Eye Of The Storm aka Midnight Man

by Jack Higgins

  “I see. What are you going to do?”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t be around to tell them anything. One thing: They’ll know that Gordon gave me the contents of tonight’s report. He was in the telephone booth in the Ministry canteen when Ferguson arrested him.”

  “I see.”

  “Promise me one thing,” she said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Blow them away, all of them.” The doorbell rang. She said, “I’ve got to go. Luck, Dillon.”

  As she put down the phone, Gordon Brown came in with the coffee. “Was that the door?”

  “Yes. Be an angel, Gordon, and see who it is.”

  He opened the door and started downstairs. Tania took a deep breath. Dying wasn’t difficult. The cause she believed in had always been the most important thing in her life. She stubbed out her cigarette, opened a drawer in the desk, took out a Makarov pistol and shot herself through the right temple.

  Gordon Brown, halfway down the stairs, turned and bounded up, bursting into the room. At the sight of her lying there beside the desk, the pistol still in her right hand, he let out a terrible cry and fell on his knees.

  “Tania, my darling,” he moaned.

  And then he knew what he must do as he heard something heavy crash against the door below. He pried the Makarov from her hand and as he raised it, his own hand was trembling. He took a deep breath to steady himself and pulled the trigger in the same moment that the front door burst open and Lane and Mackie started upstairs, Ferguson behind them.

  There was a small crowd at the end of the street exhibiting the usual public curiosity. Dillon joined in, his collar up, hands in pockets. It started to snow slightly as they opened the rear doors of the ambulance. He watched as the two blanket-covered stretchers were loaded. The ambulance drove away. Ferguson stood on the pavement for a few moments talking to Lane and Mackie. Dillon recognized the Brigadier straight away, had been shown his photo many years previously. Lane and Mackie were obviously policemen.

  After a while, Ferguson got in his car and was driven away, Mackie went into the flat and Lane also drove away. The stratagem was obvious: For Mackie to wait just in case someone turned up. One thing was certain. Tania Novikova was dead and so was the boyfriend, and Dillon knew that thanks to her sacrifice, he was safe.

  He went back to the hotel and phoned Makeev at his flat in Paris. “I’ve got bad news, Josef.”

  “Tania?”

  “How did you know?”

  “She phoned. What’s happened?”

  “She was blown or rather her mole was. She killed herself, Josef, rather than get taken. A dedicated lady.”

  “And the mole? The boyfriend?”

  “Did the same. I’ve just seen the bodies carted out to an ambulance. Ferguson was there.”

  “How will this affect you?”

  “In no way. I’m off to Belfast in the morning to cut off the only chance of a lead they have.”

  “And then?”

  “I’ll amaze you, Josef, and your Arab friend. How does the entire British War Cabinet sound to you?”

  “Dear God, you can’t be serious?”

  “Oh, but I am. I’ll be in touch very soon now.”

  He replaced the phone, put on his jacket and went down to the bar, whistling.

  Ferguson was sitting in a booth in the lounge bar of the pub opposite Kensington Park Gardens and the Soviet Embassy, waiting for Colonel Yuri Gatov. The Russian, when he appeared, looked agitated, a tall, white-haired man in a camel overcoat. He saw Ferguson and hurried over.

  “Charles, I can’t believe it. Tania Novikova dead. Why?”

  “Yuri, you and I have known each other for better than twenty-five years, often as adversaries, but I’ll take a chance on you now, a chance that you really do want to see change in our time and an end to East-West conflict.”

  “But I do, you know that.”

  “Unfortunately, not everyone in the KGB would agree with you and Tania Novikova was one.”

  “She was a hardliner, true, but what are you saying, Charles?”

  So Ferguson told him-Dillon, the attempt on Mrs. Thatcher, Gordon Brown, Brosnan, everything.

  Gatov said. “This IRA wild card intends to attempt the life of the Prime Minister, that’s what you’re telling me, and Tania was involved?”

  “Oh, very directly.”

  “But, Charles, I knew nothing, I swear.”

