by Jack Higgins
“What about the press, Prime Minister?”
“Nothing will reach the press, Brigadier,” John Major told him. “I understand the French failed to catch the individual concerned?”
“I’m afraid that is so according to my latest information, but Colonel Hernu of Action Service is keeping in close touch.”
“I’ve spoken to Mrs. Thatcher and it was she who alerted me to your presence, Brigadier. As I understand it, the intelligence section known as Group Four was set up in 1972, responsible only to the Prime Minister, its purpose to handle specific cases of terrorism and subversion?”
“That is correct.”
“Which means you will have served five Prime Ministers if we include myself.”
“Actually, Prime Minister, that’s not quite accurate,” Ferguson said. “We do have a problem at the moment.”
“Oh, I know all about that. The usual security people have never liked your existence, Brigadier, too much like the Prime Minister’s private army. That’s why they thought a changeover at Number Ten was a good time to get rid of you.”
“I’m afraid so, Prime Minister.”
“Well it wasn’t and it isn’t. I’ve spoken to the Director General of Security Services. It’s taken care of.”
“I couldn’t be more delighted.”
“Good. Your first task quite obviously is to run down whoever was behind this French affair. If he’s IRA, then he’s our business, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Absolutely.”
“Good. I’ll let you go and get on with it then. Keep me informed of every significant development on an eyes-only basis.”
“Of course, Prime Minister.”
The door behind opened as if by magic, the aide appeared to usher Ferguson out. The Prime Minister was already working over another sheaf of papers as the door closed and Ferguson was led downstairs.
As the limousine drove away, Mary Tanner reached forward to close the screen. “What happened? What was it about?”
“Oh, the French business.” Ferguson sounded curiously remote. “You know, he’s really got something about him, this one.”
“Oh, come off it, sir,” Mary said. “I mean, don’t you honestly think we could do with a change, after all these years of Tory government?”
“Wonderful spokesperson for the workers you make,” he said. “Your dear old dad, God rest him, was a professor of Surgery at Oxford, your mother owns half of Herefordshire. That flat of yours in Lowndes Square, a million, would you say? Why is it the children of the rich are always so depressingly left-wing while still insisting on dining at the Savoy?”
“A gross exaggeration.”
“Seriously, my dear, I’ve worked for Labour as well as Conservative Prime Ministers. The color of the politician doesn’t matter. The Marquess of Salisbury when he was Prime Minister, Gladstone, Disraeli, had very similar problems to those we have today. Fenians, anarchists, bombs in London, only dynamite instead of Semtex, and how many attempts were there on Queen Victoria’s life?” He gazed out at the Whitehall traffic as they moved toward the Ministry of Defence. “Nothing changes.”
“All right, end of lecture, but what happened?” she demanded.
“Oh, we’re back in business, that’s what happened,” he said. “I’m afraid we’ll have to cancel your transfer back to the Military Police.”
“Damn you!” she cried, and flung her arms around his neck.
Ferguson’s office on the third floor of the Ministry of Defence was on a corner at the rear overlooking Horse Guards Avenue with a view of the Victoria Embankment and the river at the far end. He had hardly got settled behind his desk when Mary hurried in.
“Coded fax from Hernu. I’ve put it through the machine. You’re not going to like it one little bit.”
It contained the gist of Hernu’s meeting with Martin Brosnan, the facts on Sean Dillon—everything.
“Dear God,” Ferguson said. “Couldn’t be worse. He’s like a ghost, this Dillon chap. Does he exist or doesn’t he? As bad as Carlos in international terrorist terms, but totally unknown to the media or the general public and nothing to go on.”
“But we do have one thing, sir.”
“What’s that?”
“Brosnan.”
“True, but will he help?” Ferguson got up and moved to the window. “I tried to get Martin to do something for me the other year. He wouldn’t touch it with a bargepole.” He turned and smiled. “It’s the girlfriend, you see, Anne-Marie Audin. She has a horror of him becoming what he once was.”
“Yes, I can understand that.”
“But never mind. We’d better get a report on their latest developments to the Prime Minister. Let’s keep it brief.”
She produced a pen and took notes as he dictated. “Anything else, sir?” she asked when he had finished.
“I don’t think so. Get it typed. One copy for the file, the other for the P.M. Send it straight round to Number Ten by messenger. Eyes only.”
Mary did a rough type of the report herself, then went along the corridor to the typing and copying room. There was one on each floor and the clerks all had full security clearance. The copier was clattering as she went in. The man standing in front of it was in his mid-fifties, white hair, steel-rimmed army glasses, his shirt sleeves rolled up.
“Hello, Gordon,” she said. “A priority one here. Your very best typing. One copy for the personal file. You’ll do it straight away?”
“Of course, Captain Tanner.” He glanced at it briefly. “Fifteen minutes. I’ll bring it along.”
