Eye of the Storm

by Jack Higgins

  “Maybe it was,” Dillon said, “but at the end of the day all that matters is we missed.”

  He took out a cigarette, lit it and suddenly started to laugh helplessly.

  Aroun had left Paris at nine-thirty, flying the Citation jet himself, Rashid having the rating qualifying him as the second pilot necessary under flight regulations. Makeev, in the cabin behind them, was reading the morning paper when Aroun called in to the control tower at Maupertus Airport at Cherbourg to clear for his landing on the private strip at Saint-Denis.

  The controller gave him his clearance and then said, “We’ve just had a newsflash. Bomb attack on the British Cabinet at Downing Street in London.”

  “What happened?” Aroun demanded.

  “That’s all they’re saying at the moment.”

  Aroun smiled excitedly at Rashid, who’d also heard the message. “Take over and handle the landing.” He scrambled back to the cabin and sat opposite Makeev. “Newsflash just in. Bomb attack on Ten Downing Street.”

  Makeev threw down his paper. “What happened?”

  “That’s all for the moment.” Aroun looked up to heaven, spreading his hands. “Praise be to God.”

  Ferguson was standing beside the outside broadcast vans at Mountbatten Green with Detective Inspector Lane and Sergeant Mackie. It was snowing slightly and a police forensic team were making a careful inspection of Fahy’s third mortar bomb, the one which hadn’t exploded.

  “A bad business, sir,” Lane said. “To use an old-fashioned phrase, right at the heart of Empire. I mean, how can they get away with this kind of thing?”

  “Because we’re a democracy, Inspector, because people have to get on with their lives, and that means we can’t turn London into some Eastern-European style armed fortress.”

  A young constable came across with a mobile phone and whispered to Mackie. The sergeant said, “Excuse me, Brigadier, it’s urgent. Your office has been trying to contact you. Captain Tanner’s been on the line.”

  “Give it to me.” Ferguson took the phone. “Ferguson here. I see. Give me the number.” He gestured to Mackie who took out pad and pencil and wrote it down as Ferguson dictated it.

  The Mercedes was passing through Dorking when the phone went. Mary picked it up at once. “Brigadier?”

  “What’s going on?” he demanded.

  “The mortar attack on Number Ten. It has to be Dillon. We found out he picked up fifty pounds of Semtex in London last night, supplied by Jack Harvey.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “Just leaving Dorking, sir, taking the Horsham Road, Martin and me and Harry Flood. We’ve got an address for Dillon.”

  “Give it to me.” He nodded to Mackie again and repeated it aloud so the sergeant could write it down.

  Mary said, “The road’s not good, sir, with the snow, but we should be at this Cadge End place in half an hour.”

  “Fine. Nothing rash, Mary, my love, but don’t let the bastard get away. We’ll get backup to you as soon as possible. I’ll be in my car, so you’ve got the phone number.”

  “All right, sir.”

  She put the phone down and Flood turned. “Okay?”

  “Backup on the way, but we’re not to let him get away.”

  Brosnan took the Browning from his pocket and checked it. “He won’t,” he said grimly. “Not this time.”

  Ferguson quietly filled in Lane on what had happened. “What do you think Harvey will be up to, Inspector?”

  “Receiving treatment from some bent doctor in a nice little private nursing home somewhere, sir.”

  “Right, have that checked out and if it’s as you say, don’t interfere. Just have them watched, but this Cadge End place is where we go and fast. Now go and organize the cars.”

  Lane and Mackie hurried away and as Ferguson made to follow them the Prime Minister appeared round the corner of the building. He was wearing a dark overcoat, the Home Secretary and several aides with him. He saw Ferguson and came over.

  “Dillon’s work, Brigadier?”

  “I believe so, Prime Minister.”

  “Rather close.” He smiled. “Too close for comfort. A remarkable man, this Dillon.”

  “Not for much longer, Prime Minister, I’ve just had an address for him at last.”

  “Then don’t let me detain you, Brigadier. Carry on, by all means.”

  Ferguson turned and hurried away.

