Touch The Devil

by Jack Higgins

  “On the face of it, an impossibility. No one gets in without a personal invitation or official pass checked very thoroughly by the police on the doors and by officials inside. However, it is an interesting fact that all reception and official dinners are organized by outside caterers.”

  “So?”

  “Tomorrow evening at six-thirty the Prime Minister is giving a Christmas party for at least a hundred people. Mainly staff, past and present. Office workers, typists, the cleaners—they’ll all be there. The function will take place in what’s called the Pillared Room. I’ve already put arrangements in hand for you to join the staff the caterers are using as an extra waiter.”

  Brosnan was stunned by the enormity of it. “Can we get away with it? I mean, I don’t even know my way about.”

  She opened a drawer and took out a folded sheet of paper. “There’s a plan of the ground and first floors. It’s quite simple.”

  He opened it up to examine it. “But where did you get this?”

  “Information freely available in numerous magazines and newspaper articles over the years,” she said. “You’ll need an official pass with your photo. That kind of forgery presents no problem at all to the particular man I use. However, the question of your personal appearance is of prime importance. It will be necessary to alter it considerably before the photo is taken.”

  “And how do I do that?”

  “I have an old friend who specializes in such matters. I suggest you return here later on. Say, at ten o’clock, and check out of that hotel room. Better if you stay here now.”

  “All right.”

  He got up and went to the door. She said, “Oh, I almost forgot. I have made suitable inquiries in Dublin. Devlin is at present a patient in the Mountjoy Nursing Home. He is apparently doing well.”

  “There was a young woman with him?”

  “That’s right. She moved yesterday to Devlin’s cottage in Mayo.”

  Brosnan nodded. “Well, that’s all right then.”

  He went down the steel stairs, and the Doberman went to the railing silently and watched him go. Only when the outer door banged did he return to his mistress.

  It was dark in the Prime Minister’s study, the only light the single reading lamp on the desk. She was writing busily when Ferguson was shown in.

  “Brigadier Ferguson, Prime Minister,” the secretary announced, and left.

  She didn’t bother looking up, simply kept on writing, and Ferguson, forbidden by protocol from sitting without an invitation, was forced to stand before the desk like a schoolboy. Finally she stopped writing and sat back in her chair and looked up at him. The face was calm, but the eyes were cold.

  “I’ve read your report on the Brosnan affair, Brigadier. May I take it that nothing has been left out?”

  “Nothing within my knowledge, ma’am, I give you my word,” Ferguson assured her.

  “Right, then to take the most important item first. You stated in your report your intention to seek for this rocket pod, according to instructions given you by the man Brosnan. Have you had any success?”

  “I’m happy to report that we recovered the item in question this very afternoon, Prime Minister. I was present myself.” A fact that he would long remember and he shuddered, remembering the bodies brought up by the divers, one by one.

  “Which at least gives us some hope of restoring confidence between ourselves and the West German government.” She opened the file and tapped it with a finger. “In the copy of your original report, found in the possession of the Baxter woman, there is no mention of the girl, Norah Cassidy. Details of that disgraceful business are only made plain in the report you have just submitted. Why, Brigadier? Were you perhaps ashamed?”

  Ferguson could think of nothing to say.

  She carried on. “So, you lied about the Cassidy girl to Professor Devlin and, through him, to Brosnan.”

  “I thought it necessary, ma’am, I needed Brosnan’s anger, you see, and then, as so often happens with these things, it all got out of hand.”

  “I don’t believe that the end justifies the means, Brigadier. I believe in moral imperatives.” She was angry now. “I don’t hold the slightest brief for Martin Brosnan or anything he stands for. Or, if it comes to it, for Devlin, however devastatingly charming the rest of you seem to find him. A terrorist is a terrorist in my book, and that is exactly what these men are.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Ferguson said.

  “Having said that, you lied to Brosnan, conned him, and for that he not only blames you but me through you. Would you say that that is roughly the situation he outlined to you when he telephoned you the day before yesterday?”

