Sean Dillon 3-Book Collection 1: Eye of the Storm, Thunder Point, On Dangerous Ground

‘You’re not coming back to my place?’

‘Not tonight. Tomorrow perhaps.’

The head waiter brought the bill which Brosnan signed, then helped them into their coats and ushered them to the door. Outside, snow sprinkled the cobbles. She shivered and turned to Brosnan. ‘You changed, Martin, back there when you were talking to them. You started to become the other man again.’

‘Really?’ he said and knew that it was true.

‘I’ll get a taxi.’

‘Let me come with you.’

‘No, I’d rather not.’

He watched her go down the street, then turned and went the other way. Wondering about Dillon, where he was and what he was doing.

Dillon’s barge was moored in a small basin on the Quai St Bernard. There were mainly motor cruisers there, pleasure craft with canvas hoods over them for the winter. The interior was surprisingly luxurious, a stateroom lined with mahogany, two comfortable sofas, a television. His sleeping quarters were in a cabin beyond with a divan bed and a small shower-room adjacent. The kitchen was on the other side of the passageway, small, but very modern. Everything a good cook could want. He was in there now, waiting for the kettle to boil when he heard the footfalls on deck. He opened a drawer, took out a Walther, cocked it and slipped it into his waistband at the rear. Then he went out.

Makeev came down the companionway and entered the stateroom. He shook snow from his overcoat and took it off. ‘What a night. Filthy weather.’

‘Worse in Moscow,’ Dillon told him. ‘Coffee?’

‘Why not.’

Makeev helped himself to a cognac from a bottle on the sideboard and the Irishman came back with a china mug in each hand. ‘Well, what’s happened?’

‘First of all, my sources tell me the Jobert brothers have turned up very dead indeed. Was that wise?’

‘To use an immortal phrase from one of those old James Cagney movies, they had it coming. Now what else has happened?’

‘Oh, an old friend from your dim past has surfaced. One Martin Brosnan.’

‘Holy Mother of God!’ Dillon seemed transfixed for a moment. ‘Martin? Martin Brosnan? Where in the hell did he turn up from?’

‘He’s living right here in Paris, just up the river from you on the Quai de Montebello, the block on the corner opposite Notre Dame. Very ornate entrance. Within walking distance of here. You can’t miss it. Has scaffolding on the front. Some sort of building work going on.’

‘All very detailed.’ Dillon took a bottle of Bushmills from the cupboard and poured one. ‘Why?’

‘I’ve had a look on my way here.’

‘What’s all this got to do with me?’

So Makeev told him, Max Hernu, Savary, Tania Novikova in London, everything. ‘So,’ he said as he finished. ‘At least we know what our friends are up to.’

‘This Novikova girl could be very useful to me,’ Dillon said. ‘Will she play things our way?’

‘No question. She worked for me for some years. A very clever young woman. Like me, she isn’t happy with present changes back home. Her boss is a different matter. Colonel Yuri Gatov. All for change. One of those.’

‘Yes, she could be important,’ Dillon said.

‘Do I take it this means you want to go to London?’

‘When I know, I’ll let you know.’

‘And Brosnan?’

‘I could pass him on the street and he wouldn’t recognise me.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Josef, I could pass you and you wouldn’t recognise me. You’ve never really seen me change, have you? Have you come in your car?’

‘Of course not. Taxi. I hope I can get one back.’

‘I’ll get my coat and walk some of the way with you.’

He went out and Makeev buttoned his coat and poured another brandy. There was a slight sound behind him and when he turned, Dillon stood there in cap and reefer coat, hunched over in some strange way. Even the shape of his face seemed different. He looked fifteen years older. The change in body language was incredible.

‘My God, it’s amazing,’ Makeev said.

Dillon straightened up and grinned, ‘Josef, my old son, if I’d stuck to the stage I’d have been a theatrical knight by now. Come on, let’s get going.’

The snow was only a light powdering on the ground, barges passed on the river and Notre Dame, floodlit, floated in the night. They reached the Quai de Montebello without seeing a taxi.

Makeev said, ‘Here we are, Brosnan’s place. He owns the block. It seems his mother left him rather well off.’

‘Is that a fact?’

Dillon looked across at the scaffolding and Makeev said, ‘Apartment Four, the one on the corner on the first floor.’

‘Does he live alone?’

‘Not married. Has a woman friend, Anne-Marie Audin …’

‘The war photographer? I saw her once back in seventy-one in Belfast. Brosnan and Liam Devlin, my boss at the time, were giving her a privileged look at the IRA.’

‘Did you meet her?’

‘Not personally. Do they live together?’

‘Apparently not.’ A taxi came out of a side turning and moved towards them and Makeev raised an arm. ‘We’ll speak tomorrow.’

The taxi drove off and Dillon was about to turn away when Brosnan came round the corner. Dillon recognised him instantly.

‘Now then, Martin, you old bastard,’ he said softly.

Brosnan went up the steps and inside. Dillon turned, smiling, and walked away, whistling to himself softly.

At his flat in Cavendish Square, Ferguson was just getting ready to go to bed when the phone rang. Hernu said, ‘Bad news. He’s knocked off the Jobert brothers.’