Eye of the Storm (11 page)

“They’re not popular, especially for people with families. That isn’t a problem for me, so I agreed to do it for the moment. And it pays more.”

“So, you usually finish at one o’clock and start again at six in the evening?”

“Yes.”

“You have an answering machine, the kind where you can phone home and get your messages?”

“Yes.”

“Good. We can keep in touch that way.”

She started for the door and he caught her arm. “But when will I see you?”

“Difficult at the moment, Gordon, we must be careful. If you’ve nothing better to do, always come home between shifts. I’ll do what I can.”

He kissed her hungrily. “Darling.”

She pushed him away. “I must go now, Gordon.”

She opened the door, went downstairs and let herself out of the street entrance. It was still very cold and she pulled up her collar.

“My God, the things I do for Mother Russia,” she said. She went down to the corner and hailed a cab.

I
T WAS COLDER than ever in the evening, a front from Siberia sweeping across Europe, too cold for snow even. In the apartment, just before seven, Brosnan put some more logs on the fire.

Anne-Marie, lying full-length on the sofa, stirred and sat up. “So we stay in to eat?”

“I think so,” he said. “A vile night.”

“Good. I’ll see what I can do in the kitchen.”

He put on the television news program. More air strikes against Baghdad, but still no sign of a land war. He switched the set off and Anne-Marie emerged from the kitchen and picked up her coat from the chair where she had left it.

“Your fridge, as usual, is almost empty. Unless you wish me to concoct a meal based on some rather stale cheese, one egg and half a carton of milk, I’ll have to go round the corner to the delicatessen.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“Nonsense,” she said. “Why should we both suffer? I’ll see you soon.”

She blew him a kiss and went out. Brosnan went and opened the French windows. He stood on the terrace, shivering, and lit a cigarette, watching for her. A moment later, she emerged from the front door and started along the pavement.

“Goodbye, my love,” he called dramatically. “Parting is such sweet sorrow.”

“Idiot!” she called back. “Go back in before you catch pneumonia.” She moved away, careful on the frozen pavement, and disappeared round the corner.

At that moment, the phone rang. Brosnan turned and hurried in, leaving the French windows open.

 

Dillon had an early meal at a small café he often frequented. He was on foot and his route back to the barge took him past Brosnan’s apartment block. He paused on the other side of the road, cold in spite of the reefer coat and the knitted cap pulled down over his ears. He stood there, swinging his arms vigorosly, looking up at the lighted windows of the apartment.

When Anne-Marie came out of the entrance, he recognized her instantly and stepped back into the shadows. The street was silent, no traffic movement at all, and when Brosnan leaned over the balustrade and called down to her, Dillon heard every word he said. It gave him a totally false impression. That she was leaving for the evening. As she disappeared round the corner, he crossed the road quickly. He checked the Walther in his waistband at the rear, had a quick glance each way to see that no one was about, then started to climb the scaffolding.

 

It was Mary Tanner on the phone. “Brigadier Ferguson wondered whether we could see you again in the morning before going back?”

“It won’t do you any good,” Brosnan told her.

“Is that a yes or a no?”

“All right,” he said reluctantly. “If you must.”

“I understand,” she said, “I really do. Has Anne-Marie recovered?”

“A tough lady, that one,” he said. “She’s covered more wars than we’ve had hot dinners. That’s why I’ve always found her attitude about such things where I’m concerned, strange.”

“Oh, dear,” she said. “You men can really be incredibly stupid on occasions. She loves you, Professor, it’s as simple as that. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Brosnan put the phone down. There was a draught of cold air, the fire flared up. He turned and found Sean Dillon standing in the open French windows, the Walther in his left hand.

“God bless all here,” he said.

 

The delicatessen in the side street, as with so many such places these days, was run by an Indian, a Mr. Patel. He was most assiduous where Anne-Marie was concerned, carrying the basket for her as they went round the shelves. Delicious French bread sticks, milk, eggs, Brie cheese, a beautiful quiche.

“Baked by my wife with her own hands,” Mr. Patel assured her. “Two minutes in the microwave and a perfect meal.”

She laughed. “Then all we need is a very large tin of caviar and some smoked salmon to complement it.”

