Eye of the Storm

Copyright

Harper

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HarperCollinsPublishers

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First published in Great Britain by Chapmans 1992

Copyright © Jack Higgins 1992

Jack Higgins asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

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Source ISBN: 9780007456024

Ebook Edition © June 2012 ISBN: 9780007456031

Version: 2015-01-12

Dedication

In memory of my grandfather Robert Bell, M M Gallant Soldier

Epigraph

The winds of heaven are blowing.

Implement all that is on the table.

May God be with you.

Coded message, Iraq Radio, Baghdad

January 1991

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Keep Reading

About the Author

Also by the Author

About the Publisher

Prologue

The mortar attack on Number Ten Downing Street when the War Cabinet was meeting at 10.00 a.m. on Thursday, 7 February 1991, is now a matter of history. It has never been satisfactorily explained. Perhaps it went something like this …

1

It was just before dark as Dillon emerged from the alley and paused on the corner. Rain drifted across the Seine in a flurry of snow, sleet mixed with it, and it was cold, even for January in Paris. He wore a reefer coat, peaked cap, jeans and boots, just another sailor off one of the barges working the river, which he very definitely was not.

He lit a cigarette in cupped hands and stayed there for a moment in the shadows, looking across the cobbled square at the lights of the small café on the other side. After a while he dropped the cigarette, thrust his hands deep in his pockets and started across.

In the darkness of the entrance two men waited, watching his progress. One of them whispered, ‘That must be him.’

He made a move. The other held him back. ‘No, wait till he’s inside.’

Dillon, his senses sharpened by years of entirely the wrong kind of living, was aware of them, but gave no sign. He paused at the entrance, slipped his left hand under the reefer coat to check that the Walther PPK was securely tucked into the waistband of his jeans against the small of his back, then he opened the door and went in.

It was typical of the sort of place to be found on that part of the river: half a dozen tables with chairs, a zinc-topped bar, bottles lined against a cracked mirror behind it. The entrance to the rear was masked by a bead curtain.

The barman, a very old man with a grey moustache, wore an alpaca coat, the sleeves frayed at the cuffs, and there was no collar to his shirt. He put down the magazine he was reading and got up from the stool.

‘Monsieur?’

Dillon unbuttoned his reefer coat and put his cap on the bar, a small man, no more than five feet five, with fair hair and eyes that seemed to the barman to be of no particular colour at all except for the fact that they were the coldest the old man had ever looked into. He shivered, unaccountably afraid, and then Dillon smiled. The change was astonishing, suddenly nothing but warmth there and immense charm. His French, when he spoke, was perfect.

‘Would there be such a thing as half a bottle of champagne in the house?’

The old man stared at him in astonishment. ‘Champagne? You must be joking, monsieur. I have two kinds of wine only. One is red and the other white.’

He placed a bottle of each on the bar. It was stuff of such poor quality that the bottles had screw tops instead of corks.

‘All right,’ Dillon said. ‘The white it is. Give me a glass.’

He put his cap back on, went and sat at a table against the wall from where he could see both the entrance and the curtained doorway. He got the bottle open, poured some of the wine into the glass and tried it.

He said to the barman, ‘And what vintage would this be, last week’s?’

‘Monsieur?’ The old man looked bewildered.

‘Never mind.’ Dillon lit another cigarette, sat back and waited.

The man who stood closest to the curtain, peering through, was in his mid-fifties, of medium height with a slightly decadent look to his face, the fur collar of his dark overcoat turned up against the cold. He looked like a prosperous businessman right down to the gold Rolex on his left wrist, which in a way he was as a senior commercial attaché at the Soviet Embassy in Paris. He was also a colonel in the KGB, one Josef Makeev.

The younger, dark-haired man in the expensive vicuna overcoat who peered over his shoulder was called Michael Aroun. He whispered in French, ‘This is ridiculous. He can’t be our man. He looks like nothing.’

‘A serious mistake many people have made, Michael,’ Makeev said. ‘Now wait and see.’

The bell tinkled as the outer door swung open, rain blowing in and the two men entered who had been waiting in the doorway as Dillon crossed the square. One of them was over six feet tall, bearded, an ugly scar running into the right eye. The other was much smaller and they were dressed in reefer coats and denims. They looked exactly what they were, trouble.

They stood at the bar and the old man looked worried. ‘No trouble,’ the younger one said. ‘We only want a drink.’

The big man turned and looked at Dillon. ‘It seems as if we’ve got one right here.’ He crossed to the table, picked up Dillon’s glass and drank from it. ‘Our friend doesn’t mind, do you?’

Without getting out of his chair Dillon raised his left foot and stamped downwards against the bearded man’s kneecap. The man went down with a choked cry, grabbing at the table and Dillon stood. The bearded man tried to pull himself up and sank into one of the chairs. His friend took a hand from his pocket, springing the blade of a gutting knife and Dillon’s left hand came up holding the Walther PPK.

‘On the bar. Christ, you never learn, people like you, do you? Now get this piece of dung on his feet and out of here while I’m still in a good mood. You’ll need the casualty department of the nearest hospital, by the way. I seem to have dislodged his kneecap.’

The small man went to his friend and struggled to get him on his feet. They stood there for a moment, the bearded man’s face twisted in agony. Dillon went and opened the door, the rain pouring relentlessly down outside.

As they lurched past him, he said, ‘Have a good night,’ and closed the door.

Still holding the Walther in his left hand, he lit a cigarette using a match from the stand on the bar and smiled at the old barman who looked terrified. ‘Don’t worry, Dad, not your problem.’ Then he leaned against the bar and called in English, ‘All right, Makeev, I know you’re there so let’s be having you.’

The curtain parted and Makeev and Aroun stepped through.

‘My dear Sean, it’s good to see you again.’

‘And aren’t you the wonder of the world?’ Dillon said, just the trace of an Ulster accent in his voice. ‘One minute trying to stitch me up, the next all sweetness and light.’

‘It was necessary, Sean,’ Makeev said. ‘I needed to make a point to my friend here. Let me introduce you.’

‘No need,’ Dillon told him. ‘I’ve seen his picture often enough. If it’s not on the financial pages it’s usually in the society magazines. Michael Aroun, isn’t it? The man with all the money in the world.’

‘Not quite all, Mr Dillon.’ Aroun put a hand out.

Dillon ignored it. ‘We’ll skip the courtesies, my old son, while you tell whoever is standing on the other side of that curtain to come out.’

‘Rashid, do as he says,’ Aroun called, and said to Dillon, ‘It’s only my aide.’

The young man who stepped through had a dark, watchful face and wore a leather car coat, the collar turned up, his hands thrust deep in the pockets.

Dillon knew a professional when he saw one. ‘Plain view.’ He motioned with the Walther. Rashid actually smiled and took his hands from his pockets. ‘Good,’ Dillon said. ‘I’ll be on my way then.’

He turned and got the door open. Makeev said, ‘Sean, be reasonable. We only want to talk. A job, Sean.’

‘Sorry, Makeev, but I don’t like the way you do business.’

‘Not even for a million, Mr Dillon?’ Michael Aroun said.

Dillon paused and turned to look at him calmly, then smiled, again with enormous charm. ‘Would that be in pounds or dollars, Mr Aroun?’ he asked and walked out into the rain.

As the door banged Aroun said, ‘We’ve lost him.’

‘Not at all,’ Makeev said. ‘A strange one this, believe me.’ He turned to Rashid. ‘You have your portable phone?’

‘Yes, Colonel.’

‘Good. Get after him. Stick to him like glue. When he settles, phone me. We’ll be at the Avenue Victor Hugo.’

Rashid didn’t say a word, simply went. Aroun took out his wallet and extracted a thousand-franc note which he placed on the bar. He said to the barman who was looking totally bewildered, ‘We’re very grateful,’ then turned and followed Makeev out.

As he slid behind the wheel of the black Mercedes saloon, he said to the Russian, ‘He never even hesitated back there.’

‘A remarkable man, Sean Dillon,’ Makeev said as they drove away. ‘He first picked up a gun for the IRA in nineteen seventy-one. Twenty years, Michael, twenty years and he hasn’t seen the inside of a cell once. He was involved in the Mountbatten business. Then he became too hot for his own people to handle so he moved to Europe. As I told you, he’s worked for everyone. The PLO, the Red Brigade in Germany in the old days. The Basque national movement, ETA. He killed a Spanish general for them.’

‘And the KGB?’

‘But of course. He’s worked for us on many occasions. We always use the best and Sean Dillon is exactly that. He speaks English and Irish, not that that bothers you, fluent French and German, reasonable Arabic, Italian and Russian.’

‘And no one has ever caught him in twenty years. How could anyone be that lucky?’

‘Because he has the most extraordinary gift for acting, my friend. A genius, you might say. As a young boy his father took him from Belfast to London to live, where he was awarded a scholarship to the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art. He even worked for the National Theatre when he was nineteen or twenty. I have never known anyone who can change personality and appearance so much just by body language. Make-up seldom enters into it, although I admit that it helps when he wants. He’s a legend that the security services of most countries keep quiet about because they can’t put a face to him so they don’t know what they’re looking for.’

‘What about the British? After all, they must be the experts where the IRA are concerned.’

‘No, not even the British. As I said, he’s never been arrested, not once, and unlike many of his IRA friends, he never courted media publicity. I doubt if there’s a photo of him anywhere except for the odd boyhood snap.’

‘What about when he was an actor?’

‘Perhaps, but that was twenty years ago, Michael.’

‘And you think he might undertake this business if I offer him enough money?’

‘No, money alone has never been enough for this man. It always has to be the job itself where Dillon is concerned. How can I put it? How interesting it is. This is a man to whom acting was everything. What we are offering him is a new part. The theatre of the street perhaps, but still acting.’ He smiled as the Mercedes joined the traffic moving around the Arc de Triomphe. ‘Let’s wait and see. Wait until we hear from Rashid.’

At that moment, Captain Ali Rashid was by the Seine at the end of a small pier jutting out into the river. The rain was falling very heavily, still plenty of sleet in it. The floodlights were on at Notre Dame and the effect was of something seen partially through a net curtain. He watched Dillon turn along the narrow pier to the building on stilts at the far end, waited until he went in and followed him.

The place was quite old and built of wood, barges and boats of various kinds moored all around. The sign over the door said Le Chat Noir. He peered through the window cautiously. There was a bar and several tables just like the other place. The only difference was that people were eating. There was even a man sitting on a stool against the wall playing an accordion. All very Parisian. Dillon was standing at the bar speaking to a young woman.

Rashid moved back, walked to the end of the pier, paused by the rail in the shelter of a small terrace and dialled the number of Aroun’s house in the Avenue Victor Hugo on his portable phone.

There was a slight click as the Walther was cocked and Dillon rammed the muzzle rather painfully into his right ear. ‘Now then, son, a few answers,’ he demanded. ‘Who are you?’

‘My name is Rashid,’ the young man said. ‘Ali Rashid.’

‘What are you then? PLO?’

