Eye of the Storm (12 page)

Mary said, “Are you certain?”

“Oh, yes.” He nodded. “I baited him about that, told him he’d never get away with it. He lost his temper. Said he’d just have to prove me wrong.”

Ferguson looked at Hernu and sighed. “So now we know. I’d better go along to the Embassy and alert all our people in London.”

“I’ll do the same here,” Hernu said. “After all, he has to leave the country some time. We’ll alert all airports and ferries. The usual thing, but discreetly, of course.”

They got up and Brosnan said, “You’re wasting your time. You won’t get him, not in any usual way. You don’t even know what you’re looking for.”

“Perhaps, Martin,” Ferguson said. “But we’ll just have to do our best, won’t we?”

Mary Tanner followed them to the door. “Look, if you don’t need me, Brigadier, I’d like to stay.”

“Of course, my dear. I’ll see you later.”

She went to the counter and got two cups of tea. “The French are wonderful,” she said. “They always think we’re crazy to want milk in our tea.”

“Takes all sorts,” he said and offered her a cigarette. “Ferguson told me how you got that scar.”

“Souvenir of old Ireland.” She shrugged.

He was desperately trying to think of something to say. “What about your family? Do they live in London?”

“My father was a professor of surgery at Oxford. He died some time ago. Cancer. My mother’s still alive. Has an estate in Herefordshire.”

“Brothers and sisters?”

“I had one brother. Ten years older than me. He was shot dead in Belfast in nineteen eighty. Sniper got him from the Divis Flats. He was a Marine Commando Captain.”

“I’m sorry.”

“A long time ago.”

“It can’t make you particularly well disposed toward a man like me.”

“Ferguson explained to me how you became involved with the IRA after Vietnam.”

“Just another bloody Yank sticking his nose in, is that what you think?” He sighed. “It seemed the right thing to do at the time, it really did, and don’t let’s pretend. I was up to my neck in it for five long and bloody years.”

“And how do you see it now?”

“Ireland?” he laughed harshly. “The way I feel I’d see it sink into the sea with pleasure.” He got up. “Come on, let’s stretch our legs,” and he led the way out.

 

Dillon was in the kitchen in the barge heating the kettle when the phone rang. Makeev said, “She’s in the Hôpital St-Louis. We’ve had to be discreet in our inquiries, but from what my informant can ascertain, she’s on the critical list.”

“Sod it,” Dillon said. “If only she’d kept her hands to herself.”

“This could cause a devil of a fuss. I’d better come and see you.”

“I’ll be here.”

Dillon poured hot water into a basin, then he went into the bathroom. First he took off his shirt, then he got a briefcase from the cupboard under the sink. It was exactly as Brosnan had forecast. Inside he had a range of passports, all of himself suitably disguised. There was also a first-class makeup kit.

Over the years he had traveled backwards and forwards to England many times, frequently through Jersey in the Channel Islands. Jersey was British soil. Once there, a British citizen didn’t need a passport for the flight to the English mainland. So, a French tourist holidaying in Jersey. He selected a passport in the name of Henri Jacaud, a car salesman from Rennes.

To go with it, he found a Jersey driving license in the name of Peter Hilton with an address in the Island’s main town of Saint Helier. Jersey driving licenses, unlike the usual British mainland variety, carry a photo. It was always useful to have positive identification on you, he’d learned that years ago. Nothing better than for people to be able to check the face with a photo, and the photos on the driving license and on the French passport were identical. That was the whole point.

He dissolved some black hair dye into the warm water and started to brush it into his fair hair. Amazing what a difference it made, just changing the hair color. He blow-dried it and brilliantined it back in place, then he selected, from a range in his case, a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles, slightly tinted. He closed his eyes, thinking about the role, and when he opened them again, Henri Jacaud stared out of the mirror. It was quite extraordinary. He closed the case, put it back in the cupboard, pulled on his shirt and went into the stateroom carrying the passport and the driving license.

At that precise moment Makeev came down the companionway. “Good God!” he said. “For a moment I thought it was someone else.”

“But it is,” Dillon said. “Henri Jacaud, car salesman from Rennes on his way to Jersey for a winter break. Hydrofoil from Saint-Malo.” He held up the driving license. “Who is also Jersey resident Peter Hilton, accountant in Saint Helier.”

