"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 commerc
ial 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."
"How do you know all this?"
"The operative I put on the job managed to trace him late yesterday afternoon. By the time he'd looked the place over, then dropped into the pub in the local village to make a few enquiries, it was very late. He didn't get back to London until after midnight. I got his report this morning."
"And?"
"He says the farm is very out of the way near a river called the Arun. Marsh country. The village is called Doxley. The farm is a mile south of it. There's a signpost."
"He is efficient, your man."
"Well, he's young and trying to prove himself. From what he heard in the pub, Fahy runs a few sheep and dabbles in agricultural machinery."
Dillon nodded. "That makes sense."
"One thing that might come as a surprise. He has a girl staying with him, his grandniece, it seems. My man saw her."
"And what did he say?"
"That she came into the pub for some bottles of beer. About twenty. Angel, they called her, Angel Fahy. He said she looked like a peasant."
"Wonderful." He got up and reached for his jacket. "I must get down there right away. Do you have a car?"
"Yes, but it's only a Mini. Easier parking in London."
"No problem. As you said, thirty miles at the most. I can borrow it, then?"
"Of course. It's in the garage at the end of my street. I'll show you."
He put on his trenchcoat, opened the briefcase, took out the Walther, rammed a clip in the bolt and put it in his left-hand pocket. The silencer he put in the right. "Just in case," he said, and they went out.
The car was in fact a Mini-Cooper, which meant performance, jet black with a gold trim. "Excellent," he said. "I'll get moving."
He got behind the wheel and she said, "What's so important about Fahy?"
"He's an engineer who can turn his hand to anything, a bomb maker of genius, and he's been in deep cover for years. He helped me when I last operated here in eighty-one, helped me a lot. It also helps that he was my father's second cousin. I knew him when I was a kid over here. You haven't mentioned the cash from Aroun, by the way."
"I've to pick it up this evening at six. All very dramatic. A Mercedes stops at the corner of Brancaster Street and Town Drive. That's not far from here. I say, 'It's cold, even for this time of the year,' and the driver hands me a briefcase."
"God help us, he must have been seeing too much television," Dillon said. "I'll be in touch," and he drove away.
Ferguson had stopped off at his office at the Ministry of Defence after Downing Street to bring the report on the Dillon affair file up to date and clear his desk generally. As always, he preferred to work at the flat, so he returned to Cavendish Square, had Kim prepare him a late lunch of scrambled eggs and bacon, and was browsing through his Times when the doorbell rang. A moment later Kim showed in Mary Tanner and Brosnan.
"My dear Martin." Ferguson got up and shook hands. "So here we are again."
"So it would seem," Brosnan said.
"Everything go off all right at the funeral?" Ferguson asked.
"As funerals go, it went," Brosnan said harshly and lit a cigarette. "So where are we? What's happening?"
"I've seen the Prime Minister again. There's to be no press publicity."
"I agree with him there," Brosnan said. "It would be pointless."
"All relevant intelligence agencies, plus Special Branch, of course, have been notified. They'll do what they can."
"Which isn't very much," Brosnan said.
"Another point," Mary put in. "I know he's threatened the Prime Minister, but we don't have a clue what he intends or when. He could be up to something this very evening for all we know."
Brosnan shook his head. "No, I think there'll be more to it than that. These things take time. I should know."
"So where will you start?" Ferguson asked.
"With my old friend Harry Flood. When Dillon was here in eighty-one he probably used underworld contacts to supply his needs. Harry may be able to dig something out."
"And if not?"
"Then I'll borrow that Lear jet of yours again, fly to Dublin and have words with Liam Devlin."
"Ah, yes," Ferguson said. "Who better?"
"When Dillon went to London in nineteen eighty-one he must have been under someone's orders. If Devlin could find out who, that could be a lead to all sorts."
"Sounds logical to me. So you'll see Flood tonight?"
"I think so."
"Where are you staying?"
"With me," Mary said.
"At Lowndes Square?" Ferguson's eyebrows went up. "Really?"
"Come on, Brigadier, don't be an old fuddy-duddy. I've got four bedrooms remember, each with its own bathroom, and Professor Brosnan can have one with a lock on the inside of his door."
Brosnan laughed. "Come on, let's get out of here. See you later, Brigadier."