  “Yes, Prime Minister. To be explicit, his actual words were, ‘Somebody’s got to pay. In the circumstances, I’ll deal with the lady herself direct.’ Then he hung up.”

  She nodded, very calm, not in the slightest bit ruffled. “Do you think he intends to assassinate me, Brigadier?”

  “God knows, ma’am. He has a rather complex mind, this one.”

  “I should say so.” She leafed through the file. “Roses. What a conceit.” She closed it abruptly and sat up. “I usually make my mind up about a man in ten seconds, and I don’t like to be proved wrong. In the circumstances, I’m going to put my personal safety in your hands, Brigadier. Now, how does that strike you?”

  “As a very grave responsibility, Prime Minister.”

  “Good, it’s nice to be taken seriously. I haven’t the slightest intention of changing my schedule, I’m far too busy. Another thing, I don’t wish to see Brosnan’s face next to mine on the front page of the Daily Express, with melodramatic headlines such as mad IRA gunman stalks Prime Minister. Whatever you do must be handled discreetly.”

  “As you say, ma’am.”

  She handed a typed sheet to him. “There’s my schedule for tomorrow. You will also find waiting below special passes for you and your aide, which will enable you to move in and out of Downing Street or the House of Commons at will.” She picked up her pen. “Catch him, Brigadier; I should have thought it a simple enough task. Now you must go. I’ve got work to do.”

  She pressed a buzzer, and, by the time he reached the door, it was already being opened for him by the young secretary who had brought him up.

  Ferguson told his driver to stop on the Embankment and said to Fox, “Let’s take a walk, Harry.”

  They walked along the sidewalk, the driver trailing them, and finally Ferguson stopped and leaned on the wall, looking across the river.

  “Bad, sir?” Fox inquired.

  “She was not pleased, Harry. The last time I got a working over like that was by my housemaster at school. I was twelve at the time.” He took out his wallet, produced a card, and gave it to Fox.

  “What’s this, sir?”

  “Special pass, Harry, to get you into Downing Street or the Commons whenever you want. She’s put me in charge of her personal security until this thing is sorted.”

  “I see.” Fox put the card away carefully. “I shouldn’t think her personal detectives will be pleased about that.”

  Ferguson produced the schedule she had given him and unfolded it. “This is what she’s doing tomorrow. Read it to me.”

  He took a cheroot from a leather case and lit it carefully. Fox studied the sheet. “Good God, sir, she starts at six-thirty in the morning and doesn’t stop until one A.M. the following day.”

  “I know. Just give me the important features as they strike you.”

  “Cabinet meeting in the morning for a couple of hours. That’s at Downing Street.” Fox frowned. “I say, there’s a possibility, sir.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Memorial service for Earl Mountbatten. You think he might chance his aim there?”

  “I don’t know,” Ferguson said. “What else is there?”

  “Back to Downing Street. House of Commons at three o’clock. Then back to Downing Street for a meeting with Ministers. Let’s see, then she gives a radi
o interview and receives the West German ambassador who’s apparently retiring.”

  “Anything else?”

  “There’s a staff Christmas party in the Pillared Room at six-thirty. She’s due back to the Commons for dinner just before nine. After that, back home to work on papers.” He handed the sheet back to Ferguson. “I wonder if they pay her overtime, sir?”

  Ferguson said, “So, the only soft spot seems to be the Mountbatten memorial service at St. Paul’s Cathedral. Who else will be there? Prince Charles, Princess Margaret.” He grimaced. “The last place we want a bomb.”

  Fox said, “But Brosnan’s never gone in for bombing, sir.”

  “There’s always a first time.”

  “Do you really believe that, sir?”

  “No,” Ferguson sighed. “Not his style. He’s the last of the samurai, our lad, riding into the guns, sword in hand.”

  They went back to the Bentley and got in. “Still, the only soft spot is that service at St. Paul’s,” Fox said. “Everything else is either at Downing Street or the Commons, and he certainly hasn’t a hope in hell of ever getting into Number Ten.”

