Eye of the Storm

by Jack Higgins

  “I’m sure Aroun can fix that for you.”

  “That’s all right, then. I’d like to see him again before I go. Tomorrow morning, I think. Arrange that, will you?”

  “All right.” Makeev fastened his coat. “I’ll keep you posted on the situation at the hospital.” He reached the bottom of the companionway and turned. “There is one thing. Say you managed to pull this thing off. It would lead to the most ferocious manhunt. How would you intend to get out of England?”

  Dillon smiled. “That’s exactly what I’m going to give some thought to now. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Makeev went up the companionway. Dillon poured another glass of Krug, lit a cigarette and sat at the table, looking at the clippings on the walls. He reached for the pile of newspapers and sorted through them and finally found what he wanted. An old copy of the magazine Paris Match from the previous year. Michael Aroun was featured on the front cover. Inside was a seven-page feature about his life-style and habits. Dillon lit a cigarette and started going through it.

  It was one o’clock in the morning and Mary Tanner was sitting alone in the waiting room when Professor Henri Dubois came in. He was very tired, shoulders bowed, and he sank wearily into a chair and lit a cigarette.

  “Where is Martin?” he asked her.

  “It seems Anne-Marie’s only close relative is her grandfather. Martin is trying to contact him. Do you know him?”

  “Who doesn’t, mademoiselle? One of the richest and most powerful industrialists in France. Very old. Eighty-eight, I believe. He was once a patient of mine. He had a stroke last year. I don’t think Martin will get very far there. He lives on the family estate, Château Vercors. It’s about twenty miles outside Paris.”

  Brosnan came in, looking incredibly weary, but when he saw Dubois he said eagerly, “How is she?”

  “I won’t pretend, my friend. She’d not good. Not good at all. I’ve done everything that I possibly can. Now we wait.”

  “Can I see her?”

  “Leave it for a while. I’ll let you know.”

  “You’ll stay?”

  “Oh, yes. I’ll grab a couple of hours’ sleep on my office couch. How did you get on with Pierre Audin?”

  “I didn’t. Had to deal with his secretary, Fournier. The old man’s confined to a wheelchair now. Doesn’t know the time of day.”

  Dubois sighed. “I suspected as much. I’ll see you later.”

  When he’d gone, Mary said, “You could do with some sleep yourself.”

  He managed a dark smile. “The way I feel now, I don’t think I could ever sleep again. All my fault, in a way.” There was despair on his face.

  “How can you say that?

  “Who I am, or to put it another way, what I was. If it hadn’t been for that, none of this would have happened.”

  “You can’t talk like that,” she said. “Life doesn’t work like that.”

  The phone on the table rang and she answered it, spoke for a few brief moments, then put it down. “Just Ferguson checking.” She put a hand on his shoulder. “Come on, lie down on the couch. Just close your eyes. I’ll be here. I’ll wake you the moment there’s word.”

  Reluctantly, he lay back and did as he was told and surprisingly did fall into a dark, dreamless sleep. Mary Tanner sat there, brooding, listening to his quiet breathing.

  It was just after three when Dubois came in. As if sensing his presence, Brosnan came awake with a start and sat up. “What is it?”

  “She’s regained consciousness.”

  “Can I see her?” Brosnan got up.

  “Yes, of course.” As Brosnan made for the door, Dubois put a hand on his arm. “Martin, it’s not good. I think you should prepare for the worst.”

  “No.” Brosnan almost choked. “It’s not possible.”

  He ran along the corridor, opened the door of her room and went in. There was a young nurse sitting beside her. Anne-Marie was very pale, her head so swathed in bandages that she looked like a young nun.

  “I’ll wait outside, monsieur,” the nurse said and left.

  Brosnan sat down. He reached for her hand and Anne-Marie opened her eyes. She stared vacantly at him and then recognition dawned and she smiled.

  “Martin, is that you?”

  “Who else?” He kissed her hand.

  Behind them, the door clicked open slightly as Dubois peered in.

