Eye of the Storm (32 page)

He’d been genuinely unconscious for a while, but that was a common experience when shot at close quarters and wearing any kind of body armor. He went to the drinks cabinet and poured a brandy, looking round the room at the bodies, his briefcase still on the floor where he had dropped it, and when he heard the roar of the Navajo’s engine starting up, he saw it all. Everything was being left to the French, which was logical. It was their patch, after all, and that probably meant Hernu and the boys from Action Service were on their way.

Time to go, but how? He poured another brandy and thought about it. There was Michael Aroun’s Citation jet, but where could he fly without leaving some sort of trail? No, the best answer, as usual, was Paris. He’d always been able to fade into the woodwork there. There was the barge and the apartment over the warehouse at Rue de Helier. Everything he would ever need.

He finished the brandy, picked up the briefcase and hesitated, looking down at the Titanium waistcoat with the two rounds embedded in it. He smiled and said softly, “You can chew on that, Martin.”

He pulled the French windows wide and stood on the terrace for a moment, breathing deeply on the cold air, then he went down the steps to the lawn and walked quickly across to the trees, whistling softly.

 

Mary tuned her radio to the frequency Ferguson had given her. She was picked up by the radio room at the Ministry of Defence immediately, a sophisticated scrambling device was brought into operation and then she was patched through to him.

“Well out over the Channel, sir, heading for home.”

“We’ll make that Gatwick,” he said. “They’ll be expecting you. Hernu has just phoned me from his car on the way to Saint-Denis. Exactly as I thought. The French don’t want this kind of mess on their patch. Aroun, Rashid and Makeev died in a car crash, Dillon goes straight into a pauper’s grave. No name, just a number. Similar sort of thing at our end over that chap Grant.”

“But how, sir?”

“One of our doctors has already been alerted to certify him as having died of a heart attack. We’ve had our own establishment to handle this sort of thing since the Second World War. Quiet street in North London. Has its own crematorium. Grant will be five pounds of gray ash by tomorrow. No autopsy.”

“But Jack Harvey?”

“That’s slightly different. He and young Billy Watson are still with us, in bed at a private nursing home in Hampstead. Special Branch are keeping an eye on them.”

“Do I get the impression that we’re not going to do anything?”

“No need. Harvey doesn’t want to do twenty years in prison for working with the IRA. He and his motley crew will keep their mouths shut. So, by the way, will the KGB.”

“And Angel?”

“I thought she might come and stay with you for a while. I’m sure you can handle her, my dear. The woman’s touch and all that.” There was a pause and then he said, “Don’t you see, Mary, it never happened, not any of it.”

“That’s it, then, sir?”

“That’s it, Mary. See you soon.”

 

Brosnan said, “What did the old sod have to say?”

So she told them. When she was finished, Flood laughed out loud. “So it never happened? That’s marvelous.”

Mary said, “What now, Martin?”

“God knows.” He leaned back and closed his eyes.

She turned to Harry Flood who toasted her and emptied his cup. “Don’t ask me,” he said.

She sighed, switched off the auto pilot, took control of the plane herself and flew onwards toward the English coast.

 

Ferguson, writing quickly, completed his report and closed the file. He got up and walked to the window. It was snowing again as he looked out to the left toward the junction of Horse Guards Avenue and Whitehall where it had all happened. He was tired, more tired than he had been in a long time, but there was still one thing to do. He turned back to his desk, was reaching for the scrambler phone when it rang.

Hernu said, “Charles, I’m at Saint-Denis and we’ve got trouble.”

“Tell me,” Ferguson said and already his stomach was hollow.

“Three bodies only. Makeev, Rashid and Michael Aroun.”

“And Dillon?”

“No sign, just a very fancy bulletproof vest on the floor with two Walther rounds embedded in it.”

“Oh, my God,” Ferguson said, “the bastard’s still out there.”

“I’m afraid so, Charles. I’ll put the word out to the police, of course, and all the usual agencies, but I can’t say I’m particularly hopeful.”

“Why would you be?” Ferguson asked. “We haven’t succeeded in putting a hand on Dillon in twenty years, so why should it be any different now?” He took a deep breath. “All right, Max, I’ll be in touch.”

He went back to the window and stood looking out at the falling snow. No point in calling the Navajo. Mary, Brosnan and Flood would hear the bad news soon enough, but there was still one thing to be done. He turned reluctantly to his desk, picked up the scrambler, pausing for only a moment before phoning Downing Street and asking to speak to the Prime Minister.

 

It was toward evening, snow falling heavily as Pierre Savigny, a farmer from the village of St. Just outside Bayeux, drove carefully along the main road toward Caen in his old Citroën truck. He almost didn’t see the man in biker’s leathers who stepped into the road, an arm raised.

The Citroën skidded to a halt and Dillon opened the passenger door and smiled. “Sorry about that,” he said in his impeccable French, “but I’ve been walking for quite a while.”

“And where would you be going on a filthy evening like this?” Savigny asked, as Dillon climbed into the passenger seat.

“Caen. I’m hoping to catch the night train to Paris. My motorbike broke down. I had to leave it in a garage in Bayeux.”

“Then you’re in luck, my friend,” Savigny said. “I’m on my way to Caen now. Potatoes for tomorrow’s market.” He moved into gear and drove away.

“Excellent.” Dillon put a cigarette in his mouth, flicked his lighter and sat there, the briefcase on his knees.

“You’re a tourist then, monsieur?” Savigny asked as he increased speed.

Sean Dillon smiled softly. “Not really,” he said. “Just passing through,” and he leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes.