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,