  The track through the trees at Cadge End was covered with more snow since they had left. Angel bumped along it to the farmyard and turned into the barn. She switched off and it seemed terribly quiet.

  Fahy said, “Now what?”

  “A nice cup of tea, I think.” Dillon got out, went round and opened the van doors and pulled out the duckboard. “Help me, Danny.” They got the BSA out, and he lifted it up on its stand. “Performed brilliantly. You did a good job there, Danny.”

  Angel had gone ahead and as they followed her, Fahy said, “You haven’t a nerve in your body, have you, Sean?”

  “I could never see the point.”

  “Well, I have, Sean, and what I need isn’t bloody tea, it’s whisky.”

  He went in the living room and Dillon went up to his bedroom. He found an old holdall and packed it quickly with his suit, trenchcoat, shirts, shoes and general bits and pieces. He checked his wallet. About four hundred pounds left in there. He opened his briefcase, which held the five thousand dollars remaining from his expense money and the Walther with the Carswell silencer on the end. He cocked the gun, leaving it ready for action, put it back in the briefcase together with the Jersey driving license and the pilot’s license. He unzipped his jacket, took out the Beretta and checked it, then he slipped it into the waistband of his leather trousers at the rear, tucking the butt under the jacket.

  When he went downstairs carrying the holdall and briefcase Fahy was standing looking at the television set. There were shots of Whitehall in the snow, Downing Street and Mountbatten Green.

  “They just had the Prime Minister on inspecting the damage. Looked as if he didn’t have a worry in the world.”

  “Yes, his luck is good,” Dillon said.

  Angel came in and handed him a cup of tea. “What happens now, Mr. Dillon?”

  “You know very well what happens, Angel. I fly off into the wild blue yonder.”

  “To that Saint-Denis place?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Okay for you, Sean, and us left here to carry the can,” Fahy said.

  “And what can would that be?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Nobody has any kind of a line on you, Danny. You’re safe till Doomsday. I’m the one the buggers are after. Brosnan and his girlfriend, and Brigadier Ferguson, I’m the one they’ll put this down to.”

  Fahy turned away and Angel said, “Can’t we go with you, Mr. Dillon?”

  He put down his cup and put his hands on her shoulders. “There’s no need, Angel. I’m the one running, not you or Danny. They don’t even know you exist.”

  He went across to the phone, picked it up and rang Grimethorpe airfield. Grant answered straight away. “Yes, who is it?”

  “Peter Hilton, old boy.” Dillon reverted to his public-school persona. “Okay for my flight? Not too much snow?”

  “It’s clear down at the other end in the West Country,” Grant said. “Might be tricky taking off here, though. When were you thinking of going?”

  “I’ll be round in half an hour. That all right?” Dillon asked.

  “I’ll expect you.”

  As Dillon put the phone down, Angel cried, “No, Uncle Danny.”

  Dillon turned and found Fahy standing in the doorway with a shotgun in both hands. “But it’s not all right with me, Sean,” and he thumbed back the hammers.

  “Danny boy,” Dillon spread his hands. “Don’t do this.”

  “We’re going with you, Sean, and that’s an end to it.”

  “Is it your money you’re worried about, Danny? Didn
’t I tell you the man I’m working for can arrange payments anywhere?”

  Fahy was trembling now, the shotgun shaking in his hand. “No, it’s not the money.” He broke a little then. “I’m frightened, Sean. Jesus, when I saw that on the television. If I’m caught, I’ll spend the rest of my life in jail. I’m too old, Sean.”

  “Then why did you come in with me in the first place?”

  “I wish I knew. Sitting here, all these years, bored out of my mind. The van, the mortars, it was just something to do, a fantasy, and then you turned up and made it real.”

  “I see,” Dillon said.

  Fahy raised the shotgun. “So that’s it, Sean. If we don’t go, you don’t go.”

  Dillon’s hand at his back found the butt of the Beretta, his arm swung and he shot Fahy twice in the heart sending him staggering out into the hall. He hit the wall on the other side and slid down.

