Eye of the Storm

by Jack Higgins

  “But how?”

  “You can read about it in the papers. The important thing now is for you to tell Michael Aroun to fly down to his Saint-Denis place in the morning. I hope to be flying in sometime in the afternoon.”

  “As quickly as that?”

  “Well I won’t be hanging about, will I? What about you, Josef?”

  “I should think I might well make the flight from Paris to Saint-Denis with Aroun and Rashid myself.”

  “Good. Till our next merry meeting, then, and remind Aroun about that second million.”

  Dillon put the phone down, lit a cigarette, then picked up the phone again and called Grimethorpe airfield. After a while he got an answer.

  “Bill Grant here.” He sounded slightly drunk.

  “Peter Hilton, Mr. Grant.”

  “Oh, yes,” Grant said, “and what can I do for you?”

  “That trip I wanted to make to Land’s End, tomorrow, I think.”

  “What time?”

  “If you could be ready from noon onwards. Is that all right?”

  “As long as the snow holds off. Much more and we could be in trouble.”

  Grant put the phone down slowly, reached for the bottle of Scotch whisky at his hand and poured a generous measure, then opened the table drawer. There was an old Webley service revolver in there and a box of .38 cartridges. He loaded the weapon, then put it back in the drawer.

  “Right, Mr. Hilton, we’ll just have to see what you’re about, won’t we?” and he swallowed the whisky down.

  “Do I know Jack Harvey?” Harry Flood started to laugh, sitting there behind his desk, and looked up at Mordecai Fletcher. “Do I know him, Mordecai?”

  The big man smiled at Brosnan and Mary who were standing there, still with their coats on. “Yes, I think you could say we know Mr. Harvey rather well.”

  “Sit down, for God’s sake, and tell me what happened in Belfast,” Flood said.

  Which they did, Mary giving him a rapid account of the entire affair. When she was finished, she said, “Do you think it’s possible that Harvey was Dillon’s weapons supplier in eighty-one?”

  “Nothing would surprise me about Jack Harvey. He and his niece, Myra, run a tight little empire that includes every kind of criminal activity. Women, drugs, protection, big-scale armed robbery, you name it, but arms for the IRA?” He looked up at Mordecai. “What do you think?”

  “He’d dig up his granny’s corpse and sell it if he thought there was a profit in it,” the big man said.

  “Very apt.” Flood turned to Mary. “There’s your answer.”

  “Fine,” Brosnan said, “and if Dillon used Harvey in eighty-one, the chances are he’s using him again.”

  Flood said, “The police would never get anywhere with Harvey on the basis of your story, you must know that. He’d walk.”

  “I should imagine the Professor was thinking of a more subtle approach, like beating it out of the bastard,” Mordecai said and slammed a fist into his palm.

  Mary turned to Brosnan who shrugged. “What else would you suggest? Nobody’s going to get anywhere with a man like Harvey by being nice.”

  “I have an idea,” Harry Flood said. “Harvey’s been putting a lot of pressure on me lately to form a partnership. What if I tell him I’d like to have a meeting to discuss things?”

  “Fine,” Brosnan said, “but as soon as possible. We can’t hang around on this, Harry.”

  Myra was sitting at her uncle’s desk going through club accounts when Flood called her.

  “Harry,” she said, “what a nice surprise.”

  “I was hoping for a word with Jack.”

  “Not possible, Harry, he’s in Manchester at some sporting club function at the Midland.”

  “When is he due back?”

  “First thing. He’s got some business later in the morning, so he’s getting up early and catching the seven-thirty breakfast shuttle from Manchester.”

  “So he should be with you about nine?”

  “More like nine-thirty with the morning traffic into London. Look, what is this, Harry?”

  “I’ve been thinking, Myra, maybe I’ve been stupid. About a partnership, I mean. Jack might have a point. There’s a lot we could do if we got together.”

  “Well, I’m sure he’ll be pleased to hear that,” Myra said.

  “I’ll see you then, nine-thirty sharp in the morning with my accountant,” Flood told her and rang off.

