Eye of the Storm (27 page)

She went into the bathroom and turned on the taps. When she went back into the living room Billy was asleep on the couch, legs sprawled. “Oh, dear,” she said, got a blanket to cover him, then went to bed.

 

When Makeev knocked on the door at Avenue Victor Hugo it was opened by Rashid. “You’ve news for us?” the young Iraqi asked.

Makeev nodded. “Where’s Michael?”

“He’s waiting for you.”

Rashid took him through to the drawing room, where Aroun was standing beside the fire. He was wearing a black dinner jacket, for he had been to the opera.

“What is it?” he demanded. “Has something happened?”

“I’ve had Dillon on the phone from England. He wants you to fly down to Saint-Denis in the morning. He intends to fly in himself sometime in the afternoon.”

Aroun was pale with excitement. “What is it? What does he intend?”

He poured the Russian a cognac and Rashid passed it to him. “He told me he intends some sort of attack on the British War Cabinet at Downing Street.”

There was total silence, only astonishment on Aroun’s face. It was Rashid who spoke. “The War Cabinet? All of them? That’s impossible. How could he even attempt such a thing?”

“I’ve no idea,” Makeev said. “I’m simply telling you what he told me, that the War Cabinet meets at ten in the morning and that is when he makes his move.”

“God is great,” Michael Aroun said. “If he can do this thing, now, in the middle of the war, before the land offensive starts, the effect on the whole Arab world would be incredible.”

“I should imagine so.”

Aroun took a step forward and fastened his right hand on Makeev’s lapel. “Can he, Josef, can he do it?”

“He seems certain.” Makeev disengaged himself. “I only tell you what he has told me.”

Aroun turned and stood looking down at the fire, then said to Rashid, “We’ll leave at nine from Charles de Gaulle in the Citation. We’ll be there in not much more than an hour.”

“At your orders,” Rashid said.

“You can phone old Alphonse at the Château now. I want him out of there at breakfast time. He can take a few days off. I don’t want him around.”

Rashid nodded and went out to the study. Makeev said, “Alphonse?”

“The caretaker. At this time of the year he’s on his own unless I tell him to bring the servants in from the local village. They’re all on retainers.”

Makeev said, “I’d like to come with you if that’s all right.”

“Of course, Josef.” Aroun poured two more glasses of cognac. “God forgive me, I know I drink when I should not, but on this occasion.” He raised his glass. “To Dillon, and may all go as he intends.”

 

It was one o’clock in the morning and Fahy was working on one of the oxygen cylinders on the bench when Dillon entered the barn.

“How’s it going?”

“Fine,” Fahy said. “Nearly finished. This one and one to go. How’s the weather?”

Dillon walked to the open door. “It’s stopped snowing, but more’s expected. I checked on the teletext on your television.”

Fahy carried the cylinder to the Ford Transit, got inside and fitted it into one of the tubes with great care while Dillon watched. Angel came in with a jug and two mugs in one hand. “Coffee?” she asked.

“Lovely.” Her uncle held a mug while she filled it and then did the same for Dillon.

Dillon said, “I’ve been thinking. The garage where I wanted you to wait with the van, Angel, I’m not sure that’s such a good idea now.”

Fahy paused, a spanner in his hand and looked up. “Why not?”

“It was where the Russian woman, my contact, kept her car. The police will probably know that. If they’re keeping an eye on her flat they may well be checking the garage, too.”

“So what do you suggest?”

“Remember where I was staying, the hotel on the Bayswater Road? There’s a supermarket next door with a big parking area at the rear. We’ll use that. It won’t make much of a difference,” he said to Angel. “I’ll show you when we get there.”

“Anything you say, Mr. Dillon.” She stayed watching as Fahy finished the fitting of his improvised mortar bomb and moved back to the bench. “I was thinking, Mr. Dillon, this place in France, this Saint-Denis?”

“What about it?”

“You’ll be flying straight off there afterwards?”

“That’s right.”

She said carefully, “Where does that leave us?”

Fahy paused to wipe his hands. “She’s got a point, Sean.”

“You’ll be fine, the both of you,” Dillon said. “This is a clean one, Danny, the cleanest I ever pulled. Not a link with you or this place. If it works tomorrow, and it will, we’ll be back here by eleven-thirty at the outside and that will be the end of it.”