  “Your hair. Too long. Ridiculously too long.” She put up a hand to touch it. “In Vietnam, in the swamp, when the Vietcong were going to shoot me. You came out of the reeds like some medieval warrior. Your hair was too long then and you wore a headband.”

  She closed her eyes and Brosnan said, “Rest now, don’t try to talk.”

  “But I must.” She opened them again. “Let him go, Martin. Give me your promise. It’s not worth it. I don’t want you going back to what you were.” She grabbed at his hand with surprising strength. “Promise me.”

  “My word on it,” he said.

  She lay back, staring up at the ceiling. “My lovely wild Irish boy. Always loved you, Martin, no one else.”

  Her eyes closed gently, the monitoring machine beside the bed changed its tone. Henry Dubois was in the room in a second. “Outside, Martin—wait.”

  He pushed Brosnan out and closed the door. Mary was standing in the corridor. “Martin?” she said.

  He stared at her vacantly and then the door opened and Dubois appeared. “I’m so sorry, my friend. I’m afraid she’s gone.”

  On the barge, Dillon came awake instantly when the phone rang. Makeev said, “She’s dead, I’m afraid.”

  “That’s a shame,” Dillon said. “It was never intended.”

  “What now?” Makeev asked.

  “I think I’ll leave this afternoon. A good idea in the circumstances. What about Aroun?”

  “He’ll see us at eleven o’clock.”

  “Good. Does he know what’s happened?”

  “No.”

  “Let’s keep it that way. I’ll meet you outside the place just before eleven.”

  He replaced the phone, propped himself up against the pillows. Anne-Marie Audin. A pity about that. He’d never gone in for killing women. An informer once in Derry, but she deserved it. An accident this time, but it smacked of bad luck and that made him feel uneasy. He stubbed out his cigarette and tried to go to sleep again.

  It was just after ten when Mary Tanner admitted Ferguson and Hernu to Brosnan’s apartment. “How is he?” Ferguson asked.

  “He’s kept himself busy. Anne-Marie’s grandfather is not well, so Martin’s been making all the necessary funeral arrangements with his secretary.”

  “So soon?” Ferguson said.

  “Tomorrow, in the family plot at Vercors.”

  She led the way in. Brosnan was standing at the window staring out. He turned to meet them, hands in pockets, his face pale and drawn. “Well?” he demanded.

  “Nothing to report,” Hernu told him. “We’ve notified all ports and airports, discreetly, of course.” He hesitated. “We feel it would be better not to go public on this, Professor. Mademoiselle Audin’s unfortunate death, I mean.”

  Brosnan seemed curiously indifferent. “You won’t get him. London’s the place to look and sooner rather than later. Probably on his way now, and for London you’ll need me.”

  “You mean you’ll help us? You’ll come in on this thing?” Ferguson said.

  “Yes.”

  Brosnan lit a cigarette, opened the French windows and stood on the terrace, Mary joined him. “But you can’t, Martin, you told me that you promised Anne-Marie.”

  “I lied,” he said calmly. “Just to make her going easier. There’s nothing out there. Only darkness.”

  His face was rock hard, the eyes bleak. It was the face of a stranger. “Oh, my God,” she whispered.

  “I’ll have him,” Brosnan said. “If it’s the last thing I do on this earth, I’ll see him dead.”

  SIX

  IT WAS JUST before el
even when Makeev drew up before Michael Aroun’s apartment in Avenue Victor Hugo. His chauffeur drew in beside the curb and as he switched off the engine, the door opened and Dillon climbed into the rear seat.

  “You’d better not be wearing designer shoes,” he said. “Slush everywhere.”

  He smiled and Makeev reached over to close the partition. “You seem in good form, considering the situation.”

  “And why shouldn’t I be? I just wanted to make sure you hadn’t told Aroun about the Audin woman.”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Good.” Dillon smiled. “I wouldn’t like anything to spoil things. Now let’s go and see him.”

  Rashid opened the door to them. A maid took their coats. Aroun was waiting in the magnificent drawing room. “Valenton, Mr. Dillon. A considerable disappointment.”

