Danger Zones

Danger Zones

Sally Beauman

To Lovell, with love

Contents

Prologue

Part One England

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Part Two Europe

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

About the Author

Prologue

THE YOUNG EXECUTIVE IN the black overcoat was nervous, but he had no trouble when crossing the borders. He left Amsterdam at six on a cold January morning, driving one of the fleet of Cazarès Mercedes. The temperature outside was below freezing, and inside the car he kept the climate control at sixty degrees Fahrenheit: no warmer, for he wished to stay alert. Fearful of black ice, of even the most minor accident, or any run-in with the police, he drove with precision and care, keeping five miles below the speed limit.

He tensed as he reached the border with Belgium, but the traffic was increasing by then. He was just one of many similar businessmen, in similar sedans, heading for Antwerp, Brussels, or Paris. Besides, EC regulations had dispensed with most border formalities: unless there was a major security alert, it was rare to be stopped.

He made good progress south on the fast, flat Belgian highways. Before ten, he was crossing into France on the autoroute, with his destination—Paris—no more than a steady hour’s drive to his south.

Once in France, he began to relax—an error, he thought later. He switched on his CD player, allowed himself a much-needed cigarette. Feeling a rising elation, for his mission was almost accomplished, he also allowed his speed to creep up.

The Mercedes responded to the least touch on the accelerator. Coming up fast behind a lumbering truck, he pulled out to overtake, shot past with a contemptuous look—and saw the police car that had been concealed in front of it five seconds too late.

He felt a thump of adrenaline, an immediate drying of the mouth, but he drove on, gradually reducing his speed, signaled, and pulled back into the middle lane. He told himself the police would overlook his actions. If he had been driving a flashier car, a Porsche for instance; if he had not been wearing such irreproachable clothes, a Hermès overcoat and a custom-made Savile Row suit, they might flag him down. As it was, he looked the very picture of affluence and respectability. Surely he was safe.

As he thought this, he realized the police car was right up on his tail, and its lights and sirens had started up.

Keep calm, he said to himself. A warning, at worst a fine; he could handle this situation. He gave a polite gesture of acknowledgment, and pulled over onto the hard shoulder. He had about fifteen seconds while the police car pulled in behind and the officers got out. He glanced down at the black attaché case next to him on the passenger seat. Such cases were issued to all senior Cazarès personnel. This one bore his name, Christian Bertrand, and a discreet monogrammed tag attached to the handle, embossed with the letters JL. This indicated that Bertrand was one of six senior aides who reported directly to Jean Lazare himself.