‘No, Mr Dillon. I’m a captain in the Iraqi Army, assigned to protect Mr Aroun.’

‘And Makeev and the KGB?’

‘Let’s just say he’s on our side.’

‘The way things are going in the Gulf you need somebody on your side, my old son.’ There was the faint sound of a voice from the portable phone. ‘Go on, answer him.’

Makeev said, ‘Rashid, where is he?’

‘Right here, outside a café on the river near Notre Dame,’ Rashid told him. ‘With the muzzle of his Walther well into my ear.’

‘Put him on,’ Makeev ordered.

Rashid handed the phone to Dillon who said, ‘Now then, you old sod.’

‘A million, Sean. Pounds if you prefer that currency.’

‘And what would I have to be doing for all that money?’

‘The job of a lifetime. Let Rashid bring you round here and we’ll discuss it.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Dillon said. ‘I think what I’d really like is for you to get your arse into gear and come and pick us up yourself.’

‘Of course,’ Makeev said. ‘Where are you?’

‘The Left Bank opposite Notre Dame. A little pub on a pier called Le Chat Noir. We’ll be waiting.’

He slipped the Walther into his pocket and handed the phone to Rashid who said, ‘He’s coming then?’

‘Of course he is.’ Dillon smiled. ‘Now let’s you and me go inside and have ourselves a drink in comfort.’

In the sitting room on the first floor of the house in the Avenue Victor Hugo overlooking the Bois de Boulogne, Josef Makeev put down the phone and moved to the couch where his overcoat was.

‘Was that Rashid?’ Aroun demanded.

‘Yes. He’s with Dillon now at a place on the river. I’m going to get them.’

‘I’ll come with you.’

Makeev pulled on his coat. ‘No need, Michael. You hold the fort. We won’t be long.’

He went out. Aroun took a cigarette from a silver box and lit it, then he turned on the television. He was halfway into the news. There was direct coverage from Baghdad, Tornado fighter bombers of the British Royal Air Force attacking at low level. It made him bitterly angry. He switched off, poured himself a brandy and went and sat by the window.

Michael Aroun was forty years of age and a remarkable man by any standards. Born in Baghdad of a French mother and an Iraqi father who was an army officer, he’d had a maternal grandmother who was American. Through her, his mother had inherited ten million dollars and a number of oil leases in Texas.

She had died the year Aroun had graduated from Harvard Law School leaving everything to her son because his father, retired as a general from the Iraqi Army, was happy to spend his later years at the old family house in Baghdad with his books.

Like most great businessmen, Aroun had no academic training in the field. He knew nothing of financial planning or business administration. His favourite saying, one much quoted, was: When I need a new accountant, I buy a new accountant.

His friendship with Saddam Hussein had been a natural development from the fact that the Iraqi President had been greatly supported in his early days in politics by Aroun’s father, who was also an important member of the Baath Party. It had placed Aroun in a privileged position as regards the development of his country’s oilfields, brought him riches beyond calculation.

After the first billion you stopped counting, another favourite saying. And now he was faced with disaster. Not only the promised riches of the Kuwait oilfields snatched from him, but that portion of his wealth which stemmed from Iraq dried up, finished as a result of the Coalition’s massive airstrikes which had devastated his country since 17 January.

He was no fool. He knew that the game was over; should probably have never started, and that Saddam Hussein’s dream was already finished. As a businessman he played the percentages and that didn’t offer Iraq too much of a chance in the ground war that must eventually come.

He was far from ruined in personal terms. He had oil interests still in the USA and the fact that he was a French as well as an Iraqi citizen gave Washington a problem. Then there was his shipping empire and vast quantities of real estate in various capital cities around the world. But that wasn’t the point. He was angry when he switched on the television and saw what was happening in Baghdad each night for, surprising in one so self-centred, he was a patriot. There was also the fact, infinitely more important, that his father had been killed in a bombing raid on the third night of the air war.

And there was a great secret in his life, for in August, shortly after the invasion of Kuwait by Iraqi forces, Aroun had been sent for by Saddam Hussein himself. Sitting here by the French window, a glass of brandy in one hand, rain slanting across the terrace, he gazed out across the Bois de Boulogne in the evening light and remembered that meeting.

There was an air-raid practice in progress as he was driven in an army Land Rover through the streets of Baghdad, darkness everywhere. The driver was a young intelligence captain named Rashid who he had met before, one of the new breed, trained by the British at Sandhurst. Aroun gave him an English cigarette and took one himself.

‘What do you think, will they make some sort of move?’

‘The Americans and Brits?’ Rashid was being careful. ‘Who knows? They’re certainly reacting. President Bush seems to be taking a hard line.’

‘No, you’re mistaken,’ Aroun said. ‘I’ve met the man face to face twice now at White House functions. He’s what our American friends call a nice guy. There’s no steel there at all.’

Rashid shrugged. ‘I’m a simple man, Mr Aroun, a soldier, and perhaps I see things simply. Here is a man, a navy combat pilot at twenty, who saw a great deal of active service, who was shot down over the Sea of Japan and survived to be awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross. I would not underestimate such a man.’

Aroun frowned. ‘Come on, my friend, the Americans aren’t going to come halfway round the world with an army to protect one little Arab state.’

‘Isn’t that exactly what the British did in the Falklands War?’ Rashid reminded him. ‘They never expected such a reaction in Argentina. Of course they had Thatcher’s determination behind them, the Brits, I mean.’

‘Damned woman,’ Aroun said and leaned back as they went in through the gate of the presidential palace, feeling suddenly depressed.

He followed Rashid along corridors of marble splendour, the young officer leading the way, a torch in one hand. It was a strange, rather eerie experience, following that small pool of light on the floor, their footfalls echoing. There was a sentry on each side of the ornate door they finally halted before. Rashid opened it and they went in.

Saddam Hussein was alone, sitting in uniform at a large desk, the only light a shaded lamp. He was writing, slowly and carefully, looked up and smiled, putting down his pen.

‘Michael.’ He came round the desk and embraced Aroun like a brother. ‘Your father? He is well?’

‘In excellent health, my President.’

‘Give him my respects. You look well, Michael. Paris suits you.’ He smiled again. ‘Smoke if you want. I know you like to. The doctors have unfortunately had to tell me to cut it out or else.’

He sat down behind the desk again and Aroun sat opposite, aware of Rashid against the wall in the darkness. ‘Paris was fine, but my place is here now in these difficult times.’

Saddam Hussein shook his head. ‘Not true, Michael. I have soldiers in plenty, but few men such as you. You are rich, famous, accepted at the highest levels of society and government anywhere in the world. More than that, because of your beloved mother of blessed memory, you are not just an Iraqi, but also a French citizen. No, Michael, I want you in Paris.’

‘But why, my President?’ Aroun asked.

‘Because one day I may require you to do a service for me and for your country that only you could perform.’

Aroun said, ‘You can rely on me totally, you know that.’

Saddam Hussein got up and paced to the nearest window, opened the shutters and stepped onto the terrace. The all clear sounded mournfully across the city and lights began to appear here and there.

‘I still hope our friends in America and Britain stay in their own backyard, but if not …’ He shrugged. ‘Then we may have to fight them in their own backyard. Remember, Michael, as the Prophet instructs us in the Koran, there is more truth in one sword than ten thousand words.’ He paused and then carried on, still looking out across the city. ‘One sniper in the darkness, Michael, British SAS or Israeli, it doesn’t really matter, but what a coup – the death of Saddam Hussein.’

‘God forbid it,’ Michael Aroun said.

Saddam turned to him. ‘As God wills, Michael, in all things, but you see my point? The same would apply to Bush or the Thatcher woman. The proof that my arm reaches everywhere. The ultimate coup.’ He turned. ‘Would you be capable of arranging such a thing, if necessary?’

Aroun had never felt so excited in his life. ‘I think so, my President. All things are possible, especially when sufficient money is involved. It would be my gift to you.’

‘Good.’ Saddam nodded. ‘You will return to Paris immediately. Captain Rashid will accompany you. He will have details of certain codes we will be using in radio broadcasts, that sort of thing. The day may never come, Michael, but if it does …’ He shrugged. ‘We have friends in the right places.’ He turned to Rashid. ‘That KGB colonel at the Soviet Embassy in Paris?’

‘Colonel Josef Makeev, my President.’

‘Yes,’ Saddam Hussein said to Aroun. ‘Like many of his kind, not happy with the changes now taking place in Moscow. He will assist in any way he can. He’s already expressed his willingness.’ He embraced Aroun, again like a brother. ‘Now go. I have work to do.’

The lights had still not come on in the palace and Aroun had stumbled out into the darkness of the corridor, following the beam of Rashid’s torch.

Since his return to Paris he had got to know Makeev well, keeping their acquaintance, by design, purely on a social level, meeting mainly at various Embassy functions. And Saddam Hussein had been right. The Russian was very definitely on their side, only too willing to do anything that would cause problems for the United States or Great Britain.

The news from home, of course, had been bad. The build-up of such a gigantic army. Who could have expected it? And then in the early hours of 17 January the air war had begun. One bad thing after another and the ground attack still to come.

He poured himself another brandy, remembering his despairing rage at the news of his father’s death. He’d never been religious by inclination, but he’d found a mosque in a Paris side street to pray in. Not that it had done any good. The feeling of impotence was like a living thing inside him and then came the morning when Ali Rashid had rushed into the great ornate sitting room, a notepad in one hand, his face pale and excited.

‘It’s come, Mr Aroun. The signal we’ve been waiting for. I just heard it on the radio transmitter from Baghdad.’

The winds of heaven are blowing. Implement all that is on the table. May God be with you.

Aroun had gazed at it in wonder, his hand trembling as he held the notepad, and his voice was hoarse when he said, ‘The President was right. The day has come.’

‘Exactly,’ Rashid said. ‘Implement all that is on the table. We’re in business. I’ll get in touch with Makeev and arrange a meeting as soon as possible.’

Dillon stood at the French windows and peered out across the Avenue Victor Hugo to the Bois de Boulogne. He was whistling softly to himself, a strange eerie little tune.

‘Now this must be what the house agents call a favoured location.’

‘May I offer you a drink, Mr Dillon?’

‘A glass of champagne wouldn’t come amiss.’

‘Have you a preference?’ Aroun asked.

‘Ah, the man who has everything,’ Dillon said. ‘All right, Krug would be fine, but non-vintage. I prefer the grape mix.’

‘A man of taste, I see.’ Aroun nodded to Rashid who opened a side door and went out.

Dillon, unbuttoning his reefer coat, took out a cigarette and lit it. ‘So, you need my services this old fox tells me.’ He nodded at Makeev who lounged against the fireplace warming himself. ‘The job of a lifetime, he said and for a million pounds. Now what would I have to do for all that?’

Rashid entered quickly with the Krug in a bucket, three glasses on a tray. He put them on the table and started to open the bottle.

Aroun said, ‘I’m not sure, but it would have to be something very special. Something to show the world that Saddam Hussein can strike anywhere.’

