Eye of the Storm

by Jack Higgins

  “There you are, chew on that, gentlemen,” Dillon said.

  He walked back through the wood, pushed the BMW off its stand, swung a leg over and drove away.

  He opened the door of the warehouse on rue de Helier, got back on the BMW, rode inside and parked it. As he turned to close the door, Makeev called from above, “It went wrong, I presume?”

  Dillon took off his helmet. “I’m afraid so. The Jobert brothers turned me in.”

  As he went up the stairs Makeev said. “The disguise, I like that. A policeman is just a policeman to people. Nothing to describe.”

  “Exactly. I worked for a great Irishman called Frank Barry for a while years ago. Ever heard of him?”

  “Certainly. A veritable Carlos.”

  “He was better than Carlos. Got knocked off in seventy-nine. I don’t know who by. He used the CRS copper on a motorcycle a lot. Postmen are good too. No one ever notices a postman.”

  He followed the Russian into the sitting room. “Tell me,” Makeev said.

  Dillon brought him up to date. “It was a chance using those two and it went wrong, that’s all there is to it.”

  “Now what?”

  “As I said last night, I’ll provide an alternative target. I mean, all that lovely money. I’ve got to think of my old age.”

  “Nonsense, Sean, you don’t give a damn about your old age. It’s the game that excites you.”

  “You could be right.” Dillon lit a cigarette. “I know one thing. I don’t like to be beaten. I’ll think of something for you and I’ll pay my debts.”

  “The Joberts? Are they worth it?”

  “Oh, yes,” Dillon said. “A matter of honor, Josef.” Makeev sighed. “I’ll go and see Aroun, give him the bad news. I’ll be in touch.”

  “Here or at the barge.” Dillon smiled. “Don’t worry, Josef. I’ve never failed yet, not when I set my mind to a thing.”

  Makeev went down the stairs. His footsteps echoed across the warehouse, the Judas gate banged behind him. Dillon turned and went back into the long room, whistling softly.

  “But I don’t understand,” Aroun said. “There hasn’t been a word on television.”

  “And there won’t be.” Makeev turned from the French windows overlooking the Avenue Victor Hugo. “The affair never happened, that is the way the French will handle it. The idea that Mrs. Thatcher could have in any way been at risk on French soil would be considered a national affront.”

  Aroun was pale with anger. “He failed, this man of yours. A great deal of talk, Makeev, but nothing at the end of it. A good thing I didn’t transfer that million to his Zurich account this morning.”

  “But you agreed,” Makeev said. “In any case, he may ring at any time to check the money has been deposited.”

  “My dear Makeev, I have five hundred million dollars on deposit at that bank. Faced with the possibility of me transferring my business, the managing director was more than willing to agree to a small deception when Rashid spoke to him this morning. When Dillon phones to check on the situation, the deposit will be confirmed.”

  “This is a highly dangerous man you are dealing with,” Makeev said. “If he found out . . .”

  “Who’s going to tell him? Certainly not you, and he’ll get paid in the end, but only if he produces a result.”

  Rashid poured him a cup of coffee and said to Makeev, “He promised an alternative target, mentioned the British Prime Minister. What does he intend?”

  “He’ll be in touch when he’s decided,” Makeev said.

  “Talk.” Aroun walked to the window and stood sipping his coffee. “All talk.”

  “No, Michael,” Josef Makeev told him. “You could not be more mistaken.”

  Martin Brosnan’s apartment was by the river on the Quai de Montebello opposite the Île de la Cité and had one of the finest views of Notre Dame in Paris. It was within decent walking distance of the Sorbonne, which suited him perfectly.

  It was just after four as he walked toward it, a tall man with broad shoulders in an old-fashioned trenchcoat, dark hair that still had no gray in it, in spite of his forty-five years, and was far too long, giving him the look of some sixteenth-century bravo. Martin Aodh Brosnan. The Aodh was Gaelic for Hugh and his Irishness showed in the high cheekbones and gray eyes.

