by Jack Higgins
“Have you eaten?” she asked.
“No.”
“I have a suggestion. Just along from the hotel is an excellent Italian restaurent, Luigi’s. One of those little family-owned places. You get settled in at the hotel and I’ll walk along to the Embassy. I’ll check on what we have on the Downing Street defences and see if anything’s turned up on Fahy.”
“And the flying license?”
“I’ll put that in hand.”
“Twenty-four hours.”
“All right.”
She got a coat and scarf, went downstairs with him and they left together. The pavements were frosty and she carried his briefcase for him and held on to his arm until they reached the hotel.
“I’ll see you in an hour,” she said and moved on.
It was the sort of place which had been a thriving pub and hotel in late Victorian times. The present owners had done their best with it and that wasn’t very much. The dining room to the left of the foyer was totally uninviting, no more than half a dozen people eating there. The desk clerk was an old man with a face like a skull who wore a faded brown uniform. He moved with infinite slowness, booking Dillon in and gave him his key. Guests were obviously expected to carry their own cases.
The room was exactly what he’d expected. Twin beds, cheap coverings, a shower room, a television with a slot for coins and a kettle, a little basket beside it containing sachets of coffee, teabags and powdered milk. Still, it wouldn’t be for long and he opened his suitcase and unpacked.
Among Jack Harvey’s interests was a funeral business in Whitechapel. It was a sizeable establishment and did well, for, as he liked to joke, the dead were always with us. It was an imposing, three-storeyed Victorian building which he’d had renovated. Myra had the top floor as a penthouse and took an interest in the running of the place. Harvey had an office on the first floor.
Harvey told his driver to wait, went up the steps and rang the bell. The night porter answered.
“My niece in?” Harvey demanded.
“I believe so, Mr. Harvey.”
Harvey moved through the main shop with coffins on display and along the passage with the little Chapels of Rest on each side where relatives could view the bodies. He went up two flights of stairs and rang the bell on Myra’s door.
She was ready for him, alerted by a discreet call from the porter, let him wait for a moment, then opened the door. “Uncle Jack.”
He brushed past her. She was wearing a gold sequined minidress, black stockings and shoes. “You going out or something?” he demanded.
“A disco, actually.”
“Well, never mind that now. You saw the accountants? Is there any way I can get at Flood legally? Any problems with leases? Anything?”
“Not a chance,” Myra said. “We’ve gone through the lot with a fine-tooth comb. There’s nothing.”
“Right, then I’ll just have to get him the hard way.”
“That didn’t exactly work last night, did it?”
“I used rubbish, that’s why, a bunch of young jerks who didn’t deserve the time of day.”
“So what do you intend?”
“I’ll think of something.” As he turned to the door, he heard a movement in the bedroom. “Here, who’s in there.” He flung the door open and revealed Billy Watson standing there, looking hunted. “Jesus!” Harvey said to Myra. “Disgusting. All you can ever think of is a bit of the other.”
“At least we do it the right way,” she told him.
“Screw you!” he said.
“No, he’ll do that.”
Harvey stormed downstairs. Billy said, “You don’t give a monkey’s for anyone, do you?”
“Billy, love, this is the house of the dead,” she said and picked up her fur coat and handbag. “They’re lying in their coffins downstairs and we’re alive. Simple as that, so make the most of it. Now, let’s get going.”
Dillon was sitting in a small booth in the corner at Luigi’s drinking the only champagne available, a very reasonable Bollinger non-vintage, when Tania came in. Old Luigi greeted her personally and as a favored customer and she sat down.
“Champagne?” Dillon asked.
“Why not.” She looked up at Luigi. “We’ll order later.”
“One thing that hasn’t been mentioned is my operating money. Thirty thousand dollars. Aroun was to arrange that,” Dillon said.
“It’s taken care of. The man in question will be in touch with me tomorrow. Some accountant of Aroun’s in London.”
“Okay, so what have you got for me?” he asked.
“Nothing on Fahy yet. I’ve set the wheels in motion as regards the flying license.”
“And Number Ten?”
“I’ve had a look at the file. The public always had a right of way along Downing Street. The IRA coming so close to blowing up the whole cabinet at the Tory Party Conference in Brighton the other year made for a change in thinking about security. The bombing campaign in London and attacks on individuals accelerated things.”
“So?”
“Well, the public used to be able to stand at the opposite side of the road from Number Ten watching the great and the good arrive and depart, but no longer. In December eighty-nine, Mrs. Thatcher ordered new security measures. In effect the place is now a fortress. The steel railings are ten feet high. The gates, by the way, are neo-Victorian, a nice touch that, from the Iron Lady.”
“Yes, I saw them today.”
Luigi hovered anxiously and they broke off and ordered minestrone, veal chops, sauté potatoes and a green salad.
Tania carried on: “There were accusations in some quarters that she’d become the victim of paranoid delusions. Nonsense, of course. That lady has never been deluded about anything in her life. Anyway, on the other side of the gates there’s a steel screen designed to come up fast if an unauthorized vehicle tries to get through.”
“And the building itself?”
