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 curb 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 recognize 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 license, 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 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 quarreled 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 makeup, hair-coloring 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 color, uses whatever tricks of makeup 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-millimeter 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 tea," 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."
She started for the door and he caught her arm. "But when will I see you?"
"Difficult at the moment, Gordon, we must be careful. If you've nothing better to do, always come home between shifts. I'll do what I can."
He kissed her hungrily. "Darling."
She pushed him away. "I must go now, Gordon."
She opened the door, went downstairs and let herself out of the street entrance. It was still very cold and she pulled up her collar.
"My God, the things I do for Mother Russia," she said. She went down to the corner and hailed a cab.
FIVE
IT WAS COLDER than ever in the evening, a front from Siberia sweeping across Europe, too cold for snow even. In the apartment, just before seven, Brosnan put some more logs on the fire.
Anne-Marie, lying full-length on the sofa, stirred and sat up. "So we stay in to eat?"
"I think so," he said. "A vile night."
"Good. I'll see what I can do in the kitchen."
He put on the television news program. More air strikes against Baghdad, but still no sign of a land war. He switched the set off and Anne-Marie emerged from the kitchen and picked up her coat from the chair where she had left it.
"Your fridge, as usual, is almost empty. Unless you wish me to concoct a meal based on some rather stale cheese, one egg and half a carton of milk, I'll have to go round the corner to the delicatessen."
"I'll come with you."
"Nonsense," she said. "Why should we both suffer? I'll see you soon."
She blew him a kiss and went out. Brosnan went and opened the French windows. He stood on the terrace, shivering, and lit a cigarette, watching for her. A moment later, she emerged from the front door and started along the pavement.
"Goodbye, my love," he called dramatically. "Parting is such sweet sorrow."
"Idiot!" she called back. "Go back in before you catch pneumonia." She moved away, careful on the frozen pavement, and disappeared round the corner.
At that moment, the phone rang. Brosnan turned and hurried in, leaving the French windows open.
Dillon had an early meal at a small cafe he often frequented. He was on foot and his route back to the barge took him past Brosnan's apartment block. He paused on the other side of the road, cold in spite of the reefer coat and the knitted cap pulled down over his ears. He stood there, swinging his arms vigorosly, looking up at the lighted windows of the apartment.
When Anne-Marie came out of the entrance, he recognized her instantly and stepped back into the shadows. The street was silent, no traffic movement at all, and when Brosnan leaned over the balustrade and called down to her, Dillon heard every word he said. It gave him a totally false impression. That she was leaving for the evening. As she disappeared round the corner, he crossed the road quickly. He checked the Walther in his waistband at the rear, had a quick glance each way to see that no one was about, then started to climb the scaffolding.
It was Mary Tanner on the phone. "Brigadier Ferguson wondered whether we could see you again in the morning before going back?"
"It won't do you any good," Brosnan told her.
"Is that a yes or a no?"
"All right," he said reluctantly. "If you must."
"I understand," she said, "I really do. Has Anne-Marie recovered?"
"A tough lady, that one," he said. "She's covered more wars than we've had hot dinners. That's why I've always found her attitude about such things where I'm concerned, strange."
"Oh, dear," she said. "You men can really be incredibly stupid on occasions. She loves you, Professor, it's as simple as that. I'll see you in the morning."
Brosnan put the phone down. There was a draught of cold air, the fire flared up. He turned and found Sean Dillon standing in the open French windows, the Walther in his left hand.
"God bless all here," he said.
The delicatessen in the side street, as with so many such places these days, was run by an Indian, a Mr. Patel. He was most assiduous where Anne-Marie was concerned, carrying the basket for her as they went round the shelves. Delicious French bread sticks, milk, eggs, Brie cheese, a beautiful quiche.
"Baked by my wife with her own hands," Mr. Patel assured her. "Two minutes in the microwave and a perfect meal."
She laughed. "Then all we need is a very large tin of caviar and some smoked salmon to complement it."
He packed the things carefully for her. "I'll put them on Professor Brosnan's account as usual."
"Thank you," she said.
He opened the door for her. "A pleasure, mademoiselle."
She started back along the frosty pavement feeling suddenly unaccountably cheerful.
"Jesus, Martin, and the years have been good to you." Dillon pulled the glove off his right hand with his teeth and found a pack of cigarettes in his pocket. Brosnan, a yard from the table drawer and the Browning High Power, made a cautious move. "Naughty." Dillon gestured with the Walther. "Sit on the arm of the sofa and put your hands behind your head."