  It was getting colder again and he shivered as he turned the corner into Quai de Montebello and hurried along to the apartment block. He owned it all, as it happened, which gave him the apartment on the corner of the first floor, the most favored location. Scaffolding ran up the corner of the building to the fourth floor where some sort of building work was taking place.

  As he was about to go up the steps to the ornate entrance, a voice called, “Martin?”

  He glanced up and saw Anne-Marie Audin leaning over the balustrade of the terrace. “Where in the hell did you spring from?” he asked in astonishment.

  “Cuba. I just got in.”

  He went up the stairs two at a time and she had the door open as he got there. He lifted her up in his arms in an enormous hug and carried her back into the hall. “How marvelous to see you. Why Cuba?”

  She kissed him and helped him off with the trenchcoat. “Oh, I had a rather juicy assignment for Time magazine. Come in the kitchen. I’ll make your tea.”

  A standing joke for years, the tea. Surprising in an American, but he couldn’t stand coffee. He lit a cigarette and sat at the table and watched her move around the kitchen, her short hair as dark as his own, this supremely elegant woman who was the same age as himself and looked twelve years younger.

  “You look marvelous,” he told her as she brought the tea. He sampled it and nodded in approval. “That’s grand. Just the way you learned to make it back in South Armagh in nineteen seventy-one with me and Liam Devlin showing you the hard way how the IRA worked.”

  “How is the old rogue?”

  “Still living in Kilrea outside Dublin. Gives the odd lecture at Trinity College. Claims to be seventy, but that’s a wicked lie.”

  “He’ll never grow old, that one.”

  “Yes, you really do look marvelous,” Brosnan said. “Why didn’t we get married?”

  It was a ritual question he had asked for years, a joke now. There was a time when they had been lovers, but for some years now, just friends. Not that it was by any means the usual relationship. He would have died for her, almost had in a Vietnam swamp the first time they had met.

  “Now that we’ve got that over, tell me about the new book,” she said.

  “A philosophy of terrorism,” he told her. “Very boring. Not many people will buy a copy.”

  “A pity,” she said, “coming from such an expert in the field.”

  “Doesn’t really matter,” he said. “Knowing the reasons still won’t make people act any differently.”

  “Cynic. Come on, let’s have a real drink.” She opened the fridge and took out a bottle of Krug.

  “Non-vintage?”

  “What else?”

  They went into the magnificent long drawing room. There was an ornate gold mirror over the marble fireplace, plants everywhere, a grand piano, comfortable, untidy sofas and a great many books. She had left the French windows to the balcony standing ajar. Brosnan went to close them as she opened the Krug at the sideboard and got two glasses. At the same moment, the bell sounded outside.

  When Brosnan opened the door he found Max Hernu and Jules Savary standing there, the Jobert brothers behind them.

  “Professor Brosnan?” Hernu said. “I am Colonel Max Hernu.”

  “I know very well who you are,” Brosnan said. “Action Service, isn’t it? What’s all this? My wicked past catching up with me?”

  “Not quite, but we do need your assistance. This is Inspector Savary and these two are Gaston and Pierre Jobert.”

  “You’d better come in, then,” Brosnan said, interested in spite of himself.

  The Jobert brothers stayed in the hall, on Hernu’s orders, when he and Savary follow
ed Brosnan into the drawing room. Anne-Marie turned, frowning slightly, and Brosnan made the introductions.

  “A great pleasure.” Hernu kissed her hand. “I’m a long-time admirer.”

  “Martin?” she looked worried now. “You’re not getting involved in anything?”

  “Of course not,” he assured her. “Now what can I do for you, Colonel?”

  “A matter of national security, Professor. I hesitate to mention the fact, but Mademoiselle Audin is a photojournalist of some distinction.”

  She smiled. “Total discretion, you have my word, Colonel.”

  “We’re here because Brigadier Charles Ferguson in London suggested it.”

  “That old devil? And why should he suggest you see me?”

  “Because you are an expert in matters relating to the IRA, Professor. Let me explain.”

  Which he did, covering the whole affair as rapidly as possible. “You see, Professor,” he said as he concluded, “the Jobert brothers have combed our IRA picture books without finding him, and Ferguson has had no success with the brief description we were able to give.”