They used Ferguson's car. She closed the sliding window between them and the driver and said, "Don't you think you'd better ring your friend, let him know you'd like to see him?"
"I suppose so. I'll need to check his number."
She took a notebook from her handbag. "I have it here. It's ex-directory. There you go. Cable Wharf. That's in Wapping."
"Very efficient."
"And here's a phone."
She handed him the car phone. "You do like to be in charge," he said and dialed the number.
It was Mordecai Fletcher who answered. Brosnan said, "Harry Flood, please."
"Who wants him?"
"Martin Brosnan."
"The Professor? This is Mordecai. We haven't heard from you for what--three or four years? Christ, but he's going to be pleased."
A moment later a voice said, "Martin?"
"Harry?"
"I don't believe it. You've come back to haunt me, you bastard."
EIGHT
FOR DILLON IN the Mini-Cooper, the run from London went easily enough. Although there was a light covering of snow on the fields and hedgerows, the roads were perfectly clear and not particularly busy. He was in Dorking within half an hour. He passed straight through and continued toward Horsham, finally pulling into a petrol station about five miles outside.
As the attendant was topping up the tank Dillon got his road map out. "Place called Doxley, you know it?"
"Half a mile up the road on your right a signpost says Grimethorpe. That's the airfield, but before you get there you'll see a sign to Doxley."
"So it's not far from here?"
"Three miles maybe, but it might as well be the end of the world." The attendant chuckled as he took the notes Dillon gave him. "Not much there, mister."
"Thought I'd take a look. Friend told me there might be a weekend cottage going."
"If there is, I haven't heard of it."
Dillon drove away, came to the Grimethorpe sign within a few minutes, followed the narrow road and found the Doxley sign as the garage man had indicated. The road was even narrower, high banks blocking the view until he came to the brow of a small hill and looked across a desolate landscape, powdered with snow. There was the occasional small wood, a scattering of hedged fields and then flat marsh-land drifting toward a river, which had to be the Arun. Beside it, perhaps a mile away, he saw houses, twelve or fifteen, with red pantiled roofs, and there was a small church, obviously Doxley. He started down the hill to the wooded valley below and as he came to it, saw a five-barred gate standing open and a decaying wooden sign w
ith the legend Cadge End Farm.
The track led through the wood and brought him almost at once to a farm complex. There were a few chickens running here and there, a house and two large barns linked to it so that the whole enclosed a courtyard. It looked incredibly rundown, as if nothing had been done to it for years, but then, as Dillon knew, many country people preferred to live like that. He got out of the Mini and crossed to the front door, knocked and tried to open it. It was locked. He turned and went to the first barn. Its old wooden doors stood open. There was a Morris van in there and a Ford car jacked up on bricks, no wheels, agricultural implements all over the place.
Dillon took out a cigarette. As he lit it in cupped hands, a voice behind said, "Who are you? What do you want?"
He turned and found a girl in the doorway. She wore baggy trousers tucked into a pair of rubber boots, a heavy roll-neck sweater under an old anorak and a knitted beret like a Tam o' Shanter, the kind of thing you found in fishing villages on the West Coast of Ireland. She was holding a double-barreled shotgun threateningly. As he took a step toward her, she thumbed back the hammer.
"You stay there." The Irish accent was very pronounced.
"You'll be the one they call Angel Fahy?" he said.
"Angela, if it's any of your business."
Tania's man had been right. She did look like a little peasant. Broad cheekbone, upturned nose and a kind of fierceness there. "Would you really shoot with that thing?"
"If I had to."
"A pity that, and me only wanting to meet my father's cousin, once removed, Danny Fahy."
She frowned. "And who in the hell might you be, mister?" "Dillon's the name. Sean Dillon."
She laughed harshly. "That's a damn lie. You're not even Irish and Sean Dillon is dead, everyone knows that."
Dillon dropped into the hard distinctive accent of Belfast. "To steal a great man's line, girl dear, all I can say is, reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated."
The gun went slack in her hands. "Mother Mary, are you Sean Dillon?"
"As ever was. Appearances can be deceiving."
"Oh, God," she said. "Uncle Danny talks about you all the time, but it was always like stories, nothing real to it at all and here you are."
Eye Of the Storm (1992) Page 13