  “And I believe you, old chap, but she must have had a link with someone. I mean she managed to convey vital information to Dillon in Paris. That’s how he knew about Brosnan and so on.”

  “Paris,” Gatov said. “That’s a thought. Did you know she was in Paris for three years before transferring to London? And you know who’s head of Paris Station for the KGB?”

  “Of course, Josef Makeev,” Ferguson said.

  “Anything but a Gorbachev man. Very much of the old guard.”

  “It would explain a great deal,” Ferguson said. “But we’ll never prove it.”

  “True.” Gatov nodded. “But I’ll give him a call anyway, just to worry him.”

  Makeev had not strayed far from the phone and picked it up the moment it rang.

  “Makeev here.”

  “Josef? Yuri Gatov. I’m phoning from London.”

  “Yuri. What a surprise,” Makeev said, immediately wary.

  “I’ve got some distressing news, Josef. Tania, Tania Novikova.”

  “What about her?”

  “She committed suicide earlier this evening along with some boyfriend of hers, a clerk at the Ministry of Defence.”

  “Good heavens.” Makeev tried to sound convincing.

  “He was feeding her classified information. I’ve just had a session with Charles Ferguson of Group Four. You know Charles?”

  “Of course.”

  “I was quite shocked. I must tell you I had no knowledge of Tania’s activities. She worked for you for three years, Josef, so you know her as well as anyone. Have you any thoughts on the matter?”

  “None, I’m afraid.”

  “Ah, well, if you can think of anything, let me know.”

  Makeev poured himself a Scotch and went and looked out into the frostbound Paris street. For a wild moment he’d had an impulse to phone Michael Aroun, but what would be the point, and Tania had sounded so certain. Set the world on fire, that had been her phrase.

  He raised his glass. “To you, Dillon,” he said softly. “Let’s see if you can do it.”

  It was almost eleven in the River Room at the Savoy, the band still playing, and Harry Flood, Brosnan and Mary were thinking of breaking up the party when Ferguson appeared at last.

  “If ever I’ve needed a drink I need one now. A Scotch, and a very large one.”

  Flood called a waiter and gave the order and Mary said, “What on earth’s happened?”

  Ferguson gave them a quick résumé of the night’s events. When he was finished, Brosnan said, “It explains a great deal, but the infuriating thing is it gets us no closer to Dillon.”

  “One point I must make,” Ferguson said. “When I arrested Brown in the canteen at the Ministry he was on the phone and he had the report in his hand. I believe it likely he was speaking to the Novikova woman then.”

  “I see what you’re getting at,” Mary said. “You think she, in her turn, may have transmitted the information to Dillon?”

  “Possibly,” Ferguson said.

  “So what are you suggesting?” Brosnan asked. “That Dillon would go to Belfast, too?”

  “Perhaps,” Ferguson said. “If it was important enough.”

  “We’ll just have to take our chances, then.” Brosnan turned to Mary. “Early start tomorrow. We’d better get moving.”

  As they walked through the lounge to the entrance, Brosnan and Ferguson went ahead and stood talking. Mary said to Flood, “You think a lot of him, don’t you?”

  “Martin?” He nodded. “The Vietcong had me in a pit for weeks. When the rains came, it u
sed to fill up with water and I’d have to stand all night so I didn’t drown. Leeches, worms, you name it, and then one day, when it was as bad as it could be, a hand reached down and pulled me out, and it was Martin in a headband, hair to his shoulders and his face painted like an Apache Indian. He’s special people.”

  Mary looked across at Brosnan. “Yes,” she said. “I suppose that just about sums him up.”

  Dillon ordered a taxi to pick him up at six o’clock from the hotel. He was waiting for it on the steps, his case in one hand when it arrived, a briefcase in the other. He was wearing his trenchcoat, suit, striped tie and glasses to fit the Peter Hilton persona, carried the Jersey driving license and the flying license as proof of identity. In the case was a toilet bag and the items he had obtained from Clayton at Covent Garden, all neatly folded. He’d included a towel from the hotel, socks and underpants. It all looked terribly normal and the wig could be easily explained.

