Eye of the Storm (7 page)

“All right. He’s small, fair-haired, late thirties and he can handle himself. What makes you think he’s Irish?”

“When he was assembling the Kalashnikov he made a crack about seeing one take out a Land-Rover full of English paratroopers.”

“Is that all?”

Pierre frowned. Brosnan took the bottle of Krug from the bucket and Gaston said, “No, there’s something else. He’s always whistling a funny sort of tune. A bit eerie. I managed to follow it on my accordion. He said it was Irish.”

Brosnan’s face had gone quite still. He stood there, holding the bottle in one hand, a glass in the other.

“And he likes that stuff, monsieur,” Pierre said.

“Champagne?” Brosnan asked.

“Well, yes, any champagne is better than nothing, but Krug is his favorite.”

“Like this, non-vintage?”

“Yes, monsieur. He told us he preferred the grape mix,” Pierre said.

“The bastard always did.”

Anne-Marie put a hand on Brosnan’s arm. “You know him, Martin?”

“Almost certainly. Could you pick that tune out on the piano?” he asked Gaston.

“I’ll try, monsieur.”

He lifted the lid, tried the keyboard gently, then played the beginning of the tune with one finger.

“That’s enough.” Brosnan turned to Hernu and Savary. “An old Irish folk song, ‘The Lark in the Clear Air,’ and you’ve got trouble, gentlemen, because the man you’re looking for is Sean Dillon.”

“Dillon?” Hernu said. “Of course. The man of a thousand faces, someone once called him.”

“A slight exaggeration,” Brosnan said, “but it will do.”

 

They sent the Jobert brothers home and Brosnan and Anne-Marie sat on a sofa opposite Hernu and Savary. The inspector made notes as the American talked.

“His mother died in childbirth. I think that was nineteen fifty-two. His father was an electrician. Went to work in London, so Dillon went to school there. He had an incredible talent for acting, a genius really. He can change before your eyes, hunch his shoulders, put on fifteen years. It’s astonishing.”

“So you knew him well?” Hernu asked.

“In Belfast in the bad old days, but before that he won a scholarship to the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art. Only stayed a year. They couldn’t teach him anything. He did one or two things at the National Theatre. Nothing much. He was very young, remember. Then in nineteen seventy-one his father, who’d returned home to Belfast, was killed by a British Army patrol. Caught in crossfire. An accident.”

“And Dillon took it hard?”

“You could say that. He offered himself to the Provisional IRA. They liked him. He had brains, an aptitude for languages. They sent him to Libya to one of those terrorist training camps for a couple of months. A fast course in weaponry. That’s all it took. He never looked back. God knows how many he’s killed.”

“So, he still operates for the IRA?”

Brosnan shook his head. “Not for years. Oh, he still counts himself as a soldier, but he thinks the leadership are a bunch of old women, and they couldn’t handle him. He’d have killed the Pope if he’d thought it was needed. He was too happy to do things that were counterproductive. The word is that he was involved in the Mountbatten affair.”

“And since those days?” Hernu asked.

“Beirut, Palestine. He’s done a lot for the PLO. Most terrorist groups have used his services.” Brosnan shook his head. “You’re going to have trouble here.”

“Why exactly?”

“The fact that he used a couple of crooks like the Joberts. He always does that. All right, it didn’t work this time, but he knows the weakness of all revolutionary movements. That they’re ridden with either hotheads or informers. You called him the faceless man, and that’s right because I doubt if you’ll find a photo of him in any file, and frankly, it wouldn’t matter if you did.”

“Why does he do it?” Anne-Marie asked. “Not for any political ends?”

“Because he likes it,” Brosnan said, “because he’s hooked. He’s an actor, remember. This is for real and he’s good at it.”

“I get the impression that you don’t care for him very much,” Hernu said. “In personal terms, I mean.”

“Well, he tried to kill me and a good friend of mine a long time ago,” Brosnan told him. “Does that answer your question?”

“It’s certainly reason enough.” Hernu got up and Savary joined him. “We must be going. I want to get all this to Brigadier Ferguson as soon as possible.”

“Fine,” Brosnan said.

“We may count on your help in this thing, I hope, Professor?”