  Myra sat there looking at the phone for a while, then she picked it up, rang the Midland in Manchester and asked for her uncle. Jack Harvey, champagne and more than one brandy inside him, was in excellent humor when he picked up the phone at the hotel’s front desk.

  “Myra, my love, what’s up? A fire or something or a sudden rush of bodies?”

  “Even more interesting. Harry Flood’s been on the phone.”

  She told him what had happened and Harvey sobered up instantly. “So he wants to meet at nine-thirty?”

  “That’s right. What do you think?”

  “I think it’s a load of cobblers. Why should he suddenly change his mind just like that? No, I don’t like it.”

  “Shall I phone him back and cancel?”

  “No, not at all, I’ll meet him. We’ll just take precautions, that’s all.”

  “Listen,” she said, “Hilton, or whatever his bloody name is, called and told me he wanted his stuff. He came round, paid cash and went on his way. Is that all right?”

  “Good girl. Now as regards Flood, all I’m saying is be ready to give him the proper reception, just in case. Know what I mean?”

  “I think so, Jack,” she said. “I think so.”

  Harry Flood said, “We’ll meet outside the Harvey Funeral Emporium just before half-nine in the morning, then. I’ll bring Mordecai and you can play my accountant,” he told Brosnan.

  “What about me?” Mary demanded.

  “We’ll see.”

  Brosnan got up and went and stood at the French windows looking at the river. “I wish I knew what the bastard was doing right now,” he said.

  “Tomorrow, Martin,” Flood told him. “All things come to him who waits.”

  It was around midnight when Billy parked the BMW in the yard at the rear of the Whitechapel premises and went in. He climbed the stairs wearily to Myra’s apartment. She heard him coming, got her door open and stood there, light flowing through her short nightdress.

  “Hello, sunshine, you made it,” she said to Billy.

  “I’m bloody frozen,” Billy told her.

  She got him inside, sat him down and started to unzip his leathers. “Where did he go?”

  He reached for a bottle of brandy, poured a large one and got it down. “Only an hour out of London, Myra, but the back of bloody beyond.”

  He told her everything, Dorking, the Horsham Road, Grimethorpe, Doxley and Cadge End Farm.

  “Brilliant, sunshine. What you need is a nice hot bath.”

  She went into the bathroom and turned on the taps. When she went back into the living room Billy was asleep on the couch, legs sprawled. “Oh, dear,” she said, got a blanket to cover him, then went to bed.

  When Makeev knocked on the door at Avenue Victor Hugo it was opened by Rashid. “You’ve news for us?” the young Iraqi asked.

  Makeev nodded. “Where’s Michael?”

  “He’s waiting for you.”

  Rashid took him through to the drawing room, where Aroun was standing beside the fire. He was wearing a black dinner jacket, for he had been to the opera.

  “What is it?” he demanded. “Has something happened?”

  “I’ve had Dillon on the phone from England. He wants you to fly down to Saint-Denis in the morning. He intends to fly in himself sometime in the afternoon.”

  Aroun was pale with excitement. “What is it? What does he intend?”

  He poured the Russian a cognac and Rashid passed it to him. “He told me he intends some sort of attack on the British War Cabinet at Downing Stre
et.”

  There was total silence, only astonishment on Aroun’s face. It was Rashid who spoke. “The War Cabinet? All of them? That’s impossible. How could he even attempt such a thing?”

  “I’ve no idea,” Makeev said. “I’m simply telling you what he told me, that the War Cabinet meets at ten in the morning and that is when he makes his move.”

  “God is great,” Michael Aroun said. “If he can do this thing, now, in the middle of the war, before the land offensive starts, the effect on the whole Arab world would be incredible.”

  “I should imagine so.”

  Aroun took a step forward and fastened his right hand on Makeev’s lapel. “Can he, Josef, can he do it?”

  “He seems certain.” Makeev disengaged himself. “I only tell you what he has told me.”

  Aroun turned and stood looking down at the fire, then said to Rashid, “We’ll leave at nine from Charles de Gaulle in the Citation. We’ll be there in not much more than an hour.”

