Читать книгу Sean Dillon 3-Book Collection 1: Eye of the Storm, Thunder Point, On Dangerous Ground - Jack Higgins, Justin Richards - Страница 13

Brosnan had taken Anne-Marie to the cinema that evening and afterwards to a small restaurant in Montmartre called La Place Anglaise. It was an old favourite because, and in spite of the name, one of the specialities of the house was Irish stew. It wasn’t particularly busy and they had just finished the main course when Max Hernu appeared, Savary standing behind him.

‘Snow in London, snow in Brussels and snow in Paris.’ Hernu brushed it from his sleeve and opened his coat.

‘Do I deduce from your appearance here that you’ve had me followed?’ Brosnan asked.

‘Not at all, Professor. We called at your apartment where the porter told us you had gone to the cinema. He was also kind enough to mention three or four restaurants he thought you might be at. This is the second.’

‘Then you’d better sit down and have a cognac and some coffee,’ Anne-Marie told him. ‘You both look frozen.’

They took off their coats and Brosnan nodded to the head waiter who hurried over and took the order.

‘I’m sorry, mademoiselle, to spoil your evening, but this is most important,’ Hernu said. ‘An unfortunate development.’

Brosnan lit a cigarette. ‘Tell us the worst.’

It was Savary who answered. ‘About two hours ago the bodies of the Jobert brothers were found by a beat policeman in their car in a small square not far from Le Chat Noir.’

‘Murdered, is that what you are saying?’ Anne-Marie put in.

‘Oh, yes, mademoiselle,’ he said. ‘Shot to death.’

‘Two each in the heart?’ Brosnan said.

‘Why, yes, Professor, the pathologist was able to tell us that at the start of his examination. We didn’t stay for the rest. How did you know?’

‘Dillon, without a doubt. It’s a real pro’s trick, Colonel, you should know that. Never one shot, always two in case the other man manages to get one off at you as a reflex.’

Hernu stirred his coffee. ‘Did you expect this, Professor?’

‘Oh, yes. He’d have come looking for them sooner or later. A strange man. He always keeps his word, never goes back on a contract and he expects the same from those he deals with. What he calls a matter of honour. At least he did in the old days.’

‘Can I ask you something?’ Savary said. ‘I’ve been on the street fifteen years. I’ve known killers in plenty and not just the gangsters who see it as part of the job, but the poor sod who’s killed his wife because she’s been unfaithful. Dillon seems something else. I mean, his father was killed by British soldiers so he joined the IRA. I can see that, but everything that’s happened since. Twenty years of it. All those hits and not even in his own country. Why?’

‘I’m not a psychiatrist,’ Brosnan said. ‘They’d give you all the fancy names starting with psychopath and working down. I knew men like him in the army in Viet Nam in Special Forces and good men, some of them, but once they started, the killing, I mean, it seemed to take over like a drug. They became driven men. The next stage was always to kill when it wasn’t necessary. To do it without emotion. Back there in Nam it was as if people had become, how can I put it, just things.’

‘And this, you think, happened to Dillon?’ Hernu asked.

‘It happened to me, Colonel,’ Martin Brosnan said bleakly.

There was silence. Finally, Hernu said, ‘We must catch him, Professor.’

‘I know.’

‘Then you’ll join us in hunting him down?’

Anne-Marie put a hand on his arm, dismay on her face and she turned to the two men, a kind of desperate anger there. ‘That’s your job, not Martin’s.’

‘It’s all right,’ Martin soothed her. ‘Don’t worry.’ He said to Hernu, ‘Any advice I can give, any information that might help, but no personal involvement. I’m sorry, Colonel, that’s the way it has to be.’

Savary said, ‘You told us he tried to kill you once. You and a friend.’

‘That was in seventy-four. He and I both worked for this friend of mine, a man named Devlin, Liam Devlin. He was what you might call an old-fashioned revolutionary. Thought you could still fight it out like the old days, an undercover army against the troops. A bit like the Resistance in France during the war. He didn’t like bombs, soft target bits, that kind of stuff.’

‘What happened?’ the Inspector asked.

‘Dillon disobeyed orders and the bomb that was meant for the police patrol killed half a dozen children. Devlin and I went after him. He tried to take us out.’

‘Without success, obviously?’

‘Well, we weren’t exactly kids off the street.’ His voice had changed in a subtle way. Harder, more cynical. ‘Left me with a groove in one shoulder and I gave him one in the arm himself. That was when he first dropped out of sight into Europe.’

