Eye of the Storm

by Jack Higgins

  Fahy opened the door of the second barn and led the way in. It was enormous, oak beams rearing up to a steeply pitched roof. There was a loft stuffed with hay and reached by a ladder. There were various items of farm machinery including a tractor. There was also a fairly new Land-Rover, and an old BSA 500cc motorcycle in fine condition, up on its stand.

  “This is a beauty,” Dillon said in genuine admiration.

  “Bought it second-hand last year. Thought I’d renovate it to make a profit, but now I’m finished, I can’t bear to let it go. It’s as good as a BMW.” There was another vehicle in the shadows of the rear and Fahy switched on a light and a white Ford Transit van stood revealed.

  “So?” Dillon said. “What’s so special?”

  “You wait, Mr. Dillon,” Angel told him. “This is really something.”

  Fahy said, “Not what it seems.”

  There was an excited look on his face, a kind of pride as he opened the sliding door. Inside there was a battery of metal pipes, three in all, bolted to the floor, pointing up to the roof at an angle.

  “Mortars, Sean, just like the lads have been using in Ulster.”

  Dillon said, “You mean this thing works?”

  “Hell, no, I’ve no explosives. It would work, that’s all I can say.”

  “Explain it to me.”

  “I’ve welded a steel platform to the floor, that’s to stand the recoil, and I’ve also welded the tubing together. That’s standard cast-iron stuff available anywhere. The electric timers are dead simple. Stuff you can buy at any do-it-yourself shop.”

  “How would it work?”

  “Once switched on it would give you a minute to get out of the van and run for it. The roof is cut out. That’s just stretched polythene covering the hole. You can see I’ve sprayed it the same color. It gives the mortars a clean exit. I’ve even worked out an extra little device linked to the timer that will self-destruct the van after it’s fired the mortars.”

  “And where would they be?”

  “Over here.” Fahy walked to a workbench. “Standard oxygen cylinders.” There were several stacked together, the bottom plates removed.

  “And what would you need for those, Semtex?” Dillon asked, naming the Czechoslovakian explosive so popular with terrorists everywhere.

  “I’d say about twelve pounds in each would do nicely, but that’s not easily come by over here.”

  Dillon lit a cigarette and walked around the van, his face blank. “You’re a bad boy, Danny. The Movement told you to stay in deep cover.”

  “Like I told you, how many years ago was that?” Fahy demanded. “A man would go crazy.”

  “So you found yourself something to do?”

  “It was easy, Sean. You know I was in the light engineering for years.”

  Dillon stood looking at it. Angel said, “What do you think?”

  “I think he’s done a good job.”

  “As good as anything they’ve done in Ulster,” Fahy said.

  “Maybe, but whenever they’ve been used, they’ve never been too strong on accuracy.”

  “They worked like a dream in that attack on Newry police station six years ago. Killed nine coppers.”

  “What about all the other times they couldn’t hit a barn door? Someone even blew himself up with one of these things in Portadown. A bit hit-and-miss.”

  “Not the way I’d do it. I can plot the target on a large-scale map, have a look at the area on foot beforehand, line the van up and that’s it. Mind you, I’ve been thinking that some sort of fin welded on to the oxygen cylinders would help steady them in flight. A nice big curve and then down, and the whole world blows up. All the security in the world wouldn’t help. I mean, what good are gates if you go over them?”

  “You’re talking Downing Street now?” Dillon said.

  “And why not?”

  “They meet at ten o’clock every morning in the Cabinet Room. What they call the War Cabinet. You’d not only get the Prime Minister, you’d get virtually the whole government.”

  Fahy crossed himself. “Holy Mother of God, it would be the hit of a lifetime.”

  “They’d make up songs about you, Danny,” Dillon told him. “They’d be singing about Danny Fahy in bars all over Ireland fifty years from now.”

  Fahy slammed a clenched fist into his palm. “All hot air, Sean, no meaning to it without the Semtex, and like I said, that stuff’s impossible to get your hands on over here.”

