‘It’s been done up,’ said Fézard, ‘like a lot of the old buildings here. Inside there are twelve companies renting space – the building’s bigger than it looks. But let’s move on and I’ll tell you what we know about it.’
They walked around the corner and headed back towards headquarters. Martin asked, ‘Do you know which company Kubiak was visiting?’
‘No, I’m afraid we only know that he went into the building. We’ve checked out all the companies. None is Russian, and most of them are local, well-established companies trading in fairly unexciting things – olive oil, a shipping company, a wine middleman, that sort of thing. There’s one Parisian company who have taken space – they sell specialised insurance for corporations. The firm’s fifteen years old and privately owned by Frenchmen, and it seems completely reputable. Then there’s a Serbian company, who interest us – but not for reasons that will interest you.’
‘Oh?’
‘At first we thought they might fit the bill – except for not being Russian. A new office, cash down for the lease.’
‘But…?’
‘They don’t seem to have any clients, at least not in the normal meaning of business. Their staff turnover in the last six months has been extraordinary – all women, who come from Serbia to work and then… disappear.’
‘Not a straight enterprise?’
‘No – they’re crooks all right. But not spies. It’s pretty clear they’re trafficking in women. Distasteful, but more our problem than yours.’
Fézard continued: ‘We also found two hi-tech new arrivals. One is a database specialist company with three employees – a Belgian, a German, and a Frenchman. They have money from Oracle behind them and are doing R&D which our own boffins say is legitimate.’ He shrugged.
‘And the other?’ asked Martin, more out of politeness than real interest. It was Russians he was looking for.
‘Some South Koreans. Not surprising – there are substantial Far Eastern interests here.’
‘What do they do?’
‘It’s a consultancy. They’re advising Far Eastern enterprises on business opportunities in France and other parts of Europe. It seems quite above board. There’s a South Korean Trade Office here and they had references from them when they took the offices.’
Martin sighed. He knew Liz would be disappointed, and having spent time on the case, he felt deflated himself. But there must be something going on that they hadn’t yet discovered. Kubiak was not coming repeatedly to Marseilles for the benefit of his health.
Fézard said apologetically, ‘I am sorry if your trip has been a waste of time, Monsieur.’
Martin shrugged and smiled wanly. ‘Well, it is good to see Marseilles again,’ he said, wondering if it would be another ten years before he returned.
Chapter 31
It was a long drive to Cahors but Martin’s spirits rose as he drove, and by the time he reached the ancient town, sitting as it did in a hollow with the River Lot surrounding it on three sides, he was feeling cheerful. He knew the town well – he and his ex-wife had once owned a small gîte about fifteen kilometres away, where they spent the occasional weekend (occasional because it was a long way from Paris) and their longer holidays. On Saturdays they would come to shop in the outdoor market here, though in later years Martin usually found himself going there alone, since his wife had seemed less and less interested in his company. Later he discovered it was because she preferred the company of someone else.
He walked up one of the narrow side streets to Boulevard Léon Gambetta, a tree-lined street full of chemists and parfumeries and expensive clothes shops. Even in late morning it was crowded, with shoppers on the pavements and cars moving at a snail’s pace up the steep slope. A few hundred yards along he came to a large open square on the side of which was a café with tables set outside, their umbrellas up against the sun. This far south, it was warm even in early spring.
Isobel was sitting at a table inside, sipping a cappuccino and reading a paper. She was dressed for the part in jeans and a fisherman’s sweater, with sturdy hiking boots. Though she had a handsome face and a good figure, unusually for a Parisienne she seemed never to give a fig about her clothes.
‘Bonjour,’ he said, sitting down beside her and beckoning the waiter. Martin ordered his coffee and sat back comfortably.
‘Any luck in Toulon?’ asked Isobel, aware of his ongoing search for Antoine Milraud.
‘Nothing doing,’ he said with a shrug. ‘Not that I expected to find him. But there is a bit to report from Marseilles.’
‘So old Fézard has pulled his finger out.’ But before Martin could go on, a young man approached their table.
‘Ah, here’s Philippe,’ she said. Martin stood up and shook hands, as Isobel explained that Philippe was a DCRI officer stationed in Toulouse, an hour’s drive away. It was he who had been looking into the anarchist communards, and had managed to plant an informant in their ranks.
‘Tell Martin about your source,’ she said.
‘Well, it’s a couple actually. I recruited them about a year or so ago when they were picked up on a minor drugs charge in Paris. I intervened and pointed them at the commune. We were getting increasingly concerned about the activities of this bunch. My two were accepted quite easily – they had the right background to make them convincing. They’ve worked their way in now. Done very well.’
‘Yes,’ Isobel broke in, ‘you’ve done a good job with them.’
Philippe smiled at the compliment but then more soberly said, ‘Only one of them is coming today; his girlfriend’s staying at the commune. He may be quite nervous, though I’ve warned him that a couple of colleagues are coming to this meeting. He’s desperately afraid of their cover being blown. He thinks the commune members would hurt them badly if they found out he was working for us. Now, before we go to see him, is there anything in particular you want to know? If you don’t mind, I think I’d better ask the questions. He’ll be anxious enough as it is.’
Martin said, ‘There’s an English woman who left the commune recently and went back to Britain. Her name is Cathy – she has a little boy, though the father disappeared some years ago. Someone from the commune has been to see her – we know his name, René, though I haven’t got a surname. Apparently, he tried to get money from her. I’d like you to ask Marcel about this René.’
‘I know about René. He’s become the leader of the commune, even though their anarchist principles mean they shouldn’t have a leader – so much for ideological consistency. He’s a veteran of left-wing movements; I bet he knew more about Marxist dogma when he was twelve than the average French boy knows about football.’
‘A lifer,’ said Isobel.
‘That’s right, and it’s in the family. His father’s a politics lecturer with Maoist tendencies.’
‘That sounds very dated,’ observed Martin.
‘That’s because it is. The father was involved in the Paris student protests in ’68, and got caught up in a demo in the Latin Quarter. He was hit by a CRS van and has been in a wheelchair ever since.’ Philippe shrugged. ‘It seems that he lived his politics after that only vicariously – through his son René.’ Philippe looked at his watch. ‘We’d better be going. I’ve arranged to meet Marcel in a safe house near the cathedral. There’s a market today in the square, so no one’s going to notice us.’