'This could cause a devil of a fuss. I'd better come and see you.'
'I'll be here.'
Dillon poured hot water into a basin then he went into the bathroom. First he took off his shirt, then he got a briefcase from the cupboard under the sink. It was exactly as Brosnan had forecast. Inside he had a range of passports, all of himself suitably disguised. There was also a first-class make-up kit.
Over the years he had travelled backwards and forwards to England many times, frequently through Jersey in the Channel Islands. Jersey was British soil. Once there, a British citizen didn't need a passport for the flight to the English mainland. So, a French tourist holidaying in Jersey. He selected a passport in the name of Henri Jacaud. a car salesman from Rennes.
To go with it, he found a Jersey driving licence in the name of Peter Hilton with an address in the Island's main town of St Helier. Jersey driving licences, unlike the usual British mainland variety, carry a photo. It was always useful to have positive identification on you, he'd learned that years ago. Nothing better than for people to be able to check the face with a photo and the photos on the driving licence and on the French passport were identical. That was the whole point.
He dissolved some black hair dye into the warm water and started to brush it into his fair hair. Amazing what a difference it made, just changing the hair colour. He blow-dried it and brilliantined it back in place, then he selected from a range in his case, a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles, slightly tinted. He closed his eyes, thinking about the role and when he opened them again, Henri Jacaud stared out of the mirror. It was quite extraordinary He closed the case, put it back in the cupboard, pulled on his shirt and went into the stateroom carrying the passport and the driving licence. At that precise moment Makeev came down the
companionway. 'Good God!' he said. 'For a moment I thought it was someone else.'
'But it is,' Dillon said. 'Henri Jacaud, car salesman from Rennes on his way to Jersey for a winter break. Hydrofoil from St Male' He held up the driving licence. 'Who is also Jersey resident Peter Hilton, accountant in St Helier.'
'You don't need a passport to get to London?'
'Not if you're a Jersey resident, it's British territory. The driving licence just puts a face to me. Always makes people feel happier. Makes them feel they know who you are, even the police.'
'What happened tonight, Sean? What really happened?'
'I decided the time had come to take care of Brosnan. Come on, Josef, he knows me too damned well. Knows me in a way no one else does and that could be dangerous.'
'I can see that. A clever one, the Professor.'
'There's more to it than that, Josef. He understands how I make my moves, how I think. He's the same kind of animal as I am. We inhabited the same world and people don't change. No matter how much he thinks he has he's still the same underneath, the same man who was the most feared enforcer the IRA had in the old days.'
'So you decided to eliminate him?'
'It was an impulse. I was passing his place, saw the woman leaving. He called to her. The way it sounded I thought she was gone for the night so I took a chance and went up the scaffolding.'
'What happened?'
'Oh, I had the drop on him.'
'But didn't kill him?'
Dillon laughed, went out to the kitchen and returned with a bottle of Krug and two glasses. As he uncorked it he said, 'Come on, Josef, face to face after all those years. There were things to be said.'
'You didn't tell him who you were working for?'
'Of course not,' Dillon lied cheerfully and poured the champagne. 'What do you take me for?'
He toasted Makeev who said, 'I mean, if he knew you had an alternative target, that you intended to go for Major...' He shrugged. 'That would mean that Ferguson would know. It would render your task in London impossible. Aroun, I'm sure, would want to abort the whole business.'
"Well he doesn't know.' Dillon drank some more champagne. 'So Aroun can rest easy. After all, I want that second million. I checked with Zurich, by the way. The first million has been deposited.'
Makeev shifted uncomfortably. 'Of course. So, when do you intend to leave?'
'Tomorrow or the next day. I'll see. Meanwhile something you can organise for me. This Tania Novikova in London. I'll need her help.'
'No problem.'
'First, my father had a second cousin, a Belfast man living in London called Danny Fahy.'
'IRA?'
'Yes, but not active. A deep-cover man. Brilliant with his hands. Worked in light engineering. Could turn his hand to anything. I used him in nineteen eighty-one when I was doing a few jobs for the organisation in London. In those days he lived at number ten Tithe Street in Kilburn. I want Novikova to trace him.'
'Anything else?'
'Yes, I'll need somewhere to stay. She can organise that for me too. She doesn't live in the Embassy, I suppose?'
'No, she has a flat off the Bayswater Road.'
'I wouldn't want to stay there, not on a regular basis. She could be under surveillance. Special Branch at Scotland Yard have a habit of doing that with employees of the Soviet Embassy, isn't that so?'
'Oh, it's not like the old days,' Makeev smiled. 'Thanks to that fool Gorbachev, we're all supposed to be friends these days.'
'I'd still prefer to stay somewhere else. I'll contact her at her flat, no more than that.'
'There is one problem,' Makeev said. 'As regards hardware, explosives, weapons, anything like that you might need, I'm afraid she won't be able to help you there. A handgun perhaps, but no more. As I mentioned when I first told you about her, her boss, Colonel Yuri Gatov, the commander of KGB station in London, is a Gorbachev man, and very well disposed to our British friends.'
'That's all right,' Dillon said, 'I have my own contacts for that kind of thing, but I will need more working capital. If I am checked going through customs on the Jersey to London flight, I couldn't afford to be caught with large sums of money in my briefcase.'
'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 somee 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 pileof 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 lifestyle 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, 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, Chateau 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's 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 dontn 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. Man 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 Viet Nam, in the swamp, when the Viet Cong 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. Henri 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 bad luck and that made him feel uneasy. He stubbed his cigarette arid 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 wind staring out. He turned to meet them, hands in poo 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 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 eleven when Makeev drew up before Michael Aroun's apartment in the Avenue Victor Hugo. His chauffeur drew in beside the kerb 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 finalise 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 Chateau St 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 thej 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 St Denis place. I'll fly out from England and join you there after the job is done. You can arrange my onwards transportation.'
Jack Higgins - Dillon 01 - Eye of the Storm (Midnight Man) Page 10