  “Don’t be too sure, Danny,” Dillon said. “There might be a source. Now let’s go and have a Bushmills and sort this out.”

  Fahy had a large-scale map of London spread across the table and examined it with a magnifying glass. “Here would be the place,” he said. “Horse Guards Avenue, running up from the Victoria Embankment at the side of the Ministry of Defence.”

  “Yes.” Dillon nodded.

  “If we left the Ford on the corner with Whitehall, then as long as I had a predetermined sighting, to get my direction, I reckon the mortar bombs would go over those roofs in a bloody great curve and land smack on Ten Downing Street!” He put his pencil down beside the ruler. “I’d like to have a look, mind you.”

  “And so you will,” Dillon said.

  “Would it work, Mr. Dillon?” Angel demanded.

  “Oh, yes,” he said. “I think it really could. Ten o’clock in the morning, the whole bloody War Cabinet.” He started to laugh. “It’s beautiful, Danny, beautiful.” He grabbed the other man’s arm. “You’ll come in with me on this?”

  “Of course I will.”

  “Good,” Dillon said. “Big, big money, Danny. I’ll set you up for your old age. Total luxury. Spain, Greece, anywhere you want to go.” Fahy rolled up the map and Dillon said, “I’ll stay overnight. We’ll go up to London tomorrow and have a look.” He smiled and lit another cigarette. “It’s looking good, Danny. Really good. Now tell me about this airfield near here at Grimethorpe.”

  “A real broken-down sort of a place. It’s only three miles from here. What would you want with Grimethorpe?”

  “I told you I learned to fly in the Middle East. A good way of getting out of places fast. Now what’s the situation at this Grimethorpe place?”

  “It goes way back into the past. A flying club in the thirties. Then the RAF used it as a feeder station during the Battle of Britain, so they built three hangars. Someone tried it as a flying club a few years ago. There’s a tarmac runway. Anyway, it failed. A fella called Bill Grant turned up three years ago. He has two planes there, that’s all I know. His firm is called Grant’s Air Taxis. I heard recently he was in trouble. His two mechanics had left. Business was bad.” He smiled. “There’s a recession on, Sean, and it even affects the rich.”

  “Does he live on the premises?”

  “Yes,” Angel said. “He did have a girlfriend, but she moved on.”

  “I think I’d like to meet him,” Dillon said. “Maybe you could show me, Angel?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good, but first I’d like to make a phone call.”

  He rang Tania Novikova at her flat. She answered at once. “It’s me,” he said.

  “Has it gone well?”

  “Unbelievable. I’ll tell you tomorrow. Did you pick up the money?”

  “Oh, yes, no problem.”

  “Good. I’ll be at the hotel at noon. I’m overnighting here. See you then,” and he rang off.

  Brosnan and Mary Tanner went up in the freight elevator with Charlie Salter and found Mordecai waiting for them. He pumped Brosnan’s hand up and down. “It’s great to see you, Professor. I can’t tell you how great. Harry’s been on hot bricks.”

  “This is Mary Tanner,” Brosnan said. “You’d better be nice. She’s an Army captain.”

  “Well, this is a pleasure, miss.” Mordecai shook her hand. “I did my National Service in the Grenadier Guards, but lance-corporal was all I managed.”

  He led them into the sitting room. Harry Flood was seated at the desk going ov
er some accounts. He glanced up and jumped to his feet. “Martin.” He rushed round the desk and embraced Brosnan, laughing in delight.

  Brosnan said, “Mary Tanner. She’s Army, Harry, a real hotshot, so watch your step. I’m working for Brigadier Charles Ferguson of British Intelligence and she’s his aide.”

  “Then I’ll behave.” Flood took her hand. “Now come over here and let’s have a drink and you tell me what all this is about, Martin.”

  They sat in the sofa complex in the corner and Brosnan covered everything in finest detail. Mordecai leaned against the wall listening, no expression on his face.

  When Brosnan was finished, Flood said, “So what do you want from me, Martin?”

