seeing I’m here I’ll make some coffee. Okay?’
‘Fine,’ Corder told her.
She disappeared into the kitchen and he quickly checked in the directory to find the district number to link him with the international line. His fingers were shaking as he dialled the area code for London followed by the DI5 number.
He didn’t even have time to pray. The receiver was lifted at the other end and a woman’s voice this time, the day operator, said, ‘Say who you are.’
‘Lysander,’ Corder said urgently. ‘Clear line please. I must speak to Brigadier Ferguson at once. Total Priority.’
Ferguson’s voice cut in instantly, almost as if he’d been listening in. ‘Jack, what is it?’
‘Total cock-up, sir. Barry smelt a rat, so he and I stayed out of things. The rest of the team were knocked out by CRS police.’
‘You’ve got clean away, presumably.’
‘Yes.’
‘And does he suspect you?’
‘No – he thinks it’s down to one of those Marseilles hoods speaking out of turn.’
In the kitchen Frank Barry, listening on the extension, smiled, anonymous in the dark goggles. The girl lay on the floor at his feet, blood oozing from an ugly cut in her temple where he had clubbed her with his pistol. He left the receiver hanging on its cord, took a Carswell Silencer from his pocket, and screwed it on to the barrel of his pistol as he walked into the cafe.
Corder was still talking in a low urgent voice. ‘No, I don’t know how much more I can take, that’s the trouble.’
Barry said softly, ‘Jack!’
Corder swung round and Barry shot him twice through the heart, slamming him back. He bounced off the wall and fell to the floor on his face.
The receiver dangled on the end of its cord. Barry picked it up and said, ‘That you, Ferguson, old son? Frank Barry here. If you want Corder back, you’d better send a box for him to Cafe Rosco, St Julien.’
‘You bastard,’ Charles Ferguson said.
‘It’s been said before.’
Barry replaced the receiver and went out, whistling softly as he unscrewed the silencer. He slipped the pistol back into its holster, pushed the BMW off its stand and rode away.
It was raining on the following morning when Ferguson’s car dropped him outside Number Ten Downing Street, ten minutes early for his eleven o’clock appointment with the Prime Minister. His driver moved away instantly and Ferguson crossed the pavement to the entrance. In spite of the rain, there was the usual small crowd of sightseers on the other side of the road, mainly tourists, kept in place by a couple of police constables. Another stood in his usual place by the door, not much protection for the best-known address in England, the seat of political power as well as the Prime Minister’s private residence, but that didn’t mean a thing, as Ferguson well knew. There were others, more inconspicuously attired, situated at certain strategic points in the area, ready to swarm in at the first hint of trouble.
The policeman saluted and the door was opened, even before Ferguson reached it. He passed inside.
The young man who greeted him said, ‘Brigadier Ferguson? This way, sir.’
There was the hum of activity from the Press Room on the right as he crossed the entrance hall and entered the corridor leading to the rear of the house and the Cabinet Room.
The main staircase to the first floor was lined with portraits of previous Prime Ministers: Peel, Wellington, Disraeli, Gladstone. Ferguson always felt an acute sense of history as he mounted those stairs, although this was the first time he had done so to meet the present Prime Minister. The first time he had had to explain himself to a woman, and a damn clever woman, if it came to that. Definitely a new experience. But did anything change? How many attempts to assassinate Queen Victoria? And Disraeli and Gladstone had both had their hands full of Fenians, dynamiters and anarchists with their bombs, at one time or another.
On the top corridor the young man knocked on a door, opened it and ushered Ferguson inside. ‘Brigadier Ferguson, Prime Minister,’ he said and left, closing the door behind him.
The study was more elegant now than Ferguson remembered it, with pale green walls, gold curtains and comfortable furniture in perfect taste. But nothing was more elegant in the entire room than the woman behind the desk. The blue suit with the froth of white lace at the throat perfectly offset the blonde hair. An elegant, handsome woman of the world, and yet the eyes, when she glanced up at Ferguson from the paper she was reading, were hard and intelligent.
‘I’ve had a personal assurance from the French President this morning that this whole wretched business will be hushed up. It never happened. You understand me?’
‘Perfectly, ma’am.’
She looked at the paper before her. ‘This agent of yours, Corder. If it hadn’t been for him …’ She gestured to a chair. ‘Sit down, Brigadier. Tell me about him.’
‘We recruited Jack Corder some twelve years ago when he was still an undergraduate at Balliol. The route he chose was to immerse himself totally in left wing politics. We often hear of moles within our intelligence service working for the Russians, ma’am. Jack was the other side of the coin. He endured prison sentences twice for his apparent militancy. Afterwards, I transferred him to the European terrorist scene. Frank Barry was his most important assignment.’
She nodded. ‘I’ve already spoken to the Director General of DI5. He tells me that as long ago as nineteen seventy-two, one of my predecessors authorised the setting up within DI5 of a section known as Group Four which has powers, held directly from the Prime Minister, to co-ordinate the handling of all cases of terrorism, subversion and the like.’
‘That is correct, Prime Minister.’
‘With you in charge, Brigadier?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
There was a longish pause while she stared down at the paper thoughtfully. Ferguson cleared his throat. ‘Naturally, if you would prefer to initiate some change, I will offer my resignation without hesitation.’
‘If I want it, I’ll ask for it. Brigadier,’ she said sharply. ‘But you can’t expect me to have much faith in the activities of your section when one of the chief ministers of the Crown comes within an inch of assassination. Now tell me about this man, Barry? Why is he so important, and more to the point, how does he remain so elusive?’
‘A brilliant madman, ma’am. A genius in his own way. As important to the international terrorist scene as Carlos, but not so familiar to the public.’
‘And why is that?’
‘A question of his personal psychology. Many terrorists, take some of those involved with the Baader-Meinhoff gang, for example, have a craving for public display. They want people to know not only who they are, but that they can make fools of the police and intelligence
