Tania took a deep breath. Dying wasn’t difficult. The cause she believed in had always been the most important thing in her life. She stubbed out her cigarette, opened a drawer in the desk, took out a Makarov pistol and shot herself through the right temple.
Gordon Brown, halfway down the stairs, turned and bounded up, bursting into the room. At the sight of her lying there beside the desk, the pistol still in her right hand, he let out a terrible cry and fell on his knees.
‘Tania, my darling,’ he moaned.
And then he knew what he must do as he heard something heavy crash against the door below. He prised the Makarov from her hand and as he raised it, his own hand was trembling. He took a deep breath to steady himself and pulled the trigger in the same moment that the front door burst open and Lane and Mackie started upstairs, Ferguson behind them.
There was a small crowd at the end of the street exhibiting the usual public curiosity. Dillon joined in, his collar up, hands in pockets. It started to snow slightly as they opened the rear doors of the ambulance. He watched as the two blanket-covered stretchers were loaded. The ambulance drove away. Ferguson stood on the pavement for a few moments talking to Lane and Mackie. Dillon recognised the Brigadier straight away, had been shown his photo many years previously. Lane and Mackie were obviously policemen.
After a while, Ferguson got in his car and was driven away, Mackie went into the flat and Lane also drove away. The stratagem was obvious. For Mackie to wait just in case someone turned up. One thing was certain. Tania Novikova was dead and so was the boyfriend and Dillon knew that thanks to her sacrifice, he was safe.
He went back to the hotel and phoned Makeev at his flat in Paris. ‘I’ve got bad news, Josef.’
‘Tania?’
‘How did you know?’
‘She phoned. What’s happened?’
‘She was blown or rather her mole was. She killed herself, Josef, rather than get taken. A dedicated lady.’
‘And the mole? The boyfriend?’
‘Did the same. I’ve just seen the bodies carted out to an ambulance. Ferguson was there.’
‘How will this affect you?’
‘In no way. I’m off to Belfast in the morning to cut off the only chance of a lead they might have.’
‘And then?’
‘I’ll amaze you, Josef, and your Arab friend. How does the entire British War Cabinet sound to you?’
‘Dear God, you can’t be serious?’
‘Oh, but I am. I’ll be in touch very soon now.’
He replaced the phone, put on his jacket and went down to the bar, whistling.
Ferguson was sitting in a booth in the lounge bar of the pub opposite Kensington Park Gardens and the Soviet Embassy, waiting for Colonel Yuri Gatov. The Russian, when he appeared, looked agitated, a tall, white-haired man in a camel overcoat. He saw Ferguson and hurried over.
‘Charles, I can’t believe it. Tania Novikova dead. Why?’
‘Yuri, you and I have known each other for better than twenty-five years, often as adversaries, but I’ll take a chance on you now, a chance that you really do want to see change in our time and an end to East–West conflict.’
‘But I do, you know that.’
‘Unfortunately, not everyone in the KGB would agree with you, and Tania Novikova was one.’
‘She was a hardliner, true, but what are you saying, Charles?’
So Ferguson told him, Dillon, the attempt on Mrs Thatcher, Gordon Brown, Brosnan, everything.
Gatov said, ‘This IRA wild card intends to attempt the life of the Prime Minister, that’s what you’re telling me, and Tania was involved?’
‘Oh, very directly.’
‘But Charles, I knew nothing, I swear.’
‘And I believe you, old chap, but she must have had a link with someone. I mean she managed to convey vital information to Dillon in Paris. That’s how he knew about Brosnan and so on.’
‘Paris,’ Gatov said. ‘That’s a thought. Did you know she was in Paris for three years before transferring to London and you know who’s head of Paris station for the KGB?’
‘Of course, Josef Makeev,’ Ferguson said.
‘Anything but a Gorbachev man. Very much of the old guard.’
‘It would explain a great deal,’ Ferguson said. ‘But we’ll never prove it.’
‘True,’ Gatov nodded. ‘But I’ll give him a call anyway, just to worry him.’
Makeev had not strayed far from the phone and picked it up the moment it rang.
‘Makeev here.’
‘Josef? Yuri Gatov. I’m phoning from London.’
‘Yuri. What a surprise,’ Makeev said, immediately wary.
‘I’ve got some distressing news, Josef. Tania, Tania Novikova.’
‘What about her?’
‘She committed suicide earlier this evening along with some boyfriend of hers, a clerk at the Ministry of Defence.’
‘Good heavens.’ Makeev tried to sound convincing.
‘He was feeding her classified information. I’ve just had a session with Charles Ferguson of Group Four. You know Charles?’
‘Of course.’
‘I was quite shocked. I must tell you I had no knowledge of Tania’s activities. She worked for you for three years, Josef, so you know her as well as anyone. Have you any thoughts on the matter?’
‘None, I’m afraid.’
‘Ah, well, if you can think of anything, let me know.’
Makeev poured himself a Scotch and went and looked out into the frostbound Paris street. For a wild moment he’d had an impulse to phone Michael Aroun, but what would be the point? And Tania had sounded so certain. Set the world on fire, that had been her phrase.
He raised his glass. ‘To you, Dillon,’ he said softly. ‘Let’s see if you can do it.’
It was almost eleven in the River Room at the Savoy, the band still playing and Harry Flood, Brosnan and Mary were thinking of breaking up the party when Ferguson appeared at last.
‘If ever I’ve needed a drink I need one now. A Scotch and a very large one.’
Flood called a waiter and gave the order and Mary said, ‘What on earth’s happened?’
Ferguson