  “He always works the underworld, Harry, that’s where he gets everything he needs. Not only physical help, but explosives, weaponry. He’ll work the same way now, I know he will.”

  “So what you want to know is who he’d go to?”

  “Exactly.”

  Flood looked up at Mordecai. “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know, Harry. I mean there are plenty of legit arms dealers, but what you need is someone who’s willing to supply the IRA.”

  “Any ideas?” Flood asked.

  “Not really, guv. I mean, most of your real East End villains love Maggie Thatcher and wear Union Jack underpants. They don’t go for Irish geezers letting off bombs at Harrods. We could make enquiries, of course.”

  “Then do that,” Flood said. “Put the word out now, but discreetly.”

  Mordecai went out and Harry Flood reached for the champagne bottle. “You’re still not drinking?” Brosnan said.

  “Not me, old buddy, but no reason you shouldn’t. You can fill me in with the events of recent years, and then we’ll go along to the Embassy, one of my more respectable clubs, and have something to eat.”

  At around the same time, Sean Dillon and Angel Fahy were driving along the dark country road from Cadge End to Grimethorpe. The lights of the car picked out light snow and frost on the hedgerows.

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she said.

  “I suppose so.”

  “I like it here, the countryside and all that. I like Uncle Danny, too. He’s been really good to me.”

  “That makes sense. You were raised in the country back there in Galway.”

  “It wasn’t the same. It was poor land there. It was hard work to make any kind of a living and it showed in the people, my mother, for instance. It was as if they’d been to war and lost and there was nothing to look forward to.”

  “You’ve got a way with the words, girl,” he told her.

  “My English teacher used to say that. She said if I worked hard and studied I could do anything.”

  “Well that must have been a comfort.”

  “It didn’t do me any good. My stepfather just saw me as an unpaid farm laborer. That’s why I left.”

  The lights picked out a sign that said Grimethorpe airfield, the paintwork peeling. Dillon turned into a narrow tarmac road that was badly potholed. A few moments later, they came to the airfield. There were three hangars, an old control tower, a couple of Nissen huts, a light at the windows of one of them. A jeep was parked there and Dillon pulled in beside it. As they got out, the door of the Nissen hut opened and a man stood there.

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s me, Mr. Grant, Angel Fahy. I’ve brought someone to see you.”

  Grant, like most pilots, was small and wiry. He looked to be in his mid-forties, wore jeans and an old flying jacket of the kind used by American aircrew in the Second World War. “You’d better come in, then.”

  The interior of the Nissen hut was warm, heated by a coke-burning stove, the pipe going up through the roof. Grant obviously used it as a living room. There was a table with the remains of a meal on it, an old easy chair by the stove facing a television set in the corner. Beneath the windows on the other side there was a long, sloping desk with a few charts.

  Angel said, “This is a friend of my uncle’s.”

  “Hilton,” Dillon said. “Peter Hilton.”

  Grant put his hand out, looking wary. “Bill Grant. I don’t owe you money, do I?”

  “Not to my knowledge.” Dillon was back in his public-school role.

  “Well, that makes a nice change. What can I do for you?”

  “I want a charter in the next few days. Just wanted to check if you might be able to do something before I tried anywhere else.”

  “Well, that depends.”

  “On what? You do have a plane, I take it?”

  “I’ve got two. The only problem is how long the bank lets me hang onto them. Do you want to have a look?”

  “Why not?”

  They went out, crossed the apron to the end hangar, and he opened a Judas so they could step through. He reached to one side, found a switch and lights came on. There were two planes there, side by side, both twin engines.

  Dillon walked up to the nearest. “I know this baby, a Cessna Conquest. What’s the other?”

  “Navajo Chieftain.”

  “If things are as tricky as you say, what about fuel?”

  “I always keep my planes juiced up, Mr. Hilton, always full tanks. I’m too old a hand to do otherwise. You never know when a job might come up.” He smiled ruefully. “Mind you, I’ll be honest. What with the recession, there aren’t too many people looking for charters these days. Where would you like me to take you?”

