Читать книгу Sean Dillon 3-Book Collection 1: Eye of the Storm, Thunder Point, On Dangerous Ground - Jack Higgins, Justin Richards - Страница 12

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.’

Makeev picked up the red phone. ‘Tania,’ he said, a certain affection in his voice for they had been lovers during the three years she’d worked for him in Paris. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I understand there was an incident affecting Empire over there earlier today?’ she said.

It was an old KGB coded phrase, current for years, always used when referring to assassination attempts of any kind at high government level where Britain was concerned.

Makeev was immediately alert. ‘That’s correct. The usual kind of it-didn’t-happen affair.’

‘Have you an interest?’

‘Very much so.’

‘There’s a coded fax on the way. I’ll stand by in my office if you want to talk.’

Tania Novikova put down the phone. She had her own fax coding machine at a second desk. She went to it, tapping the required details out quickly, checking on the screen to see that she had got it right. She added Makeev’s personal number, inserted the report and waited. A few moments later, she got a message received okay signal. She got up, lit a cigarette and went and stood by the window, waiting.

The jumbled message was received in the radio and coding room at the Paris Embassy. Makeev stood waiting impatiently for it to come through. The operator handed it to him and the Colonel inserted it into the decoder and tapped in his personal key. He couldn’t wait to see the contents, was reading it as he went along the corridor, as excited as Tania Novikova when he saw the line For the eyes of the Prime Minister only. He sat behind his desk and read it through again. He thought about it for a while, then reached for the red phone.

‘You’ve done well, Tania. This one was my baby.’

‘I’m so pleased.’

‘Does Gatov know about this?’

‘No, Colonel.’

‘Good, let’s keep it that way.’

‘Is there anything else I can do?’

‘Very much so. Cultivate your contact. Let me have anything else on the instant. There could be more for you. I have a friend coming to London. The particular friend you’ve been reading about.’

‘I’ll wait to hear.’

She put down the phone, totally elated, and went along to the canteen.

In Paris, Makeev sat there for a moment, frowning, then he picked up the phone and rang Dillon. There was a slight delay before the Irishman answered.

‘Who is it?’

‘Josef, Sean, I’m on my way there. Utmost importance.’

Makeev put down the phone, got his overcoat and went out.