Eye Of the Storm (1992)

by Jack - Sd 01 Higgins

  "You live in London, guv?"

  "No, just in town for a few days on business. I've been abroad for some time," Dillon said glibly. "New York. Haven't been in London for years."

  "A lot of changes. Not like it used to be."

  "So I believe. I was reading the other day that you can't take a walk up Downing Street anymore."

  "That's right, guv. Mrs. Thatcher had a new security system installed, gates at the end of the street."

  "Really?" Dillon said. "I'd like to see that."

  "We'll go that way if you like. I can take you down to Whitehall, then cut back to Covent Garden."

  "Suits me."

  Dillon sat back, lit a cigarette and watched. They moved down Whitehall from Trafalgar Square past Horse Guards with the two Household Cavalrymen on mounted duty, wearing greatcoats against the cold, sabers drawn.

  "Must be bleeding cold for the horses," the cabby said and then added, "Here we are, guv, Downing Street." He slowed a little. "Can't stop. If you do, the coppers come up and ask you what you're doing."

  Dillon looked across at the end of the street. "So those are the famous gates?"

  "Thatcher's folly, some twerps call it, but if you ask me, she was usually right. The bloody IRA have pulled off enough stunts in London during the past few years. I'd shoot the lot of them, I would. If I drop you in Long Acre, will that do, guv?"

  "Fine," Dillon told him and sat back, thinking about those rather magnificent gates at the end of Downing Street.

  The taxi pulled into the curb and Dillon gave him a ten-pound note. "Keep it," he said, turned and walked briskly away along Langley Street. The whole Covent Garden area was as busy as usual, people dressed for the extreme cold, more like Moscow than London. Dillon went with the throng and finally found what he wanted in an alley near Neal's Yard, a small theatrical shop, the window full of old costume masks and makeup. A bell tinkled when he went in. The man who appeared through a curtain at the rear was about seventy, with snow-white hair and a round, fleshy face.

  "And what can I do for you?" he asked.

  "Some makeup, I think. What have you got in boxes?"

  "Some very good kits here," the old boy said. He took one down and opened it on the counter. "They use these at the National Theatre. In the business, are you?"

  "Amateur, that's all, I'm afraid, church players." Dillon checked the contents of the box. "Excellent. I'll take an extra lipstick, bright red, some black hair dye and also some solvent."

  "You are going to town. Clayton's my name, by the way. I'll give you my card in case you ever need anything else." He got the required items and put them inside the make-up box and closed it. "Thirty quid for cash and don't forget, anything you need . . ."

  "I won't," Dillon said and went out whistling.

  In the village of Vercors it was snowing as the cortege drove down from the chateau. In spite of the weather, villagers lined the street, men with their caps off, as Anne-Marie Audin went to her final rest. There were only three cars behind the hearse, old Pierre Audin and his secretary in the first, a number of servants in the other. Brosnan and Mary Tanner, with Max Hernu following, walked up through the tombstones and paused as the old man was lifted from the car into his wheelchair. He was pushed inside, the rest followed.

  It was very old, a typical village church, whitewashed walls, the Stations of the Cross, and it was cold, very cold. In fact Brosnan had never felt so cold and sat there, shaking slightly, hardly aware of what was being said, rising and kneeling obediently with everyone else. It was only when the service ended and they stood as the pallbearers carried the coffin down the aisle that he realized that Mary Tanner was holding his hand.

  They walked through the graveyard to the family mausoleum. It was the size of a small chapel, built in gray granite and marble with a steep Gothic roof. The oaken doors stood open. The priest paused to give the final benediction, the coffin was taken inside. The secretary turned the wheelchair and pushed it down the path past them, the old man huddled over, a rug across his knees.

  "I feel so sorry for him," Mary said.

  "No need, he doesn't know what time of day it is," Brosnan told her.

  "That's not always true."

  She walked to the car, and put a hand on the old man's shoulder as he sat there in his wheelchair. Then she returned.

  "So, my friends, back to Paris," Hernu said.

  "And then London," Brosnan said.

  Mary took his arm as they walked toward the car. "Tomorrow, Martin, tomorrow morning will be soon enough, and I won't take no for an answer."

