by Jack Higgins
“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 down to. Once his foot is on that road again, it can only have 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 lungfuls 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 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.”
“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. 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 café 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.
&nbs
p; 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.”