  “The Commons is a tricky one,” Ferguson said. “Lots of people come and go. Constituents up to see their MPs and so on.”

  Fox said, “So what’s our next move, sir?”

  “Convene a meeting of all interested parties.”

  Ferguson glanced at his watch. “We’ll meet at my office at headquarters at eleven. No refusals accepted. Utmost priority. I want to see all heads of relevant departments at D15. I also want Special Branch there. You know who to talk to?”

  “Yes, sir,” Fox said. “We’ll get him, sir. Bound to.”

  “Wish I could be so sanguine,” Charles Ferguson said, and he leaned back and closed his eyes.

  Brosnan sat in front of the dressing table, a towel around his shoulders, and watched as the old man ran a steel comb through the long hair which was now a pale straw color.

  “Good,” he said. “I’m really very pleased with that. Now, of course, most of it must go.”

  He picked up a pair of scissors and went to work, humming to himself. He was easily as old as Lily Winter and so similar in features that they might have been brother and sister.

  Sitting on a stool watching, she lit a cigarette and passed it to Brosnan. “Shlomo is so clever. He started in Yiddish cabaret in Amsterdam. Got out just ahead of the Germans.”

  “I was at Elstree for years.” The old man had exchanged the scissors for a cutthroat razor now. “Margaret Lockwood, James Mason. I’ve worked with all the greats. Mr. Noel Coward gave me a cigarette case once. It was engraved: To Shlomo the Magician from the Master.”

  Brosnan’s hair was now considerably more conventional in length, and the old man quickly blow-dried it and parted it neatly. Amazing the difference it made, especially the bleached eyebrows.

  “Fantastic,” Brosnan said.

  “Not yet. Now you just look different. When I’m finished, I make you look like someone else. Stretch your upper lip and keep it stretched till I tell you to stop.”

  Brosnan did as he was told. The old man carefully fitted a blond moustache into place. He reached for the scissors and trimmed it. “I do this for famous people sometimes. You know, pop stars who want to go shopping at Harrods without being chased by the fans.”

  “And me?” Brosnan said. “Who do you think I don’t want to be chased by?”

  “I don’t wish to know. I’m not interested. You seem like a nice boy to me.” Shlomo shrugged. “If Lily’s satisfied, that’s good enough. Open your mouth.” Brosnan did as he was told and the old man inserted cheek pads gently. He looked at the face over Brosnan’s shoulder. “I don’t think we need nose rings, eh, Lily?”

  She shook her head. “Just the glasses.”

  They were gold-framed, tinted blue, and looked vaguely continental. The effect was quite astonishing. The man who stared back at Brosnan from the mirror was a total stranger.

  “We’ll not make you a foreigner,” Lily said. “I mean, if we say you’re Danish, you can be certain you’ll run into a real Danish waiter, so plain George Jackson from Manchester will have to do.” She looked over his shoulder again and nodded. “That really is very good. Now come and have your photo taken.”

  Ferguson stood to one side of the steps at the main entrance of St. Paul’s Cathedral and watched the Royal party get into their cars below. The memorial service for Mountbatten was over. It had passed off without any kind of incident whatsoever. The Prime Minister, in a black suit, descended the steps, got into her car and was driven away.

  Fox said, “Well, that went off all right, thank God,” and they went down the steps as the Bentley drew up. “The thing is, sir,” he added as they got in, “as that really was the only time today when she was a soft target, what do we do now?”

  “Stick to her like glue, Harry,” Ferguson told him. “That’s all we can do.” He rapped on the glass panel, and his driver moved away at once, following the Prime Minister’s car.

  Below stairs at Number 10 Downing Street was a hive of activity as six-thirty approached. The first guests were already arriving, for many retired staff members had been invited. The back entrance, a uniformed police sergeant on duty inside, stood open as half a dozen waiters ran back and forth, carrying crates of wine and other essentials for the function from a parked van.

  Brosnan was one of them, and as he staggered in carrying two cartons of bottled beer the police sergeant said, “You can drop one of those off here any time you like.”