  “You’ve got a real problem.”

  “My friend, this man is not just anybody. He must be special to attempt such a thing, but we know nothing more than that we think he’s Irish and he speaks fluent French.”

  “So what do you want me to do?”

  “Speak to the Joberts.”

  Brosnan glanced at Anne-Marie, then shrugged. “All right, wheel them in.”

  He sat on the edge of the table drinking champagne while they stood before him, awkward in such circumstances. “How old is he?”

  “Difficult, monsieur,” Pierre said. “He changes from one minute to the next. It’s like he’s more than one person. I’d say late thirties.”

  “And description?”

  “Small with fair hair.”

  “He looks like nothing,” Gaston put in. “We thought he was a no-no and then he half-killed some big ape in our café one night.”

  “All right. He’s small, fair-haired, late thirties and he can handle himself. What makes you think he’s Irish?”

  “When he was assembling the Kalashnikov he made a crack about seeing one take out a Land-Rover full of English paratroopers.”

  “Is that all?”

  Pierre frowned. Brosnan took the bottle of Krug from the bucket and Gaston said, “No, there’s something else. He’s always whistling a funny sort of tune. A bit eerie. I managed to follow it on my accordion. He said it was Irish.”

  Brosnan’s face had gone quite still. He stood there, holding the bottle in one hand, a glass in the other.

  “And he likes that stuff, monsieur,” Pierre said.

  “Champagne?” Brosnan asked.

  “Well, yes, any champagne is better than nothing, but Krug is his favorite.”

  “Like this, non-vintage?”

  “Yes, monsieur. He told us he preferred the grape mix,” Pierre said.

  “The bastard always did.”

  Anne-Marie put a hand on Brosnan’s arm. “You know him, Martin?”

  “Almost certainly. Could you pick that tune out on the piano?” he asked Gaston.

  “I’ll try, monsieur.”

  He lifted the lid, tried the keyboard gently, then played the beginning of the tune with one finger.

  “That’s enough.” Brosnan turned to Hernu and Savary. “An old Irish folk song, ‘The Lark in the Clear Air,’ and you’ve got trouble, gentlemen, because the man you’re looking for is Sean Dillon.”

  “Dillon?” Hernu said. “Of course. The man of a thousand faces, someone once called him.”

  “A slight exaggeration,” Brosnan said, “but it will do.”

  They sent the Jobert brothers home and Brosnan and Anne-Marie sat on a sofa opposite Hernu and Savary. The inspector made notes as the American talked.

  “His mother died in childbirth. I think that was nineteen fifty-two. His father was an electrician. Went to work in London, so Dillon went to school there. He had an incredible talent for acting, a genius really. He can change before your eyes, hunch his shoulders, put on fifteen years. It’s astonishing.”

  “So you knew him well?” Hernu asked.

  “In Belfast in the bad old days, but before that he won a scholarship to the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art. Only stayed a year. They couldn’t teach him anything. He did one or two things at the National Theatre. Nothing much. He was very young, remember. Then in nineteen seventy-one his father, who’d returned home to Belfast, was killed by a British Army patrol. Caught in crossfire. An accident.”

  “And Dillon took it hard?”

  “You could say that. He offered himself to the Provisional IRA. They liked him. He had brains, an aptitude for languages. They sent him to Libya to one of those terrorist training camps for a couple of months. A fast course in weaponry. That’s all it took. He never looked back. God knows how many he’s killed.”

  “So, he still operates for the IRA?”

  Brosnan shook his head. “Not for years. Oh, he still counts himself as a soldier, but he thinks the leadership are a bunch of old women, and they couldn’t handle him. He’d have killed the Pope if he’d thought it was needed. He was too happy to do things that were counterproductive. The word is that he was involved in the Mountbatten affair.”

  “And since those days?” Hernu asked.

  “Beirut, Palestine. He’s done a lot for the PLO. Most terrorist groups have used his services.” Brosnan shook his head. “You’re going to have trouble here.”