He packed the things carefully for her. “I’ll put them on Professor Brosnan’s account as usual.”

“Thank you,” she said.

He opened the door for her. “A pleasure, mademoiselle.”

She started back along the frosty pavement feeling suddenly unaccountably cheerful.

 

“Jesus, Martin, and the years have been good to you.” Dillon pulled the glove off his right hand with his teeth and found a pack of cigarettes in his pocket. Brosnan, a yard from the table drawer and the Browning High Power, made a cautious move. “Naughty.” Dillon gestured with the Walther. “Sit on the arm of the sofa and put your hands behind your head.”

Brosnan did as he was told. “You’re enjoying yourself, Sean.”

“I am so. How’s that old sod Liam Devlin these days?”

“Alive and well. Still in Kilrea outside Dublin, but then you know that.”

“And that’s a fact.”

“The job at Valenton, Mrs. Thatcher,” Brosnan said. “Very sloppy, Sean. I mean, to go with a couple of bums like the Joberts. You really must be losing your touch.”

“You think so?”

“Presumably it was a big payday?”

“Very big,” Dillon said.

“I hope you got your money in advance.”

“Very funny.” Dillon was beginning to get annoyed.

“One thing does intrigue me,” Brosnan said. “What you want with me after all these years?”

“Oh, I know all about you,” Dillon said. “How they’re pumping you for information about me. Hernu, the Action Service colonel, that old bastard Ferguson and this girl side-kick of his, this Captain Tanner. Nothing I don’t know. I’ve got the right friends, you see, Martin, the kind of people who can access anything.”

“Really, and were they happy when you failed with Mrs. Thatcher?”

“Just a tryout, that, just a perhaps. I’ve promised them an alternative target. You know how this game works.”

“I certainly do, and one thing I do know is that the IRA doesn’t pay for hits. Never has.”

“Who said I was working for the IRA?” Dillon grinned. “Plenty of other people with enough reason to hit the Brits these days.”

Brosnan saw it then, or thought he did. “Baghdad?”

“Sorry, Martin, you can go to your Maker puzzling over that one for all eternity.”

Brosnan said, “Just indulge me. A big hit for Saddam. I mean, the war stinks. He needs something badly.”

“Christ, you always did run on.”

“President Bush stays back in Washington, so that leaves the Brits. You fail on the best known woman in the world, so what’s next? The Prime Minister?”

“Where you’re going it doesn’t matter, son.”

“But I’m right, aren’t I?”

“Damn you, Brosnan, you always were the clever bastard!” Dillon exploded angrily.

“You’ll never get away with it,” Brosnan said.

“You think so? I’ll just have to prove you wrong, then.”

“As I said, you must be losing your touch, Sean. This bungled attempt to get Mrs. Thatcher. Reminds me of a job dear old Frank Barry pulled back in seventy-nine when he tried to hit the British Foreign Secretary, Lord Carrington, when he was passing through Saint-Étienne. I’m rather surprised you used the same ground plan, but then you always did think Barry was special, didn’t you?”

“He was the best.”

“And at the end of things, very dead,” Brosnan said.

“Yes, well, whoever got him must have given it to him in the back,” Dillon said.

“Not true,” Brosnan told him. “We were face-to-face as I recall.”

“You killed Frank Barry?” Dillon whispered.

“Well, somebody had to,” Brosnan said. “It’s what usually happens to mad dogs. I was working for Ferguson, by the way.”

“You bastard.” Dillon raised the Walther, took careful aim and the door opened and Anne-Marie walked in with the shopping bags.

Dillon swung toward her. Brosnan called, “Look out!” and went down and Dillon fired twice at the sofa.

Anne-Marie screamed, not in terror, but in fury, dropped her bags and rushed at him. Dillon tried to fend her off, staggered back through the French windows. Inside, Brosnan crawled toward the table and reached for the drawer. Anne-Marie scratched at Dillon’s face. He cursed, pushing her away from him. She fell against the balustrade and went over backwards.