She went out and he sat down at his typewriter, taking a deep breath to steady himself as he read the words. For the Eyes of the Prime Minister only. Gordon Brown had served in the Intelligence Corps for twenty-five years, reaching the rank of Warrant Officer. A worthy, if unspectacular career, culminating in the award of an M.B.E. and the offer of employment at the Ministry of Defence on his retirement from the Army. And everything had been fine until the death of his wife from cancer the previous year. They were childless, which left him alone in a cold world at fifty-five years of age, and then something miraculous happened.
There were invitation cards flying around at the Ministry all the time to receptions at the various embassies in London. He often helped himself to one. It was just something to do, and at an art display at the German Embassy he’d met Tania Novikova, a secretary-typist at the Soviet Embassy.
They’d got on so well together. She was thirty and not particularly pretty, but when she’d taken him to bed on their second meeting at his flat in Camden it was like a revelation. Brown had never known sex like it, was hooked instantly. And then it had started. The questions about his job, anything and everything about what went on at the Ministry of Defence. Then there was a cooling off. He didn’t see her and was distracted, almost out of his mind. He’d phoned her at her flat. She was cold at first, distant, and then she’d asked him if he’d been doing anything interesting.
He knew then what was happening but didn’t care. There was a series of reports passing through on British Army changes in view of political changes in Russia. It was easy to run off spare copies. When he took them round to her flat, it was just as it had been and she took him to heights of pleasure such as he had never known.
From then on he would do anything, providing copies of everything that might interest her. For the Eyes of the Prime Minister only. How grateful would she be for that? He finished typing, ran off two extra copies, one for himself. He had a file of them now in one of his bedroom drawers. The other was for Tania Novikova, who was, of course, not a secretary-typist at the Soviet Embassy as she had informed Brown, but a captain in the KGB.
Gaston opened the door of the lock-up garage opposite Le Chat Noir and Pierre got behind the wheel of the old cream and red Peugeot. His brother got in the rear seat and they drove away.
“I’ve been thinking,” Gaston said. “I mean, what if they don’t get him? He could come looking for us, Pierre.”
It was just before eight, the streets at that place quiet and deserted, people inside because of the extreme cold. They came to a small square and as they started to cross it a CRS man on his motorcycle came up behind them, flashing his lights.
“There’s a cop on our tail,” Gaston said.
He pulled up alongside, anonymous in his helmet and goggles, and waved them down.
“A message from Savary, I suppose,” Pierre said and pulled over to the pavement.
“Maybe they’ve got him,” Gaston said excitedly.
The CRS man halted behind them, pushed his bike up on its stand and approached. Gaston got the rear door open and leaned out. “Have they caught the bastard?”
Dillon took a Walther with a Carswell silencer from inside the flap of his raincoat and shot him twice in the heart. He pushed up his goggles and turned. Pierre crossed himself. “It’s you.”
“Yes, Pierre. A matter of honor.”
The Walther coughed twice more, Dillon pushed it back inside his raincoat, got on the BMW and drove away. It started to snow a little, the square very quiet. It was perhaps half an hour later that a policeman on foot patrol, caped against the cold, found them.
Tania Novikova’s flat was just off the Bayswater Road not far from the Soviet Embassy. She’d had a hard day, had intended an early night. It was just before ten-thirty when her doorbell rang. She was toweling herself down after a nice, relaxing bath. She pulled on a robe, and went downstairs.
Gordon Brown’s evening shift had finished at ten. He couldn’t wait to get to her and had had the usual difficulty parking his Ford Escort. He stood at the door, ringing the bell impatiently, hugely excited. When she opened the door and saw who it was, she was immediately angry and drew him inside.
“I told you never to come here, Gordon, under any circumstances.”
“But this is special,” he pleaded. “Look what I’ve brought you.”
In the living room she took the large envelope from him, opened it and slipped out the report. For the Eyes of the Prime Minister only. Her excitement was intense as she read through it. Incredible that this fool could have delivered her such a coup. His arms were around her waist, sliding up to her breasts and she was aware of his excitement.
“It’s good stuff, isn’t it?” he demanded.
“Excellent, Gordon. You have been a good boy.”
“Really?” His grip tightened. “I can stay over then?”
“Oh, Gordon, it’s such a pity. I’m on the night shift.”
“Please, darling.” He was shaking like a leaf. “Just a few minutes then.”
She had to keep him happy, she knew that, put the report on the table and took him by the hand. “Quarter of an hour, Gordon, that’s all, and then you’ll have to go,” and she led him into the bedroom.
After she’d got rid of him, she dressed hurriedly, debating what to do. She was a hard, committed Communist. That was how she had been raised and how she would die. More than that, she served the KGB with total loyalty. It had nurtured her, educated her, given her whatever status she had in their world. For a young woman, she was surprisingly old-fashioned. Had no time for Gorbachev or the Glasnost fools who surrounded him. Unfortunately, many in the KGB did support him, and one of those was her boss at the London Embassy, Colonel Yuri Gatov.
What would his attitude be to such a report, she wondered as she let herself out into the street and started to walk? What would Gorbachev’s attitude be to the failed attempt to assassinate Mrs. Thatcher? Probably the same outrage the British Prime Minister must feel, and if Gorbachev felt that way, so would Colonel Gatov. So, what to do?
