his car run off the road. Unlike the Parisians, the Marseillais didn’t make the slightest effort to look sophisticated or chic; their clothes said you took them or left them as they were. But they were friendly, unreserved people, and when Martin stopped and asked directions from a kebab stall, the vendor, noting both his accent and the street he was enquiring for, asked cheerfully what a cop from the North was doing this far south.
The office of the Police Nationale, which contained the DCRI office, turned out to be a handsome old stone building with shuttered windows. The nail-studded wooden door was still in place at the top of the steps, but at the bottom access was gained via a metal barrier manned by an armed policeman in a flak jacket. Martin’s documents passed scrutiny and he made his way up the steps into the building where a desk sergeant in the reception area sent him upstairs with a jerk of his head.
At the top of the stairs he entered a large, open-plan room, crammed with desks and tables and unmatched chairs, most of them unoccupied. A young uniformed policeman who was busy on the phone raised an inquisitive eyebrow, and Martin mouthed the name of the person he had come to see. The man gestured with a finger at the room’s far end, where an office had been carved out in the corner. On the door a wooden sign read DCRI.
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.