Eye of the Storm

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.

‘Seven point two millimetre cartridges mixed with tracer and armour piercing,’ Dillon said. ‘It’s a killer all right. Kalashnikov. I’ve seen one of these take a Land Rover full of British paratroopers to pieces.’

‘Really,’ Pierre said and as Gaston was about to speak, he put a warning hand on his arm. ‘What’s in the other box?’

‘More ammunition.’

Dillon took out the sheet from the holdall, covered the machine gun, then locked the door. He got behind the driving wheel, started the engine and moved the van a few yards, positioned it so that the tail pointed at an angle towards the crossing. He got out and locked the door and clouds scudded across the moon and the rain started again, more snow in it now.

‘So, you leave this here?’ Pierre said. ‘What if someone checks it?’

‘What if they do?’ Dillon knelt down at the offside rear tyre, took a knife from his pocket, sprang the blade and poked at the rim of the wheel. There was a hiss of air and the tyre went down rapidly.

Gaston nodded. ‘Clever. Anyone gets curious, they’ll just think a breakdown.’

‘But what about us?’ Pierre demanded. ‘What do you expect?’

‘Simple. Gaston turns up with the white Renault just after two this afternoon. You block the road at the crossing, not the railway track, just the road, get out, lock the door and leave it. Then get the hell out of there.’ He turned to Pierre. ‘You follow in a car, pick him up and straight back to Paris.’

‘But what about you?’ the big man demanded.

‘I’ll be already here, waiting in the van. I’ll make my own way. Back to Paris now. You can drop me at Le Chat Noir and that’s an end of it. You won’t see me again.’

‘And the rest of the money?’ Pierre demanded as he got behind the Renault’s wheel and Gaston and Dillon joined him.

‘You’ll get it, don’t worry,’ Dillon said. ‘I always keep my word just as I expect others to keep theirs. A matter of honour, my friend. Now let’s get moving.’

He closed his eyes again, leaned back. Pierre glanced at his brother, switched on the engine and drove away.

It was just on half-past one when they reached Le Chat Noir. There was a lock-up garage opposite the pub. Gaston opened the doors and Pierre drove in.

‘I’ll be off then,’ Dillon said.

‘You’re not coming in?’ the big man asked. ‘Then Gaston can run you home.’

Dillon smiled. ‘No one’s ever taken me home in my life.’

He walked away, turning into a side street and Pierre said to his brother, ‘After him and don’t lose him.’

‘But why?’ Gaston demanded.

‘Because I want to know where he’s staying, that’s why. It stinks, this thing, Gaston, like bad fish stinks, so get moving.’

Dillon moved rapidly from street to street, following his usual pattern, but Gaston, a thief since childhood and an expert in such matters, managed to stay on his trail, never too close. Dillon had intended returning to the warehouse in rue de Helier, but pausing on the corner of an alley to light a cigarette, he glanced back and could have sworn he saw a movement. He was right, for it was Gaston ducking into a doorway out of sight.

For Dillon, even the suspicion was enough. He’d had a feeling about Pierre all night, a bad feeling. He turned left, worked his way back to the river and walked along the pavement and past a row of trucks, their windscreens covered with snow. He came to a small hotel, the cheapest sort of place, the kind used by prostitutes or truckers stopping overnight, and went in.

The desk clerk was very old and wore an overcoat and scarf against the cold. His eyes were wet. He put down his book and rubbed them. ‘Monsieur?’

‘I brought a load in from Dijon a couple of hours ago. Intended to drive back tonight, but the damn truck’s giving trouble. I need a bed.’

‘Thirty francs, monsieur.’

‘You’re kidding,’ Dillon said. ‘I’ll be out of here at the crack of dawn.’

The old man shrugged. ‘All right, you can have number eighteen on the second landing for twenty, but the bed hasn’t been changed.’

‘When does that happen, once a month?’ Dillon took the key, gave him his twenty francs and went upstairs.

The room was as disgusting as he expected even in the diffused light from the landing. He closed the door, moved carefully through the darkness and looked out cautiously. There was a movement under a tree on the river side of the road. Gaston Jobert stepped out and hurried away along the pavement.

‘Oh dear,’ Dillon whispered, then lit a cigarette and went and lay on the bed and thought about it, staring up at the ceiling.

Pierre, sitting at the bar of Le Chat Noir waiting for his brother’s return, was leafing through Paris Soir for want of something better to do when he noticed the item on Margaret Thatcher’s meeting with Mitterrand. His stomach churned and he read the item again with horror. It was at that moment the door opened and Gaston hurried in.

‘What a night. I’m frozen to the bone. Give me a cognac.’

‘Here.’ Pierre poured some into a glass. ‘And you can read this interesting titbit in Paris Soir while you’re drinking.’

Gaston did as he was told and suddenly choked on the cognac. ‘My God, she’s staying at Choisy.’

‘And leaves from that old air force field at Valenton. Leaves Choisy at two o’clock. How long to get to that railway crossing? Ten minutes?’

‘Oh, God, no,’ Gaston said. ‘We’re done for. This is out of our league, Pierre. If this takes place, we’ll have every cop in France on the streets.’

‘But it isn’t going to. I knew that bastard was bad news. Always something funny about him. You managed to follow him?’

‘Yes, he doubled around the streets for a while, then ended up at that fleapit old François runs just along the river. I saw him through the window booking in.’ He shivered. ‘But what are we going to do?’ He was almost sobbing. ‘This is the end, Pierre. They’ll lock us up and throw away the key.’