‘He needs something, the poor old sod,’ Dillon said cheerfully. ‘Things aren’t going too well.’ As Rashid finished filling three glasses the Irishman added, ‘And what’s your trouble, son? Aren’t you joining us?’

Rashid smiled and Aroun said, ‘In spite of Winchester and Sandhurst, Mr Dillon, Captain Rashid remains a very Muslim Muslim. He does not touch alcohol.’

‘Well, here’s to you.’ Dillon raised his glass. ‘I respect a man with principles.’

‘This would need to be big, Sean, no point in anything small. We’re not talking blowing up five British Army paratroopers in Belfast,’ Makeev said.

‘Oh, it’s Bush you want, is it?’ Dillon smiled. ‘The President of the United States flat on his back with a bullet in him?’

‘Would that be so crazy?’ Aroun demanded.

‘It would be this time, son,’ Dillon told him. ‘George Bush has not just taken on Saddam Hussein, he’s taken on the Arabs as a people. Oh, that’s total rubbish of course, but it’s the way a lot of Arab fanatics see it. Groups like Hizbollah, the PLO or the wild cards like the Wrath of Allah people. The sort who would happily strap a bomb to their waist and detonate it while the President reached out to shake just another hand in the crowd. I know these people. I know how their minds tick. I’ve helped train Hizbollah people in Beirut. I’ve worked for the PLO.’

‘What you are saying is nobody can get near Bush at the moment?’

‘Read your papers. Anybody who looks even slightly Arab is keeping off the streets these days in New York and Washington.’

‘But you, Mr Dillon, do not look Arab to the slightest degree,’ Aroun said. ‘For one thing you have fair hair.’

‘So did Lawrence of Arabia and he used to pass himself off as an Arab.’ Dillon shook his head. ‘President Bush has the finest security in the world, believe me. A ring of steel and in present circumstances he’s going to stay home while this whole Gulf thing works through, mark my words.’

‘What about their Secretary of State, James Baker?’ Aroun said. ‘He’s been indulging in shuttle diplomacy throughout Europe.’

‘Yes, but knowing when, that’s the problem. You’ll know he’s been in London or Paris when he’s already left and they show him on television. No, you can forget the Americans on this one.’

There was silence and Aroun looked glum. Makeev was the first to speak. ‘Give me then the benefit of your professional expertise, Sean. Where does one find the weakest security, as regards national leaders?’

Dillon laughed out loud. ‘Oh, I think your man here can answer that, Winchester and Sandhurst.’

Rashid smiled. ‘He’s right. The British are probably the best in the world at covert operations. The success of their Special Air Service Regiment speaks for itself, but in other areas …’ He shook his head.

‘Their first problem is bureaucracy,’ Dillon told them. ‘The British Security Service operates in two main sections. What most people still call MI5 and MI6. MI5, or DI5 to be pedantic, specialises in counter-espionage in Great Britain. The other lot operates abroad. Then you have Special Branch at Scotland Yard who have to be brought into the act to make any actual arrests. The Yard also has an anti-terrorist squad. Then there’s army intelligence units galore. All life is there and they’re all at each other’s throats and that, gentlemen, is when mistakes begin to creep in.’

Rashid poured some more champagne into his glass. ‘And you are saying that makes for bad security with their leaders? The Queen, for example?’

‘Come on,’ Dillon said. ‘It’s not all that many years ago that the Queen woke up in Buckingham Palace and found an intruder sitting on the bed. How long ago, six years, since the IRA almost got Margaret Thatcher and the entire British Cabinet at a Brighton hotel during the Tory Party Conference?’ He put down his glass and lit another cigarette. ‘The Brits are very old-fashioned. They like a policeman to wear a uniform so they know who he is and they don’t like being told what to do and that applies to Cabinet Ministers who think nothing of strolling through the streets from their houses in Westminster to Parliament.’

‘Fortunate for the rest of us,’ Makeev said.

‘Exactly,’ Dillon said. ‘They even have to go softly-softly on terrorists, up to a degree anyway, not like French intelligence. Jesus, if the lads in Action Service got their hands on me they’d have me spread out and my bollocks wired up for electricity before I knew what was happening. Mind you, even they are prone to the occasional error.’

‘What do you mean?’ Makeev demanded.

‘Have you got a copy of the evening paper handy?’

‘Certainly, I’ve been reading it,’ Aroun said. ‘Ali, on my desk.’

Rashid returned with a copy of Paris Soir. Dillon said, ‘Page two. Read it out. You’ll find it interesting.’

He helped himself to more champagne while Rashid read the item aloud. ‘Mrs Margaret Thatcher, until recently Prime Minister of Britain, is staying overnight at Choisy as a guest of President Mitterrand. They are to have further talks in the morning. She leaves at two o’clock for an air force emergency field at Valenton where an RAF plane returns her to England. Incredible, isn’t it, that they could have allowed such a press release, but I guarantee the main London newspapers will carry that story also.’

There was a heavy silence and then Aroun said, ‘You’re not suggesting … ?’

Dillon said to Rashid, ‘You must have some road maps handy. Get them.’

Rashid went out quickly. Makeev said, ‘Good God, Sean, not even you …’

‘Why not?’ Dillon asked calmly and turned to Aroun. ‘I mean, you want something big, a major coup? Would Margaret Thatcher do or are we just playing games here?’

Before Aroun could reply, Rashid came back with two or three road maps. He opened one out on the table and they looked at it, all except Makeev who stayed by the fire.

‘There we are, Choisy,’ Rashid said. ‘Thirty miles from Paris and here is the air force field at Valenton only seven miles away.’

‘Have you got a map of larger scale?’

‘Yes.’ Rashid unfolded one of the others.

‘Good,’ Dillon said. ‘It’s perfectly clear that only one country road links Choisy to Valenton and here, about three miles before the airfield, there’s a railway crossing. Perfect.’

‘For what?’ Aroun demanded.

‘An ambush. Look, I know how these things operate. There’ll be one car, two at the most, and an escort. Maybe half a dozen CRS police on motorbikes.’

‘My God!’ Aroun whispered.

‘Yes, well. He’s got very little to do with it. It could work. Fast, very simple. What the Brits call a piece of cake.’

Aroun turned in appeal to Makeev who shrugged. ‘He means it, Michael. You said this was what you wanted so make up your mind.’

Aroun took a deep breath and turned back to Dillon. ‘All right.’

‘Good,’ Dillon said calmly. He reached for a pad and pencil on the table and wrote on it quickly. ‘Those are the details of my numbered bank account in Zurich. You’ll transfer one million pounds to it first thing in the morning.’

‘In advance?’ Rashid said. ‘Isn’t that expecting rather a lot?’

‘No, my old son, it’s you people who are expecting rather a lot and the rules have changed. On successful completion, I’ll expect a further million.’

‘Now look here,’ Rashid started, but Aroun held up a hand.

‘Fine, Mr Dillon, and cheap at the price. Now what can we do for you?’

‘I need operating money. I presume a man like you keeps large supplies of the filthy stuff around the house?’

‘Very large,’ Aroun smiled. ‘How much?’

‘Can you manage dollars? Say twenty thousand?’

‘Of course.’ Aroun nodded to Rashid who went to the far end of the room, swung a large oil painting to one side disclosing a wall safe which he started to open.

Makeev said, ‘And what can I do?’

‘The old warehouse in rue de Helier, the one we’ve used before. You’ve still got a key?’

‘Of course.’

‘Good. I’ve got most things I need stored there, but for this job I’d like a light machine gun. A tripod job. A Heckler & Koch or an M60. Anything like that will do.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Eight o’clock. I’d like it there by ten. All right?’

‘Of course,’ Makeev said again.

Rashid came back with a small briefcase. ‘Twenty thousand. Hundred-dollar bills, I’m afraid.’

‘Is there any way they could be traced?’ Dillon asked.

‘Impossible,’ Aroun told him.

‘Good. And I’ll take the maps.’

He walked to the door, opened it and started down the curving staircase to the hall. Aroun, Rashid and Makeev followed him.

‘But is this all, Mr Dillon?’ Aroun said. ‘Is there nothing more we can do for you? Won’t you need help?’

‘When I do, it comes from the criminal classes,’ Dillon said. ‘Honest crooks who do things for cash are usually more reliable than politically motivated zealots. Not always, but most of the time. Don’t worry, you’ll hear from me, one way or another. I’ll be on my way then.’

Rashid got the door open. Rain and sleet drifted in and Dillon pulled on his cap. ‘A dirty old night for it.’

‘One thing, Mr Dillon,’ Rashid said. ‘What happens if things go wrong? I mean, you’ll have your million in advance and we’ll –’

‘Have nothing? Don’t give it a thought, me old son. I’ll provide an alternative target. There’s always the new British Prime Minister, this John Major. I presume his head on a plate would serve your boss back in Baghdad just as well.’

He smiled once, then stepped out into the rain and pulled the door shut behind him.

2

Dillon paused outside Le Chat Noir on the end of the small pier for the second time that night. It was almost deserted, a young man and woman at a corner table holding hands, a bottle of wine between them. The accordion was playing softly and the musician talked to the man behind the bar at the same time. They were the Jobert brothers, gangsters of the second rank in the Paris underworld. Their activities had been severely curtailed since Pierre, the one behind the bar, had lost his left leg in a car crash after an armed robbery three years previously.

As the door opened and Dillon entered, the other brother, Gaston, stopped playing. ‘Ah, Monsieur Rocard, back already.’

‘Gaston.’ Dillon shook hands and turned to the barman. ‘Pierre.’

‘See, I still remember that little tune of yours, the Irish one.’ Gaston played a few notes on the accordion.

‘Good,’ Dillon said. ‘A true artist.’

Behind them the young couple got up and left. Pierre produced half a bottle of champagne from the bar fridge. ‘Champagne as usual I presume, my friend? Nothing special, but we are poor men here.’

‘You’ll have me crying all over the bar,’ Dillon said.

‘And what may we do for you?’ Pierre enquired.

‘Oh, I just want to put a little business your way.’ Dillon nodded at the door. ‘It might be an idea if you closed.’

Gaston put his accordion on the bar, went and bolted the door and pulled down the blind. He returned and sat on his stool. ‘Well, my friend?’

‘This could be a big pay day for you boys.’ Dillon opened the briefcase, took out one of the road maps and disclosed the stacks of hundred-dollar bills. ‘Twenty thousand American. Ten now and ten on successful completion.’

‘My God!’ Gaston said in awe, but Pierre looked grim.

‘And what would be expected for all this money?’

Dillon had always found it paid to stick as close to the truth as possible and he spread the road map out across the bar.

‘I’ve been hired by the Union Corse,’ he said, naming the most feared criminal organisation in France, ‘to take care of a little problem. A matter of what you might term business rivalry.’

‘Ah, I see,’ Pierre said. ‘And you are to eliminate the problem?’

‘Exactly. The men concerned will be passing along this road here towards Valenton shortly after two o’clock tomorrow. I intend to take them out here at the railway crossing.’

