Eye of the Storm (30 page)

He put the chart on the other seat where he could see it and switched on, firing first the port engine, then the starboard. He took the Conquest out of the hangar and paused to make a thorough cockpit check. As Grant had boasted, the fuel tanks were full. Dillon strapped himself in and taxied across the apron and down to the end of the runway.

He turned into the wind and started forward. He was immediately aware of the drag from the snow, boosted power and gave it everything he could, easing back the column. The Conquest lifted and started to climb. He banked to turn toward his heading for Brighton and saw a black limousine down below moving out of the trees toward the hangars.

“Well I don’t know who the hell you are,” he said softly, “but if it’s me you’re after you’re too late,” and he turned the Conquest in a great curve and started for the coast.

 

Angel sat at the kitchen table, holding the mug of coffee Mary had given her. Brosnan and Harry Flood, his arm in the sling, stood listening and Charlie Salter leaned on the door.

“It was Dillon and your uncle at Downing Street, is that what you’re saying?” Mary asked.

Angel nodded. “I drove the Morris with Mr. Dillon’s motorbike in it. He followed Uncle Danny, he was in the Ford Transit.” She looked dazed. “I drove them back from Bayswater and Uncle Danny was afraid, afraid of what might happen.”

“And Dillon?” Mary asked.

“He was flying away from the airfield up the road, Grimethorpe. He made arrangements with Mr. Grant who runs the place. Said he wanted to go to Land’s End, but he didn’t.”

She sat clutching the mug, staring into space. Brosnan said gently. “Where did he want to go, Angel, do you know?”

“He showed me on the chart. It was in France. It was down along the coast from Cherbourg. There was a landing strip marked. A place called Saint-Denis.”

“You’re sure?” Brosnan said.

“Oh, yes. Uncle Danny asked him to take us too, but he wouldn’t, then Uncle Danny got upset. He came in with the shotgun and then . . .” She started to sob.

Mary put her arms around her. “It’s all right now, it’s all right.”

Brosnan said, “Was there anything else?”

“I don’t think so.” Angel still looked dazed. “He offered Uncle Danny money. He said the man he was working for could arrange payments anywhere in the world.”

“Did he say who the man was?” Brosnan asked.

“No, he never did.” She brightened. “He did say something about working for the Arabs the first time he came.”

Mary glanced at Brosnan. “Iraq?”

“I always did think that was a possibility.”

“Right, let’s get going,” Flood said. “Check out this Grimethorpe place. You stay here with the kid, Charlie,” he said to Salter, “until the cavalry arrives. We’ll take the Mercedes,” and he turned and led the way out.

 

In the Great Hall at Saint-Denis, Rashid, Aroun and Makeev stood drinking champagne, waiting for the television news.

“A day for rejoicing in Baghdad,” Aroun said. “The people will know now how strong their President is.”

The screen filled with the announcer who spoke briefly, then the pictures followed. Whitehall in the snow, the Household Cavalry guards, the rear of Ten Downing Street, curtains hanging from smashed windows, Mountbatten Green and the Prime Minister inspecting the damage. The three men stood in shocked silence.

It was Aroun who spoke first. “He has failed,” he whispered. “All for nothing. A few broken windows, a hole in the garden.”

“The attempt was made,” Makeev protested. “The most sensational attack on the British Government ever mounted, and at the seat of power.”

“Who gives a damn?” Aroun tossed his champagne glass into the fireplace. “We needed a result and he hasn’t given us one. He failed with the Thatcher woman and he failed with the British Prime Minister. In spite of all your big talk, Josef, nothing but failure.”

He sat down in one of the high-backed chairs at the dining table, and Rashid said, “A good thing we didn’t pay him his million pounds.”

“True,” Aroun said, “but the money is the least of it. It’s my personal position with the President which is at stake.”

“So what are we going to do?” Makeev demanded.

“Do?” Aroun looked up at Rashid. “We’re going to give our friend Dillon a very warm reception on a cold day, isn’t that so, Ali?”

“At your orders, Mr. Aroun,” Rashid said.

“And you, Josef, you’re with us in this?” Aroun demanded.

“Of course,” Makeev said because there was little else he could say. “Of course.” When he poured another glass of champagne, his hands were shaking.