‘And you didn’t see him again?’

‘I was in prison for over four years from nineteen seventy-five, Inspector. Belle Isle. You’re forgetting your history. He worked with a man called Frank Barry for a while, another refugee from the IRA who turned up on the European scene. A really bad one, Barry. Do you remember him?’

‘I do, indeed, Professor,’ Hernu said. ‘As I recall, he tried to assassinate Lord Carrington, the British Foreign Secretary, on a visit to France in nineteen seventy-nine in very similar circumstances to this recent affair.’

‘Dillon was probably doing a copy-cat of that operation. He worshipped Barry.’

‘Who you killed, on behalf of British intelligence, I understand?’

Anne-Marie said, ‘Excuse me.’

She got up and walked down to the powder room. Hernu said, ‘We’ve upset her.’

‘She worries about me, Colonel, worries that some circumstances might put a gun in my hand again and send me sliding all the way back.’

‘Yes, I can see that, my friend.’ Hernu got up and buttoned his coat. ‘We’ve taken up enough of your time. My apologies to Mademoiselle Audin.’

Savary said, ‘Your lectures at the Sorbonne, Professor, the students must love you. I bet you get a full house.’

‘Always,’ Brosnan said.

He watched them go and Anne-Marie returned. ‘Sorry about that, my love,’ he told her.

‘Not your fault.’ She looked tired. ‘I think I’ll go home.’

‘You’re not coming back to my place?’

‘Not tonight. Tomorrow perhaps.’

The head waiter brought the bill which Brosnan signed, then helped them into their coats and ushered them to the door. Outside, snow sprinkled the cobbles. She shivered and turned to Brosnan. ‘You changed, Martin, back there when you were talking to them. You started to become the other man again.’

‘Really?’ he said and knew that it was true.

‘I’ll get a taxi.’

‘Let me come with you.’

‘No, I’d rather not.’

He watched her go down the street, then turned and went the other way. Wondering about Dillon, where he was and what he was doing.

Dillon’s barge was moored in a small basin on the Quai St Bernard. There were mainly motor cruisers there, pleasure craft with canvas hoods over them for the winter. The interior was surprisingly luxurious, a stateroom lined with mahogany, two comfortable sofas, a television. His sleeping quarters were in a cabin beyond with a divan bed and a small shower-room adjacent. The kitchen was on the other side of the passageway, small, but very modern. Everything a good cook could want. He was in there now, waiting for the kettle to boil when he heard the footfalls on deck. He opened a drawer, took out a Walther, cocked it and slipped it into his waistband at the rear. Then he went out.

Makeev came down the companionway and entered the stateroom. He shook snow from his overcoat and took it off. ‘What a night. Filthy weather.’

‘Worse in Moscow,’ Dillon told him. ‘Coffee?’

‘Why not.’

Makeev helped himself to a cognac from a bottle on the sideboard and the Irishman came back with a china mug in each hand. ‘Well, what’s happened?’

‘First of all, my sources tell me the Jobert brothers have turned up very dead indeed. Was that wise?’

‘To use an immortal phrase from one of those old James Cagney movies, they had it coming. Now what else has happened?’

‘Oh, an old friend from your dim past has surfaced. One Martin Brosnan.’

‘Holy Mother of God!’ Dillon seemed transfixed for a moment. ‘Martin? Martin Brosnan? Where in the hell did he turn up from?’

‘He’s living right here in Paris, just up the river from you on the Quai de Montebello, the block on the corner opposite Notre Dame. Very ornate entrance. Within walking distance of here. You can’t miss it. Has scaffolding on the front. Some sort of building work going on.’

‘All very detailed.’ Dillon took a bottle of Bushmills from the cupboard and poured one. ‘Why?’

‘I’ve had a look on my way here.’

‘What’s all this got to do with me?’

So Makeev told him, Max Hernu, Savary, Tania Novikova in London, everything. ‘So,’ he said as he finished. ‘At least we know what our friends are up to.’

‘This Novikova girl could be very useful to me,’ Dillon said. ‘Will she play things our way?’

‘No question. She worked for me for some years. A very clever young woman. Like me, she isn’t happy with present changes back home. Her boss is a different matter. Colonel Yuri Gatov. All for change. One of those.’

‘Yes, she could be important,’ Dillon said.