‘And how will this be accomplished?’ Gaston asked.

‘A very simple ambush. You two are still in the transport business, aren’t you? Stolen cars, trucks?’

‘You should know. You’ve bought from us on enough occasions,’ Pierre told him.

‘A couple of vans, that’s not too much to expect, is it?’

‘And then what?’

‘We’ll take a drive down to this place tonight.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Eleven o’clock from here. It’ll only take an hour.’

Pierre shook his head. ‘Look, this could be heavy. I’m getting too old for gunplay.’

‘Wonderful,’ Dillon said. ‘How many did you kill when you were with the OAS?’

‘I was younger then.’

‘Well, it comes to us all, I suppose. No gunplay. You two will be in and out so quickly you won’t know what’s happening. A piece of cake.’ He took several stacks of hundred-dollar bills from the briefcase and put them on the bar counter. ‘Ten thousand. Do we deal?’

And greed, as usual, won the day as Pierre ran his hands over the money. ‘Yes, my friend, I think we do.’

‘Good. I’ll be back at eleven then.’ Dillon closed his briefcase, Gaston went and unlocked the door for him and the Irishman left.

Gaston closed the door and turned. ‘What do you think?’

Pierre poured two cognacs. ‘I think our friend Rocard is a very big liar.’

‘But also a very dangerous man,’ Gaston said. ‘So what do we do?’

‘Wait and see.’ Pierre raised his glass. ‘Salut.’

Dillon walked all the way to the warehouse in rue de Helier, twisting from one street to another, melting into the darkness occasionally to check that he wasn’t being followed. He had learned a long time ago that the problem with all revolutionary political groups was that they were riddled with factions and informers, a great truth where the IRA was concerned. Because of that, as he had indicated to Aroun, he preferred to use professional criminals whenever possible when help was needed. Honest crooks who did things for cash, that was the phrase he’d used. Unfortunately it didn’t always hold true and there had been something in big Pierre’s manner.

There was a small Judas gate set in the larger double doors of the warehouse. He unlocked it and stepped inside. There were two cars, a Renault saloon and a Ford Escort, and a police BMW motorcycle covered with a sheet. He checked that it was all right, then moved up the wooden stairs to the flat in the loft above. It was not his only home. He also had a barge on the river, but it was useful on occasions.

On the table in the small living room there was a canvas holdall with a note on top that simply said, As ordered. He smiled and unzipped it. Inside was a Kalashnikov PK machine gun, the latest model. Its tripod was folded, the barrel off for easy handling and there was a large box of belt cartridges, a similar box beside it. He opened a drawer in the sideboard, took out a folded sheet and put it in the holdall. He zipped it up again, checked the Walther in his waistband and went down the stairs, the holdall in one hand.

He locked the Judas and went along the street, excitement taking control as it always did. It was the best feeling in the world when the game was in play. He turned into the main street and a few minutes later, hailed a cab and told the driver to take him to Le Chat Noir.

They drove out of Paris in Renault vans, exactly the same except for the fact that one was black and the other white. Gaston led the way, Dillon beside him in the passenger seat, and Pierre followed. It was very cold, snow still mixed with the rain, although it wasn’t lying. They talked very little, Dillon lying back in the seat eyes closed so that the Frenchman thought he was asleep.

Not far from Choisy, the van skidded and Gaston said, ‘Christ almighty,’ and wrestled with the wheel.

Dillon said, ‘Easy, the wrong time to go in a ditch. Where are we?’

‘Just past the turning to Choisy. Not long now.’ Dillon sat up. The snow was covering the hedgerows but not the road. Gaston said, ‘It’s a pig of a night. Just look at it.’

‘Think of all those lovely dollar bills,’ Dillon told him. ‘That should get you through.’

It stopped snowing, the sky cleared showing a half-moon, and below them at the bottom of the hill was the red light of the railway crossing. There was an old disused building of some sort at one side, its windows boarded up, a stretch of cobbles in front of it lightly powdered with snow.

‘Pull in here,’ Dillon said.

Gaston did as he was told and braked to a halt switching off the motor. Pierre came up in the white Renault, got down from behind the wheel awkwardly because of the false leg and joined them.

Dillon stood looking at the crossing a few yards away and nodded. ‘Perfect. Give me the keys.’

Gaston did as he was told. The Irishman unlocked the rear door, disclosing the holdall. He unzipped it as they watched, took out the Kalashnikov, put the barrel in place expertly, then positioned it so that it pointed to the rear. He filled the ammunition box, threading the cartridge belt in place.

‘That looks a real bastard,’ Pierre said.

‘Seven point two millimetre cartridges mixed with tracer and armour piercing,’ Dillon said. ‘It’s a killer all right. Kalashnikov. I’ve seen one of these take a Land Rover full of British paratroopers to pieces.’

‘Really,’ Pierre said and as Gaston was about to speak, he put a warning hand on his arm. ‘What’s in the other box?’

‘More ammunition.’

Dillon took out the sheet from the holdall, covered the machine gun, then locked the door. He got behind the driving wheel, started the engine and moved the van a few yards, positioned it so that the tail pointed at an angle towards the crossing. He got out and locked the door and clouds scudded across the moon and the rain started again, more snow in it now.

‘So, you leave this here?’ Pierre said. ‘What if someone checks it?’

‘What if they do?’ Dillon knelt down at the offside rear tyre, took a knife from his pocket, sprang the blade and poked at the rim of the wheel. There was a hiss of air and the tyre went down rapidly.

Gaston nodded. ‘Clever. Anyone gets curious, they’ll just think a breakdown.’

‘But what about us?’ Pierre demanded. ‘What do you expect?’

‘Simple. Gaston turns up with the white Renault just after two this afternoon. You block the road at the crossing, not the railway track, just the road, get out, lock the door and leave it. Then get the hell out of there.’ He turned to Pierre. ‘You follow in a car, pick him up and straight back to Paris.’

‘But what about you?’ the big man demanded.

‘I’ll be already here, waiting in the van. I’ll make my own way. Back to Paris now. You can drop me at Le Chat Noir and that’s an end of it. You won’t see me again.’

‘And the rest of the money?’ Pierre demanded as he got behind the Renault’s wheel and Gaston and Dillon joined him.

‘You’ll get it, don’t worry,’ Dillon said. ‘I always keep my word just as I expect others to keep theirs. A matter of honour, my friend. Now let’s get moving.’

He closed his eyes again, leaned back. Pierre glanced at his brother, switched on the engine and drove away.

It was just on half-past one when they reached Le Chat Noir. There was a lock-up garage opposite the pub. Gaston opened the doors and Pierre drove in.

‘I’ll be off then,’ Dillon said.

‘You’re not coming in?’ the big man asked. ‘Then Gaston can run you home.’

Dillon smiled. ‘No one’s ever taken me home in my life.’

He walked away, turning into a side street and Pierre said to his brother, ‘After him and don’t lose him.’

‘But why?’ Gaston demanded.

‘Because I want to know where he’s staying, that’s why. It stinks, this thing, Gaston, like bad fish stinks, so get moving.’

Dillon moved rapidly from street to street, following his usual pattern, but Gaston, a thief since childhood and an expert in such matters, managed to stay on his trail, never too close. Dillon had intended returning to the warehouse in rue de Helier, but pausing on the corner of an alley to light a cigarette, he glanced back and could have sworn he saw a movement. He was right, for it was Gaston ducking into a doorway out of sight.

For Dillon, even the suspicion was enough. He’d had a feeling about Pierre all night, a bad feeling. He turned left, worked his way back to the river and walked along the pavement and past a row of trucks, their windscreens covered with snow. He came to a small hotel, the cheapest sort of place, the kind used by prostitutes or truckers stopping overnight, and went in.

The desk clerk was very old and wore an overcoat and scarf against the cold. His eyes were wet. He put down his book and rubbed them. ‘Monsieur?’

‘I brought a load in from Dijon a couple of hours ago. Intended to drive back tonight, but the damn truck’s giving trouble. I need a bed.’

‘Thirty francs, monsieur.’

‘You’re kidding,’ Dillon said. ‘I’ll be out of here at the crack of dawn.’

The old man shrugged. ‘All right, you can have number eighteen on the second landing for twenty, but the bed hasn’t been changed.’

‘When does that happen, once a month?’ Dillon took the key, gave him his twenty francs and went upstairs.

The room was as disgusting as he expected even in the diffused light from the landing. He closed the door, moved carefully through the darkness and looked out cautiously. There was a movement under a tree on the river side of the road. Gaston Jobert stepped out and hurried away along the pavement.

‘Oh dear,’ Dillon whispered, then lit a cigarette and went and lay on the bed and thought about it, staring up at the ceiling.

Pierre, sitting at the bar of Le Chat Noir waiting for his brother’s return, was leafing through Paris Soir for want of something better to do when he noticed the item on Margaret Thatcher’s meeting with Mitterrand. His stomach churned and he read the item again with horror. It was at that moment the door opened and Gaston hurried in.

‘What a night. I’m frozen to the bone. Give me a cognac.’

‘Here.’ Pierre poured some into a glass. ‘And you can read this interesting titbit in Paris Soir while you’re drinking.’

Gaston did as he was told and suddenly choked on the cognac. ‘My God, she’s staying at Choisy.’

‘And leaves from that old air force field at Valenton. Leaves Choisy at two o’clock. How long to get to that railway crossing? Ten minutes?’

‘Oh, God, no,’ Gaston said. ‘We’re done for. This is out of our league, Pierre. If this takes place, we’ll have every cop in France on the streets.’

‘But it isn’t going to. I knew that bastard was bad news. Always something funny about him. You managed to follow him?’

‘Yes, he doubled around the streets for a while, then ended up at that fleapit old François runs just along the river. I saw him through the window booking in.’ He shivered. ‘But what are we going to do?’ He was almost sobbing. ‘This is the end, Pierre. They’ll lock us up and throw away the key.’

‘No they won’t,’ Pierre told him. ‘Not if we shop him, they won’t. They’ll be too grateful. Who knows, there might even be a reward in it. Now what’s Inspector Savary’s home number?’

‘He’ll be in bed.’

‘Of course he will, you idiot, nicely tucked up with his old lady where all good detectives should be. We’ll just have to wake him up.’

Inspector Jules Savary came awake cursing as the phone rang at his bedside. He was on his own, for his wife was spending a week in Lyon at her mother’s. He’d had a long night. Two armed robberies and a sexual assault on a woman. He’d only just managed to get to sleep.

He picked up the phone. ‘Savary here.’

‘It’s me, Inspector, Pierre Jobert.’

Savary glanced at the bedside clock. ‘For Christ’s sake, Jobert, it’s two-thirty in the morning.’

‘I know, Inspector, but I’ve got something special for you.’

‘You always have, so it can wait till the morning.’

‘I don’t think so, Inspector. I’m offering to make you the most famous cop in France. The pinch of a lifetime.’

‘Pull the other one,’ Savary said.

