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

‘No, just in town for a few days on business. I’ve been abroad for some time,’ Dillon said glibly. ‘New York. Haven’t been in London for years.’

‘A lot of changes. Not like it used to be.’

‘So I believe. I was reading the other day that you can’t take a walk up Downing Street any more.’

‘That’s right, guv. Mrs Thatcher had a new security system installed, gates at the end of the street.’

‘Really?’ Dillon said. ‘I’d like to see that.’

‘We’ll go that way if you like. I can take you down to Whitehall then cut back to Covent Garden.’

‘Suits me.’

Dillon sat back, lit a cigarette and watched. They moved down Whitehall from Trafalgar Square past Horse Guards with the two Household Cavalrymen on mounted duty, wearing greatcoats against the cold, sabres drawn.

‘Must be bleeding cold for the horses,’ the cabby said and then added, ‘Here we are, guv, Downing Street.’ He slowed a little. ‘Can’t stop. If you do, the coppers come up and ask you what you’re doing.’

Dillon looked across at the end of the street. ‘So those are the famous gates?’

‘Thatcher’s folly, some twerps call it, but if you ask me, she was usually right. The bloody IRA have pulled off enough stunts in London during the past few years. I’d shoot the lot of them, I would. If I drop you in Long Acre, will that do, guv?’

‘Fine,’ Dillon told him and sat back, thinking about those rather magnificent gates at the end of Downing Street.

The taxi pulled into the kerb and Dillon gave him a ten-pound note. ‘Keep it,’ he said, turned and walked briskly away along Langley Street. The whole Covent Garden area was as busy as usual, people dressed for the extreme cold, more like Moscow than London. Dillon went with the throng and finally found what he wanted in an alley near Neal’s Yard, a small theatrical shop, the window full of old costume masks and make-up. A bell tinkled when he went in. The man who appeared through a curtain at the rear was about seventy with snow-white hair and a round fleshy face.

‘And what can I do for you?’ he asked.

‘Some make-up, I think. What have you got in boxes?’

‘Some very good kits here,’ the old boy said. He took one down and opened it on the counter. ‘They use these at the National Theatre. In the business, are you?’

‘Amateur, that’s all, I’m afraid, church players.’ Dillon checked the contents of the box. ‘Excellent. I’ll take an extra lipstick, bright red, some black hair dye and also some solvent.’

‘You are going to town. Clayton’s my name, by the way. I’ll give you my card in case you ever need anything else.’ He got the required items and put them inside the make-up box and closed it. ‘Thirty quid for cash and don’t forget, anything you need …’

‘I won’t,’ Dillon said and went out whistling.

In the village of Vercors it was snowing as the cortège drove down from the château. In spite of the weather, villagers lined the street, men with their caps off, as Anne-Marie Audin went to her final rest. There were only three cars behind the hearse, old Pierre Audin and his secretary in the first, a number of servants in the other. Brosnan and Mary Tanner with Max Hernu following, walked up through the tombstones and paused as the old man was lifted from the car into his wheelchair. He was pushed inside, the rest followed.

It was very old, a typical village church, whitewashed walls, the stations of the Cross and it was cold, very cold. In fact Brosnan had never felt so cold and sat there, shaking slightly, hardly aware of what was being said, rising and kneeling obediently with everyone else. It was only when the service ended and they stood as the pallbearers carried the coffin down the aisle that he realised that Mary Tanner was holding his hand.

They walked through the graveyard to the family mausoleum. It was the size of a small chapel built in grey granite and marble with a steep Gothic roof. The oaken doors stood open. The priest paused to give the final benediction, the coffin was taken inside. The secretary turned the wheelchair and pushed it down the path past them, the old man huddled over, a rug across his knees.

‘I feel so sorry for him,’ Mary said.

‘No need, he doesn’t know what time of day it is,’ Brosnan told her.

‘That’s not always true.’

She walked to the car, and put a hand on the old man’s shoulder as he sat there in his wheelchair. Then she returned.

‘So, my friends, back to Paris,’ Hernu said.

‘And then London,’ Brosnan said.

Mary took his arm as they walked towards the car. ‘Tomorrow, Martin, tomorrow morning will be soon enough and I won’t take no for an answer.’

‘All right,’ he said, ‘tomorrow it is,’ and he got in the rear of the car and leaned back, suddenly drained and closed his eyes, Mary sitting beside him as Hernu drove away.

It was just after six when Tania Novikova heard the doorbell. She went downstairs and opened the door. Dillon stood there, suitcase in one hand, briefcase in the other. ‘Josef sends his regards.’

She was amazed. Since Makeev had spoken to her she had accessed KGB files in London to discover as much about Dillon as she could and had been astonished at his record. She had expected some kind of dark hero. Instead she had a small man in a trenchcoat with tinted glasses and a college tie.

‘You are Sean Dillon?’ she said.

‘As ever was.’

‘You’d better come in.’

Women had never been of great importance to Dillon. They were there to satisfy a need on occasions, but he had never felt the slightest emotional involvement with one. Following Tania Novikova up the stairs, he was aware that she had a good figure and that the black trouser suit became her. Her hair was caught up at the nape of the neck in a velvet bow, but, when she turned to him in the full light of her sitting room, he realised that she was really rather plain.

‘You had a good trip?’ she asked.

‘All right. I was delayed in Jersey last night because of fog.’

‘Would you like a drink?’

‘Tea would be fine.’

She opened a drawer, produced a Walther, two spare clips and a Carswell silencer. ‘Your preferred weapon according to Josef.’

‘Definitely.’

‘Also I thought this might come in useful.’ She handed him a small bundle. ‘They say it can stop a .45 bullet at point-blank range. Nylon and titanium.’

Dillon unfolded it. Nothing like as bulky as a flak jacket, it was designed like a small waistcoat and fastened with Velcro tabs.

‘Excellent,’ he said and put it in his briefcase together with the Walther and the silencer. He unbuttoned his trenchcoat, lit a cigarette and stood in the kitchen door and watched her make the tea. ‘You’re very convenient for the Soviet Embassy here?’

‘Oh, yes, walking distance.’ She brought the tea out on a tray. ‘I’ve fixed you up with a room in a small hotel just round the corner in the Bayswater Road. It’s the sort of place commercial travellers overnight at.’

‘Fine.’ He sipped his tea. ‘To business. What about Fahy?’

‘No luck so far. He moved from Kilburn a few years ago to a house in Finchley. Only stayed there a year and moved again. That’s where I’ve drawn a blank. But I’ll find him, I’ve got someone on his case.’

‘You must. It’s essential. Does KGB’s London station still have a forgery department?’

‘Of course.’