  “Actually I was thinking of going for a spin myself one day,” Dillon said. “I’m not sure when.”

  “You’re certified, then?” Grant looked dubious.

  “Oh, yes, fully.” Dillon took out his pilot’s license and passed it across.

  Grant examined it quickly and handed it back. “You could handle either of these two, but I’d rather come myself, just to make sure.”

  “No problem,” Dillon said smoothly. “It’s the West Country I was thinking of. Cornwall. There’s an airfield at Land’s End.”

  “I know it well. Grass runway.”

  “I’ve got friends near there. I’d probably want to stay overnight.”

  “That’s fine by me.” Grant switched off the lights and they walked back to the Nissen hut. “What line are you in, Mr. Hilton?”

  “Oh, finance, accountancy, that sort of thing,” Dillon said.

  “Have you any idea when you might want to go? I should point out that kind of charter’s going to be expensive. Around two thousand five hundred pounds. With half a dozen passengers that’s not so bad, but on your own . . .”

  “That’s fine,” Dillon said.

  “Then there would be my overnight expenses. A hotel and so on.”

  “No problem.” Dillon took ten fifty-pound notes from his wallet and put them on the table. “There’s five hundred down. It’s a definite booking for some time in the next four or five days. I’ll phone you here to let you know when.”

  Grant’s face brightened as he picked up the bank notes. “That’s fine. Can I get you a coffee or something before you go?”

  “Why not?” Dillon said.

  Grant went into the kitchen at the far end of the Nissen hut. They heard him filling a kettle. Dillon put a finger to his lips, made a face at Angel and crossed to the charts on the desk. He went through them quickly, found the one for the general English Channel area and the French coast. Angel stood beside him watching as he traced his finger along the Normandy coast. He found Cherbourg and moved south. There it was, Saint-Denis, with the landing strip clearly marked, and he pushed the charts back together. Grant in the kitchen had been watching through the half-open door. As the kettle boiled, he quickly made coffee in three mugs and took them in.

  “Is this weather giving you much trouble?” Dillon said. “The snow?”

  “It will if it really starts to stick,” Grant said. “It could make it difficult for that grass runway at Land’s End.”

  “We’ll just have to keep our fingers crossed.” Dillon put down his mu
g. “We’d better be getting back.”

  Grant went to the door to see them off. They got in the Mini and drove away. He waved, closed the door and went to the desk and examined the charts. It was the third or fourth down, he was sure of that. General English Channel area and the French coast.

  He frowned and said softly, “And what’s your game, mister, I wonder?”

  As they drove back through the dark country lanes Angel said, “Not Land’s End at all, Mr. Dillon, it’s that Saint-Denis place in Normandy, that’s where you want to fly to.”

  “Our secret,” he said and put his left hand on hers, still steering. “Can I ask you to promise me one thing?”

  “Anything, Mr. Dillon.”

  “Let’s keep it to ourselves, just for now. I don’t want Danny to know. You do drive, do you?”

  “Drive? Of course I do. I take the sheep to market in the Morris van myself.”

  “Tell me, how would you like a trip up to London tomorrow morning with me, you and Danny?”

  “I’d like it fine.”

  “Good, that’s all right, then.”

  As they carried on through the night her eyes were shining.

  NINE

  IT WAS A cold, crisp morning, winter on every hand, but the roads were clear as Dillon drove up to London, Angel and Danny Fahy following in the Morris van. Angel was driving, and more than competently. He could see her in his rearview mirror and she stayed right on his tail all the way into London until they came to the Bayswater Road. There was a plan already half-formed in his mind and he got out of the Mini-Cooper, parked it at the curb and opened the doors of Tania’s garage.

  As Angel and Danny drew up behind him he said, “Put the Morris inside.” Angel did as she was told. When she and Danny Fahy came out, Dillon closed the doors and said, “You’ll remember the street and the garage, if you lose me, that is?”

  “Don’t be silly, Mr. Dillon, of course I will,” Angel said.

  “Good. It’s important. Now get in the Mini. We’re going for a little run round.”