‘Margaret Thatcher. She’s staying at Choisy tonight, leaves for Valenton at two? I can tell you all about the man who’s going to see she never gets there.’

Jules Savary had never come awake so fast. ‘Where are you, Le Chat Noir?’

‘Yes,’ Jobert told him.

‘Half an hour.’ Savary slammed down the phone, leapt out of bed and started to dress.

It was at exactly the same moment that Dillon decided to move on. The fact that Gaston had followed him didn’t necessarily mean anything more than the fact that the brothers were anxious to know more about him. On the other hand …

He left, locking the door, found the backstairs and descended cautiously. There was a door at the bottom which opened easily enough and gave access to a yard at the rear. An alley brought him to the main road. He crossed, walked along a line of parked trucks, chose one about fifty yards from the hotel, but giving him a good view. He got his knife out, worked away at the top of the passenger window. After a while it gave so that he could get his fingers in and exert pressure. A minute later he was inside. Better not to smoke so he sat back, collar up, hands in pockets and waited. It was half-past three when the four unmarked cars eased up to the hotel. Eight men got out, none in uniform, which was interesting.

‘Action Service, or I miss my guess,’ Dillon said softly.

Gaston Jobert got out of the rear car and stood talking to them for a moment then they all moved into the hotel. Dillon wasn’t angry, just pleased that he’d got it right. He left the truck, crossed the road to the shelter of the nearest alley and started to walk to the warehouse in rue de Helier.

The French secret service, notorious for years as the SDECE has had its name changed to Direction Générale de la Sécurité Extérieure, DGSE, under the Mitterrand government in an attempt to improve the image of a shady and ruthless organisation with a reputation for stopping at nothing. Having said that, measured by results, few intelligence organisations in the world are so efficient.

The service, as in the old days, was still divided into five sections and many departments, the most famous, or infamous depending on your point of view, being Section Five, more commonly known as Action Service, the department responsible for the smashing of the OAS.

Colonel Max Hernu had been involved in all that, had hunted the OAS down as ruthlessly as anyone in spite of having served as a paratrooper in both Indo-China and Algeria. He was sixty-one years of age, an elegant, white-haired man who now sat at his desk in the office on the first floor of DGSE’s headquarters on the Boulevard Mortier. It was just before five o’clock and Hernu, wearing horn-rimmed reading glasses, studied the report in front of him. He had been staying the night at his country cottage forty miles out of Paris and had only just arrived. Inspector Savary watched respectfully.

Hernu removed his glasses. ‘I loathe this time of the morning. Takes me back to Dien Bien Phu and the waiting for the end. Pour me another coffee, will you?’

Savary took his cup, went to the electric pot on the stand and poured the coffee, strong and black. ‘What do you think, sir?’

‘These Jobert brothers, you believe they’re telling us everything?’

‘Absolutely, sir, I’ve known them for years. Big Pierre was OAS which he thinks gives him class, but they’re second-rate hoods really. They do well in stolen cars.’

‘So this would be out of their league?’

‘Very definitely. They’ve admitted to me that they’ve sold this man Rocard cars in the past.’

‘Of the hot variety?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Of course they are telling the truth. The ten thousand dollars speak for them there. But this man Rocard, you’re an experienced copper, Inspector. How many years on the street?’

‘Fifteen, sir.’

‘Give me your opinion.’

‘His physical description is interesting because according to the Jobert boys, there isn’t one. He’s small, no more than one sixty-five. No discernible colour to the eyes, fair hair. Gaston says the first time they met him he thought he was a nothing and then he apparently half-killed some guy twice his size in the bar in about five seconds flat.’

‘Go on.’ Hernu lit a cigarette.

‘Pierre says his French is too perfect.’

‘What does he mean by that?’

‘He doesn’t know. It’s just that he always felt that there was something wrong.’

‘That he wasn’t French?’

‘Exactly. Two facts of interest there. He’s always whistling a funny little tune. Gaston picked it up because he plays accordion. He says Rocard told him once that it was Irish.’

‘Now that is interesting.’

‘A further point. When he was assembling the machine gun in the back of the Renault at Valenton he told the boys it was a Kalashnikov. Not just bullets. Tracer, armour piercing, the lot. He said he’d seen one take out a Land Rover full of British paratroopers. Pierre didn’t like to ask him where.’

‘So, you smell IRA here, Inspector? And what have you done about it?’

‘Got your people to get the picture books out, Colonel. The Joberts are looking through them right now.’

‘Excellent.’ Hernu got up and this time refilled his coffee cup himself. ‘What do you make of the hotel business? Do you think he’s been alerted?’

‘Perhaps, but not necessarily,’ Savary said. ‘I mean what have we got here, sir? A real pro out to make the hit of a lifetime. Maybe he was just being extra careful, just to make sure he wasn’t followed to his real destination. I mean, I wouldn’t trust the Joberts an inch, so why should he?’

He shrugged and Max Hernu said shrewdly, ‘There’s more. Spit it out.’

‘I got a bad feeling about this guy, Colonel. I think he’s special. I think he may have used the hotel thing because he suspected that Gaston might follow him, but then he’d want to know why. Was it the Joberts just being curious or was there more to it?’

‘So you think he could have been up the street watching our people arrive?’

‘Very possibly. On the other hand, maybe he didn’t know Gaston was tailing him. Maybe the hotel thing was a usual precaution. An old Resistance trick from the war.’

Hernu nodded. ‘Right, let’s see if they’ve finished. Have them in.’

Savary went out and returned with the Jobert brothers. They stood there looking worried and Hernu said, ‘Well?’

‘No luck, Colonel. He wasn’t in any of the books.’

‘All right,’ Hernu said. ‘Wait downstairs. You’ll be taken home. We’ll collect you again later.’

‘But what for, Colonel?’ Pierre asked.

‘So that your brother can go to Valenton in the Renault and you can follow in the car just like Rocard told you. Now get out.’ They hurriedly left and Hernu said to Savary, ‘We’ll see Mrs Thatcher is spirited to safety by another route, but a pity to disappoint our friend Rocard.’

‘If he turns up, Colonel.’

‘You never know, he just might. You’ve done well, Inspector. I think I’ll have to requisition you for Section Five. Would you mind?’

Would he mind? Savary almost choked with emotion. ‘An honour, sir.’

‘Good. Go and get a shower then and some breakfast. I’ll see you later.’

‘And you, Colonel.’

‘Me, Inspector.’ Hernu laughed and looked at his watch. ‘Five-fifteen. I’m going to ring British intelligence in London. Disturb the sleep of a very old friend of mine. If anyone can help us with our mystery man it should be he.’

The Directorate General of the British Security Service occupies a large white and red brick building not far from the Hilton Hotel in Park Lane, although many of its departments are housed in various locations throughout London. The special number that Max Hernu rang was of a section known as Group Four, located on the third floor of the Ministry of Defence. It had been set up in 1972 to handle matters concerning terrorism and subversion in the British Isles. It was responsible only to the Prime Minister. It had been administered by only one man since its inception, Brigadier Charles Ferguson. He was asleep in his flat in Cavendish Square when the telephone beside his bed awakened him.

‘Ferguson,’ he said, immediately wide awake, knowing it had to be important.

‘Paris, Brigadier,’ an anonymous voice said. ‘Priority one. Colonel Hernu.’

‘Put him through and scramble.’

Ferguson sat up, a large, untidy man of sixty-five with rumpled grey hair and a double chin.

‘Charles?’ Hernu said in English.

‘My dear Max. What brings you on the line at such a disgusting hour? You’re lucky I’m still on the phone. The powers that be are trying to make me redundant along with Group Four.’

‘What nonsense.’

‘I know, but the Director General was never happy with my freebooter status all these years. What can I do for you?’

‘Mrs Thatcher overnighting at Choisy. We’ve details of a plot to hit her on the way to the airfield at Valenton tomorrow.’

‘Good God!’

‘All taken care of. The lady will now take a different route home. We’re still hoping the man concerned will show up, though I doubt it. We’ll be waiting though, this afternoon.’

‘Who is it? Anyone we know?’

‘From what our informants say, we suspect he’s Irish though his French is good enough to pass as a native. The thing is, the people involved have looked through all our IRA pictures with no success.’

‘Have you a description?’

Hernu gave it to him. ‘Not much to go on, I’m afraid.’

‘I’ll have a computer check done and get back to you. Tell me the story.’ Which Hernu did. When he was finished Ferguson said, ‘You’ve lost him, old chap. I’ll bet you dinner on it at the Savoy Grill next time you’re over.’

‘I’ve a feeling about this one. I think he’s special,’ Hernu said.

‘And yet not on your books and we always keep you up to date.’

‘I know,’ Hernu said. ‘And you’re the expert on the IRA, so what do we do?’

‘You’re wrong there,’ Ferguson said. ‘The greatest expert on the IRA is right there in Paris, Martin Brosnan, our Irish-American friend. After all, he carried a gun for them till nineteen seventy-five. I heard he was a Professor of Political Philosophy at the Sorbonne.’

‘You’re right,’ Hernu said. ‘I’d forgotten about him.’

‘Very respectable these days. Writes books and lives rather well on all that money his mother left him when she died in Boston five years ago. If you’ve a mystery on your hands he might be the man to solve it.’

‘Thanks for the suggestion,’ Hernu said. ‘But first we’ll see what happens at Valenton. I’ll be in touch.’

Ferguson put down the phone, pressed a button on the wall and got out of bed. A moment later the door opened and his manservant, an ex-Gurkha came in, putting a dressing-gown over his pyjamas.

‘Emergency, Kim. I’ll ring Captain Tanner and tell her to get round here, then I’ll have a bath. Breakfast when she arrives.’

The Gurkha withdrew. Ferguson picked up the phone and dialled a number. ‘Mary? Ferguson here. Something big. I want you at Cavendish Square within the hour. Oh, better wear your uniform. We’ve got that thing at the Ministry of Defence at eleven. You always impress them in full war paint.’

He put the phone down and went into the bathroom feeling wide awake and extremely cheerful.

It was six-thirty when the taxi picked up Mary Tanner on the steps of her Lowndes Square flat. The driver was impressed, but then most people were. She wore the uniform of a captain in the Women’s Royal Army Corps, the wings of an Army Air Corps pilot on her left breast. Below them the ribbon of the George Medal, a gallantry award of considerable distinction and campaign ribbons for Ireland and for service with the United Nations peacekeeping force in Cyprus.

She was a small girl, black hair cropped short, twenty-nine years of age and a lot of service under the belt. A doctor’s daughter who’d taken an English degree at London University, tried teaching and hated it. After that came the army. A great deal of her service had been with the Military Police. Cyprus for a while, but three tours of duty in Ulster. It had been the affair in Derry that had earned her the George Medal and left her with the scar on her left cheek which had brought her to Ferguson’s attention. She’d been his aide for two years now.

She paid off the taxi, hurried up the stairs to the flat on the first floor and let herself in with her own key. Ferguson was sitting on the sofa beside the fireplace in the elegant drawing room, a napkin under his chin while Kim served his poached eggs.