  “At your orders,” Rashid said.

  “You can phone old Alphonse at the Château now. I want him out of there at breakfast time. He can take a few days off. I don’t want him around.”

  Rashid nodded and went out to the study. Makeev said, “Alphonse?”

  “The caretaker. At this time of the year he’s on his own unless I tell him to bring the servants in from the local village. They’re all on retainers.”

  Makeev said, “I’d like to come with you if that’s all right.”

  “Of course, Josef.” Aroun poured two more glasses of cognac. “God forgive me, I know I drink when I should not, but on this occasion.” He raised his glass. “To Dillon, and may all go as he intends.”

  It was one o’clock in the morning and Fahy was working on one of the oxygen cylinders on the bench when Dillon entered the barn.

  “How’s it going?”

  “Fine,” Fahy said. “Nearly finished. This one and one to go. How’s the weather?”

  Dillon walked to the open door. “It’s stopped snowing, but more’s expected. I checked on the teletext on your television.”

  Fahy carried the cylinder to the Ford Transit, got inside and fitted it into one of the tubes with great care while Dillon watched. Angel came in with a jug and two mugs in one hand. “Coffee?” she asked.

  “Lovely.” Her uncle held a mug while she filled it and then did the same for Dillon.

  Dillon said, “I’ve been thinking. The garage where I wanted you to wait with the van, Angel, I’m not sure that’s such a good idea now.”

  Fahy paused, a spanner in his hand and looked up. “Why not?”

  “It was where the Russian woman, my contact, kept her car. The police will probably know that. If they’re keeping an eye on her flat they may well be checking the garage, too.”

  “So what do you suggest?”

  “Remember where I was staying, the hotel on the Bayswater Road? There’s a supermarket next door with a big parking area at the rear. We’ll use that. It won’t make much of a difference,” he said to Angel. “I’ll show you when we get there.”

  “Anything you say, Mr. Dillon.” She stayed watching as Fahy finished the fitting of his improvised mortar bomb and moved back to the bench. “I was thinking, Mr. Dillon, this place in France, this Saint-Denis?”

  “What about it?”

  “You’ll be flying straight off there afterwards?”

  “That’s right.”

  She said carefully, “Where does that leave us?”

  Fahy paused to wipe his hands. “She’s got a point, Sean.”

  “You’ll be fine, the both of you,” Dillon said. “This is a clean one, Danny, the cleanest I ever pulled. Not a link with you or this place. If it works tomorrow, and it will, we’ll be back here by eleven-thirty at the outside and that will be the end of it.”

  “If you say so,” Fahy said.

  “But I do, Danny, and if it’s the money you’re worried about, don’t. You’ll get your share. The man I’m working for can arrange financial payments anywhere. You can have it here if you want or Europe if that’s better.”

  “Sure and the money was never the big thing, Sean,” Fahy said. “You know that. It’s just that if there’s a chance of something going wrong, any kind of chance.” He shrugged. “It’s Angel I’m thinking about.”

  “No need. If there was any risk I’d be the first to say come with me, but there won’t be.” Dillon put his arm about the girl. “You’re excited, aren’t you?”

  “Me stomach’s turning over something dreadful, Mr. Dillon.”

  “Go to bed.” He pushed her toward the door. “We’ll be leaving at eight.”

  “I won’t sleep a wink.”

  “Try. Now go on, that’s an order.”

  She went out reluctantly. Dillon lit another cigarette and turned back to Fahy. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Not a thing, another half hour should do it. Go and put your head down yourself, Sean. As for me, I’m as bad as Angel. I don’t think I could. I’ve found some old biker’s leathers for you, by the way,” Fahy added. “They’re over there by the BSA.”

  There was a jacket and leather trousers and boots. They’d all seen considerable service and Dillon smiled. “Takes me back to my youth. I’ll go and try them on.”

  Fahy paused and ran a hand over his eyes as if tired. “Look, Sean, does it have to be tomorrow?”

  “Is there a problem?”