It came to her then as she walked along the frosty pavement of the Bayswater Road, that there was someone who might very well be interested and not only because he thought as she did, but because he was himself right in the center of all the action—Paris. Her old boss, Colonel Josef Makeev. That was it. Makeev would know how best to use such information. She turned into Kensington Palace Gardens and went into the Soviet Embassy.
By chance, Makeev was working late in his office that night when his secretary looked in and said, “A call from London on the scrambler. Captain Novikova.”
Makeev picked up the red phone. “Tania,” he said, a certain affection in his voice, for they had been lovers during the three years she’d worked for him in Paris. “What can I do for you?”
“I understand there was an incident affecting Empire over there earlier today?” she said.
It was an old KGB coded phrase, current for years, always used when referring to assassination attempts of any kind at high government level where Britain was concerned.
Makeev was immediately alert. “That’s correct. The usual kind of it-didn’t-happen affair.”
“Have you an interest?”
“Very much so.”
“There’s a coded fax on the way. I’ll stand by in my office if you want to talk.”
Tania Novikova put down the phone. She had her own fax coding machine at a second desk. She went to it, tapping the required details out quickly, checking on the screen to see that she had got it right. She added Makeev’s personal number, inserted the report and waited. A few moments later, she got a message received okay signal. She got up, lit a cigarette and went and stood by the window, waiting.
The jumbled message was received in the radio and coding room at the Paris Embassy. Makeev stood waiting impatiently for it to come through. The operator handed it to him and the colonel inserted it into the decoder and tapped in his personal key. He couldn’t wait to see the contents, was reading it as he went along the corridor, as excited as Tania Novikova when he saw the line For the Eyes of the Prime Minister only. He sat behind his desk and read it through again. He thought about it for a while, then reached for the red phone.
“You’ve done well, Tania. This one was my baby.”
“I’m so pleased.”
“Does Gatov know about this?”
“No, Colonel.”
“Good, let’s keep it that way.”
“Is there anything else I can do?”
“Very much so. Cultivate your contact. Let me have anything else on the instant. There could be more for you. I have a friend coming to London. The particular friend you’ve been reading about.”
“I’ll wait to hear.”
She put down the phone, totally elated, and went along to the canteen.
In Paris, Makeev sat there for a moment, frowning, then he picked up the phone and rang Dillon. There was a slight delay before the Irishman answered.
“Who is it?”
“Josef, Sean, I’m on my way there. Utmost importance.”
Makeev put down the phone, got his overcoat and went out.
FOUR
BROSNAN HAD TAKEN Anne-Marie to the cinema that evening and afterwards to a small restaurant in Montmartre called La Place Anglaise. It a was an old favorite because, and in spite of the name, one of the specialities of the house was Irish stew. It wasn’t particularly busy, and they had just finished the main course when Max Hernu appeared, Savary standing behind him.
“Snow in London, snow in Brussels and snow in Paris,” Hernu brushed it from his sleeve and opened his coat.
“Do I deduce from your appearance here that you’ve had me followed?” Brosnan asked.
“Not at all, Professor. We called at your apartment, where the porter told us you had gone to the cinema. He was also kind enough to mention three or four restaurants he thought you might be at. This is the second.”
“Then you’d better sit down and have a cognac and some coffee,” Anne-Marie told him. “You both look frozen.”
They took off their coats and Brosnan nodded to the headwaiter, who hurri
ed over and took the order.
“I’m sorry, mademoiselle, to spoil your evening, but this is most important,” Hernu said. “An unfortunate development.”
Brosnan lit a cigarette. “Tell us the worst.”
It was Savary who answered. “About two hours ago the bodies of the Jobert brothers were found by a beat policeman in their car in a small square not far from Le Chat Noir.”
“Murdered, is that what you are saying?” Anne-Marie put in.
“Oh, yes, mademoiselle,” he said. “Shot to death.”
“Two each in the heart?” Brosnan said.
“Why, yes, Professor, the pathologist was able to tell us that at the start of his examination. We didn’t stay for the rest. How did you know?”
“Dillon, without a doubt. It’s a real pro’s trick, Colonel, you should know that. Never one shot, always two in case the other man manages to get one off at you as a reflex.”
Hernu stirred his coffee. “Did you expect this, Professor?”
“Oh, yes. He’d have come looking for them sooner or later. A strange man. He always keeps his word, never goes back on a contract, and he expects the same from those he deals with. What he calls a matter of honor. At least he did in the old days.”
“Can I ask you something?” Savary said. “I’ve been on the street fifteen years. I’ve known killers in plenty and not just the gangsters who see it as part of the job, but the poor sod who’s killed his wife because she’s been unfaithful. Dillon seems something else. I mean, his father was killed by British soldiers so he joined the IRA. I can see that, but everything that’s happened since. Twenty years of it. All those hits and not even in his own country. Why?”