Eye of the Storm

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‘Fine,’ Brosnan said.

‘We may count on your help in this thing, I hope, Professor?’

Brosnan glanced at Anne-Marie whose face was set. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I don’t mind talking to you again if that will help, but I don’t want to be personally involved. You know what I was, Colonel. Whatever happens I won’t go back to anything like that. I made someone a promise a long time ago.’

‘I understand perfectly, Professor.’ Hernu turned to Anne-Marie. ‘Mademoiselle, a distinct pleasure.’

‘I’ll see you out,’ she said and led the way.

When she returned Brosnan had the French windows open and was standing looking across the river smoking a cigarette. He put an arm around her. ‘All right?’

‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘Perfect,’ and laid her head against his chest.

At that precise moment Ferguson was sitting by the fire in the Cavendish Square flat when the phone rang. Mary Tanner answered it in the study. After a while she came out. ‘That was Downing Street. The Prime Minister wants to see you.’

‘When?’

‘Now, sir.’

Ferguson got up and removed his reading glasses. ‘Call the car. You come with me and wait.’

She picked up the phone, spoke briefly, then put it down. ‘What do you think it’s about, Brigadier?’

‘I’m not sure. My imminent retirement or your return to more mundane duties. Or this business in France. He’ll have been told all about it by now. Anyway, let’s go and see,’ and he led the way out.

They were checked through the security gates at the end of Downing Street. Mary Tanner stayed in the car while Ferguson was admitted through the most famous door in the world. It was rather quiet compared to the last time he’d been there, a Christmas party given by Mrs Thatcher for the staff in the Pillared Room. Cleaners, typists, office workers. Typical of her, that. The other side of the Iron Lady.

He regretted her departure, that was a fact, and sighed as he followed a young aide up the main staircase lined with replicas of portraits of all those great men of history. Peel, Wellington, Disraeli and many more. They reached the corridor, the young man knocked on the door and opened it.

‘Brigadier Ferguson, Prime Minister.’

The last time Ferguson had been in that study it had been a woman’s room, the feminine touches unmistakably there, but things were different now, a little more austere in a subtle way, he was aware of that. Darkness was falling fast outside and John Major was checking some sort of report, the pen in his hand moving with considerable speed.

‘Sorry about this. It will only take a moment,’ he said.

It was the courtesy that astounded Ferguson, the sheer basic good manners that one didn’t experience too often from heads of state. Major signed the report, put it on one side and sat back, a pleasant, grey-haired man in horn-rimmed glasses, the youngest Prime Minister of the twentieth century. Almost unknown to the general public on his succession to Margaret Thatcher and yet his handling of the crisis in the Gulf had already marked him out as a leader of genuine stature.

‘Please sit down, Brigadier. I’m on a tight schedule, so I’ll get right to the point. The business affecting Mrs Thatcher in France. Obviously very disturbing.’

‘Indeed so, Prime Minister. Thank God it all turned out as it did.’

‘Yes, but that seems to have been a matter of luck more than anything else. I’ve spoken to President Mitterrand and he’s agreed that in all our interests and especially with the present situation in the Gulf there will be a total security clampdown.’

‘What about the press, Prime Minister?’

‘Nothing will reach the press, Brigadier,’ John Major told him. ‘I understand the French failed to catch the individual concerned?’

‘I’m afraid that is so according to my latest information, but Colonel Hernu of Action Service is keeping in close touch.’

‘I’ve spoken to Mrs Thatcher and it was she who alerted me to your presence, Brigadier. As I understand it, the intelligence section known as Group Four was set up in nineteen seventy-two, responsible only to the Prime Minister, its purpose to handle specific cases of terrorism and subversion?’

‘That is correct.’

‘Which means you will have served five prime ministers if we include myself.’

‘Actually, Prime Minister, that’s not quite accurate,’ Ferguson said. ‘We do have a problem at the moment.’

‘Oh, I know all about that. The usual security people have never liked your existence, Brigadier, too much like the Prime Minister’s private army. That’s why they thought a changeover at Number Ten was a good time to get rid of you.’

‘I’m afraid so, Prime Minister.’

‘Well, it wasn’t and it isn’t. I’ve spoken to the Director General of Security Services. It’s taken care of.’

‘I couldn’t be more delighted.’

‘Good. Your first task quite obviously is to run down whoever was behind this French affair. If he’s IRA, then he’s our business, wouldn’t you agree?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Good. I’ll let you go and get on with it then. Keep me informed of every significant development on an eyes only basis.’

‘Of course, Prime Minister.’

The door behind opened as if by magic, the aide appeared to usher Ferguson out, the Prime Minister was already working over another sheaf of papers as the door closed and Ferguson was led downstairs.