  Dillon said, “Nothing’s ever perfect in this life, you should know that. I promised you an alternative target and I intend to go for it.”

  “The British Prime Minister?” Rashid asked.

  “That’s right.” Dillon nodded. “I’m leaving for London later today. I thought we’d have a chat before I go.”

  Rashid glanced at Aroun, who said, “Of course, Mr. Dillon. Now, how can we help you?”

  “First, I’m going to need operating money again. Thirty thousand dollars. I want you to arrange that from someone in London. Cash, naturally. Colonel Makeev can finalize details.”

  “No problem,” Aroun said.

  “Secondly, there’s the question of how I get the hell out of England after the successful conclusion of the venture.”

  “You sound full of confidence, Mr. Dillon,” Rashid told him.

  “Well, you have to travel hopefully, son,” Dillon said. “The thing with any major hit, as I’ve discovered during the years, is not so much achieving it as moving on with a whole skin afterwards. I mean, if I get the British Prime Minister for you, the major problem for me is getting out of England, and that’s where you come in, Mr. Aroun.”

  The maid entered with coffee on a tray. Aroun waited while she laid the cups out on a table and poured. As she withdrew he said, “Please explain.”

  “One of my minor talents is flying. I share that with you, I understand. According to an old Paris Match article I was reading, you bought an estate in Normandy called Château Saint Denis about twenty miles south of Cherbourg on the coast?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “The article mentioned how much you loved the place, how remote and unspoiled it was. A time capsule from the eighteenth century.”

  “Exactly what are we getting at here, Mr. Dillon?” Rashid demanded.

  “It also said it had its own landing strip and that it wasn’t unknown for Mr. Aroun to fly down there from Paris when he feels like it, piloting his own plane.”

  “Quite true,” Aroun said.

  “Good. This is how it will go, then. When I’m close to, how shall we put it, the final end of things, I’ll let you know. You’ll fly down to this Saint Denis place. I’ll fly out from England and join you there after the job is done. You can arrange my onwards transportation.”

  “But how?” Rashid demanded. “Where will you find a plane?”

  “Plenty of flying clubs, old son, and planes to hire. I’ll simply fly off the map. Disappear, put it any way you like. As a pilot yourself you must know that one of the biggest headaches the authorities have is the vast amount of uncontrolled airspace. Once I land at Saint Denis, you can torch the bloody thing up.” He looked from Rashid to Aroun. “Are we agreed?”

  It was Aroun who said, “Absolutely, and if there is anything else we can do.”

  “Makeev will let you know. I’ll be going now.” Dillon turned to the door.

  Outside, he stood on the pavement beside Makeev’s car, the snow falling lightly. “That’s it, then. We shan’t be seeing each other, not for a while anyway.”

  Makeev passed him an envelope. “Tania’s home address and telephone number.” He glanced at his watch. “I couldn’t get her earlier this morning. I left a message to say I wanted to speak to her at noon.”

  “Fine,” Dillon said. “I’ll speak to you from Saint-Malo before I get the Hydrofoil for Jersey, just to make sure everything is all right.”

  “I’ll drop you off,” Makeev told him.

  “No, thanks. I feel like the exercise.” Dillon held out his hand. “To our next merry meeting.”

  “Good luck, Sean.”

  Dillon smiled. “Oh, you always need that as well,” and he turned and walked away.

  Makeev spoke to Tania on the scrambler at noon. “I have a friend calling to see you,” he said. “Possibly late this evening. The one we’ve spoken of.”

  “I’ll take care of him, Colonel.”

  “You’ve never handled a more important business transaction,” he said, “believe me. He’ll need alternative accommodation, by the way. Make it convenient to your own place.”

  “Of course.”

  “And I want you to put a trace out on this man.”

  He gave her Danny Fahy’s details. When he was finished, she said, “There should be no problem. Anything else?”

  “Yes, he likes Walthers. Take care, my dear, I’ll be in touch.”

  When Mary Tanner went into the suite at the Ritz, Ferguson was having afternoon tea by the window.

  “Ah, there you are,” he said. “Wondered what was keeping you. We’ve got to get moving.”

