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

He smiled once, then stepped out into the rain and pulled the door shut behind him.

2

Dillon paused outside Le Chat Noir on the end of the small pier for the second time that night. It was almost deserted, a young man and woman at a corner table holding hands, a bottle of wine between them. The accordion was playing softly and the musician talked to the man behind the bar at the same time. They were the Jobert brothers, gangsters of the second rank in the Paris underworld. Their activities had been severely curtailed since Pierre, the one behind the bar, had lost his left leg in a car crash after an armed robbery three years previously.

As the door opened and Dillon entered, the other brother, Gaston, stopped playing. ‘Ah, Monsieur Rocard, back already.’

‘Gaston.’ Dillon shook hands and turned to the barman. ‘Pierre.’

‘See, I still remember that little tune of yours, the Irish one.’ Gaston played a few notes on the accordion.

‘Good,’ Dillon said. ‘A true artist.’

Behind them the young couple got up and left. Pierre produced half a bottle of champagne from the bar fridge. ‘Champagne as usual I presume, my friend? Nothing special, but we are poor men here.’

‘You’ll have me crying all over the bar,’ Dillon said.

‘And what may we do for you?’ Pierre enquired.

‘Oh, I just want to put a little business your way.’ Dillon nodded at the door. ‘It might be an idea if you closed.’

Gaston put his accordion on the bar, went and bolted the door and pulled down the blind. He returned and sat on his stool. ‘Well, my friend?’

‘This could be a big pay day for you boys.’ Dillon opened the briefcase, took out one of the road maps and disclosed the stacks of hundred-dollar bills. ‘Twenty thousand American. Ten now and ten on successful completion.’

‘My God!’ Gaston said in awe, but Pierre looked grim.

‘And what would be expected for all this money?’

Dillon had always found it paid to stick as close to the truth as possible and he spread the road map out across the bar.

‘I’ve been hired by the Union Corse,’ he said, naming the most feared criminal organisation in France, ‘to take care of a little problem. A matter of what you might term business rivalry.’

‘Ah, I see,’ Pierre said. ‘And you are to eliminate the problem?’

‘Exactly. The men concerned will be passing along this road here towards Valenton shortly after two o’clock tomorrow. I intend to take them out here at the railway crossing.’

‘And how will this be accomplished?’ Gaston asked.

‘A very simple ambush. You two are still in the transport business, aren’t you? Stolen cars, trucks?’

‘You should know. You’ve bought from us on enough occasions,’ Pierre told him.

‘A couple of vans, that’s not too much to expect, is it?’

‘And then what?’

‘We’ll take a drive down to this place tonight.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Eleven o’clock from here. It’ll only take an hour.’

Pierre shook his head. ‘Look, this could be heavy. I’m getting too old for gunplay.’

‘Wonderful,’ Dillon said. ‘How many did you kill when you were with the OAS?’

‘I was younger then.’

‘Well, it comes to us all, I suppose. No gunplay. You two will be in and out so quickly you won’t know what’s happening. A piece of cake.’ He took several stacks of hundred-dollar bills from the briefcase and put them on the bar counter. ‘Ten thousand. Do we deal?’

And greed, as usual, won the day as Pierre ran his hands over the money. ‘Yes, my friend, I think we do.’

‘Good. I’ll be back at eleven then.’ Dillon closed his briefcase, Gaston went and unlocked the door for him and the Irishman left.

Gaston closed the door and turned. ‘What do you think?’

Pierre poured two cognacs. ‘I think our friend Rocard is a very big liar.’

‘But also a very dangerous man,’ Gaston said. ‘So what do we do?’

‘Wait and see.’ Pierre raised his glass. ‘Salut.’

Dillon walked all the way to the warehouse in rue de Helier, twisting from one street to another, melting into the darkness occasionally to check that he wasn’t being followed. He had learned a long time ago that the problem with all revolutionary political groups was that they were riddled with factions and informers, a great truth where the IRA was concerned. Because of that, as he had indicated to Aroun, he preferred to use professional criminals whenever possible when help was needed. Honest crooks who did things for cash, that was the phrase he’d used. Unfortunately it didn’t always hold true and there had been something in big Pierre’s manner.

There was a small Judas gate set in the larger double doors of the warehouse. He unlocked it and stepped inside. There were two cars, a Renault saloon and a Ford Escort, and a police BMW motorcycle covered with a sheet. He checked that it was all right, then moved up the wooden stairs to the flat in the loft above. It was not his only home. He also had a barge on the river, but it was useful on occasions.

On the table in the small living room there was a canvas holdall with a note on top that simply said, As ordered. He smiled and unzipped it. Inside was a Kalashnikov PK machine gun, the latest model. Its tripod was folded, the barrel off for easy handling and there was a large box of belt cartridges, a similar box beside it. He opened a drawer in the sideboard, took out a folded sheet and put it in the holdall. He zipped it up again, checked the Walther in his waistband and went down the stairs, the holdall in one hand.

He locked the Judas and went along the street, excitement taking control as it always did. It was the best feeling in the world when the game was in play. He turned into the main street and a few minutes later, hailed a cab and told the driver to take him to Le Chat Noir.

They drove out of Paris in Renault vans, exactly the same except for the fact that one was black and the other white. Gaston led the way, Dillon beside him in the passenger seat, and Pierre followed. It was very cold, snow still mixed with the rain, although it wasn’t lying. They talked very little, Dillon lying back in the seat eyes closed so that the Frenchman thought he was asleep.

Not far from Choisy, the van skidded and Gaston said, ‘Christ almighty,’ and wrestled with the wheel.

Dillon said, ‘Easy, the wrong time to go in a ditch. Where are we?’

‘Just past the turning to Choisy. Not long now.’ Dillon sat up. The snow was covering the hedgerows but not the road. Gaston said, ‘It’s a pig of a night. Just look at it.’

‘Think of all those lovely dollar bills,’ Dillon told him. ‘That should get you through.’

It stopped snowing, the sky cleared showing a half-moon, and below them at the bottom of the hill was the red light of the railway crossing. There was an old disused building of some sort at one side, its windows boarded up, a stretch of cobbles in front of it lightly powdered with snow.

‘Pull in here,’ Dillon said.

Gaston did as he was told and braked to a halt switching off the motor. Pierre came up in the white Renault, got down from behind the wheel awkwardly because of the false leg and joined them.

Dillon stood looking at the crossing a few yards away and nodded. ‘Perfect. Give me the keys.’

Gaston did as he was told. The Irishman unlocked the rear door, disclosing the holdall. He unzipped it as they watched, took out the Kalashnikov, put the barrel in place expertly, then positioned it so that it pointed to the rear. He filled the ammunition box, threading the cartridge belt in place.

‘That looks a real bastard,’ Pierre said.