As the limousine drove away, Mary Tanner reached forward to close the screen. ‘What happened? What was it about?’

‘Oh, the French business.’ Ferguson sounded curiously remote. ‘You know, he’s really got something about him this one.’

‘Oh, come off it, sir,’ Mary said. ‘I mean, don’t you honestly think we could do with a change, after all these years of Tory government?’

‘Wonderful spokesperson for the workers you make,’ he said. ‘Your dear old Dad, God rest him, was a Professor of Surgery at Oxford, your mother owns half of Herefordshire. That flat of yours in Lowndes Square, a million, would you say? Why is it the children of the rich are always so depressingly left-wing while still insisting on dining at the Savoy?’

‘A gross exaggeration.’

‘Seriously, my dear, I’ve worked for Labour as well as Conservative prime ministers. The colour of the politician doesn’t matter. The Marquess of Salisbury when he was Prime Minister, Gladstone, Disraeli, had very similar problems to those we have today. Fenians, anarchists, bombs in London, only dynamite instead of Semtex and how many attempts were there on Queen Victoria’s life?’ He gazed out at the Whitehall traffic as they moved towards the Ministry of Defence. ‘Nothing changes.’

‘All right, end of lecture, but what happened?’ she demanded.

‘Oh, we’re back in business, that’s what happened,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid we’ll have to cancel your transfer back to the Military Police.’

‘Damn you!’ she cried and flung her arms around his neck.

Ferguson’s office on the third floor of the Ministry of Defence was on a corner at the rear overlooking Horseguards Avenue with a view of the Victoria Embankment and the river at the far end. He had hardly got settled behind his desk when Mary hurried in.

‘Coded fax from Hernu. I’ve put it through the machine. You’re not going to like it one little bit.’

It contained the gist of Hernu’s meeting with Martin Brosnan, the facts on Sean Dillon – everything.

‘Dear God,’ Ferguson said. ‘Couldn’t be worse. He’s like a ghost, this Dillon chap. Does he exist or doesn’t he? As bad as Carlos in international terrorist terms, but totally unknown to the media or the general public and nothing to go on.’

‘But we do have one thing, sir.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Brosnan.’

‘True, but will he help?’ Ferguson got up and moved to the window. ‘I tried to get Martin to do something for me the other year. He wouldn’t touch it with a bargepole.’ He turned and smiled. ‘It’s the girlfriend, you see, Anne-Marie Audin. She has a horror of him becoming what he once was.’

‘Yes, I can understand that.’

‘But never mind. We’d better get a report on their latest developments to the Prime Minister. Let’s keep it brief.’

She produced a pen and took notes as he dictated. ‘Anything else, sir?’ she asked when he had finished.

‘I don’t think so. Get it typed. One copy for the file, the other for the PM. Send it straight round to Number Ten by messenger. Eyes only.’

Mary did a rough type of the report herself then went along the corridor to the typing and copying room. There was one on each floor and the clerks all had full security clearance. The copier was clattering as she went in. The man standing in front of it was in his mid-fifties, white hair, steel-rimmed army glasses, his shirt sleeves rolled up.

‘Hello, Gordon,’ she said. ‘A priority one here. Your very best typing. One copy for the personal file. You’ll do it straight away?’

‘Of course, Captain Tanner.’ He glanced at it briefly. ‘Fifteen minutes. I’ll bring it along.’

She went out and he sat down at his typewriter, taking a deep breath to steady himself as he read the words. For the eyes of the Prime Minister only. Gordon Brown had served in the Intelligence Corps for twenty-five years, reaching the rank of warrant officer. A worthy, if unspectacular career, culminating in the award of an MBE and the offer of employment at the Ministry of Defence on his retirement from the army. And everything had been fine until the death of his wife from cancer the previous year. They were childless, which left him alone in a cold world at fifty-five years of age, and then something miraculous happened.

There were invitation cards flying around at the Ministry all the time to receptions at the various embassies in London. He often helped himself to one. It was just something to do and at an art display at the German Embassy he’d met Tania Novikova, a secretary-typist at the Soviet Embassy.

They’d got on so well together. She was thirty and not particularly pretty, but when she’d taken him to bed on their second meeting at his flat in Camden it was like a revelation. Brown had never known sex like it, was hooked instantly. And then it had started. The questions about his job, anything and everything about what went on at the Ministry of Defence. Then there was a cooling off. He didn’t see her and was distracted, almost out of his mind. He’d phoned her at her flat. She was cold at first, distant and then she’d asked him if he’d been doing anything interesting.

He knew then what was happening, but didn’t care. There was a series of reports passing through on British Army changes in view of political changes in Russia. It was easy to run off spare copies. When he took them round to her flat, it was just as it had been and she took him to heights of pleasure such as he had never known.