‘Just in time,’ he said. ‘What would you like?’

‘Tea, please. Earl Grey, Kim, and toast and honey.’

‘Got to watch our figure.’

‘Rather early in the day for sexist cracks, even for you, Brigadier. Now what have we got?’

He told her while he ate and Kim brought her tea and toast and she sat opposite, listening.

When he finished she said, ‘This Brosnan, I’ve never heard of him.’

‘Before your time, my love. He must be about forty-five now. You’ll find a file on him in my study. He was born in Boston. One of those filthy rich American families. Very high society. His mother was a Dubliner. He did all the right things, went to Princeton, took his degree then went and spoiled it all by volunteering for Viet Nam and as an enlisted man. I believe that was nineteen sixty-six. Airborne Rangers. He was discharged a sergeant and heavily decorated.’

‘So what makes him so special?’

‘He could have avoided Viet Nam by staying at university, but he didn’t. He also enlisted in the ranks. Quite something for someone with his social standing.’

‘You’re just an old snob. What happened to him after that?’

‘He went to Trinity College, Dublin, to work on a doctorate. He’s a Protestant, by the way, but his mother was a devout Catholic. In August sixty-nine, he was visiting an uncle on his mother’s side, a priest in Belfast. Remember what happened? How it all started?’

‘Orange mobs burning Catholics out?’ she said.

‘And the police not doing too much about it. The mob burned down Brosnan’s uncle’s church and started on the Falls Road. A handful of old IRA hands with a few rifles and handguns held them off and when one of them was shot, Brosnan picked up his rifle. Instinctive, I suppose. I mean Viet Nam and all that.’

‘And from then on he was committed?’

‘Very much so. You’ve got to remember that in those early days, there were plenty of men like him in the movement. Believers in Irish freedom and all that sort of thing.’

‘Sorry, sir, I’ve seen too much blood on the streets of Derry to go for that one.’

‘Yes, well I’m not trying to whitewash him. He’s killed a few in his time, but always up front, I’ll say that for him. He became quite famous. There was a French war photographer called Anne-Marie Audin. He saved her life in Viet Nam after a helicopter crash. Quite a romantic story. She turned up in Belfast and Brosnan took her underground for a week. She got a series out of it for Life magazine. The gallant Irish struggle. You know the sort of thing.’

‘What happened after that?’

‘In nineteen seventy-five he went to France to negotiate an arms deal. As it turned out it was a set-up and the police were waiting. Unfortunately he shot one of them dead. They gave him life. He escaped from prison in seventy-nine, at my instigation, I might add.’

‘But why?’

‘Someone else before your time, a terrorist called Frank Barry. Started off in Ulster with a splinter group called the Sons of Erin, then joined the European terrorist circuit, an evil genius if ever there was one. Tried to get Lord Carrington on a trip to France when he was Foreign Secretary. The French hushed it up, but the Prime Minister was furious. Gave me direct orders to hunt Barry down whatever the cost.’

‘Oh, I see now. You needed Brosnan to do that?’

‘Set a thief to catch a thief and so forth, and he got him for us.’

‘And afterwards?’

‘He went back to Ireland and took that doctorate.’

‘And this Anne-Marie Audin, did they marry?’

‘Not to my knowledge, but she did him a bigger favour than that. Her family is one of the oldest in France and enormously powerful politically and he had been awarded the Legion of Honour for saving her in Viet Nam. Anyway, her pressure behind the scenes bore fruit five years ago. President Mitterrand granted him a pardon. Wiped the slate clean.’

‘Which is how he’s at the Sorbonne now? He must be the only professor they’ve had who shot a policeman dead.’

‘Actually one or two after the war had done just that when serving with the Resistance.’

‘Does the leopard ever change its spots?’ she asked.

‘Oh, ye of little faith. As I say, you’ll find his file in the study if you want to know more.’ He passed her a piece of paper. ‘That’s the description of the mystery man. Not much to go on, but run it through the computer anyway.’

She went out.

Kim entered with a copy of The Times. Ferguson read the headlines briefly then turned to page two where his attention was immediately caught by the same item concerning Mrs Thatcher’s visit to France as had appeared in Paris Soir.

‘Well, Max,’ he said softly, ‘I wish you luck,’ and he poured himself another cup of coffee.

3

It was much warmer in Paris later that morning, most of the snow clearing by lunchtime. It was clear in the country-side too, only a bit here and there on the hedgerows as Dillon moved towards Valenton keeping to the back roads. He was riding the BMW motorcycle from the garage and was dressed as a CRS policeman, helmet, goggles, a MAT49 machine gun slung across the front of the dark uniform raincoat.

Madness to have come, of course, but he couldn’t resist the free show. He pulled off a narrow country lane by a farm gate after consulting his map, followed a track through a small wood on foot and came to a low stone wall on a hill. Way below, some two hundred yards on, was the railway crossing, the black Renault still parked where he had left it. There wasn’t a soul about. Perhaps fifteen minutes later, a train passed through.

He checked his watch. Two-fifteen. He focused his Zeiss glasses on the scene below again and then the white Renault came down the road half-turning to block the crossing. There was a Peugeot behind it, Pierre at the wheel and he was already reversing, turning the car as Gaston ran towards him. It was an old model, painted scarlet and cream.

‘Very pretty,’ Dillon said softly as the Peugeot disappeared up the road.

‘Now for the cavalry,’ he said and lit a cigarette.

It was perhaps ten minutes later that a large truck came down the road and braked to a halt unable to progress further. It had high canvas sides on which was emblazoned ‘Steiner Electronics’.

‘Electronics my arse,’ Dillon said.

A heavy machine gun opened up from inside the truck firing through the side, raking the Renault. As the firing stopped Dillon took a black plastic electronic detonator from his pocket, switched on and pulled out the aerial.

A dozen men in black overalls and riot helmets, all clutching machine carbines, jumped out. As they approached the Renault, Dillon pressed the detonator. The self-destruct charge in the second black box, the one he had told Pierre contained extra ammunition, exploded instantly, the vehicle disintegrating, parts of the panelling lifting into the air in slow motion. There were several men on the ground, others running for cover.

‘There you are, chew on that, gentlemen,’ Dillon said.

He walked back through the wood, pushed the BMW off its stand, swung a leg over and rode away.

He opened the door of the warehouse on rue de Helier, got back on the BMW, rode inside and parked it. As he turned to close the door, Makeev called from above, ‘It went wrong, I presume?’

Dillon took off his helmet. ‘I’m afraid so. The Jobert brothers turned me in.’

As he went up the stairs Makeev said, ‘The disguise, I like that. A policeman is just a policeman to people. Nothing to describe.’

‘Exactly. I worked for a great Irishman called Frank Barry for a while years ago. Ever heard of him?’

‘Certainly. A veritable Carlos.’

‘He was better than Carlos. Got knocked off in seventy-nine. I don’t know who by. He used the CRS copper on a motorcycle a lot. Postmen are good too. No one ever notices a postman.’

He followed the Russian into the sitting room. ‘Tell me,’ Makeev said.

Dillon brought him up to date. ‘It was a chance using those two and it went wrong, that’s all there is to it.’

‘Now what?’

‘As I said last night, I’ll provide an alternative target. I mean, all that lovely money. I’ve got to think of my old age.’

‘Nonsense, Sean, you don’t give a damn about your old age. It’s the game that excites you.’

‘You could be right.’ Dillon lit a cigarette. ‘I know one thing. I don’t like to be beaten. I’ll think of something for you and I’ll pay my debts.’

‘The Joberts? Are they worth it?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Dillon said. ‘A matter of honour, Josef.’

Makeev sighed. ‘I’ll go and see Aroun, give him the bad news. I’ll be in touch.’

‘Here or at the barge.’ Dillon smiled. ‘Don’t worry, Josef. I’ve never failed yet, not when I set my mind to a thing.’

Makeev went down the stairs. His footsteps echoed across the warehouse, the Judas gate banged behind him. Dillon turned and went back into the long room, whistling softly.

‘But I don’t understand,’ Aroun said. ‘There hasn’t been a word on television.’

‘And there won’t be.’ Makeev turned from the French windows overlooking the Avenue Victor Hugo. ‘The affair never happened, that is the way the French will handle it. The idea that Mrs Thatcher could have in any way been at risk on French soil would be considered a national affront.’

Aroun was pale with anger. ‘He failed, this man of yours. A great deal of talk, Makeev, but nothing at the end of it. A good thing I didn’t transfer that million to his Zurich account this morning.’

‘But you agreed,’ Makeev said. ‘In any case, he may ring at any time to check the money has been deposited.’

‘My dear Makeev, I have five hundred million dollars on deposit at that bank. Faced with the possibility of me transferring my business, the managing director was more than willing to agree to a small deception when Rashid spoke to him this morning. When Dillon phones to check on the situation, the deposit will be confirmed.’

‘This is a highly dangerous man you are dealing with,’ Makeev said. ‘If he found out …’

‘Who’s going to tell him? Certainly not you and he’ll get paid in the end, but only if he produces a result.’

Rashid poured him a cup of coffee and said to Makeev, ‘He promised an alternative target, mentioned the British Prime Minister. What does he intend?’

‘He’ll be in touch when he’s decided,’ Makeev said.

‘Talk,’ Aroun walked to the window and stood sipping his coffee. ‘All talk.’

‘No, Michael,’ Josef Makeev told him. ‘You could not be more mistaken.’

Martin Brosnan’s apartment was by the river on the Quai de Montebello opposite the Île de la Cité and had one of the finest views of Notre Dame in Paris. It was within decent walking distance of the Sorbonne which suited him perfectly.

It was just after four as he walked towards it, a tall man with broad shoulders in an old-fashioned trenchcoat, dark hair that still had no grey in it in spite of his forty-five years and was far too long, giving him the look of some sixteenth-century bravo. Martin Aodh Brosnan. The Aodh was Gaelic for Hugh and his Irishness showed in the high cheekbones and grey eyes.

It was getting colder again and he shivered as he turned the corner into the Quai de Montebello and hurried along to the apartment block. He owned it all, as it happened, which gave him the apartment on the corner of the first floor, the most favoured location. Scaffolding ran up the corner of the building to the fourth floor where some sort of building work was taking place.

As he was about to go up the steps to the ornate entrance, a voice called, ‘Martin?’

He glanced up and saw Anne-Marie Audin leaning over the balustrade of the terrace. ‘Where in the hell did you spring from?’ he asked in astonishment.

‘Cuba. I just got in.’

He went up the stairs two at a time and she had the door open as he got there. He lifted her up in his arms in an enormous hug and carried her back into the hall. ‘How marvellous to see you. Why Cuba?’

She kissed him and helped him off with the trenchcoat. ‘Oh, I had a rather juicy assignment for Time magazine. Come in the kitchen. I’ll make your tea.’