“You don’t need a passport to get to London?”

“Not if you’re a Jersey resident; it’s British territory. The driving license just puts a face to me. Always makes people feel happier. Makes them feel they know who you are, even the police.”

“What happened tonight, Sean? What really happened?”

“I decided the time had come to take care of Brosnan. Come on, Josef, he knows me too damned well. Knows me in a way no one else does and that could be dangerous.”

“I can see that. A clever one, the professor.”

“There’s more to it than that, Josef. He understands how I make my moves, how I think. He’s the same kind of animal as I am. We inhabited the same world, and people don’t change. No matter how much he thinks he has, he’s still the same underneath, the same man who was the most feared enforcer the IRA had in the old days.”

“So you decided to eliminate him?”

“It was an impulse. I was passing his place, saw the woman leaving. He called to her. The way it sounded I thought she was gone for the night, so I took a chance and went up the scaffolding.”

“What happened?”

“Oh, I had the drop on him.”

“But didn’t kill him?”

Dillon laughed, went out to the kitchen and returned with a bottle of Krug and two glasses. As he uncorked it he said, “Come on, Josef, face-to-face after all those years. There were things to be said.”

“You didn’t tell him who you were working for?”

“Of course not,” Dillon lied cheerfully and poured the champagne. “What do you take me for?”

He toasted Makeev, who said, “I mean, if he knew you had an alternative target, that you intended to go for Major . . .” He shrugged. “That would mean that Ferguson would know. It would render your task in London impossible. Aroun, I’m sure, would want to abort the whole business.”

“Well he doesn’t know.” Dillon drank some more champagne. “So Aroun can rest easy. After all, I want that second million. I checked with Zurich, by the way. The first million has been deposited.”

Makeev shifted uncomfortably. “Of course. So, when do you intend to leave?”

“Tomorrow or the next day. I’ll see. Meanwhile something you can organize for me. This Tania Novikova in London. I’ll need her help.”

“No problem.”

“First, my father had a second cousin, a Belfast man living in London called Danny Fahy.”

“IRA?”

“Yes, but not active. A deep cover man. Brilliant with his hands. Worked in light engineering. Could turn his hand to anything. I used him in nineteen eighty-one when I was doing a few jobs for the organization in London. In those days he lived at number ten Tithe Street in Kilburn. I want Novikova to trace him.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes, I’ll need somewhere to stay. She can organize that for me, too. She doesn’t live in the Embassy I suppose?”

“No, she has a flat off the Bayswater Road.”

“I wouldn’t want to stay there, not on a regular basis. She could be under surveillance. Special Branch at Scotland Yard have a habit of doing that with employees of the Soviet Embassy, isn’t that so?”

“Oh, it’s not like the old days.” Makeev smiled. “Thanks to that fool Gorbachev, we’re all supposed to be friends these days.”

“I’d still prefer to stay somewhere else. I’ll contact her at her flat, no more than that.”

“There is one problem,” Makeev said. “As regards hardware, explosives, weapons, anything like that you might need. I’m afraid she won’t be able to help you there. A handgun perhaps, but no more. As I mentioned when I first told you about her, her boss, Colonel Yuri Gatov, the commander of KGB station in London, is a Gorbachev man, and very well disposed to our British friends.”

“That’s all right,” Dillon said. “I have my own contacts for that kind of thing, but I will need more working capital. If I am checked going through Customs on the Jersey to London flight, I couldn’t afford to be caught with large sums of money in my briefcase.”

“I’m sure Aroun can fix that for you.”

“That’s all right, then. I’d like to see him again before I go. Tomorrow morning, I think. Arrange that, will you?”

“All right.” Makeev fastened his coat. “I’ll keep you posted on the situation at the hospital.” He reached the bottom of the companionway and turned. “There is one thing. Say you managed to pull this thing off. It would lead to the most ferocious manhunt. How would you intend to get out of England?”