Brosnan had the drawer open now, knocked the lamp on the table sideways, plunging the room into darkness, and reached for the Browning. Dillon fired three times very fast and ducked for the door. Brosnan fired twice, too late. The door banged. He got to his feet, ran to the terrace and looked over. Anne-Marie lay on the pavement below. He turned and ran through the drawing room into the hall, got the door open and went downstairs two at a time. It was snowing when he went out on the steps. Of Dillon there was no sign, but the night porter was kneeling beside Anne-Marie.

He looked up. “There was a man, Professor, with a gun. He ran across the road.”

“Never mind.” Brosnan sat down and cradled her in his arms. “An ambulance, and hurry.”

The snow was falling quite fast now. He held her close and waited.

 

Ferguson, Mary and Max Hernu were having a thoroughly enjoyable time in the magnificent dining room at the Ritz. They were already on their second bottle of Louis Roederer Crystal champagne and the brigadier was in excellent form.

“Who was it who said that when a man tires of champagne, he’s tired of life?” he demanded.

“He must certainly have been a Frenchman,” Hernu told him.

“Very probably, but I think the time has come when we should toast the provider of this feast.” He raised his glass. “To you, Mary, my love.”

She was about to respond when she saw, in the mirror on the wall, Inspector Savary at the entrance speaking to the headwaiter. “I think you’re being paged, Colonel,” she told Hernu.

He glanced round. “What’s happened now?” He got up, threaded his way through the tables and approached Savary. They talked for a few moments, glancing toward the table.

Mary said, “I don’t know about you, sir, but I get a bad feeling.”

Before he could reply, Hernu came back to them, his face grave. “I’m afraid I’ve got some rather ugly news.”

“Dillon?” Ferguson asked.

“He paid a call on Brosnan a short while ago.”

“What happened?” Ferguson demanded. “Is Brosnan all right?”

“Oh, yes. There was some gun play. Dillon got away.” He sighed heavily. “But Mademoiselle Audin is at the Hôpital St-Louis. From what Savary tells me, it doesn’t look good.”

 

Brosnan was in the waiting room on the second floor when they arrived, pacing up and down smoking a cigarette. His eyes were wild, such a rage there as Mary Tanner had never seen.

She was the first to reach him. “I’m so sorry.”

Ferguson said, “What happened?”

Briefly, coldly, Brosnan told them. As he finished, a tall, graying man in surgeon’s robes came in. Brosnan turned to him quickly. “How is she, Henri?” He said to the others, “Professor Henri Dubois, a colleague of mine at the Sorbonne.”

“Not good, my friend,” Dubois told him. “The injuries to the left leg and spine are bad enough, but even more worrying is the skull fracture. They’re just preparing her for surgery now. I’ll operate straight away.”

He went out. Hernu put an arm around Brosnan’s shoulders. “Let’s go and get some coffee, my friend. I think it’s going to be a long night.”

“But I only drink tea,” Brosnan said, his face bone white, his eyes dark. “Never could stomach coffee. Isn’t that the funniest thing you ever heard?”

 

There was a small café for visitors on the ground floor. Not many customers at that time of night. Savary had gone off to handle the police side of the business; the others sat at a table in the corner.

Ferguson said, “I know you’ve got other things on your mind, but is there anything you can tell us? Anything he said to you?”

“Oh, yes—plenty. He’s working for somebody and definitely not the IRA. He’s being paid for this one and from the way he boasted, it’s big money.”

“Any idea who?”

“When I suggested Saddam Hussein he got angry. My guess is you wouldn’t have to look much further. An interesting point. He knew about all of you.”

“All of us?” Hernu said. “You’re sure?”

“Oh, yes, he boasted about that.” He turned to Ferguson. “Even knew about you and Captain Tanner being in town to pump me for information, that’s how he put it. He said he had the right friends.” He frowned, trying to remember the phrase exactly. “The kind of people who can access anything.”

“Did he, indeed.” Ferguson glanced at Hernu. “Rather worrying, that.”

“And you’ve got another problem. He spoke of the Thatcher affair as being just a tryout, that he had an alternative target.”

“Go on,” Ferguson said.

“I managed to get him to lose his temper by needling him about what a botch-up the Valenton thing was. I think you’ll find he intends to have a crack at the British Prime Minister.”