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

‘What happened tonight, Sean? What really happened?’

‘I decided the time had come to take care of Brosnan. Come on, Josef, he knows me too damned well. Knows me in a way no one else does and that could be dangerous.’

‘I can see that. A clever one, the Professor.’

‘There’s more to it than that, Josef. He understands how I make my moves, how I think. He’s the same kind of animal as I am. We inhabited the same world and people don’t change. No matter how much he thinks he has he’s still the same underneath, the same man who was the most feared enforcer the IRA had in the old days.’

‘So you decided to eliminate him?’

‘It was an impulse. I was passing his place, saw the woman leaving. He called to her. The way it sounded I thought she was gone for the night so I took a chance and went up the scaffolding.’

‘What happened?’

‘Oh, I had the drop on him.’

‘But didn’t kill him?’

Dillon laughed, went out to the kitchen and returned with a bottle of Krug and two glasses. As he uncorked it he said, ‘Come on, Josef, face to face after all those years. There were things to be said.’

‘You didn’t tell him who you were working for?’

‘Of course not,’ Dillon lied cheerfully and poured the champagne. ‘What do you take me for?’

He toasted Makeev who said, ‘I mean, if he knew you had an alternative target, that you intended to go for Major …’ He shrugged. ‘That would mean that Ferguson would know. It would render your task in London impossible. Aroun, I’m sure, would want to abort the whole business.’

‘Well he doesn’t know.’ Dillon drank some more champagne. ‘So Aroun can rest easy. After all, I want that second million. I checked with Zurich, by the way. The first million has been deposited.’

Makeev shifted uncomfortably. ‘Of course. So, when do you intend to leave?’

‘Tomorrow or the next day. I’ll see. Meanwhile something you can organise for me. This Tania Novikova in London. I’ll need her help.’

‘No problem.’

‘First, my father had a second cousin, a Belfast man living in London called Danny Fahy.’

‘IRA?’

‘Yes, but not active. A deep-cover man. Brilliant with his hands. Worked in light engineering. Could turn his hand to anything. I used him in nineteen eighty-one when I was doing a few jobs for the organisation in London. In those days he lived at number ten Tithe Street in Kilburn. I want Novikova to trace him.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Yes, I’ll need somewhere to stay. She can organise that for me too. She doesn’t live in the Embassy, I suppose?’

‘No, she has a flat off the Bayswater Road.’

‘I wouldn’t want to stay there, not on a regular basis. She could be under surveillance. Special Branch at Scotland Yard have a habit of doing that with employees of the Soviet Embassy, isn’t that so?’

‘Oh, it’s not like the old days,’ Makeev smiled. ‘Thanks to that fool Gorbachev, we’re all supposed to be friends these days.’

‘I’d still prefer to stay somewhere else. I’ll contact her at her flat, no more than that.’

‘There is one problem,’ Makeev said. ‘As regards hardware, explosives, weapons, anything like that you might need, I’m afraid she won’t be able to help you there. A handgun perhaps, but no more. As I mentioned when I first told you about her, her boss, Colonel Yuri Gatov, the commander of KGB station in London, is a Gorbachev man, and very well disposed to our British friends.’

‘That’s all right,’ Dillon said, ‘I have my own contacts for that kind of thing, but I will need more working capital. If I am checked going through customs on the Jersey to London flight, I couldn’t afford to be caught with large sums of money in my briefcase.’

‘I’m sure Aroun can fix that for you.’

‘That’s all right then. I’d like to see him again before I go. Tomorrow morning, I think. Arrange that, will you?’

‘All right.’ Makeev fastened his coat. ‘I’ll keep you posted on the situation at the hospital.’ He reached the bottom of the companionway and turned. ‘There is one thing. Say you managed to pull this thing off. It would lead to the most ferocious manhunt. How would you intend to get out of England?’

Dillon smiled. ‘That’s exactly what I’m going to give some thought to now. I’ll see you in the morning.’

Makeev went up the companionway. Dillon poured another glass of Krug, lit a cigarette and sat at the table, looking at the clippings on the walls. He reached for the pile of newspapers and sorted through them and finally found what he wanted. An old copy of the magazine Paris Match from the previous year. Michael Aroun was featured on the front cover. Inside was a seven-page feature about his lifestyle and habits. Dillon lit a cigarette and started going through it.

It was one o’clock in the morning and Mary Tanner was sitting alone in the waiting room when Professor Henri Dubois came in. He was very tired, shoulders bowed, sank wearily into a chair and lit a cigarette.

‘Where is Martin?’ he asked her.

‘It seems Anne-Marie’s only close relative is her grandfather. Martin is trying to contact him. Do you know him?’

‘Who doesn’t, mademoiselle? One of the richest and most powerful industrialists in France. Very old. Eighty-eight, I believe. He was once a patient of mine. He had a stroke last year. I don’t think Martin will get very far there. He lives on the family estate, Château Vercors. It’s about twenty miles outside Paris.’

Brosnan came in, looking incredibly weary, but when he saw Dubois he said eagerly, ‘How is she?’

‘I won’t pretend, my friend. She’s not good. Not good at all. I’ve done everything that I possibly can. Now we wait.’

‘Can I see her?’

‘Leave it for a while. I’ll let you know.’

‘You’ll stay?’

‘Oh, yes. I’ll grab a couple of hours’ sleep on my office couch. How did you get on with Pierre Audin?’

‘I didn’t. Had to deal with his secretary, Fournier. The old man’s confined to a wheelchair now. Doesn’t know the time of day.’

Dubois sighed. ‘I suspected as much. I’ll see you later.’

When he’d gone, Mary said, ‘You could do with some sleep yourself.’

He managed a dark smile. ‘The way I feel now, I don’t think I could ever sleep again. All my fault, in a way.’ There was despair on his face.

‘How can you say that?’

‘Who I am or to put it another way, what I was. If it hadn’t been for that, none of this would have happened.’

‘You can’t talk like that,’ she said. ‘Life doesn’t work like that.’