Dillon smiled. “That’s exactly what I’m going to give some thought to now. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Makeev went up the companionway. Dillon poured another glass of Krug, lit a cigarette and sat at the table, looking at the clippings on the walls. He reached for the pile of newspapers and sorted through them and finally found what he wanted. An old copy of the magazine
Paris Match
from the previous year. Michael Aroun was featured on the front cover. Inside was a seven-page feature about his life-style and habits. Dillon lit a cigarette and started going through it.

 

It was one o’clock in the morning and Mary Tanner was sitting alone in the waiting room when Professor Henri Dubois came in. He was very tired, shoulders bowed, and he sank wearily into a chair and lit a cigarette.

“Where is Martin?” he asked her.

“It seems Anne-Marie’s only close relative is her grandfather. Martin is trying to contact him. Do you know him?”

“Who doesn’t, mademoiselle? One of the richest and most powerful industrialists in France. Very old. Eighty-eight, I believe. He was once a patient of mine. He had a stroke last year. I don’t think Martin will get very far there. He lives on the family estate, Château Vercors. It’s about twenty miles outside Paris.”

Brosnan came in, looking incredibly weary, but when he saw Dubois he said eagerly, “How is she?”

“I won’t pretend, my friend. She’d not good. Not good at all. I’ve done everything that I possibly can. Now we wait.”

“Can I see her?”

“Leave it for a while. I’ll let you know.”

“You’ll stay?”

“Oh, yes. I’ll grab a couple of hours’ sleep on my office couch. How did you get on with Pierre Audin?”

“I didn’t. Had to deal with his secretary, Fournier. The old man’s confined to a wheelchair now. Doesn’t know the time of day.”

Dubois sighed. “I suspected as much. I’ll see you later.”

When he’d gone, Mary said, “You could do with some sleep yourself.”

He managed a dark smile. “The way I feel now, I don’t think I could ever sleep again. All my fault, in a way.” There was despair on his face.

“How can you say that?

“Who I am, or to put it another way, what I was. If it hadn’t been for that, none of this would have happened.”

“You can’t talk like that,” she said. “Life doesn’t work like that.”

The phone on the table rang and she answered it, spoke for a few brief moments, then put it down. “Just Ferguson checking.” She put a hand on his shoulder. “Come on, lie down on the couch. Just close your eyes. I’ll be here. I’ll wake you the moment there’s word.”

Reluctantly, he lay back and did as he was told and surprisingly did fall into a dark, dreamless sleep. Mary Tanner sat there, brooding, listening to his quiet breathing.

 

It was just after three when Dubois came in. As if sensing his presence, Brosnan came awake with a start and sat up. “What is it?”

“She’s regained consciousness.”

“Can I see her?” Brosnan got up.

“Yes, of course.” As Brosnan made for the door, Dubois put a hand on his arm. “Martin, it’s not good. I think you should prepare for the worst.”

“No.” Brosnan almost choked. “It’s not possible.”

He ran along the corridor, opened the door of her room and went in. There was a young nurse sitting beside her. Anne-Marie was very pale, her head so swathed in bandages that she looked like a young nun.

“I’ll wait outside, monsieur,” the nurse said and left.

Brosnan sat down. He reached for her hand and Anne-Marie opened her eyes. She stared vacantly at him and then recognition dawned and she smiled.

“Martin, is that you?”

“Who else?” He kissed her hand.

Behind them, the door clicked open slightly as Dubois peered in.

“Your hair. Too long. Ridiculously too long.” She put up a hand to touch it. “In Vietnam, in the swamp, when the Vietcong were going to shoot me. You came out of the reeds like some medieval warrior. Your hair was too long then and you wore a headband.”

She closed her eyes and Brosnan said, “Rest now, don’t try to talk.”

“But I must.” She opened them again. “Let him go, Martin. Give me your promise. It’s not worth it. I don’t want you going back to what you were.” She grabbed at his hand with surprising strength. “Promise me.”

“My word on it,” he said.

She lay back, staring up at the ceiling. “My lovely wild Irish boy. Always loved you, Martin, no one else.”

Her eyes closed gently, the monitoring machine beside the bed changed its tone. Henry Dubois was in the room in a second. “Outside, Martin—wait.”

He pushed Brosnan out and closed the door. Mary was standing in the corridor. “Martin?” she said.