‘Do I take it this means you want to go to London?’

‘When I know, I’ll let you know.’

‘And Brosnan?’

‘I could pass him on the street and he wouldn’t recognise me.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Josef, I could pass you and you wouldn’t recognise me. You’ve never really seen me change, have you? Have you come in your car?’

‘Of course not. Taxi. I hope I can get one back.’

‘I’ll get my coat and walk some of the way with you.’

He went out and Makeev buttoned his coat and poured another brandy. There was a slight sound behind him and when he turned, Dillon stood there in cap and reefer coat, hunched over in some strange way. Even the shape of his face seemed different. He looked fifteen years older. The change in body language was incredible.

‘My God, it’s amazing,’ Makeev said.

Dillon straightened up and grinned, ‘Josef, my old son, if I’d stuck to the stage I’d have been a theatrical knight by now. Come on, let’s get going.’

The snow was only a light powdering on the ground, barges passed on the river and Notre Dame, floodlit, floated in the night. They reached the Quai de Montebello without seeing a taxi.

Makeev said, ‘Here we are, Brosnan’s place. He owns the block. It seems his mother left him rather well off.’

‘Is that a fact?’

Dillon looked across at the scaffolding and Makeev said, ‘Apartment Four, the one on the corner on the first floor.’

‘Does he live alone?’

‘Not married. Has a woman friend, Anne-Marie Audin …’

‘The war photographer? I saw her once back in seventy-one in Belfast. Brosnan and Liam Devlin, my boss at the time, were giving her a privileged look at the IRA.’

‘Did you meet her?’

‘Not personally. Do they live together?’

‘Apparently not.’ A taxi came out of a side turning and moved towards them and Makeev raised an arm. ‘We’ll speak tomorrow.’

The taxi drove off and Dillon was about to turn away when Brosnan came round the corner. Dillon recognised him instantly.

‘Now then, Martin, you old bastard,’ he said softly.

Brosnan went up the steps and inside. Dillon turned, smiling, and walked away, whistling to himself softly.

At his flat in Cavendish Square, Ferguson was just getting ready to go to bed when the phone rang. Hernu said, ‘Bad news. He’s knocked off the Jobert brothers.’

‘Dear me,’ Ferguson said. ‘He doesn’t mess about, does he?’

‘I’ve been to see Brosnan to ask him to come in with us on this. I’m afraid he’s refused. Offered to give us his advice and so on, but he won’t become actively involved.’

‘Nonsense,’ Ferguson said. ‘We can’t have that. When the ship is sinking it’s all hands to the pumps and this ship is sinking very fast indeed.’

‘What do you suggest?’

‘I think it might be an idea if I came over to see him. I’m not sure of the time. I’ve things to arrange. Possibly this afternoon. We’ll let you know.’

‘Excellent. I couldn’t be more pleased.’

Ferguson sat there thinking about it for a while and then he phoned Mary Tanner at her flat. ‘I suppose like me, you’d hoped for a relatively quiet night after your early rise this morning?’ he said.

‘It had crossed my mind. Has something happened?’

He brought her up to date. ‘I think it might be an idea to go over tomorrow, have a chat with Hernu then speak to Brosnan. He must be made to realise how serious this is.’

‘Do you want me to come?’

‘Naturally. I can’t even make sense of a menu over there whereas we all know that one of the benefits of your rather expensive education is fluency in the French language. Get in touch with the transport officer at the Ministry and tell him I want the Lear jet standing by tomorrow.’

‘I’ll handle it. Anything else?’

‘No, I’ll see you at the office in the morning and don’t forget your passport.’

Ferguson put down the phone, got into bed and switched off the light.

Back on the barge, Dillon boiled the kettle, then poured a little Bushmills whiskey into a mug, added some lemon juice, sugar and the boiling water and went back into the stateroom, sipping the hot toddy. My God, Martin Brosnan after all these years. His mind went back to the old days with the American and Liam Devlin, his old commander. Devlin, the living legend of the IRA. Wild, exciting days, taking on the might of the British Army, face to face. Nothing would ever be the same as that.

