Temperature rises
Sometimes it was a waiting game, but spy Emma Makepeace was a skilled player
Emma Makepeace flattened her back against the hot stone wall, wincing as it burned her bare legs. St Tropez was always warm in September, but the late summer heatwave had pushed the temperature to nearly 40 in the shade. She took off her sunglasses and wiped the sting of sweat from her eyes. She wanted nothing more than to rest with a tall glass of something ice cold but there was little chance of that.
She’d been tracking Sergei Pirovitch since he left the safety of his Surrey compound for his apartment on the Côte d’azur. Pirovitch was one of those extremely wealthy men whose presence in the UK was tolerated because of the money he brought with him, so long as he kept his head down.
But about a month ago, he’d stopped cooperating. The criminal activities the oligarch had always been so good at concealing had become much more obvious. He’d switched from financial crimes to weapons dealing and he’d surrounded himself with some very unsavoury people. The intelligence agencies had been closing in on him when he had abruptly left the country.
Now, the Russian emerged from the back of a parked limousine and entered an expensive ladies’ boutique.
Emma hesitated. She could follow him inside or stay where she was. Before she could decide, Pirovitch’s chauffeur strolled away from the car towards a black Citroën. Discreetly, he peered into the window.
Emma swore under her breath. She took out her phone and quickly dialled a number.
“What’s happened?” asked the Scottishaccented voice on the other end of the line.
“Jon, I’ve been burned. They spotted my car.”
“Damn it.” There was a pause. “Stay put – we’ll come and get you.”
“Negative,” she replied. “I’m proceeding another way.”
“Emma, no. It’s too…”
But she’d already slid the phone back into the pocket of her jeans.
She needed alternative transport and fast. But how? Traffic on the boulevard had slowed to a crawl, which made it difficult to find a taxi, even if she could somehow make the driver follow without being seen.
She was just working out how to steal a bike when something odd happened. A pair of smartly dressed women tried to go into the boutique, but the door wouldn’t open. The two exclaimed and tried again, jiggling the door.
Pirovitch’s chauffeur leaned out of the limo and said something to them sharply.
Murmuring their disapproval, the pair walked away. Emma pulled out her phone.
When he answered, Jon sounded furious.
“You need to get out of there.”
Emma ignored that. “Listen, we were wrong. The deal isn’t happening later. I think it’s going on now.” “Where?”
“Place called Boutique Marie on the Boulevard Patch. If I’m right, we don’t have any time.”
There was a pause before Jon said, “Emma, if you’re wrong about this…”
“Then Ripley will nail my arse to the wall. But Jon – what if I’m right? I think he’s in there right now arranging an arms deal with an African warlord.” Silence.
“Come on, Jon. He walked in there with a suitcase. There’s no time.”
Her voice grew urgent.
As Emma’s superior, Jon could order her to stand down. But he’d always
trusted her.
“Right,” he said at last. “Sit tight. I’ll get a team to you as quick as I can.” “Thank you,” she said, meaning it. “I hope to hell you’re right about this,” he told her and hung up. Emma stood by the wall, fingers tapping her thigh, as the sun baked the elegant street. The boutique door remained solidly locked.
She didn’t have long to wait. Five French Gendarmerie armed vehicles rocketed into view and screeched to a halt in the middle of the busy street. Shouting commands, they moved tourists out of the way before crushing the glass door with a battering ram. Emma called Jon. “They’re in.”
“I have French police on my other phone,” he said. “Hang on.”
Emma stood out of view, watching the police in their black body armour, moving in and out of the shop. A few minutes later they led out a tall man with dark hair, wearing a bespoke suit. He was handcuffed. “They’re arresting Pirovitch,” she said.
Another officer followed carrying two suitcases. Soon other men followed, also handcuffed.
“You were right,” Jon said. “Pirovitch had a suitcase full of weapons. Samples of what he was going to provide. They found more than a million pounds in the other case.”
“So what you’re saying is, I was right,” Emma said, smiling.
“This time.” She could hear the amusement in Jon’s voice.
The second they hung up, her phone rang.
It was headquarters. “Makepeace,” she said.
“Good job out there.” It was the low, gravelly voice of Charles Ripley, head of the agency.
“I’ve got another project for you. Don’t unpack your suitcase. Oh and Emma? You may be some time. Best to cancel all your plans.”
Emma smiled. “I’m ready… But I’ll need a new car.”
Jon could order her to stand down, but he’d always trusted her