A standing joke for years, the tea. Surprising in an American, but he couldn’t stand coffee. He lit a cigarette and sat at the table and watched her move around the kitchen, her short hair as dark as his own, this supremely elegant woman who was the same age as himself and looked twelve years younger.

‘You look marvellous,’ he told her as she brought the tea. He sampled it and nodded in approval. ‘That’s grand. Just the way you learned to make it back in South Armagh in nineteen seventy-one with me and Liam Devlin showing you the hard way how the IRA worked.’

‘How is the old rogue?’

‘Still living in Kilrea outside Dublin. Gives the odd lecture at Trinity College. Claims to be seventy, but that’s a wicked lie.’

‘He’ll never grow old, that one.’

‘Yes, you really do look marvellous,’ Brosnan said. ‘Why didn’t we get married?’

It was a ritual question he had asked for years, a joke now. There was a time when they had been lovers, but for some years now, just friends. Not that it was by any means the usual relationship. He would have died for her, almost had in a Viet Nam swamp the first time they had met.

‘Now that we’ve got that over, tell me about the new book,’ she said.

‘A philosophy of terrorism,’ he told her. ‘Very boring. Not many people will buy a copy.’

‘A pity,’ she said, ‘coming from such an expert in the field.’

‘Doesn’t really matter,’ he said. ‘Knowing the reasons still won’t make people act any differently.’

‘Cynic. Come on, let’s have a real drink.’ She opened the fridge and took out a bottle of Krug.

‘Non-vintage?’

‘What else?’

They went into the magnificent long drawing room. There was an ornate gold mirror over the marble fireplace, plants everywhere, a grand piano, comfortable, untidy sofas and a great many books. She had left the French windows to the balcony standing ajar. Brosnan went to close them as she opened the Krug at the sideboard and got two glasses. At the same moment, the bell sounded outside.

When Brosnan opened the door he found Max Hernu and Jules Savary standing there, the Jobert brothers behind them.

‘Professor Brosnan?’ Hernu said. ‘I am Colonel Max Hernu.’

‘I know very well who you are,’ Brosnan said. ‘Action Service, isn’t it? What’s all this? My wicked past catching up with me?’

‘Not quite, but we do need your assistance. This is Inspector Savary and these two are Gaston and Pierre Jobert.’

‘You’d better come in then,’ Brosnan said, interested in spite of himself.

The Jobert brothers stayed in the hall, on Hernu’s orders when he and Savary followed Brosnan into the drawing room. Anne-Marie turned, frowning slightly and Brosnan made the introductions.

‘A great pleasure.’ Hernu kissed her hand. ‘I’m a long-time admirer.’

‘Martin?’ She looked worried now. ‘You’re not getting involved in anything?’

‘Of course not,’ he assured her. ‘Now what can I do for you, Colonel?’

‘A matter of national security, Professor. I hesitate to mention the fact, but Mademoiselle Audin is a photojournalist of some distinction.’

She smiled. ‘Total discretion, you have my word, Colonel.’

‘We’re here because Brigadier Charles Ferguson in London suggested it.’

‘That old Devil? And why should he suggest you see me?’

‘Because you are an expert in matters relating to the IRA, Professor. Let me explain.’

Which he did, covering the whole affair as rapidly as possible. ‘You see, Professor,’ he said as he concluded, ‘the Jobert brothers have combed our IRA picture books without finding him and Ferguson has had no success with the brief description we were able to give.’

‘You’ve got a real problem.’

‘My friend, this man is not just anybody. He must be special to attempt such a thing, but we know nothing more than that we think he’s Irish and he speaks fluent French.’

‘So what do you want me to do?’

‘Speak to the Joberts.’

Brosnan glanced at Anne-Marie, then shrugged. ‘All right, wheel them in.’

He sat on the edge of the table drinking champagne while they stood before him, awkward in such circumstances. ‘How old is he?’

‘Difficult, monsieur,’ Pierre said. ‘He changes from one minute to the next. It’s like he’s more than one person. I’d say late thirties.’

‘And description?’

‘Small with fair hair.’

‘He looks like nothing,’ Gaston put in. ‘We thought he was a no-no and then he half-killed some big ape in our café one night.’

‘All right. He’s small, fair-haired, late thirties and he can handle himself. What makes you think he’s Irish?’

‘When he was assembling the Kalashnikov he made a crack about seeing one take out a Land Rover full of English paratroopers.’

‘Is that all?’

Pierre frowned. Brosnan took the bottle of Krug from the bucket and Gaston said, ‘No, there’s something else. He’s always whistling a funny sort of tune. A bit eerie. I managed to follow it on my accordion. He said it was Irish.’

Brosnan’s face had gone quite still. He stood there, holding the bottle in one hand, a glass in the other.

‘And he likes that stuff, monsieur,’ Pierre said.

‘Champagne?’ Brosnan asked.

‘Well, yes, any champagne is better than nothing, but Krug is his favourite.’

‘Like this, non-vintage?’

‘Yes, monsieur. He told us he preferred the grape mix,’ Pierre said.

‘The bastard always did.’

Anne-Marie put a hand on Brosnan’s arm. ‘You know him, Martin?’

‘Almost certainly. Could you pick that tune out on the piano?’ he asked Gaston.

‘I’ll try, monsieur.’

He lifted the lid, tried the keyboard gently, then played the beginning of the tune with one finger.

‘That’s enough.’ Brosnan turned to Hernu and Savary. ‘An old Irish folk song, “The Lark in the Clear Air”, and you’ve got trouble, gentlemen, because the man you’re looking for is Sean Dillon.’

‘Dillon?’ Hernu said. ‘Of course. The man of a thousand faces someone once called him.’

‘A slight exaggeration,’ Brosnan said, ‘but it will do.’

They sent the Jobert brothers home and Brosnan and Anne-Marie sat on a sofa opposite Hernu and Savary. The inspector made notes as the American talked.

‘His mother died in childbirth. I think that was nineteen fifty-two. His father was an electrician. Went to work in London so Dillon went to school there. He had an incredible talent for acting, a genius really. He can change before your eyes, hunch his shoulders, put on fifteen years. It’s astonishing.’

‘So you knew him well?’ Hernu asked.

‘In Belfast in the bad old days, but before that he won a scholarship to the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art. Only stayed a year. They couldn’t teach him anything. He did one or two things at the National Theatre. Nothing much. He was very young remember. Then in nineteen seventy-one his father, who’d returned home to Belfast, was killed by a British Army patrol. Caught in crossfire. An accident.’

‘And Dillon took it hard?’

‘You could say that. He offered himself to the Provisional IRA. They liked him. He had brains, an aptitude for languages. They sent him to Libya to one of those terrorist training camps for a couple of months. A fast course in weaponry. That’s all it took. He never looked back. God knows how many he’s killed.’

‘So, he still operates for the IRA?’

Brosnan shook his head. ‘Not for years. Oh, he still counts himself as a soldier, but he thinks the leadership are a bunch of old women and they couldn’t handle him. He’d have killed the Pope if he’d thought it was needed. He was too happy to do things that were counter-productive. The word is that he was involved in the Mountbatten affair.’

‘And since those days?’ Hernu asked.

‘Beirut, Palestine. He’s done a lot for the PLO. Most terrorist groups have used his services.’ Brosnan shook his head. ‘You’re going to have trouble here.’

‘Why exactly?’

‘The fact that he used a couple of crooks like the Joberts. He always does that. All right, it didn’t work this time, but he knows the weakness of all revolutionary movements. That they’re ridden with either hotheads or informers. You called him the faceless man, and that’s right because I doubt if you’ll find a photo of him on any file, and frankly it wouldn’t matter if you did.’

‘Why does he do it?’ Anne-Marie asked. ‘Not for any political ends?’

‘Because he likes it,’ Brosnan said. ‘Because he’s hooked. He’s an actor, remember. This is for real and he’s good at it.’

‘I get the impression that you don’t care for him very much,’ Hernu said. ‘In personal terms, I mean.’

‘Well, he tried to kill me and a good friend of mine a long time ago,’ Brosnan told him. ‘Does that answer your question?’

‘It’s certainly reason enough.’ Hernu got up and Savary joined him. ‘We must be going. I want to get all this to Brigadier Ferguson as soon as possible.’

‘Fine,’ Brosnan said.

‘We may count on your help in this thing, I hope, Professor?’

Brosnan glanced at Anne-Marie whose face was set. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I don’t mind talking to you again if that will help, but I don’t want to be personally involved. You know what I was, Colonel. Whatever happens I won’t go back to anything like that. I made someone a promise a long time ago.’

‘I understand perfectly, Professor.’ Hernu turned to Anne-Marie. ‘Mademoiselle, a distinct pleasure.’

‘I’ll see you out,’ she said and led the way.

When she returned Brosnan had the French windows open and was standing looking across the river smoking a cigarette. He put an arm around her. ‘All right?’

‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘Perfect,’ and laid her head against his chest.

At that precise moment Ferguson was sitting by the fire in the Cavendish Square flat when the phone rang. Mary Tanner answered it in the study. After a while she came out. ‘That was Downing Street. The Prime Minister wants to see you.’

‘When?’

‘Now, sir.’

Ferguson got up and removed his reading glasses. ‘Call the car. You come with me and wait.’

She picked up the phone, spoke briefly, then put it down. ‘What do you think it’s about, Brigadier?’

‘I’m not sure. My imminent retirement or your return to more mundane duties. Or this business in France. He’ll have been told all about it by now. Anyway, let’s go and see,’ and he led the way out.

They were checked through the security gates at the end of Downing Street. Mary Tanner stayed in the car while Ferguson was admitted through the most famous door in the world. It was rather quiet compared to the last time he’d been there, a Christmas party given by Mrs Thatcher for the staff in the Pillared Room. Cleaners, typists, office workers. Typical of her, that. The other side of the Iron Lady.

He regretted her departure, that was a fact, and sighed as he followed a young aide up the main staircase lined with replicas of portraits of all those great men of history. Peel, Wellington, Disraeli and many more. They reached the corridor, the young man knocked on the door and opened it.

‘Brigadier Ferguson, Prime Minister.’

The last time Ferguson had been in that study it had been a woman’s room, the feminine touches unmistakably there, but things were different now, a little more austere in a subtle way, he was aware of that. Darkness was falling fast outside and John Major was checking some sort of report, the pen in his hand moving with considerable speed.

‘Sorry about this. It will only take a moment,’ he said.

It was the courtesy that astounded Ferguson, the sheer basic good manners that one didn’t experience too often from heads of state. Major signed the report, put it on one side and sat back, a pleasant, grey-haired man in horn-rimmed glasses, the youngest Prime Minister of the twentieth century. Almost unknown to the general public on his succession to Margaret Thatcher and yet his handling of the crisis in the Gulf had already marked him out as a leader of genuine stature.

‘Please sit down, Brigadier. I’m on a tight schedule, so I’ll get right to the point. The business affecting Mrs Thatcher in France. Obviously very disturbing.’

‘Indeed so, Prime Minister. Thank God it all turned out as it did.’

