Free Liz Carlyle - 05 - Present Danger by Stella Rimington

desk trilled faintly. He picked it up at once. ‘Oui,’ he said.
    ‘It’s me,’ said the man calling himself Donovan. Though the name was unfamiliar to Milraud, the flat accent was unmistakable. Milraud knew immediately who his caller was.
    ‘ Bonjour ,’ said Milraud. ‘It’s been a while.’ They had met during a negotiation in Spain several years before, and since then they had kept in touch.
    ‘Too long. It would be good to meet.’
    ‘ Oui ?’ said Milraud cautiously.
    ‘Yes. Were you planning to be over here any time soon?
    ‘ Franchement non .’ He’d visited Northern Ireland before Christmas and his next trip was planned for June. Business there was at best intermittent. Certainly not what it had been.
    ‘That’s a pity.’
    ‘I can always alter my plans,’ said Milraud, reaching for his diary. He respected Piggott. Piggott didn’t waste time. His own or other people’s.
    ‘It could be worth your while. I may have some business for you.’
    ‘Would this be a distance requirement, or close by?’ he said, carefully avoiding any word that might trigger a listening device. He knew the man would understand his meaning.
    ‘Both, actually. Not a big deal but important to make it happen.’
    The best, thought Milraud. He knew what ‘making it happen’ meant, and it would cost the other man. He looked at the open page of his diary. There was nothing he could not cancel or postpone. ‘I can be there the day after tomorrow. How does that sound?’
    ‘Good. Ring me when you’ve arrived.’ And the other phone went dead.
    The next morning Milraud flew business class from Marseilles to Paris, where he broke his journey to visit a small office on the avenue Foch. It was run by a veteran of the trade, a Dr Emil Picard, whose business ran from East Timor to Colombia. Milraud was confident he could fill ‘Mr Donovan’s’ requirements from his own holdings, but some back up was always prudent.
    After establishing the position with Dr Picard, Milraud checked into his hotel near the Place de la Concorde, had an excellent dinner in its restaurant, then entertained a visitor from an escort agency in the privacy of his room upstairs.
    He continued his journey next day, catching an Aer Lingus flight that landed in Belfast in the early afternoon. He had reserved a car at the airport and he drove it to the Belfast Hilton, a concrete tower right on the River Lagan in the middle of the city, where he had booked a small suite. At precisely five o’clock he phoned a number he had memorised, and arranged a meeting at an office nearby for the following day at eleven o’clock. From his bedroom window, Milraud could just see the street where the meeting would take place. He ignored the magnificent view of the distant hills and drew the curtains. He had work to do.
    It would not have been surprising to find an antiques dealer scrutinising the thick catalogue of a recent sale at Bonham’s in London, but if anyone had looked closely, a few of the pages would have seemed at the least odd. The detailed specifications and prices listed there evidently referred to more sophisticated and up to date goods than those listed in the rest of the catalogue. Donovan must be planning something big, Milraud told himself. He mentally added a nought to his own prospective invoice.

13
     
    ‘We’ve got an Audi saloon, black A6, slowing down. It’s pulled into the car park.’
     
    Standing in the Operations Room at Palace Barracks, the A4 controller Reggie Purvis was listening intently. When the speaker had finished, he said, ‘Can you get the number plate?’
    ‘Victor, Echo, Zulu Seven …’ the voice continued.
    Back in the Observation Post in the centre of Belfast, less than ten miles away from the Operations Room, Arthur Haverford listened as Jerry Rayman finished reciting the registration numbers, then gave a large yawn as he put down his binoculars and reached for the cup of tea he had just made.
    He was four years past