  "All right," he said. "Tomorrow it is," and he got in the rear of the car and leaned back, suddenly drained, and closed his eyes, Mary sitting beside him as Hernu drove away.

  It was just after six when Tania Novikova heard the doorbell. She went downstairs and opened the door. Dillon stood there, suitcase in one hand, briefcase in the other. "Josef sends his regards."

  She was amazed. Since Makeev had spoken to her she had accessed KGB files in London to discover as much about Dillon as she could and had been astonished at his record. She had expected some kind of dark hero. Instead, she had a small man in a trenchcoat with tinted glasses and a college tie.

  "You are Sean Dillon?" she said.

  "As ever was."

  "You'd better come in."

  Women had never been of great importance to Dillon. They were there to satisfy a need on occasions, but he had never felt the slightest emotional involvement with one. Following Tania Novikova up the stairs, he was aware that she had a good figure and that the black trouser suit became her. Her hair was caught up at the nape of the neck in a velvet bow, but, when she turned to him in the full light of her sitting room, he realized that she was really rather plain.

  "You had a good trip?" she asked.

  "All right. I was delayed in Jersey last night because of fog."

  "Would you like a drink?"

  "Tea would be fine."

  She opened a drawer, produced a Walther, two spare clips and a Carswell silencer. "Your preferred weapon according to Josef."

  "Definitely."

  "Also, I thought this might come in useful." She handed him a small bundle. "They say it can stop a .45 bullet at point-blank range. Nylon and titanium."

  Dillon unfolded it. Nothing like as bulky as a flak jacket, it was designed like a small waistcoat and fastened with Velcro tabs.

  "Excellent," he said and put it in his briefcase together with the Walther and the silencer. He unbuttoned his trenchcoat, lit a cigarette and stood in the kitchen door and watched her make the tea. "You're very convenient for the Soviet Embassy here?"

  "Oh, yes, walking distance." She brought the tea out on a tray. "I've fixed you up with a room in a small hotel just round the corner in the Bayswater Road. It's the sort of place commercial travelers overnight at."

  "Fine." He sipped his tea. "To business. What about Fahy?"

  "No luck so far. He moved from Kilburn a few years ago to a house in Finchley. Only stayed there a year and moved again. That's where I've drawn a blank. But I'll find him, I've got someone on his case."

  "You must. It's essential. Does KGB's London station still have a forgery department?"

  "Of course."

  "Good." He took out his Jersey driving license. "I want a private pilot's license in the same name and address. You'll need a photo." He slipped a finger inside the plastic cover of the license and pulled out a couple of identical prints. "Always useful to have a few of these."

  She took one of them. "Peter Hilton, Jersey. Can I ask why this is necessary?"

  "Because when the right time comes, time to get the hell out of it, I want to fly, and they won't hire a plane to you unless you have a license issued by the Civil Aviation Authority." He helped himself to some more tea. "Tell your expert I want full instrument rating and twin-engine."

  "I'll write that down." She opened her handbag, took out an envelope, slipped the photo inside and made a note on the cover. "
Is there anything else?"

  "Yes, I'd like full details of the present security system at Number Ten Downing Street."

  She caught her breath. "Am I to take it that is your target?"

  "Not as such. The man inside, but that's a different thing. The Prime Minister's daily schedule, how easy is it to access that?"

  "It depends what you want. There are always fixed points in the day. Question time in the House of Commons, for example. Of course, things are different because of the Gulf. The War Cabinet meets every morning at ten o'clock."

  "At Downing Street?"

  "Oh, yes, in the Cabinet room. But he has other appointments during the day. Only yesterday he did a broadcast on British Forces Network to the troops in the Gulf."

  "Was that from BBC?"

  "No, they have their own headquarters at Bridge House. That's near Paddington Station and not too far from here."

  "Interesting. I wonder what his security was like."

  "Not much, believe me. A few detectives, no more than that. The British are crazy."

  "A damn good job they are. This informant of yours, the one who got you all the information on Ferguson. Tell me about him." Which she did, and when she was finished he nodded. "You've got him well and truly by the cobblers then?"

  "I think you could say that."

  "Let's keep it that way." He got up and buttoned his coat. "I'd better go and book in at this hotel."

  "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, saute 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 s
lipups, 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 Citroen 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.