‘Yes, but that seems to have been a matter of luck more than anything else. I’ve spoken to President Mitterrand and he’s agreed that in all our interests and especially with the present situation in the Gulf there will be a total security clampdown.’

‘What about the press, Prime Minister?’

‘Nothing will reach the press, Brigadier,’ John Major told him. ‘I understand the French failed to catch the individual concerned?’

‘I’m afraid that is so according to my latest information, but Colonel Hernu of Action Service is keeping in close touch.’

‘I’ve spoken to Mrs Thatcher and it was she who alerted me to your presence, Brigadier. As I understand it, the intelligence section known as Group Four was set up in nineteen seventy-two, responsible only to the Prime Minister, its purpose to handle specific cases of terrorism and subversion?’

‘That is correct.’

‘Which means you will have served five prime ministers if we include myself.’

‘Actually, Prime Minister, that’s not quite accurate,’ Ferguson said. ‘We do have a problem at the moment.’

‘Oh, I know all about that. The usual security people have never liked your existence, Brigadier, too much like the Prime Minister’s private army. That’s why they thought a changeover at Number Ten was a good time to get rid of you.’

‘I’m afraid so, Prime Minister.’

‘Well, it wasn’t and it isn’t. I’ve spoken to the Director General of Security Services. It’s taken care of.’

‘I couldn’t be more delighted.’

‘Good. Your first task quite obviously is to run down whoever was behind this French affair. If he’s IRA, then he’s our business, wouldn’t you agree?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Good. I’ll let you go and get on with it then. Keep me informed of every significant development on an eyes only basis.’

‘Of course, Prime Minister.’

The door behind opened as if by magic, the aide appeared to usher Ferguson out, the Prime Minister was already working over another sheaf of papers as the door closed and Ferguson was led downstairs.

As the limousine drove away, Mary Tanner reached forward to close the screen. ‘What happened? What was it about?’

‘Oh, the French business.’ Ferguson sounded curiously remote. ‘You know, he’s really got something about him this one.’

‘Oh, come off it, sir,’ Mary said. ‘I mean, don’t you honestly think we could do with a change, after all these years of Tory government?’

‘Wonderful spokesperson for the workers you make,’ he said. ‘Your dear old Dad, God rest him, was a Professor of Surgery at Oxford, your mother owns half of Herefordshire. That flat of yours in Lowndes Square, a million, would you say? Why is it the children of the rich are always so depressingly left-wing while still insisting on dining at the Savoy?’

‘A gross exaggeration.’

‘Seriously, my dear, I’ve worked for Labour as well as Conservative prime ministers. The colour of the politician doesn’t matter. The Marquess of Salisbury when he was Prime Minister, Gladstone, Disraeli, had very similar problems to those we have today. Fenians, anarchists, bombs in London, only dynamite instead of Semtex and how many attempts were there on Queen Victoria’s life?’ He gazed out at the Whitehall traffic as they moved towards the Ministry of Defence. ‘Nothing changes.’

‘All right, end of lecture, but what happened?’ she demanded.

‘Oh, we’re back in business, that’s what happened,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid we’ll have to cancel your transfer back to the Military Police.’

‘Damn you!’ she cried and flung her arms around his neck.

Ferguson’s office on the third floor of the Ministry of Defence was on a corner at the rear overlooking Horseguards Avenue with a view of the Victoria Embankment and the river at the far end. He had hardly got settled behind his desk when Mary hurried in.

‘Coded fax from Hernu. I’ve put it through the machine. You’re not going to like it one little bit.’

It contained the gist of Hernu’s meeting with Martin Brosnan, the facts on Sean Dillon – everything.

‘Dear God,’ Ferguson said. ‘Couldn’t be worse. He’s like a ghost, this Dillon chap. Does he exist or doesn’t he? As bad as Carlos in international terrorist terms, but totally unknown to the media or the general public and nothing to go on.’

‘But we do have one thing, sir.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Brosnan.’

‘True, but will he help?’ Ferguson got up and moved to the window. ‘I tried to get Martin to do something for me the other year. He wouldn’t touch it with a bargepole.’ He turned and smiled. ‘It’s the girlfriend, you see, Anne-Marie Audin. She has a horror of him becoming what he once was.’

‘Yes, I can understand that.’

‘But never mind. We’d better get a report on their latest developments to the Prime Minister. Let’s keep it brief.’

She produced a pen and took notes as he dictated. ‘Anything else, sir?’ she asked when he had finished.

‘I don’t think so. Get it typed. One copy for the file, the other for the PM. Send it straight round to Number Ten by messenger. Eyes only.’

Mary did a rough type of the report herself then went along the corridor to the typing and copying room. There was one on each floor and the clerks all had full security clearance. The copier was clattering as she went in. The man standing in front of it was in his mid-fifties, white hair, steel-rimmed army glasses, his shirt sleeves rolled up.

‘Hello, Gordon,’ she said. ‘A priority one here. Your very best typing. One copy for the personal file. You’ll do it straight away?’

‘Of course, Captain Tanner.’ He glanced at it briefly. ‘Fifteen minutes. I’ll bring it along.’

She went out and he sat down at his typewriter, taking a deep breath to steady himself as he read the words. For the eyes of the Prime Minister only. Gordon Brown had served in the Intelligence Corps for twenty-five years, reaching the rank of warrant officer. A worthy, if unspectacular career, culminating in the award of an MBE and the offer of employment at the Ministry of Defence on his retirement from the army. And everything had been fine until the death of his wife from cancer the previous year. They were childless, which left him alone in a cold world at fifty-five years of age, and then something miraculous happened.

There were invitation cards flying around at the Ministry all the time to receptions at the various embassies in London. He often helped himself to one. It was just something to do and at an art display at the German Embassy he’d met Tania Novikova, a secretary-typist at the Soviet Embassy.

They’d got on so well together. She was thirty and not particularly pretty, but when she’d taken him to bed on their second meeting at his flat in Camden it was like a revelation. Brown had never known sex like it, was hooked instantly. And then it had started. The questions about his job, anything and everything about what went on at the Ministry of Defence. Then there was a cooling off. He didn’t see her and was distracted, almost out of his mind. He’d phoned her at her flat. She was cold at first, distant and then she’d asked him if he’d been doing anything interesting.

He knew then what was happening, but didn’t care. There was a series of reports passing through on British Army changes in view of political changes in Russia. It was easy to run off spare copies. When he took them round to her flat, it was just as it had been and she took him to heights of pleasure such as he had never known.

From then on he would do anything, providing copies of everything that might interest her. For the eyes of the Prime Minister only. How grateful would she be for that? He finished typing, ran off two extra copies, one for himself. He had a file of them now in one of his bedroom drawers. The other was for Tania Novikova, who was, of course, not a secretary-typist at the Soviet Embassy as she had informed Brown, but a captain in the KGB.

Gaston opened the door of the lock-up garage opposite Le Chat Noir and Pierre got behind the wheel of the old cream and red Peugeot. His brother got in the rear seat and they drove away.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ Gaston said. ‘I mean, what if they don’t get him? He could come looking for us, Pierre.’

‘Nonsense,’ Pierre told him. ‘He’s long gone, Gaston. What kind of fool would hang around after what’s happened? No, light me a cigarette and shut up. We’ll have a nice dinner and go on to the Zanzibar afterwards. They’ve still got those Swedish sisters stripping.’

It was just before eight, the streets at that place quiet and deserted, people inside because of the extreme cold. They came to a small square and as they started to cross it a CRS man on his motorcycle came up behind them, flashing his lights.

‘There’s a cop on our tail,’ Gaston said.

The policeman pulled up alongside, anonymous in his helmet and goggles and waved them down.

‘A message from Savary, I suppose,’ Pierre said, and pulled over to the pavement.

‘Maybe they’ve got him,’ Gaston said excitedly.

The CRS man halted behind them, pushed his bike up on its stand and approached. Gaston got the rear door open and leaned out. ‘Have they caught the bastard?’

Dillon took a Walther with a Carswell silencer from inside the flap of his raincoat and shot him twice in the heart. He pushed up his goggles and turned. Pierre crossed himself. ‘It’s you.’

‘Yes, Pierre. A matter of honour.’

The Walther coughed twice more, Dillon pushed it back inside his raincoat, got on the BMW and rode away. It started to snow a little, the square very quiet. It was perhaps half an hour later that a policeman on foot patrol, caped against the cold, found them.

Tania Novikova’s flat was just off the Bayswater Road not far from the Soviet Embassy. She’d had a hard day, had intended an early night. It was just before ten-thirty when her doorbell rang. She was towelling herself down after a nice relaxing bath. She pulled on a robe, and went downstairs.

Gordon Brown’s evening shift had finished at ten. He couldn’t wait to get to her and had had the usual difficulty parking his Ford Escort. He stood at the door, ringing the bell impatiently, hugely excited. When she opened the door and saw who it was she was immediately angry and drew him inside.

‘I told you never to come here, Gordon, under any circumstances.’

‘But this is special,’ he pleaded. ‘Look what I’ve brought you.’

In the living room she took the large envelope from him, opened it and slipped out the report. For the eyes of the Prime Minister only. Her excitement was intense as she read through it. Incredible that this fool could have delivered her such a coup. His arms were around her waist, sliding up to her breasts and she was aware of his excitement.

‘It’s good stuff, isn’t it?’ he demanded.

‘Excellent, Gordon. You have been a good boy.’

‘Really?’ His grip tightened. ‘I can stay over then?’

‘Oh, Gordon, it’s such a pity. I’m on the night shift.’

‘Please, darling.’ He was shaking like a leaf. ‘Just a few minutes then.’

She had to keep him happy, she knew that, put the report on the table and took him by the hand. ‘Quarter of an hour, Gordon, that’s all and then you’ll have to go,’ and she led him into the bedroom.

After she’d got rid of him, she dressed hurriedly, debating what to do. She was a hard, committed Communist. That was how she had been raised and how she would die. More than that, she served the KGB with total loyalty. It had nurtured her, educated her, given her whatever status she had in their world. For a young woman, she was surprisingly old-fashioned. Had no time for Gorbachev or the Glasnost fools who surrounded him. Unfortunately, many in the KGB did support him and one of those was her boss at the London Embassy, Colonel Yuri Gatov.

What would his attitude be to such a report, she wondered as she let herself out into the street and started to walk. What would Gorbachev’s attitude be to the failed attempt to assassinate Mrs Thatcher? Probably the same outrage the British Prime Minister must feel and if Gorbachev felt that way, so would Colonel Gatov. So, what to do?

It came to her then as she walked along the frosty pavement of the Bayswater Road, that there was someone who might very well be interested and not only because he thought as she did, but because he was himself right in the centre of all the action – Paris. Her old boss, Colonel Josef Makeev. That was it. Makeev would know how best to use such information. She turned into Kensington Palace Gardens and went into the Soviet Embassy.

By chance, Makeev was working late in his office that night when his secretary looked in and said, ‘A call from London on the scrambler. Captain Novikova.’

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