Eye of the Storm

by Jack Higgins

  “I’m not a psychiatrist,” Brosnan said. “They’d give you all the fancy names starting with psychopath and working down. I knew men like him in the army in Vietnam in Special Forces and good men, some of them, but once they started, the killing, I mean, it seemed to take over like a drug. They became driven men. The next stage was always to kill when it wasn’t necessary. To do it without emotion. Back there in Nam it was as if people had become, how can I put it, just things.”

  “And this, you think, happened to Dillon?” Hernu asked.

  “It happened to me, Colonel,” Martin Brosnan said bleakly.

  There was silence. Finally, Hernu said, “We must catch him, Professor.”

  “I know.”

  “Then you’ll join us in hunting him down?”

  Anne-Marie put a hand on his arm, dismay on her face, and she turned to the two men, a kind of desperate anger there. “That’s your job, not Martin’s.”

  “It’s all right,” Martin soothed her. “Don’t worry.” He said to Hernu, “Any advice I can give, any information that might help, but no personal involvement. I’m sorry, Colonel, that’s the way it has to be.”

  Savary said. “You told us he tried to kill you once. You and a friend.”

  “That was in seventy-four. He and I both worked for this friend of mine, a man named Devlin, Liam Devlin. He was what you might call an old-fashioned revolutionary. Thought you could still fight it out like the old days, an undercover army against the troops. A bit like the Resistance in France during the war. He didn’t like bombs, soft target bits, that kind of stuff.”

  “What happened?” the Inspector asked.

  “Dillon disobeyed orders and the bomb that was meant for the police patrol killed half a dozen children. Devlin and I went after him. He tried to take us out.”

  “Without success, obviously?”

  “Well, we weren’t exactly kids off the street.” His voice had changed in a subtle way. Harder, more cynical. “Left me with a groove in one shoulder and I gave him one in the arm himself. That was when he first dropped out of sight into Europe.”

  “And you didn’t see him again?”

  “I was in prison for over four years from nineteen seventy-five, Inspector. Belle Isle. You’re forgetting your history. He worked with a man called Frank Barry for a while, another refugee from the IRA who turned up on the European scene. A really bad one, Barry. Do you remember him?”

  “I do, indeed, Professor,” Hernu said. “As I recall, he tried to assassinate Lord Carrington, the British Foreign Secretary, on a visit to France in nineteen seventy-nine in very similar circumstances to this recent affair.”

  “Dillon was probably doing a copy-cat of that operation. He worshipped Barry.”

  “Whom you killed, on behalf of British Intelligence, I understand?”

  Anne-Marie said, “Excuse me.”

  She got up and walked down to the powder room. Hernu said, “We’ve upset her.”

  “She worries about me, Colonel, worries that some circumstances might put a gun in my hand again and send me sliding all the way back.”

  “Yes, I can see that, my friend.” Hernu got up and buttoned his coat. “We’ve taken up enough of your time. My apologies to Mademoiselle Audin.”

  Savary said, “Your lectures at the Sorbonne, Professor, the students must love you. I bet you get a full house.”

  “Always,” Brosnan said.

  He watched them go and Anne-Marie returned. “Sorry about that, my love,” he told her.

  “Not your fault.” She looked tired. “I think I’ll go home.”

  “You’re not coming back to my place?”

  “Not tonight. Tomorrow, perhaps.”

  The headwaiter brought the bill, which Brosnan signed, then helped them into their coats and ushered them to the door. Outside, snow sprinkled the cobbles. She shivered and turned to Brosnan. “You changed, Martin, back there when you were talking to them. You started to become the other man again.”

  “Really?” he said and knew that it was true.

  “I’ll get a taxi.”

  “Let me come with you?”

  “No, I’d rather not.”

  He watched her go down the street, then turned and went the other way. Wondering about Dillon, where he was and what he was doing.