  The run to Heathrow was fast at that time in the morning. He went and picked up his ticket at the booking desk, then put his case through and got his seat assignment. He wasn’t carrying a gun. No possible way he could do that, not with the kind of maximum security that operated on the Belfast planes.

  He got a selection of newspapers, went up to the gallery restaurant and ordered a full English breakfast, then he started to work his way through the papers, checking on how the war in the Gulf was doing.

  At Gatwick, there was a light powdering of snow at the side of the runway as the Lear jet lifted off. As they leveled off, Mary said, “How do you feel?”

  “I’m not sure,” Brosnan said. “It’s been a long time since I was in Belfast. Liam Devlin, Anne-Marie. So long ago.”

  “And Sean Dillon?”

  “Don’t worry, I wasn’t forgetting him, I could never do that.”

  He turned and stared far out into the distance as the Lear jet lifted up out of the clouds and turned north-west.

  Although Dillon wasn’t aware of it, Brosnan and Mary had already landed and were on their way to the Europa Hotel when his flight touched down at Aldergrove airport outside Belfast. There was a half-hour wait for the baggage, and when he got his case, he made for the green line and followed a stream of people through. Customs officers stopped some, but he wasn’t one of them, and within five minutes he was outside and into a taxi.

  “English, are you?” the driver asked.

  Dillon slipped straight into his Belfast accent. “And what makes you think that?”

  “Jesus, I’m sorry,” the driver said. “Anywhere special?”

  “I’d like a hotel in the Falls Road,” Dillon said. “Somewhere near Craig Street.”

  “You won’t get much round there.”

  “Scenes of my youth,” Dillon told him. “I’ve been working in London for years. Just in town for business overnight. Thought I’d like to see the old haunts.”

  “Suit yourself. There’s the Deepdene, but it’s not much, I’m telling you.”

  A Saracen armored car passed then, and as they turned into a main road, they saw an Army patrol. “Nothing changes,” Dillon said.

  “Sure and most of those lads weren’t even born when the whole thing started,” the driver told him. “I mean, what are we in for? Another Hundred Years’ War?”

  “God knows,” Dillon said piously and opened his paper.

  The driver was right. The Deepdene wasn’t much. A tall Victorian building in a mean side street off the Falls Road. He paid off the driver, went in and found himself in a shabby hall with a worn carpet. When he tapped the bell on the desk, a stout, motherly woman emerged.

  “Can I help you, dear?”

  “A room,” he said. “Just the one night.”

  “That’s fine.” She pushed a register at him and took a key down. “Number nine on the first floor.”

  “Shall I pay now?”

  “Sure and there’s no need for that. Don’t I know a gentleman when I see one?”

  He went up the stairs, found the door and unlocked it. The room was as shabby as he’d expected, a single brass bedstead, a wardrobe. He put his case on the table and went out again, locking the door, then went the other way along the corridor and found the back stairs. He opened the door at the bottom into an untidy backyard. The lane beyond backed onto incredibly derelict houses, but it didn’t depress him in the slightest. This was an area he knew like the back of his hand, a place where he’d led the British Army one hell of a dance in his day. He moved along the alley, a smile on his face, remembering, and turned into the Falls Road.

  ELEVEN

  “I REMEMBER THEM opening this place in seventy-one,” Brosnan said to Mary. He was standing at the window of the sixth-floor room of the Europa Hotel in Great Victoria Street next to the railway station. “For a while it was a prime target for IRA bombers, the kind who’d rather blow up anything rather than nothing.”

  “Not you, of course.”

  There was a slight, sarcastic edge which he ignored. “Certainly not. Devlin and I appreciated the bar too much. We came in all the time.”

  She laughed in astonishment. “What nonsense. Are you seriously asking me to believe that with the British Army chasing you all over Belfast you and Devlin sat in the Europa’s bar?”

  “Also the restaurant on occasion. Come on, I’ll show you. Better take our coats, just in case we get a message while we’re down there.”

  As they were descending in the lift, she said, “You’re not armed, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Good, I’d rather keep it that way.”

  “How about you?”