There was a stack of London newspapers on the table. He’d bought them all at the Gare de Lyon newsstand earlier. There was the Daily Mail, the Express, The Times, and the Telegraph. It was the political sections that interested him most and all the stories were similar. The Gulf crisis, the air strikes on Baghdad, speculation on when the land war would start. And photos, of course. Prime Minister John Major outside Number Ten Downing Street. The British press was wonderful. There were discussions about security, speculation as to possible Arab terrorist attacks and articles that even included maps and street plans of the immediate area around Downing Street. And more photos of the Prime Minister and cabinet ministers arriving for the daily meetings of the War Cabinet. London, that was where the action was, no doubt about it. He put the papers away neatly, finished his toddy and went to bed.

One of the first things Ferguson did on reaching his office was to dictate a further brief report to the Prime Minister bringing him up to date and informing him of the Paris trip. Mary took the draft along to the copy room. The duty clerk just coming to the end of the night shift was a woman, a Mrs Alice Johnson, a war widow whose husband had been killed in the Falklands. She got on with the typing of the report instantly, had just finished putting it through the copier when Gordon Brown entered. He was on a split shift. Three hours from ten until one and six until ten in the evening. He put his briefcase down and took off his jacket.

‘You go whenever you like, Alice. Anything special?’

‘Just this report for Captain Tanner. It’s a Number Ten job. I said I’d take it along.’

‘I’ll take it for you,’ Brown said. ‘You get going.’

She passed him both copies of the report and started to clear her desk. No chance to make an extra copy, but at least he could read it which he did as he went along the corridor to Mary Tanner’s office. She was sitting at her desk when he went in.

‘That report you wanted, Captain Tanner. Shall I arrange a messenger?’

‘No thanks, Gordon. I’ll see to it.’

‘Anything else, Captain?’

‘No, I’m just clearing the desk. Brigadier Ferguson and I are going to Paris.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I’ll have to get moving. We’re due out of Gatwick at eleven.’

‘Well, I hope you enjoy yourself.’

When he went back to the copy room Alice Johnson was still there. ‘I say, Alice,’ he said, ‘would you mind hanging on for a little while? Only something’s come up. I’ll make it up to you.’

‘That’s all right,’ she said. ‘You get off.’

He put on his coat, hurried downstairs to the canteen and went into one of the public telephone booths. Tania Novikova was only at the flat because of the lateness of the hour when she had left the Embassy the previous night.

‘I’ve told you not to ring me here. I’ll ring you,’ she told him.

‘I must see you. I’m free at one.’

‘Impossible.’

‘I’ve seen another report. The same business.’

‘I see. Have you got a copy?’

‘No, that wasn’t possible, but I’ve read it.’

‘What did it say?’

‘I’ll tell you at lunchtime.’

She realised then that control on her part, severe control, was necessary. Her voice was cold and hard when she said, ‘Don’t waste my time, Gordon, I’m busy. I think I’d better bring this conversation to an end. I may give you a ring sometime, but then I may not.’

He panicked instantly. ‘No, let me tell you. There wasn’t much. Just that the two French criminals involved had been murdered, they presumed by the man Dillon. Oh, and Brigadier Ferguson and Captain Tanner are flying over to Paris in the Lear jet at noon.’

‘Why?’

‘They’re hoping to persuade this man Martin Brosnan to help them.’

‘Good,’ she said. ‘You’ve done well, Gordon. I’ll see you tonight at your flat. Six o’clock and bring your work schedule for the next couple of weeks.’ She rang off.

Brown went upstairs, full of elation.

Ferguson and Mary Tanner had an excellent flight and touched down at Charles de Gaulle Airport just after one. By two o’clock they were being ushered into Hernu’s office at DGSE headquarters in Boulevard Mortier.

He embraced Ferguson briefly. ‘Charles, you old rogue, it’s far too long.’

‘Now then, none of your funny French ways,’ Ferguson told him. ‘You’ll be kissing me on both cheeks next. Mary Tanner, my aide.’

She was wearing a rather nice Armani trouser suit of dark brown and a pair of exquisite ankle boots by Manolo Blahnik, diamond stud earrings and a small gold Rolex divers’ watch completed the picture. For a girl who was not supposed to be particularly pretty, she looked stunning. Hernu, who knew class when he saw it, kissed her hand. ‘Captain Tanner, your reputation precedes you.’

‘Only in the nicest way, I hope,’ she replied in fluent French.

‘Good,’ Ferguson said. ‘So now we’ve got all that stuff over, let’s get down to brass tacks. What about Brosnan?’

‘I have spoken to him this morning and he’s agreed to see us at his apartment at three. Time for a late lunch. We have excellent canteen facilities here. Everyone mixes in from the Director downwards.’ He opened the door. ‘Just follow me. It may not be quite the best food in Paris, but it’s certainly the cheapest.’