  Dillon’s barge was moored in a small basin on the Quai St-Bernard. There were mainly motor cruisers there, pleasure craft with canvas hoods over them for the winter. The interior was surprisingly luxurious, a stateroom lined with mahogany, two comfortable sofas, a television. His sleeping quarters were in a cabin beyond with a divan bed and a small shower-room adjacent. The kitchen was on the other side of the passageway, small, but very modern. Everything a good cook could want. He was in there now, waiting for the kettle to boil when he heard the footfalls on deck. He opened a drawer, took out a Walther, cocked it and slipped it into his waistband at the rear. Then he went out.

  Makeev came down the companionway and entered the stateroom. He shook snow from his overcoat and took it off. “What a night. Filthy weather.”

  “Worse in Moscow,” Dillon told him. “Coffee?”

  “Why not.”

  Makeev helped himself to a cognac from a bottle on the sideboard and the Irishman came back with a china mug in each hand. “Well, what’s happened?”

  “First of all, my sources tell me the Jobert brothers have turned up very dead, indeed. Was that wise?”

  “To use an immortal phrase from one of those old James Cagney movies, they had it coming. Now what else has happened?”

  “Oh, an old friend from your dim past has surfaced. One Martin Brosnan.”

  “Holy Mother of God!” Dillon seemed transfixed for a moment. “Martin? Martin Brosnan? Where in the hell did he turn up from?”

  “He’s living right here in Paris, just up the river from you on Quai de Montebello, the block on the corner opposite Notre Dame. Very ornate entrance. Within walking distance of here. You can’t miss it. Has scaffolding on the front. Some sort of building work going on.”

  “All very detailed.” Dillon took a bottle of Bushmills from the cupboard and poured one. “Why?”

  “I’ve had a look on my way here.”

  “What’s all this got to do with me?”

  So Makeev told him—Max Hernu, Savary, Tania Novikova in London, everything. “So,” he said as he finished, “at least we know what our friends are up to.”

  “This Novikova girl could be very useful to me,” Dillon said. “Will she play things our way?”

  “No question. She worked for me for some years. A very clever young woman. Like me, she isn’t happy with present changes back home. Her boss is a different matter. Colonel Yuri Gatov. All for change. One of those.”

  “Yes, she could be important,” Dillon said.

  “Do I take it this means you want to go to London?”

  “When I know, I’ll let you know.”

  “And Brosnan?”

  “I could pass him on the street and he wouldn’t recognize me.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Josef, I could pass you and you wouldn’t recognize me. You’ve never really seen me change, have you? Have you come in your car?”

  “Of course not. Taxi. I hope I can get one back.”

  “I’ll get my coat and walk some of the way with you.”

  He went out and Makeev buttoned his coat and poured another brandy. There was a slight sound behind him and when he turned, Dillon stood there in cap and reefer coat hunched over in some strange way. Even the shape of his face seemed different. He looked fifteen years older. The change in body language was incredible.

  “My God, it’s amazing,” Makeev said.

  Dillon straightened up and grinned, “Josef, my old son, if I’d stuck to the stage I’d have been a theatrical knight by now. Come on, let’s get going.”

  The snow was only a light powdering on the ground, barges passed on the river, and Notre Dame, floodlit, floated in the night
. They reached the Quai de Montebello without seeing a taxi.

  Makeev said, “Here we are, Brosnan’s place. He owns the block. It seems his mother left him rather well off.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  Dillon looked across at the scaffolding and Makeev said, “Apartment Four, the one on the corner on the first floor.”

  “Does he live alone?”

  “Not married. Has a woman friend, Anne-Marie Audin . . .”

  “The war photographer? I saw her once back in seventy one in Belfast. Brosnan and Liam Devlin, my boss at the time, were giving her a privileged look at the IRA.”

  “Did you meet her?”

  “Not personally. Do they live together?”

  “Apparently not.” A taxi came out of a side-turning and moved toward them and Makeev raised an arm. “We’ll speak tomorrow.”

  The taxi drove off and Dillon was about to turn away when Brosnan came round the corner. Dillon recognized him instantly.

  “Now then, Martin, you old bastard,” he said softly.

  Brosnan went up the steps and inside. Dillon turned, smiling, and walked away, whistling to himself softly.