Brosnan glanced at Anne-Marie, whose face was set. “Look,” he said, “I don’t mind talking to you again if that will help, but I don’t want to be personally involved. You know what I was, Colonel. Whatever happens I won’t go back to anything like that. I made someone a promise a long time ago.”

“I understand perfectly, Professor.” Hernu turned to Anne-Marie. “Mademoiselle, a distinct pleasure.”

“I’ll see you out,” she said and led the way.

When she returned Brosnan had the French windows open and was standing looking across the river smoking a cigarette. He put an arm around her. “All right?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Perfect,” and laid her head against his chest.

 

At that precise moment Ferguson was sitting by the fire in the Cavendish Place flat when the phone rang. Mary Tanner answered it in the study. After a while she came out. “That was Downing Street. The Prime Minister wants to see you.”

“When?”

“Now, sir.”

Ferguson got up and removed his reading glasses. “Call the car. You come with me and wait.”

She picked up the phone, spoke briefly, then put it down. “What do you think it’s about, Brigadier?”

“I’m not sure. My imminent retirement or your return to more mundane duties. Or this business in France. He’ll have been told all about it by now. Anyway, let’s go and see,” and he led the way out.

 

They were checked through the Security gates at the end of Downing Street. Mary Tanner stayed in the car while Ferguson was admitted through the most famous door in the world. It was rather quiet compared to the last time he’d been there, a Christmas party given by Mrs. Thatcher for the staff in the Pillared Room. Cleaners, typists, office workers. Typical of her, that. The other side of the Iron Lady.

He regretted her departure, that was a fact, and sighed as he followed a young aide up the main staircase lined with replicas of portraits of all those great men of history. Peel, Wellington, Disraeli and many more. They reached the corridor; the young man knocked on the door and opened it.

“Brigadier Ferguson, Prime Minister.”

The last time Ferguson had been in that study it had been a woman’s room, the feminine touches unmistakably there, but things were different now, a little more austere in a subtle way, he was aware of that. Darkness was falling fast outside and John Major was checking some sort of report, the pen in his hand moving with considerable speed.

“Sorry about this. It will only take a moment,” he said.

It was the courtesy that astounded Ferguson, the sheer basic good manners that one didn’t experience too often from heads of government. Major signed the report, put it on one side and sat back, a pleasant, gray-haired man in horn-rimmed glasses, the youngest Prime Minister of the twentieth century. Almost unknown to the general public on his succession to Margaret Thatcher and yet his handling of the crisis in the Gulf had already marked him out as a leader of genuine stature.

“Please sit down, Brigadier, I’m on a tight schedule, so I’ll get right to the point. The business affecting Mrs. Thatcher in France. Obviously very disturbing.”

“Indeed so, Prime Minister. Thank God it all turned out as it did.”

“Yes, but that seems to have been a matter of luck more than anything else. I’ve spoken to President Mitterrand and he’s agreed that in all our interests and especially with the present situation in the Gulf there will be a total security clampdown.”

“What about the press, Prime Minister?”

“Nothing will reach the press, Brigadier,” John Major told him. “I understand the French failed to catch the individual concerned?”

“I’m afraid that is so according to my latest information, but Colonel Hernu of Action Service is keeping in close touch.”

“I’ve spoken to Mrs. Thatcher and it was she who alerted me to your presence, Brigadier. As I understand it, the intelligence section known as Group Four was set up in 1972, responsible only to the Prime Minister, its purpose to handle specific cases of terrorism and subversion?”

“That is correct.”

“Which means you will have served five Prime Ministers if we include myself.”

“Actually, Prime Minister, that’s not quite accurate,” Ferguson said. “We do have a problem at the moment.”

“Oh, I know all about that. The usual security people have never liked your existence, Brigadier, too much like the Prime Minister’s private army. That’s why they thought a changeover at Number Ten was a good time to get rid of you.”

“I’m afraid so, Prime Minister.”

“Well it wasn’t and it isn’t. I’ve spoken to the Director General of Security Services. It’s taken care of.”

“I couldn’t be more delighted.”

