FIVE
IT WAS COLDER than ever in the evening, a front from Siberia sweeping across Europe, too cold for snow even. In the apartment, just before seven, Brosnan put some more logs on the fire.
Anne-Marie, lying full-length on the sofa, stirred and sat up. “So we stay in to eat?”
“I think so,” he said. “A vile night.”
“Good. I’ll see what I can do in the kitchen.”
He put on the television news program. More air strikes against Baghdad, but still no sign of a land war. He switched the set off and Anne-Marie emerged from the kitchen and picked up her coat from the chair where she had left it.
“Your fridge, as usual, is almost empty. Unless you wish me to concoct a meal based on some rather stale cheese, one egg and half a carton of milk, I’ll have to go round the corner to the delicatessen.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“Nonsense,” she said. “Why should we both suffer? I’ll see you soon.”
She blew him a kiss and went out. Brosnan went and opened the French windows. He stood on the terrace, shivering, and lit a cigarette, watching for her. A moment later, she emerged from the front door and started along the pavement.
“Goodbye, my love,” he called dramatically. “Parting is such sweet sorrow.”
“Idiot!” she called back. “Go back in before you catch pneumonia.” She moved away, careful on the frozen pavement, and disappeared round the corner.
At that moment, the phone rang. Brosnan turned and hurried in, leaving the French windows open.
Dillon had an early meal at a small cafe he often frequented. He was on foot and his route back to the barge took him past Brosnan’s apartment block. He paused on the other side of the road, cold in spite of the reefer coat and the knitted cap pulled down over his ears. He stood there, swinging his arms vigorosly, looking up at the lighted windows of the apartment.
When Anne-Marie came out of the entrance, he recognized her instantly and stepped back into the shadows. The street was silent, no traffic movement at all, and when Brosnan leaned over the balustrade and called down to her, Dillon heard every word he said. It gave him a totally false impression. That she was leaving for the evening. As she disappeared round the corner, he crossed the road quickly. He checked the Walther in his waistband at the rear, had a quick glance each way to see that no one was about, then started to climb the scaffolding.
It was Mary Tanner on the phone. “Brigadier Ferguson wondered whether we could see you again in the morning before going back?”
“It won’t do you any good,” Brosnan told her.
“Is that a yes or a no?”
“All right,” he said reluctantly. “If you must.”
“I understand,” she said, “I really do. Has Anne-Marie recovered?”
“A tough lady, that one,” he said. “She’s covered more wars than we’ve had hot dinners. That’s why I’ve always found her attitude about such things where I’m concerned, strange.”
“Oh, dear,” she said. “You men can really be incredibly stupid on occasions. She loves you, Professor, it’s as simple as that. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Brosnan put the phone down. There was a draught of cold air, the fire flared up. He turned and found Sean Dillon standing in the open French windows, the Walther in his left hand.
“God bless all here,” he said.
The delicatessen in the side street, as with so many such places these days, was run by an Indian, a Mr. Patel. He was most assiduous where Anne-Marie was concerned, carrying the basket for her as they went round the shelves. Delicious French bread sticks, milk, eggs, Brie cheese, a beautiful quiche.
“Baked by my wife with her own hands,” Mr. Patel assured her. “Two minutes in the microwave and a perfect meal.”
She laughed. “Then all we need is a very large tin of caviar and some smoked salmon to complement it.”
He packed the things carefully for her. “I’ll put them on Professor Brosnan’s account as usual.”
“Thank you,” she said.
He opened the door for her. “A pleasure, mademoiselle.”
She started back along the frosty pavement feeling suddenly unaccountably cheerful.
“Jesus, Martin, and the years have been good to you.” Dillon pulled the glove off his right hand with his teeth and found a pack of cigarettes in his pocket. Brosnan, a yard from the table drawer and the Browning High Power, made a cautious move. “Naughty.” Dillon gestured with the Walther. “Sit on the arm of the sofa and put your hands behind your head.”
Brosnan did as he was told. “You’re enjoying yourself, Sean.”
“I am so. How’s that old sod Liam Devlin these days?”
“Alive and well. Still in Kilrea outside Dublin, but then you know that.”
“And that’s a fact.”
“The job at Valenton, Mrs. Thatcher,” Brosnan said. “Very sloppy, Sean. I mean, to go with a couple of bums like the Joberts. You really must be losing your touch.”
“You think so?”
“Presumably it was a big payday?”
“Very big,” Dillon said.
“I hope you got your money in advance.”
“Very funny.” Dillon was beginning to get annoyed.
“One thing does intrigue me,” Brosnan said. “What you want with me after all these years?”
“Oh, I know all about you,” Dillon said. “How they’re pumping you for information about me. Hernu, the Action Service colonel, that old bastard Ferguson and this girl sidekick of his, this Captain Tanner. Nothing I don’t know. I’ve got the right friends, you see, Martin, the kind of people who can access anything.”
“Really, and were they happy when you failed with Mrs. Thatcher?”
“Just a tryout, that, just a perhaps. I’ve promised them an alternative target. You know how this game works.”
“I certainly do, and one thing I do know is that the IRA doesn’t pay for hits. Never has.”
“Who said I was working for the IRA?” Dillon grinned. “Plenty of other people with enough reason to hit the Brits these days.”
Brosnan saw it then, or thought he did. “Baghdad?”
“Sorry, Martin, you can go to your Maker puzzling over that one for all eternity.”
Brosnan said, “Just indulge me. A big hit for Saddam. I mean, the war stinks. He needs something badly.”
“Christ, you always did run on.”
“President Bush stays back in Washington, so that leaves the Brits. You fail on the best known woman in the world, so what’s next? The Prime Minister?”
“Where you’re going it doesn’t matter, son.”
“But I’m right, aren’t I?”
“Damn you, Brosnan, you always were the clever bastard!” Dillon exploded angrily.
“You’ll never get away with it,” Brosnan said.
“You think so? I’ll just have to prove you wrong, then.”
“As I said, you must be losing your touch, Sean. This bungled attempt to get Mrs. Thatcher. Reminds me of a job dear old Frank Barry pulled back in seventy-nine when he tried to hit the British Foreign Secretary, Lord Carrington, when he was passing through Saint-Etienne. I’m rather surprised you used the same ground plan, but then you always did think Barry was special, didn’t you?”
“He was the best.”
“And at the end of things, very dead,” Brosnan said.