From then on he would do anything, providing copies of everything that might interest her. For the eyes of the Prime Minister only. How grateful would she be for that? He finished typing, ran off two extra copies, one for himself. He had a file of them now in one of his bedroom drawers. The other was for Tania Novikova, who was, of course, not a secretary-typist at the Soviet Embassy as she had informed Brown, but a captain in the KGB.

Gaston opened the door of the lock-up garage opposite Le Chat Noir and Pierre got behind the wheel of the old cream and red Peugeot. His brother got in the rear seat and they drove away.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ Gaston said. ‘I mean, what if they don’t get him? He could come looking for us, Pierre.’

‘Nonsense,’ Pierre told him. ‘He’s long gone, Gaston. What kind of fool would hang around after what’s happened? No, light me a cigarette and shut up. We’ll have a nice dinner and go on to the Zanzibar afterwards. They’ve still got those Swedish sisters stripping.’

It was just before eight, the streets at that place quiet and deserted, people inside because of the extreme cold. They came to a small square and as they started to cross it a CRS man on his motorcycle came up behind them, flashing his lights.

‘There’s a cop on our tail,’ Gaston said.

The policeman pulled up alongside, anonymous in his helmet and goggles and waved them down.

‘A message from Savary, I suppose,’ Pierre said, and pulled over to the pavement.

‘Maybe they’ve got him,’ Gaston said excitedly.

The CRS man halted behind them, pushed his bike up on its stand and approached. Gaston got the rear door open and leaned out. ‘Have they caught the bastard?’

Dillon took a Walther with a Carswell silencer from inside the flap of his raincoat and shot him twice in the heart. He pushed up his goggles and turned. Pierre crossed himself. ‘It’s you.’

‘Yes, Pierre. A matter of honour.’

The Walther coughed twice more, Dillon pushed it back inside his raincoat, got on the BMW and rode away. It started to snow a little, the square very quiet. It was perhaps half an hour later that a policeman on foot patrol, caped against the cold, found them.

Tania Novikova’s flat was just off the Bayswater Road not far from the Soviet Embassy. She’d had a hard day, had intended an early night. It was just before ten-thirty when her doorbell rang. She was towelling herself down after a nice relaxing bath. She pulled on a robe, and went downstairs.

Gordon Brown’s evening shift had finished at ten. He couldn’t wait to get to her and had had the usual difficulty parking his Ford Escort. He stood at the door, ringing the bell impatiently, hugely excited. When she opened the door and saw who it was she was immediately angry and drew him inside.

‘I told you never to come here, Gordon, under any circumstances.’

‘But this is special,’ he pleaded. ‘Look what I’ve brought you.’

In the living room she took the large envelope from him, opened it and slipped out the report. For the eyes of the Prime Minister only. Her excitement was intense as she read through it. Incredible that this fool could have delivered her such a coup. His arms were around her waist, sliding up to her breasts and she was aware of his excitement.

‘It’s good stuff, isn’t it?’ he demanded.

‘Excellent, Gordon. You have been a good boy.’

‘Really?’ His grip tightened. ‘I can stay over then?’

‘Oh, Gordon, it’s such a pity. I’m on the night shift.’

‘Please, darling.’ He was shaking like a leaf. ‘Just a few minutes then.’

She had to keep him happy, she knew that, put the report on the table and took him by the hand. ‘Quarter of an hour, Gordon, that’s all and then you’ll have to go,’ and she led him into the bedroom.

After she’d got rid of him, she dressed hurriedly, debating what to do. She was a hard, committed Communist. That was how she had been raised and how she would die. More than that, she served the KGB with total loyalty. It had nurtured her, educated her, given her whatever status she had in their world. For a young woman, she was surprisingly old-fashioned. Had no time for Gorbachev or the Glasnost fools who surrounded him. Unfortunately, many in the KGB did support him and one of those was her boss at the London Embassy, Colonel Yuri Gatov.

What would his attitude be to such a report, she wondered as she let herself out into the street and started to walk. What would Gorbachev’s attitude be to the failed attempt to assassinate Mrs Thatcher? Probably the same outrage the British Prime Minister must feel and if Gorbachev felt that way, so would Colonel Gatov. So, what to do?

It came to her then as she walked along the frosty pavement of the Bayswater Road, that there was someone who might very well be interested and not only because he thought as she did, but because he was himself right in the centre of all the action – Paris. Her old boss, Colonel Josef Makeev. That was it. Makeev would know how best to use such information. She turned into Kensington Palace Gardens and went into the Soviet Embassy.

By chance, Makeev was working late in his office that night when his secretary looked in and said, ‘A call from London on the scrambler. Captain Novikova.’