  At his flat in Cavendish Square Ferguson was just getting ready to go to bed when the phone rang. Hernu said, “Bad news. He’s knocked off the Jobert brothers.”

  “Dear me,” Ferguson said. “He doesn’t mess about, does he?”

  “I’ve been to see Brosnan to ask him to come in with us on this. I’m afraid he’s refused. Offered to give us his advice and so on, but he won’t become actively involved.”

  “Nonsense,” Ferguson said. “We can’t have that. When the ship is sinking it’s all hands to the pumps, and this ship is sinking very fast indeed.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “I think it might be an idea if I came over to see him. I’m not sure of the time. I’ve things to arrange. Possibly the afternoon. We’ll let you know.”

  “Excellent. I couldn’t be more pleased.”

  Ferguson sat there thinking about it for a while and then he phoned Mary Tanner at her flat. “I suppose like me, you’d hoped for a relatively quiet night after your early rise this morning?” he said.

  “It had crossed my mind. Has something happened?”

  He brought her up to date. “I think it might be an idea to go over tomorrow, have a chat with Hernu, then speak to Brosnan. He must be made to realize how serious this is.”

  “Do you want me to come?”

  “Naturally. I can’t even make sense of a menu over there, whereas we all know that one of the benefits of your rather expensive education is fluency in the French language. Get in touch with the transport officer at the Ministry and tell him I want the Lear jet standing by tomorrow.”

  “I’ll handle it. Anything else?”

  “No, I’ll see you at the office in the morning, and don’t forget your passport.”

  Ferguson put down the phone, got into bed and switched off the light.

  Back on the barge, Dillon boiled the kettle, then poured a little Bushmill’s whisky into a mug, added some lemon juice, sugar and the boiling water and went back into the stateroom, sipping the hot toddy. My God, Martin Brosnan after all these years. His mind went back to the old days with the American and Liam Devlin, his old commander. Devlin, the living legend of the IRA. Wild, exciting days, taking on the might of the British Army, face-to-face. Nothing would ever be the same as that.

  There was a stack of London newspapers on the table. He’d brought them all at the Gare de Lyon newsstand earlier. There was the Daily Mail, the Express, the Times, and the Telegraph. It was the political sections that interested him most and all the stories were similar. The Gulf crisis, the air strikes on Baghdad, speculation on when the land war would start. And photos, of course. Prime Minister John Major outside Number Ten Downing Street. The British press was wonderful. There were discussions about security, speculation as to possible Arab terrorist attacks and articles that even included maps and street plans of the immediate area around Downing Street. And more photos of the Prime Minister and cabinet ministers arriving for the daily meetings of the War Cabinet. London, that was where the action was, no doubt about it. He put the papers away neatly, finished his toddy and went to bed.

  One of the first things Ferguson did on reaching his office was to dictate a further brief report to the Prime Minister bringing him up to date and informing him of the Paris trip. Mary took the draft along to the copy room. The duty clerk just coming to the end of the night shift was a woman, a Mrs. Alice Johnson, a war widow whose husband had been killed in the Falklands. She got on with the typing of the report instantly, had just finished putting it through the copier when Gordon Brown entered. He was on a split shift. Three hours from ten until one and six until ten in the evening. He put his briefcase down and took off his jacket.

  “You go whenever you like, Alice. Anything special?”

  “Just this report for Captain Tanner. It’s a Number Ten job. I said I’d take it along.”

  “I’ll take it for you,” Brown said. “You get going.”

  She passed him both copies of the report and started to clear her desk. No chance to make an extra copy, but at least he could read it, which he did as he went along the corridor to Mary Tanner’s office. She was sitting at her desk when he went in.

  “That report you wanted, Captain Tanner. Shall I arrange a messenger?”

  “No, thanks, Gordon. I’ll see to it.”

  “Anything else, Captain?”

  “No, I’m just clearing the desk. Brigadier Ferguson and I are going to Paris.” She glanced at her watch. “I’ll have to get moving. We’re due out of Gatwick at eleven.”