In the stateroom at the barge, Dillon was pouring a glass of Krug and studying a large-scale map of London. Around him, pinned to the mahogany walls, were articles and reports from all the newspapers specifically referring to affairs at Number Ten, the Gulf War and how well John Major was doing. There were photos of the youngest Prime Minister of the century, several of them. In fact, the eyes seemed to follow him about. It was as if Major was watching him.

‘And I’ve got my eye on you, too, fella,’ Dillon said softly.

The things that intrigued him were the constant daily meetings of the British War Cabinet at Number Ten. All those bastards, all together in the same spot. What a target. Brighton all over again and that affair had come close to taking out the entire British Government. But Number Ten as a target? That didn’t seem possible. Fortress Thatcher it had been dubbed by some after that redoubtable lady’s security improvements. There were footsteps on the deck overhead. He opened a drawer in the table casually revealing a Smith & Wesson .38 revolver, closed it again as Makeev came in.

‘I could have telephoned, but I thought I’d speak to you personally,’ the Russian said.

‘What now?’

‘I’ve brought you some photos we’ve had taken of Brosnan as he is now. Oh, and that’s the girlfriend, Anne-Marie Audin.’

‘Good. Anything else?’

‘I’ve heard from Tania Novikova again. It seems Brigadier Ferguson and his aide, a Captain Mary Tanner, have flown over. They were due out of Gatwick at eleven.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I’d say they’ll be with Hernu right now.’

‘To what end?’

‘The real purpose of the trip is to see Brosnan. Try and persuade him to help actively in the search for you.’

‘Really?’ Dillon smiled coldly. ‘Martin’s becoming a serious inconvenience. I might have to do something about that.’

Makeev nodded at the clippings on the walls. ‘Your own private gallery?’

‘I’m just getting to know the man,’ Dillon said. ‘Do you want a drink?’

‘No thanks.’ Suddenly Makeev felt uncomfortable. ‘I’ve things to do. I’ll be in touch.’

He went up the companionway. Dillon poured himself a little more champagne, sipped a little then stopped, walked into the kitchen and poured the whole bottle down the sink. Conspicuous waste, but he felt like it. He went back into the stateroom, lit a cigarette and looked at the clippings again, but all he could think about was Martin Brosnan. He picked up the photos Makeev had brought and pinned them up beside the clippings.

Anne-Marie was in the kitchen at the Quai de Montebello, Brosnan going over a lecture at the table, when the doorbell rang. She hurried out, wiping her hands on a cloth.

‘That will be them,’ she said. ‘I’ll get it. Now don’t forget your promise.’

She touched the back of his neck briefly and went out. There was a sound of voices in the hall and she returned with Ferguson, Hernu and Mary Tanner.

‘I’ll make some coffee,’ Anne-Marie said and went into the kitchen.

‘My dear Martin.’ Ferguson held out his hand. ‘It’s been too long.’

‘Amazing,’ Brosnan said. ‘We only ever meet when you want something.’

‘Someone you haven’t met, my aide, Captain Mary Tanner.’

Brosnan looked her over quickly, the small, dark girl with the scar on the left cheek, and liked what he saw. ‘Couldn’t you find a better class of work than what this old sod has to offer?’ he demanded.

Odd that she should feel slightly breathless faced with this forty-five-year-old man with the ridiculously long hair and the face that had seen rather too much of the worst of life.

‘There’s a recession on. You have to take what’s going these days,’ she said, her hand light in his.

‘Right. We’ve had the cabaret act so let’s get down to business,’ Ferguson said. Hernu went to the window, Ferguson and Mary took the sofa opposite Brosnan.

‘Max tells me he spoke to you last night after the murder of the Jobert brothers?’

Anne-Marie came in with coffee on a tray. Brosnan said, ‘That’s right.’

‘He tells me you’ve refused to help us?’

‘That’s putting it a bit strongly. What I said was that I’d do anything I could except become actively involved myself and if you’ve come to attempt to change my mind, you’re wasting your time.’

Anne-Marie poured coffee. Ferguson said, ‘You agree with him, Miss Audin?’

‘Martin slipped out of that life a long time ago, Brigadier,’ she said carefully. ‘I would not care to see him step back in for whatever reason.’

‘But surely you can see that a man like Dillon must be stopped?’