“If you say so,” Fahy said.

“But I do, Danny, and if it’s the money you’re worried about, don’t. You’ll get your share. The man I’m working for can arrange financial payments anywhere. You can have it here if you want or Europe if that’s better.”

“Sure and the money was never the big thing, Sean,” Fahy said. “You know that. It’s just that if there’s a chance of something going wrong, any kind of chance.” He shrugged. “It’s Angel I’m thinking about.”

“No need. If there was any risk I’d be the first to say come with me, but there won’t be.” Dillon put his arm about the girl. “You’re excited, aren’t you?”

“Me stomach’s turning over something dreadful, Mr. Dillon.”

“Go to bed.” He pushed her toward the door. “We’ll be leaving at eight.”

“I won’t sleep a wink.”

“Try. Now go on, that’s an order.”

She went out reluctantly. Dillon lit another cigarette and turned back to Fahy. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Not a thing, another half hour should do it. Go and put your head down yourself, Sean. As for me, I’m as bad as Angel. I don’t think I could. I’ve found some old biker’s leathers for you, by the way,” Fahy added. “They’re over there by the BSA.”

There was a jacket and leather trousers and boots. They’d all seen considerable service and Dillon smiled. “Takes me back to my youth. I’ll go and try them on.”

Fahy paused and ran a hand over his eyes as if tired. “Look, Sean, does it have to be tomorrow?”

“Is there a problem?”

“I told you I wanted to weld some fins on to the oxygen cylinders to give more stability in flight. I haven’t time to do that now.” He threw his spanner down on the bench. “It’s all too rushed, Sean.”

“Blame Martin Brosnan and his friends, not me, Danny,” Dillon told him. “They’re breathing down my neck. Nearly had me in Belfast. God knows when they might turn up again. No, Danny, it’s now or never.”

He turned and went out and Fahy picked up his spanner reluctantly and went back to work.

 

The leathers weren’t bad at all and Dillon stood in front of the wardrobe mirror as he zipped up the jacket. “Would you look at that?” he said softly. “Eighteen years old again when the world was young and anything seemed possible.”

He unzipped the jacket again, took it off, then opened his briefcase and unfolded the bulletproof waistcoat Tania had given him at their first meeting. He pulled it snugly into place, fastened the Velcro tabs, then put his jacket on again.

He sat on the edge of the bed, took the Walther out of the briefcase, examined it and screwed the Carswell silencer in place. Next he checked the Beretta and put it on the bedside locker close to hand. He put the briefcase in the wardrobe, then switched off the light and lay on the bed, looking up at the ceiling through the darkness.

He never felt emotional, not about anything, and it was exactly the same now, on the eve of the greatest coup of his life. “You’re making history with this one, Sean,” he said softly. “History.”

He closed his eyes and after a while, slept.

 

It snowed again during the night and just after seven, Fahy walked along the track to check the road. He walked back and found Dillon standing at the farmhouse door eating a bacon sandwich, a mug of tea in his hand.

“I don’t know how you can,” Fahy told him. “I couldn’t eat a thing. I’d bring it straight up.”

“Are you scared, Danny?”

“To death.”

“That’s good. It sharpens you up, gives you that edge that can make all the difference.”

They crossed to the barn and stood beside the Ford Transit. “Well, she’s as ready as she ever will be,” Fahy said.

Dillon put a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve done wonders, Danny, wonders.”

Angel appeared behind them. She was dressed, ready to go, in her old trousers and boots, anorak and sweater and the Tam o’Shanter. “Are we moving?”

“Soon,” Dillon said. “We’ll get the BSA into the Morris now.”

They opened the rear doors of the Morris, put the duckboard on the incline and ran the bike up inside. Dillon lifted it up on its stand and Fahy shoved the duckboard in. He passed a crash helmet through. “That’s for you. I’ll have one for myself in the Ford.” He hesitated. “Are you carrying, Sean?”

Dillon took the Beretta from inside his black leather jacket. “What about you?”

“Jesus, Sean, I always hated guns, you know that.”

Dillon slipped the Beretta back in place and zipped up his jacket. He closed the van doors and turned. “Everybody happy?”