“The windows have specially strengthened glass and that includes the Georgian windows. Oh, and the net curtains are definitely a miracle of modern science. They’re blast-proof.”
“You certainly have the facts.”
“Incredibly, everything I’ve told you has been reported in either a British newspaper or magazine. The British press puts its own right to publish above every other consideration. They just refuse to face up to security implications. On file at the clippings library of any major British newspaper you’ll find details of the interior of Number Ten or the Prime Minister’s country home, Chequers, or even Buckingham Palace.”
“What about getting in as ancillary staff?”
“That used to be a real loophole. Most catering for functions is done by outside firms, and some of the cleaning, but they’re very tough about security clearance for these people. There are always slipups, of course. There was a plumber working on the Chancellor of the Exchequer’s home at Number Eleven who opened a door and found himself wandering about Number Ten trying to get out.”
“It sounds like a French farce.”
“Only recently staff from one of the outside firms employed to offer cleaning services of one kind or another, staff who had security clearance, were found to be operating under false identities. Some of them had clearance for the Home Office and other Ministries.”
“Yes, but all you’re saying is mistakes occur.”
“That’s right.” She hesitated. “Have you anything particular in mind?”
“You mean potshots with a sniper’s rifle from a rooftop two hundred yards away as he comes out of the door? I don’t think so. No, I really have no firm idea at the moment, but I’ll come up with something. I always do.” The waiter brought their soup. Dillon said, “Now that smells good enough to eat. Let’s do just that.”
Afterwards, he walked her round to her door. It was snowing just a little and very cold. He said, “Must remind you of home, this weather?”
“Home?” She looked blank for a moment then laughed. “Moscow, you mean?
” She shrugged. “It’s been a long time. Would you like to come up?”
“No, thanks. It’s late and I could do with the sleep. I’ll stay at the hotel tomorrow morning. Let’s say till noon. From what I saw I don’t think I could stand the thought of lunch there. I’ll be back after two, so you’ll know where I’ll be.”
“Fine,” she said.
“I’ll say good night, then.”
She closed the door, Dillon turned and walked away. It was only after he rounded the corner into the Bayswater Road that Gordon Brown moved out of the shadows of a doorway opposite and looked up at Tania’s window. The light came on. He stayed there for a while longer, then turned and walked away.
In Paris the following morning the temperature went up three or four degrees and it started to thaw. Mary and Hernu in the colonel’s black Citroën picked Brosnan up just before noon. He was waiting for them in the entrance of the Quai de Montebello apartment block. He wore his trenchcoat, and a tweed cap and carried a suitcase. The driver put the case in the trunk and Brosnan got in the rear with the other two.
“Any news?” he asked.
“Not a thing,” the colonel told him.
“Like I said, he’s probably there already. What about Ferguson?”
Mary glanced at her watch. “He’s due to see the Prime Minister now, to alert him as to the seriousness of this whole business.”
“About all he can do,” Brosnan said. “That and spread the word to the other branches of the security services.”
“And how would you handle it, my friend?” Hernu asked.
“We know he worked in London for the IRA in nineteen eighty-one. As I told Mary, he must have used underworld contacts to supply his needs. He always does and it will be the same this time. That’s why I must see my old friend Harry Flood.”
“Ah, yes, the redoubtable Mr. Flood. Captain Turner was telling me about him, but what if he can’t help?”
“There’s another way. I have a friend in Ireland just outside Dublin at Kilrea, Liam Devlin. There’s nothing he doesn’t know about IRA history in the last few years and who did what. It’s a thought.” He lit a cigarette and leaned back. “But I’ll get the bastard, one way or another. I’ll get him.”
The driver took them to the end of the Charles de Gaulle terminal where the private planes parked. The Lear was waiting on the tarmac. There was no formality. Everything had been arranged. The driver took their cases across to where the second pilot waited.
Hernu said, “Captain, if I may presume.” He kissed Mary lightly on both cheeks. “And you, my friend.” He held out his hand. “Always remember that when you set out on a journey with revenge at the end of it, it is necessary to first dig two graves.”
“Philosophy now?” Brosnan said. “And at your time of life? Goodbye, Colonel.”
They strapped themselves into their seats, the second pilot pulled up the stairs, locked the door and went and joined his companion in the cockpit.
“Hernu is right, you know,” Mary said.
“I know he is,” Brosnan answered. “But there’s nothing I can do about that.”
“I understand, believe me, I do,” she said as the plane rolled forward.
When Ferguson was shown into the study at Number Ten, the Prime Minister was standing at the window drinking a cup of tea. He turned and smiled. “The cup that refreshes, Brigadier.”
“They always say it was tea that got us through the war, Prime Minister.”
“Well as long as it gets me through my present schedule. We’ve a meeting of the War Cabinet at ten every morning, as you know, and all the other pressing matters to do with the Gulf.”
“And the day-to-day running of the country,” Ferguson said.
“Yes, well we do our best. No one ever said politics was easy, Brigadier.” He put down the cup. “I’ve read your latest report. You think it likely the man Dillon is here somewhere in London?”
“From what he said to Brosnan, I think we must assume that, Prime Minister.”