‘Then others must do the stopping. Why Martin, for God’s sake?’ She was distressed now and angry. ‘It’s your job, people like you. This sort of thing is how you make your living.’

Max Hernu came across and picked up a cup of coffee. ‘But Professor Brosnan is in a special position as regards this business, you must see that, mademoiselle. He knew Dillon intimately, worked with him for years. He could be of great help to us.’

‘I don’t want to see him with a gun in his hand,’ she said, ‘and that’s what it would come to. Once his foot is on that road again, there can only be one end.’

She was very distressed, turned and went through into the kitchen. Mary Tanner went after her and closed the door. Anne-Marie was leaning against the sink, arms folded as if holding herself in, agony on her face.

‘They don’t see, do they? They don’t understand what I mean.’

‘I do,’ Mary said simply. ‘I understand exactly what you mean,’ and as Anne-Marie started to sob quietly, went and put her arms around her.

Brosnan opened the French windows and stood on the terrace by the scaffolding taking in lungsful of cold air. Ferguson joined him. ‘I’m sorry for the distress we’ve caused her.’

‘No you’re not, you only see the end in view. You always did.’

‘He’s a bad one, Martin.’

‘I know,’ Brosnan nodded. ‘A real can of worms the little bastard has opened this time. I must get a smoke.’

He went inside. Hernu was sitting by the fire. Brosnan found a packet of cigarettes, hesitated, then opened the kitchen door. Anne-Marie and Mary were sitting opposite each other, holding hands across the table.

Mary turned. ‘She’ll be fine. Just leave us for a while.’

Brosnan went back to the terrace. He lit a cigarette and leaned against the balustrade. ‘She seems quite a lady, that aide of yours. That scar on her left cheek. Shrapnel. What’s her story?’

‘She was doing a tour of duty as a lieutenant with the Military Police in Londonderry. Some IRA chap was delivering a car bomb when the engine failed. He left it at the kerb and did a runner. Unfortunately it was outside an old folks’ home. Mary was driving past in a Land Rover when a civilian alerted her. She got in the car, released the brake and managed to freewheel down the hill on to some waste land. It exploded as she made a run for it.’

‘Good God!’

‘Yes, I’d agree on that occasion. When she came out of hospital she received a severe reprimand for breaking standing orders and the George Medal for the gallantry of her action. I took her on after that.’

‘A lot of still waters there.’ Brosnan sighed and tossed his cigarette out into space as Mary Tanner joined them.

‘She’s gone to lie down in the bedroom.’

‘All right,’ Brosnan said. ‘Let’s go back in.’ They went and sat down again and he lit another cigarette. ‘Let’s get this over with. What did you want to say?’

Ferguson turned to Mary. ‘Your turn, my dear.’

‘I’ve been through the files, checked out everything the computer can tell us.’ She opened her brown handbag and took out a photo. ‘The only likeness of Dillon we can find. It’s from a group photo taken at RADA twenty years ago. We had an expert in the department blow it up.’

There was a lack of definition, the texture grainy and the face was totally anonymous. Just another young boy.

Brosnan gave it back. ‘Useless. I didn’t even recognise him myself.’

‘Oh, it’s him all right. The man on his right became quite successful on television. He’s dead now.’

‘Not through Dillon?’

‘Oh, no, stomach cancer, but he was approached by one of our people back in nineteen eighty-one and confirmed that it was Dillon standing next to him in the photo.’

‘The only likeness we have,’ Ferguson said. ‘And no bloody use at all.’

‘Did you know that he took a pilot’s licence and a commercial one at that?’ Mary said.

‘No, I never knew that,’ Brosnan said.

‘According to one of our informants, he did it in the Lebanon some years ago.’

‘Why were your people on his case in eighty-one?’ Brosnan asked.

‘Yes, well that’s interesting,’ she told him. ‘You told Colonel Hernu that he’d quarrelled with the IRA, had dropped out and joined the international terrorist circuit.’

‘That’s right.’

‘It seems they took him back in nineteen eighty-one. They were having trouble with their active service units in England. Too many arrests, that kind of thing. Through an informer in Ulster we heard that he was operating in London for a time. There were at least three or four incidents attributed to him. Two car bombs and the murder of a police informant in Ulster who’d been relocated with his family in Maida Vale.’

‘And we didn’t come within spitting distance of catching him,’ Ferguson said.