  “To where?” she demanded.

  “Back to London.”

  She took a deep breath. “Not me, Brigadier, I’m staying.”

  “Staying?” he said.

  “For the funeral at Château Vercors at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning. After all, he’s going to do what you want him to. Don’t we owe him some support?”

  Ferguson put up a hand defensively. “All right, you’ve made your point. However, I need to go back to London now. You can stay if you want and follow tomorrow afternoon. I’ll arrange for the Lear jet to pick you up, both of you. Will that suffice?”

  “I don’t see why not.” She smiled brightly and reached for the teapot. “Another cup, Brigadier?”

  Sean Dillon caught the express to Rennes and changed trains for Saint-Malo at three o’clock. There wasn’t much tourist traffic, the wrong time of the year for that, and the atrocious weather all over Europe had killed whatever there was. There couldn’t have been more than twenty passengers on the Hydrofoil to Jersey. He disembarked in Saint Helier just before six o’clock on the Albert Quay and caught a cab to the airport.

  He knew he was in trouble before he arrived, for the closer they got, the thicker the fog was. It was an old story in Jersey, but not the end of the world. He confirmed that both evening flights to London were canceled, went out of the airport building, caught another taxi and told the driver to take him to a convenient hotel.

  It was thirty minutes later that he phoned Makeev in Paris. “Sorry I didn’t have a chance to phone from Saint-Malo. The train was late. I might have missed the Hydrofoil. Did you contact Novikova?”

  “Oh, yes,” Makeev told him. “Everything is in order. Looking forward to meeting you. Where are you?”

  “A place called Hotel L’Horizon in Jersey. There was fog at the airport. I’m hoping to get out in the morning.”

  “I’m sure you will. Stay in touch.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  Dillon put down the phone, then he put on his jacket and went downstairs to the bar. He’d heard somewhere that the hotel’s grill was a quite exceptional restaurant. After a while he was approached by a handsome, energetic Italian who introduced himself as the headwaiter, Augusto. Dillon took a menu from him gratefully, ordered a bottle of Krug and relaxed.

  It was at roughly the same time that the doorbell sounded at Brosnan’s apartment on the Quai de Montebello. When he opened the door, a large glass of Scotch in one hand, Mary Tanner stood there.

  “Hello,” he said. “This is unexpected.”
>
  She took the glass of Scotch and emptied it into the potted plant that stood by the door. “That won’t do you any good at all.”

  “If you say so. What do you want?”

  “I thought you’d be alone. I didn’t think that was a good idea. Ferguson spoke to you before he left?”

  “Yes, he said you were staying over. Suggested we followed him tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Yes, well, that doesn’t take care of tonight. I expect you haven’t eaten a thing all day, so I suggest we go out for a meal, and don’t start saying no.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it, Captain.” He saluted.

  “Don’t fool around. There must be somewhere close by that you like.”

  “There is indeed. Let me get a coat and I’ll be right with you.”

  It was a typical little side-street bistro, simple and unpretentious, booths to give privacy and cooking smells from the kitchen that were out of this world. Brosnan ordered champagne.

  “Krug?” she said when the bottle came.

  “They know me here.”

  “Always champagne with you?”

  “I was shot in the stomach years ago. It gave me problems. The doctors said no spirits under any circumstances, no red wine. Champagne was okay. Did you notice the name of this place?”

  “La Belle Aurore.”

  “Same as the café in Casablanca. Humphrey Bogart? In-grid Bergman?” He raised his glass. “Here’s looking at you, kid.”

  They sat there in companionable silence for a while and then she said, “Can we talk business?”

  “Why not? What do you have in mind?”

  “What happens next? I mean, Dillon just fades into the woodwork, you said that yourself. How on earth do you hope to find him?”

  “One weakness,” Brosnan said. “He won’t go near any IRA contacts for fear of betrayal. That leaves him with only one choice. The usual one he makes. The underworld. Anything he needs—weaponry, explosives, even physical help—he’ll go to the obvious place and you know where that is?”