Brosnan did as he was told. "You're enjoying yourself, Sean."
"I am so. How's that old sod Liam Devlin these days?"
"Alive and well. Still in Kilrea outside Dublin, but then you know that."
"And that's a fact."
"The job at Valenton, Mrs. Thatcher," Brosnan said. "Very sloppy, Sean. I mean, to go with a couple of bums like the Joberts. You really must be losing your touch."
"You think so?"
"Presumably it was a big payday?"
"Very big," Dillon said.
"I hope you got your money in advance."
"Very funny." Dillon was beginning to get annoyed.
"One thing does intrigue me," Brosnan said. "What you want with me after all these years?"
"Oh, I know all about you," Dillon said. "How they're pumping you for information about me. Hernu, the Action Service colonel, that old bastard Ferguson and this girl side-kick of his, this Captain Tanner. Nothing I don't know. I've got the right friends, you see, Martin, the kind of people who can access anything."
"Really, and were they happy when you failed with Mrs. Thatcher?"
"Just a tryout, that, just a perhaps. I've promised them an alternative target. You know how this game works."
"I certainly do, and one thing I do know is that the IRA doesn't pay for hits. Never has."
"Who said I was working for the IRA?" Dillon grinned. "Plenty of other people with enough reason to hit the Brits these days."
Brosnan saw it then, or thought he did. "Baghdad?"
"Sorry, Martin, you can go to your Maker puzzling over that one for all eternity."
Brosnan said, "Just indulge me. A big hit for Saddam. I mean, the war stinks. He needs something badly."
"Christ, you always did run on."
"President Bush stays back in Washington, so that leaves the Brits. You fail on the best known woman in the world, so what's next? The Prime Minister?"
"Where you're going it doesn't matter, son."
"But I'm right, aren't I?"
"Damn you, Brosnan, you always were the clever bastard!" Dillon exploded angrily.
"You'll never get away with it," Brosnan said.
"You think so? I'll just have to prove you wrong, then."
"As I said, you must be losing your touch, Sean. This bungled attempt to get Mrs. Thatcher. Reminds me of a job dear old Frank Barry pulled back in seventy-nine when he tried to hit the British Foreign Secretary, Lord Carrington, when he was passing through Saint-Etienne. I'm rather surprised you used the same ground plan, but then you always did think Barry was special, didn't you?"
"He was the best."
"And at the end of things, very dead," Brosnan said.
"Yes, well, whoever got him must have given it to him in the back," Dillon said.
"Not true," Brosnan told him. "We were face-to-face as I recall."
"You killed Frank Barry?" Dillon whispered.
"Well, somebody had to," Brosna
n said. "It's what usually happens to mad dogs. I was working for Ferguson, by the way."
"You bastard." Dillon raised the Walther, took careful aim and the door opened and Anne-Marie walked in with the shopping bags.
Dillon swung toward her. Brosnan called, "Look out!" and went down and Dillon fired twice at the sofa.
Anne-Marie screamed, not in terror, but in fury, dropped her bags and rushed at him. Dillon tried to fend her off, staggered back through the French windows. Inside, Brosnan crawled toward the table and reached for the drawer. Anne-Marie scratched at Dillon's face. He cursed, pushing her away from him. She fell against the balustrade and went over backwards.
Brosnan had the drawer open now, knocked the lamp on the table sideways, plunging the room into darkness, and reached for the Browning. Dillon fired three times very fast and ducked for the door. Brosnan fired twice, too late. The door banged. He got to his feet, ran to the terrace and looked over. Anne-Marie lay on the pavement below. He turned and ran through the drawing room into the hall, got the door open and went downstairs two at a time. It was snowing when he went out on the steps. Of Dillon there was no sign, but the night porter was kneeling beside Anne-Marie.
He looked up. "There was a man, Professor, with a gun. He ran across the road."
"Never mind." Brosnan sat down and cradled her in his arms. "An ambulance, and hurry."
The snow was falling quite fast now. He held her close and waited.
Ferguson, Mary and Max Hernu were having a thoroughly enjoyable time in the magnificent dining room at the Ritz. They were already on their second bottle of Louis Roederer Crystal champagne and the brigadier was in excellent form.
"Who was it who said that when a man tires of champagne, he's tired of life?" he demanded.
"He must certainly have been a Frenchman," Hernu told him.
"Very probably, but I think the time has come when we should toast the provider of this feast." He raised his glass. "To you, Mary, my love."
Eye Of the Storm (1992) Page 8