 

As the Mercedes came out of the trees at Grimethorpe, the Conquest banked and flew away. Brosnan was driving, Mary beside him, Harry Flood in the back.

Mary leaned out of the window. “Do you think that’s him?”

“Could be,” Brosnan said. “We’ll soon find out.”

They drove past the open hangar with the Navajo Chieftain inside and stopped at the huts. It was Brosnan, first through the door, who found Grant. “Over here,” he said.

Mary and Flood joined him. “So it
was
Dillon in that plane,” she commented.

“Obviously,” Brosnan said grimly.

“Which means the bastard’s slipped the lot of us,” Flood said.

“Don’t be too sure,” Mary told him. “There was another plane in that hangar,” and she turned and ran out.

“What goes on?” Flood demanded as he followed Brosnan out.

“Amongst other things, the lady happens to be an Army Air Corps pilot,” Brosnan said.

When they reached the hangar, the Airstair door of the Navajo was open and Mary was inside in the cockpit. She got up and came out. “Full tanks.”

“You want to follow him?” Brosnan demanded.

“Why not? With any luck we’ll be right up his tail.” She looked fierce and determined, opened her handbag and took out her cellnet phone. “I’m not having this man get away with what he’s done. He needs putting down once and for all.”

She moved outside, pulled up the aerial on her phone and dialed the number of Ferguson’s car.

 

The limousine, leading a convoy of six unmarked Special Branch cars, was just entering Dorking when Ferguson received her call. Detective Inspector Lane was sitting beside him, Sergeant Mackie in front beside the driver.

Ferguson listened to what Mary had to say and made his decision. “I totally agree. You must follow Dillon at your soonest to this Saint-Denis place. What do you require from me?”

“Speak to Colonel Hernu at Service Five. Ask him to discover who owns the airstrip at Saint-Denis so we know what we’re getting into. He’ll want to come himself, obviously, but that will take time. Ask him to deal with the authorities at Maupertus Airport at Cherbourg. They can act as a link for us when I get close to the French coast.”

“I’ll see to that at once, and you take down this radio frequency.” He gave her the details quickly. “That will link you directly to me at the Ministry of Defence. If I’m not back in London they’ll patch you through.”

“Right, sir.”

“And Mary, my love,” he said, “take care. Do take care.”

“I’ll do my best, sir.” She closed her cellnet phone, put it in her handbag and went back into the hangar.

“Are we on our way, then?” Brosnan asked.

“He’s going to talk to Max Hernu in Paris. He’ll arrange a link for us with Maupertus Airport at Cherbourg to let us know what we’re getting into.” She smiled tightly. “So let’s get going. It would be a shame to get there and find he’d moved on.”

She climbed up into the Navajo and moved into the cockpit. Harry Flood went next and settled himself into one of the cabin seats. Brosnan followed, pulled up the Airstair door, then went and settled in the co-pilot’s seat beside her. Mary switched on first one engine, then the other, completed her cockpit check, then took the Navajo outside. It had started to snow, a slight wind whipping it across the runway in a curtain as she taxied to the far end and turned.

“Ready?” she asked.

Brosnan nodded. She boosted power, the Navajo roared along the runway and lifted up into the gray sky as she pulled back the control column.

 

Max Hernu was sitting at his desk in his office at DGSE headquarters going through some papers with Inspector Savary when Ferguson was put through to him. “Charles, exciting times in London this morning.”

“Don’t laugh, old friend, because the whole mess could well land in your lap,” Ferguson said. “Number one, there’s a private airstrip at a place called Saint-Denis down the coast from Cherbourg. Who owns it?”

Hernu put a hand over the phone and said to Savary, “Check the computer. Who owns a private airstrip at Saint-Denis on the Normandy coast?” Savary rushed out and Hernu continued. “Tell me what all this is about, Charles.”

Which Ferguson did. When he was finished, he said, “We’ve got to get this bastard this time, Max, finish him off for good.”

“I agree, my friend.” Savary hurried in with a piece of paper and passed it to Hernu who read it and whistled. “The airstrip in question is part of the Château Saint-Denis estate which is owned by Michael Aroun.”

