“And what can I do for you?” he asked.
“Some makeup, I think. What have you got in boxes?”
“Some very good kits here,” the old boy said. He took one down and opened it on the counter. “They use these at the National Theatre. In the business, are you?”
“Amateur, that’s all, I’m afraid, church players.” Dillon checked the contents of the box. “Excellent. I’ll take an extra lipstick, bright red, some black hair dye and also some solvent.”
“You
“I won’t,” Dillon said and went out whistling.
In the village of Vercors it was snowing as the cortege drove down from the chateau. In spite of the weather, villagers lined the street, men with their caps off, as Anne-Marie Audin went to her final rest. There were only three cars behind the hearse, old Pierre Audin and his secretary in the first, a number of servants in the other. Brosnan and Mary Tanner, with Max Hernu following, walked up through the tombstones and paused as the old man was lifted from the car into his wheelchair. He was pushed inside, the rest followed.
It was very old, a typical village church, whitewashed walls, the Stations of the Cross, and it was cold, very cold. In fact Brosnan had never felt so cold and sat there, shaking slightly, hardly aware of what was being said, rising and kneeling obediently with everyone else. It was only when the service ended and they stood as the pallbearers carried the coffin down the aisle that he realized that Mary Tanner was holding his hand.
They walked through the graveyard to the family mausoleum. It was the size of a small chapel, built in gray granite and marble with a steep Gothic roof. The oaken doors stood open. The priest paused to give the final benediction, the coffin was taken inside. The secretary turned the wheelchair and pushed it down the path past them, the old man huddled over, a rug across his knees.
“I feel so sorry for him,” Mary said.
“No need, he doesn’t know what time of day it is,” Brosnan told her.
“That’s not always true.”
She walked to the car, and put a hand on the old man’s shoulder as he sat there in his wheelchair. Then she returned.
“So, my friends, back to Paris,” Hernu said.
“And then London,” Brosnan said.
Mary took his arm as they walked toward the car. “Tomorrow, Martin, tomorrow morning will be soon enough, and I won’t take no for an answer.”
“All right,” he said. “Tomorrow it is,” and he got in the rear of the car and leaned back, suddenly drained, and closed his eyes, Mary sitting beside him as Hernu drove away.
It was just after six when Tania Novikova heard the doorbell. She went downstairs and opened the door. Dillon stood there, suitcase in one hand, briefcase in the other. “Josef sends his regards.”
She was amazed. Since Makeev had spoken to her she had accessed KGB files in London to discover as much about Dillon as she could and had been astonished at his record. She had expected some kind of dark hero. Instead, she had a small man in a trenchcoat with tinted glasses and a college tie.
“You are Sean Dillon?” she said.
“As ever was.”
“You’d better come in.”
Women had never been of great importance to Dillon. They were there to satisfy a need on occasions, but he had never felt the slightest emotional involvement with one. Following Tania Novikova up the stairs, he was aware that she had a good figure and that the black trouser suit became her. Her hair was caught up at the nape of the neck in a velvet bow, but, when she turned to him in the full light of her sitting room, he realized that she was really rather plain.
“You had a good trip?” she asked.
“All right. I was delayed in Jersey last night because of fog.”
“Would you like a drink?”
“Tea would be fine.”
She opened a drawer, produced a Walther, two spare clips and a Carswell silencer. “Your preferred weapon according to Josef.”
“Definitely.”
“Also, I thought this might come in useful.” She handed him a small bundle. “They say it can stop a.45 bullet at point-blank range. Nylon and titanium.”
Dillon unfolded it. Nothing like as bulky as a flak jacket, it was designed like a small waistcoat and fastened with Velcro tabs.
“Excellent,” he said and put it in his briefcase together with the Walther and the silencer. He unbuttoned his trenchcoat, lit a cigarette and stood in the kitchen door and watched her make the tea. “You’re very convenient for the Soviet Embassy here?”
“Oh, yes, walking distance.” She brought the tea out on a tray. “I’ve fixed you up with a room in a small hotel just round the corner in the Bayswater Road. It’s the sort of place commercial travelers overnight at.”
“Fine.” He sipped his tea. “To business. What about Fahy?”
“No luck so far. He moved from Kilburn a few years ago to a house in Finchley. Only stayed there a year and moved again. That’s where I’ve drawn a blank. But I’ll find him, I’ve got someone on his case.”
“You must. It’s essential. Does KGB’s London station still have a forgery department?”
“Of course.”
“Good.” He took out his Jersey driving license. “I want a private pilot’s license in the same name and address. You’ll need a photo.” He slipped a finger inside the plastic cover of the license and pulled out a couple of identical prints. “Always useful to have a few of these.”
She took one of them. “Peter Hilton, Jersey. Can I ask why this is necessary?”
“Because when the right time comes, time to get the hell out of it, I want to fly, and they won’t hire a plane to you unless you have a license issued by the Civil Aviation Authority.” He helped himself to some more tea. “Tell your expert I want full instrument rating and twin-engine.”
“I’ll write that down.” She opened her handbag, took out an envelope, slipped the photo inside and made a note on the cover. “Is there anything else?”
“Yes, I’d like full details of the present security system at Number Ten Downing Street.”
She caught her breath. “Am I to take it that is your target?”
“Not as such. The man inside, but that’s a different thing. The Prime Minister’s daily schedule, how easy is it to access that?”
“It depends what you want. There are always fixed points in the day. Question time in the House of Commons, for example. Of course, things are different because of the Gulf. The War Cabinet meets every morning at ten o’clock.”
“At Downing Street?”
“Oh, yes, in the Cabinet room. But he has other appointments during the day. Only yesterday he did a broadcast on British Forces Network to the troops in the Gulf.”
“Was that from BBC?”
“No, they have their own headquarters at Bridge House. That’s near Paddington Station and not too far from here.”
“Interesting. I wonder what his security was like.”
“Not much, believe me. A few detectives, no more than that. The British are crazy.”
“A damn good job they are. This informant of yours, the one who got you all the information on Ferguson. Tell me about him.” Which she did, and when she was finished he nodded. “You’ve got him well and truly by the cobblers then?”
“I think you could say that.”
“Let’s keep it that way.” He got up and buttoned his coat. “I’d better go and book in at this hotel.”
