the street supported this conclusion: they would never have sent anyone Bill would recognise. If they did not know Bill was meeting Henri then they did not know who was. But did they know there was a spy in MI5 who reported to Henri, a French spy? And did they know Henri was reporting to the Real IRA? That was a leap to assume, but nonetheless it should be considered.
Bill went through the points again to make sure there weren’t any gaping holes in his logic. He was satisfied. Now he had to consider what his next move should be. Obviously he had to get away and back to London, but he could not leave the hotel and risk bumping into Stratton. Stratton was out front, but there was no rear exit to the hotel. The back opened out into a courtyard in the centre of the block and the exit from the courtyard was Rue Cambon, virtually smack opposite the cafe. Bill then considered Henri. He should contact him somehow.That might help both of them. Henri would leave the cafe and draw the team away from the area. It would also give Henri an opportunity to escape the country and avoid a nasty interrogation that might produce a description of Bill.
Bill checked to see if Henri was still seated outside the cafe. He was. Bill searched the desk drawers and found the telephone directory. He glanced through the window to check the spelling of the name on the front of the cafe and then found the number. He felt for his cell-phone in his pocket and stopped. That would be stupid. He couldn’t use the phone in the room either. Any landline phone in Europe could be traced to another. But he knew how to use a phone and chill the trace. There was always a risk, but the present situation made it acceptable. He went to his door, listened a moment, then opened it to check the landing was clear. He stepped into the corridor, pulled the door behind him without closing it, and went to the stairs that spiralled for several floors in both directions. Someone left a room above, closed a door and walked across the corridor and into another room. Bill quickly and quietly moved down the carpeted steps to the floor below and paused again. Beyond an arch was the reception. Against the wall on Bill’s side of the arch was a public payphone. Bill moved to it, staying tight around the corner out of sight of the receptionist who was sitting in a chair with his head at counter level reading a magazine. Bill lifted the receiver, placed a coin in the slot and dialled the number.
It rang for a moment, then a man’s voice answered.
The voice asked him to wait a moment. If the call was traced it would be impossible to say who could have made it, as long as Bill remained unseen, that is. At the worst all they would have was a description. Unless they knew they were looking for Bill it would do them no good.
‘Come on, for fuck’s sake,’ Bill mumbled, willing Henri to get off his arse and go to the phone.
‘It’s me. We can’t meet,’ Bill said, and then before Henri had a chance to say anything or hang up, Bill continued urgently, ‘Listen to me carefully. You are being watched at this very moment by British military intelligence. Do you understand?’ Bill could imagine Henri’s shock as he digested this information, with all its horrendous implications. If he had a family, he didn’t any more. If he had a house, it was gone, as were all his possessions. If he wanted to escape he could never contact a friend, lover or family member ever again without running the risk of capture or even assassination. In one sudden bolt out of the blue, life, as he knew it, was over.
Henri did not answer but Bill knew he was still on the end of the phone. He could hear him breathing.
‘Henri? Do you understand me?’
‘I understand,’ he said, sounding quite calm.
‘One of them is standing on the first corner as you turn right out of the cafe on your side of the road. He is six feet tall, early thirties, strong build, wearing a camel-coloured coat and dark trousers. Do you understand?’
‘Yes . . . And you?’
‘I don’t know yet,’ Bill said.
‘Good luck to you,’ Henri said after a pause.
‘And you too.’
The phone went dead. Bill replaced the receiver and carefully checked the receptionist was still in his seat. He then hurried back up the stairs, into his room where he closed the door. He went to the window and looked down on to the cafe. Henri walked out and stopped on the pavement. He calmly buttoned up his coat, turned to his right and walked down the street.
Stratton, around the corner, was unaware that Henri had left the cafe. His cell-phone vibrated and he answered it. It was Brent warning him from inside the bookshop that Henri was foxtrot towards him and in fact approaching at that very moment. Stratton instinctively turned his back to the corner and kept the phone to his ear as if innocently pausing in the street to have a conversation. Hank had no idea what was going on and was looking around at the variety of architecture that surrounded him. Henri arrived at the corner and stopped, as if deciding which way to go. He casually glanced over at the man on the phone with his back to him, who matched the description Bill had given him. His eyes then flicked to the man beyond him who was looking up with apparent interest at the tops of the buildings across the street. Henri turned his back on them, crossed the road and headed away.
Stratton turned to see Henri walking away. He hit a key on his phone. ‘He’s towards the Place de la Concorde. Did you see him with anyone?’
Brent quickly explained about the waiter and that he had not seen anyone else, although he could not see inside the cafe from his location. Brent’s immediate concern was what Stratton wanted him to do next.
‘Standby,’ Stratton said and paused to think. Several questions presented themselves: what did the waiter want? Had Henri suspected he was being followed and cancelled the meeting? Was the stop at the cafe another anti-surveillance move? Could he now be on his way to the actual rendezvous?
Stratton focused on Henri. If the Frenchman suspected he was being followed they had blown it anyway. If not, Stratton wanted to house him. The solution was a straightforward one at that point. ‘He’s heading west on Mondovi, which will bring him out on Rivoli, north-east corner of Place de la Concorde. Cover it,’ he said to Brent on the phone then disconnected. If Henri gave the slightest hint he knew he was being followed Stratton would pull off. Henri would walk them around all day otherwise.
‘Hank,’ he said and Hank gave him his full attention. Stratton indicated the only man walking away up the street across the junction. ‘That’s him,’ he said.
‘Henri?’ Hank asked, surprised.
‘Follow him. Stay well back. The road turns left at the end and leads to Rivoli, the main street. He can’t go anywhere else except inside a building. If he enters a building, carry on past and memorise the location. Don’t be obvious. Act natural. Wait for me on Rivoli. Got it?’
‘Got it,’ Hank said, a ripple of excitement passing through him.
‘If for some reason I or no one else hooks up with you on Rivoli we’ll meet back at the cafe where we had breakfast. You remember where that is?’
‘Yes.’
‘Go,’ Stratton said, and Hank set off.
‘You’re just a tourist,’ Stratton added as Hank headed across the junction to put himself on the opposite sidewalk to Henri.
Hank gave a thumbs-up without looking back, his eyes focused on Henri.
Stratton watched them both for a moment. Henri was halfway to the corner.
Stratton then set off along Cambon towards the cafe. As he walked he punched a number key on his cell- phone.
‘Brent. Hank has him on Mondovi. Call Clemens. He should be somewhere on the Place de la Concorde. Henri should be on Rivoli in less than a minute.’
Bill had seen the man with Stratton head off after Henri and then watched Stratton walk directly below his window and enter the cafe. A few seconds later Stratton stepped out and continued on towards Rivoli. Stratton was