  “Yes,” she said calmly. “But that’s different. I’m a serving officer of Crown Forces in an Active Service zone.”

  “What are you carrying?”

  She opened her handbag and gave him a brief glimpse of the weapon. It was not much larger than the inside of her hand, a small automatic.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Rather rare. An old Colt.25. I picked it up in Africa.”

  “Hardly an elephant gun.”

  “No, but it does the job.” She smiled bleakly. “As long as you can shoot, that is.”

  The lift doors parted and they went across the lounge.

  Dillon walked briskly along the Falls Road. Nothing had changed, nothing at all. It was just like the old days. He twice saw RUC patrols backed up by soldiers and once, two armored troop carriers went by, but no one paid any attention. He finally found what he wanted in Craig Street about a mile from the hotel. It was a small, double-fronted shop with steel shutters on the windows. The three brass balls of a pawnbroker hung over the entrance with the sign Patrick Macey.

  Dillon opened the door and walked into musty silence. The dimly lit shop was crammed with a variety of items. Television sets, video recorders, clocks. There was even a gas cooker and a stuffed bear in one corner.

  There was a mesh screen running along the counter and the man who sat on a stool behind it was working on a watch, a jeweler’s magnifying glass in one eye. He glanced up, a wasted-looking individual in his sixties, his face gray and pallid.

  “And what can I do for you?”

  Dillon said, “Nothing ever changes, Patrick. This place still smells exactly the same.”

  Macey took the magnifying glass from his eye and frowned. “Do I know you?”

  “And why wouldn’t you, Patrick? Remember that hot night in June of seventy-two when we set fire to that Orangeman, Stewart’s, warehouse and shot him and his two nephews as they ran out. Let me see, there were the three of us.” Dillon put a cigarette in his mouth and lit it carefully. “There was you and your half-brother, Tommy McGuire, and me.”

  “Holy Mother of God, Sean Dillon, is that you?” Macey said.

  “As ever was, Patrick.”

  “Jesus, Sean, I never thought to see you in Belfast city again. I thought you were…”

  He paused and Dillon said, “Thought I was where, Patrick?”

  “London,” Patric
k Macey said. “Somewhere like that,” he added lamely.

  “And where would you have got that idea from?” Dillon went to the door, locking it and pulled down the blind.

  “What are you doing?” Macey demanded in alarm.

  “I just want a nice private talk, Patrick, me old son.”

  “No, Sean, none of that. I’m not involved with the IRA, not anymore.”

  “You know what they say, Patrick, once in, never out. How is Tommy these days, by the way?”

  “Ah, Sean, I’d have thought you’d know. Poor Tommy’s been dead these five years. Shot by one of his own. A stupid row between the Provos and one of the splinter groups. INLA were suspected.”

  “Is that a fact?” Dillon nodded. “Do you see any of the other old hands these days? Liam Devlin, for instance?”

  And he had him there, for Macey was unable to keep the look of alarm from his face. “Liam? I haven’t seen him since the seventies.”

  “Really?” Dillon lifted the flap at the end of the counter and walked round. “It’s a terrible liar you are.” He slapped him across the face. “Now get in there,” and pushed him through the curtain that led to the office at the rear.

  Macey was terrified. “I don’t know a thing.”

  “About what? I haven’t asked you anything yet, but I’m going to tell you a few things. Tommy McGuire isn’t dead. He’s living somewhere else in this fair city under another name and you’re going to tell me where. Secondly, Liam Devlin has been to see you. Now I’m right on both counts, aren’t I?” Macey was frozen with fear, terrified, and Dillon slapped him again. “Aren’t I?”

  The other man broke then. “Please, Sean, please. It’s my heart. I could have an attack.”

  “You will if you don’t speak up, I promise you.”

  “All right. Devlin was here a little earlier this morning enquiring about Tommy.”

  “And shall I tell you what he said?”

  “Please, Sean.” Macey was shaking. “I’m ill.”

  “He said that bad old Sean Dillon was on the loose in London town and that he wanted to help run him down and who could be a better source of information than Dillon’s old chum, Tommy McGuire. Am I right?”