  Angel screamed, ran out and knelt beside him. She stood up slowly, staring at Dillon. “You’ve killed him.”

  “He didn’t give me any choice.”

  She turned, grabbed at the front door, and Dillon went after her. She dashed across the yard into one of the barns and disappeared. Dillon moved inside the entrance and stood there listening. There was a rustling somewhere in the loft and straw dust floated down.

  “Angel, listen to me. I’ll take you with me.”

  “No, you won’t. You’ll kill me like me Uncle Danny. You’re a bloody murderer.” Her voice was muffled.

  For a moment, he extended his left arm pointing the Beretta up to the loft. “And what did you expect? What did you think it was all about?”

  There was silence. He turned, hurried across to the house, stepped over Fahy’s body. He put the Beretta back in his waistband at the rear, picked up his briefcase and the holdall containing his clothes, went back to the barn and put them on the passenger seat of the Morris.

  He tried once more. “Come with me, Angel. I’d never harm you, I swear it.” There was no reply. “To hell with you, then,” he said, got behind the wheel and drove away along the track.

  It was some time later, when everything was very quiet, that Angel came down the ladder and crossed to the house. She sat beside her uncle’s body, back against the wall, a vacant look on her face and didn’t move, not even when she heard the sound of a car driving into the courtyard outside.

  FOURTEEN

  THE RUNWAY AT Grimethorpe was completely covered with snow. The hangar doors were closed and there was no sign of either of the planes. Smoke was drifting up from the iron stovepipe, the only sign of life as Dillon drove up to the huts and the old tower and braked to a halt. He got out with his holdall and briefcase and walked to the door. When he went in, Bill Grant was standing by the stove drinking coffee.

  “Ah, there you are, old man. Place looked deserted,” Dillon said. “I was beginning to worry.”

  “No need.” Grant, who was wearing old black flying overalls and leather flying jacket, reached for a bottle of Scotch and poured some into his mug of coffee.

  Dillon put down his holdall, but still carried the briefcase in his right hand. “I say, is that wise, old chap?” he asked in his most public-school voice.

  “I never was particularly wise, old chap.” Grant seemed to be mocking him now. “That’s how I end up in a dump like this.”

  He crossed to his desk and sat down behind it. Dillon saw that there was a chart on the desk, the English Channel area, the Normandy coast, the Cherbourg approaches, the chart Dillon had checked out with Angel that first night.

  “Look, I’d really like to get going, old chap,” he said. “If it’s the rest of the fee you’re worried about I can pay cash.” He held up the briefcase. “I’m sure you’ve no objection to American dollars.”

  “No, but I do have an objection to being taken for a fool.” Grant indicated the chart. “Land’s End my arse. I saw you checking this out the other night with the girl. English Channel and French coast. What I’d like to know is what you’re trying to get me into.”

  “You’re really being very silly,” Dillon said.

  Grant pulled open a drawer in the desk and took out his old Webley revolver. “We’ll see, shall we? Now just put the briefcase on the desk and stand back while I see what we’ve got.”

  “Certainly, old chap, no need for violence.” Dillon stepped close and put the briefcase on the desk. At the same moment he pulled the Beretta from his waistband at the rear, reached across the table and shot Grant at point-blank range.

  Grant went backwards over the chair. Dillon put the Beretta back in place, folded the chart, put it under his arm, picked up his holdall and briefcase and went out, trudging through the snow to the hangar. He went in through the Judas, unbolted the great sliding door inside so that the two aircraft stood revealed. He chose the Cessna Conquest for no better reason than that it was the nearest. The stairs to the door were down. He threw the holdall and the briefcase inside, went up, pulling the door behind him.

  He settled in the left-hand pilot’s seat and sat there studying the chart. Approximately a hundred and forty miles to the airstrip at Saint-Denis. Unless he encountered problems with headwinds, in a plane like this he should do it in forty-five minutes. No flight plan filed, of course, so he would be a bogey on somebody’s radar screen, but that didn’t matter. If he went straight out to sea over Brighton, he would be lost in mid-Channel before anyone knew what was going on. There was a question of the approach to Saint-Denis, but if he hit the coast at six hundred feet, with any luck he would be below the radar screen operated at Maupertus Airport at Cherbourg.