“Are we ready for off then?” Angel asked.

Dillon checked his watch. “Not yet. I said we’d leave at eight. We don’t want to be too early. Time for another cup of tea.”

They went across to the farmhouse and Angel put the kettle on in the kitchen. Dillon lit a cigarette and leaned against the sink watching. “Don’t you have any nerves at all?” she asked him. “I can feel my heart thumping.”

Fahy called, “Come and see this, Sean.”

Dillon went in the living room. The television was on in the corner and the morning show was dealing with the snow which had fallen over London overnight. Trees in the city squares, statues, monuments, were all covered, and many of the pavements.

“Not good,” Fahy said.

“Stop worrying, the roads themselves are clear,” Dillon said as Angel came in with a tray. “A nice cup of tea, Danny, with plenty of sugar for energy and we’ll be on our way.”

 

At the Lowndes Square flat Brosnan was boiling eggs in the kitchen and watching the toast when the phone went. He heard Mary answer it. After a while she looked in. “Harry’s on the phone; he’d like a word.”

Brosnan took the phone. “How goes it?”

“Okay, old buddy, just checking you were leaving soon.”

“How are we going to handle things?”

“We’ll just have to play it by ear, but I also think we’ll have to play rough.”

“I agree,” Brosnan said.

“I’m right in assuming that would give Mary a problem?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Then she definitely can’t go in. Leave it to me. I’ll handle it when we get there. See you soon.”

Brosnan put the phone down and went back to the kitchen where Mary had put out the eggs and toast and was pouring tea. “What did he have to say?” she asked.

“Nothing special. He was just wondering what the best approach would be.”

“And I suppose you think that would be to batter Harvey over the head with a very large club?”

“Something like that.”

“Why not thumbscrews, Martin?”

“Why not, indeed?” He reached for the toast. “If that’s what it takes.”

 

The early morning traffic on the Horsham road to Dorking and onwards to London was slower than usual because of the weather. Angel and Dillon led the way in the Morris, Fahy close behind in the Ford Transit. The girl was obviously tense, her knuckles white as she gripped the wheel too tightly, but she drove extremely well. Epsom then Kingston and on toward the river, crossing the Thames at Putney Bridge. It was already nine-fifteen as they moved along the Bayswater Road toward the hotel.

“Over there,” Dillon said. “There’s the supermarket. The entrance to the car park is down the side.” She turned in, changing to the lowest gear, crawling along as she went into the car park, which was already quite full. “There at the far end,” Dillon said, “just the spot.”

There was a huge trailer parked there, protected by a plastic sheet that was itself covered by snow. She parked on the other side of it and Fahy stopped nearby. Dillon jumped out, pulling on his crash helmet, went round and opened the doors. He put the duckboard in the right position, got inside and eased the BSA out, Angel helping. As he threw a leg over the seat she shoved the duckboard back inside the van and closed the doors. Dillon switched on and the BSA responded sweetly, roaring into life. He glanced at his watch. It was nine-twenty. He pulled the machine up on its stand and went over to Fahy in the Ford.

“Remember, the timing is crucial and we can’t go round and round in circles at Whitehall, somebody might get suspicious. If we’re too early, try and delay things on the Victoria Embankment. Pretend you’ve broken down and I’ll stop as if I’m assisting, but from the Embankment up Horse Guards Avenue to the corner with Whitehall will only a take a minute, remember that.”

“Jesus, Sean.” Fahy looked terrified.

“Easy, Danny, easy,” Dillon said. “It’ll be fine, you’ll see. Now get moving.”

He swung a leg over the BSA again and Angel said, “I prayed for you last night, Mr. Dillon.”

“Well, that’s all right, then. See you soon,” and he rode away and joined up behind the Ford.

H
ARRY FLOOD AND Mordecai were waiting in the Mercedes, Salter at the wheel, when a taxi drew up outside the undertaker’s in Whitechapel and Brosnan and Mary got out. They picked their way carefully through the snow on the pavement and Flood opened the door for them to get in.

He glanced at his watch. “Just coming up to nine-thirty. We might as well go straight in.”

He took a Walther from his breast pocket and checked the slider. “You want something, Martin?” he asked.