  Brosnan grinned and kept on going to the kitchen, where he was immediately ordered to help with the glasses. Some of the other waiters were already at work, he’d seen them go. It suddenly occurred to him that this might be it. That the sum total of all his efforts was going to be that he got as far as the kitchen, and then the headwaiter came in and tapped him on the shoulder.

  “You—what’s your name?”

  “Jackson, sir.”

  “Right, put your gear on and get in there. You’re needed.”

  Brosnan took off his dark alpaca working jacket and hung it up. Then he put on his white waiter’s coat and took white gloves from the pocket. He pulled them on carefully and slipped a hand under his jacket, touching the Smith and Wesson flat against his back in his waistband, under the shirt. Then he picked up a silver tray, took a deep breath, and went along the corridor.

  * * *

  The Prime Minister, wearing a green evening dress, moved among the guests with her husband and daughter, thoroughly enjoying herself. From the other side of the room Brosnan watched, as he worked his way through the crowd with glasses of white wine on his tray.

  When it was empty, he went back to the serving table, and the headwaiter told him to collect empty glasses and take them to the kitchen. Brosnan did as he was told, journeying back and forth to the kitchen three times.

  Now that he was here, the truth was he had no idea what came next, and then, as he returned from the kitchen for a third time, he noticed the Prime Minister part from a group of people, a smile on her face, and go out through the open double doors and start up the main staircase.

  He remembered the plans he had studied so carefully. Her private study, the White Drawing Room, and the Blue Drawing Room were all up there.

  They were just opening champagne bottles at the serving table. He waited his turn with the other waiters and took one. Everything was busy confusion. He took a couple of glasses from the end of the table, placed them carefully on the tray with the champagne, then walked through the noisy crowd into the hall. It was, for the moment, empty. Without hesitation, he mounted the stairway to the first floor.

  * * *

  The Prime Minister was sitting at her desk, reading a memo and making notes, when there was a knock at the door. It opened, and Brosnan entered. He closed the door carefully behind him and stepped forward.

  She glanced up in surprise. “What on earth have you got there?”

 
; Brosnan’s throat was dry, his heart pounded. He was acutely aware of the Smith and Wesson digging into his back. His voice was low and rather hoarse when he said, “Champagne, ma’am.”

  “I didn’t order any champagne.”

  “Well the head waiter told me to bring it up, ma’am, with two glasses. He was very specific about that.”

  “Two glasses.” She smiled suddenly. “Oh, I see. Well, just leave it there on the table.”

  She was writing again, and there was sweat on Brosnan’s forehead as he put the tray down on a small coffee table. He straightened and looked toward her, and his right hand slid under his jacket feeling for the butt of the Smith and Wesson. In three seconds it would be over.

  For her, not for him.

  Would it ever be over for him?

  “You can go now,” she said without looking up.

  I don’t exist for her, he thought, and yet I am her death. Oh Norah, will this or anything else avenge you?

  He saw the roses in the crystal vase on the table to one side. White Christmas roses with long stems.

  “Will that be all, ma’am?”

  “Yes, thank you,” a touch of impatience in her voice.

  She still didn’t look up, even as, his heart beating rapidly, he slipped a rose from the vase and laid it on the silver tray between the bottle of champagne and the two glasses.

  He opened the door, went out on the landing, and closed it again quietly.

  The hall was still deserted as he went down the stairs past the portraits of all those prime ministers who had gone before her. He moved straight into the crowd, picked up a tray, and started to collect empty glasses. When his tray was full, he went back to the kitchen.

  The passage was a frenzy of activity as the party drew to a close, and the back door stood open, waiters carrying crates of empty bottles out to the van.

  Brosnan went into the kitchen, took off his white waiter’s coat and hung it up. Then he pulled on the dark alpaca working jacket, picked up a crate, and went out into the passage, past the sergeant standing at the open door. He joined the queue at the back of the van, passed up his crate, then walked around to the other side and cut across a small courtyard with a little lawn in the center.