Eye Of The Storm aka Midnight Man

“I’ve been to see Brosnan to ask him to come in with us on this. I’m afraid he’s refused. Offered to give us his advice and so on, but he won’t become actively involved.”

“Nonsense,” Ferguson said. “We can’t have that. When the ship is sinking it’s all hands to the pumps, and this ship is sinking very fast indeed.”

“What do you suggest?”

“I think it might be an idea if I came over to see him. I’m not sure of the time. I’ve things to arrange. Possibly the afternoon. We’ll let you know.”

“Excellent. I couldn’t be more pleased.”

Ferguson sat there thinking about it for a while and then he phoned Mary Tanner at her flat. “I suppose like me, you’d hoped for a relatively quiet night after your early rise this morning?” he said.

“It had crossed my mind. Has something happened?”

He brought her up to date. “I think it might be an idea to go over tomorrow, have a chat with Hernu, then speak to Brosnan. He must be made to realize how serious this is.”

“Do you want me to come?”

“Naturally. I can’t even make sense of a menu over there, whereas we all know that one of the benefits of your rather expensive education is fluency in the French language. Get in touch with the transport officer at the Ministry and tell him I want the Lear jet standing by tomorrow.”

“I’ll handle it. Anything else?”

“No, I’ll see you at the office in the morning, and don’t forget your passport.”

Ferguson put down the phone, got into bed and switched off the light.

Back on the barge, Dillon boiled the kettle, then poured a little Bushmill’s whisky into a mug, added some lemon juice, sugar and the boiling water and went back into the stateroom, sipping the hot toddy. My God, Martin Brosnan after all these years. His mind went back to the old days with the American and Liam Devlin, his old commander. Devlin, the living legend of the IRA. Wild, exciting days, taking on the might of the British Army, face-to-face. Nothing would ever be the same as that.

There was a stack of London newspapers on the table. He’d brought them all at the Gare de Lyon newsstand earlier. There was the Daily Mail, the Express, the Times, and the Telegraph. It was the political sections that interested him most and all the stories were similar. The Gulf crisis, the air strikes on Baghdad, speculation on when the land war would start. And photos, of course. Prime Minister John Major outside Number Ten Downing Street. The British press was wonderful. There were discussions about security, speculation as to possible Arab terrorist attacks and articles that even included maps and street plans of the immediate area around Downing Street. And more photos of the Prime Minister and cabinet ministers arriving for the daily meetings of the War Cabinet. London, that was where the action was, no doubt about it. He put the papers away neatly, finished his toddy and went to bed.

One of the first things Ferguson did on reaching his office was to dictate a further brief report to the Prime Minister bringing him up to date and informing him of the Paris trip. Mary took the draft along to the copy room. The duty clerk just coming to the end of the night shift was a woman, a Mrs. Alice Johnson, a war widow whose husband had been killed in the Falklands. She got on with the typing of the report instantly, had just finished putting it through the copier when Gordon Brown entered. He was on a split shift. Three hours from ten until one and six until ten in the evening. He put his briefcase down and took off his jacket.

“You go whenever you like, Alice. Anything special?”

“Just this report for Captain Tanner. It’s a Number Ten job. I said I’d take it along.”

“I’ll take it for you,” Brown said. “You get going.”

She passed him both copies of the report and started to clear her desk. No chance to make an extra copy, but at least he could read it, which he did as he went along the corridor to Mary Tanner’s office. She was sitting at her desk when he went in.

“That report you wanted, Captain Tanner. Shall I arrange a messenger?”

“No, thanks, Gordon. I’ll see to it.”

“Anything else, Captain?”

“No, I’m just clearing the desk. Brigadier Ferguson and I are going to Paris.” She glanced at her watch. “I’ll have to get moving. We’re due out of Gatwick at eleven.”

“Well, I hope you enjoy yourself.”

When he went back to the copy room Alice Johnson was still there. “I say, Alice,” he said, “would you mind hanging on for a little while? Only something’s come up. I’ll make it up to you.”

“That’s all right,” she said. “You get off.”

He put on his coat, hurried downstairs to the canteen and went into one of the public telephone booths. Tania Novikova was only at the flat because of the lateness of the hour when she had left the Embassy the previous night. “I’ve told you not to ring me here. I’ll ring you,” she told him.

“I must see you. I’m free at one.”

“Impossible.”

“I’ve seen another report. The same business.”

“I see. Have you got a copy?”

“No, that wasn’t possible, but I’ve read it.”

“What did it say?”

“I’ll tell you at lunchtime.”

She realized then that control on her part, severe control, was necessary. Her voice was cold and hard when she said, “Don’t waste my time, Gordon, I’m busy. I think I’d better bring this conversation to an end. I may give you a ring sometime, but then I may not.”

He panicked instantly. “No, let me tell you. There wasn’t much. Just that the two French criminals involved had been murdered, they presumed by the man Dillon. Oh, and Brigadier Ferguson and Captain Tanner are flying over to Paris in the Lear jet at noon.”

“Why?”

“They’re hoping to persuade this man Martin Brosnan to help them.”

“Good,” she said. “You’ve done well, Gordon. I’ll see you tonight at your flat. Six o’clock and bring your work schedule for the next couple of weeks.” She rang off.

Brown went upstairs, full of elation.

Ferguson and Mary Tanner had an excellent flight and touched down at Charles de Gaulle airport just after one. By two o’clock they were being ushered into Hernu’s office at DGSE headquarters on Boulevard Mortier.

He embraced Ferguson briefly. “Charles, you old rogue, it’s far too long.”

“Now, then, none of your funny French ways,” Ferguson told him. “You’ll be kissing me on both cheeks next. Mary Tanner, my aide.”

She was wearing a rather nice Armani trouser suit of dark brown and a pair of exquisite ankle boots by Manolo Blahnik. Diamond stud earrings and a small gold Rolex divers’ watch completed the picture. For a girl who was not supposed to be particularly pretty, she looked stunning. Hernu, who knew class when he saw it, kissed her hand. “Captain Tanner, your reputation precedes you.”

“Only in the nicest way, I hope,” she replied in fluent French.

“Good,” Ferguson said. “So now we’ve got all that stuff over, let’s get down to brass tacks. What about Brosnan?”

“I have spoken to him this morning and he’s agreed to see us at his apartment at three. Time for a late lunch. We have excellent canteen facilities here. Everyone mixes in from the Director downwards.” He opened the door. “Just follow me. It may not be quite the best food in Paris, but it’s certainly the cheapest.”

In the stateroom at the barge, Dillon was pouring a glass of Krug and studying a large-scale map of London. Around him, pinned to the mahogany walls, were articles and reports from all the newspapers specifically referring to affairs at Number Ten, the Gulf War and how well John Major was doing. There were photos of the youngest