  “Why exactly?”

  “The fact that he used a couple of crooks like the Joberts. He always does that. All right, it didn’t work this time, but he knows the weakness of all revolutionary movements. That they’re ridden with either hotheads or informers. You called him the faceless man, and that’s right because I doubt if you’ll find a photo of him in any file, and frankly, it wouldn’t matter if you did.”

  “Why does he do it?” Anne-Marie asked. “Not for any political ends?”

  “Because he likes it,” Brosnan said, “because he’s hooked. He’s an actor, remember. This is for real and he’s good at it.”

  “I get the impression that you don’t care for him very much,” Hernu said. “In personal terms, I mean.”

  “Well, he tried to kill me and a good friend of mine a long time ago,” Brosnan told him. “Does that answer your question?”

  “It’s certainly reason enough.” Hernu got up and Savary joined him. “We must be going. I want to get all this to Brigadier Ferguson as soon as possible.”

  “Fine,” Brosnan said.

  “We may count on your help in this thing, I hope, Professor?”

  Brosnan glanced at Anne-Marie, whose face was set. “Look,” he said, “I don’t mind talking to you again if that will help, but I don’t want to be personally involved. You know what I was, Colonel. Whatever happens I won’t go back to anything like that. I made someone a promise a long time ago.”

  “I understand perfectly, Professor.” Hernu turned to Anne-Marie. “Mademoiselle, a distinct pleasure.”

  “I’ll see you out,” she said and led the way.

  When she returned Brosnan had the French windows open and was standing looking across the river smoking a cigarette. He put an arm around her. “All right?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “Perfect,” and laid her head against his chest.

  At that precise moment Ferguson was sitting by the fire in the Cavendish Place flat when the phone rang. Mary Tanner answered it in the study. After a while she came out. “That was Downing Street. The Prime Minister wants to see you.”

  “When?”

  “Now, sir.”

  Ferguson got up and removed his reading glasses. “Call the car. You come with me and wait.”

  She picked up the phone, spoke briefly, then put it down. “What do you think it’s about, Brigadier?”

  “I’m not sure. My imminent retirement or your return to more mundane duties.
Or this business in France. He’ll have been told all about it by now. Anyway, let’s go and see,” and he led the way out.

  They were checked through the Security gates at the end of Downing Street. Mary Tanner stayed in the car while Ferguson was admitted through the most famous door in the world. It was rather quiet compared to the last time he’d been there, a Christmas party given by Mrs. Thatcher for the staff in the Pillared Room. Cleaners, typists, office workers. Typical of her, that. The other side of the Iron Lady.

  He regretted her departure, that was a fact, and sighed as he followed a young aide up the main staircase lined with replicas of portraits of all those great men of history. Peel, Wellington, Disraeli and many more. They reached the corridor; the young man knocked on the door and opened it.

  “Brigadier Ferguson, Prime Minister.”

  The last time Ferguson had been in that study it had been a woman’s room, the feminine touches unmistakably there, but things were different now, a little more austere in a subtle way, he was aware of that. Darkness was falling fast outside and John Major was checking some sort of report, the pen in his hand moving with considerable speed.

  “Sorry about this. It will only take a moment,” he said.

  It was the courtesy that astounded Ferguson, the sheer basic good manners that one didn’t experience too often from heads of government. Major signed the report, put it on one side and sat back, a pleasant, gray-haired man in horn-rimmed glasses, the youngest Prime Minister of the twentieth century. Almost unknown to the general public on his succession to Margaret Thatcher and yet his handling of the crisis in the Gulf had already marked him out as a leader of genuine stature.

  “Please sit down, Brigadier, I’m on a tight schedule, so I’ll get right to the point. The business affecting Mrs. Thatcher in France. Obviously very disturbing.”

  “Indeed so, Prime Minister. Thank God it all turned out as it did.”

  “Yes, but that seems to have been a matter of luck more than anything else. I’ve spoken to President Mitterrand and he’s agreed that in all our interests and especially with the present situation in the Gulf there will be a total security clampdown.”