“Anne-Marie Audin?” she prompted him.
“They’re flying in today. Brosnan has promised full cooperation. Oh, all the other branches of the Intelligence Services have been notified about Dillon. No newspaper coverage on the P.M.’s instructions. The impression I got was he’s told Ferguson to get on with it.”
“Good,” she said. “Very good, but you must stay on the case, Gordon. I have to go.”
She started to get up and he caught her wrist. “I saw you last night, about eleven it was, coming back to your flat with a man.”
“You were watching my flat?”
“I often do on my way home.”
Her anger was very real, but she restrained it. “Then if you were there you’ll know that the gentleman in question, a colleague from the Embassy, didn’t come in. He simply escorted me home. Now let me go, Gordon.”
She pulled free and walked out and Brown, thoroughly depressed, went to the bar and ordered another beer.
When she knocked on the door of Dillon’s room just after two, he opened it at once. She brushed past him and went inside.
“You look pleased with yourself,” he said.
“I should be.”
Dillon lit a cigarette. “Go on, tell me.”
“First, I’ve had words with my mole at Group Four. Ferguson’s just been to see the Prime Minister. They believe you’re here and all branches of Intelligence have been notified. Brosnan and the Tanner woman are coming in from Paris. Brosnan’s offered full cooperation.”
“And Ferguson?”
“The Prime Minister said no press publicity. Just told him to go all out to get you.”
“It’s nice to be wanted.”
“Second.” She opened her handbag and took out a passport-style booklet. “One pilot’s license as issued by the Civil Aviation Authority to one Peter Hilton.”
“That’s bloody marvelous,” Dillon said and took it from her.
“Yes, the man who does this kind of thing pulled out all the stops. I told him all your requirements. He said he’d give you a commercial license. Apparently you’re also an instructor.”
Dillon checked his photo and rifled through the pages. “Excellent. Couldn’t be better.”
“And that’s not the end,” she said. “You wanted to know the whereabouts of one Daniel Maurice Fahy?”
“You’ve found him?”
“That’s right, but he doesn’t live in London. I’ve brought you a road map.” She unfolded it. “He has a farm here at a place called Cadge End in Sussex. It’s twenty-five to thirty miles from London. You take the road through Dorking toward Horsham, then head into the wilds.”
“How do you know all this?”
“The operative I put on the job managed to trace him late yesterday afternoon. By the time he’d looked the place over, then dropped into the pub in the local village to make a few enquiries, it was very late. He didn’t get back to London until after midnight. I got his report this morning.”
“And?”
“He says the farm is very out of the way near a river called the Arun. Marsh country. The village is called Doxley. The farm is a mile south of it. There’s a signpost.”
“He is efficient, your man.”
“Well, he’s young and trying to prove himself. From what he heard in the pub, Fahy runs a few sheep and dabbles in agricultural machinery.”
Dillon nodded. “That makes sense.”
“One thing that might come as a surprise. He has a girl staying with him, his grandniece, it seems. My man saw her.”
“And what did he say?”
“That she came into the pub for some bottles of beer. About twenty. Angel, they called her, Angel Fahy. He said she looked like a peasant.”
“Wonderful.” He got up and reached for his jacket. “I must get down there right away. Do you have a car?”
“Yes, but it’s only a Mini. Easier parking in London.”
“No problem. As you said, thirty miles at the most. I can borrow it, then?”
“Of course. It’s in the garage at the end of my street. I’ll show you.”
He put on his trenchcoat, opened the briefcase, took out the Walther, rammed a clip in the bolt and put it in his left-hand pocket. The silencer he put in the right. “Just in case,” he said, and they went out.
The car was in fact a Mini-Cooper, which meant performance, jet black with a gold trim. “Excellent,” he said. “I’ll get moving.”
He got behind the wheel and she said, “What’s so important about Fahy?”
“He’s an engineer who can turn his hand to anything, a bomb maker of genius, and he’s been in deep cover for years. He helped me when I last operated here in eighty-one, helped me a lot. It also helps that he was my father’s second cousin. I knew him when I was a kid over here. You haven’t mentioned the cash from Aroun, by the way.”
“I’ve to pick it up this evening at six. All very dramatic. A Mercedes stops at the corner of Brancaster Street and Town Drive. That’s not far from here. I say, ‘It’s cold, even for this time of the year,’ and the driver hands me a briefcase.”
“God help us, he must have been seeing too much television,” Dillon said. “I’ll be in touch,” and he drove away.
Ferguson had stopped off at his office at the Ministry of Defence after Downing Street to bring the report on the Dillon affair file up to date and clear his desk generally. As always, he preferred to work at the flat, so he returned to Cavendish Square, had Kim prepare him a late lunch of scrambled eggs and bacon, and was browsing through his
“My dear Martin.” Ferguson got up and shook hands. “So here we are again.”
“So it would seem,” Brosnan said.
“Everything go off all right at the funeral?” Ferguson asked.
“As funerals go, it went,” Brosnan said harshly and lit a cigarette. “So where are we? What’s happening?”
“I’ve seen the Prime Minister again. There’s to be no press publicity.”
“I agree with him there,” Brosnan said. “It would be pointless.”
“All relevant intelligence agencies, plus Special Branch, of course, have been notified. They’ll do what they can.”
“Which isn’t very much,” Brosnan said.
“Another point,” Mary put in. “I know he’s threatened the Prime Minister, but we don’t have a clue what he intends or when. He could be up to something this very evening for all we know.”
Brosnan shook his head. “No, I think there’ll be more to it than that. These things take time. I should know.”
“So where will you start?” Ferguson asked.
“With my old friend Harry Flood. When Dillon was here in eighty-one he probably used underworld contacts to supply his needs. Harry may be able to dig something out.”
“And if not?”
“Then I’ll borrow that Lear jet of yours again, fly to Dublin and have words with Liam Devlin.”
“Ah, yes,” Ferguson said. “Who better?”
“When Dillon went to London in nineteen eighty-one he must have been under someone’s orders. If Devlin could find out who, that could be a lead to all sorts.”