‘Well, you wouldn’t,’ Brosnan told him. ‘Let me go over it again. He’s an actor of genius. He really can change before your eyes, just by use of body language. You’d have to see it to believe it. Imagine what he can do with make-up, hair colouring changes. He’s only five feet five, remember. I’ve seen him dress as a woman and fool soldiers on foot patrol in Belfast.’

Mary Tanner was leaning forward intently. ‘Go on,’ she said softly.

‘You want to know another reason why you’ve never caught him? He works out a series of aliases. Changes hair colour, uses whatever tricks of make-up are necessary, then takes his photo. That’s what goes on his false passport or identity papers. He keeps a collection, then when he needs to move, makes himself into the man on the photo.’

‘Ingenious,’ Hernu said.

‘Exactly, so no hope of any help from television or newspaper publicity of the have-you-seen-this-man type. Wherever he goes, he slips under the surface. If he was working in London and needed anything at all, help, weapons, whatever, he’d simply pretend to be an ordinary criminal and use the underworld.’

‘You mean he wouldn’t go near any kind of IRA contact at all?’ Mary said.

‘I doubt it. Maybe someone who’d been in very deep cover for years, someone he could really trust and people like that are thin on the ground.’

‘There is a point in all this which no one has touched on,’ Hernu said. ‘Who is he working for?’

‘Well it certainly isn’t the IRA,’ Mary said. ‘We did an instant computer check and we have links with both the RUC computer and British Army intelligence at Lisburn. Not a smell from anyone about the attempt on Mrs Thatcher.’

‘Oh, I believe that,’ Brosnan said, ‘although you can never be sure.’

‘There are the Iraqis, of course,’ Ferguson said. ‘Saddam would dearly love to blow everyone up at the moment.’

‘True, but don’t forget Hizbollah, PLO, Wrath of Allah and a few others in between. He’s worked for them all,’ Brosnan reminded him.

‘Yes,’ Ferguson said, ‘and checking our sources through that lot would take time and I don’t think we’ve got it.’

‘You think he’ll try again?’ Mary asked.

‘Nothing concrete, my dear, but I’ve been in this business a lifetime. I always go by my instincts and this time my instincts tell me there’s more to it.’

‘Well, I can’t help you there. I’ve done all I can.’ Brosnan stood up.

‘All you’re prepared to, you mean?’ Ferguson said.

They moved into the hall and Brosnan opened the door. ‘I suppose you’ll be going back to London?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. I thought we might stay over and sample the delights of Paris. I haven’t stayed at the Ritz since the refurbishment.’

Mary Tanner said, ‘That will give the expenses a bashing.’ She held out her hand. ‘Goodbye, Professor Brosnan, it was nice to be able to put a face to the name.’

‘And you,’ he said. ‘Colonel,’ he nodded to Hernu and closed the door.

When he went into the drawing room, Anne-Marie came in from the bedroom. Her face was drawn and pale. ‘Did you come to any decision?’ she asked.

‘I gave you my word. I’ve helped them all I can. Now they’ve gone and that’s an end to it.’

She opened the table drawer. Inside there was an assortment of pens, envelopes, writing paper, stamps. There was also a Browning High Power 9-mm pistol, one of the most deadly handguns in the world, preferred by the SAS above all others.

She didn’t say a word, simply closed the drawer and looked at him calmly. ‘I’ll make some coffee,’ she said and went into the kitchen.

In the limousine Hernu said, ‘You’ve lost him. He won’t do any more.’

‘I wouldn’t be too sure of that. We’ll discuss it over dinner at the Ritz later. You’ll join us, I hope? Eight o’clock all right?’

‘Delighted,’ Hernu said. ‘Group Four must be rather more generous with its expenses than my own poor department.’

‘Oh, it’s all on dear Mary here,’ Ferguson said. ‘Flashed this wonderful piece of plastic at me the other day which American Express had sent her. The Platinum Card. Can you believe that, Colonel?’

‘Damn you!’ Mary said.

Hernu lay back and laughed helplessly.

Tania Novikova came out of the bathroom of Gordon Brown’s Camden flat combing her hair. He pulled on a dressing-gown.

‘You’ve got to go?’ he said.

‘I must. Come into the living room.’ She pulled on her coat and turned to face him. ‘No more coming to the Bayswater flat, no more telephones. The work schedule you showed me. All split shifts for the next month. Why?’

‘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, went down to the corner and hailed a cab.