  He put the chart on the other seat where he could see it and switched on, firing first the port engine, then the starboard. He took the Conquest out of the hangar and paused to make a thorough cockpit check. As Grant had boasted, the fuel tanks were full. Dillon strapped himself in and taxied across the apron and down to the end of the runway.

  He turned into the wind and started forward. He was immediately aware of the drag from the snow, boosted power and gave it everything he could, easing back the column. The Conquest lifted and started to climb. He banked to turn toward his heading for Brighton and saw a black limousine down below moving out of the trees toward the hangars.

  “Well I don’t know who the hell you are,” he said softly, “but if it’s me you’re after you’re too late,” and he turned the Conquest in a great curve and started for the coast.

  Angel sat at the kitchen table, holding the mug of coffee Mary had given her. Brosnan and Harry Flood, his arm in the sling, stood listening and Charlie Salter leaned on the door.

  “It was Dillon and your uncle at Downing Street, is that what you’re saying?” Mary asked.

  Angel nodded. “I drove the Morris with Mr. Dillon’s motorbike in it. He followed Uncle Danny, he was in the Ford Transit.” She looked dazed. “I drove them back from Bayswater and Uncle Danny was afraid, afraid of what might happen.”

  “And Dillon?” Mary asked.

  “He was flying away from the airfield up the road, Grimethorpe. He made arrangements with Mr. Grant who runs the place. Said he wanted to go to Land’s End, but he didn’t.”

  She sat clutching the mug, staring into space. Brosnan said gently. “Where did he want to go, Angel, do you know?”

  “He showed me on the chart. It was in France. It was down along the coast from Cherbourg. There was a landing strip marked. A place called Saint-Denis.”

  “You’re sure?” Brosnan said.

  “Oh, yes. Uncle Danny asked him to take us too, but he wouldn’t, then Uncle Danny got upset. He came in with the shotgun and then . . .” She started to sob.

  Mary put her arms around her. “It’s all right now, it’s all right.”

  Brosnan said, “Was there anything else?”

  “I don’t think so.” Angel still looked dazed. “He offered Uncle Danny money. He said the man he was working for could arrange payments anywhere in the world.”

  “Did he say wh
o the man was?” Brosnan asked.

  “No, he never did.” She brightened. “He did say something about working for the Arabs the first time he came.”

  Mary glanced at Brosnan. “Iraq?”

  “I always did think that was a possibility.”

  “Right, let’s get going,” Flood said. “Check out this Grimethorpe place. You stay here with the kid, Charlie,” he said to Salter, “until the cavalry arrives. We’ll take the Mercedes,” and he turned and led the way out.

  In the Great Hall at Saint-Denis, Rashid, Aroun and Makeev stood drinking champagne, waiting for the television news.

  “A day for rejoicing in Baghdad,” Aroun said. “The people will know now how strong their President is.”

  The screen filled with the announcer who spoke briefly, then the pictures followed. Whitehall in the snow, the Household Cavalry guards, the rear of Ten Downing Street, curtains hanging from smashed windows, Mountbatten Green and the Prime Minister inspecting the damage. The three men stood in shocked silence.

  It was Aroun who spoke first. “He has failed,” he whispered. “All for nothing. A few broken windows, a hole in the garden.”

  “The attempt was made,” Makeev protested. “The most sensational attack on the British Government ever mounted, and at the seat of power.”

  “Who gives a damn?” Aroun tossed his champagne glass into the fireplace. “We needed a result and he hasn’t given us one. He failed with the Thatcher woman and he failed with the British Prime Minister. In spite of all your big talk, Josef, nothing but failure.”

  He sat down in one of the high-backed chairs at the dining table, and Rashid said, “A good thing we didn’t pay him his million pounds.”

  “True,” Aroun said, “but the money is the least of it. It’s my personal position with the President which is at stake.”