“You’ve alerted all branches of the security services?”
“Of course, but we can’t put a face to him, you see. Oh, there’s the description. Small, fair haired and so on, but as Brosnan says, he’ll look entirely different by now.”
“It’s been suggested to me that perhaps some press coverage might be useful.”
Ferguson said, “Well, it’s a thought, but I doubt it would achieve anything. What could they say? In furtherance of an enquiry the police would like to contact a man named Sean Dillon who isn’t called that anymore? As regards a description, we don’t know what he looks like and if we did, he wouldn’t look like that anyway.”
“My goodness, you carried that off beautifully, Brigadier.” The Prime Minister roared with laughter.
“Of course there could be more lurid headlines. IRA jackal stalks the Prime Minister.”
“No, I’m not having any of that nonsense,” the Prime Minister said firmly. “By the way, as regards the suggestion that Saddam Hussein might be behind this affair, I must tell you your other colleagues in the Intelligence Services disagree. They are firmly of the opinion this is an IRA matter, and I must tell you that is how they are pursuing it.”
“Well, if Special Branch think they’ll find him by visiting Irish pubs in Kilburn, that’s their privilege.”
There was a knock at the door, an aide came in. “We’re due at the Savoy in fifteen minutes, Prime Minister.”
John Major smiled with great charm. “Another of those interminable luncheons, Brigadier. Prawn cocktail to start ...”
“And chicken salad to follow,” Ferguson said.
“Find him, Brigadier,” the Prime Minister told him. “Find him for me,” and the aide showed Ferguson out.
Tania, with good news for Dillon, knew there was no point in calling at the hotel before two, so she went to her flat. As she was looking for her key in her handbag Gordon Brown crossed the road.
“I was hoping I might catch you,” he said.
“For God’s sake, Gordon, you must be crazy.”
“And what happens when something important comes up and you need to know? Can’t wait for you to get in touch. It might be too late, so I’d better come in, hadn’t I?”
“You can’t. I’m due back at the Embassy in thirty minutes. I’ll have a drink with you, that’s all.”
She turned and walked down to the pub on the corner before he could argue. They sat in a corner of the snug pub which was empty, aware of the noise from the main bar. Brown had a beer and Tania a vodka and lime.
“What have you got for me?” she asked.
“Shouldn’t the question be the other way about?” She got up at once and he put a hand on her arm. “I’m sorry. Don’t go.”
“Then behave yourself.” She sat down again. “Now get on with it.”
“Ferguson had a meeting with the Prime Minister just before twelve. He was back in the office at twelve-thirty before I finished the first half of my shift. He dictated a report to Alice Johnson, she’s one of the confidential typists who works with me. The report was for the file.”
“Did you get a copy?”
“No, but I did the same as last time. Took it along to his office for her and read it on the way. Captain Tanner stayed in Paris with Brosnan for the funeral of a French woman.”
“Anne-Marie Audin?” she prompted him.
“They’re flying in today. Brosnan has promised full cooperation. Oh, all the other branches of the Intelligence Services have been notified about Dillon. No newspaper coverage on the P.M.’s instructions. The impression I got was he’s told Ferguson to get on with it.”
“Good,” she said. “Very good, but you must stay on the case, Gordon. I have to go.”
She started to get up and he caught her wrist. “I saw you last night, about eleven it was, coming back to your flat with a man.”
“You were watching my flat?”
“I often do on my way home.”
Her anger
was very real, but she restrained it. “Then if you were there you’ll know that the gentleman in question, a colleague from the Embassy, didn’t come in. He simply escorted me home. Now let me go, Gordon.”
She pulled free and walked out and Brown, thoroughly depressed, went to the bar and ordered another beer.
When she knocked on the door of Dillon’s room just after two, he opened it at once. She brushed past him and went inside.
“You look pleased with yourself,” he said.
“I should be.”
Dillon lit a cigarette. “Go on, tell me.”
“First, I’ve had words with my mole at Group Four.
Ferguson’s just been to see the Prime Minister. They believe you’re here and all branches of Intelligence have been notified. Brosnan and the Tanner woman are coming in from Paris. Brosnan’s offered full cooperation.”
“And Ferguson?”
“The Prime Minister said no press publicity. Just told him to go all out to get you.”
“It’s nice to be wanted.”
“Second.” She opened her handbag and took out a passport-style booklet. “One pilot’s license as issued by the Civil Aviation Authority to one Peter Hilton.”
“That’s bloody marvelous,” Dillon said and took it from her.
“Yes, the man who does this kind of thing pulled out all the stops. I told him all your requirements. He said he’d give you a commercial license. Apparently you’re also an instructor.”
Dillon checked his photo and rifled through the pages. “Excellent. Couldn’t be better.”
“And that’s not the end,” she said. “You wanted to know the whereabouts of one Daniel Maurice Fahy?”
“You’ve found him?”
“That’s right, but he doesn’t live in London. I’ve brought you a road map.” She unfolded it. “He has a farm here at a place called Cadge End in Sussex. It’s twenty-five to thirty miles from London. You take the road through Dorking toward Horsham, then head into the wilds.”