“Good. Your first task quite obviously is to run down whoever was behind this French affair. If he’s IRA, then he’s our business, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good. I’ll let you go and get on with it then. Keep me informed of every significant development on an eyes-only basis.”

“Of course, Prime Minister.”

The door behind opened as if by magic, the aide appeared to usher Ferguson out. The Prime Minister was already working over another sheaf of papers as the door closed and Ferguson was led downstairs.

As the limousine drove away, Mary Tanner reached forward to close the screen. “What happened? What was it about?”

“Oh, the French business.” Ferguson sounded curiously remote. “You know, he’s really got something about him, this one.”

“Oh, come off it, sir,” Mary said. “I mean, don’t you honestly think we could do with a change, after all these years of Tory government?”

“Wonderful spokesperson for the workers you make,” he said. “Your dear old dad, God rest him, was a professor of Surgery at Oxford, your mother owns half of Herefordshire. That flat of yours in Lowndes Square, a million, would you say? Why is it the children of the rich are always so depressingly left-wing while still insisting on dining at the Savoy?”

“A gross exaggeration.”

“Seriously, my dear, I’ve worked for Labour as well as Conservative Prime Ministers. The color of the politician doesn’t matter. The Marquess of Salisbury when he was Prime Minister, Gladstone, Disraeli, had very similar problems to those we have today. Fenians, anarchists, bombs in London, only dynamite instead of Semtex, and how many attempts were there on Queen Victoria’s life?” He gazed out at the Whitehall traffic as they moved toward the Ministry of Defence. “Nothing changes.”

“All right, end of lecture, but what happened?” she demanded.

“Oh, we’re back in business, that’s what happened,” he said. “I’m afraid we’ll have to cancel your transfer back to the Military Police.”

“Damn you!” she cried, and flung her arms around his neck.

 

Ferguson’s office on the third floor of the Ministry of Defence was on a corner at the rear overlooking Horse Guards Avenue with a view of the Victoria Embankment and the river at the far end. He had hardly got settled behind his desk when Mary hurried in.

“Coded fax from Hernu. I’ve put it through the machine. You’re not going to like it one little bit.”

It contained the gist of Hernu’s meeting with Martin Brosnan, the facts on Sean Dillon—everything.

“Dear God,” Ferguson said. “Couldn’t be worse. He’s like a ghost, this Dillon chap. Does he exist or doesn’t he? As bad as Carlos in international terrorist terms, but totally unknown to the media or the general public and nothing to go on.”

“But we do have one thing, sir.”

“What’s that?”

“Brosnan.”

“True, but will he help?” Ferguson got up and moved to the window. “I tried to get Martin to do something for me the other year. He wouldn’t touch it with a bargepole.” He turned and smiled. “It’s the girlfriend, you see, Anne-Marie Audin. She has a horror of him becoming what he once was.”

“Yes, I can understand that.”

“But never mind. We’d better get a report on their latest developments to the Prime Minister. Let’s keep it brief.”

She produced a pen and took notes as he dictated. “Anything else, sir?” she asked when he had finished.

“I don’t think so. Get it typed. One copy for the file, the other for the P.M. Send it straight round to Number Ten by messenger. Eyes only.”

 

Mary did a rough type of the report herself, then went along the corridor to the typing and copying room. There was one on each floor and the clerks all had full security clearance. The copier was clattering as she went in. The man standing in front of it was in his mid-fifties, white hair, steel-rimmed army glasses, his shirt sleeves rolled up.

“Hello, Gordon,” she said. “A priority one here. Your very best typing. One copy for the personal file. You’ll do it straight away?”

“Of course, Captain Tanner.” He glanced at it briefly. “Fifteen minutes. I’ll bring it along.”

She went out and he sat down at his typewriter, taking a deep breath to steady himself as he read the words.
For the Eyes of the Prime Minister only.
Gordon Brown had served in the Intelligence Corps for twenty-five years, reaching the rank of Warrant Officer. A worthy, if unspectacular career, culminating in the award of an M.B.E. and the offer of employment at the Ministry of Defence on his retirement from the Army. And everything had been fine until the death of his wife from cancer the previous year. They were childless, which left him alone in a cold world at fifty-five years of age, and then something miraculous happened.