  “I told you I wanted to weld some fins on to the oxygen cylinders to give more stability in flight. I haven’t time to do that now.” He threw his spanner down on the bench. “It’s all too rushed, Sean.”

  “Blame Martin Brosnan and his friends, not me, Danny,” Dillon told him. “They’re breathing down my neck. Nearly had me in Belfast. God knows when they might turn up again. No, Danny, it’s now or never.”

  He turned and went out and Fahy picked up his spanner reluctantly and went back to work.

  The leathers weren’t bad at all and Dillon stood in front of the wardrobe mirror as he zipped up the jacket. “Would you look at that?” he said softly. “Eighteen years old again when the world was young and anything seemed possible.”

  He unzipped the jacket again, took it off, then opened his briefcase and unfolded the bulletproof waistcoat Tania had given him at their first meeting. He pulled it snugly into place, fastened the Velcro tabs, then put his jacket on again.

  He sat on the edge of the bed, took the Walther out of the briefcase, examined it and screwed the Carswell silencer in place. Next he checked the Beretta and put it on the bedside locker close to hand. He put the briefcase in the wardrobe, then switched off the light and lay on the bed, looking up at the ceiling through the darkness.

  He never felt emotional, not about anything, and it was exactly the same now, on the eve of the greatest coup of his life. “You’re making history with this one, Sean,” he said softly. “History.”

  He closed his eyes and after a while, slept.

  It snowed again during the night and just after seven, Fahy walked along the track to check the road. He walked back and found Dillon standing at the farmhouse door eating a bacon sandwich, a mug of tea in his hand.

  “I don’t know how you can,” Fahy told him. “I couldn’t eat a thing. I’d bring it straight up.”

  “Are you scared, Danny?”

  “To death.”

  “That’s good. It sharpens you up, gives you that edge that can make all the difference.”

  They crossed to the barn and stood beside the Ford Transit. “Well, she’s as ready as she ever will be,” Fahy said.

  Dillon put a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve done wonders, Danny, wonders.”

  Angel appeared behind them. She was dressed, ready to go, in her old trousers and boots, anorak and sweater and the Tam o’Shanter. “Are we moving?”

  “Soon,” Dillon said. “We’ll get the BSA into the Morris now.”

  They opened the rear doors of the Morris, put the duckboard o
n the incline and ran the bike up inside. Dillon lifted it up on its stand and Fahy shoved the duckboard in. He passed a crash helmet through. “That’s for you. I’ll have one for myself in the Ford.” He hesitated. “Are you carrying, Sean?”

  Dillon took the Beretta from inside his black leather jacket. “What about you?”

  “Jesus, Sean, I always hated guns, you know that.”

  Dillon slipped the Beretta back in place and zipped up his jacket. He closed the van doors and turned. “Everybody happy?”

  “Are we ready for off then?” Angel asked.

  Dillon checked his watch. “Not yet. I said we’d leave at eight. We don’t want to be too early. Time for another cup of tea.”

  They went across to the farmhouse and Angel put the kettle on in the kitchen. Dillon lit a cigarette and leaned against the sink watching. “Don’t you have any nerves at all?” she asked him. “I can feel my heart thumping.”

  Fahy called, “Come and see this, Sean.”

  Dillon went in the living room. The television was on in the corner and the morning show was dealing with the snow which had fallen over London overnight. Trees in the city squares, statues, monuments, were all covered, and many of the pavements.

  “Not good,” Fahy said.

  “Stop worrying, the roads themselves are clear,” Dillon said as Angel came in with a tray. “A nice cup of tea, Danny, with plenty of sugar for energy and we’ll be on our way.”

  At the Lowndes Square flat Brosnan was boiling eggs in the kitchen and watching the toast when the phone went. He heard Mary answer it. After a while she looked in. “Harry’s on the phone; he’d like a word.”

  Brosnan took the phone. “How goes it?”

  “Okay, old buddy, just checking you were leaving soon.”

  “How are we going to handle things?”

  “We’ll just have to play it by ear, but I also think we’ll have to play rough.”

  “I agree,” Brosnan said.

  “I’m right in assuming that would give Mary a problem?”