“The Iraqi billionaire?” Ferguson laughed harshly. “All is explained. Will you arrange clearance for Mary Tanner with Cherbourg and also see that she has that information?”

“Of course, my friend. I’ll also arrange a plane at once and get down there myself with a Service Five team.”

“Good hunting to all of us,” Charles Ferguson said and rang off.

 

There was a great deal of low cloud over the Normandy coast. Dillon, still a few miles out to sea, came out of it at about a thousand feet and went lower, approaching the coastline at about five hundred feet over a turbulent white-capped sea.

The trip had gone like a dream, no trouble at all. Navigation had always been his strong point, and he came in off the sea and saw Château Saint-Denis perched on the edge of the cliffs, the airstrip a few hundred yards beyond. There was some snow, but not as much as there had been in England. There was a small prefabricated hangar, the Citation jet parked outside. He made a single pass over the house, turned into the wind and dropped his flaps for a perfect landing.

 

Aroun and Makeev were sitting by the fire in the Great Hall when they heard the sound of the plane overhead. Rashid hurried in and opened the French windows. They joined him on the snow-covered terrace, Aroun holding a pair of binoculars. Three hundred yards away on the airstrip, the Cessna Conquest landed and taxied toward the hangar, turning to line itself up beside the Citation.

“So, he’s here,” Aroun said.

He focused the binoculars on the plane, saw the door open and Dillon appear. He passed the binoculars to Rashid who had a look, then handed them to Makeev.

“I’ll go down and pick him up in the Land-Rover,” Rashid said.

“No you won’t.” Aroun shook his head. “Let the bastard walk through the snow, a suitable welcome, and when he gets here, we’ll be waiting for him.”

 

Dillon left the holdall and the briefcase just inside the Conquest when he climbed down. He walked across to the Citation and lit a cigarette, looking it over. It was a plane he’d flown many times in the Middle East, a personal favorite. He finished the cigarette and lit another. It was bitterly cold and very quiet, fifteen minutes and still no sign of any transport.

“So that’s the way it is?” he said softly and walked back to the Conquest.

He opened the briefcase, checked the Walther and the Carswell silencer and eased the Beretta at the small of his back, then he picked up the holdall in one hand, the briefcase in the other, crossed the runway and followed the track through the trees.

 

Fifty miles out to sea, Mary identified herself to the tower at Maupertus Airport. She got a reply instantly.

“We’ve been expecting you.”

“Am I clear to land at Saint-Denis airstrip?” she asked.

“Things are closing in rapidly. We had a thousand feet only twenty minutes ago. It’s six hundred now at the most. Advise you try here.”

Brosnan heard all this on the other headphones and turned to her in alarm. “We can’t do that, not now.”

She said to Maupertus, “It’s most urgent that I see for myself.”

“We have a message for you from Colonel Hernu.”

“Read it,” she said.

“The Saint-Denis airstrip is part of Château Saint-Denis and owned by Mr. Michael Aroun.”

“Thank you,” she said calmly. “Out.” She turned to Brosnan. “You heard that? Michael Aroun.”

“One of the wealthiest men in the world,” Brosnan said, “and Iraqi.”

“It all fits,” she said.

He unbuckled his seatbelt. “I’ll go and tell Harry.”

 

Dillon trudged through the snow toward the terrace at the front of the house and the three men watched him come. Aroun said, “You know what to do, Josef.”

“Of course.” Makeev took a Makarov automatic from his pocket, made sure it was ready for action and put it back.

“Go and admit him, Ali,” Aroun told Rashid.

Rashid went out. Aroun went to the sofa by the fire and picked up a newspaper. When he went to the table to sit down, he placed the newspaper in front of him, took a Smith & Wesson revolver from his pocket and slipped it under.

Rashid opened the door as Dillon came up the snow-covered steps. “Mr. Dillon,” the young captain said. “So you made it?”

“I’d have appreciated a lift,” Dillon told him.

“Mr. Aroun is waiting inside. Let me take your luggage.”

Dillon put the case down and held on to the briefcase. “I’ll keep this,” he smiled. “What’s left of the cash.”

He followed Rashid across the enormous stretch of black and white tiles and entered the Great Hall where Aroun waited at the table. “Come in, Mr. Dillon,” the Iraqi said.