  “Well, I hope you enjoy yourself.”

  When he went back to the copy room Alice Johnson was still there. “I say, Alice,” he said, “would you mind hanging on for a little while? Only something’s come up. I’ll make it up to you.”

  “That’s all right,” she said. “You get off.”

  He put on his coat, hurried downstairs to the canteen and went into one of the public telephone booths. Tania Novikova was only at the flat because of the lateness of the hour when she had left the Embassy the previous night. “I’ve told you not to ring me here. I’ll ring you,” she told him.

  “I must see you. I’m free at one.”

  “Impossible.”

  “I’ve seen another report. The same business.”

  “I see. Have you got a copy?”

  “No, that wasn’t possible, but I’ve read it.”

  “What did it say?”

  “I’ll tell you at lunchtime.”

  She realized then that control on her part, severe control, was necessary. Her voice was cold and hard when she said, “Don’t waste my time, Gordon, I’m busy. I think I’d better bring this conversation to an end. I may give you a ring sometime, but then I may not.”

  He panicked instantly. “No, let me tell you. There wasn’t much. Just that the two French criminals involved had been murdered, they presumed by the man Dillon. Oh, and Brigadier Ferguson and Captain Tanner are flying over to Paris in the Lear jet at noon.”

  “Why?”

  “They’re hoping to persuade this man Martin Brosnan to help them.”

  “Good,” she said. “You’ve done well, Gordon. I’ll see you tonight at your flat. Six o’clock and bring your work schedule for the next couple of weeks.” She rang off.

  Brown went upstairs, full of elation.

  Ferguson and Mary Tanner had an excellent flight and touched down at Charles de Gaulle airport just after one. By two o’clock they were being ushered into Hernu’s office at DGSE headquarters on Boulevard Mortier.

  He embraced Ferguson briefly. “Charles, you old rogue, it’s far too long.”

  “Now, then, none of your funny French ways,” Ferguson told him. “You’ll be kissing me on both cheeks next. Mary Tanner, my aide.”

  She was wearing a rather nice Armani trouser suit of dark brown and
a pair of exquisite ankle boots by Manolo Blahnik. Diamond stud earrings and a small gold Rolex divers’ watch completed the picture. For a girl who was not supposed to be particularly pretty, she looked stunning. Hernu, who knew class when he saw it, kissed her hand. “Captain Tanner, your reputation precedes you.”

  “Only in the nicest way, I hope,” she replied in fluent French.

  “Good,” Ferguson said. “So now we’ve got all that stuff over, let’s get down to brass tacks. What about Brosnan?”

  “I have spoken to him this morning and he’s agreed to see us at his apartment at three. Time for a late lunch. We have excellent canteen facilities here. Everyone mixes in from the Director downwards.” He opened the door. “Just follow me. It may not be quite the best food in Paris, but it’s certainly the cheapest.”

  In the stateroom at the barge, Dillon was pouring a glass of Krug and studying a large-scale map of London. Around him, pinned to the mahogany walls, were articles and reports from all the newspapers specifically referring to affairs at Number Ten, the Gulf War and how well John Major was doing. There were photos of the youngest Prime Minister of the century, several of them. In fact, the eyes seemed to follow him about. It was as if Major was watching him.

  “And I’ve got my eye on you, too, fella,” Dillon said softly.

  The things that intrigued him were the constant daily meetings of the British War Cabinet at Number Ten. All those bastards, all together in the same spot. What a target. Brighton all over again, and that affair had come close to taking out the entire British Government. But Number Ten as a target? That didn’t seem possible. Fortress Thatcher it had been dubbed by some after that redoubtable lady’s security improvements. There were footsteps on the deck overhead. He opened a drawer in the table casually revealing a Smith & Wesson .38 revolver, closed it again as Makeev came in.

  “I could have telephoned, but I thought I’d speak to you personally,” the Russian said.

  “What now?”

  “I’ve brought you some photos we’ve had taken of Brosnan as he is now. Oh, and that’s the girlfriend, Anne-Marie Audin.”